#when i tell you writing this fic feels like a decade ago and an utter fever dream

[lordsardine]

.

okay sure

[gretchensinister]

Daily Fic Highlight: The Doors of Perception

Today's winner of the kudos email is:

The Doors of Perception is a Pitch/Sandy human AU which begins in San Francisco in the 1960s. Perhaps my summary from Ao3 helps introduce it best:

It is the spring of 1967. Sandy is twenty years old, and he would be a sophomore at Berkeley if he was still attending classes. Instead, he is living in an old house in the Haight-Ashbury. He likes it there. He’s found something he’s good at, that people love him for. Sandy is the best trip guide in San Francisco, and everyone who’s turned on knows it.

Kozzy (human Pitch) meets Sandy because he's looking for a trip guide, and thus begins a decades-long romance with more than its fair share of trouble on its way to the HEA. 43,892 words, M, M/M and F/M (Jack/Tooth).

This fic had a few surprising responses to me when it first came out; namely, that some people were wary of reading it because of the drug use. And privately I was like, ? It's psychedelics, that's just good fun and opening your mind, this isn't some sordid DARE scare-piece. But not everyone has 60s counterculture or psychedelics as research interests, right, right.

One of the other surprising responses, which I will be vague about for privacy reasons, was in reply to one certain incident in the story, where I wrote it thinking, "maybe this is unrealistic," and later a reader told me that something very similar had happened to them IRL.

So, I think I did the best I could writing about a lot of years, places, and experiences that aren't directly mine.

Sample:

A couple months ago, rumors had started going around about a new rich kid who had run away to the Haight-Ashbury. He was from old east coast money, they said. Said his last name was Black, but he slipped up once after a few bong hits and turned out it was really Pitchiner. Everyone knew what that meant. Politics. Media conglomerates. Real estate. The people that made The System. So wasn’t it sort of fair, you know, that he just didn’t seem to fit in? The guy didn’t even own a pair of jeans! Black wool pants, black turtleneck, did he think they were all still beatniks? Still, it wasn’t as though no one would let him stay with them. They’d share their space, their food, their acid. Then again, the first time they had done that, it had turned out to be an utter disaster. Pitchiner had freaked out in a major way (“I’m not me anymore! Don’t let me let the black shadows out!”), which had caused everyone else to freak out, and the house he was staying at had used up all the thorazine they had thought they would need for the entire year in order to calm everyone down. This doesn’t deter him, however, from trying again. And again. And again. Eventually someone tells him to go see Sandy if he’s going to be so pigheaded about becoming a psychonaut when it doesn’t even make him feel good, and eventually someone tells Sandy about a guy even he might not even be able to bring to enlightenment.

[mademoiselle-red]

What’s a fic idea you’ve shelved? Why didn’t it work out at the time? What would make you return to it?

Oh this is fun. I dug into my drive and found a whole bunch of abandoned drafts and it was a pleasure to read through them again. Thanks for asking!

One fic idea was a fic titled "Ralph", a Ralph/Laurie canon-divergent AU fic from Andrew's first person POV, in the style of Daphne Du Maurier's Rebecca. Like in Du Maurier's novel, Andrew would begin a romantic friendship with Laurie (intentionally keeping it platonic and not telling Laurie he knows) but finds himself increasingly troubled by the specter of "Ralph" and gradually becomes obsessed with this mysterious figure from his beloved's past. It is a name that appears in Laurie's book, a disembodied voice on the telephone, a name Laurie utters in his sleep, a name embroidered on a scarf Laurie carries back with him from a party, the scent on an old merchant navy coat Laurie returns to the hospital wearing after overstaying his pass (slight canon divergences), a name that seems to pull his dear Laurie further and further away, until finally, he meets a face he that can attach to the name (!), only to be informed via letter that it wasn't Ralph he'd met at the hospital.

I lost interest in it after drafting the first paragraphs because I realized that what I actually wanted to write was a story with a dark and romantic atmosphere and an anxious and paranoid narrator, and literal-minded plain-spoken Andrew is so not the POV character for that.

But the POV character also cannot be Laurie (even though he is a better fit temperamentally) because I want the object of fascination and obsession, Ralph, to remain ultimately unknowable, like Rebecca, so the POV character can't actually meet him.

I then went back to Andrew and tried to write it in close third person, but the wistful nostalgia of the first person narrative was lost in this now more distanced narrative voice Seeing no way out of my conundrum, I shelved the idea. I might return to it if I can figure out how to put a protagonist like Andrew in a genre antithetical to the way I understand his personality.

Here are the first few paragraphs, to give you an idea of what I mean:

Ralph

Last night I dreamt I went back to the EMS hospital again. I hovered, like a ghost, floating along the winding path through the beechwood, passing the gated orchard and crossing the stream that cut through the forest, until I arrived at the gates of the hospital.

Beyond the gates, the EMS hospital stood illuminated in the moonlight, looking remote, like a photograph of some foreign land. I glided up the wide asphalt path between the huts where the nurses and orderlies slept, slipped through ivy infested walls into Ward B. From there, I made my way down the corridor, wading through the air as if swimming in water, before finally entering the kitchen.

I sometimes imagined how it would have been, could I have stayed here without fear and shame. I would remember the private Eden we created in the woods, our refuge from the ghastliness of the raids and the smell of blood and __. I sometimes remembered how we had sat in the woods under the beeches, how I had enjoyed dipping my bare feet into the cool stream that cut through the forest, feeling the currents rush between my toes. I would remember our evenings in the hospital kitchen sipping on tea and milk and talking about all the most important things on our minds: morality and religion, war and peace.

When I woke up in the morning, it was to the reality of humid air and blazing heat inside a flimsy Red Cross tent in another country and another war, doing the same work I did in England all those decades ago.

I had arrived with the other Friends on a moonless night. It was too dark for a raid, too dark to see the outline of the building we’d been led into. Inside the blackout, the hallways were dimly lit, but my sense of smell confirmed that we were indeed in a hospital. The place smelt of chemicals and decay. The sister who gave us a tour of our work stations for the next few months had mentioned in passing that the maids had been gone for a few weeks, so the first task for us in the morning would be to scrub the lavatories.

It was amidst this grotesqueness that Laurie had first appeared... 

[uglypastels]

Hey!!! I love your writing!! I was wondering if you could write like a headcanon of something with the reader dating eddie and being on her period or something?? 💝

Thank you!! I definitely needed to write this and a shoutout goes to all my fellow menstruating peeps <3 hope you feel better soon. (warning though, I don't know how to write headcanons, so I'm just doing my own thing here). [[i'm also going to be posting a longer fic this evening hopefully, and I'm sorry to not have worked more on the requests, so yes, I'm using this as a little bit of compensation]]

eddie requests always welcome!!! // taglist // support by reblogging!

Warning; (period) blood. Light swearing. Eddie being the sweetest mutherfucker there is.  maybe out of character stuff, bc i'm projecting

So, it being the 80s, being on your period was not very great. Like, it's still stigmatised, but nothing compares to a few decades ago. 

It was just not talked about. 

You've had a few boyfriends maybe, but never had even dared to utter the word around them. You didn't want to gross them out.

When it came around to that time of the month, you would just tell them you "didn't feel well" or something like that, which was true, but would drop the topic soon after. And not that it mattered a lot, the relationships never lasted for too long.

But then Eddie came along and your whole world changed. 

That man did not care about a single thing and he despises the patriarchy. Maybe he doesn't know how it all works, but he knows that periods exist. Like, he wasn't too great in science but it doesn't take a genius to know that it was a natural process. He might not know exactly when you are having your worse days, but he's aware you have them. He doesn't make shitty "is it that time of the month?" jokes or any other dumb comments about it if you ever get a bit emotional or don't feel too good. You are still not really comfortable talking about it openly, not because of Eddie specifically, but because of everyone else and how you grew up. But if you did ever slip up and mention something about your menstrual cycle, Eddie wouldn't act all grossed out. 

Maybe one day you stay over at his place and when you wake, you can already feel it. Just in your gut, before you pull the covers off, you just know. 

You lock yourself in the bathroom and try to clean up before he wakes up, but that man has like a radar when it comes to you. He wakes up as soon as you slam the bathroom door shut (though, maybe that had something to do with it) and is at your side (just that bathroom door still between you. 

'Baby? What's wrong?'

'Nothing!' you would shout from the bathroom. But Eddie isn't stupid.

'Baby?' He would just keep talking until you would properly talk to him. None of that "I'm fine" bullshit. The longer you would try to avoid it, the more ridiculous theories he would start to bring up. 

'All you're doing right now, is ensuring that I think an actual alien burst out of you.' 

'Fine I'm on my period!' you shout out, most likely for the entire trailer park to hear. 

'Now was that so hard?' 

You would have run to that bathroom in a state of panic, just wanting to clean the blood off, forgetting all your things. So, you ask Eddie to bring them over for you from your backpack. He had gone through your stuff a million times, just as you had gone through his, so he knew exactly where that little purse was where you kept your tampons and painkillers. A few seconds later he knocked softly on the bathroom door and handed you your things– little purse included as well as your spare change of clothes. You realise, however, that the shirt on top of the pile wasn't your shirt. It was his. He had especially pulled it out of the closet so you could wear it now.  

But you also realise that you only had one tampon left. Overall, not a big deal. You could just quickly head over to the drugstore.

That plan, however, became a bit more difficult when you stepped out of the bathroom. 

First, Eddie wasn't anywhere near the bathroom anymore. He was back in his room. You see him on the bed, cleaning up the bloodstain with a wet washcloth. 

'I'm so sorry.' The tears already stinging your eyes. Eddie looks up at you and rushes to you, pulling you into a hug. 

'Hey, hey, hey. Nothing to be sorry about. It happens. I can clean it up,' he makes you look at the bed, 'See? Almost gone.' It hadn't even been that big of a stain, but you still felt horrible. But Eddie wouldn't have any of that. He held you close, wiped off your tears and left kisses all over your face until you smiled. 

'It's really no big deal. Why don't you go sit on the couch while I finish this up? Then I can make us some breakfast?' Breakfast being something between choice A) Cereal or B) Fried eggs or C) Last night's leftovers. 

'Actually, I got to go to the drugstore.' You tell him, and Eddie immediately doesn't sound too happy with that. But not for the reasons you might have thought. 

'No way are you going out now. You got to rest.' 

'I can go to the store, Eddie.'

'I won't have it.' He's basically putting you on bed rest for the day, even if your cramps or other symptoms aren't showing up. He just wants to be sure you're comfortable. So, he heads out to the store himself after you tell him what it is you exactly need. You imagine he wouldn't be gone less than half an hour, but after two hours he still isn't back. A lot of reasons could have been the cause of it, so you try not to panic. Maybe there was a line at the drugstore, or he got hung up talking to someone? It was fine. The only problem is that you get hungry, and so, basically munch up the rest of the cereal that you found in the cupboard. 

Eddie comes through the door right as you finish the box. And the mystery of his long absence is immediately explained when you see the amount of things he brought with him. He immediately wants to show you the haul. 

'Right, so I got you your tampax,' he throws you the box. 

'Also went and got you some candy.' And with "some candy" he meant an entire bag full of snacks, all your favourites, of course. 

'And then I thought, we could just stay in for the day, so I went over to the video store and I tried to ask Robin what kind of movies you've borrowed because I wanted to pick something that you wouldn't hate, but she was being really difficult about it, so, unfortunately, in that battle, I lost the Reese's cups. BUT I got these,' he pulls out a stack of films that were most definitely in your customer history, at least a dozen times, 'And…really?' he laughs at your choices of favourite films. 

'They're classics!' 

'Whatever. Oh and I also got some more cereal because I knew you would eat them while I was away.' 

And you do spend the entire day cuddling, eating junk food and watching movies on the little tv. Eddie doesn't want to pry, but he does ask you questions just so he can know a bit more about how you're feeling and how he can help. Do you have any cravings? What can he do for you if your cramps ever get the worst of you? Would weed help with the pain? Do you want a lot of contact or do you need space? 

He would also be sure to stock up on everything you need at his trailer, just for emergencies. Maybe he would keep a tampon on him in his backpack at school. One day you would realise you had forgotten to repack your emergency stuff, but Eddie would just be like, I got you sweetheart, and hand you one. It would be at your locker, so someone would have seen it (Jason? Or some other jock) and, of course, they would make fun of him. Eddie would grab the opportunity immediately to reply back. 

'What do you need that for, Munson?'

'Well, usually I keep them around for your mom.' or something dumb like that. 

'You take that back, Freak!' 

'Fine! I won't provide your mother sanitary products!' He would yell it across the hallway as he made his way out of the building.

He would happily take the stigma over from you, making everyone uncomfortable by talking loudly, and proudly, over something that should have been normalised a long time ago, anyway.

Leave a review behind!

taglist: @spiderrrling @hellfire-state-of-mind @theglitterymess @dorianelizabeth @theletterhart @niyahwhoreworld @chatnoirfangirl1624 @fopdoodle1624 @pastel-abyss-x

[marshmallowgoop]

heishin for the ship bingo!

Them!! 😭

They are EVERYTHING to me: Okay, so, I've been familiar with Detective Conan for about a decade, yeah? Ten years ago is around the time that I first started watching the anime, and let me tell you: I don't remember caring for Heishin—or even Heiji!—like, at all back then. (The Reveal (Episodes 57-58) was fun, but I wouldn't say my feelings really went much deeper than that.)

But I've been rewatching, and getting way further than I ever got the first time around, and my fictional taste buds must have changed because these two have now absolutely destroyed me. I wrote my very first DCMK meta about them, and, well, I put this together for another post also about them that I've been working on, the intention being to highlight all the Heiji-Shinichi relationship analyses on my Ramblings page in order emphasize my utter infatuation with this duo, and... yeah.

Of all the Detective Conan essays listed here, 17/43 of them concern Heiji and Shinichi to some extent... and since I only update this page periodically, this list doesn't even include my last Heishin post, which would make the count 18/44.

So, nearly 41% of my writing about this series involves discussion on them... and one of these characters is only included in maybe 10% of the story.

They really, truly are so much to me.

They drive me crazy/insane /pos: Clearly! "Miss Mystery," Opening 33, has me screaming, crying, and throwing up with its depiction of their relationship...

And I flipped through the manga version of Episode 174 for the first time recently (Files 225-230), and the way that Conan imagines Heiji's smiling face when he fears that the worst happened to his friend utterly destroyed me (File 228)...

And one of my GIFs (from Episode 277) got passed around some more a bit ago, and I was once again reminded of how gently Heiji places Conan on the ground, how careful he is regardless of the minimal distance, and I once again felt like the pleading face emoji...

And have I mentioned "Conan's Dream Vacation" enough yet?

I could go on and on and on. (And considering that I've, uh, written a whole Heishin masterpost, I guess I kind of already have.)

Relationship goals <3: They've got problems, absolutely, but the way they just... sync? The way they Vibe? #Goals for sure.

They get each other. Immensely. They finish each other's sentences, come to the same conclusions at once—they both serve as a reminder to the other that they're not alone.

It's easy to meme on this panel of Shinichi in the manga (File 520), but it is beyond sweet to me that he's so eager and excited at the notion of someone just like him.

Heiji and Shinichi are genuinely a place of comfort for each other, and that is the definition of "relationship goals."

I need a 30k hurt/comfort fic on my desk by Monday: Detective Conan seems all but entirely disinterested in depicting its heroic men as vulnerable. Heck, if the "Murderer Shinichi Kudo" case (Episodes 521-523) is any indication, there's the message that a person like Shinichi would never do something like cry. He's too "strong" to.

Needless to say, the sentiment leaves a bad taste in my mouth. Relying on others and crying aren't "weak" things but human things, and one of the biggest draws of Heishin—for me, anyway!—is that Heiji and Shinichi do allow themselves to be vulnerable with each other. Shinichi admits to some of the trauma he's suffered in as soon as his third encounter with Heiji (Episodes 77-78); later, he completely opens up about the pain of hiding his identity from Ran, and he even asks Heiji for advice (Episode 189). Heiji, similarly, isn't too afraid to reveal that he cares deeply for Shinichi to Shinichi's face. He easily conveys how haunted he was by a nightmare in which Shinichi dies, with minimal prompting, in Episode 118. In Episode 479, he also lays his insecurity bare in Shinichi's presence and asks if all the criticism and mockery he's received is warranted.

Canon gives us these crumbs. Fanon can take it so much further. Shinichi spilling out details of how scared he is to Heiji, trying desperately not to freak out or cry, all while Heiji tells him that he can cry when he feels like it, just as Shinichi told Ran when they were in preschool (Episode 854). Heiji actually working through his unhealthy tendency to make everything a competition with Shinichi's help and support.

I think the focus of my last Heishin post, about how the nasty attitude Conan gives Heiji on occasion stems from his resentment that he can't be Shinichi when they're together, also lends itself well to hurt/comfort fic. What if Heiji calls out Conan's cold behavior, and he doesn't act like it's a joke or a minor nuisance for once but really communicates that it hurts to be treated like that, and Shinichi reveals the truth? Or what if Shinichi has a moment of self-reflection and regrets his cruelty when Heiji winds up seriously injured or dead on his behalf?

If you throw in potential romantic feelings, other possibilities open up. It kills Shinichi that he can't hold Ran in his arms (FUNimation's English dub for Episode 42), that he can't tell her he loves her with his own voice (Episode 3), but he doesn't think Ran's aware of his predicament. With Ran, Conan can put on an act and lie and pretend like none of his romantic feelings for her exist, and maybe that provides relief.

But Heiji is well aware of Shinichi's predicament. There's no playing a completely separate, unrelated child with Heiji; Heiji's already broken the illusion, and there's no going back to it. When Shinichi's by Heiji's side, he's by someone whom he can be himself around, whom he can't be anything but himself around, and that's got to make the impossibility of a romantic relationship a pain that festers like an open sore. There's no putting a Band-Aid on this one. No separating himself from the situation. No covering up the sting with an invented personality.

Okay, maybe that's more hurt no comfort, but there is so much potential here, I swear! Heiji isn't just the goofy, silly comic relief guy with the Osaka accent, and his relationship with Shinichi deserves more serious exploration and treatment. I think there's especially a lot that could be done with Heiji's jealousy, and—in my eyes, anyway—it stinks that canon plays Heiji's obsession with one-upping Shinichi's confession to Ran as a joke rather than the sad, insecure thing that it comes off to me as.

They're going to be the death of me: I bought a movie guidebook for The Crimson Love Letter, the 21st Conan film, which I haven't even seen yet, purely because I liked the cover art (and included poster) showing Conan and Heiji being unabashedly happy together...

And I am so tempted to get this Heishin mug set...

And I'm looking to add some Treasured Selection Blu-rays to my largely DVD-comprised DetCo collection, and while I don't believe the Treasured Selection Blu-rays for traditionally animated episodes really increase the quality that much, I'm still thinking I'll get #5 because it has The Boys on the cover (and also includes one of my favorite cases, Episodes 277-278)...

And there's also that merch from Carddass...

If nothing else, these two might be the death of my wallet!

(It's maybe also worth noting that I mostly store my DVDs for this series in 6-DVD cases, so only a select few covers are actually displayed. I purposely ordered things in a way to display the majority of the Heiji-and-Conan covers—5 out of the 7 that I own. I'm love them.)

They,,, kimss,, holde handss,,,,: I used to be like, "I don't really ship them; I just like their relationship!" And got, "Sure, Jan" in response.

But heck with it—while it's never, ever my intention to undervalue platonic bonds, I do like romance, and I'm tired of being ashamed of it! Shinichi and Heiji should open up their own detective agency and also kiss and hold hands, yes.

Which can absolutely be platonic, too! I love them either way.

[gryffindors-weasley]

Lover

Ron Weasley x Reader

Summary: After a day of unpacking and delving into memories, a moment of fondness is shared with your lover.

Word Count: 3.3k

Warnings: mentions of food, fluff fluff fluff, kissing

A/N: This is my fic for @gcdric ’s Taylor Swift writing challenge! It’s based off of the song ‘Lover’. Lyrics I’ve used will be bolded and italicized!

The day was quite perfect, you must admit; almost as if it’d been just so in correspondence with your plans. The late afternoon sunshine cast warmly across your skin, beaming bright before the clouds sweep over it fleetingly only to return just as glowing as before.

It was beautiful as you stood in front of the little cottage before you. You must have gone back to do so a thousand times by that point, but it was an act all too irresistible as you gazed at it, hand enveloped in Ron’s. It was your house.

It stood much shorter than the Burrow, most anything was now that you thought about it, but it radiated the same kind of warmth nonetheless. Wildflowers sprinkled and flourished tall and bright amongst the grass in patches of blues and yellows and reds, sprouted up from around the edges of the cracked stone slab pathway leading to a very golden yellow front door. The roof bowed inward a bit at the center, a chimney standing on the far left side of the sweet little home.

Moss and vines had mingled and curled up the side of the stone house, swirling around the door and curving around the window above it on the second floor. A small set of matching yellow benches had sat on either side of the door, its paint chipped and worn with use, telling of their exposure to the elements, but you think you like them better that way. Perhaps your favorite part was the wind chimes that still remained, singing softly each time the wind had pushed them together. It was all encompassed by a wooden sage green fenced, the numbers of your address stamped on a metal oval slab fixed to the very front. You could have asked for a better place to live with the love of your life, it was entirely more perfect than you could have imagined it to be.

Even with the beauty and dream come true standing right in front of him, Ron still couldn’t manage to hold his gaze on anything but you. With the four times you had come to the very end of the walkway to admire just what your fate had been, he found himself looking at you each and every time. He always did that when you were around, and he always would. When you’d catch him doing just that, the crimson burning in his cheeks was expected and far too worth it, for your smile melted his heart when you casted it upon him.

His hand squeezed your own as he smiled, taking a moment to admire the soft smile you held as you looked at your very first home, your forever home. And the way your gaze bounced around every little detail and every little flower. He took one last look before his smile widened at his next words.

“Love, we’ll be unpacking clear into next month if we come back out here a fifth time,” he quips, your own grin widening as you turn your head and look at him.

“Be quiet, Ronald, or there just might be a sixth,” you counter with a smile so sweet his heart nearly leaped out of his chest right then and there. But rather than gushing over you he simply scrunches his nose in response to the use of his full name, in response to your lighthearted teasing he so fully loved.

He’s got no time to gaze at you a moment longer as you squeeze his hand, tugging him along the stone path to the front door and slipping inside the house as your laughter trails behind.

Box after box littered almost every surface you could think of, the only thing of use having been the mismatched furniture dotting around the living room and kitchen, and the unmade bed upstairs. Most of the boxes had been opened simply to see what was inside before they’d been left in favor of looking in another or sharing a kiss far too distracting. Some of said boxes had been dented, their corners pushed in from when Ron and Fred had dropped them, but it’d been far too amusing to hold even a drop of anger about it. Unbeknownst to you it’d been your very lover’s fault, having been so caught up and fawning over the way you’d twirled in the living room, the breeze catching in your hair and a smile on your lips—so caught up he’d stopped abruptly and promptly got run into by his brother following just behind him.

The laughter that left your lips was much too worth it for him to care about most anything else, especially Fred’s grumbling and swat to the back of his head. Okay, maybe he’d interrupted his adoration to toss a glare in his older brother’s direction.

A gasp sounded from you and pulled his attention, and he watched as you pulled something out of a box labeled ‘Miscellaneous’. In your hand was a very crooked and poorly taped wand, a thin layer of dust coated on it. He hadn’t used it in quite a while, having gotten a new one that has yet to be broken, yet to be encountered by the Whomping Willow.

“You saved it?” He asks, laughter in his words.

“Of course I did. How else would we honor the very first time you stole your dad’s car?” You tease, tapping it against the very tip of his nose. While his heart fluttered at the thought that you’d pulled it from the trash and saved it, he snatched it from your hand with a frown soon turned to a smile.

“It doesn’t really work anymore, you know,” he says, brushing his thumb over the tape he’d put there just over a decade ago.

“Maybe it’s just the user and not the wand,” you quip, his eyes narrowing at you as you stifle a laugh.

“No way!” He raises the bent wand his eyes fixed on the lamp seated on a small table by the window. “Wingardium Leviosa.”

The spell is spoken with the utmost of concentration, the lamp in question rising very wobbly off the table before clattering unceremoniously to the floor. He flinches at the dreadful noise and you couldn’t fight your laugh any longer as you stole it back from his hand.

“Reparo!” You state, watching as each broken shard had mended with its matching piece, each fitting together so perfectly it’s like it’d never been broken at all.

Ron bites the inside of his cheek at the sight of your triumphant smile. You were right, you were always right. But, with a simple movement of his hand and a glowing orange beam of light, you found yourself pulled to him with ease, Carpe Retractum falling from his lips.

“I’m quite better at magic than you think, love,” he murmurs, smiling against your lips as you kiss him.

Your laughter puffed against his lips as you kissed him once more, spinning from his embrace much to his dismay in favor of digging through more boxes. “If you insist.”

He hadn’t missed the smile that had accompanied your teasing words, and you hadn’t missed his, and he was tempted to utter that spell once more just so he could kiss you again for far longer than just a mere moment. In fact, to do so until the end of time seemed perfectly well to him.

You pulled back a flap of another cardboard box that had yet to be labeled, smiling at the sight. You tugged the tangled clump of Christmas lights out, it’s cord thoroughly, knotted and woven with itself in what surely will be a pain come time to hang them up. In that moment, the thought hadn’t bothered you quite as much as it assuredly would in three month’s time, your smile beaming and bright.

“You kept these?” You ask, mimicking his earlier tone. He chuckles, nodding as he fumbled with the end of the cord that hadn’t been so terribly mangled.

“Christmas lights are essential to the holiday season, you know,” he defends. Regardless of your playful teasing, you knew just how much he liked them when it came time for the festive spirit. Well, they came second only to the assortment of cookies made every year without fail. “I suppose we can leave them up for as long as we want to now, can’t we?”

“This is our place, we make the rules.”

He smiled at the very thought, you both shared the same smile for that matter, and you knew for a fact that you’d been thinking of the same thing. You could make the rules. You could stay up past midnight to read without complaint of the glow of the lamps light streaming through floorboards and waking one of his siblings. He could practice quidditch with you in your very own backyard without his mother worrying over you both from the sidelines, though you’d done a well enough job worrying over him when she’s not around. Ice cream can be had for breakfast and breakfast can be had for dinner, dishes can be left in the sink and you can sleep in together till however late you wanted.

“Yeah,” he smiles, “yeah, we can.”

He takes a moment to look around the small living room, at the bookshelves encompassing nearly the entirety of the far wall. You’d filled that readily with your shared books, taking little effort to fill the old wooden shelves with stories read at least two times over. Scattered amongst them sat picture frames and trinkets, photographs of the two of you so gingerly placed behind glass frames to display a moment forever captured. Some of them were polaroids labeled haphazardly with the date they’d been taken, a brief caption scrawled at the bottom. Some of them had been family pictures taken by his mother, gifted to him for the time the day had come that you two could display them in your own home and you most certainly did.

Tiny treasures sat amongst them—bookmarks still tucked in books, little gifts from hogsmeade tucked atop shelves. Even the since emptied bottle of broom oil you’d gotten him for his birthday in fifth year. You knew he’d been eagerly excited to be a part of the quidditch team, his dreams of being a keeper rapidly becoming more than just dreams. He opened that little gift and saw that little bottle, something that might have seemed so awfully simple and practical to just anyone else. But the thought behind it was something more than just simple and more than just practical, even if your shared feelings hadn’t been known just yet. So there, in front of old books and photos, sat a little glass bottle, it’s label worn and faded as dregs of broom oil sat at the bottom.

He looked to the couch, it’s fabric frayed and worn in a few spots and edges. His cherished Chudley blanket taken from his childhood bed lay strewn across the back of the checkered material. The blanket you made after you insisted you could crochet lay splayed beside it, put together in uneven squares of colors that didn’t match as much as you’d hoped. Regardless of the outcome, Molly had been quite proud of it, and she adored the time well spent with you in the making of it.

He thought of how Harry could come and stay the night, for old times sake, Hermione too. There weren’t any guest bedrooms, so the living room would have to suffice. The couch and the loveseat hadn’t been too terribly comforting for slumber, but you suppose with a few extra pillows and blankets it’d be just fine. They never seemed to be one to complain anyway, always simply happy to spend time as a group without worry of danger or life changing events anymore. That very moment was put behind you six, nearly seven years prior.

It was fine, and everything was okay.

Your gasp had pulled him from his thoughts once more, his gaze finding you as you tugged his old quidditch sweater from a box labeled ‘Important: Do Not Lose’.

It was torn at the collar and a few strings of yarn had been pulled free from their stitching, and certainly it was washed more than a few times to rid it of its smell. You loved the tattered thing to pieces, he knew that. He knew from the very first moment you’d worn it that it’d been more than just a sweater to you. He remembers the way you smiled upon slipping it over your head, and the way you let the cuffs curl over your hands. He remembers the way you nuzzled into it that very night, the smell of cinnamon and a bit of his cologne still lingering on the fabric. He knew from that very first moment that it wouldn’t be the last time you’d stolen it from him, he knew you loved it and for that very reason he’d stopped his mother from turning it into a commemorative blanket.

You pulled it over your head, that very same smile on your face as there always was when you wore it. It hung from your shoulders in heaps of maroon and golden yellow, effectively staving off the cool September breeze. He’d had plenty more quidditch sweaters and jerseys considering his once fond hobby had turned to a career, but none of them seemed to hold as much sentiment as this.

He couldn’t help the way his heart swelled with pride when you wore it, when he thought of just how proud you’d always been. Even when he hadn’t had a successful match, even when he hadn’t been at the top of his game—you still cheered for him fiercely and boasted so highly of him that his cheeks burned at the mere thought. Whether it was just the two of you on the quidditch pitch the night before a match against Slytherin or it was from the stands at a match hours from home, you had always done it.

You looked so utterly beautiful, so completely radiant he felt his heart just might burst in his chest should you be anymore ethereal. He hadn’t known how he’d gotten quite so lucky, but he had.

You look to Ron across the unfinished living room, his smile soft and beaming and focused entirely on you.

“What is it?” You ask, laughing softly as your cheeks flush under his gaze, your hands smoothing over the yarn. The look on his face then is photo worthy, but holding it in your memory will have to suffice.

“Dance with me?”

Your smile widened, heart hammering in your chest with lovestruck excitement at the mere thought of it. Not to mention the grin tugging so cutely at the corners of his mouth that made it absolutely impossible to keep from mirroring it. It was often that Ron Weasley’s actions spoke far louder than words, that a simple look could declare a thousand ‘I love you’s’. It was then, in that very moment as he stood contently amongst a dozen boxes yet to be unpacked, that the look he so lovingly held just might’ve spoken a million.

You walk to him without a second’s hesitation and take his offered hand, squealing when he pulls you close. His own laughter soon fills the room as he twirls you once, twice, the action wonderfully dizzying as you settle into a rhythm not quite in sync with each other. His smile was beaming and bright as the sun streamed into the room, everything it landed on golden and orange.

“Ron Weasley, I thought you hated dancing?” You say, your smile just as teasing as your words.

“People change, right?” He shrugs, quick to rain a flurry of kisses across your flushed cheek as his laughter presses into your skin. That is, until he’d parted from you just enough for you to see a glimpse of realization cross his face. “Don’t tell my brothers.”

Your laughter is immediate as you kiss him, his brief moment of panic simmering into a smile that’s nearly too fond for his own good. “I can’t make any guarantees.”

He groans in protest against your very kiss, lifting you up to spin you in his arms in the sweetest of retaliations. Somehow, he believes the lifetime of teasing from his brothers would be entirely worth it if only to see you smile, if only to hear you laugh.

“I’m only kidding, my love,” you giggle, brushing the hair out of his eyes.

“Yeah yeah, sure,” he grins, kissing down your cheek.

Can I go where you go?

This very moment was one that’d stick with him for the rest of his life, happily, one that he’d get to live each and every day and the thought alone was unbelievable. It was your house, your home, a place entirely the perfect fit for the two of you to flourish and thrive and spend for seasons in. It was a culmination of the very things that made the two of you who you are.

Truthfully, he’d follow you anywhere without hesitation. He’d travel to the very ends of the earth if it meant he’d be with you, and you the same. He knew since he was sixteen that he’d wanted to be wherever you were and wherever you will be. He hadn’t thought at the time that he’d wind up in a home amongst the rolling hills, tucked away to yourselves. He hadn’t thought he’d even have the nerve to tell you he loves you. His future had been far brighter than he could have ever imagined it to be.

And you, you were right where you wanted to be, right where you needed to be. Ron Weasley was the love of your life, a dull moment never shared. You felt you could do just about anything so long as he was with you, go anywhere so long as he was there. He was loving, he was kind, he was true.

Can we always be this close?

The laughter had since dulled to breathy sighs and soft smiles, a gesture you’re very aware of when you lift your gaze to look up at him once more. A smile that’s shared most tenderly in the close proximity, noses brushing and breath sweeping warmly over lips. It was then that you lean on your toes and kiss him, his very grip on your hand tightening a fraction and your swaying becoming distracted and stilled. His smile was immediate against your lips, telling of just how profoundly giddy you’d made him, how wholeheartedly he loved you.

“Bloody hell,” he whispers, his lips brushing over yours as he kisses you once more. The softness of his laughter dances across your skin, his forehead resting on yours as he makes no effort to hide his smile. “I love you. I really, really love you.”

Your nose scrunches against his and your own smile widens and soon you find yourself kissing the very tip of his nose, his cupid’s bow, his lips. The warmth blossoming in your chest is a feeling most unbeatable to all else; it was love. It lanced through you with certainty and settled permanently within your heart, a feeling so frighteningly wonderful, and so dizzying in its wake.

The two of you began to sway softly again to music unheard, hands clasped as your other rests on his chest as the sun dips lower in the sky, the long yet happy day soon to be put behind you. One more kiss is pressed to his cheek before you dip your head to rest on his shoulder, your eyes fluttering closed with all the contentment in the world. And softly, you murmur, “I love you. I really, really love you.”

You’re my, my, my, my,

Lover.

—

Tags: @anchoeritic @vogueweasley @ch0colatefr0gs @amourtentiaa @hahee154hq @snitches-at-dawn @dracosathenaeum @harrysweasleys @awritingtree @writeroutoftime

[be-ready-when-i-say-go]

Blighted

For my precious Sunshine, @5-secondsofcolor's birthday!! Which is technically now, because it is 1 AM on the 20th of May and I am a mad woman. Love you and I hope you have an amazing day, when you see this of course.

Here is your fic, FBI/Behavior Analyst!Calum. Female OC.

Ivy says she's cursed after taking the same career path that took her father's life. Calum's new on the team, a liaison and media specialist, but he's looking to get his toes wet.

AKA your regular old jaded pessimist veteran and bright eyed rookie buddy cop story. Please enjoy!

CW: In depth descriptions of death/crime scenes. Depictions of violence, gore, and blood.

Enjoy my masterlist (on a haitus)

Search for more writing in the h writes tag

________________________

The whiteboard never leaves. It glows behind her closed eyelids. When staring down at the neck of a bottle, she sees it floating just as the bottom of her drink. She’s cursed. But she knew that the moment she tried out for the academy. The second the thought floated across her mind, she would be doomed just like her father. Ivy tried her best to reroute herself--she got into the arts, was first chair flute in her highschool’s orchestra. She was president of the Homecoming committees her junior and senior year, and worked during the summers at her church's camp.

And yet when she went into school for her degree, she gravitated towards psychology and criminal justice. She saw her mother’s fear. The closer it came to graduation and the more the two of them talked about what she would do after graduating, the more the thought lingered, I want to get into the Bureau like Dad. But she couldn’t utter that. She couldn’t say those words without tears welling up in her mother’s eyes.

Ivy suspected her mother always knew about the desires. Ivy didn’t remember all the nights clearly, but sometimes she’d peek out her bedroom door and see the glow of the light downstairs. Ivy followed it, side stepping the creaky fourth step from the top and from between the banister’s she’d find her dad sitting at the dining room table. The kitchen light glowed from behind him and his tie would barely hang on around his neck.

“Boo,” he’d say quietly, knowing the slight shuffle of Ivy’s feet.

“How’d you know I was there, Daddy?” she’d ask, carrying herself the rest of the way down the stairs and make her way through the living room to climb into his lap.

“I can hear your feet above me,” he’d respond, pointing above them.

And they’d spend an hour, sitting at the dining room table. Ivy asked about her dad’s latest trip. He only ever told her when she was young that they were helping save people, putting bad people away. Ivy wonders if this is where it started. If this was where her father casted the spell, leaving Ivy somehow starry eyed about what it really was he did. Ivy would always look at this job with a little bit of that hope that her younger self had, and she’d always be fucked to never be able to walk away from this line of work.

It would kill her--much like it had killed her dad. But unlike him, she’d see the bullet spiral out of the barrel. Her dad had her and her mother to get back too. It wasn’t a weakness. Ivy admired her father for sticking with his dreams and also making the hard calls to make sure his family knew he cared too. But the need to decide would always be a slight hindrance, would always be the key to living or dying in this line of work.

All that’s left of her father, besides the memories and a few of his old t-shirts that got remade into pillows, is the whiteboard she keeps at her desk. There’s a whiteboard for the entire team to use of course. But this whiteboard is the one that her father used in his office. The one where he made his notes, scribbles. The one she’d write notes to him in the bottom left corner that never disappeared until she wanted to replace the note with something new.

“Thomas, look alive, and enjoy.” The manilla folder hits her desk with a quiet thwack. Ivy blinks from the whiteboard up to her senior officer. Kennedy carries on, dropping folders on every desk and each one of them stands without needing any further prompting.

Kennedy’s been in the field for years. It was all over his face with the deep frown lines. His brow seemed permanently furrowed, as if he questioned every waking second. Ivy liked to tease he worried even about sleep. But no one could sink a decade and a half into this line of work and not come out on the other side with a healthy amount of suspicion.

“And where’s this new guy?” Kennedy asks, glancing over the office.

Ivy looks up from her copy of the file. She heard rumors of someone else coming by the office, assisting them occasionally on cases. But those rumors floated around weeks ago, long enough that she chalked it up to just that--rumors. It doesn’t shock her though. Things start at rumors often, and sometimes they come to fruition and sometimes they don’t. Ivy follows Kennedy’s eyeline and doesn’t spy any new faces.

“Want me to keep an eye out for any lost souls?” Ivy offers, glancing back up to Kennedy.

“Nah, I need your eyes on this one. Head up to the conference room and I’ll be there once he shows up.”

With a nod, Ivy closes the file. She swipes the whiteboard from her desk with a couple markers and heads up to the conference room. The rest of the team sat flipping through their files too, Jenkins sitting right near the front but moved down one seat. They’re not new, having been around for a couple years. But Ivy can tell their type--getting in chummy with the boss, trying too hard. They’re a good addition, but Ivy’s waiting for the day they take a hunch and it doesn’t lead to the results they want. A loss will show their true colors, how well they can handle being wrong sometimes. No one on the team is perfect, they’re all hedging bets. Ivy’s taken her lumps of hunches being made too late, or the wrong bets placed. They’re not often. No one likes them. But they happen.

Diaz, Russell, and Burke and scattered throughout the rest of the table. The three of them have been there longer than Ivy. But they all accepted her with open arms. Diaz and Burke were more muscular. They had the brains to match, but they came up the pipeline from their local PD departments and aren’t afraid to get into a tussle. More often than not, Ivy winds up pulling Burke from fights than she’d care to admit. Diaz’s much too big for Ivy to attempt physically restraining, so she referee’s those fights that he gets into.

Russell’s their man behind the screen. He was good at getting through the internet loops, figuring out how to sort databases for the information they need without so much red tape and delay. He preferred to stay behind the lines, but could handle a tussle. Ivy doesn’t count herself as the brains. But her gut had some sort of true north needle that, more often than not, was right. She could see patterns faster than most, could sniff the air after someone and assess how much she could and wanted to trust. Kennedy consulted her often. Whenever she felt like she had something, he’d hush the crowd for her to formulate the full thought. Kennedy didn’t always agree with her assessment, but had to listen to it. He needed to listen to it.

“Nope,” Russell huffs, shutting the folder. “Fucking hell. Kennedy told me it was rough, but I didn’t--I didn’t think it was this rough.”

Ivy settles in next to him sliding him a marker. She draws roughly a tic-tac-toe board. “It not getting easier for you is a good sign.”

Russell makes his first move, the marker squeaking just a little. Ivy follows up with hers. She knows if she makes it too obvious, too easy, Russell will forfeit the game. So she tries to play along, like she’s vying to win.

Russell places his second X though his hands shake just a hair. “Yeah, but compared to you guys, I feel like if someone took a gnarly enough shit it would make me queasy.”

“A bad enough shit could do that to anyone,” Diaz pipes in, his own folder still open but his forearms pressed down over the photographs. Russell’s been around the block, definitely seem some rough things, but has always had a softer view of the world. Still wants it to be good despite all the bad he’s seen.

Ivy places down her second O, noticing the pretty obvious wide open spot she left Russell but looks up to Diaz. “I think I heard through the grapevine you were on the losing end of one of those shits yesterday,” she teases.

Diaz reclines into his seat, his chest bouncing with his laughter. “All because of your cooking Thomas.”

“My cooking is not that bad,” she defends, the cap of her black marker pointing him out.

Burke snickers too with a shake of her head and opens her mouth to speak but the room fills with the voice of Kennedy. “Aren’t y’all old enough to be left alone not to talk about shit for five minutes?”

“Never too old to talk shit, sir,” Diaz returns, his smile lifting only half his face up. He’s a charmer, whenever they go out to bars out manage to get a moment’s peace not hounded by work, he never seems to be at a lack of folks coming up to him. He’s already got a girl, but with the hair that cascades always neatly placed and the dazzling bright grin, anyone could fall for it.

Kennedy huffs his laughter quickly and then shuffles deeper into the room. “We’ve got a new friend, so let’s play nice.” As Kennedy makes head way, Ivy notices the man behind him. He’s tall. The black dress pants and black dress shirt don’t hide everything beneath them, but Ivy’s not too shocked to see people who work in the field like that with some sort of muscular physique. There’s something about his face though--something about the way his brown eyes dart around the room and his smile never shows any teeth that something familiar tugs at her.

Kennedy goes around the table introducing Ivy first, then going to Russell, coming down to Jenkins, Diaz, and then Burke. Each one of them lifts a hand or nods at their name. “This here is Hood, Calum Hood. Joining us as a new liaison.”

Ivy’s no good with faces sometimes. But names she hardly ever forgets. Hood, she met him once a few years back at a lecture. Not that she did them often, but Kennedy got more face time. But he made sure to spread the love between the team. He asked her to tag along. Calum must’ve been in the crowd, had to be, and had to have asked a question because Kennedy told her to remember that name. And she had.

Kennedy continues on with something. Ivy suspects he’s warning Diaz to keep any hazy tactics to a minimum considering how much of a mess they’re walking into. Ivy nods once more at him, and then faces back to the whiteboard, the tap on her arm prompting her too. I’m a scaredy cat sure, but not dumb, it reads in Russell’s handwriting. She spies his X in the bottom corner, opposite of where he would’ve won.

“Pull up a seat, Hood. We’ll have more time for pleasantries once we’re up in the air. But I want everyone to at least be familiar with this case.”

“Yes, sir.” His voice is smooth, Ivy notes. A soft volume and accented but smoother than she would’ve pegged.

The team breaks down the file, recapping mostly what they’ve already read but Kennedy’s old fashioned this way, needing to make sure people have done their homework. It’s an extra step than completely necessary, but having the quick meetings has always made this team feel more like a second family. There’s always a common goal in mind for them and they’re always reminded of it. No matter what happens out in the field, they all want the same thing.

“We soar in forty-five minutes. So let’s hope wheels can turn in the air. Hood, I need you to keep in mind the local PD’s been taking a lot of heat for the last couple of months. So we don’t want to take too much star power, we’re only here to assist and whatever we can do to put the local’s good grace back onto that PD we need to.”

Not quite what she expected, though with his demeanor and looks, he’s sure to work a crowd or newsroom well. She’s sure he’ll be on the ground with them too.

“Understood,” he replies and with that, all of them push away from the table. “Agent Thomas,” Hood says, reaching out almost as if to touch her elbow but never actually do it. He continues to speak once she looks over to him. “I-I don’t know if you remember. But we met at a lecture a couple years back that you held with Agent Kennedy. And I just wanted to say that I’m excited to be here, working with you all.”

“Thomas, here, does not respond well to flattery. Trust, we’ve all tried,” Diaz laughs, clamping down on Hood’s shoulders.

“I appreciate it,” Ivy responds. “Glad to have a fresh mind on the team.” There’s no smile, at least, not one she’d give Russell, Burke, Diaz, or even Jenkins. But Calum watches her give another curt nod with a quick quirk of her lips, and then leave, stacking her file on top of the whiteboard.

“Don’t sweat it. She’s in work mode,” Diaz assures. “We get off the clock and she’s a hoot. But on the clock, it’s strictly business. I will warn you, Thomas will burn you.”

Calum’s left, watching Diaz, Burke, and Russell leave. Jenkins turned tail the second Kennedy got done. It’s not that he wants to mix business with pleasure. He’s just been studying Thomas, attending as many lectures that she gives as he can. She didn’t always go directly by the book, there was something about her method that used the evidence, used science, but also had some sort of intuition. Thomas just knew things and when attempting to quantify it, she didn’t always have the words for it. Calum just wants to see that in action, understand what it is about knowing that isn’t always present in the facts.

The plane ride is comfortable. Plenty of seats even though they squeak just a little. Calum watches Thomas sit and everyone seems to sit spread out from there, keeping her at some sort of center. “Mobile. They don’t mind the hustle,” Ivy starts.

“Crossing state lines is risky, especially after the escalation,” Burke interjects.

“But wouldn’t that be a reason for it? If all the crimes look different, enough crossing state lines might make the unsub feel confident, like they’re getting away with something.” The entire plane turns to look at him. Calum freezes for a moment. He knows better. He knows so much better than that. Fuck.

“Valid. But we shouldn’t settle. Travel might be part of their job. We’ve got a good cluster to possibly estimate a home base. Get comfortable, perfect the craft here and then spread out. But why come back? Local PD's hadn't quite connected anything, until the return. More families, found exactly the same. Even when they cross state lines, all points wind back to a specific geographical location,” Burke returns.

“Hood, you got the inside of the media. What does it look like?”

Thirty minutes of his forty five was making sure that he could at least nail down this run through. And it’s easy, even with the squeak of Ivy’s dry erase marker, to run down the media reports, what information has been released and what hasn’t been released. He makes note of what the team doesn’t want to get out and what they do want to keep available to the public.

All the while, Calum watches the way Ivy writes over her board, the squeak over and over on specific strokes. He wonders for a moment what she’s writing, what it is that she needs to keep written track of. But he doesn’t get a chance to fully flesh out that thought before he finishes his spill and Diaz cuts in. They’re fast, not quite settling on any one theory. More like compiling the possibilities, not wanting to eliminate things but ranking how plausible they all could be until the pieces click.

The first thing after the flight lands, they head for the precinct. The lead investigator greets them, and there’s no pause. They’re pulled into the frenzy, looking at boards. Calum tries to keep his head in the game, but he is watching Ivy. The way she settles in her chair, her marker always moving. He’s not even sure it’s words anymore, just a constant circular movement. Sure he’s here to help regulate media outlets, and he can do that in his sleep if local PD and media follow his instructions to a T.

But he needs an in, to show he’s more than just the new meat on the chopping block. He’s worth something. “Is the last crime scene still available?” Calum asks.

The room turns to him, well most of the room does. Ivy keeps circling, but she speaks. “The plan’s to go in ten minutes. Whatever’s got you preoccupied, leave it in your go bag.”

Kennedy chuckles, tapping at her foot. “Give the kid a break. He was buried in news coverage the second we got into the door. But Hood, shake the cobwebs. This isn’t your small town’s rodeo anymore. If you need to be caught up, ask. But if you’re going to be in the room, keep those ears open.”

A task easier said than done, but he nods, resting his elbows on his knees. God, they’re going to think I’m an idiot. The room goes back to its normal buzz, but Calum keeps his head buried in his hands.

“Talk to me. What are your theories?”

Calum lifts his head. Ivy’s closer now. He can see the black marks on her hand from where she’s held it up against the swirls and lettering. “Clearly I’m barely treading water here.”

“First day nerves, but you can shake it. You wanted to see the crime scene. Why?”

“Why there? We have indications that the unsub spent a lot of time there, even with the interruptions they've seemed to caused. They're still meticulous. I want to follow their steps. What did they do first? And why? What do they need from a crime scene before it’s done?”

“Good. But what else?”

“What-what do you mean what else?”

She smiles, much different than the first one. It shows her teeth, a bit of a twinkle in her eyes. “What else?”

He goes quiet, reclines back into the seat and closes his eyes for a second. What else? There’s a lot else. “I mean, the next obvious thing is why these victims? But besides that, how comfortable is this person? Do they feel a need to be rushed, fast, get-in-get-out or can they blend in? I have a hunch they can blend in. Maybe people even trust them. They are perfectly ordinary and in essence, they have to be in order for the fantasy to work. Detection means they have to get sloppy. Being sloppy’s not an option, so blending in it is.”

“Bring that to the crime scene.” Something taps his knee and Calum cracks open his eyes to see her, standing. Her whiteboard still gently rests against his knee. She’s not looking at him though. Her gaze is locked onto the board next to him, displaying the crime scene photos.

“What’s your secret?” Calum asks. He’s almost positive she didn’t hear him due to Ivy’s lack of prompt response. But then she turns to him.

“Secret?”

“Thomas, Hood, you comin’ or what?” Kennedy calls. “I can deal without Diaz, but I need you, Thomas.”

“I’ll remember that,” Diaz laughs as they walk through the glass doors of the precinct.

It’s not Calum’s first time at a crime scene. But the second Calum steps through the door a chill runs through him. The carpet and walls are still bloodstained. Everything about it the scene just feels wrong, makes Calum want to immediately step back out of the house.

“You feel that?” Burke asks. She continues on deeper into the house, slipping into her gloves.

“This is when Thomas says she’s too Black for all this and gets the hell out of dodge,” Diaz barks. He squats down to the blood on the carpet. Ivy’s already deep into the house, seemingly guided by a force unwillingly to let her go. She doesn’t respond verbally, just lifts her hand, the middle finger extended out in the general direction of Diaz.

And Calum is standing near the threshold of the door, trying to pinpoint why it feels so cold in a house in Texas in the middle of the summer. His hands feel sticky even inside the latex gloves. His first step is shaky but he stops next to Diaz. “There are drag marks from the blood,” Calum notes. “This isn’t where they were killed, just staged.”

“The unsub staged all the victims here in the living room. We know that. Pictures show the parents at the ends of the sofa, children in the middle, dog on the floor.”

“But there’s blood on the walls. We know the Dad’s 6’1,” Calum returns.

“And we don’t have forced entry. So, whoever is wreaking havoc isn’t threatening enough for someone not to answer the door.”

Calum turns to the sofa where the family was found. “It’s picturesque, poetic even. You’ve got a whole family right here, at your will. They knock on the door. It’s dusk, sun’s just starting to set.”

“They have a ruse that gets them inside. We already know they have to blend in with the community. So what can you use to get into a house? Who gets into a house without a problem?”

Diaz goes into the kitchen where in the case file it mentions when the family was finally discovered food was still out on the table. “The window doesn’t have to last long. But it has to be just right. All three families were either eating dinner, or just done with dinner. So why dinner time?” Diaz turns from the stove to face Calum.

“It’s when everyone is together. They’re not just going after a family, but very specific family dynamics. Which means both parents need to present, two kids seems to be a minimum.”

“What’s the average dinner time you’d say? With this job, I eat whenever I fucking can. But before this, excluding people like us, when is the average person sitting down to eat?”

“6, 6:30 I’d guess. That’s assuming the average person is working a job that calls it at 5PM. A town like this is either on the verge of collapsing or being bought out. So I assume a lot of people are traveling outside to the city for work, so the commute might be even later. But I wouldn’t hazard any guesses that our unsub’s just haphazardly picking houses.”

“No, no, you’re right, Hood,” Diaz states, walking over to the table. “I guess what I’m saying is the timing. No one hears anything. But our unsub’s using a gun. That’s not quiet. And there’s not a lot of city noise this far out. They’re spending hours in the house and somehow getting out undetected. But striking at dinner time, with the setting sun, means this person’s around outside the house. But no one’s noticed anything out of the ordinary.”

“Hunting seasons,” Calum returns. “No one really flinches at the sound of a gun shot because people are hunting year ‘round here.”

“And it seems like humans are on the menu.”

“An appetizing thought.”

******

Ivy’s not sure when the chill finally left over the course of the day but it returns when she walks into the precinct and sees the entire room in a frenzy. Kennedy spies her and it’s just a look. Not much different than his resting face, but somehow she knows with that slight arch in his eyebrow. Another family--while they were proding over photos the killer was already moving on, already in the midst of their attack.

And it shouldn’t shock her. Well, to be more accurate, it doesn’t shock her and maybe that’s the thing that scares her. “I’ve been doing this too damned long,” she mutters to herself. “Hood, you’re with me. Get the address and let’s see what that gut of yours cooks up.”

“How’d--Is Kennedy going to be okay with that? The call just came in a few minutes ago.”

“Get the address and tell me how you like your coffee,” Ivy says. Kennedy’s going to come to the scene anyway, but she doesn’t tell Calum that.

There’s not another word before Calum passes in front of her. “Cream and two sugars,” he answers as he goes.

“So Black, got it.”

Paused at the desk of a detective, he looks over his shoulder. “Cream and two sugars,” he re-emphasizes with a tiny smile and holding up two fingers. Police station coffee’s never the best, but it’s better than nothing. When on a case, time is also imperative and they take what they can. Ivy fixes Calum’s cup first, slipping a lid on and keeping the stirrer through the hole. She pours her cup with no additions.

“Not even creamer? Not one?” Calum questions.

“Takes too much time,” she returns. “Burke, you staying?”

“Yeah, Russell got those files over just before the call came in. Besides that crime scene’s bound to be crowded as all hell and I swear if I walk into another house and catch a chill after seven years of doing this job, I just might quit.”

The two ladies laugh. Ivy recovering first to respond, “I need you to keep me sane even though you’re just as much trouble as Diaz.”

“Which is why I’m going to say here, work with Russell. We’re going to need Hood back before the 5’oclock news. Whatever you find at the scene will help solidify our profile and we need it soon. We need the hands on this clock, because it’s ticking ahead of us.”

Ivy nods. It’s no fun being behind. “Kennedy, we’re moving or we’re dying.”

“I trust you. There’s something off about that last one that I want to walk through again.”

“Let’s rock and roll,” she says to Calum, handing him his cup of coffee. “Mr. Cream-and-Two-Sugars.”

The drive is relatively short, all thanks to Ivy’s lead foot. But they need to get there fast, while things are still fresh.

“Did you always want to do this?” Calum asks in the silence of their drive. The radio doesn’t even play. Ivy knew he had questions. He wore them on his face, brows furrowing anytime he was the slightest bit hesitant about something.

“I don’t think I had a choice.”

“What do you mean you didn’t have a choice? We’ve all got choices.”

“My dad worked with the FBI until it killed him. And I think about how he used to tell me it was his job to help put bad people in jail. And I believed him.”

“The bug bit you before you even had a fighting chance.”

Ivy nods, taking a quick glance to Calum. “But if I had a prettier face, I’d stick with liaison too.”

Calum huffs out his laughter. “I went the journalism route first, sue me. Besides, that’s you admitting you think I have a pretty face.”

“I forget faces—so don’t think too highly of it. And I’m probably old enough to be your mother. You attended some lectures, I remembered your name. How’d you convert?”

It’s silent for a moment and Calum contemplates her statement, old enough to be his mother. “Given that my mother has shared her fountain of youth with my sister and I, you might be shocked to know I’m nearing 30. And I converted because of you and your work under Kennedy and his old superior Rogers.”

“All the greats,” Ivy teases, but she doesn't sound impressed. More like tired, used to it.

“But you’re different.”

“Yeah, because somehow the Bureau hasn’t realized their mistake.”

“Mistake?” Calum asks around his sip of coffee.

“Kennedy’s going to retire soon. He's done 15 with our unit. Another ten prior to that climbing through the ranks. Then they’re going to have to find a replacement.”

“You say that like it won’t be you.”

“Because it won’t.”

“You’ve been with Kennedy for so long. He’s obviously going to recommend you, Ivy.”

“He can recommend but people higher up get the final word.”

The truck stops just in front of the house, and Calum knows the most logical thing to do is just focus on the case, walk the scene. Do his job. But he reaches across the console and wraps his fingers around hers for a second with a squeeze. “You’ll get it. They’d be dumb not to bring you to the head of this team.”

“There’s an altar or a shrine. It’s small.”

Calum pauses with his hand on the door. Ivy continues beside him. “Go to the eldest child’s bedroom. In a corner you’ll see the small shrine. Our unsub left one at the last house. And the house before, I’d bet. And this house too. That’s what Kennedy missed. What other cops missed too. Make sure you get it photographed. Besides, I’ve been doing this job too long and don’t know if I’d even want the added responsibility if they promoted me.”

“How’d we miss that?”

“We didn’t miss shit. We saw it when we needed to see it. We see things when we need them.” It's the way she says it, like she has to believe that makes Calum believe too.

The sight rocks Calum--he knew it wouldn’t be easy. But he didn’t know it’d hit him like this. The room spins, just a little. And his heart racing. Mostly because he can’t stand the thought that this could be someone he knows. These people weren’t anticipating their would be like this. And what does that even mean for him? What does his end look like?

“Hey, whoa. Whoa.” An arm comes around his waist and he follows the lead of whomever’s grabbed him.

“I’m okay,” he breathes out. “I’m okay.”

“Yeah, I’m a fudge brownie. It’s okay to not be alright in there.”

Calum rests against the side of the house and squats down just a little. His elbows hit his knees. His breath is heavy, falls from his open mouth almost like he’s going to vomit. But his stomach’s not churning anymore. Not with the fresh morning air hitting his lungs. “Fuck,” he breathes out again, eyes blurring just a little.

“But you’re okay. Take a breather.” Ivy’s shoes turn up in the dirt. "Get him a water, will ya? Hood, take a minute. It's alright. I'll be inside when you're ready." Calum just watches her go. It takes a moment for him to lift his head. It has to get easier. Or least he hopes it does. It takes him a minute, inhaling deeply before he stands up straight.

The rest of them processing the scene goes by in relative silence. Occasionally, Calum pipes in with an addition to their theory. Ivy hums in agreement. And it’s not until they step out and slip out of their gloves that Ivy says anything. “This is why I drink my coffee black.”

“I’m sorry. I really--I don’t know why this one got me.”

“It’s the kids. Kids are the worst.”

Calum looks up to the sky. There’s a few clouds, but not many. “The photos are bad, but in person is way different.”

Ivy watches Calum, the way it takes him a second to come back to earth it seems. “Don’t ask yourself if it gets easier.” When his gaze lands hers, she can see the furrowed brow again. The question drips off his face. “You’ll only disappoint yourself. And this job’s not for the weak of heart. For the people that can’t take some losses with the wins.”

“You said it yourself. You wanted to put the bad people away.”

“Eight year old me wants to believe it’s as easy as putting the monsters away. Thirty-one year old me knows for a fact what the losses are, who gets caught in the cross-fire. It’s not easy, not in the slightest.”

“Innocent lives do add up.”

“Which is why I try not to do math on the job. They all slip up. They all reach a point where their methods don’t satiate the need. They all make a fatal flaw and counting the unfortunate lives on the way to that will have you walking from the Bureau faster than you can blink.”

“So what makes you stay? If it’s all so fucking bad, what keeps you going?”

Ivy nods to the car, pulling the keys from her pocket. “We need to solidify our profile and you need to run press ASAP. But to answer your question, the thing that keeps me going is that fact that they do get caught eventually.”

******

Eventually seems to come up faster than Calum anticipates. He was sure it would take weeks. After getting back to the precinct more information in Russell’s digging found a connection between all the families, a Venn diagram that overlapped to their X on the map. Another couple of days and it all unravelled. It’s a blur, when he tries to think back to it, on the plane. The only grounding thing is when one of the children, a little girl about 6, pointed out the tattoos on his hands. In all this time, he was sure the tattoos would be a barrier to entry--they’d somehow put him in a place that others would think he was nothing but trouble. But somehow, despite the terror she had done through, that little girl liked his tattoos, found some sort of comfort in them.

When he told her they were for his parents, she smiled at him. She said she wanted one for her parents too and then asked if he had anymore and how old he was when he got them. All of which Calum was more than happy to answer while the medic checked over her. Her older brother came soon after, asking a few questions, but overall he was much quieter than his sister. Understandable for what was endured. In the end, Calum’s just glad he didn’t see them staged on a couch, bleeding out onto the cushions.

There’s a small bit of turbulence and the shakes cause Calum to open his eyes for a moment. Ivy’s seated across from him, whiteboard on her lap, headphones in her ears. A tic-tac-toe grid drawn across it in the middle, but in the corners are some swirls, a crude drawing of the shrine from the case. Calum leans forward and tugs on the board just a little. She lets it go without a fight and hands over the marker.

Calum makes an ‘X’ in the top left. “You said this job doesn’t get easier.” He looks up to see if Ivy can hear him and is relieved when she pops out one her headphones. She raises her brows like she wants him to continue with the thought. And Calum’s not even sure he should. Instead, he hands over the board back to her. If seeing death doesn’t get easier, then maybe it just means he gets better at it. Maybe it means that not being okay with death is a good motivator to keep down this path.

“The job doesn’t get easier. You’re still human. You still want a spouse and a kid. You might want two dogs and a cat. You might want that white picket fence one day. You’ll want to close your eyes and not see death. You’ll want to walk down the street and see humans as humans again. You’ll have nightmares. Don’t hide from it. Nothing’s wrong with you for wanting that. But we’re in a world now where we see the horrors--what’s on the other side of everything you wanted. It’s a liminal space and it’s heavy to wade through.”

“I just want to not freak like I did the other day. It’s not easy. But sometimes I fear that maybe I bit off more than I could chew.”

Their game of tic-tac-toe has been forgotten, placed in the seat next to Ivy as she leans forward in her seat. “You said you were converted because of me. What exactly about me was it?”

“You just know things. When you walk onto a scene, you have an air of knowing. How can you just pick up on it in a snap?”

“Well,” Ivy laughs, “if that’s the only reason you want in, I warn you to get out.”

“I want to help. I want to save people,” Calum adds on. But then it hits him. Maybe this wasn’t the business of saving people as much as it was stopping people. Sure, they prevent future murders, but that didn’t always negate for all the lives lost. But they did save that family today. He saved that little girl that wants tattoos like his. “I want to save people and I want to stop people as well,” he finally adds on.

“There will always be monsters in this world,” Ivy warns.

“And there will always be heroes.”

“Make no mistake, Calum. We don’t have capes. We don’t swoop in all the time at just the right moment. Sometimes we are late. Sometimes we’re reacting more than we are being proactive. Sometimes we fuck up.”

His heart stops for just a moment at the mention of his first name. He’s always Hood, or at least has always been Hood. Just like she’s always Thomas to the team. But she said his first name. Unmistakably so. “Did-did you just use my first name?”

“You used my first name, first.”

When had he done that? He didn’t recall, but he couldn’t combat it either.

“Look,” Ivy continues, “the fact remains. We will fail. We will make the wrong call, or the right call just by the skin of our teeth. We will walk down the wrong direction only to figure out, we know it’s the wrong one. We get it right. A lot more often, we get it right and we minimize the death count. But we’re human--you don’t have to take it on if you don’t want. You don’t have to suffer.”

“If I don’t suffer and win, then that little girl suffers and loses. Then the next person loses. And the next. Their suffering or mine--the choice is clear.”

Ivy studies Calum for a moment. She sees the resolve on his face. Just how much sacrificing himself is a no brainer for him. It was a no brainer for her too. But admittedly, she was cursed. Maybe Calum wasn’t. Maybe she could save him, even if she couldn’t save herself. But she wasn’t in the business of saving people, only stopping them.

“I can’t stop you, can I?” she asks.

“Stop me from what?”

“Stop you from killing yourself with this job.”

“If it’s killing you, then why don’t you leave?” His head cocks to the side, now intrigued by her honesty.

“It’s like you said, I got bit before I could escape. I’m cursed. Are you?”

The little girl flashes through his vision again, and his chest tightens for a second before the relief kicks in. He could chase that feeling, the knowledge that he saved someone, one person. And that he helped put away one more person causing harm. “I am now. Ruined--because even though I can’t save them all. I can save some. I can help keep some people safe. I don’t think there’s a better reward than that.”

With a nod, Ivy looks back to their game on the whiteboard. They would’ve tied, she can see it after where she placed her ‘O’. But she hands it back over to Calum. “Kennedy’s going to shit himself when he realizes he’s got too hard heads on his team.”

“You’ll shit yourself when you realize you’re inheriting the second hard-head on the team after Kennedy leaves.”

Ivy scoffs. Of course, Calum still believes in the shiny idea that hard work yields rewards. “And this is where I can still tell you’re new to this--the dreams are still shiny and ideal.”

“All the work you’ve invested, they’d be--”

Ivy interrupts him. “I know, they’d be dumb not to.”

“Then why do you keep saying it won’t happen?”

“I’d call my pessimism a curse. But at this point, I think it’s a personality trait and the truth.”

“And let me guess, this is why you take your coffee black too.”

Ivy winks at him before her smile takes over her face. “You know it.”

[thatsjustsupergirl]

sometimes I wonder if I should just give up on fandom. it's getting worse. I'm still peripherally in many fandoms as well as SG, like Critical Role. And as an older QWOC I'm just disgusted, is all I can say, at how people weaponise their identities or allyhood to pummel creators and use as shields when they're called out for their harassment and toxification of fandom spaces.

We're at the point where it's like people just can't think anymore, they're illiterate when it comes to media. Or maybe just selfish and unable to accept anything except their specific headcanons. I mean, people are truly harassing creators (queer and otherwise) of content for "queerbaiting" with content that has canon queer characters and relationships, just not in (the obviously fetishistic) ways they want. It's taking my joy of things.

I feel dumb for being like that, like why am I letting these kids (and sadly too many adults) ruin it for me? but it's so prevalent and nasty in seemingly every fandom these days. It's even got me thinking I want to stop creating my own fan content for certain ships because I'm angry at the shippers and don't want to risk being exposed to anymore of their shit. and these are ships I really like! but now my mindset has become 'why reward them for being utter assholes?'

for context: this ask set came after the absolutely vile way many “fans” responded to a post on the official Supergirl twitter asking people to share stories about what the show’s LGBTQ characters mean to them.

yeah, it’s really hard not to get frustrated by all of that. the weaponization of “allyhood” is so transparent and blatant at this point that it’s a fucking joke when wlw stans claim they’re fighting for representation or whatever. ryan murphy, of all people, called this out ten years ago— and he’s a petty dickhead of an employer, so i hate that i agree with anything he says— but, on this, he was kind of right. these fans are not here because they’re lobbying for quality, diverse LGBTQ stories. i could make a police lineup of every ladygay “it girl” actor y’all have stanned for the past decade and you’d barely be able to tell them apart. it’s not a civil rights violation when your favorite white girl isn’t delivering you fodder for your fantasies.

also, this is 100% why i don’t publish my fandom-based creative writing, or write meta for certain characters, particularly after watching wlw stans bully and censor multiple of my friends over the years for writing ships or even just endings to fics that they didn’t agree with. so, there’s nothing wrong with limiting yourself when you are tired of dealing with the bullshit! it’s more fun to create stuff for your own enjoyment and then choose who you want to share it with. plus then there’s no constant badgering about when you’ll post new things, like you are some kind of content machine instead of a human person with a life outside of tumblr.

tl;dr it’s definitely exhausting and it’s disheartening that people who are genuinely fans of a piece of media get chased out by people who don’t even really like it. and qwoc are more vulnerable to that exhaustion because it happens in every fandom, so that really sucks. best wishes to you, anon!

[thero0ks]

Decade of Loneliness <Jacob Frye>

I’ve had this fic posted to AO3, but never transferred it to Tumblr. Please enjoy if you haven’t read it yet, or re-enjoy if you want to reread :D

“Jacob, we need to talk..” She said rocking on her feet. Her hands were fidgeting inside her coat pockets.

“What is it love?” He asked following her out of the pub.

She took a deep breath for courage, “I need to say this at least once.” She began as she turned to face him. “Jacob I like you, so much it hurts.” She said biting her lip in anticipation of his reaction.

“I don’t know what to say.” His eyes were wide as his jaw went slack.

She let out a nervous breathy laugh, “don’t say anything then. It’ll just make it worse.” She said with a wave of her hand. “Anyways, I’ve come to tell you I'm leaving. I already told Evie goodbye, and I wanted to say goodbye to you as well.” She said simply.

“You’re leaving?” Jacob asked startled.

The (h/c) nodded scuffing her boot across the cobblestone. “It's time for me to move on. I’ve been reassigned to France.” She said with a shrug as she looked up at him once more.

"I promise I’ll write, and Jacob?” She inquired.

His eyebrows raised, “yeah?”

“Try not to give Evie and Henry too much trouble..and take care of yourself.” She said giving him a brief hug before setting off.

“(Y/N)!” Jacob called, and she turned.

“If I’d said I cared too would you have stayed?” He called across the street.

“Maybe.” She said simply before turning on her heel once more.

** As the years passed the letters with Jacob quit entirely. (Y/N) was still in regular contact with Evie. She was happy to hear of Evie and Henry’s marriage, and was surprised to learn of their move to India. She couldn’t help but feel for the younger twin being alone in London. Perhaps he had someone by now. There was no way of knowing. (Y/N) was too embarrassed to mention the younger Frye twin in any of her letters to Evie.

It was late summer when she was given orders to return to London. She was scheduled to arrive in early fall.

When she arrived in London she found herself seated in a café staring out a window watching the rain pelt the London cobblestones. Her mind drifted back to Jacob. She’d convinced herself that it was the timing of things. They were both young, and neither one was truly ready for any commitment of any sort. She was still convinced there had been something between the two. She could still recall the way his eyes would light up whenever she walked into a room. Her thoughts were cut off when she heard a giggle. She felt something brush against her legs and grip her coat.

“Emmett!” She heard an exasperated voice. A voice she recognized. She glanced down at the young boy hiding in her coat.

She smirked behind her teacup, “well Mr. Frye it seems as though God has quite a sense of humor.”

“I’m terribly sorry miss...do we know each other?” Jacob asked startled.

(Y/N) scoffed with a roll of her eyes, “I help you free London, and you can’t even recognize my voice? Typical.” She said shaking her head as turned to look at him.

“(Y/N)?” He managed to utter out. In the blink of an eye he had his arms wrapped around her, his face buried in her chest. She was surprised at his reaction, but happily wrapped her arms around him.

The little boy crawled out from the table poking Jacob in the side. Jacob quickly released (Y/N) turning to face the little boy, “da, who is this?”

“This is an old friend..(Y/N)” He said with a smile.

The boy quickly crawled into her lap any shyness completely gone, “I’m Emmett Frye.” He said grabbing a strand of her hair.

“Well it’s a pleasure to meet you Emmett.” She said steadying the boy so he wouldn’t fall.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re just like your father?” She asked with a chuckle.

The boy merely shrugged, “auntie Evie does.”

“Evie says you two still write?” Jacob asked sitting down at the table taking a sip of her tea. He used to be convinced that her tea always tasted better than his, and a decade later the statement still rang true. (Y/N) nodded, “we send letters as often as we can. France hasn’t been the most exciting.” She said with a soft chuckle. “The wine has been excellent though.” She added as Emmett shifted in her lap. “How have you been?” She asked.

Jacob shrugged, “good...exhausted.” He added glancing at Emmett.

“Children tend to do that, and a child of Jacob Frye...well I can only imagine.” She said with a laugh.

Jacob grinned, “he’s a little too much like me.”

(Y/N) glanced down at the boy who was now dozing in her arms, “well he’s quite the charmer, and definitely not shy.” She added.

“He hasn’t taken a nap in months.” Jacob said his eyes bright, and almost misty.

(Y/N) studied him for a moment, “Jacob...are you okay?” She asked softly.

Jacob glanced down at his best friend. They hadn't spoken a word in ten years, but it only felt like a day. The connection was still there, and the trust between the two hadn't been broken. “Honestly? No." He said sitting back with a sigh. "Emmett’s mother left a few months ago. It’s been hard, taking care of Emmett, and running the brotherhood.’ He said with a sigh. “We’re supposed to get another master assassin soon.” He added punching the bridge of his nose.

It was then that she noticed the faint crows feet at the corner of his eye. “Jacob...did they not tell you?”

“Tell me what?” He asked his eyes watching his son.

“I’m the master assassin they sent for. I was going to report tomorrow. I just assumed you knew…” She said trailing off.

“You’re staying?” He asked perking up.

She nodded, “I think Emmett isn’t the only one who could use some sleep." She said studying his bloodshot eyes. "How about we put Emmett down for a nap, so you can rest, and I'll take care of everything else.” She said standing up, careful not to wake the boy.

“You don’t have t-” Jacob started.

“Jacob that’s what friends do..and it’s okay to ask for help sometimes. Evie isn’t here, and you're still my best friend.” She said added. "It's what friends do. Remember?" She asked offering him a small smile.

Jacob finally agreed, taking Emmett from (Y/N). The boy was still snoring away happily. Jacob lead her down the streets of London. “I have to ask, are you still living in a train?”

Jacob let out a laugh, “I was until Emmett’s mother informed me I couldn’t raise a family in a locomotive.”

“Jacob Frye bought a house?” (Y/N) teased. “You really did get boring when I left.” She said as Jacob let out a laugh.

“I couldn’t keep up that lifestyle forever you know.” He said nudging her shoulder.

“True.” She said with a grin. When they arrived at Jacob’s home they put Emmett to bed. “Now, go to bed.” She ordered as she started picking up Emmett’s things.

“Yes ma’am.” Jacob grumbled trudging down the hall.

Soon Y/N had the whole house clean, and she was sitting down on the couch to relax when she heard the soft patter of footsteps as Emmett came down the hall rubbing his eyes. He crawled onto the couch snuggling into Y/N’s side as he started to wake up. “When’s mommy coming back?” He asked gripping his teddy bear.

“Oh Emmett.” She said softly rubbing the boys back. “Do you know how much your daddy cares for you?” She asked. The little boy shrugged. “He would do anything for you Emmett. Auntie Evie, and uncle Henry loves you a whole bunch as well.”

He sniffled, “they’re far away though.”

(Y/N) pulled Emmett into her lap, “now you have me, and I’ll be here whenever you need. If you need someone to tuck you in, or someone to talk to I’ll be here. I know I could never replace your mom, but I can give you any love that she may not be capable of giving you.” She said softly.

“(Y/N)?” Emmett asked softly burying his weepy eyes into her neck.

“Yes?” She hummed.

“Can you sing me a song?” He asked in a soft voice.

“Of course,” she said softly.

Jacob leaned against the wall his heart aching at his son’s words. An old wound was reopened when he heard his friend speak. He felt guilt at his display of unrequited love. He hadn’t been entirely truthful that day. He’d loved the woman so much. When she left he felt like a shell. He couldn’t tell her that he loved her. His younger self felt broken, and he didn’t feel right dragging her into his problems. Here she was though, after all this time. He had a child now, and she still wasn't leaving.

He thought back to the last letter he tried to send. He didn't know how to tell her about Emmett. He wrote a hundred letters, and set fire to each one. This was something you couldn't put into a letter. Emmett's mother had demanded he stop writing to her as well. For his family's sake he ended all communication. He did ask Evie about (Y/N). After a while he didn't need to ask anymore, Evie would just tell him in all her letters. Evie had never been a fan of Emmett's mother.

"Do you think we could go to the park?" Emmett asked softly.

(Y/N) chuckled, "my dear little Rook it's pouring out. I don't want you catching a cold."

Jacob stepped into the room with a small smile, "I haven't heard you talk about my rooks in years." He said softly, sitting down next to her.

“How long were you lurking?” She asked nudging his shoulder.

“Long enough.” He admitted running his hand up the back of his neck in a nervous manner.

The evening passed quickly, and after Emmett was tucked into bed (Y/N) and Jacob found themselves seated in front of the fire. (Y/N) pulled a flask out taking a long pull from it before handing it to Jacob. Jacob took a drink as a heavy silence fell on the pair. Jacob’s hazel gaze bore into the fire. “I wasn’t entirely truthful.” He began hesitantly.

(Y/N) looked at him intently taking another swig from the flask. “That day you left. I wasn’t entirely truthful.” He clarified.

“Jacob…” She began but he cut her off.

“I need to say this at least once.” He began. Her answer caught in her throat. He recalled their conversation. Even if he had seemed distracted at the time he wasn’t.

“I was terrified, and you were this one good thing in my life that I didn’t want to destroy. When you told me you cared for me I got scared, and I pushed you away. I was convinced that I would destroy any relationship that was between us if we became more. I didn’t want to lose you, but when you left I realized every single day I was losing you more and more. Each time I sent a letter I didn’t think I would get one back, and then when Emmett’s mother demanded I stopped writing to you I thought that I’d lost you forever. When I walked into that cafe today and saw you I realized what a fool I’ve been all these years. You said you cared for me so much that it hurt. Does it still hurt? I mean all those years in France did you feel like you left your heart and soul in London, because you took mine to France.” His eyes were wide searching her face for understanding. She bit her lip in an attempt to compose herself.

“I’ve spent years trying to move on, but every person I kissed left me wishing they were you. My heart and soul separated from me the moment I first saw you.” Her gaze had drifted to the fire. It was easier to confess things with a shifted gaze. “My feelings haven’t changed. You own my heart and soul, and you may do with it as you please.” Her lips were pressed against the whiskey flask, and he scooted to the edge of the couch knees pressing into hers.

His tongue darted across his lips leaving a glossy sheen, “I want to kiss you.”

Her eyes widened at the statement. Jacob was never the kind to beat around the bush, and the way he was looking at her. Pupils blown, lashes drooping, and lips in a perfect pout. All she could offer was a nod as her breath caught in her throat. He pulled her close; palms cupping her jaw leaning down to touch his lips to hers. She finally found out how soft his hair was as she buried her finger in his dark locks. His lips were soft and eager as they kissed, and she gave him a soft nip. He pulled back suddenly with a twinkle in his eye, and his infamous smirk. “Come love, I didn’t know you liked to play that way.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.” She said giving the side of his jaw a nip. Jacob let out a low groan.

“I look forward to learning.” He said pulling her lips back to his.

___

Tag List:

@pink-polarfox

[flowerbloom-arts]

Well uh, thank you @boorishbint for leaving these lovely tags on my post, otherwise I wouldn't have spent, like, almost two hours striaght writing a 1134 word fic depicting an inner monologue by dear old Hodgkins himself and 12 minutes coloring one of my doodles from the original post. I deeply admire your work and I hope that this is atleast enjoyable to you in any sort of capacity.

Cw: death mention (please ask me to add more if needed)

And as I sat on the armchair, book in lap, I stare at it and wonder why this could've possibly happened. My own brother and the love of his life, deceased, with his son left to be in my care. I feel... I'm not quite sure how I feel. It's always been rather difficult for someone such as myself to simply understand my own thoughts, I don't exactly have the ability to articulate these things. I've turned to the tangible things in life when my own abstractions fail me, there seems to be a maze in the back of my throat that makes it difficult to speak more than a few words and I've been so used to my younger brother interpreting my intentions for me, it seemed remarkable how easy it came to him. Now he's gone, I'm left behind for good, with a mere 8 year old sleeping on the sofa next to me. It's almost baffling to me how fate could twist a situation like this and not make it obvious who or what it favours, all I know is, it's not in my favour. I had come to terms that I may never fall for anyone in my life unlike my brother who seemed to take chances with any woman he happened to fancy, it was almost a relief that he found his metaphorical princess after kissing so many frogs, like that one fairytale but backwards, but now it's been a decade since that muddler from across the sea came and had their hearts stolen by the other, and now they're simply... Gone, and I'm still wondering to myself on if there is going to be a funeral for them or not, my brother seemed to not have quite the roster of friendships and any relative of his wife is a complete and utter mystery to me, just like everything else about that Confounder. For someone who has an extremely chatty brother and attended his wedding you'd think I'd know more about that strange thing, but no, just like everything else it appears to be part of this grand yet cruel joke that had it's climax just a week ago and I discovered the punchline just about an hour ago.

What am I to do now? What am I to do with my nephew? I can't simply leave him to an orphanage, I hear they're rather cruel places, so I suppose the other option is taking care of him myself. It'd be too odd for someone unrelated to care for him when his uncle is literally right here, I've already been doing it for the past 5 days since I discovered him starving in an oversized american coffee tin for 2 days since spring cleaning was supposed to start, I might as well. There really isn't anything to lose if I do, is there? Only problem is that I don't exactly understand other people, children especially, and I've never been familiar with his species in the slightest. Muddlers are a very rare sight if they do in fact live anywhere near here and not just across the atlantic, I might need to do a bit of research before I understand anything about parenting or muddlers as a whole. I might also need to find a partner to help care for him, but that seems far too daunting for me, there are far too many factors to list...

I am in completely unfamiliar territory here, it's almost laughable how all these pieces culminated into a situation I could never even dream of being in, it's a nightmare scenario if I were to be honest. And thinking this, I realize now that I'm feeling... Uncertain. Scared. Hopeless perhaps- things I'm lead to believe comes with parenting, except the circumstances are simply much worse than what would've ever been described to me, so much worse. I have yet to think about what to tell this child when he wakes up for goodness' sake, what am I to tell him? I could keep my mouth shut but eventually he'll pester me with questions if my lack of response bothers him, I will admit he is his father's son from what I could tell of him. Telling him his parents died is far too harsh, does he even understand what death is? Am I going to have to explain what death is to an 8 year old child? He was crying over a button getting lost under a drawer, I can't imagine the devastation he'd feel for something like this! I myself am already devastated at this, I can't handle such a thing right now! And that only leaves lying to his face about it, a white lie, sure, but a lie nonetheless. I'm nowhere near creative enough for something like that, I'm so bad at acting it'd be a miracle if he were to believe me.

Think, Samuel, think! You're supposed to be the smart one, academically gifted, aspiring inventor, why in the bloody hell can't you think of anything good to say to a child? You were a child once, surely you should know how you'd feel if anything about this sort of situation was said to you! But you were a strange child in comparison to others- your nephew isn't a younger you, he's far more like his father, you should know something with that atleast! Or atleast- an approximation of what you should say! Why does this have to be so difficult!? Why did any of this have to transpire? This can't possibly be your fault in any way but why does it feel like it is? Why can't you be a normal creature and just know what to say? Why can't you be normal and feel things everyone else is able to feel? Why are you like this? Why is this happening? What is going to happen now? Part of me hopes I could just stay in this moment and avoid the inevitable confrontation with my nephew about the whereabouts of his parents but I know that simply isn't possible, it's going to happen, if not today then some other day...

Looking at him- the Muddler- my own nephew, sleeping peacefully and blissfully unaware of what is going on, it feels... Melancholic, for a lack of a better word that comes to mind. I look back down at my brother's book of poems, or anthology, 'the Ocean Orchestra', this was his one achievement outside of his personal ones such as marriage and having a child, and it's practically the only thing of his creation I bother to own... My mind still wanders back to what I should say to Muddler. And I whisper to myself, softly and sadly, salted with my own frustrations towards myself...

"What to tell him...?"

[lookalivefrosty]

Summertime

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader (but, really, Winter Soldier Bucky x Female Reader)

Summary: Three days ago, the Winter Soldier walked away from Hydra. They’ve just sent you to bring him back.

Word Count: 7,656 words (!!!)

Warnings: a heavy helping of angst, descriptions of injuries and pain, canon typical violence. The reader is an enhanced human with the ability to manipulate pain. (Let me know if you come across any others I’ve missed, I’ll gladly add them!)

*Reblogs of course are welcome, but please do not repost this story to any other websites without my permission!!*

A/N: This was written for @jbbuckybarnes​‘s birthday writing challenge. Happy belated birthday, and thank you so much for reassuring me that it was okay to post this past the deadline! I didn’t mean for it to take this long, but the good news is, this is the first thing I’ve written and actually liked in about five or six years. So, yay? I really hope you and everyone else who reads it enjoys it! 

P.S: my prompts are bolded, the not too shabby moodboard was made by me, and the title of the fic and lyrics within said moodboard are courtesy of My Chemical Romance’s ‘Summertime.’ Oh, and, the totally awesome text divider seen just below (and several times throughout the fic) was created by @writeyourmindaway​ (thank you)!

EDITED ON 5/24/2021 - no major changes, only a change in spelling for two of the characters' names.

“You ever think of where you’d go if you got out of here?” you’d asked the Soldier once, the two of you hunkered down in a safe house somewhere in Alaska. It’s been so long since then that you can’t even remember what mission had brought you there - or maybe you should say, so much has happened since then that you can’t remember. 

He didn’t answer your question. He couldn’t. His programming limited his dialogue to giving orders to those ranked below him and answering the questions of those ranked higher. You’d been able to see his answer in his eyes, though, sitting there on the opposite side of the hallway from him, your faces illuminated by an oil lamp he’d found while sweeping the basement for any threats. 

They had narrowed slightly, his way of wordlessly saying, ‘No.’ 

No, because he never thought he would ever escape from Hydra; and neither did you, for that matter. But it was nice to think about, especially back then. Freedom.

“I can remember,” you’d said slowly, not missing the faint look of surprise that crossed  his usually stoic face at the words. You shouldn’t be able to remember anything that occurred before they wiped you the first time. But you remember this vividly, too vividly for it to be a mere fragment of your imagination. 

“I can remember,” you’d started again, “this place my parents and I used to go to along the Blue Ridge Parkway.” 

And then you’d told him about it. How after visiting a few tourist attractions you’d park the car at a lookout spot and stare out over the miles and miles of autumn colored trees in the valleys below, untouched by man aside from the randomly placed house. Far away from where you stood, blue tinted mountains pierced the overcast sky - and it was beautiful. 

He’d listened to every word you’d spoken intently, his gaze never straying from your face as you reminisced on happier times. And when you’d finished, he’d looked sad. You could feel the longing in his chest within your own, and see a sparkle in his stormy blue eyes that seemed to say, ‘I would take you there, if I could.’

And he has, hasn’t he?

Here you are, standing at the very same lookout you’d told him about that night. It’s warmer than you remember, greener, seeing as it’s summertime - but it’s no less beautiful. If you squint you can see ghosts of the past; two figures standing against the most breathtaking of backdrops, smiling with their arms around one another as you took their picture.

You miss them. 

Your parents. 

You wish you could remember more about them. 

About yourself. 

Your old life.

“Empat.” 

His voice startles you, but not because you didn’t know he was there. You’d felt his presence step within the reach of your powers almost twenty minutes ago; had known it was him because you know his aches and pains as well as you know your own. The phantom pain where his left arm used to be, the carpal tunnel syndrome in his right wrist and hand from years of holding a gun, and all the other wear and tear seventy years of assassination work has put on his still visibly young body. New to the roster, though, is the break in his right forearm - no doubt an injury gained during his fight in D.C. three days ago. A fight you’d been sidelined for, but should have been battling alongside him. 

If you had been, that break wouldn’t be there. You’re certain of that.

You could only do so much with the amount of distance between you, but because you care, because you wanted him to know that you knew he was there, you’d cast your healing warmth over the fracture, numbing it until you could touch him and heal it completely. As thanks, he’d given you this time with your memories. Time before the inevitable had to happen.

But time is up now, and he’s standing right behind you, his voice startling you not because it’s unexpected but because he’s never been able to call you anything, let alone the name Hydra had given you. Empat, meaning Empath. His programming simply didn’t allow for it. To hear his voice say it now - after months and years of knowing each other, fighting alongside each other, nearly dying for each other -  well, it’s quite a shock to the system.

Three days, you think. It’s only been three days since he walked away from the Triskelion wreckage, walked away from Hydra, and already he’s regained the ability to speak autonomously. And here you are, sent here to drag him back to the very same people who stripped him of his ability to do so in the first place. 

You, because they know that in spite of their best efforts to keep him as emotionless and empty as possible, he feels something for you. Because if it’s you asking him to, he might come back willingly, without a fight. Because if it comes to a fight he’ll hesitate before killing you, and give you the opening you need to-

“Empat,” he says again, interrupting your internal ramblings. The sound of it threatens to bring tears to your eyes.

You don’t want to do this.

But you have no other choice. 

“Hi, Soldier,” you greet him gently, and he takes that as his cue to move to stand at your side. He places himself on your left and it’s such a familiar position: you and the Soldier shoulder to shoulder, against the world. Normally it would bring you comfort; but today, it just makes you sad. 

As if he can sense it - which he probably can; he has a knack for reading people - the Soldier brushes the back of his hand against the back of yours in a silent offer of comfort. You turn your wrist and intertwine your fingers with his without a second thought, and together you gaze out over the mountain range, silence hanging thick in the air between you for what feels like a lifetime. 

And then, “Is it what you remember?”

So you were right. The red star on the tracking device had stopped in this town with a familiar name yesterday not by coincidence, but on purpose. He’d traveled west, deep into the peaks and valleys of the Blue Ridge Mountain range just so he could bring you here, to the location of your only remaining memory. 

It’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for you - that you can remember, at least - and, God, do you want to cry. 

“Yes,” your voice and your smile is strained, “Thank you.”

He squeezes your hand tighter in response, causing a bolt of pain to shoot up towards his shoulder and down to the tips of his fingers - but he shows no signs of feeling it when you glance in his direction. He was trained to suffer in silence; if you weren’t, well, you, you wouldn’t have the slightest clue that he was in any pain at all. 

“Your arm?” you inquire, turning your head to face him at the same moment he turns to face you. It’s only then that you realize what he’s wearing: a black baseball cap pulled down over his brunette tresses, a dark denim jacket over a black t-shirt, blue jeans and his usual pair of boots. The shoes are the only part of his attire that you recognize, but you have to admit, this casual look he’s got going on… 

You like it.

“Steve,” he tells you, as if you know who Steve is. You raise your brows. “The guy on the bridge,” he amends. “Captain...Captain America.”

Right. The target Hydra had sent the Soldier to kill not once, but twice - an anomaly, as he usually gets the job done on the first try. You’d been as shocked as your superiors when he came back from the fight on the bridge to report the mission as failed - but more so due to the foul mix of emotions churning within him than the failed mission itself.

 It was astonishing to see him in such anguish so openly; to feel the full force of his normally repressed guilt, anger and sadness. You’ve gotten glimpses of it in the past, during those precious few minutes between him being awoken and being wiped. But only one other time had you seen him so distraught, which could only mean one thing.

The target - this Steve, whoever he is - had somehow broken through decades of wipings and programming to free the man Hydra had tried so hard to keep contained, and every sour emotion he’s felt while locked in his cage - though only for a moment before Alexander Pierce ordered him to be shoved behind the bars again.

It’s not easily done; liberating the man that lingers beneath the surface of the Soldier.

You would know.

You’ve done it before.

“You knew him,” you say simply, recalling the trembling words he’d spoken that day. Words that, when combined with the look on his face and what had happened after he’d uttered them, had shattered your already broken heart into even smaller shards.

“But I knew him.”

“I don’t know,” the Soldier replies eventually, and he’s lying - to you and himself. 

But that’s okay.

You assure him as much with a small smile.

“Here,” you change the subject, “let me…” you turn your body towards him and bring your right hand up to cup the back of his, which still clings to your left one, as he turns to face you as well. You close your eyes and focus on the break, casting your warmth over it and holding it steady as it guides his bones back into place. As it does, your body takes his pain and converts it into ammunition, adding it to what’s already been piled high within you thanks to the metal choker around your neck. 

Hydra’s scientists had designed it especially for you; a necklace that would, whenever your handlers deemed it necessary, electrically shock you continuously so you would have to be constantly taking your own pain away. Whenever you use your healing abilities - regardless of whether you’re using them on yourself or someone else - your body absorbs the pain and stores it within until you either unleash it on someone or your handlers shut the necklace off and the power coursing through your veins is allowed to dwindle away on its own.

It flows through you now, but you’re so used to the uncomfortable prickling feeling that accompanies it at this point that you hardly even notice it’s there anymore.

How sad that is.

“Thank you,” the Soldier says after you’ve finished healing him and open your eyes again. That’s another first: the Soldier thanking you aloud instead of with his eyes and soft, secret touches. If it weren’t for the current circumstances, it would have brought you joy.

 “Don’t thank me,” you beg with a rapid shake of your head. “Not when you know what I’ve been sent here to do.”

“Empat, it’s okay-” 

“No,” you interject harshly, dropping his hand and retreating a few steps backwards. “It’s not okay, Soldier. It’s not. Because you knew,” your smile is sardonic as you point a finger in his direction. “You knew they’d send someone - that they’d send me - after you. You knew what they’d make me do to bring you back. So why, Soldier? Why didn’t you cut the tracker out? You could have been free,” your voice cracks on the last word, and you feel his chest ache in response.

He holds your gaze for a moment longer before dropping his focus to the grass between his boots. You stand there, blinking tears from your eyes and waiting for him to say something - anything - in defense of himself, but he doesn’t say a word. 

He’s maddeningly silent.

“Why would you do this?” you demand again, your voice frail in spite of the anger rising inside of you. The Soldier is slow to raise his gaze back to yours, and even slower to give you an answer.

“‘Cause I wanted to.”

It hits you like a punch from his left fist, and you find yourself unable to speak.

He... He wanted this? He wanted you to be sent after him? To potentially have to fight him, to have to drag him back to the people you’ve always told him you wished you could help him escape from?

“Listen,” he urges, seeing the look of hurt and betrayal that’s overtaken your features. He’s lifted his hands in a pacifying gesture, and his left one catches your attention, as it’s donning a black winter glove. Where did he even find one of those this time of year? “I did it because I didn’t know how else to find you. I went back to the bank after...after the fight, and everyone was already gone. You were gone, and I had no way of knowing where you were but I knew that if I left the tracker in, it wouldn’t be long before they sent you after me. It...It was the only way I had to be able to see you again,” he finishes with a sad, tearful smile, the same one he’d given Alexander Pierce that night after his first encounter with Steve. 

It pulls at your heart now just as it did then, but at the same time -

“You could have been free,” you echo your earlier words, sounding every bit as devastated as you feel. Your tears make the Soldier a blur as he steps closer to you, raising his hands to tentatively cup the sides of your face. You blink and a pair of them slip down your cheeks only to be quickly smeared away by his thumbs, gloved metal and bare flesh alike.

“I don’t want to be free if you’re not free with me,” he tells you softly, and you see those words for what they are: a testament of his love for you. It’s the first time he’s been able to voice such a thing, and you want to find joy or at the very least solace in it. Truly, you do. But right now, with the situation at hand, knowing he’s tossed away the only chance at liberation he’s had in seven decades all because he didn’t want to leave you behind, you can’t. 

You just feel guilty. So incredibly, debilitatingly guilty.

“I’ll never be free of them,” you state grimly, pulling out of his hold and putting some distance between you. “As long as this necklace is around my neck, I’m stuck. They’ll ramp it up as soon as I get too far for their likings and kill me. But you - you had a chance. And you threw it away because of me,” you practically choke out the last word. You pause for a few moments to collect yourself before continuing to speak, your eyes fluttering shut to send another pair of tears down your cheeks.

“I’m begging you, Soldier. If you love me, cut the tracker out and leave. I’ll tell them you beat me unconscious before I could move to apprehend you, or… I don’t know. Something. Just please don’t make me take you back there. Don’t make me the reason you go back there, I…” your throat gets too tight for you to speak any further, so you open your eyes and try to communicate with him through them, as he used to you.

I won’t be able to live with myself if you do.

He lets your unspoken words hang between you for exactly seventeen shaking breaths, and when he goes to speak, he looks apologetic, telling you he’s not going to change his mind even before he confirms it aloud. 

“You know I never get to choose what I want for myself,” he says, a pleading tone to his voice. His eyes are equally as imploring as they stare into yours, trying to get you to see just how much he needs you to do this for him. “I want this, Empat. I do. So, please, for once in my life - let me have what I want.”

…How are you supposed to say no to that?

The answer is simple: 

You don’t.

“Alright,” you sound as defeated as you feel. “Alright.”

The corners of his lips twitch upwards, but the glossiness of his eyes conveys what you feel twisting inside of him. The fear. The sadness. The anger.

He reaches out, asking for your hands, and you unfold your arms to give them to him, biting back a sob as he intertwines his fingers through yours.

“Whatever you have to do,” he says slowly, “Do it.”

You squeeze your eyes shut and inhale deeply to gather what little strength and courage you have left in you; then, you breath out a single word:

“Sputnik.” 

A moment later, the Soldier collapses at your feet.

…

...

You couldn’t do it.

You’d told him you would, and had fully intended on honoring his wishes - but it was one hour into the three hour drive back to the safe house your handlers were waiting for you within that you realized you just couldn’t. You couldn’t take him back to the people who have been holding him hostage for over seventy years, doom him to another who knows how many more  years of brainwashing and torture. You couldn’t, and you wouldn’t.

So you turned the car around, much to the displeasure of your handlers. The wattage of your necklace shot up almost immediately after you’d made the u-turn, and you’d almost driven into the guard rails due to the sudden onslaught of pain. You’d quickly smothered it, though, and righted the vehicle on the road, backtracking until you reached the abandoned house you’d spotted only a few minutes prior in the drive.

It had caught your eye because of its reminiscence of that safe house back in Alaska. It’s a small and barely standing home made of deteriorating wood, its front door hanging by a single hinge. Upon entering it you’d found it had the same damp, moldy atmosphere, and a similar, familiar layout - a ground level with two bedrooms and a bathroom, a living room and kitchen area, and a basement. Its windows were shattered, parts of the wood flooring were either caved in or missing altogether, and you’d even found an oil lamp while you were scoping out the basement. 

Talk about déjà vu.

As for getting the Soldier into the house, it was as much of a struggle as it’d been to get him into the car your handlers had sent you out in. Somehow, though, you’d managed, and had tied him to a weathered dining chair that had squeakily threatened to collapse under his weight when you’d dropped him into it. 

What had happened after that is nothing more than a blur of blood and tears, right up until you’d collapsed into an identical chair in front of a boarded up window, staring as if you could see right through the planks to whatever lies beyond.

You don’t know how much time has passed since then, but you haven’t moved since you’d sat down. You’ve barely even breathed.

There’s a pounding in your head from previously shed tears and there’s dried blood on your hands, your clothes. You’re shaking so badly you don’t know how you haven’t vibrated right off of the chair and into a clump on the floor.

He hasn’t woken up yet. You’re starting to worry he may never - that there’s another code word that has to be used to wake the Soldier after he’s been shut down by ‘sputnik.’ 

Wouldn’t that be just your luck? To do everything that you’ve done in the time since he’s been unconscious just for it all to be futile because-

A soft groan sounds from behind you, and you hold your breath.

Did you actually hear that? Or did you-

“Empat?” he rasps, a confused lilt to his voice. You almost start crying again at the sound of it. 

He’s awake. 

Everything you’ve done isn’t for nothing, after all.

“I’m here,” you get to your feet and move towards him slowly. Taking in his disoriented expression, you ask, “How do you feel?” 

You being you, of course, you already know how he’s feeling; he’s got a headache similar to your own and he’s discombobulated, stiff and sore. Still, you ask him - not only because it’s nice to do so but because you want to hear it out of his own mouth.

However, instead of answering your question, he raises one of his own. “Why are you covered in blood?”

You stop right in front of him, shaking your head. 

“It’s not mine,” is all you offer, reaching forward to brush his hair out of his face since he can’t do it for himself. You then trail your fingers down the side of his cheek, watching as his eyes flutter shut briefly in response to the gentle touch before he seemingly forces them open again, assessing you with his stormy blues.  

“Where are we?” he asks. You freeze in your movement.

“Hour away from where we were,” you supply. He ponders that for a few moments, tearing his eyes from you to take in what he can of the room before meeting your gaze again.

“Are they coming to extract us?”

You drop your gaze.

“Empat,” his tone is low; dangerous - the closest it’s been to the one he uses while giving orders on missions this entire time. You turn away from him and clasp your trembling hands together.

Every so often your handlers have been knocking up the voltage of your necklace to tell you to hurry up and get you and the Soldier back to the safe house. You’ve been having to use more and more of your powers to keep yourself from feeling it, from being harmed by it, and it’s drained you more than you’re willing to admit. 

You don’t know how much longer you can fight against it. You need to get moving before they ramp it up beyond the reach of your powers and kill you, which they’d very clearly told you they would if you failed them.

You’ve only hung around this long waiting for the Soldier to wake up to make sure that he would wake up; you didn’t want to leave him behind without knowing for a fact that he was going to be okay. 

But he’s awake now, and really there’s no reason for you to be here anymore... Yet, you can’t bring yourself to move any further away.

“Empat,” the Soldier calls for you again, this time more desperate. “What did you do?”

You close your eyes. 

He’s going to be so upset with you over this.

But perhaps that will make it easier for him to move on.

“I cut the tracker out,” you inform him, hearing him inhale sharply in response. “I…Understand why you didn’t do it yourself. I’d do the same thing, to see you one last time - but you know that if our roles were reversed you would refuse to take me back to them. So you shouldn’t expect me to,” you face him again, letting him see the tears that started running down your cheeks as you were speaking. 

He looks as devastated as you feel.

Biting back a sob, you walk back up to him and cup the sides of his face, as he had yours earlier, and lean down to rest your forehead against his. You remain in that position for only a moment before pulling away enough to peer into his tear-filled eyes.

“I’m sorry I have to be another person keeping you from what you want,” you brush your thumbs over his cheekbones, “but I can’t do this to you. You’ve been with them so much longer than I have, Soldier; you’ve been through so much - too much. You deserve to be free, to live. And you’ve got a chance,” you smile at him sadly. “I can’t take that from you.”

Those words appear to be what takes him over the edge, as with his next blink, the Soldier’s tears spill over. They run down his stubble covered cheeks and quickly find themselves wiped away by your waiting thumbs.

“They’ll kill you if you show up without me,” he chokes out. And he’s right. You know he is. But,

“You would do it for me.”

You have him there, it seems - because he has nothing to say to contradict your statement. You nod, for no particular reason, and press your lips to his forehead; your silent I love you, your wordless goodbye.

You pull away from him with the intentions of leaving, but before you can even straighten your spine he says, “Y/N.”

You freeze.

That name…

You pull further back and meet his gaze.

“What?” 

“Y/N,” he says again. “That’s your name. Your real name.”

Your breathing hitches.

You don’t know how, but you know he’s right. You can feel it. 

“How-” 

“You told me,” he answers your unfinished question. “When we first met, before they wiped you that first time - no one told you I couldn’t talk and you - you introduced yourself to me. You were terrified of me, I could tell - but you still stuck your hand out and told me your name. I couldn’t,” he pauses to gather himself, Adam’s apple bobbing. “I couldn’t have told you my name even if I could have remembered it, but I put my hand in yours, and you smiled at me. Do you know how long it’d been since someone had smiled at me? Without any malice behind it?” he leans forward against his binds, baring his wet eyes into yours. 

You don’t say anything. You’re completely and utterly speechless, staring at him with wide eyes and a trembling lower lip. You drop your hands from his face and take a step back, absorbing every single word he has to to tell you.

“They wipe me to make me forget, but I never forgot that moment, Y/N, no matter how many times they did it. I never forgot your name even though my own was long gone.” The Soldier presses on, “I don’t know why, but I feel like it was for a reason. Like I was supposed to be the one to remind you what it was - to help you remember who you were. But I can’t do that if you’re...If you…” 

He doesn’t finish, but it’s not hard for you to figure out what he was going to say.

I can’t do that if you’re dead.

“I don’t know what you think I can do,” you force the words out around the lump in your throat, “I die if I go back without you. They’ll kill me if I stay with you - either way, I’m dead. There’s nothing we can do-”

“Yes there is,” he insists, desperate. “We can go there - we can fight them-”

“And they’ll kill me as soon as they realize what’s happening,” you dismiss the suggestion, “right in front of you. I don’t… Want you to have to watch me die, Soldier. I don’t want you to have to carry that around with you for the rest of your life - can’t you understand that?”

“Untie me then. Let me try and get that thing off of you-”

“What?!” you take a step back as if he’s struck you. “Are you insane?! You’ll get electrocuted if you touch it!”

“Not if you protect me from it,” he counteracts. You shake your head and go to protest against the idea, but he starts talking again before you can. “Don’t you remember the day you realized what you could do? What you could really do?”

Of course you do. That’s another memory Hydra couldn’t rip away from you no matter how hard they tried: the day you found out the true extent of what powers Loki’s scepter had bestowed upon you. The day that you were promoted from the Winter Soldier’s nurse to his partner in crime - literally.

Seeing the look of recognition in your eyes, the Soldier latches onto it. “You can do it again. I know you can.”

“Your arm,” you point out. “It’ll conduct the electricity - send it straight towards your heart. And I don’t know if what I can do is enough to protect you from the damage that would cause.”

His face falls. 

Clearly, he hadn’t thought of that. 

He parts his lips to make another argument but before he can get a single word out the wattage of your necklace suddenly increases again, making you cry out and fall to your knees. You just barely manage to smother the pain this time; if they turn it up any higher, you’re not sure you’ll be able to.

“I knew you couldn’t do it,” a voice taunts in Russian from somewhere behind you. Recognizing it, you lift a hand in the general direction it came from and feel the power coursing through your veins gather in the palm of your hand before a cloud of black smoke erupts from it. The man lets out a scream of pure agony a moment later before hitting the weathered floorboards, dead. You look over your shoulder and take in the lifeless form of the handler before turning back to the Soldier, wide eyed.

“Untie me now,” he orders, and you know better than to argue with him.

As Hydra’s motto claims, ‘Cut off one head, two more will take its place.’

You’re gonna need his help.

So you scramble to your feet and round the chair he’s tied to, unsheathing the knife strapped to your thigh. It’s not easy to cut through the rope, which had been specially designed to restrain the Soldier, but it’s not impossible, either. You have him free before long and he puts his hand out for the blade, which you hand over without even thinking just in time for two more figures to step through the doorway.

“Sput-” the handler who had been just a syllable away from shutting down the Soldier again gets cut off by the knife you’d given him embedding itself in his chest. A cloud of black smoke engulfs him a moment later and he chokes on it for a moment before collapsing just as the first had.

Next, gun shots ring out. If any bullets hit you, you don’t feel them - all you can feel is the power in your shaking hands, the slight ease of its pressure as more of it is released onto the third Hydra agent. She does little more than gasp before her eyes roll back in her head and she lands on top of her comrade.

The Soldier surges forward, scavenging the closest body for any weapons. He finds a gun just in time to get a head shot on a fourth agent.

“We need to get out of here,” he states the obvious, taking a shot at a fifth one. 

He doesn’t miss.

You clench and unclench your hands, the power surging within them making it impossible for you not to fidget. “My tracker’s still in, they’ll just follow us,” you remind him, “and the necklace-”

“Search them for the remote,” he meets your eyes briefly over his shoulder. “Someone here has to have it.”

You nod and kneel beside the body he’d taken the gun from. You rummage through the handler’s pockets, coming up short on finding the device that would free you from the necklace. From Hydra. 

It’s unreal to you that this is even happening right now; you never thought you would ever have even a chance at freedom, but now -

As if it’s punishing you for even thinking about escaping, the wattage of your necklace suddenly spikes. And as you’d predicted, this time you can’t completely cover the pain it’s inflicting on you - it’s too strong, hurts too much. 

You scream and fall sideways, clawing futilely at the electrified metal around your neck. For several long, agonizing moments, all there is is pain, pain, pain - and then, suddenly, it’s gone. 

You think at first you’re dead; in fact, you’re certain of it. But then a hand taps on your cheek and you open your eyes - when had you even closed them? - and see the Soldier’s face hovering over your own. It melts with relief and he says something to you, but you can’t hear whatever it is over the ringing in your ears. 

You’d tell him that, if you weren’t so dazed.

After some time the Soldier gives up on getting a response out of you and helps you to sit up, watching you closely afterwards, presumably looking for any signs that you’re going to pass out. You don’t, though your head does swim, and find yourself blinking rapidly trying to get your eyes to focus. They land on the doorway when they do, where a familiar man stands holding a familiar object, the sight enough to make your blood run cold.

Having noticed the shift in your demeanor, the Soldier follows your line of sight, tensing just as you had when he realizes what you’re looking at.

The ringing in your ears fades away just in time for Talon, the highest ranking of the handlers, to speak. 

“Drop the gun, Soldat,” he commands, shaking the hand holding the remote to your necklace pointedly. “Or watch your precious little empath die.”

The Soldier swallows thickly. Then, he obeys, the gun clattering onto the wood floor just beyond your reach. 

“As I thought,” Talon muses, his smile anything but friendly as he approaches you and the Soldier at a slow pace. His eyes are fixated on the latter, but his thumb hovering over the red button on the remote is enough of a deterrent to keep you from trying anything.

You don’t refrain from openly glaring at him, though.

“You’d do anything to keep her safe, hm?” Talon inquires coolly, his lips falling into their natural frown. “First chance at freedom in almost seventy years... And you toss it away for a girl you’ve known for two,” he holds up two fingers on his free hand for emphasis, and you flinch. Even though they’re the same words you've been telling yourself this entire time, they somehow sound even worse coming from someone else’s mouth. 

The handler doesn't show it outwardly, but he notices how his statement hits a nerve. You know this because, for a moment, his irritation gives way to amusement; he can tell you're feeling guilty, and he's enjoying it.

Bastard.

Talon comes to a stop a few feet away from where you and the Soldier are sat. His eyes, their irises the color of green peridot, flicker back and forth between the two of you a few times before he seethes, “She makes you weak.”

The Soldier tightens his arm around you, and you can feel the anxiety rising within him; the anger. You want to spare a glance in his direction but opt to keep your gaze fixated on Talon, afraid of what he might do if you were to be momentarily distracted.

“It’s pathetic,” the handler goes on, “and if we didn’t need her help to sort out the mess your failure-” he jabs an accusing finger at the Soldier “-created, I would have you kill her. Slowly and painfully, to punish you both.

"I should regardless, considering what she was about to do,” he moves his focus onto you, now. “You should count yourself very lucky, Empat, and pray that I still find you useful when all this is said and done.”

Your glare turns deadly at the threat. In response, Talon hits a button - not the red one - to make your necklace come to life, albeit on a much lower setting than it’d been on before. 

It’s a warning more than anything, but it still hurts.

“Yes, you will both be punished harshly for your recent acts of disobedience - eventually,” Talon states, tossing the remote into the air and catching it, quite literally playing with your life. “There’s simply no time for it now, as we leave for Sokovia tonight, per von Strucker’s request. He’s made a call for all of his creations to return and help defend their birthplace,” he stuffs the hand holding the device into his pocket and seems to consider you before adding, “He’s very interested in seeing how your powers have developed since he’s last seen you, Empat.”

Unease claws its way down your spine at the words, and though you’re not sure why - you trust it. You may not consciously remember von Strucker, but there’s a girl locked away in your mind who does; who’s warning you that he’s no one you’ll want to see ever again. 

You trust her.

Talon sighs exaggeratedly, having seemingly grown bored of this one-sided conversation he’s been having with the two of you. 

“Get her up, Soldat; we must get going,” he commands. You feel your heart lurch, and finally tear your gaze from the handler to look at the man who’s yet to let you go. 

There’s a look of calculation on his face; the one he bears whenever a mission goes wrong and he has to come up with a new plan on the spot. What could he possibly-

“My name,” the Soldier snarls through gritted teeth, glaring up at the other man with pure hatred swirling in his chest. “Is James, Buchanan, Barnes. Not Soldat, not Asset - James. Bucky.”

You gasp silently in response to what he’s just revealed, and place your hand over that of his that rests on your waist, squeezing it tightly. Right now is the most inappropriate of times to feel happy, but you are, because the Soldier, your Soldier, he has a name. Well, he’s always had one - but now he remembers it; now you know it. You know his name and you know your own - your first one, at least - and, wow. You have names. Real, genuine names and it feels so surreal, so right, even if you are currently standing on the verge of losing them again.

“I gave you an order, Soldat,” Talon emphasizes the title pointedly, and you whirl back onto him with a glare even more murderous than the first had been. “And I expect you to follow that order, or I’ll-”

In your peripheral vision, you see the Soldier - James, you remind yourself - pull out a gun and line up a shot with expert ease. You barely register the action before he’s pulling the trigger and an ear piercing bang echoes throughout the abandoned house.

The bullet hits its mark, of course - a fatal head shot. 

Talon’s body falls towards the ground and when it makes impact, whether his hand was just carrying out his last request or your luck is just that bad and he happened to land on it, the red button on the remote gets pressed. 

The wattage of your necklace spikes, and it’s the most excruciating and unbearable pain you’ve ever felt. Your lips part to scream but the cry doesn’t even get a chance to escape before you succumb to the pain being inflicted upon you, your world going dark.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

And then…

And then there’s light.

Not a heavenly, bright light, but a dim, golden glow. 

You blink against it a few times, trying to focus your vision, all the while casting your healing warmth over the pain in your head. The world around you finally aligns and you realize that you’re in a car, sprawled across the back seat with your head lying on top of a rolled up denim jacket.

Your last few moments of consciousness return to you as the headache is successfully smothered to nothing, and immediately your hand shoots up to grasp at your neck - the action sending a jolt of pain through your arm.

Brows furrowing, you withdraw the limb and bring it to eye level, finding a bandage wrapped tightly just below your elbow. You bring your other hand up and pull the bandage down carefully, revealing a stitched up wound right where Hydra’s scientists had implanted a small tracking device beneath your skin seemingly so long ago.

The implications the sight brings forth make your heart stutter.

Slowly, almost afraid of what you’ll find, you lower your hand back towards your neck -

Finding nothing there. 

And the fact that your necklace is gone is your second indication that something huge happened while you were unconscious, as the only time your handlers ever take it off of you is when you’re off mission and locked away in a cell. Gingerly, you rub at the scarred skin where it usually rests, putting the few pieces you’ve gathered so far together. 

Your tracker has presumably been cut out, your necklace is gone, and both of those things could only mean-

You stop yourself short, realizing you’re getting ahead of yourself.

You can’t let yourself think that until you know for sure it’s true. 

So without moving - because if it isn’t him, you’re gonna want the advantage of the person in the driver’s seat not knowing you’re awake - you close your eyes and reach out with your powers, studying the only other soul in the car. You take into account every familiar ache and pain in their body, the fragile hope within their chest, and you smile.

“Soldier?” you call, ignoring the pain in your arm as you push yourself up into a seated position. Startled, his icy blues snap towards the rear view mirror.

And then they melt.

“No,” he responds, a smile tainting his tone. “I’m Bucky.”

Disbelieving and overjoyed, a laugh bubbles up in your throat. He maneuvers the car to park it on the side of the rural road and you slide off of the back seat, leaning over the center console to look at his face. He turns to look at you, too, grinning - something you’ve never seen him do before. 

He’s offered you slight tugs at the corners of his lips in moments where he was more ‘James’ than ‘Soldier,’ yes, but not ever this - this flashing of his teeth and crinkling at the edges of his eyes. Bathed in the golden glow of the rising sun and freedom, he’s one of the most beautiful things you’ve ever seen. 

“Hi, Bucky,” you greet him breathlessly, smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.

“Hi, Y/N,” he returns, and the next thing you know you’re being pulled - squealing - from the back seat towards the front, and his arms are around you, holding you tight against him. In the cramped space of the car, the embrace is awkward and even on the verge of painful - what with all the levers and the steering wheel digging into you; but you don’t care. You just wrap your arms around him, too, and pull him impossibly closer, a different kind of tears filling your eyes as you bury your nose into his dark hair. 

“I thought I lost you,” he heaves out the shaking words against your chest, trembling in your hold. There’s so many emotions twisting within him that it’s hard for you to decipher them from one another, but most prominent of all is his guilt; his overbearing, gut-wrenching guilt. It makes you realize, with a sinking heart, that not only had he thought you dead, he’d thought he’d been the one to kill you - inadvertently - by shooting Talon.

“I’m right here,” you murmur into his hair, pressing a kiss to it after. “It’s alright - we’re alright, Bucky. We’re free.”

At your words, he pulls back enough to meet your gaze, an almost mystified look on his tear-stained face. It’s the smallness of his voice as he repeats your last two words back to you that causes your own tears to spill over. 

“We’re free.”

He almost sounds like he doesn’t really believe it, and you can understand that, as you hardly do yourself - but still, you try and reassure him, nodding quickly.

“Yeah, Bucky, we’re fr-”

Bucky presses his lips against yours, cutting you off.

Taken aback, you stiffen at first - but then you melt into him, one of your hands moving to cup the side of his face and pull him closer, the other sliding down to rest over his heart. It beats strongly against your palm, setting the pace for the kiss, the first the two of you have ever shared. And, oh, what a first kiss it is: gentle yet passionate, grounding but freeing all the same. 

It warms you from the inside out and tingles beneath the surface of your skin in the most exhilarating of ways, making you feel so alive - reassuring you that you are, as it would be so easy for you to convince yourself that you’re not, since this is the closest to Heaven you’ve ever been. 

If you could have it your way, it would never end; you would stay in this moment for the rest of your life, reveling in the feeling of Bucky’s lips moving against yours and his arms encasing you, the mix of positive emotions swirling in your respective chests. Your lungs however eventually betray you, and you have to part from him to catch your breath - but you don’t go too far. You only move to rest your forehead against his, a happier rendition of a moment lived not too long ago.

You stay like that, just basking in one another, for an eternity. And then he asks you, in a tone that tells you he’s open to anything you might suggest, “Where do you want to go?” 

You smile as you open your eyes, meeting his waiting gaze. 

“Anywhere,” you tell him simply. “As long as I’m with you.”

A/N: first and foremost, if you’re reading this, bless you for making it this far, and I really hope you liked this one-shot! I’d love to hear any thoughts you may have on it :).

I’ve been planning the story of Bucky and this specific reader in my head for months now, so to see them finally “come to life” is a pretty great feeling. I hope you guys love them as much as I do, because I’ll hopefully be sharing the journey that led them to this ‘epilogue’ with you soon 💜.

One last thing, I want to give a shout out to every single person who has given me words of encouragement and advice over the past few months as I’ve talked about picking up writing again. Especially @stop-obsessing-over-those-actors, whose reaction to just a snippet of this one-shot and constant support throughout the writing process pushed me to keep going even when I felt like giving up and dropping out of the challenge. I’m so sorry I kept you waiting to see what happened for so long! I hope the wait was worth it!

 ( @buckyreaderrecs and @stop-obsessing-over-those-actors, I did it you guys!!  💜)

[kyber-kisses]

Hymn (Part 2)

Winchester brothers x Sister!reader (Platonic)

wanna start from the beginning? Here is the Masterlist!

Warnings: cursing, its mostly fluff my dudes.

Summary: Y/N Winchester has wrestled with demons ever since her mother died, but when her younger brothers lives are in danger it’s their souls she fights to save, because isn’t that what a big sister should do?

A/n:OK so i may or may not be in love with writing this series, but whatever. This fic is based on the lyrics from joel porters Hymn. Hope you guys enjoy and feedback is greatly appreciated!

Dean woke up in a cold sweat, his eyes straining in the utter darkness of his room while his breathing rate slowly began to steady from where it had been seconds ago. Shifting on the mattress he flicked on the bedside lamp and slowly sat up, his black sleep shirt clinging to his skin.

“Fuck.”

Dragging a shaky hand down his face, he took a deep breath. It had been a long time since he had that nightmare. He had hoped it had gone away completely but apparently his mind wouldn’t let it go. . . Then again it was a memory. Just a memory. A terrible, horrible memory. and some memories just don't go away.

Glancing over at the clock on his nightstand he found that he had slept in, which was unlike him. The neon red numbers telling him that it was a quarter past ten. Sliding on his robe, he made his way for the door, the only thing on his mind being a cup of coffee

. . . Until he halted in his tracks and looked back.

It was still there. Then again where else would it be? Even though the back wall of his room was covered in an arrange of weapons, your hunting rifle stood out among the rest like some sort of sad centerpiece. How he had kept hold of it all these years was beyond him.

He paused for another second before backtracking and slowly taking it off the wall. Your rifle had been your prized possession, and your aim unparalleled. His dad used to say he had never seen someone so young shoot so well. Shifting the gun in his hand, Dean let his thumb trace over your name. You had carved it into the stock when you first got it, using Deans favorite pocket knife for the job.

Miss you.

Almost two and a half decades. That how long you had been gone. He thought losing his mom had been hard, but then you thrust your rifle into his arms and disappeared out that damn motel room door and he never saw you again. That was when he really broke.

Quickly wiping the stray tears from his eyes, he put the rifle back in its place, turned off the lights and headed for the kitchen. Coffee. He needed coffee.

His body went into autopilot and before he knew it he was walking through the threshold of the bunkers kitchen, making a beeline for the coffee pot.

“Well look who finally decided to roll out of bed.”

“Shut up.” Dean grumbled, rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his hand.

“You okay?”

Dean hummed a response as he poured himself a cup before sinking down into the seat across from his brother. “Yeah, yeah- I uh, just had some really weird dreams.”

“I don’t wanna know-“

“They were about Y/N.”

That was all it took to fully gain the youngest Winchesters attention, his eyes peering over the edge of his coffee cup mid sip. There was a pause as he swallowed. “Y/N?”

“Yeah- it uh-“ Dean pinched the bridge of his nose like it physically pained him to think about it. “It was the night she disappeared. Everything was the same, down to you doing your fucking homework to her teaching me how to shoot her damn rifle.”

“You remember all that?”

“You don’t?” Dean dropped his hand from his face to send his brother a bewildered look.

“I mean, I remember bits and pieces but not every little detail.” Sam shrugged, going back to his coffee.

“That was one of the worst nights of my life.”

Sliding his laptop away from him, Sam folded his arms across the top of the table. “What else do you remember?”

This time it was Deans turn to shrug, eyes fixating on the black liquid in his cup. “Her running out the door and leaving us in the motel room, Her screaming, Dad coming back and going into a full blown panic- I don’t think I had ever seen him so afraid.” Dean swallowed thickly, swirling the contents in his mug. “I remember him just leaving us there so he could look for her. And then he was gone for hours and when he came back all he had was her flannel. The thing was in tatters and covered in blood.”

“I kinda remember that.” Sam nodded, his eyes going to the matching bracelets on his and Deans wrists. Bracelets being a loose term. In reality they were just bits of fabric Dean had salvaged from your flannel later that night. It was one of the few things left of you that they had. “I just mostly remember dad crying after he thought we had gone to bed. It happened every night for weeks.”

“Yeah.” Dean could feel his emotions bubbling up inside him again. His dad had spent months tearing apart the state and the surrounding ones looking for you. But they always came up with nothing.

You were just gone. Like you had been snatched out of thin air.

Dean remembered the months and even years that followed after that so well. They were hard. His big sister was gone and everything felt so much scarier. . . And then dad came to the conclusion that you were dead and that was that. Except Dean refused to believe it. You were so tough and brave, there was no way you could be dead. You couldn’t be dead, he would say constantly. You just needed finding. He kept saying that because he had to believe it. Because being the boy who’d lost his mother was one thing, being the boy who’d lost his mother and sister something else entirely. But as the years went on, he slowly began to lose hope and then one day he just woke up and believed it.

You were dead. If you were alive you would have been home by now. You would have fought every monster in the country if you had to to get back home to them. And if you weren’t back by now, you weren’t coming back ever.

Dean sniffed, feeling the familiar burn in his nostrils telling him tears were coming. Trying to mask it he rubbed his eye with the heel of his hand again. “I miss her.”

“I know. I do to.” Sam sighed, watching his brother try not to break down in front of him. Sam had loved you as much as Dean had but to Dean you were his hero. You always had been. While Sam looked up to Dean, Dean had always looked up to you.

“I’m starting to forget her voice.” Dean suddenly admitted, his voice cracking ever so slightly. “I don’t mean to. . . But it’s fading away.” Slowly rising from his seat, Dean headed for the door. “I hope you can still hear her.”

As Sam watched his brother disappear back down the hallway, he let his mind wander before pushing out of his own seat to go in search of something long forgotten.

*. *. *. *. *. *.

A few hours later Sam found himself wandering towards his brothers room, laptop folded underneath his arm.

“Hey, Dean?” Rapping his knuckles on the door, he leaned against the wall waiting for a response.

“What?”

Taking it as a sign he twisted the handle and nudged open the door, peering into the brightness of Deans room. His brother was seated at his desk, cleaning one of the many guns that usually sat silently on his wall.

“Wait, is that Y/Ns-“

“Rifle. Yeah.” Dean sighed, leaning back in his seat to admire his work.

“I don’t know why you still clean that thing. Neither of us use it. The last person to shoot it was her.” Stepping through the doorway, he walked towards the desk, smiling faintly at the sight of your carved name in the stock.

“Gives me something to do. It’s kinda relaxing actually.” Wiping his hands on his jeans, Dena turned his gaze towards Sam. “What’s up?”

“Oh, uh I found something. C’mon I wanna show you.” Nodding towards the door Sam beckoned his brother to follow, which thankfully he did.

“This better be fuckin worth it.” Dean sighed, his footsteps echoing down the bunker hallway as he followed Sam towards the library.

“Oh trust me, I think it will be.” Adjusting his laptop underneath his arm, Sam stepped up into the well lit room. “Do you remember that old camcorder Y/N used to carry around? The one that we thought broke forever ago?”

“. . . Yeah, why?”

“Well, I dug it out of storage. Turns out, not broken at all.” Sam chuckled, opening up his laptop as he plugged the camcorder into the computer with a usb cable, the screen suddenly lighting up.

“You know, I don’t even remember what’s on here.” Sinking down in the seat besides his brother, Dean leaned forward to watch as Sam worked on pulling up the footage.

“If you break a limb doing this your gonna be the one to tell dad how it happened.” Your voice suddenly echoing through the speakers of the laptop, catching Dean off guard as he sat up straighter.

“I’m gonna be fine! Please Y/N!”

“This is a terrible idea.”

A small smile spread over Deans lips as you suddenly set down the camera walking into view. Dean couldn’t have been more than ten in the footage. An even younger Sam momentary running past as you helped Dean get situated in Bobby’s old hammock.

“Promise you won’t break any bones?”

“Yes.”

“Pinkie promise?” You held up your hand, pinkie extended so Dean could wrap his own around yours.

“Pinkie promise.”

Deans smile steadily grew as the memory came back. Dad has dropped the three of you off at Bobby’s for the weekend and when Dean found out he had a hammock his little boy brain went into overdrive.

“Can you spin it all the way around?”

“All the way around? Bub, your gonna fall out if I do that.” You shook your head before giving into defeat and pulling the hammock back to get it going.

“I won’t! I got this!”

It was proven the exact opposite a minute later when the hammock on the screen arched into a full circle swing, proceeding to send the middle Winchester child flying backwards into the bushes. A six year old Sam screeched with laughter somewhere off camera.

A full bellied laugh escaped Dean as he threw his head back, Sam chuckling besides him.

“I can’t believe I forgot about that! Y/N spent like ten minutes trying to clean all those cuts I got from the friggin bush.” Dean wheezed wiping at the tears still in his eyes. “Was I always that dumb?”

“Bold of you to assume you still aren’t.”

“Hey-“

As the footage quickly switched both brothers lit up again, this time watching as you balanced a seven year old Sam on your shoulders on the end of a weather worn dock.

“Wait- was this the summer we stayed in lake county?” Dean leaned forward on his elbows, eyes bright.

“I think so. Dad worked several cases in that area that year.”

“Y/N, please don’t jump-“ little Sam let out a whine, arms wrapping around your head in fear that he might fall.

“Don’t jump? Don’t jump?! Well now I feel like I should just for the heck of it!” You mused, dangling one foot over the water, hands still wrapped around Sam’s ankles.

“No!”

“Uh-oh, I’m loosing my balance-“ you laughed, feeling Sams grip tighten.

Your playful antics were quickly cut short as Dean blurred into view, his little feet thundering across the dock as he rocketed towards you, laughing. Your head quickly spun around in unison with Sams, both sets of eyes widening as he charged at you.

“Dean, No!”

But it was too late. The blonde rascal came barreling into you and the three of you went over the edge with a series of shrieks and laughs, a spray of water hitting the dock as you went down.

That was all it took to get both brothers laughing again, Dean leaning back in his seat as he gripped his side.

“God, I can’t remember the last time- the last time I laughed this much-“ he panted through chuckles.

“Well there’s several hours of footage on here, so don’t pass out from laughing too much.”

Deans eyes widened as the last of the laughter faded on his lips. “Wait, are you serious?”

“Yeah. Guess Y/N wanted to make sure we had some sort of home videos to watch.”

Letting out a content sigh, the older Winchester nodded. He hadn’t realized until now how much of a childhood you had actually given him and Sam before running out the door. He was grateful.

“Well uh, what else is on here?” Turning back to the screen, Dean leaned foreword on his elbows watching as the footage continued to play.

It didn’t take long for them to realize how much of their childhood you had actually captured. From the time you took them skiing while dad had worked a case in Estes Park to when the three of you dressed up as the three musketeers for Halloween. It was all there. Almost every second of footage filled with full belly laughter and embarrassing moments. That’s how your old camcorder quickly became Deans favorite item in the world.It was a pocket of good memories. A pocket of childhood innocence.

They were closing in on hour two of of the footage while watching you and Dean completely wipe out while tubing that the jade eyed Winchester felt something suddenly shift in him. His laughter slowly petering out along with his smile. The sudden silence catching Sams attention as he looked way from the screen, his own chuckle slowly stopping.

“Dean? You okay?”

He drew in a breath before nodding slightly. “Sam, I think we should go back.”

There was a pause as the youngest of the Winchesters processed what his brother had said. “Seriously, are you sure? We haven’t-“

“Been back there in almost two decades? I know. I just— she deserved better.”

“She totally did.” Sam nodded in agreement. “ I can go pack a bag if you want and we can be out of here in thirty?”

Yeah, that sounds good.” Dean sighed, sucking in another breath. He shouldn’t have gotten all sad about the videos, but the sudden thought that you weren’t around to help make more new memories tore him up inside.

Before leaving, Sam paused in the doorway to turn around one last time. “You know, we should show those to mom at some point. I have a feeling she would really get a hoot out of them.”

“yeah, she totally would.”

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[thorne93]

Long Lost Love (Part 5)

Prompt: Clint just lost everything. He turns to you – an old friend and an old flame – for comfort. Can you keep your old feelings at bay? Can he?

Word Count: 4043

Warnings: The Snap, grief, loss, mentions of abuse throughout series, angst will be the best friend in this fic

Note: This was written after IW, but before Endgame - so I have my own take on how certain things happened. Couldn’t have done this without @arrow-guy @carryonmyswansong @like-a-bag-of-potatoes (my amazing betttaa!) @mrs-dragneel-stark-solo

Aesthetic by @dontshootmespence

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

For one year, you two did this. You got up at dawn together, ate a quick breakfast, tended to the animals, did the repairs around the farm, went out for supplies, ate dinner, then went to bed separately. 

You kept your word on going into the city every Monday and Wednesday. You didn’t have half as many patients or clients as before, but the money still helped both you and your staff. You kept your apartment in the city too. You needed something familiar after all the craziness. 

Life was… getting better though. Clint smiled more now, he laughed here and there. He was eating better. You really started to believe he was coming out of his grief, ever so slightly. As it turned out, his family wasn’t the only one he lost in what the Avengers called “The Snap”. Apparently, quite a few people he cared about were gone too. Wanda Maximoff and Sam Wilson being some of them. 

He didn’t much keep in contact with the team. You tried to encourage him to, but he said every time he called them it just reminded him of what he lost. You didn’t quite understand, but you respected him enough not to push it. 

One day, a pipe in the barn had rusted out, so Clint got the things to fix it but he ran out of plumbers tape and needed a monkey wrench. Two things he thought he had brought in his toolbox, but apparently not. He asked you to go grab them from the garage. You nodded and jogged for a bit back to the garage. It was a really hot, dry day and you felt like you needed two showers. The weeds were tall and dry and you couldn’t wait for the next rain to get some of this dust down. 

You got into the garage looking for the plumbers tape. Clint had never organized this freaking mess. You started pulling out bins from a shelf when you looked inside one, you found an old wedding album. It was covered in dust, but it was lace covered. You frowned and opened it. The tools were long forgotten. 

Inside of the book were pictures of Clint and Laura… It was like a punch to the gut.

Both of them stood with giant grins on their faces. They had the typical run of the mill wedding. She was in a satin gown, her hair up, a simple pendant on her necklace. She held his hand, smiling proudly. Her veil was perfect. He stood there in a tux, his smile rivaling that of the sun. 

You flipped through, and you didn’t know if you were going to smile from how happy and silly they looked on their special day. How happy you were for both of them. Or if you were going to scream and cry and break down because it should’ve been your day. He’s all you’d ever wanted…

Why weren’t you good enough? What went wrong? 

After several minutes, Clint came running into the garage. “Y/N? Where the hell-- Oh, there you are. Did you find the stuff? We gotta get this pipe fixed.”

He didn’t see what you had in your hands because you were turned away from the door he just came through. 

“You never told me why you never asked me back out…” 

He instantly stiffened. “Y/N,” he started, his tone full of warning. He clearly didn’t want to talk about it. 

You turned around, snapping the wedding book shut as you looked at him. “No I wanna know. When we left the circus, I was under the impression that one day you’d come back for me....” 

He took a few steps closer to you. “I tried, I wanted to, but with SHIELD--”

You were beyond angry. You were trying to hold this in because you knew he was grieving and you didn’t want to come into his life like a hurricane and make his pain worse. But you had feelings too that had never even been addressed or considered, so you wanted to know. 

“Don’t blame SHIELD, you married Laura so something was okay with having a life, a wife, a family.” 

“I didn’t want you to get hurt and I didn't think you wanted me back.”

“What gave you that idea?” you questioned, entirely flabbergasted. 

“When I visited you in Manhattan you said you didn’t want a guy in your way.” 

You frowned, trying to remember the interaction. When you finally did, you looked up at him. “That? You thought I meant you? I was talking about other guys, Clint!”

“I thought you meant it as a subtle way to tell me to take a hike.” 

Your eyes wildly searched his. You couldn't believe what you were hearing. You couldn’t be with the only man you ever loved because he misunderstood a half-assed joke years ago? 

“No!” you cried out. “I waited for years for you to come back,” you stated, tears flowing despite your efforts to keep them inside. 

He looked down, feeling guilty and ashamed that he didn’t make it more clear back then that he did want you back. “Well, I’m sorry. I thought you were moving on.”

“No,” you informed, your voice full of anger and sorrow. You shook your head. “I was waiting.”

“I’m sorry I kept you waiting. You said your life was too busy at the moment, I just assumed you meant for me, for everyone,” he said, not realizing how badly he’d been mistaken. He thought back to that day the clinic, realizing how your words would’ve sounded, but you thought he knew you well enough you meant other men. Anguish started to wrap around him slowly, creeping up into his throat. “I had no idea.”

“Well now yow you do.” You shoved the album into his chest and went back outside. 

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

For the next few days, you cried yourself to sleep. Thinking Clint didn’t want you was one thing. Thinking he just wanted to move on was one thing. 

But finding out he actually thought you were telling him to move on was just unbelievable to you. You’d spent all this time, all these years, waiting for him and he had no idea. You thought you were clear. You thought it was understood on both sides that you’d get your lives together and he’d come back for you.

You couldn’t go after him, you didn’t even know what part of the world he was in most of the time. You wanted to write letters, to make it clear. After he joined SHIELD and visited you in college, you thought he’d come back, again. He came back then, right? You just assumed he was still getting his life together.

Then one day… he had visited you… and told you about Laura.

The bell chimed to your clinic, the same one that always introduced new clients and their precious patients. But this bell chimed to signal that the only person you’d ever loved just walked through the doors. 

You happened to be out front at the desk, talking to your front desk staff, going through a chart when he walked in. You looked up and saw the disheveled blonde looking like a sight for sore eyes.  

“Clint, hey,” you beamed, grinning from ear to ear. You wondered if this was it, if this was when he was finally going to ask you to be with him again. You felt it had been long enough. It’d been over a decade. He was well into SHIELD by now, and you were well on your way to Manhattan’s finest veterinarian. Maybe he was finally coming to tell you he was ready, ready to be together, to start a family -- you certainly were. 

“Hey, Y/N, long time no see,” he greeted kindly.

“Yeah, I’ll say. It’s been forever. How’ve you been?” 

“Good,” he answered, shrugging as he put his hand in his pants. “Hey, you wanna grab coffee? Do you have time?”

You glanced down at your schedule and then your watch. “Yeah, I’ve got a little over an hour before my next appointment. Girls, can you make sure to take care of any walk-ins?” you requested. They said they would and you two were off. The closest cafe was only three doors down. After a quick trip out of your clinic front, you found the cafe, ordered, got your drinks, and sat down. 

“How have you been?” he asked and you suddenly realized what had been off about him since he walked in -- he seemed nervous. 

“I’m fine?” you responded, sounding as if it was a question. You let out a laugh to indicate how befuddled you were. In a way, it was. You were confused as to why he was giving you small talk. You two grew up together, you were closer with him than anyone on this planet. Why was he being so weird? 

“That’s good. Really good. I’m glad to hear it. Your business?”

“The clinic is doing just fine. I’m treating all kinds of animals. I’m really good. Are you? You seem a bit… off.” You wanted to reach towards him, possibly comfort him or just be closer to him. It seemed like you hadn’t hugged him in centuries. 

He looked down for a moment. He hadn’t touched his coffee, that was a red flag right there. If Clint Barton could IV the coffee, he would. Something must’ve been really troubling him. 

He took a deep breath and then looked up at you again. “I’ve met someone,” he informed evenly. 

Ice felt as if it replaced your heart. You stared at him in utter shock, horror, dismay, confusion, bewilderment. You struggled to keep your composure at all. How… How could you have been this blind? 

“Oh?” was all your lump-ridden throat would let out. 

“Yeah, uh, her name is Laura. She’s great. She really kind of kicks my ass when I need it.” He softly chuckled. “We got married…”

Did he want you to be happy for him? How the hell could you not see this? Were you waiting for a man for over a decade that didn’t want you? Or did he not realize you were waiting?

No, he clearly didn’t want you. If he loved you, if he truly loved and wanted you, he would’ve made his feelings clear for you between leaving the circus and now. All this time… wasted. Hoping without hope, waiting without word, wanting without cause just to find out he moved on, and didn’t even tell you until after it was too late to make your case?

These were clearly the actions of a man who was no longer in love with you, and possibly never was. 

“Does she make you happy?” you asked, somehow hoping that would numb the crushing pain inside you.

“She does,” he said with a head nod.

“Then that’s all that matters. Congratulations.” You leaned over and hugged him, fighting back tears harder than you’d ever fought anything. 

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

You were in the city, it was Wednesday afternoon. You wrapped up your last walk in, wished the girls a good evening, got to your car in the parking garage, and headed back to the farm. Why, you weren’t sure. At this point, it was pathetic. Clint loved someone else. You weren’t sure how many times he needed to make that absolutely clear. 

And yet, you continually ran to him, over and over and over. He showed up and you did anything for him. You never stopped loving him, not even when he told you he was going to give the life you deserved away to another woman.

You didn’t hate Laura, it wasn’t her fault. You were happy that Clint had a good, full life with her and the kids… You just didn’t know why it wasn’t your life with him. 

For years you had sacrificed your own happiness, believing that one day he would find his way back to you, but he never did. He even made it perfectly clear to you, through matrimony, that he didn't want you anymore. You still couldn't move on.

How do you move on from the one man who had saved your life? From the one man who saw you when you were scrounging for scraps at dinner? The one man who would take a beating just to find a pretty flower or trinket left in the stands to give it to you. The one man who made you laugh until your sides begged you to stop laughing. The one man who was both as deadly accurate with a bow and arrow as he was with his acrobatic skills. The one man who could brighten your day in the smallest of ways. He could see you when you were down and he knew how to make everything okay. Even being an orphan in a circus with bosses who threatened you and beat you, as long as Clint was there, you truly didn’t care.

When he left your life, the light slowly went out of you. He snuffed out that last small flame in you when he tied the knot with Laura. 

Now, his family was gone. You were back in his life, but you didn’t want to be a last resort, and yet that’s all you felt like you were to him. Someone to run to only when he’d run out of options. 

For some reason, that was something you never had an answer for. 

You returned to the farmhouse, walking in, throwing your keys on the entry table, trodding in with your medical bag. You were absolutely beat. Between working the long hours, the emotional pain, and the long drive, you just wanted to head to bed.

Something caught your eye though. Just as it did, Clint appeared out of the kitchen.

“Hey, you’re back,” he greeted happily. 

“Yeah,” you said with a bit of confusion in your tone. You peered around him. “What’s going on?” you asked. You could see the kitchen was dimmed, candle light illuminating it with a small strand of fairy lights on the counter. 

He reached out and took your hand. “Come on, I’ll show you.” He pulled you forward, his face warmer than it had been since you’d arrived. 

As he tugged you into the room, you could clearly see it. There was a lace tablecloth on the table with two candles, and two romantic place settings. Fairy lights lit the kitchen and counter space. There was a small vase filled with wildflowers you’d seen on the farm. 

“What… what is all this?” you asked with some mild excitement. 

“I’m taking you on that date you always wanted,” he said with a bit of a shrug and a smile. 

You shook your head. “I can’t believe you did all this.” 

“Well, you deserve it. You deserve a lot for having to put up with me, the farm…”

“The farm isn’t so bad,” you said as you lowered yourself into a seat and he began to grab food and plate it for you. “Animals are a breeze to work with. You, not so much.” You smiled up at him with a teasing gleam in your eye.

“I know. You’ve made the hardest part of my life a lot… easier to deal with. If you hadn't answered your phone that day… I honestly don’t know where I’d be. Off a deep-end somewhere.” He sat down across from you and began to eat and sip his wine. 

“I’m sure Nat and the rest of the team help keep you sane, when you call,” you added, trying not to sound like you were the sole reason he was mentally okay.

“Somewhat, but having you here, having your help, your presence, knowing I can talk to you any time… It really helps.” 

“I’m glad to hear that. Having an escape from… out there is nice too. Of course, I’m always happy to be around you, too,” you confessed a bit uneasily. 

You weren’t sure what this was, where it was going. Was this two friends having a dinner date? Or was it truly the date you always wanted that he never came back to give you? You weren’t sure how to steer the conversation and hoped that he’d be a guiding light. 

“It reminds me of this time Nat and I had to bunker down in a cave for two weeks. God, I made so many bat jokes I think she was ready to kill me. To be fair, coming out in the sunlight was hard as hell on the eyes,” he said, shaking his head and continuing to eat. 

“I bet. Jeez, I couldn’t do that. Any part of your job seems impossible to me. When you all were fighting Loki, oh my gosh. No, it seemed absolutely crazy.”

“You don’t give yourself enough credit,” he said. “I saw you train tigers and lions and elephants like it was nothing. You were never afraid of them.”

“Because I never intended to hurt them,” you replied easily. “They trusted me, I trusted them. It was simple. But the people, the things, the aliens you face… it’s… a lot. I would be trying to hurt them, and people change when it’s a fight for their life. I wouldn’t have the guts.” 

“I bet you would. You’re one of the strongest people I’ve ever met and I’ve trained with the best.”

“You’re just saying that,” you quietly said, waving him off. 

“I’m not. Really. You know me. I’ll tell you if you can’t handle shit. I used to tell recruits all the time that they weren’t cut out for this job. I’d sit them down, explain everything they might ever face, and tell them I didn’t think they had it in them. Nine times out of ten they listened to me.” 

“Did you tell them getting put under mind control was a possibility?” you teased before sipping your wine. 

He laughed. “Not until it happened, then I started telling them to be prepared for literally anything. God. We went from taking weapons from the bad guys to trying to knock out aliens, killer android bots, to fighting for the universe. My job was supposed to be relatively simple. Somewhere those lines got blurred.” He shook his head, chuckling at the absurdity of it all.

“I bet. My job never got more exciting than an unusual diagnosis,” you stated.

“I think you liked it that way though,” he suddenly said, staring at you. He had this look of...adoration in his eyes and face that you hadn’t seen since… well since you left the circus. 

“You do?” you questioned, thrown a bit by his response. 

“Yeah, I mean our lives in the circus were nothing but… well hectic. A new city every few days, training with exotic and wild animals. We never knew where our next meal was coming from and we also had to fight to survive. Our childhood was far from a picnic. I think you chose a job that’s relatively stable and helps animals and people.”

You lowered your head, wondering if maybe that’s why he gave you up. “You must think I’m pretty boring then, hmm? You went and chased adventure, fun, chaos…” 

“I went after what I knew. The circus equipped me with skills to be an archer and the only way I knew that I could make something of myself was to go military. I figured my footwork, my acrobatics, and archery would help, and they did. I didn’t care for the action part of it.”

“So if you could’ve had a normal, steady, peaceful life with your talents, you would have?”

“Oh yeah, in a heartbeat. It’d mean I could’ve stayed closer to you.” 

He reached across the table and held your hand. You were overjoyed of course, but again that gnawing feeling of being second best began to creep up from your stomach. You quieted it, trying to tell yourself this was all you had wanted, and you should take what you could get. 

You smiled at him and held his hand. “I’m glad you found SHIELD, and Nat. I’m glad you found the team.” 

“Me too. Oh, man, I have to tell you about this time we were in Budapest,” he suddenly said, his face lighting up.

You nodded, motioning for him to continue and he did. He launched into a full story that had you rolling. It was both scary, thrilling, and funny. He had you on the edge of your seat, listening. Before long, you two were swapping crazy stories. Yours mainly involved animals swallowing weird things or really bizarre animal custody cases or someone once flying you all the way to London to look at their pet bird because they only trusted you. He told you about missions that were funny or odd or where they barely made it out. 

When you first arrived here tonight, you were weary, and you weren’t sure you were going to stay, but now, regardless of what tonight was, it was a reason to stay. Your exhaustion was long forgotten as Clint walked you upstairs. He was finally sleeping in his master bedroom again. It was a slow process and sometimes you still ran in there when he woke up screaming or crying in the middle of the night, but at least he wasn’t on that shitty couch of his. 

“Well, this is me,” you feebly joked as you stood at your door, throwing a thumb over your shoulder. 

Clint just nodded, smiling at you. “Thanks for having dinner with me and giving me a second chance.” 

“Thanks for offering me one to give,” you responded quietly. 

The two of you looked at each other. That look in his eye had returned, after all this time. He was looking at you just like he used to every night at the circus. That same look that told you he couldn’t live without you and he couldn’t lose you. It was there again and you had it all to yourself. 

And for the first time in forever, you wanted to feel him again. You had always loved him, always were in love with him, that much was true, but the longing and desire had been snuffed out quite some time ago. 

Now, it was ignited again. His unruly blonde locks were poking out everywhere, reminding you of a younger time, a time when it was you two against the world. His eyes were alive with so much longing, it sent you to the times when you lied next to each other under the stars. He was so close to you, you could feel his body heat. 

Your body ached to close the gap in that dark hallway, only illuminated by a full moon and one small lamp upstairs in your room. It was as if kissing in the darkness meant no one knew. It was as if it wouldn’t be like he was betraying Laura in her own home. It was as if it could give him permission or a guise to love you. 

And so he took it. 

He swept towards you quickly, capturing your lips with his and you nearly gasped from the shock. He tasted… new and yet familiar. The familiar warmth and nuttiness of coffee wafted off of him, as did the smell of farm work, not that different from the circus. But there was also this mintiness to him, this sweetness too, those were new. 

You embraced it though. Your hands went to his shoulders, holding them firmly so you could steady yourself. His hands were on either side of your face, where they always found themselves when you kissed. 

His lips were firm, tender, moving with purpose. When he let you go, his eyes were closed and you simply stared at him. He rubbed his lips together before saying, “Goodnight.” 

He let go of your face before grabbing your hand to give it a squeeze, and he went to his room.

“Sweet dreams,” he quietly called before shutting his door. 

For the first time in over ten years, you thought you could actually have sweet dreams, and you retreated into your room, looking forward to the morning.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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[seven-oomen]

Until the end of time | Sambucky | Chapter 1

warnings/tags/main post here

Notes:

It's been a long while since I wrote anything for the Marvel fandom but I decided to step back into it after watching fatws. I'm writing this fic through Bucky's perspective mostly because I'm also doing it as an exercise to cope with my own CPTSD. And many of the feelings like pulsating energy and sensory overload are things I myself experience. Considering the things Bucky has been through, it seemed like a logical thing for him to struggle with as well.

I haven't decided if I want to turn this into mpreg near the end, but I wanna bring it up because I'm thinking about it. Haven't made my mind up on it yet. It will get a lot happier and brighter though, near the end. And they will end up together before the fic is over. But the fun is in the journey right?

Anyway, I hope you guys enjoy this.

-

He didn’t have a family. Not anymore.

The only living family he had left could no longer remember him. She was 102 and living in a nursing home. He visited Rebecca at times but, well, it never really amounted to anything. She couldn’t remember his name, what he looked like. And he made sure he only ever visited when her children and grandchildren weren’t around. How was he supposed to explain all of it anyway?

I’m your uncle James but I never contacted you or stuck around because I got brainwashed, experimented on, and kidnapped? Yeah… that would go over well.

He only ever observed Rebecca’s children from a distance. She had two sons; James and Robert, and a daughter, Annie, who looked just like her. It gave him some comfort to know that at least her legacy would live on.

Sometimes Hazel’s children and grandchildren visited her as well, even though Hazel herself had passed away a decade ago at 90. He didn’t know if Grace had had any children. He never saw them visit Rebecca if she had. The only thing he knew about her was that she had passed away a year ago at the age of 97.

Though they were his descendants, they weren’t his family. They didn’t know him and he didn’t know them. Not really. Files could only tell you so much about a person.

And now that Steve was gone too, life had become nothing more than a dull thrum as he tried to navigate it to the best of his abilities. Which was a lot harder than he’d anticipated. Living in New York had changed in the last century, of course it had. He found it difficult to settle in and pretend nothing had changed. To live life, go to therapy. None of that truly held any meaning for him anymore.

Or at least, it hadn’t.

Crossing the names of his list had given some of it back, for a while. He enjoyed being able to use technology and his particular skill set for the common good for once, even if his methods weren't exactly... therapist approved. Not that he listened to her anyway. He didn't see the need most of the time.

His phone pinged once again as he left the scene, letting the sirens of the approaching authorities drown out the constant murmurs and images in his head. A quick phone check revealed a text from Sam.

[Barnes I need you to answer me.]

He ignored it. Again.

It had been the fifth text in three days. Sam clearly wanted something from him, most likely his help. He didn't care much anymore. All he cared about was finishing his pardon and finding something, anything to stay alive for.

Please. Please I didn't see anything.

He squeezed his eyes shut at the intrusive thought, shaking his head and clenching his hands until his nails dug into his palms. Body thrumming with a pulsating energy. No. No, not now.

A deep breath. In, hold it, and out. He repeated the gesture, navigating his way through busy streets purely on autopilot

In the sanctity of his apartment, he dropped down in the nest of blankets in front of his tv and wrapped his arms around himself.

He- he couldn't.

Images of flashing metal, blood dripping to the floor plagued his mind, and the overwhelming feeling of his throat contracting made him gasp for breath.

He couldn't breathe.

His phone pinged again.

"What do you want, James?"

Family. Love. Understanding. But above all... "Peace."

"That is utter bullshit."

"You are a terrible shrink."

It was and it wasn't. He didn't want to be alone with his thoughts but he also wanted those same thoughts to just- just stop.

[Barnes, pick up your damn phone.] Sam's text read this time.

He just needed it all to stop.

He wasn't sure how much time had passed as he breathed in and out, letting the energy just flow through him as he tried to calm his mind. Blinking back the tears that threatened to fall once he was done, he rubbed his hand over his face and got up to grab some water and a snack.

The days passed as usual.

He went to therapy, spend some time with Yori, went on a date that failed, and revisited Rebecca again. He read the hobbit to her once again, just as he had back in the '30s. She smiled at him once he was done and asked; "Who are you?"

He'd taken his leave after that. Endlessly roaming the streets of Brooklyn until evening fell and he ended up back at his apartment in front of his tv.

He had nobody left.

His sister was as good as gone. Steve had left him. He was alone. And he would die alone. Out of his mind with the walls closing in on him.

The incessant ringing and vibration of his phone pulled him out of his thoughts. Jesus…

“What the hell do you want, Sam?” He said as he picked it up, probably a little more forceful than he meant to.

“Not Sam, and I’m just checking in on you.” Rhodey’s voice said on the other end.

Shit.

He sighed. “Rhodes, I-”

“Don’t worry about it,” Rhodes paused, “Have you seen the news yet?”

He really couldn’t take this kind of bullshit right now, of course, he knew what Sam had done. “I know he retired the shield, Rhodes. You don’t have to keep checking on me. I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” Rhodes clearly didn’t believe him, although to be fair, he wasn’t sure he would have believed himself right now, “And that’s not what I meant. They-”

His tv chose that moment to cut back to the news from the commercials that had been running. Almost as if it had a mind of its own with the world’s worst possible timing. There, in white letters on a blue banner, was the worst news he’d seen in a month.

John Walker named Captain America.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me…”

“Barnes, I know what this looks like-”

“Please tell me you’ve tried to stop this.”

“I tried. They wouldn’t listen to me.”

“Fuck…” He couldn’t believe this, this was, just, fuck. He needed to punch something.

“Barnes,” A pause “do I need to call someone?”

He shook his head, though it only took him several seconds to realize; Rhodey couldn’t see him shaking his head. “No. No, I’m- I’m fine.”

Rhodey didn’t say anything for several seconds but he practically felt the man’s incessant gaze and knowing smile. “In that case, you should check on Sam, make sure he’s okay too.”

“Yeah…” He didn’t want to, especially not now. But maybe Rhodes had a point, he probably wasn’t the only one struggling with this news. “Give Pepper and Morgan my love, alright?”

Rhodey probably wanted to press on, judging by the hesitation in his breathing. He didn’t though. Something he was inherently grateful for. “Sure. I’ll pass it along. Take care Barnes, I’ll be a phone call away if you need me.”

“Alright. Bye.” He said, looking at the number on his phone screen for several minutes while the interview played in the background. He was grateful for all the strings Rhodes had pulled within the government to get him his pardon. He was grateful for Pepper’s non-stop work to get his bank accounts, social security, and money restored. He was grateful for the fact that they had helped and stuck their necks out for him, even though he didn’t deserve any of it. Especially considering his past and what he’d done to their family. They didn’t seem to care, and if they did, they were good at hiding it. They helped him anyway.

But he wasn’t part of their family. It didn’t feel like he was.

He sat there, watching Walker’s interview. And goddamn it was so stupid. The man didn’t know anything about Steve or the mantle he was taking on and yet there he was talking about him as if he’d always known Steve. Calling him his brother and whatnot.

He didn’t register the bleeding lip until a metallic taste filled his mouth, his hands clenched in his lap, and anger pulsing through him with an energy he couldn’t contain. What he wanted to do in that moment would have negated everything he had worked so hard for and would undoubtedly mark him an international terrorist once again.

Instead, he grabbed his keys, went to the nearest bar, and drank through so many bottles of booze that the bartender wanted to call an ambulance for him. He didn’t need one. It wasn’t a healthy coping mechanism in the slightest, but it was far better than tracking Walker down to pummel his ass.

Although he knew it wasn’t fair and part of him knew that Sam couldn’t have foreseen this coming. It was easiest to blame him. So he did.

It was all Sam’s fault. If Sam hadn’t given up the shield, none of this would have happened. If Sam hadn’t given up the shield, Walker wouldn’t have become Captain America. If Sam hadn’t given up the shield, hadn’t given up on Steve’s wish-

He shook his head and sighed. If Steve had been wrong about Sam being the right man, then Steve was wrong about him too. And that was something he couldn’t process, not now, not yet.

In the morning, he arranged an Uber to take him to the Air force base.

-

End notes:

So that's it for chapter 1, there will be seven chapters in total. Let me know what you think of it so far, comments fuel me and keep me writing.

What did you like this chapter? Are there things that aren't clear or not written clearly? Let me know and I will make sure to fix them.

I would love to hear your thoughts.

[deankirk]

Another Fic Rec List - various pairings

It’s time for another fic rec list, folks. 

Immortal Husbands (Nicky/Joe from The Old Guard)

I’m pretty much obsessed with this ship and specially with their background history, and these are the getting together fics that we all love & deserve.

Waiting by domini_moonbeam, 12k, rated E

Summary:  After a beat, Nicolo’s head bobbing in a tired nod. Yusuf patted his back, giving him a little shove toward the water. “Don’t drown! I don’t want to go in after you,” he said, backing away. Nicolo paused, glancing back at him, eyebrow raised and face painted in blood. There was a question there, in those incredible, expressive eyes—another question Nicolo would not say out loud. “And I would,” Yusuf answered this time. “I would go in after you. I would become a spirit of this forest, haunting that river until I found you.”

fearfully and wonderfully made by bethecowboy, 9k, rated E

Summary: Over the past few years, he’s started sleeping as little as he possibly can without dying — his under-eyes are permanently bruised and he spends daytimes hallucinating. It’s better than dwelling on what has come before: screams, limp bodies, spraying blood, blue eyes.

deo volente (lux aeterna) by qqueenofhades, 65k, rated M

Summary: Yusuf snorts, as if to say it’s mutual. But the Italian struggles to sit upright, wincing and swearing, and – Yusuf cannot pretend he does not want to know, not when a creature will always seek out its like, its matched half as the Greek philosopher Plato wrote, and there is nobody else in the world, to the best of his knowledge, like the two of them. He says, “What’s your name?”There’s a very long pause. He can hear the other man deciding whether to lie. But there is no purpose to it, except for bitterness, and the answer is uttered cold and shortly. “Nicolò.”

(Or: The inevitable backstory.)

Bonus:

Half In Love with Easeful Death by merle_p, 4k, rated M

Summary: “They are quite the sight, aren’t they?” Adrienne says, sitting down next to him on the log by the fire, offering him the eau de vie once more.“What are you talking about?” he says, feeling caught out. The bottle is half-empty already, and he does his part by taking a long drink so he doesn’t have to look at her for a while.“Those two,” she says, pointing her chin at Nicolas and Joseph, who are huddled together with their backs against the wide trunk of an ancient olive tree. “You were staring.”

(In which Booker is new to immortality, and trying to make sense of Nicky and Joe's love. Andy isn't exactly helping. Or maybe she is.)

Destiel (Time Travel and Future Fics)

Crazy Diamonds by pantheon_of_discord, 25k, rated E

Summary: A week ago, Dean was pulled out of Hell. Now, he’s apparently woken up in 2018, and the angel that a mere twenty-four hours beforehand had threatened to chuck him back into the pit is sleepily pouring himself coffee and wearing Dean’s second-favourite Zeppelin shirt. It all seems like a perfect happy ending, but with Hell’s scars still so fresh, Dean can’t imagine how he could have possibly gotten there.

At the same time, the Dean who went to sleep in the bunker, right next to Cas, wakes up on Bobby’s couch in 2008. He’s instantly bombarded with questions by a Lilith-obsessed brother and a man who’s been dead for years, and must decide between keeping his finally-perfect life intact, and the lives he could save by re-writing history.

Regardless of these choices, both Deans are trapped in the wrong decade, and their only way back lies with a Castiel still very much under Heaven’s thumb – one who might find the future Dean describes difficult to believe.

where the weeds take root by deathbanjo, 30k, rated E

Summary:  “Are you happy? Y’know. Just—being here,” Dean says, gesturing to the yard with his beer bottle. “Being with—I mean, you used to fight in celestial wars and—and save the world. Now you’re growing vegetables and talking about chickens.”

The Mirror by cloudyjenn, 25k, rated M

Summary: When Dean touches a strange mirror, he's whisked away to one alternate reality after another and it doesn't take him long to realize the universe is trying to tell him something.

The Story of You and Me by the_diggler, 55k, rated E

Summary: Dean wakes up in bed next to a very human Castiel, and a journal in his own handwriting that tells him it’s two years in the future. The house looks a lot like Bobby’s, and Sam lives there too… He just can’t remember how they got from angels falling in the sky – to comfortable domesticity.

While there is much in the journal Dean doesn’t remember, there is much of their story he’s always known. And as he settles into the routine of his new life and relationship with Castiel, it quickly becomes something he doesn’t know how to live without.

Stucky (Just Some of my Random Faves)

That Reflection Man by SkyisGray, 30k, rated E

Summary:  Political AU - Steve is the son of a Governor and the grandson of a Vice President. At 18, he meets Bucky. At 24, he marries someone else. At 25, he's elected to the House of Representatives, and Bucky overdoses. But their story is really just getting started.

 Ain't No Grave (Can Keep My Body Down) by spitandvinegar, 107k, rated M

Summary: It's six in the morning, and Steve is heading out on a run when he nearly trips over a bouquet of sunflowers on the front steps of his brownstone.

For a second paranoia takes over, and he kicks the flowers a little, waiting for them to explode. They don't. They also came with a card, which he picks up. The front of the card has a tasteful picture of the Brooklyn bridge at sunset. It's very nice and sedate, like the kind of card you would buy to give to your boss. On the inside someone has written a short message in big, shaky block letters.

I AM SORRY FOR SHOOTING YOU.

Steve sits down hard on the steps.

Steve Rogers at 100: Celebrating Captain America on Film by eleveninches, febricant, hellotailor, M_Leigh, neenya, tigrrmilk, 10k, rated G

Summary: Heil Hydra,” the enemy agent shouts. 

“Heil this, motherfucker,” says Captain America, shooting off a rocket.

Steve and Bucky find out Hollywood has been busy since they went away. A historical survey, including but not limited to: one set of exploded genitals, a brief interlude in France, Mel Gibson and other masterworks of casting, eight Academy awards, several dinosaurs, and something Tony Stark has ominously dubbed “the masterpiece.” Art included.

Relax by ShowMeAHero, 1,3k, rated G

Summary:  Bucky remembers a detail of his past over breakfast, and nobody can handle it.

FIC RECS: part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4

[yikeswtfmate]

Strange Times || Ch. 1

main masterlist // Strange Times Series Masterlist // next part

Summary: Mickey Pearson sends Raymond to fetch his sister from the airport. He’s never met this woman, but he soon finds out she likes to play with her food first.

Pairing: Raymond (Charlie Hunnam - The Gentlemen, 2020) x Reader

Warnings: swearing; sexual themes; mentions of violence

A/N: Here it is my lovelies, the fic i’ve been telling you about with Charlie Hunnam’s character whom i fell in love with (it’s the beard....and the glasses....and the hair....and the suits......and the whole righthand to a drug lord thing maybe?). I’m still unsure about posting it here because it’s a different type of Reader that i’m used to write (maybe i’ll just switch her to an OC) and it’s not Bonky. So please let me know what you think and whether i should post the next parts as well (it’s already 5k long) but if you don’t like it, this is a “felt cute might delete later” type of situation so no harm no foul. And for those of you who haven’t seen the movie yet, slight spoliers ahead!

The office is quiet, save for the scratching of a pen on paper and the ticking of a clock that is starting to irritate Raymond to no end. He’s been meaning to either throw it out or switch it with the one that is in the living room, but he knows how his boss would not appreciate the disposal of a five thousand pound clock plated in gold. Raymond personally thinks it’s tacky, but it’s Mickey’s house after all, and he should be concentrating on sorting out the logistics for that shipment that’s supposed to go out to Italy anyway. He turns back to his laptop, intent on fulfilling his responsibilities for the day, when Mickey stops writing behind him and clears his throat, demanding his attention.

“Raymond, I need you to go to the airport tomorrow.”

Ray stands up from his chair at the desk and moves to the table in the middle of the receiving room. He’s learned all of Mickey’s tells during the ten years he’s been his righthand man, and when he stops sorting out his agenda to pour himself a cup of tea, Ray knows he needs to stand to attention.

“Any reason in particular?”

“I need you to pick up my sister and bring her to the estate.”

“Your sister?” Ray is utterly confused, mainly for the fact that this would be the very first time he’ll be meeting this woman.

He was aware that Mickey had a sister back in the States, but even though he knows every aspect of Mickey’s life inside and out, this elusive woman is his boss’ best kept secret. He’s unsure whether it’s just brotherly protectiveness, pure paranoia at the prospect of their enemies finding out there’s still another weak link next to Rosalind, or it’s simply the fact that Mickey doesn’t want to talk about his family back home.

He’s heard she’s been studying for a degree in business at Wharton, but he doesn’t know what to expect, for all the odd comments Mickey and Rosalind make about her when they think he’s not listening. One thing he’s completely certain of, however, is how much Mickey looks after her, considering the sizeable amounts of money that are going into her bank account every month.

Mickey raises an eyebrow over his teacup. “I don’t see why you’re acting as if you didn’t know I have a goddamn sister, Ray.”

Raymond shrugs, deciding that it’s best if he won’t tick off his boss at the moment. He’s been on edge ever since the whole debacle with Matthew Berger and Fletcher went down. Mickey’s decided to hold off his retirement plans until someone comes along with a better offer (preferably none of Lord George’s minions though), so he hasn’t only been stressed about maintaining the value of the goods, but also pissed off that he couldn’t just drink whiskey unperturbed all day in a countryside manor.

“I’ve sent you all the details you need. Don’t be late, I don’t want her left unsupervised for too long.”

Raymond nods, eager to go back to his laptop. It’s time for homework, and there’s nothing he love more than information.

“And Ray?” He turns back to Mickey, but the man’s just looking out the window, a thoughtful expression on his face. “Be careful.”

“Of course, boss. I’ll treat her like a princess.”

“It’s not her I’m worried about, you moron.” He says with a frown. “I meant you. She likes to play with her food first.”

*

The private jet should be a surprise, but when you’re in the line of business Raymond is in, he’s practically seen it all. The charcoal trench coat he’s wearing today is flapping in the whirl of wind so it’s a good thing he foregone the machine gun in favour of an inconspicuous handgun. He’s almost certain nothing would come up on their way from Heathrow to Oxfordshire, but he made sure David fully stocked the car before they left, just in case.

He’s waiting patiently in front of the car, lighting a cigarette, while he watches the airport’s employees fuss around the plane. The airstair is released and Ray stands up from leaning against the car. The smoke that he exhales blind him for a second, but he still needs to blink three more times to assure himself he’s not fucking hallucinating when a woman that he can only assume is Y/N Pearson steps off the plane. She drags a hand through her long curls, moving her head from side to side in what must only be slow motion. Her heels click on the pavement as she makes her way towards him, and Raymond smiles involuntarily.

“I see the money’s been treating you well, Raymond. Although I have to admit, I kind of miss the long hair.” She says before Ray can utter a word. She places a manicured finger under his chin, closing his mouth, kissing his cheek with a smack. “You don’t remember me, do you?” Her eyes are patient, as if exhausted after explaining a child the same exact thing for the past hour. “We’ve met fourteen years ago, when Mickey expanded the business to five farms. You were only an errand boy then, remember? Granted, I was only fourteen at that time, a gangly little thing with braces, of course you don’t remember me.”

Raymond’s mind flashes to a vague memory of a girl in a sequinted t-shirt, a choker that could only be worn with so much seriousness by a teenager, and boots with fur, mated in English mud. She blushed to the roots of her hair when he asked her if she knew by any chance where Mr Pearson was, having to deliver a parcel to him personally. She just pointed with a black fingernail towards her left and squeaked something unintelligible before ducking her head and running in the other direction.

“Ah, there he goes.” She sing-songs as she watches his eyes shift in recognition all over her, but there’s nothing left of her teenage self, having grown into her body, comfortable in her skin, confidence built up with precision and care, together with an appropriate, if rather extravagant fashion sense.

“I can’t believe how much you’ve grown.” He says, realising that he sounds like a cliché when she rolls her eyes.

“Right, that’s what happens in life, honey. Can we please go? We can exchange pleasantries in the car, this wind is ruining my hair.”

Raymond keeps the door open for her, nodding to David who just finished loading the trunk with her luggage and he hops in the backseat next to her.

“I hope we’re stopping for lunch on our way.” She warns. “I’m starving and I couldn’t eat anything since I woke up because of those stupid turbulences.”

“Mickey is expecting us to be there in an hour.” He responds cautiously.

“Mickey can go fuck himself. I want a pizza and I haven’t been to Zizzi in a long time, so you better take me there, Raymond, or I’ll just ask David to kindly move to the passenger seat.”

The man in question looks at Ray in the rear view mirror, awaiting instructions. Ray sighs and nods once again, now starting to realise why his boss felt the need to warn him in regard to his sister. He hopes he won’t have to deal with her for long after she’s safely delivered to Mickey, because for all her beauty, she’s starting to piss him off.

“Oh, don’t look so glum.” She chides, after a few minutes of him plainly ignoring her. “I’m good company, I promise. I’m just cranky because I’m hungry. I’m hangry, Ray. I just need you to feed me.” She flutters her eyelashes, and she rests her hand on his thigh, purposefully ticking him off.

Ray shifts in his seat, trying to put as much distance between them, to which she just scoffs and rolls her eyes. This woman is dangerous, and for all his sinful thoughts that have been going through his mind ever since he laid eyes on her, Ray has to remind himself that this is his boss’ little sister, little as in eleven years younger for fuck’s sake. He’s positively sure that if he even lays a finger on her, his balls would be cut off and fed to the hunting dogs.

They finally stop after a short silent trip, and he helps Y/N into the fairy lit restaurant, leaving David posted in front of the car. He hopes there will be no more trouble like last time, having had his share of adventures for the goddamn decade.

Holding a chair for her, Ray waits for Y/N to take off her coat, and now he suddenly feels the need to swallow hard, as he rakes his eyes over her body. She’s wearing a leather skirt that is too tight to possibly be comfortable, but long enough to almost meet her knee high boots; her sweater is thick, appropriate for the cold January weather in the south of England, yet Raymond can’t help but wonder if her nipples are as perfect as her lips. Speaking of which, they curl up in a patient yet satisfied smile, a raised eyebrow that wants to show him she’s merely allowing him to inspect her so blatantly.

After she orders her pizza and Ray asks for a glass of water, clearly showing his disapproval for this unexpected stop. He can feel a nudge on his shin and she smiles at him in a way that he can only describe as charitable.

“You know, I’ve had the biggest crush on you back then.” She says and Ray chokes on his water. “It’s true. You were this tall rugged man with long hair that I wouldn’t have known what to do with then, but would definitely know how to handle now.” She smirks, while Ray raises an eyebrow, silently asking her to stop talking. Mainly because his imagination is starting to go haywire. “The beard suits you. But I kept thinking about licking your jaw all the way here so it’s a shame really that I can’t now. Those were some long 8 hours, Ray, I had to occupy myself somehow.”

“Y/N, you should really stop talking.” Ray would give himself a pat on the back for all the restraint he’s showing at the moment. There’s nothing he would like more than to shove her in one of the bathroom stalls and have his way with her, and by the look in her eyes, she knows exactly what he’s thinking so she’s relentless.

“Why? Afraid Mickey would disapprove? I thought you were a big boy, Ray, who doesn’t have to ask permission.”

“It’s not about permission, and we both know it. Your brother would literally kill me if…”

His words are cut short by the waiter who’s bringing Y/N her food and brazenly ogles her down. Ray can feel his hands involuntarily clench into fists, his jaw set at the man who would not just fucking go and keeps offering her pepper, sauce, or his fucking cock for that matter, because it’s so fucking obvious that’s what he’d actually want to say. Y/N just smiles sweetly, humouring his clumsy flirting, and Ray is more than certain that she’s starting to form a habit of doing things just to piss him off. When she touches the waiter’s forearm, he growls lowly, directing their attention to him. She feigns surprise, but he can read her amusement, while the waiter seems to decide whether to apologise or take his chances and go off. Ray knows that his glasses might put people at ease, making him look approachable, friendly, easy-going at first, but he’s perfected the frown and posture to go with it that puts people immediately in their places. Not to mention that spending over a decade in the business would shape anyone in a ruthless brute if need arises.

“My girlfriend here would like to enjoy her food now, thank you. She doesn’t need anything else, mate, you can go.”

The waiter finally scampers off, and Ray knows he’ll regret saying anything before he turns back to Y/N. She’s smirking like a bloody Cheshire cat if he’s ever seen anyone actually doing it, satisfied beyond belief.

“Don’t.” He warns when she opens her mouth to make a smartass remark, but she raises her hands in surrender and proceeds to eat.

Another battle of restraint and patience, as this woman eats as if she’s in a bloody porn movie, and who the fuck can eat pizza seductively anyway, for fuck’s sake. Raymond takes a deep breath, fishing his phone out of his coat pocket and calls his boss, doing his best to ignore the moans, the finger sucking and the swirling tongue in front of him.

“Hey, boss. Got Y/N from the airport, we’ll just be a bit late.”

“She wanted to eat, didn’t she?” Mickey asks and Ray can hear the exasperation in his voice. Apparently his boss is well aware of his sister’s antics, but it would’ve been better if Raymond were better prepared for the full force of what this woman can get out of him in a short half an hour.

“Tell him to suck a bag of tiny dicks, I don’t need his judgment.” Y/N says between licking a side of her finger and plucking an olive off her slice.

“We’re in Uxbridge, hopefully we’ll be there in an hour or so.” Raymond notifies, choosing to ignore her again.

“Fine. Just…make sure she stays out of trouble. It can stick to her like a fly to shit.” And with that Mickey disconnects the call.

Raymond sighs and puts his phone back. There is an uneasy feeling flowing through him, his instinct telling him to run away in the other direction, to avoid interacting with Y/N at all cost until her return to the States, but there’s another part of him, more primal, more carnal that is drawn to her. He hates it, mainly because there is no logical reasoning behind it, and he’s a very cerebral person, and he can’t figure her out for the life of him. Maybe it’s just the fact that she’s probably the first woman to act like that with him, as if she doesn’t care about the consequences, doesn’t give a toss whether he’ll bite or not. She likes to play with her food first, were Mickey’s words, which make so much more sense now.

Raymond can’t put his finger on it, and although he can have his pick of women anywhere he’d step foot in – he is very much aware of how handsome he is, thank you very much –  there is something about Y/N that demands to be unlocked. Or maybe it’s just that her tits look really great in that sweater and it’s the whole “forbidden fruit” bullshit. Regardless, Ray just wants to drop her off and go back to London where he can drown himself in work so he can forget about her. Or maybe have a night out, pick someone at a bar and pretend it’s her, because he’s absolutely certain by this point that it’s just the novelty of Y/N that lures him in, and definitely not those eyes full of mischief.

***

Taglist: I haven’t tagged anyone in this, as I’m unsure whether you want to read something that’s not Bucky related. Let me know if you do! Toodles!