#aeaean--bliss
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the madonna | chapter one: arrival
summary: It's 1985. The English countryside swells with the day's remains of midsummer heat as you make your way towards the gate, longs strands of grass nipping at your calves.
It's a good time to get away. Old and distant family friends have taken you in against your wildest imagination, following torturous personal circumstances and a recent mental breakdown. Here, where you can live with purpose among people who care about you, you can slowly begin to rest and recover in the secluded privacy of the Burrow.
Now would be a really bad time for you to run into the most traumatic ex-fling of your life, wouldn't it?
pairing: remus lupin x reader
genre: non-magic!AU; farmhand remus!AU
word count: 4k
warnings/tags: blood, injury, mental breakdown, mental health issues (mostly anxiety and depression), shitty parents, alcohol consumption, drunkenness, swearing, mentions of violence, orphanhood, smut (eventually), a lot of self-deprecation, tension, pining, arguing, etc.
author's note: minors DNI! please read the warnings. this series is taking all i have to write, and a lot of it is just me projecting. i hope it resonates with at least some of you.
chapter index
masterlist
chapter one | arrival
The night’s a dewy one; wet and almost, almost , cold, with a fog that hangs heavy around your head.
“Y/N. So good to see you, love.”
She means well. The sincerity in her eyes and the warmth in her smile tells you as much. But there’s something in her voice that sounds a little too much like pity. Her clammy palm cups your cheek, adding to the itchy layer of grime that seems to coat every inch of your skin.
Still, you smile.
“Molly.”
She shoves a cup into your hands. She’s gone before you have a chance to thank her.
Can’t stand this English Breakfast shit.
Placing the cup on the mantle, you wrap an arm around the waist of each twin in the armchair and lift them up before settling in yourself.
Every joint in your body aches. Your wrists feel weak, like half the blood has drained from your body. The headache that’s been brewing since you got on the train this morning threatens to spark up again, pounding dully against your skull like a speaker pumping underwater.
It’s just the travel. Travel, and inhaling shit air, and eating shit food, and being all cramped up. You’re not even sure you ate. Hard to tell when each day bleeds into the next and time goes by a million miles an hour and not at all.
Small feet and hands dig into the flesh of your thighs and stomach. The twins settle either side of your waist, gurgling and babbling to themselves. You sit in silence, staring at a patch of carpet, restless nails picking at frayed threads on the tattered armrest. Someone enters the room, voices speak, but it all sounds muffled. It isn’t until Molly pushes a saucer of biscuits under your nose that you come to, blinking heavily and mumbling disjointedly.
“Thank you.”
Molly glances at the clock on the wall. It’s got nine hands, one for Molly, one for Arthur, and one for each of the children. Does she keep a stack of them in a drawer somewhere, to add one on whenever a new one comes along?
“It’s getting late,” she mutters.
Is it?
The thought that you might be keeping them up gnaws at you. You’re about to offer to retire for the evening, to apologise and head off, when Arthur stands. He hums, brows furrowed as though in deep thought, and shuffles into the hallway. As the air grows heavy with silence, your gaze rests back on Molly.
“You know, I might just…”
The words die on your lips. They must have barely been audible, anyway, judging by Molly’s lack of reaction.
The odd child meanders into the room as you wait for Arthur to return. Bill’s at that age where you pretend you’re an adult, unsurprised and unscared. He barely spares you a second glance as he steps over to his mother, asking for the whereabouts of his book on Britain’s Most Dangerous Deepwater Sea-Creatures.
Charlie’s not quite there yet, lingering in the hallway and peeking around the doorframe with wide eyes and a long, floppy, pink tongue. It’s the toy in his hands that catches your eye, a bright green dragon with blue spikes and huge eyes. He holds it around its neck so tight it might just pop off.
You beckon him over. His eyes dart to his mother, then back to you, then back to his mother. Then he steels himself and tiptoes towards you.
“Y/N.”
He blinks. He looks like he’s going to chicken out and back away.
You pull your hand away from the mouth of a teething George, wiping his saliva off on your sleeve and reaching behind your head. Lifting one of the many pendants from around your neck, you slip the chain onto your finger and hold it out to the seven year old in front of you.
“It’s yours, if you want it,” you say softly.
He eyes it timidly, looking up at you, then down at the pendant, then up at you, then back down at the pendant. The pendant’s a photo coin you bought at a museum gift shop when you were young; it’s got a celtic dragon pressed into its centre and waves decorating the rim.
“Take it,” you whisper.
He smiles shyly, before snatching the chain with clumsy hands and shuffling away, not taking his eyes off of it for a second. The movement excites the twins, who squeal, and giggle, and squirm in your arms. One of them accidentally slaps you in the face. The other tries to shove their hand in your face, getting their hand stuck in your necklaces.
“Come here,” you sigh, taking the soft, small, pudgy hand in yours to ease it out of the knot of chains.
Four heavy knocks pound somewhere in the distance.
The chains have gotten caught up in your hair, now. The child tugs, and you lurch, dangerously close to getting your fingers tangled up in the mess.
A door slams in the distance. The bairn pulls his hand back, threatening to take a chunk of your scalp out with it. You grab hold of his hand again, murmuring for him to keep still, to relax, to stop pulling-
Then, from the doorway, with a kind lilt and a Yorkshire accent that makes your blood run cold as ice, comes a soft, deep voice, and surely you must be ill. Surely, you must have caught some fatal, delayed-onset disease, because the fever that burns at your skin, rippling in waves and numbing your wrists, is anything short of natural.
It hurts. It actually hurts.
“Where’d you like ‘em, Molly?”
You might pass out. Jesus, you can hear your heartbeat squelching in your ears. You can vaguely hear Molly fussing about the time and we were beginning to think you weren’t coming back tonight and-
Back?
Soft, small hands slap at your wrists when they notice your attention has drifted.
What does she mean, back?
You’re still trying to untangle the knot in your hair, fingertips trying and failing to set you free. You can just about see the lower half of him where you sit, hunched over, with toddler spit trailing down your forearm and a fist in your hair. You can see the way his shirt sleeves have been rolled up to his elbows; see the sprigs of some kind of plant poking out from the handles of one of the plastic bags in his hands.
He’s grown. Lived. Thrived, even, by the looks of things.
It’s the smallest thing, but it fucks with your head. You haven’t grown, or lived, or thrived at all. You’re small. Ratty. Shrivelled, even, by the looks of things.
As you finally detangle the child’s fingers from your hair, you get a proper look at him. He looks like he has friends. But not like he has to make any effort to keep them. Not even that; like it’s effortless for him to keep them. Like he’s got that kind of quiet magnetism. He looks like the type of guy someone else randomly brings to a night out and every friend of a friend tries to chat him up. Like he barely needs to say a word, but everyone still knows who he is and greets him when they see him.
What must he see when he looks at you?
You feel sick.
You can see the exact moment he sees you because he frowns and cocks his head to the side. He says nothing as Molly’s fusses, eyes fixed on you with his lips barely parted, head half-turned to the side like it wants to tear away but can’t seem to force itself.
You’ve been sat by the fire too long; your face burns from it. Why they’ve lit a fire in mid-june is beyond you.
“Now,” Molly says, waving you over, “Arthur’s set everything up for you, dear, though I’ve got to warn you, it’s no luxury hotel. That room’s barely been touched since there were farmers here, and that’s about fifty years ago, now…”
When did Arthur come back in?
“And Gideon told you about the plumbing, and the-”
“Yes,” you interject, heart beating in your throat, now, “Yes, thank you. Really, Molly, thank you so much. For everything.”
She carries on, turning to Remus. You feel lightheaded; so lightheaded, and it’s been such a long day and you’re exhausted, and she’s asked you something now, she’s actually asked you something and you can see her lips moving but you can’t hear a thing.
“Sorry,” you say suddenly. “I’m just- I’m very tired. Could I maybe…?”
Is your voice really loud?
“Of course, dear,” Molly says, prying Arthur’s cup out of his hands. “You must be exhausted, all that travel. Here, Remus’ll walk you down, he’s staying in the other room. It’s no more than fifteen, twenty minutes down the road - will you manage?”
“Yes, I-,” you say, “that’s fine.”
“You’re more than welcome to stay here for the night if you like,” Arthur offers, insistently. “I wouldn’t want you walking down to that old shack at this hour of the night, why don’t-”
“She’s a grown woman, dear,” Molly fusses, reaching over to take Remus’ cup.
When’d she find time to give him that?
They shoo the boys out and suddenly, in a heartbeat, the room is almost completely empty.
Time slows way down, with a force that leaves your stomach surging like you’re on a plane taking a dive. This is the split second where Remus’ nonchalant facade breaks, when he first gets a good, up-close look at your face. Where he gets this look, this far-out and distanced look in his eyes, but you can’t make out what it is. And then it flashes before your eyes, dark and pained and sharp and twisted and it’s like you’ve both tapped into the same frequency for the millisecond it takes for the memory to flicker in front of your mind’s eye.
Can he see the way your eyes gloss over?
“Remus, dear,” Molly’s voice tuts from behind him, “Would you mind? You’re just in the way, love.”
He doesn’t answer, eyes - not wide in surprise like yours, but narrowed; narrowed, unblinking, and concentrated. It fills your stomach with dread. Anything neutral in his surprise has melted away now that he’s had a moment to think and recollect. His forearms flex as he shifts the plastic bag in his hands to readjust the weight, head almost entirely cocked to the side as he stares at you, brows furrowed in something nearing anger and lips parted ever so slightly, like he might want to think about saying something but can’t quite decide what to say.
Surely they must have told him you’d be here?
“Remus?”
He almost jumps then, blinking and tearing his gaze away from you.
“‘course, Molly.”
His voice echoes in the room after he turns to let her through.
“Here,” Molly says, pulling the bag from your hands before you have a chance to hold on, “Remus’ll take that.”
Remus lets out what you can only describe as an affirmative grunt, just about polite enough for it not to be rude in front of Molly, grabbing your duffel by the strap and swinging it onto his shoulder. He’s gone out the door before you can say another word.
You press a forced smile onto your lips and move to follow.
“What time will you be back tomorrow, dear?”
Molly’s unassuming tone chips away at you for reasons you can’t explain.
“Not too late, Molly,” you mumble, tearing your eyes away from his back, flashing her what you hope looks like a tired but genuine smile and heading for the door, “Not too late.”
The old farmhouse down the lane from the Burrow is surrounded by overgrown weeds and old rubber tires. Some of the tires are as wide as you are tall, stacked on top of each other with tufts of green and yellow poking through the gaps in the threads.
The walk itself is less than quiet. He stalks in front of you, never closer than about six feet. Doesn’t even look back to check if you’re in tow. Though to be fair, besides actively diving into the brambles and brush that outline the lane, there’s not really anywhere you could go.
Bare wooden planks cover the floors, worn down from decades of use. There’s a simple, wood-burning stove in the corner of the front room, surrounded by stone walls. There are two doors on the back wall, one on the right, and one on the left. Two doors, two bedrooms.
Two tenants , you remind yourself.
This is where you live, now. On Gideon’s request, Molly and Arthur have been generous enough to let you stay here free of charge. It’s hard to pay rent when you can’t work. No one’s supposed to know you’re here, either, outside the Prewett-Weasleys.
And Remus Lupin, apparently.
What the fuck is he doing here? You’ve not heard a word from or about him in years, literal years, and up he pops, like a jack-in-the-box. It’s knocked you for six; you drag your bag across the wooden floor into the room he didn’t stalk into and and sit down on the mattress, and then you just… sit there, staring out into the darkness until your eyes grow used to it and you can begin to see the outline of the handles on the dresser drawers on the opposite side of the room.
Don’t even know how long it takes you to move, strip, and shuffle under the covers, but by the time you do, your joints are stiff and sore and the first signs of daybreak have begun to push through the thinly woven fabric of the curtains.
Remus must be long gone by the time you wake. It’s unsurprising; judging by how bright the sun is, you’re guessing you’ve slept in. You have a vague memory of almost waking a few hours ago and hearing the sound of rushing water outside. Gideon had mentioned that there wasn’t any indoor plumbing, but the way your nightclothes stick to your skin makes the thought of dousing yourself in a bucket of cold water outside a heavenly fantasy come to life.
There’s no way to get lost on your way back to the Burrow; the farmhouse is at the end of a dead end, so your feet move on auto pilot.
There’s shouting in the halls as you step through the open back door, echoing up the stairwells. Moving through the kitchen in shoes you probably should take off, you stick your head through the doorway and almost trip over the two tiny streaks of ginger that run into you as they head around the corner. They land on their bottoms and freeze to a halt with big, brown eyes that peer up at you and just look up, and up, and up until they reach your face.
You tower over them, a ghastly vision with matted hair and sunken eyes, skin gaunt and discoloured. Moments tick by before you bend down to reach both hands out, one in the direction of either bairn. They blink.
You wiggle your fingers when the bairns don’t move, and something clicks behind their eyes as they heave themselves onto their feet and reach for your hands. Each twin grips two of your fingers tightly as you lead them down the hall, stooped low as they waddle along the tattered carpet in their nappies. You lead the boys through the doorway first, shuffling after them.
Molly stands behind an ironing board, one hand wrapped around a small bundle, the other resting on top of a nearby dresser. Her head darts up when she hears footsteps shuffling along the carpet.
“Think these belong to you.”
The boys have taken a liking to you. You can’t imagine why. They cling onto your legs the minute you step into the open kitchen door and babble a thousand innocent questions in your direction without cessation.
It’s good. Idle hands make great feeding grounds for nervous breakdowns.
Molly’s got you peeling potatoes by the time Arthur and Remus get back. He’s working as a sort of farmhand, you’ve learned. Though the Weasleys aren’t really farmers, so you’re not sure how that works. But Arthur’s always fancied himself quite the handyman, so odds are he’s got things brewing. Plenty of farmers around these parts anyway, bound to be plenty of work to be done.
The spuds rest in a net bag in front of you, a muddy brownish colour with green and yellow eyes poking through the gaps in the mesh. Molly’s upstairs trying to give the children a bath. Judging by the shrieks and howls echoing down the stairwell, it’s not going very well.
Molly’s left some record on, some woman warbling out of tune on a track that is ninety-five per cent harp. It’s got you dissociating, hands moving without thought, carving strips of potato skins onto a board in a steady rhythm. Tuber after tuber gets tossed into the pot. The ever-lasting scent of manure from the nearby fields doesn’t agree with your insides yet, and you can taste the bile on your tongue as the smell of starch and water from the skins hit your nose.
Midsummer months bring heavy air, slick with sweetness and humidity and the type of heat that makes your clothes stick to every crevice and plane of you with sweat. You thought it was just you; just a summer’s day of physical labour in a house with terrible ventilation, but the air that hit your cheeks as you stuck your head out of a window in the stairwell was even warmer than the stale air inside. Right now, in the late evening when the fever breaks and a cool shade begins to descend over the fields, it feels like being let out of a car that’s been left in the sun for too long. Flesh on your cheeks, arms, and legs burning and swollen with warmth, you heave the back door open and inhale deeply through the nose, hand resting on the handle of the door to ground you.
There’s that smell in the air that you only get in warm, humid places. It settles in your belly and calms your nausea. The bugs don’t even cross your mind. Bugs be damned. The setting sun is painting streaks of orange and pink over the cloudy skies. It feels like a dream, something not quite real, after months of being unable to feel your fingers and toes from piercing frost. For a moment, you feel like the sun could swallow you whole, pick you up and lift you and bring you in on yourself. You’re not sure how long you linger in the doorway; could be a minute, could be half an hour.
Your chores beckon, and you move to sit at the kitchen table. The soft strumming of the harp in the background seems less intrusive now; maybe it’s because the singer hasn’t sung a note in a minute. The pot begins to fill slowly, and your fingers begin to prune. A bead of sweat trickles down your temple but disappears before it can reach your cheek.
“Thought I might find you here.”
Shit. You suck in a sharp breath, droplets of crimson trickling down the crease of your thumb. You stick the throbbing digit in your mouth, wincing at the starch residue from the skins.
From the corner of your eye, you see him pull a tissue out from a nearby box on the counter. You almost trip on your skirts as you lurch to your feet to grab the handles and heave the pot of potatoes onto the hob, threatening to slosh water all over the chipped tiles in your haste to avoid him trying to give it to you. But he lingers after you, coming up to lean against the counter beside you.
He’s trying. Somewhere, deep down, you know he’s trying. The fact that he’s even talking to you is something, let alone the tissue hanging limply in his outstretched hand. But you can’t find it in you to pretend that you’re in the mood. Maybe you’re overtired. Maybe… maybe it’s something else. You yank the tissue out of his grasp unceremoniously, avoiding looking at his face and pressing it to your skin after rinsing it in the sink.
“So,” Remus says slowly, quietly feigning nonchalance as you wrap the tissue around your thumb, “what are you doing here, then?”
When he talks, it’s like he’s trying not to speak too loud. Everything sounds like it’s being murmured in your ear. You half expect to feel his breath on your neck. You remind yourself that he’s got some nerve talking to you in the first place. You purse your lips.
“What are you doing here?”
Something changes in Remus’ eyes, then. It’s like you’ve broken some sort of ice.
“If I’ve done something to offend you,” he begins, eyeing you with calculated caution. Like he’s testing the waters. “Or said something…”
“Then I’ll know you haven’t changed,” you supply.
You can feel his eyes on you as you turn to the kitchen table and he moves, but he doesn’t follow you, instead lingering in the open space of the kitchen floor. He watches as you scrape peelings into the half-full bucket near the stove and grab its handle, almost yanking it off with the force of it. He makes a point of dipping his head slightly and cocking it to the side as you dry your hands aggressively with a fraying kitchen towel so as to better look you straight in the eye. He keeps his eyes on you unapologetically as you pass him, pushing through to the back door to make your way to the garden.
You can’t tell if he follows you out. You don’t want to turn around to look. You stalk towards the compost heap on the far side of the field, a shabby thing held up by rotting planks of wood, poorly nailed together. Must be Arthur’s handiwork. Everything he lays his hands on begins to tear at the seams as soon as he’s done. He’s got a copy of some DIY manual from 1958 proudly displayed in the sitting room; its spine has almost fully disintegrated and the letters on the front have faded from years opposite a south-facing window, but it remains surrounded by trinkets and charms like a holy book on the mantelpiece.
Gnats buzz around your ears. You slop the contents of the bucket onto the growing heap and turn, all too quickly, and nearly jump out of your skin when you see him directly in front of you. The bucket clatters dully against the grass as only plastic can, hitting the ground with the edge of its curved lip and bouncing off behind him.
“Heard you’re living here, now. Permanently”
“Hearing all sorts of things, you are,” you mutter, almost out of breath as you push past him again and stoop to retrieve the bucket.
He beats you to it, snatching it just out of your reach.
“Something about you needing to get away from something?”
“What do you care.”
Swipe. Miss.
“Of course I care,” he drawls, walking backwards with quick, hurried steps to stay ahead of you as you move to lunge for the bucket. “What, your folks finally given up on ya?”
“Well you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?”
It’s a nasty thing to say. It’s really nasty. So nasty it makes you feel repulsed that you could even formulate such a thought, let alone choose to say it out loud. Because he was at least partly joking, and there’s no way you can spin it so you don’t look like a horrible, horrible person. His feet stumble as his expression falls, face becoming slack. And in that moment he looks every bit the beautiful, tormented twenty-five year old he is. Golden, freckled skin glows in the setting sun; bright green eyes pained and beaten.
Then he pulls himself together.
“See you haven’t changed either.”
That’s a bit uncalled for. You’ve never had a go at him because of his parents before, and you don’t appreciate the insinuation. It causes you physical pain that he clocked you on the first try, though. It annoys you. Why is he pretending he knows anything about you? Your skin begins to burn again, and your eyes threaten to puff up like you’ve been stung.
You snatch the bucket out of his hands and stalk back to the main house.
He doesn’t follow you back in.
© @aeaean–bliss; do not copy, repost or translate any of my works.
#marauders era fan fiction#remus lupin x reader#remus x reader#remus lupin x you#remus lupin fan fiction#marauders#hp universe#fan fiction#the madonna#remus lupin imagines#aeaean--bliss
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not to be awkward and moist on the main but i'm so happy we're moots bc your energy is >>>
STOP ILY !! i’m so happy we’re moots too!
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AH I WAS JUST THINKING OF STARTING BAND OF BROTHERS--- I've never seen it before, can you tell me a bit about what kind of show it is or why you like it???
omg okay okay. i mean it’s a war show so expect battle field scenes, lots of blood and death and loss of limbs. it’s brilliantly written, u root for every character and feel their loss through the screen. it’s the first show i’ve been able to just sit and watch for a while. there’s humour, too, lots of it — very off the cuff. i enjoyed it a lot more than i did the pacific!
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Sirius Black Fic Recs
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Brother’s Best Friend by @lauryri
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#sirius black x reader#sirius x reader#sirius black imagine#sirius black fluff#sirius black angst#sirius black smut#sirius black#hp marauders#marauders fic#harry potter#fic recs
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Midnight Gardenias
Tangerine X Reader
Word Count: 3,439
Warnings: cussing, blood, little bit of gore (not too much detail), alcohol
This fic was inspired by the amazing @aeaean--bliss and their fic maybe. Please go check it out if you haven't already - it's a really good read, I promise 🙏
Weeks.
It had been weeks since he last texted. Weeks since he asked where you were. Weeks since you've had any form of contact with him.
Stupid. That's what it was. All of it. It was all so stupid.
Sure, you did kind of tell him to leave but that didn't mean you wanted him to leave your life. Granted, he wasn't a mind-reader but still. He should've used common sense to gauge as much.
Now that he was gone, ironically enough, you were just constantly being tortured with thoughts of him, him, him. Just him.
When you went to the ice cream parlour the other day, a man behind the counter had a tash and you couldn't help but think that Tan's was a hundred times better. Similarly, when you heard a hint of a British accent that sounded more Northern, you compared it to the Brit you knew's accent - quite obviously preferring it over the random man.
Hell, you couldn't even watch a West Ham game without thinking of him and his stupid socks with the logo printed onto them. West Ham was supposed to be your favourite football team, not something that reminded you of him!
And it was so dumb - it was just so dumb - that you were probably the only one suffering; that your feelings were probably left unreciprocated. It hurt so much. It felt like a giant claw ripped through your flesh to grab at your heart and dig its sharp teeth into it, all-the-while Tan stood there, watching with a scoff of derision, mocking you for falling in love with him like the little shit he was.
Frustration couldn't even begin to describe what you felt towards your whole situation.
"Dammit, what was I gonna do again?"
Ah, that's right, you were about to watch The Mandalorian.
God, you wished you had a man like Mando. A caring guy who was sort of stand-offish but not to a degree where he was a complete jerk; more so to the perfect degree of optimum mysterious-ness any girl would want in a guy. And the fact that he was a good dad added like, a hundred more attractive points to his list of desirable traits.
But nooo, you just had to get a guy who was so in over his head with every action he did, it was atrocious.
A continuous 'beep!' coming from your fridge had your foggy eyes clear up and scan through the open capsule for what you originally wished to source out. Unfortunately, it was almost completely empty. How wonderful.
"When will life ever go my way?"
With a swing of your arm, you slammed the door shut.
Now, you wished you could say that you saw it coming and were able to move out of the way just in time but— that would just be a lie. It had all happened way too fast.
The wobbling of the fridge as the door shut; the container at the top abruptly being thrown off balance; and the sharp spike of pain that erupted from the top of your scalp.
"Argh! Shit!"
That hurt like a bitch.
As your hand slowly rose up to rub against your poor head, a small 'ding!' came from your phone.
Seemed as though something wanted your attention.
Jerk
r u home rn?
12:35 p.m.
What's this? Did someone decide they were suddenly on speaking terms with you again?
The thought had you rolling your eyes.
Jerk
Y/N, i don't have time for games
12:37 p.m.
Ha, this was coming from the same guy who just loved to play games with your mind when it came to his feelings.
Just who the hell did he think he was? Going AWOL on you for a couple of weeks just to hit you up with a text at twelve-thirty in the night asking if you were home; as though he didn't just torture you with thoughts on whether or not you messed everything up and caused him to leave you for good; as though he wasn't causing you to lose your fucking mind trying to decipher what the fuck he meant whenever he parted his lips to say something just to not say anything at all; as though he wasn't the only thing on your mind since you first met all that time ago.
Ridiculous. His audacity was utterly ridiculous.
Well... from the looks of things, it seemed like he wasn't going to send another text.
Good riddance.
Him and his pride could go fuck themselves.
Jerk
love, please, i need you
12:41 p.m.
He left you alone for weeks without any form of contact, weeks without any sort of apology.
He stepped all over you like a fucking doormat; left your body aching from head-to-toe from the constant rejection; had your eyes bulging out from how desperately you didn't want to give him your tears.
You should hate him.
So then, why...?
...why was it that you found your fingers gliding across the screen as soon as you registered that last text in your head?
He needed you.
He'd never said that before.
Maybe...
Maybe you could—?
You
yh, i'm home
12:41 p.m.
No response, just a simple 'read' underneath - of course. Why did you even let yourself hope for anything more?
No sort of elaboration, nothing. Just left you in the dark with no explanation whatsoever for why he asked that question.
Weeks of not talking or contacting you at all and then he just hit you with that. He was probably on his way to freeload off of you right now.
Pathetic. Not just him, but you too. How could you let him bounce off of you like that? He was a fucking leech and you just let him drain you dry.
You almost didn't notice when there was a knock at your door - whoever it was could wait—
—except, no, apparently they couldn't - for, not long after, the knocks turned into several slams done in rapid succession. Those, paired with the migraine you were starting to get for trying to decipher the indecipherable, made for a killer ache inside your head; one that was really starting to grind your gears.
The knocking continued.
"Fucking— I'm coming, alright?!"
You grumbled under your breath, bitter feelings for the man you loved seeping into your current mood; ready to be unfairly unleashed onto the poor individual stood at your door.
"What the fuck do you...?" You trailed off, one hand against the handle of your now-open door, one hand losing its grip on your hip to flop by your side as you gazed on in astonishment.
There, stood before you, was Tangerine. Though, that wasn't what surprised you.
No, instead, what surprised you was the darker patch of blue on his waistcoat and the crimson seeping through his white undershirt, staining it and causing it to look grossly soggy.
He was hurt.
"Holy shit! You're bleeding."
"Is that so? I didn't fucking notice."
He hissed the sentence out, venom coating his tongue and frustration written clear on his visage - directed straight at you as though you were the one in the wrong here. The fucking audacity.
You parted open your mouth, ready to yell at him through unfiltered lips; burning with bottled up rage that was ready to spill over like a witch's wicked brew in a cauldron when—
"Argh! Fuck me!"
His knees started to buckle and his legs nearly gave out as he winced, buckling over with both muscular arms wrapping around his gut. The sight was foreign to your eyes. You had never seen him so weak.
"Holy shit," you cussed again, moving to aid him back up.
Of course, him being the stubborn little shit he was, he damn near pushed you away as soon as you offered up help. Luckily, he lost too much blood for the push to actually do anything.
...was it appropriate to call that lucky?
While you would have loved to ponder your fucked up morality further, the sticky substance that soaked through your fingertips seemed to call for your attention with a higher priority.
"Holy shit—" the cold substance ran down your arm, "—what the fuck? I should call the ambulance at least."
"No."
His voice was stern and abrupt; callous and uncaring. His brows had furrowed so deeply and his expression became near-deadly. He had never looked at you with such animosity before. It caused a pang of pain to shoot through your heart.
Just how much did you not know about this man?
"Argh! Fuckin' 'ell!"
He winced, eyes screwing shut and expression loosening up into one you would describe as more vulnerable than before.
Vulnerable was something you were around him, not the other way around. It felt strange. It felt wrong.
"You gonna let me in or have me fuckin' bleed out 'ere, love?"
"Shit."
Similarly to how he aided you back when you last saw each other - you looped one of his arms around your neck, the cold metal of his rings sending familiar, pleasant shivers down your spine, and helped carry him inside by shifting a majority of his weight onto you. It was almost a little funny how the role reversal came into play. If you were delusional, you might have even called it fate.
Lucky you weren't delusional.
"Jesus-fuckin'-christ," he cussed, anger as prevalent as ever while you slowly laid him down on the soft, plush couch, "can't believe that fucking bastard got me."
The blood was still seeping through his wound, not quite gushing out but certainly leaving an impression on your poor couch.
The wound was huge and utterly ugly. For a moment, you wondered what it would feel like if you had obtained it.
Your heartbeat picked up its pace. Perhaps you shouldn't have imagined that.
"What the fuck? What the fuck?!"
His pained expression wasn't making things any better— just what on Earth did he get himself into?!
"Holy shit! I should call Lemon at least, right?!"
"He's busy."
"He's busy?!" You stared at him, utterly bewildered, "what on earth could he be doing that stops him from helping out his injured brother?!"
He didn't respond, only choosing to grunt as he shifted in his seat.
It was stupid - utterly stupid - that he thought it was perfectly fine to pull up to your house in the middle of the night, crimson seeping out his stomach like a luscious waterfall only seen in fantasy movies, knock on your door, and stumble into your house while denying you the right to call the ambulance - the very organisation that was made to deal with these types of messes!
"Tan, do you know how fucked up this is?!"
He didn't respond again. Whether or not it was on purpose, you were unsure of. That wound was probably hindering his ability to speak but, knowing him, he also probably didn't wish to either.
"Fuck. Okay, okay—" you took in a deep breath through your nose, "—okay. Lemme just..."
Your knees thudded against the ground and your hands reached out, fingertips curling around his now-red, linen shirt.
"How did you even get so hurt in the first place?"
It had been an off-handed comment, whispered as such. You weren't expecting an answer so - when his hand shot to your own and clenched it with such strength, you had gasped and winced - to say that you were surprised would be an understatement.
His grip loosened not long after and your eyes trailed from his wound to his face, making contact with the softened hues that were almost laced in... desperation?
"Love, no."
At first, you thought he was talking about treating his wound - but that didn't make sense. If he didn't want you to treat his wound - to help him - he wouldn't have come to your house in the first place.
No, he must've been talking about your question. Of course he wouldn't want you to know how it happened. What did you expect?
"Fine," you lamented, "I won't pry. Just... let me help you."
He paused for a moment, as if letting the thought load, before ultimately letting go of your hand and leaning back - another wince making its way onto his face.
You took that as a sign to lift his shirt - and boy was it a sight to see.
Luckily, there didn't seem to be any green so it was most likely not infected, meaning he still had a shot to live. The wound was large but you were no medical expert, you had no clue whether or not he could die from it and, quite frankly, you didn't wish to find out.
"What's the ma'er, love? Can't handle a bi' of blood?"
How he had the capacity to be his snarky self while this injured was beyond you.
"No, I've just never seen such..." you trailed off, searching for the word, "...copious amounts of it."
"Ya get used to it after awhile."
Ha, so this wasn't new, was it? Made sense, you were freaking out more than he was and he was the one with the excruciating wound.
"How do I...? How do I treat it?"
He rose a brow. "You don't know how to treat a wound?"
"Hey, I got a degree in law, not medicine."
He grunted, shifting up a little. "D'you have a first-aid kit on ya?"
"Never had the need for one. I have bandages though?"
"No use if the wound i'n't clean." He sighed. "What about alcohol?"
You rose a skeptical brow.
"Not for me— well, it is for me but not in the way you think." He then gave you a pointed look. "I know you have alcohol on ya, you've always 'ad a problem with it."
Perhaps the timing was inappropriate but, you could feel your stomach flutter at the prospect that he remembered such a trait about you.
"Yeah, I've got some in the kitchen."
He nodded and you pushed yourself back onto your feet, gaze trained onto the entrance of your kitchen.
"Stay here."
"Yeah, well, I'm not fuckin' goin' anywhere, am I?"
"Really? Because with how you've been gone for the past few weeks, I'm inclined to believe that - even with a wound like that - you would get up and leave as soon as I turn my back on you."
His jaw stiffened and you could see it; you could see the urge to talk resting on his tongue. But - like always - he refrained from saying another word.
How disappointing. But then again, not unexpected.
You trudged to the kitchen, bare feet making contact with the cold ground as you stepped upon the white tiles that had slowly gone grey as the years went by, monotonous just like your life once was before you had the pleasure of meeting Tan. You couldn't exactly say you wished to go back to it.
Every day you would wake up, get ready, go to work, go home, then go out. Each time looking for a new guy to latch onto. The colours of your world back then were different to now, you couldn't say they were more vibrant or any less dazzling but you could say they were different. Back when you weren't hung up on a guy who had the balls to show up to your door at midnight with a huge, gaping wound in his stomach.
You tugged yourself away from your thoughts to retrieve the large, glass bottle resting at your top cabinet; fingers lacing around the rim with a certain level of experience only seen in an alcoholic. Many would describe you as one. You would too.
"Alright," you spoke, making your way back towards the male, "I've got it. Now what?"
"What d'you think? Pour it over the wound."
You could go without the snark.
With a roll of your eyes and a small huff, you crouched back down beside him, slowly lifting his shirt and dark waistcoat to once more observe the injury. That thing was really horrible to look at.
As you took the sight in again, his gaze trailed to your phone, still open with the texts you exchanged displayed clearly on the screen, and he rose a brow.
"'Jerk'? You havin' a laugh, love?"
"Yeah. And it's a damn good one too."
He just rolled his eyes.
"I'm serious, Tan. You left me hanging for weeks - almost a month - and then you come knocking on my door at midnight with blood all over you? What the fuck do you want from me?"
"Nothin', I don't—" he winced and let out a grunt as you poured the liquid onto the hole, "—don't want nothin'."
You didn't believe him. Not for a second.
"Really?"
"Look, dahlin', I really don't wanna do this right now."
"Too bad—" you gave him a pointed look, "—because we're doing this. Right here. Right now."
"I just said I don't wanna fuckin' do this."
"Yeah? And I don't give a fuck what you want right now."
"Love— argh! Fuck!— please."
"No, I—"
"Fuckin' 'ell," he cut you off, venom practically hissed through gritted teeth, "are you deaf or some'n? Just close your bloody mouth."
The room fell into dead silence. Not a word was spoken, not a chirp in the air - just the incessant ticking sounds of your clock echoing in the background, reminding you that - though you were going through the most frustrating thing right now - time still moved regardless. No one cared.
Once again, like the street lamps had back when you were in his car, your lights coated him in that warm blanket of orange. You just wanted to scream at them for being so misleading, for trying to trick your mind into thinking this man was anything but cold and ruthless.
Ha, you were going mad. Wanting to yell at an inanimate object? As if.
You stood abruptly, walking over to a nearby shelf to slide open another cabinet with a roll of gauze inside before silently returning to the couch - sight set on covering his wound. You may have just had an argument, but you were no monster.
Then, he spoke again.
"You changed up the house a bit since I last came."
'Oh, is that so?' you wanted to say, 'who gives a fuck?'
His attempt at a conversation was pathetic. He was pathetic.
'You're pathetic.' you longed to tell him.
But instead, you opted to muttering, albeit a little bitterly, "wanted to spruce the place up a little."
'Anything to distract me from you.'
"It's nice." He hummed before going silent.
Your nails then dug into the edge of the gauze, pulling and prodding at it until a corner gave way before you were able to further force it apart.
"Sit up. Away from the armrest." You muttered.
He did so without question or objection.
You then reached around his body - both arms mere centimetres away from embracing his abdomen; breath fanning against his toned chest and nose barely grazing his skin - before sticking the gauze onto his back and winding it around to his front.
"Ya go'a do it a li'le harder than that, love."
You frowned before tugging, with way more force than necessary, and adding, "this hard enough for ya?"
His wince made way for a small, fleeting feeling of satisfaction to blossom in your chest. A small bit of revenge for the acres of pain he had caused you these past couple of weeks.
Served him right.
You didn't say a word when you were done, didn't even give a snide look that would blatantly tell him what you were thinking. Just pulled away, one hand clenching tightly around the gauze, one hand reaching out for your phone.
He only spoke again when you reached the door frame, hand placed on it in the same position as his once was, back facing him and eyes trained on your staircase.
"For what it's worth, love, I really am sorry."
Yeah. You were too.
#tangerine#bullet train#tangerine x reader#tangerine bullet train#x female reader#x reader#tangerine x you#tangerine x y/n#bullet train fanfic
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hi! i was wondering if you could do a kind of blurb (? i guess) where reader and eddie swap rings? i have a few that are like frogs and stuff and i wanna know how you think eddie would react or if he would ask to swap first 🤭 if you can’t, that’s no problem! have a great day 🫶
eek this turned into a drablet rather than a blurb but here you go! i loved this request so much, thank you so much for sending it in!! i really hope you like it!!
fair exchange | eddie munson drablet
summary: you and eddie swap rings.
pairing: eddie munson x reader
word count: 875
warnings/tags: established situationship, fluff, pining?, moistness.
masterlist
“Hm.”
You frown softly, pulling your gaze away from where it’s been fixed on the fan on the ceiling. The spinning blades impress a shadow on your retinas, and you screw your eyes shut.
“What is it?” you mumble. The tip of your nose brushes against his hair as you turn to look at him. Dark curls lie softly against the pillow; they beckon you forward in your sleepy daze, and you bring your fingertips up to trace the strands carefully.
He grunts, before extending his arms to each side in a big stretch, yawning loudly.
“M’melting,” he says, mid-yawn. You scrunch your nose at the volume.
“You want me to open the window?”
“Mm.”
He moves his arm away from where it was resting heavily across your belly and brings the hand up clumsily, stroking your cheek softly with his knuckle. You allow him a couple of seconds, revelling in the domestic intimacy of his touch, before you grasp at his hand and pull it away gently.
He groans in complaint as the mattress beside him grows cold with your absence, arm flopping petulantly back against the sheets. You slide the window open, taking a moment to appreciate the deep oranges and pinks that have begun to decorate the edges of the sky. You spent most of last night helping one of Eddie’s neighbours move to a town a couple of hours away, and by the time the two of you pulled up outside his trailer again, the sun was creeping along the line of trees ahead of you.
That same sun is sinking now, and you curse yourself momentarily for falling asleep for so long. You’re gonna be up all night, now.
He groans quietly as he shifts, bringing you back to the present. You climb over the mattress, settling on top of him and resting your head on his chest. His fingertips stroke against your forearm as his hand slips down to clasp yours.
Fingers intertwined, you bring his hand up to your mouth and press a soft kiss to his knuckles. Your eyes drift to the ring adorning his finger, a plain, black thing, glinting softly in the setting sun.
You just lie there, in near silence, the crackle from the television just beyond Eddie’s bedroom trickling in through the gap under the door.
“Can I try this one on?”
The pad of your fingertip traces the metal band gently. His brows knit into a soft frown, not an angry one, more… confused.
“Sure.”
You twist the ring you’re wearing off your ring finger, a slim, quirky thing with frog motifs that you bought at a garage sale two years ago, and drop it onto your belly in lieu of another flat surface.
He watches silently as you slip the ring off his ring finger (it doesn’t come quietly so you end up twisting it a bit, grimacing at the thought of causing him any pain), and slip it onto yours. It’s too big, but instead of laughing, he just reaches over with round, solemn eyes and slips it back off your finger.
“Here, try here.”
He places it on your middle finger. It sticks, almost stuck but not quite, tight enough that it won’t fall off.
“There,” you murmur, fingers outstretched. It looks a bit foreign against your skin; you’re so used to seeing it on him that you don’t really know how to feel. You like it, though, even if it does make you feel a bit territorial.
Maybe that’s why you like it.
And the thought makes you feel a bit guilty, and maybe a bit embarrassed. Is it a bit childish? You’ve never been the type to borrow stuff from guys you’ve dated, not really been close enough to feel comfortable enough to ask… And it’s not like the two of you are official, anyway.
You twist it carefully off your finger.
“Here you go.”
He pushes your outstretched palm away gently, expression unreadable. He’s been watching you intently ever since you asked, more energised than he’s seemed for hours.
“Keep it.”
“What? No, I’m not gonna steal your ring,” you say, the tips of your ears beginning to burn with embarrassment from having asked him in the first place.
“It ain’t stealing if I’m giving it to you,” he says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. He plucks the band out of your palm and grasps your fingers with his to slip it back on. “I want you to have it.”
There’s nothing but sincerity in his eyes, something oddly intimate. It makes your heart hurt.
“‘kay.”
You stare at the ring for as long as you think you can get away with without making it weird. Then you put your hand down, eyes catching on your own ring. You pick it up, twirling it around in your fingers as an excuse to direct your attention to anything other than the ring currently on your finger.
Suddenly, it’s plucked from your hand. Without a word, he slips it onto his own pinky finger and lies back, head hitting the pillow again.
“There. Fair exchange.”
You turn your head to look at him, but his eyes are already closed.
“Fair exchange,” you murmur absentmindedly.
© @aeaean--bliss; please do not copy, repost or translate any of my works.
#eddie munson x reader#eddie munson#x reader#eddie munson x y/n#eddie munson x you#eddie munson fan fiction#stranger things fan fiction#fair exchange#anon request#request#aeaean--bliss
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drip drop | eddie munson drablet
summary: you bump into eddie coming out of the shower.
pairing: eddie munson x henderson!reader
word count: 659
warnings/tags: minors dni, semi nudity? awkwardness, mentions of sexual content, eddie is a massive flirt™
a/n: i have like five eddie wips in addition to my pre-existing wips so... wip to me ahah... hah...
masterlist
You can’t help but blink, slack jawed and frozen still. He’s not much better, brown eyes wide and blown out, like Bugs Bunny on steroids, mouth dropped into a small ‘o’. You’ve caught him off guard, that’s for sure. He’s looking fine as hell, wearing this grey Judas Priest shirt with dark blue sleeves, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, arms crossed. He’s leaning against the wall, must have been waiting in line for the bathroom or something.
That’s when you remember the towel, loosely wrapped around your frame. You’re clutching the edge in your hand, trying to prevent it from slipping. You can’t exactly unwrap it and wrap it tighter, either; you don’t want to flash him. Though something tells you he wouldn’t mind.
The thought makes your cheeks burn. You hope he can’t see it. The fat droplets of water dripping down the back of your neck slip past your towel and pool in your lower back. It’s the bead slipping down your temple that brings you back to reality.
“Uh…”
You’d hoped it would prompt him into saying something, or doing something, but he just continues to stare. But his expression has changed, a smirk creeping onto his mouth as sinful as ever. You can’t tell if you feel hot because of the borderline scalding shower you just took, or-
“Do you mind?”
Your scoff sounds pathetic in light of his heavy gaze. You’re almost scared your towel has slipped, because judging by the way he’s looking at you, he can see right through you. That smile, smirk, whatever the fuck it is almost makes your knees buckle right then and there. You’d sink to the floor and take him in your mouth right then and there if your intimidation for him hadn’t won out.
Like he can read your mind, his smirk widens to a grin.
“Didn’t think you’d be allowed inside the house.”
Other than in class, you’ve never really seen him around. Dustin usually meets Eddie at school for campaigns, or nags you into giving him a ride to his trailer. You’re trying to remember if your mom went out for the day. Generally speaking, she’s never seemed to approve of Dustin’s new best bud. Maybe it’s just because she still has a thing for Steve.
Man, if that boy was into older women…
But it’s fun to watch the way her nose scrunches and her lips purse whenever Eddie’s name comes up. Like she’s smelled something real bad.
“What can I say,” he says, grinning, voice low. “I’m a real charmer.”
You don’t doubt it.
You don’t think you’ve ever been this close to him before. Only ever seen him at a distance, either in some hallway or sitting on the step of his trailer when you drop Dustin off. You don’t get out of the car, don’t think you’ve said more than five words to him in total. But he knows exactly what he’s doing, because he’s running the tip of his tongue over his lower lip and trailing his eyes slowly downwards. Your grip on the towel tightens.
“Eddie, where the hell are you, man? Did you drown in there?”
He lets out a low chuckle.
“Nah, man, just waiting for your sister to get out of the shower.”
Cocky bastard.
He bites his lip and represses a laugh, eyes flickering back up to yours. His gaze is fucking piercing. Then he reaches out a hand and steps in your direction, and you think he’s gonna do… something, like stroke your waist over the towel or something weird. You can smell the musty cologne and faded weed on his shirt, and for some reason, it smells like more.
You’re right, he does do something weird. He brings his index finger up to softly hook the edge of your towel on the very tip of his crooked finger, flicking the thick fabric lightly.
“This,” he says, eyes dropping down to your towel momentarily, “is super cute.”
Then he slips past you and shuts the bathroom door with a click.
© @aeaean--bliss; please do not copy, repost or translate any of my works.
#eddie munson x reader#eddie munson#x reader#eddie munson x y/n#eddie munson x you#eddie munson fan fiction#stranger things fan fiction#drip drop#aeaean--bliss
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desperate times | part three: room to let
summary: desperate times call for desperate measures.
pairing: sirius black x reader
word count: 1.5k
warnings: swearing, angst, mentall illness, loneliness
masterlist
a/n: as usual, posted on a whim at 3am and not yet proofread. enjoy!
part two | part three | part four
part three | room to let
“Say that again.”
The temperature in the room has dropped about thirty degrees in the space of three seconds.
“What?”
“I said,” Lily says, taking a step forward, “Say… that… again.”
“Easy,” James mutters.
The woman across from him looks from Lily, to him, to Sirius with wide eyes, blinking. Then she shrugs, turning back to Lily.
“I mean if she’s not coming back, we might as well get someone else in.”
Lily takes a deep breath through her nose, chest rising slowly as she tries to steel herself.
Do not deck your friend’s fiancee. Do not deck your friend’s fiancee. Do not deck your friend’s fiancee.
“I mean, right?”
And he just stands there, completely frozen, as she turns to look at him.
“Right, Sirius?”
He knows she’s talking to him, but he can’t register what she’s saying. His eyes are still fixed on James, not entirely believing the words that left his mouth a minute ago.
“Her bed’s not even cold yet,” Lily grits, “and you want us to start subletting?”
James’ eyes dart to the counter where he saw Lily put her wand earlier when she picked up the mug of tea that now rests abandoned on the same surface. He grabs the wand and shoves it into his back pocket so fast he’s afraid he might have stuck a hole in his jeans.
“Well, I mean, it’s like James said, she’s moved out,” the woman argues, gesturing wildly to James who can’t help but blink with the new attention on him. “Right? She’s gone.”
The scoff that leaves Lily’s lips lingers heavily in the air after she storms out of the kitchen. James doesn’t know what to say or do, just stands there, blinking at the couple in front of him. Heavy footsteps make their way down the hallway, only to approach again a moment later. She pushes the door open with such force that it slams into the wall.
“Have you seen my bloody wand?!”
“No,” James replies hurriedly, a bit too loud and a bit too quickly. “Nope, no idea.”
Lily slams the door behind her, leaving the room in yet another chill. James nods slowly, twiddling his thumbs and clicking his tongue in what he hopes is a nonchalant manner. He doesn’t have the guts to look up at Sirius, mostly because if he’s being completely honest, he knows his friend’s keeping his mouth shut and his eyes down.
If he’s really honest, he loses a bit of respect for him the longer they stand there. How many years has he known you now? It’s not even been a full day since you left, only been gone a couple of hours, and here his fiancee’s already pushing to put your room up in the paper.
Speaking of…
“I don’t understand what the problem is, if she’s gone, she’s gone, so-”
“Yeah, well, we don’t know for sure that she is gone, so,” James bites before he can stop himself, unable to conceal the childish tone in his voice.
She scoffs.
“You literally just said that she was.”
“I said she was on a mission, not that she’d gone and wasn’t ever gonna come back, I mean, Merlin! Is she not gonna have a place to come back to once she’s done?”
An uncomfortable cough comes from somewhere in Sirius’ general direction.
“Well, you said she was gonna be gone a long time!”
“Oh, so the next time you go for a holiday we should just let your room out, yeah? Kick you out and all? What am I saying, you don’t even live here! Why are you talking?”
“Alright,” Sirius says warily, stretching a hand out as though it’s supposed to mean something. “Let’s just-”
“That’s not the same,” she exclaims.
“And if she gets injured or something, or gets her cover blown, she’s just supposed to live on the street, is she? Can’t call anything ‘hers’ because she’s working for the Order?”
“To be fair, mate, you did say she wasn’t coming back.”
Sirius’ statement pulls him up short. He stands there, chest heaving more heavily than he thought it would. His eyes dart between the two in front of him, and where he was expecting to find one of them reluctant to join in, he’s met with two pairs of steel-set eyes. All that effort you put into pushing Sirius away seems to have paid off. He looks nothing short of bitter.
A myriad of sarcastic and pointed rebuttals skim over James’ tongue, but he forces them back down. Well, all but one.
“Nice of you to weigh in.”
“Oh, for Godric’s sake,” Sirius says loudly, rolling his eyes. “She’s gone! So what?!”
“Do you even hear yourself? You-”
“What the fuck does it matter, Potter?” he shouts.
“Go fuck yourself,” James says pointedly, pushing past the pair and heading for the door. “Both of you can go fuck yourselves.”
If Sirius responds, James doesn’t hear it over the sound of the door. Lily’s in the shower, so he hauls himself onto their bed and gets under the covers.
It’s fine. James will just lie here, staring at the wall. There’s rummaging in the dresser drawers and wardrobe doors, the flickering of lights on and off. He hears footsteps down the hall and the front door slamming shut as Lily leaves for her evening shift.
He was lucky you called. He couldn’t really thing of a reason to justify calling you again, considering you spoke together only just this morning. Plus, you didn’t give him a number to reach you on.
You were really only calling to double-check that you hadn’t left a curse on the loose board in the back of your wardrobe, and he, the over-eager test-bunny, had been willing to check. Even as he prodded at the dented wood with his index finger, he thought to himself; “you’re getting a bit too old to be doing something this stupid.”
Fortunately, you’d removed the curse. He’s not quite sure how he’d explain his missing finger to Lily if you hadn’t. Lily finds enough reasons to berate him these days, so he’s happy not to have the extra burden. Not that Lily’s being cruel, because she’s not. She’s just adjusting to change, and some of that change is taking longer to get used to than the rest.
He’s exhausted. He’s not even working, not even for the Order, spends all his day loafing around and still he’s absolutely shattered. It’s why he can’t work for the Order. Dumbledore says no, and that’s that. Not until he gets better, at least. He doesn’t quite know what’s wrong with him, but it’s been creeping up on him for a while now. When he thinks about it, it’s been this way for a long time. And yet, it surprises him. Catches him off guard.
People aren’t really home much these days, so he gets away with it. Even Lily’s so preoccupied with her job and her mother that she doesn’t notice. He doesn’t blame her or anything, nothing like that. In fact, he’s glad she hasn’t had the chance to notice. He’d feel even worse if she did.
“So… what’s new on your end?”
“Well,” James says, “Black and I are no longer speaking.”
“Why bloody not?”
“It’s… complicated,” James replies, voice strained. The phone line crackles gently. “It, uh… I just don’t like that awful woman and I don’t know how much longer I can hide it.”
“Fair enough.”
Thank Godric you didn’t ask any follow-up questions. You don’t need to know what’s going on; you don’t need to know that it’s you who’s at the root of it all.
If he has to try to see this from Sirius’ side - if he absolutely has to - he knows that-
“He’s just hurt, Y/N,” he sighs heavily. “He’s just really fucking hurt.”
“He’ll get over it,” you say, matter-of-factly. “He always does. You never argue for long.”
“Yeah, well, something tells me this might be different.”
“Hm.”
There’s a short pause on the line, before you speak again.
“Look,” you say, your voice low and just above a whisper. “I’ve just seen Alastor Moody walk through the front door.”
“You’d better go, then.”
“Yeah. Give Lily and Remus my love, will you?”
“Of course.”
“Oh, and by the way, I probably won’t be able to call in the upcoming weeks. Can’t tell you why.”
“Oh,” he says dumbly. “Right. Yeah, no, I understand. Just, uh…”
His head feels scrambled. With all the tension around the house lately, and Lily’s new job and Remus’ new girlfriend, talking to you is one of the few things that actually makes him feel good these days. He’s a creature of habit, James is. And he knows it. And everything just feels like it’s falling a bit apart.
“Just get in touch when you can, I guess.”
“Sure. Thanks, Potter.”
“Yeah, no problem.”
There’s a beat of silence and the call should be ended, but it isn’t.
“I mean it,” you say quietly. “Don’t know what I’d do without you.”
His nose begins to sting and his vision’s growing blurry. Maybe it’s the hay fever.
“Yeah. You too.”
He clears his throat loudly.
“Stay safe, I’ll talk to you whenever.”
Then he hangs up, not waiting for your reply.
He doesn’t quite know exactly what time Lily gets home, but he’s still curled up on his side, staring into the bedroom wall about two hours after she starts to snore.
part four
© @aeaean--bliss; please do not copy, repost or translate any of my works.
#sirius black x reader#sirius black fan fiction#sirius black imagines#marauders fan fiction#marauders imagines#harry potter fan fiction#harry potter imagines#desperate times#aeaean--bliss
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Flick, flick, flick
summary: eddie’s been avoiding you for a while, and you’re sick of it.
pairing: eddie munson x reader
word count: 2.4k
warnings/tags: STRANGER THINGS SEASON FOUR SPOILERS. kinda. better safe than sorry. read at own risk. angst w happy ending.
a/n: idek what this is. might delete in the morning. not proofread.
masterlist
The sigh you let out feels like it pulls the rest of your energy out with it. Embers flicker quietly as you inhale, glowing warmly in the dusk. Sunlight’s gone; the deep, dark shade of blue painting the walls of the trailers across the tattered, grassy field. The same blue coats your skin as you brush the pad of your thumb against the ridges on your lighter.
Outside feels completely silent, despite the odd clatter and the low buzz of the Mayfields’ television set that hums through the small crack in the window. The lingering echoes of shouts and jabbed fingers hang heavy in the air, smothered somewhat by the vast expanse. They ring in your ears, mocking you.
You flick your cigarette against the ashtray, the brown glass almost black in the night. You take another deep drag, hoping it will stem the erratic thuds in your chest, but it only makes your fingertips twitch with that very special mix of agitation and anxiety.
You stare into the surface of the plastic table as the door behind you opens and shuts loudly. You don’t even look at him as he takes a seat in one of the chairs situated along the side of the trailer, huffing quietly. The familiar flick, flick, flick of his lighter. A deep inhale. A deep exhale. Your eyes slip back down to the lighter in your hands. The lacquer is almost completely gone now, worn at the edges and pale in the moonlight. You can barely make out the letters that wrap around the small box. It was worn when he gave it to you, nine months ago. He’d had it for a while, picked it up in some gig a few towns over. Said he thought it’d suit you.
You’d taken him for a dickhead back then, convinced he was chatting out of his hole to string you along. Wasn’t until you saw the look in his eyes after you rejected his offer for the third time that you realised he’d meant it. He’d tried to laugh it off,
“Nah, man, it’s whatever.”
He didn’t look you in the eye for the rest of the night. Didn’t come bother you at school for the next three days, like he normally would. Couldn’t see him anywhere, either. Not even with his Hellfire boys at lunch. On day four, you faked cramps to the nurse and snuck out behind the bleachers.
“Don’t suppose you’ve got a light, do ya?”
He’d lent you his, then. A dark black thing with silver edges.
“Shame,” you’d said, bringing the lighter to the butt and inhaling. “Was hoping you’d have that other one on ya.”
The next day, he’d come up to your locker while you were rummaging for books for your first class, setting the faded lighter down on the metal shelf in your locker with a soft clang.
“So you don’t keep bothering me.”
Your grip on the small, metal box has tightened significantly by the time his gentle cough brings you back to reality.
“Thought you were going home.”
It’s bold of him, making the first move. Takes more guts than you’ve got. You would have been content to just sit there in agonising silence until the sun started peeking over the trees.
“Haven’t got a ride. Said I was gonna stay, anyway.”
Another sigh, then the sound of him groaning as he gets to his feet. You ignore him as best you can as he walks past you and situates himself on the opposite side of the table.
“I know. Just figured you were stubborn enough to walk.”
He clears his throat nonchalantly and leans back in his chair. The plastic creaks dangerously.
“I mean, not that I’d let you, but-”
“‘Let’ me?” you question, quietly.
“You know what I mean.”
The edge of your nail slips under the hood of the lighter, flipping it open. You fidget with it for a bit, snapping it shut and flicking it back open again to fill the silence.
“So, uh…”
It’s foreign, how he's almost pursuing you. It reminds you of how things started out, him hanging onto your every word, making up excuses to bump into you, or talk to you, or touch you… It feels nostalgic, like some half-forgotten reality you used to know. Lately, you’ve been feeling stale. Everything’s been feeling stale.
You take a restrained breath on your inhale.
“Yeah, we really don’t need to talk about it.”
“I kinda think we should.”
You sigh, turning your attention to the ashtray.
“I just- I don’t want us to get into it when I’ve gotta stay here tonight.”
He hums. He doesn’t say anything, just looks you up and down with an unreadable expression on his face. An owl hoots, somewhere in the woods. It’s almost comical. You pick restlessly at your hands.
A warm hand slips over your fingers, pulling them away from where they pick and scratch. He doesn’t let go, gripping your hand firmly, thumb stroking mindless circles into your skin. It’s oddly tender. You feel that pit in your stomach glowing with a soft, pained burn. If you’re not careful, tears are going to start forming in your waterline.
Uh oh. Too late.
“Jesus,” he mutters, pulling your hand close to his lips. The warmth of his soft, gentle kiss makes your skin hum and your eyes burn. “It’s not that serious, is it?”
His eyes are dark and heavily lidded when you look at him; it’s the first time you’ve spared him a glance since he told you to go fuck yourself. That was about twenty minutes ago, judging by how the chill of sundown has worked its ways up the exposed skin of your arms.
“It is to me.”
He sighs, heavily.
“I just don’t understand why you care, it’s just some party with loads of stiff, old guys in suits and their-”
“But it’s not about them,” you say, for what feels like the millionth time. “It’s about me. I really want you there, man, this is a big deal for me. I don’t get why you don’t get that.”
“Why me? Why can’t you just ask Robin, or Steve, or that other guy from-”
“Because I-”
Your voice dies in your throat. This is where it gets tricky. Officially, technically, formally, you’ve never declared yourselves exclusive. So, you don’t have any claim to him. You don’t even know why you haven’t talked about it yet, it just never came up. If he’s your guy, he’s your guy. And if he’s not…
“I’m just- I’m sick of this shit, man. If you wanna just sit here and crack jokes and pretend you don’t know that you’ve barely been able to look at me for weeks then we can just call time of death right now. And that’d really suck, but I just… I just don’t know what to do anymore. I don’t even know what this is.”
His hold on your hand seems to stiffen a bit. The two of you have been skirting around the issue for weeks. It’s what kicked you off in the first place; first time he’s reached out to you in six days, and he barely spares you a glance as you step in the door. First, you thought it might have been because his uncle was sitting right there on the couch watching ‘The Price is Right’, and that shit is always awkward anyway, even though you’ve been up at the trailer a hundred times. You figured maybe he’d defrost when his uncle left for the night shift, maybe reach the two feet over to wrap his arm around your shoulders or something, but no. Apparently the expression on your face was enough to spark a reaction.
“What the fuck’s up with you?”
Combined with the way he’d snorted with laughter when you asked him if he’d go to your boss’ Fourth of July dinner earlier over the phone… You’ve reached breaking point. Maybe you’re also just in a particularly bad mood because your boss is a piece of shit and you don’t even wanna go to the stupid thing, but none of the other interns got invited and other than your measly paycheck, it’s the first thing to indicate that the hard work you’ve been putting in has actually paid off.
The silence stretches on a bit too long for your liking, his dark, wide eyes blinking back at you, an unreadable expression on his face.
“I’m not joking. Either we make the effort to try to fix whatever the fuck is wrong here, or we call it a day. It's up to you. I'm not going to force you to do anything. If you don't care, you don't care. And if you do, you do. But I’ve got enough shit on my plate without having to worry about when you’re gonna dump me, or whatever.”
Still he says nothing, grasp on your hand loosening feebly. The dark is over you, now, the dim light of the overhead lamp coating the plastic in an unimpressive green. You take that as your cue.
“Got it.”
The cigarette hisses as you stamp it out in the ashtray and stand up. The chair’s so light it almost falls over.
“Wait, where’re you going?”
The door groans as you clamp the handle down and yank it open.
“Getting my bag.”
“Alright, alright,” he says hurriedly, lurching out of his chair to follow you into the trailer. “Let’s, fucking… Let’s talk about it.”
“Nah, forget it,” you say, swinging the bag over your shoulder and shoulder-checking him as you walk past.
“Hey, hey!”
His arm loops around your waist, pulling you into his chest firmly as he wraps his other arm around you, staggering backwards.
“Don’t go,” he says, breath hot and foreign against your ear. He’s holding onto you so tight you can barely breathe.
“Eddie, I can’t-”
“Just, please, promise me you won’t go.”
“Okay,” you say, finally. “Okay, I won’t go.”
He lets out a shuddered exhale. His forehead dips down to rest heavy against your shoulder, his hair tickling your skin.
“Eddie, I can’t breathe.”
His grip loosens the smallest bit.
“Sorry, sweetheart.”
His voice is dark and quiet. You repress a groan as he presses his lips to your neck, working his way up to just below your jaw. Your head tilts compliantly to the side, eyes stinging. The way his fingertips dig into the flesh of your hips soothes the dull, sour pang in your chest that tells you he doesn’t want you.
Still, your hands slip down to his and pry his grip away. You’re dangerously close to falling into that same pattern that ends with you on your back on top of his sweat-stained mattress, chest heaving for breath. His fingers move quickly to resume their grasp, digging deeper, this time, as he buries his face in the junction between your neck and your shoulders. He inhales deeply, breathing in the faint trace of your perfume that still lingers.
“Hey,” you murmur, in what you hope is a soothing tone. You reach up behind you to slip your fingers into his hair, stroking gently. He shifts, pressing a chaste kiss to the back of your shoulder before resting his cheek against your flushed skin. “Hey.”
When he doesn’t answer, you turn in his hold, hand slipping down to cup his cheek.
“What’s got into you?”
“Just… don’t go, okay? ‘Cause if you go, then you’re gone, and-”
“I won’t go, but you gotta talk to me, alright?”
“Alright,” he sighs, “No fucking around. I like you. There, that’s… out there, that’s…”
He gestures lamely.
“I mean, of course I like you. You’re… mine,” he says, cringing. “And I guess… I guess I thought we already had this down, I mean… I didn’t think I’d have to tell you, like, straight out. Not gonna lie, this is kinda weird.”
For some reason, his words don’t spark the excitement you’d presumed they would have.
“If I’m yours,” you begin, matter-of-factly, but he cuts you off.
“Yeah, yeah, I know. Okay, uh…”
He runs his hands through his hair. The springs in the couch creak loudly as he takes a seat, elbows propped up on his knees as he rests his forehead on his folded hands. Then, he clears his throat and lifts his head to look at you.
“I, uh, I’m not passing.”
You grimace.
“What do you mean you’re not passing?”
“I’m not…”
He doesn’t finish his sentence, huffing loudly instead.
“Look, I don’t really want to get into it.”
“I thought you-”
“Yeah, well so did I.”
The silence that follows is awkward and tense. He’s a year older than you as is. You don’t really know what to say. You love him-
God.
You do.
But you never know what to say whenever his lack of a high school diploma comes up. He says he just doesn’t care, but he gets that look in his eyes, the one that lingers on you whenever you argue. The one that’s currently staring daggers into the carpet.
“I’m sorry about what I said,” he says quietly, lifting his gaze back to yours. “I didn’t mean it.”
“I know.”
“I just don’t want you to think that I don’t wanna go because of you,” he says lamely. “You know?”
“Yeah, I know.”
You do know. It’s why he hasn’t looked at you since you got your internship.
You sigh, heavily.
“It’s fine,” you say. “Don’t worry about it.”
“No, I feel bad.”
“S’alright.”
He frowns.
“You’re gonna let me off the hook that easily? I mean, I’m not gonna complain, but I thought you were better than that.”
You shake your head in exasperation.
“I’m tired.”
He’s already under the covers by the time you get undressed, fidgeting quietly as he stares at your figure in the moonlight. But his eyes don’t drop below your collarbone, instead admiring the way the sliver of light through the crack in the curtains highlights the curves and dips of your features in silver.
You rest your head on his chest, hand skimming over his skin to interlace your fingers with his. His rhythmic exhales lull you into relaxation, legs heavy and head still. The last thing you remember before you fall into a slumber is the warm press of his lips on the back of your hand.
© @aeaean--bliss; please do not copy, repost or translate any of my works.
#eddie munson x reader#eddie munson#x reader#eddie munson x y/n#eddie munson x you#eddie munson fan fiction#stranger things fan fiction#flick flick flick#aeaean--bliss
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tui la | part one: the unforeseen consequences of arbitrary decisions
summary: the clock hits midnight, and it’s time to run. this story is about the race.
pairing: bucky barnes x bender!reader
genre: atla!au, strangers/enemies to lovers, pining, slow-burn
word count: 6.2k
warnings/tags: this one’s a bit tame, but things will kick off and get a bit gorey/violent later on. canon level stuff, though. loneliness, depression, all that good stuff. later tags include, fire, burns, death (not main character), amputation (it’s a bucky fic lads), icky wounds, would not recommend reading if overly squeamish. lmk if i’ve missed any.
a/n: been working on this for a while now, really excited to have it up. please consider telling me what you think about it!
masterlist
chapter index
part one | part two
part one | the unforeseen consequences of arbitrary decisions
First, there were Spirits.
They manifested in mortal realms, roaming the uninhabited territories of the Spirit Wilds with a fervour only the unworldly can muster.
When mankind appeared and sought refuge from these dangerous territories, its protector granted them sanctuary. Isolated from each other, these communities of men developed distinct cultures and forwent their common origins.
When necessity forced men to wander beyond the boundaries of their asylum, their protector granted them the ability to command and bend one of the four great elements to their will. This power was reserved for protection, and was to be returned upon re-entry to the sanctuary.
And so, man and his protector had established an amicable relationship. When the Spirits were driven into the Spirit Worlds, mankind’s protectors renounced their titles, leaving mankind to go about its business as it pleased.
What followed developed sporadically. Some learned the art of bending the elements from the natural creatures, such as badgermoles, dragons, and flying bison. Some stole it from their protectors. Others learned from observing the forces from the moon on the ocean tides.
Push, and pull.
Tuī lā.
Tales of the battles of warlords, avatars, benders, and Spirits were the bread and butter of any child’s upbringing in the Realm. Awesome, unfathomable, terrifying, and inspiring great reverence, they formed the intricately woven history of the fabric of the world, centred around the four pivotal elements:
Water,
Fire,
Earth, and
Air.
It’s strange how the heat can play with your mind.
It makes fleeting images flicker across your eyes, vision blurred by the waves of fever emanating from the ground like a contagious sickness, poisoning your reality.
The silhouettes of dead trees scattered along the golden horizon morph into figures resembling moving spirits, shifting and swaying in the waves radiating from the dust. Here, they constitute modern folklore, their names unspoken yet painted in the whispers of children after dark. The fields they stand in have laid untouched for thirty-seven years, smouldering still.
In their ashes, you can see the clouds of black smoke. Weeping with tar and oozing with a stench so palpable it threatens to empty your already-depleted stomach, it spreads across a pine-clad land, devouring every organism in its path and leaving behind an all-consuming sinkhole.
As though vibrating against your eyes, the air seems to push into you, submerging you in pressurised heat. Up here, from the modest room that constitutes your current lodging, your view extends all the way to the edge of the town; past the fields, to the ascent where the ground disappears and meets the azure.
You’ve been feeling faint lately. You’d be forgiven for attributing your ailment to the persisting climate, but this doesn’t feel like the bouts of sunstroke you used to endure as a child. In an effort to soothe your nausea, your subconscious conjures phantom scents of aloe vera jelly and boiled ginger, but it only makes your stomach turn.
Nonetheless, the world does not stop on your behalf, and you have errands to run at the market before it is time to open. The metal hook that locks the panels in front of your window creaks shrilly as it slips into its loop, and the floorboards groan as you make your descent to the lower level. Everything feels slow today. Tired, unmoving, and reluctant. The seven tables stationed throughout the room stand undisrupted from where you left them yesterday evening, and yet they have an unnervingly strong presence in the quiet room, as though the ghosts of their occupants have decided to linger. Delicate cloths, carefully pressed and uniformly straightened, line the heavy wooden surfaces. You can’t put your finger on it, but something about them comforts you; like a tapestry hung straight and even against a wall.
The sweltering air hits your face like a fur swung against your head with the force of the opening door. It stings in your nose, forcing your eyes shut as you shift the handle of your woven basket from your hands to the crook of your elbow. The coarse reeds chafe against your bare skin, dry and golden as the sand and dust that coats the stone under your feet.
If anyone asked, you would be convinced you eat, sleep, and breathe that dust. Morning, noon, and night. It weighs heavily in the air. Invasive. Foreign. Sometimes, on days like today, you’re reminded of your mother. Gentle fingertips through hair, smell of cured fish in the air, and the sun beating down on your skin.
Not like here, not this kind of heat. A softer heat. The type that disappears temporarily when you step into the shade.
Not like here, where there is no shade to step into because the heat doesn’t come from the sun, it comes from the earth; pounding.
The walk down to Market Square is heavier than usual; your lungs feel small and weak, your mouth feels dry, and your head throbs in tune with your footsteps. It seems, however, as though you’re alone in being bothered by the climate. Foot traffic in town has been unaffected. If anything, it seems even busier than usual. You’re not exactly certain how long it takes migrants to acclimate to their new settlements, but you suppose it must be longer than five moons, seeing as you’re not even remotely close to operating at your usual pace.
Fortunately, you don’t attract any particular attention. So many migrants have settled on the merchant island of Andaar over the course of the past one hundred and seventy years that traditional fire nation attire is only ever really worn by the official guards who patrol the town. Even those patrolling the coast wear different uniforms to indicate their rank.
As for your uncomfortable demeanour, people have more important things to care about. Food is scarce. Despite being a regional hub for trade, the benefits of these practices are reserved for a few. Goods flow through the ports, but they never stay for long.
By the time you return to your humble abode, your skin is layered with dust. There is no water for a wash. So, you begin to organise your purchases of the day into the brown clay pots lined along the wall, on the table that serves as a counter at the far end of the room. The scents of their contents are faint and weak, barely lingering on your fingertips as you strip the dried stems of their needles and leaves.
Then, you wait.
Many arbitrary decisions led to you finding yourself here, in a small tea shop in the Western quadrant of a Fire Nation merchant island, waiting for your first customer of the day. You don’t earn a profit; any income goes directly to your landlord. In turn, you receive accommodation and a small allowance.
You find yourself here, hoping it will be the last place they look.
It’s days like this that make you feel nauseous. The profound vista of the setting sun devours you, reminding you of your inherent insignificance. The beauty of its colours taunts you, teasing you with temporary luxuries that evaporate with sundown.
Now, when you are at your lowest, when you feel like you’re in the place farthest from anything and everything you know, the spirits strike you with yet another bolt of humiliation.
There is a woman. At least thirty summers old. She sits against the wall outside the tea shop, selling snails. She wakes at three in the morning, every morning, wraps her daughter to her chest, and walks the distance to the docks in time for the first shipment to come in. All she gets are scraps; the docks are import/export, nothing ever fully lands, but there is always a loophole for those who keep their eyes open. They’re sloppy when they load the nets off the boats for repackaging; the odd snail slips from the grasp of the net and falls with a gentle plop into the shoreline. And she sits against the wall until dusk, selling steamed snails to the officers. They’re the only people who can afford the luxury.
You catch slight glimpses of her throughout the day while you work. The way she holds her babe to her chest, lips moving in silent whispers… It strikes a pang within you.
Not because you have any desire for a child. That is a luxury you certainly cannot afford. Nevertheless, you can’t help but envy the company she must have, sitting outside those long hours. You don’t think you’ll be able to get away with muttering to your cups and pots under your breath for much longer. One of your customers will undoubtedly pick up on it sooner or later, and you’d rather it be later than sooner.
People don’t talk much here. You can’t even begin to recall the last time you had an ordinary conversation with someone. People don’t engage in small talk, or find any excuse to utter any words that aren’t strictly necessary. Your childlike urge for recognition, your desire for attention sits deep in your stomach like a pit, but it’s old now. Old and worn down.
At this stage, your suspicion for anyone who lays eyes on you is excruciating. Occasionally, a heavy gaze will follow you as you manoeuver the shop, though it never lingers for too long. Despite its temporary presence, it sparks nausea.
No, people don’t talk much here. And yet, you step one toe out of line, and they’ll all know about it.
Even standing here, lingering at the docks as you stare out at the waterfront, is risky. You have no business standing here. Men who lug nets and crates and sacks don’t appreciate you standing in their way. Their skin lies coated with sweat and grime, caked with dust that never seems to settle. From the sun breaks in the sky in the morning till it slips below the horizon at night, they work.
Part of you has no desire to stand here, either. The odour of decomposing sea creatures hangs as a heavy stench in the air, the smoke from the cast iron fire pits stationed along the coastline seeping into your lungs as you begin to feel drowsy.
But fate deals you yet another blow of humiliation as you stare into the murky, grey water.
There’s a spirit in folklore, a spirit which takes the form of a young woman of extraordinary beauty. Everything she touches, everything around her, shines like a summer’s day. Young men will scarf down anything, creatures that creep, slither, and crawl, fruits infested with rot, as though they were at the Emperor’s great banquet hall. With hijacked eyes, they are led into the deepest crevices of the wilderness, never to return.
You feel her hanging over you, slipping the stained glass over your lids as you stare into the water. It’s opaque; a dark, lifeless water that looks as though it poisons whatever it touches, but to you? To you, the waves look a crystal green. If you concentrate, you can just about see the lion crabs scuttling along the white sand below. Your skin itches with the urge to dip your toes in the water, to feel the cool waves extract your fever like a syringe.
You stand less than an arm's length away from the edge, so unfathomably close to the waves below, and yet, for all the good it does you, you might as well be sitting in your quarters, looking out of your window. It taunts you, poised and pretty in your stained glass lenses, knowing you will come this close and no farther.
Maybe things are different on the other side of the island, beyond the deep, tangled forest and the deserted plains. Maybe it’s the soot, the same chalk that stains your skin a dark black, that poisons the water that lures you to this part of the town at this late hour.
Nevertheless, the nausea that floods you in waves is a sickeningly bitter invasion of the brief, ever-so-small relief you find in the sea air that works as a cool contrast to the humidity of the shop. You feel as though your skin may never learn to breathe again.
“Hey, lady.”
The words ring in your mind with such profundity that you’re convinced you imagined them. You’ve become so estranged that the thought that someone might be talking to you does not even cross your mind until they speak again.
“Hey!”
He’s right behind you, now. Whoever he is.
When you turn, you see the owner of the voice; a man with dark features, shoulders broad and strong from heavy lifting. He carries timber across his shoulder, one arm wrapped around the load to steady it. He doesn’t look happy, though that doesn’t come as a surprise.
“Get going.”
His voice is gruff, yet oddly quiet. You can tell by the way he’s positioned that you’re not on his route; he’s taken a detour to speak with you. Judging by the way he continues to glance over his shoulder, you assume he’s not supposed to.
“The lumber yard is that way,” you say bluntly, gesturing apathetically to your right.
You turn away from him again, and cast your gaze back to the water.
“It’s getting late,” he says plainly. “You’re in the way.”
He must have taken a step closer. In the interest of not placing yourself in a position where you’d be easy to knock, you turn to face him fully. You catch him glancing over his shoulder again, this time in the direction of two men who stand by one of the huts further inland. Their features are poorly illuminated, though they don’t strike you as anything out of the ordinary. One of the men has a sack almost the size of his own body slung across his shoulders, his hands resting firmly either side. The other holds a great iron hook with three razor-sharp prongs, attached to a thick and heavy chain. The man with the hook turns it over in his hands, as though with muscle memory. It’s longer than his forearm and as thick as the horn of a ram, but he carries it as though it weighs less than a feather. Their eyes are fixed to the west, almost unmoving.
“Listen,” he speaks again, stepping even closer. You quell the urge to step backwards just in time to remember how close you are to the water’s edge. “You don’t want to be here when the sun sets. Not tonight.”
You draw yourself up until the two of you are almost even in height, fixing him with a stare designed to conceal anything he might be looking for. Although, you must admit, his eyes don’t appear to be anything less than sober.
“Hm.”
It’s amusing, how the sun sets. In the beginning, when it starts, you cannot imagine that the light might seep from the day. You cannot even picture what it looks like. Then it goes on, gradually, painting deep, entrancing colours and shapes in the heavens that seem to go on forever.
And suddenly, in an instant, it’s all gone. And when you take your eyes off the man in front of you for a split moment and dart your eyes in the direction of the horizon, you can see that the point of blindness is almost upon you.
But with this blindness comes the unmistakeable feeling that something is wrong.
“I suggest,” the man says, voice low, “you get going.”
You can’t tell quite yet how you feel about how his eyes linger heavily on you as you leave.
The scrapes on your knees and shins burn almost as hot as the petulant rage that fills you as you all but stomp back to your quarters. It wasn’t until you reached the brush, the hard, prickly remains of whatever godawful shrubs used to grow before the air became poisoned, that you began to seethe with a childish fury.
Your skin prickles with the flush of an odd mixture of guilt, regret, embarrassment, and something you can only describe as… fear. With your head in the clouds, shrouded by rainbow illusions, he took you by surprise. Like a child, told off for stepping out of your lane. It’s a foolish thing to get aggravated over, you know this, but you’ve never been known for your balanced temper.
Nevertheless, the interaction has your blood boiling. So much so that you stomp through the bristles without a second of thought, ignoring the way their shards tear at your bare skin. Anger is an excellent anaesthetic; it isn’t until you lie down on your makeshift mattress that you feel the throbbing begin.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, the throbbing in your legs is matched in pace to the beating of your heart, but rather than remaining an inconvenient nuisance, it amplifies the anxiety bubbling under your skin like an echo. As you stare into the wooden beams that cross the ceiling, you realise with a start that it’s the first time anyone’s spoken to you outside of marketplace trades and orders of tea in five whole moons. You’ve become so isolated from social interaction that the slightest confrontation has you drawing your breath as though you have to force it through a punctured hole in your lung.
Curse the man from the docks. You can’t even fully remember his face; his features shrouded by the setting sun and the heavy soot and your own lack of attention to the present. That proves no obstacle for your mind, though, as it begins to transcribe page upon page of insult to hurl at him.
But they don’t do confrontation here, and judging by the quick thuds you can feel against your flesh as you press your palm under your breast, you should be grateful. So – after much deliberation and progression through the five stages of grief – you allow the slumber that’s been blossoming in your chest to consume you.
It tingles. Burns, might be a more appropriate way to describe it. Business has been so quiet this morning that it leaves you little to be distracted by. You made the mistake of subconsciously rubbing your calves together as you were waiting for your first customer, and the enraged throbbing still has yet to subside.
You afford yourself a deep inhale of the blend you’ve gathered together, picking up the pestle and beginning to grind. It’s borderline painful, handling the scarce commodity without being able to spare a single cup. The tea you serve is weak as it is, and if you want to avoid losing what little clientele you have, you have no choice but to let your mouth water.
Now that you’ve had the opportunity to reflect on the events of last night, you find yourself a bit on edge. Something in the air has shifted. The anxiety sowed with his confrontation has bubbled with ease under your skin, keeping your heart rate up and your palms sweaty. The fact that you were perceived, that he came up and spoke to you, has triggered an anxiety even deeper than you originally thought existed.
Very simply, your bubble has burst.
Because it’s not just him, you think, as you add the powdered leaves and herbs to the water and mix slowly. It’s not just him. With your increased wariness, you decided against leaving the house this morning. Strictly speaking, you don’t need to run errands until tomorrow, and as you sat at one of the few, pristine tables in your keep, you began to take note of the number of patrols outside your door.
Just in the few moons that you’ve been here, they have increased five-fold.
The air feels heavy with tension, and you feel the fool who only just noticed. It has been a steady development, and had you been more preoccupied with observing rather than just keeping your head down, you might have avoided an unpleasant truth.
No use wallowing in should-have’s and would-have’s now.
You remember his words from yesterday -
“You don’t want to be here when the sun sets. Not tonight.”
What did he mean, not tonight? What was happening, ‘tonight’?
Days trickle by, and you feel the pressing weight of your curiosity growing steadily. Things in the town remain largely unchanged, but you feel a desire to learn more. What you’d be learning more about, you cannot possibly say.
But someone else can.
Though, no matter how many times you walk past the docklands on your errands, you never catch a glimpse of him. You even make up excuses, detours you cannot afford to take, just for the opportunity to spot him because at this point – at this point, your curiosity has exceeded your anger. You pass by, at hours outside your ordinary schedule, but still, he eludes you.
And with this little to do, outside of running your errands and working the shop, you become fixated.
You must be stupid.
Why else would you repeatedly attempt to prod at the open wounds on your legs? They haven’t begun to cool yet, still red and itchy, skin swollen and tender and over-sensitive. It becomes one of those relatively mild inconveniences that is just mild and just inconvenient enough to fill you with pettiness. Bested, by your own foolishness. Your own damnable petulance, that led you to trample through the brush like a child with a tantrum rather than walk the extra stone’s throw around the hill. The fact that the prodding hurts causes greater damage to your pride than it does to the cuts.
With a heavy sigh, you pick up the crisp, thin piece of parchment you haphazardly tossed on the tabletop a few minutes ago with your fingertips and bring it to your eyes again.
“Payments outstanding.
Failure to provide adequate payment will result in eviction.
~ Lim Goro”
You sigh again, folding the sheet in half and pressing the crease meticulously. It’s no fault of yours that prices have increased; if people do not have wealth to spend, you cannot earn what you ordinarily would. It’s more of an incentive for you to earn him more gold rather than a legitimate threat of eviction, but your landlord is not beyond replacing you with someone else. There are plenty of potential replacements, after all.
You look upon the empty tables in front of you with a blank stare. There are no more chores for you to do, no more preparations to tend to, nothing to do except sit here and listen to the sound of your own sighs.
The day slips by, the sun climbing high, high, high in the sky until it hangs directly over you, glaring. So far, you have had a total of one, singular customer. The old man had taken one sip from his cup, looked you up and down, grimaced, and left, leaving a few pieces of copper coin behind on the tabletop. Already, you’re formulating plans for movement. Today has been ridiculously slow, and your newfound anxiety has you wondering whether this is now likely to become the norm. You are in no mood to find yourself evicted, you know you will not find alternative employment anywhere on this godforsaken island.
You will have to travel on. Which isn’t a problem in itself, more of a mild inconvenience at this stage. It’s just tiring. And you’re already tired. The old man’s presence lingers uneasily at the table despite his having left hours ago, taunting you as you shift your weight from foot to foot. You grow restless in your boredom, picking at threads and scratching your nail against the counter’s rugged surface. Maybe you should just call time of death, move on at your own leisure and on your own terms. Get yourself the hell out of here, away from all these people, and away from whatever’s brewing on the shipyard.
Or maybe you’ve been too hasty. Because there, just outside your front door, is not the man you’re looking for – but his friend. He hasn’t donned his hook today, instead opting for a burlap sack slung across his shoulder. The sleeveless tunic he’s wearing cuts off at the corner of his shoulder, the light blue textile contrasting the deep, golden hue of his skin. You almost didn’t recognise him. You have only seen him from a distance, after all.
Your hands still as you watch. He tosses something in the air with his left hand, muscles flexing dangerously in the sunlight. Your eyes fixate on the small object as it leaps and sinks in the air. He’s talking to someone, someone out of your line of sight. His jaw flexes as he grins at his companion, tossing the object in their direction. Then, he raises his hand in farewell and shifts the sack farther up on his shoulder, before turning and heading down the street. Your eyes linger on the phantom of his presence, frozen in thought.
And you do something you ordinarily never would, but which you have found yourself doing increasingly as of late: you make a split second decision. Tossing the rag in your hands haphazardly on the counter behind you, you bolt the front door shut, and begin to follow him.
He turns left, leading you onto the path that ends at market square. It’s a long, slack street on a distinct decline, passing through the abodes of merchants who can afford the steep price of permanent establishments. The path is packed with people and the dust swirls heavily in the air from endless heels kicking up sand. Fortunately for you, he’s taller than most; deep, dark brown hair visible over the crowd. You weave through the mass as best you can, but his strides are longer than yours and somehow someone manages to get in your way with every step you take.
Your shoulders knock into passersby as you shuffle through the crowd, eyes not finding much sympathy for the endless people who come at you with baskets, sacks, carcasses, and boughs. Your heartbeat thrums under your skin. There are no back streets or paths diverging from this road; it leads directly to the marketplace, so you don’t run the risk of losing him.
That is, until you reach the end of the road. Any satisfaction you felt at having kept him within sight is immediately quashed by the throng that greets you at the square. You almost trip over your feet as you lurch to follow him, senses working overtime to process the pungent odour filling the air.
The complete absence of customers at your shop seems less strange, now; men and women with painted faces twist and contort themselves in rhythmic waves across the sands that form the outskirts of the square, near the mouth of the Southern quadrant. They’ve attracted quite a crowd, stunting the masses that charge towards the market stalls on their daily errands. There’s a commotion to your right; from the corner of your eye you see the black spears with glinting, golden tips bobbing above the heads of the crowd, manoeuvring determinedly southwards.
You’ve lost him. How have you lost him? You only looked away for a moment. You squeeze your way between stalls, eyes darting around frantically. Finally, you spot him at the seaweed merchant’s, talking to the middle-aged woman who sits cross-legged by the small stack of baskets. Retreating a couple steps to maintain some distance between you, you watch as he passes her a couple of copper coins. She lifts the lid covering the largest of the woven baskets, a small smile on her lips. Now that you’re standing closer to him than ever before, you can understand why. He is, beyond all doubt, a very pleasant-looking man. His smile is wide, eyes crinkled, and you find yourself staring at him as though-
Oof.
The sharp yells at your ear echo in your head for a moment before you register the pain in your shoulder. With wide eyes, you squat to recover the dry strips of bark that have spilled from the man’s hamper. Uttering quiet, yet firm apologies, hands moving hurriedly to save the strips from being trodden on, you feel your heart begin to race. He continues to berate you, voice nasal and high-pitched.
You stand to give your knees a rest and you’ve lost him. The man’s carping follows you as you begin to weave through the crowd in the direction of the seaweed merchant. Waving the man behind you away with an unsympathetic grimace, you move to stand directly in front of the stand. The woman eyes you unimpressed; you’ve practically stormed into an exchange between her and another customer, chest heaving and eyes wide.
Quickly, quickly, you pull away and begin to skirt the masses. You catch sight of him after a short while, near the mouth of the Eastern quadrant, reaching into the sack that used to hang off his shoulder. He hands some of its contents to an older man smoking a pipe who sits on a wooden pail near the mouth’s gate; a tall thing made of sand-coloured stone with the Emperor’s emblem carved into its top. A big, bronze gong hangs suspended from the head. The old man hands him something in return, though from this distance, you can’t see what it is.
With hurried feet, almost tripping over yourself, you move to the gate only to find him gone. You’re on the outskirts of the crowd, now, caught in the debris that circles the swarm. Squinting, you take a step back. Your eyes scan a million faces, searching for distinct braids, but you come up dry. With a heavy sigh, you move around the wall, past the gate. There’s a bit of shade there, sweet, sweet shade, though it has no affect against the heat. Instead, it feeds your imagination. Memories of cool waves and sugary fruits, sunlight that sparkles against the green ocean, salt stinging in your nose and peace pumping through your veins.
You heart catches in your throat as a firm hand latches harshly onto your shoulder and pulls you backwards. You stumble, tripping in the sand. Before you can put your feet back under you, the same firm hand grabs your arm and hauls you up, up, up, into one of the dim alleyways off the main street.
You can’t decipher the expression on his face, but the slightest trace of a sneer laces his upper lip in a way that almost makes you shrink back into yourself. But his eyes, there’s something in those piercing, blue eyes that truly makes your skin crawl.
“You wanna explain yourself?”
He’s ditched the sack. It’s a good question, actually, because when you think of it, you don’t think you could explain yourself if you tried. What were you planning to do? In all honesty, you were probably planning on following him until you saw something - anything - interesting. You have a feeling he wouldn’t appreciate that as an answer if you gave it.
His eyes look over you as the silence stretches on, narrowing as the grip on your arm loosens ever-so-slightly.
“I know you. You’re that teamaker from the Western quadrant.”
Then he frowns.
“You been following me all the way from there?”
Something in his voice puts you at a greater ease than is reasonable.
“Following you? I… who do you think you are? Why would I follow you?”
“Try again.”
You scoff.
“And how do you know who I am?” you jab, wrenching your arm loose from his grip. “By all accounts, it appears I’m the one being followed. And dragged into some dim alleyway!”
“Careful, girl, you’re not out of here yet.”
“So you admit it, you are following me.”
But his words ring a scary truth; for all the good your sharp tongue does, you still find yourself in a dark alleyway at the mercy of a complete stranger. Shouts grow louder in the square as you size each other up, followed by the unmistakable roar of a blaze.
Your assailant’s attention snaps to the mouth of the alley. You could slip past him, you think. One swift moment is all it would take. But the orange glow has reached beyond the sand of the gate, seeming so far in the distance and yet so, so close. It won’t be long until its creators follow.
You count down in your head. Three, two-
The heavy tolls of the Bells of the Gates ring through the air, causing your very bones to vibrate like a tuning fork. The shouts increase even further, both in volume and proximity. A general feeling of deep unrest spreads with the echoes of the Bells. You feel it creep through your body as you inhale, like a heavy gas.
“I have business to take care of in the Western quadrant. You either come with me, or you make your own way back.”
You blink. The deep, quiet inflection in his voice stands as a considerable contrast to just moments ago. The Bells indicate curfew, effective immediately. The square is undoubtedly in lockdown, which means that your only way home involves navigating your way through either the Southern or the Northern quadrant. At this hour, it’s not a journey you would particularly enjoy making on your own.
Should have just stayed in the shop, you think.
“Suit yourself.”
You blink again, watching as he turns his broad back on you and starts towards the gate. The thuds of feet running through sand echo from the street ahead in the walls that encase you.
“Hey- wait,” you say, scrambling after him. “Hey!”
He scowls.
“Change your mind? I don’t entertain hysteria.”
Now it’s your turn to scowl.
“I’ll show you hysteria, how-”
“Are we going or not?”
You drag your feet in the sand. You’ve not spoken two words to each other since the Eastern quadrant, with the exception of the occasion where he berated you for kicking up too much sand as you walked. It draws attention, he’d said. You’d bitten your tongue to refrain from telling him anything he didn’t strictly need to know.
You find yourselves on the outskirts of the Western quadrant, now, on a path lovingly referred to as ‘Arson Lane’. Fire nation patrols linger on its corners, keeping a keener than normal eye out for wrongdoers. You stick to the walls, pausing at every corner and listening for voices. The blindness is upon you, darkness shrouding every detail.
“I think we should get off this path,” you murmur under your breath, holding a hand out against his chest in an effort to stop him.
“This is the quickest way through,” he whispers. His voice is close to your ears, the consonants clicking loudly against his tongue. The intimacy of your situation only fuels the fire that boils your blood.
Your passage through the Northern quadrant, though in complete silence, has put you on edge. Heavy, black boots kicking bodies down the streets mar at your senses. You cannot hear any nearby patrols, no orange hue decorates your route, and yet…
“I think we should find another path,” you whisper.
“What would you know,” he grunts. “You’re just a teamaker.”
You jump at the volume of his voice. It’s not particularly loud, but it rings in the silence. You see no movement on the road, nothing to indicate anything is wrong, no…
You grab him by the tunic and pull him, with a surprising amount of force, to the other side of the road. The wall there is short, and easy to climb over. Squatting low, you listen intently. Sure enough, the muted thuds of spear shafts against sand approach in the distance. You can feel his breath on your cheek, restrained like yours, his side pressed against the naked flesh of your arm.
You hear the patrol as they pass, throwing vulgar quips to each other and letting out drunken laughs. You share a look you can’t quite place with your unlikely companion. It’s strange, seeing him so close. He’s not as young as you are, though exactly how many summers he’s seen, you couldn’t say. Maybe six, seven more than you?
You stay huddled behind that short wall for a good while after their voices disappear into the night.
“Have they gone?” he breathes.
You glare.
“How would I know,” you mouth. “I’m just a teamaker.”
His features slip back into his scowl, and he pulls himself to his feet and climbs over the wall.
By the time you reach the crossroads that leaves you on your street, you’re not speaking. You push past him and don’t look back.
But you’ve always been too curious for your own good. Standing in front of your door, you spare a glance in the direction you came. Once again, you make a split-second decision. Darting after him as quickly as you can without attracting attention, you spot him creeping against the walls of a street perpendicular to your own. Peeking your head out from behind the corner, you watch as he slips from the shadows of the walls to knock gently against a wooden window shutter. Not even a moment later, the door glides open. The little light that slips through the crack paints the figure of an old woman, shorter with her years. Without hesitation, he ushers her inside the room and closes the door after himself.
Your knees feel weak as you trudge up the steep steps of your abode.
part two
© @aeaean--bliss; please do not copy, repost or translate any of my works.
#bucky barnes x reader#bucky barnes imagine#bucky barnes fan fiction#marvel fan fiction#winter soldier fan fiction#winter soldier imagines#tui la#aeaean--bliss
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maybe
summary: you and Tangerine haven't spoken in almost a year. now you've been ditched, and he's picking you up.
pairing: tangerine x reader
word count: 1.9k
warnings/tags: a tense ass car ride. swearing, tension, arguing, excessive rudeness, pining
masterlist
a/n: this was not the fic i intended to write or finish or upload:))) but here it is
He’ll be up. He owes you one, anyway. And it’s not like he sleeps.
Plus, it’s you.
You did think it would take him longer to get here, though. It’s not like he lives nearby. Hasn’t even been ten minutes since the three dots popped up on your screen, followed immediately by the “omw” that your eyes have been glued to ever since.
You should have just walked home. Bit the bullet, and walked the hour and a half trek back to yours. But it’s getting dark, you’ve barely slept, and your ankles are already starting to ache, just from the five minute walk down the block and back again.
He doesn’t get out when he pulls up; doesn’t even roll down the window or turn his head to look in your direction. Just leans back, one hand on the wheel, one elbow resting against the car window. The chain hanging off his wrist gleams in the light of a streetlight a couple of metres away. It’s one of the only things you can focus your eyes on as you stalk towards the car.
The slam of the car door rings in the night. The car is dead silent; no radio on, no phone call over bluetooth, no nothing. It’s never been this quiet.
The engine purrs gently. It’s strange. He’s sat right next to you, but he might as well be on the other side of the world. He hasn’t even asked for your address.
“The fuck you doin’ out here?”
His voice sounds strange. Maybe it’s the silence. Makes it sound almost distorted. Maybe it’s ‘cause you haven’t heard his actual voice in months. Maybe you forgot what it sounds like. Maybe it’s the hint of concern in his voice.
No - that can’t be right. This is the same guy who told you to “walk it off” when you got your femur shattered by some dickhead with a golf club.
“Just some guy,” you mumble. If there was one place you didn’t want to get ditched, it was here. Your phone’s nearly dead, and you don’t really know your way back to the main road. But he can’t possibly know that. Right? All you sent him was your location.
“Boyfriend?”
“What’s it to you?”
“Jesus, darlin’, no need to bite my head off.”
Maybe you’ve come in a bit too amped. Nevermind the fact that the last time you saw him, he blew your cover to help his own; he’s come to pick you up out in the middle of nowhere at eleven p.m., no complaints, and he’s not said anything out of order yet. You’ve come to think Tan’s the type of guy you gotta judge on an encounter by encounter basis. Maybe you shouldn’t, but it makes it easier.
“Not anymore, I guess.”
He grunts - there’s no other word for it - and brings a hand up to smooth down his moustache.
“Forgive me, darlin’, but you don’t sound very upset.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not exactly flowing over with love for the guy.”
“You really know how to fuckin’ pick ‘em, don’t ya,” he mutters. You glare.
You’d think after having known him for - what, six, seven years? - you’d be used to his bite by now. Maybe it’s just tonight. You’re in a weird mood. If he calls you sensitive, you might actually start to cry.
“Probably better off then, ain’t ya, if he’s left ya to hang about outside by yourself an’ all.”
He must have clocked that you’re a bit off tonight. It comes out as an afterthought, barely audible above the soft purr of the engine.
“What you goin’ out with a prick like that for, anyway?”
“S’not like anyone else wants me.”
Everything gets heavy, then. In your peripheral vision, you try not to notice the way his knuckles tighten around the wheel, or the way his jaw tenses just the slightest bit. He doesn’t respond. You didn’t think he would. You’re in a torturing mood. Just want to poke and prod at the wound for a bit and see what happens. Because he says you know how to pick ‘em, but won’t let you pick him. Even if you both know he wants to be picked.
After about ten minutes of ear deafening silence, he clears his throat quietly.
“Still workin’ down the bank?”
You hum, non-committedly. You can’t tell if you’re happy or sad that he’s stopped pushing for more on this other guy. Odds are, he’d be in the papers tomorrow for all the wrong reasons. You’ve got goosebumps from the cold. They itch a bit. Maybe waiting outside wasn’t the best idea, but it’s better than hanging around inside like some loner. Maybe you were just eager to see him.
You see him less now that you’ve gone civilian. Five bullet wounds and a back injury will do that to a person. It’s been around seven months since you last had anything to do with him. Seven months since you quit. The last message from him on your phone is from nine months ago. It says, “give me back my tie.” You didn’t respond.
More than anything, you’re tired. And bored.
You never told him you worked at a bank.
“Might get back into liquidation. Lemon says he knows a guy.”
It’s a lie. You don’t want to get back in, and Lemon wouldn’t help you even if you did. Doesn’t mean you don’t hate your life the way it is right now.
“Nah, you wouldn’t survive out there, darlin’,” he mutters, little finger flicking up to switch on the indicators. “Times have changed. Good thing like you? They’d tear ya apart, I mean, look at ya.”
You can’t tell if he means it. Can’t tell if it means something. It hurts more than you think it does. It’s also kinda backhanded, even if it is a lie.
Flecks of rain have begun to spatter the windshield, their outlines illuminated by each passing streetlight. You’re seething. The type of thing where you can literally smell it off someone. You want him to mean it. But he probably doesn’t. And even if he does, he’s not gonna do anything about it.
“D’you even know where you’re going? You don’t have an address.”
“You think I don’t know where you live? Give me some credit.”
You never gave him your address.
“I’m not going to mine.”
He frowns, then, lips twitching like he wants to say something, like he’s getting ready to speak but hasn’t decided on the words yet. You can almost hear the sound of him blinking, like a cartoon. He looks kinda funny when he’s frustrated, like a muppet with a big, bushy moustache.
The hand comes out to gesture a “what the fuck” before he even speaks, almost in slow motion, like the thought is loading.
“Well, why the fuck didn’t you say somethin’ before I-”
“You didn’t fuckin’ ask, mate,” you groan, “Literally didn’t even fuckin’ say anything until-”
“How the fuck am I supposed to know where the fuck-”
“I didn’t ask you to know, I was gonna fuckin’ tell you.”
“Takin’ your sweet fuckin’ time, ain’t ya!”
“Would you relax, it’s not like you’ve gone the wrong way, I would have-”
“You know,” he cuts in, pointing his index finger accusatorily at you, “you’re a lot easier to deal with when you shut the fuck up.”
You shove his hand away. He’s not making sense.
“Fuck you.”
Green becomes amber becomes red light, shining through the watery sheen of the windshield and hitting his skin like a coloured lens. Without the grumble of the engine, you can almost hear him breathe. It grounds you. Reminds you he’s a real human being. Sometimes he’s such a caricature that you forget.
When he speaks next, his voice is uncharacteristically light, and void of aggression.
“Thinkin’ of gettin’ a new suit.”
It’s so dumb. It’s so. dumb. And no one cares. But it’s his attempt at normalcy, and it’s a hell of an olive branch, even if it does give you whiplash. You don’t even know what to say to that. What are you supposed to say to that?
Go get one, then. You don’t want to pick another fight. You’ve already got steam coming out of your ears from the last one. But it’s not like he’s broke, or doesn’t know where to get one. He’s trying, he’s really trying to make conversation, so you voice - quietly - the only thought that comes to mind.
“I like your blue one. Not the… the dark blue one.”
“Not the dark blue one?”
“No, I mean, the dark blue one.”
And then, completely out of character, in a moment of absolute weakness;
“I’m going to Italy next week for a conference. Maybe you could… come with? Maybe get something…”
“Yeah, well, I ain’t got the time for that, do I.”
Shot down.
“Fine. Forget I said anything.”
He inhales deeply, like he’s either about to explode or implode. To your relief, he exhales slowly, a hand coming up to scratch at his stubble.
“Where you goin’, anyway?”
“A friend’s,” you mutter, pulling at the hems of your sleeves.
“Yeah, but where’d they live? I gotta drop you somewhere, right?”
“Just… The Square is fine.”
“No chance. Are you fuckin’ dense?”
“Jesus Christ, fine,” you huff, grabbing his phone from the cup holder so you can plug in the address. But it’s fucking locked. You don’t know why you thought it wouldn’t be. You click the power button a couple of times before shoving it into his lap. “Unlock it, then. Jesus.”
He mutters something you can’t hear, and tosses it back in your general direction. It almost ricochets off the arm rest.
The audio assistant on google maps pipes up every thirty seconds. Other than that, it’s quiet. He’s always so unnecessarily tense. It gets to you. All you do is argue. But it’s not like you hate each other. Is it? If he did, he wouldn’t have come to pick you up. If you did, you wouldn’t have asked him.
The car slows to a halt. He lets out a long, loud sigh, and drums his fingers against the wheel. Then he stops, and turns to look at you for the first time since you got in.
“For what it’s worth, I really am sorry, darlin’.”
“Thanks for the lift.”
You’ve dipped before he can get another word out. It smells like rain on tarmac, like sweat and humidity, like headache and sleep. Just before you slam the door shut, he leans over the passenger seat.
“Wait, wait.”
You jerk forward and pull the door back open mid-swing. You glare.
“What.”
“If you ever need somewhere to go, I’ve, uh… I’ve got a nice flat. Just up…”
You almost want to let yourself fall for it. Just for fun. His eyes are so serious it almost makes you laugh. You’ve never known him to be serious about anything. But you can’t stop the belittling scoff that leaves your lips before it’s too late.
You miss the way his eyes stay on you as you head up the steps and hit the buzzer. He stays parked outside for a good while after you’ve got in.
Maybe one day he’ll get up and walk after you.
Maybe.
© @aeaean–bliss; please do not copy, repost or translate any of my works.
#tangerine x reader#tangerine x y/n#tangerine x you#tangerine fan fiction#bullet train#tangerine#bullet train fan fiction#maybe#aeaean bliss
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anon haters can actually go fuck themselves what the actual fuck ahaha
NO FR LIKE LEAVE ME ALONE 😭
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tui la | chapter index
summary: the clock hits midnight, and it’s time to run. this story is about the race.
pairing: bucky barnes x bender!reader
genre: atla!au, strangers/enemies to lovers, pining, slow-burn
series tags/warnings: death (not main character), icky wounds, fire and burns, amputation (it’s a bucky fic lads), persecution, loneliness, depression, violence. canon-level stuff.
status: incomplete
part one | the unforeseen consequences of arbitrary decisions 09.06.22
© @aeaean--bliss; please do not copy, repost or translate any of my works.
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marveliskindacool -> aeaean--bliss
finally changed my url! bear w me as i change the links
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here goes
summary: you’ve been pining for Bucky Barnes for eight years. three years ago, you left the Compound. so, what happens when you get invited to an Avengers charity event at the Tower?
pairing: Bucky x Reader
word count: 6.3k
warnings: angst, pining, heartbreak, insecurities, unrequited love (...or is it?), alcohol consumption, kissing, some undressing and touching but no actual smut, all the usual stuff.
a/n: edited, but not proofread (as it is 3am and I am exhausted). will get around to proofreading at some point, but until then, enjoy!
masterlist
“What are the odds he’ll be there?”
The question that’s been ringing in your mind since you received the invitation sounds so dumb as it escapes your lips. You huff.
“Is this who I am now? I talk to mirrors?”
The question hangs in the silence of your bathroom as your eyes trail over your own figure in the mirror. Rolling your eyes, you step out of your bathroom and make your way to the couch in your living room.
It’s one of those evenings where everything seems eerily grey; eerily grey and eerily lonely. It feels wrong to keep the lights on, as if you want to succumb to the darkness.
Or maybe you’re just being very dramatic for no reason.
You let out a groan and flop backwards onto the couch. No one’s around to hear you; you can be as loud as you want. A lot of the time you just forget that you can make noise when you’re alone, so you take the opportunity to make up for it by screaming into a nearby pillow.
“Do I have to do this?”
You’re talking to the ceiling now. You like to think it’s an upgrade.
You know you have to go. You know because you agreed to it, voluntarily. No one’s forcing you to go, so if you cancel at the last minute, you’re the only one to blame.
“Curse you, Steve Rogers. Curse you, and your dumb blue eyes.”
How were you supposed to turn down an invitation when it came in such a beautiful package?
You roll up to a sitting position and make your way back into the bathroom. Slapping your face gently to wake yourself up, you switch on some music and take a deep breath.
There’s still a chance he mightn’t be there. He never liked going to these things anyway.
“Oh well,” you sigh, cocking your head as you examine your reflection. “Here goes nothing.”
Your vision blurs as you sit in the back seat, eyes hazy as you watch the lights pass you by on the busy street outside. It’s been a long time since you got into a car like this, but the second the Stark special rolled up outside your apartment, your muscle memory kicked in without hesitation.
You don’t recognise the driver, which is great, because you’re not quite ready to confront that part of your life again.
Well. As it turns out, you’re gonna have to get ready pretty damn quickly because there’s a giant “A” spread across the huge set of doors to your right.
Thanking the driver, you accept the hand of the man who has opened the door and is waiting to usher you inside.
You hear the party before you see it; the noise of lively chatter and loud music flooding the doors of the lift as they open. You don’t recognise any of the faces immediately around you; they look like the standard crew for events like this. You’re sure you’ve been introduced to half of these people over the years, but that sure as hell does not mean you remember any of them.
Gingerly navigating the crowd, you make your way to the only place you can think of: the open bar. It’s as if everyone’s face turns in your direction as you walk past. The tension pricks its way up your arms; there’s far too much going on for you to be able to relax. You flag down the bartender and order the first thing that comes to mind, the sudden urge to finish ten drinks in quick succession overwhelming.
Drink number one goes down rather quickly, so you get started on number two. Number two is a bright pink in a tall glass with a scent that is absolutely to die for. You take your time with number two, leaning against the bar as you turn to face the room. This is definitely one of Stark’s classier arrangements; the charitable ones usually are. You have no doubt Pepper’s the brains behind this. You make a mental note to thank her.
“Well, don’t you look a vision?”
You can’t help but grin.
“And yet I positively pale in comparison to you,” you respond, turning to face the woman who leans in for a hug.
“Rogers told me you’d be here, but I didn’t believe you’d actually come,” she smirks, cocking her head to the side.
“What, and miss being graced with your presence? Not likely,” you joke, giving her a wink.
She’s not convinced. You purse your lips.
“It’s been three years, Tasha. Things have changed. And if they haven’t, it’s about time they did.”
The look in her eye is unwavering as she measures you up and down.
“Plus, Rogers said you could do with the extra publicity. Something about me being the Compound’s darling?”
“Yeah, yeah,” she snorts.
Conversation flows freely as you catch up; the guilt from having stayed away for so long lingering subtly in the back of your mind, but never quite making it to the front row.
Drink number three, bright blue at the top and a deep, dark purple on the bottom, joins you as you trace the fabric on your gown with your fingertips. The movement calms you down. A sharp laugh catches your attention in the crowd to your left, and you push off the bar with a grin, making your way across the room.
“Sam!”
“Y/N!”
The hug he envelopes you in leaves your lungs fighting for air.
“Stop, stop! I’m gonna spill my drink!” you laugh, wrapping an arm around his neck and pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. “How are you doing?!”
“All good, all good, can’t complain. This clown’s got me working overtime, though,” he says, elbowing a man standing behind him who had been engrossed in a conversation with two men you vaguely recognise.
“Steve!”
The force with which you attack him almost sends the six foot super-soldier to the ground.
“There you are, I’ve been looking all over for you!”
“As if,” Sam snorts. “If by ‘all over’ you mean the bar.”
You send him a grimace, narrowing your eyes, but he only sticks his tongue out in response.
“Would you fuck off.”
“Something got you nervous?” he smirks, dragging the word out. “Or should I say… someone?”
You glare at him.
“Alright, alright, Jesus,” Steve laughs, raising an arm between the two of you. “It’s only been two minutes.”
You roll your eyes as you inhale deeply. Steve always smells so nice; like a hug.
Huh, maybe you were at the bar for quite a while.
“How are you doing, my darling?” you ask, turning your attention back to Steve.
“Good, good. All the better for seeing you,” he smiles, and you feel yourself swaying on your feet.
“I like the beard,” you comment.
“Yeah?” he laughs.
“Yeah, it suits you. Bet it’s nice with a change, huh?”
“Well, you know, I mean, I like to try stuff out sometimes,” he says sheepishly, scratching his neck.
“Yeah, no, I can imagine having the same look for eighty-odd years can get a bit repetitive,” you joke.
“Yeah, for sure,” he chuckles, his cheeks dusted a light pink. You suspect Stark keeps a bit of Thor’s Asgardian stuff on standby for occasions. “Dunno if I’ll keep it, though.”
“What?! No!” you exclaim, gripping his arm. “Why? Do you not like it?”
He shrugs, trying to phrase his answer.
“I, well, you know, I…”
“Oh my god, there’s a girl, isn’t there?!”
“I-” Steve exclaims, eyes wide.
“Oh, she got there quick!” Sam exclaims, laughing. “Wasn’t even hard. Can you believe he managed to keep it from me for two months before I noticed?”
“Two mo- okay, that’s on you, first of all. But Steve,” you whine, “why didn’t you tell me?!”
Steve is really the only person you’ve stayed in touch with since you left, for multiple reasons. (Read: he had plenty of opportunity to tell you about this new mystery woman.)
“I, well, I mean…”
You raise your eyebrows in expectation, eyes locked on his.
“Don’t hold your breath, baby; he won’t tell you anything,” Sam chuckles.
“I cannot believe you would hurt my feelings like this Steve, I thought we were friends!” you grimace, pouting. “What else are you keeping from me?”
“A lot, hopefully,” Sam snorts. “Could you imagine how boring his life would be if-”
“Hey!”
A flash of movement, and you feel sticky. You glare at the culprit: Steve’s elbow in Sam’s rib, as the contents of Sam’s drink drips down your arm.
“You’re damn lucky you missed my dress you little bastard-”
“Y/N!”
“Tony!”
“Thank god. The Times’ here. They’ll love a friendly face, come on.”
Next thing you know, he’s pulling you by the hand across the room.
“Egh, why are you wet,” he grimaces, dropping your hand and shaking his own in disdain. “And sticky.”
“Blame Wilson,” you retort, grabbing a fancy napkin from a nearby buffet table and using it to dab your arm dry with. The booze has already started sticking to your skin.
A few flashes and a forced smile later, you’re making your way to the bathroom to wipe down your arm. Spotting Sam moving towards the buffet table, you lock eyes and scowl.
“Dipshit,” you mouth.
He sticks his tongue out like the absolute child he is.
After complimenting one woman on her dress and another on her eyeliner, you make your way back to the bar you started at. The gold pattern on the red carpet beneath you starts to look as though it’s moving, but instead of letting it daze you, you move in accordance with it. Thank god everyone else here is so busy with themselves, no one is sparing you a second glance.
Flagging down the bartender and ordering two shots, you lean back and forth on your heels, singing along quietly to the song playing in the background. You barely notice as the man places two small glasses in front of you, the liquid a clear lavender.
You appreciate the burn as it makes its way down your throat, humming at the pleasure of knowing you can feel. The delightfully numbing sensation works its way into your legs, putting you at ease as you sway gently side to side.
You feel like there’s something you’ve forgotten. Something you were supposed to remember. Frowning, you pat yourself down as if you have pockets, trying to remember whether you brought a clutch with you.
Steve! Steve would know. You should probably find him again.
Ordering another shot for the road, you tap your nails on the deep mahogany. You know this song; you swear you do. Where have you heard it before? It slaps.
“Thanks,” you say, smiling at the bartender. He returns your smile with a certain something in his eye, and you end up watching him as he moves to the other end of the bar to serve some other guy.
Huh. He’s kinda cute.
Right! Steve.
You spin around to try to locate him when-
“Oof!”
Your fingers tighten around the glass in panic as you’re sent stumbling, someone’s gentle hold on your arm the only thing keeping you from face-planting into the regal carpet of hypnosis.
“Oh, god, I’m sorry, I-”
“Oh, no, don’t-”
Your blood turns to ice as you freeze, eyes wide, staring at the man in front of you.
You’ve forgotten how to breathe, it seems.
Time stands completely still as he blinks back at you, an unreadable expression on his face.
Your gut defrosts first; the sour pit that twists and turns as it heats and spreads through your core.
You feel the glass slip, and it’s as if all the time in the world passes before it sounds with a dull ‘thud’ on the carpet.
“... oh,” you exclaim gently, taking the opportunity to tear your eyes and arm away from his as your body defrosts in record time. The burning heat that has taken its place blinds you, your eyes growing blurry as you look away, down at the ground.
The dark, purple splash on the carpet seems to seep outwards at a devastatingly slow rate, and as it spreads, you can feel the pain slowly seeping into your system.
You reach down to pick up the glass but he beats you to it, one or both of you muttering polite exclamations as you avoid each other’s gaze.
“I…”
You don’t know where you’re going with this as you find yourself looking straight at him again, the urge to cry punching you in the gut.
“I have to…”
You want to blink, but fear of the waterfall gathering in your eyes keeps you from it. Snapping to your senses, you push gingerly past him and make your way quickly, gently, and as elegantly as you can towards the exit.
Christ.
Well, so much for being smooth. Every look, every conversation, every moment, every interaction, every touch you ever shared with that man comes crashing into you like a freight train.
Not to be dramatic, but all you feel is pain.
You don’t even know where you’re walking to at this point, your mind in a haze of urgency, telling you to go, leave, get away, somewhere no one can find you. You find yourself winding down the pristine hallways of the Tower, taking lefts and rights arbitrarily in order to get lost so you can be alone with your thoughts. And your pain.
You really hope this isn’t a huge circle.
Back pressed against the wall, you hold your breath so hard it feels as though your ribs could burst. Listening intently for the sounds of footsteps, you trace your fingertips up and down the fabric of your gown. The feel of the fabric soothes you as you try to stabilise your breathing.
That’s why you haven’t stayed in touch with anyone other than Steve since you left. Because two friends from the same friend group become three, three become four, and next thing you know, you’re attending events and bumping into him and you can’t do it!!! You can’t do it.
Can’t watch him go about his life. Can’t hear his voice, can’t look at his face, can’t see him interact with other people. Not when all you can feel is pain, thinking about how you’ll never matter to him the way he matters to you.
How could you possibly have a claim to a guy you never had?
All that time, all those looks, all those comforting silences, all that pining, for what?
You vaguely notice your hands shaking as footsteps sound in the hallway.
The door slams open a little too enthusiastically as he enters the room, breathing heavily as though he’s been jogging. The light from the windows casts an eerie shadow across the furniture. It goes well with the eerie silence. There’s a brief moment of relief where you know he can’t see you, where you can gaze at him for as long as you want in complete privacy, and your heart breaks again.
Every detail of his face, his eyes, his chest; you have them committed to memory. Not even the past three years have made a dent in your recollection.
“So, how are you?”
The dreaded question, so boring you fear he might get offended at your lack of creativity. Fortunately for you, Steve is a natural at awkward reunions. He’s also one of your closest friends, which definitely helps.
“I’m good, pretty much same old same old up at the compound.”
“I noticed it’s been very quiet recently,” you supply, hoping he can’t tell you’ve been keeping a sharp eye on everything compound-related. Despite concerns from the Board, Tony has had no interest in regulating your access to certain databases.
“Yeah, it’s been nice, though. Gives us a chance to figure stuff out. I think everyone’s just trying to enjoy the peace and quiet while it lasts.”
“I bet,” you say. “Must be nice for you, too, you know. Work-life balance, and all that.”
“For sure.”
There’s a slight pause.
“Not really sure what to do with all the extra time, are you?” you ask.
He glances up at you, before smiling sheepishly.
“Not really, no. I’ve gotten into some hobbies I had back in the day, art and stuff like that, so… I’m enjoying it. I don’t think I’ll ever be used to being idle, but it’s nice to have the option.”
“You and me both,” you chuckle, earning a grin in response.
“Poor Buck’s not doing too well, though,” Steve says, taking a huge bite of his sandwich.
Bless him, he tries to eat as politely as he can, but even he can’t stop the mustard from dripping down his chin. You don’t know whether to grin or grimace. You settle for a combination of both.
“Oh yeah?” you say, feigning interest as you poke around your lunch with your fork.
It’s the first time you’ve met anyone from the compound since you left about three months ago. You can’t help but feel kinda awkward, seeing as you left pretty abruptly, but lucky for you, Steve is an absolute sweetheart.
“Yeah, he’s-”
He stops himself, blinking at you with wide eyes, before shrugging.
“Just going through a... a rough patch... I guess... Maybe he’s, uh, got the flu or something.”
You nod, not fully able to meet his gaze.
“Yeah, sure, the flu, that’s… yeah,” you mumble as coherently as you can, both of you ignoring the blind fact that Bucky Barnes simply cannot get the flu.
You watch as he runs a hand through his hair, his breaths echoing through the room. You feel as though you don’t exist, as though you’re a mere shadow in the corner; intangible.
Then, all too soon, his eyes are on you.
You haven’t seen him in three years.
Three years is a hell of a long time.
You can’t tear your eyes away from his as he walks towards you. If you press your back any further against the wall, you’re pretty sure you’ll go through it.
There’s a brief moment where time seems to stand still.
And then…
“Y/N.”
He says it so softly.
You clear your throat hurriedly and look away, pursing your lips.
“Mmhmm?”
You can feel his eyes on you; their presence burning into your skin. What are you supposed to say? What conversation could you possibly have?
You avoid his gaze. If you can’t see him, you can pretend he’s not there. It’s funny. You’ve been pining after this man for years, every bone in your body aching for his company and his attention, and now that you have it? Well.
He’s still watching you. You wish you had the courage to face him.
Then, he envelopes you in a bone-crushing hug.
It takes you a few seconds to digest what’s going on, before you tune in to the feeling of his warmth wrapped around your frame. All you can smell is him, the scent of his cologne filling your senses. You didn’t think it was possible to miss a person this much.
He nuzzles into your neck as you wrap your arms around him, pulling him impossibly closer. Your nails almost dig into his back, gripping as hard as you can, because you know that in a few seconds you’re going to have to let go, and you don’t think you can do it again.
“Jesus,” he groans, voice breaking softly.
You can’t say a word. Another million years seem to pass as the two of you just stand there, the silence in the room absolutely deafening. Gently, so gently, he mumbles something against your neck:
“I thought I’d never see you again.”
The way his voice breaks sends shockwaves through your heart. The sour pang in your gut hits you hard
You squeeze him for another few minutes. Or at least, you assume it’s minutes. It feels like hours. Then, he pulls away, only slightly, watching you. He’s so close to you, and yet it’s as though part of you has been ripped away from you. You can feel his hands grasping your shoulders, his thumb brushing over the skin almost hypnotically.
Your eyes refuse to focus. You stare at a point you cannot see, putting all efforts into soothing the burning in your nose and willing yourself not to cry. Everything is… blurry.
“Please say something,” he murmurs.
Your mouth feels as though it hasn’t been opened for years; like its rusty from lack of use.
“I… I don’t know what you want me to say,” you whisper, your voice barely audible. He must be able to hear that you’re two seconds away from crying. Surely.
“I…” he breathes, his eyes heavy. “Can you at least tell me why you left?”
Your heart sinks.
“If you don’t know by now, then I don’t think-”
“Three years, Y/N,” he huffs pointedly, gripping your shoulders gently.
You’ve never seen this look in his eyes before. You’ve seen them filled with emotion, like when he’d look at you when it was just the two of you, or when he thought no one else could see. When it was like no one else existed.
But not like this, filled with a pain so sharp that it stabs you in the chest, latching onto you, afraid they’ll leave you even for a second.
No, not like this.
“Steve wouldn’t tell me anything,” he mutters. His eyes trail over your face slowly. “I just…”
You look away again.
“Bucky, I-”
“Please, Y/N. Just… just tell me why you left.”
His hand comes up to cup your face, fingers trailing across your jaw.
This is new. You don’t-
You never used to touch each other like this.
“You just... disappeared, Y/N. One day you were here, the next you were…” He sighs, heavily. “Why didn’t you tell me you were leaving?”
Your eyes are burning. You barely feel the first tear slip away when he tilts your head to look at him.
“Fuck…” you breathe.
Then it hits you.
This could be it.
This could be your chance to do something about the pain that’s been nagging at your mind for the past eight years, following you every time you go outside, every time you meet Steve, every time you open your eyes in the morning. You already know nothing’s going to change. And that’s not going to change, no matter what you do.
Part of what’s been paining you is the stress that came with leaving so abruptly, unable to tell him why.
Nothing’s gonna change. But at least now, he’ll know why. You won’t have to live in secrecy anymore. And there’s a strange power in that, you think.
“Fuck,” you say again, a little louder this time. “Alright.”
You wipe at your eyes hastily, the dark smudge on your hand reminding you of the elegant circumstances you found yourself in only a short while ago. Before you bumped into him.
You clear your throat gently.
“Alright. Do you… do you remember the conversation we had after the Baku mission?”
His expression softens a bit.
“Y-Yeah.”
“You know how you said there wasn’t anything here for you?”
He nods hesitantly.
“Yeah.”
“Yeah.”
Here goes.
The silence that follows his statement is longer than it should be.
You blink. If you don’t respond soon, you won’t be able to diffuse the tension. If he’s really saying what you think he is.
“What do you mean?” you laugh hesitantly.
He shrugs.
“I’m not a team player. Work better alone, you know?”
Your expression drops.
“I don’t… I don’t understand.”
“Look, you know I’m getting worse. Fury says he can easily transfer me to solo operations. It just makes sense,” he says nonchalantly, not meeting your eyes. You realise he has yet to meet your eyes since he first mentioned his meeting with Fury.
The pang in your gut closes your throat. You couldn’t say anything if you wanted to. You know he’s been getting worse. You know, because you’ve been there for it. But some part of you, some small, selfish part of you, thought that you were helping. You’d been naive enough to think that you could help fix him. That your efforts actually had an impact on him.
Then it hits you with a blinding force.
You have no claim to him.
No matter how close you’ve gotten since you met him five years ago, no matter what feelings you have for him, they’re just that. Just... unrequited feelings.
You’re so close now that you forget. You forget that he doesn’t see you the way you see him.
You’re just the dumb schoolgirl who got a crush. The shit he’s been through? Romantic connections are the last thing on his mind. Let alone anything else.
You’re friends with him. You know that. Close friends, too. You could do that. You could set aside your feelings, ignore them, abandon them in the bottom of the well of your heart as long as you can be his good friend.
All you want is the best for him. Every bone in your body screams with the want to take care of him.
You just want to ease his pain.
But now he’s leaving you. And worse still, he doesn’t seem to care that he might never see you again.
“I… what about Steve?” you ask, trying your best to keep your voice steady. If he notices, he doesn’t say anything.
“He’ll be fine.”
“But will you be?”
“Me? Sure. That’s why I’m doing it, after all.”
You open your mouth, but no words come out. The silence drags out for a while. So long, in fact, that he looks up at you.
“It’s not like there’s anything here for me,” he shrugs, matter-of-factly.
All you can do is nod dumbly.
“Right,” you whisper, avoiding his gaze. “When would you leave?”
He purses his lips in contemplation.
“Three months.”
You nod again.
“Right.”
“That… tore me apart, Bucky,” you say slowly, one corner of your mouth quirked upward in a half attempt at a sad smile. “I have been... completely head over heels for you for the past eight years. And I don’t even know what else to say about it, because that’s just it. I’m pretty sure you’re it for me, Bucky. You’re the endgame.”
You’ve said so much now, you’re not even embarrassed anymore. You don’t think it’s the alcohol; you sobered up pretty much the second you bumped into the guy. You’ve said this much, you might as well say it all.
“And it was fine while we were friends, because I just care about you so much. I don’t care that you don’t like me like that. I don’t! Honestly!” you laugh. “I don’t mind, as long as I get to be your friend, I don’t mind. But then… then you were gonna transfer. Just like that. You just… you were just gonna pack up and leave. And it’s true, I don’t care that I don’t mean anything to you, but I couldn’t stick around and pretend, knowing you were-”
“Mean anything to me?”
You frown.
“I- what?”
“You think you don’t mean anything to me?”
You blink dumbly.
“I- Wha- Yeah,” you stutter. “Yeah. Pretty much.”
What you don’t expect is the expression of sheer devastation that crosses his features.
“No,” he breathes, shaking his head softly. If heartbreak had a voice, it would sound like him. “No, no, no, no.”
He continues to mutter under his breath as he cups your face with both hands, before pulling you into a bone-shattering hug.
Your vision grows hazy as you finally close your eyes and collapse into him with the relief of your confession. The pain you feel is almost soothing; cathartic. Your heart pounds in your chest as your wrap your arms around his neck. You inhale deeply. You feel at home here, in his arms. It’s devastatingly, mind-numbingly cliche, but it’s the truth.
“Jesus, Y/N,” he whispers. The warm kiss he presses to your neck makes the heat pool in your stomach. He squeezes you so tight you feel like you might explode, before pulling away ever so slightly, resting his forehead against yours. Your palms are sweating with the emotion coursing through your veins, made worse by the sheer heat that his proximity to your body is causing.
“I can’t give you all the things I want to give you,” he whispers, grasping your hands in his. “I can’t… I can’t give those things to you. I look at Clint, I look at Steve, I look at what they have, and... I wanted to give them to you so badly, Y/N. I wanted to give you the world.”
He cuts himself off, chest heaving. The poor man sounds like he’s either about to pass out or start crying, which is just how you feel. The heat blazing through you is making you dizzy.
“I thought it was the right thing, for both of us. I didn’t want to hurt you. I never, never wanted to hurt you. That’s why I wanted to leave; I couldn’t live with myself if I let you down. But then we didn’t talk, and then you left, and I just… I haven’t been able to do anything right since. I didn’t want to admit- I didn’t want to entertain the idea that you and I could… could be something. It wouldn’t end well, Y/N.”
You feel him squeeze your hands gently. You squeeze back to comfort him. The pain in your chest is blinding.
“You think you don’t mean anything to me?”
Never in your life have you witnessed him vulnerable like this. Whatever he’s been dealing with since you’ve been gone, it’s been bad.
“Y/N, you mean everything to me.”
In the brief silence that follows, you cup his face with your hands and pull him closer, softly tracing his cheek with your thumb. His stubble is coarse under your skin, rooting you in the present. You look into his eyes, the weight of your confessions hanging heavy in the air around you.
Then you kiss him.
Slowly, at first. Almost unmoving. Both of you somewhat frozen, scared to move in case the other realises their mistake and pulls back.
Fighting the pounding in your gut, you take the leap and kiss him again, more passionately this time. You feel the warmth of his hands trace your sides and land on your waist, pulling you as close to him as he can. Kissing him just feels right. You lean into him, fitting perfectly against his frame as his hand comes up to rest against the back of your head.
You pull back minutes later, breathing heavily and resting your foreheads against each other. The only thing you can hear is the mingling of your breaths as you cup his face again. You can feel him absentmindedly stroking your hair with his hand as you catch your breaths, the rhythmic motion lulling you into a serenity that fills your body to its brim.
“Is there somewhere we can go?” you whisper, eyes shut. You’re afraid that if you speak too loudly, the moment might shatter into a million pieces.
You feel him nod ever so slightly before he speaks.
“Y-yeah.”
He grabs your hand in his and pulls you gently down the hallway, away from the door. Your head is both empty and fit to burst at the same time as you trail diligently after him, your grip on his hand tightening in fear of losing him for even a second.
You barely register him pressing the button on the wall before the lift lets out a “ding” in front of you, opening its doors. Once inside, he barely has time to press the button for the floor before you pull him into another kiss. This one is even more intense, eight years of pent-up desire and pining letting itself out. It’s rough; his hands grip your hips harshly as your hand tangles itself in his hair.
You nip at his bottom lip gently and pull away as the doors to the lift open, revealing a floor you don’t recognise. You haven’t been to the Compound in three years; the Tower, even longer. Before you have time to take in more than the initial living room setting in front of you, he’s gripping your hand and pulling you towards one of the doors on the left. He guides you inside, and your face grows slack at the room in front of you.
Comprised of the standard Stark interior decor, it looks almost untouched, as if no one’s ever been in there before. The light from outside shines through the window onto the floor, illuminating the furniture dimly. You can see no trace of life.
“Do you live here?” you ask softly, turning to face him. You realise then that you have subconsciously moved to the middle of the room, a couple of metres away from where he’s standing by the wall.
He looks a bit twitchy, a bit on edge. His current demeanour is a strong contrast to how he felt a couple of minutes ago.
“Sometimes,” he responds, truthfully. “I, uh, I switch between here and the Compound, and a couple of other places.”
A soft frown graces your features.
“I don’t remember you moving around between facilities?”
“Yeah, well I started doing it a few days after you left. Don’t like being rooted down like that.”
You know he didn’t mean for you to feel the pang in your heart, nor did he mean for your self-doubt and insecurity to make a reappearance. You feel like the air around you has changed sharply since the elevator, like some of the walls you had finally managed to break down have rebuilt themselves again, pushing you away.
“... right,” you say dumbly. You’re suddenly acutely aware of how bizarre this situation is. You bump into the love of your life for the first time in three years, declare your everlasting love for him, start feeling him up, and go to his room, and-
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he says hurriedly, crossing the room so he’s standing in front of you, thumb coming up to trace your cheek. “I meant… When you left, I didn’t know what to do with myself. Still don’t. I’ve been accepting missions here and there, trying to figure things out, but…”
He trails off, the hopelessness in his eyes practically infectious. It’s clear he’s not gonna go on, so you do the only thing you can do: you kiss him. In tune with the steady escalation of passion over the course of the last half hour, your kisses start to grow heavier and heavier, until you finally start pressing hot kisses down his neck. Your fingers quickly make work of the buttons on his shirt, pushing it open and trailing your hands down his chest, tracing your fingertips over his nipples.
This is terrifying. As right as this is, as right as this feels, you are terrified you’re going to do something to embarrass yourself. He lets out soft groans and sighs as you make your way down his neck, before coming back up to his mouth again. You can feel his hands tracing up the zip in the back of your dress, warm fingertips brushing against your back as he finds the zip and slowly pulls it downwards.
There are so many thoughts in your head; thoughts of him, thoughts of you, thoughts of the future, thoughts of the past… You can feel the heat pooling between your legs, but at the same time, you are so terrified you feel like you might freeze. And when he pushes the zip all the way down and begins to slip the delicate fabric off you, that is exactly what you do.
He senses it. Of course he does. You don’t live to be a one hundred year old super-assassin and serial lady-killer without learning a thing or two.
“Hey,” he says softly, fingertips brushing under your chin to tilt your head towards him. “Hey, talk to me.”
You blink, feeling your nose start to burn again as the tears threaten to build in your eyes. It’s all just so overwhelming. You’ve wanted this, craved this for years, and now that you’re here?
You don’t know what to say. You don’t know what to tell him.
So you say the only thing that comes to mind.
“You’re not gonna leave me, right? You’re not gonna disappear?”
An unreadable expression crosses his face as he furrows his brows, mouth opening and closing slightly but unable to form any words.
Apparently, you’re in a rambling mood.
“Because I don’t think I can do it if I have to let you go again. I know I can’t do it. Bucky, I-”
“Y/N,” he interrupts, thumb coming up to your cheek to brush away a tear that snuck out. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“You swear?”
“I swear,” he says solemnly, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear and tracing your jawline with his thumb. “You’re it for me.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
You nod, mostly to reaffirm it to yourself. He cocks his head a bit as he looks at you. He must notice that you’re in your head.
“Y/N?” he says. You look at him. “We don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to.”
You take a second to process what he’s said.
“No, I want this.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He smiles.
“Then come here,” he says, reaching out for you. You comply, letting his hand move to your lower back as he pulls you in and captures your lips in a soft kiss. His scent fills your senses, calming the turmoil inside you instantly.
Yeah. This is it for you.
© @aeaean--bliss; please do not copy, repost or translate any of my works.
#bucky barnes x reader#bucky barnes imagines#bucky x reader#winter soldier x reader#marvel fan fiction#one-shot#here goes#aeaean--bliss
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