Dead Dove Do Not Eat - Blog Posts

What is... dead dove?

Dead dove, do not eat - this is often found in the tags or the notes of a fanfiction. It is basically a warning sign.

What the author means with this is that the reader should take a closer look at the title, the summary and the other tags, because what they can see there is exactly what's going to happen in the story. These stories mostly contain themes that are sensitive or can be disturbing for a reader.

It's an author's way of saying: "I tagged what's going to happen in the story, so don't be surprised if those things happen."

THROUGH THE SMOKE

WARNING: this fic contains, blood, guns, and wound fucking. if you're uncomfortable with any of these things listed. SCROLL.

NSFW CONTENT BELOW

｡⋆𖦹.✧˚──

the first time you crossed paths, it was raining bullets and blood. you’d been sent to intercept intel, same as him. you didn’t know his name then. only the cold mask and the colder eyes behind it. all you knew was he moved like a shadow, silent and lethal. your knife caught his jacket. his metal hand wrapped around your throat. neither of you spoke. neither of you had to. you escaped with a bruised jaw, a cracked rib, and the first scar he ever gave you. the second time wasn’t much different. an abandoned soviet outpost. he came through the window. you were already there. the fight was faster this time, like you’d both memorized each other’s rhythm. you knew how he’d strike, and he knew how you’d counter. it was less battle, more dance. when he pinned you to the wall, his hand curled around your throat. you still stabbed him in the side.

but god, something about him.... about the silence he wore like armor, made your blood burn hotter than the knives you kept strapped to your thighs. weeks passed. a third mission. a fourth. it became routine. find the mark. find him already there. fight until someone bled. you started to expect him. worse, you started to hope for him. him as the winter soldier. you started thinking of him as yours. not in any sweet way. no. in the way a scar is yours. in the way a loaded gun is.

once, in a forest outside warsaw, you ended up back to back, both surrounded, both out of ammo. you didn’t speak. didn’t trust. but your body moved with his like you’d trained together for years. after the last body fell, you turned on him, breath ragged, gun aimed. he looked at you like he didn’t care if you pulled the trigger. but you didn’t. not that time. but the next time, you swore you would.

and then it happens.

a mission in prague. intel said he was there. you volunteered before they finished the briefing. they didn’t ask why. you find him in a crumbling cathedral lit by dying light. stained glass windows shattered, casting fractured color over dust and ruin. he stands near the altar like a ghost in combat boots. you aimed first and he didn't flinch.

“you gonna shoot me this time?” he asks, his voice was rough, unfamiliar. it’s the first time he’s spoken to you.

“maybe,” you reply, finger on the trigger. “depends how fast you draw.”

“not very,” he admits, and drops his gun to the floor with a metallic clatter. you hesitate.

“why?”

“getting tired of this.” he steps closer. you hold your ground.

you press the barrel to his chest. he presses his hand to yours.

“then shoot me,” he says and your heart pounds like war drums.

“you first,” you whisper.

he moves quickly, metal hand knocking your gun wide, your finger squeezing the trigger, a shot ringing out into the rafters. he’s faster than you remembered. stronger. more desperate. you’re slammed into the altar. your knife is in your hand, when did that happen? and his is at your throat. you slice upward. he dodges, barely. his mask is gone now. you don’t remember tearing it off, but his face is all you see. sweat on his brow. blood at his lip. steel in his eyes.

then somehow, you’re on top. knees on his chest, gun drawn again. finger trembling. he doesn’t fight. doesn’t move. just looks at you like he’s already dead. your hand shakes. the metal is cold in your grip. his chest rises under your knees. he doesn’t break your gaze.

slowly, so slowly, he moves. not to attack. but to press your hand, the one holding the gun, up. to his forehead. your breath catches.

“pull it,” he says. “if you mean it.” your finger curls tighter and your lips part.

you don’t know if it’s hate or love or something so much worse, but you don’t pull the trigger. you lean down instead, gun still trembling in your hand, and let it slowly trail from his temple down across the sharp angle of his cheekbone, dragging the barrel along the stubble of his jaw. he doesn’t move. nor breathe. and then god you hit the corner of his mouth. he parts his lips just slightly. just enough for the cold muzzle to kiss the edge of his bottom lip. his tongue flats over metal. his lips curl around the barrel not to take it, not fully, but enough that your stomach twists. and his eyes never leave yours.

you’ve played with death before, but never like this. never so intimate. never so quiet. he looks like he’s daring you to pull the trigger now. and a part of you wants to. but then— his knee slams up. fast. hard. brutal. your body lifts off him with the force of it, air ripped from your lungs as you crash backward. the gun slips from your grip mid-fall, skittering across the cathedral floor. you hit the stone like a dropped doll, bones jolting.

he’s on you. bucky barnes. the winter soldier. knees on either side of your hips, hand pinning both wrists above your head with terrifying ease.

you twist, snarl, spit blood at him. he doesn’t flinch. his metal hand grips the gun now. cold barrel pressed low to your stomach just beneath your ribs. both your chest heave. you can feel the war between you like it’s alive. like it’s its own living, breathing thing. he presses the gun harder against you right below your bellybutton. right where it would hurt the most.

you laugh. bloody. bitter.

"i want you to remember what it felt like. right here." he taps the barrel against your stomach. "how close you came." then he pulled the trigger. the sound cracked through your body. your spine arched. a sob got caught in your throat. fire bloomed through your gut. your vision blurred at the edges. the ceiling twisted above you like it was turning away.

blood poured out of you, warm and fast, you could feel it—feel yourself— leaking into the cold stone beneath you. he leaned in, eyes on your face. he watched your eyes lose focus. your blood was soaking his gun and gloves. your head turned sluggishly. you could feel yourself fading. your gaze met his, your lips moved but only a thin hiss of breath came out. his eyes were hard to read in the shadows. he presses the gun firmly into your wound. the pain snapped you back. your body jerked with a strangled screech. your hands flailed, grabbing for the gun. he just watched, his body like a block of steel above you, eyes on your face.

he leaned in until you could see the sweat on his face. the tendons in his clenched jaw. he was bleeding a bit. you hadn't even noticed. you spit a mouthful of blood onto his cheek. his gaze fell to your wound. your shirt was sticky with blood, your eyes were starting to glaze. you barely notice that the gun hasn't moved. it's still there. pressed to the same spot slick with your blood. then he slowly pushes the barrel deeper. it sinks into the wound with a wet, sucking resistance. your breath stutters. blood smears up the barrel, warm and dark.

your fingers twitch at your side. your eyes shined with pain. pain so deep it goes quiet in your bones. "feels different when it's slow, doesn't it?"

he twists the gun, just a little. and your body jolts beneath him. mouth open in a silent cry. he pulls the barrel free, blood and ruin clinging to it. you lay there, gasping for breath. his hand tightened on the gun, dragging it up your body from your stomach to your chest, between your breasts, resting finally at your throat. then— he was gone. just like that. leaving you alone in the ruins. heart pounding. body aching. you were still breathing. but you hadn’t survived him.

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