Weâre so excited to officially open sign-ups for the first-ever Star and Shield Collective Writerâs Relay!
Writerâs Relay is a collaborative writing event where writers are matched into teams of three to create a shared story together. The stories should follow a 2+1 format.
For example: Two times she almost confessed + the one time he did.Â
For this event, you can write for any Anthony Mackie, Chris Evans, or Sebastian Stan characters.
Sign-up Now
Event Timeline
June 20: Sign-ups NOW OPEN
July 2: Sign-ups close at midnight (US ET)
After submitting your sign-up form, you should receive an acknowledgment email within 3 days. If you donât receive one, please reach out to the mods so we can make sure your sign-up came through.
July 6: Inspiration Prompts posted
July 10: Matches go out
July 11 â July 18: Teams connect, brainstorm and plot
July 18: Send in your writing line-up and fic masterpost
 July 19 â August 1: First sprint
August 2 â August 16: Second sprint
 August 17 â August 31: Third sprint
You can find the full event details here but hereâs a summaryâŠ
How It Works
Sign up and indicate your preferences.
Weâll match you with two other writers. Once teams are matched, youâll have time to connect, pick your prompt, brainstorm, plot, and decide the order your team will write in.
Please let us know your writing line-up before the writing period begins.
Each team member will contribute one chapter, with a minimum of 1,000 words and a maximum of 5,000 words.
The relay will run in two-week writing sprints. The first writer in the line-up will have two weeks to write and post their chapter. Once their chapter is posted, the next writer will have two weeks from that posting date to write and post their part, and so on.
You may post before the end of your sprint if your chapter is ready. Your teammates are also welcome to keep chatting, plotting, and supporting each other throughout the writing period.
Extensions & Pinch Hits
Life happens, and we understand that.
You may request an extension as early as 4 days before the end of your sprint. Extensions can be granted for up to 7 days, but please communicate with the mods as early as possible.
If you need to drop out, thatâs ok, but please let us know as soon as you can so we can arrange a pinch hit writer.
Please do not disappear or drop out without communicating with the mods. Writers who drop without notice will not be allowed to participate in the next Writerâs Relay or Star and Shield Collective events for one year. Youâll still be able to participate in monthly challenges.
If you are assigned as a pinch hit writer, you will have 2 weeks to write and post the part of the fic youâve been assigned.
Please make sure you read our acceptable fanworks post before signing up.
Weâre so excited to see the teams come together and watch these stories unfold.
Ready to join the relay?
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> Sign up here
Part Summary:Â A horrified comment beneath a furniture-restoration video leads to an unexpected connection with a stranger. What begins as cautious advice about an antique soon becomes late-night calls and the start something neither of you is ready to name. But just as you finally make plans to meet, your stranger mysterious work threatens to keep your relationship confined to the phone.
Warning: Online relationship, hidden identity, Steve being frustratingly secretive, cancelled plans, brief emotional hurt/disappointment, mutual pining, idiots falling in love..
Word Count: 4.9k
A/N: First Sprint of @star-and-shield-collective's writer's relay game  in coloration with @indigo-jungle and @salty-tang (Go Team tis 2.3 Timtams)
The first pass of the sander took off more than the finish. You watched in mute horror as it chewed through the thin layer of veneer beneath it, leaving a pale, uneven scar across the bureauâs drop-front.
âNow, donât be afraid to really get in there,â the man on your screen advised loudly. âPeople get too precious about old furniture, but if you want a professional finish, you need to strip it right back.â
âNo,â you whimpered. âNo, no, no- â
A streak of raw substrate emerged beneath his hands.
You paused the video. Simply stared at the frozen image: At the idiot and the one perfectly salvageable writing bureau.
Rare, generous. 1920, No, 1950âs at best. Restoration.. Lie... He was murdering it.
You had only clicked because three separate customers had sent you the video that week, all asking whether they could use the same method on their own furniture. One had already bought the industrial-strength chemical stripper recommended in the description.
You knew better than to open the comments.
Most were variations of gorgeous transformation, love the white, and canât believe people throw things like this away. One person wanted to know where he had bought the brass-effect spray paint used on the original handles.
Your eye twitched.
You scrolled past the creatorâs pinned list of affiliate links and clicked into the comment box.
SecondStoryRestorationNYC:Â Before anyone follows this tutorial: please donât.
You paused, took a breath and attempted to sound like a professional.
The surface being sanded at 4:16 is veneer, not solid timber. Once you sand through it, it canât be âevened outâ later. The existing finish shouldâve been identified and tested in an inconspicuous area before either an orbital sander or chemical stripper came anywhere near the piece.
Still professional. You continued.
The hardware appears to be original or, at minimum, considerably older than the creator suggests and removing it so harshly was unnecessary. Please also donât soak antique timber with a household sprays or use steel wool, or assume every dark mark is damage that needs to be erased.
Mostly professional.
Then you reached the farmhouse-white paint.
If youâve made it to 12:38 and are considering painting your own bureau, step away from the chalk paint. Make a cup of tea. Reconsider the path that brought you here.
You hit Comment before good judgement could intervene.
It wouldnât reach everyone. The video had substantial views and your warning would soon disappear beneath another flood of praise and requests for the exact shade of white.
Still, you had tried.
You were closing the tab when the notification appeared.
AuburndaleGrant18 replied to your comment:
Well, arenât I glad I found this comment now and not ten minutes later. Or I mightâve made a mistake that will have me run out of every serious restoration group on the east coast!
A laugh escaped you before you could stop it. At least one innocent piece of furniture might survive the video.
SecondStoryRestorationNYC:
That depends. What grit?
The reply came almost immediately.
AuburndaleGrant18:
That feels like a trap.
SecondStoryRestorationNYC:
Itâs a risk assessment.
It took longer for the reply to come back this time. Was the user actually going to check?
AuburndaleGrant18:
Eighty?
You sat forward.
SecondStoryRestorationNYC:
Put it down.
AuburndaleGrant18:
It is down and away from the anything it may damage.
SecondStoryRestorationNYC:
If itâs still on the property, move it farther away before it damages something through proximity.
You smiled knowing you seemed a little ridiculous, but this was the internet. Being extreme was acceptable.
AuburndaleGrant18:
What if I promise not to take it out of the workshop draw? Is that satisfactory?
SecondStoryRestorationNYC:
I just watched a man sand through walnut veneer to âbringing out the natural grain.â Iâm doing a community service here.
His response appeared a moment later.
AuburndaleGrant18:
Fair. Do you know a lot about bureaus only I do have questions. Bit mines not the same as this one.
SecondStoryRestorationNYC:
In what way?
AuburndaleGrant18:
Doesnât look quite like this one.
SecondStoryRestorationNYC:
I might need a little more than that.
AuburndaleGrant18:
It has drawers.
SecondStoryRestorationNYC:
An astonishing breakthrough.
Despite yourself, you smiled.
SecondStoryRestorationNYC:
Marginally. How old is it?
His answer took longer.
AuburndaleGrant18:
Older than the one in the video. I think.
You glanced at the time, then back at the increasingly useless information appearing beneath your comment.
SecondStoryRestorationNYC:
Do not sand it. Do not strip it. Do not paint it. Take clear photos of the front, back, underside, drawer joints, hardware and any damaged areas.
Send them here.
You added your work email address before you could question why you were offering a stranger free professional advice at nearly eleven oâclock at night.
AuburndaleGrant18:
Yes, maâam.
You closed the tab and went about your nightly routine, already half-convinced that was probably the end of it until your work inbox chimed, sharp and unexpected in the quiet.
You hesitated for a moment before opening it.
A new email sat at the top of the screen.
From: Steve Grant
 Subject: The bureau you just saved from me
 You looked at the number of photographs, then at the clock.
Apparently,Steve did take some instructions seriously.
You opened the first attachmentâŠand forgot all about going to bed.
The first photograph showed the bureau from the front, standing alone against a bare white wall.
The second showed the back panel, slightly uneven in finish but intact.
The third and fourth gave you the left and right sides in turn.
All photos were methodical: the drop-front opened to reveal the interior compartments, the drawers pulled out to show their runners and joints, the underside of the piece, and close-ups of the hardware, lock area, and scattered veneer damage.
You assessed the rest, making small mental notes. There were scratches around the lock, a dark ring on the top and a chip missing from the veneer near the back corner.
It had been worked on before. More than once, and not always by someone who knew what they were doing.
Still, it was solid. The drawer joints looked intact. The drop-front sat slightly crooked but showed no obvious signs of warping. A protected strip of timber beneath one of the drawers offered the faintest glimpse of the warmer finish buried beneath the varnish.
Not rare. Not untouched. Not likely to make anyone rich.
But salvageable.
You returned to the body of Steveâs email.
From: Steve
Subject: The bureau you just saved from me
Attachments: 14
This is what I have.
A friend found it for me, they know I have a thing for old pieces. But I canât tell you much about where it came from or what was done to it before he bought it.
Another friend told me I could learn how to fix it on YouTube. In his defence, I donât think he meant that particular video.
-Steve
You enlarged the photograph of the underside, adjusted the brightness and found what might have been the remains of a manufacturerâs mark beneath the later stain. Too faint to read, but useful enough to support the rough date.
You should have sent him a short response telling him to book a proper assessment with someone local.
Instead, you clicked Reply.
From: Second Story Restoration
 To: Steve
 Subject: RE: The bureau you just saved from me
Based on the shape, drawer construction and what I can see beneath the newer finish, Iâd place it somewhere around the late 1910s to 1920s so old is right if itâs original.
It appears to be a walnut veneer over a less expensive secondary timber. That was common and does not mean the piece was poorly made, but it does mean the veneer is thin and needs to be treated carefully. This is why your eighty-grit sandpaper needs to be kept far away.
The current drawer pulls are replacements. You can see the shadows from the previous hardware around them, and the screws are newer than the rest of the piece. The dark, glossy finish is also unlikely to be original. Someone appears to have refinished it, possibly more than once and there may be an older finish underneath.
The good news is that the structure looks solid. No major warping, the drawer joints look stable and the damaged veneer seems limited to a few small areas.
The less exciting news is that the replaced hardware, previous refinishing and veneer damage will affect its resale value. I donât think youâve accidentally acquired a priceless antique. Even properly restored, it probably wonât be worth a great deal in purely financial terms.
You stopped there, rereading the final paragraph.
People often came to you convinced that age automatically meant value.Â
But Steve hadnât asked what it was worth.
That doesnât mean it isnât worth restoring.
Before I tell you where to begin, I need to know what you want from it. Are you hoping to improve it for resale, make it functional, return it as closely as possible to its original appearance, or preserve it as it is? Those would all require different decisions. Why is doing work on it important to you?
You hesitated before sending it.
The question felt more personal than the rest of your assessment. But restoration was personal. Anyone who pretended otherwise had never watched someone run their fingers over a scratch in an old table knowing the story. Or held something older then their own grandparents and wonder whose lives it had touched.
You pressed Send.
You went back to looking at the piece, wondering what journey it had been on before Steve, how many homes had it lived in? And now you were playing a part in putting it back into the world.Â
You were almost so lost in your own thoughts you didnât hear the ping of your own inbox.
From: Steve
To: Second Story Restoration
Subject: RE: The bureau you just saved from me
My mother had one like it.
Hers might have been a little wider, and the compartments inside were laid out differently. Iâve only got my memory to compare it to.
When I was little, I used to sit beside her and draw on whatever scraps of paper she could spare while wrote letters. One of the drawers always stuck in damp weather.
My friend knew Iâd been looking for something similar. He found this one and thought it was close enough that I might be able to make it feel like hers.
I donât want to sell it. Iâm not worried about making it look new, either. I just want to take care of it and make it usable again. Maybe draw at it.
The apartment Iâm in now doesnât feel much like mine yet. I thought this might help.
What should I do first?
-Steve
The image of a small boy drawing beside his mother. It was such an ordinary memory, offered without embellishment, that you could almost see the worn scraps of paper and the stubborn drawer.
From: Second Story Restoration
To: Steve
Subject: RE: The bureau you just saved from me
Well, let's get you somewhere to draw.
Before we remove anything, we need to work out what is actually on the surface and whether the older finish beneath it can be preserved.
Start with:
nitrile gloves;
white cotton cloths and cotton swabs;
a soft natural-bristle brush;
a small bottle of mineral spirits;
methylated spirit or denatured alcohol;
painterâs tape;
Work somewhere well ventilated, keep both solvents away from heat or flame, and do not mix them.
You went on to outline steps, how to clean things off just by dusting, how to pick a test area, how to start with the mineral spirits, what to look for, was it only dirty or to the finish shift to tacky or cloudy? Did it transfer to the swap, then heâd need to swap with denatured alcohol and what to look for when he did that..
Photograph both areas before testing, immediately afterward and again once they are dry. Send me the pictures with a description of anything you felt or noticed.
Most importantly you out line all the DO NOTs
Once I know how the tests react, Iâll be able to give you better guidance.
You read through the instructions again, added a warning that the cloths needed to be left flat to dry somewhere safe rather than screwed into a ball, then sent it, given the hour you doubted he was still up at this time and headed off into bed. You had barely set your phone on the nightstand when it lit up once more.
From: Steve
Subject: RE: The bureau you just saved from me
So, just to be clear, the sandpaper is still forbidden?
You smiled despite yourself, your fingers already moving across the screen.
From: Second Story Restoration
To: Steve
Subject: RE: The bureau you just saved from me
If you keep mentioning it, the sandpaper will be used as evidence in an ongoing investigation.
Unless I tell you otherwise, sandpaper does not touch it.
You sent the email, switched off the lamp and settled beneath the covers.
That should have been the end of it. You had given him a preliminary assessment, a cautious first step and enough warnings to keep the bureau safe until morning. Whatever Steve decided to do next was his responsibility.
Still, as you placed your phone facedown beside the bed, a small, warm buzz settled low in your stomach the familiar anticipation of a new project beginning to take shape.
And this time, it wasnât even a piece you were working on.
Steveâs test photographs arrived three days later.
The first six were as carefully framed as the original set. The seventh contained half his thumb.
From: Steve
Subject: Results
The mineral spirits lifted dirt, didnât make the finish tacky, but the alcohol did.
There was an amber colour on the swab, so I stopped immediately. Iâve attached photos from before, after and once everything dried.
The drawer also made a noise when I removed it. I donât know how to describe it without sounding like Iâm asking you to diagnose furniture over email.
Would it be easier if we got on a call?
That didn't seem like such a bad idea. You told yourself it was a professional consultation and sent him your number.
He called less than a minute later.
âHi.â
His voice was deeper than you expected: warm, cautious and distinctly Brooklyn. It made something inside you prick up.Â
âHi.â
Silence stretched between you.
You could hear him breathe. Somewhere in his apartment, timber gave a faint, complaining creak.
âSo,â Steve said finally, âthis is less awkward in writing.â
A laugh slipped out of you. âReally?" You felt awkward.Â
âWell this seemed more efficient." That you could agree on. Â
âSo you said the drawer?â Your voice sounded a little flaky but at least you'd get back onto firmer ground with the furniture talkÂ
"Yes, right, drawer." You could hear him walking "I'm going to put you down near the, just hold on." Steve held the phone near the runners while he carefully moved the drawer. You listened to the soft scrape, asked him to check the lower edge.
"Should I be worried?" His voice came back on the line
"Doesn't sound too bad but maybe try and get the drawer all the way out so you can see what's catching there, but do it in the morning so you can see with better light."Â
The consultation should have ended there.
Instead, Steve asked, half amused and half genuinely curious, âAre you some kind of furniture whisperer, or can you really tell things just by sound?â
You huffed a quiet laugh. âIf there was a snag in the runners, it would sound more like a scrape...sharp, uneven. What you have is a groan. Like itâs rubbing, not catching.
âRight,â Steve said slowly.
âWhen youâve been around this stuff long enough,â you added, âyou learn to notice what means what.â
âHow long have you been around things like this?â Steve asked one night, voice softer than usual.
You made a heavy noise. Â
âForever,â yous started getting honest, âmy whole life.â
He didnât interrupt.
You leaned back in your chair, staring at nothing in particular as you spoke, letting the words come.Â
âMy grandparents restored things. Furniture, frames, anything people thought was too far gone. My aunts were always into antiques tooââ you added. âSo I just⊠grew up around it. Looking at peopleâs treasures. Seemed right I'd go into the business, and why I spend my nights trying to save amateur from YouTube disasters."Â
Steve didnât speak for a moment, and in the silence you could hear the faintest shift of him on the other end of the line, like he was turning the thought over carefully.
âI should let you sleep,â Steve said, though he sounded no more eager to hang up than you felt.
âYou should send more photos of drawer tomorrow."
âSo you do want to hear from me again?"Â
âFor the bureauâs sake.â You added, biting into your own lip
âOf course.â His smile was audible.
After that, emails became messages. Messages became voice notes.
At first, the bureau remained threaded through everything.
Steve sent progress photographs. You talked him through cleaning one small section at a time and stopping whenever the surface behaved unexpectedly. He began sketching replacement drawer pulls based on the pale impressions left by the originals, his pencil studies far better than you had anticipated.
You: You really are good at drawing aren't you.Â
Steve: It's a way I like to spend my timeÂ
You: Any other skills you have that I might like to know about?Â
Steve: Iâm very good at folding fitted sheets too.
You: Now I know youâre lying.
Soon, he began sending questions that required no professional guidance whatsoever.
A photograph arrived from an antique shop: an ornate chair upholstered in violently orange velvet.
Steve: Saw this and knew you'd hate it
The chair was awful, and a reproduction too. But what got your attention was the shopâs name, you knew that, and where it was. Brooklyn.
It was the first time you had an idea where he lived, though he had probably worked out you were in New York from the address beneath your business signature weeks ago. You hadn't quiet thought much about where Steve lived. How close he actually was.Â
You began sending him the worst restoration videos you encountered; not because he needed warning, but because indignation was more satisfying when shared.
He retaliated with photographs of peculiar antiques and increasingly implausible questions about whether they could be saved.
Calls slipped into the spaces around your lives. He spoke to you while you closed the workshop; you listened as he cooked, occasionally interrupted by a smoke alarm he insisted was overly sensitive. You learned he worked as a government consultant, although every question about what that meant earned a vague answer and a swift change of subject.
You heard names without context: Bucky demanding he hurry up, Sam laughing somewhere nearby, Peter apparently responsible for the original YouTube suggestion, and Nat telling Steve he was hopeless at something he refused to explain.
Weeks passed.
One night, long after the conversation had wandered away from furniture, Steve stopped answering.
âSteve?â
A low, even breath sounded through the speaker.
You smiled into the darkness.
âGoodnight, then.â
You should have ended the call.
Instead, you placed the phone beside your pillow and closed your eyes, letting the quiet proof of him fill the room.
For the first time, it occurred to you that the bureau might no longer be the reason you kept answering.
#~#~#~#~#~#
By the time Steve sent you a photograph of the bureau with a sketchbook open across its drop-front, it finally looked lived in not just a project.Â
The finish while glossy, allowed the grain to show through, the drawers sat properly in their runners and the replacement pulls no longer looked quite so out of place even though the dark ring on the top remained.
âDo you think we should try to take it out?â Steve asked that evening.
You studied the close-up on your screen phone still pressed to your ear.Â
âWe could probably lessen it,â you started. âBut I like it, Iâd leave. Youâve already stripped enough.â You enlarged the photograph, following the pale edge of the mark. âYou donât want to erase what it was before you.âÂ
Steve stayed quiet and you didnât try to press to hard, letting him sit with it. Knowing while you were looking at the pictures he was looking at the piece itself.Â
âI used it today,â His voice coming over softer, reaching across time to you. âSat down and drew for a while. Itâs strange.â You heard his fingers brush over the timber. âThe apartment feels different with it here. I think I feel different with it hereâ LâAnd more like home?â
âGetting there. Like this place feels less like somewhere Iâm staying just staying and somewhere Iâm putting down roots.â
âRoots are good. Objects hold proof that people were hereâ You liked that about what you did, giving anchors in time. Steve was quiet again.
âI wish you could see it in person.â
The words sat between youâŠheavier than they should have been after months of calls from opposite sides of the same city.
âYou could let me. I mean the whats a train right?â You werenât sure when you said it the world falling out. He was close. It wouldnât be hard to just give in to that feeling in your stomach. Surely heâd worked it out that you probably lived close.Â
Then he exhaled. âAre you free Friday?â
You sat straighter. âThis Friday?â
âSeven oâclock. Thereâs a little Italian place about halfway between us. Sam says itâs good.â So, he had been looking.Â
By the sounds of it heâd been thinking a lot more than you had.Â
âDoes Sam know asking out stranger from the internet?â
âHe knows youâve spent months preventing me from destroying furniture.â You snorted so hard the noise made your brain vibrate from your noise.Â
âIâm free Friday.âÂ
A booking confirmation arrived while he spoke: Friday, seven oâclock, table for two. You stared at it, suddenly aware of your heartbeat, a little studded.Â
âThis will finally prove you exist,â you hadnât realised youâd said the words out loud
âFriday. Seven oâclock. After you can come conduct a full inspection.â
âFriday..â You repeated sounding a little lost in it all, the booking, the reality youâd finally be meeting Steve.Â
Neither of you had called it a date.
Neither of you needed to.
#~#~#~#~#~#
By Wednesday, you had changed your mind about what to wear four times.
Not that you were thinking about it.
You were merely standing in front of your wardrobe, holding two nearly identical shirts against yourself while considering which one looked more like something you might casually wear to inspect a piece of furniture over dinner. It was a matter of being prepared.Â
The bureau had become a useful excuse for several things neither of you wanted to name. Youâd gathered two other options for some hardware that he could swap out, both sets were period-appropriate, something that might bring this bureau a little closer to the one his mother had used. You wrapped them carefully and placed them beside your bag.
Steve seemed nervous too.
His messages became more frequent but less substantial, as if he kept finding reasons to confirm you were both still moving toward Friday.
Steve: How are you going to know itâs me?
You: Youâll be the man waiting outside an Italian restaurant looking like he regrets agreeing to meet someone from the internet.
Steve: That might not narrow it down.
You: Did you want to let me know what you might be wearing, would that help?Â
Had he never been on an online date before? Steve seemed woefully unsure of the whole process.Â
Steve: Blue coat?Â
At least that was something, you had some marker at least to look for now
You: Can you say my name before I accidentally leave with the wrong anxious stranger.
Steve: You don't have to worry, Iâll be there.
You read those three words more times than you intended.
Iâll be there
The following evening, your phone rang while you were cleaning the workshop.
You smiled when Steveâs name appeared.
âCalling to confirm you still exist?â
âHey.â The sound of his voice had the smile fall from your face, while your hands went cold.Â
It was wrong. Tighter than usual, with noise and movement behind it; doors opening, footsteps, someone speaking too quietly for you to make out the words.
âWhat happened?â you just wanted to believe he was having a bad day, the grip on your phone getting tighter.Â
âI have to leave.â Your stomach droppedÂ
âLeave where?â Your voice cracked before you could stop itÂ
âI canât tell you.â His sounded stressed as someone called for him in the distance. Of course he couldnât.
âHow long?â
âI donât know. Something came up with work, and I have to go now.â
âNow?â Youâd never asked about his work, and now you wish you had. Maybe then it would make you feel easier about this
âIn about twenty minutes.â No timeâŠ. You looked toward your bag at the surprise youâd planed for him.Â
âAnd tomorrow? â
âIâm sorry.â You could hear it in his voice; this was not his choice but that didn't make it any easier for you. The disappointment came sharp and immediate, but you pushed it down.
âItâs fine. It isnât your fault if work-â
âIt isnât fine.â
âNo,â you admitted. âIt isnât. But we can choose another night when you get back.â
Steve went quiet.
That soft silence you had learned to recognise was gone. This one was guarded, its edges closed tightly around whatever he still wasnât telling you.
âSteve?â
âI donât know when Iâll be back.â
âThen when you know.â You kept your tone light, open..Â
âI donât want to promise something else and disappoint you again.â His was so defeated, certain,Â
Again. He was rethinking all of it. As though this were not one cancelled dinner, but confirmation of something he had expected all along.
âYou didnât disappoint me by having to work.â you tried to sound less hurt, like it wasnât as crushing as it felt.Â
âI made you a promise I couldnât keep.â
âSo make another one.â God- You didn't know why you were pleading.Â
âI canât.â The answer came too quickly.
You lowered yourself onto the stool behind the workbench. Weeks of unanswered questions seemed to gather around that single denial; the government work he never explained, the conversations he redirected and the life you only heard in fragments through the phone.
âSteve..â you started so carefully unsure why you felt the need to keep things going, you didn't know him.. But you did, you wanted to, wanted to know about the man who had kept your night filled, who had made you smile just by calling, âI donât need another date right now,â you said carefully. âI need to know whether this is ever going to exist anywhere other than my phone.â It was unfair to ask right now but if he wasnât going to really be in this with you what was the point.Â
âIt will.â You felt something in you give into hope âJust, when- thatâs hard.â he kept going, You both stayed quiet for a moment while you tired n
âWere you really going to come tomorrow?â
âYes.â His answer was immediate. âI wanted to meet you. I still do.â Someone called his name in the background. âI have to go,â Steve voice came torn.Â
You pressed your lips together, refusing to ask him to stay when he had made it clear he couldnât.
âAll right.â You closed your eyes holding your phone tight to your ear.,Â
âIâm sorry.â He did sound it, you had to trust he wasn't a liar.Â
âI know.â You didn't blame him, if what he said was true, this was beyond him,Â
Neither of you spoke. Usually, one of you would stretch the ending out; one last joke, one more question, some small excuse not to disconnect.
This time, Steve said goodbye.
You said it back, the line going silent. You sat still on your still holding your phone, feeling more crestfallen then you had real right to be.Â
Three days passed without a word from Steve.
You told yourself that was expected. He was working, whatever it was it had been urgent enough to pull him away short notice.Â
By Sunday evening, the disappointment had settled into something quieter. You were no longer replaying the promise he couldnât make. You were thinking about the strain in his voice, the noise behind him and how defeated he had sounded when he said goodbye.
Your call when straight to voicemail.
âHey, Steve.â You paused, unsure how to say everything without making it heavier than it needed to be.
âI just wanted to check in and make sure youâre okayâ Your fingers tightened around the phone. âIâve been thinking about our call. I donât want you out there thinking youâve ruined this because you couldnât promise me another night.âÂ
You glanced at the hardware you kept wrapped near your bag. Waiting. âYou donât have to make another promise right now either. Just call me when you get back.â
A breath caught softly in your throat.
âIâm here, Steve. And when youâre ready to see meâŠwhenever that might be..Iâd still really like to see you too.â You hesitated. âSo come back safe, okay?â
Then you ended the message and set your phone on the workbench.
There was nothing more you could do except trust that, wherever Steve was, he would eventually find his way back to you.
Brotherly Protection Details and the Boyfriends who Avoid Them: Chapter 1
Sweet as Sugar
Author's Note: this is the first leg for the writer relay hosted by @star-and-shield-collective. I'm passing the baton to @daydreamgoddess14 (y'all wish her well because I don't know I gave her much).
Summary: Bucky goes to visit his sister but something seems... different.
Word Account: we'll just say 1,400
Of course this is on AO3 because we support the archive!
It never failed to surprise Bucky just how friendly some of the residents were at the assisted living facility his sister resided at. They always wanted him to stop and chat for a few minutes, especially some of the veterans. The ones from his era were far and few in-between and that bothered him more and more.Â
Even though he would be in the building or sometimes just on the grounds near the parking lot, it would sometimes take Bucky 20 minutes to make it from the lobby to Beccaâs hall. He gave a polite nod to the receptionist as he passed by her. She made brief eye contact with him as she signed for a package from the UPS driver.
âOh! Mr. Barnes, Mrs. Proctor isn't in right now,â she relayed.Â
Bucky stopped walking. Becca was in her 90âs. She didn't go anywhere very fast so how had he missed her?
âWhere is she?â
The receptionist gave a small shrug. âShe didn't say, she just signed out and said âwith friendsâ. She left about 30 minutes ago.â
Bucky rolled his eyes, not at the receptionist doing her job, but the fact his sister was still being an annoying little sister even now. âDid she say when she'll be back?â
The young lady shook her head. âI'm sorry.â
Bucky just shook his head and turned around giving her a wave as he left. This was the second time this had happened this week. She was always out with friends. Would it kill her to text him or call? He knew she knew how. She was always sending him memes that her grandchildren sent her.Â
âHey, Jim!â A man's voice called from behind him.
Bucky stopped and turned around. âHey Nate, how's it going?âÂ
âStill alive,â Nate said with a small shrug as he shook Buckyâs hand. âMy niece is taking me out for lunch, want to join us?â he asked, gesturing to the woman behind his wheelchair.
Bucky paused to think about Becca and her 'out with friends'. âI don't want to be a burden on your day outâŠâ The first time Bucky had met Nate's niece, you, Bucky had thought you were a picture. He nearly beat himself up over that thought too. A picture. Like this was 1930 and his mom was talking to him about cute girls.Â
âYou won't be a burden, it'll be fun,â you said to reassure him. While you enjoyed visiting with your uncle, it would be nice to have something to look at in the form of Bucky. âWe planned on lunch and then maybe the mall. Uncle Nate wants new clothes.â
âAlright, sure, let's go.â
Lunch with you and Nate had been nice. Bucky was much more relaxed than he anticipated he'd be for such a last minute thing.Â
âY'know, Jim, your sister is just the kindest person on the planet. I've been around a long time, I would know.â Nate turned to you. âShe gets these cookies from âŠâ he paused trying to recall the name. âDavid's! She orders them from Davids and they are fantastic. She'll give me a cookie here and there. But she's not kind just because of the cookies, no, she's just a good person. Always talking with folks and making people feel heard. She's just a great lady.â
Bucky listened intently to the praise. He knew his sister was an amazing person, even if he missed most of her accomplishments.Â
You watched Bucky as he heard the words your uncle was saying and saw Buckyâs face change slightly. His face got softer; he clearly loved his sister very much.Â
A few days later, Bucky tried again. The same receptionist was on duty and he raised an eyebrow as he passed. She gave him a nod; she was too busy to talk to Bucky today, Mr. UPS was back with more packages, Bucky thought he saw a David's Cookies box in the mix. That had to be for Becca. At least Becca could make time in her busy schedule for him today. Â
As Bucky was walking up the hall, he saw one of the nurses exiting Becca's room. âAlright, Mrs. Proctor, I'll quit taking up so much of your time today. We can get together later to discuss Goncharov more. Have you seen the extended version?â He asked as he stepped more into the hall. âOh you haven't? That has got to change. I'll swing by later. Thanks again for the cookie.â He shut the door and nodded at Bucky. "Hello Mr. Barnes, Mrs. Proctor has been looking forward to seeing you.â
Bucky nodded and he turned to stare at the nurse as he walked on. Something feltâŠoff. He knocked on Rebecca's door. âOpen up, I know you've got the goods.â
It took a few minutes but finally the door opened, âYou're late. You said 2 o clock. I gave those cookies away.â
âLiar,â Bucky said, stepping into the room, and once in the door was shut, gave his sister a hug and a kiss on the top of her head. Becca didn't have a means of cooking, but she could buy the cookies Bucky loved. âBesides it's onlyâ - he checked his watch - â2:25. Tell your neighbors to stop talking when I visit and maybe I'll be on time.â
âYou could always get here early so you're on time,â she said and went back to her chair, gesturing for him to join her. âThere's a container on the table. Grab a pop from the fridge.â
Bucky grabbed the container off the table and sat near to her. âSo what's this I hear about you going out with friends all hours of the night?â He was exaggerating slightly.Â
âWhat I do on my own time is my own business. Who snitched?â
Bucky put the container on his lap and held up his hands. âI'm not revealing my sources.â
Becca tsked. âI bet it's Holly at the desk. She's sweet on you. You should ask her to go out dancing.â
Bucky chuckled and shook his head. âI'm pretty sure she's barely 18. That is not my thing. Besides, I think she's into a delivery driver.â
Becca gave a non-committal noise but seemed a bit surprised. âWas it Ross?â
Bucky shrugged off her question. âI didn't get his name. You got a sweetheart, sis? You going out dancing?â
Becca just scoffed. âDo I look like I could go out dancing? I'd break a hip if I tried.â
He shook his head. âI think you're stronger than what you let on. You've been doing those exercise classes, haven't you?â
âYeahâŠâ
âWe should go out dancing sometime. Be like old times. We go together and then ditch the other once we meet someone.â
Becca just laughed, âI don't think so, Jim.â
âSo where are you and this gang of roaming seniors going off to?â
âIf you must know, I found a group of people who play pickleball seated. It's fun.â
Bucky frowned. âWhy didn't you tell me? I can take you.âÂ
Becca just gave him a look that was reminiscent of their ma when she was annoyed. âNo, thank you. I can go out with friends on my own. I have a life alert and my phone which has you as a contact should I need it. I'm fully capable.â
Bucky looked at the floor, âyes ma'am, alright, message received. You do know that I'm connected to lots of people and can find out information,â he was absolutely trying to rile her up. He wouldn't violate her privacy.
âJames Barnes. You will not. I'm not a child.â
âNo, but you're still my little sister.â
âYou're still a pain in my ass. Do you want to go downstairs and play Phase 10?â
He just nodded âsure, sure, lead the way. You'll be glad to know that Alpine jumped me in the bathroom the other nightâŠâ
âGood. Someone else needs to keep you in line. Which is why you need to find someone to marry. Get you a good woman - or man, I don't care - and settle down. I'd like to be someone's aunt before I'm dead. It's taken you long enough as it is.â
âSorry, sis, I didn't mean to hold up your plans for my life,â he said as he held out his arm for her to take as they walked out the room.
ËËËEternal Sunshine of the Immortal HeartËáŽá”
Vampire Rockstar!Bucky x groupie!reader
She decided he was safe.
And trust is the one thing he never learned how to stand in.
Two times he wanted to feed on you. And the one time he did.
ËËËÂ â ÂŽËË WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI, vampire feeding & blood, dark themes, predator-prey dynamics, dubious consent undertones, obsession & loss of control, explicit sexual content
â⏠WORD COUNT: 5K
This collaborative fic is brought to you by @perdidosbucky-yyo, @apenny4thots and yours truly (@mrsbuckybarnes1917) for @star-and-shield-collective's writer's relay game.
1. Carousel Heart
The stage lights were a solid wall of white and he stood behind it. It was exactly where he wanted to be. Where they could see the shape of him, but not the truth.
Night after night, there were thousands of them. He could count, the way you count candles on a cake. By their hearts.
That's the part he didn't tell people. He heard the beat. Every one of them, a melody under the drums. Sam kept the beat the crowd could hear; he kept the beat underneath it, the wet red metronome of a full house.
The constant throng would drive a younger man insane. It didn't drive him anywhere. Not normally. He wanted that on record. He had stood in rooms louder, more crowded and walked out clean. Every time. Ten thousand times. He'd never once given in to temptation.
Instead he learned to listen⊠like reading the weather. It happened after rebirth. The first steps, if you will. There was a trick, if you wanted to master it.
It wasn't about the pulse. Not the throat. Not even the specific animal instinct of the girl in row five whose heart was going like she'd run here.
Pressure changes.
The warm front.
You had to let it become the room instead of the meal⊠and then you could stand in it forever. He taught himself that over centuries, one show at a time, and he wasâ and he would promise you thatâ very calm about it.
The song ended. Natasha took the next. He only had about four bars, letting him just be a man with a guitar. And that was the moment he made his biggest mistake. It didn't feel like one. But then, it never does.
He looked down. Simple as that.
She was there. Front row. Same six feet of railing she'd owned since they'd left Cleveland, like she signed a lease on it. Sunshineâ printed across her tiny tank top.
The pressure needle skipped a beat.
Because here was the thing about the rest of themâ the whole seething pitâ they knew. Not with their heads or heart. Something deeper. They came to be near the danger. To press up against it. To feel their own hearts beat faster. That speed was instinct, a body doing what a body should do in a room with something like him. He loved them for it. It was the only honest thing about them.
Hers didn't do that.
She stood in the wall of noise with her face tipped up and all he felt was delight. Nothing more. There was no animal in her leaning back from the edge. Because to her, he was the whole entire show. The best night of her week. She got to see a man she thought was beautiful. Her heart was fast, sure. But it was fast the way a kid's was on a carousel. It was fast because she was happy. She was enthralled.
He wanted you to understand what that did to him. The fear he could drink around; the fear was the weather. But she wasn't afraid. He couldn't read that from her. And it drew him in. She had no idea. She trusted him. She decided, with that whole empty radiant head of hers, that he was safe.
And trustâ he could tell you now, so no one could ever say he hid itâ trust was the one thing he had never understood.
He was fine. He wanted to be so clear about that. He looked back up, hit his mark, sang the next line right on the beat. Not a single soul of that ten thousand knew. That was control.
$6,423.
The figure printed on the paper slip that had slid out of the ATM when you put in your bank card. You knew it before you'd even put it in. It was what you'd earned that summer, working three separate jobs to pay tuition for college.
You were going to be a nurse. It was a good profession, respectable.
Here's the thing about $6,423: it wasn't exactly a lot of money for a college program. It was, however, a staggering amount for a girl with a banged-up old Corolla and the desire for a taste of forbidden fruit.
That's what they were to you. The Sergeant and the Sires. The Sergeant specifically. You were under his thrall.
You'd done the math. More than once. Then once more with an actual calculator, in case your brain was trying to deceive you.
22 shows. Not all of themâ you weren't totally insane. 22 of 41 the band had scheduled. One show per state. You had always wanted to see the country, it would be a great way to explore before the crushing weight of a career became obligatory.
The tickets were the easy part: $58 - $95. General admission for the floor was your best bet and buying at the box office, which you'd already done. The woman at the desk had given you a judgemental look, but you didn't care.
$1731 you'd spent so far.
A tight budget. You estimated $1500 for gas, if you kept your speed to below sixty-five. Your car was the one thing you trusted to do its job and it had a comfortable enough backseat that you could cover the windows and sleep there most nights. Motels offered a shower, a more luxurious night when your car wasn't the safest option.
That probably came to $800. You rounded up to $900 because you were being responsible.
Food was your next consideration. One meal a day was manageable, right? You weren't stupid, it had to be something substantial and diners usually offered affordable meals. You guess around $10/day for 42 days. $420. $500 if you wanted a coffee. You'd pack snacks for the road.
$1000 was for opportunistic recreational activities, leaving you $792 for emergencies.
You made a note. It was plenty of cash. Maybe you'd even indulge in some of the band's merch. A dreamy expression washed over your face as you thought about a shirt with The Sergeant's face looking up at you.
You'd figure it out, because people figure things out. You'd been called resourceful. Your parents had said you could do anything you put your mind to.
Except everyone said don't to this.
Your sister said it with the long-suffering patience of someone who knew she wasn't swaying you. Your office manager frowned, saying he couldn't hold any of your regular shifts. The girl you'd been seeing scoffed and used the word unhealthy more than once.
Your mother hadn't said a single word. She knew there was no point in trying. It'd felt worse than anything anyone else had said.
Because when all was said and done, they weren't wrong. You weren't stupid enough to deny it. Your plan was crazy. You were twenty-four, planning to spend your entire education fund on 42 days, 22 of which you'd be standing in the dark, looking up.
Here's what no one understood. What no one in your life seemed to have a category for. In your 24 years on Earth, you had neverâ not onceâ felt like you were standing where you were supposed to be. And then it happened. They had come to town. The Sergeant and The Sires. And for two hours, three nights a week, you stood in darkness, in a sea of people with the bass pounding through your feet, and finally every single atom in your body was pointing in the same direction. Your whole being had been drawn to them. To him. Seeing them perform had stirred something deep inside you. And for the first time in your life, you felt alive.
How were you supposed to weigh the cost of being alive against a nursing program? You weren't confused or naive. You'd just done the math and arrived at a different answer. You knew exactly what it cost, you had the number written on a receipt in the glove-box for your Corolla.
So you got in and turned the key.
Backstage smelled like every other backstage didâ cold beer, hot cables, the sugar-rot of a fruit tray nobody touched. He loved it, but it was a smell with no pulse.
He was fine. He'd said that already but he wanted it noted.
Sam got the cooler open before his sweat was even dry, tossing the bottles around like it was a totally normal thing. Because to them it was. Except it wasn't beer he was passing, it was TruBlood. The good stuff, the quality O-neg that Yelena bought by the case because to her a happy band was a well-fed band. Steve caught his one-handed, cracking the cap with his thumb. He downed half in one go, the way he did everythingâ clean, without ceremony. Sam was talking his ear off, some story about a girl from Louisiana, half-laughing into his own bottle.
"Barnes!" Sam lobbed one at him.
He caught it. Like there was ever any doubt. His hands were the last thing to ever forget what they're for. Even the one that didn't quite belong to him.
It was warm. Yelena had done her duty and filled the cooler with hot water, warming the bottles until they were body temperature. It sat in his cold palm while he listened distractedly to Sam. He laughed in the right places. He twisted the cap. But he didn't drink.
He wanted that on the record too. The bottle was open. He was holding it. Anyone watching would say 'there was a man having his dinner'. But that little compass inside, the one that read the weather, it pointed at something else. Something through the hallway. At a carousel heart, beating at a happy gallop. He heard it. He felt it. It consumed him. The warm glass in his hand felt like a prop. A thing to hold so his hands looked busy. So no one would see what he craved.
Natasha had a way of appearing when she wasn't wanted. Silent. Stealthy. She found him by the instrument cases, doing this thing where she didn't look directly at you. She was doing it now, focusing all her energy on coiling a cable around her arm while her own bottle lay sweating and untouched on a case beside her.
"Good show," she said.
"Good show."
"You went somewhere. During 'Bloodletting.' You went somewhere and came back." She cocked her head, finally looking at him.
He told her he was on the beat the whole time. Which was true. He was! Ask any one of the thousands of humans in the crowd. Not one of them felt him leave.
She wrapped the cable slow. "That's not what I asked."
Across the room Sam called his name, wanting him in on the story, to confirm he remembered the girl from Louisiana. He answered, because he must. To keep the room warm, the atmosphere easyâ to keep it to just the four of them, their bottles, a good show and the full house behind them. He didn't need Sam or Steve looking at him the way Natasha did. No one else needed to count, to clock that his bottle was still full.
Here was the part he didn't say out loud. You don't hand someone the stake and the cross. But deep down inside he knew. The girl in the crowd came back. The ray of sunshine in the darkness. She was here right now. Yelena had let her sneak in, like a stray cat.
He set the bottle down on the case. Still full. He told himself it was because he wasn't thirsty.
He was very calm about it.
It happened at night, mostly, in the back of the Corolla, adjustable shades pulled down. When the parking lot had gone quiet and there was nothing left for you to think about⊠but him.
It always started the same wayâ with his hands. The part of him that seemed to wreck you. Not his voice⊠although that was its own kind of problem. His hands⊠you watched them from six feet away for eight nights. The way they moved over the fingerboard, like they owned it, like the guitar was an extension of himself.
There was that moment in the third song where heâd flatten his palm across the strings to kill the ring. The silence hit low in your gut. You thought about those same hands on your skin. Sliding under your shirt. Callused fingertips tracing your ribs. Then lower, cupping your breasts. Thumbs brushing your nipples until they tightened. For him.
You thought about being alone with him. Somewhere with an actual door. The details of the room didn't matter. You were always looking at him looking at you.
You thought about him being slow. It was the thing you came back to every night, the thing that made your face burn and your thighs press together in the dark. Heâd take his time, undress you like he was learning a new instrument, spread you open on the bed and just look, eyes dark and hungry, taking in every inch of your body.
Then those hands would move, sliding up your inner thighs, thumbs parting slick folds, circling your clit with steady, intimate pressure until you were shaking, dripping for him. Heâd push two thick fingers inside, curling them just right while his mouth found your nipple, sucking hard enough to make you moan his name.
You imagined him eating you outâ slow, filthy licks, tongue fucking into you while he held your hips down, growling against your pussy as you grind on his face. And when he finally pushed inside you, thick, hard and bare, heâd do it inch by inch, eyes locked on yours, watching every reaction as he stretched and filled you completely.
Heâd fuck you deep, hips rolling with the rhythm he used on stage, one hand pinning your wrists above your head while the other rubbed your clit until you came clenching around his cock, gasping and soaking the sheets.
You imagined him moaning your name, as he buried himself to the hilt and came, voice rough against your ear, hips jerking as he spilled inside you.
Sometimes you didnât even get that far. Sometimes it was just the idea of his mouth near your ear, breath hot as he whispered exactly what he was going to do to you. How he was going to ruin you for anyone else.
Youâd have to stop, press the heels of your hands into your eyes, and laugh at yourself. A grown-ass woman in a Corolla following a band around the country, soaked and aching over a man who didnât even know you existed.
You fell asleep like that most nights. Warm, stupid, and happy, thighs still slick with the evidence of how badly you wanted him.
You had no idea what you were asking for.
It happened in St. Louis. Number nine, though by then the cities had already started to blur into one long strip of welcome signs and exhaust fumes. You'd have to check the tickets in the glove-box to be sure which cities you'd passed through. The shows, however, were burned into your brain.
This had been a good week. That's what kept going through your mind afterwards. You were well within budget, the Corolla was behaving and you had the cash to splurge on a motel because your neck had opinions on the backseat of your car.
Eleven minutes was all it took. You had left the room to grab ice from around the corner of the complex. For those eleven minutes you were living the life of luxury.
The door was shut when you came back, but the second you crossed the threshold, you knew something was wrong. The same way you knew when Bucky was going to change keys in the middle of a song.
Your duffel was on the bed open. You walked over, resigned to the inevitable. The envelope gone, your wallet with it, both cards, the debit and the one you kept for real emergencies.
They'd left the tickets. All 22 of them. Untouched⊠because who would want those?
You cancelled the cards, then sat on the end of the bed, redoing the math. $161. It'd been in your jacket pocket. Three-quarters of a gas tank and 22 tickets. The next show was 300 miles west.
The strange thing was, the most obvious thought never arrived. The one where you gave up. Asked for help. Drove home. You waited for it. All night you waited. But it never came. Not even when you called your sister and swore her to secrecy.
Outside the next venue, you met Trish. You didn't find her, she found you. You had arrived early, since there was no where else you could afford to go. Instead you sat on the cold hard ground to contemplate your woes. You were in your denim jacket, covered in pins from each one of the shows you had under your belt. You were spilling your problems to her before she even introduced herself. She didn't give you the oh honey face. She just nodded, like she'd heard it forty times, because she had.
Cash problems, she said, were easy.
That's when she brought it up. Phrased it as a trade. Something clean. Regulated, even. There was an⊠agency, a three letter acronym, said too fast for you to catch. It was something you'd reflect on later, the size of the thing you chose not to ask. Trish described it exactly like donating blood, except this paid $200. Apparently everyone who come on tour did it. She rolled up her sleeve and showed you the inside of her elbow.
You looked down at the business card she gave youâ GGB Ltd. $200 per unit. One a week was fine. Two was fine if you ate well. You did the math right there on the curb, and you knew everything would be alright.
Yelena found him where he'd put himself, as far from anyone as the room allowedâ a chair turned backward, arms crossed over the back, watching the door.
She didn't announce herself. She never did. She crossed the room with an economy of movement only she hadâ all businessâ and dropped into a crouch behind a cooler she carried. Not the usual . A smaller one. Black, no logo, the kind you didn't leave lying around for anyone to find.
"You're not drinking," she said. Not a question.
"'m fine."
"Yeah, you said." She popped the latch. "Three cities in a row⊠you said. You think I don't count the bottles, Barnes? I count everything. It's my job."
He started to answer but she held up a hand without looking at him, and then she took the bottle out.
It wasn't TruBlood. He knew that before she'd even fully extracted itâ knew it from the way the smell reached him a half-second ahead of his eyes. A glass bottle, yes, the same shape but unlabeled. Inside it something that wasn't the usual synthetic crap she offered them.
"B-neg," Yelena said, turning it in the low light. "Real. Freshâ not long from the host. Don't ask who, because I don't, and neither should you." She set it on the case in front of him with a small, delicate clink. "You've been walking around like a live wire and it's making the others nervous, even if they're too polite to say. So⊠eat something real. On me."
He looked at it.
For a moment he didn't move at all. That was the last of his control. The long-suffering habit he spent centuries perfecting. Never once letting it hold him by the collar. He told himself he wasn't going to now. He'd made it this long.
But the bottle sat there and as it caught the light, he could hear it, actually hear the way it whispered to himâ a slick warmth that told the story of the person it had once belonged to.
He picked it up.
The screw-on top came away under his thumb effortlessly. He meant to take one sip. He honestly, genuinely meant itâ just to taste, to be civilized about it, to prove to himself that he was a man having a drink and not a starving animal salivating at a trough.
The first swig undid it all.
It hit the back of his throat and something in him simply woke⊠some old animal that had been asleep, pretending to be furniture. After that there was no sipping. The rest vanished in seconds. He didn't decide it. It was gone before decision had entered into the equation, the bottle tipped all the way up, his throat working, the whole rare impossible pint emptied into him like water into parched ground.
He set the bottle down more carefully than he'd done anything else that night.
The room felt different now. He felt differentâ warm for the first time in decades, lit up, every sense turned suddenly to its sharpest setting. There was a glint in his eyes that hadn't been there before, a brightness that had nothing to do with the overhead bulb. His fangs had come down without permission, more obvious now, and he didn't bother to hide them. He ran his tongue along them slow, cleaning the last of the red from his lips.
Yelena watched him with her arms folded. She didn't look pleased, more like someone confirming a suspicion.
"There he is," she said, a smirk on her lips.
You almost didn't go back. That was the truth of it. A truth you'd never tell anyone, because it sounded insane out loud. There was a woman with an official lanyard who singled you out after the show. She read your name off a listâ your name, the one you'd signed in the parking lot for GGBâ and for one chilling moment, you'd thought it was about the blood. That someone had found out and you were in trouble.
But she'd just smiled and said someone wanted to say hi, and would you follow her, and your heart had done something complicated and enormous in your chest.
So there you were. Backstage, past security, in a concrete hallway that smelled like stale beer and something smoky. You were wearing the Sunshine shirtâ your favorite, one you'd washed so many times the print had started to crack. You'd have worn something sexier if you'd known. But you hadn't, and the shirt was clean, and was the one that felt most like you.
You'd pulled your left sleeve down before she brought you in. Habit now. Nobody's business.
And then he was justâ there.
You forgot how to be a person for a second. The honest truth of it. You'd stood six feet from this man for eleven different nights but you'd never once been so close to him. And there was a difference, an enormous difference, that no amount of front-row devotion had prepared you for. On stage he was a shape in the light. Here he was a man, tall and still, close enough to touch, and he was looking directly at you.
"You're the one on the barricade," he said. "Front row. Every night."
He knew. He'd noticed. You made a sound that was supposed to be a word. And wasn't.
His voice did something to you. You'd heard it sing to ten thousand people and you'd thought that was the thing, that was the reason, but this was differentâ low, unhurried, pitched just for you. It went straight through you like the bass through the floor, settling somewhere behind your sternum. You felt, absurdly, like you already knew him. Like you'd known him a long time. Like all those nights in the dark had been a conversation and this was him finally answering.
"Iâ yeah," you managed. "That's me. I've been following the tour. Since Cleveland." And then, because your mouth had apparently decided to run without you: "Since before Cleveland, actually, since you played my town, that'sâ that's how it started, I saw you and I just, I couldn't not, you know?"
You winced. You sounded like exactly what you were. But he didn't laugh at you. He tilted his head a little, the way you'd seen him do on stage between songs, and he listened, like your babbling was worth listening to, and God, you could have died right there and been happy about it.
"Eleven cities," he said. "That's a long way to drive for a band."
"For you," you said, before you could stop yourself. "I meanâ the band. Mostly. Kinda. Yeah."
Heat crawled up your neck. It was worth it, because something crossed his face when you said itâ something you couldn't read, something that flickered and was goneâ he stepped closer, and you didn't step back. You'd never step back. You'd spent your whole savings, slept in a Corolla, sat in a folding chair in a parking lot so you could stand exactly this close. Now that you were here, every atom in your body was doing the thing it only ever did in the pit. Pointing. At him.
"You drove all that way," he said, almost to himself, "and you're not even a little afraid?"
You laughed. It seemed like such a strange thing to say.
"Why would I be afraid of you?"
He smiled, close-lipped. It didn't quite reach the brightness in his eyes.
"No," he said. "Course you're not."
He knew it. That was the thing that stopped his unbeating heart cold. He knew that scentâ had known it for weeks, had felt it move through him warm, rare and impossible. B-negative.
Not long from the host, she said. Don't ask me who. And he hadn't. Here was the answer standing in front of him in a washed-soft shirt with the word Sunshine painted across it.
It was her. The blood he'd drunk was hers.
Something in him went extremely quiet and impossibly loud at the same time. A trance, almostâ the room narrowed to a single pointâ her. Everything else felt gray and irrelevant. He'd already tasted her.
It was still in himâ her bloodâ singing, part of him now, and his body had learned the shape of her. And it wanted the rest. Craved it.
He noticed everything. He couldn't stop noticing. The sweat still drying at her hairline from dancing on a packed floor for him. The flush on her cheeks that had bloomed the second he'd stepped closer, nothing to do with the heat and everything to do with him. The line of her throat. The way she held herself, tipped slightly toward him like a plant toward a window, all unguarded warmth pointed straight at the most dangerous thing in the room.
She was beautiful. He let himself see it, which was its own mistake. Not the painted-on beauty of the people who usually made it back hereâ something better, something free and unfiltered, sweat, a cracked-print shirt and eyes so wide open they hurt to look at.
Under all of it, beneath the shirt, the flush, the babbling and the light, was that sound.
Her heart.
He could hear it the way he heard everything, but this was different, this was loud and strong, that happy carousel-gallop, the healthy, fullest sound in the world, a heart without fear. He could see it, if he let his eyes drop half an inch. The pulse in her neck. The soft flutter under her skin, keeping time, offering.
B-negative moves through her and he had tasted it, he knew what it was, and knowing was so much worse than not.
His fangs came down.
He didn't decide it. There was no deciding left in him. They lengthened against his tongue, sharp, eager and entirely beyond his control. He pressed his lips shut and prayed she couldn't see. She couldn't. She was still talking, still glowing, still asking him something with that open, unafraid face.
Why would I be afraid of you?
And thereâ right thereâ some old animal part of her did clock it. Just for a second. A flicker behind her eyes, a small instinctive stutter in that big strong heart, the faintest spike of something that wasn't quite fear, gone almost before it arrived.
It should have shamed him. It didn't. God help him, it did the opposite. That small spike, that tiny honest jolt of a body recognizing a predatorâ lit him up. It made the craving worse, sharper, unbearable, because now she was afraid and warm and she still wasn't stepping back. The wanting rose up in him like a tide with no shoreline.
He wanted to drink. Plain. Simple. He wanted to close the distance and put his mouth to that flutter in her throat and take what was already partly his, and keep taking. He knewâ with a clarity that was almost peacefulâ exactly how it would go. How her heart would change its tune. How the light would go out by degrees.
That was what stopped him. Not decency. Not restraint, whatever he'd told himself, whatever he'd told her. Just the certaintyâ cold and completeâ that if he started he would not stop. Could not. There would be no sip. There was never going to be a just a sip with her. He would empty her right there in the concrete hallway with her favorite shirt on and her hands reaching for him. It would be the best thing he had ever felt, and then she would be gone. Forever.
So he held still. He pulled back on the centuries-old instinct inside him and smiled, close-lipped, hiding the teeth.
"No," he said softly. "Course you're not."
She stepped closer, and the smell of her reached him fully. The floor dropped out below him and still, he did not move, he did not breathe. Inside he came apart entirely.
The first part of one of our stories just dropped!! @mrsbuckybarnes1917 gives us an introduction to the dark, magnetic, and mysterious pull between Vampire Rockstar!Bucky and reader.
Hello everyone! The first set of writers are off scribbling the first part of their stories.
We have 3 wonderful teams participating this year and here is who they and what you all have to look forward to as they unfold their stories over the next 6 weeks.
Watch this space as we will share the each chapter as they complete them.
Weâre so excited to officially open sign-ups for the first-ever Star and Shield Collective Writerâs Relay!
Writerâs Relay is a collaborative writing event where writers are matched into teams of three to create a shared story together. The stories should follow a 2+1 format.
For example: Two times she almost confessed + the one time he did.Â
For this event, you can write for any Anthony Mackie, Chris Evans, or Sebastian Stan characters.
Sign-up Now
Event Timeline
June 20: Sign-ups NOW OPEN
July 2: Sign-ups close at midnight (US ET)
After submitting your sign-up form, you should receive an acknowledgment email within 3 days. If you donât receive one, please reach out to the mods so we can make sure your sign-up came through.
July 6: Inspiration Prompts posted
July 10: Matches go out
July 11 â July 18: Teams connect, brainstorm and plot
July 18: Send in your writing line-up and fic masterpost
 July 19 â August 1: First sprint
August 2 â August 16: Second sprint
 August 17 â August 31: Third sprint
You can find the full event details here but hereâs a summaryâŠ
How It Works
Sign up and indicate your preferences.
Weâll match you with two other writers. Once teams are matched, youâll have time to connect, pick your prompt, brainstorm, plot, and decide the order your team will write in.
Please let us know your writing line-up before the writing period begins.
Each team member will contribute one chapter, with a minimum of 1,000 words and a maximum of 5,000 words.
The relay will run in two-week writing sprints. The first writer in the line-up will have two weeks to write and post their chapter. Once their chapter is posted, the next writer will have two weeks from that posting date to write and post their part, and so on.
You may post before the end of your sprint if your chapter is ready. Your teammates are also welcome to keep chatting, plotting, and supporting each other throughout the writing period.
Extensions & Pinch Hits
Life happens, and we understand that.
You may request an extension as early as 4 days before the end of your sprint. Extensions can be granted for up to 7 days, but please communicate with the mods as early as possible.
If you need to drop out, thatâs ok, but please let us know as soon as you can so we can arrange a pinch hit writer.
Please do not disappear or drop out without communicating with the mods. Writers who drop without notice will not be allowed to participate in the next Writerâs Relay or Star and Shield Collective events for one year. Youâll still be able to participate in monthly challenges.
If you are assigned as a pinch hit writer, you will have 2 weeks to write and post the part of the fic youâve been assigned.
Please make sure you read our acceptable fanworks post before signing up.
Weâre so excited to see the teams come together and watch these stories unfold.
Ready to join the relay?
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> Sign up here
hi! im very excited about the event, but i do have a question! if i'm only able to do sprints 2 and 3, is there a way to indicate this, or must i be available for all three sprints?
Hello wei, thanks for asking!
All three sprints donât require your active participation. Once you are assigned a team, please communicate your availability with your teammates and let them know that youâd prefer to be second or third in the line-up.
If there are any issues at that point, please let the mods know and weâll help work out something.
Please us know if you have any other questions. đ
Writerâs relay is a collaborative writing game spanning over 7 weeks. You can write for any Anthony Mackie, Chris Evans, or Sebastian Stan characters.Â
Based on your preferences, you will be working in a team of three to write a story. This year the stories have to follow a 2+1 format.
For example - Two times she almost confessed + the one time he did.Â
You choose a prompt as a team. We will give you a set of prompts to choose from as well.
Timeline
June 20: Sign-ups open
July 2: Sign-ups close
July 6: Prompts Posted
July 10: Matches go out
July 11- July 18: Teams connect and plot
July 18: Send in your writing line-up, and fic masterpost
July 19- Aug 1: First sprint
Aug 2 - Aug 16: Second sprint
Aug 17 - Aug 31: Third sprint
Before sign-ups open, we encourage you to reblog and share this announcement :)
How it works
Sign up and indicate your preferences
We match you up with two other writers.Â
You will have one week to pick your prompt, brainstorm and plot, and choose the order in which your team will write.
Please let us know your writing line-up before the start of the writing period.
Each member of the team has to contribute a chapter with a minimum of 1000 words and a maximum of 5000.
The writing will go in 2 week sprints. The first person in the line-up will have 2 weeks to write and post their chapter. And then the next person goes, and so on.Â
You may post before the end of your 2 week sprint if you are ready. Then the next person will have 2 weeks from the day it was posted to write and post their part of the story.
You may continue to chat and work with your teammates during the writing period.
Please see acceptable fanworks guidelines for what is allowed.
Posting
You may post your story on Tumblr or AO3 (recommended)Â
If you choose to post on Tumblr, one of your team members must create a Masterpost with all your team members tagged as well as stubs for the chapter link before the start of the writing sprint.Â
If you post on AO3, please make a Tumblr post linking to the fic when the first chapter is posted.
Each chapter gets its own post and please tag us when it is posted along with the next person in your line-up to pass the âbatonâ to them..
Extensions and Pinch Hits
You may request for an extension as early as 4 days before the end of your sprint. You can get a maximum extension of 7 days. Please communicate this as early as you can.
Life happens and if you need to drop out, thatâs totally fine. Please let us know as soon as you can so we can assign a pinch hit writer.Â
Please do not drop out without communicating with the mods. You will not be allowed to participate in the next writerâs relay or Star and Shield Collective events for a year. You can still participate in the monthly challenges.Â
If you are assigned as a pinch hit, you will have 2 weeks to write and post the part of fic youâre assigned. Â
Dividers by @uzmacchiato | About Star and Shield Collective
This is an events and community space for people who create and appreciate fanworks of Anthony Mackie, Chris Evans, and Sebastian Stan characters.
Star and Shield Collective is a sister page of @star-and-shield-monthly hosting one off events a few times a year. Currently moderated by @indigo-jungle @eterna1reverie and @societyfolklore
Core Values
This is an open event and community space. We highly encourage you to participate by not just creating but also sharing and commenting on works of other participants, especially if it is someone you don't interact with regularly.
This is a welcoming space regardless of background, race, sexuality, gender identity or skill level. Be kind and respectful to all participants.
Getting in touch and housekeeping
You may contact the blog via asks or DMs for any questions, clarifications. Anons are currently on. They may be shut off at mod discretion.
Please allow up to 5 days for a response, before following up.
