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lumi-klovstad-games · 5 years

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I have entirely too many OCs and I won’t ever stop

So, I will list all my OCs here, active or not. I couldn’t just keep reblogging my earlier masterlist with updates because, well, wall of text much?

I try to make sure I have at least 1 character representing each race. Not all of them are canonically Dragonborn, but I’ve marked those who are with (DK) after their name, short for Dovahkiin.

And yes, this is just my Skyrim OCs. Mostly because I play it the most (hi, endless supply of easily installed mods!), and because if I added my ESO, Oblivion, Morrowind, Daggerfall, and Arena OCs, this list would almost literally never stop.

Feel free, nay, ENCOURAGED, to drop asks about these characters because I live to blab about them to anyone in earshot (why else do you run a TES blog?).

First, the actives.

Dunmer: Radene Valos. Great-granddaughter of Queen Barenziah. Nords call her “The Red Wolf” because of how ferociously she fights, usually out of a fearful and begrudging respect. Staunch revolutionary; real Magneto/Lenin red-ragger type. She’s out to improve the lot of the Dunmer in Skyrim by any means necessary and woe betide any who stands in her way or fails to help. Member of the Morag Tong and champion of Azura, Mephala, and Boethiah. Worming her way through the Stormcloaks so she can engineer a situation where all the rotten eggs of the Stormcloaks are in one basket and then blow up the basket. Also steadily poisoning most of the Black-Briar family in slow motion.

Altmer: Tarwen Verenandes (DK), a former Thalmor battlemage during the Great War. Disgusted by the violence on full display during the conflict, she resigned after the war and became a priestess of Auri-El. Her devout piety led to her being chosen by Auri-El/Akatosh to be the Last Dragonborn, and she was also gifted with being able to use Auri-El’s divine light as the basis of her spells.

Khajit: Sonn-Ja Sableclaw, an expert martial artist and assassin. Works for the Dark Brotherhood and is utterly loyal to Astrid. Prefers fisticlaws to weapons, and is absolutely lethal with them. Keeps a massive collection of knives and daggers anyway. Chose to be best friends with Arnbjorn purely for the irony. Worships Rajhin and Baan Dar.

Argonian: Murders-For-Cash, who is exactly what it says on the tin. Also Dark Brotherhood, and a Shadowscale like Veezara, who he treats like a brother. Willing to supervise children and surprisingly good at it but charges exorbitant rates for it. Worships Sithis.

Nord: Lady Gwendolyn Triggs (DK), a knight and thane in the service of Elisif the Fair and also her companion and lover. Noted for her bravery, loyalty, strength, skill in battle, and being steadfastly impossible to kill. Not part of the Imperial Legion any longer, but assists them in their operations during the Civil War anyway to both safeguard Elisif’s claim as High Queen and further her own political standing so that marriage can be an option for them. Worships the 8 post-Concordat Divines, but gives special devotion to Stendarr.

Redguard: Akivasha, an ancient Yokudan vampire Witch Queen who has awakened in the modern era. Practically a physical God. Hangs with the Dark Brotherhood because it’s the only group that has Gabriella in it. Far and away my most overpowered OC and in no way does it make her less fun. Worships Mephala and Boethiah, and begrudgingly acknowledges Molag Bal as the forefather of all vampires.

Imperial: Yezka of Vabonne, an OC who began as just a Rule 63 Geralt of Rivia. She’s a Witcher*. Like Gwendolyn, she’s easily picked out of a crowd due to her pronounced Warrior’s physique and tapestry of battle scars (I have a type). She dislikes political games, roundabout language, beating around the bush, social injustice, marginalization of the vulnerable, and has come to have a steady slow-burning hatred for humans as a general category because of the way she’s been treated over her six decades of monster hunting (she’s 93, but Witchers age super gracefully no matter the timeline). She fits in far better among Orcs, Elves, and the Beast Races who have also been so often mistrusted and ill-treated and has a lot of contacts in those communities. Oddly enough, she has a friends-with-benefits thing going with the vampires Hern and Hert at Half-Moon Mill in Falkreath because they only prey on humans and she’s never been hired to kill them. Worships Reyman Ebonarm, The Divine Black Knight.

?????: The Marked Cinder (DK), a mysterious figure completely shrouded from head to toe in rusty mail and plate that totally obscures his appearance, hiding the fact that he is essentially a charred and withered husk given new life by The Nine Divines. Doesn’t know it, but is no stranger to saving the world as the previous life of that body came to be known as The Eternal Champion during the events of Elder Scrolls Arena. Doesn’t really like or dislike anything, essentially serving as a walking meat grinder with a hunger for the forces of evil. Is closest to Arkay and Akatosh, but tends to regard the gods with equal authority and reverence.

* In my headcanon, Witchers were a kind of Spartan-II-esque initiative by the Vigilants of Stendarr to create “Super Vigilants” that could basically handle anything and everything. Thanks to the systematic alterations done to their physiology, the Witchers proved too difficult to control and due to the body count that arose whenever one went rogue it was a short-lived initiative. Yezka is among those that stayed loyal to the mission, if not to the Vigilants themselves. She’s easily my tallest character, towering over most fellow humans and slightly edging out a fully grown female Altmer due to the mutations she underwent.

Rest in Pepperonis: Inactive Characters I ran out of story for

Bosmer: Vynna the Magpie, a highly talented thief and general renegade with a fiercely vengeful streak towards the Thalmor, and Elenwyn in particular, thanks to their purge of Vynna’s family and village. Married to vengeance, will sleep with everyone else. Best archer of her era. Despite her gruff and macabre bearing and demeanor, plays the organized crime game well enough to be called the Queen-In-Shadows. Worships Y'ffre and Hircine.

Dunmer: Ineria Resvalyn, a Telvanni-descended blood mage and necromancer (her magic is big on total recycling) hailing from House Sadras. Scholar and surgeon first, adventurer second. Eccentric and catastrophically bad at dealing with normal people but makes up for it by having an indispensable skillset. Probably Asperger’s. Can Dunmer even have that? Big on Azura worship.

Breton: Fynnic Ironverse, privateer and bard by trade, full-time Casanova and pain the the ass insufferable know it all by nature. As quick with a blade as he is with his wit. Known far and wide for being the Troubadour who brought the Chicken Dance to Skyrim, for better or worse. His major at the Bard’s College was probably leaning against lampposts at night while taking long drags from his cigarette. Atheist, but his lifestyle aligns neatly with Sanguine’s domain.

Imperial: Alessia Laguardia (DK), former centurion in the Imperial Legion. now a top-tier monster Hunter. Big muscles, bigger scars, even bigger prey. Lives a largely solitary existence except for her dog, Flavia. Fond of impossibly gigantic swords and bows. Largely averse to what most would call decent clothing. Worships Kynareth.

Orc: Khauma Relaadri (DK), winner of Skyrim’s Unluckiest Parentage Award. Half Orc, Half Dunmer. Spat upon by both. Found acceptance in the Imperial Legion, and fights for the unified Empire she feels it represents. Her greatest goal is to be a hero, as it would both please Malacath and serve as a positive role model and example to other put-upon people throughout Tamriel that they can rise, no matter their circumstances. Worships Malacath.

There’s a ton of other characters that I’ve played as over the last 8 years, but above you’ll find the characters I was attached to enough to actually care to remember or keep playing.

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green-eyeddragonfanfiction · 6 years

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War of Attrition: Chapter 17

Pairing: Bucky Barnes/Winter Soldier x Reader Summary: Best friends with Steve Rogers, renowned Howling Commando, and married to one James Buchanan Barnes, your life wasn’t perfect, but it was as close as it could possibly be in the middle of World War II. Then you fell from a train in the Alps, and everything changed. You spent nearly 70 years as a tool of Hydra alongside your beloved, though your past with him was more often than not forgotten. The past comes back to haunt you. Warnings: Swearing (always), mentions of death, blood, violence, wounds, brief mention of suicidal thoughts, survivor’s guilt Word Count: ~4,112 A/N: Please read the warnings!!

Masterlist // Book One // Book Two

Previous Chapter // Next Chapter

“Got it, pal. Let me know when we’re getting close?” he murmured.

“I will, sir. Shall I wake you if either of you exhibits the symptoms of night terrors?” Alfred asked kindly.

Bucky nodded his head. “Please, Alfred. Thank you.”

“My pleasure, Master Barnes. Enjoy your nap.”

Bucky was asleep within five minutes, lulled to sleep by the dull roar of the engines and your even breathing.

You moved the thick gardening glove down your wrist and glanced at your watch, trying your best to look inconspicuous as the guards passed.

10:19 am.

One minute until you had to make your way over to the small van with a wide arrangement of gardening tools... along with reinforced armor-plated sides, a silent, electric engine, and enough room for three people.

You clipped carefully at what you’d learned was a blueberry bush, humming a German tune that you actually did enjoy, and placed the clippings into the basket beside you. The guards paid you no mind, of course. You were a woman; a gardener. They had automatic weapons and you had slightly dull shears.

At 10:20 you stood and slowly moseyed over to your van, giving the guards a polite incline of your head and tentative smile as you passed. They eyed you and you had to fight back the urge to gag. There was no way to tell exactly what expression they held behind those soulless black masks, but if their body language was anything to go by it was in the vein of interest.

The basket got thrown somewhat carelessly into the back, the doors to which you left wide open. You walked over to the driver’s side door and hopped into the driver’s seat, trying your best to not fidget nervously as you turned the silent van on and waited.

You didn’t have to wait long.

There was a commotion on the other side of the sprawling property and the guards that had been stationed nearby were gone in a flash, running towards the source of the noise.

You bit your lip and gripped tightly at the steering wheel, nearly yelping in surprise when Peggy and Erskine jumped into the back of van and slammed the doors.

“Go go go!” Peggy yelled, but you were already rocketing forward, towards the front gates of Johann Schmidt’s private estate. The bastard wasn’t home, of course. You and Peggy had made sure of that.

The man you were rescuing- Abraham Erskine- looked gaunt and pale, which was no surprise. He’d been held by Schmidt for the better part of five years, being slowly starved to death and occasionally tortured. For her part, Peggy looked unfairly good in frumpy maid’s clothing that (despite your best efforts) hadn’t been able to hide her beauty.

“Look out!” Erskine yelled in thickly accented English, but you were already barreling ever faster towards the thick metal gate at the front of the property.

The van crashed through the wrought iron as though it was made of paper and the bullets of the guards’ guns might have been missing completely for all the damage they did.

“We did it!” you whooped from the front seat as you careened dangerously down the country road.

You could hear Peggy’s sly smile when she spoke, but you were too busy trying to make sure the three of you didn’t end up in a ditch to turn and look at her. “Not yet, we haven’t. We still need to make the rendezvous.” That made you grin and push your van just that slightest bit faster, adrenaline running through your veins. “Are you hurt, Doctor Erskine?”

The answering gasp made your blood run cold.

You knew that gasp; the shaky exhale that followed.

The van’s tires dug deep furrows into the ground as you slammed on the breaks, gravel flying in every direction. You spun in your seat, horror only growing at the sight behind you.

Erskine was bleeding out in Peggy’s arms, one gunshot straight to the gut, one to the chest.

He was bleeding. There was so much blood. Too much blood. It filled the bottom of the van until it came up to your ankles.

“You didn’t save me,” he gasped, bloody bubbles running down his chin.

“Abe! No! This isn’t- I wanted to save you- I tried- Please, Abraham! No!” you cried, crawling into the back of the van and kneeling down in the pool of blood. Its warm wetness seeped through your pants immediately, but you didn’t care. Abraham was dying.

“You are evil,” he spat, and the blood splattered against your face. “Not even human. Steve Rogers should have killed you when he had the chance.” The hatred in his eyes had you scrambling back, scared. He was wrong! You were human! You grew up in New York! You liked machines and hated Nazis and-

“Почему ты расстроена, мама?” You froze as you backed up against someone, but you knew who it would be without looking. You turned anyway, seemingly unable to control your own body. A young Natalia stared down at you with eyes that were hers, but not. They were harder and colder than you’d ever seen, filled with condescension and hatred. It was the way she looked at an obstacle or an enemy. “Почему ты грустишь? Вы выполнили свою миссию. Доктор мертв.“ She asked with a feral smile that made your skin crawl.

“Нет! Нет, я не хотел этого! Он мой друг!” you gasped, bringing your legs up to your chest, curling into yourself.

But you froze when your hands touched cold, unyielding metal.

A scream crawled its way up your throat and you tried to scramble away from the pieces of metal, but they were attached to you; no, the metal was you. Your legs. Your fingers. A hand shot out and froze you in your tracks. Where Abraham and Peggy had been Howard Stark now laid, as young as he was the day you’d met him. His hand was broken, bones at odd angles and sticking out from his skin grotesquely. Pieces of glass were embedded into his purpling skin.

You didn’t know how you could recognize him. His face was smashed in until it was a pulpy mass with two dark brown, blood-eclipsed eyes staring piercingly at you.

“You killed me,” he whispered, though it sounded so loud to you that you had to throw your hands over your ears.

“No, please! Howard! I didn’t mean to. Please, please, please, stop. I couldn’t stop myself,” you pleaded, eyes shut tight against the horrible sight of Howard’s disfigured face and broken limbs.

“You looked right at me. I said your name. And then you bludgeoned me to death,” he spat accusingly, and you mashed your hands even tighter over your ears.

“God, this isn’t real. This isn’t real, this isn’t real, this isn’t real!” you grit out through gnashing teeth. “This is a nightmare and-”

“Wovon redest du, fräulein? Das ist dein Leben, (Y/N).”

The sound of Zola’s nasally voice had you careening forward into the pool of blood, not caring that it covered half of your face. You didn’t dare open your eyes and see him.

“Ich habe dich zu einem Monster gemacht,” he said, sickly sweet. It was the same voice he used when talking about successful experiments. “Ja das ist richtig. Das ist alles was du bist. Eine Waffe. Meine Waffe.“

“Nein! Ich bin nicht das, was du mich gemacht hast!” you screamed, metal fingers digging painfully into your skin.

“Is that why you killed me?” Mary Douglas asked. Even after all this time you knew her voice. It was the voice that haunted you more often than any of the others, except, perhaps, Howard’s.

You finally lifted your gaze, eyes wide and horrified. The skin of Mary’s face was burned and bubbling, a visage that would haunt even the most stalwart souls. Did she look that horrible after you’d killed her? You couldn’t even remember sometimes. You’d only seen her for a split second before Bucky had turned you away. Perhaps your remembered version was worse than the real thing, but there’d be no real way to ever know.

“You say you’re not a monster, but that didn’t stop you from killin’ me when you weren’t under their control. You’re broken, child, an’ nothin’ can fix you. All you’re good for now is killin’,” Mary said, speaking through cracked, warped lips.

“No! No no no please god no make it stop!” you screeched, tearing at your own face. Maybe if you died the voices would stop and-

“(Y/N)!”

“No, god no. Not you too, Buck,” you whimpered, tearing at your hair. Make it stop make it stop make it stop-

“You’re the reason why he’s alive and suffering,” a terrible, vengeful image of Pierce spat, staring at you like you were less than dirt. His guts were spilling into the pool of blood.

“(Y/N)! Please, wake up!”

“Wenn nicht für dich, hätte ich ihn nicht machen können,” Zola said malevolently, with your faceless, black-masked torturer behind him. “Es ist alles deine Schuld.“

“Baby, please. You gotta wake up.” He sounded frantic now. Why was he telling you to wake up? This was reality, after all. It was condensed suffering, dozens of people closing in on you in a landscape devoid of anything else except bodies and the blood that was slowly rising higher. Up to your knees, your waist, your chest-

“You’re the reason why SHIELD fell. I wish I had never met you.” Peggy stared down her nose at you, sneering beautifully.

“Baby, please. Wake up. Wake up!”

The world shook violently and your eyes opened to a too-bright room. You were already falling forward, out of bed, away from Bucky, and onto the hard ground of the room you were renting.

You vomited onto the worn wood, not caring that it got in your hair or on your hands. Your chest heaved as you breathed in startlingly cold breaths, the stench of vomit not overpowering the relief of no longer scenting the irony tang of blood in the air.

But you couldn’t relax, not when there were so many threats out there. Hydra. The KGB. SHIELD. The Avengers. The countless ghosts that were assuredly after your soul.

Bucky was by your side in an instant, running a big hand down your back, voice low and soothing as he spoke. “It’s alright, (Y/N). You’re here, with me. We’re in Bucharest, Romania. It’s 2015. They don’t know where we are. We’ve built a safe house for ourselves. Breathe, Baby. Just breathe,” he whispered, knowing not to move closer until you made some sort of sign that you’d understood what he’d said.

“It’s 2015,” you gasped, metal nails scratching grooves into the wooden floor as you clenched your hands into a fist. “Hydra doesn’t have us. The KGB doesn’t have us. We’re hiding.” You said the words like a mantra, letting them ground you.

“That’s right, Doll,” Bucky confirmed, letting himself get a little bit closer to tug your hair from your face. If he minded the vomit, he didn’t said anything. It wasn’t like this was the first time for either of you.

You sucked in a breath, and tried to release it slowly, evenly... but it came out as a shuttering sob. Bucky echoed the wounded noise softly and pulled you to him, his warm, soft human hand guiding your face gently to his neck.

Tears rolled down your cheeks and onto his shoulder, staining his light grey shirt in little droplets. You gritted your teeth against the wracking sobs, but that didn’t stop the pathetic noises from slipping through, nor did it stop the way your entire body shook. You knew, distantly, that Bucky was picking you up and carrying you through the tiny apartment, but you were still surprised when the first jet of cool water poured over your back, soaking your hair and clothing in an instant.

It wasn’t icy, but was still cold enough to not be mistaken for the pool of blood that haunted your dreams. The bathroom came into focus around you, its off-white walls and dingy lights comforting in a way they had no right to be.

You perched your chin on his shoulder and closed your eyes, letting the water flow over you skin, the effect calming you in a way his touch alone couldn’t.

“D’ya wanna talk about it?”

A hummed, dismissive response was the only reply you had the wherewithal to give at the moment. You could feel more than see him nod in acknowledgment and a sound of protest left your lips when he moved too much, but a second later a toothbrush and toothpaste were in front of your face. It was a sign of how out of it you were that you had trouble focusing on them.

Wordlessly you took them, though you paused to nudge his shoulder gently with your forehead, a small sign of thanks and affection that you couldn’t form the words to right then.

“Do ya wanna watch Tangled after this?” he asked quietly, lips brushing against your now sopping wet hair.

You hummed a small affirmative as you began brushing your teeth dutifully (Bucky knew it was the first thing you liked to do after episodes; it was hard to get past them when there was such a horrid physical reminder of what had happened). Of all the newer Disney movies you liked that one the best so far. There were others, but between saving half the world and avoiding what felt like the other half of the world, you hadn’t yet found the time to watch them all. They were an escape, and a welcome one at that.

“Time?” you murmured after you spat out the toothpaste and rinsed your mouth out with the bottle of water Bucky handed you (you needed to fix the pipes in this damned hellhole... or maybe just set up a water filtration system).

“Just after 2 am,” he answered immediately, voice still slow and soothing.

You frowned. Maybe you’d be able to fall back asleep during Tangled, but it was unlikely Bucky would be able to, not after your episode. You bit your tongue on the apology you wanted to give him, knowing it wasn’t fair to either of you to apologize for something you couldn’t control.

Instead, you turned the water up to a less offensive temperature (it was starting to get too cold for you at this point) and shuffled until your back was against Bucky’s. Taking the hint, he wrapped his arms around your waist and leaned back against the tub, pulling you with him. Using your foot, you hit the knob that turned the shower head off, eyes opening a little wider now that you knew you wouldn’t be constantly bombarded by tiny droplets of water. With equal ease you popped the plug into the drain, eyeing it dubiously for a moment until you were sure it was actually stopping the water from escaping into the sewer.

“Alfred, could you bring the tablet?” you asked the air, knowing that the AI would hear you even though you could barely hear yourself above the sound of the water.

“Of course, Mistress Barnes,” one of the drones said dutifully, already floating into the bathroom with the largest of the tablets trapped between the claws of its little metal arms. You had a feeling the AI had been ready and waiting for you to ask.

“Thanks Al,” Bucky said as he took the tablet from Drone Anchorage.

“It was my pleasure, Master Barnes. Please enjoy the movie.”

You eyed the tablet and, sure enough, Tangled was already queued up and ready to go. Bucky huffed a single laugh and even you felt a tiny smile tilt a corner of your lips up. You tilted your knees up and Bucky set the tablet on your lap, knowing full well you made all of your tech waterproof (well, almost all of it, but Bucky knew very, very well which inventions were water-safe and which ones weren’t).

You tapped play and, almost instantly, your heart felt a little lighter at the sound of Eugene’s voice starting the introduction.

When the tub was full enough you turned the faucet off and practically melted into Bucky’s chest, tension finally leaving you in some measurable way.

“Hey Buck?” you whispered as the scene switched to Eugene stealing the crown.

“Yeah Doll?” he murmured, arms squeezing you ever so gently.

“Love you,” you answered, eyes not leaving the screen.

Bucky merely placed a gentle kiss to the back of your head and muttered a quiet but heartfelt “Love you, too,” and you finally let yourself get lost for a while.

By the time you woke up again you were back on the small mattress you shared with Bucky, dry and in new clothes. You reached out blindly for your husband, already suspecting he wasn’t there by the lack of dipping in the old, worn out springs. Sure enough, the sheets were cold, but you kept looking anyway, right until your hand reached the edge of the mattress. With a groan you shoved your face back into the pillow, unwilling to face the day. Days after an episode were especially tough and you considered it a blessing that you managed to wake up knowing what year it was and where you were.

“Bucky? Где ты?” you mumbled, trusting in his enhanced hearing to pick up your voice even through the walls. The apartment was tiny; only two small rooms. Nearly everything was in the first room- the one you were in now- with all of your important scientific research and the workshop in the other.

“Какие? Не могли бы даже потрогать ваши глаза?” came a quiet, gentle voice directly to your right.

Tension left your muscles after a second, your body relaxing when you realized he was watching your back both metaphorically and literally.

“Я не знаю, как вы можете быть комфортно на этой кушетке. Это ужасно,” you muttered as you shuffled around, finally opening your eyes to look up at him. He was reading the paper and you could just barely see his bright blue eyes over the top of it. If you weren’t mistaken, they were distinctly amused. You realized you were likely an unsightly heap, strewn out lackadaisically on the bed, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care.

“Ты тот, кто спас его от корзины,” he countered.

You frowned, features coming uncomfortably close to a pout. Genius engineers and deadly assassins didn’t pout, though. Then, it hit you. “Shit,” you hissed as you grabbed the pillow and shoved it into your face. “I’ve been talking in Russian.”

“Да,” he said dryly. You chucked the pillow blindly at him, wincing as it veered violently to the right... and straight into the sink.

Bucky lowered the paper slowly and leveled a flat, unimpressed stair at you, but you were already rolling away from his accusing stare. You could practically feel his gaze boring into your back, but you valiantly ignored him until you heard the paper rustle again.

You let yourself lay there for a while, mind wandering as you attempted to sort your jumbled thoughts. The nightmare from hours before still lingered in grisly flashes, destroying any urge you had to leave the bed and be productive. You’d manage it eventually, but you couldn’t muster up the energy to get up just yet.

“What are we doin’, Buck?” you whispered, not thinking about your question until it was already hanging in the air between you.

A pause, then the sound of the paper being folded haphazardly. “We’re hiding. Doing what we can to stay away from other people. You’re sending tips to the new SHIELD to help them clean up unsavory folks and the remnants of Hydra. We-”

You rolled over to look at him, the sad smile on your face making him freeze mid sentence. “You know what I mean, Bucky...” you whispered softly.

He looked away, blue eyes trained on a random spot on the floor. “Dunno what you mean, Doll,” he said quietly, with just a hint of obstinance. He didn’t like this conversation, mostly because you ended up talking each other in circles for hours. You both felt horribly guilty over what you’d personally done, but neither of you would let the other turn themselves in.

You tried a new path of thought today. “Stevie’s friend. Anthony Stark.”

Even though Bucky still refused to look at you, you could see the way the name affected him in how his jaw tightened and his gaze turned stormy.

“Steve will figure it out soon if he hasn’t already. And you know-”

“He won’t tell him, yeah. I know,” Bucky said bitterly.

“Tony isn’t stupid either, from what I can tell. He’ll... probably figure it out eventually, too. Natalia and Steve will probably try to keep it from him, though.”

Bucky’s frown only deepened. “That’ll only be a problem if we insert ourselves in their lives again,” he said tersely.

You sighed, heart constricting painfully. “He was my friend, Buck. Our friend. And we killed ‘im.”

Bucky’s gaze turned up sharply, though you could tell he was hurting too by the way his gaze softened ever so slightly as he looked at you. “And what? We say ‘sorry we killed your mom and dad’ and hope he doesn’t blow us to bits with his suit? Worse, we hope he does?”

You flinched at the implication.

... No, that he’d seen through your words and intentions so clearly as he always did. “We’d deserve it,” you muttered so quietly you almost thought he wouldn’t hear.

But his eyes flashed with anger and fear and he was off the couch and in front of you in a flash. You were in his arms before you could mutter even the smallest protest, your face jammed into his broad chest.

“We did a lot of messed up things, Doll. I know we did. I don’t think we’ll ever really escape that shadow... but if you think I’m ever letting you go again, you’re wrong,” he breathed, his voice a deep rumble in his chest.

Your arms went around his waist, but you couldn’t help the feeling of dread swirling low in your gut. “Someone’s gotta answer for what we did, Buck...” you muttered, voice muffled by his chest.

He squeezed you gently. “They did. They are. Steve and Natalia killed most of the rats and we got rid of what they missed. Only pieces remaining are the roaches that barely have enough power to pry themselves out of their destroyed, moldering ruins of an empire.”

You frowned and bit your lip. This was how the conversation usually went, though the lines sometimes were swapped, with you talking Bucky out of anything rash. It still felt wrong, though- to not say anything.

Knowing you were at yet another impasse, you let the subject drop. “Gotta go to the club later, pawn off some of my designs. You feel like goin’ with me?” you asked, peeking hesitantly up at him.

He stared at you, gaze assessing, for what felt like a small eternity, but eventually he nodded. “What kinda guy would I be if I let my gal go to a fancy club all alone after just sayin’ I’d never let her go?” he asked. The lightness he was trying for fell just a bit flat to both of your dour moods.

You leaned up and pecked him on the cheek anyway. “Thanks, Buck. Radcliffe always pays well for my blueprints and prototypes.”

Bucky finally released you, watching you from the floor with wary eyes as you stood and headed to the bedroom. “Where’s all this money going to, anyways?” he asked with a frown.

You leaned back around the corner, surprise lining your features. “I didn’t tell you?” you asked, confused.

He shook his head, amusement returning some of the light to his eyes. “You get lost in your own head too much, y’know. Wouldn’t be surprised if you have whole one-sided conversations in there,” he teased gently. He... wasn’t wrong, and you fought the childish urge to stick your tongue out at him.

Your smile was a little sad. “Sokovian relief efforts.”

Bucky’s smile was melancholy, too, the destruction of the city a fresh horror in his mind, along with the fear of losing you. Again.

“That’s... that’s good,” he said finally, looking up at you with what could only be adoration.

Your smile turned a little lighter- a little more genuine- and you nodded. “Yeah. I think so, too.”

Next Chapter

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