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jonogueirawrites · 2 years ago

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Save him from himself.

Chapter 8

Summary:

It finally happens, and Bucky doesn't know what to do or feel when he faces his worst fear. Or should he admit 'fears'?

TW: murder, blood, fight.

AO3

Relentlessness.

As expected, Zemo managed to escape amidst the fighting, and with nothing else to do, they decided to leave the apartment. On their way out, Sam stopped Bucky when he noticed that Lilly stayed behind. Giving the other man a hard stare, Sam closed the door behind him when he left, leaving the two alone.

The silence in the air was far from what Bucky thought it would be. There was no tension in it, only anticipation. A fragile line that was about to be crossed. One that Bucky didn’t know if he wanted to. If he was ready to.

He watched as Lilly opened the cabinet and took a cup from it, filling it with water. Keeping her eyes away from him. He walked up to her and pulled on the hem of her t-shirt to be closer to him. Without a word, she let herself be guided to his arms. He rested his chin on her shoulder and gave her jaw a lingering kiss. He pulled her free hand up and kissed her wrist, making circles on her palm.

“I never wanted to hurt you. I never want to hurt you. I know that what I did wasn’t what you wanted, but I had my reasons.” His arms squeezed her. He took a deep breath and rested his cheek on her shoulder. “I just… don’t know.” There was grief in his voice. An apologetic tone lacing his words.

“You don’t know.” It wasn’t a question, and it hit Bucky like a rock.

“It’s hard to explain. Please, Lilly, bear with me-”

“Bear with you?” She turned in his arms to face him. “Bear with you? Do you have any idea what it is like to see you doing this?” She looked around and took a step back, making Bucky try to get her back into his arms, but she refused his contact. “To watch as you sell yourself short. Tell me that you want me, love me, but push me away the moment you need me.”

“I’m not pushing you away.”

“Yes, you are.” She ran her fingers over her hair, tucking the strands behind her ears and whispering again, “Yes, you are.”

“What do you want me to do? Tell me, and I will do it.” He took a step in her direction but decided to give her some space in the end.

“I thought I already had.” She walked around the counter, and he watched as she put distance from him. “I want you to want me. I want you to include me.”

“I do. I do, Lilly.”

“You don’t even see what you’re doing.” Her unamused chuckle made him flinch. “You repeatedly ignore me. Don’t listen to me at all. You don’t think before you act and don’t care about the consequences. All you want is the shield.”

“No.” Bucky’s voice firm. There was no doubt in his mind.

“And here you are again. Lying. To me, to you, to everyone.” She crossed her arms over her chest, and Bucky wanted to hug her.

“I’m not lying.” All his conviction turned into weariness.

“Maybe you’re not lying, but you are deceiving yourself. You want the shield? We will get you the shield, and I just hope you don’t regret the losses along the way, James.”

Bucky watched her walking away from him again. Walking away from them.

He closed his eyes and cursed himself. How could he explain to her that the shield meant a lot to him? That it was a connection to his past. To when he was just a man and not a walking assassin with so much blood on his hands that even if he drowned in the ocean and rotted in its bottom, the stains would never go away. To a time, he had a family and Steve, and everything was simpler. Even the war was easier than living a life plagued with nightmares and things he would never get used to. To a future, he was never meant to see.

If he could just make her understand, make her see that there were still things stopping him from letting go. How he desperately wanted to leave things behind and have her by his side always. Always. No matter what. Build a life he always wanted but never thought he could have. He didn’t think he was worth having. “Lillian.”

Talk to me. Her words echoed in his mind, and he regretted them. Just talk to me.

With anguish filling his heart and despair filling his soul, he left the place and hoped that he wouldn’t regret the losses he would have along the way.

~~~~~

Without a clear destination, the trio walked along the street, trying to come up with a plan. For the first time, they didn’t walk side by side. It seemed that Bucky had as much to think about as Lillian.

Sam, who tried to understand where things had gotten so bad, looked at them and sighed. He was about to say something when his phone rang. His sister’s voice made him halt his steps. As soon as he told them about the meeting up, Bucky immediately volunteered to go, and when they looked at Lilly, she scoffed and walked ahead of them.

At the meeting place, they had a brief conversation with Karli before Sam got another phone call, that time from Sharon warning them that John was on the move. Already in the air, Sam told Bucky and Lilly he would send them the address.

After giving Lillian a worried look, Bucky started to run as soon as she told him to go and that she would find a way to get there. Cursing her lack of powers, she headed to the street and stole the first motorcycle she saw.

It took her way longer than she had wanted, and she was met with chaos upon arriving at the new place. Bucky, Sam, and John fought against the Flag Smashers. Entering the fray, she got punched in the face, and soon her nose started to bleed. Bucky, seeing what had happened, tilted his head with anger in his eyes and kicked her aggressor, sending the man flying over the rail. Still upset with the whole situation, Lilly gave him a short nod in appreciation and started fighting another masked man.

Karli tried to kill John in the confusion, but Hoskins, who came from somewhere else right on time, stopped her. Lilly couldn’t see what had happened, but when her eyes landed on Hoskins’s body resting peacefully against a pillar, she knew things had gotten a thousand times worse. Karli and her friends fled the scene, and the trio watched as something inside John snapped, and he pursued them by jumping out of the window.

When they finally reached the new Captain America, a man lay dead by his feet, and his shield was smeared with blood. A crowd of civilians with their phones recording everything surrounded them. Everybody watched the scene in front of them with dread in their minds.

Without thinking straight, John fled the scene. He ran to a warehouse where the trio caught up to him.

Sam and Bucky tried to convince John to give them the shield, but he refused, saying they did not want to engage him. Lilly, who stayed on the sidelines, wondered why he wouldn’t just give the shield up already. It was three against him. One being a super soldier. Something was wrong, and it made her skin crawl.

Placing herself between Bucky and John. She turned her back to Walker and stood closer to Bucky. In a whisper, she warned him not to do what he clearly was about to, “James.”

She waited for him to say something and walk away from that fight. But when all he did was give her a glance and stare at the man behind her again, she nodded, finally understanding that there was nothing she could do. Nothing would stop him. He was relentless. Giving up on him, them, everything, she walked away, and with her back still to the trio, she heard the beginning of the fight. Lost, defeated, and desolated, she sat on a nearby crate and watched them fighting with her broken heart in her palm, waiting for the end. The end of it all.

The fight dragged on, and all Lillian wanted was to leave the place, close her eyes and open them to a different scene. One involving a cottage and a lake. A ring and a life together. However, all she saw when she opened them and left all the dreams behind was John pushing Bucky against a column and short-circuiting his arm, leaving him unconscious on the floor.

She stood to help him, but John threw a piece of wood her way. Raising her arm to shield her body from the collision, she screamed when she felt her arm split in two. At that moment, she understood that John had somehow taken the serum, but what she didn’t understand was how he had gotten so unreasonable in so little time. In the second her head took to stop spinning and her eyes to refocus, John stood above Sam, who had his wings torn and was about to kill him when Bucky intervened.

They had a brief fight, and they finally took the shield from the man, breaking his arm in the process. John still tried to get the shield back, but Bucky once again stopped him long enough for Sam to get there. After a moment, they all end up on the floor, the shield resting peacefully nearby.

Bucky stood to get the shield and was surprised to see Lillian walking his way with it in one hand and a visibly broken arm hanging loosely by her side. He watched in horror as she approached him and threw it on the floor in front of him. Her words tore him apart.

“I hope you’re happy.”

She cradled her arm with her trembling fingers and turned her back to him. Without a single gaze his way, she left the place behind… and him as well. For good that time, and there was no way he could convince himself that he hadn’t lost her. He sat on the floor, his eyes staring at the thing in front of him. How could he have let things get that wrong? How could he let her, the one thing grounding him from the madness, get hurt physically and emotionally, all because he couldn’t stop? Couldn’t tell her everything, afraid of losing the single thread of sanity and quiet and peace he had. Afraid of losing her.

Bucky cursed himself for doubting them.

~~~~~

A few hours later, the trio waited in a different building for Torres to arrive. When they got there, Bucky walked up to Lillian to look at her arm, but she dismissed his help with a simple Don’t. Message he understood loud and clear, making sure to give her enough space but not too much so as not to be far if she needed him.

When Torres finally arrived, he brought people to help Lillian and Bucky breathed lighter. He told them that Karli’s followers were arrested, but she was nowhere to be found. Sam gave him the shield, and Bucky felt that at least something was done. Even though he would have to fight harder for something that was worth more than it. A million times more.

After hearing the news, Bucky decided to leave; he had other things in mind. Sam asked him if he was going after Zemo, and he answered by giving Lilly a look waiting to see if she would follow him. When she refused to acknowledge his presence, keeping her eyes on the paramedic’s hands around her arm, he knew the end had indeed finally come. Nodding more to himself than to Sam, he left the place. Leaving his heart and soul in that damned place. Leaving his hopes with a broken heart and arm behind.

~~~~~

The paramedics advised Lillian to go with them to a hospital, and she agreed. Before she left, Sam approached, asking if she was alright. She chuckled at him and joked that it wasn’t the first time she had broken something. Sam countered, saying that she knew he wasn’t talking about that. Lilly sighed, telling him that she didn’t know. She wasn’t sure what would happen and that some wounds took longer than others to heal.

“He loves you.”

“I know, Sam. I love him too. But I think we need some time to think if this,” she lifted her ring for them to see, “If it’s really something we are both ready to do.”

Giving him a weak smile and a kiss on the cheek, she left. Feeling half of herself going with Bucky through the door on the opposite side. Hearing the echoes of devilish laughter in her ears and the warmth of a little hopeful flame in her heart, keeping the total and complete darkness at bay.

I hope you liked.

Likes and reblogs are super appreciated!

#bucky barnes #lillian #save him from himself #marvel #the falcon and the winter soldier #tfatws #chapter 8 #relentlessness #tw #murder #blood #fight

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runwithwolvcs · 3 years ago

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You Know I'm No Good - eleven

just one more

Warnings: none just fluff

It's you,

because no one else makes sense

Pauls PoV

Paul had dropped Tallulah just before midnight, waiting until she had made it safely into her home before heading off towards Sam’s, which wasn’t too far from the Forresters. He cut through the well-known woods as a shortcut before coming out into the same clearing Sam and he had found Tallulah and her friends just one week prior. Where he had found Tallulah and that Chase kid all wrapped up in one another, now mixed with the boy he had found her with tonight, sent waves of anger through Paul's body. Not necessarily from jealousy, more so to do with his imprints lack of care of who she chooses as company. Paul knows he's not much better than the boys she calls her friends, he was them when he was in high school. Before he had shifted at least.

He had known trying to figure her out wouldn’t be easy, especially with the rumors that had been spread like wildfire amongst the tribe before she had even stepped foot onto the reservation. When Rachel had pointed her out at the bonfire her first night, the night everything had changed for him, he couldn’t help but notice how different she seemed. He knew that she had grown up in the city, but even just the air around her, the way she didn’t care that everyone's eyes were focused on her, was so refreshing in comparison to most of the younger girls on the res. Surely, he should’ve known just from that thought she would be special to him, considering who he had shown up to the bonfire with was no longer a thought in his mind, but only when they had made eye contact was it solidified.

Her.

His other half.

And just like that everything had changed. He had wanted to say hello, introduce himself and if it wasn’t for the immediate connection, he would have, but he could feel her resentment. To what he was unsure of, but it was enough to send a ripple of anger through him, and with Rachel's reaction to Tallulah, it was enough to send him over the edge completely, causing him to leave the bonfire early and his imprint.

His first interaction with her had not gone to plan either. He didn’t know what he was expecting, but the fiery girl he had met that day excited him, he wanted to know more of her, and still does. Even though she had spent the week helping Paul at the bookstore, and more and more of her personality had come out besides just the exterior front she had put up with him, he wanted to know more about her. What her life was like back in Seattle, what her interests are, besides causing what seems to be an infinite amount of trouble for herself. Her favorite book, and movie. Everything.

Walking down the dirt road up to the familiar wooden cottage, Paul could see his truck sitting off to the side meaning Embry had beaten him back, hopefully he had filled them in too, he thought to himself, wanting nothing more than to just go on his patrol shift and then head to bed.

Walking through the door he was met with Sam and Emily sitting at their dining room table, he could hear that Embry was in the kitchen, no doubt looking for something to eat. They had stopped their conversation as soon as Paul had entered, Sam was now looking at him with a stern look, whereas Emilys was more concerned, “She’s fine.” he reassured Emily, and himself.

Emily had quickly spoken to Tallulah after Paul had unintentionally shifted, something that was so rare for him to do nowadays. Emily was the one who was able to pull out any information from Tal, which he was grateful for, but from the look on Sams, he was not so happy,

“You should have gone to Joseph,” Sam started, causing Paul to scoff, “That's what he’s asked of us, Paul. I let you get away with keeping her night in the clearing from him, but this, this was something he should’ve dealt with himself. Tallulah is his daughter, and if you’re always there to bail her out of the problems she creates for herself, then you’re undermining the limits he’s set with her.” Sam spoke with authority, like Paul was back in school having been sent to the principal's office.

He wanted to roll his eyes, instead he just said, “His daughter? His daughter that he knows nothing about. His daughter that he completely abandoned when she was a child. His daughter, that he doesn’t want to be truly happy because if he did he wouldn’t have come to me and asked for me to ignore the imprint. I’m not sorry that I didn’t go to him, because that was the last thing she needed tonight.” With each sentence he got angrier and angrier, causing Sam to stand up from his spot at the table.

Even the thought of the day Joseph had called a meeting with himself and Sam could cause him to shift on the spot. Being told from the day he first shifted that finding your imprint was a gift, and then being told to stay away from her once he had found her left him in a state of permanent anger. The worst part was that he actually listened and did what he was told despite seeing the repercussions it was having on her.

“Whatever you may think of him, Paul, does not mean you get to overrule what he says. None of this would have happened tonight if she had listened to her father.” Sam reasoned, and before Paul could defend his actions yet again, Emily stepped in,

“I think what Sam is trying to say is that Tallulah needs that family structure. Joseph wants to give her that, and because you imprinted on her so suddenly, he just wants to make sure she still gets it before you tell her everything. That's why he wanted you to fight back from the pull, and obviously that didn’t work out quite like anyone expected. But you protecting her from any consequence that she needs to face is only going to re-solidify for her that she doesn’t need that family structure in her life. Which could cause problems for both of you, once she finds out she’s linked to you for the rest of her life.” Emily explained gently.

Paul ran his hands over his face in exhaustion. He knew she was right, that Sam was too. But he didn’t want to hurt her, their friendship was fragile already and telling her dad about her whereabouts would only fracture it even more. “I’m going to tell her everything. Whether Joseph wants me to or not, she deserves to know. Hell, she deserves to know why he abandoned her and her mom, too.”

Tallulah’s POV:

The next morning Tallulah woke up in a state of sorrow, wanting nothing more than to just be left alone by everyone. Deciding that the only way she was going to truly find seclusion was to go for a hike by herself. It wasn’t the safest option she had come up with but it definitely was the most fool-proof.

She stood at the entrance of a path leading into the woods, pulling her jacket tighter around body as the wind picked up. The only thing she had bothered to bring with her was a small backpack carrying a water bottle. She had left her phone on the kitchen counter next to a note that had said she had gone on a hike, so that her dad and Kira knew she didn’t have it. She didn’t want to see or be contacted by anyone, and she meant it wholeheartedly. Walking into the forest following the worn, dirt path through the what seemed to be never ending trees, the smell of the earthy air mixed with the leftover rain smell from earlier in the morning was intoxicating. She loved it. It was something she craved in Seattle, which was a never ending smell of car fumes and other awful aromas. It was something she grew to love, but she never felt at peace there. She felt as if there was a piece of her missing in Seattle, and being back in La Push had seemingly filled that feeling, though she would never admit it outloud to anyone, ever.

Tallulah felt free in the woods as she continued down the overused path, following all the twists and turns, up all the little hills. The crisp air burned her lungs as she struggled to keep her breathing laboured. She was never one for exercise and it was really starting to show but she continued anyway. The wind seemingly picked up the higher she got from the ground, the leaves of the trees around her bristling with it. This was the most at peace she had felt since arriving in LaPush. No one was around to tell her what to do or how to act, just herself and her thoughts. It was nice for a change.

She arrived at a little clearing just in front of a cliff and decided to take a small break, leaning up against one of the many trees around her. She could hear the waves of the ocean from her spot, but was too nervous to get closer to the edge of the cliff.

A branch breaking nearby caused Tallulah to swivel quickly in the direction she thought it came from, the feeling of being watched by something giving her an uneasy feeling, she forced herself to continue in the direction she had been headed. She was too far into her hike to turn back now, she thought to herself. Walking up another steep area, she held onto a tree to keep her steady as she climbed the rough terrain. The bark of the old tree felt rough on her palm. As she got herself past the steep area, Tallulah surveyed what the next bit of path looked like as she continued slowly, the feeling of being watched had grown severely. The rustle of the trees and bushes around signalling that there must be an animal nearby, probably just a bunny, she thought to herself.

Taking her backpack off her back, she knelt down to unzip it, the ground keeping it up right. Grabbing the water bottle she had packed before zipping it back up. Taking a sip as she stood up, a howl ripped through the air from the area she had just been in, too close for comfort causing Tallulah to grab her bag off the ground and begin to speed walk further up the path, looking behind her to make sure the wolf wasn’t behind her. When she turned back around, Paul was walking towards her. An unreadable expression on his face. He was shirtless, in his usual cargo shorts and running shoes despite the fact that the wind felt more like knives.

“What is wrong with you? Do you know how many people are looking for you right now?” he asked, the concern was evident in his tone.

“I left a note.” she stated bluntly. It's not like she just ran away.

“And your phone!” he exclaimed.

“I wanted to be alone.” she tried to justify but Paul was having none of it.

“You can’t just come out here alone, Tal. It’s dangerous.” he stressed, “You could’ve gotten hurt and nobody would have known.” That's a fair point, she thought to herself.

“I’m not alone.” she said as she walked past him, continuing on the path, “You’re here.”

They continued forward, Paul following a few steps behind, before she stopped at another lookout. Tallulah was exhausted but too stubborn to admit, especially to Paul. There were a few picnic benches in the clearing of the lookout that she had walked over to, sitting on top with her feet on the bench, taking a sip of her water before handing it to Paul.

“How’d you find me?” she asked curiously as he took a swig of her bottle and placed it on top of the table before sitting next to her.

“Only so many trails near your house. Guess I got lucky choosing the one I did” he spoke softly. Tallulah nodded her head, looking him over. He looked so tired and she felt a bit guilty considering the events of the night before. Noticing the circular tattoo on his shoulder, two wolves howling, she couldn’t help but trace it lightly with her finger, amazed at the intricacy of. It really puts all of her little sticks and pokes to shame.

“When did you get this?” she asked quietly, shifting her eyes from the tattoo to his face.

He cleared his throat before saying, “When I was sixteen. It’s kind of a long story.” he trailed off.

She nodded her head and smiled before saying, “It’s nice.”

“You’ve got some pretty interesting ones too,” he teased, “I particularly like the little ghost you’ve got.”

Tallulah laughed, “I thought I did a pretty good job.” she said, shoving the sleeve of her jacket up her arm to look at the little ghost on her forearm that she had done when she was 15 on Halloween.

“You apply to any colleges yet” Paul asked curiously to which Tallulah nodded her head.

“Yeah, I did back in Seattle but I’m not going to get into any of them so..” she trailed off, shoving her sleeve back down her arm, hiding her hands inside her sleeve. He was looking at her, and she couldn't tell if he was confused or concerned by her statement. “I was in the arts stream at my old school. All my applications needed an extensive portfolio that I’m never going to get to finish so they're basically already rejections.” She explained, although she didn’t know if she was upset about the fact that she didn’t have all of the qualifications for the schools she had chosen. She didn’t even know if she had wanted to go to college.

“Do you regret not going to college?” she asked him, turning her body so she was facing him.

“No,” Paul shook his head, “I didn’t really have plans to go. Couldn’t you finish your portfolio here?”

“No, I don’t have any of the equipment and it's all too expensive. Besides, I don’t want to waste my time and money just to be told no.”

He nodded his head in understanding, “You’ve still got lots of time to figure out what you want to do next.” he placed his warm hand on her knee and gave it a comforting squeeze causing her cheeks to flush more than what the cold had already caused. Whether the cold was making her mind delirious and the warmth radiating off Paul's body was too inviting, she couldn’t stop herself from leaning over and pressing her cold lips to his warm ones. It was soft and gentle but also sent shockwaves through her body.

Realizing what she had just done, Tallulah pulled away quickly, eyes wide and wild, “I shouldn’t have.. Oh my..I’m sorry, you have -” she rambled before being cut off by Paul pressing his lips back to hers. His large hand came to rest on her cheek, her eyes fluttered closed. She kissed him back with the same need that he had. It felt like one timeless and passionate moment that she would never be able to relive again and she reveled in it.

Tallulah brought her hand up to the back of his neck, tangling her fingers into his overgrown hair. It was all so sensual and smooth, nothing like any of the boys she had ever kissed before. Nothing like Xander. She felt guilty for thinking about him while her lips were connected to Pauls but it brought her back down to reality, she pulled away from him keeping her eyes cast to the ground. She separated herself from him and stood up from the picnic table, “We shouldn’t have done that.” she said quickly.

“Tal,” Paul reached for her but she shook her head, “You have a girlfriend! And I-” she stopped herself taking a deep breath, looking up at him not knowing what to say.

Paul chuckled, “I don’t have a girlfriend. But hey” he raised his hands up in defense, “It was a momentary lapse of judgement on your part but I’m not going to apologize. I wanted to kiss you, so I did.” he stated.

“Fine , you don’t have a girlfriend and I kissed you first but it’s never going to happen again.” she tried to state firmly, knowing damn well she wanted nothing more to walk up and kiss him again.

“Fine.” he agreed, standing up and in front of her. She sighed exasperatedly, standing on her tippy toes, both hands clasping his cheeks, “Just one more.”

Taglist: @cperry0516 , @bhasbhabiessss, @fuzzyfingersandcavier @haventdecidedyet

#paul lahote #paul lahote fanfic #paul lahote x oc #paul lahote imagine #twilight wolf pack #you know im no good

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jkbabiey · 4 years ago

Text

𝚂𝚎𝚕𝚏𝚒𝚜𝚑 ⤇ 𝙹𝙹𝙺

Words: 4.7K

Genre: angst; fluff; it's a sad ending y'all

Synopsis: “I'm in love with you and it scares me to death."

Song Rec: 2 kids - Taemin ; to die for - Sam Smith ; r u ok - Tate McRae ; Emotional bruises - Madison Beer ; Selfish - Madison Beer ; i love you - Billie Eilish ; when the party's over - Billie Eilish

Oh, he was so perfect! So freaking flawless you couldn’t take your eyes off him for a second!

You had just got to Hoseok’s party with Yuta, but it seemed, to Jungkook, like he had been staring at you for hours. You hadn’t spared him a look yet, and if he hadn’t stood up from his seat on the couch to greet you, you probably wouldn’t have even known he was there too. You were too busy looking at your boyfriend, all wide-eyed and agape lips, to notice his presence behind you. But then Yuta’s eyes hardened as he crossed eyes with your best friend, and you, of course, noticed his change of behaviour and looked over your shoulder.

“Oh! Hi Kook!” you squealed and immediately threw your arms around his neck. Jungkook quickly enveloped your waist in his muscular arms, lifting you from the floor. “God, I missed you so much these last days! Where have you been?” you asked against the skin of his neck. And Jungkook smiled, discretely taking a sniff from your hair.

“I’ve been where I always am. You’re the one who disappeared,” he said, humorously - but not so much, because he actually meant to throw that in your face, but he wouldn’t stand the idea of making you feel bad over anything, ever.

“Oh God, blame Yuta here!” you said, raising your eyebrows and chuckling softly as he let you back on the floor. “Yuta, this is Jungkook, my best friend.” You presented him, and he held out his hand in Yuta’s direction, out of pure courtesy.

“Hey man,” Yuta muttered and shook his hand, a bit too boldly for Jungkook’s liking. Jungkook smiled at the guy - a very small and not-genuine smile. Any other time, you would have noticed how fake his smile was, but right now, your eyes were on Yuta. None of your attention was aimed at Jungkook.

Before Jungkook noticed, you two were already too immersed in how amazing these last days - without him - had been, he turned around and walked out of the toxic, smoke-ish and noisy environment that had taken over Hoseok’s whole place, betting his ass that you wouldn't notice his absence until the end of the night.

His hands were buried in his pockets and his head hung low. He was praying not to bump into Jin, Taehyung or any other of his closest friends that had also attended the party. His lips were currently being intensely wounded by his front teeth. His eyes stung and he didn’t know why. Then he got to his car, sitting down and letting go a deep breath that he didn’t know he was holding in. Then the tears he also hadn’t noticed to be sheltering in his eyes started to run down his cheeks.

He didn't quite know why he was crying. The only thing he knew was that you were taken. You were completely smitten to some other guy, that wasn’t him and that bothered him in measures he couldn’t have imagined. You were absolutely smitten to someone, who wasn't him.

He had lost his chance. That's why he was crying.

He was a goner.

You were standing there, messy hair, deep dark circles, bare face, large grey sweatpants- that seemed oddly familiar to him, but he decided to ignore that - and a black sweatshirt, in front of him, asking to come in. He stepped away and you came in. Not wasting any time after he closed the door, you grabbed his neck and buried your face on it. He felt the wet patches you were leaving in his thin dark green t-shirt. He held you tight against his body and you sobbed fully. Your cries only intensified when he placed one of his big hands on your head and took his soft lips to your forehead, pecking it.

Then he picked you up, your legs around his waist and your face, still buried in his neck. He took you to his living room, taking a chair and placing it in front of his warm fireplace. He sat on it, you on his lap, holding onto his shoulders. There was nothing better than this spot to calm you down on a cold day. He knew it but he doubted Yuta made any idea of it.

“Have you ever been afraid of losing the love of your life?”

His heart shattered. He could hear it shatter, like a very fragile glass piece. Yuta was the love of your life. What had he to do with that, why were you even here, if your problem was with Yuta?

“You and Yuta argued?”

You hummed, a bit hesitant - the reason unknown to him. He didn’t say anything else. He couldn’t. It was not his place. You just needed a friendly lap to seat on, a couple of warm arms to hold you and a gentle voice to tell you it was alright.

“It’s alright... It’s alright baby...”

That’s exactly what he did.

“This is Soojin, my girlfriend.”

Your eyes widened and a small, surprised smile played on your lips. He hesitated for your answer.

“Hi!” after greeting the beautiful girl that stood next to him holding his hand tight, you moved forward to briefly hug her. “Jungkook, never mentioned you before!”.

Snarky.

Soojin looked at Jungkook, her shy eyes now displayed a small discreet amount of anger.

“Oh... This is pretty recent. That’s why,” Soojin blurted, a nervous laugh erupting right away.

Soojin was a girl he had met about a month ago and she was amazing. Incredibly breathtaking and Jungkook couldn’t adore her more. His crush on you had been long forgotten - or at least he thought it had.

Jungkook thought the dinner was delicious, but still, when you asked what he thought of the dinner he answered ‘it’s good, but yesterday Soojin made some amazing bibimbap, I should have asked her to do it for tonight instead’. And you smiled bitterly and him. No one else noticed the bitterness in your smile, but he did.

Why was he acting this way? Because since he and his new girlfriend got in your apartment, you had established this dumb discreet competition between you and Soojin, making passive-aggressive comments and the poor girl beside him was so notoriously uncomfortable, he felt sorry for bringing her here.

“Soojin, maybe you should visit my hairdresser”

“I know you probably don’t understand since you’ve never been to college, but I’ve been so happy with my grades recently”

“How have you managed to attract someone like Jungkook, I mean... You know what I mean, right?”

So when the dinner was over, he pulled you away by the arm, bringing you to the kitchen and leaving Yuta and Soojin on the balcony, enjoying the view and hopefully sparing Soojin some minutes of your annoyingly mean comments.

“Why are you being such a bitch to Soojin?” he asked, hands on his hips and his eyes raging.

“I’m not,” you furrowed your eyebrows and he laughed ironically.

“Don’t play dumb with me, Y/N.”

“You had never mentioned her before. Who do you think I am, for you to present me some temporary fling you’re having. I’m more important than that! If you want to present me to someone, I want her to be at least stable. Not someone you’ve been dating for 2 weeks!”

“What has time to do with it? I like her, I think she’s worthy enough for you to meet her!”

“C’mon, look at her. She sports the slutty look.” you deadpanned and Jungkook’s eyes widened.

“You’re going too far! Look at Yuta! He’s the typical high school fuckboy!” he whisper-screamed. “You have no moral to talk about Soojin like that!”

“Oh, now he’s defending her!” you ironized and he rubbed his forehead, trying to look for just a little bit more patience. “You didn’t even tell me she was coming! And plus, I don’t have to mandatorily like her!”

“I don’t like Yuta and you don’t hear me talking to him like he's trash, right?”

“Yeah, that’s because he’s not trash, but we can’t say the same for Soojin, can we?”

That was enough. He turned his back on you, going to the balcony in quick steps and grabbing Soojin’s hand in his. He dragged her across your apartment as you stared at him piercingly.

“Babe, what’s going on?” Soojin asked, completely adrift.

“We’re leaving.”

“I haven’t said goodbye yet, kook”

“You don’t need to, we’re not coming back anyway,” he stated as his eyes locked on yours.

Jungkook really didn’t plan on coming back but Soojin broke up with him about a month later, claiming that he was in love with someone else and not bothering to explain further. Needless to say, Jungkook had never been as bewildered and nauseated in his life. He had argued with you, his best friend, to protect Soojin’s dignity, and she dared to say he didn’t love her?!

The only one he could think of to help him figure out what the heck Soojin was referring to with such barbarities, was you. You were the most intelligent and astute person Jungkook had ever met. He was sure you were the only one who could possible help him.

When he showed up at your door, you opened it. No sign of shock or surprise evident on your face in seeing him after your huge argument, because you both knew you two would never be able to stay mad a each other for too long. A month of not talking was a new record.

When he blurted out the reason Soojin had used to break up with him, after sitting down next to you on your couch, your mouth fell agape and your eyes widened.

“What?” you exclaimed as Jungkook shook his head, showing his bewilderment.

“That’s what I said!” he exclaimed back and you looked at the floor, completely confused by what your best friend was telling you. The boy had almost finished his 7-year friendship to defend his new girlfriend. How could she even question his feelings?!

“She’s probably just overthinking something... Maybe she saw you hugging another girl... Or maybe a text on your phone...”

“I didn’t text anyone other than her! Not even you!” he screeched and you scratched your ear, trying to think of some logical reason behind the sudden breakup.

“... Probably, it’s really her overthinking something... Girls do that! I do that, all the time!” you looked at him doubtfully, as he stared back in the same way. “SHE’S INSECURE!” you shouted as the sudden realization, that seemed to be the most logical out of every single theory you had already come up with, came to your mind.

Jungkook widened his eyes, straightening his back as your speculation didn’t seem as automatically disposable as all the others that had come to his mind.

“That’s it!” you continued. “Probably, she’s in one of those times where she doubts every single thing in her body, and she thinks she’s not enough for you! I feel that way too often!”

Jungkook’s expression got serious as he heard the last portion of your speech. “You do?”

It took you a moment to understand what he was asking, but as you saw the worry behind his eyes you quickly figured the context of the question. “Oh... Yeah, I guess it’s pretty normal...”

“You shouldn’t feel that way, you’re pretty amazing...”

You smiled shyly and sent him a sweet gaze, as he quickly returned it. “With Yuta, it’s pretty hard not to doubt me at times. Have you seen the guy? Seems like he came straight out a freaking novel...” you chuckled playfully and Jungkook pushed your shoulder with his.

“And so do you.” And there was Jungkook in his natural element.

“Jungkook! Stop flirting!” you screeched, shyly as your cheeks turned into a dark shade of pink. Jungkook laughed, cringing internally at how cute he found you in that exact moment. He embraced your shoulders in his muscular arms, and you finally looked into his eyes. His face was awfully close and you could feel his breath on your face as a soft smile lingered on his lips.

“Missed you,” he whispered so that only the two of you could hear it, even though no one else was around.

“Missed you,” you whispered back, leaning your forehead to his.

Soojin had taken him back.

She had her reasons to break up with him in the first place, but she couldn’t deny the guy a second chance as he stood by her door, a bouquet of red roses, that you had recommended, in his hand, puppy eyes and pouted lips.

You had found out in the worst of ways.

Crying your heart out, you stood in the elevator, waiting for it to finally come to your destination, your best friend’s apartment floor. When it did, you got out of it, your face smudged with your -supposedly, waterproof - mascara. You knocked and were received by Soojin, in all her beauty, messy hair and no make-up features, wearing Jungkook’s shirt. She was probably busy with something else. She still managed to look extremely gorgeous, and there were you, looking like you had just been run over by a bus.

“Y/N! Are you alright! That’s dumb, of course not! Do you want to come in? Wait a second, I’ll go call Jungkook,” she stated with a genuine expression of worry on her face and a hand on your shoulder.

“No! No, leave it. I’m fine!” you said, grabbing her hand before she could go and call Jungkook. “I’ll just go home. Sorry for interrupting you two!” you smiled, even with your smudged make-up face. “Don’t worry, I’ll just call him later!”

And so you turned your back on her, as you felt her worried look on your back.

“Oh! And I’m sorry about how I treated you last time...” You turned back to her, sending an apologetic smile her way.

“Don’t worry about that...” she muttered and smiled back.

It was obvious why Jungkook liked her so much.

“What happened yesterday?!” Jungkook shouted as soon as you opened the door, exactly 7:54 AM and the guy was already standing by your door.

“You didn’t tell me you and Soojin were back together...”

“Not what I asked,�� he said back, impatient.

“I wasn’t answering you either,” you mocked and he sent you an annoyed look. “Don’t worry about last night. I’m fine now.”

“I just want to know what happened. Not even worried...” he said and you laughed at how sarcastic he could be at times.

“Yuta and I broke up,” you said and Jungkook’s eyes widened. “He cheated. A drunk night out.”

“Son of a bitch...” he muttered and you quickly enveloped his face with your hands, bringing his eyes to yours.

“I’m fine, really. No need to get mad” you chuckled a bit. Jungkook stared at you for a while, before holding your hands and kissing both of them.

“You deserve so much better. Please don’t settle for someone like him.”

“I won’t,” you smiled and he smiled back.

He spent the rest of the day with you. Both laying on the sofa, holding onto each other, and watching movies, with a huge bowl of the sweetest popcorn you could have managed.

“I’m 25...” you muttered out of nowhere and Jungkook hummed back, his face snuggled by the side of your neck, his arms around your waist and his chest against your back.

“And?”

“I want to get married someday and now I don't have a boyfriend,” you muttered once again.

“Were you really planning on marrying that piece of shit?”

“I didn’t know he was a piece of shit.”

“You don’t need to get married now. You’re still young. You’ll find a great guy, who knows how to truly value you as the woman you are,” he said, before softly kissing the skin of your neck, where his cheek was previously resting on.

"Soojin’s a lucky girl,” you said, smiling, after few silent moments.

She really was a lucky girl.

A few years later

“Would you marry me?”

Your eyes widened, quickly averting to your best friend, kneeled down in front of his 3-year girlfriend. He was glowing. A wide perfectly white smile played on his lips as he stared up at Soojin with eyes that shone brighter than ever. She was speechless - very much like you. Her hands covered her mouth and her eyes were starting to get wet with tears. The answer that followed was obvious.

“Yes!”

There it was. She threw her arms around Jungkook’s neck, as he stood up and enveloped her slim waist in his embrace. She was crying already and he chuckled lightly at the emotional mess his girlfriend was.

You weren't expecting this. But you should have. Jungkook hadn't talked to you about this or left you any clue about it, but still, he was 28 years old. You could see the shine of his eyes getting brighter each time he looked at her, every passing day. They were in love and their relationship was stronger each day.

Your whole group of friends manifested their happiness. Jimin had tears in his eyes from how happy he was seeing that the youngest of the group was finally settling down for life. Namjoon clapped his hands, smirking proudly at the youngest. You could swear you’d seen Jin, that stood next to Namjoon also clapping his hands, winking to his friend when their eyes crossed. Yeri whistled loudly along with Taehyung, while Irene laughed at her friends’ foolishness.

Mingyu, quite unaware of the mess the living room held, kept his eyes secured on you, smiling. When you caught his gaze, you sent him a tiny smile back - the first since the heartfelt proposal. You averted your eyes back to the couple holding each other in the middle of the room and when they parted their embrace, Jungkook’s eyes locked on yours. You weren’t smiling as he expected you to be. You didn’t even seem to be happy for him. He smiled anyway, and you, in all your effort, winked playfully at him, as you turned your back on him. You grabbed a cup of champagne and walked towards the balcony, being interrupted by the male hand that suddenly grabbed your waist.

“We’re next,” you heard Mingyu whisper in your ear. You looked back, grabbing his hand and lightly squeezing it.

“You bet,” you answered playfully and smiled brightly at him.

Mingyu was your boyfriend. You had been dating him for 2 years now and he was great. Jungkook had presented him to you at a home party. You still remember complaining to him about having to watch him and Soojin being all couply while you still spent the night laying in bed and watching romances. The week after your complaints he took you to a party and introduced you to this really nice and good-looking guy, which happened to be his friend, named Mingyu. Mingyu was a few months older than you and he had just started to work as a lawyer. He was already introduced to your family and they all loved him, dismissing your sister's daily comments that claimed her disappointment because she thought you 'would end u with your Jungkook'.

When Mingyu let go of you to go hang out with the rest of your friends, you reached the balcony, closing the door behind you, leaning on the glass balcony and gazing at the amazing view your friend Irene had got when she bought this new apartment with Jin, her boyfriend. Your hair, being wildly swept by the wind, was a mess, but you could care less. Your eyes were teary, you didn't really know why though. Something about Jungkook getting married left a huge ball of emotions sitting on your chest. What bothered you is that even knowing Soojin was an amazing girl and Jungkook would be happy with her, you weren't particularly happy with the news. You knew this could as well turn you into a very shitty best friend, and that's why you thought you wouldn't really be able to talk to Jungkook without catching a breath of fresh air first. Without noticing the tears you had been previously sheltering in your eyes, were now running down your cheeks.

You sobbed and quickly wiped the tears away when you heard the balcony doors opening and closing again. It was Jungkook, you knew it when you felt the warm presence you'd gotten used to after 9 years.

"Hey," he muttered.

You didn't answer, afraid your voice would fail you and just kept staring forwards, feeling Jungkook's gaze on you. You knew he knew you had been crying. He was a master when it came to figuring it out.

"So... you're getting married now hum?" you commented, once your vocal cords seemed stable enough.

"Right," he answered, and you looked at your side, not bothering to hide your puffy eyes. "What do you think of that?" he asked you and you looked down at your hands.

"You know... If you're happy, I'm happy," you said and he chuckled.

"Of course," Jungkook mimicked your actions, looking down as well. You two stayed quiet for some time, as the starry night sky shined down on you.

"You look amazing tonight, by the way," he remarked. "Didn't get the chance to te-"

"You didn't tell me you were going to propose," you interrupted him, looking back at him. There wasn't a shy smile on your lips or a polite gaze on your eyes. All Jungkook could see in your expression was hurt.

"I don't have to tell you every little thing going on in my life," he answered, putting up his defensive side.

"This is not little! This is marriage," you exclaimed and stared at him. He stared down and stayed quiet.

"Mingyu told me he's going to propose too," he announced and you widened your eyes. Not that you hadn't thought about it. Mingyu had commented a lot of times he wanted to make you his wife and build a family with you. But still, it was big news for you.

"I'm sure you weren't supposed to tell me that."

"Are you going to say yes?" he asked and stared at you.

You stared back at him and for once in that night, your eyes met for more than a minute. There was a silent plead present in his eyes that you couldn't really figure out. He sighed and got closer to you, your arms rubbing against each other. You lay your head down on his shoulder and he shortly kissed your forehead.

"Y/n..." he whispered, and you hummed back, still not answering his previous question. "I can... go back. If you... want me to."

"If you love her, then you should marry her," you answered right away, not wanting to hold your best friend back from marrying the girl he loves.

He kept quiet and so did you.

"Are you going to say yes?" he repeated his previous question and you shot your head up, looking straight in his eyes.

"You know... I've always thought of you as the love of my life."

Jungkook's eyes widened as you chuckled. That's when it came to him. That night, you were afraid of losing him, not Yuta.

"I've always been told I should marry the love of my life. But I don't think I can marry you now that you're already married," you stated playfully, but Jungkook's stare was serious. "Mingyu is amazing, really. I worship him. But how do I know if I love him enough to marry him?" you asked, looking up to find Jungkook already staring at you, a mix of different emotions present in his eyes. "How did you know you loved Soojin enough to marry her?" you asked again and Jungkook looked down.

"Well... I like her almost as much as I love you," he whispered loud enough for only you to listen. "And I think that's a whole lot."

"Do you love her, though?" you asked, absolutely perplexed at his answer.

He smiled lightly and sighted.

"You just don't get it, do you?" he whispered.

He stood up straight, turning his back on you and walking back towards the door.

"Why don't you just tell me then?" you said a bit louder than you had talked the whole night.

He looked back at you, over his shoulder, his hand already on the door handle. He chuckled lowly, what sounded like a sarcastic chuckle, before turning back to you and taking two steps forward. Somehow, his expression had changed and you weren't sure how to read it now. He was bitter.

"You want me to tell you? I just proposed and you have the guts to get sad because I'm marrying Soojin??

"I'm not s-"

"Shut up! Just... Shut up." he begged ironically and you stood quiet, he sighed angrily and looked to his left, avoiding looking at you.

"Maybe you should step away... At least for a while."

"What the hell is wrong with you? Jungkook you're getting married. I can't miss that. I won't miss that!"

"Exactly!" he screamed suddenly and walked quickly towards you. He had never been this angry in front of you and it scared you that you were the reason for his anger. His face was inches away from yours and you could feel his quick breath fanning over your lips. "I'm getting married to Soojin but all I can think about is if I should have proposed to you!" he whispered in your face and you could see his eyes watering, very much like you could feel yours do the same. “You know why I proposed so suddenly? Because Mingyu told me he was going to propose to you and I didn’t want to be the only one feeling miserable!”

"J-Jungkook..." you sighed and Jungkook let his tears fall, furrowing his eyebrows in pure anguish, as he nestled his face on your neck, crying silently. He enveloped your body in his arms and you quickly did the same.

"I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I-I'm in love with you and it scares me to death," he sobbed and your grip on him tightened.

"It's alright... I'm right here..."

You two stayed in that same position for a while, until he calmed down and his sobs stopped.

"What do I do now?" he asked, still laying his head on your chest.

"You do whatever makes you happy," you answered and he kissed your neck, and action that, from him, was already usual.

"Hubby! Can we go home?" Soojin opened the balcony's door, chuckling at the new nickname. Jungkook quickly stepped back and wiped the stray tears on his cheeks away. Sensing your stare on him, he sent you a tiny smile.

Soojin caught your gaze from behind Jungkook's shoulder and sent you a smile, which you retributed.

"Yes babe, let's go..." Jungkook answered after a while. He looked at you, the deepest look in his eyes that you had ever seen. He cupped your cheek as you two heard Soojin walking back inside, to say her goodbyes. “I’ll go now.”

“Please, don’t do this. If you don’t want to marry her, you don’t have to.”

“What do you want?”

You didn’t answer, opting to roll your arms tightly around his neck, as he held your waist, bringing your body impossibly closer to his.

“I love you, Jungkook,” you whispered. “, but this is a decision you have to make.”

And he wasn’t ready. He wasn’t ready to break all the promises he had made to Soojin this past three years. He wasn’t ready to admit that all she was was a way to get to you. He wasn’t ready to admit that at some point in his life he had become a worthless and selfish jerk and that his life had been diminished to you. He wasn’t ready to break every single ethical moral and principle that he had been trying to live by all his life. This decision didn’t come to him, and only him. It came to you, to Soojin, to Mingyu and to everyone surrounding the four of you. It wasn’t his right to break his friends’ hearts and he wouldn’t do it. He couldn’t do it.

“I’m sorry.”

And he walked away.

#jungkook #jeon jungkook #jungkook scenarios #scenario #best friends #best friends to lovers #au #best friend!jungkook #they don't get to be overs #lovers #i means #jungkook au #jungkook imagine #jungkook one-shot

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skylarmoon71 · 4 years ago

Text

Bumblebee x Reader : (Transformers) Chapter 5

So, rather than dealing with the problem like a mature person, you settled for ducking Bumblebee. It was cruel, he did absolutely nothing wrong, but you couldn’t face him. You were going on day five without any kind of communication. It was getting harder because he pretty much knew your schedule. You were positive he picked on it, because he started swinging by in the mornings, which made it that much harder to slip away.

Hence the reason you were now mopping your school’s hallway. Because of your need to evade the cute Autobot, you’d been coming into classes late almost everyday. You had to take the longer route to school, you couldn’t help that. And it wasn’t like you could explain the situation to your teacher. You ran the mop along the floor slowly, dazing off.

You missed Bumblebee like crazy. Talking with him, staring at the sky, hugging him.

You wanted to slap yourself, why did you let something so foolish as a dream dictate everything.

“I’m done.” you weren’t going to run like a coward anymore. After this, you would march over there and apologize to him, hopefully he still wanted to be your friend.

“Oh, hello, usually I’m the last one here.” your eyes refocused and you stared at the male now standing in front of you. He was wearing a suit and glasses. He looked like a teacher, but you were almost positive you’d never seen him before. Giving a polite smile you nod, moving to place the mop into the bucket.

“Yes, a little detention. My fault really. Anyway I was just about to leave. I’m about done.”

“Leaving so soon (Y/N).” The way he said your name made your hair stand on end. Deciding that maybe this guy was some type of serial killer, you gave a nervous laugh.

“W-Well I should get going, my mom must be wondering where I am right about now.” You didn’t even bother to place the mop back in it’s designated area. You were pretty sure the janitor would prefer you escape a potential psychopath over returning the item.

“Can’t let you do that sweetie.” He removed the glasses, and you took a step back. The color of his eyes changed to an almost demonic bright red, and your heart nearly stopped when his body started changing into a machine.

You spun around, taking off in a sprint, there was no doubt that thing was following behind. Blasting out the door, you jumped over the short flight of steps, landing harshly, but still pushing forward. You picked a random direction, trying your hardest to increase your pace.

You tried to fight the tears that were now spilling from your eyes, but it was useless, if that thing caught you, you’d be done for. You made another sharp turn, only looking back for a split second to see if it was still following. You couldn’t even recognize the street you were on, your only focus was running as fast and far away as possible.

When your gaze redirected to the front, you grunted as your body connected full on with the car in front of you. Your body went right against the windshield, and you rolled all the way over the top, the pain running over your body like a wave. Your form crashed to the ground, and you let out a cry of pain, breath heaving as you struggled to get to your feet. It took you a second to realize you’d gotten yourself on an empty street. There was no one around. No one to see, no one to protect you. You were alone, all alone.

The car before you grew in size, and you looked up, watching the way the robot hovered over you like a dark cloud. There was a sick way in which it leered down at you.

“I’d never understand why those autobots are so fond of you humans, you’re such useless fragile things. Insignificant. “ Moving just your arm felt like a challenge, so getting your body to stand upright was out of the question. Sobbing, your eyes caught the insignia that was engraved at the bottom of his leg. The pointed edge was a dead give away.

He was a decepticon.

“Tell me human, where is the base of those Autobots, and maybe I might just spare your life.” you kept your mouth shut, and although you were in excruciating pain, you would have rather died than disclose such information.

Your silence was all he needed.

“Very well, I’m going to enjoy tearing your limbs slowly from your body you uneducated ap-” a blast shot out from behind you, hitting him square in his chest. He gasped, stepping back. Turning your head, you swore you’d never been so relieved to see the black and yellow painted vehicle.

Bumblebee transformed almost instinctively, shooting out and tackling the Decepticon to the floor. The both started wrestling, each making vicious swipes at each other. Bumblebee’s face plate was drawn, and the anger in which he struck the other robot was unlike anything you’d ever seen. He summoned his cannon, grabbing the Decepticon’s neck with one hand as he aimed the cannon with the other. There was no hesitation as he shot the beam, and it took the Decepticon’s head clean off.

All you could hear was gargled sounds of the words as he dropped the remainder of his body to the floor, uncaring. You were still on the ground, shaking in terror of the events that just transpired right before your eyes. When Bumblebee was sure the threat was dealt with, his body relaxed, and he turned to you. His hands lowered and you could see the weapon retracting, his metal fingers forming back into place. His steps were slow and he knew it was more for you than him. He wanted nothing more than to reach out for you, but the look of horror, even though it wasn’t directed at him, it made him question himself.

“Bee..” his head dropped.

“I’m... so sorry (Y/N)..” The words that left him, it made your chest hurt. You couldn’t hold back in your tears. So you cried, right there in the middle of the street. And Bumblebee sat with you, all he could provide was comfort, because no amount of words would truly make you feel any less afraid.

~~~

Bumblebee had scooped you up into your arms at some point, and honestly, you were a bit disoriented when you woke up in the hospital the very next day. You supposed the strain of it all had caught up, and your body just gave out. Your mother of course freaked out. But after the doctors assured her that all you sustained was a few broken ribs, she seemed to be more at ease.

She practically slept there, even when the nurse’s tried to get her to get something to eat, she refused to leave your side. Sam and Mikaela showed up, and you were more than grateful. Mikaela managed to get her to take care of herself, and Sam promised to look after you so she could get a shower, and some actual food. Giving you a kiss goodbye, she left. Sam took a seat at the side of your bed, and you sent him an impish smile.

“You look like shit.” you giggled at that. “Wow Sam, way to make a girl feel good.” He was smiling, and he took your hand, looking down at his feet. You could see the guilt on his face.

“This is my fault.”

“Come on, are you for real right now. Please. I just spent hours convincing my mom that nothing she did could have prevented what happened. She thinks it was just a car accident, and I hope it stays that way.”

He sighed. “If I never told you about any of this, you’d be safe. If Optimus didn’t warn us about the interference, who knows what could have gone down. (Y/N) you were almost killed, just for knowing about this, about them. I never should have-”

“Stop it!” your yell startled him.

“No one forced you to tell me anything, it was my decision to go into those woods that day, and I regret nothing Sam. Absolutely nothing.”

“(Y/N).”

“I’m serious. When I found out, I knew it wasn’t danger free. I’m not going to lie, when it came at me I was..” you squeezed his hand.

“I was petrified. I really thought that..that I was going to die there, alone. “ A single tear ran down the side of your cheek, and you swallowed to prevent your voice from breaking.

“I understand all the risks that come with this friendship, and even so, I’d never trade it. Not for anything. “

It meant more to him that you realized that you felt that way.

“But Sam, just promise me that, if anything like this ever happens again. Please...just keep my mom safe.”

“(Y/N), nothing like this is going to happen again we’re ready this time an-”

“Sam!” he froze, and the way you looked, he could tell that you’d calculated it all. All the possibilities of disaster.

“Promise me.” you begged.

He let out a staggered breath, covering your hands with his.

“I promise.”

That was all you needed. Nothing else mattered.

#bumblebee #bumblebee x reader #protectivebumblebee #transformers #optimus prime #ratchet #sam witwicky #mikaela #teens #fights #feelings #friendship #friends to lovers #autobots #decepticons #Protection

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onecanonlife · 4 years ago

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careful son (you got dreamer's plans)

Wilbur gasps back to life with mud between his fingers and rain in his eyes.

Wilbur was dead. Now, he is not. He can't say that he's particularly happy about it.

Unfortunately, the server is still as tumultuous as ever, even with Dream locked away, so it seems that his involvement in things isn't a matter of if, but when.

(Alternatively: the prodigal son returns, and a broken family finally begins to heal. If, that is, the egg doesn't get them all killed first.)

Chapter Word Count: 7,295

Chapter Warnings: swearing, injury, blood, aftermath of (temporary) character death, mild disassociation, slight s.uicidal ideation, references to past abuse

Chapter Summary: The emotional fallout is intense, but they don’t have time to stop and deal with it. Wilbur doesn’t particularly like where they decide to hole up, but beggars can’t be choosers.

(masterlist w/ ao3 links)

(first chapter) (previous chapter) (next chapter)

Chapter Twelve: nowhere to run

The sun is too bright in his eyes. Too bright, and wrong, somehow, that it should be shining like this. Should still be shining, after the loss they’ve just suffered, after watching his brother crumple to dust in front of him. But the sun hardly cares for things like that, so they all stumble out of the hole in the ground that serves as the entrance to the spider spawner and beyond, and the daylight surrounds them, unforgiving.

“Where do we go, what do we do,” Tubbo is chanting, and Ranboo is muttering under his breath, a continuous litany of, “I can’t believe he’s gone, I can’t believe that happened—” His own lips feel glued shut, his throat devoid of sound. His skin buzzes.

(the two images interpose: Techno hanging from the vine, head at an unnatural angle, Techno wavering on his feet, blood pouring from his throat, and there is a flash of light and there is ash all at once, as if the first caused the second, as if instead of healing him, shoving his soul back into a body clinging to life, the totem burned him up from the inside out, and unlike the phoenix there was no rebirth)

“We can’t stay here,” Puffy says. Her eyes are wide, and her hands are shaking, but her voice has the same determined cant to it as it always does. “We need somewhere to hole up.”

“And where is that supposed to be?” Sapnap demands. His breathing is unsteady. “Where the fuck are we supposed to go after that? Where isn’t the thing gonna be able to reach? With, with Dream being, being, what even was that? Why was he—how was he—?” He breaks off, sparks crackling at his fingertips, and his face is a mask of distress, of questions

(was he always like that and did I not see or did something happen to him did something make him like that is that my friend or is there something inside of him something behind his eyes that is not him at all and if that is the case how did I not notice how did I not notice how did I not save him)

that Wilbur feels he recognizes. Or would, if he let himself. If he let himself care.

His eyes drift over to Phil. Phil, who stands silently, blood dripping from his wings, a thousand old injuries reopened by thrashing thorns. Who stands with Tommy in his arms, Tommy, who is curled up as tightly as he can reasonably manage, his face tucked into Phil’s shirt. Trembling. Quiet.

(he will die and I will kill him, the Egg says, and I have already begun, and you cannot protect him, you do not have the strength, except by what I can grant you)

“Church Prime,” Puffy says. “It’s the only place that might be safe.”

“Who’s to say it would be?” Sapnap snaps. “You saw it in there! The vines have never moved like that before, and Prime knows what else it can do now. And maybe the Egg wouldn’t be able to get in, but who’s to say that would stop—” He cuts off again, face contorting.

His leg is beginning to hurt, now. All of him is, actually, now that his adrenaline is wearing thin, now that the horror is sinking in, but it’s concentrated in his leg in particular, and he looks down to see that his left pant leg is all but shredded, blood dripping down in steady streams and splattering on the grass by his feet. The vines got him worse than he thought, then, and he bites his lip against the sting.

He’s had worse, though. He’s had so much worse. This is practically nothing, and Puffy and Sapnap are still arguing, and Tubbo and Ranboo are huddled together, eyeing the vines around them with deep suspicion, unmoving as they are just yet, and Phil is silent, and he’s going to stay silent, because Wilbur recognizes all too well the strain in his eyes, the way he’s holding onto Tommy with a death grip.

(he’s watched two of his sons die, now, and Techno will be back, will still have two lives left, but that does not heal the hurt, does not assuage the pain of seeing your brother, your son, your family die in front of your eyes before you can lift a finger to stop it, and Phil’s eyes shine with a grief almost beyond what Wilbur can understand. except he understands all too well, in the end)

He’s had worse, and someone needs to step up.

(the old mantle settles across his shoulders, and if he closes his eyes it’s like nothing’s changed at all, and the sun sets on the city he is determined to give everything for, still standing, walls still strong)

“Boxed in like a fish,” he croaks, and Puffy and Sapnap turn to him as one. “That’s what we’ll be, if we go to Church Prime. Whether it protects us in the moment of not won’t matter once we run out of supplies. We need somewhere better situated. Somewhere we can defend, that might withstand a siege, if it comes to it.”

Puffy makes a frustrated gesture. “I’m open to suggestions,” she says. “The prison, maybe, if we have to? We could probably keep people out as easily as—ah, shit, Sam.” She pulls her communicator out and taps out a quick message, and then frowns. “It’s telling me it can’t go through. Why isn’t it going through? Sam had all three lives, he should be—”

“Admins can read private messages,” Phil murmurs. “Wouldn’t surprise me if Dream could fuck with the whole system, whatever the fuck he is.”

Wilbur reads between the lines. Techno, for the moment, is unreachable. He processes the information and moves on, refusing to let it get to him, refusing to let himself be overpowered by

(Techno’s unreachable Techno’s unreachable Techno’s respawned and he’s on his own and they can’t talk to him can’t get to him quickly and what if something went wrong what if something happened)

emotions.

“Sam will make his way to us,” he says. “I’m vetoing the prison. Like hell are we staying in there. Other thoughts?”

“What gives you vetoing power?” Sapnap asks.

“Somebody needs to make a decision,” he says, and it is with strength he doesn’t feel, confidence he is only pretending at, a force of command that comes from some unknown place, since he feels as though he is miles away from himself, “and I don’t see you coming up with anything. Either help or stop complaining.”

Sapnap’s face reddens, and he opens his mouth, to argue, no doubt, but then Ranboo breaks in with, “Foolish, maybe?” and hunches his shoulders when attention turns to him. “Sorry, it’s just, I’m pretty sure Foolish isn’t, um, a big fan of the Egg or anything, so maybe he could help?”

Wilbur has no idea who the fuck Foolish is.

“Nah, he’s too far out,” Tubbo says. “It’ll take ages to get to his place. And we need somewhere close, but not too close, so we still have a good place to fight back from, right, Wilbur? If we leave now, the Egg’ll just take over the whole SMP with nothing to stop it.”

“My thoughts exactly, Tubbo,” he says, and again, it is just like the old days, and they are standing atop the L’Manberg walls, and Tubbo has just said something particularly clever, and warmth and pride curl in him before he remembers where they are, what they’re doing. They need to decide, and soon. They’re just hanging around near the entrance, and sooner or later, someone’s going to come after them, whether they let them go at first or not. “Is there anyone else who has a good position, location-wise and resource-wise?”

“Wait,” Puffy says. “Eret’s castle.”

“Eret’s castle doesn’t have doors,” Sapnap says.

“No, but I stopped by earlier to see if they wanted to join us,” Puffy says. “They weren’t there, but the grounds were completely free of vines. And sure, there aren’t any doors, but between all of us, I’m sure we could make some. Eret’s got plenty of supplies, last I checked.”

Eret. The name evokes a wealth of associations, most of them unpleasant. His first instinct is to reject this idea like the last, to avoid placing their lives in the hands of one who has already betrayed him, who led them all into a death trap, who almost ended their revolution in one fell swoop. But Puffy has a point. Eret’s castle ticks all the right boxes: it’s defendable, well-supplied, and if there are no vines to clear, all the better. They’ll have to build doors, but between the lot of them, that’s easily manageable.

(a wealth of associations and many unpleasant but there is Eret offering them supplies offering their fragile rebellion help and they tried so dearly to redeem themself and he could not have seen that then wrapped in his own shadows as he was but perhaps he can see it now perhaps he can better appreciate it, give a little more benefit of the doubt, and if he is given a second chance after everything after committing the worst crime of all then who is he to deny them absolution?)

(another memory, more blurry: he is scared but stalwart as they go through the motions, and he does not want to die, is terrified of that endless void, but he knows that the server needs a leader and his living self must be that leader, and Eret is here, and Eret agrees, and Eret acts out their part, and Eret is trying so hard, and he cannot see their eyes behind their glasses but he imagines that if he could, he would see a fool’s hope in them)

“Eret, then,” he says. “We go to Eret.”

And no one disagrees. It’s strange. They have no reason to listen to him, really. They have far more reasons not to listen to him, more reasons to think that following his lead will end in disaster than otherwise. But Puffy nods, and Sapnap backs down, and Tubbo and Ranboo both look to him for direction like it’s the war and he’s in charge of child soldiers once again. Phil looks to him, too, but his expression is inscrutable, and only a slight tightness around his eyes shows that he’s in any pain at all.

So they go to Eret. Staggering through the grass, tripping over vines that still don’t move, thank Prime, and then along the Prime Path, and his leg hurts worse with every step, pain jolting up into his hip, it seems, and it’s not long before he’s walking with a limp. But they’re all hurt in some way, so he hides it as best he can. He can deal with it when they’re safely behind stone walls.

And then, Tommy says, “Put me down, I can walk.”

Wilbur glances over. Tommy’s face is still buried in Phil’s shirt.

“You sure, mate?” Phil asks softly.

“Yes, I’m fucking sure,” Tommy snaps, louder now, turning his face outward, pushing against Phil’s chest. His cheeks are flushed, his breaths coming short and fast, and he’s trying to pass it off as anger, and maybe part of it is. But Wilbur knows him better than to think that that’s all. Knows him better than to think that he would have let Phil carry him in the first place if he was alright.

“Okay, then,” Phil says, and swings Tommy down. Tommy wavers for a step, but slaps away Phil’s hand when he extends it, muttering a sharp, “Fuck off.”

And then they keep going. Tommy doesn’t say anything else. Wilbur keeps glancing at him, but he’s refusing to meet anyone’s gaze, even Tubbo’s. And—that’s another thing that’s going to have to wait. He wants nothing more than to stop now and make sure that Tommy’s going to be okay, but they don’t have time, and the general in him will not call for a halt until the retreat is over, until he is sure the enemy is not biting at their heels.

(retreating from Dream once again, and it is familiar and not, the same and not, and history runs in a circle, echoes and rhymes)

Eret’s courtyard is indeed free of vines, just as Puffy promised. Wilbur half-expects them to be nowhere in sight, based on what Puffy said, but they are standing right there, next to a skeletal horse they’re frantically saddling, and they’re checking their communicator every now and again, with the jerky motions of someone who doesn’t particularly want to but can’t make themself stop.

Then, suddenly, they look up at the sky. Wilbur follows their gaze to the flock of crows wheeling overhead, a dark mass of beating wings, each bird barely distinguishable from the others. All of them completely, eerily silent.

Eret stands there a moment. Just staring. Wilbur can’t tell what the look on their face is, but their shoulders are tense. And then, they look back down, and realize that the lot of them are there, stumbling in under the gate, and they visibly startle.

“Hey, Eret,” Puffy says, before they can get a word in. “Can we crash? And build some gates?”

“What,” Eret says. “What is—Puffy, what is going on? How did Dream manage to kill Sam and Technoblade? Is he—” They run a hand through their hair, and then start striding forward, their cape flaring out behind them. They haven’t said anything about him yet, haven’t reacted to his presence. “He’s out, isn’t he? I was going to come and see, but he’s out?”

“He’s out,” Puffy agrees. “We were kind of hoping you’d help us out on this one.”

“Of course,” they say quickly. “Of course, anything you—anything you need.” They’re rattled, clearly, more than Wilbur has ever seen them, perhaps. “I just—how did this happen? I thought the prison was secure, I thought—are you all okay?”

“Aside from the obvious?” Puffy says. “Yeah, we’re great. You haven’t been around much lately, I don’t know how much you know about the Egg and all of that, but that’s an issue too, along with Dream. And some other stuff that I’ve got no idea about, that we really just kind of need to all sit down and talk about.”

“The Egg? I’ve—I’ve heard of it, I think. I’ve been elsewhere for a while.” Their lips twist into a smile that isn’t quite a smile. “Doing a bit of soul-searching, you might say. Found more questions than answers, unfortunately. Alright. I can get you all whatever you need, you can absolutely stay here if that’s what you’d like, but what was that about gates?”

Right. This is taking too long.

Wilbur still feels a bit outside of his body as he steps forward, but that’s alright. He’s limping, but the pain is distant, and he can let his brain work on autopilot, let his mouth move on its own without regarding the consequences, without thinking too much about

(this is Eret and you know them and they betrayed you and you hurt them and now you’re back and here is a test here is a true test it shouldn’t matter how they react to you you shouldn’t care for their opinion but you do you know you do though you pretend you don’t pretend they’re nothing but a traitor to you but you are a traitor to yourself and you know that between the two of you you are the worse and here you both are and you only need one more and everyone will be back together again like the old days like the old days those good old days)

what happens next.

“Right, then,” he says, straightening his spine and stepping up to be visible just behind Puffy, to the side and a few feet back. Eret’s head whips toward him. “To summarize: the Egg is bad, Dream is also bad, they’re now working together, also with Bad, Techno is gone, we’re all in rough shape, a mind-controlling potentially demonic entity is likely to try to take over the server, and also, I’m here, despite my best efforts. Does that paint enough of a picture for you, or should I elaborate further?”

Eret stares at him. He stares back, doesn’t let himself fidget. He’s putting the general on display, and it has never felt more like a disguise, like yet another mask,

(and didn’t he tell Tommy he wasn’t going to do this anymore?)

but a familiar one, one that’s almost comfortable. He can force himself into the general’s shoes and worry about tactics and battles and numbers and strategy, and tuck the rest of himself away for when there’s time for it. Can think of this as just another alliance to be made, a debriefing to be held rather than

(Eret traitor friend ally enemy the place in your heart is curdled and sour and you do not know if you are capable of starting anew)

and his losses are statistics and cold facts rather than

(Techno’s eyes golden and glittering and then they go dim and pale red pale and staring the light in your brother’s eyes gone out and it is not the first time you have watched a brother die in front of you but Technoblade never dies is never supposed to die never to go to dust never and you cannot make sense of it cannot make sense of the world turned on its head)

“Wilbur?” Eret asks, after a very long moment, and he doesn’t understand why their voice breaks in the way that it does. “You’re—it’s you? Not Ghostbur?”

He spreads his arms, lifting an eyebrow.

“Do I look like Ghostbur to you?” he asks.

“No,” Eret answers right away. “No, that you do not. Um, has this been a thing, or…?” They trail off, and Wilbur can’t figure out exactly what their feelings are, but it’s too late to back down, even if he wanted to.

“For a bit,” he says. “Not for too long. Can we move on? We’ve got bigger issues to deal with at the moment.”

He means multiple things, with that. He means, there’s bigger things to worry about than why I’m here. He means, there’s bigger things to worry about than our history, and as so long as we’re on the same side for the moment, it can’t matter right now. He doesn’t know if Eret catches all of that, but whether they do or not, they nod, seeming to steady themself.

“Of course,” they say. “I—for the record, it is good to see you, Wilbur.” There is genuine relief in their voice, a tone that says they’re actually glad he’s here, more than glad, even, and he really doesn’t have time to unpack that at the moment. They need a plan, and fast, and they need some goddamn gates. And medical attention, probably. The cut on Puffy’s head looks nasty, and Phil’s wings are still dripping blood, and it’s difficult for Wilbur to look at them for too long,

(grief rises up guilt rises up crushing choking your father is grounded and it is your fault)

but it concerns him, how little Phil appears to care for their current state. So there’s that to handle, and it’s almost too much, almost. Almost too much for someone who has spent the majority of the time since he’s been brought back to life cringing away from meeting people, all the confidence he once displayed gone, shrinking, left in the void or in Pogtopia or on the podium from which he announced his own defeat, perhaps. But even still, he remembers how to be the general. He can hide in the general, present the general on the outside, be useful even while he thinks he might be on the verge of collapse, internally. He has been a general, and so he shall be again.

What comes first, then?

He pulls out his comm, scrolling through the messages. There are quite a few in the general chat from just after Sam’s death message, people from all over the server demanding to know what’s going on. His eyes drift over Techno’s, then, and he winces, but keeps reading. There are even more messages after that, capitalization usage increasing dramatically, and his eyes trace over familiar names, a pang in his heart. Niki. Fundy. Quackity. Several from Eret as well. Some from names he doesn’t recognize, like this Foolish person, and someone named Hannah.

But then, they all cut off. There have been none in the past half hour. Since they escaped from the Egg.

Out of curiosity, he taps out a few words: dream and egg have teamed, regrouping at eret’s. Upon hitting send, the screen goes fuzzy, giving him an error message he’s never seen before. So comms truly are down, then, and it’s probably just as well; Dream likely knows where they are, but if he doesn’t, there’s no reason to give him the information.

(and do these old allies old friends deserve to learn of your return from cold words on a screen do you not have the courage to face them yourself face your son your son you have not seen your son)

(the last time he spoke to Fundy, he disowned him. he doesn’t know if he still has a son)

(if he does not, he has no one to blame for himself, and perhaps that is why he is too cowardly to check)

“Right, then,” he says, looking back up. “Gates are the first priority. They might not do much against whatever the fuck that thing is, but it’s better than nothing. Eret, I assume you’d know the best way to go about it?”

Eret’s lips quirk into a slight smile, one that is, perhaps, slightly sardonic.

“It is my castle,” they agree. “The more hands I have, the quicker it will go, but I can get it done.”

“Anyone who’s not bleeding profusely, help them with that, then,” he says. “Anyone who is bleeding profusely—I assume you’ve got pots somewhere, Eret?” Eret nods, gesturing toward the inside. “Anyone who is bleeding profusely gets a pot. Once we’ve got that all covered, we’ll reconvene, come up with a plan for where to go from here. Everyone got that?”

He gets a few nods, and no one dissents, so he’ll take that as a yes. His gaze travels to the kids then, standing clumped together, and Tommy’s eyes are still shadowed, and Tubbo is shifting his weight between his feet, and Ranboo looks lost, awkward, and he wishes he didn’t have to ask anything more of them. But that’s not how wars work, and this has certainly turned into a war.

(child soldiers once again, and how history echoes)

“Tubbo, Ranboo, I want you on the gates as well,” he says, and tries to soften his tone at least a little bit, even if that’s all he can do. “And then afterward—Tubbo, I need you to go through with all of us exactly what you know about—what did you call them? Dreamons?”

Tubbo looks slightly miserable, but he nods. “Right,” he says. “I can try to ward the gates if you want. With, um, anti-demon stuff. I don’t know if it’ll work. I guess last time we didn’t manage to do much of anything at all.”

“Anti-what,” Eret says, but Wilbur shakes his head.

“We don’t have time for that. Tubbo will explain later. We—”

“The fuck am I supposed to do, then?” Tommy breaks in, crossing his arms. “You haven’t given me a job.” He glares, but it is so very obvious that it’s all a front, all a show, and Tommy’s expression dares him to challenge him, but Wilbur thinks that if he does, he just might break something in him. Tommy has always been so much more fragile than he presents himself as, so much more fragile than he likes to believe he is.

(despite it all, despite it all, he is only sixteen, only a child, a child grown old before his time but a child nonetheless, and now a child who watched his brother die for him, an estranged brother perhaps but still a brother, and Tommy has always cared so much and so deeply, no matter how much he pretends otherwise)

He hasn’t given Tommy a job, and he doesn’t really intend to, because Tommy, of all people, needs to sit the fuck down and rest for a moment. They all deserve a break, but in this moment, Tommy is the one who needs it most, and also the one least likely to accept as much.

If the general gives the order, Tommy will follow it, he knows that much,

(because he made his brother into a soldier he made his brother into a soldier and soldiers follow orders)

even if he’ll be angry at him for it, but Tommy angry with him is a sacrifice he’s willing to make. And perhaps directing his anger at him will help. Perhaps it would be better for Tommy to be angry with someone within reach rather than someone out of it.

(because Tommy is hurting, and the cause of that hurt is not here, and so perhaps if Wilbur offers himself he’ll feel better, will feel more in control, because Tommy needs control, because his abuser is out, is wandering free, and his abuser has killed their brother and told him that it is his fault)

But then, Phil breaks his silence.

“I’d like him to stick with me,” he says, with a smile that is obviously strained. “I’m not going to be able to reach everything myself.” He makes a vague gesture toward his wings, still dripping blood, and there is so much of it already drying on his feathers, sticky, tacky, almost blending in with the darkness of the feathers

(but stark against the grey-white of exposed bone)

“Why the actual shit—” Tommy starts.

“Good idea, Phil,” he cuts him off. “Tommy, help him with the wings, would you?”

“Why do I have to—”

“You too, Wil,” Phil says, and his mood sours immediately. “You think I don’t see that leg? C’mon, Eret, show us to the pots.”

When faced with that, he has no choice but to agree, really.

(he wouldn’t have ignored it. he wouldn’t have. He knows better than to leave a wound untreated in wartime. Even if something whispers at him that he deserves the pain, even if the bite of it brings him closer to reality. But his better sense knows: pain is not the penance that is asked of him, not a recompense that will do anyone any good)

**********

They meet again half an hour later in Eret’s throne room. Half an hour later, and his leg is bandaged and tender and no longer an open wound, and Tommy is frowning and refusing to meet anyone’s eyes, and the state of Phil’s wings is still bothersome, because he didn’t let either of them touch them beyond what was necessary,

(and he recollects countless nights spent running his fingers through soft, silken feathers as his father told him how to preen them, told him that it was a sign of trust, an activity that only family, only flock is allowed, and now Phil will no longer let them near him, will no longer even take care of them himself and it makes him sick to his stomach to think of what has been lost)

but they are no longer bleeding, and that has to be what matters.

The throne room is not the best location for this, he thinks. It feels awkward. But it’s a room big enough to fit everyone, which is the point, big enough to fit Puffy, presence looming and forehead now bandaged, to fit Sapnap, fidgety as he is, like a caged, snarling animal, all restless energy. Big enough for Tubbo, for Tommy, for Ranboo, for Phil, for Eret and for himself, and big enough that there is an obvious gap at Phil’s right side where someone else should be standing.

Eret eyes her throne, glances at everyone else in the room, and then seats herself at its base. It’s a pithy gesture, meaningless, but Wilbur has more important things to do than to call her out on it, even though the existence of the throne itself grates against him.

“Let’s call this meeting to order, then,” he says, and Eret frowns. Perhaps she doesn’t like that he’s calling the shots in her own

(ill-gotten, dearly kept)

castle, but tough. He’s brought out the general for all of their sakes, so the general is what they’re all going to get.

(it’s a mask again and masks crack but he can keep it up for long enough he can he can they need a leader so he will lead he will lead them)

(you were so good at compartmentalizing, once, go good at shoving it all away in boxes in dark shadowy corners never to be opened to gather dust and cobwebs and faded recollections but the boxes cracked and the demon’s escaped and Pandora was too weak to stop them and it all ended in a bang and he cannot tell if hope remains but that isn’t the point because the box is opened and once opened it is not so easily closed and you are putting on a show a lie and lies come back around again they always do and you should know better than to pretend at strength you do not have you will lead them to ruin again ruin and gunpowder smoke and what gives you the right)

“Yeah, alright,” Puffy says. “Can we start by talking about—whatever that was? What were you talking about, dreamons? What’s a dreamon?”

“That sounds like a made up word,” Tommy mutters.

“I wish it were made up,” Tubbo says, and he winces when all eyes turn to him. But a moment later, he straightens, setting his shoulders squarely, holding his head up high. “I’ll tell you all what I know. Even if that turns out to be not as much as I thought.” He pauses, clearly struggling for words.

“Start from the beginning,” he suggests, and Tubbo nods at him gratefully.

“Okay, right, the beginning,” he says. “In the very beginning, me and Fundy were messing around, and we found some old books. We went through them for a laugh, and we learned about these things called dreamons.”

“Wait, that’s what they’re actually called?” Tommy interjects. “Like, properly?”

Tubbo shrugs. “It’s what the books said,” he says. “We weren’t about to argue over names. Even if it did seem like a weird coincidence. But yeah, that’s what they’re called.” His voice falls into an odd cadence here, recitative, like he’s telling a story, and Wilbur crosses his arms, gripping at his elbows. “They come from the darkness of the void, lurking around the edges of a server’s code. Once they get in, their only goal is to cause chaos and destruction. They corrupt everything they touch, and they can possess people and turn them into their puppets. They have unknowable powers, because they’re a sickness, a rot, like an infection in the code of the server itself. It’s really, really difficult to get rid of them, but it can be done if you have the right tools. Or—” He blinks, stuttering a bit, his voice landing more naturally. “We thought so, anyway.”

“What does this have to do with Dream?” Sapnap asks, stopping his pacing, looking to Tubbo with an expression in his eyes that hurts to look at, a bit, wobbly and desperate and pinched, like he already knows the answer but hopes that he’s wrong, hopes as much as he is able, even though he knows it will be fruitless.

Wilbur has put the pieces together. As best he can, anyway. And Sapnap’s not a stupid man. He can see where this is leading.

“Dream got possessed.” Tubbo sighs, gaze drifting toward the floor. “It was a whole thing. Honestly, we were surprised nobody else noticed. But we—we performed an exorcism. And it was really scary, to be honest. But it worked. We could see it leave, all oozy and black and gross, and Dream was better afterward! He was! So we thought we got it out.”

“But it tricked you?” he asks.

“I don’t understand how it could have,” Tubbo replies. “It’s not—it’s not like the kind of possession that you see in a TV show, where the demon can pretend to be the person or something like that. It’s obvious. It’s too—it’s too wrong to blend in, if that makes sense. It made his voice go all funny and deep, and the way it moved—” He shudders, and then continues, miserably, “The way it moved, there’s no way you could mistake something like that for a human. That’s why we were so sure it worked. Because afterward, he seemed back to normal.”

Something about this doesn’t make sense.

“Tubbo,” he says, wheels spinning in his mind, “when was this?”

Tubbo blinks. “Manberg days,” he says. “Um, that’s why we never told you about it, I suppose.”

He barely bats an eye at the reference. It doesn’t make sense. Because he has sensed that wrongness, as Tubbo puts it, has been sensing it from the moment he set foot in that prison cell for the first time. On some level, he knew that something was deeply wrong, even if a demonic presence was the last thing he would have guessed. But if the whole thing happened during—during that time, and the signs of possession were as obvious as Tubbo says, he would have noticed, wouldn’t he? He had plenty of interactions with Dream during that time.

(unless his own shadows stretched long, stretched far enough to cover Dream’s, to cover the thing piloting him)

But no—his shadows were of his own making, not supernatural. If anything, his mindset should have made him more receptive to suspicious wrongness, not less. So what—

(Dream smiles, and you know what it’s like, to have something whispering in your head, he says, once you let something in, there’s no going back)

“Maybe the first bit was a fakeout,” Phil suggests, arms folded, head tilted. He’s perplexed, which is worrying; it’s rare to come across a being that Phil knows nothing about. “It made itself obvious to lure you in so it could slip under the radar. Faked leaving to put your guard down, maybe.”

It’s plausible. But somehow

(and Dream stands atop the Egg and he says, he says, I tried to fight at first, but it turns out it was right all along, and he says it he says it like it’s separate from him like there is not something else something other speaking from his mouth after all and he tried to fight it he tried to fight it and what does that mean)

“They’re the same,” he breathes, and doesn’t know what he means, not quite yet, “they’re the same, and the Egg controls people, and he was talking about fighting something, about giving in—”

He runs a hand through his hair. Shakes his head.

“Wil?” Phil asks.

“Oi, Wilbur,” Tommy says, almost at the same time. But he needs to—he needs to focus as the pieces click into place, faster than he can process, and he has a conclusion but not the words yet—

He holds up a hand.

“Tubbo,” he says, “you said it can corrupt things. What did you mean by that?”

“I dunno, really,” he says. “It talked about it in the books some, but it was all weird metaphorical language. Couldn’t really makes sense of it. We were more focused on the bits that told us how to get rid of them.”

(he says, you know what the void is like, and Tubbo says that they come from the void, and)

That’s alright. He’s not sure he needs a hard answer to that, because he thinks that if one were to describe the feeling of the corruption, it would be

(it is dark and it is peaceful and there is static at the edges eating away at what makes him himself eating at his soul at his sense of self and it is what he wants, to be nothing, and he does not imagine what it would feel like if it were not what he desired, if he tried to resist it, resist the void all-consuming, all-devouring, resist the void that takes all things into itself and is never satiated)

something familiar.

“Alright,” he says, and steeples his fingers together. “Let me paint a picture for you. Someone gets possessed. You exorcise the thing. But these things can corrupt, you say. So maybe you get rid of the thing itself. Maybe Dream’s pretty much back to normal. But maybe it leaves little bits of itself behind. Maybe he’s not possessed, but maybe that doesn’t matter so much anymore. Maybe it changed him regardless. Maybe it’s still changing him, even though it’s no longer there. Maybe a corruption took root, and there wasn’t any going back from it.” He tilts his head, closes his eyes. “Suppose that the Egg is the same type of thing. Something that forced its way through the cracks of the server, something that’s been smart about it, biding its time. The things that Dream was saying reminded me a lot of what the Egg was doing, you know? Manipulating people, making them into things they aren’t, or into their worst selves.”

He strings the words together as he goes. He’s not sure he’s getting his point across. He used to be so much better at this.

“Wait, so you’re saying you think he isn’t possessed?” Sapnap asks.

“I’m saying we don’t really know,” he answers. “Not unless we get it from him. But Tubbo’s the expert here, and if he says Dream’s not acting like he’s possessed, I believe him. But even if he’s not possessed outright, that doesn’t mean there’s no—influence, perhaps.” He keeps his eyes shut; the darkness on the back of his eyelids is a natural one, but he can almost pretend that it isn’t. That it is darker, deeper.

(void)

“He was right that I know what it’s like,” he says. “I’ve felt the Egg in my head. And I was in the void for—a long time. It felt like forever. I know what it feels like, and there’s some of it in him, I think. Him and the Egg both. They’re the same kind of wrong, the same kind of unbelonging. I’ve never been possessed by a demon before, but if it’s made up of void stuff, that’s the sort of thing that stays with you. Whispering.”

He opens his eyes. Everyone is staring at him, varying expressions of horror on their faces.

He goes back over his words. In retrospect, he can see how they probably came off sounding.

“Wil,” Phil says softly.

“I’m fine,” he says, not at all convincingly, he’s sure.

(once he starts thinking of the void of the peace and of the rest it’s hard to stop even though his desires are now tinged with red and he knows better than to listen but he cannot help himself)

“This is all speculation, anyway,” he continues. “Might not matter at all, in the end, what the particulars are. We just need a way to stop them. Can dreamons be killed, Tubbo?”

Tubbo takes a moment before replying. “I don’t think so,” he says. “Fundy might remember better. But I think the only thing in what we read was the exorcism.”

“Which doesn’t help us much if Dream’s not actually possessed,” Puffy says. “Unless it might work on the Egg? If the Egg’s a—a dreamon too?”

“Worth a shot if we can get to it again,” he says, “but I don’t like risking so much on a maybe.”

“The less we mess with forces beyond our understanding, the better,” Eret says suddenly. She frowns, pushing her sunglasses further up her face. “As I said earlier, I’ve been away a good bit recently, so I haven’t been tracking the Egg’s progress as much as perhaps I should have. But I did notice an increase in activity—well. It was shortly after we tried to resurrect you, Wilbur.” She inclines her head toward him. “I fear that in our efforts, we might have interfered with something we shouldn’t have interfered with. Weakened a barrier of some kind, between our existence and—something else.”

She speaks with a strange kind of gravity. But her words make an unfortunate kind of sense.

He doesn’t look at Phil.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Tommy states. “What the fuck does that even mean?”

“I’m with Tommy on this one. What are you talking about?” Sapnap adds.

“We’re getting off track,” he says, snapping his fingers. “We’re going about this wrong. We don’t have enough information, and we don’t have enough power. Those are our problems. How do we solve them?”

“The obvious would be to get the word out,” Puffy says. “Comms are down, but we can go by word of mouth if we have to. Kinda risky, with the amount of vines on this server, but the nether portal’s right across the way. No vines in the nether, I think.”

“I have lots of old books myself,” Phil chimes in, eyes skyward. “Might be something in there to help that I’ve read and forgotten about. And I’ve got another source of info I’ve barely begun to go through. Old shit I found. It might be worth a shot.” He looks back down. “We need to go get Techno anyway.” He says the last in a tone that brooks no argument, and Wilbur doesn’t try, even if it’s perhaps not the most tactically sound option.

(he wants Techno back too, wants to lay eyes on him, hold his wrist in his hand and count his heartbeats, each one a reassurance, because he knows what it is for a brother to die and come back but that has never made it easier)

“It’s better than nothing,” he says. “Alright, I’ve got a plan, then. Some of us go to the tundra, get Technoblade, and go through whatever books Phil has. Some stay here and fortify the defenses as best we can using what Tubbo can remember that he thinks might work, and a couple of us go around through the nether and tell as many people as possible what’s going on. Gather allies, resources anything else we might need.”

It’s not much of a plan. But based on just how outclassed they are, just how little they know, just how much exhaustion shows in their faces, it might be the best plan they’re going to get for now. To throw themselves back into a battle so soon would be folly.

It never sits well with him to bank so much on a hope, though, a mere possibility that things will go their way.

(but certainties were ripped out from under him the moment Dream killed the unkillable, the moment he saw his brother crumple to ash before his eyes)

“Great,” Puffy says, grimacing. “What could possibly go wrong with that?”

The silence that greets that statement serves perfectly well as a response.

He closes his eyes again. The darkness is no comfort.

#mcyt #dsmp #dream smp #dsmp fic #wilbur soot #tommyinnit #philza #tubbo #eret #ranboo #captain puffy #sapnap #alivebur #/rp #cat writes fic #long post #c!wilbur angst tag

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generalfoolish · 4 years ago

Text

Feel The Heat

Part Four: Fragile Bird

Rating: 18+ (minors take a hike)

Warnings: Alcohol consumption, more past relationship stuff, meddling friends, general anxiety stuff

Word count: ~2.5k

Pairing: Frankie “Fish” Morales x OC Juniper Collins

Summary: June attends a Benny Miller Fight

A/N: Hey babes! Sorry for the delay! #MandoMay2021 has ruined my brain. Enjoy, anyway 💕

Masterlist | Part Three | Part Five

June was kicking herself the whole way to school. She felt so foolish. As fast as the fear and anxiety had set in, it had dissipated. She didn’t know what was true and what her mind was twisting to fit into the worst-case scenarios she had construed. It felt impossible to pick herself out of the rut of her mind.

But then, she wasn’t sure she wanted to. Maybe she was spiraling for a reason. Her last relationship had imploded, and it was beyond messy. She was aware, better than most, that things weren’t always what they seemed.

June parked her car, and went inside. She was early. But, at least inside her classroom she could shut the door and really think things through. That shred of privacy was what she needed, June decided as she jogged to the main building. She entered the security code, but locked the door back behind her.

Once in her room, she dropped her bag on her desk and sat down heavily.

Time to tell yourself some hard truths, June:

Terry was your fiancé. He left you at the altar. And took your dog.

Terry had kept the honeymoon tickets and went on the trip with another girl.

And that girl was one of your bridesmaids, and supposedly, a good friend.

Terry had made some really sketchy moves behind your back and fucked you out of a lot of money and left you reliant on your family and friends.

It was years ago, and you aren’t over it. You hate Terry, but you have a big, gaping whole where your heart should be and it’s filled with sadness and hate.

But you really like Frankie.

You really, really like Frankie.

June swallowed hard, and pulled her phone out. She keyed open her texts and typed a long message out. Then deleted it. Then re-worded and re-typed. Then deleted it again.

A knock at the door broke the spell. Sam stuck her head in, and gave a pitiful smile.

“Hey, lady…” June nodded her into the room.

“Morning, Sam.”

“Sorry, about setting you up on such a bad date.” June’s facade slipped into a frown.

“How do you know it ended badly?” Sam’s mouth pressed into a thin line.

“Weeeeell, Santiago told me a few minutes ago.” June looked at her phone’s time and groaned. Frankie worked fast.

“It didn’t end the best. It’s my fault.”

“I want to make it up to you!”

“I can’t go out tonight.” She told Sam, already shaking her head. June was feeling a little more hungover than she normally liked on a Wednesday morning at seven a.m.

“Not tonight, silly. Friday night!” Sam perched on her desk, and beamed down. “I doubt you have plans then.” She added with a playful wink.

“I was going to grade.” June told her flatly.

“Great! You’ll come with us.”

“Us?” June asked, her tone skeptical.

“Yeah, it’s a fight? It’s one of Santi’s friends.” June knitted her eyebrows together in disbelief.

“I don’t think that’s a great idea.”

“Fish isn’t going.” Sam told her, like that solved every issue.

“It’s still very third-wheelish. Grading isn’t glamorous, but it beats going on a date with you and your boyfriend.” June told her with a laugh.

“It won’t just be us! Will and his wife, and Ben, but he’s fighting.”

“So...fifth wheeling?”

“Or, maybe you hit it off with Ben!” June gaped at her.

“You aren’t trying to set me up with another guy in this friend group are you?” The dust hadn’t even settled from last night.

“Oh no. He is hot though. Maybe just get you finally laid?” June scoffed.

“Santi tell you that too?”

“Ha! No, I just guessed. You don’t seem like the type to put out on the first date.” June flushed at the comment, trying to not remember what she had said to Frankie.

“I’ll think about coming.” June told her, after a beat of silence. Sam clapped, and made her way to the door.

“Junie, I am sorry it didn’t work out.” June nodded and smiled. Sam meant well, even if her presence had distracted June from her text. She only had a few minutes before kids would show up, and she wasn’t sure what to say.

Anything was better than nothing.

“I’m sorry. Hope you’ll let me explain.”

~~~

June adjusted her t-shirt when she got out of her car. She couldn’t believe that Sam had actually talked her into coming out. Especially, considering it was Frankie’s friends. Especially, since Frankie hadn’t said anything back to her text. She hesitated beside her car door, and settled on just leaving. Why had she even come at all?

“June! I’m glad you came!” Busted. June looked over to see Sam sliding out of a large pick up. Sam ran over and hugged her tightly. “Relax!” She told June’s tense shoulders.

“Hey!” A man called out from the other side of the truck. “That wasn’t even in park, lady.” That must be Santiago, June thought. Sam was right, he was attractive. Heat crept up June’s neck at some of the stories Sam had shared.

“You were stopped, Santi.” Sam told him, rolling her eyes. “This is June, June this is Santiago.” June smiled shyly, hoping beyond hope that she wasn’t about to get raked over hot coals for what happened with Frankie. Instead, Santi smiled warmly.

“Nice to put a lovely face to a lovely name.” He told her, a bright smile dancing on his lips. A charmer, for sure.

“You too. Sam speaks highly of you.” He laughed, a warm, chuckle.

“I’m sure it was too much. Will and Becka are already inside, if you guys want to head in.” Santi placed a hand on Sam’s lower back and led the entourage inside. To June’s surprise they headed straight for the locker room. Two men and a woman were standing in the room, talking in hushed tones when they walked in.

“Santi!” The younger man called out, he must have been the fighter, the only one in gym clothes. Ben, June thought, trying to recall his name.

“Benny! You remember Sam, of course!” Benny, or Ben, smiled brightly and nodded, before whisking her up in a hug. When his eyes landed on June, the smile faltered.

“I thought Fish was with the kids.” June turned, wide-eyed to Sam, who shook her head quickly. “Oh, well, June, right?” He recovered, extending his hand. June took his hand reluctantly, but cut her eyes to Sam all the same. What was this?

“Well, we’re going to find the seats, you boys can give him the pep talk alone.” The woman, who must have been Becka, announced.

“That was weird, huh?” Sam asked, laughing.

“Yeah, real weird.” Becka agreed, looping her arms through both Sam and June’s.

“What’s going on?” June asked, her throat feeling tight.

“Well, you’ve been bummed out about your date.” Sam started.

“And, Frankie has been inconsolable.” Becka finished.

“Is that right? He never responded to my text. I asked him to let me explain, he just didn’t give me a chance.” June kept her arm in place, but felt her heart beating faster. This had been a disaster. Why would she inject herself into a situation where she was surrounded by people who knew Frankie intimately.

The hall ended in the arena, and June slipped behind Becka and Sam. Whatever answers they had were held off because of the blaring music and loud chatter. June hadn’t really expected such a crowd. It seemed Benny was a popular fighter. Becka led the group to a roped off section near the ring, and dropped heavily into a chair.

“Will’s grabbing drinks. Beer, okay?” Becka asked, peeking around Sam to June.

“Yeah, a Corona or Modelo.” June answered. She’d have to remember to venmo money to Becka later. Or just make Sam cover her, for dragging her here in the first place.

“So, what’s going on?” June asked again, leaning in closely to Sam.

“Don’t get mad,” Sam started, smiling wolfishly. June squeezed her eyes shut. This was a setup. “It’s just so you can talk!” Sam added, defensively.

“This is a horrible place to talk.”

“You agreed to come. It was pretty obvious, right?” Becka added, laughing. June groaned, knowing well that Becka had a point. The whole night had felt staged, and yet, here she was anyway.

“I tried to talk to him.” June argued, ignoring Becka’s comment.

“Better in person, I guess.” A gruff voice sounded behind her. She turned quickly and tried to keep her composure. Frankie.

He looked good, she thought, her eyes grazing over him. Another flannel, another cap, but he was working them out. His scruff seemed fuller, and she wondered if he’d been sleeping well, the dark circles under his eyes told her probably not.

“That’s right!” Becka laughed, grabbing her drink.

~~~

It was a set up. Frankie saw her from far away, and his throat dried up immediately. She looked amazing, all tight jeans and t-shirt. That ponytail, he was in trouble.

He hadn’t done a great job of responding to her attempts to talk. To sort things out. He was still burned from the morning after nothing happened.

A phone call to Santi that morning had confirmed his suspicions. What had happened was weird. Santi took some time to dig up intel on her, and Frankie felt a little weird about it. Until, that was, he saw what she’d been through. He could understand her hesitancy. But what he couldn’t scrub from his mind was how she had looked on top of him, pupils blown wide with lust. How she’d sounded wrecked when she asked him to fuck her, fuck him out of her system, she’d said. He had spent a lot of time in the shower, and in the dark of his bedroom, thinking about that.

But, he still hadn’t answered her. He didn’t know how. He had felt like he had had a door slammed in his face, and was hesitant to knock again. There was no guarantee that she wouldn’t pull away again, and he didn’t want that. He wanted to be let in, and he wanted her.

When the boys asked him to a fight, he had agreed immediately. Becka called in the sitter, and it would be a good break from the hard work of the farm, he had told himself. It wasn’t until he was holding as many cups of beer as he could carry, and he was staring at June that he realized it was a setup.

He didn’t know if she knew, and it didn’t matter. If she was here, that meant something. What, he wasn’t sure yet, but definitely something. He felt his ears start to burn as he approached, and heard the conversation was on him. Him ignoring her.

“Better in person, I guess.” He said, attempting to offer an olive branch. June looked like she was about to pass out. She was as clueless as him. But, her eyes on him were more hungry than anything.

“That’s right!” Becka laughed, and grabbed a beer from him. He handed one to Sam, and offered one to June. She took it hesitantly, fingers brushing his against the wet cup.

“Outside?” He asked, glancing at the watch on his forearm. There was plenty of time until Benny fought, and he had a growing suspicion that she wasn’t actually all that into the idea of a fight. He led her outside, his hand hovering on her lower back. Partially, because he didn’t want to lose her in the crowd, but mostly because he wanted to be close to her. It was driving him crazy.

In the parking lot, she whirled on him. Her beer sloshed a little, but she didn’t seem to notice the drink on her fingers.

“I’m sorry for the morning, but why didn’t you say anything?” She asked, tone more hurt than the indignant she was going for. He gaped. He didn’t have an answer. Not the time to respond reactively, though. This was already a mess.

“I thought some time would help.” He told her quietly. He was way out of his depth. She paused, not having anticipated a level response from him.

“It might have.” She conceded. He wished he could read her mind. “I am sorry. You’re the first person I’ve felt anything more than passing attraction for since my ex. It was messy. I thought I was past it. Clearly, I’m not. I think that things happened quickly, and it freaked me out. And I thought about when we first met, and…” He grimaced, knowing what she was thinking. He hadn’t given her a great first impression. Or second, or third.

He realized, dumbly, that he had been thinking the worst of her, but she had seen the worst of him. He reached out, not thinking, and rubbed her cheek.

“I’m sorry. Let’s just take it slow. I don’t mind waiting, but I have to kiss you now. Is that okay?” He tried to swallow the lump in his throat, and was vaguely aware that it made his voice raspy. It didn’t matter, all that mattered, was that June nodded. He smiled and leaned down to kiss her.

#frankie morales #frankie catfish morales #Frankie Morales x f!oc #Frankie Morales x oc #triple frontier #triple frontier fic #triple frontier oc #Pedro pascal

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buckyjamess-archive · 4 years ago

Note

Hi Sher! Can I get angst prompt 32 for Sam Wilson? x (i also kinda love you switched back to your seb url)

yes you can, there's not enough love for my man sam!

32. “Because i love you god damnit!”

pairings: sam wilson x reader

warnings: y'know avengers with their violence, blood and stuff. Cursing. fluffy end because can't leave my man hanging.

wordcount: 1.3k+, I will no longer call these things a blurb

❝ all the things i say ❞

it's what cats do, right? hide away when they know they're dying, their ninth life hanging on a thread. Hiding away from potential predators in moments of weakness.

But you're not on your ninth life and you're not hiding away from potential predators. You only have one life anf it's hanging on a thread and you're hiding from your team, you don't need to be found, it is good, at peace. No need to bring your friends into danger in a desperate attempt to find you.

I had a good life.

Your ears ring from the immense impact of the explosion mere feet away from you. The flames around you warming your cheeks and causing a trail of destruction. Your head is heavy from hitting it hard and the agonizing pain from your side makes you want to faint. A sharp piece of metal impaling the skin where your ribs end, marking your suit in a dark red stain, like red wine on a white carpet.

This is it, at least you die fighting the bad.

With the little energy and will power that's left in your body, you drag yourself away from the fight, finding a spot between two flipped cars and nestling yourself in between, you hand never leaving the wound on your side. Your back hitting the cold metal behind you and the sound of a thud when your head meets the car.

The ringing in your ears fade away but the deafening sound of the gun fight around and muffles the voices coming through your com stay but even if you wanted to say something, you doubted your voice or the lack therefore would let you.

Focus on your breathing if these were your last moments on earth, you're fighting to make it as painless and relaxed as it can be. You knew the day was going to come one way or another.

as your life flashes before your eyes, the good and the bad projected like an old movie, your mom, your dad, your family, your friends, the sounds around you fade away, vision getting more and more unclear with each sharp inhale.

It lasts two or maybe three seconds of slowly drifting to another, safer and better place when the cold against your cheeks and the yelling voice far in the distance pulls you back into the real world.

Through droopy eyelids you're met with the brown eyes, usually filled with joy and sparkle and a faltered smile which could light up a room in better days. Sam wilson, the guy you joked around with and told you 'not to die or I'll kill you' moments before going into battle.

Goddamnit, he found you.

You don't hear his voice or maybe you just don't want to. The gears shifting in your mind and going miles per hour as you desperately try to form the sentences, get the man, your best friend out of here. He's risking his life.

"Go away, Sam." It takes everything to mumble the words out and swat his heads away from your body.

Sam refuses, ignoring your poor attempt at pushing him away, pleading him to leave you behind "I'm not leaving you behind!"

and if looks could kill, sam would be dead by now and with a new found will and power, you push him away, nearly throwing him off his balance. A pained groan leaving your lips and a hand clothing your side "Get. Out. Of. Here!"

Sam clenches his jaw, confused and sad with anger running through his veins "No!"

"Why the hell not, you all will be fine without me!"

it's the tears in your eyes, the crack in your voice and the color slowly draining from your face that tells Sam you're serious but he can't, he can't leave you on your own, not after he promised himself to tell the truth.

“Because i love you god damnit!” Sam spat, hands now on both sides of your cheeks "have for a while!"

and if it's the thing you needed to hear, as if it's your queue, a now-i-can-die-happy, you give Sam one of the faintest smiles and your eyes slowly close.

"damnit," Sam mumbles underneath his breath in panic, slapping your color drained cheeks softly in an attempt to keep you awake "could use some help here!"

"and no heavy lifting, no sports, don't test the waters by forcing your limits and ask for help, let yourself be pampered." The nurse demands "as much as I enjoyed your company, I don't want to see you here again."

From where you're seated on the edge of the hospital bed, you smile at the elderly nurse in front of you "wasn't planning on coming back, no offense but the food is just not that good."

"That's because I didn't make it sweetheart." looking over the rim of her glasses, she squints her eyes and copies your smile "take care now."

"I will." you nod.

The nurse shakes your hand firm, flashes the man behind you a quick smile and leaves the room.

"Asking for help, you?"

Unbeknownst to the man behind you, you roll your eyes and bite the inside of your cheeks to keep yourself from speaking.

You watch the man as he comes into your field of vision, arms crossed in front of his chest and that damn warm smile on his face.

"I'm going to be a pain in the ass, intentionally." you shoot him a fake smile "going to make you my maid."

Sam's brows knit together and he watches you through squinted eyes "That's how it's going to be?"

"Absolutely,"

you smile genuinely this time when he dips down to capture your lips for a kiss "I can live with that."

"Even going to get you one of those maid skirts-"

"Okay, alright-" Sam interrupts "get your ass in that wheelchair, we're going home. If that's what you fantasize about, you might want to ask Steve or bucky."

"Maybe I will." You chuckle back.

You let Sam help you, knowing all too well that your body will raise red flags with the smallest movements you make on your own.

"Alright," Sam groans when he tosses the duffel bag over his shoulder "let's go home."

within minutes you're outside, white walls, sterile rooms and bad food long forgotten and fresh air filling your lungs. Freedom. Something you craved after two months in this god forsaken place, bed bound.

Sam's car is parked nearby and unlocks it, light flashing a couple of times. He stops the wheelchair a few steps away and opens the passenger side where he carefully helps you in. Handling you like a fragile package.

"I can do that myself." You laugh when he reaches for your seatbelt.

"Alright." Sam says, hands raised in the air in defense "if you say so."

Sam presses a quick kiss to your forehead and stands back straight and closes the door. Making his way to the back where he opens the trunk and pushes your duffel bag.

You watch the man, you've learned to love so much throughout the years, push the now empty wheelchair back into the building, a quick pep in his step when he returns back. That beautiful smile on his face when he seats himself next to you.

"Alright, let's go home."

"Quickly if you don't mind." You mumble back "worst hotel I've ever been in."

Sam laughs and without another word he starts the engine and drives away from the place you called home for the time being.

The drive back to the compound is a blissful silence but the way Sam grabs your hand whenever he can and kisses the back of it, makes your stomach knot and you know that with Sam by your side, it's going to be a wild ride.

#sam wilson #sam wilson x you #sam wilson x reader #sam wilson one shot #Sam wilson fanfic #mcu #marvel #the falcon #Anthony Mackie

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five-rivers · 5 years ago

Text

Isolation

BIG ANGST ahead. Don’t let the fluffy start fool you. The core of the idea behind this is actually from @agent-jaselin. :)

Yesterday had been perfect. Danny had woken up on time, feeling rested. His mother had made pancakes for breakfast. No ghosts attacked. His homework was already done. He had been able to spend a lot of time with his friends and family. The weather during the day had been good, and the night had been ideal for stargazing. It was great. Wonderful.

This morning had also been good, nice and slow and soft. Danny felt more at peace than he had for a long time.

It was with a light heart and a broad smile that he left his house to go meet up with Sam and Tucker in the park. He actually skipped a bit as he walked down the sidewalk.

He caught sight of Sam and Tucker waiting near the park entrance and waved. They waved back. He picked up his pace, breaking into a jog and-

His foot didn't hit the pavement. It fell, and kept falling, and he fell after it, into a green-tinted void. He turned around just in time to see the natural portal close after him.

He groaned, then smiled wryly. Of course, he couldn't have two good days in a row. What was he thinking?

Well, this wasn't the first time a natural portal had decided to eat him, and it probably wouldn't be the last. At least exploring the Ghost Zone was always interesting. His smile perked up a little. Silver linings. Jazz would be proud.

He went ghost and looked around, trying to see if he could spot any familiar landmarks. His smile twisted into disappointment as he realized that there were no landmarks. At all. Just green, as far as his eyes could see.

Alright, maybe this wouldn't be interesting. Great.

All directions being equal... He started flying.

Lacking clock, sun, or stars, telling time was just about impossible. Still, Danny felt certain that he had been flying at nearly full speed for hours, and nothing about his surroundings had changed.

He was beginning to become concerned. What if the portal had dumped him into the Ghost Zone's equivalent of outer space? What if he was just getting farther in, farther away from home? What if he was going in circles?

Well, at least he could do something about the last one. He formed an ectoblast in his hand and coated it with ice, making himself a little ghost lantern. It would take days to burn itself out. He'd make one of these every few minutes as a sort of bread crumb trail. Then he'd at least know if he was crossing his own trail.

He let the ghost lantern go and kept flying.

Danny thought it might have been a day. Maybe even longer.

The ectoenergy here was plentiful, the ectoplasm thick, more than enough to sustain him, so long as he stayed in ghost form, but he still got tired, still needed sleep. He was beginning to feel like he usually did when he stayed up for more than twenty-four hours, but the utter blandness of his surroundings, the boredom, might have been contributing to that feeling.

Danny didn't know it was possible to be this scared and this bored at the same time. The emptiness of the place was wearing at his mind.

Falling asleep floating out in the open was, in Danny's opinion, a bad idea. He made a tiny island and igloo out of ice for himself. It wasn't the most comfortable place he'd ever slept, even after he molded the ice to fit his body, but it honestly wasn't the worst, either.

He was no longer sure how long it had been since the portal deposited him in this place, but it felt like forever. Time didn't mean much here.

He was still leaving behind ghost lanterns, but now he was decorating them, just to have something to do other than fly. Starbursts were the main shape he was making, as well as ones with his name on them, just in case.

Just in case what, he wasn't sure. In case someone he knew ran across them, maybe?

That would be nice.

Danny had slept three more times since he fell through. There was no change in scenery. He had a new strategy: shouting.

His hope was that someone would hear him and come and investigate. Heck, he would settle for something coming and investigating.

He shouted for help. That he was lost.

He was so lonely.

Danny's shouts had turned into names. Not that he really thought that the people he was calling for were listening. It was just something different to do.

He would admit that he carried on conversations with them. And why not? There was no one here to hear him.

Maybe Clockwork could hear him. But Clockwork wasn't answering.

The one-sided (and rather annoyed) conversations with Clockwork had turned into begging. A lot of begging. And crying. That, too.

But maybe Clockwork couldn't hear him. What was time, in a place like this?

Nothing.

He didn't bother to make and ice house for himself. He fell asleep floating, weeping, in the void.

(He wanted somebody to save him.)

When he woke up, thin strands of something were all over his body. They were like spider silk, and extremely fragile. He brushed them away.

They were the first new thing he had seen in... he didn't know how long. It could have been weeks or months. His sleep schedule was too erratic to do any good. But they unnerved him. It couldn't have been a ghost that made them, he would have felt them come close.

It had to be something from the environment, and it couldn't be healthy.

He resolved to sleep inside from now on.

His evil future self had been able to make portals. So why not Danny?

He had no idea what he was doing.

This had to be what hell was like. Or at least purgatory. What did he do to deserve this?

Danny started talking again. This time, it wasn't to call for help, but simply to remember how to talk. How to carry on a conversation.

He pretended to be talking to Sam, to Tucker, to Jazz, to Jack and Maddie, to Mr. Lancer, even to Dash. His eternal flight took on a daydream-like quality. He imagined conversations with the Lunch Lady and the Box Ghost. He congratulated them on the birth of their child. He had a conversation with Ember about her latest album, he was so excited to hear it...

He started talking to Clockwork again. Clockwork was the only one who could even possibly hear him.

Please, please, he just wanted to go home. He would do anything.

Why was Clockwork doing this? What had Danny done?

What was Danny going to do?

He just wanted to go home.

Please.

Danny decided to take the day off. It had been... It had been a long time. He was tired, and a creeping thought in the back of his head mused that, maybe, the reason no one had found him yet was because he wasn't making himself available to be found.

He built himself a house of ice. No. A castle. It was grand and beautiful, the spires tall, the dungeons deep. Fine sculptures and murals lined the walls. The halls were lit by intricate chandeliers.

He lived there for a while, and left it floating as he flew away.

'Howling mad' is not as fun as it sounds.

Danny turned over the memory of his last day on Earth over and over again in his mind. In retrospect, it was almost too good. It was like a farewell. A last gift. A goodbye.

He held on to it, tightly, anyway. He could go back to that. He could.

It was something to live for.

It had been a long time.

Danny didn't notice at first when his memories began to blur around the edges. They weren't important ones. Trivial things. Who sat where in math class. Which day of the week it had been when he first fell through. The order of the shops on main street.

But then he started forgetting names. That was unacceptable.

He started his litany again. He would not forget. He refused.

He had hope. He did. He had hope. He had hope. He had...

He was forgetting. The nothing- it did that. He made himself another house of ice, this one a perfect replica of Fentonworks, except for the colors. He made statues of his friends and family. He made constellations out of ghost lanterns, so that if he laid on the roof it almost seemed like he was looking at the night sky.

They weren't right. None of it was right. He left, quickly.

Every time he slept, he woke covered with silk. He no longer cared.

He thought about going human, about how long it would take to starve to death. Could he starve to death, even in human form?

He doubted it. He was going to be trapped here, forever.

A cage without bars or walls... He was sure Mr. Lancer had mentioned a poem or a saying like that once. He should have paid more attention in class.

He fantasized about getting hit by the boo-merang. He no longer had any hope of actually being rescued, but it would be nice to know that they had tried. That someone had looked for him. That someone had missed him.

He missed them so much. Even Dash and Vlad.

If he could just see someone, anyone... He'd even take Pariah Dark. He'd take Spectra.

Raging against the heavens was almost cathartic.

Almost.

It reminded him that no one was raging back. There was no answer to his insults, to his curses.

It would be a long time until he spoke again.

Danny drifted to a halt, slowly. All this time, flying in one direction, and still there was no change in scenery. He looked back over his shoulder. His last two lanterns were just barely in sight. Normally, he'd be making another one.

Normally. He sighed.

Since when had this become normal? How long had he been doing this?

Long enough for all his memories to fade around the edges. Long enough to lose all but the faintest ember of hope.

He tilted his head up- insofar as 'up' had any meaning in this void. He coughed, clearing his throat. "Clockwork," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, hoarse from disuse, "please. Whatever I did to deserve this, I'm- I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, and I'll do anything to make it up, just, please. Please. Let me go home. Just- Even for a minute. Please."

There was no answer. The lantern that formed between Danny's hands was misshapen and small. He let it tumble carelessly from his fingers.

He kept flying.

He did not speak again.

The silk that grew while he slept was getting thicker. He suspected, but didn't know, that he was sleeping for longer, too.

The lantern he made was huge and beautiful, a beacon that would be visible for miles and miles, even through the gloom and mists of this void. Smaller lanterns, practice runs, orbited it slowly in a mockery of a solar system. This lantern was going to be his last one.

He wasn't going to fly any more after this. He was going to go to sleep and hope that he wouldn't wake up. Not until someone found him.

Into the side of the beacon, he built a little cranny, a dark, secure place, and imbued it with enough purpose to give it the illusion of gravity. Somewhere a ghost wouldn't mind sleeping away the years.

He crawled in with a sigh. As he closed his eyes, he tried to think of his family. If he was lucky, maybe he would dream of them.

He woke, briefly, to the sensation of being touched. His eyes sprang open, a wild hope blooming in his chest.

It died almost immediately.

The thing brushing against him wasn't a loving hand or a curious ghost. It was that odd, silky residue. The strands were thicker than he had seen before, and if he had any willpower left after all this time, he would have wondered if he could have woven it into something. He'd tried before, with thinner strands, but had been unsuccessful. There had been many things he had done to stave off the boredom.

As it was, he simply went to sleep again.

Nightmares were better than being awake. Nightmares held the chance that he'd see people again, even if they were fake. Even so, that particular nightmare, seeing his friends and family die like that, was enough to jostle him awake.

Instead of green, the color that greeted his tired eyes was a dull, soft, silver. He shifted, trying to get a better look at it. Whatever it was, it was too close to his face for his eyes to easily focus on it.

Oh, it was the silk. Apparently, it had grown enough to cocoon him.

Alright, then.

His friends, his family, and his teacher... What was his teacher's name again...?

Wakefulness again. His brain buzzed with fatigue and confusion. He felt weak. Perhaps the long time he had spent in ghost form was finally catching up to him.

Whatever 'ghost form' meant. Was there another?

Green light, more than could be accounted for by his eyes, reflected off the walls of his cocoon. His eyes moved slowly, looking for the source. He found it in ectoplasm dripping off his body. No, from his body. He was melting, destabilizing, his ectoplasm pooling at the bottom of the cocoon.

Oh, well. Whatever. He had the vague impression that someone he once knew would have scolded him for the attitude, but he couldn't quite recall who.

Speaking of which, hadn't he known someone who destabilized? He couldn't remember.

There had been other people, once. He knew that. It would have been nice, to see them one last time. Or the other thing. The other thing he liked. What were they? Right. The stars. It would have been nice to see the stars. He had made some stars before, out in the void, but he couldn't see them from here.

Gooey eyelids slipped closed over his eyes.

It wasn't fair, that he should still exist enough to wake up as a puddle of ectoplasm. He didn't stay awake long.

There were sounds. He forced his eyes open. Eyes. He had eyes again. His hands came up to touch them. Hands. A body. He had a body again.

Again?

What had he had before? He didn't remember. He didn't remember anything.

Where was he? It was small and grey. He touched a silky wall. What was that sound? It was rhythmic and regular, like a heartbeat. What was a heartbeat? He put a hand over his chest. Should he have a heartbeat?

His hands... They were as dark as night. He could see stars in them, nebulae. They seemed to blend with the fabric of his sleeves, which continued the pattern. Was that normal?

On contemplation, he decided that he wanted the sound. He wanted to go to it. He rolled over in his cocoon, trying to determine where the sound was coming from. Was it bigger than before? Before what?

Here. He knocked against the side of the cocoon before digging into it with his claws. Layers upon layers of silk fell away as he tore at the side of the cocoon. He kept having to stop, to rest. He was sure he had been sleeping for a long time, but even this little bit of work felt like a marathon.

Finally, he pierced the surface. The sound became clearer. A beam of light from outside fell through the hole. He redoubled his efforts, pushing and pulling and clawing. A tear large enough for him to slip through opened up, and he sprawled out of the cocoon onto a hard surface.

A pair of hands- Not his!- picked him up and set him on his feet. A person, a man, half-floated, half-knelt in front of him. He wore a long purple robe, his skin was blue, and his eyes were red. As he watched, the man's form warped, becoming older. Behind the man floated other people.

They weren't outside. They were in a... a room. That was the word. A room.

The sound was coming from all over in the room and also from the man.

"Greetings to you, youngest of Ancients, Master of Space," said the man, gravely, his voice deep. "We congratulate you on your completion of your trial, your becoming, and welcome you to our council."

None of these words made sense. He tilted his head in confusion.

"I am Clockwork, Master of Time, eldest of Ancients."

Clockwork. He knew that name. He knew-

He took two small steps forward, closing the distance between himself and Clockwork, and fell against the older ghost.

Clockwork stayed crouching and held the small ghost that had once been Daniel Fenton until he went limp in his arms. With a small sigh, he straightened, adjusting his grip on the child, who shifted unconsciously.

"I must admit," said Pandora, drifting forward, "I had not expected his appearance to change so much. And yet... so little." She teased a strand of silver-green hair away from the little ghost's head. "He looks younger. Is he still half human?"

Clockwork nodded. "It will take time and care before that part of him can heal, however." His lips twisted as he looked down at the child curled against his chest.

"You did the right thing," said Pandora, voice pitched low. "Had he been anywhere else when he started coming into his power, the Observants would have found him and destroyed him."

Clockwork did not acknowledge the statement. He turned towards the other Ancients, who drifted closer, curious. It had been a long time since their family had welcomed a new member, and never a child.

"What shall we call him?" asked Nocturne, Master of Dreams, subtly comparing his stars to the child's.

"I think," said Clockwork, "that he will like 'Cosmic.'"

#danny phantom #dannymay #dannymay 2020 #day 22

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andythane · 4 years ago

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HOLY WATER CANNOT HELP YOU NOW I’VE COME TO BURN YOUR KINGDOM DOWN

MAY 19TH, 2021. OUTSIDE OF LAFAYETTE, LOUISIANA. notes & tw: this is literally all just bloody, brutal violence of every kind. andy, along side wes and wyatt, gets revenge on the rogue’s responsible for attacking rowan in february. italics are flashbacks, ps. tw for very graphic murder, lots of blood, violence, gore (eye, specifically), stabbing, decapitation/dismemberment, tc ahead. please read at your own discretion, it’s a lot.

The first time he kills someone, he’s twenty years old. Four months after he’d been officially patched into the club, reconciled with Rowan, and started this new chapter of his life. He knew what the patch sewn to his cut meant -- He had grown up next to it, had seen his father come home at all hours of the night covered in blood with a smile on his face as he slapped his gun onto the kitchen table and happily declared he needed a beer. That being said, doing it yourself and hearing stories were so comically different it made his head spin.

Most of the ride, he’s quiet, staring out the window of the Wyatt’s jeep as they drive through the backroads. There’s not much conversation to be had once they’ve gone over the plan, all three men knowing exactly what they’re going to this warehouse for. It’s roughly a two hour car ride, giving Andy enough time to go mentally go over the weapons he’s brought with him -- The gun tucked into his cut, one tucked into the waistband of his pants, one strapped to his ankle; The knife tucked in his boot strap, the other in the sheath of his belt. He’s nothing if not prepared. Andy goes over their placement for the thousandth, unneeded time, thinking through every what if scenario he could find himself in. It’s not often that his paranoid nature actually becomes a benefit.

They know the layout of the building, where each of them will cover, and the amount of people that will be there -- But he likes to prepare for the worst and the best, knowing from experience that they’re likely going to meet a mixture of both. Andy’s planned and executed this kind of thing enough times to know how to go about it blindfolded. At this point, it’s just like riding a bike.

He wonders what Wes is thinking, if his mind drifts back to Jace asleep at home, unaware of the violence going on around him; If Wyatt is imagining Iris in her hospital bed three months ago, scared of the oxygen mask strapped to her face. All Andy can think of is Rowan, sobbing in his arms while struggling not to move and potentially injure herself further, tearfully telling him why she hadn’t shown up to dinner.

It’s been a while since he’s found himself in this kind of mindset, having hung up his metaphoric hat when it comes to hitman jobs in the last few years. After his time in prison, Andy knew he had to lay low -- Being on parole, and having a daughter to raise changed his priorities. While the money from his ‘freelancing’ had been nice, he and Rowan had enough saved to last them a lifetime, especially with his cut of the guns the club sold, and her salary. There was no need for it now, not like when they were struggling to pay rent and put Rowan through school. Though, he couldn’t deny the high that came with planning a job was one Andy didn’t know he desperately missed. It used to scare him, how exciting he found this -- The rush that came from a stake out, figuring out each detail all the way down to the small possibility, the thrill of actually pulling his gun and breaking through the door. Now he welcomes it like an old friend.

He always imagined it would be a fair fight -- Or at least, not like this. Whenever the thought came to mind, he pictured himself wrestling some bond villain looking guy, the two diving for the gun that had been cast aside. It was naive, childish even -- But he didn’t expect that he’d be pointing his gun at someone who couldn’t be much older than him, one who was sobbing through swollen eyes, pleading for his life. His father kept his hand’s firmly planted on the kid’s shoulder’s to keep him from squirming out of the rickety chair, acting like this was a prize for a job well done. This could easily have been me, Andy thinks. Had this job gone wrong, he has no doubt Cronus wouldn’t hesitate to put him into that chair, make an example out of his son. Only, it didn’t. It was nothing short of an absolute success.

His father says something, but Andy doesn’t hear it. Jason is somewhere in the background cheering him on. Andy’s heart is pounding in his ears, both hands holding tightly to his gun, fighting to conceal the fact that they’re shaking. The gun is pointed directly at the poor kid’s head, Cronus’ steady hands keeping him from getting away from his obvious fate. Andy glances to his father for a moment, the wild look in the man’s surely meant to be read as adrenaline fueled pride. This is Andy’s first job after being patched in, and he had proved himself thus far. Now he just needed to finish this. Andy wishes he had the strength to lift his arms just that much higher, and put a bullet in his father’s head.

In that moment, he thinks of Rowan; Part of him wishes he hadn’t, based on the way his jaw clenches and his chest constricts -- He doesn’t want her to ever know about the horrible things he’s going to do, the horrible thing he’s about to do. Rowan shouldn’t have to see him for what he really is, what he’ll grow up to be: A monster. The rational part of himself reminds him that she already knows, and she’s still waiting for him at home, ready to pull him into open arms once he passes through the front door.

He pulls the trigger.

The kid’s blood splatters across Andy’s face.

They move quietly, each taking different sections of the warehouse. Wes covers the open space where the guns lie, Wyatt takes the small offices turned into ‘bedrooms’, while Andy takes the conference turned war room. He knows this is only a piece of the Rogues puzzle, but it’s a step in the right direction. They don’t plan on leaving anyone behind to tell the others what happened -- The grizzly scene and blood splattered across the walls will paint the picture for them.

His back remains against the wall, pulling his gun from his cut as he moves quietly, the three men in the conference room too distracted by their own conversation to notice Andy slipped into the dimly lit room. He makes presence known by firing a bullet into one man’s -- His name is Sam, based on the conversation Andy heard before entering -- knee, which creates a flurry of action as everyone tries to dive for the guns on the table. It’s the obvious move, one that Andy had anticipated. His hand reaches for the underside of the table between the four men seconds after his gun first fires, sending the flimsy plastic table over, their guns scattered and out of reach.

Sam fits one of the descriptions Will gave him, of a shorter, stocky man, blacked out ink covering him aside from a poorly done mermaid tattoo covering his throat. The man across from Sam fits the bill, as well -- Blonde, long hair, scar across his cheek, entire right arm covered in blacked out tattoos. Jack, Andy’s memory recalls. The man in question tries to make a run for one of the guns, but Andy stops him with a bullet to the stomach. Enough to knock him down, but not enough to immediately kill him. He wants them alive for this, to feel the same terror and pain Rowan did that night. They’re not going to be lucky enough to get a bullet to the head first.

The third and final man is one Andy recognizes now that he’s face to face. His name is Danny, but he’d been called Tex during his time in the club. (The nickname was stupid then, and it’s stupid now, Andy thinks.) He had his ink blacked out and left town roughly ten years ago after screwing the club over. The surprise reunion is enough to catch Tex off guard, enough that he hesitates, eyes narrowing as he takes in the scene in front of them. Both Sam and Jack bleeding on the floor, the former clutching his leg and screaming to the third to Do something, you fucking idiot. So, he does. The man charges forward, managing to knock Andy to the ground given the fact that he’s got about a hundred pounds on him.

They struggle as Tex tries to wrestle the gun away from Andy, before it gets thrown to the side in the fight. Punches are thrown on both ends, a ringing settling in Andy’s ears after a particular blow to the side of his head, though it doesn’t deter him. Andy manages to roll them over, holding the other man down with knee pressing down on his throat. Tex claws, scratches, and hits Andy in an attempt to get out from under him, but the cut off of oxygen makes it more difficult. He gets a few good blows in, though -- There’s blood dribbling down Andy’s arms from scratches, bruises that have already begun to form. He doesn’t notice, too focused on keeping the man under him from getting out of his grip. His hands move to hold Tex’s head, Andy’s thumbs digging into the inner corners of his eyes, gouging them as deeply as he can manage.

He can’t help but wonder if the three men have realized this isn’t about killing them; It’s about watching them suffer.

The fact that Tyson is still breathing is enough to send Andy into a tailspin. He had hoped the spineless piece of shit had fucked off somewhere, given that he hadn’t made an appearance in his and Rowan’s life in quite some time. Andy’s attempts at optimism always seem to be met with harsh reality, though, one that consistently proves the obvious: It’s childish to try and see the best out of a situation like this. He knows this as he throws the man off his front porch, knowing he has to take care of this problem himself -- Restraining orders and the local cops just aren’t going to cut it. Not when he and Rowan have a fragile six month old daughter sleeping in a crib down the hall.

His downfall is the fact that he reacts, he doesn’t plan. Andy knows better. The reason he’s been so successful with the club is his commitment to discretion, detail, and planning. He analyzes that night over and over for the next three years from the comfort of his prison cell, imagining how he would have killed Tyson if he had taken the time to do it properly -- Instead of grabbing his baseball bat, and kicking the front door in. He would have made it last longer, Andy decided. Prolong his suffering, before letting him gain a shred of hope that he’d make it out alive — Before finally putting him in the ground. That being said, the satisfaction that comes from the look of pure fear on Tyson’s face the moment he sees Andy come through the door? Unmatched.

The mental image is one that never fails to bring him a swell of pride. He can still hear the sound of his bat crushing bone, feel the way his heart skipped a beat with each and every hit. It didn’t matter if there was blood flying, covering him in the evidence; The fact that he hadn’t been quiet in his entrance; The sound of distant sirens headed their way, after a loud, shrill scream rang out. All that mattered was crushing Tyson’s skull, ending the iron grip he’s had on Rowan’s life for the better half of a decade. He didn’t care what happened next, as long as his wife and daughter were able to live in a world where Tyson Grant didn’t.

He only regrets not being able to finish the job that night.

It occurs to him, as his foot comes stomping down on Sam’s already shot knee, that he hasn’t done anything like this since prison. He’s gone on runs, jobs, the works -- Hell, he even threatened to brain Will in his own home. Everything pales in comparison, though. In prison, they had to be more creative; Breaking bones, cutting off fingers, slitting throats before the guards showed up. It was all quick and dirty, done by hand. There was no choice in the matter -- If he wanted to finish out his sentence, see his wife and daughter, even have a chance of making it to the end of the week at all, Andy had to get rid of the other guy. The protection that came with being a Primordial didn’t go as far as one would hope. There’s a reason they used to refer to him as the Grim Reaper. Years later, and he’s made it clear that he hasn’t lost his touch.

This man doesn’t want to fucking die, though. The way he keeps clawing at Andy, yelling obscenities between each scream of pain. He makes proclamations about how he’s going to kill Andy, calling him every name in the book as he tries and fails to fight for his life. A hard kick to the head shuts him up for a moment, disorienting him enough before Sam musters up enough energy to stab Andy in the calf, almost successful in knocking him to the floor. Clearly, the man got a last surge of something, accompanied by a knife he hadn’t realized Sam had on him. This only provokes an annoyed grunt and eye roll from Andy. He stumbles down onto one knee from the surprise of the movement, a stab to the man’s arm with the knife from his boot strap gets Sam to let go. He does, going limp as his knife is stuck in Andy’s calf. It doesn’t stop him from continuing the effort though, within a moment Andy’s on top of his unconscious victim, stabbing him in the chest over and over again like he’s in a cheap horror movie.

In that moment, he loses himself -- Something snaps, taking him back to the night he’d gotten a call that Rowan was in the hospital, the way he so desperately pushed down all of the anger and rage that came with knowing she’d been hurt at the hands of these assholes. Everything he’s fought to hold at bay for the sake of his wife, the kids, his sobriety, the club -- It all bubbles to the surface now, when he’s not worrying about keeping the kids safe and Rowan above water. When all there is is this room, and him, and the people that have to pay for the crimes they’ve committed.

Every emotion he’s expertly avoided, every ounce of it boils over as he stabs the Rogue over and over until they’re both covered in blood. The need for vengeance for what they did, the way they turned Rowan’s life upside down and left her afraid to look over her shoulder; Guilt over the fact that Andy, yet again, couldn’t protect the person he holds so dearly; The power that comes with knowing these men are at his mercy, ready to beg for their lives in a last ditch effort to survive what’s coming next. It all hits him like a freight train, leaving him a little dizzy. Though, that may be from the hits he’s taken himself, blood he’s lost -- Andy doesn’t take the time to find out. Instead, he comes to once he realizes the man under him is long dead, having succumbed to the injuries inflicted after the first few stabs.

The revelation stuns Andy momentarily, as he tries to catch his breath. If there was any witness to this, they’d see how frenzied the moment had become, that there was far more pent of emotion attached to this than Andy initially realized. Eyes glance to the two men left -- Tex, having passed out, and Jack slumped against a wall trying to stay conscious, a string of profanities passing his lips in a hoarse voice. His attention turns to his hands after that, steady but covered in a mixture of Sam’s blood and his own. A blood soaked piece of hair falls forward and onto his cheek as Andy wipes his hands off on his shirt, a wave of frustration running through him. Of fucking course he’d get blood in his hair, and now -- More on his face. He makes a mental note to book an appointment for a haircut.

They cut the man’s fingers off one by one, moving slowly and deliberately. The man in question, Gerald, is tied to a chair in the kitchen of the prison, thanks to a guard that’s on the MC’s payroll. No one is going to give a second thought to the sound of muffled screams or a hacksaw from the locked up tool shed going missing for the night. Andy’s only been out of the hospital for a day at this point -- The guy he’s torturing, having been responsible for his brush with near-death. Gerald felt bold enough to go after Andy with a homemade shank, trying to get even for some issue he held with Cronus. It was laughable to him, considering Andy hated his father just as much as this sorry bastard.

Andy had hoped to make it through his sentence by keeping his head down (for the most part, at least) doing what he needed, sticking with the right crowd -- Club members who were serving life sentences. His name gained him respect, plenty of other inmates happy to keep an eye on Cronus’ boy, but the revenge he’s getting tonight is what gains him his reputation. He becomes the go-to for these kinds of things, the one his fellow club members call on to take care of problems they have behind bars. Rowan’s words ring in his head -- Do what you have to do to stay alive. Come back to me. Playing executioner for the club wasn’t his first choice, but if it’s what kept him safe and gets him home, so fucking be it. Plus, killing the man who had tried to murder him in the showers brought Andy plenty of satisfaction. What kind of person would he be if he let some jaded idiot get away with almost killing him, right?

First the fingers, then his hands, and so on and so forth -- Dismemberment isn’t something new, Andy himself has had to cut up a few bodies so they can get rid of the evidence before. Though, typically speaking, the person isn’t still alive as they do it. Watching this guy suffer was just icing on the cake. Each time Gerald passes out, they cauterize the wound and pull out the smelling salts to give him a fake sense of safety -- That now they’re done, eye for an eye, the message is sent. Only each time he’s lulled into a half-dazed security, they stuff the rag back in his mouth and cut off another limb. It was going to be a long night.

He finds himself with a moment where he can tend to the wound he’s gotten — It's not a particularly deep stab, but it hurts like a bitch and that stupid knife looks fucking dull once he pulls it out and can actually get a good look at it. Not wasting anytime, and to make sure he doesn’t lose too much blood, Andy works quickly. The last thing he needs is to pass out and run the risk of getting himself killed, or having to have Wes haul him out over his shoulder. He has to get creative for now, knowing they can’t exactly make a pit stop at the ER on the way back and he doesn’t want to call Rowan after, given the fact that they’re bringing one of the Rogues back with them to get information out of -- So he moves to rip off part of Sam’s torn pant leg so that he can get pressure on the wound. Using a piece of folded up denim, he holds it against his injury, tying a piece tightly around his calf to keep it in place. It’s not great, but it’ll do for now, until he can get to a proper first aid kit. Andy can practically hear Rowan in the back of his head, scolding him for getting hurt in the first place. Once she knows the context, he’d imagine she probably wouldn’t think much of the injury after.

The sound of Tex’s screams pulled his attention, the man having regained consciousness and begun to panic -- The knee jerk reaction from Andy is to pull his gun back out, silencing Tex with a bullet to the chest. Andy unloads the rest of his clip into the man as he approaches, finding himself feeling lighter and lighter with each shot, despite the fact that he’s now limping. An unbearable amount of helplessness has weighed on him the last six months — Like all he can do is watch these terrible things happen from the sidelines, only able to help tend to the aftermath rather than keep his loved ones safe. What has left him lying awake at night as been the feeling that he’s constantly one step behind, always a minute too late �� Whether it’s the shipment getting hijacked and Blake getting to him hours later, homes being burned down while he’s shooting up a warehouse, his own wife lying beaten and bloody in the middle of the street while he sits at a restaurant waiting for her. One thing after the other.

It’s unclear what kind of man it makes him to take such pleasure in revenge -- That he isn’t haunted at night by the people he’s killed or the homes he’s wrecked for the right amount of cash. Maybe it’s proof that he really is his father’s son, or that he’s just as heartless as people believe him to be. Andy’s not sure if it matters much at this point. The idea of knowing he is sending these assholes to an early grave gives him a sense of peace he hasn’t felt in a long time, one he wasn’t sure he’d ever know again after Valentine’s Day. This isn’t the end of the Rogues, but it’s retribution for what they’ve done, bringing him more clarity than ever before. Anyone who hurts the people he loves deserves to die screaming.

Confusion finds him when the sound of a gun firing fills his ears with a familiar ringing, a bullet hitting the dead man on the ground in front of him rather than its intended target. Andy follows the direction it came from to find a wild eyed Jack, having managed to pull himself across the floor in a bloody heap, far enough to get to a gun, clearly struggling to hold himself up right even while propped against the turned over table. He had the element of surprise on his side, but Andy has the benefit of not having been shot in the stomach -- So he moves quickly across the small room, easily smacking the gun out of the man’s hand. It’s clear Jack is running on pure adrenaline and spite, though now that he got his one shot in, it’s running out. Fists colliding with the man’s jaw only speed up the process, though before he finally gives up and slumps over to side and lands on the floor -- He spits blood back at Andy, clearly trying to get in one last fuck you before he dies. Jack doesn’t get much of a reaction out of Andy, instead he stands up fully, giving the half-conscious man a good look before the heel of his boot meets his head over and over until he is long dead and unrecognizable.

#blood tw #murder tw #violence tw #gore tw #death tw #eye gore tw #stabbing tw #decapitation tw #overkill tw #gun tw #dismemberment tw #gun violence tw #stalking tw #prison tw #if i missed any sort of tw or tag for a tw please give me a shout!!!!#self 02.#it's been a long long time since i've been able to write andy going feral.............................. i need a drink <3

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msmarvelwrites · 4 years ago

Text

The Winter Ghost - Part 13

Info: A Devastating car crash causes you to lose your memory and start over. The only thing left in the wreckage was the horrific nightmares which plagued your mind. If you knew what today would entail you would have just stayed in bed. But you didn’t and because of that, everything you knew was about to change.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Warnings: Swearing, angst, some smutty thoughts...

w/c: 2.2k

A/N: Lucky number 13! I’m honestly so caught off gaurd by all the love Ive been receiving on The Winter Ghost. I see all your late night binge sessions and I am SO immensely greatful for your interest. When I first started writing this I didnt really think anything of it, but youve all lit a fire under my ass and for that, I thank you! So please, enjoy and reblog and like if you feel so inclined.

His hot breath fanned across your face, sending you into a frenzy like state you had never known before. Heavy breathing, mostly on your part as he placed excruciatingly slow kisses across your jaw. You needed him. More than you’d ever needed anything in your life. It made you sick.

“Are you afraid?” He asked in a low seductive voice. Swiftly he wrapped his metal fingers around your throat, applying enough pressure to make you gasp. You clawed at his chest, drunk on his murderous touch. You wanted him to make you hurt as bad as your heart did. You couldn't possibly hate a person more than you hated yourself right now.

“Answer my question.” He shouted, sending a ripple of ecstasy through your body.

��No. I could never,” You gasped, choking as the walls of your throat began to collapse.

“Liar.” He sneered.

You let out an involuntary moan.

“You good, Y/n?” Sam asked, sitting next to you on the couch as he, Nat, Wanda and Shuri all ate breakfast around the kitchen island. Your hand was lightly wrapped around your neck where Bucky’s was just a moment ago.

“Yeah, fine.” You squeeked.

But you weren't. You hadn’t been since that morning in the hallway with Bucky. You could still feel the sting he had left behind from his touch. What was wrong with you? You couldn't even begin to unpack that question. Psychiatric help would be a start, though.

After your memory had returned, the nightmares seemed to subside, only to be replaced with the image of Bucky, devoid of all emotion, seething in rage at your quips. By the third night, you would have gladly have traded, knowing that this was so much worse.

You couldn't keep excusing your vile thoughts as his fault. They weren't, not entirely. You were the one waking up a needy mess every morning.

“Hey.” Bucky's husky voice filled your senses causing you to stiffen at the sound. The team around you said their hello’s while you tried to refrain from gawking. You had done your very best to avoid him as much as you could, but there were only so many places to hide. Whenever you bumped into each other he would keep his head down and you would run in either direction.

“Steve’s on his way back today. He left to meet Vision and gather intel on an active Hydra base located somewhere on the border of Germany.” Wanda’s eyes lit up at the mention of the name. This must be the famous Android she's always gushing about.

“Pack up… We ship out first thing tomorrow morning.” Bucky declared, peaking your interest. It had been way too long since you had been back in the field, this was amazing. You could feel the excitement bubbling out of your chest vanish when Bucky’s eyes glanced at you.

“Y/n, you can uh, keep Shuri company while we're away.” You blinked at him, unsure if you had heard him correctly.

“No fucking way.” You scoffed. You were not missing out on this opportunity to give Hydra a taste of their own ‘serum’, so to speak.

‘Captain's orders.” He deadpanned, averting his gaze to the ceiling. You stared at him, lost for words with needy eyes. He’d never tell you, but it terrified him when you looked like that. Small, fragile, though he knew better. He would kill himself before he tainted you. But that didn't make the idea any less intriguing.

“And since when do you listen to Captain's orders?” Nat spoke up before you even got the chance. You nodded violently, looking back to Bucky who only sighed.

“You know very well why she can't go.” He muttered, fighting tooth and nail not to look at you again. You could sense his uncomfortability but you couldn't look away.

“She’s not going, then I’m not going.” Wanda sulked.

“Me too.” Sam mocked her tone. “Seriously, Buck. She’s a tank, we could use her.” He finished, more serious this time.

Bucky huffed, pinching the bridge of his nose between his flesh fingers. “You gotta take that up with Steve. He and I aren't really on the best of terms right now.” He spoke, annoyance dripping from the last sentence.

“Easy, I’ll take care of it.” Nat said to Bucky, but she sent a wink at you.

You were so excited you almost leaped from your seat. You couldn't wait to blow some shit up!

……………………………………….

The next morning you woke up extra early, just to get a jump on everything. Nat had fought with Steve all last night, but eventually he conceded on the sheer fact that if you were there, it would mean double the Wanda power. This was a big base, one he had known of for quite some time now, but it required extra attention. They had been working on recreating your serum, but so far to no avail. You knew exactly where they were going wrong of course. But Steve explained they had been testing it out of Hydra members. The lucky few who survived may not have your powers, but they were still strong. He’d need all the help he could get.

After you were packed you dragged your duffle to Shuri’s lab. She had been working on a few new weapons she wanted you to pack. Just in case, she said. You got there in no time flat, literally vibrating with excitement.

“You're sure about this?” She asked.

“Absolutely.” You beamed. She signed, and handed you a small ring.

“What's this?” You asked, holding the small band in your fingers.

“It’s a beacon. It will help you hold onto your borrowed energies for longer. It’s like a mini you, only better.” She paused, “Speaking of, are you going to tell me what's in that serum of yours or am I just going to have to keep guessing?”

“I think it’s better kept unsaid. That thing had already caused enough problems. No one should be burdened with it.”

“Maybe so.” She signed.

“Thank you Shuri. For everything.” You half heartedly smiled but before you could leave her arms were around you, pulling you into a hug. You sucked in a breath and tapped her on the back in reciprocation. Physically affection was never something you were good at showing, try as you may.

When you finally pulled away she sent you a soft smile, and wished you good luck on the mission before you headed out the door.

……………………..

“Nice of you to grace us with your presence.” Steve muttered, when you finally got to the jet when the rest of the team was loading up.

“It is, isn't it?” You spoke sweetly, throwing your duffle onto the jet. You still weren't really sure where you stood with Steve. Of course you knew of the famous Captain America, even if you didn't remember a few weeks ago. But never did you imagine he would be such a class act dick. Or maybe he was just that way with you? The idea made you smirk, knowing you were the only one to really piss off the Captain was honestly the highest form of flattery.

You boarded the jet and noticed the rest if the team already suited up. The tactical gear Shuri had made you was tight, and Natasha was living proof of that. I mean, it wasn't fair she had the body of a trained ballerina and New York supermodel. The woman was easily the most beautiful woman you had ever seen while your gear clung to you in all the least flattering ways.

You quickly shook off the self doubt. It didn't matter how you looked, you were here to kick some ass.

Well, not exactly.

That morning Steve had announced that while the rest of the team ‘kicked ass’ you and the Soviet spy would sneak into their mainframe and collect the data of whatever new evil scheme Hydra was working on.

Though you weren't thrilled to be stuck on recon duty, it was better than nothing. Besides, you were just a little rusty. Though Nat and Sam kept you busy and Wanda had taught you all her tricks, you weren't sure that if it came down to it you'd be able to pull the trigger.

Better safe than sorry.

“Are you nervous?” Bucky spoke under his breath, his voice deep and rough. You shivered at the sound. You hadn't realised until this moment that he was seated directly behind you.

“Are you?” You asked. You tried to add some bite to your words, but they left your lips softly. The tone seemed to surprise Bucky as much as it did you as he half expected to to tear his head off again.

“Sometimes. But, not now.”

“Oh yeah?” Words betraying you once again.

Ignore him.

Stop talking to him.

Stop. Talking.

Bucky's tongue slipped from between his lips, tugging on his bottom one slowly and effectively knocking you back from your annoying thought and to the glorious man sitting behind you.

“Yeah. Got this new girl on our side. She’s a totally badass. I know she’ll watch my six.” He shrugged causing a small smile to pull at the corner of your mouth.

“How do you know she won't just leave you for dead?” She asked, playing along. Part of you, however, was just a little curious. Part of you wanted to ask yourself the same question. In a second, would you protect the man who murdered Tommy? Honestly you weren't really sure.

“Just a feeling.” He spoke so casually. So sure, you wanted to believe him. It would be easy enough to feed him to Hydra, but you and him both knew you wouldn't have the stomach for it.

“Huh. You sound pretty confident in that.” You sneered sarcastically.

He just gave you a small shrug, leaning back into his seat and pulling his bluetooth earbuds out of his back pocket. He offered one to you casually. Before you could protest your arm shot out and took it, placing it in your right ear.

“I like to listen to music before a mission. It calms me.” He suggested, opening his phone, scrolling through his songs before the intro to Highway to Hell began playing.

A grin spread across your face “I love this song!” You beamed.

“I know. I remember you telling me something about spending an entire year listening to AC/DC cause’ your dad loved their music. I downloaded a few of their albums after that. Not exactly what I’m used to, but definitely good ass kicking music.” He nodded.

That stopped you dead in your tracks. You couldn't help the smile that faded quickly from your lips at his words. You were, to say the least, shocked. You must have mentioned your love for the band at some point, but honestly couldn't for the life of you remember when.

But he did. And he listened to it because you liked them.

“Huh.” You repeated, turning back around and trying to suppress the butterflies that began erupting out of your stomach. You could hear Bucky behind you drumming his hands on his thighs along to the song. You couldn't help but giggle at how offbeat he was.

“Take off in five minutes. Everyone ready?” Nat spoke through your coms. Everyone gave a thumb up as the jets engine whirled on, vibrating through the aircraft.

You listened carefully as your song faded away and the next one took its place.

Do I wanna know? If this feeling flows both ways?

You could physically feel Bucky’s mood shift behind you. The Super Soldier serum granting you access to his quickened heart beat and the lyrics mirrored the every present emotions you had been feeling this week.

Sad to see you go. Was sorta’ hopin’ that you’d stay.

You let your mind wander as you listened to Bucky hum along quietly to the song, low and soft. The sound sending chills down your spine as the memory of your dreams from the past few nights replayed over in your mind.

Baby, we both know. That the nights were mainly made For sayin' things that you can't say tomorrow day.

Bucky’s lips trailed along your swollen throat, the feeling of pleasure over bruises he had left behind caused you to moan in ecstasy. The way he kissed you, not like before. This time full of lust and something dark. His hands dipped under your shirt, the feeling of hot and cold sending you over the edge as your eyes rolled back in your head. You wanted nothing more than for him to throw you against a wall, any wall and tear you limb from limb.

“I like this song too.” Bucky’s breath fanned across the back of your ear, rocketing you back to the Jet that was beginning to take off. You looked around the small space, praying that Bucky was the only one to notice your breath hitch in the back of your throat.

Any reminisce of the idea that you had to stay away from Bucky shattered into a million pieces. The hate, still ever present, but you knew damn well that would be the best part. It only fueled your desire. He was going to be the death of you.

Or even better, you'd be the death of him...

.....................................................................................................................

A/N: Gah! Thank you for reading! And thank you to @cutie1365 for being the best hype woman/ editor around lol. Leave a like or reblog if you wanna show some love. I hope yall’ are having a great week!

@kalesrebellion

@projectcampbell

@calwitch

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mattzerella-sticks · 4 years ago

Text

🌊What the Water Gave Him 🌊

Destiel-centric finale spec based on a post I made earlier, found here

Can be read on ao3 here

It was over. Chuck lost, Sam and Dean can live their lives how they want them. But their victory wasn't without losses. The biggest upset nearly taking Dean out of the game, happening so close to the final battle. Now he's on the other side, alive against all odds, but Sam knows he isn't happy. Not truly happy since the Empty stole his best friend.

But there's a chance they can save him. A slim chance. A risk that Dean's willing to take despite every logical nerve in Sam's body screaming at him to look for better options. That threading a needle this small is too dangerous. That they don't have to take on another big bad, not anymore. That they don't have to risk their lives anymore. Dean is far past the point of listening. Dead set on this mission, Sam can only watch.

And pray his brother proves him wrong.

He stands along the water’s edge, gentle waves lapping the rocky shore. Barely licking at his boots while he gazes upon the beautiful, blue stretch of lake. Sun hanging low on the horizon, sky a far deeper color of orange than earlier.

They’ve been at this for over an hour.

Sam glances behind him, skin crawling as he sees nothing changed since last he looked. Jack stationed on one edge of the circle, Michael at the other. Dean between them, his eyes closed. Lying deathly still over the sigils scratched into the earth. His skin pale, and both hands tightly clasped around tan fabric folded over Dean’s lap.

He hates this. What Dean’s doing. That Sam cannot help. And how it’s their only option.

Jack saw this once before. A variation of it, actually. “When I killed Nick,” he said, handing out copies of photographs he printed out amongst their little group. “I found him in the middle of resurrecting Lucifer –“

“If he just had a little more patience,” Dean sneered. “Chuck could’ve saved him a whole lot of effort, though I’d doubt it’d end any differently.” Adam nodded at Dean’s side, studying his copy with interest like Sam did. Trying to identify the scene Jack captured. Dean continued, not even addressing the image. “Do you think this can work?”

“Given who we’re doing this for, no,” he admitted, “the spell Nick found would only open a portal to the Empty, wake Lucifer up. It would then be up to him to cross over, and with his amount of power that wouldn’t be difficult.” Jack then opened the book he brought, pushing it into the middle of the table. Pointing at an illustration. “But I think I can modify it. Although…”

Sam set the photo down, facing Jack. “What is it Jack?”

“I… well, it’d be very complicated,” he started, not meeting Sam’s gaze. “For it to work, me and Michael would need to use all of our power.”

“To wake Cas? Jack, you did it before –“

“When the Empty was asleep,” Jack said, “when they weren’t expecting it. When Cas hadn’t already ticked them off… they’ve already lost him once.”

“And they won’t be keen on losing Cas again,” Dean added. A storm darkening his hooded stare. Sam watched him sink into his seat, memories from that awful night weighing on Dean. It haunted him, too. Finding Dean curled around himself the next morning, unresponsive, incoherently mumbling about their friend. Shoulder stained with dried blood. In time, he recovered as he always did. Sometimes though Sam feared he’d turn and there Dean would be. Shattered completely with no chance of putting those pieces together. Stuck in that helpless ball, trembling. Forever praying. That’s not the case now. No sign of careful fragility anymore, the storm passing. Back ramrod straight Dean carelessly flicked the photo away. “What else you need?”

“Ingredients that we have here at the Bunker, I’m sure,” Jack continued, “a nice open space where we can perform the ritual. Something that belonged to Cas, that will resonate with his unique wavelength. And finally…” he trailed off near the end, faltering.

“Jack,” Sam said, “What else?”

“One of us would have to go in,” he told them, “but… there’s a chance they might not come back.” For the first second, there’s silence. The next –

“Jack, there has to be –“

“I’ll do it.”

He whipped his head towards him, scowling at the grim determination of Dean’s face. Lips thinned in a small line. Brows bent aggressively. An expression that appeared whenever Dean grabbed onto the most idiotic, suicidal thought he had and stubbornly refused to surrender. He’d refuse any option other than what he decided. Arguing with him when he’s like that was impossible.

Sam tried regardless.

“There has to be another way,” Sam whispered, both men waiting as Jack and Michael recreated Nick’s sigil-work in the dirt. Leaning against Baby’s frame, drinking in silence. “Billie always threatened she’d throw us in there one day, why don’t we ask her –“

“She’d never agree to it, Sammy. Too messy.” Dean wouldn’t look at Sam. Not since he exploded on Dean back at the Bunker. Called him selfish, that the last thing Cas wants is Dean endangering himself. His tantrum earned Sam a swift right hook he still has the bruise from, cheek mottled blue and green. Dean’s knuckles newly scabbed. “Billie plays by the universe’s rules… and we make our own.”

“Yes, finally. Rules we fought so hard to make, I…” Sam sighed, “we were finished, Dean. No more big risks. We won. Facing the Empty… there’s no do-over button if you get stuck there.”

“I’m okay with that.”

“And yet you’re still doing this?”

“It’s like I told you Sam,” he said, finally deigning Sam with a frigid glance. Steely resolve sharpening it, cutting through him. “Have been telling you. You don’t have a clue what’s really going on. If you knew… you’d see there’s no risk at all.”

Sam’s temper flares now, pain edging his vision. “Then let me in, Dean. Tell me. Why are you so afraid of –“

“I’m not afraid –“

“You clearly are,” he hissed, “otherwise you wouldn’t be throwing yourself into another near-death experience instead of having a simple conversation with me.” Sam reels his anger back, softening. Pleading. “I want Cas here as much as you do, Dean. But there has to be another way.”

Dean drained his bottle and then threw it. Far enough so when it exploded the glass wouldn’t touch them. “If it were Eileen stuck in there,” he said, “you’d know there wasn’t.”

He paused. “Eileen? What’s that have to –“

Jack called, saying they were ready. Dean stalked off towards them. Sam left behind in his confusion. “Do you have the anchor?”

“Right here.” He showed Jack the trench coat, grip on it gentle like if he squeezed any tighter Dean might rip it. “Where do you want me?”

Sam remembered Dean rambled on about its sturdiness. Boasting how he gassed the store clerk with half-truths to not draw suspicion when asking after ‘protective outerwear’. Buying it because he noticed a tear along the seam of Cas’s armpit. “I thought he’d stitch it up,” Dean laughed, whipping his purchase like a cape. Playing with it. Sam chuckled at his brother’s antics. “But he just shrugged and carried on like it was nothing. I asked him why he left it and he tells me that it’d be a waste of his grace.”

“Then why didn’t you mend it for him?”

“…What?”

“Come on, Dean,” Sam said, “you’re a master with the needle. And I’m not talking about sewing gashes… do you recall the Luke Skywalker costume you made me from those stolen motel bed sheets?”

Dean blushed, “I was just a kid then, Sammy…”

“Still the best costume, better than any of those store-bought ones at school.”

“Well… maybe I didn’t want to fix it,” he said, “that’s why. I mean… sure I could’ve. But then he’d rip it again and… it’s not like he can’t have another jacket! Cas needs a little more variety.”

Sam snorted. “Yeah, because a slightly lighter brown is really crazy for him. What’s he even gonna do with it?”

“Wear it?” Dean said, “Or… put it away, keep it here. Dude’s been living with us this long and how much stuff does he own? It might not be a huge change but it’s… it’s a start, Sam.”

Dean was right in buying it. Ransacking Cas’s room, there wasn’t anything they could use for the spell save for the single, untouched trench coat hanging in his closet. As Sam leaves that memory, he realized too late the others began without him. Jack and Michael knelt like statues. His brother had left for the Empty.

And he’s still there.

Helpless while Dean pokes the bear in his cave. Sitting on the sidelines as he faces down an extraordinary being with limitless powers, like beating Chuck wasn’t pure luck. Like any of their efforts left a scratch on him. It was a group effort, what little remained of their family pitching in. Sending Chuck onto his next project. But this… it was just Dean. He was alone. And worse… Sam thinks his brother wanted it that way.

If it were Eileen stuck in there, you’d know it wasn’t.

When he wasn’t worrying about Dean, Sam mulled over his parting message. Trying to fit together the pieces Dean gave. He suspects it’s a simple picture. A niggling sense at the base of his skull tells Sam that the answer is clear. It always was. Except he looked past it, over and over, again and again. Never seeing the truth of it. Of Dean and Cas. Without either of them here, where he can observe them one more time – careful, in a way Sam hasn’t before – Sam doubts he will uncover much of anything.

At least it distracts him from Dean. Until it doesn’t.

Dean gasps, lurching forward. Coughing, spitting up bile and gagging on air. Michael collapses, exhausted. Jack almost follows but overcomes his dizziness. Sam, the only unaffected one, dashes towards. Rubs Dean’s back while he works through his nausea. How Dean lets him either shows he’s too woozy to know it’s him, or the earlier animosity was forgotten. As Dean claws at his shirt, gasping, repeating his name, Sam guesses the latter. “Yes, Dean?” he says, “What is it?”

“Cas,” he says, voice hoarse and raw, “Where… where is he?”

There weren’t any portals. Nor did a star shoot downwards from the sky. Their friend had not even blinked into existence with a smile and a familiar rumble. “Cas,” Sam sighs, “Cas. Dean, I don’t think –“

“Cas.”

He scrambles to his feet, knocking Sam onto the ground. Dean runs across the shore and, when he reaches the lake, wades in. Fully dressed, madly waving the trench coat. Sam yells, but Dean ignores him. Hellbent on drowning himself.

Except Sam misses it, again.

Someone meets Dean halfway. Breaking through the lake’s surface, swimming to where the water rests above their waists. Drags his brother into a hug, spinning him. With raven hair, tanned skin, and blue eyes crinkled with joy and life and love. “Cas,” Sam says, “it’s… it worked?”

“Of course it worked,” Jack says, “This is Dean and Cas.”

Maybe Sam understands because of the off-hand way Jack spoke about the two men. Or, more likely, it’s when Cas – wrapped in the trench coat Dean bought him – sweeps Dean into his arms and kisses him. Dean melts under his touch, responding with an excitement that had been absent when Chuck left them alone for real. It doesn’t matter how. He finally gets it.

Dean and Cas… they get their happy ending.

#supernatural #spn #spn15 #spn15 spec #15 and final #15x18 #15x19 #15x20 #sam winchester #dean winchester #castiel #jack kline #adam milligan #michael #destiel #deancas #destiel fanfic #deancas fanfic #this is how we 🤡 can still win

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theshopislocal · 4 years ago

Text

corinth rains

New and improved Heaven may well be the Happiest Place (not) on Earth. But Dean, it turns out, is still Dean.

(also on AO3)

chapter two

Heaven is warm, bucolic, and perfect. And it gives Dean the damned heebie-jeebies.

He recalls a memorable night spent with Pamela - well, as memorable as it could be after a fifth of Macallan. Sam had said ‘So get this...’ and then fucked off to the local library, leaving Pam and Dean at the hotel bar. They’d drunk til the lights got fuzzy, and Pam had leaned back against the barstool, arching one dark eyebrow.

She’d had Dean supine across the foot of the squeaky queen, sitting astride him and working some kind of magic. She’d settled his hands on her slim waist, tugged at his hair, bitten his lips; he’d had nary a moment to want something before she gave it - the craving coming on the heels of the having.

Heaven is much the same - perceptive and generous - and it leaves Dean feeling just as he had that night with Pam. Vulnerable, flayed open. Seen.

He assumes it’s heaven’s off-brand kind of ESP that’s landed him here, seated at a teakwood dining table in a house over yonder.

There are soft sounds from the kitchen - cabinets opening, a gurgling coffee maker, a substratum of tuneless humming. Dean hunches over his plate and shovels another forkful of pie into his mouth. It’s sweet and rich, tart and crumbly, and he barely tastes it at all.

“You alright?”

Dean looks up to find Mary seated across from him. She’s a little younger than when he last saw her, but otherwise she’s just as he remembers - her yellow hair falling in waves over her shoulders, her eyes a soft Carolina blue.

She stares at him, calm and unconcerned, the bow of her lips turned up in a tiny smile.

Dean shakes his head and gives a little shrug. “Yeah, ‘course,” he says, gruffer than intended.

She notices, he’s sure, but she only tips her head in a nod. “Okay.”

A quietude stretches between them, peaceful but gravid. Mary tilts her head, face serene and mildly expectant, and she inches a pale hand forward on the table. His fingers clench around the little dessert fork, and he takes another bite.

She’s waiting, he realizes, for him to speak, to get there. Though where ‘there’ is, Dean’s got no damn idea.

“You know,” he says, to fill the silence, “Sammy asked me if I remembered anything,” he swallows, throat dry, and looks down at his plate, “‘bout bein’ a kid.”

Mary’s eyebrows pop up, and she smiles a little wider. “You remembered me,” she offers.

Dean’s eyes alight on hers, and his lips purse. There’s something something fragile in her face, a budding hope that he doesn’t want to crush. You made me sandwiches, he wants to say. You told me bedtime stories.

His stomach clenches. You burned alive, gutted on the ceiling.

Dean looks away, brow furrowed. “‘Course I did,” he grunts out, throat tight.

She gives him a look that goes right through him - compassionate, or maybe pitying. Her mouth turns down like she can hear his thoughts, and he bites his cheek, shamefaced.

“What else do you remember?” she asks, and her voice is mild and curious, lacking the censure Dean expected.

Dean reins in his surprise and dips his head, summoning a wry smile. “Well,” he says and points his fork at the plate of pie crumbs.

She rolls her eyes and nods, smiling once again. “Yes, obviously pie. What else.”

He stares at her for a moment, feeling wrong-footed and a little short-changed, then peers through the open French doors toward the mountainside. He scans his memories, steering clear of the ugly ones that present themselves first, looking for something - anything - to keep her smiling.

...Weedy grass and buzzing bees.

“Our backyard,” he murmurs, and feels his lips quirk up.

Mary’s smile grows soft, warm like the spring air. “Mm,” she hums. “Always overgrown. Your dad never wanted to mow it.”

Dean withholds a wince at the mention of John, and a muscle twitches in his jaw. “I liked it how it was.”

Mary’s eyes dart up to his, and her soft laugh lines deepen. “Yeah, you did.”

Dean’s eyes trace over her face, searching for something, though he’s not sure what. She’s still the girl who made a deal with a yellow-eyed demon. Still the woman who left, and left, and left again. She’s no more perfect now than she ever was, but...

She has laugh lines, and yellow hair, and Carolina blue eyes. And she’s looking at Dean like she’s missed him forever. Damn, if he hasn’t missed her, too.

Something loosens in his chest, and his fists unclench. He smiles, wan but sincere, and leans back in his seat, crossing his ankles under the table. “Coulda done without the bees though.”

She huffs a little laugh and shakes her head. “You loved the bees,” she counters.

Dean raises a doubtful eyebrow. “Did I?”

“Mhm,” she hums, nodding sagely. “You’d chase ‘em around, flapping your arms like little wings.”

Dean squints, searching his scattered memory. He remembers the yard, the foliage, the window into the kitchen. He remembers thunder and lightning and torrential downpour. He doesn’t remember himself.

“Huh,” he says, and folds his arms over his chest.

He stares across the table at Mary. She’s silent but smiling, her eyes far away. It’s a familiar look, one he’s seen on nearly everyone he knows in Heaven. Like they’re lost in a beautiful memory - a moment in their past lives that they didn’t regret.

Dean doesn’t think about his human life. He’d lived it, after all. That was enough.

“You drew me a map once.”

Dean eyes flick up from where they’d settled on his dirty plate, and his brow furrows. “A map?”

She nods, still staring glassy-eyed into the middle distance. “You followed one little bee all day long,” she murmurs. “Counted all the flowers she landed on. Then you,” she swallows, and her eyes go shiny, “you raced inside and scribbled it all out on the back of a—” a startled huff of laughter, “—a takeout menu.”

Dean watches her, the way her eyes flick back and forth, like she’s watching the scene unfold before her. There’s an ache near the center of his chest like a bruise. “I don’t remember that,” he says, voiced pitched low.

Her head tilts up, absent eyes meeting his as she pulls herself from reverie. “You were... three? Maybe four?” She looks down and brings a hand to settle over her heart. “It was beautiful,” she whispers, and tilts her head. “Wish I still had it.”

Dean nods at her, though she’s still looking away, and he feels a hot coil of guilt in his stomach. Mary had adored him, he knows that much, and she’d lost him as surely as he’d lost her. He remembers the expectant way he’d looked at her in the bunker, wanting something she couldn’t remember how to give. Something he barely even remembers himself.

There’s movement behind Mary’s head, and Dean’s eyes snap to it.

Something is... growing on the wall.

Dean’s fists clench up, and he watches with hawk eyes as the thing manifests, forming itself into a vaguely rectangular shape. He feels his lips purse tight and his spine straighten like a rod.

Mary senses his sudden tension and looks up, following his eyes over her shoulder.

“Oh my god,” she whispers in awe.

She unfolds herself from her chair and stands up slowly, as if in a dream. She walks the four paces to the wood-paneled wall, reaching out a cautious hand. Her fingers close around the frame of the thing, and she gives a soft sigh.

Dean stares at her back where the knobs of her spine meet her neck, her shoulder blades distorting the periwinkle plaid of her blouse. She turns around, her eyes fixed on her prize, thumbs smoothing over the simple wood frame.

She comes around the table, sliding into the chair at Dean’s side, and when she finally looks up at him, her eyes are bright and red-rimmed. She takes Dean’s hand in hers, her skin smooth and cool, and slips the little framed drawing into his palm.

He peers down at it and gives a startled bark of laughter.

The drawing is entirely ridiculous - an indecipherable riot of squiggly pen lines and waxy crayon color. There’s a messy bed of green near the bottom, which Dean assumes is grass, and it’s speckled with tiny blobs of vibrant pink and deep red - flowers, Dean thinks. Near the center of the page is a single white daisy with a bright yellow bumblebee hovering over it. A swirling purple line trails behind its black-striped body, making loop-de-loops around every flower. The sky is a strip of electric blue at the top, just above an empty field of white - the landscape drawn as children often do, with the heavens separated from the earth.

His fingers hover over a grease-stained corner, illegible text bleeding through. “Jeez,” he breathes out. “Clearly I missed my calling.”

He hears the broad smile in Mary’s voice. “Coulda been the next Da Vinci,” she says, nudging his shoulder.

Dean huffs and raises an eyebrow. “More like Picasso.”

She laughs at that, as he knew she would, and it sounds like Corinthian bells, chiming in harmony on the breeze.

Dean smiles to himself, eyes roving over his apparent masterpiece before alighting on a strange scribble in the corner.

“What’s this?” he murmurs, pointing a finger at the tiny black and blue squiggle.

“Hm?” Mary leans closer to him, and Dean’s nose twitches with the scent of tart apples clinging to her hair. She looks at the little scribble, frowning for a moment, before her eyebrows pop up. “Oh, wow,” she sighs out, leaning closer. “I forgot about that.”

She reaches out a hand to grasp the side of the frame opposite Dean’s, the small weight of the silly little drawing shared between them. She’s got that look again, like there’s an old Super 8 projection playing in her head. Dean wonders what’s on the reel.

She chews her lip for a moment, then tips her head toward Dean. “You remember what I used to tell you before bed?” she asks, peering up at his face.

Dean frowns. “Brush your teeth or they’ll turn green?”

She gives him a look. “That was Dad.”

Dean tips his head back in a nod. “Right. Uh...” Dean trails off for a moment, unsure. Nearly all of his childhood memories are of Mary, but they’re weathered and vague, filtered through the consciousness of a toddler. He barely remembers the words she said, only the lilting strains of her voice as she calmed him, soothed him, protected him—

An image flits across his mind, and he sucks in a breath: a tiny figurine that sat on the mantel, with fluffy little wings and a crown of white roses.

Dean blinks and shakes his head. “Angels are watching over me,” he intones.

He sees Mary nod in his peripheral vision, and her finger taps on the little scribble near his thumb.

“It’s—” Dean starts and frowns, askance, “...an angel?” he guesses.

“Mhm,” she hums, giving another slow nod. Her finger slides across the two tiny black scrawls, vaguely triangular and joined at the middle. “Wings,” she says, then taps the blue oval just above, “halo.” He sees her smile out of the corner of his eye. “You drew it all the time.”

Dean stares at the squiggle, a frown etching across his forehead. The figurine he remembers was nearly solid white, the only deviations its pink skin and dark eyes. There’s not a speck of white in the little scribble, no cherubic cloud-seeder to be found. Just messy black shapes and a faded blue circle. Black wings, blue halo.

Black wings. Blue halo.

Black wings.

... Blue—

The painting slips from his fingers as Mary takes it back in her hands. She holds it gently, reverently, as she stands and walks around the table. Dean shakes his head to clear it, and watches as she replaces the little picture on the center of the wall. It looks, at once, as if it has always hung there, and like he’d drawn it but a moment ago.

A shiver climbs up the back of Dean's neck. He shrugs it off.

“How’s Dad?” he asks lowly, and regrets it immediately.

Mary turns around, her eyes a little wide, eyebrows climbing toward her hairline. Dean isn’t sure why he asked. He backtraces his train of thought, only to find he hadn’t had one at all; seems he’s done his usual shtick of putting his foot in his mouth the very moment he opens it.

Mary seems to sense his imminent retraction, and she settles her face into a genial smile. “He’s good,” she says mildly and comes back to her seat across from Dean. “Wasn’t sure he’d like it here, at first. But,” she settles into the worn wooden chair, “I think he does.”

Dean represses a scoff at that. “Why wouldn’t he?” he says and picks up his fork, eyes downcast. “He’s got you.” He slides the crumbs around on his plate, shoulders hunching forward. “All he ever wanted.”

Mary is silent for a long moment, and Dean doesn’t look up - he can picture her face well enough. His fork scrapes against white porcelain, the sun a bright glare on the stainless steel tines.

Mary sighs, barely audible. “You ever gonna talk to him?”

Her voice is soft and ambivalent, as if she’s already accepted his answer. It gets Dean’s back up, and he peers up at her through flinty eyes.

She’s staring at him, face guileless and open. There’s a spark of curiosity in her eyes, flavored with a sort of tempered sadness. But there’s no reproof, no expectation, and Dean gets the strange feeling that there isn’t a right answer. Or a wrong one.

Dean’s jaw goes a little slack, and for a moment, he thinks he might simply say, No.

Mary tips her head to the side, eyes going soft as her lips turn up, and the moment passes.

“‘Course, I will,” Dean grumbles, casting his eyes back to his empty plate. He shrugs. “Not avoiding him, just...” he trails off and shakes his head. Best leave it there.

Mary takes a slow breath, and Dean sees the vague shape of her leaning forward in her seat.

“Well,” she starts, lacing her fingers on the tabletop. “I won’t speak for him—”

Dean snorts. “But.”

Mary sighs, amused and resigned. “But... I know he’s got a lot to say. He just...” she pauses for a moment, then shrugs her shoulders. “He doesn’t really know how to say it. He knows he—” she cuts herself off with a quick shake of her head. “Well,” her hands raise in a brief shrug. “It’s his truth to tell.”

Dean nods absently, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. He’s known since ‘they live over yonder’ that a reckoning would come for him and his dad. Dean just isn’t quite sure if he’s ready for whatever truth John might tell - or if he’s even inclined to listen to it.

Dean clenches his jaw and drops his fork onto the plate. It clatters loud in the calm of the spring afternoon, and Dean barely restrains a flinch.

Mary leans further forward, hand sliding halfway across the table.

“Dean—”

“Think Sammy’s gonna join the Arch,” Dean says overloud, settling his elbows on the tabletop.

Mary pauses at the abrupt change of subject, but deftly lets it slide. Her eyes flutter a bit, and she pulls her hand back. “Yeah?” she asks, giving a slightly awkward smile.

Dean feels a twinge of guilt in his throat and swallows it down. “Mm,” he nods. “Eileen’s gonna join. And lord knows wherever she goes—”

“Sam goes,” Mary finishes, her smile seeming to widen and soften at once. “He loves her,” she murmurs.

Dean’s stomach clenches taut, even as a smile comes unbidden. He remembers Sam peering over his shoulder as they’d stood on the bridge, his mouth slack and eyes liquid. Dean had known without looking who stood behind him. Sam had gone to her on shaky legs that crumbled beneath him as he reached her. Dean’s vision had gone blurry, and he’d turned away from them, eyes squinting out at the sunlit mountain.

“Yeah,” Dean says, voice a little thick. He clears his throat and nods. “And I get it, ya know. He—” he interrupts himself on a wincing inhale. “He lost her before.” A dry swallow. “Twice.”

Mary makes a little noise in her throat. “Three times,” she whispers.

Dean frowns, confused, and glances up at Mary. Her eyes are shiny, mouth screwed up in a tiny sad smile.

Oh. “She... she went before him?”

Mary’s eyebrows scrunch together, and she sniffs. “She stayed with us. Til he came.”

Dean’s brows rise at that. Offering comfort in a time of need isn’t really his parents’ bag - at least, not that Dean can remember.

Then again, he can’t think of anyone who knows grief better.

“Huh,” he grunts in lieu of a response, and glances up.

Mary is still staring at him, but the melancholy has given way to a sharp sort of consideration. Her eyes dart over his face, slightly squinted, and she looks so much like Sam that Dean turns to stare out at the sun.

Here in Heaven, Sam and Mary are quite alike: happy, whole, and ready for a new life - a new fight.

Dean is just... tired.

“You know,” Mary begins, and Dean’s eyes flick to her hands, still resting on the table. “He’s not going anywhere,” she says, and Dean’s eye twitches in a wince. “You know that, right?”

Dean nods and swallows, looking down at his own hands. “Yeah, I know.” And he does know.

“Even if he joins the Arch,” she continues as if he hadn’t spoken. Her voice is ardent but still gentle, and she leans forward. “He’s not going anywhere. He—” she huffs and tips her head side to side. “He might get a little banged up, maybe, but—”

He knows. “I know.”

“—he...” Mary trails off on a sigh, stretching her arm across the table. Her fingers brush his, and he holds himself still. “No one’s gonna take him away, Dean.” She runs her thumb over the knuckles of his fist. “It’s work,” she acknowledges. “Dirty work, even, but... it’s not life or death,” she murmurs with a tiny smile. “Not here.”

Dean knows this. He knows all of this, but... But that doesn’t stop him from... It’s not the same as...

It doesn’t make him—

“I know,” he intones, giving her a tight smile.

Her eyebrows make a sympathetic shape, and she pulls her hand back. Dean’s shoulders relax, just slightly.

“You know, your dad thought you would join,” she says with a little smile.

Dean huffs out a chuckle, bitter and resigned. “‘Course he did,” he grunts, pressing his thumbs together.

“Dean,” Mary sighs, tone somewhere between chiding and apologetic.

Dean’s lips turn down, and he shakes his head. “Sorry,” he mutters, mostly sincerely.

“It wasn’t an expectation,” Mary says, then gives a little shrug. “He just... I think he figured all the—” she shakes her head, as if searching for the words, “-the soul-searching would...” she sighs. “I dunno... Make your teeth itch,” she finishes with a wry smile.

Dean gives her one back, though he feels a headache coming on. His teeth do itch. Everything itches. Everything chafes.

“Well,” he starts and swallows again. His throat’s gone bone dry. “Still searching, I guess,” he says, and he supposes it might be true, but- “Not sure what for, though.”

Mary reaches her hand out again, and Dean goes tense for a moment. His eyes flit to hers, and he finds them crinkled at the corners. She’s smiling at him as she’d smiled at his little drawing, as she’d smiled when she sat him down, as she’d smiled while he ate his pie. She’s smiling at him now, as she had when he was a boy, as she always has.

Her skin looks like clouds, her eyes like the sky. She laces her fingers with Dean’s, and the tension across his back fades away.

“I think,” Mom murmurs, “you’ll know it when you find it.”

chapter one | chapter three

table of contents

#corinth rains #destiel #deancas #fanfiction #post-canon #slow burn #dean-centric #tw: depression #chapter wc: ~3.4k

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cake-writes · 5 years ago

Text

Breathe (Lecture 1)

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Story Warnings: Slow Burn, Angst, Fluff, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Mixed Delivery (Social Media & Written Parts), Eventual 18+

Summary: Bucky takes a history class at his local university in hopes of catching up on the last few decades, on everything he’s missed whilst under Hydra’s control – but he winds up learning a lot more than what’s on the syllabus. He learns how to heal.

Written for @the-omni-princess’s 1k writing challenge!

(Formerly Hope & Happiness; I decided that I needed a better title!)

TAG LIST: OPEN

💛 This fic is interactive. Here’s how it works! 💛

So I took the time to find an actual university course to complement this story because I’m just that invested, you guys. (I’m also a huge history nerd, lmao.) The syllabus and lectures are real, and any content relating to these in my story is straight from the source.

Lectures are recorded and available for a listen! Most written chapters will correspond to a lecture; I’ll list which one at the top of the chapter if you want to learn along with Bucky. Each one is about 40-50 minutes long and in English. Click here to access them!

This is definitely optional, though, so please don’t feel pressured to listen, but if you’re a history nerd like me then you may want to take a look!

Wednesday, August 24

Lecture 1: Introductory Lecture

Although Bucky had been on campus a couple of times before now – first to apply, and then to meet with an advisor as all new students were required to do – he didn’t think he’d ever get used to the sheer size of it. Universities these days were massive: cities within a city, buildings upon restaurants upon shops and all he wanted to do was learn.

That was all he’d ever wanted to do, really. Learn about himself. Learn what made the world tick. Learn all the things he didn’t know. He’d always excelled in school, and once upon a time he’d started to save money in order to attend university. Didn’t know what he’d study – just knew that he wanted a degree in order to support the family he thought he’d have one day.

Ambitions for the future.

Then came the draft. Because hadn’t yet been able to save enough, he’d been shipped out to the European Theater – sent to hell, not to college.

Ambitions for the past.

Two years spent in cold, wintery foxholes gave him an opportunity to think, but all he could think about was the stench of death surrounding him, surrounding his unit, surrounding every waking moment of his life at war. Not his death, of course, but it may as well have been.

Bucky learned to hone in on the sound of his heartbeat in his ears, the rush of adrenaline in his veins, the sensation of his boots in mud and snow. He learned to focus. He learned to survive.

And all the while, he lived with the very real possibility that he wouldn’t make it through – and, well, he didn’t. Not really. Some parts of him never made it back; what little remained became the property of Hydra. Mind corrupted, soul shattered, will broken into sharp, jagged shards of glass.

Fragile. Breakable. Erased, but still alive.

Bucky may have survived, but he’d never really been right since – never really been whole. Physically and mentally, with too many pieces of himself missing or damaged, one constant stayed the same: a desire to learn. He’d gotten through the war and Hydra’s harsh training because that quality was a part of him – one of the only parts that made it through.

Battle-worn and weary from surviving – not living, not really – Bucky finally had the opportunity to take a step back from the battlefield to just… exist. To live. To breathe. In taking a leave of absence, he embarked upon another journey: to rediscover the man he used to be.

It would be difficult task, he knew. The twenty-first century was far cry from the 1940s, a far cry from home, and the sheer size of the college campus only served to remind him of that. In fact, he was only able to recognize that he was still in New York because this school happened to be the very same one he’d once planned to attend so long ago. Staten Island University. Right across the bridge from his present-day apartment in Brooklyn, not to mention his old family home.

Home.

But this unfamiliar new century was his home, now, so he sought to learn what he’d missed over all the decades he’d lost to Hydra. In the process, maybe he’d learn about himself, learn what made the world tick, learn all the things he didn’t know.

What better place could there be to do that than at a university?

Bucky soon found out that his education would be paid for by the United States government for his service in the military. Ironic that the very barrier which forced him into war was the same thing being gifted to him now. The GI Bill. A reward for his patriotism. A thank you for his sacrifice.

Flowery words for a bribe meant to keep him silent. Call him jaded.

Worse still, if Bucky thought tuition was expensive back then, he didn’t know what to call it today. He’d been rendered speechless when he found out what a single class would cost, but rest assured, Uncle Sam would pay for it so that he didn’t have to.

Physically, it only cost him an arm but mentally, it cost him so much more.

U.S. Society and Politics Since 1945. Mondays and Wednesdays at two o’clock. Three credit hours, whatever that meant. He signed up for the class after his first meeting with an advisor – thought that it might do him good to put his past behind him and learn.

Bucky arrived about twenty minutes before the class was due to start, all nerves and first day jitters – absolutely ridiculous when he really thought about it, so he tried to put it out of his mind and selected a seat in the very back row in hopes of not being noticed.

Counting seats proved to be a good distraction. Three hundred seats. Would there really be that many students? Save for a handful of his new classmates scattered about, the too-large lecture hall seemed like it would never fill. Sure enough, however, it eventually started to – not all three hundred seats, but close enough.

It wasn’t until then that Bucky realized he might have been woefully unprepared. Just about everyone else had laptops sat out front of them, and while he could use one – clunkily – he still preferred something more a little more tangible. All he’d brought along was the required textbook, a notebook, and two pens, one of which he’d been rolling in between a gloved thumb and forefinger for the last few minutes.

That was a nervous tic of his, one he’d picked up in the army, except today it was a pen instead of a cigarette and he sure could have used a pack of Lucky Strikes right now. A cigarette would have done wonders to take the edge off, but he didn’t smoke, not anymore. Frustrated, he dropped the pen back down onto his desk and slumped down in his chair.

Had school always been this nerve-wracking? He couldn’t remember.

A snort drew his attention, and Bucky glanced to his left to find you sitting a few seats down in the same back row, watching him in amusement.

It caught him off-guard.

“Is this your first class?”

A innocent question, unprompted – untainted.

While Bucky knew that there would be some socializing required, especially in the discussion section of the class, never in his wildest dreams did he think that anyone would be willing to strike up a conversation with him. He had half a mind to say ‘no’ and ignore you as long as possible, but for whatever reason, he didn’t. He opened up.

“How could you tell?”

You shrugged. “You’re fidgeting, for one. But mostly because you don’t have a bag.”

Why would he need a bag? He was only taking one class.

At his doubtful look, you spoke again, voice light and airy, “Don’t worry. You’ll learn.”

Well, that was foreboding. Then again, you seemed like you would know. You looked slightly older than most of the other students who were likely fresh out of high school, and you appeared to be all sorts of prepared, what with a leather laptop bag on the chair to your right and some brightly-coloured notebooks, binders, and a few thick textbooks all strewn about the desk in front of you.

A laptop bag, but no laptop. Strange.

Bucky wasn’t really sure why he wanted to know, but he nodded to your books and asked anyway, “What else are you taking?”

“Mostly upper-level psychology classes. I’m in my final year. What about you?”

“This is my only class,” he admitted, and to him, that wasn’t a satisfactory answer. He was only taking the one class with no particular goal in mind, but here you were, taking at least four other classes judging by the number of textbooks on your desk.

You had a goal.

He didn’t.

You didn’t ask why, though; instead, you offered him your name, along with a bright smile.

“Bucky,” he found himself telling you way too easily.

“Well, Bucky, it’s nice to meet you.” You paused, then, before you made an offhanded comment of, “I think it’s really good to have a friend in class, you know? Mostly so you can steal their notes when you skip.”

A joke, perhaps, but Bucky took it literally. That may have been the stupidest thing he’d ever heard. “I’m not gonna— Who pays thousands of dollars in tuition and then decides not to come?”

Your brows rose in surprise for a moment or two, but then you laughed at his stick-in-the-mud response. “Oh no, you’re one of those. What a goody two-shoes!”

Don’t worry, you’d said. You’ll learn.

But the mischievous sparkle in your eyes let him know that you were just teasing, and what’s more, he actually didn’t mind. No, he kind of liked it, having some normal human interaction for once – not whatever the hell he’d grown used to at the compound. Between blood-spattered banter in the field and too-dark humour used as a coping mechanism, his interactions there were anything but normal.

Bucky also liked that you had no idea how wrong your sentiment was; not that he’d never admit it. This was the first time in a long, long while that he’d been treated like a regular person – not enhanced, not a science experiment, not an Avenger – and he had no intention of shattering the illusion anytime soon.

“I’m not giving you my notes, either,” he deadpanned.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Super goody two-shoes. My mistake.”

When he opened his mouth to respond to your sassy one-liner, however, the professor’s voice sounded from the front of the lecture hall. You gave him a final wink before you turned to face the front, purple pen already poised and ready to go.

Good afternoon! Can you hear me in the nosebleeds? Yes? With me? Okay…

Forty-five minutes passed in a blink, and most of the students quickly started to pack up their belongings – but not you. No, you stayed in your seat and continued scribbling away at something in your notes, seemingly having zero plans to leave anytime soon. Bucky couldn’t help but be curious as to why you weren’t packing up, but it wasn’t any of his business and he didn’t ask.

Armed with a new syllabus and a daunting list of required readings for the week, he pulled himself to his feet and collected his own belongings; only managed to push the chair back in and take about two steps toward the door before he heard your voice again.

“Hey, Bucky, wait.”

He turned around to see you still reading through one of your textbooks, not even looking in his direction, but in your outstretched hand was a bright pink sticky note.

What?

“Come on,” still focused on your reading, you waved the post-it, pink paper flapping in the makeshift breeze but staying stuck to your finger anyway, “Take it. Here.”

Hesitantly, Bucky stepped closer and accepted the proffered note. Upon it, he found that you’d hastily scrawled your name and phone number, along with what he assumed was meant to be a smiley face. The drawing was god-awful, and a welcome distraction from the way his heart had immediately leapt into his throat because a woman had just given him her phone number.

Her phone number.

“Th— Thanks?” he stammered, unsure.

Now, he certainly wasn’t one to jump to conclusions, but this—

“Don’t get any weird ideas,” you interrupted his train of thought, finally pulling your eyes away from the textbook to look up at him.

Gorgeous, glimmering, big doe eyes focused right on him, now, and seeing you up close like this, a fleeting thought crossed his mind about how attractive you were. He blamed it on the fact that you’d just given him your number, and now his brain only wanted to overthink what he’d interpreted as the first sign of potential interest from the opposite sex in – well, far too long.

Bucky hadn’t been expecting that at all, and he wasn’t particularly interested to pursue such a thing, either. At least not right now. He still needed to get his head on straight; still needed to figure out his own problems before he took on someone else’s.

Even if you were a pretty little thing he might have taken dancing, once.

Then you added, “If you have any questions, just shoot me a text, okay? I remember how lost I was when I first started, especially because I’m a,” you did some air-quotes, then, “‘mature-aged’ student.” Another snort, one much less ladylike than before. “Mature-aged. I’m not that old!”

So it was a friendly offer. Nothing more. Not like the implications in the 40s – and Bucky thought, then, that if you were considered to be ‘mature-aged,’ he didn’t want to find out how he’d stack up.

“Thanks,” he said again, this time a little less unsurely. “I appreciate it.”

Another one of your bright smiles brought a sense of calm over him, a feeling that carried over even when you poked fun at him again, “Then I guess I’ll see you next week, Mr. Goody Two-Shoes.”

“Yeah,” he responded, feeling the corners of his lips turn up just a little at your goodnatured teasing. “See you next week.”

And when he left the lecture hall, fluorescent pink post-it stuck to the inside of his notebook, Bucky’s footsteps felt just a little lighter than before – and so did his heart.

Part Two

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes #breathe

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