#harsh contrast to what i usually write too so like it’ll probably sink | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

solacefruit · 4 years

Note

Hello! This is the person who wrote the one shots on Quotev — the one that anon went through so much trouble to get sent your way. If you’d be willing, I would appreciate genuine critique of my work — I’m genuinely looking for how I might improve my writing, and I haven’t been getting very much feedback. Apologies if you’re too busy or if this bothers you!

Hello there! I’m willing to give you my thoughts on your work, since you’ve asked so politely and gone to such effort, but before I do that, I’d like to preface everything by saying that I’m going to approach this answer more or less the same way I would give feedback to students in a class. I think that’s most helpful. I also hope none of this feedback comes off as harsh or hurtful, because that’s not at all my intention.

You clearly know how to write well: your work is well-edited, with only a few errors here and there (be careful using semicolons, they can be very tricky). It’s clear you know the rules of writing, so I don’t think you’ve got a lot of room for improvement there.

The stories themselves, though, didn’t click for me as a reader. I didn’t get pulled into the world you’ve created and I didn’t connect with your characters. That doesn’t mean that what you’ve done is bad, though! But I am going to suggest some ideas for restructuring your work that might help make your stories more dynamic and effective in capturing and retaining your reader, or showing off your skills and ideas to better effect.

Your first story begins with the description of the character in a lot of depth, but I cannot recommend this as an opening paragraph. If you’re ever writing a manuscript, you need to remember that your first page is your first–and often only–chance to hook your reader and convince them to keep going. (Especially true if you’re sending your work to a publisher!) Because of that, a lot of good stories begin with first page or two that does everything it can to tell you who, what, where, and the tone of the book.

Very few good stories start with the “I have black hair and blue eyes and today I am wearing a big hat” type character description, unless that is actually important–i.e., The Little White Horse begins with Maria detailing to herself what she’s wearing, because she’s vain and it brings her comfort to know she looks beautiful, which matters because… [and then the plot begins]; the first Harry Potter book describes the Dursleys in very Dahl-esque fashion, which matters because… [contrast them to the peculiar happenings of the plot emerging]. What your character does is almost always more interesting than what they look like, so it’s often a sensible idea to prioritise your narration accordingly. Both of the above examples tell you who, the tone of the story, and then what is happening, while filling in other details so you know where and when by the end of the first chapter.

Something else I noticed in your work is that you’re a keen world-builder with a lot of ideas, but I found your stories to be a little overwhelmed by that, rather than enriched by it. This is something I’ve seen a lot in young creative writers, so it’s definitely not you and it’s not actually a fault, exactly–but it can detract from your work and make your work actually less inviting to read, rather than more, and that’s something that’s important for speculative fiction writers to be aware of. I’m currently working on a series of tips and tricks requested by popular demand, so I’ll probably elaborate more on this later, but basically, your world-building should be an iceberg: you know how immense it is, but your reader will only see a small delicious fragment of it.

Oversupplying world-building details often makes works impenetrable or–most commonly–overshadows the characters and plot and sinks interest in the ship story. (For me, the most egregious example that jumps to mind is Foundling by D.M. Cornish but that’s a rant for another day). Your work isn’t too overcrowded, I feel, but for me, I got the sense that you used your stories as vessels for your world-building, instead of using your world-building to decorate and deepen your stories. The reason this causes problems is because people–myself included–are most often motivated to read because they relate, connect to, or are curious about characters, rather than a world. (Worlds are very fun, don’t get me wrong! It’s just that world-building tends to be most fun for the people doing it, not the people reading it).

Finally, something I wanted to bring to your attention is style, and particularly streamlining it and leaning into your own voice. At the moment, your work is a little heavy with what I think of as “fanfiction-itis” for lack of a better concept. It’s basically an overall tendency to 1. be uncertain about what person the story is told in, or jump between views. This can be a choice! But it’s one you should be making consciously. There’s first-, second-, and third-person, but in third-person, there’s also an omniscient narration and limited narration. Each can be used to huge effect–but you need to pick the right one for the story you’re telling and stick to it. 2. over-rely on epithets and character description. Often this is a result of the above when it’s third-person omniscient. As a rule of thumb, you don’t really need to use epithets much at all. “The taller boy,” “the blonde girl,” and so on doesn’t add anything, but it does often distract and make the writing look a bit… juvenile to experienced writers. Unless the description is saying something about the character that’s worth knowing, it’s usually best not to bother with it. “The black-furred warrior walked by” says a lot less than “Blackfur stalked past, scowling.”

3. use unnecessary or tautological dialogue tags. I’ve seen a lot of “said is dead” passed around on this site, and that’s great advice to follow if you want your work to be unenjoyable and annoying to read. Said is the most useful dialogue tag, because it is invisible to us, and many other “common” tags are likewise useful–things like asked, or replied. You only need to use a different and noticeable dialogue tag when it changes the dialogue in a meaningful way. For example: i. “what did you do?” he queried. ii. “what did you do?” he asked. iii. “what did you do? he asked cautiously. iv. “what did you do?” v. “what did you do?” he said, but he was looking away, distracted. The first one’s dialogue tag is useless and clunky: we know he asked a question, there’s a question mark there, but unlike “asked,” queried really stands out and can break the flow of reading. The second one is unobtrusive, but doesn’t tell us anything about the tone of his question: he could be angry, purely curious, scared, who knows! The third one tells us his tone, but be careful not to overuse adverbs–that’s J.K. Rowling’s curse. The fourth tells us that, whatever he’s asking about, he’s worked up about it and it’s probably not great! The fifth is an example of how you can actually turn dialogue tags into full sentences sometimes. By being precise with your dialogue tags, you can make your dialogue really pop, and also not distract your reader.

4. tell, rather than show. We’ve all heard “show, don’t tell” as writing advice, but there are actually a lot of times when “telling” is perfectly fine. However, broadly speaking, characters tend to feel more alive if you make them act out their personalities, rather than recount them to your reader. If someone has a big personality, you don’t need to say it: it’ll become abundantly clear from their actions soon enough!

By being aware of these things and making conscious choices–even if your conscious choices are to keep doing these things!–your strength and skill in storytelling will improve. It looks to me that you’ve gotten to the point where now you have to hone the talent you already have, which means that being precise and self-reflective about your writing style and choices is probably going to be the best course for you to improve going forward.

I hope this is helpful to you! I want to stress that all of this advice is offered in a “take what is useful to you, leave the rest” spirit. For every piece of writing advice, there’s excellent writing that contradicts it, so honestly a lot of good writing is just knowing when to follow advice and when not to, when to follow a rule and when to break it. Good luck with all your future work!

#reply #advice #this is basically the kind of thing that my tips and tricks guides will look like by the way. thank you everyone for the support!#it's very flattering and lovely to see so many people excited to hear me talk. always takes me a little by surprise but in a nice way.#also i hope this is mostly easy to read and coherent. today was not a good health day and i'm on some wild painkillers right now.#oh also fun fact: joke rowling's favourite book growing up was the little white horse. hence why i've linked them here.#it's such a shame that joke rowling is such a terf dingbat because she's regrettably such a helpful teaching touchstone.#the other month i was teaching high schoolers and it's so useful to be like 'okay so in harry potter--' and immediately they Get It.

9 notes · View notes

bitsandbobsandstuff · 7 years

Text

The language of a kiss

Title: The language of a kiss Summary: There are so many different ways to share a kiss with someone. Here is a story about 11 ways I know. Characters: Bucky x Steve

Warnings: Language, violence. Angst, because what else would you expect here, and a smattering of fluff to round it out.

A/N: I’ve been wanting to write something about Bucky and Steve for a long time, but couldn’t figure out what, mostly because I find the relationship so complicated and epic and never felt like I could do it justice. And then I said screw it and tried anyway, so here’s an attempt.

Also tagged a couple other people I thought might enjoy, hope that that’s okay.

MASTERLIST

What is a kiss? If you ask that question, most will define it in a traditional sense. The exchange of warm breath, the delicate tap of teeth, the intoxicating feel of lips moving together. That’s one definition, and it’s lovely. But that’s too easy.

Here’s the real truth. There is no answer. There is only an infinite multitude of expressions, variations of words and actions and touches. Every kiss is new, every kiss is unique. And most of the time? You will never even notice.

*****

The first realisation kiss The one that’s the beginning of everything. You never see it coming.

Steve Rogers is the first to admit, sometimes he makes stupid decisions. Like today, when he drops his lunch on the sidewalk and launches fists first at the sneering face in front of him. He feels the satisfying crunch of cartilage when he makes contact with a nose, and he revels in the pained howl that follows.

What he isn’t prepared for, is the upper cut that catches him under the chin, toppling him backward. He lands with a thump, rolls to his feet with a growl and raises his hands, eager for another bout. But as usual, it proves unnecessary.

“Get the hell out of here you piece of shit, pick on someone your own size.”

Bucky Barnes already has both hands wrapped in the boy’s shirt, and with a rough twist, slams him to the ground. The kid knows better than to fight back, he’s been on the receiving end of Bucky’s furious swings in the past, and it never ended well. As soon as he struggles to his feet, he’s flying in the opposite direction.

Bucky watches with a contemptuous smirk, before he turns back to Steve.

“Jesus Stevie, it’s the second time this week. And it’s Tuesday. Can you at least stop doing it over lunch, so we can eat in peace?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Brushing the dirt from his knees, Steve spins around to search for his lunch, only to find it’s been trampled in the scuffle.

“Serves you right, you god damn punk.” Bucky mumbles, snatching his own bag from the ground, giving him a small shove.

Steve hops up on the low stone fence next to the park, and shoots him a grin, rubbing his jaw ruefully, feeling the bruise already blossoming. Bucky leans next to him, and opens his paper bag with a sigh, pulling out a bologna sandwich and carefully tearing it in half. When he extends it, Steve has the good grace to look sheepish, before gratefully accepting.

They chew in silence for a few minutes, before Steve swallows and turns to speak, intent on spilling his side of the story. Bucky listens patiently, taking in the blond hair sticking in every direction, the top button of his shirt hanging by a thread, the self-righteous tremor in his voice, the dab of butter smeared yellow on his face. He wants to give him a piece of his mind, but is well aware the futility in lecturing Steve Rogers. Instead, he simply reaches a thumb forward, scraping the butter off the tip of Steve’s freckled nose.

“You’re a fucking mess Rogers. Don’t know how you’d get along without me.”

Steve looks surprised for a moment, his eyes glancing down when he watches Bucky wipe the butter on his trousers. His feels his breath hitch. His heart skips a beat.

*****

The hesitant kiss It’s so often unsure and unrecognised. Testing the waters with whispered words or cautious actions, because you can’t find the courage in your heart to press further. Both waiting for the other to move first, neither realising what the other wants.

“You could’ve stayed you know, I’m able to get myself home, thanks very much.”

The words are drunk and sloppy, and Steve trips on the curb in front of their apartment, arms cartwheeling as he pitches forward. Bucky’s reflexes are quick, looping an arm around his waist before Steve face-plants on the concrete.

“Yeah buddy, I know, but I wanted to go. You gave me a good excuse.”

Opening the front door of their building, Bucky ushers Steve through, fingers firm on his elbow to avoid any further catastrophe. Pausing in the entry way, Bucky stifles a groan as he looks toward the ceiling. Dragging a drunk and combative Steve Rogers up three flights of stairs is like herding cats.

Impossible and infuriating, because Steve Rogers is an asshole sometimes.

Steeling himself for an argument, he turns to find Steve swaying rather dramatically, squinting at him with one bleary eye, and he decides to hell with it. Taking Steve’s arm, he swings it over his shoulder and with a grunt, lifts him into a fireman’s hold.

“God dammit Bucky, put me the fuck down you fucking fuck, I’m FINE.” Steve’s voice is muffled against Bucky’s arm, and he gives a halfhearted kick before going slack.

“Yeah I’m sure you are, I just really wanna reach my fucking bed before the sun rises.”

Bucky takes the steps slowly, careful to avoid banging Steve’s head into the banister. He can hear him still mumbling into the sleeve of his jacket, a string of colourful curses that would sound more appropriate in a whorehouse, rather than their quiet little apartment building.

“Christ, where do you even learn these words? If your Ma could hear you right now, she’d slap you upside the head.” Bucky huffs. There’s a pause, and the curses continue, softer now, but filthy nonetheless.

When he arrives on their landing, Bucky reaches to dig the key out of Steve’s back pocket, earning himself a weak punch.

“Jesus, at least buy me dinner first, damn,” comes the slurred response. Bucky snorts, his shoulders shaking with laughter, and Steve lets out a groan when the movement rattles his head.

Finally staggering through their front door, Bucky kicks it shut behind him, and trips into the bedroom. Steve lands with a soft bounce on the bed and immediately snags his pillow, curling into a tight ball. Bucky unlaces his boots and yanks them off his feet, scratching his fingers through his dark hair, debating the struggle of getting Steve into night-clothes. When he hears the quiet snore, he decides against it. Steve doesn’t weigh much, but he somehow turns into complete dead-weight once his head hits the pillow, and experience has taught Bucky it’s never worth the fight.

He’s turning away, when he hears the words.

“Stay.” It’s so soft, Bucky thinks he hasn’t heard correctly. “Stay with me, Bucky. Just with me.”

Bucky’s heart stops, unable to process the words he’s secretly ached for so desperately, for so many years. Steve rolls over, and Bucky holds his breath.

But he’s fast asleep, his face burrowed in the pillow he’s clutching tightly.

Bending to smooth the blond hair from his face, Bucky’s hand lingers. For just a moment, he allows himself the freedom to think on his deepest secret, and he leans to drop a light kiss on Steve’s temple.

And then he turns away, heart heavy in his chest, seeking the cold comfort of his own bed.

At the sound of retreating footsteps, Steve opens his eyes with a small sigh.

*****

The leaving kiss

It’s found in longing looks and measured pauses, when the undercurrent of emotion is so thick in your chest, you can barely breathe to speak. It is a common product of war.

“Just be careful. Don’t – don’t try to be a hero, just keep your ass safe until I get there.” Steve pushes his hair from his face, grinning slightly at the irony of a safety lecture coming from him.

“Nah, I live a charmed life Stevie, don’t you worry about me. Be finished so quick, it’ll be over before you get there.” Bucky’s bouncing on the balls of his feet, concentrating on the contrast between his shiny boots and the rough wooden planks of the dock, unable to look Steve in the face.

He’s afraid if he looks, he may never stop.

“Buck.” Steve’s voice is quiet. When Bucky finally raises his eyes, he hopes against hell that Steve doesn’t recognise the panic in his face. He could care less who sees it once he’s on that ship, but he won’t let Steve see how much he’s dreading this.

Steve is watching him calmly, his eyes a perfectly clear sky blue, and Bucky knows with certainty he could drown in them if he allows himself the time. His heart clenches, and for one brief second, he does the unthinkable. He lets his guard down, every raw emotion flooding his features.

Fear. Longing. Panic. Love.

There’s an imperceptible nod from Steve before he’s wrapping him in a tight hug, and Bucky exhales a harsh breath and clings tight, giving himself up to the only comfort he ever needs.

They remain locked together for longer than is probably appropriate, but neither cares. When the shrill screech of the whistle finally sounds, it cleaves them in two and they hastily separate, four red cheeks and two racing hearts.

Without another word, Bucky turns to leave, and Steve feels his heart sink when he sees it.

Whenever Bucky Barnes walks, there is always a lightness, a graceful spring in his step that Steve has always admired, but today it’s gone. He walks up the gangplank as though headed to his own execution.

And this is the thing no one can ever predict about war. Perhaps he is.

He pauses at the top, and squares his shoulders. When he turns to face Steve one last time, he looks like himself once more, gifting Steve with one last flash of his trademark grin, adding a smart salute to complete the picture, before he disappears.

The waves are slamming against the side of the ship, white caps of foam dancing in the thrashing water of the harbour. Bucky stands on the upper deck, resting his forearms on the ship rail, and watching Steve grow smaller. His hand is raised in farewell, and he can see Steve imitating the gesture. Both keep their eyes trained on the other, until there’s nothing left to see.

*****

The reassurance kiss

It burns with comfort and familiarity, achingly intimate because it had seemed lost forever. It’s a touch that will reassure, without words, the promise that you will never, ever let go.

Steve hears the dull muttering, the slow whisper of a broken voice, before he sees his face. Following the sound, he identifies the numbers as they echo off cold concrete walls, the words drawing him closer, a moth to a flame. He knows the numbers. Sometimes he whispers them to fall asleep at night.

Rushing into the empty room, he experiences a moment of clarity, when he discovers how closely heaven and hell are truly linked. The hot relief of finding Bucky alive scorches his heart. But it is quickly tempered by an icy horror that freezes his lungs.

“Barnes…Sergeant…32557038… Barnes…Sergeant…32557038, 3255…” Unaware of his saviour’s presence, Bucky continues his flat repetition, the words falling unconsciously from his lips again and again.

Pausing at the table, Steve stares down, feeling his heart sink to his stomach. Strapped securely to a table, Bucky is drenched in sweat, his face a patchwork of purple and black bruises, his lips cracked and bleeding, and his beautiful blue eyes slide back and forth, refusing to focus.

Steve believed he knew the meaning and the feeling of anger. But in this moment, my god, was he so very wrong.

There is a new appreciation for the word and for the first time in his life, he truly feels it. The edges of his vision are tinged with red, rage bubbling white hot in his brain, and he knows with absolute certainty, if he finds those responsible, he will tear them limb from fucking limb.

Forcing himself to concentrate, his hands easily snap the straps holding Bucky down, and ever so gently, completely at odds with the fury of his thoughts, he curls his arms under Bucky’s shoulders and slowly helps him to stand.

“I’m here Buck, I got you. Stay with me, I’m here.”

When Bucky’s legs give out, Steve folds him tightly in his arms. Bucky is silent and stiff at the close contact, but when he finally realises whose arms encircle him, every ounce of fight leaves his body. He twines his arms around Steve, shaking fingers clutching at his leather jacket, and he buries his face in his neck, inhaling the familiar scent with a choking sob.

The world is screaming around them now, exploding in startling bursts of orange and blue flame. While the fire and ash rain down, they remain in their silent embrace, lost in the realisation that they’ve found each other again.

*****

The early morning kiss

When there’s no one but the two of you, it’s found in that quiet hour of the night, right before the dawn. It comes with gentle moments of reflection, the tangle of thoughts and fingers, and the idea that perhaps the sum of being together exceeds the individual parts.

Bucky never wanted anything to change about Steve. He believed with every inch of his heart, every last drop of his soul, that Steve Rogers was perfect the way he was. His fast temper, his slight body, his smart mouth, his massive heart.

But admittedly, there are times when Bucky appreciates his new height.

Like now. They’re leaning back to back, much as they had done as kids, and there’s a certain relief in slouching against someone who is so solidly, comfortably durable.

Bucky looks up at the night sky, his head resting contentedly against Steve’s. Both are in desperate need of a haircut, and when the breeze floats through the campsite, it lifts the light and dark strands, tugging and tangling them together.

Taking a deep drag of his cigarette, Bucky relishes the instant lethargy the smoke brings, and he gazes at the starlit sky, appreciating the vastness in front of him. There’s an ironic symmetry he thinks, as he contemplates how small his life is, compared to how enormously he feels for the man behind him.

And if he could delve into Steve’s head, Bucky would find his thoughts wandering an identical path.

Steve is thinking about his life so far, and what has led him here, and ruminating on the idea that everything he has and everything he is, is tied up in some way with Bucky. He wonders to himself if Bucky realises the same, because he thinks about it every single day.

When Steve taps his arm, Bucky passes him the cigarette without a word, and Steve slips it between his lips. His brain is whirling, trying to shape his thoughts into something he can vocalise.

“Buck?”

Bucky waits a full minute before he answers, savouring the low sound of Steve’s voice. His throat works several times before he can respond. “Yeah?”

“You ever think – well, we’ve known each other a long time.” Steve passes the cigarette back to Bucky, who examines the tip, before taking another slow drag.

“Sure. Been pullin’ your ass outta shit long as I can remember.”

“Yeah well, guess I owe you a few.”

“Don’t worry, I keep a scorecard in my jacket. Update it every day.”

“You’re a real jerk.” Steve tips his head back, knocking it against Bucky’s.

“Punk.”

Bucky takes a final drag, and flicks the smoke away with a small smile. They stay seated in silence, watching as the stars disappear and the red streaks of dawn bleed into the horizon.

*****

The distraction kiss

This one is more selfless than any other. It screams to take away the other’s pain, to distract from the moment, to help them forget.

When a bullet hits flesh, there’s a moment of suspension, when the victim doesn’t realise what’s happened. Bucky is unaware he’s been hit, until he feels the warmth spreading down his left arm, and looks down in surprise to see a slowly spreading stain on his blue jacket, right above his clavicle. In the next instant, his knees give out and he hits the ground hard, his shoulder absorbing the impact and dislocating instantly with a snap. The scream explodes from his throat before he can stop.

There’s a flurry of voices, and Morita is leaning over him, comfortingly calm, his movements smooth and methodical.

“Get behind him Cap, you’ll have to hold him. It’ll hurt like a motherfucker.”

Steve is as far from calm as one can get, he feels the waves of panic breaking and cresting over him, but he scrambles to follow the instructions. Gingerly lifting Bucky’s torso so he can settle behind him, Steve presses his chest to Bucky’s back, flinching at the agonised moan Bucky can’t contain.

“Sarge, listen to me, I need you to stay quiet, you can’t – Cap, you gotta hold him down – I don’t know who else is nearby.”

Steve can hear a tinge of anxiety in Morita’s voice, and suddenly it’s enough to shock him back to sanity. Bucky is writhing on the ground, so Steve wraps his legs around him, hooking his feet over Bucky’s thighs to pin him down.

“Good, now get something between his teeth, I don’t want him chewing through his fucking tongue.”

The canvas strap from his water canteen is pushed into Steve’s shaking hands, and at a whispered coax, Bucky unclenches his teeth long enough to bite down on the coarse fabric.

The fingers of his right hand are scrabbling unconsciously into the mud beneath him, searching for purchase, for anything to hold, and Steve reaches down to grasp his hand, pulling it from the blood-soaked earth, and weaving their fingers together. He folds their joined arms tight across Bucky’s chest, holding him closer than he’s ever done in his life.

“Hey now, I’m here, I got you. You’re gonna be fine, this is nothin’ at all. You know you gotta stay quiet, so you squeeze my hand instead, do it hard as you can, lemme see what you got Buck.”

Steve rests his chin on Bucky’s shoulder, and his voice is steady as he murmurs in his ear, a stark contrast to the terror he feels.

“We’re out of fucking morphine, I’ll try to be fast.” Morita is apologetic, but professional, and at Steve’s nod, he slices open the jacket and begins digging into the flesh to find the bullet. Bucky makes no sound, but the tears are a thick, steady stream flowing down his face. His entire body jerks and spasms while Morita keeps searching, and it takes all he has for Steve to hold him down.

So he begins to talk. Babbling nonsense and memories, he searches for words of comfort, a desperate attempt at distraction whispered for Bucky alone.

“You remember when we were kids, we always said we could smell snow coming, ‘specially at Christmas, said the air tasted like metal and oranges…you still owe me dance lessons, you know I’m God fucking awful, and you promised to teach me…fuck, that time you dropped a bucket of motor oil down your shirt, Jesus you smelled like dirt and pine needles for days, the whole apartment reeked…you know I’m still the better poker player, we get home, we’ll head to the bars, try our luck at hustling, what do you say…”

It feels as though lifetimes have passed, before there’s a final wash of the wound, and the cleanest bandage they can find is put in place.

“I’m almost done, it’s almost over.” Morita is wiping his hands on his shirt, and Steve feels nauseous when he sees the dark streaks of Bucky’s blood coating the fabric. “His shoulder’s gotta go back in, sit him up, hold him tight. I’ll count from three, make it quick. Ready, three - ” he doesn’t finish, snapping the shoulder forward, wincing at sound of Bucky’s strangled sob.

Steve is still clutching his hand, when Bucky weakly turns his tear-filled eyes to Steve’s and gives him a shaky nod. Before Steve can utter a word, Bucky’s eyes roll back in his head and he passes out.

*****

The aching kiss

When you’re close, when you’re so incredibly close, to voicing your feelings, but you fall short. It’s the kiss that screams the loudest, but is never heard.

The wind is still warm, even for September. The first fingers of Fall were appearing, splotches of rusty red and golden yellow lining the leaves of the forest. The spells of relaxation between fighting were getting shorter and shorter, the war looming ahead like an unending novel. Every time a battle was won, it seemed two more chapters were added to their story.

When a moment of rest finally arrives, the Commandos don’t hesitate. Dumping gear in a clearing, there’s a collective groan of relief from the entire unit, as everyone collapses to the ground, basking in the glow of a 12-hour break.

“There’s a lake nearby and I want a god damn bath. I smell like shit.” Bucky announces, digging in his pack for a semi-clean change of clothes, and the small piece of parchment paper holding his dwindling chunk of soap.

Steve runs a grimy hand down his face, trying to scrub the exhaustion from his eyes. “Me too.”

Waving off their Captain and Sergeant, eyes are already closing as the men happily fall comatose on the leaf strewn ground.

When he reaches the shore, Bucky drops everything in a messy pile at the edge of the lake. Bending to unlace his boots, he kicks them away and yanks off his thick socks, groaning with pleasure at the feel of the damp grass on his aching feet. Eager for the water, he pulls his shirt over his head, quickly unclips the leather belt, and sheds his trousers and underwear in one movement. Pausing to let the breeze wrap around his body, he scratches absently at the small pink scar from his bullet wound, a reminder no larger than a nickel. It healed shockingly fast. Something he prefers not to think about.

Wading into the water, he tips his head back and shouts a loud “Fuck!” to the blue sky, the icy temperature hitting him like a slap to the face, but he splashes forward anyway, submerging his entire body. He doesn’t come up right away, letting himself float for a time, content with the deep silence the water provides. When he finally emerges, he looks back at Steve’s scream of “Shit!” as he ducks under the clear water, and Bucky’s laughter rings out at the sight, reflecting off the glassy surface of the lake like sunshine transformed to sound.

They let the sun traipse slowly through the sky, taking the afternoon to trade stories and dirty jokes, reminiscing about times before the war, talking about the first things they plan to do when they get home. Bucky wants a cold beer and a box of Cracker Jacks and a scorching hot afternoon at a Dodgers game. Steve wants a steak and to sit on their fire escape and watch the sun go down.

Neither of them needs to state the fact, but each knows their plans involve the other.

Bucky’s can’t help himself, his eyes coming to Steve again and again, still baffled by the change. The way he moves is different, more careful and cautious, like he’s still unsure how to manoeuvre his newly large limbs. But while he looks different, Bucky takes enormous comfort in the fact that everything else about Steve is exactly the same. He was always a confident, self-righteous shit, even when he was the scrawniest kid in school, but he’s no longer reliant on Bucky to back him up when he shoots his mouth off or runs fists first into a fight.

Not that it makes a damn bit of difference. Bucky Barnes will follow Steve Rogers into the darkest corners of hell and beyond. That will never change.

Hours later they’re spent and refreshed, glad for one calm day amid the frenetic chaos that makes up their lives. When they reach the bank, both dress quickly, shivering as the cool evening air sets in, and Bucky feels his heart give a tiny flip when he notices for the first time the hints of red in the golden scruff that covers Steve’s face. It throws him for a loop.

They’ve collected everything and turned for camp, when Bucky catches a glint of metal lying in the grass, and reaches to find Steve’s dog tags.

“Surprised these aren’t red, white, and fucking blue, they gave you plain old metal?”

His arms are full of dirty clothes, but Steve still manages to flip him off with a grin. Bucky moves to hand him the tags, but Steve bows his head so Bucky can drop them around his neck instead. He hesitates when he sees the pale, smooth skin on the back of Steve’s neck, and in that moment, he opens his mouth to say it, to tell him.

And he closes it.

He licks his lips, and tries again. Nothing happens.

With a silent sigh, he settles the tags around his best friend’s neck, and gives him a slap on the shoulder.

“Let’s go see about supper.”

*****

The goodbye kiss

So many people never get this kiss. Sometimes it’s only a cold blue inch between catching and falling. It’s the most painful kiss in any life, all because of numbers. A thousand smiles you will never witness. A million things you should have said. An infinite number of regrets.

“I had him on the ropes.”

“I know you did.”

Steve is clinging to the train door, the snowy wind howling around him. The panic is clawing its way up his chest, and Steve could vomit at the fear. He shoves it down, moving cautiously along the busted doorframe, searching for footholds along the way.

Bucky is looking up at him, blatant terror in his eyes as the metal bar cracks further. This fear, it is something new, one he has never experienced. When a soldier sprints across a battlefield or throws himself knife first into a fight, the adrenaline is different. He doesn’t need to think, he only needs to act, and every split-second decision guides him down a path, whether right or wrong. Wartime bravery is an art-form, one Bucky has perfected over the years.

But now? Hanging onto a metal bar above a thousand-foot drop, watching it slowly crack while you wait for the inevitable? This is an altogether different bravery. But beneath his fear, Bucky feels an odd sense of calm, because if there’s anyone on this planet who can save him, he knows it’s Steve Rogers.

Steve has found his footing, and is clutching the door-frame and leaning down, stretching his fingers as far as they can reach, and he shouts into the wind.

“Reach Buck! Come on, I’ll get you, I got you. Stay with me, I swear to God, I’m not letting go.”

Their fingers are so close, and there’s a moment of stillness when Steve swears he can feel the warmth of Bucky’s fingers through his gloves. And in the next instant, it’s gone, the warmth replaced by a silent gust of wind, and Steve can do nothing but watch the dark hair and blue eyes of his beating heart plummet to the frozen river below, the terrified screams echoing off the barren rocks of the mountainside.

The scene will replay in his mind for the rest of his life, a perpetual loop of heartbreak from which he can never hope to recover. Steve will spend years parsing apart these brief moments again and again, reviewing the smallest details he could have changed, to alter the course of his life. It is his greatest regret.

He could have reached further.

He could have been faster.

What is the worth of Captain America, if he couldn’t even save the one thing he loved above everything else in this world?

*****

The remember me kiss

Pain and bruises, kicks and punches. A snap of a broken arm, a bullet embedded in flesh. When you keep fighting for the words to bring them back, and you’re met with hate. You will think twice when you see the emotion, knowing it is nothing more than a coping mechanism. Hate lives next to love, varied shades on a complementary colour palette.

The Soldier can feel it in every hit, every snap of bone, he’s swinging for a reason, one he thinks he understands.

“Your name is James Buchanan Barnes. God dammit, you know me, Bucky. You’ve known me your whole life!”

The blond man, Captain America, is standing resolutely in front of him. He won’t back down, and the Soldier can’t understand why. Holding his broken arm close to his body, he screams with fury, launching himself forward again, his silver arm smashing into the Captain’s face with a sickening crunch. Knocking him off balance, the Soldier rams his shoulder forward again, and when they topple together, he finds himself straddling the man’s hips.

He can feel tears of panic choking his throat, and the emotion is so completely foreign to him, he doesn’t understand what’s happening when he feels the tears run down his face. His fist slams down again and again, and he sees the blood running thick and red, sees the lip split in half, sees an eye socket battered and swollen shut. The man is doing nothing to shield himself, and it sends the Soldier into a frenzy.

“Fight back!” he hisses furiously, slamming the man into the glass. “Fucking fight back!”

And then the other eye opens, a brilliant sky-blue looking beseechingly up at him, and for a moment the Soldier pauses, his fist hanging in the air. Tilting his head at the faintest flicker of a memory dancing in his brain.

“No. I’m here Bucky, not leaving, I’m staying here. You and me, god dammit, it’s you and me. Till the end of the line.”

His eyes widen in fear at the words, his breath comes now in short, harsh rushes. The Soldier fades to the background, and suddenly it’s Bucky Barnes who is hesitating, his fist held aloft. The words slam into him, reverberating through his consciousness and in a flash, cracked fragments of another reality come flooding back.

Cigarette smoke and a star-strewn sky, the taste of blood and canvas on his tongue, the feel of butter on his fingers, the sparkle of water dripping from blond hair.

“Who - ” the words are still in his mouth, he can taste the question, when the floor gives way and they plunge together into the water below.

*****

The welcome home kiss

When the earth has stopped shaking, and life has come full circle, this is the kiss that wipes away all the pain and suffering. It is both forgiveness and acceptance, from a deep-rooted desire to prove that together is the best way forward.

Bucky’s fingers are locked around the thick straps of his backpack. He hasn’t let it out of his sight for so long now, it’s almost like an extra appendage. Everything he owns, everything he remembers, is tucked neatly inside the black canvas, and he’s wary of the ensuing anxiety attack if it’s out of sight for too long.

Steve is watching him carefully, his hands stuffed deep in his pockets. They’re standing in his small apartment, Bucky staring at the floor, Steve staring at Bucky. He would give anything right now to wrap his arms around him, but he understands the hesitancy. He knows it’s not personal. He keeps his voice low and soothing, trying desperately to convey his emotions in the simplest words.

“It’s – the place, it isn’t very big, but there’s plenty of room. You can stay here as long as you need. I mean, you know, as long as you want. If you want. You don’t have to leave. You never have to leave.”

Steve knows he’s rambling, he can’t help himself. Bucky is taking deep breaths, his shoulders rising and releasing, and he struggles to ground himself in the here and now. He feels frustrated and helpless in a way that is all too familiar, someone out of place and out of time.

“Stay. Stay with me Bucky. Just with me.” Bucky looks up in surprise when he hears the words, a flash of remembrance tickling his brain. “I meant it then. I mean it now. Please.” Steve is whispering, his fists clenched at his side. He wants to reach for him, but he doesn’t want to make a wrong move. How maddening to feel this way, with Bucky of all people, his other half, the one who could mirror his every movement, conscious and unconscious.

Bucky sweeps his gaze around the apartment again, and something clicks into place.

There is familiarity here. He sees it now. The smell of coffee and burnt toast, the colourful shield laying in the corner, the scattered pencils and sketchpads sitting haphazard on the end table. What is familiar is Steve, and because Steve is a part of him, Bucky discovers he recognises himself here as well.

The broken jigsaw pieces of his mind are nowhere near solved, but the recognition lets several more pieces drop into place. The world is still hazy, but with each new connection, he is finally beginning to see the bigger picture again.

Bucky stares into the bright blue eyes across from him, and his voice cracks when he whispers. “There you are.”

Without another thought, the backpack falls from his fingers and he collapses into Steve’s waiting arms. He doesn’t need to carry it any further. He’s finally come home.

*****

The last forever kiss

The one that ties it all together. When you’ve crossed oceans of time, when you’ve endured lifetimes of heartache and pain, all for the chance to be together.

Bucky is sunk deep in thought as he writes in the notebook, sitting at the small table beneath their kitchen window, the early morning light splashing over him. When Steve pads noiselessly into the room, Bucky doesn’t even notice, and Steve can’t help himself. He stops and watches, perfectly content to observe these small moments for the rest of his days.

“Don’t be creepy Rogers.” He doesn’t look up, but there’s a hint of laughter in his voice, the pen still scratching across the paper.

Steve blushes at being caught, but he chuckles at gentle admonishment.

“What are you writing?”

Bucky smiles down at the pages, before he closes the cover and looks up at Steve with a lopsided grin. “Nothing much. Just a story.”

Steve’s lips curl up at the sight of Bucky’s relaxed expression. His happiness triggers an automatic response in Steve, once he can never help. He shuffles to the table and leans down, pressing his lips gently to Bucky’s, still marvelling at the simple fact that he can.

Every single day. For the rest of their lives.

They remain this way, lips lightly touching, tasting the other’s breath, breathing in the others scent. Neither pulls away first, but they part simultaneously, two pairs of blue eyes a shade different in colour, but identical in layers of emotion. Steve touches his forehead to Bucky’s and turns with a smile to get his coffee.

Bucky watches him for a moment, before he opens his notebook and writes one last line.

---

So really, what is a kiss? Is it the careful arms dragging you from the edge of hell? Is it the feel of fingers brushing under a black sky? Or is it the sound of the only words you need to find your way back?

Here’s the truth again. It’s all of these, and so many more.

But if you need a definition, I’ll give you this. A real kiss, it’s nothing more or less than then a promise between two souls. You may not see it at first, but rest assured, it’s always there. And whether it’s sealed with lips or stolen glances in the night, well, that part is unimportant.

I know now. You simply have to keep your eyes open.

*****

TAGS: @buckyappreciationsociety @psingh97 @stentorian-lore-n @ihavemymomentsstill @badassbaker @4theluvofall @justreadingfics @palaiasaurus64 @psychicwitchphilosopher @bone-of-my-bones @mrshopkirk

#bucky x steve #bucky x steve fic #bucky barnes x steve rogers #bucky barnes x steve rogers fic #stucky fanfiction #bucky barnes fic #steve rogers fic #stucky fic #stucky imagine

466 notes · View notes

thebest-medicine · 7 years

Text

Problem Solving

submitted by Negligible!anon:

A/N: N shared some wonderful TRC headcanons earlier, which inspired me to write this… a fic based on completely unrelated headcanons. Anyways, this is how I think the Raven Boys discovered each other’s ticklishness. Warnings for book-related levels of (anticipated) violence.

***

Ronan

Ronan and Gansey have been friends for a couple months now, so Gansey’s been invited to the Barns once or twice. More importantly, he’s met the rest of Ronan’s family, including the charming and roguish Niall Lynch - Niall Lynch, who spends his nights dreaming wonderful horrors into existence and his days embarrassing his kids in front of their friends.

Gansey remembers the incident clearly, mostly because it’s such a stark contrast to Ronan after. Niall reminds Ronan to check on the cows before sundown. Ronan, pulling his Aglionby tie off and shoving it into his pocket, replies sure, I’ll check on Declan later, if he’s not too busy mooing at some girl on his phone. Niall laughs affably, reels him in with a friendly arm around the shoulder, and launches into a devastating tickle attack until Ronan apologizes amid peals of laughter. He’s still giggling as Niall claps him on the back and wanders off, telling the two of them to stay out of trouble.

Gansey tucks the thought that the most contact he’s had with his parents in years is a quick handshake very firmly into the back of his mind and gallantly offers an elbow to Ronan, who shoves him in the shoulder with another laugh and sets off for the barn.

Months later, the unthinkable happens.

Ronan comes to stay in Monmouth, and for two weeks it’s as if he’s doing his best to sink into his mattress and disappear. Seeing how miserable he is, Gansey’s almost inclined to let him. At the end of those two weeks, though, he pries open the door to Ronan’s room and goes in. He can’t just let things go on like this – Ronan’s grief is another problem to solve, and even if he doesn’t know how to do it he doesn’t know how to leave it be either.

His presence sets the entire room in motion; empty beer bottles rolling from where the door pushed them aside, the sound of his bare feet on the floor echoing with each step, light forcing through the doorway. Ronan, however, emanates stillness; he’s flung facedown on his mattress, an empty shell of that laughing boy at the Barns. “Get up, Lynch. We’re going for a drive.”

Ronan’s response is an emphatic middle finger, jabbed unerringly at Gansey’s unprotected ankle. Gansey sighs and uses his foot to prod at Ronan’s side. “Don’t argue,” he says, trying to wedge his toes under Ronan’s body – maybe he can flip him over? “it’ll be fun.”

A muffled sound emanates from the pile of lean limbs on the floor. Gansey’s brain, caught up in wondering how much Ronan weighs and how much of a fight he’ll put up if lifted into a fireman’s hold, belatedly registers it as a yelp.

Ronan rolls over before things go any further. “Fine,” he says, eyes still closed. “I’ll be ready in ten. Now get the hell out.” And that’s that.

Ronan gets better. But his laughter is unmistakably bitter now, and his smile is a hook designed specifically to draw in people as angry at Ronan as Ronan is at the world. Gansey still doesn’t know how to solve that, so he focuses on the smaller things. Getting Ronan to sleep. Convincing him to study for tests. Talking him down from fights.

And, every so often, he tries to get Ronan to smile. Usually under the guise of getting him to do things – “why don’t we compare Latin homework?” accompanied by a series of pokes to Ronan’s side to get his attention, and “don’t sleep on the couch, you’ll hurt your neck,” as he swipes a finger up Ronan’s sole. He never does it in a way that draws attention, never tries to provoke a stronger reaction than what he gets, and never when Ronan’s in one of his more dangerous moods. He’s afraid that if he crosses whatever ragged line he can infer from Ronan’s response, it’ll stop working. But for now, he’s usually rewarded with a squirm, an upward tick of Ronan’s mouth, and in his more optimistic moments he likes to think that it’s enough to remind Ronan that someone cares about him.

Adam

Adam’s been friends with Ronan and Gansey for almost a month when he figures it out.

He’s eating lunch with them on Aglionby grounds, under a lush tree that probably eats up more money in fertilizer and water than Adam spends on clothes in a year. It’s been a long morning in a longer week, and once again Ronan’s decided to say something that turns his dull anger into something sharp and sparking.

Luckily, Gansey’s around to play white knight. Eyebrows furrowed, he leans toward Ronan and says something too quiet for Adam to hear. And then – so fast he almost doesn’t notice – he nudges Ronan in the side.

He’s seen this before. A nudge. A flinch. The flicker of a smile on Ronan’s face, stealing the harshness of his stubbled head and harsh features away for a few precious moments. But here, with the dappled-green sunlight rendering the two boys across from him almost otherworldly, is the first time it really clicks in his head.

Ronan Lynch, pugnacious Aglionby student with no regard for grades or dress codes or other people’s feelings, is ticklish.

He doesn’t plan to do anything with that knowledge. Ronan would probably punch him, and even the thought of that is enough to dissuade him. But somehow, forces beyond his control compel him to do something stupid. As usual.

About a week later, they’re all stuffed into the Pig, headed off on one of Gansey’s day trips. Gansey, as always, is at the wheel. Ronan’s snagged the passenger seat, which leaves Adam and Noah in the back. Unfortunately, this gives Ronan control over the music, and he’s chosen to abuse his power by playing the murder squash song for the fifth time in a row.

Gansey’s already asked Ronan to play something else and drifted off to Glendower-land with a disappointed sigh when his request was refused. Noah’s been staring out the left side window since they left, sun and shadow swirling over the half of his face that Adam can see. So it’s just him, teeth gritting and blood pounding in his ears every time another scream blares over the speakers, and Ronan, arms curled up and around his headrest as he lounges.

He doesn’t want to start a fight for no reason, so he decides to ask Noah first, gently shaking his shoulder to get his attention. “Should I do something?”

Noah turns his head, inscrutable as ever. He eyes Ronan, then Adam, and grins unexpectedly. “Go for it. It’s been a while since Ronan laughed.”

Adam blinks. So Noah knows Ronan’s secret too? Huh.

His crusade justified, he returns to the task at hand. “Lynch. Lynch! Change the song, or I’m going to make you.”

From what he can see in the rearview mirror, Ronan doesn’t even bother to open his eyes. “Yeah, good fucking luck with that.”

Well. Adam shifts forward, takes a deep breath, and makes his move.

Exposed in his tank top, the hollows under Ronan’s arms make for a pretty good initial target. Especially when Ronan shouts, yanks his arms down, and starts laughing so hard that he’s wheezing for breath. There’s a terrifying moment where Gansey starts in surprise and almost swerves the Pig straight off the road, but Adam’s gone too far to stop now and when Gansey’s eyes catch his in the rearview mirror his expression is somewhere between shock and approval.

Ronan isthrashing, long legs hitting the dashboard as he tries to escape his seatbelt and Adam’s torturous fingers. He doesn’t beg – not that Adam expected him to – but the relatively tame curses leaking out amid his cackling are proof that he’s weakening.

“Change the song,” Adam says as firmly as he can through a smile so wide he can feel it stretching his face, “or I’m going to keep using you to drown it out.”

“Fine,” Ronan shouts. Adam pulls his hands away and grimacing, wipes them on his shirt. Ronan slumps back into his seat, reaching out to cut off the murder squash song mid-scream, and for a few moments the Pig is filled with blessed silence.

“Gansey, pull over.”

Gansey’s proud-parent smile disappears. “I’m not going to stop so you can threaten Adam for acting on behalf of the rest of us.”

“Pull over or I’m getting out of the car right now.” Ronan’s hands tighten on his seatbelt buckle and the door handle, and Adam suddenly can’t breathe. This was a mistake.

He wonders, abruptly, if he can shift any of the blame onto Noah for enabling him. But he knows better than anyone that nothing he says will matter here.

Gansey pulls to the shoulder of the road, warning, “Don’t do anything stupid, Ronan. I mean it. He didn’t do anything wrong.”

It’s not like that matters either, Adam thinks miserably, but at least he’s fairly sure that Gansey won’t let Ronan kill him.

Ronan stalks around the front of the car and knocks on Noah’s door. “We’re switching places, Czerny. Don’t play any of that weird pop music shit.”

Noah nods and calmly gets out. He smiles happily at Adam. Adam can’t bring himself to smile back.

Ronan’s gaze meets his for a single instant, and Adam closes his eyes.

Ronan thumps into the seat next to him. Fastens his seatbelt with a scowl. Leans back, eyes fixed firmly on the back of Gansey’s headrest. “You can start driving now. See, nothing stupid.”

“Thank you,” Gansey says, and the Pig sputters back to life. Adam couldn’t be closer to the door on his side if he was welded to it.

Five minutes later, Ronan uncrosses his arms. Adam watches in confusion as his hand comes closer. Ronan’s index finger moves to rest exactly where the seams of his shirt meet under his arm, and he’s too rattled to do anything but watch as Ronan prods at him repeatedly. A giggle escapes, half relief and half actual ticklishness, and as Ronan smirks he knows he’s screwed in an entirely different way than he first expected.

It takes twenty minutes until they reach their destination, and Adam’s breathless with laughter the entire time.

Gansey

It doesn’t change anything. They’re not less likely to snap at each other, they don’t try to tickle each other out of bad moods because neither of them have the kind of problems that a little laughter can cure.

But whenever Ronan’s half-hearted attempts to distract Adam or Gansey from homework get a little too out of hand, Adam doesn’t hesitate to grab whatever limb is nearest, haul Ronan into a rough approximation of a pin, and start wiggling his fingers into sensitive skin. And Ronan makes it a point to unceremoniously wreck him every single time in return, and a few more besides. At least Adam’s stopped looking at him like he’s going to start ripping throats out if anyone so much as pokes him the wrong way.

It’s on one of these occasions, Ronan looming over Adam on Monmouth’s dusty floor, that Adam gets curious. “Hey, wait – wahahait! I don’t understand – how come you never get Gansey back for tickling you?”

Ronan barely pauses, squeezing right below Adam’s ribs and grinning at the resulting yelp. “Gansey’s not ticklish, Parrish. Unfortunately for you.”

“H-how did you figure that out? What did he even say? ‘I appreciate your testing my nervous system, but you can’t possibly think I’m susceptible to your childish weaknesses?’”

It’s a good imitation of what Ronan likes to think of as Gansey’s Dick the Third accent, and it’s only when he tries to answer the question that he realizes he’s overlooked something. “Never actually tried it.”

“Wait, what? You got me back within, like, the first ten minutes.”

Ronan’s always figured that Gansey would never start a fight he could possibly lose. It’s never even crossed his mind that Gansey too could be reduced to a breathless, giggling heap like he and Adam (and Noah, sometimes, though half the time it’s like he’s not ticklish at all). But instead of saying that to Adam, he turns abruptly to Monmouth’s single couch, where Gansey has neatly arranged himself.

He’s on the phone with his sister, ankles neatly crossed and one arm pillowing his head as he nods thoughtfully at something or the other. Ronan gestures watch this at Adam and drapes himself over the back of the couch. “Hey, Dick, I’ve got a question for you.”

Gansey holds up a finger to quiet him, the kind of unintentional imperiousness that makes Ronan really hope that he and Gansey share this particular trait. “It’s a yes-or-no question. You don’t even have to say anything.”

Gansey shrugs and gestures for him to continue. Ronan smirks.

“Are you ticklish?”

Gansey actually flinches. He recovers quickly, shaking his head emphatically and giving Ronan a prohibitive look for good measure, but he really should know better than to think that’s enough to stop Ronan now.

He deploys a single finger to poke at Gansey’s stomach, covered today by an offensively magenta polo shirt. “Oh, good. I’d hate for this to disturb your phone call.”

Gansey bites out a broken stop it as Ronan keeps teasing him, reaching down to catch Ronan’s wrist with his free hand. Over the phone, he can just make out Helen asking a question.

“No, Helen, nothing’s happening-” Ronan raises an eyebrow and waggles his other hand at him tauntingly, and Gansey, blushing, abruptly tells Helen he’ll have to call her back.

Gansey hangs up and opens his mouth to say something, but Ronan’s worked both his hands free now and the only thing that comes out is laughter.

“Rohohonan – whahat – hahahnoho!”

“Thank Adam,” Ronan tells him, rucking up his polo shirt to get better access to Gansey’s torso. It’s lean from rowing practice, but, to Ronan’s delight, that doesn’t make him it any less susceptible to a light scratching that has Gansey in stitches. “He pointed out that I’ve never actually tickled you, which means you have a lot of payback due.”

“That’s not what I said,” calls Adam. He’s grinning, though, happy that Gansey is happy and that he’s not the one under Ronan’s hands today, and Ronan finds his mood rising to match.

Gansey, halfway to hysterics, is an absolute mess. He’s curled up around Ronan’s hands, not that it helps him any, and his golden hair is mussed beyond repair. Still, he hasn’t asked Ronan to stop yet, so Ronan’s not inclined to show him any mercy just yet.

He remembers having brothers. This, somehow, is even better.

#submission #negligible!anon #wow im so sorry it took this long to post this #ive been literally so fucking busy this summer omg #tickle fic #tickling #trc #the raven cycle #adam #ronan #gansey #tickle #fluff #fic #mild #problem solving

40 notes · View notes