#fic: like water bleeding fire

[obsessivevoidkitten]

Dishonorably Discharged and Detained

Alpha Shark Man x Gender Neutral Omega Reader (CW: Dubcon, a/b/o, omega reader, DILF, size difference, shark man, merman, biting, marking, claiming, heat cycles, breeding, kidnapping, force fed reader, reader is briefly shocked by an electric fence, general yandere behavior) Word Count: 4.7k (18 minutes into March and already a fic is posted! This was written as a birthday gift for a friend, happy birthday, you know who you are, my longest friendship and trusted confidant. I hope you all enjoy this. Also I tagged this as a merman because I think it qualifies, even without a fish tail a person who is part fish counts. I will die on this hill.)

The dreadnought you were on sailed at a fair pace, ever forward, back to your base. It had been deployed to the front but the battle was over before you even had a chance to arrive, enemy presence in the area had been way overestimated and your unit had not been needed. The sea ahead of you lie calm and serene, the sun scintillating off the surface of the water and the salty breeze kissed your skin, feeling pleasant in your stuffy uniform. You were second in command of the ship directly behind Admiral Reeves, you were an omega but with hard work and perseverance you had managed to defy all expectations of what an omega could be, ranking higher than many alphas your age. This caused some issues when you had first achieved your current rank, but over time you had gained the respect and obedience of those under you as well as the respect of your superiors. You had become invaluable to Admiral Reeves both as a hard worker, a motivator of the troops, and even a strategist he could always call upon for a second opinion when planning on how to engage an enemy force or escape a harrowing situation. That wasn’t to say things were completely easy for you, whenever you were docked or dealing with other service members that were not in your unit you always had to stand strong against harassment and catcalls. And being constantly surrounded by so many alphas, and the pheromones that accompanied them, could sometimes make you more than a bit dizzy. Admiral Reeves’ pheromones were among the most potent, he was not a regular human like most of your peers. He was a shark man. A hybrid species that had been genetically engineered decades ago to help humans explore the seas and get an advantage in maritime combat. Reeves’ heritage was obvious. His sharp teeth, the fin on his back, webbed fingers, gills at the base of his neck, and pale blue skin giving him away to any who saw him. He was likely in his early fifties, it was slightly hard to tell though given he wasn’t completely human, but his short hair had an attractive peppering of grey. As mentioned previously his pheromones were much stronger than an average alpha’s. Probably because he was significantly larger than a normal human. It made being an omega near him all the time slightly difficult, but the main difficulty was that sometimes his cool headed handle on his instincts slipped a bit and he could be just a slight bit overprotective of you. He never disrespected you or questioned your ability to carry out your duties though. After enjoying a few minutes of sunlight and salty sea air you began to make your way back below deck to the dorsal side of the bow where the bridge was contained, you had to make contact with the mainland and give them your coordinates and estimated time of arrival. But before you could even leave the deck a sudden explosion sent you flying. You remained conscious just long enough to notice your right arm and leg were bleeding. You tried to get up but within seconds you collapsed. The next few weeks were a blur that you were almost entirely unconscious for, with only brief fragments of confused awareness. You remembered seeing medics above you, you remember a moment of being in the ship’s medical bay as the ship weaponry fired, and you remembered being awake several times briefly in a hospital bed. When you finally, REALLY, woke up you were in significant pain. Your arm and leg that you had seen bleeding were both in a cast with your leg suspended, your vision was a bit blurry, and your head was throbbing. You had great trouble concentrating, it took great effort to collect yourself and assess your situation. You were no longer in the ship’s medical bay and there were no windows in your room, it seemed very minimalist. Probably a military hospital on base. There was nothing really much you could do other than just try to relax and let yourself heal, eventually a nurse walked in and immediately rushed over to you to check your vitals and ask you a few questions to make sure you were fully aware and awake. After doing so she hurriedly rushed out, staff was under strict orders to notify Reeves the second that you were awake. Since the ship you had been stationed on, The Sentinel, was docked for repairs Reeves was currently at the naval base that you were receiving treatment from and it did not take long for him to be notified about your updated condition and come speeding to your side. You could tell immediately by his scent he had not been getting much sleep and he had been more than a bit anxious. Not surprising, probably lost some good soldiers in that battle and then having to wait as the ship was repaired or for him to get a new assignment was probably pretty stressful. You could have never imagined that the reason for his recent distress had actually been your hospitalization. But it had affected him in ways he would not have thought previously possible. He stood beside you with a huge grin on his face. On anyone and to anyone else it may have been frightful, given the sharp nature of his teeth, but you knew it was a good sign. “Nice to see you awake after you’ve been lazing about in bed for a few weeks, haha,” he joked with his typical sense of humor before his face got grim and he took on a more solemn tone, “But... in all seriousness… It’s good to see you’re okay. We lost some good ones in that attack. Sunk the bastards that did it though.” You took a moment of silence before breaking the tension. “Don’t worry, fish breath, after a short recovery I will be their worst nightmare. I will sink their entire navy myself.” Reeves hastily hid a worried expression at the thought of you returning to duty, you didn’t know what the expression was for but it was probably just a bit of stress piercing through that rough exterior of his. “Heh, yeah. I’m sure. The little pipsqueak is gonna have them all on the ropes. They’ll piss themselves,” he chuckled heartily, though it sounded just a wee bit forced. After some small talk and him telling you about the casualties and general condition of everything he reluctantly left, after the nurse shooed him away to let you rest. For the next 5 to 6 weeks it seemed like resting was all you could really do and by the time you were ready to be released and begin physical therapy to get back to tip top shape you were really ready to get out of bed. Over the course of your recovery Reeves continued to visit you, really just about everyday that he could, to see how you were progressing and he seemed to be increasingly anxious about you returning to duty. Now that you were out of bed that anxiety seemed too palpable for you to ignore and finally, after he had given you a nervous look when you mentioned your excitement to be seaworthy right as The Sentinel was nearly ready to depart, you decided to just ask him about it. “It may just be me but… it seems like you don’t really want me back on duty…” “What that’s crazy!” he said in a manner that had you wholly unconvinced. You crossed your arms, tilted your head slightly, and stared at him with an expression that said “really?” He sighed deeply before finally admitting outright what he had been thinking since the moment you had been taken to the ship’s med bay. “Look… I know you are a talented sailor but… are you sure you should keep doing this?” You were stunned, mouth agape in shock, but he took your silence as an opportunity to press forward with his line of logic. “I mean… you have a smaller frame than anyone else. The doctors did not know if you would survive at first and the doctors said that even a beta, let alone an alpha, with a larger body would not have been so damaged by the blast or so endangered by the blood loss,” once he started saying all this the words just seemed to spill out of his mouth, like he had been damming them up and it had finally burst allowing him to unleash a torrent of his thoughts on the matter. There was of course much more to it than that, he was in love with you, but even if he had been honest about not wanting you back in combat he could not be completely honest with you or with himself on why exactly he was so adamant. You were speechless a moment more before becoming absolutely indignant. “SEVERAL people passed away in that battle, and all of them were all alphas, war doesn’t spare anyone!” Normally someone speaking to their direct superior in such a manner would be reprimanded but you were beyond caring at this point. “That may be true, but being smaller and more fragile doesn’t help your chances. And you have always been a bit accident prone…” Not an entirely unwarranted criticism, you did tend to be a bit accident prone, though all of those were minor injuries, nothing serious until now, but having enemy ammunition go off near you was hardly your fault and anyone, regardless of body or constitution, would have been injured by such a situation. Incredulous at his comments you stormed off, he called out behind you but you kept going on. That night you didn’t get much rest and you were irritable the next morning. But that did not compare you to the anger you had when you reported in the next morning and had Reeves tell you that he did not want you working with him anymore, he wanted you off the ship working in a safer non-combat capacity. You just stormed off once again to get reassigned to another combat ship. It didn’t have to be glamorous, it could be a fucking submarine for all you cared. It hurt, and it hurt bad, that you would not be with your former crew, or with the leader you had grown to consider a friend, but in battle was where you were meant to be. You put in for reassignment and vacillated between anger, grief, and feelings of betrayal for the remainder of the day. As at the end of everyday you made your way to the omega barracks. You were the only one using them currently, unlike on the ships there were fresh recruits trained on site so separate sleeping arrangements were made. It was hard but eventually you managed to push your raging emotions aside and go to sleep. Reeves had heard about your reassignment, he figured you might be difficult. Instead of asking for a non-combative position you had of course just let them reassign you to another dreadnought. He couldn’t just tank your career to get you out of the front lines, you had too impeccable of a record for anyone to believe that and too many sailors that would vouch for you, no, he would have to instead use his ties to have you erased completely. The shark was a very high ranking admiral with ties to the intelligence agencies and it was within his power to do such a thing, considering you had no civilian friends or family to poke around, and anyone in the navy who might poke around could easily be brushed off or told that you had passed away in the line of duty. So in the dead of night you were disappeared. Operatives quickly snuck in and made their way to your sleeping form, quickly injecting you with a serum that would keep you completely unconscious for many hours and then shoving you into a black sack. You woke up from probably what could be described as the deepest and most fulfilling sleep you had ever known, and then you looked around and realized that you were most certainly not where you had gone to sleep. Gone were the rows of bunk beds that had filled the small omega barracks room, replaced by a small room without any windows, blank walls, and harsh lights. It all seemed very… antiseptic. Too clean. Too empty. You went to the door, which had a small barred hole window, and tried to open it, but it was completely sealed with no way to open it without the key. But you were stubborn and shouted a few curses while trying to force it open anyway. This proved to be a mistake, as it summoned your captor. Reeves. “Admiral!? What the fuck!?! Where are we? Why am I being detained?” He looked at you and with a regretful sigh said, “You just… wouldn’t listen to reason. And I couldn’t lose you.” “My god… You’re absolutely insane! You can’t just cage me up like I am some sort of animal just because I don’t want to live my life how you want me to!” “I AM NOT INSANE!! You refused to see reason! I love you and couldn’t have you in danger anymore and you just wanted to charge in and get hurt. Your injury was a sign that it needed to stop. YOU NEED TO BE SAFE!” You flinched back, unaccustomed to him being so loud and angry. At seeing you recoil his face softened and his tone became much more quiet. “Look, you’ll get used to it here okay? I know the room is a bit bare but we can put whatever you want in here, okay? The war will be over soon and I will be able to be home and then you can move in with me.” You looked down, angry and depressed and betrayed, unable to meet his gaze. Finally he sighed heavily and mumbled that he would have someone bring you some food but he had to go. That’s largely how life went for you there for roughly a year. Facility staff would take care of your day to day needs and every few months, or sometimes weeks, you would get a visit from Reeves. Each time he would offer you some gift or trinket, repeating his confessions of love and care for you. He gave you sweets, blankets, plushies, flowers, and various other things. The blankets and plushies were scented by him, in typical courting fashion, but no matter what the item was you shoved it in the farthest corner of the room. Except the sweets, they would have expired, so instead you would immediately throw them at him. Reeves was more than distraught, not only were his attempts to advance a relationship with you not succeeding, but the friendship you had before was totally eroded. Till, the most important thing above all else was that you remained safe, and once the war ended, which would be any day now, he would be able to move you to his house and take care of you daily himself. When the war was finally over and the time had come for you to be transported to your new happy home with your captor and the destroyer of your life you fought the personnel that were trying to put you in the transport van that had been loaded with all of your things tooth and claw. Literally. You clawed and bit everyone who got near you, you would rather live in a boring glorified cage for the rest of your life than be in a house with Reeves. Finally they had you held down by multiple men and once again injected with a sedative. And, just like a somewhat uncertain amount of months previously, you woke up in a strange room. This time on a couch though. A blanket had been lovingly put on top of you and a soft pillow placed behind your head. This was obviously Reeves’ house. Unlike last time you had been informed of your destination before being abducted. It appeared you were in a modified basement, you looked around, searching for anything that may be useful as a weapon. Sadly, it seemed the room had been left clear of anything you could use to fight Reeves with. There were tiny windows, but they were not only really high up but also really small. Even if you could somehow manage to eat them you would never manage to squeeze through them. There was really only one course of action left for you. You took the blanket that had been left down here for you and waited at the door for Reeves to come down and check on you. When he finally opened it you hid behind it until he took a few steps down. You then threw the blanket over his head and kicked his legs as hard as you could making him stumble, you took the opening to push him down the steps and flee out of the basement. You came up into a hallway that connected to the living room and rushed out the door. You were more than a bit shaky, you had no shoes, and your body was weak but pushed on by a potent mix of sheer force of will and a strong dose of adrenaline allowed you to propel yourself forward. You ran down the driveway and came to a fence that was entirely locked up. No problem. You could scale this with ease, flee into the woods that seemed to surround this area, and eventually find help on the other side. But the second you touched the fence and electric current ran through your body, causing you to twitch and fall down stunned. It was electrified. Because of course it was. For someone he was worried about dying in battle he sure as shit did not seem to underestimate you when it came to you trying to escape. It didn’t take long for him to come running, you had hoped you may have been lucky enough to at least have broken a leg or ankle as he fell, but it seems he was unperturbed by his recent push. You were too shaky at this point to do anything other than let him pick you up and hold you close. “It’s okay, I know you’re scared, I forgive you for pushing me. And sorry about the fence, can’t take any chances.” He carried you back down to the basement and sat you down gently on the couch, laying the blanket that you had formerly used as a weapon on top of you before kissing your forehead, which made you flinch away in disgust. “Now that we are living together I will be able to give you the non-stop attention you deserve. I am sure you will love it here eventually, okay?” “Not okay you absolute fucking idiot, there is no way in the world I will ever love you or even remotely tolerate your presence! Just let me go! The war is already over anyway.” “There is always another war eventually and I must keep you safe from yourself. I just can't risk losing you, can’t you understand that?” You just scoffed in response and pulled the cover over your face so you didn’t have to look at him. Reeves tried rubbing your arm comfortingly through the blanket, and you could do nothing to stop given how shaken up you still were, but he could smell in your scent that you were growing increasingly angry and even a bit anxious at his touch so he finally retreated upstairs to make you a nice dinner. He remembered from years of service with you that you got pretty cranky when you were hungry. When he came back he brought with him a bowl of delicious smelling crab bisque, something he thought was fairly light and easily digestible, but not too light and still full of nutrients. He sat the bowls down on the coffee table and sat on the opposite side of the couch from you. “Sorry about the furniture accommodations. I will move a table and bed down here for you eventually. At some point you will share my bed but I felt like an adjustment period might be good for you first.” “Yeah, so I don’t murder you in your sleep,” you said dryly and without any hint of it being a joke. “Y-you don’t mean that, you’re just a bit cranky because you need some foo-” **CRASH** He was interrupted by you using your hand to smack the bowl of bisque right the fuck off the table and into the hard concrete wall, not unlike a cat that had taken offense to a cup on a table. “It’s… okay… I made more than enough. I know this has been hard on you.” All you did was blankly stare at him as he went and procured another bowl. It smelled great and you were well and truly hungry, but you refused to give in. If you made sure not to eat too much your body would not trigger a heat because it would take too much energy. You also just wanted to piss him off, maybe get him so pissed off that he either lets you go or at least makes some mistakes that you can exploit. When he handed you the second bowl he had gotten for you it immediately met the same fate as its predecessor. He stared at you for a long moment that seemed to span an eternity before he angrily grabbed his bowl of food and pulled you close to him by his arm. He pinched your nose closed so you had to open your mouth and then he shoved a spoonful of food into your mouth, then he held his hand over your mouth so you had to swallow. Reeves continued this a couple times until you got the memo and ate the rest of the bowl willingly. Well… you had wanted him to be pissed. Over the course of weeks you had to accept that you just had to eat what you were given, but by no means did you just give up on making life inconvenient for him. Every gift tossed, any furniture he brought down here destroyed, blankets shredded, anytime he scented something it would be immediately quarantined to the closet after its destruction. The only thing you kept was clothing you deemed acceptable and without his smell on it, you needed clothes but would not accept any with his pheromones. That could be misconstrued as you accepting courtship. You were perfectly content with denying him any ounce of love, affection, or friendship and you were right in the middle of giving a nice silent treatment when finally the proper nutrition and your omega nature convened to ruin everything. You were in heat. Heats were very strong on a normal day, but this was not a normal heat, this was the first heat in a very long time. You had prevented them for a long time in the black site and when you were in the navy of course you took prescribed suppressants. You hadn’t had one in years. Tremors shook your body, you couldn’t stand and your body temperature was heightened. They didn’t call it a heat for nothing. Your brain was addled, you were dizzy and almost delirious, you could barely remember why you were here. You tossed off the covers and stripped down to your slick soaked underwear. Reeves was awoken by an amazing scent and knew immediately what it was, your pheromones beckoning him even from his bedroom, his darling needed him desperately. The smell demanded he come immediately to you and comfort you and take care of you in every way imaginable. Reeves saw you there before him, writhing in carnal need and so small and helpless in front of him. The couch wouldn’t do, he needed a bigger and more familiar space, he took you up to his room where he had actually made and maintained a nest made of things that smelled of the both of you. Despite a vague notion in the back of your mind telling you to avoid him, scratch him, and leave this situation, your instincts and the powerful consequences of having denied yourself your natural cycle DEMANDED that you bury your nose into the scent gland of his neck. So strong, such a strong mate. Reeves was elated, his brain was very much fogged too with lust and instinct but he didn’t have it as badly as you did. He was very much aware that his darling mate was finally accepting and even actively seeking out comfort from him. The shark man peeled off your slick saturated underwear, sniffing at your hole, breathing in the heavenly aroma you made, before your cries of desperation and something inside of him told him to slide his tongue right inside. Finally you began to feel the smallest amount of relief. It wasn’t enough, you needed a knot. A nice big knot from a nice big alpha, and this one smelled strong. You grinded yourself into his probing tongue, whimpering for much more. After several minutes of this he decided that was enough of getting your flavor and he was now ready to properly breed and mark his sweet little brat. He took off his clothes, revealing his large well muscled pecs, lightly scarred from years of combat, and his large cock. The musk coming from it made you drool. He wasted no time ramming into you, as caught up in the moment as he was he had little concern for going slow or for any possible discomfort. Fortunately there was none, you were perfectly primed for his large prick. It slid in you perfectly hitting all the right spots inside of you, causing you to squeal with delight when he bottomed out, deep within you. He moaned himself when he felt your heat and how every movement you made, every shudder, squirm, and all that writhing, he could feel on his cock. He started slow at first, but that was not what either of you wanted and soon it turned into a messy slamming of you, making hot wet sounds as he battered your innards with his cock pistoning in and out. It did not take long at all for his knot to start to swell within you and then reach its full size, sealing the two of you together whether or not you would want it when post heat clarity hit you. You clung to him tightly as he bred you, nails clawing at the skin of his back, as if trying to pull him deeper inside you. He nuzzled into your neck, his nose swimming in your scent as he breathed it in, this is what he had wanted for so long and now he knew he would never regret his actions, everything had been worth it. Reeves licked your neck and bit down on your scent gland, sharp teeth buried into your neck, you whimpered at the sensation and he licked your neck comfortingly, holding you close as you both shared a powerful orgasm. You both panted from the intensity, the heat that was burning up your will power and clarity fading a bit, but not enough to be yourself again. Reeves knew on some level that when things went back to normal you would still resist him, and your convictions would not be so altered in subsequent heats now that you had one after so long, but this was a good start to everything finally falling into place. Your heat would last days and there would be a lot of breeding and a lot of bonding. His instinct to protect you would only get stronger and you would be a bit more susceptible to his pheromones and would naturally seek him out for comfort when in distress. He may have been part fish, but it was you who were caught in his net.

#yandere merman #yandere terato #yandere teratophilia #yandere boyfriend #yandere male #yandere x reader #yandere x gender neutral reader #male yandere x gn reader #merman boyfriend #yandere husband #yandere a/b/o #a/b/o #a/b/o dynamics #omega reader #My OCs #My OC Reeves

[azullumi]

“under the burning hill” ; aventurine

premise — you say you know him, what will he choose?

tags — angst, with comfort if you squint, mentions of death, a lot of metaphors, spoilers to his backstory, i seriously don’t know how to tag this one, not proofread, 0.9k words; ficlet

tagging — @toorurs

note — i once cried to those tiktok slideshows that are like “if you really know your mother/self/father/sister/brother, what will they choose?” and then this fic happened. this is NOT my celebration fic for getting him, i have different one in my drafts

you say you know aventurine, what is he choosing?

a chance to be with his family again

he dreamt of flowers and gardens, of empty fields and large floating clouds, of tears and warmth, and he knelt into the dream where he felt the warmth of his sister’s hug and the soothing melody of his mother’s song. he buries his corpse who knew his father’s voice and how he would hold his child. in his dreams, he is good and he is loved.

he had nightmares of blood and fire, of wounds and tainted, dirty clothes, of screams and cries, and he’ll run away from the blades that will chase him, his body will become a corpse along with many others as he hides in the bloody waters. he has known death even before he saw his reflection.

and when he awakes from this, he’ll find himself in an empty bedroom despite the corners and the walls adorned with furniture, decoration, and dust. he’ll find himself alone—waking up yet he’s still in a nightmare. his family isn’t there.

for his shackles to never exist

the chain suffocates him—there’s the harsh smell of rusting metal and the cold tug of the chain when he moves his hand. his clothes are tattered, the collar and the hems burned off, and he stands before the eyes that scrutinizes and looks down on his existence. their gaze leaves letters that burn on his skin and it forms into a scar that will never heal, a reminder of what he is meant to be and will always be.

but he walks in the streets in flamboyance, the chain never seen on his wrist and neck as if it never once touched him. he treads the line of freedom and restriction recklessly and like a bird who has never known how to spread its wings, he could never reach far into the sky.

the form of his shackles have changed; it doesn’t mean he also has.

to stop the tremble of his hands

he fiddles with his fingers, adjusts the way his watch rests on his wrist—he keeps his hand busy and hidden. he wears a smile on his lips and utters such words filled with confidence as he places his bet, as he gambles his life, yet he desperately tries to conceal the way his hands tremble as he clutches on to his chips.

he wagers his life as if his existence was only a mere chip on the table, but it’s the only control he’ll ever have over himself.

an apology

he has dealt with scornful gazes and harsh remarks, has dwelled on the hidden meaning behind people’s words. he’s all too familiar with the cruel and unkind thread that weaves into their tongue as they speak—some may sing praises to him yet their eyes would harbor only hatred and disgust.

he wishes someone would ask for his forgiveness, but why would he even deserve one? what did he even do to deserve one? what did he do? does his existence outweigh the heaviness of a single syllable the word carries? was he worthy of one? does he even have any worth?

he can only let their gaze taint his skin, rearrange the letters of the words they utter into the one he will never hear.

(he has never forgiven himself either.)

to finally let go

how bruised are his knees and how long will he repent for the sins he has never committed?

he holds on to his burden as if it was a part of him, as if he’ll be nothing but an empty vessel if he loses his hold on it. he knows it's holding him down, knows it's making his hands bleed but it’s everything and the only thing he has known for—the thorns has been engraved into his palm and became part of his skin. he’ll stuff his mouth full of rotten food and leave his stomach empty, and he’ll believe this is what he’s made for.

perhaps when he'll finally find a place to put everything down, he’ll learn how it feels to live for himself and not for the things he carries.

you say you know kakavasha, what is he choosing?

to never have to say goodbye

farewell is a form of poetry and he is a poem.

in most days, he’ll hear his sister’s voice in the empty corridors of his home, he’ll hear the echoes and follow him into places she could never reach (his wishes will never be enough to save her). he’s haunted by the unspoken farewells and the goodbyes he is forced to make, watching their backs as they leave or his own.

(he wishes he never knew the word.)

(his child self) having a conversation with future him

children are bound with endless dreams and light to see into the dark as they walk into their future—he was (once) one of them. he’ll stay up at night wondering what’s ahead of him, grasping on to what little left of his hope that things will become better, and when he sleeps, he’ll dream of talking to his future self.

“are you happy?”

if he’ll have a conversation with his future self, he’ll tell him everything and anything, make him recall the memories lost when growing up, trace the stars with him as he asks him the questions he’s curious to know the answer to (his future self will know him inside out but he, the child he once was, will never know him). and maybe he’ll put their palms together once he notices his agitation—and he’ll see the differences of their hands and notice the dying light in their eyes—as they ask for their god’s blessings.

he’ll tell him: everything will be okay, even when he’ll only be met with silence.

(get onstage 

fear not

never look back.)

© azullumi — do not plagiarize, copy, repost, nor translate any of my works.

#—stellaronhvnters. #honkai imagines #honkai star rail #honkai #honkai x reader #honkai aventurine #aventurine x reader #aventurine #hsr aventurine #aventurine honkai star rail #star rail aventurine #aventurine x you #hsr x you #hsr x reader #hsr #star rail #honkai x you #hsr aventurine x reader #star rail x reader #honkai star rail x reader #azul.writes

[runawaymarbles]

9-1-1 fic recs

because if I do nothing but read 9-1-1 fic for a month solid I feel like I should. Since my bookmark notes are all spoilers. Buck/Eddie unless specified otherwise.

to your front door by hammersmiths | G | 3k

Buck and Pepa are bridge buddies and Pepa is happy to arrange everyone's lives.

i'm headed to the mountains by hammersmiths | 8k | G

a.k.a. Abby Clark does deserve rights

pick me, choose me, love me by trysetmeonfire | T | 9k

It is some kind of hell, it seems to me, to be forced to choose one irreplaceable thing over another. Buck and Chris get stuck and Eddie has to get one of them out first.

brick by spqr | E | 10k

9-1-1 fic I read and loved before I knew anything else about 9-1-1. Post lightning strike, Buck and Eddie are not at all on the same page.

i love you, ain't that the worst thing you've ever heard? by rarakiplin (gmontys) | T | 10k

"Because, Evan" is actually a love confession, but Buck's with Taylor. They handle it great.

the stick-around by derryfacts2 (winchysteria) | T | 10k

Buck is bleeding out. It's surprisingly funny.

Ace of Hearts by glorious_spoon | T | 10k

The poker night was a date but Buck doesn't realize it until later.

darlin', i'm just tryin' to tell ya by archerincombat | T | 10k

The station adopts a dog that has cancer and Ravi has some feelings about it.

still by brewrosemilk | T | 10k

Eddie is standing on a bomb.

the light's been out though, baby by hattalove | M | 15k

There's a video of the shooting.

like a hole in the ground by clytemnestra | T | 15k

Buck shares his feelings but they still don't know how to communicate.

maybe love won't let you down by sibylsleaves | M | 15k

Buck tells Eddie he loves him; Eddie thinks he himself is terrible at relationships and so he dodges the question. Things are OK until they aren't.

False Start (timing’s everything) by Morgane (smilla840) | E | 16k

Buck and Eddie hook up, and then Buck gets back together with Taylor. Ouches all the way down. It's great.

i would like a place i could call my own by maybeamystery | E | 17k

Buck and Eddie hooked up at the end of season 3. It does not make things better.

find a way to you (if it kills me) by foxwatson | M | 20k

Buck doesn't realize he has feelings for Eddie until Eddie lets Linda set him up. They both suck at coming out.

stay soft; get eaten by eddiediass | T | 20k

Ramon Diaz is dying.

every time we stop talking (the universe starts screaming) by withmeornotatall | M | 20k

Buck is being reckless, Eddie's pissed about it, and Natalia is asking a lot of questions about everybody's trauma.

where there's smoke, there's fire by wakeupnew | T | 24k

You're really not supposed to be secretly dating your coworker. Luckily, they have a union rep.

into the fire by brewrosemilk | E | 27k

Cheating fic (complimentary); Buck and Eddie sleep together. It's messy.

Tick Tick Boom by ChasetheWindTouchtheSky | 30k | T

Buck's having a breakdown; he's not talking to his parents; he doesn't tell Maddie this but he does go to drag brunch.

I Kinda Fell Half In Love (And You're To Blame) by orphan_account E | 33k

Eddie is dating Ana and Buck can't figure out why he doesn't like it. Also, Chris is trying to return to school after COVID and they're really stressed about it.

the going water and the gone by trysetmeonfire | T | 30k

Eddie is lost at sea and presumed dead. The logistics of death are complicated and custody isn't as easy as saying you want your platonic bro to raise your kid without telling anyone.

i don't swim and you're not in love by hattalove | T | 30k

Eddie is dating Ana, Buck tries to get over himself, and there's a sewer leak at Abuela's.

listen to you breathing (is where I wanna be) by Yavilee | T | 40k

Buck goes down in an earthquake and is missing, presumed. He and Eddie leave each other voicemails.

everything (nothing) has changed by bizarrestars | E | 50k

Buck goes to therapy, tells Eddie that he's in love with him but he's going to get over it, and Eddie has a meltdown for 50,000 words except this is from Buck's POV and Buck's an idiot.

across our great divide (a glorious sunrise) by catchingpapermoons | M | 50k

Buck and Eddie go to couples therapy in s5 and I? Cry.

a blaze in the dark by woodchoc_magnum | E | 117k

Buck gets caught up in Natalia, Eddie starts dating someone else, it goes about how you'd expect. Hurts in a delightful way.

tell me about despair by hattalove | M | 150k

THEEEEE Eddie Diaz fic.

just to be with you by woodchoc_magnum | M | 150k

Buck and Eddie keep their relationship secret for months and it turns out it's hard to come back from that.

The things we lost in the fire by SunSpell80

Buck's uncle molested him when he was a kid. Buck's relationship with his parents is complicated in a way that doesn't villanize them, but is still messy as fuck. I am rotating it in my brain. (Note: the author presumably wrote this before we met Buck's parents in canon, but got tired of changing the names a couple chapters in.)

#buddie #911 show #fic rec #evan buckley #eddie diaz #op

[certifiedlovergirlsstuff]

girlieee your spiderman!ethan landry fics are literally my most favourite thing EVER!! I know you already made a fic like this but could you do a fic where it’s pouring rain, reader is sleeping and she hears a knock on her window and it’s Ethan🧍He’s got rips on his suit and some rips on his mask and he’s like scratched up and bleeding a lot so reader lets him inside to help patch him up? It’s all angsty but fluffy too (hurt/comforttt)😁 tooootally understand if you can’t write this, I have too much respect for you and your work to be upset haha!! ilyyy🤍

you know always helps to see if i could write similar scenarios in different context (i didn’t write any of the actual patching up, i hope that’s okay🫣). i hope i did your request the justice you deserve. and thank you so much for enjoying spider-man!ethan just as much as me and everyone else💗💗💗 (not proofread or spell checked, forgive my messy words)

used the prompts “let me explain-“ and “can you calm down?” from @urfriendlywriter

pairing: spider-man!ethan landry x fem!reader wc: 1.3k

masterlist

it was a gloomy day, morning to night, on this friday night in new york. luckily you only had one class in the late afternoon on campus so you were able to stay home the rest of the night. you cooked some grilled cheese for dinner, ate some ice cream, caught up on your show. then you showered, did some homework, read about two chapters on your new book as you laid in bed before sleepiness coated your eyelids and they fell shut.

you weren’t sure how long you were asleep, maybe thirty minutes to a few hours, you couldn’t tell. you smacked your lips a few times that were aching for gulps of cold water, so you made the short walk to the kitchen and chugged the water bottle in your hand.

with sluggish steps you made it back to your room ready to throw yourself back into bed. but then a noise caught your attention. you thought you were imagining it, brain working slower while rain beat against the side of your building harshly, but it came again. and again this time louder with urgency. you thought it was coming from your front door somehow, but movement by your window stopped you in place.

slow and small steps carried you closer and closer to the dark window until you could see someone sitting on your fire escape, someone colored in blue and red.

they waved when you were in view and you noticed all the cuts on his suit and mask. so you pushed the window up fast and yelled into the roaring wind, “spider-man!” and he yelled back, “hi! sorry i just need some place to wait out the storm and i stumbled here. i swear it’s me!” and he shot a web to the other side of the building to prove it.

so you moved aside and he climbed through the window then stood to his full height with a slight sway to his body. you held your hands out hesitantly, “uh, you wanna sit down?”

“if- if i can, that’d be great.” he sounded winded and tired. you grabbed his wrist and guided him to your desk chair and he sank into the seat, leaned his head back with his eyes to the ceiling.

your eyes followed the slow up and down of his chest, “i think i already know this answer, but are you okay?” wringing your fingers together with your teeth biting into your bottom lip.

spider-man took a deep inhale that was followed by a shaky exhale. he did that two more times before adjusting his seating, his palms resting on his thighs as his bug eyes stared at you. “i’m gonna take off my mask-“ “wait, what?”

he continued, “i don’t want you to freak out, y/n.” now you were even more nervous, “how do you know-“ and before you could finish your sentence spider-man yanked his mask off and underneath sat a pillow of sweaty brown curls along with watchful brown eyes.

you couldn’t speak, your lips parted but no sound came out. hands moved to cover your mouth while frantic pupils took in this new development. ethan landry was spider-man. the boy you sit next to in your shared english class. the boy that causes your heart to beat faster than normal at just the mention of his name.

it felt like your brain went through five stages of emotions in five seconds. confusion, worry, upset, butterflies, then finally anger.

eyes that were wide as saucers now narrowed as you dropped your hands to your sides and stared down the superhero boy as you yelled, “what the fuck, ethan!”

he held his arms out like you were a dangerous animal. “okay, i know it’s a lot-“ you scuffed at the words, “a lot? yeah it’s a lot! your fucking spider-man and haven’t told any of us!”

he cringed and brought a hand to his neck while looking away. “actually… chad knows…”

a beat before- “get the fuck out.” stone cold face and voice. ethan jumped from the chair on unsteady feet, “y/n, just calm down and-“ “don’t fucking tell me to calm down! i’m pissed at you and your telling me to calm down?”

ethan sighed before sitting back in your chair. you stayed standing with your arms tight across your chest, nostrils flaring and wishing you had laser eyes. though your mind was worried about ethan’s health and his injuries, but you had to hold your ground.

“y/n,” he said with a plea, “just- just let me explain. or whatever you want the answer to, i’ll give it. just… please y/n.”

a clench to your jaw before moving to sit on your bed, arms still crossed over your heart. “fine, but i just have one question?” ethan sat up straighter, eyes alight. “anything.”

“why didn’t you tell me?” body slumping and face softening. “do you not trust me? i wouldn’t have told-“

“no, no. it’s not…” ethan moved from the chair to beside you on your bed. your knees knocked together and you dropped your arms to sit in your lap, fingers picking at your pajama pants.

“the only reason chad knows is ‘cause he’s my roommate. and he walked into my room before i could hide the suit.” ethan hesitated before setting his left palm on your thigh just above your knee. your eyes staring at the red fabric and ethan watching the side of your face. “i didn’t tell you because i don’t want you involved.”

looking away from his hand and to his face, his scratched and bruised face. “oh, ethan,” reaching out to cup his cheeks.

his gloves hands fell atop yours, “people that know about me being spider-man… it puts a target on their back. and i didn’t want anyone to know, but when chad found out i tried really hard to make sure spider-man wasn’t seen around him. but with you especially… i could never forgive myself if something were to happen. i need you in my life.”

“i just… you could’ve told me and i would help you with all this.” referring to his damaged skin. “do you do it yourself or does chad help?”

ethan glances down, “i do it myself. unless it’s some place i can’t reach i’ll ask chad for help. he kinda says the same things, wants to help me.”

your thumbs stroked his cheeks, “it’s cause we care about you, ethan. we don’t like seeing you in pain and we don’t want to think about… losing you.” throat constricting from the emotions growing.

ethan grips your wrist, “hey, hey. you won’t lose me. i’ve been doing this for three years now. i can handle myself.” making sure his eyes look directly into yours to convey his words.

a tear drops, “doesn’t mean i won’t worry about your safety all the time now.” eyes zeroing in on a cut along his lip, “now, why don’t i clean you up. seems you’ve had a stressful night.” and ethan huffed a laugh at that, “you could say that.”

you guided ethan to lay on your bed, his grunts and groans twist your insides. you smooth a hand over an unmarred spot on his chest, “i’ll get some bandages and rubbing alcohol. best we can do for the night.” and you moved to leave, but ethan wrapped his hand around your wrist keeping you close as he whispered, “thank you. i owe you.”

a scrunch of your brows at his words, “no, no you don’t owe me. i’m here for you always. and i know you’ll be here for me. that’s all we need.” nudging a knuckle at his chin, sharing a special smile.

“just rest while i take care of you, bug boy.” leaning down to press puckered lips to ethan’s temple, just below his curly bangs. pulling away, ethan smiles dazedly, “bug boy?”

you pulled away from his touch and shrugged as you walked to exit your bedroom, “gotta give you a new nickname. can’t keep letting the title spider-man get to your head.”

-

ethan landry taglist: @astrxq / @websterss / @teenagedramaqueenlisa

#ethan landry #ethan landry x fem!reader #ethan landry fluff #ethan landry imagine #ethan landry x reader #ethan landry oneshot #ethan landry angst #ethan landry scream 6 #ethan landry fic #ethan landry blurb #ethan landry scream #jack champion #scream 6 x reader #spider man au #spider man!ethan landry

[scribbling-dragon]

For the hurt comfort prompts, maybe Jimmy comforting Lizzie over dying first? If you wanna add extra, maybe helping with some new feathers sprouting

caged fledgling

summary:

He wasn’t first, wasn’t the first here this time, so where is she? She is exactly where we want her “And that’s not ominous at all,” he mutters under his breath.

(ao3 link)

(1,971 words)

[these two were driving me mad, they kept joking around with each other and completely ruining the seriousness that i was going for ;-; had to rewrite it several times to get it to a place that i liked hdsjkhsjk AND! have an idea for a sillier follow-up to this fic rotating in my mind already (think, mumbo lizzie and jimmy sitting in a circle like u do at a sleepover)

anyway! hurt/comfort requests are still open if you fancy seeing anything <33]

The ground around him is shattered, chunks of dirt flying into the air as the wither fires off another barrage of skulls, sending people screaming and ducking for cover, and cover, any kind of shelter that would hope to shield them from its attacks.

He can feel his heart racing, beating in his chest like a caged bird desperate to escape.

He ignores the building cry in the back of his head, creeping in and weaving between his thoughts as he ducks again, feeling the brush of withering against his skin, watching the grass beneath his feet darken and shrivel rapidly. Can feel the rapid expansion of his lungs, never gaining enough to keep him steady on his feet.

He can almost feel his throat closing up, lungs beginning to refuse working. His chest spasms as he coughs, throwing himself into one of the pits the wither had already created. It scrapes along his arms, blood sluggishly beading to his skin as he hisses at the small sting.

He doesn’t care for the injuries, doesn’t care for the preservation of himself. His fate is already sealed, his cage already locked and the key tossed away, never to be seen again. The song rises over the rest of his thoughts, drowning out any logical thought he might have.

He’s not sure if his friends can hear it like he can, the rising pitch, building towards a crescendo that threatens – promises – to bring his victory crashing down around him once that peak is reached.

He lays low for another moment, allows himself a second longer of breathing, before throwing himself over the edge of the pit and sprinting as far and as fast as he can.

If he can make it to the mesa, if he can return to their house and their singular bed and their meagre supplies, then maybe, maybe, he can survive beyond the end of his song. Can live beyond the final warning that he’s tasked with crying out.

He doesn’t even see the warden. Only watches the ground darken in front of him, watches the sky fade from view, and feels the final moments of dread, the realisation that his fate will catch up to him, even if it’s late. Even if They had to spend the entire day playing catch up to condemn him once more.

The impact rattles his bones, the weight of sheer volume bearing down upon him and making his ears ring. Probably making them bleed too. He can hear nothing aside from the quickly building song, panicky and pitchy and not at all pleasant to listen to, and the ringing in his ears.

Maybe he could have pulled himself to his feet, away from the dirt pit he’s found himself in – a shallow grave, near to the actual grave that had been built for him in advance, even his friends lacking the faith that he would survive beyond the day – but he finds that he cannot summon the will to his limbs. Cannot gather the strength to push himself up and continue running.

Maybe his friends screamed out for him as he died, a perfect accompaniment to the abrupt end of his song.

He’s dragged back to the place where he would always end up. The point that they always circle back towards. The empty darkness and clinging water that doesn’t end no matter how far you walk, and the watching eyes that prefer not to give a response, no matter how often you pleaded for one

The setting he wakes up to is no less shattered than the one he just left.

He blinks a few times, uncertain that he’s in the right place, before he’s staggering abruptly to his feet, breath heavy in his chest as he whips his head around wildly.

The void around him is fractured, shattering and splitting into pieces. Lines run through the darkness, exposing the pale light of whatever lies beyond. He didn’t even know there was a beyond of this place. It was just a void, somewhere outside and inside of time, exactly where it needed to be for the dead and dying.

He watches as a crack widens, splitting open the darkness further with an ominous sound. A reverberating cry of pain follows soon after, descending into a low humming moments later, seemingly satisfied with whatever They have just managed to do.

He feels the eyes turn onto him, feels the weight of a thousand stares upon his back.

His wings flutter nervously, self-consciously tucking them closer to his back even though he knows it will do little to hide the bright yellow feathers.

You are defiant, Their voices tell him. We do not like this.

“Didn’t exactly ask for your opinion on it,” he scoffs.

He wasn’t first, wasn’t the first here this time, so where is she?

She is exactly where we want her

“And that’s not ominous at all,” he mutters under his breath. He doesn’t care that They’ll hear it anyway, giving a rude gesture in Their vague direction. Which is everywhere. “Where is she?”

Where we need her

A chunk of the void separates from the ‘ceiling’ of this place, crashing down into the water below it. He covers his face, ducking his head, as it summons a wave strong enough to unbalance him. He feels the water soaking into his feathers, making them hang heavy at his back.

“You know, even a vague location would be nice,” the place continues to crack around him, falling to pieces as he speaks. “Maybe I’ll even be the solution to whatever little problem you have here.”

You are the root of the problem. The bane of all existence, They hiss.

“What a way to make a guy feel wanted. Maybe I’ll just leave, then.” He makes to turn around, barely makes it a step before the water latches onto him.

You shall not leave

“Then what is it you want me to do?” The water quickly forms into shackles, keeping him rooted in place. “This is very obviously falling apart, and whatever you're trying to do is not working.”

They remain silent. He’s not sure if they're considering his words, or if they're simply giving him the silent treatment.

“You know I'm right,” he adds, after a moment. “You can admit it, it’s not a personal failing, I'm sure we can work through this-”

Your input is not necessary

“Well maybe neither is yours. Your voices are giving me a headache.”

You are insolent. And rude

“If I'm rude, then what are you? I've never made you fight in death games and kill your friends and betray everyone you-”

You are distracting Us

“Oh, I am so sorry,” he nods along in mocking sympathy, feels the fury of Their eyes grow. “Now, where is it that you're keeping my friend? I’d rather like to see her now.”

If it shall keep you quiet. She has not stopped her wailing since she came here

“Funny that,” he mutters, and almost inhales a lungful of water as his shackles pull him below the surface. He splutters as he’s spat back out, hunching over and trying to breathe again. His wings are truly sodden now, feathers sticking up at odd angles that make him shudder in disgust.

“Jimmy!”

He doesn’t even manage to regain his bearings before Lizzie is throwing herself at him and hugging him tight. It’s like she’s trying to squeeze the non-existent life out of him.

“Hey, Lizzie.” He pats her on the head, a little awkward with the angle. Her hair tickles his face, loose strands of it poking up, as though she’s been running her hands through her hair frequently. “Can’t believe you’d die before me, huh? Trust me, it was a surprise to all of us…”

He trails off as she looks up at him, eyes watering.

“This is horrible!” she all but wails. “How do you stand it if it’s like this every time!”

“I- what?”

“You! How do you stand this? Every single time, here, alone!”

“Don't think you're meant to remember that, Liz.”

“Well I remember it now! Because apparently I've got the same freaking curse as you!” A tear slips free of her eyes, trailing down her cheek slowly.

“Woah, it’s not all that bad. I got some perks out of it.”

“If you're about to convince me you can fly with those tiny wings I am going to hit you.”

“…I got no perks out of it?”

His voice trails off into a silence that lingers. It’s only made worse by the cracking sounds of the realm around them. It’s almost like pottery breaking, cracking apart more and more by the second.

“This sucks,” Lizzie says, a lot quieter than before and far from the almost upbeat bickering she’d seemed all too eager to start earlier. He can feel her shaking, slightly, her skin clammy and cold.

“Yeah,” he deflates a little, energy gradually being sapped away. “Yeah, it really does, huh.”

Lizzie sniffles, a quiet, tiny sound. It’s enough to make Jimmy start to stress a little- he can’t comfort crying people, he can’t comfort people full stop. He sits there, awkwardly, as he listens to Lizzie cry. The only thing he can think to do is wrap his arms a little tighter around her and hope that They don't choose to ruin the relative peace that has settled over their small corner of the crumbling apart world.

“I don't know if I can stand this,” Lizzie says. Her voice still sounds teary, and it breaks his heart, just a little, to hear her so sad.

“You're gonna have to,” he tells her. It’s not the most reassuring thing he could have said, but anything else would be a lie. “Maybe you’ll get lucky and forget about it as soon as you're out of here.”

“But you’ll still remember,” she protests.

“I’ve remembered just fine on my own every time before this.”

“It’s not fair.”

“Didn’t really think the omnipotent beings that toss us into death games for fun would be looking to make sure everything is fair.” He teases.

Lizzie laughs, then sniffles, then hits him. “Don't make me laugh, I'm trying to be sad for you.”

“And I'm trying to make things a little bit less depressing. It’s my job, y’know.”

“Oh, yeah?” Lizzie cocks an eyebrow at him, the effect only slightly ruined by red-rimmed eyes. “You get a contract to sign and everything? Terms and conditions?”

“And paid time off,” he agrees. “Wonderful job, dying bit sucks.”

Lizzie giggles at that, and he does too, finding it unreasonably funny. He’s sure They hate it, hate the levity of the moment when They're only looking for more suffering and agony to feast on. Something that he won’t be giving Them. Won’t be letting Them take.

“You're ridiculous,” Lizzie tells him.

“Made it this far, though, haven’t I?” He’s not sure how far he would have made it, whether he’d have ever made it out of the first endless void without allowing himself this small break. He doesn’t want Lizzie to remember this, doesn’t want her to remember the deaths of all their friends, having to pull them out the depths of the water and tell them they cannot return, that they’ve lost that last life and must remain here, in the darkness, until their other friends come to join them.

At least he has his voice this time, he muses, he’s not sure what he would have done if he were unable to comfort Lizzie.

They both jolt as another piece of the void crashes inwards. He feels the way Lizzie’s grip on him tightens, threatening to tear the fabric of his jacket, ignoring how he’s probably holding her just as tight in return.

He’ll take the small comforts.

#juno.writes #secret life smp #secret life smp spoilers #secret life spoilers #slsmp #secret life jimmy #secret life lizzie #jimmy solidarity #ldshadowlady #asks #neohood #traffic smp #trafficblr #traffic series #trafficfic

[try-set-me-on-fire]

It’s only 11:22 pm on Thursday for me but (west coaster who likes to sleep in voice) I never get to kick start the tag train. It’s Fuck It Friday! Here’s the first draft of the opening scene of the cruise ship spec fic I’ve been outlining…

Buck is always surprised at how heavy water is. The way it pulls at his limbs, tears at his clothes, wants to hold him down deep inside of itself — it sneaks up on him. He should have been ready for it, this time. They’ve been out on the ocean for hours, wet salt soaking into him as they worked, frantic, time limit impossible to forget as the wave got closer and closer to the upper decks. The burn of it, too. As he spins, directionless, in the dark, he thinks it’s unfair that he’s going to die with his lungs on fire so far away from any flame. For years, now, he’d thought he’d die in a house. Not his own, probably, but at least it would be someone’s home. He’d get eaten right along with it, inferno chewing through his bones and family heirlooms alike. He thinks he would feel less alone, that way, than he does now. His head gets fuzzy, his limbs unresponsive, time stretches and shrinks. He doesn’t think much of anything at all.

And then he wakes up.

It’s painful, the big ragged gasps he’s taking, and he can hardly see or hear or feel anything around him, except- there’s a hand, on his face, someone is speaking-

“-id, come on kid, breathe for me, that’s it-“

The hand at his face rubs at his sternum, now, easing the hacking coughs shaking right through him. “B-Bobby…”

“Right here, I’m right here, Buck.”

He is, leaned down over him in the dim light of- wherever the fuck they are. Buck can’t even be reasonably sure the light is dim, he might just not be fully processing the world at the moment. It’s- Bobby’s here, looking at him all overjoyed and worried at once, and- Bobby’s here, and Bobby was hurt, Bobby is still bleeding, crimson leaking down his chest, staining his clothes and Buck’s, now, too. “Y-y-you were supposed to go- I told you to leave.”

Buck’s brain is definitely still off kilter, because Bobby laughs, grinning down at him. “Well,” he says, and it sounds sort of echoey, light fading even more. “I never have been a very good listener.” He thinks Bobby might be holding his face again- he thinks Bobby is holding him, and- if he’s dying again he thinks this might be better than a house. As the light leaves completely he can just barely make out the warmth of Bobby pulling him closer, and faint words, rumbling like they’re muffled against his skull, “I’ve got you, kid.”

Tagging @lover-of-mine @rewritetheending @daffi-990 @malewifediaz @jeeyuns @eddiebabygirldiaz @shitouttabuck @alliaskisthepossibilityoflove @thewolvesof1998 @bigfootsmom

#fuck it friday #tag games #911 spoilers #dropping ya right in the middle of the action! #the going water and the gone

[daffi-990]

Fuck it Friday

Tagged by @disasterbuckdiaz & @jamespearce9-1-1. Thank you lovelies 😘. Be sure to check out what they posted (James posted a steamy kilt sex fic 🔥🥵)

Haven’t written much in the last two days due to the death of one of our dogs, so I’m posting a snippet from when your heart releases, you won’t fall to pieces that I’ve already shared before (you can find it here) but it’s been reworked.

“He needs me, that’s all you need to know.” Buck tries to hide the irritation in his voice at Taylor’s prying. Why can’t she just accept that Eddie needs him right now? Isn’t that enough? Why does she need to know more?

“He has other people he can lean on, if he really needs help. Why does it have to be you?”

“Because I’m his best friend. And I want it to be me. I want to take care of him and Chris. They’re family and that’s what family does.”

“What do you know about family?” Taylor sneers, her top lip curled in a cruel snarl Buck hasn’t seen directed at him before. Her words are like a gunshot, the bullet easily finding its mark.

Buck feels the impact amongst the cracked and bleeding parts of his heart, Taylor knowing exactly where to aim to cause significant damage. He opened up to her about his parents, about Daniel and how he felt like he never really was a part of the Buckley family, and now she’s here throwing all of it back at him with sharpened points. The irritation and frustration that was bubbling inside of Buck morphs into anger as he fires off a shot of his own that he knows will tear into her and hurt.

“What do you know?”

Taylor flinches as if slapped and Buck feels a small sense of satisfaction that he was able to hurt her with the very words she’d used to strike at him, before guilt washes over him like a bucket of cold water. He’s no better than Taylor, using the knowledge of her issues and struggles with family (or lack thereof) that she trusted him with to inflict a wound. You aren’t meant to do that to the person you love.

They stare at each other, breaths loud and heavy in the silence that stretches out between them. Buck knows silence isn’t the only thing lingering there. They’ve been drifting apart for some time now, but Buck didn’t want another failed relationship to be added to his baggage so he clung to the good moments that were becoming far and few between.

No pressure tagging: @hippolotamus @spotsandsocks @thewolvesof1998 @wikiangela @watchyourbuck @callmenewbie @hoodie-buck @theotherbuckley @wildlife4life @rainbow-nerdss @exhuastedpigeon @eddiebabygirldiaz @elvensorceress @the-likesofus @try-set-me-on-fire @evanbegins @princessfbi @athenagranted @sibylsleaves @shitouttabuck @devirnis @fiona-fififi @fortheloveofbuddie @fcntasmas @glorious-spoon @giddyupbuck @honestlydarkprincess @homerforsure @jeeyuns @jesuisici33 @loserdiaz @malewifediaz @spagheddiediaz @lover-of-mine @ladydorian05 @captain-hen @clusterbuck @bekkachaos @nmcggg @steadfastsaturnsrings @mellaithwen @missmagooglie @monsterrae1 and as always, anyone else who would like to share something ❤️

#daffi writes #fic: when your heart releases you won’t fall to pieces #buddie wip #buddie #not much new inspiration happening for me right now #but I did have enough small writing beans to go back and rework some stuff #so that’s something #re: sad doggy news -> #we had to make the hard decisions to put one of our dogs down #we had 12 wonderful years with him and even though it hurts that he’s gone … we know he’s at peace now #🐶🪦💔

[katyawriteswhump]

the power of love, part 11 (steddie, steve whump fic, stobin)

Alternate ending S4: Steve has a habit of surviving near death experiences then getting sick for no reason. And Eddie and those fatal bat bites? After an impossible feat of mouth-to-mouth resuscitation from Steve, he’s mysteriously fixed. So, Eddie’s back to being banished, this time with Steve and Robin in tow. Eddie’s healing, but Steve isn’t… and life gets even more confusing, when Eddie develops feelings for Steve, which aren’t entirely unrequited.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 12 Part 13

(also on AO3 here and as part of my steve whump fic series)

Steve POV

1978—Lover’s Lake

Steve sinks, pulls upward with all he’s got left. He bursts through the surface, screaming: “Dad! Mom! Dad? I’m… lost… Heeeelp!”

The dark waters close seamlessly above his head.

His panic dies quickly, along with the burning pressure in his chest. He sees a swimmer approaching across the depths, like a light rippling through gloom. Their face is kind and strange—he can’t tell if they’re young or really old, or a guy or girl.

“Not yet,” they say. Their arms fold around him, and he’s calm and he isn’t cold. 

Until he is. 

A thousand icy needles jab at his skin, and he whimpers at the sensation of being dragged, carried. Voices shout in harsh, frightening tones, and then…

Apart from in his dreams, he doesn’t see THEM again for another seven years.

“Who do you work for?” demands that Soviet son-of-a-bitch, for the billionth time. 

Steve is tied up, bloodied, not sure if he’s laughing or crying. He’s sure as heck losing his mind, and… wtf? 

The other Soviet bastard raises his hand.

“Oh, come on! No, no, no, seriously?”

Steve doesn’t see the blow coming. Pain flashes up and darkness slams down—the darkness of blood, a rising, relentless tide. It washes him back into that calm place, and all his panic and pain float away.

He sees THEM again, in the fearless dark. 

“Still not yet,” they whisper.

The echoes hook him back. It’s Robin: “Help, heeeeelp!”

Oh yeah, they’ve been captured by the Soviets.

“My ears are ringing,” he tells her, “I can’t properly breathe, and I feel like my eyes’s about to pop out of my skull. Apart from that, I’m doing pretty good.”

He shouldn’t be, though. If there wasn’t so much else to be shitting himself about, he’d be yelling it loud enough to deafen them both. After that mauling from Hargrove, the doctor’s warning had been brutal. Any more head trauma, and he might have a stroke, a brain bleed, go blind, deaf, lose his memory, go mad. He could even die. He should be dead now, right?

Then it all gets even whackier. 

A blue tide rushes through the Soviet base. He yells for Robin, but everything’s already obliterated. The waters carry him along, limbs flailing free, no longer hurting, not even so scared. He knows it’s THEM, although this tsunami isn’t gentle. It’s Niagara levels of powerful and near as water can get to fire and fury. 

“You’ll know,” they tell him. “You’ll know when it’s time to come home.”

Then he’s back in the present, slowly waking up.  

He figures he’s been dreaming. Yeah, about those evil Soviets, and about… stuff that didn’t happen. Where the hell did that flood and fire crap come from?

“You’ll know when it’s time to come home.”

It’s deeply freaky, and he hates it. And Jesus Christ, why is his shoulder a screaming mess of pain? He opens his eyes.

“Robin?” She’s in her usual spot, sitting on the edge of his bunk. 

“Steve? Oh, thank God!”

“What happened this time? I’m so sick of…” He raises his head, flops it back again. There’s a bone-deep ache through his neck and both his arms. His wrists feel mangled. “Shit! Somebody was coming! Did they… Where’s Eddie?”

She puffs through her nostrils. “It’s okay. It was Hopper and El.”

Yeah, that makes some sorta sense. Hopper and Eleven were on the run too, after all. “Where’s Eddie? Is he all right?”

“Don’t ask me. Not spoken to him since he left you unconscious, hanging by one wrist. What was he even thinking?”

Blood rushes to Steve’s face. “That wasn’t entirely his fault. Honestly, I… uh…”

“I don’t care if you begged him on one knee! It was utterly moronic.”

“Listen, I was a moron too—it was matching moronic-ness. We were fooling around, and… Look, I passed out after he left to warn you. Before that, I basically forced him to go.”

“Forced him while roped up? You get yet another pass, Dingus. It’s gonna take a short-to-medium-length Ice Age for him to earn the same.”

Steve sighs hard. He’ll talk her around when he’s gotten the energy.

“Steve, can I ask you something?” She picks at the last flakes of that nail polish..

“If I said ‘no,’ would it make any difference?”

“Do you know anything about the fantastically random rainstorm last night?”

“About the whut?” 

His mind starts racing, in sync with his pulse. Trouble is, he’s beginning to get it. He knows that they—that thing in Lover’s Lake—saved his life. More than once. He still hasn’t got a clue about the rain. Or has he?

You freaked out last night, and thunder clouds hijacked your brain.

“Steve? You okay?”

“Jesus, I’m…” Nope, still not great. He slowly sits up. Under the blanket, he’s shirtless. He catches his left arm with his right, cradling it.

“Does your shoulder hurt bad?”

“No, Robin. It’s just randomly gone purple. Gonna be pitching for the Hoosiers this weekend for sure.” He notices one of his wrists is bandaged. “Got any of those left? Guess I’ll need a sling or something.”

“Yeah, I tried the lake water trick. Not much happened this time. On the other hand, Hopper said it was a miracle you didn’t dislocate it, so…  I’ll, uh, go get him. He’s got a ton of fresh supplies."

She goes, and Steve painfully eases his way into a clean shirt. It turns out to be another Hellfire Club one, which Eddie brought back from his meet at Skull Rock. Oh genius, Henderson, just brilliant! Get Eddie and me walking around with targets painted on our chests, why don’t you? Worse, I’m gonna look like a nerd. With TERRIBLE HAIR. The effort of getting his sweater on over it all, literally brings tears to his eyes. 

Then he sits up straight, on the edge of the bunk. He supports his bad arm, while forcing his features into his best ‘don’t-give-a-damn’ mask. 

When Hopper stoops under the door of the bunkroom, Steve’s jaw drops anyhow. He barely recognises the guy. Uh… wow? He’s not wearing a police uniform, but he still looks in goddamn charge, with an Indiana-Jones style hat that screams authority. He’s even gotten his hands on what looks like a police-issue firearm, in a halter at his side.

“Hey,” says Hopper. “You got yourself pretty beat up again, huh?”

“My shoulder hurts,” he whispers. It comes out so humiliatingly shakily, that when Hopper takes off his hat and sits down beside him, Steve looks away sharply. Oh, for Christ’s sake! He sniffs, dabs his eyes, pulls himself together. “It’s not so bad,” he mumbles.

“Yeah? You got tough joints, kid.”

Steve bites his lip to the point of pain.

Hopper’s brought a first-aid kit, and he fashions a sling for him. As he does, he fills Steve in on a few more details of how the hell he came back from the dead. Also, about what’s been going on in Hawkins, which is basically under military occupation. He ties the sling behind Steve’s neck, squeezes his good shoulder. “You take it easy. Sun’s up and we’ll be off in a few minutes.”

Hopper heads out. Steve scowls at his back. 

He ought to be relieved Hopper’s here. Admittedly, he’s been a total flop at taking care of himself and the others. Which only makes him more pissed with Hopper. How could somebody go through that in a Soviet gulag, win a wrestling match with demo-gorgons, and still come out alive, swinging, and the toughest dude in the state?

He gets his sneakers on and staggers as far as the door. Robin is loading the remnants of their supplies into an armoured Humvee, painted in military khaki and spattered with mud. Hopper’s fiddling under the hood, and Eleven hovers nearby. She gives Steve a sort-of smile, which he returns, while seething, 

That sick son-of-a-bitch Brenner took her hair again?

 “Where’s Eddie?” he asks, stepping further out, while fighting a wave of dizziness.

“Skulking,” calls Eddie, sloping out from some hiding spot. Robin folds her arms and stomps away. Steve squelches across the sticky ground toward Eddie. He looks so forlorn—hair flattened like a soggy puppy’s—that Steve can’t help grinning. 

“Sorry,” mouths Steve. “Sucky timing, huh?”

Eddie pulls a silly face, which doesn’t reach his pink eyes. Steve edges closer. Eddie shuffles back, looking genuinely spooked, which sends Steve’s mood into free-fall. 

He sits down heavily on Eddie’s empty beer-crate and nods at the Humvee. “You guys stole that baby?”

“Had to get around the roadblocks somehow,” says Hopper. “That rain churned up a ton of mud. It’s gonna slow them down, but it’s gonna slow us down too. We gotta move.”

“We? Why are we all going?” Steve hates this idea. Even more than he hates how he’s defaulting to surly teenager mode. He wonders—not for the first time though not for the billionth—if his actual parents have given him up for dead. “Don’t wanna seem ungrateful, Chief, but I really don’t feel like a road trip.” 

“O’Sullivan has torn Hawkins apart, searching for El. Next, he’s gonna have the army sweep this whole area. You won’t stand a chance.”

“Can’t we go back to those caves?” Steve mumbles toward his mud-flecked sneakers. 

“When they find you,” says Hopper, “best-case scenario—they hand Munson here over the police, or the cronies who count for it these days. Worst case-scenario? O’Sullivan keeps hold of him, as well as you.”

“Why the heck would some army guy be interested in me?”

He senses Hopper close in. “You signed the NDAs, Steve. They know YOU know about Eleven. They’ve interrogated Joyce and Jonathan, but there’s only so much they can do with people they can’t easily ‘disappear.’ If they think you’ve got intel as to her whereabouts… You get where I’m going with this?”

“So what?” Steve can’t look up. Like before, he can’t let Hopper see. “W-won’t be the first time I’ve been tortured.”

“Yeah, and I’m sorry, kid. But tough talk ain’t gonna save you.”

“They kill people,” says Eleven. “I didn’t want to run, to leave Mike. To leave Max.” She sounds so very sad. “We had no choice.”

“I honestly don’t think we have much choice either, Steve,” says Robin, emerging from the cabin behind with the blankets. “Hop’s got more bottled water from Lover’s Lake in the truck. If you get sick or hurt, it could help.”

On being reminded of all that shit, Steve rubs his face, groans.

“We gonna talk about that now?” asks Eddie. “You know, the ginormous, soggy elephant spouting water out of its trunk? The one giving Steve buffed-to-the-max powers?”

“Powers?” Steve’s forced laugh comes out way too loud. “El can throw cars around with her mind, rip holes in dimensions. I can heal stuff. A bit. Then I pass out for half a day. It’s pointless.”

“Neeeewsflash,” sings Eddie. “You brought me back from the dead. Not pointless, I hope.”

Steve laughs again, totally hollow. What Eddie says feels fake, somehow. Was that even really him, or… Ugh, his head is too muddled.

“Using my powers tires me out too,” adds Eleven.

“Uh, hello? Can we please discuss the super-magical weather?” Having flung the bedding in the Humvee, Robin flings her arms toward the skies. “Twice, we were in danger. Twice, Steve rearranged the heavens to cover our sorry asses.”

Steve huffs: “Robin, I have no control over—"

“You have to learn control,” says Eleven.

“We can talk about this on the journey.” Hopper takes Steve by the elbow. He urges him to his feet, finally forcing Steve to slam him with a full-on glare. “C’mon, get in.”

Part 12

tags: @estrellami-1 @kal-ology @finntheehumaneater (thank you, thank you, thank you!) If anybody else would like to be tagged on this fic or any of my writing, please let me know :) Reblogs, comments and likes also very much appreciated :) Thank you for reading so far :)

(also part of my steve whump fic series on AO3)

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 12 Part 13

#steve x eddie #steddie #steddie fic #steve harrington #steve harrington whump #steddie fanfic #stranger things fanfic #steve harrington x eddie munson #eddie munson #stobin fanfic #platonic stobin #stobin #stobin fic #stobin friendship #stranger things #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington hurt/comfort

[asumofwords]

Smoke, Fire and Ash

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence, death and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on.

This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: You are the eldest daughter of Rhaenyra and Daemon Targaryen. You are forced to navigate the difficult surroundings of your upbringing and the eventual disintegration between your family and the Hightower's relationship. What will happen when your older and estranged uncle suddenly takes a more sinister interest in you? (Dark!Aemond x Reader)

Masterlist

Characters: Aemond Targaryen X Reader, HOTD characters.

Note: I have absolutely loved reading all of your replies and messages, it makes my fucking day! Here we are, the reader finally has her dragon... I will be trying to write a new Aemond POV for you all soon x

Chapter 44: War creates monsters of us all

The sun was high in the sky as you steered Vermithor east, across the ocean away from Dragonstone, and back to the mainland. Each beat of his wings carried you swiftly across the ocean. 

It was a strange thing to be flying again, on a dragon so foreign. So unknown. 

Unfamiliar.

Despite his age, and his sheer size, he heeded your commands as you felt him faintly through the bond. And then it hit you all at once. 

You were riding the famed Bronze Fury. 

A dragon that had made men bend the knee out of fear. 

A dragon almost as famous as the Black Dread.

But it would never be enough.

You had lost so much already, and with every moment, you felt yourself losing pieces that made you, you. You were not the same woman that you had been before you returned to the Red Keep.

War did that to people. 

So did grief. 

It mangled you, and mauled you, and created something new. Something unrecognisable.

A monster.

The day Viserys had died, you had changed.

The day the succession was given to Jacaerys, you had changed.

The day Lucerys was killed. 

You had changed.

Today, with the news of Helaena, and the massacre of Strong’s. 

You had changed.

You felt Vermithor grumble beneath you as he sensed your fury, coursing through your veins. His loud growl pierced your ears, as he continued forward towards your destination. You had only hoped that once you got there, Aemond would still be there too.

As you flew, the sun sunk lower, and lower into the sky. You passed over the ocean, and back over the rolling hills, and cliffs of the shore. Then soon you passed over the waters of Blackwater Rush, and then, and only then, did you know that you were nearing your destination. 

Your anger did not once settle within you. 

Those hours you spent atop the now claimed dragon, let your mind reel with thoughts and memories, fuelling your fire. You felt it boil, and turn, and twist inside you like a blade. Sharp and vicious, ripping you apart from within, no possible way to stem the bleeding. 

Loss is a powerful motivator. 

As the sun got lower, it shone brightly on the dragon's bronze scales, their warm colour glinting in the light beautifully. Such a wondrous colour to behold on a dragon. Not golden like Syrax, nor red like Caraxes, but its own unique bronze, unlike any other.

You smoothed your hand along the scales in awe, and as you stroked along his back, a crackling purr broke forth from his chest in appreciation.

“Sȳz, Vermithor.” (Good.) You cooed on his back, channeling all of your emotions into the dragon you sat atop.

You pushed that rage, that anguish, the sorrow and grief through your body, and into your hand. You did not know if this was how to properly bond or not, and no one truly knew the truth behind it, but you tried it anyway.

Vermithor did not react, except the most diminutive twitch alongside the thick, corded muscle of his neck. So small, so almost ephemeral, that if you had blinked, you would have missed it. 

But hope was a fool's ally, and you did not need hope in a time like this.

You needed rage.

And rage, you had.

The sun had begun to lower behind the horizon when you first saw it. 

Off in the distance, was the subtle burning of fires. Tiny little orange dots, surrounding each other in a large encampment, on what you knew now to be the Riverlands. The flames flickered as you flew towards it, the men unaware of your approach. 

You leant forward, pushing your weight down upon Vermithor’s back, willing him to move with you. The Bronze Fury swooped down closer to the ground, so that you could see clearly as the small dots came closer.

Below you now; a trail. 

The grass sat green alongside the dirt track, in which thousands of feet had walked across, where horses had trotted, and wagons and rolled. As you flew closer, the larger those flames became, and now the sight of tents and wagons and the tiny figures of men came into view. 

“Sōvegon, Vermithor.” (Fly) You called as you came closer.

To the figures on the ground, if they were to look to the sky, they would see a large bronze speck, slowly coming towards them, wings spread as he approached, until finally they could make out the form of the large dragon.

As you swooped above the camp of men, you looked below, watching as they faltered in their steps looking up at you. Others ran to their tents, unsure. The tents were beige, and the wagons were dark. You struggled to discern whose men these were.

You felt your chest begin to heave as you looked down at them all. 

Vermithor let out an almighty cry into the sky, deep and grumbling as you grabbed at his back, whilst peering over his side down at the ground below. Horses and men, and carts and tents. That was all you could see with the sun setting upon the horizon, a lazy blue hue settling over the land.

Your breath caught in your throat. 

There below you, was a flag. 

A signet of a house. 

Your breaths became ragged and all too suddenly, that blinding rage was back.

A three headed green dragon stared back at you.

You pulled roughly against Vermithor, pulling him to fly higher into the air above them, circling the camp. 

You watched as the men began to scramble below you like ants, upon the realisation that you were not one of the Princes, nor the King. No, your dragon was not Vhagar, or Sunfyre. You were not here with them.

You were here for them.

A cruel smile cracked across your face as you watched them desperately mount horses and prepare themselves. These numbers were small, perhaps the rest of the men were at Harrenhal, not too far away.

Such a bitter taste in your mouth to see the men below you, who had gone against your mother, the rightful heir to the Iron Throne. How they had supported your usurper uncle. How they supported the Kinslaying Prince. 

How they support Alicent and the Hightower’s thirst for the throne, subsequently thrusting the realm into war.

As you looked around in search of a large green dragon, you became disappointed to know that Aemond was no longer here. If he was here at all. 

Your heart beat rapidly in your chest as Vermithor felt the rage within you, his cry calling out into the sky as he turned back around to fly towards the tents. You leant forward, and thought of Lucerys. You thought of the fall. 

Of your uncle's hands. 

Of your Grandsire. Visenya. Helaena.

And then you snapped.

“Dracarys.” You commanded.

Vermithor flew closer to the lines of tents and carriages, men crawling about underneath before opening his mouth, his whole body beneath you vibrating, as he pushed out an almighty gush of fire, incinerating the tents and men below you.

The screams of fear and agony curled up into the air, and you could find nothing but delight at the sweet music. 

Vermithor kept flying above and onwards as you looked back, watching the tents burn and crumble beneath the flames, and the bodies of incinerated men laying in the rubble. The smell of smoke, fire and ash curled its way around you.

You inhaled deeply.

Vermithor’s chest expanded slowly, before another long plume of fire barraged against the Greens army below you. The sound of the flames was deafening in your ears, alongside the screams and cries of the men, and horses who crossed paths with the flames. 

Flying forward, you came to the end of the camp, watching as the men began to flee in all directions, the smart ones anyway, whilst others stood rooted to the ground, swords drawn, ready to fight.

Foolish really. How were they to fight flames?

Once turned around, you could see now how the tiny little flames of their camp were now swamped by the larger ones of your dragon. Their tents fell to the soil below them, and horses ran away in fear. Small figures of men, their bodies alight, ran frantically, desperate to outrun the agony of their bodies, before they dropped dead to the floor.

You pushed down on the Bronze Fury’s neck again, and he slunk close to the ground where you sucked in an excited breath. 

This was for you, Lucerys. 

This was for everyone that has been lost. For Visenya. For you.

Helaena. 

“Dracarys!” You screamed out into the air, as the old dragon reared his head backwards, hovering above the camp, before large flames licked down at the army below you, their cries lost in the waves of your laughter as you watched.

You could feel the heat of the flames licking up your body, casting a warm blanket, of almost comfort, around you, as you watched Vermithor land roughly onto the ground, talons digging into the soft earth, as you watched men run from him.

The sky had turned dark, but now the earth was lit by the flames all around you.

The smell of burning flesh rose under your nose. An odd smell. Something you had smelt before, though nothing like this. Nothing so, pungent. It was almost a sickly sweet scent, comparable to when pork was cooked. 

Vermithor let out a mighty cry into the air as he stalked through the camp, blowing flames at any man, or horse, or tent that he saw as he walked. You watched as you felt the rage lick at your face and your chest.

You had not even realised that tears had begun to fall, until you felt the wet of your neck. Your breaths were shallow and stunted, heaving as you pushed through your fury. 

They did this. 

They killed them. 

You blinked.

Behind the flames was a figure, who smiled at you.

Lucerys was here.

Vermithor’s head snapped down to where Lucerys had been, and you jerked back in shock. You almost cried out, but then the dragon jerked its head and bit the man who had been there, arm poised with an arrow. Directed at you. You blinked as you watched the Bronze Fury tear the man in half, before swallowing him.

Time blurred so strangely. 

Who knew how long you spent stalking through the camp with Vermithor. Who knew how long it had been since you had started. By the time you felt aware of your surroundings, it was eerily quiet in the camp.

The only sounds you heard were Vermithor’s deep rumblings as flames poured from his mouth, and the crackling of burning flesh and wood. The camp around you was flattened. Every tent, every cart, every post and every man was burning beneath high flames, ash falling around you and into your hair.

Lining the dirt ground were the ashes of men, or corpses burning gently in the soft night's air. Some had fallen where they had tried to run, their legs and arms splayed in unnatural positions. Others were caught underneath the burning flames of tents, or hiding places. Horses lay on their side dead, much to Vermithor’s delight, who would pick them up, eating their cooked bodies greedily as he passed through.

Piles of ashes and bones lay about the Greens camp, and all you could do was sneer and smile. Laughter rose from your chest and fell from your lips almost unnaturally. You couldn’t stop it. 

You wouldn’t stop it.

They deserved this.

They reaped what they had sown. This was on them. What they had done to you? That was on them.

Such a feral excitement was inside you, as you turned your head, looking in search of any survivors you had not found yet. You almost struggled to breath from the smoke and ash that curled its way around you. It waa thick and suffocating, but invigorating. 

Such destruction.

Now you knew why all had feared the Bronze Fury.

But it was not enough.

It would never be enough. 

They needed to pay. They needed to all burn for what they did. 

You thought of Alicent, and Aegon and Aemond. 

Aemond. 

His face. His hands. His sneer. 

You leant forward, hands gripping roughly against Vermithor’s back as you thought of it all. The pain that he had left between your legs. The sorrow that he had gifted you when he took Lucerys, and Syndor. 

It would be a short flight. 

Almost half of what it took you to get here. 

You could end this all. 

You could end it, right where it began. 

In the Red Keep of King’s Landing.

A familiar cry called out into the air, the bronze dragon's head pulling up away from the horse below his claws. The sound of flesh tearing and bones crushing beneath his jaws filled your ears, and the metallic smell of blood settled on your tongue. 

The cry came again, and you turned your head.

In the sky, not too far from you was a dragon, flying steadily towards you.

You breathed deeply, in and out, as you watched the scales light up from the flames of destruction around you. A familiar shade of dragon. A comforting one. The bright red scales of Caraxes shone in the night sky as he and your father approached you.

You lifted your chin as Vermithor called out to your father and his dragon, a most commanding call. 

The King of the Dragons. 

A King’s dragon.

Caraxes flew above you before turning around, wings slowly beating, so that the long necked dragon could land nearby in between the flames of a tent, and open bare path of the once Green stronghold. 

The dragon's long neck stretched into the air and cried out in recognition of you. You could see your father upon his back, looking around at the destruction desperately, before his eyes settled on yours. 

His body relaxed at the sight of you.

He still wore his robes from when you had last seen him, and he did not wear his riding gloves that he almost always wore. It looked as though the Rogue Prince had come to you in a rush, and had been searching for you for some time. 

Daemon’s face was a mixture of shock and awe as he looked at you, and then back down at the dragon he had tried for so long to be readied to be claimed, never once guessing that the new rider would be you.

Movement caught your eye. 

To the side of Vermithor, a man had begun to run from his hiding spot. The presence of two large dragons caused him to forfeit his hiding out of sheer shock. He might have survived if he had stayed hidden. You watched as the man ran, pushing his legs against the grass and dirt, ashes and bodies, desperate to get away.

Might have.

You looked at your father as he watched you before you leant on Vermithor. The dragon began a slow stalking chase of the man, like a cat plays with a mouse. The man gazed back at you briefly, realising he had been spotted, before he ran with more desperation. 

You lazily watched him run and channelled that rage inside of you, letting it burn you from the inside out.

Vermithor took three large steps forward rapidly, before his head snapped out, biting down on the man. His cry of pain was short lived, and soon replaced by the sickening crunch of bones and wet sound of flesh. 

The Bronze Fury lifted his head, throwing the mans body down his gullet. 

But you were not done. 

You would not be done until you killed each and every one of them. Until you would reach King’s Landing and burn them all. 

“Tala.” (Daughter) Daemon called into the air.

Vermithor turned beneath you, walking back to Caraxes and Daemon, the smaller dragon chirping out towards yours.

You looked at your father, your chest heaving as you readied yourself to fly.

“Gaomagon daor sagon doru-borto.” (Don’t be stupid.) He called out.

He knew.

He always knew.

“Nyke jāre naejot mōris bisa.” (I’m going to end this.) You called back, teeth clenched.

Why was he stopping you?

“Ȳdra daor.” (Don’t.) Daemon growled, and for the first time in your life, your father made you nervous. 

The Rogue Prince was here.

“Pār māzigon lēda nyke.” (Then come with me.)

Caraxes began to circle you, his neck stretching up, and then low to the ground as he watched, purely reacting to Daemon through the bond. 

They looked nervous. On edge. 

Unsure.

“Tala.” (Daughter.)

Your laughter rang out into the cold air. What was happening? He had been the one to always remind you of what you were, of who you were. He had always been the first to jump to action in court. 

What had changed?

“Y/n.” 

“Issi ao jāre naejot keligon nyke?” (Are you going to stop me?) You joked mirthlessly. 

“Lo istin.” (If I must.)

What? 

You grunted angrily, staring Daemon down, who only reacted to your action by tightening his hands on Caraxes’ reins. 

“Don’t think I won’t.” He threatened. 

Vermithor called out into the air agitatedly, and Caraxes responded in a high pitched screech. Daemon swayed side to side, as his dragon began to move more rapidly on the ground, the flames around you illuminating his bright red scales.

They knew something you didn’t.

“Our Queen commands it.” Your father called out.

You jerked your head to the side, looking at the camp around you, razed to the ground, flames licking the corpses and ruins. Fire was mesmerising. Beautiful. It was cleansing. So very cleansing. Fire could rid the world of scum, and allow for new growth to come forth. 

You knew of certain trees that could only bloom with the assistance of fire. 

Targaryens bloomed in the flames too.

If you went to King’s Landing, Daemon would no doubt try to stop you. And at what cost? 

Would you really fight your own father? 

Would you hurt him? 

Kill him?

No.

You ground your teeth, and tightened your legs around Vermithor’s back, ignoring the twinging pain in your side. Your chest rose and fell in short angry breaths as you looked at your father. 

His eyes glowed in the flame light, and Caraxes had not stopped moving from side to side, readying himself to fight if he needed. The Rogue Prince watched your movements closely, almost cautious of you.

Gritting your teeth, you nodded, and saw Daemon visibly relax.

“Sōvegon.” (Fly.)

Unbeknownst to you, beneath the rubble of the Brackens camp, Alicent’s youngest son Daeron, laid beneath the ashes. Your youngest uncle had died amongst a sea of his men.

The young Prince’s body lay at an ungodly angle. Half of him had been burnt to a crisp, legs and arms splayed in an unnatural position, in his hand, the blade of his sword. 

A pained expression permanently sat on what was left of his face.

And although you did not know of his presence, the Greens certainly did.

And would.

Thanks so much for reading along with me, if you wish to be added to the tag list please let me know :) Likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated ! Enjoy <3

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#aemond targaryen fic #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen smut #aemond targaryen x y/n #aemond x reader #aemond x fem!reader #aemond x you #aemond x y/n #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond smut #hotd smut #dark!aemond targaryen x reader #dark!aemond x reader #dark!aemond targaryen #hotd #house of the dragon #hotd fanfic #dark!aemond #dark!fic #fic #series #aemond one eye #aemond the kinslayer #aemond targaryen fanfic #aemond #smoke fire and ash

[soft-girl-musings]

An Unexpected Proposition (pt. 1)

based on this prompt from @imaginexhobbit, previously submitted under @jawn-i-made-coffee

cross-posted to ao3

part 2

Kíli x fem!Reader

tags: mentions of blood/injury, Reader is described as tall (by human standards), Y/N is used

wc: 1,615

fic summary: An injured dwarf appears on your doorstep. Do you grant him sanctuary on this stormy night?

A/N: posting this is totally self-indulgent and very out of left field for this blog but idc, we just reached 800 ao3 hits on this bad boy (some days we blog for the younger self anyway). I submitted this from my high school blog and revamped it in 2020, might flesh it out beyond pt 2 if the muse strikes.

Thunder and lightning seem to battle for superiority in the storm, chasing heavy torrents North. The evening is dark and damp, but you don’t mind. Your cottage is as safe a haven as any. You sit before your hearth, fire blazing as you bury yourself beneath several blankets, a mug of tea warming your lap. Nothing could ruin your cozy evening alone.

As if on cue, a brilliant flash of lightning illuminates the windows. A bloodied man’s face is pressed against the glass, his lips moving incoherently. You stifle a scream. In an instant you have your sword in hand and cloak about your shoulders, ready to face your intruder. Throwing the door open, you strike a defensive stance and scan the property. To your right, you see that it is no man at all, but a dwarf bleeding out in your garden. Dark hair clings to his face, bruised and battered. Blood marrs his complexion as rainwater drenches him. Before you can speak, the dwarf doubles over and begins to heave into your prized rose bush. You grimace.

"Please," he rasped, "please, I ask for sanctuary." His knees give way with the last syllable. You manage to catch him before he falls into the mud.

"I’ve got you, sir dwarf." Propping him up, you guide him inside. "Poor thing, you're soaked to the bone."

His small frame would not have been so heavy if not for his copious belongings. The dwarf seemed to have packed for a long journey, which had somehow led him to your door. You stumble over to the kitchen and deposit him in a chair, his head lolling to one side. You pour a cup of water and help him drink.

“Thank you,” he manages to rasp after downing a second glass. Life seemed to be returning to him already. “I do not mean to be a bother.”

You tilt your head quizzically. “If anyone’s bothered, sir dwarf, it’s you. Come, let me help you--” you assist him in his efforts to remove his belongings from his weary shoulders. He shivers fiercely, but does not refuse your help.

You notice how cold and pale he is. “Best not to strain yourself… let me start a bath for you. Your wounds need to be cleaned before they are dressed.”

You hand him a blanket and lead him to a partition in the next room. “Here, you can wrap yourself in this while I start the water.” The dwarf removes his outer layers and complies, his dark eyes never leaving you as you begin the tedious task of hauling numerous pots of hot water to the tub.

“Why are you helping me?” he finally asks, his face growing more puzzled with each trip you make.

You stop in your tracks, offering a shrug. “Because you asked.”

With that, you leave him to his bath.

You gather the dwarf’s wet clothing and lay each article in front of the still-warm stove. On the other side of the table lay his daypack and weapons. You hadn’t taken the time to inspect them before: the dwarf had been carrying archery equipment, numerous knives, and a shortsword. You examine each piece with reverence. The dwarves were renowned for their craftsmanship in the forges, but you had never seen proof of their handiwork until this moment. The blades were smaller than any you were used to, expertly fashioned with intricate detail.

"Like what you see, then?"

You jump at the sudden voice, dropping a knife. The dwarf had come out dressed in the shirt and trousers you had laid out for him. He stands by the fire, drying his hair.

"I was just admiring your weapons, sir-"

"Kíli."

You nod. "(Y/N)." You notice the color has already returned to his skin and his cuts were clean. He had looked much worse before; in the light of the fire, he was almost handsome. "Feeling any better?"

"Oh, loads. I cannot thank you enough for taking me in." He grins, and you can’t help but follow suit.

"What were you doing out there? Facing that storm as you were seemed like a deathwish."

"I had the misfortune of running into some bad company at your tavern." His body fell heavily into a chair by the fireplace.

"I'm afraid the locals do not take kindly to dwarves," you say with an apologetic smile, standing to join him in your earlier seat. "What are you doing so far West? Your people are native to the mountains, I was led to believe."

You realize how young the dwarf was when his face breaks out in another eager grin. "I'm on a quest. I was on my way to Hobbiton."

You lean forward, intrigued. "The Shire? What kind of quest concerns the halflings?"

Kíli tells you of his Uncle's plan to reclaim Erebor for the dwarves. He makes sure to highlight how dangerous the task may prove to be. You try to hide your amusement, but your shaking shoulders and involuntary simper do not escape your companion's eye.

Kíli crosses his arms. "Is something funny?"

You wipe a tear from your cheek. "I'm sorry, but you look like you've seen nary a battle in all your days."

"What, like you have, lass?" he scoffs, nodding toward your sword propped by the door. "I'll bet you've never laid a hand on that weapon of yours until tonight."

Your expression darkens. "Watch your words, sir dwarf. I have seen and spilt more blood than you would care to believe."

Kíli shrinks back in his chair. "Y-yeah? When?" Even under correction, his excitement could not be diminished.

You tell him of your past days as a soldier. Having always been tall for your age, you had cut your hair and enlisted in a male disguise when you were barely sixteen. You regale him with tales of the lands you had seen and battles you fought as a young woman among hardened men. The fading storm is the perfect backdrop for your stories; in truth, it had been a long time since you'd been able to talk about your fighting days, and you revel in the drama of the moment. Kíli clings to your every word, apparent awe and admiration dancing across his features. Many hours and cups of tea pass between you before you conclude your saga, the fire having long since died down.

You yawn. Dawn was but a few hours away. "It's late. You must leave in the morning, I assume?"

"Yes, I have to get back on the road."

You stand and stretch your aching muscles. "We should both get to bed, then. I have an extra room you're welcome to." You hold out your hand. "Goodnight, Kíli."

Kíli rises and takes your hand, but instead of shaking it as you intended, he leans forward and kisses the back of it. Your face grows warm at the surprising softness of his lips. "Goodnight, (Y/N)."

He turns to leave, but stops and looks back at you.

"(Y/N)?"

"Yes?"

"Why did you leave that kind of life? You spoke so fondly of your time in service."

You give a sad smile. "Let’s just say it wasn’t by choice." You begin to walk to your bedroom, but Kíli grabs your hand as you pass.

"If you had the chance, would you go back?"

You squeeze his hand and wink. "In a heartbeat."

__________

"What's all this, then?" You laugh. From the looks of it, Kíli had been cooking a small feast since before dawn.

"Good morning, my lady!" Kíli wipes his hands on a cloth and bows with great bravado. "I hope you don't mind me raiding your larder. I wanted to express my gratitude for your generosity." He takes your hand and leads you to the head of the table, fixing your plate once you sit down.

"You really didn't have to do this."

"Ah, 'course I did! I'd have drowned if it wasn't for you."

You spend the morning laughing and eating your way through the meal with Kíli, realizing how much you will miss his company in the days ahead. He’s been a refreshing change of pace for the simple monotony you’d build for yourself. As you wash the dishes after your meal, you notice he is dressed in his clothes from last night, weapons and bag secured to his back.

"All set, then?" You know your face betrays you, but you don’t care if he knows how sad you are. You had gained a friend last night.

"Not quite." He practically bounds up to your side, that familiar grin plastered onto his features. "I have something to ask of you."

You set down the plate you had been scrubbing. "And what's that?"

"Will you join me? On my quest, I mean?" His face is radiant with expectation and excitement.

You busy yourself with another dish, shaking your head. “Kíli, I’m not quite sure what to say-"

"Say yes! (Y/N), you told me yourself that you missed your old life. This would be the perfect chance for you to reclaim it!"

Despite all logic, you realize how right he is. Some small but powerful part of you had longed to be on the road with him when he spoke to you last night. You knew it was rash, but your heart was already pumping from the mere mention of excitement, aching to get out in the world once more. The quiet life you had been leading was nice, but it paled in comparison to the journey Kíli now offered. You craved adventure. When else would you have the opportunity to taste it?

"I'll have my things packed within the hour."

__________

A/N: you ever feel an old hyperfixation staring you down, threatening to return if you look at it too long? that might be happening again. only time will tell.

tysm for reading!

#the hobbit #the hobbit fanfiction #hobbit fic #an unexpected journey #kili #kíli #kili x you #kili x reader #kili/reader #kili x y/n #imaginexhobbit #rip my old blog she will be missed #my works

[castieltrash1]

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

word count → 17k

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Have you seen him eat today?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s just a sandwich.

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

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

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

Thanks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Whatever you say, Cap’.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Everything about Bucky is wrong.

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

Bucky suddenly becomes a wounded, scared animal.

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

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

His expression trembles, metal fingers curling and stretching repeatedly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He doesn’t like the cold.”

You swallow down the quickly forming lump in your throat.

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

“Hey, Bucky.”

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

“Steve?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh my god,” you groan.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh. Oh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What guy?” Natasha cuts in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Looked there first.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You push open the door slowly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then you pull away, and he leans back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thanks.”

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

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

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

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

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

And you… You want Bucky.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m sure you don’t mean that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thanks, Steve.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Look at me.” You hesitate before obliging.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

X. Strange (Instrumental)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bucky?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

When they do, you’re confused. “Wh-”

“I was gonna stop you from going.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I… I know, I’m sorry-”

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

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

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

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

“Bucky… I don’t-”

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

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

“...I’m fine.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bucky-”

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

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

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

“I told you he’d notice.”

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

“Took him long enough.”

---

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

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfic #marvel fanfic #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes oneshot #marvel oneshot #marvel imagine #marvel angst #marvel fluff #t: writing

[sleepyfan-blog]

Battle

Author’s Note: this is the second part of mer-Zalthes fic!  Previous. Next

Tagged: @egrets-not-regrets @kit-williams @bleedingichorhearts @the-pure-angel @whorety-k

Warnings: canon-typical violence

Summary: You watch Zalthes and his brothers battle against a massive sea dragon

You watched as Zalthes and dozens more of the giant mermen rushed the massive sea dragon-thing that had burst out from the ocean, it's huge maw open, revealing hundreds of razor sharp teeth as it lunged for one of the small fishing boats out along the sea. The fishermen on the boat scrambled to reverse course, desperately zig-zagging as they desperately tried to avoid being eaten by the massive purple creature. 

From where the Ultramarine had left you, you could still see some of the dragon's massive, segmented purple scales, segmented and overlapping like armored plates. It's wings were a lighter orange-pink color with wickedly sharp looking black claws attached to each of the wings’ outer joints. It sucked in a breath, dragging the unfortunate fishing boat closer to itself before letting out an ear-piercing shriek of defiance.

Your gaze is once again drawn to Zalthes - watching as he expertly weaves and ducks among his fellow Ultramarines - he seems to be the one directing the others as they fire at him with some kind of gun-like weapons from a distance, as others charged with humming swords and axes in hand. You could even see a couple of giant hammer-looking weapons as well. Each strike was well-aimed and purposeful.

Two of the Ultramarines peeled off from the main attack and grabbed the boat that was most in danger, flying it and the handful of fishermen on the boat to a safer distance before setting them back down again and rejoining the fight.

The sea dragon was huge and well armored - but it was also slow compared to the swift and dextrous merfolk who were successfully driving the sea dragon further and further away from the ships that were fleeing back to port. 

You cheered and yelled encouragements to Zalthes and his brothers each time one of them struck at the massive, destructive beast, gasping and trying not to worry as one of the dragon’s massive limbs swung down, attempting to strike the merfolk keeping it from it’s feeding frenzy. Most of the time the ultramarine or ultramarines who were being targeted were able to evade being struck -to varying degrees of grace and ease - but occasionally one of them would get hit.

You’d nearly wailed in terror the first couple of times it’d happen, especially when one of them got raked badly by the razor-sharp claws that had to be several feet long each, but despite the squealing of metal on claws, whatever their armor was made out of held up against the abuse that the massive sea creature rained down upon the valiant and stubborn Ultramarines. They continued to shoot and stab at it, harrying it into deeper and deeper waters, and you could not say how long it took for the massive dragon to begin to bleed thick purple blood, but Zalthes clearly ordered that they begin to fire and strike at those places where the dragon had begun to bleed, where it’s natural armored carapace had given way to the weaker flesh beneath. 

The sea dragon’s movements were getting slower and more clumsy as the battle went on… But so too were the Ultramarines. The sun - which had been high in the sky at the start of this battle - was starting to sink beneath the ocean’s horizon, painting both sky and water in a riot of reds, oranges and deepest blacks and blues where the shadows lay. The little sand-spit that you’d been left on had sunk beneath the waves at high tide, before reappearing at the second low tide - not that you had noticed much, your gaze focused entirely on the intense, bloody battle before you.

Many of the Ultramarines sported damaged armor and several smaller injuries, and the massive sea dragon had dozens of gashes and slashes across it’s massive body, yet  neither side was willing to yield to the other. “You can do this! I believe in you! You’ve got it well away from the city and bleeding!” You yell as best as you can, your voice rather hoarse from all the hopeful shouting and occasional screams of worry and anxiety over the past several hours. 

The battle continued as the sun fully set. You could barely see anything until moonrise illuminated the watery battle. Dozens more merfolk had appeared, these clad in dark green and red, assisting in driving the sea dragon further back. Larger green merfolk appeared by the dozens as well, each wielding flamethrowers that spat white hot fire which drove the sea dragon beneath the waves, roaring in agony. 

You could only pray to whatever might listen that the sea dragon was dead - or if it wasn’t, that the additional merfolk would be able to kill it. Two of the mostly green astartes began to swim towards you, but Zalthes called out to them, his voice not quite carrying enough for you to understand what he said, but they returned to the rest of the group, tending to the injured while the rest of the merfolk dove beneath the waves. 

As soon as Zalthes got within twenty feet of the sand spit he’d left you on, you sprinted directly for him, ignoring the way that the water soaked through your clothes as you wrapped your arms around his broad shoulders and kissed both of his cheeks and lips, your relief and excitement giving you the bravery to kiss the handsome mer “That was incredible! Are you injured anywhere? I saw you take that tail strike just before the sun set, and I imagine that would’ve hurt.” You realize that hugging him like this might press uncomfortably against his wounds, but you desperately needed to know that he was relatively okay and intact… You’d only met him a handful of hours ago, but you felt a powerful sense of connection to the Ultramarine that you couldn’t begin to make heads or tails of, but that didn’t matter. Not when he was here and smiling.

“Worry not, my lady, though the foul xeno did strike me, the bruises it left are already healing… Though if you would like to check to make sure that I am not seriously injured, I would not stop you from checking me over.” Zalthes purred, one arm coming up to wrap around your waist as he rested his forehead against yours, bright blue eyes shining with mischief and pride. “My brothers and cousins are excellent hunters.”

“That was… That was incredible. I’ve never seen a fight like that before.” You admit, your eyes wide as you shamelessly lean into him more. “I do know some basic first aid and have some things in my bag, if you’ll let me see if you need patching up.” You were neither a doctor nor a veterinarian, but you’d taken first aid classes in both high school and college, which you kept up to date, just in case of emergency. 

“Then I submit myself to your clever hands, my lady.” Zalthes purrs “Though perhaps we should return to the bit of land over there? I can be on land longer than you can hold your breath to check the parts of me beneath the water.”

“I… Oh! You’re right. It won’t cause you more pain if we’re on land though? Because if it would you could stay in the shallows?” You offer, not wanting to cause your valiant savior more pain than necessary.

“Being in the shallows would help me support my weight better, as long as you are comfortable. Are you able to see well? From what I know, most baseline humans do not see well in the dark.” Zalthes asked, cupping your chin with one of his large hands, looking down at you with concern.

“I have a waterproof flashlight in my bag that I can use to see better, and the moon is pretty bright tonight.” You inform him as he carries you back to shore. 

“Very well, I surrender myself to your hands. I’ll take off my armor, to make the check-up easier.” Zalthes rumbled, a purr in his voice as he spoke. 

You nod, grabbing everything you thought you might need out of the bag that you’d brought with you to the beach. Waterproof flashlight, check. Bandages, check. Wound cleaner and a numbing spray, check. You’d also grabbed your multi-sized box of bandaids before putting them back. It was unlikely that they would stay on his body long under the waves, even if he put his armor back on over it. “Are you ready?” You ask, looking over at Zalthes, trying not to swallow your tongue in surprise as you saw the now lounging and armor-less merman waiting for you to come closer.

#oc: zalthes #warhammer 40k #space marine husbandry sentience #my writing #x reader #reader insert #ultramarine #ultramarine ocs #dark angels #salamanders #tyranid #cw: violence #Celestial Seas AU

[trashybandit]

To Be Perfect

Many thanks to my beloved girlie pop @cheesus-doodles for proof-reading~ This entire fic is running under the assumption that if you're the only (competent) Ramshackle student, then you're automatically the Housewarden, alongside being a Prefect. Please don't think about it too hard (｡•́︿•̀｡)

Possessive Riddle Rosehearts x Prefect/Housewarden Reader

Tw: Possessive behavior, mentions of verbal abuse

Riddle stared at his pocket watch with a frown etched into his face. You were already five minutes late to your how-to-housewarden lessons, again. Snapping the watch closed with tad much force, he sipped his afternoon tea in a vain effort to calm himself down. Perhaps you were busy cleaning up after that rulebreaker of a monster and his companions. It wasn’t the first time this had happened after all. The last time, he recalled that it was because the disastrous trio had managed to set the prized Heartslabyul hedges on fire and were squabbling over who was responsible while you were trying to make sure the entire dorm didn’t burn down. A shameful sight really and a terrible stain on his, and your, legacies. 

He had seen how you tried and failed to reign in your friend group, forced to clean up after their messes without fail. How your “friends” ignored your warnings yet came back with their (metaphorical or actual) tails between their legs, begging for your assistance, only to do it again. ‘This would need to change,’ he internally declared as he slammed the tea cup down. A housewarden didn’t bow down to their wards under any circumstance. 

And a housewarden should, at the very least, carry an air of confidence, one that demands respect, yet here you were, slouching as you dragged your feet despondently towards the tea table. Instinctively, Riddle wasted no time reminding you of that fact, only finally stopping when faced with your puffy eyes and left opening and shutting his mouth until he wisely decided to keep silent. An awkward silence fell over the table as you busied yourself getting as comfortable as you could be in this situation. The clacking of teaware was the only noise made in the otherwise silent room before Riddle seemingly regained his confidence, asking why you were ten whole minutes late in that all too familiar “I-swear-I-won’t-be-mad” tone.

You knew he’d be mad. Years of experience only confirmed your gut feeling, from how he gripped his cup too tightly or how he seemed too interested in getting you to talk. For a split second, you could see them, that smile that wormed under your skin, eye contact that pressured you to answer, each second wiping more and more of the initial kindness you were approached with. You could hear the countdown of the imminent explosion where all attempts at civil communication would be abandoned in favor of intimidation, perhaps even turning barks into actual bites. 

Waves of danger washed over your exhausted self. Fear coiled in your stomach as you tried to keep up the facade of nonchalance, with any slip up being akin to bleeding out in shark-infested waters. 

An expectant “Well?” cut the remaining time in half. You needed a solution, fast.

“I-t’s…just been a difficult d-day. I’m sorry for being late, Riddle.”

“That isn’t an excuse.”

The stern response could only be met with you avoiding eye contact, trying to play-up your innocence without opening your mouth. Yet, using these tactics on Riddle of all people was a useless endeavor. A subtle tired frown graced his doll-like face upon remembering how he’d done the exact same thing when his mother caught him breaking the rules previously, back when he didn’t understand the importance of them. They could have worked on someone else perhaps, someone uninformed on such mannerisms, but not him.

You must already know that you were in the wrong, and all he needed to do was to show you the importance of the rules. This wasn’t going to be as easy as collaring you until you picked up the message though, mainly because that was useless, but also because you were just so painfully close to understanding everything he stood for yet so far away. Your “friends” kept dragging you farther and farther away, and admittedly you did the same to him, showing him how not everyone was ready for his rather rigorous lifestyle, and going as far to insinuate that not even he was. That all awaited him was a life constricted by unnecessary rules, forever living in a cage of his own creation, all suggested in a voice that sounded like you knew what you were saying. 

But unlike you, he wasn’t weak. He wasn’t someone who cowered from reality, unable to accept that others knew better than you; rather, he knew that these rules were a symbol of love created by people who cared about you.

You just needed his help to see this fact. 

Pushing a plate filled with your favorites across the table at you, Riddle’s response was to begin the lesson, silently doubling down on his goal. He would get you to see his point of view, he knew. It was just a matter of time and perseverance.

#riddle rosehearts x reader #twisted wonderland #twst #twst x reader #riddle rosehearts #tw: verbal abuse

[breakfastteatime]

Today's fic is for @wigglewigglewigglenot who requested 'Family'.

Greez hears Cal bound aboard, BD whistling in the way that Greez always translates to ‘honey, I’m home!’ “Cal, BD, good timing. I’m about to start chopping up the veg for tonight’s stir fry. Wash up and –” A foul stench billows over Greez. Dropping his knife, he looks up from the galley table and stares at Cal. “What in all the hells happened to you?”

Cal grins from under a thick, muddy coating. “I threw some stormtroopers around for a while in a swamp.”

“Did you get in the swamp with them?”

“No,” Cal says. BD makes a sound that sounds very disagreeable. Cal stares at his friend. “No, I didn’t. It doesn’t count if a whole bunch of grenades explode after they’ve sunk into the mud and shower you with swamp juice.”

“Whatever, Cal, just get in the shower, burn everything you’re wearing and clean up so you can help out.” Greez glances at BD. “You too, BD.”

BD whistles and takes off. Cal sighs and follows him. A few moments later, Greez hears the ‘fresher door open and close, followed by the sound of the water shower starting up.

Cere emerges from the cockpit next, stretching out her limbs after hours of decrypting Imperial transmissions and tangling them all up so no one could talk to each other. She catches a whiff of ‘Odour of Kestis’ and immediately joins Greez in the galley, seeking out one of their emergency candles. “His sense of smell must be impaired after all that time on Bracca,” she mutters. Once the candle’s lit, she glances at what Greez is doing. “Stir fry? Excellent. Can I do anything?”

“Sure. You can get the hell out of my kitchen before something explodes because it’s in your presence and you scared it.”

“I am not that bad!” Cere protests.

“Hah!” Greez doesn’t trust Cere in a kitchen with something more complicated than a teapot or a caf maker any more than he trusts himself with Cal’s lightsaber. “Just go sit in the lounge and think happy food thoughts.”

“I think I’ll take the time to meditate,” Cere says, heading for her cabin. “I’ll send Merrin.”

By the time Merrin appears, Greez has the vegetables chopped, the pan heated, and everything ready to fry. “You are not adding scazz?” Merrin asks, peering over Greez’s shoulder.

“I know you like it, but scazz doesn’t actually go with everything, Merrin,” Greez says. No, what he needs is a few spices, a little extra soy for the noodles, some ginger to add a kick…

“I want scazz,” Merrin said. “I shall prepare it myself.”

Greez knows he’s not going to win a fight with her. “Fine. There’s some in the fridge. Make sure you use the knife with the red handle, that’s the one that’s sharp enough. You can cook it up yourself.”

“Why? You do it so much better than I do,” Merrin says as she gets the meat, knife and chopping block.

“You’ll never learn if I always do it,” Greez tells her.

Merrin stares at him.

“Fine, fine, I’ll cook it. Make enough for everyone.” Greez says that, knowing full well only Merrin will have any unless Cal’s feeling particularly irritating tonight.

The rhythmic sound of Merrin’s chopping provides the beat for Greez’s whistling. He drops the noodles in a pan while prepping another for Merrin’s meat. She carries it over on the chopping board when she’s done and waits for Greez’s nod to add it to the pan. It crackles and hisses. Merrin closes her eyes and inhales.

“Excellent,” she says. “Remember, I like it rare.”

“It’ll still be bleeding, don’t you worry,” Greez says.

Content, Merrin heads to the lounge. Greez lets her go because he hears Cal and BD returning. Both are clean and fresh, so Greez orders them to set the table. “With your hands, please,” he adds. “The last time you used the Force to do it, I lost a perfectly good set of plates.”

“How is it my fault Merrin distracted me?” Cal shoots a glare in her direction.

“Jedi training is clearly inferior,” she replies without looking up from the datapad she’s looking at. “A Nightsister would not be so distractable.”

“Wanna find out?” Cal fires back.

“Children,” Greez warns.

Cal sighs and wipes down the table while BD nudges placemats around with his head. Happy that Cal isn’t about to push and/or pull anything, Greez begins dishing up. He puts the scazz chunks in a serving bowl so at least the others can pretend like they want some. Cal dutifully puts the bowls out, chuckling to himself when he picks up Cere’s. He does that sometimes, catches onto things no one expected to leave behind. If he’s not sharing, Greez ain’t asking. He's learned to temper that curiosity. Cal is very polite about accidentally learning people’s secrets. Unless it benefits him some way. Or if the secret is so hilarious, he can’t contain himself. Greez may never live down that whole ‘Phixy’s Midnight Runner’s debacle down.

“Merrin, would you tell Cere it’s dinner time?” Greez asks as he shuts off the hobs and grabs the muja juice out of the fridge.

“Of course.” Merrin disappears in a twirl of green magick.

“Show off,” Greez mutters.

BD and Cal take their usual places. Merrin and Cere appear moments later. Greez takes his seat.

“This looks so good,” Cal says. “Thanks, Greez.”

“You’re welcome,” he says. It’s the least he can do, keeping everyone fed. He reaches for his fork. “Enjoy everyone.”

They all dig in, BD-1 watching with the same amount of interest the very first time he was allowed to sit at the table. Greez sits back and watches them all, smiling as they chat and laugh.

Yeah, he’s a lucky guy. Maybe he hasn’t settled down the way his great grandma would’ve wanted, but he’s still got people who matter more than anything, people who need him… He just never expected his best friend and his two kids to all have superpowers, or for a little droid to become an essential presence in his life.

Greez knows a good hand when he’s holding it.

(Pssst – The Phixy’s Midnight Runners minific for those who may have missed it. It’s an oldie but a favourite of mine)

#fic requests 2023 #star wars jedi: fallen order #jfo minific #jfo headcanon #the mantis crew #*found family feels intensify* #cal kestis #bd 1 #greez dritus #cere junda #merrin

[criticallyacclaimedstranger]

Fic: Relax

Read on Ao3

Fandom: The Last of Us (HBO)

Ship: Joel Miller x you (cishet f reader)

Tags/warnings: Soft!Joel, Acts Of Service Joel, pregnancy, implied sex, mention of panic attacks, JOEL IS A SOFTIE, SAPPY AND SOFT.

Summary: Joel just can't seem to ever relax, not even when he's settled with you.

Words: 971

A/N: Look, I can't be the only one who after this week's episode (S01E06) just wants to give Joel a simple and safe life </3

The front door opens, letting in Joel and a cold, snow-filled gush of wind. A shudder runs through you and you appreciate even more that you don’t have to be outside on a night like this but instead right here: in a sturdy, warm house, on a comfortable albeit rundown couch, a knitted blanket thrown over your lower body, a fire crackling merrily in the fireplace.

Joel stomps the snow off his boots and walks heavily up to the fireplace, crouching with a groan to release the load of firewood that he fetched. He immediately puts on particularly large log on the fire, then has to take a minute before he braces his hands on his knees and pushes himself up. You hear the crack from a joint, and put down your knitwork.

”Joel, please come and sit down, you’re working yourself too hard.”

”I’m fine,” he reassures you as he walks back to the door and kicks off the boots, hangs the coat up. A lot quieter on his feet in the thick wool socks you’ve made for him, he sneaks up behind the couch and bends over, kissing the crown of your head.

”You need anything, darlin’? Drink? Snack?”

”I need you to come and sit your ass down,” you tell him, reaching your arm back to grab the front of his sweater, giving it a little tug. He finally surrenders to you and comes around the couch, lifting your legs out of the way and placing them across his lap once he’s seaten.

”There,” he rolls his eyes at you, ”I’m seated. Now what?”

”Now you relax,” you tell him slowly, picking up your knitting needles again. ”You do know how to do that, don’t you?”

”No, I don’t,” he shakes his head seriously, but there’s a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

”Well, you need to start learning,” you rule, counting stitches before starting another row on the baby coveralls you’re working on. Joel runs his hand up your calf, knee, thigh, stopping at the swell of your belly.

”With this one arriving so soon? You won’t know what relaxing is once they’re born.”

You smile as you deftly work off the knits, glancing up at your husband for yet another quip, finding instead that he’s looking like you in That Way.

He’s always done it, even before he confessed to having feelings for you. After you became pregnant, he did it even more often. That look of infinite sadness, his eyes so despondent that it brings tears to your own, that way he looks at you like he’s already lost you.

”Joel…” You put down your project again and cover his hand with both of yours. ”Sweetheart. I’m good. We’re good.”

”For now.” He still can’t believe it, you’ve been safe in Jackson for years now, Tommy and Maria and their two kids next door, electricity and hot water and a friendly community, and he’s still expecting it all to go away.

”My brave man,” you sigh, scooting up, taking his hand and pulling him to you. ”Come here.” You rearrange yourselves, the blanket changes places, and Joel’s resting comfortably with his head on your shoulder, his arm coiled around your belly.

”My protector,” you mumble, stroking his gray hair. ”You’re going to put yourself in an early grave with all your worrying.”

It took him a long time to figure out that he didn’t actually have heart problems: he had panic attacks. They were easier to treat but harder for him to accept than an actual heart problem. Go figure that it would turn out that his heart is strong and fucking bleeding. All the things he’s done, failed to do, lost… he has told you everything, in the dark, entangled, only able to communicate to you in quiet whispers about his life leading up to the day he met you. All of that has made his heart so very strong, his self image so very weak.

”Too late for me to have an early grave,” he mutters, slowly caressing your bump. ”I’m an old man, darlin’.”

”Back in the day you wouldn’t call a man under sixty old,” you scoff. ”You have lived two lives, baby, that’s all.”

He grunts, but you feel him unwind in your arms. Him listening to your heartbeat always calms him down. You kiss his forehad, breathe in the smell of pine and snow on his hair.

”I need you,” you tell him in a whisper. ”You need to be here for me. For us.”

”I’m not going anywhere,” he promises, lifting his head to look at you. ”I need you, too. Both of you. You’re my everything.”

”And don’t you forget it.”

He shifts, mindful of your belly, and realigns himself so that he can kiss you.

”I love you,” he murmurs against your lips, the words a soft and balmy contrast to the sharp prickles of his facial hair. ”I love you so much.”

”And I love you, Joel,” you smile as his hand gently cups one of your breasts. Joel starts to scatter tender kisses down your neck, finding the first button of your flannel and popping it open, revealing a bit of cleavage. Your skin breaks out in gooseflesh when he presses his bristly face in the cleft between your boobs.

”You’re not relaxing,” you remind him, failing spectacularly in trying to sound stern.

”I can stop,” he quips, undoing another button. You exhale in a little whine as his lips brush over your nipple.

”Besides,” Joel muses without looking up, his breath hot on your budding nipple, ”you’re the one who never puts down your work. You’re always handling wool or yarn, or knitting… Maybe it’s you who needs to relax?”

He has a point, you have to give that to him.

#the last of us fanfic #joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #my fic #the last of us spoilers #(for episode 6 of season 1)

[fanficmaniatic]

Half Drank Sorrows

For those looking for a Post-Merger Angsty Lava fic:

Relationships:

Cole/ Kai (Ninjago), Lloyd Garmadon & Kai.

Summary:

But even shields need maintenance, even shields break; And after the sky torn open and took his family away, he can not find the strength to stay. or, Why Kai couldn't stay at the monastery.

Fic under Read More:

      He wasn’t desperate. No, just- shut up.

      It was just a long day. The monastery was dusty like never before, a perpetual state of quiet that used to belong to nights but now extended to every waking hour. The sun could be up, resting, yet it remained. Guess there were not enough people to make the place noisy.

       He punched the dummy a bit harder. 58 days. 57 nights… But who's counting? His breathing was accelerating, he needed to drink water. Another punch, and the wood came back, he blocked it and hit his forearm. Kicked the bottom row, pushed the one in front. It was not as fast as it was supposed to be. But Jay always put off fixing it, so of course everything ended up landing on him. Everyone there knew how to fix the stupid dummies. Just because he had the fire powers didn’t mean he had to fix it. 

      Ha… Fuck it. He kept punching. Some screws were looser than others. He kept forgetting which ones were the fastest coming back, and the harder he pushed the faster the ricochet. He blocked them. Not without the aching of the hit. He should have put some bandages on first. But he needed- What the fuck did he need. 

      The stick hit him in the ribs. Fuck. He needed Jay to not leave the repairs to the moment one of them got hurt. It was counterproductive. He kicked it with his feet, making the wood snap and hit him one last time in the knee before it fell to the floor. The pain was sharp, but he had been stabbed before, this wasn’t bad. His throat was dry.

      The dummy lay broken on the floor. He closed his eyes and took in a deep breath. Jay wasn’t there for him to complain to him. Hell,  Zane wasn’t there for him to pretend he was fixing something else. It crashed on the wall, and maybe Kai kicked too hard because it left a mark. A voice, high and steady, told him he was an idiot for training barefoot, another one, lower, raspier, told him to shut up and check his bleeding feet. He stepped down hard. He had been hurt worse.

      How funny, huh. He didn’t even bother getting boxing gloves or bandaging his wrist, he just, he- He had been through worse. Worse than this. Worse than a stupid hit of a dummy. Worse than constant silence. Worse than constant empty looks. This was nothing. 

      He had left before. The skin in his hands ached. He didn’t need to focus on them to know it was split open in the knuckles, bleeding scratches on the palms. The blood on the broken dummy had been none other than his. He had woken up alone. The bounty, a place that not once had been quiet, went from being full of strangers and half his team to being in the middle of nowhere. An island Kai never saw in his life. He laid alone. For weeks.

      But he was in the monastery now. Breath -shaking- not half as steady as he would have liked. Shit. Lloyd was in his room. He was not alone. He had not been for 13 days, 12 nights, out of the 58. He just- it was fine. 

      He was fine. He was better alone in the bounty. He didn’t need to be here. Shit. He could leave, he had left before. When- With Zane. He just, he just couldn’t. When Nya- He just got her back- He, He couldn’t see everyone's sad faces before. They went their separate ways. But this time he had not had the choice to leave, he was thrown thousands of miles away, farthest than he had ever been from his home. His hands were shaking. 

      Everyone… Vanished. From being in the upper deck of the bounty to a big shared room that for 45 nights only had one person sleeping inside. One out of seven that slept in there. One out of the eight that considered the bounty their home. He threw the alcohol on his wounds more than passed it on. Maybe it was because his vision was blurry, or maybe it was because he didn’t care. 

      What use were elemental powers for if he couldn’t save them. If he was as powerless with them as he had been without. Impotence ached in his bones. A cracking sensation that went down his arms and made breathing harder. There was always that one. A face that after tragedy would look up to him; look at him like his soul had not been torn open, like he had not lost parts of himself. Ask for a shelter he could not give… But he couldn’t look at them and tell them that. 

      The ugly side of being the oldest. Never the leader, too hot headed for that. Just the one everyone knew would always have their backs.

      A deep sight left his lips when the sting of the alcohol went inside his wound. He didn’t need a stupid dummy. He needed a cigarette. 

      The yard was alone, not like Lloyd would notice. It would be one. That’s it, he could even go out and take a few steps down from the monastery. Lloyd wouldn’t even notice the smell. He just couldn’t get caught looking for one. 

       Perks of being a ninja… sadly everyone else was one too. But- fuck- right, only Lloyd. He was sleeping anyway. He got pretty tired closing the mergequake in the middle of the night. Kai had not bothered to wake him up. Is not like they would talk a lot… there wasn’t much to say right now.

      He ignored the sting on his left foot. Nya’s voice sounded angrier now. “You should have put a bandage at least” but he just headed for his room. He knew he still had a box hidden, from before the- it had to still be there. 

      He stopped a second, Lloyd’s bedroom door was open. His little brother lay face up in the bed, gi still on. He looked exhausted. The same frown he had when Kai found him accompanied him in his sleep. Is like that was the only thing his eyebrows did. It was weird. To see his limbs thrown around, and not his usual -kinda hugging himself- position. Him and Nya slept the same. Kai bit his lip before the pain that went from his chest to his throat could become a sob. His room. The cigarette. 

      He kept it in a shoe box, under a bunch of old comics he didn’t even read anymore. He is sure half of those aren’t even his. But he figured it was as safe a hiding spot as any. He took the comics and magazines away, the paper brushed hardly on the open cuts of his arms but he just threw them on the side. He opened the box only to find a bunch of trash. Stuff he left there years ago he was too lazy to throw away. His breathing became uneven. The box of cigarettes wasn’t there. But a note instead. 

       “Think of a better hidding spot next time, Firecracker.” Followed by a tiny drawing of a blinky face with Cole’s messy hair. He threw the box to the floor with force. Fuck. What does he think he is? It’s not like he had a problem? He smoked some times, yes, and once it got bad but it was once. But no, Cole and Nya seemed to think they could guilt trip him into just- ugh- Fuck.

      At least it was Cole’s note. A note by Nya would mean she threw it away. Cole on the other hand was a dirty hypocrite who would steal his cigarettes. He stomped down to Cole’s empty room.  Fuck him. He always did this. Why did they all freak out when he drank? Everyone else could get a cup once in a while but when he did everyone lost their minds. He could control himself. He didn’t have a problem but everyone else acted like he did. It was only once, once. Yes, damn it got ugly, but it was once! He just sometimes needed to clear his head, and what would twinkle toes know about needing to clear his head. 

      His breathing stopped. At least that seemed to happen. Kai is not sure… is not like- He had trashed Cole’s room. Every cabinet, even the boxes under his bed that were full of old sketchbooks. His hoodies Kai used to steal, carelessly thrown on the floor. He- Cole had- there was a box under Cole’s bed. He had thought… he had thought he found cigarettes. His lips tremble. 

      “Kai…?” Lloyds voice was low, but it was the loudest thing in the room. It dawned on him that the noise should have woken him up. Kai couldn’t look at him, see his sadness, the same frown, the sorrow planted in his expression. His gaze was locked in his hand, the medallion that was being smeared by the blood of his palm. Cole had wanted- he was gonna- “Hey Kai…” Lloyd sounded closer. But Kai couldn’t see him, his back was facing the door, and frankly, he didn’t feel like he could move. A hand touched his shoulder. It wasn't Zane’s understanding, Jay’s never judging pressense, or Cole’s reassurance. The small hand he once promised to protect held him. The sob escaped. 

      Pained sobs broke through the monastery as he held the Yin Yang medallion close to his chest. Pushing it hard against his sternum. Like the pressure could bring him back; like the pressure could make him see his sister again; bring Pixal’s company; Wu’s guidance. Lloyd put Kai’s face on his shoulder, and the sob that Kai left was one of guilt. Because that should be him, he should be the protector here, the one making sure Lloyd was okay, but when has he ever functioned after a loss? He couldn’t stay, he couldn’t stay here when every corner was something else he lost, the family he couldn’t protect. 

      Fuck. Lloyd shouldn’t have to see him like this. This is why he always left,  he couldn’t- Not after Zane, not after Nya. He couldn’t look at Lloyd and pretend everything was okay. Like parts of him were not torn and lost. “... I can’t- I can’t…” He didn’t meet Lloyds gaze, He couldn’t do that to him, finding him in a trashed room was enough, Kai couldn’t let Lloyd meet his face. Not when he couldn’t control the tears; not now when his chest felt so heavy he was having a hard time breathing. 

       He wanted his siblings back, his lover, his sister. He pressed the medallion harder to his chest. He screamed hoping the empty feeling would leave. Get out of his system with a yell that only made his throat hurt. He grabbed his hair and started pulling, anything to make the pain something rational, anything that could make the pain something he could patch up instead of this. This empty hole on his chest that seemed to be consuming him whole. 

      “Hey, hey, no, Kai!” Lloyd’s hand quickly went to grab his. He stopped a second when he felt the medallion but quickly continued his course. Kai fought him, trying to set himself free without having to look up. This was enough, Lloyd shouldn’t see him like this. “Kai, don’t! You are hurting yourself!” His voice was high, he was trying not to cry, he was trying to be strong… for Kai.

       “STOP!” his face snapped up. His throat felt dry. He could count with one hand the times Lloyd had looked at him with those eyes. Glossy, holding back tears. He always hated being the reason behind that expression… A telling of how bad he had screwed up. “Hey… Is okay. I am not a kid anymore, you don’t have to act all tough for me to like you.” The smile Lloyd gave him was sad, but he figures that’s as good as he could manage at the moment. His hand started running up and down Kai’s back, and he did his best to match the motions with his breathing. 

      Lloyd stayed until his breathing was even again. He guided Kai to rest against Cole’s bed -place he would most often sleep in anyways- and took a seat next to him. He squeezed himself closer, holding Kai’s hand, head on his shoulder to encourage Kai to put some weight on Lloyd. It was numb. 

      He tried, very carefully, to start cleaning up the dust in the medallion, without smearing more blood on it. Lloyd squeezed his hand. “Did you know he had been meaning to ask you?” Kai’s breath stopped for a second. No, he hadn't. He had no idea. He made a conscious decision to concentrate on Lloyd’s thumb as it drew circles on the back of his hand. His head was pounding. “I suspected it.” The younger continued once he figured out his brother wouldn’t speak. “I caught him and Nya talking about a trip, I guess he was planning on asking you there.” Kai took a deep breath. This wasn't making it easier.

       “Lloyd.” He had to look at him when he said it, even when Lloyd was already shaking his head, his eyes in their interlocked fingers. “I can't stay.” The shaking was slow, but not less demanding. Lloyd shut his eyes harshly. A single tear fell down; Kai felt his soul shatter. “I’m sorry.”

       Lloyd’s hand squeezed his. Eyes shut hard to keep more tears from escaping, and though his lips did not move, Kai knew what he meant. “Don’t go”, “Don’t leave me”. Kai wishes he could lie and say his words comforted him, but when Lloyd let out a low and pained “I understand.” Kai felt that what little of his soul was there had been crushed away. 

    He brought his brother closer. Hugging him from the side and the hand that once was intertwined with Lloyd’s played with the blond’s hair. “You know I’ll be back, right?” There was a pause, then a nod. 

    Lloyd let out a dry laugh. He forced it, and Kai knew it, but he wouldn’t point that out. “You better.” Kai ignored the pit in his stomach, deciding instead to move Lloyd’s hair away from his forehead and plant a kiss. 

     “I will, kiddo, I will.” Not any time soon. Not for as long as the quiet was the loudest thing in a monastery that should have been full. But he couldn’t say that, Lloyd already knew. He rested his head on top of Lloyd’s, holding his remaining family close. 

      He just needed a break; until the corners became themselves again; until the quiet was not a reminder of the death.

#my fics #kai ninjago #lloyd garmadon #lavashipping #rgb siblings #kai smith #kai jiang #fanfiction #fanfic #ninjago #dragons rising #dragons rising ninjago #cw smoking #cw drinking #hurt/comfort #ao3 #ao3 fanfic #cole ninjago #angst #oneshot #the merge