#mentioned only on the physical section/scars!

[hopepetal]

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They had been running for some time now, chasing after Gem and Scott ever since proclaiming themselves allies. Chasing, without end, prey that was an expert at evading. It was frustrating, and not to mention exhausting.

Pearl took a moment to gasp for air, her footsteps stumbling to a halt. It took Scar a moment to notice, but when he did he stopped as well, turning to look back at her. “You good, Pearl?” he asked, tilting his head slightly in question. 

“Yeah,” she got out, “doin’ lovely, mate. Don’t worry about me, just need a second.” She bent over, resting her hands on her knees as she gasped. Her lungs and legs burned from the strain, and despite his calm demeanor she knew Scar was feeling the same.

It took Pearl a moment to realize that her hair was cascading down around her, falling into her face despite the fact that she had tied her hair back earlier. With a groan, she realized her ponytail had come loose, the ribbon she had used still tangled in her hair. “Hold on,” she got out, straightening back up, “I have to tie my hair back up. Can’t be fighting with my hair down.”

“Wait!” Scar set down his shield and bow before stepping forward. “I have a better idea.” Before Pearl could protest, he gently took the tangled ribbon from her hair. 

Pearl frowned. “What are you planning, Scar?”

“Sit down, Pearl.” Scar lowered himself to the ground and sat with his legs folded beneath him. “I’ll braid your hair.”

Pearl raised an eyebrow, laughing. She still clutched her bow in her hand, looking around nervously– they were almost a full death game in, and she still was on edge. As if she was planning on winning. “You know we don’t have that kind of time, Scar. Gem and Scott are still out there, and who knows what they’re planning?”

Scar shook his head, patting the ground in front of him. “Sit down. We need this rest, you know. Can’t fight too well if we’re exhausted.”

Pearl sighed, reluctantly setting down her bow as she sat. She kept her shield in her hand, laying it across her lap and fidgeting with the handle. “Alright.” She felt Scar pull her hair back, gently beginning to comb his fingers through her tangled locks. “Y’know, the final fight would go a lot easier if you killed me.”

Scar shook his head, still continuing to carefully brush through Pearl’s hair. “You know why I won’t do that, Pearl. I don’t like all those ‘heroic sacrifices’.”

Pearl laughed, continuing to fidget with her shield. Something about her laughter sounded a little bitter, nostalgic for something that had never happened. “Yeah, I can’t imagine why.”

Scar began dividing her hair up into sections, humming softly as he began to braid. “You have nice hair,” he commented, “very shiny. And soft.”

“You think so?” Pearl asked, free hand drifting up to play with one of her free locks. “Honestly, it just gets in the way during these games. I’m thinking of cutting it.”

Scar gasped, though the smile remained on his face. “Oh, I can only imagine… this game hasn’t even given us hairbrushes, the nerve!” After a moment of silence, he continued. “If you cut your hair, I won’t have any to braid, you know. How’s a man supposed to keep his hands busy like that?”

Pearl laughed, finally seeming to relax slightly as she set her shield to the side. “Grow out your own hair, you goof.” There was a sadness in her voice that Scar couldn’t physically understand– he’d never had long hair, so why did she sound like she was grieving something that never happened? And something so small at that.

For Pearl, the reason why was simple. How could she not grieve the parts of her friends that they’d forgotten they’d ever had? A smile that was missing its mischievousness, a laugh that was missing its depth. A look that had no recognition, no shared secrets. Memories like missing puzzle pieces, lost somewhere unknown. That was what she saw every time blood stained the ground, every time family was pitted against one another like soldiers at war.  

Scar continued to braid Pearl’s hair, humming a cheery tune that Pearl knew he couldn’t recall learning. Deft hands paused, lightly holding the strands of hair, before Scar pulled away to grab something. Pearl heard him pick up his sword then hesitate, considering something. 

“Aren’t you afraid of me stabbing you in the back?” he asked, to which Pearl laughed. “What? It’s a serious question!”

Pearl turned slightly to look at Scar, giving him a smile. “If you were going to stab me, Scar, it would’ve been when I asked you to. Besides,” she added, turning back around, “even if you did stab me now, I wouldn’t be upset. You’d get ten extra hearts.”

“Eh,” Scar dismissed, far too nonchalant for a discussion of death, “I don’t need ten extra hearts.”

Pearl raised an eyebrow, though she knew he wouldn’t be able to see that. “You might not think the same when we’re fighting against Gem and Scott, mate.”

Scar cut something with his sword before setting it back to the side, his hands taking Pearl’s hair in them again. “That’s a problem for future Scar. Present Scar doesn’t kill his only friend in the entire server.”

Pearl felt a pang of guilt shoot through her. She knew that feeling well– loneliness, grief. Loneliness was an old friend that had once been her only companion. She recognized that in Scar, in his voice and his eyes. She had seen it once before, in the second game. Not that he would remember it.

He might, soon. The voice that whispered to her was none other than her own, her deepest thoughts given words. He could win this. He could become like us. 

I wouldn’t wish that on anyone, she shot back, unknowingly tensing up. It was a little silly, getting into an argument with herself, but Pearl had always been a rather silly person. Unconventional, even. At one point, she’d been called insane. Perhaps it was fitting.

And yet you want him to win. The voice made a good point– she made a good point. If she didn’t want Scar to win, she could easily just kill him now. She should kill him now if she so desperately wanted to spare him the fate of the victors. He’d put up a fight, and he was good with a sword. Pearl knew that much, knew that there would be a moment of surprise before his eyes narrowed and heart hardened and the battle began. She also knew that he wouldn’t win against her on the chance she did try her hardest, that she fought with all her might.

Scar knew this too, and perhaps that was why he teamed up with her in the first place. Maybe he had found kinship in their shared loneliness. Maybe he’d wanted protection. Maybe he needed a friend. It was unlikely, but maybe he’d felt drawn to her by a bond he couldn’t quite understand, one made by witnessing the violent and sudden end of a server he couldn’t remember. There were a thousand possible reasons as to why he’d chosen her, and perhaps she’d truly never left the tower after all, because the fact he had chosen her at all still slightly baffled her. 

Well. No matter. He chose her, and in the end they’d all die anyway. 

“You have gentle hands,” she commented. “Joel tried braiding my hair before. Nearly tugged my whole head off my neck, that man. It’s a wonder Lizzie’s put up with him this long.” No matter what memories they lost, it always seemed like Joel and Lizzie’s marriage remained an unchangeable fact. Maybe it had something to do with “‘til Death do us part’”, though Pearl wasn’t really sure. 

Maybe she’d try marrying someone when they got back to Hermitcraft, just to see if it carried over to the next death game. And wasn’t that a strange thought, the next death game? There would be another, Pearl knew, if Grian had anything to say about it. He was a little strange like that, but she’d come to expect those kinds of things from her brother. 

“Why thank you!” Scar was beaming, she could tell by his voice. “This just comes so naturally to me. Maybe I should’ve been a hairdresser instead of a trader.” 

Pearl laughed, remembering the intricate braids Scar would put his hair in during Last Life and their home server, Hermitcraft. Although he couldn’t remember them, he remembered how to do them. That was a small relief, at the very least. It was nice to know that her friends kept some parts of themselves, instead of being the blank slates she had originally thought when she first regained her memories. 

“Maybe,” she responded, starting to pick at the grass in front of her, plucking a small flower from the ground. “I’d go to you all the time if you were my hairdresser.” Her voice took on a teasing lilt as she continued. “Just as long as you promise not to do anything too crazy with my hair, alright?”

Scar giggled, his laughter another part of himself that he had kept even after the loss of his memories. “I can’t promise anything, sunflower! Who knows what might happen if you stop paying attention? I might turn you blonde if you aren’t careful.”

Pearl snorted, twirling a strand of grass around her finger idly. “And where do you suppose you’ll get the dye for that, mate? Or the means to make my hair lighter so it’s easier to dye? We’re not exactly exploding with resources here.”

“Hmm, true…” Scar hummed thoughtfully. “We’ve found ourselves in a bit of a pickle, Pearl!”

Pearl shook her head, rolling her eyes. “No, Scar, we aren’t. I didn’t want to go blonde in the first place, so there’s no need to get the materials we’d need for it. Just keep braiding my hair, you goof!”

“Aww, alright!” Scar laughed softly as he went back to braiding Pearl’s hair. “Almost done.” His voice took on an uncharacteristically serious tone. “How are you feeling? Injuries, exhaustion? General… mental state?” He gave a small chuckle on the last one. “I mean, other than the obvious. This game has been… a trip.”

Pearl groaned, stretching out her arms in front of her. “Tell me about it. I lost all of my Mounders.” Her shoulders slumped. “I really wanted them to win, Scar. I really did.”

“I know,” Scar murmured, “and I’m sorry you didn’t get to see that through. You did your best, Pearl.” He paused. “And what about you? I would’ve thought that after all your allies… got out… that you would want to take up the sword and win for them. But you haven’t really… been doing that. You even offered to let me kill you.”

Pearl held back a shudder, wanting to wrap her arms around herself to fight off the sudden cold that had settled over her. “I don’t want to win,” she mumbled, “Even if I did, I don’t think they’d be too happy if I tried.”

Scar made a confused noise. “What was that? I couldn’t quite catch it.”

Pearl shook her head. “Nothing. Don’t worry about it.” She took a breath. “I just don’t want to win. Don’t see the point in all this, really. Never have. What’s a victory when everyone else around you is dead?”

Scar hummed thoughtfully, thinking about it. “I suppose you’re right. But in the end, isn’t it better for it to be them than me?”

Pearl chuckled sadly. “Not when you have to live with the consequences.”

Scar paused for a moment, as if struck by a sudden revelation. “...I think I understand. Thanks for, uh, answering my questions.” He continued braiding for another moment. “Alright, I think we’re all done!”

Pearl stood with Scar, reaching back to gently touch her braid. There was a shallow pool of water nearby, and she walked over to check her reflection. “Really, Scar?” Woven into her braid was a sunflower, which must’ve been what Scar cut with his sword earlier. 

Scar laughed, joining her by the water. “Doesn’t it look pretty? I thought it was fitting. And!�� he continued, over Pearl’s soft laughter, “it adds some brightness to the whole ensemble!” He gestured at Pearl’s outfit, the same she had worn in her past games.

Maybe she would change up her red look next game. If there was a next game. “It does, it does,” she agreed, stifling her laughter. “Thank you, Scar. I look very pretty now, and my hair is out of the way.”

Scar looked over at her, eyes wide. “You mean you won’t cut it? You promise?”

Pearl smiled, reaching out and putting a hand on Scar’s shoulder. “I promise I won’t cut my hair, Scar. Not after you put so much effort into braiding it. I wouldn’t do that to ya, mate. That’s just cruel.” 

Scar grinned. “I knew I could trust you!” With that, he turned away from the water and walked back to where he had left his sword and shield. 

Pearl spent another moment there, gazing out at the water. Did he really mean that? Did Scar truly trust her? If so, had it just been this small moment that made him let down his guard? No, surely not. Scar was intelligent and cunning, and rarely did he let his walls down for anyone. Something must’ve happened for him to feel this way towards her. Something she had done, or said, maybe.

And that was just if he was being truthful with his words– she knew Scar wasn’t one to ignore the benefits of weaving lies and charm into his speech. He was a masterful manipulator, she knew many underestimated him for the cheery, unassuming front he put up. But that was just another reason as to why he was dangerous.

“Pearl?” Scar’s voice snapped her out of her thoughts, and she looked back at her ally. “You comin’?”

“Yeah.” Pearl jogged over, feeling much more energized than before. Picking up her bow and her shield, she did one last check to make sure everything she had was in order. Once she was certain, she turned to Scar with a smile. “Lets win this one, Scar.”

Scar grinned in return, red eyes shining. “Why, I think that’s a wonderful idea!” 

Lightning struck the ground as Gem took Scott’s sacrifice, and once again Pearl stopped Scar. “My offer still stands, you know. Kill me and take the hearts, you’ll stand a better chance against Gem if you do.”

Scar pretended to think about it. “I think I’ll stand a better chance against Gem if I have you on my team. So, no thank you! But thanks for the offer. Come on, we can’t let Gem get away!” 

The chase continued, feeling much more light-hearted than the ones at the end of Double Life had been. To be fair, she had gone a little insane in the last few days, but still. Maybe it was Scar’s jovial attitude about killing. Maybe it was the fact that she still had an ally this late into the game. Maybe it was something Pearl would never be able to put her finger on, no matter how hard she tried to think of a reason.

The two inevitably caught up with Gem, who had grown exhausted from the chase. Despite being enemies now, Pearl still felt guilty as she raised her sword to attack, Gem’s wide eyes and shouts of an unfair fight making her hesitate and pull back. It was two against one after all, and Pearl had no intentions of winning. Ganging up on Gem like that felt wrong, but maybe that was just her old bond to the other holding her back. Scar had no such qualms, swooping in when she pulled back to quickly cut Gem down. 

Pearl could hardly believe it had happened until lightning struck the ground, and silence rang between the two as Scar stood over Gem’s body. They’d discovered that bodies remained after the last death when Jimmy had died, but it was still a little disturbing to just see Gem laying there. Like she was asleep. 

It didn’t feel right. 

Pearl had to bite back a snort. Four death games in, and she was still disturbed by the sight of dead bodies. Honestly, it was a little pathetic. She’d killed, and been killed, and yet… somehow, it never got any easier. Somehow, it just got harder. The blood staining her hands had become so much that it was hard to hold onto her weapon, and her scars ached whenever she killed. 

Pearl brushed her braid back over her shoulder and lowered her bow, offering Scar a weak smile. “You did it, Scar. Good job.”

Scar laughed softly, not turning around to face her just yet. “It’s just us two left, then. The last ones alive.” “Mhm. What’s your plan now, Scar?” Pearl kept her voice casual, trying to hide the trembling in her hands. How are you going to do it?

How are you going to kill me?

Scar answered her question by turning and raising his bow. Pearl hardly had any time to blink before he shot her, the force of the arrow sending her stumbling back with a shout. Instinct took over then, and she ran as Scar continued to shoot at her. All thoughts of sacrifice fled her mind as she dodged the flying arrows that missed her just barely, reminding her just how good of a shot Scar was. 

“Going for it immediately, huh?” she shouted back as she ran, pulling her sword. Not that she intended to use it, not to kill. But she would put up a fight. If Scar wouldn’t let her sacrifice herself for him, then she would do the next best thing. She would fight him, and he would earn his victory. Not like the hollow sacrifice Scott made for her, where victory was force-fed to Pearl by his hands. No, she wouldn’t do that to Scar. She respected him too much to throw the fight. 

That didn’t mean she would try to win, not in the slightest. But she would do her best to not make it easy for him. His victory would be painful no matter what she did, but at the very least she could make sure it wasn’t a hollow one.

The next arrow hit her as she ran through the field of sunflowers they had been sitting in just earlier, when Scar had offered to braid her hair. It felt like a lifetime ago as she crashed into the ground, yelping in pain as she tried to scramble back up. “Really, Scar?” She couldn’t help but laugh as she ran, the pain shocking as adrenaline flowed through her veins. 

“This game!” Scar called, continuing the chase as he spoke. “There were more of them, weren’t there? And you won.”

Pearl stumbled, surprise catching her off guard mid-stride. She cursed and turned back, swinging her sword down and catching Scar in the side. He stumbled back, granting her more time to flee– but not enough. As she ran, Scar drew back the bowstring, aiming carefully. A running target was harder to hit, but Pearl was moving in a relatively straight path. All he had to do was aim a little ahead, steady, then release. 

It was over the moment the arrow flew, striking Pearl in the chest and pushing her over the edge of a cliff, sending her plummeting into the caves below. Lightning struck, and then all was silent. 

Scar stood, clutching his bow in a white-knuckle grip. “Pearl?” He took a step forward. The wind blew around him, rustling through his hair and shawl. Sunflowers bowed against the breeze, gesturing in the direction where she’d fallen. “Pearl?! Pearl, sunflower, where are you?” 

The breeze led him a few steps further in a stumbling haze, until he stood at the edge of the caves that he’d sent his friend? Enemy? falling into. He didn’t know what he expected– maybe to see Pearl gazing back up at him, a smile on her face and weapon drawn, hurt but alive– but as he looked down into the caves, he found only the body of his first and final ally.

A presence danced around him, heavier than the wind but acting just like it. She’s dead, Scar. You won. Five words whispered in his ear, as thin as the passing breeze. Five words that would’ve meant the world to Scar, once upon a time. Five words that now meant nothing to him as he gazed down at the body of his only friend.

Crouching, Scar swung his legs over the edge of the cave, slowly and carefully lowering himself down. He had to find footholds so that he wouldn’t fall and possibly lose his life as well– the fight with Pearl had left him with fewer hearts than he would’ve liked. “Hold on, Pearl,” he mumbled as he made his way down to where Pearl lay. “I’m coming to get you, I’m… I’m coming, don’t worry, I’ll be right there.”

He dropped the last few feet, wincing as pain shot up his legs and sapped at his strength. Luckily, the drop wasn’t far enough to cause any actual injury, but it was closer than he would’ve liked. He stumbled to catch himself, pulling himself to a halt in front of Pearl’s body. 

It was hard to look at her like this. Pearl was someone who was so full of life, always. She was strong and fierce, fighting for what she wanted every day, every moment. She never gave up, not once in all the time that Scar knew her. It hadn’t been long, and it was hard to really get to know someone during a death game like this, but Scar had always been pretty good at reading people. 

He knelt by Pearl’s body, brushing her hair out of her face and gently closing her eyes. He didn’t delude himself with pretending she was asleep– what was the point of avoiding death now, when he had caused so much of it? His hands were stained red with blood that he would never be able to wash off. 

Scar lingered a moment longer before shrugging off his shawl and gently wrapping it around Pearl. He was careful with her body, handling her as gently as he could as he settled her back against the stone. There wasn’t as much blood as Scar thought there should’ve been, but he wiped the blood that was there off Pearl’s face as best he could. 

Then, his hands went to the braid. It had held up well, keeping the sunflower he had woven in secured in her hair. He hesitated for a moment before untying the ribbon that held it in place and beginning to undo the braid. 

He began to hum while he worked. Slowly, reverently. A song that came from a place he couldn’t quite remember, a home he once thought he’d never forget. In another world, he would know he was humming the last rites for a loved one, to send them off into the stars. In this world, all he knew of it was the deep, longing ache in his chest and the tears that it caused to spring to his eyes.

Carefully, Scar took the sunflower from Pearl’s hair, placing it down in his lap. He gently combed his fingers through her hair one last time, before tucking it into the shawl. Picking the sunflower back up, he leaned forward and gently kissed her on the forehead. “Good night, sweet sunflower. And goodbye.”

He stood and once more began humming softly, climbing out of the ravine with the sunflower still in his hand. Scar took extra care to not crush the delicate flower as he pulled himself up onto solid ground. The sun was just beginning to set as he made his way toward the Secret Keeper, the intimidating statue that reigned over the entire server. The towering tyrant seemed to gaze down at Scar with eyes he knew he couldn’t see, taunting him with a victory that tasted at best bittersweet. 

It grew dark as Scar approached the buttons, but he held tight to the reminder of the sun’s light in his hand. It gave him the strength to push forward even as his legs threatened to give out from under him. He could not hide the trembling, however, that came from the rush of adrenaline and fear. 

He raised his eyes to meet the invisible ones looking down on him, a challenge held in his gaze, “You wanted me to be the villain?!” he called out, the weight of being watched settling on his shoulders. “Fine! Here I am!” He reached out and pressed the button to succeed. 

Welcome home.

And Scar… remembered. What sounded like thousands of voices overlapping filled his mind, causing him to stumble back with a yelp. He dropped the sunflower, clutching at his head as he was forced to his knees in front of the Secret Keeper.

Sacrifices offered and refused. Atonement rejected, forgiveness given. Arms outstretched, to offer a helping hand. Tears falling into blood-stained water as the two left locked eyes. “For all you have done to keep me alive this long, you may slay me and take the enchanter.”

Bloodied sand, prickling cactus spines, heat waves and cool nights. Two impossible friends, against the world. Traitorous actions, painful fists, a killing blow. “Scar, whatever happens, I think we can count this as a double victory.” 

A loneliness that echoed in the silence around him, howling as the wind at night. Bonds broken off entirely, leaving him with only the stars for company. “Everything that happened last season is null and void. Doesn’t count, okay?”

A bitterness that came from once tasting too much sweetness, like slightly burnt cookies. A loneliness that ached worse than when he had been truly alone, for this ache was born of lies and deceit. “I made them, they’re for your secret soulmate.” 

A moment of joy, in the midst. A time of family, friendship, and security. Before the secrets, before the lies and the pain, before the fire and the red wars. “We’re the cockers!” 

Allies for the first time in what felt like forever. People who truly had his back, no matter what. A place where he could let his guard down and smile, laugh, and live. If only for a moment, he knew what it was like to be loved. He was protected, and he was protective. “You don't go against the family.”

You are seated in a field, surrounded by grass blades, ebbing and flowing through the gusts of your imagination. Each of those blades represent a past life. Memories. Desires. Dreams. And past loves… By plucking one you shall reveal–

“Home,” Scar gasped out, eyes snapping open. “I need to go home.”

You are home.

The presence became louder, more unbearable. Each voice clamored for attention, every new memory begging to be heard. The weight of the universe pushed him into the ground, making him gasp for air in a strained panic. 

It was too much. All the memories, all the emotions– it was too much. Scar yelled in pain as it just grew louder and louder, the pressure growing as the weight pushing him down increased. Just like a volcano, it felt as though he was going to erupt at any minute.

And then a cold wind brushed up against Scar’s skin, weaving and dancing around him. “Enough.” 

The voices instantly quieted, the pressure vanishing as Scar collapsed to the ground gasping for air. He tried blinking away the tears and black spots that cluttered his vision, making it difficult to see properly. 

What he could see, though, took his breath away.

Pearl stood in front of him as a shimmering silver spirit, facing the Secret Keeper with her wings flared out to their full span. She glowed as if she were made from moonlight and stardust, and Scar couldn’t help but stare at her in awe. 

“He belongs with us. You will leave him alone.” Her voice was thin and brittle– as if it might snap were someone able to reach out and grab it. There was an echo to it as well, ringing in Scar’s mind as she spoke.

The feeling of being watched vanished completely, and Pearl turned back to Scar. She smiled a silvery smile, and held out her hand to him. “C’mon, mate. Let's go home.”

Scar took her hand, gasping at the sudden coldness that flooded his body– Death. He stood up, trying not to look down at his body that lay where he had fallen just moments earlier. As he stepped forward to join his friend, he couldn’t help but glance back and notice the sunflower lying beside his body, just inches away from his open hand. Nothing he could do about it now. 

Scar turned back to face Pearl, noticing the three other spirits that had gathered. He remembered them all now. The winners of the previous games. His allies, his enemies, his friends. His eyes caught Grian’s, and he couldn’t help but smile. 

“Well hello there,” he greeted his old ally with a grin, letting go of Pearl’s hand to bow dramatically. “Guess we finally cashed in on that double victory, huh?”

Grian laughed, rolling his eyes. His expression warmed as he took a step forward, reaching out to take Scar’s hand in his. “Little late, but I’ll accept it. How are you, Scar?”

“Well, he’s very dead, so I can’t imagine he’s doing great,” Scott interjected, ignoring the glare the two avians gave him. “What? I’m not wrong.” 

Scar shook his head. “That you are! I’m actually doing much better now that I remember everyone’s going to come back. Makes me feel a lot less guilty about killing all those people!” 

Pearl sighed, though she couldn’t hide the smile on her face. “Y’know, I felt the same way after I won Double Life. And now the games are so much easier for me! It’s nice to get all the murderous urges out now that I know everyone’s going to be fine eventually.”

“This is why everyone calls you two insane,” Martyn muttered, crossing his arms. “Now can we go back home now? I don’t like hanging out in these servers longer than I have to.”

Grian let go of Scar’s hand to pull up some sort of screen, typing commands into it. “Sure, just give me one second.” He continued typing on the screen, swiping through various options and closing others. “Good game, by the way,” he added, without looking up, “I don’t think anyone expected you to win.”

Scar gave a half shrug. “To be honest, G, I didn’t either! Totally thought Gem was going to get this one.”

Grian nodded. “But that’s just how these games go, mhm? Expect the unexpected. Pearl’s win should’ve taught us that much.” He spent another moment typing before closing the screen. “…Alright, we should be heading back to our respective servers soon enough.” He reached out to take Scar’s hand again, taking Pearl’s hand in his other. 

“Can’t believe we almost have all of the Boatem crew here,” Scar blurted out, “do you think Impulse will join us next time?”

Pearl laughed. “I hope so! I don’t think Mumbo will be winning any time soon, though. So we might just have to settle for four out of five.”

Scar nodded sagely. “You speak very wise words, Pearl. I fear Mumbo may be too… how do people say it? I fear he may be too much of a wet cat.”

Martyn groaned. “Oh, don’t remind me.”

Laughter rose from the group as the code began its work, and they all began to fade away. Grian held tightly to Scar and Pearl’s hands, locking eyes with the both of them. “I’ll see you both soon, okay?”

Pearl giggled, squeezing Grian’s hand in return. “See you soon, Griba!”

“Goodbye!” Scar called to Martyn and Scott, their responding farewells faint as the server faded away around him. 

And then there was darkness. 

And then Scar woke up.

#my writing #pearlescentmoon #goodtimeswithscar #geminitay #grian #martyn inthelittlewood #scott smajor #secret life #secret life fanfic

[sweetyluvs]

20 with abby please 🙏😻😻

𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮

abby anderson x fem! reader

ask and you shall receive 😉

tags - fluff, comfort, angst(ish), kissing and mentions of typical canonical violence!

it was no surprise that in the WLF territory it was filled with violence and mayhem, Seraphites fighting against WLF weren’t uncommon. at all. Abigail Anderson was Isaac’s top scar killer, her kill count above any number you’ve tried to reach. being a medic was hard, too, but you know that being a dependent warrior was harder.

It was uncommon for Abby to have a day off— a day to herself, and a day to spend with only you. You began dating the gentle girl around five months ago, her stuttering, red faced confession making your heart burst more than it already did when she was around. Once your relationship truly began, you really began to see her troubles. As her friend, you always tried to be there for her, but as her girlfriend, you fully understand her burdens and feelings, leading for you to be able to help her heal— may it be physically, or mentally.

so that’s how you got here, stirring Abby’s favorite meal in a pot, making it fresh and warm for her to come home to after a 12 hour Patrol. You hummed lightly upon cleaning up the last of the dishes, your sink side filled with the other clean ones. Your head snapped behind you upon hearing the door open, a smile gracing your features upon the familiar footsteps that met your old wooden floor.

Abby walked into the kitchen, her beautiful long braid falling down her shoulders, messy, dirty strands falling out. Her face was covered in dirt; making you assume she has taken a nasty tumble. Her elbows were scraped and her hands were bloody. Your smile only continued upon seeing the smile on her face.

“Hey, bambi.” she said, walking towards you. “abby,” you breathed, wrapping two arms around her neck as her hands wrapped around your wait, grabbing you softly. “How was it?” your question seemed to make her cringe, lips pursing. “it.. could’ve been better.” she said, shoving her head into your neck. you sigh, understanding. “I’m sorry.. But, I made you some hazelnut soup,” the moment those words left your mouth, abby’s head whipped up and she sniffed the air repeatedly. “so that’s what smells so good.” she murmurs, letting you go and quickly making her way to the pot on the stove.

“I’ll serve you some, it just needs a few more minutes to finish.” you said, watching as she bent over and let in a big inhale. “You should take a bath, abby. so you can be all warm and cozy when you eat it.” you grinned, watching as she nodded, turning around to you.

“that sounds great. feel.. feel like coming with me?” she asked, her hands entrancing itself with yours. “of course.”

you both walked to the bathroom, abby stripped her clothes as you ran the bath, putting bubbles of soap in the running water before removing your own clothing.

as your took off your last piece, you heard a satisfied groan erupt from the bath. you turned your head to see abby, her braid still intact as she laid eyes-closed in the warm water. You smiled, approaching her from behind and pushing her up, sliding in the bath behind her.

You wrapped your arms around her wait, swaying back and forth as the bubbles moved with you. you sniffed, silence following for a moment.

“good thing you agreed to this bath.”

“oh, shut up.” she laughed, nudging you off and reaching for her braid tip, removing the hair tie and placing it outside of the tub. You were never not awestruck upon watching her beautiful, long, golden, braid made curls fall from her head. You would enjoy them more if they were clean, though.

you reached out of the tub, below the right corner of the section to grab the bathing sponge— bringing it inside the water and coating it in the soap.

low hums emitted from your throat as you moved abby’s long hair out of the way of her back and began washing it softly, up and down. A heavy sigh left her lips, back relaxing into the soapy sponge easily. You held back a giggle at how she folded. Moving the sponge to wash her shoulders, down her arms and around her sides. she was completely soapy now, eyes shut.

“can you dunk your head in the water?” you whispered softly, guiding her head softly under the water upon the nod she replied with.

The dunk was quick, but thorough. Soaking her golden hair completely. as she sat back up you reached for the shampoo, squirting it on the top of her head before beginning to massage.

if abby wasn’t relaxed before, she definitely was now. Her head hanging back, neck loose as you washed her dirty hair. Your long nails massaging her scalp softly. Your hums started up again; a song your mother sang you since you were small. You’d told abby about it when she heard you humming it, and she said she loves the tune and thinks it’s cute when you sing it.

your hands move down from her scalp to her loose hair, running your hands through it softly, allowing the shampoo to travel down. you stopped for a moment, simply admiring her. You bent forward, landing a sweet kiss to her cheek; watching as her face turned red. “what was that for?”

“just admiring the beautiful girl in front of me.” you murmured, continuing your streak of washing her hair. Abby laughed, the light action shaking her whole body.

“okay, beautiful, dunk.” you commented, to which abby dunked her head again. You washed her hair with conditioner and she dunked again— complaining.

“ugh— how many more times?” she says, wiping the water from her eyes. “none. you’re done.” you grin, scratching her back softly and kissing her cheek once more before standing from the rub, the water falling off your naked body quickly as you reached for a towel.

Abby followed suit after, her muscles gleaming with the slick of the warm water. You gave her a towel, she wrapped it around herself and as she dried, you changed and quickly went to the kitchen to get her a bowl of soup. Your hand wrapped around the old bowl and brought it to the pot on the stove, filling it to the brim before garnishing it with crushed hazelnuts and a mint leaf. You had finished just in time, as abby had also walked into the kitchen.

She sat down, her hands still drying out her hair with her white towel. You placed the bowl in front of her, bending down lightly to kiss the crook of her nose. “Enjoy, love.” you mumbled, watching as she smiles and grabs the spoon; greedily gulping down the soup.

Abby may be big and muscular, but she’s a cute, gentle girl under all that strength. and you love her both ways. and you’re glad you made a whole pot of soup.

#abby anderson #abby x you #abby x fem!reader #abby x reader #abby tlou #abby the last of us #abby x y/n #abby anderson x female reader #abby anderson x reader #abby anderson x y/n #abby anderson x you #abby anderson x f!reader #lesbian #tlou 2 #tlou 2 abby #abby and lev #the last of us part 2 #abby fluff #muscle mommy abby #girls like girls #abby tag #the last of us part two #tlou x reader #tlou x female reader #abby anderson the last of us 2 #abby anderson tlou2 #tlou x you #tlou x y/n #ੈ✩‧₊˚ 𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐬 𝟐𝐤+ 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐲 ! #tlou fic

[tigertofu]

ok i've been chipping away at this Thing for a long time and i think it's finally ready to be vomitted out into the internet. without further ado, here is my

Stupid-Long List of Trevor Headcanons

divided into chronological sections !

((the NSFW shit is hiding at the bottom))

CW's for: mentions of drugs/alcohol, addiction, cannibalism, violence, gross sex stuff. typical Trevor things

and heres a gif of him cuz ig thats the tumblr thing to do idk i never made one of these lists b4 :x

the past

• he's a scorpio and the reason he has a scorpion tat on his hand is bc he's like. very mildly into horoscopes. he was born some time in november

• he doesn't have a middle name cuz his mom didn't give enough of a shit to give him one

• despite playing hockey and golf as a kid, he was never really that into the sports themselves. he only did hockey because he saw it as a way to beat up other children and not get reprimanded for it, and he did both in the hopes of being good enough at something to earn his mother's praise for once (it did not work :()

• hates his dad bc of how he treated his mom and is glad he abandoned him at that shopping mall when he was a kid

• he (w/ Brad's help) would play "pranks" on (aka BULLY) poor Lester during the north yankton days. some fav pastimes included (but were not limited to): pantsing him, hiding his walking cane, and replacing his asthma medication with laughing gas

• was highkey jealous of how easy Michael could get girls during the north yankton days. when he actually was able to convince a girl to come back home with him, he would make sure to be loud as hell about it so that Mike would know he wasn't the only one getting chicks

• all of his hand tats and a lot of his other tats were done in prison, even tho he was only in for like 6 months

• prison was a mixed bag for him. on one hand, anal. on the other, having to restrain himself from arguments and physical altercations so he could get out early on good behavior

• went thru a breakdancing phase in the 90's (i THINK this one might be canon. idk. could've sworn i've heard him try to tell Lamar this in an attempt to impress him. pls feel free to prove me wrong or right)

• one of the scars on his eyebrows is actually the result of getting a fresh eyebrow piercing ripped tf out during a barfight in the 00's. prob for the best that it was cuz we all know that shit wouldve ended up getting infected and rejecting out of his face anyways

• he moved to Sandy Shores not just because it's nice and isolated, but because it was the place most opposite of north yankton he could think of. never any snow. he absolutely fucking hates cold weather and snow because it reminds him of a certain bank heist that happened in '04

• between Ron, Chef, and Wade, Chef was the first one he met after moving to Sandy Shores. they used to cook meth together in a trailer out in the desert (another one that i THINK is canon but im not sure idk. it all blurs together, idk whats canon and whats not anymore, my brain is too rotted from spinning Trevor around in it like the world's most dried out little shriveled husk of a rotisserie chicken for the past three years, the fog is coming, yk how it is)

• he acquired Liquor Ace the same way he "acquired" the Vanilla Unicorn. the previous owner just mysteriously disappeared one day. nobody in Sandy Shores cared tho once word got around that the new owner was gonna start cooking crystal in the upstairs and selling it

• yk how in the game he said that his heart momentarily stopped once cuz he put an axe thru a power cable? he did that cuz the power had gone out in the middle of him watching an Impotent Rage episode he hadn't seen yet. for some reason (was prob very high and very angry) he thought that he could bring the power back by hitting the sparking wire with an axe. it didnt work. he smelled like overcooked bacon for a week afterwards. he enjoyed that part tho

the present

• he makes Ron cut his hair with a pair of rusty kitchen scissors when he needs a trim. he used to go to the nice barber lady in Sandy Shores but got banned after loudly moaning about how good her nails felt on his scalp once

• once smoked an entire cigarette in one long inhale. Wade witnessed this and found it extremely impressive

• he'll eat pretty much anything but he especially likes foods with strong flavors. salty, sour, super sweet, spicy, etc cuz his taste buds are SHOT from the years of smoking/drug abuse. he abuses condiments, especially hot sauce

• thinks that any restaurant that doesn't have a drive-thru is a "fancy" restaurant

• LOVES candy cuz the meth has given him a major sweet tooth, but prefers anything with chocolate over fruity/gummy candies

• has a weird fascination with eating raw meat.....of any kind. except for sushi. he thinks sushi is "fancy prissy city people food"

• also has a weird fascination with making stews/soups similar to the eyelid one that he tries to feed Michael in that one cutscene. it's the only type of food he knows how to cook. may be a comfort thing for him because microwaving a bowl of canned soup was the most effort his mother ever put into making a meal for him when he was a kid. and she did it like, twice, maybe. he for sure remembers both times very clearly tho and considers them to be some of his fondest memories

• will go for days without eating anything solid before finally sitting down and consuming enough food to feed a family of 5. sometimes he just like. forgets that eating is necessary for survival

• can open beer bottles with his teeth. between that and the meth habit, its an absolute miracle he still has all his teeth

• go-to pizza order is a large meat lover's. he tries to make vaguely sexual passes about "loving large meat" at the poor pizza delivery guys every time he orders delivery. does not tip, but will say shit like "hey, if you come inside i've got a little tip for ya" while the delivery guy quickly vacates the premises

• honestly? i think there is a good 50/50 chance on whether or not he is ACTUALLY a cannibal. maybe he posters as one cuz he likes the reactions it incites, maybe he genuinely enjoys the psychosexual intimacy of consuming the flesh of another human being........ who knows !! not knowing is half the fun :)

• ok ok hear me out u know that stupid tiktok sound that was going around a couple years ago that goes "hi my name is carmen winstead -- HAAAAAHHHGGCHH" ??? look it up if u don't cuz that's what his snoring sounds like. the fucking "HAAAAAHHHGGCHH"

• once he's asleep he is out like a fucking light. guy could sleep thru nuclear war

• is not opposed to drinking hand sanitizer when out of other sources of alcohol. it tastes just like the shitty moonshine Ron makes in his backyard anyways and gets him even drunker so why not !

• hates horror films bc they make him angry. at least, any of the ones where somebody survives at the end. thinks the murderers in them are stupid. starts yelling shit at the TV like "HE'S GETTING AWAY YOU STUPID FUCK,, WHAT ARE YOU DOING !!!!"

• believes baby pink and orange are "his colors"

• will sit on his sofa or bed and try to shoot any cockroaches scurrying around his place with a pistol for funsies when bored sometimes

• enjoys playing darts at the Yellow Jack with anyone who'll play him but absolutely fucking sucks at it cuz of his shaky hands. accidentally threw a dart into another bar patron's head once. will rage and insist his opponent cheated when he loses. will then get physical if anyone tries to tell him its impossible to cheat at darts. is much less of a sore loser when playing with Mike, Frank, or Lamar tho he will still grumble about losing for up to hours on end afterwards

• is an illegal immigrant bc he never became a US citizen. does not own an actual ID, but has several fakes lying around, all with fake birth dates and fake names that are wildly varying levels of believable

• will absolutely flip his fucking lid if Wade comes around him while wearing Juggalo face paint

• speaking of Wade. yk how he has a shitty tattoo of his own name on his arm? (at least i think he does. i tried looking to see if he does and i couldnt tell so now im unsure if thats just yet another detail that my brain completely made up or smth that i actually saw). ANYWAYS, Trevor gave it to him (stick n poke. it was a longggg process but Wade didnt mind too much cuz he was high at the time and consented to it beforehands anyways) when Trevor first "took him in" cuz he kept forgetting his name and got tired of referring to him as "Hey, you" (which Wade did not respond to most of the time anyways)

• is an ugly crier. like, a butt-ugly crier. snot, drooling, wailing, red face, the whole nine yards and he is loud as hell about it too

• loves back rubs cuz ofc he does he's an old man. often makes Ron or Wade give him massages

• his boomer-ass super-zoomed-in LifeInvader profile pic was taken by Ron. it took them a dozen tries before they got it

nsfw

• he sucks at eating out.........kinda? but what he lacks in precision and consistency he makes up for with sheer (sloppy. slobbery) passion. and endurance. can stay down there (and will, if you let him) for hours

• is not much better at blowing. "accidentally" uses too much teeth every time

• ~4 inches. MAYBE 4.5. good girth tho. not cut

• has a thing for chubby/thicc ppl

• is a biter and won't ask before biting so uhh watch out ! part of the reason for the above is bc there's more to bite

• loooooves loves loves to suck on things. fingers, necks, tits, dicks, anything. also looooooves having it reciprocated. particularly likes shoving his fingers in your mouth

• loves to involve mouths as much as possible. spitting/being spat on, the aforementioned biting as well as being bitten, eating food off of your body or having food eaten off of him, the type of makeout sessions that involve shoving each other's tongues down each other's throats.. anything that involves mouths and/or the motions of eating drives him fucking wild

• will beg you even when not explicitly told to when he's not feeling dominant. will beg and beg and beg and beg and it's hot but can also quickly become incredibly annoying

• but he LOVES to be annoying on purpose too. via the begging, or by teasing/edging, mocking, etc. loves to get a rise out of you and loves the attention (even if negative.. ESPECIALLY if negative) it gets him

• occasionally cries after sex. will expect you to hold him while he does. will start to angry cry and say you don't actually love him if you refuse

• now ik this one is nothing groundbreaking and seems to already be the general consensus amongst the Trevor enjoyers but im gonna say it anyways. he def has a thing for public/semi-public sex. be careful about sitting next to him while in any public space. he WILL try to touch on you and it WILL be in a way that makes it obvious to everyone in the immediate vicinity what's going on. does he do it on purpose as an exhibition thing? maybe...... does he genuinely think he's being slick about it? also maybe. if ur with him, expect to be banned from multiple establishments

• lowkey has a breeding kink in the sense that he loves to finish inside (not just bc it feels nice but also bc of the intimacy of it) and thinks that pregnant women are hot as hell

• is most likely infertile due to the years of meth use tho

• loves to both overstimulate and be overstimulated. just bc you've both climaxed doesnt mean he wont keep going for god-knows-how-long

..................andd that's all she (i) wrote. ty for reading !! i've got more shit to say about Trevor cuz ofc i do but this is already like 2k words so if u wanna hear my headcanons on anything specific at all,, pls do throw it in my ask box ! <33

#trevor philips #trevor philips headcanons #gta v #trevor philips/reader #trevor philipsxreader #gtav #gta 5 #gta5 #gtav headcanons #gta headcanons #headcanons

[waywardnajsepticeye]

Hi, idk if your requests are open so if not, just ignore this. Can i ask for spencer with fem or nb reader who had a really rough childhood? (Like physically and mentally abused and forced to drink alcohol at a very young age, sexually abused etc) maybe reader being extremely touch starved but is just too afraid to ask because of her/their past.

Have a nice day/night!

-Anon🍃

Hi! Thanks for the request! This will be awfully short since this is dealing with a sensitive topic. The fic will be under the read more section!

I'd Be The Prom Queen If Crying Was A Contest (Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader)

(Content Warning: Mentions of abuse)

Y/n stared at Spencer longingly. There was something about his arms that felt comforting and safe. She wanted to fall into his arms and hug him so, so tight.

But she couldn't.

She couldn't allow herself to.

Y/n felt like she did not deserve the warm embrace of Spencer Reid. She thought that he would push her away, just like everyone else. Everyone else who decided to hit her and kick her around. Everyone else who only saw her as an object, not a person. She had to scars to prove it. Trauma was written all over her face.

Spencer, who had doused himself in the flames of literature, knew something was wrong. He looked up from his book and noticed Y/n rocking back and forth on the couch, muttering to herself. He got up from where he was sitting and and sat down beside her. Y/n jumped and flinched.

"N-No- stop-"

"Hey, hey, relax. It's just me. No one is here to hurt you."

Y/n grimaced at Spencer's soft voice. The only time someone talked to her like that was when they threatened her to keep her mouth shut and stop screaming. But something about this softness was different.

She stared at Spencer's arms. She could already feel them wrapping around her waist.

"Are you okay?" Reid asked.

"Y-Yeah....I'm fine, Spence." She replied.

No, I'm not okay. I want you to hug me was the only thought going through her mind. She was too afraid to ask. She didn't want to feel like a burden.

But Spencer knew better. All these years of profiling has taught him to pick up on subtle clues. He pulled Y/n into a hug. She melted into the hug and gripped onto Spencer tightly. This is what she wanted. Why couldn't she ask for it?

"I-I'm sorry...." Y/n whispered.

"Sorry? Sorry for what?" Spencer questioned.

"For bothering you like this. I distracted you from reading. I feel like you shouldn't be doing this." Y/n said, digging her face into Reid's chest.

"You're not a bother to me, Y/n. I want to be there for you in your time of trouble. I'll do anything for you." Spencer said firmly.

Y/n nodded and said nothing. All she wanted to do was to relish the moment. She knew that someone cared for her. And right now, that's all that matters.

#thanks for the request anon! #anon ask #fic request #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds x y/n #criminal minds x you #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x self insert #spencer reid x fem!reader #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid fanfiction

[platrom]

Red, Red Wine.

VILLAIN! YANDERE! DEKU X READER

NOTE: The second part of “One Last Time” is in the works. However, there is no set time when it will be released. Thank you for your patience, understanding, and endless kindness. :)

WORD COUNT: 4,655+

WARNINGS: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, intense yandere themes, severely unhealthy and toxic relationship dynamic between reader and Midoriya, intimacy is used as a way to assert power, predator/prey dynamics, dominant/submissive dynamics (like the abusive and non consensual kind), vague description of dead bodies (hinting of dismemberment of heads that are familiar faces), constant on edge behavior, there are frequent signs and mentions of domestic abuse behavior, Midoriya is a top villain, reader was once a civilian, Stockholm syndrome (sort of), reader is appeasing to midoriya in order to survive, condescending and patronizing pet names (doll, darling, etc.), a huge plot twist, they are on the top of a building, Midoriya physically abuses reader, description of blood, not a happy ending

THIS TYPE OF RELATIONSHIP IS NOT HEALTHY. IF YOU OR A LOVED ONE ARE STRUGGLING, PLEASE GET HELP. THIS BEHAVIOR SHOULD NOT BE CONDONED. PROCEED READING WITH CAUTION.

“Izuku, where are we?” Your dainty hands clasp onto his scarred forearms, fingertips squeezing helplessly against his bulging muscles. Gently, Izuku pulls your body closer to his, your lower back pressing against his abdomen. Your feet are sectioned in between his, and he places his chin on your shoulder before leaning into the crook of your neck.

Your lover’s coarse palms cover your eyes, preventing you from seeing this “surprise” he had planned. Despite the loss of one of your senses and the feeling of your husband’s astonishingly and worryingly warm body around yours, your ears still pick up the distinct whirring of cars speeding in the distance, couples giggling, and kids shrieking. The world around you sounds alive— free. It’s the first time such typical yet genuine sounds have reached your harking ears and your shoulders relax at what you could only describe as mellifluous noises.

A gentle breeze kisses your skin, sending a shiver down your spine that sends goosebumps down your arms. Instinctively, your shoulders droop as you lower your hands to rub your biceps to produce warmth for your chilled skin, mentally chastising yourself for wearing a dress for this occasion. That little voice that had possessed you, chanting at you to wear a dress for one of the sporadic times you were allowed to leave the penthouse with Izuku was a devious runt, considering it was still fall season and the beginning of winter had begun to mark its incoming presence.

Though, Izuku had told you that this was an extremely special occasion and wanted you to style yourself appropriately. You couldn’t just disappoint your Izuku, could you?

No, you couldn’t.

“Darling,” he coos, “I need you to keep your eyes closed for me, okay?”

Obediently, you nod your head and breathe out a small word of confirmation. Smirking into your skin, Izuku lifts his head from your shoulder and firmly grips your chin between his forefinger and thumb, leaning the back of your head into his chest. His hold is a warning— one you know all too well. If you do something he doesn’t like, it’s off with your head.

Time after time, Izuku would effortlessly place you in such subtlety compromising positions that most would brush aside for simply loving touches like the protective hand on the waist, the classic intertwining of fingers, or even the casual arm slung around one’s shoulders. And one way or another, each one would leave you vulnerable to his wrath. They all were positions of impeding submission- just as if with a predator and its prey. It was like the game of cat and mouse: the cat allowed the mouse to run to provide it a false sense of security and a chance to “hide,” but the cat was always one step ahead of the mouse. It knew the critter better than itself.

Presently, if he as so much desired to inflict the smallest ounce of pain upon you, he could tighten his grip on your chin, using nothing but the mere strength of his fingers to inflict severe and intense pain upon you. No arm or quirk required. And if he truly wanted, he could snap your neck without a moment’s notice and you wouldn’t even be able to feel it.

In short, you were inferior to Izuku Midoriya in every single way and he had no problem reminding you of your place that was tropic levels below him.

His fingers tilt your jaw upwards and that familar feeling of dread and panic begins to well in the pit of your stomach like a parasite festering. Dim memories resurface in your mind, reminding you of the reality that Izuku was a calculating man that always planned miles ahead. He analyzed his enemies and allies like a scientist studying its confined and captured test subjects, jotting down and mentally noting every minuscule detail about them. Every reaction, every action, every quality and characteristic.

Whatever your partner was planning, it frightened you to no end.

“Izuku?”

Behind you, your husband’s chest puffs in pride at the overly saccharine tone of your voice. He had taught you to habitually direct nothing but sugary sweetness towards him when even daring to garble out his hallowed name. Like a compliant little puppy, one that had been punished for their bad behavior as well as rewarded for their obedient behavior, you had begun to accommodate and form yourself to his liking.

For ages, you called him by his surname and work title (as well as a few other names) until eventually, he had broken your resolve and forced you to call him by his forename. Now, whenever he heard you say “Izuku” oh-so-sweetly in that voice of yours that left him spiraling in a flurry of jubilation, his heart would explode in his chest like thousands of fireworks lighting up the starry night sky.

Alas, you only knew this information because of the countless times your inamorato had gushed like a lovestruck puppy over how elated and enraptured he was by your voice that called to him like a siren luring their victims into a pool of water. He never failed to make it known just how he worshipped you.

“Don’t fret, my love,” Izuku coos, pressing a chaste kiss to the top of your head. “If you fall, I’ll catch you. Do you remember the vows we exchanged at our wedding?”

Don’t screw this up.

It’s a mantra that repeats in your head incessantly like a wailing baby pleading for its mother to pay attention to them. It was the same phrase that rung in your ears at your “wedding” with Izuku, cautioning you to step on your toes so you didn’t slice your heels on glass. It reminded you that the shards littering the floor with their serrated edges were not from the barriers you shattered, but from the ones you prompted him to explode into smithereens.

How could you forget that traumatic day? How could you forget the blood that spilled out of the young man’s chest, the only one who tried to free you from the suffocating clutches of the world’s deadliest villain?

On that fateful day, countless of Japan’s greatest heroes stood beside you, surrounding you like a wild pack of blood thirsty coyotes. Their eyes glistened with that exact unhinged glint that sparkled in the viridian irises of Izuku’s, the crazed faces that spoke miles about the demented thoughts that were conjured in their minds.

You wouldn’t put it past them to have given this same fate to some innocent civilian like you once were.

“How could I?” you respond serenely, forcing your lips to pull into a reminiscing smile. You’re sure that if you could see Izuku’s face, he would be grinning like a dork with a faint blush on his cheeks. Some things never changed with him.

The bulky man behind you mumbles something unintelligible and releases your face from his hold before taking a grand step back and clasping your hand in his and twirling you. The ends of your dress glide up and away from the skin of your legs, the smooth satin flowing like a rose finally budding its luscious petals.

In the care of his hands, you move effortlessly, like a professional figure skater performing on ice. The moment your chest presses against his, Izuku’s arms wrap around you, securing you to him completely and preventing all possibilities of escaping. His grip on you reminds you vaguely of a viper squeezing its prey to suffocation, watching as its victim’s eyes bulged out and jaw gaped like a fish out of water in a vain attempt to save itself from the claws of a reaper, to ignore the sound of death knocking on its door.

If death was embodied by any person, it would be Izuku Midoriya.

“You can open your eyes now, darling.”

Years ago, when you watched Pro Hero Deku speak in interviews, you thought that his emerald eyes were surely jewels crafted by only the finest, most nubile and skilled hands. That some deity who roamed the Mountains of Olympus had plowed through the toughest of mines and destroyed millions of geodes with a strength that only myths could describe to give him irises so exquisite and unparalleled.

Now, when you stare into the eyes of the former Symbol of Peace of Japan known as Deku and now the recorded worst villain worldwide, you are greeted by a glowing, radioactive green that bubbles with the promise of acid-burning flesh and scars to last a lifetime.

The memory of the eyes of a genuine hero is a dim one and in its place are the eyes of a bloodthirsty villain. How could such a person change in only a couple of years?

Because of you.

He sighs fondly, eyelids drooping and shoulders relaxing at the sight of your sinless eyes staring widely in puzzlement at his.

Play dumb, you remind yourself. It’ll all be over soon.

He adored whenever you let him take the reins to pamper you and would condescendingly coo at you whenever you succumbed to his overbearing behavior, too tuckered out to resist the absolute hulking mass of a man that claimed to belong to you entirely, body and soul.

Being obedient and compliant always came out with a better outcome for you both. After all, he was the apex predator and you were nothing more than his pet. Another mere prey in the food chain, caught up with an animal greater than it could ever be.

Against Izuku, you were weak. But you had claws too. Maybe not as sharp, but you could fight back too. And if not physical, then you could outsmart him. Be conniving. Sly, slick, quick.

All you had to do was play your pieces correctly. Stalemate or checkmate, you would get there eventually. You just had to be patient.

Delicately, Izuku taps your chin with the tip of his fingers, the gentle motion so foreign it successfully snaps you out of your thoughts and redirects your full attention on him.

“Darling, I know the sight is one you can’t beat, but I didn’t bring you out here to just stare at me,” Izuku teases, patting your head lightly. The remark is one so casual and so normal that it sends you reeling in shock and face exploding in warmth, forcing your eyes to shut in embarrassment and your lips to purse to stop a squeak from escaping your throat. Your arms move to wrap themselves around your face to conceal your flustered expression.

“If you really wanted to just stare at me, we could have stayed home. I don’t mind the attention, either— it’s not everyday I get to spend time with a pretty lady like you.”

The sound of Izuku’s hearty chuckling echoes into the night, increasing the heat that crawls onto your neck. Without a doubt, you’re smudging your makeup in a poor attempt to conceal your face from his prying eyes, but the act of lighthearted, innocent embarrassment is one you haven’t experienced in eons and you choose to only tighten your grip on yourself in a futile attempt to linger in the warmth and refreshment of the feeling. Izuku’s guffaws sound so casual and free— unlike the menacing and maniacal laughs you had grown accustomed to as his prisoner.

Hesitantly, you sneak a peek from the shelter of your limbs and watch as the hulking mass known as the world’s deadliest, most dangerous villain chuckled until tears began to form in his eyes.

“Don’t laugh at me,” your arms fall to your side and you lower your head, falling into a dejected stance. “I was just spacing out.”

Deku grins giddily, his normally dull jade eyes lightening up in fondness. Dramatically, he lifts a scarred hand to his face and another to his chest, leaning back to imitate a distressed and offended damsel. “Oh, I would never, my love!”

Rolling your eyes, you slap Izuku’s shoulder with an annoyed huff. Without a doubt, your poor efforts to inflict the smallest amount of pain on Izuku must have felt like nothing to the man who experienced years of strenuous and grueling training to strengthen his body to accommodate one of the world’s most puissant quirks that made him firmer than the mantle of the Earth itself. So much so, that even All Might could not defeat him— his own successor had surpassed Japan’s greatest hero and arguably the world’s best hero internationally. Izuku Midoriya, Deku, was a force to be reckoned with.

His name was whispered like a curse on the streets, and the heroes of today didn’t dare to even say his name.

Though, this villain was once a hero. You just don’t know where it all went wrong, when the world lost its privilege to scream out for their favorite hero to save them and instead gave you the role of being the lady in distress.

But you do, don’t you?

“Why are we out here anyway? It’s freezing, Izuku,” you trail off, making a show of rubbing your arms vigorously to further accentuate your point. Glancing above you, the stars of the night twinkle above you in mockery, their sparkles brightening despite your current misery.

A small murmur of apology slips past his lips, his hands reaching to cup your cheeks and stroke your face lovingly with the pads of his thumbs. “Today’s Halloween,” Izuku begins, and that familiar glint of adoration forms in his eyes as he watches your eyes widen in giddiness at the sound of your favorite holiday. Slowly, he leans forward until your foreheads touch, green curls tickling your scalp, and he moves his fingers to slip under the neckline of your clothes before rubbing tender circles on your neck, calloused thumb caressing the salubrious and unadulterated skin in contrast to his tainted and sullied skin. “I know how much you love the holiday, so I wanted to take you out to watch it happen in live action.”

The gesture is sweet, you can admit. He never took you out, considering the circumstances of your situation. It was thoughtful of him to remember that when you were younger, dressing up and collecting candy had been an absolute must for you every year. Who could pass up free candy?

Certainly, you couldn’t. Before and presently.

Hesitantly, you lift your hands to hold onto Izuku’s, (e/c) eyes gazing back into besotted basil ones. Having Midoriya in such close proximity was making your head spin— the savory scent of his cologne blended in with his skin so well, so much so that even with all this time spent together, you could never get used to the combination.

How could you?

Like the trained pet you were, you lift Midoriya’s hand to your lips and press a chaste kiss on a scar that ran all the way down to his forearm, eyes fluttering shut in hopes of appeasing your husband, the world’s deadliest villain.

Be obedient, you reminded yourself. Just do as he desires and you’ll survive.

“Always so appreciative, my love,” Izuku hums contently, pleased with your submissive behavior. “I taught you so well, didn’t I?”

A small smile breaks out on your face, akin to the mischievous grin of a Cheshire cat. The pawns on the chess board were falling into place, in your favor.

Check.

Breaking away from him, you cautiously inch towards the edge of the building, peering past the short concrete wall that prevented people from tipping off the rooftop. In the distance, you see people of various ages dressed up for Halloween. Little children skip down the street with their parents in step, dressed in frumpy little pumpkin costumes, sparkling princess dresses, and simple prince-like tunics. Teenagers huff as they chase their younger siblings down— scolding and chastising the children as they tiredly wipe at their eyes, smearing the heavy and dark lines of eyeliner they had spent countless hours applying.

Others drunkenly stumble down the sidewalk with their arms linked together, giggling like gossiping girls. The clicking of their heels meeting the rough surface of the pavement fills the silence of the night, along with the joyous and festive behavior from the neighborhood.

Brightly illuminated inflatable pumpkins fill the lawns of residential homes, childishly frightening faces painted onto the translucent orange tarps. Plastic bones crookedly stick out of the dirt and faux skulls litter the gardens located on the block. Styrofoam graves are splayed methodically on the ground, followed by hollow coffins occasionally stuffed with skeletons.

Halloween reminded you of the life you once had; it brought the innocence and kindness that laid deep within individuals to bubble up and explode. It showed a sweeter side to the world, one that allowed children to waddle around excitedly, shriek in joy, and chortle in pure jubilation at the immense happiness such thoughtful and caring behavior brought.

If only the world was still kind to you.

“That’s not the only surprise I have prepared for you, darling.” There’s a playful lilt in his voice that you haven’t heard in ages, a memoir of an era where nothing but sunshine, starlight, and moonlight flowed through a hero’s veins. A period where the sky was sincerely never the limit, where the world and its residents had begun to find tranquility, where crime rates that had previously skyrocketed has dipped to an all time low.

“Look behind you, darling.”

Obey him and you’ll survive.

Swiveling your head to side, you peer over your shoulder and past Izuku, only to be met by the sight of the classic Hollywood round table with a long white cloth draped over it.

Long, thin candles are placed in the center of the spectacle, their warm glow inviting you to sit down at the table. In contrast to the darkness of the night, the scenery looks absolutely breathtaking, as if it were straight out of a fairytale. Where a prince would free an enslaved princess and love her unconditionally until the end of time. Where two souls would travel the world hand-in-hand, safe in each other’s presence.

But not every story is the same; not every princess gets a happy ending.

On each side of the table are the standard silverware laid out, containing the elegant and ever-so-classic salad forks, fish forks, dinner forks, and more. Large, white plates rest in between the utensils, plated with katsudon on both your plates— Izuku’s favorite dish.

Two elegant, wooden seats are placed on opposite sides. The embroidery on the wood is done to a level beyond pure excellence— the carvings are delicate, thin, and flawless. Swirls and spirals decorate the deep mahogany wood, and laid atop the seats are thick, velvet cushions. Without a doubt, the pillow is sturdy yet so utterly soft and delightful.

“It’s all yours, my love.” His hands envelop your lower back, gently nudging you to inch towards the setup.

His heavy footsteps follow yours, the pounding of his black oxford’s meeting the floor below ringing through your ears.

It reminds you of the countless times you’ve heard Izuku’s footsteps late at night after he had come home from a long shift, or the days you spent in solitude, locked in a basement and chained to the walls of the cold, pitch black room.

He pulls out chair for you, before pushing it back in once you’ve securely seated yourself. Returning to his side of the table, he sits down and lifts a bottle of wine from under the table, popping out the cork.

“Care for a glass?” He’s nearly done pouring himself a hefty helping of liquor before tipping an empty glass in your direction and grinning.

If all went to hell, at least you would be buzzed enough to forget about it all.

You nod your head.

After pouring you a glass, you both proceed to eat. The meat is tender, savory, and flavorful. Once the noodles meet your tongue, they practically melt like a popsicle on a hot day. There’s the perfect amount of seasoning and chives that can be found in each bite, sending you reeling for seconds.

Minutes pass and the night continues to darken as you both feast on the meals in front of you, downing each bite with a sip of the sweet wine poured for you both. By the time you’re done chewing on your last bite, you’re a few glasses in and drunk.

Setting the cutlery down, you rest your chin on your palm, quietly gazing at Izuku’s massive figure. The angered thoughts that you had buried deep inside your mind creeps out of its closings, slipping to the front of your brain. Its claws push past the protective barriers that grew with time and experience, the survival tactics that you had to develop in order to adapt to an entirely new universe.

Maybe, it’s the liquor thrumming in your veins that pushes you to open your mouth clumsily and let words slip from your lips that you knew would have you punished.

"Do you regret it?”

Izuku’s fork stills, his head remaining downwards towards his meal. The air between you both stills, the candles that once radiated a tranquil warmth now becomes one that burns within your skin like a raging fire and raises the hair on your arms.

“Don’t go further,” the embers whisper. They flicker as the pace of the wind picks up, sending wisps of your hair flying. “Don’t play with fire when you know you can’t quell the flames away.”

“Don’t fall for the same trap you did years ago, (Name).”

But you were never one to listen to warning signs, were you?

“You had it all, Midoriya,” the words gush out of your mouth like a flood filling a building, no force able to prevent the inevitable from occurring. “You surpassed All Might— the greatest hero to have ever existed in history since the beginning of quirks; everyone adored you and villains fell at your heels. You even managed to eventually defeat All for One. Wealth encompassed you and you could have had any person you wanted as your partner.”

The red liquid in your cup captures your attention, twinkling in the moonlight. “Yet, you threw it all away. Why? Anyone would have died to be in your position.”

Izuku remains unmoving, almost refusing to react. It’s like when a predator and it’s prey meet eye to eye, each one staring the other to make the first move. To attack or flee. But in this case, you were already cornered.

Helpless, weak, defenseless. Those were the words you would use to describe yourself. But your inferiority only spurs you on, feeding into the ignited flames.

“You took everything I had, even when you had to all.” Tears well up in your eyes, hands moving to fist at your dress. It’s overwhelming— the intensity of your emotions that now settle upon you. The liquid courage that once flowed through your veins seeps out of your system, leaking from your eyes. The edges of your vision fade away into a blurry mess, impairing you. Softly, you weep, “Why can’t I win, just once?”

The tears spill from eyes like a dam cracking from the pressure of the water. The trickle is slow, light, but as each tear falls the intensity increases until they stream down your face. Shallow breaths are taken with each sob, each exhale a painful heave that leaves your shoulders rattling. Loose limbs freeze in place like stone, muscles tending to the point of violent shaking.

Your sobs are obnoxiously loud, disruptive, and foreign with the beauty of the night, but you can’t stop. You set a foot into the rabbit hole and now you’ve fallen into it with no escape.

A gentle scraping of wood against tile is drowned out by your desperate breaths, until you feel warm hands clasp your own and hug you tightly. Small murmurs leave his lips as he tenderly rubs your skin, the heroic instincts he once had kicking in.

Truly, there were some parts that you could not entirely remove from a person no matter how drastically they changed.

Eventually, the tears run out and you are left motionless in Izuku’s hold, eyes stuck in a blank stare. You’re nothing but a mere doll, lifeless and pliable. Izuku coos at you as he shifts you in his arms, pressing a chaste kiss to your forehead.

“Stand up, love” he whispers, shifting his hold onto your elbows to raise you from your chair. “I have one final surprise for you.”

You comply, leaning into Izuku’s hulking figure. Tuckered out from your wracking sobs, all ideas you held about refusing to succumb to his touch escape your mind.

“Look at the ground, darling.”

And you do as you’re told.

At first, there’s nothing but the tile of the building under you. It’s dark outside, but it looks solid in color. It would be rough against your skin if you fell on it. Probably cold too, like the feeling of thousands of needles piercing through your skin.

Then, a slight heat begins to emit from beneath you, warming your footwear. The plain color of cement fades away into a light gray and eventually, into an ivory. There’s sudden clicks from below you and instinctively you clutch onto Izuku’s arm, mind alert. You don’t have the energy to panic, but you know that something isn’t right.

The ivory fades away to form a translucent tile, but there are undefined shapes below you.

The clicks continue, but with each one it sounds closer and sections of the building under you light up, the brightness seeping through the cracks.

“Izuku, what’s this?” Your voice quivers, knees trembling in place.

He grins maniacally, verdant irises gleaming in glee. “Just wait and see,” he responds.

The clicking comes closer and closer, and with each light that switches on you can begin to make out certain shapes.

Familiar faces.

Once the final light turns on, you’re in tears all over again, in a state of shock. The bloodied faces of your former classmates, friends, and coworkers stare back at you, their own eyes lifeless. It’s disgusting, the blood that covers the building below you.

You open your mouth to speak, but no words come out. You can only stare in horror as you watch the people of your past look back up at you, long gone from the world.

“Isn’t it just extraordinary?” He squeezes your shoulders enthusiastically, beaming from one ear to the other. “You get to see all the low-lives of your past dead, in front of your very own eyes. Everyone who made you suffer is finally gone. Isn’t that just wonderful?”

The sight makes you want to vomit the katsudon and wine back up again.

“Can’t you see how much I love you, darling? I killed everyone who hurt you to make you happy!” He twists your face to meet his, moving to press a kiss to your lips.

And you don’t stop him.

You can’t.

You never could.

You should have listened when you were told to run, just like you were so many years ago. You should have listened to others, too blinded by ignorance.

This time, you were blinded by fear.

And now, you were stuck forever.

Closing your eyes once your lips meet his, you accept your reality.

You were stuck forever with Izuku, married to the world’s worst villain.

You fell for his trap and now had you in his grasps forever, just like he planned. You could never outsmart the puppeteer; this was his world. Not yours. It never was and it would never be.

And you had finally accepted the inevitable.

“No one is coming back for you, you know? You’re mine forever.”

You would never win against Izuku Midoriya. No one ever could.

It was best to accept the truth sooner than later.

#© platrom, plot / writing / banners & headers. do not repost, reblogs are appreciated! please consider leaving a comment and a heart! <3

#deku x reader #mha x reader #yandere midoriya #yandere deku x reader #yandere midoriya x reader #villain deku x reader #midoriya x reader #yandere izuku x reader #yandere izuku #izuku midoriya x reader #dead dove do not eat #midoriya izuku #x reader #bnha reader insert #deku x you #izuku x you #midoriya x you

[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)

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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

[marveloustimestwo]

Hi Robin! Can I ask/get some headcanons with James, Sirius and Remus (separate)? How would he react if his darling wears his sweater?

Hi! Thank you for the request :)

Warnings: Yandere themes, a brief mention of scars during Remus' section.

James Potter:

Dear god would he act so smug when he finds you wearing his sweater.

James owns quite a few sweaters, but he's not all that neat. He always has at least one of his sweaters lying around. On his bed, on the floor, tucked unfolded into his dresser, and he won't really keep track of them until he needs one.

Because of this, it's very easy to just pick one of them up and he won't notice for a while.

Up until he sees you wearing one of them, and he goes, "Is that mine???"

Very confused for a second and wondering when you could've taken it (and considering how often he actually looks at his clothes before throwing them on, could have been weeks.)

But after confirming it is in fact his, James will have this smug smirk plastered over his face in an instant.

James is more the type to loudly brag about his obsession in whatever way he can. If he can find a way to shove it in everybody's faces that you like him back, he'll take it.

After all, James can be pretty possessive. Forcing everybody else to acknowledge that you're his not only makes them all back-off but also traps you with him in a way.

You can't leave him if everyone else is too afraid to take you in, right?

But anyway, the fact that you're very obviously wearing one of his sweaters makes James so happy.

It gives him another thing to say "That's right! They're my partner, not yours!"

This boy will be shoving his sweaters at you from here on out. He almost refuses to let you wear anything else.

Sirius Black:

Sirius is also one who is very smug upon seeing you in any article of his clothing.

Unlike James or Remus, Sirius doesn't own too many sweaters. His family prefers him to look a certain way so that he can represent his family well, so many of his clothes are formal and expensive.

The clothes he bought on his own are usually considered pretty rugged and bad-boyish just so he could spite his family.

Despite that, I could see Sirius owning a few particular sweaters.

One is in the colors of Gryffindor (another thing he purchased to spite his parents), a couple simple plain colored ones, and a couple that goes under his protective gear during his Quidditch games.

The first and last ones are the ones he'd be the most pleased to see you wearing.

The first one because you're wearing his house colors, which is even better if you're in a different house. The second one because it has his name and Quidditch number on it.

Out of the three, Sirius has the worst possessive streak. James is a very close second, but Sirius isn't afraid to bully, jinx, and even physically harm others to sink in the message that you're his and no one else's.

You wearing one of his sweaters, a few of which actually state his name, not only further convinces Sirus that you're his, but convinces everyone else of that too.

It's more ammo for Sirius to use against others as to why they need to stay away from you.

It's a deadly confirmation for Sirius, one that would be much better for you if avoided.

Remus Lupin:

Like James, it's always easy to steal one of Remus' sweaters without him noticing for a few days. Unlike James, it's not because he's messy.

Quite the opposite, actually. Remus is very organized, he just has a lot of sweaters. He loves them because they're warm, comfy, and they cover up many of the scars/wounds he gets from turning during the full moon.

So when he first sees you wearing one of his many sweaters, it takes him by surprise at first.

Unlike his friends, Remus isn't as outwardly smug about you wearing something of his.

James and Sirius have always been the ones to show off their love for you, the ones who shove it in everybody's faces.

Remus prefers to fade into the background and let his friends hog all the attention.

A downside of this is that some people either don't think that you and he are together because they might not see the signs, or they think that they can openly flirt with you because they think Remus doesn't have the guts to say anything about it.

He almost always does, especially if you look to be uncomfortable with the interaction.

But Remus is happy with this compromise. You get a comfy sweater and look cute while also subtly showing off that you're his.

Extra: Poly Marauders

The way that these three would be throwing their sweaters at you after they see you in one of theirs is off the charts.

While they're not as jealous of each other as they would be of anyone else, the jealousy is still there. It's just not threatening to jinx each other beyond repair type jealousy.

Moreso it becomes a competition for them to see which one of their sweaters you wear the most. (Funny thing is Remus actually keeps tally just to piss James and Sirius off with how often he's convinced you to wear his.)

They would offer to let you keep the sweaters you borrow, but they fear that it would lose the impact of others seeing that you're theirs.

Don't worry though, darling, they all have plenty of sweaters to spare.

#yandere #yandere harry potter #yandere james potter #yandere sirius black #yandere remus lupin

[likedovesinthewindd]

a Sunny day

steve harrington x mom!reader (part 2)

summary: steve meets a little girl while working.

warnings: mentions of scars, nightmares, migraines, addiction to pain medication (but no one is), reader has financial issues. reader is a single mom. If i missed anything pls let me know.

wc: ±2590

a/n: I love steve sm omgg so here you go! requests open:)

For as long as Steve could remember, Saturdays were always the busiest days at Family Video. These last few months had been different.

Steve didn't like working on Saturdays, in all honesty, he didn't like working there at all, but since the "earthquake" had destroyed half of Hawkins and left a big chuck of it's population homeless or jobless, he couldn't be picky about where he got his money from. It had been 2 years since everything with Vecna, and everyone had seemed to have moved on with their lives, as difficult as it may have been.

Steve sometimes felt as if he hadn't really moved on at all. The physical scars surrounding his abdomen and neck, as faded as they had become over time, were still a permanent reminder of what had happened in the Upside Down. He had nightmares, awful nightmares that often caused him to wake up several times a night, shivering and in a cold sweat.

The worst thing for him had to be the migraines that plagued him frequently. It was difficult to find a doctor willing to actually help him out; how could you possibly tell your GP that you might have suffered head trauma from being captured and tortured by Russian spies, or from being beat up more times than you could count.

They would always scratch it up to "stress" or "bad sleeping habits", subscribe him a shit ton of pain medication and send him on his way. He didn't really want all the meds, way too scared that he'd become dependent on them, but when the debilitating throbbing in his head would become too much, he'd have to take two or three pills just to be able to function properly for a few hours.

A loud thud on the counter broke him out of his daydream, where he had been absent-mindedly staring at the computer's keyboard. He looked up to find Robin staring at him from behind the giant box she had placed in front of him. "These need to go in the horror section," her gruff voice spoke.

"Can't you do it?" Steve asked, pretending to be busy checking late returns on the computer. "No," she snapped, shoving the box closer to him, "because last week I had to repack the entire left side of the store on my own because you were too busy sucking face with Paige," she said the name in a condescending tone, fluttering her eyelashes teasingly.

The mention of the girl's name caused Steve to cringe.

"What's with the face, I thought you said she seemed like a nice girl?" Robin asked, thinking back to how Steve had been practically gushing about his date for a whole week. "She was, until she opened her mouth," he said, rubbing at his temples. Flashbacks from the previous week's date with Paige seemingly worsening his headache.

To put it nicely, Paige was mean and extremely self centered. If her screaming at one of the waiters because they got her order wrong wasn't enough of a deal breaker, her only talking about herself the entire time certainly was. She didn't ask Steve anything about himself once, opting to rant about how her dad didn't give her enough money to buy the Gucci crossbody bag she wanted, or how the lady at the hairdresser had dared to dye her hair the wrong shade of warm blonde.

The cherry on top was at the end of the night, when Steve had complimented her and told her that she had looked beautiful. She had thanked him, and replied with,

"Well, you're no King Steve anymore, but you looked cute."

She gave him a small peck on the cheek afterwards, and walked off towards her house, over exaggerating the sway of her hips as she went. She turned around one last time, giving Steve a "Call me," in her most sultry voice, and shut the door behind her.

Steve had not called her back since.

"What a shame," Robin said feigning sympathy. "Nothing like some good old labor to distract you from your heartbreak, right?" she added slapping the side of the box. "A little sympathy wouldn't hurt, you know," he said begrudgingly taking the box and moving out from behind the counter. "Yeah, yeah, get to work dingus," she said taking his place and helping a customer who had approached the counter.

When Steve arrived in the horror aisle, he threw the box on the ground unceremoniously and began stacking the tapes alphabetically. By the time he got to Nightmare on Elm Street, he felt a small tug on his pants. Looking down, he found a little girl, probably no older than three, looking up and him with big doll-like eyes and unruly hair.

"Hi," she said softly. "Hello there," Steve said crouching down so that he was at eye level with her, "what are you looking for?" She moved closer until her nose was practically touching Steve's and whispered, "The Last Unicorn," before breaking into a fit of giggles. Steve couldn't help but smile along to the sound of her small voice, standing back to his full length. "I'm sure we have that," he said, "but where's your mom, hm? What's your name?"

Before she could answer, the bell at the door indicated that a new customer had entered the store. A young woman stood at the door, looking around frantically. "Sunny? Sunny are you in here?"

You searched through the various shelves, stopping at the horror aisle when you saw you daughter Sunny standing with one of the store employees. "There you are. You can't ever run away like that again," you said, relief washing over your features. "Sorry mommy," she spoke softly, raising her arms so that you could lift her up. "It's okay Sunshine," you said picking her up and resting her on your hip. You turned around to Steve, you was still standing in the aisle silently watching you and your daughter's interaction.

"Hi, I'm sorry, she usually doesn't run away like this but she was so exited when I said we could rent her favorite movie today. It's not on TV yet but she watched it at school once now it's all she talks about!" you gushed turning towards Sunny, who had her eyes fixed trained on the cover of a Creepshow VHS behind your head. You turned around, quickly covering Sunny's eyes with your unoccupied hand. "Oh no baby don't look at that, you'll get nightmares," you said looking away from the shelf with a big frown. It seemed like it scared you more than it did her.

"Do you have The Last Unicorn available here?" you asked turning back to Steve. "I think so, right this way," he said leading you towards the childrens area. From behind him he could hear Sunny's small voice whispering to you, "his hair is so big mommy!" followed by her giggles. "Not as big as yours, Sunshine," you said pushing the flyaways from her face, laughing at her offended gasp.

When he reached the shelf, he swiftly scanned through the titles until he found the desired tape. "Here you go, would you like to rent it?" he asked.

"Please," you said handing Sunny the tape and following him to the counter. He subtly gestured to Robin to move away so that he could take her place. She rolled her eyes before mouthing "you owe me" and reluctantly moving to the abandoned box of tapes. When Steve got behind the counter he got the chance to really look at the two of you.

Sunny was basically an exact copy of you. Same eyes, same nose and hair (although yours was styled a bit more neatly than hers). You even had the same bright smile.

The name Sunny fit her perfectly too; with her small yellow dress fit with puffed sleeves with little bears printed on the fabric and the sunflower shaped hairclips that tried (and failed) to keep the astray curls out of her face, finished off with a bright pink pair of jelly shoes and frilly socks. She seemed like a sweet kid.

"What's it like, with her?" The question had left his mouth before he had the chance to think about how insensitive or mean it could have sounded. He was getting ready to apologize profusely, but when he looked up from the computer he was met with your smiling face.

"Well, it's not easy. I mean, can you imagine being a single mother living alone when that earthquake hit town? I wasn't planning on ending up homeless with a one year old, but everything's been so much beter since than. Plus, I still have my Sunshine, she's the only family I've got," you said smiling to your daughter.

It was then that Steve had realized just how much the earthquake had really affected the town. Sure he saw first hand when he was volunteering at the temporary shelters and soup kitchens, but hearing your personal account of what had happened made him realize just how bad everything was.

"You alright?" you asked snapping him back to reality. "Yeah, sorry that's just- I'm sorry that happened to you," he said sincerely. You shrugged, looking at your wrist watch for the time. "I'm sorry, the computer's been jamming lately, might take a while to process all the information," he said sensing your slight impatience. "No problem," you said, putting Sunny back down on the ground, opting to hold her small hand. The amount of back pain that comes with having a child is insane.

An awkward silence filled the air between you two, before Steve decided to speak up again.

"You said that you were homeless because of the earthquake, where do you live now?" he asked warily, worried he might have actually crossed the line this time. You looked hesitant before you answered. "At the Motel right outside of town. It doesn't sound very luxurious but it's nice," you replied.

Steve thought about his house, his parents' house technically, but they were never really around. He thought about the big, barely decorated bedrooms and the living area that looked like it came straight out of a issue of Architectural Digest. He considered asking you to come and stay with him; maybe you'd be able to give the house a more lived-in energy, make him feel less lonely there.

That would be weird, Steve thought to himself. Imagine a guy you had just met asking you to move in him, definitely not your best flirting method.

Flirting? No, he'd just recovered from his last love escapade. He couldn't even consider flirting with you, even though you had the prettiest smile he'd ever seen or that you looked at him like he hung up the stars whenever he spoke or that you were so kind or-

The droning sound from the computer rang through the empty store loudly. After finishing everything up, Steve handed you the tape. "Thank you so much," you said handing the tape back to Sunny. "How do you say?" you asked her. "Thank you," she whispered looking up at Steve with big eyes. You picked her back up and as you were on your way out, Steve got a sinking feeling in his stomach. He didn't want you to go, he wanted to keep talking to you, get to know you better.

"Wait!" he shouted a bit too loud, causing both you and Robin to turn around towards him. "Can we talk real quick?" he said approaching you, where you stood frozen with your hand still on the door handle. You furrowed your brows, thinking about what he could possibly still want from you.

"Would you like to go get a coffee sometime, maybe?" Steve asked trying his best to seem cool, even though his heart was beating rapidly in his chest. Your frown deepened, making Steve want to sink into the surface of the Earth and dissappear forever.

"Listen uh-" "Steve," he finished for you. "Steve, you seem like a really great guy, truly, but I'm not looking for anything serious right now, I'm sorry." Before you could open the door, Steve pulled you back by your arm lightly causing you to huff in irritation. "Look Steve-"

"It doesn't have to be anything serious, I just- I wanna get to know you better, I really like you," he rambled out. You seemed conflicted. You really were; you didn't want to start messing around with anyone now. Sunny was at a very impressionable age, and you really didn't want her getting attached to anyone, just for them to leave.

"I don't know If I could find anyone to look after Sunny when-" "Bring her along then," he interrupted you for the hundredth time today, "we could go to the park, get ice cream or something."

"Ice-cream mommy!" Sunny piped in excitedly. It broke your heart to see her so happy about going out, you hadn't been able to get her a lot of nice stuff or spoil her due to financial issues, hence why she had been so excited when you told her she could rent one of her favorite movies for you two to watch together. You hadn't been able to spend a lot of quality time with her either, taking long shifts to be able to make some extra money.

You bit the inside of your cheeck, looking back at Steve, who had been patiently waiting for your answer. You realized just how pretty he really is; with his big brown eyes like a baby deer, that looked like they could stare into your soul, and the various small moles and beauty marks that were littered across his face and arms, or the umber colored hair that he had to frequently push out of his eyes.

"I promise, I don't plan on making this a once off thing, I really do like you," he said softly.

You barley knew this guy, and he was asking you and your daughter out on a date. The one part of your brain was screaming at you to say no, let him down gently and leave, but the other part was curious about him. Maybe one date couldn't hurt.

"Okay, fine, one date," you said, giving him the angry mom voice, the one you'd always use when trying to reprimand Sunny. His eyes lit up at your words, a huge smile stretching across his face. He had to stop himself from jumping up and down from giddiness.

"Okay, great uhm uh, do you have like a phone number I could call or something," he asked sprinting to the counter to retrieve a pen. "We don't have landlines in our rooms, and the phone booth outside the Motel is busted," you said before your face lit up, "But we do have one outside of where I work. You could give me your number then I'll call you."

"Okay cool that works," he said messily scribbling his number on a old sticky note. You grabbed the note from him, sticking it inside your bra. "Alright, I'll see you around Steve," you said walking back to the door. "Wait, you never told me your name?" Steve said. "I'll tell you my name if our date went well," you said smiling, before walking out the door, your daughter on your hip, who waved a small hand at Steve from behind her mom's head. Steve waved back, smiling wider than he had in a long time.

Maybe he did like working Saturdays after all.

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x fem!reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington fanfiction #likedovesinthewindd

[ordinalastronaut]

From Now Until Forever

a/n : a little something I've had in the drafts for too long. Do I have other chapters? yes. Do the other chapters involve a dog? also yes. Will they be posted? no clue.

summary : Maria is trying to figure out how to live after a life changing injury. Natasha is there to help.

Other tags: established blackhill, mentions of injury/scars, self doubt, SHIELD agents still are as dumb as rocks, everyone looking to Maria for help

word count : 2.7k

❖𐅡❖𐅡❖𐅡❖𐅡❖𐅡❖𐅡❖𐅡❖𐅡❖𐅡❖𐅡❖𐅡❖𐅡❖𐅡❖𐅡❖𐅡❖𐅡❖

“No, I don’t want-” she sighed, looking up at the redhead who gave a slow, understanding frown.

“It’s not if you want it or not, Ria, it’s what you need,” Natasha outreached her hand once more to offer support, both emotional and physical. 

Maria took another breath and glanced around the gym, it was early enough for only a few onlookers, but still too many. She shook her head once more and braced herself on her palms before pulling one leg up painfully, then the second with a little less pain, and smothering a wince as she finally stood up to her full height. 

“See,” she tried not to sound too out of breath, “I’m fine.”

Natasha nodded once and went back to her own weights section, knowing Maria wouldn’t have this conversation right now. The brunette took the curl bar in her hands once more and began the set from the top, being more careful this time. And the next time. And the time after that. She would just have to be more careful.

It was the same thing she would berate herself after every fall she had for the last 6 months. Six months of desk work rather than missions with her team, 6 months of giving orders in the control room rather than boots on the ground, knocking down doors, and acing mission directives. 

She missed it, she had been great at her job but the universe had other plans for her and decided to nudge her in the form of well-timed enemy fire and a 100-foot fall from a helicopter. It left her physically and mentally scarred with the right side of her body spasming at seemingly random times and a well-earned fear of heights. 

She braced her core and pushed the memory aside, focusing on the burn of her bicep and the number of reps she had left. It was another 30 minutes (all without incident) before she and Natasha walked out of the gym and to their car.

“I think it’s a conversation we need to have again,” the redhead turned the engine over, opting not to look at the woman in the passenger seat. 

“How would the cane have helped me in that situation?” she willed her fingers still and buckled the seatbelt after a moment. 

“I’m not saying it would have, I’m saying with all of the work that you’re putting in at PT, you don’t… you don’t want to lose that because you had an accident at the gym,” Natasha chose her words carefully. 

Maria decided not to respond as they drove back to their shared townhouse in the suburbs of DC. It was the first purchase they made after the wedding just over a year ago. It was three stories of unadulterated home.

“Hey!” Phil smiled as he locked the door to his own townhouse, the one that shared a wall with their own.  

“You headed in already?” Natasha asked as she unlocked the front door. 

It was a motion that left Maria with more jealousy than she liked to admit now that her hands shook at inopportune times. Times like when she was racing to get through the door and into the bathroom after a long day. 

“Early bird and all,” Coulson shrugged. 

“May gets back from her mission today,” Maria translated to her wife. 

The redhead only hummed in response as she walked through the front door. 

“Still want to grill tomorrow?” the brunette leaned against the railing of their porch.

It was warming up to be a wonderful summer, something that had kept Maria going while she was recovering from the accident. Her physical therapist had promised her to be back behind the grill by the time the weather was nice.  

“Yeah, I’ll pick up the steaks after work,” Phil smiled broadly. 

“Grab burgers instead!” Natasha called from the top of the staircase where she had already pulled off most of her sweaty gym clothes. 

“Oh- right-” a flush of pink covered the man's pale features, “duh.”

The use of knives and forks simultaneously was still up for debate according to Maria’s hands and as much as she resented it, she knew Natasha’s suggestion was the right move. 

“Thanks,” she muttered and began closing the door, “see ya.”

“Bye Ria,” Phil gave a wave and walked towards the shared driveway. 

She waited until Lola roared to life to ascend the stairs, knowing Natasha would already be in the shower by the time she struggled to take off her own clothes. Sure enough, the sound of the shower hit her ears as she got to the landing. From there she twisted and turned, trying her best and biting back yelps of pain as she pulled each too-tight piece of fabric off her body. By the time she walked into the bathroom, she felt like she had just finished her second workout of the day. 

“Warmed it up for ya,” Natasha winked as she exited the shower. 

“Thanks,” Maria tried not to sound out of breath as she pecked the woman on the lips. 

The way the warm water hit her body felt sinful. Slowly, tight knots unwound and she felt more like her old self as her body cooperated better with her. If she didn’t look down at the angry scars that riddled most of her right side, if she didn’t think about the accident, she could almost feel like it had all been a bad dream. 

Of course, it hadn’t been a bad dream, it had been a day etched into her mind as reality. 

She blew out a breath and carefully buttoned each button of her shirt, making sure that all were fastened properly before walking downstairs and sitting on the couch. As much as she resented no longer being able to pull her hair back perfectly, she relished the time she was able to spend with Natasha every morning while she did it for her.   

“One day, you should let me have fun with it,” the Russian spoke from where she stood behind Maria, the brush moving easily through her hair. 

“One day, I’m going to shave it all off,” the brunette teased.

“If anyone could pull it off, it’d be you,” the Russian planted a kiss on top of Maria’s head. 

The two continued to get ready, Maria counting the morning (other than the fall) a success as she only fumbled while eating her eggs once.

“I swear it’s like they are trying to keep me from taking these,” she pressed down on the lid of the pill bottle once more and sighed as finally she was able to retrieve the tablets. 

Natasha just shook her head and smiled. 

The woman had been a godsend after the accident (and before it if Maria was being honest with herself). She had stopped going on missions for the first 3 months as Maria was in and out of surgeries and appointments. After that, she had only gone on one and it was because the brunette had begged her to return to work, worried that Clint would go stir-crazy if he was grounded without his partner for any longer. 

Natasha cared for and loved Maria on days when the woman couldn’t open her eyes because of pain, and on days when she had locked herself away either due to the memory of the incident, or the realization that her life would never be the same. Every day the Russian showed up, and every day Maria appreciated her more. She didn’t pity Maria, she didn’t make her feel like something broken, she only helped her in the ways she could. 

“Are you still on the power surge case?” The Commander popped the pills into her mouth and washed them down with a sip of coffee.

“Yeah, but Coulson said we might hand it off now that it looks like it needs more manpower,” Natasha reached over and took a sip of Maria’s beverage. 

“What team?” She prodded. 

“Don’t know,” the redhead shrugged.

“Bullshit,” Maria called without any real hint on if the spy was lying or not. 

Still, she wanted to know if the case was going to be pushed to her old team. She had read the overview of the mission and it sounded right up their alley.

“Really,” Natasha shook her head, “now let’s go.”

That was all the tell Maria needed to know that it was indeed going to be pushed to her old team. Natasha never instigated their leave in the morning, if it was up to her they would roll up to the gates 10 minutes late every day. 

The brunette didn’t push it and stood to her full height, wincing as her leg protested after being in the same position for the better part of an hour. 

“Let me drive,” she instead smiled knowing damn well she wasn’t healed enough to drive Natasha’s Corvette.

“Not a chance,” the Russian laughed airy and bright as she grabbed her bag and the keys by the front door.

“One of these days,” Maria whispered as she pulled on her own bag and headed out the door.  

As with most days, the brunette worked in her office only for a handful of hours before she was called into the control room to take command of a mission gone wrong. This time in the form of a squad infiltrating a trafficking ring that was much more active than originally assumed. The situation took hours.  

Her hands were the first to go, shaking and spasming as she directed the team in front of her as hour two set in. She clenched them tightly and pushed off the feeling of pins and needles. By the time hour four passed, her legs were little more than bones keeping her upright. She favored her left heavily as the last of the agents made it to the extraction point. 

“Great job team,” she spoke into the headset and to the people around her, “Ruiz go ahead and take over for evac.”

She turned, moving her body slowly as pain flared along the entire right side and into the left. The three stairs in front of her looked more like mountains to climb as she approached them. The first took a matter of seconds to ascend, the second a little longer. Frustrated by the speed she tried to take the third a little more quickly. 

Her body, however, did not want to take it any faster and as pain shot up her leg, her foot clipped the top step and Maria Hill fell to the ground. The exhaustion of the day had taken its toll on not just her legs, but her arms as well and she was unable to stop her body from falling full force onto its side.     

Agents were around her immediately, all of them talking quickly and offering hands. Her embarrassment was prominent as a blush covered her cheeks. 

“I’m fine,” she tried to shoo them away, “I’m fine I just-”

“Commander Hill, here,” one agent called out. 

“I can go get Coulson,” another offered. 

Over and over they tried to help her but it was just an annoying buzz to the brunette whose body spasmed and felt every ridge and groove in the ground. 

“Just give me a second!” she barked out as tears from pain started to form. 

“Move.” 

Fury’s voice was enough to send each and every junior agent scurrying away. Maria didn’t look at him as he crouched down next to her, leather and aftershave wafting off of him. 

“Can you stand?” his voice was low and she gave a hesitant nod, “Let me help you.”

She didn’t protest as he used his arms to help her stand, bracing her body against his. 

They walked, slowly, in silence until they got to his office door. He scanned his finger, then his eye, and waited for the locks to disengage. 

“Here,” he helped her walk to his couch, dropping her softly on the cushions. 

She used her left hand to massage open her right, unclenching her jaw and taking a sip of the water Fury offered her as soon as she could. Maria sat back on the couch, letting her head hit the wall behind her as she regained composure. 

“I’m sorry,” she said softly, trying to keep the emotion she felt out of her voice. 

“Don’t go down this path. Not again,” he huffed from where he sat at his desk, “I don’t want you to apologize for falling, I don’t want you to offer your resignation, I don’t want you to tell me how much of a risk you think you are.”

“Nick-” she started. 

“I mean it, Maria,” the Director fixed her with a stare, “you’re still my right hand, even if your own doesn’t work in the way it used to.”

She continued to massage her hand into cooperation. 

“It’s after five. You want me to call Coulson or Romanoff?” Fury asked as he picked up his desk phone.

“Romanoff,” Maria answered as she finally regained control of both hands. 

Ten minutes later, there were two quick knocks followed by a third. 

“Yeah,” Fury called for the Russian to enter. 

“Hey,” Natasha greeted them both, her bag and Maria’s already over her shoulder. 

“Have a good weekend,” the man dismissed them both, “ice your ankle and your shoulder Hill.”

Maria waved him off and offered to take the extra bag from her girlfriend who batted her hand away. Neither of them talked on their way back into the garage, both knew that Maria wouldn’t answer any questions until she was in the promised safety of the car or better yet, their home. 

“Did you see their changing the hours of the range?” Maria asked as they got into the car. 

It was the not-so-subtle way of her telling Natasha she wouldn’t talk about what happened until they were home. 

“Clint complained for 30 minutes straight before I reminded him that we don’t even use that range,” the Russian scoffed and climbed into her car. 

“Sounds about right,” Maria shook her head and reached over her body to use her left arm to buckle herself in.   

They were barely in the front door before Maria leaned heavily onto Natasha as the redhead carried them both into the living room. The Commander sucked in a breath as her body finally found the rest it had been seeking for 6 hours. She wiped at the tears streaming down her face angrily as Natasha left for a moment, only to return with two ice packs. 

“Spasm or fall?” her low voice was quiet from where she knelt in front of her wife. 

“Fall,” Maria confirmed. 

Natasha hummed in understanding, gingerly placing the two packs on where the brunette winced the most in pain. She took the pad of her thumb and softly brushed away the tears that still trailed down the woman’s face.

“It was a hard day,” the redhead said softly, “it’s okay to have hard days, Masha.” 

Maria tilted her head back until it rested on the back of the couch, hoping the tears would subside if her face was no longer vertical. 

They didn’t. 

“I can’t do this forever,” she spoke barely above a whisper, “I can’t keep living like this. Every day I’m afraid I’m going to fall and that I won’t-”

She shook her head as her voice broke. 

“It’s only been 6 months, my love, things will get better,” the Russian ran a warm, calloused hand over her arm. 

“What if they don’t? What if this is my life?” new tears welled in her eyes. 

“Then we will find ways to make it easier, together,” Natasha promised her. 

“I don’t deserve you,” she tilted her head to look at the woman next to her. 

“I know,” the Russian joked as she planted a kiss on her wife’s cheek, “now, what are we having for dinner?”   

Maria took a deep breath, sat up straight, and watched as Natasha sauntered into their kitchen. She was right, no matter if she continued to struggle with her injuries for a month or a lifetime they would work through it. Together.  

#blackhill #maria hill #natasha romanoff #marvel #phil coulson #nick fury #Natasha Romanoff is a good wife #yes you read that correctly #wife

[wixelt]

I was looking over the S3 trackers and realized the group Anne and Marcy show up at Anne's Parents' house with are

Two Anthropomorphic Frogs

One Antrhopomorphic Tadpole With A Destroyed Frog Robot Head

A Man In Frog Power Armor Initially Mistaken For A Second Frog Robot

A Man With Dog Ears

A Man With Ram Horns

A Strange Amalgamation Of Snake Oil Salesman And Cat Owning Bond Villian

And I think Pearl would fit the group vibe since she is still wearing animal skins and kept her hair long from when she was feral.

Also, with The Hermits' mildly rocky understanding of how rent works and the assumption that if you are staying in someone else's base you either work for them or pay an inn fee due to their experience on Empires, Pearl probably would get like seven city hygiene related jobs to start paying 'rent.'

Probably with such efficiency between her by foot trash collecting, high speed window cleaning sweeps of entire sections of the city, and ability to leave houses spotless in no time when hired as a maid, she becomes cryptid found in the vicinity of two pillars of light (Haste II and Speed II beacons) that make others feel the welcome effects of caffeine in their 9-5 without the crash, simply known as 'The Cleaning Lady'

This along with her volunteering in community gardens city wide, which begin experiencing a major increase in growth.

This would kick off Hop Pop's concerns about 'freeloading' far sooner and The Boonchuys' dissuading of these concerns would probably lead into Pearl questioning if she can't clean if she's living with them, in which case she may need help finding her own apartment, making it clear her actions that go far beyond even the crunch of a single parent of five trying to keep themselves barely above the poverty line and provide for their kids is her preferred career path, why would I do it if I didn't enjoy it? Which would lead to a discussion from which Scar pulls Zedaph out of the room partway through for a seperate discussion.

(I know this has a follow-up. For now I'll assume Pearl does have beacons. I'll adapt if the next ask doesn't allow for that.)

Anne has been missing for 5 months.

The Boonchuys have been through a lot in that time, mostly frantic worrying for their daughter & her friends' whereabouts.

Oum especially worried - no matter how much Bee tried to comfort her - that Anne had been dragged along by Sasha or Marcy on some flight of fancy to mark her birthday.

Both girls could be wonderful, but their home lives - especially Sasha's - had done them no favors. The three girls were all deeply reliant on one another & it showed in the worst ways.

The Boonchuys could only hope they'd raised Anne well enough to get through whatever ill-advised antic had reared its ugly head.

That hope faded after the first month, & after four more the couple are on the verge of breaking.

And then one day Anne & Marcy turn up on their doorstep out of the blue, wearing clothes out of a fantasy novel, the former clutching the goggles hung around her neck tightly with one hand as if they'll vanish should she let go.

Both look tired & shaken - Marcy holding Anne up to stop her falling - eyes haunted, clothes torn & bearing the scuffs & bruises of a recent struggle.

"...H-Hi, Mom."

Oum has the two wrapped up in her arms - tears flowing - before she even fully registers their physical state, & hearing the commotion, Bee isn't far behind.

Because their daughter's home, at last.

There's so many questions about where she's been & why she's injured. So many cries about how worried they both were & that the police had told them to give up, not to mention telling Marcy about her own parents' situation.

They don't even get to ask where Sasha is before the conspiciously large group trying & failing to hide behind the garbage cans makes themselves known.

Oum & Bee promptly triple their number of questions.

And answers to those will come, but there's a lot to take in, first.

The Plantars are actually the easy bit. Talking frog folk & their robot head? Sure, why not - the Boonchuys can take that in stride. Compared to the rest, there's at least a trend there, if Anne & Marcy really have been in some parallel amphibian reality.

But then there's these... "Hermits". Humans at face value, but clearly much more beyond that, native to neither here nor Amphibia. Completely alien despite their friendliness.

Xisuma would've been easy if he'd kept his helmet on & let the couple believe he was a robot. But according to Marcy he's an "Admin" - basically a minor deity when he has his powers - & much like the Plantars first impression, his genuine, friendly demeanor doesn't gel at all with that image for Oum, at first.

Bee, meanwhile, has played enough video games to draw existential conclusions from the term "Admin" & has to be calmed by his daughter.

"No, Dad, you're not in a video game. Yes, you are real. Yes, I'm sure."

Beyond him, the others are mostly easier to comprehend. Ren & Zedaph just seem like eccentric fellas with animal traits until they open their mouths, & Bee knows literally Kakashi when he sees him, even as Etho again insists he still doesn't know that guy.

Marcy stifles a giggle behind him at Mr. Boonchuy's nerding out.

Next is Scar.

Scar is an enigma, but despite being obviously well-meaning when you set aside his antics, the bizarre combination of Willy Wonka, the Onceler & a man who simultaneously wants to "change" the world & sell you timeshares you don't need isn't lost on Oum.

It takes her a few days, Anne's repeated insistence to his character - apparently Sasha trusts this guy - & catching Scar cradling Domino - clearly missing his own cat - for her to realise he's not going to swindle all their savings & actually start to trust him.

It took Bee losing to him in one game of Monopoly to earn the same.

And finally, there's Pearl, wrapped in animal skins with long hair & crazy eyes.

The Boonchuys hear many stories about Pearl, from her being the reincarnation of a farm goddess, to an embodiment of feral bloodlust, to a bird, to a moth.

The jury's out on all four, for now. All the pair can really judge is what's in front of them: A scared woman seperated from her friend & from her brother. Like everyone else, she's been through the wringer.

And like everyone else, she hides it well but is clearly shaken, in yet another world with new laws & informal rules to adapt to.

Hence - drawing on their experience with the Emperors - they all decide they need to pull their weight before fully grasping the nuances of life on Earth.

Even when Hermits are trying to be subtle - at Anne's insistence - they are not, & the seven cleaning jobs & reputation as a hygiene/gardening cryptid Pearl develops are proof of that.

The beacons get taken down after less than a week as - positives be damned - they're attracting too much attention & "I don't care where you got all that metal, Pearl, put it back."

The Boonchuys short circuit a little bit when - on her asking about if they'd prefer she moved out so her cleaning work doesn't bring any unwanted guests to the house - they realise this is her willing profession/hobby, rather than something she's doing purely to keep the Hermits in house & home.

They insist she doesn't have to move out - Pearl is relieved at this - but if she & the others could really try to be a little more low-key around the house it'd be helpful.

They also tell her they're more than happy to help her search for a property away from the house to base her business ventures out of, even if she'll have to rent it indepedently of the family's finances to stop a trace.

Los Angeles has never looked so clean, nor so pretty, & but you can bet Anne & Marcy don't want the feds to come knocking, if they can help it.

And yes, all of this probably would set off Hop Pop's freeloading concerns much sooner, though on his end that still goes the way you'd probably expect it to go, with or without Hermit interference.

#hermitphibia au #hermitcraft #hermitblr #hermitcraft au #amphibia #amphibia au #anne boonchuy #marcy wu #sprig plantar #hopediah plantar #hop pop plantar #polly plantar #oum boonchuy #bee boonchuy #xisumavoid #pearlscentmoon #zedaphplays #rendog #goodtimeswithscar #ethoslab #amphibia frobo

[aliettali]

I wanna know more about your clone ocs!

thank you so much for asking this you have opened the floodgates i am so sorry! 

i have nine: tidbit, crypt, oops, flipside, sher, intel, three-two, pint, and dangle. i’ve only (officially) drawn crypt and tidbit so far, but i do have a sketch for oops that i’ll be putting in here as reference. it is also worth mentioning that only crypt and tidbit are actually alive - the others all died so they dont have as much lore!

everyone except tidbit (crypt + co) are batchmates. the large majority of them die before they can individualize so they don’t have many unique designs my bad! also they’re all relatively young- i’d like to think that they’re fresh out of kamino and get assigned to the 501st on umbara almost immediately. and that goes SPLENDID (all of them die except for crypt, who is left to deal with losing every single one of his batchmates within a single campaign)

putting things under a "keep reading" section because it gets pretty long

crypt ct-4342:

well he WAS going to be a medic and them umbara fucked him up so severely (physically and mentally) that he couldnt deal w the hypothetical consequences of having blood on his hands anymore

now hes a slicer (he goes back to get medic certified because he does want to save people but that’s a separate character arc) 

honestly i signed him up for bad things happen bingo and he just has to deal with it

doesnt get a name until after umbara, chose it because a) encryption, slicing reference b) crypt -> grave -> his brothers never got one

facial/corneal scarring that holds his right eye slightly open+ some hearing loss that he makes up for with (unsanctioned) modifications to his bucket. outer arm scarring too because he shielded his head

tidbit ct-2719:

field medic ! hes also a little bitch but a) older and b) aware of concepts such as “emotional maturity” and “compartmentalization” so he’s doing ok 

he and crypt hit it off pretty quickly because it took him exactly three whole days of being stationed w the 501st to sprain an ankle by doing a cartwheel on a sloped floor (dangle dared him to)... but he was polite and nice and compliant in the medbay which is rare

theyre the most brother figures to ever i love them dearly

anyway tidbit keeps his hair short because he got fed up w it getting in his face when leaning over people you know how it is. never plans on getting a tattoo because he’s seen too many people in the medbay with ink related infections for that to happen, settles for hair bs instead

got his name because he tells his patients random bullshit to distract them

mostly closed off bc he’s seen a lot of troopers die (he cares far too much and it’s becoming a problem) and if he can’t save them in time then it means he’s losing those he loves because of his own incompetence

oops ct-4748 (dies on umbara): 

this motherfucker decided to catch an activated thermal detonator and tossed it back so late that he burnt his eyebrows off permanently (he also has burns on his hand but they wear gloves)

the only thing he said was “oops” so that’s his brand now

overall he was a pretty chill guy too bad he died saving crypt 

(he dies draped on top of crypt, who wakes up half thinking that they’re back on kamino in a batch pile but nope! oops is dead sher is dead pint is dead three-two is dead he can only pray that dangle and intel are alright) (crypt gets up and casts oops off and has to leave him behind, stumbling through a veritable graveyard, almost blind in one eye and teary-eyed in the other, and almost gets shot when he finally finds more troopers) (they’re the 212th but its okay they're alive and okay) (he gets through the disguise clusterfuck and crypt races over to tidbit to ask about dangle and intel) (they’re dead and gone and he has never been so alone)

flipside ct-4344 (dies on umbara):

little bitch, got his name because he really hated the kamino bunk pillows and kept flipping them over to get at the cooler side (he just ran really hot for no reason)

dies in a classic krell “push forward no matter the consequences” maneuver- he's the first of the batch to die actually good for him

was probably the closest to straight up defecting out of everyone

sher ct-4190 (dies on umbara):

the calm normal guy, he and intel are probably the reasons the batch got off kamino in the first place

slightly longer hair than regulation - he wanted to grow it out into a ponytail but guess what happened

was an older brother out of necessity but the others realized how hard he was taking it whenever any of them did something reckless and got hurt as a result so they toned it down a bit

forces crypt to go on without him when he gets shot and subsequently dies alone

he was going to be a sniper bc he always had steady hands (his batchmates always asked him to cut their hair for them) (he was trembling when he died) (i think he was too kind to survive much longer than that anyway)

intel ct-4223 (dies on umbara):

REALLY focused on making plans, the second most responsible

“guys, please, what’s the plan? we have intel for this test, we just watched the other group take it-”

“you and your intel. i say our plan is to FUCK IT and BALL” 

he and sher try really hard to manage the others. sadly kamino does not manufacture child leashes

gets killed on umbara like a good soldier who follows orders (krell tactics again)

he dies painfully aware of his own insignificance bc preciously he was driven by some hope that hey!!! if we get past this training/test/battle we won’t be forgotten but exactly three people end up remembering him as a person lmao (tidbit, crypt, rex)

i think he and dogma fucking hated each other

pint ct-4337 (dies on umbara):

the only one of them to have paint on their armor pre-umbara and thats through sheer bad luck - he walked into a room and kicked over a can of paint and got some of it on his boot toe

dies alongside intel

three-two ct-4332 (dies on umbara):

never chose a name, pretty withdrawn from the rest of his batch bc he, unfortunately, is hyperaware of his circumstances and what will happen to his brothers after the war

aggressively regulation haircut

as soon as intel and pint are killed in front of him he realizes that they might not matter in the long run but his brothers wormed their ways into his heart and now they're gone before he even chose a name. he didnt even get to tell them his name and they're dead (messes up and gets shot moments later)

dangle ct-4322 (dies on umbara):

suspiciously flexible, probably hypermobile, loved dangling (!) from the top bunk with his legs on the bed and his entire upper body just. hanging there

saw shaak ti do a sick jedi trick ONCE and decided that was his brand so he liked practicing cartwheels and splits and backbends in his spare time

they didnt have music (cant have shit on kamino) so he hummed his own and imagined dances to them

dies on umbara ft the clone eating plant thing because he was under the impression that crypt was just killed

#star wars tcw #tcw #the clone wars #clone trooper oc #clone trooper crypt #clone trooper tidbit #clone trooper oops #clone trooper flipside #clone trooper sher #clone trooper intel #clone trooper pint #clone trooper dangle #blast batch #lmao i care them #expect comics sometime

[drstonetrivia]

Chapter 219 Trivia

Xeno seems way too pleased to be both in charge of something, and getting to put Senku through training hell.

Being petrified on liftoff means the squad doesn't have to handle the crushing acceleration and other extreme forces, but on the other hand they can't do the pre-flight checks from inside the shuttle.

They don't save much with regards to food and water, since they'll likely be the ones assembling the rocket parts in space, and getting into orbit only takes 8.5 minutes.

(I wonder if they'll test with the medusa prior to liftoff, because we know statues weigh more than people, but no one's ever mentioned by how much. Additionally, statues will have different problems compared to squishy humans: they could get shaken apart by the launch.)

The map here shows the planned timings of the rocket's orbit compared to the moon. D3 may stand for "Day 3", which explains why it's marked on both the rocket and the moon.

Alternatively, it could be about the different manoeuvres, and D3 is "earth-orbit to moon", the 3rd stage.

Astronaut training has varied across missions, but apart from being fit & in good health, their heart needs to be strong. In 0G, the heart loses muscle mass. This affects blood pressure, meaning possible dizziness or fainting. This kind of weakness could mean death in space.

Unlike physical tests which tend to be self-explanatory ("how fast can you run 100m" or "how long can you balance on one leg"), concentration tests can take many forms:

Sai wrote them mazes to complete, but they could easily have been video-games like the one ESA used, tracking a ball under moving cups, or Where's Waldo/Wally puzzles.

This maze is impossible to solve, because Kohaku's spit covers every possible route from the exit. I've filled in the sections you can reach without passing through the unknown part.

We can also conclude Senku's maze is different, or incorrect, because of where his line passes.

Also, Kohaku must have passed the concentration test because she was chosen at the end to be an astronaut.

She's just never taken an exam before…

Tsukasa's scars: are they back or not? Did he paint them on after the physical trials, but before fighting Kohaku?

So Senku has Ryusui's twin swords going by the design of the hilt, and Kohaku has an assault rifle.

Not sure why she needs it when she was chosen for her agility rather than shooting skills, but it does look very cool.

The last page of this chapter really made me feel like the story is ending soon…

#trivia #dr stone #chapters #219

[laughableillusions]

this is your opportunity to tell me about akira and the entity (if u want). . . they sound cool as hell

OOUOIUOGIGUGH I DO WANT TO ANON!!!

Some drawings and a little mood/aesthetic board I made for him

(This gets pretty long I apologize I went overboard😭😭)

Akira Kutsuki is my primary Dead By Daylight Survivor OC! He’s shipped with my favorite killer The Oni (Kazan Yamaoka), I mostly use him in online roleplay with my friend bc they play a very good Oni. But I think he’s so developed at this point that he could easily slot into the game itself.

Physical description: a thin, 35 year old, 5’7 Japanese man with shaggy overgrown hair, stubble. Usually wearing a rumbled white dress shirt and tie with a sweater vest and slacks. He wears glasses with rectangle frames, he has scars on his wrists from an attempted suicide attempted (more on that later.)

Personality: he’s an ADHD Autism mess, but somehow does exceedingly well under pressure. Very passionate about things and is incredibly talkative. Has no rizz, negative rizz, no bitches. Makes the best of his situation to try and learn everything he can about the fog. Workaholic. He has cool English teacher vibes

Lore: he is the descendant of the landlord that The Oni held a grunge with, his family always went into politics or some kind of leadership positions but he broke the mold and went into archeology. After he graduated college he decided to do some genealogy on his family, and found the story of Kazan Yamaoka (as well as poetry about him and his story.)

Most of the landlords back in those days were corrupt, and Samauri were basically like cops, and they were crooked and did awful things (basically Kazan’s purge had some merit to it, not that he was in the right in any way.) Akira learns that his so called “grand ancestor” wasn’t actually so grand. He also uncovers all the shady things that his family has done over the years, he confronts them about it and they tell him to keep his mouth shut about it. Enraged that history will simply repeat himself, and that his family hasn’t answered for crimes committed even back in the days of “The Oni.” He desecrates the family temple, graffitiing the walls and destroying everything he can.

He gets arrested, and his family disowns him. Disgraced, and with nothing left for him- he goes to America.

There he goes back to school and becomes a professor. Though he keeps his interest in the Yamaoka line, in the village where Kazan was “killed” he can find no body or no artifacts. The people there say that he became an ogre since the body seemed to vanish. The lack of a body drives Akira up the wall, the only thing he finds is a section of rope that has traces of some sort of…ash that is impossible to place.

Akira then looks into other historical disappearances, finding that when archeologists dug up the scene- they too found traces of this strange ash-like mineral scattered around. He becomes interested in this, all these disappearances around the world- seemingly random…all of them having this same trace material. All of these scenes having to do with great pain or violence.

He begins to connect them, learning the names and history of these “killers.” He finds newspaper reports that talk about this strange “black fog” or “ash” that surrounded the area of the missing body or scene. A colleague of his finds the notes of a Scotsman by the name of Talbot Grimes.

Then, Rin Yamaoka is murdered. Akira hears about it from a friend in Japan, and he mentions that there was a cloud of ash surrounding the apartment. Akira books the first flight to Japan and actually breaks into the crime scene to get a sample. While he’s there he realizes that these people aren’t just vanishing…they’ve all been taken somewhere.

Things begin to spiral out of control when he gets back, he begins having nightmares about being caught in a giant spider web. He reads more of Grime’s notes, confirming his theory. Akira then realizes that Grimes himself had gone insane, and fell off the face of the earth. Akira realizes that he was taken as well.

The nightmares get worse, so he stops sleeping. He begins to hallucinate spindly arms reaching down to grab him. He hears voice telling him that he knows too much. He locks himself into his apartment and doesn’t open the windows. He destroys all his notes and research in the hope that it will stop whatever is happening to him.

The entity comes for him anyway, and he locks himself into the bathroom and slits his wrists in the bathtub, hoping that death will claim him before the entity does. It doesn’t of course, and he wakes up in the fog.

Wow that was incredibly long sndjsixjsncjsj whoops. Anyway that’s Akira. He meets the Oni and is both terrified but also nerding the fuck out the whole time. Kazan finds him adorable and kind of pathetic and they hook up sncjsixjbsbc

#dbd oc #dbd survivor #tw sui attempt #tw sui implied #dead by daylight #oc #original character #oc: akira kutsuki #my oc #ask #anon

[ha-e-l]

Eclipse- Chapter 2 [Cod MW2 x OC]

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Chapter 2!! This one’s a little longer, but things are starting to actually happen now. I know it’s not the most well written thing you’ll ever read, but if I rewrite this section I’ll have to do the rest, and I just don’t have the energy for that. Anyways, enjoy

Roughly 4.4k Words

CW: Mention of suicide, mild blood, joint dislocation, Ghost’s terrible jokes

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My eyes snap open, mouth snapping closed to trap my scream as I throw myself off the side of my bed and roll under it, gripping my knife tightly to my chest. My breathing is rapid, phantom pain ricocheting through my veins, and scars burning more than they usually do. It’s completely dark in the room, and even darker under the bed. The only light that manages to make it through is that of the moon shining through the window on the back wall between my and Ghost's beds. I keep my eyes on that light, using it to ground myself in the present and push away the memories of my past. 

But then my light is blocked. A large figure fills the space before crouching down beside my bed and tilting their head so they can look at me. 

The white paint depicting his lower jaw practically glows in the light, and I release some of my grip on the knife across my chest. The dark paint around his eyes is missing now, and the pale skin seems out of place behind the mask. 

He crouches there for a moment holding eye contact as I catch my breath, then nods his head behind him, and stands. I can hear his footfalls move away from my bed, and slowly roll out, following behind him. 

I grab my boots from the foot of my bed and pause momentarily, watching as Ghost halts at the door. Once my boots are securely on my feet, Ghost moves, pushes the door open and slips out. I follow quietly, allowing my other teammates the rest they deserve, as I too slink my way out the door, and down the hallway, where I watch Ghost disappear behind another door. One that Soap hadn’t mentioned on his makeshift tour. 

I contemplate turning around, crawling back under my bed, and dealing with the aftermath of my nightmare alone, but push forward anyways. The door that Ghost had disappeared behind leads straight to a set of stairs, ones that only go up. 

I keep my steps silent as I move up the stairs, wiping the sweat that had collected thanks to my dream, away from my eyes. At the top of the stairs, there is another door, and I push it open carefully, cringing at the squeak it releases as I do so. 

The moonlight is much brighter up here, and it illuminates the roof space where Ghost stands. He’s standing on the slight lift on the edge of the roof, looking out over the grounds, like a watchdog. The cold air hits me as the door swings closed and I move toward Ghost. 

I can feel the rapidly cooling sweat dripping down my back, causing an uncomfortable chill to race up my spine. The twitching of my muscles reminds me of the involuntary spasming that occurred when I was electrocuted, and the phantom pain roars inside my veins again, causing me to stiffen. I stop in my tracks, a few feet away from where Ghost turns to face me. His eyes bore into mine, and in that moment it feels like he knows every thought that’s flowing through my head. Like he knows exactly the pain that I’m feeling, even though it’s all mental, and not physical. 

And I realize, as I push myself to step closer to the man, that he might understand exactly what I’m going through. I come to a stop next to him, about an arm's length from his side as I too stare off into the darkness of the base. 

            I can see people moving around below us, small points moving through the darkness, occasionally illuminated by the bright lights on the ground. 

I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and try to ground myself, pushing the memory far away. It occurs to me how vulnerable I am at this moment. Eyes closed and poised at the edge of the building. Ghost could easily push me off and claim that I had jumped. And maybe people would believe him. I had seen a lot in my years, and people couldn’t fault me too much for letting it get to my head. But that isn’t my intention. 

           My eyes snap open, and I turn to the man next to me, feeling my heart pick up again at the idea. Ghost turns slowly to look at me as well, his calm eyes meeting my fiery ones. I feel stiff, the remnants of the memory keeping me on high alert. And when Ghost moves, I take a small step away from him, realizing, with no comfort, that I don’t have a weapon on me except for the small knife tucked in my boot. 

But Ghost doesn't move toward me, instead, he sits on the edge of the building, hands coming together in his lap as he looks away from me completely. My breathing is fast again, and I can feel the dredges of panic pulling at my brain. The edges of my vision are beginning to blur slightly, and my head feels faint. I can feel the burning of the jumper cables through my sides and bring my hand up to rub at the scars that lay under my shirt. 

“Two goldfish are in a tank.” Ghost’s voice is startling in the silence of the night. I blink rapidly, trying to clear the blurriness, and figure out where this is going. 

“Okay?” I ask, not quite sure if there was more to the statement, or if that was the extent of what he was going to say. 

“One turns to the other and says, ‘You know how to drive this thing?’” He turns his face slightly toward me, gauging a reaction. I stay still for a moment, working through the absurdity of his joke before a large smile overtakes my face and I let out a low chuckle before quieting myself down.

“Quite the jokester, aren’t you?” I say, finally sitting down with him, hands resting behind me to hold onto the ledge, just in case. 

“I could do this all night.” He says, eyes still tracing over my form. 

“I’m sure you could, Lieutenant.” I close my eyes again, looking up toward the sky as a smaller smile covers my expression. The moon is bright, even behind my eyelids, and I take comfort in the fact that it is there. 

Somehow, this man, who I’d only known for a few hours, had known exactly what to do to help me calm down. 

I had always been drawn to the moon. Something about it calming me, while also giving me the strength to do whatever it is I had to do. It’s how I got my nickname; since I prefer night missions, and therefore all people see of me is my silhouette against the moon. Hence, Eclipse. Everyone had a story for their name, mine wasn’t all that fun, but I was willing to bet that Soap’s had some sort of fun meaning behind it. I knew he was a demolitions specialist, perhaps it was because he could create a clean slate after demoing. Of course, Ghost would have to have a story as well, but with how he acted, I figure that he isn’t exactly the ‘share my personal history with someone I just met’ type. And I’m not one to push boundaries. If I like my boundaries respected then the least I can do is respect his. 

We sit in silence for a while, each scanning around the compound, occasionally glancing past each other, but otherwise keep to ourselves. 

Light is beginning to fill the sky when I finally decide to check my watch. It reads 0400, and I know I’m not going to get back to sleep. Ghost is still next to me, back hunched over in a similar fashion to my own as we sit atop the concrete roof. I look at the man, really look at him for the first time since we came up here. 

He wears a dark balaklava, similar to the one with the skull plate stitched to it, but this one’s forehead is clear, only having the lower half painted instead of the full get up. He also wears a dark t-shirt, which exposes the tattoos covering his left arm, and dark jogging pants. He has his boots unlaced, but they are tightened enough not to fall over the edge of the building as he gently sways his feet. His clothing makes him seem more approachable than he had been earlier but it does nothing to change his imposing size. It seems he doesn't need his protective layers to be intimidating. 

“Would you spar with me?” I ask, cringing slightly at the roughness of my voice after going unused for so long. I clear my throat carefully as Ghost turns to observe me. I watch as his eyes trail up and down my form, coming to a rest on my face. The mask makes it difficult to tell what he was thinking, but after years of practice with König, I feel like I can gauge his thoughts through his eyes alone.

“You don’t have to. When König wakes up I can ask him.” Ghost blinks slowly, eyes squinting at me ever so slightly, before he gives a small nod, and straightens his back. I smile, glad to have a new sparring partner, and stand, dusting my pants off as I step away from the edge. Ghost does the same, and I follow him through the door and back down the stairs. 

We exit the stairs, turn right, and enter the gym. Ghost flicks the lights on, illuminating the space. One wall is lined with mirrors, and against the other are three treadmills, and a weight rack, along with other workout equipment spread out across the room. And in the middle of the room, there is padding on the floor, which Ghost and I are steadily approaching. Ghost stops at the edge of the mat, and loosens his boots before slipping them off, and stepping fully onto the mat. I follow his lead, slipping my boots off and setting them next to his before stepping onto the mat. 

I mess with my hair until it isn’t in my line of sight, watching Ghost the whole time to make sure he doesn't move while I’m distracted. Once my hair is out of the way, I get into stance, and watch as Ghost does the same. 

“Ready?” He asks, eyes boring into mine. 

“Ready,” I confirm, and as soon as the word leaves my mouth, we’re moving. 

My left foot moves in a large step, bringing me closer to Ghost, but before I make contact I spin to my right, tucking myself into him as I bring an elbow back to his chest. There is a dull thud as my elbow makes contact, and I can almost feel the breath he lets out. But he reacts fast. 

He uses my proximity to kick the back of my knee, forcing me to the ground. His own knee presses into my back as he kneels over me. I turn my head to the side, looking into his eyes. There is a hint of a smirk behind them as I continue struggling, but it disappears when I get a knee up under myself and practically buck him off of me.  I spin, jumping up as I do, before he dives for my legs. We are falling to the floor before I can take in a complete breath, my partial one being forced out of me as Ghost’s weight crushes me to the mat. I quickly bring a knee up to his back, aiming for his kidneys, but he moves to the side ever so slightly, avoiding the worst of it and sending a spark up my leg instead. He grabs my wrists in one hand, holding them above me as he straddles my legs, keeping them from kicking up at him anymore. The smirk is back in his eyes, and I’m determined to get rid of it. I bend my knees, planting my feet on the outside of his as I use his grip on my wrists to secure us together, then bring my hips up, and push him to the side, ending with me above him. But he still has a grip on my wrists, which he uses to throw me over his head. I land, sprawled on my back, the wind knocked out of me, at the edge of the mat. But I can’t give up, not yet. So I jump up, coming face to face with Ghost as he walks toward me. I only have a few inches of the mat behind me, and I know he’s trying to back me off. I can’t let that happen.

So, as he gets within a few steps of me, I dive to his left, holding my hands out in front of me to start my roll. I feel a twinge go through my wrist but ignore it as I stand again, turning to face him. We are kitty-corner to each other now, and I can see the determination building behind his eyes as he steps toward me again. 

An hour later and we’re both covered in a layer of sweat, causing our hands to slip off of each other as we made grasps. I had slipped off my shirt a little while ago, and I’m now fighting in my tank top and sleep shorts. Ghost is still wearing all his clothes, and I commend him for working through the heat I know has to be building behind his mask. 

We’re circling each other, hands up and ready to strike. Ghost makes the first move, swiping my legs out from under me, and causing me to drop unceremoniously to the mat. He jumps on top of me as I roll over, practically sitting on my lower back as his legs press against my own, keeping me still as he grabs my left arm, and brings it behind me. 

He had abandoned any sense of holding back that he held earlier in our fighting, and pulls roughly at my shoulder just as I was about to tap out. But it’s too late. I feel the joint slip, and click as the pain bursts down my arm and up my neck. My right hand immediately flies back to tap at his thigh as I bite my lip to stifle the noises I want to let out. 

He releases me immediately, moving to stand and look down at me. I bring my hips up slightly as I pull myself together enough to roll over, eyes squeezed shut, and teeth digging into my lip to the point where I can faintly taste blood. I finally flip over, and the intense wave of pain it brings causes me to throw my eyes open, breathing as deeply as I can manage. Ghost is looking down at me, eyes squinted, and unfocused. Like he’s trying to think something through but is struggling. 

My right hand slots into place against my left shoulder, and I gently push at it, making sure it had just slipped out of place. And, as I thought, it had, meaning all I have to do is pop it back in. I groan again as my poking flares the pain, and try to sit up slightly, but fail when the joint moves. I drop onto the mat, deep breaths leaving my lips. 

Ghost looks mortified. That’s the closest emotion I can find in his eyes. His chest is barely moving, as if he’s stopped breathing, and his eyes are still cloudy and distant. I recognize the glazed eyes from when König falls into his panic attacks, but there isn’t much I can do for Ghost until I get my shoulder back in place. 

As I groan through the pain again, I hear the door to the gym open, and two sets of footsteps enter through it. My eyes close again to ward off the pain that zings through my arm when I try to look at who they are. 

“Finsternis?”(Eclipse) Good, it’s König. He knows how shit my shoulder is, and has helped me put it back in place more times than I can count. 

“Ghost?” Looks like Price is the second person present.

 My eyes open again as I feel König drop to kneel next to me, and see Ghost still staring at me. 

“Schulter,” (Shoulder)The word croaks out of my throat as I swallow down the pain. Normally we are able to slip it back into place almost immediately, but it has been at least 3 minutes, and it’s getting angrier and angrier with me. 

König’s eyes slip from my face to look at where my right hand is pressed into my left shoulder. 

“Wir müssen es wieder an Ort.” (We have to put it back in place) I say, looking into König’s dark eyes as they bore into mine. He gives a small nod and moves so he is to my left, pulling my arm out with him. I grit my teeth together against the pain and drop my right hand to my side as he finally gets into place. He places one foot so it’s pushing against my ribcage, and plants the other one firmly on the ground near my head. 

“Auf Drei,” (On three) He says, looking me in the eyes. I turn away, closing my eyes and gritting my teeth again as I prepare for the pain.  “Eins.”(One) But he doesn't wait for three, he barely waits at all, before pulling on my arm, pushing against my ribcage as I feel the ball slip back into its socket. 

“Scheiße!”(Shit) I say through my gritted teeth, hearing the pop externally and internally. The world sways momentarily, but König keeps a firm grip on my hand as he scoots closer to me again. He uses his hand to turn my face toward him, and I open my eyes again to make eye contact with him. 

“Ich hasse es, wenn du das machst." (I hate when you do that) I say, and he shakes with a silent laugh at my expense. 

“Nachstes mal lasse ich es dann.” (Next time I’ll leave it then) He says, and I can see the smile in his eyes. Using my good arm I punch his shoulder. Behind him, Ghost is still standing still, though now he’s scanning the gym like he was cataloging it. Price is somewhere over my head, though he’s quiet, probably waiting for the best time to speak. As I sit up, with the help of König, Ghost grabs his boots from the side of the mat, and slinks out the door, ignoring the captain calling to him. 

I watch as he leaves, not looking back once. 

“What the hell was that?” Price asks, arms crossing over his chest, and mustache twitching against his lip. 

“Shoulder injury that never healed right, it slips out sometimes without much pressure applied. Nothing that affects my performance in the field Captain, I assure you.” Price’s eyes burn into me, and for a moment I’m worried that he’s going to pull me from the mission, but his hands fall to his sides as he finally speaks, and I relax marginally. 

“It better not.” Is all he says before turning and following the same path that Ghost had.

“Was ist passiert?” (What happened?) König asks as he helps me stand. 

“Kampftraining.Ich war nicht schnell genug, um etwas zu sagen.”( Sparring. I wasn’t fast enough to say something.) I shrug my shoulders, then regret it immediately as I feel the dull pain shoot through my arm. “Aber jetzt muss ich duschen.” (But now, I have to shower) I say, and König laughs, pushing me away slightly. 

“Ja, das muss du, du riechst.” (Yeah, you do, you smell.)  I laugh with him as we walk back into the barracks room. Gaz and Soap are gathering their clothes, and Price and Ghost are nowhere to be found. 

I collect some clothes from my bag and turn to make my way back to the gym, where the single-stall showers supposedly are. I have never been a fan of the group showers.

König is sitting on his bed with his weapons, both his knives, and guns, and is laying them out in the exact order he does every time he checks them over. It’s one of his many ticks when he’s uncomfortable in a space, as it gives him control over something, as well as allowing him the peace of mind of something familiar. I push his head lightly as I pass him, but he doesn't  react more than pushing my hand away, eyes still trained on his weapons. 

The walk to the gym is short, and the lights are still on. I see the door on the far side of the room and move toward it. Behind the door, there are cubbies lining one wall, with benches in the middle, and six shower stalls on the opposite wall. The lights have a sickly blue hue to them, and they flicker slightly as I turn them on. It certainly won’t be the worst shower I’ve taken, at least this one will be warm. 

After my shower, I make my way back into the barracks room. None of the boys are in here, so I assume they had all found better things to do with their time. I sit on the edge of my bed and run a hand down my face.  I can’t get Ghost’s eyes out of my head. The look in them when he heard the pop of my shoulder slipping out of place, the blurriness that consumed them in the aftermath. I know that he’s a trained soldier. One who has taken out more targets than I will ever be cleared to know. But that small look of fear that flickered in the back of his eyes, makes me want to apologize to him. To make it clear that it isn’t his fault, that he hadn’t done anything wrong. 

He could be anywhere on base, or off base for that matter. I know nothing about him, his life, or his patterns. I only know one place where he had shown me he hung out, and that’s going to be my starting point. 

I stand from my bed, open the door to our barracks room, and follow the hallway to the door that Ghost had shown me last night. I climb the stairs quietly, a hard habit to break, then take a breath as I exit onto the roof. I’m actually surprised to see the hulking frame of the man, dark against the pale concrete. 

He’s laying on his stomach, tac gear on as he looks through the scope of his rifle. He’s scanning the base, or at least he was until the door closed behind me. 

His eyes flick to me, grip tightening on his weapon. The paint is back around his eyes, making them look colder and less human than they had been earlier. I take a step toward him and watch as he flips the cover over his scope, pulling himself up into a crouching position as he begins packing his gun away. He doesn’t look back over at me, and within 30 seconds, he’s pushing past me toward the door.

“Ghost,” I start, reaching out to try and grip his arm before he’s all the way past me. He spins around, arm pulling away from my grip. I have no time to duck, no time to block the elbow as it comes toward my face. My head whips to the side, hand slipping from his arm and pulling up to cradle my smarting face. My eyes well up with reflexive tears that I won’t allow to fall, and I can feel the trickle of blood beginning to flow down through my nose. I look up at Ghost through my tears. He stares down at me for a moment, hand hanging in the air, the jaw painted on his mask moving but no sound coming out of his mouth. His hand moves towards my face, and I take a small step back before I think of what I’m doing. The hand stops, the jaw returns to its resting place and I watch his eyes harden ever so slightly  before he turns and reaches for the door. 

And then he’s gone. 

The blood pours freely out of my nose, and I just let it, knowing that it was covering the bottom half of my face. My whole face feels simultaneously numb and burns at the same time. I stand there for a moment longer, until the first drop of my blood hits the concrete below me, and then I finally move. The door squeaks open as I pull it, then slams shut behind me as I make my way down the stairs. I don’t go back to the barracks, instead, I go back through the gym, leaving the main lights off, and open the door to the shower room. In the far corner, there’s a sink, with a crappy mirror hanging haphazardly above it. 

The loose washcloth I find makes a good compress as I press it against my nose, leaning over the sink to keep my head pointed down. Lord knows I had seen what choking on your own blood looked like. 

My mind is blank, going through the motions of cleaning up after a fight, nothing I haven’t done before. I replay the interaction in my head, trying to figure out where I went wrong. 

Grabbing him may not have been my smartest decision, and while I’m a little put out that he elbowed me in the face for it, he didn’t seem to do it on purpose. It was a reflex as much as me stepping backwards had been. 

My nose finally stops bleeding, and I clear the remaining blood from around my lips and chin. My cheek is slightly swollen where his elbow made contact, and my nose is turning slightly purple, but I’m not too worried about it. Nothing is broken, and I can live with a little bruise during our mission. 

I throw the bloodied washcloth in a hamper bin that’s next to one of the cubbies, and turn the lights off behind me as I walk out. The gym is still dark, and I walk straight through it, ignoring the slight twinge that goes up my back as I do. 

I need to do something to clear my mind. I can’t exactly change what had happened with Ghost, but I could make myself stop thinking about it. Shooting seemed like just the answer I needed.

#simon ghost riley #simon riley #simon riley x oc #König x oc #könig mw2 #john soap mactavish #gender neutral oc #modern warefare II #141 #cod mw ghost #cod mwii #ghost #ghost x oc #haeL #no use of y/n #could be read as x reader

[tokillamockingbird427]

Random Headcanons: Keegan

List of random headcanons for my specialist boy. (As in autistic, not me calling him special. /J)

He shoots with his right eye, so his left eye looks perpetually squinty.

Cannot smile like a normal person. Forever lopsided because he straight up doesn't know how to because he almost never smiles.

I think I just like Keegan being asymmetrical all over tbh. Lad is lopsided.

Ambidextrous in the sense that he can shoot a rifle from either shoulder. Don't mistake this for him being able to write with both hands. He does prefer shooting off his right though. (See above.)

Also has that Blahaj shark plush from Ikea. (Hates the sweeds tho.)

Sharks. He loves sharks. They're his favorite animal.

Has a massive onesie that's a shark. He wears it during shark week and will drag someone (Usually Ajax.) into watching it with him. Has about a million facts about them memorized. He will tell you them.

Along the same lines, he was a dinosaur kid. There was a section in his elementary school library chock full of just dinosaur books. He was so obsessed they let him ditch the "One non-fiction, one-fiction." book for checkout and let him just get all dino books.

Again, similar lines: Big book nerd. Always has one on him, likes to read before and after missions because it calms him down.

Loves rock. Not the object but the genre. (Alt and classic.) Parents probably played Nirvana and ACDC driving him to and from school as a kid.

Enjoys country for the same reason, but the kind of country that has women plotting their husbands murders. (Which his mom listened to.)

Lady Gaga fan.

Pale as fuck which is funny because he lived in florida. Despises Hesh and Logan immunity to the sun because everytime he goes out he'll have one patch of skin he didn't cover with sunscreen and he burns too easily.

His fave outfit combo is a tight shirt and loose sweatpants. It's comfy. (And makes his butt+thighs look nice.)

Has a Deathhawk. (This is a newer one.) Braids it down to fit under his balaclava. It's technically out of regulation for being too long but Elias is entirely too much of a softie to force him to cut it. So long as it's kept back during missions he won't get after Keegan for it. Uses colored wax when he styles it up because he can't dye his hair. (Again, out of regulation.)

Very soft palms. He wears gloves on missions so there's never much a chance for them to get rough, even though they do have a handful (hah) of scars on the backs of his hands.

Also, impeccable nails. Likes to paint them. His hands just look really nice.

Cuddle monster. You get too close to him and he likes you? Boom. Pythoned. He will look so sad if he has to let go and the victim of his cuddles will feel bad.

#1 Love language is physical affection, which is very funny because he fucking despises PDA. If he likes someone he'll bare it, but he will be blushing the whole time.

Blushes everywhere. His whole face, the tips of his ears, the back of his neck, even his shoulders. It's also hella obvious because of the previously mentioned paleness.

Has bad survivors guilt from Sand Viper. Gets compounded over the years because being a Ghost is pretty dangerous. (More of them would die or be injured.)

Looks up to Elias and Rorke as mentor/father figures.

Lots of sisters. Only had one baby sister but three who were all older than him.

Really wanted a brother though so he enlists himself as Hesh's big brother after the pyramid/the beach. (Mostly by accident.) Now incredibly protective of him.

Little weasel monster after Sand Viper because he's unpacking all that trauma, but he decompresses over the years and mellows out. Still has his bat-shit insane moments though. (*cough* Truck at the stadium. *cough*)

Hates his call sign and does everything to get people not to use it. Most don't but Adonis does because the little shit finds it hilarious to dick with poor "Scout." (Ajax also uses it but Keegan gives him a freepass to do pretty much anything he wants lmao.)

Thick in thigh, thick in the waist Thick in the right motherfuckin' places

#call of duty #call of duty ghosts #keegan p russ #i am referencing doja cat btw #but also yes kinda curvy #got angsty at the end there sorry lol

[fandomgamersimp]

Important Topic - CoD and dog whistles

Before I begin - there are going to be mentions of mental and physical abuse, as well as a discussion of neo-nazi messages, so please beware. It's, in my opinion, important to the topic I'll be discussing and it is a crucial one to understand everything in its fullest, but don't force yourself to read anything you're not in the headspace for.

So, for context: one of many Ghost cosplayers I follow, FINN (he/they), on TikTok did a live a while ago with his friends. Among many comments, I saw one saying something along the lines of "cool nazi masks you all have, but go off I guess". And not only was I appaled that someone would call them that without proof, it also showed me that, most probably, many don't fully understand this topic- the cosplayers themselves most likely didn't see it due to all comments scrolling fast (though they could just pretend not to in order to not bring negative energy), and people did correct that person, but I feel like, if you are in the CoD fandom, there is unfortunately a chance that you may see that pop up here and there, and I want people to make sure they themselves understand the difference, and have the proper arguments to explain it; not to mention recognize when something may be an actual neo-nazi profile that you should be on alert around.

Let me also mention that I am in no way a specialist in the field, and everything I know comes from a person called the History Wizard (he/she/they) - they have an account on both Instagram, and Tiktok- highly recommend it if you want to further expand your knowledge with far more historical context he provides, she also have a playlist on dogwhistles on TT. I'm just here to provide you with main differences, and one dog whistle in particular.

The two most important features of when and what something is a dog whistle are: 1. Context in which they appear 2. Plausible deniability

The dog whistle that my case talks about refers to the fact that all the CoD cosplayers on the mentioned live wore Simon's mask, specifically this one (or a very similar one):

And I think the person who thought they were neo-nazi masks likely mistook it for this

What if someone asks you "how one is a neo-nazi dog whistle, and one isn't? How do you know they just cosplay, not using a dog whistle?" You circle back to the features of a dog whistle I pointed out earlier.

First, context. Simon's mask can't really be in itself a dog whistle just because it has a design of a skull on it- because it has no context of neo-nazi ideology or white supremacy involded with it, and it also has a different context for itself to begin with. Now, why Simon wears this mask is up for discussion as far as I've seen. He was tortured and abused both physically and mentally by someone wearing a skull mask, for example - so maybe this is his way of dealing with trauma, maybe he simply picked it up from his abuser (like Kaneki from Tokyo Ghoul cracking his fingers). He is also known for being incredibly hard to detect while on mission- just like an evasive ghost. Maybe he just wants to scare his enemies. I've also seen people theorising that it may be hiding scars and facial deformities, or the fact that no one really saw his actual face- just like according to some stories, you can't really see a ghost. At the end of it, Simon does have his own context for wearing this mask, and it's not related nor it's meant to be interpreted as something involving neo-nazism and white supremacy- there is no context for it.

Unlike the actual dog whiste- which will also involve our second feature that is plausible deniability.

It appears in specific context, not pop up out of thin air for no reason. A dog whistle is meant to be a stealthy/coded message that is saying from one bigot to another "I'm one of you" while also showing other bigots which people to target with their hate speech - for example, you may see a comment section of someone who openly talks about being Jewish or even "looks Jewish" to them (because remember that hate doesn't run on logic) spammed with "Never Lose Your Smile". That is the context by which you can decide whether you're dealing with a nazi or not. Jewish creators, someone with a star of David in their profile, or someone who fits their stereotypical view of how Jewish people look, talk and act, with profile filled with a comment like this. But someone may say "yeah, sure, this one is worded really weirdly, but it sounds nice enough". That's when you tell them about plausible deniability. A white supremacist can easily snake their way out - that's what makes it a dog whistle. Cosplayers of Ghost don't need it, because there isn't really anything to hide away/ escape from. If a message is way too obvious/ too clear and there is no possible double meaning in it, it is not a dog whistle.

Context and plausible deniability are very important factors, that's why I want you to remember them. Just because those cosplayers were wearing skull masks, it doesn't mean they are nazis. Anyone wearing a skull mask is not automatically a white supremacist. You can't really decide whether someone is a nazi or not without doing further research on them- their political views, their profile, what they comment on other people's posts etc.

Those people who did a live had an entirely different context for wearing those masks - they were simply cosplaying Simon Riley. Just like Simon has his own reason and context for wearing his mask. Plausible deniability is also still important - because it is dangerous. It gives bigots a way to seem innocent - but it should further push you and other people thinking someone might be a nazi that you need further research and background. I also think it's safe to say that the live lacked it- because FINN and their friends did not need any form of deniability. They just cosplayed, they had fun on live. That's it. Actual white supremacists/nazis appear in certain context while also hiding from any form of repercussions behind plausible deniability. I hope I really drove this point across.

If you lack context and something is far too obvious with its message, it is not a dog whistle. If something appears outside of the background of harmful ideologies, with its own seperate story/context, you're most likely not dealing with an actual white supremacist.

I hope you got what I'm trying to say and that you'll be prepared in case you'd see those out in the wild. Apologies for the messiness, but again I'm not really a specialist in this field, nor my thoughts organised much to be honest. I just wanted to let it out there.

Also I hope this much was obvious, but my profile is in no way, shape or form a safe space for bigots, and this counts antisemitic people. Go to a therapist, not on my profile- you are not welcomed here.

#call of duty #call of duty modern warfare #cod modern warfare #cod mw2 #cod #cod mwii #modern warfare #modern warefare ii #call of duty modern warfare 2 #simon ghost riley #ghost cod #cod discussion #call of duty discussion #ghost mw2 #simon riley #cod ghost #ghost call of duty #ghost riley #tw white supremacy #tw antisemitism #tw mentions of abuse #tw mentions of torture #important #cod cosplay #cod ghost cosplay #cod cosplayers #educate yourselves #educational #safety