#Yet another reason why none are the Eggs are dead or locked away or whatever | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

onecanonlife · 3 years ago

Text

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: 7,998

Chapter Warnings: swearing, blood, violence, injury, threatened death, sui.cidal ideation, mind control, manipulation, victim blaming

Chapter Summary: In which Wilbur makes a desperate choice.

(masterpost w/ ao3 links)

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

Chapter Twenty: dark into the heat

No. No, no, no, he needs to ignore it. He knows better than to listen, knows better than—

He can feel it. He can feel it poking around in his mind. He can feel it again. And it knows he can feel it. It knows, and it’s smug about it. It’s smug because it knows he hates the sensation, feels violated by it, and it likes that, likes the power it has over him. His stomach lurches, and he staggers. Purpled watches him, advancing slowly.

But no. No, he can’t give in, can’t let it distract him. He can’t.

“What’s it offering you?” he gasps out. He tries to stand straighter, but the world around him wavers and ripples, and not just in the heat. He can feel it, feel it still, though it has not yet spoken again. It is going to. It is going to, going to speak to him with honeyed words and dripping promises, going to coax and persuade and worm its way inside, and knowing that it’s coming doesn’t make it any easier to bear.

Only time will tell whether it makes it easier to resist.

Purpled shrugs, still approaching. Once he attacks again, he’s done for. He can’t fight off Purpled on a good day, much less now.

“Money,” Purpled says. “I mean, what else? It’s a job.”

And the way he says it is as if—

“It’s not controlling you,” he says, and wonders how he didn’t realize it before. Purpled looks completely unchanged. No part of him has faded to white or deepened to red, and his voice holds none of the fanatic edge that the Egg’s followers possess. “It’s just paying you.”

“I don’t like the thought of being mind controlled,” Purpled agrees. “But I do like being paid. So, like I said, sorry. But I’ve taken the job.”

“I’ll double whatever they’re paying you to switch sides,” he says. “Or not even switch sides, if you don’t want. Just stay out of it. Don’t attack me and mine. Leave.”

Purpled tilts his head. He’s listening. Good. His grip on his sword does not relax, but he pauses in his approach.

“How do I know you’re good for it?” he asks.

“I’m good for it because my brother is Technoblade,” he says. “You know, the Blood God? Nigh on impossible to defeat in combat, one of the richest people on the server? He honors the agreements he makes, and I, as his brother, can make one for him. You’ll get your money.”

“So the money’s not even yours,” Purpled says. “But—Technoblade, you say? And you just want me to stay out of it?” He pauses. “Triple it and you’ve got a deal.”

“Done.”

And just like that, Purpled nods. There may be some measure of relief in his face; Wilbur isn’t sure. But perhaps Purpled was never all that comfortable taking orders from the thing, money or no. But Purpled nods, and Purpled moves toward the exit, and Jack, at least, notices, and shouts, “Traitor!” Some of the vines spring to life, attempting to stop him from leaving. But Purpled slices through them easily enough, with a practiced and steady hand, and then he’s vanishing up the corridor.

He didn’t expect it to be that easy.

(but at the end of the day, mercenary or not, isn’t Purpled still a child, too? a teenager caught up in forces beyond his control, just trying to make it through to another day? perhaps he was looking for an out all along, and if that is the case, he is more than happy to give him one, and not just for his own sake)

You have always been clever, the Egg says, always been quick with your words and quick to spin a deal in your favor, quick to have them all dancing to your tune, so very quick to use whatever power you have, so very quick, but you know better than to thank yourself for it, know better than to believe that it lends you superiority, and you know better than to believe that this is a victory at all, know better than to believe you have accomplished anything. What is your plan, Wilbur Soot? What blow do you seek to strike against me?

He shakes his head. It’s digging deeper, like a swarm of stinging hornets crawling in his skull. He takes a few clumsy steps forward, begging his blurry vision to resolve. It doesn’t, not quite, but he can see well enough to know what’s happening, to see that Jack and Niki are concentrated on their attack, that Tubbo is vicious in his counters and Tommy is halfhearted, and Fundy—where is Fundy—?

There, a few feet away, crouched on the ground, hands on his ears. The whites of his eyes are visible, and he rocks back and forth slightly. “Shut up,” he says, barely audible, “shut up, no, no, I’m not listening to you, leave me alone—”

He sees red for a different reason.

“Stop it,” he rasps. “Stop it. Leave him be, leave them all be.”

They are with me because I give them everything they want, everything they dream, and if your little wonder, your little champion joins my ranks then it is because you have failed him, because you cannot give him the love he deserves, and that is no one’s fault but yours, ash child, the Egg says, and he nearly doubles over with the force of it, with the truth of it.

(no, no, not truth, not truth, because here before you is a true monster the true villain the true enemy and it lies and manipulates as part of its nature and you can feel its claws in you and you should not think that just because it agrees with your own warped perception of yourself that it is right because you are just beginning to learn that perhaps you are not right yourself not right about yourself and remember what Phil told you, about healing and deserving)

But then, the Egg keeps on, isn’t that better to think about, isn’t that nicer than to imagine his blood spilling across my roots, for I am hungry and I will be fed, and if not with your boy’s blood then with that of someone else but is it not better to imagine him becoming one with me and mine, for is it not better to offer him up to me than to lose him?

(no)

“I’d lose him either way,” he says. “Don’t fuck with me, I’d lose—I’d be losing him just as surely.”

And perhaps he’s already lost him. Perhaps his son no longer wants a father at all. But even if that is the case, he will be damned before he allows the Egg to take him. So he lurches forward again. Draws his bow from his inventory. Fires off a shot. He’s not even thinking about it, really, but he fires off a shot, and he aims it for Jack Manifold

(and he can’t remember the last time he saw Jack Manifold, but he vaguely thinks that he may have taken one of his lives as well, maybe, in the heat and the rush of things, and he can’t remember whether it was a mistake or on purpose but neither matters right now)

and it flies wide. He doesn’t see where it lands. He nocks another arrow to the string. His hands shake. Niki drives Tubbo back with a ferocious flurry of attacks, and Jack is on Tommy, and if he doesn’t do something about this, there will be blood spilled here. Blood watering the roots.

You know you could stop this, the Egg says, you know that it is within your power, for I have offered you everything, everything you desire, and I shall give you fire and I shall give you rest and I shall give you your brother’s safety assured and he will not be harmed by me and mine and we shall look after him, for now and for always, he shall be mine as all creatures must be or perish but he shall be safe, and you can rest knowing you have done everything and have everything you want in the end, and it can all be yours and you know this.

“Shut up,” he says. “Shut up.” Just a few more steps. Why does he feel so far from them when he’s only a few steps away? Just a few more steps and he can join the battle, can drive them back and away from those he’s sworn to protect,

(but these were his countrymen and he swore to protect them too and now look at them all children in a war that spiraled out of their control and never ended the soldiers never coming home because there was no home to return to and so the soldiers keep on marching on and they cannot learn to put their weapons down because there is no place to let them rest and no assurance of safety and the war continues whether seen or unseen and the soldiers keep on marching on)

and he can draw his sword even though his swordplay has never been his strongest suit.

Except, no, he needs to use the sword for something else, needs to—the Egg has to be the priority, because if he destroys the Egg, then this will all come to a close, and—

Then you have a choice to make, child of flames and of destruction, the Egg says, and it sounds terribly, horribly amused, and he can’t help but clutch the side of his head as it seems to laugh at him, awful and grating, like his skull has fractured and the shards are being driven into his brain. You have a choice to make, and shall you try to save the ones you hold dear and shall your efforts be fruitless, or shall you raise your hand against me, shall you defy that which you know you seek, that which you know you love, shall you raise a hand against me and fail again, shall you call yourself child of failure and lay your impotency bare.

And then, the Egg stops.

I see, it says. You have a sword.

He inhales sharply.

(it’s in your head and it knows it knows it knows your mind is its for the taking and now it knows)

Niki draws back from Tubbo, face twisting. Tubbo comes to stand beside Tommy again, protectiveness screaming in every line of his stance. Even Jack pauses, and Fundy looks up at him, tears in his eyes, shoulders shaking.

Tommy is staring at him, on his face a dawning dismay.

A sword blessed by the universe and granted by the shell of what was once a god, the Egg says, and suddenly, Wilbur can feel—something else. Something through the Egg, something else looking at him, aware of him. Something that feels like the Egg, but isn’t quite, and he thinks—it’s Dream. Dream is watching, though Dream is blocks away, fighting a battle of his own. A sword meant to destroy the void stuff, the darkness, the corruption, a sword you believe will avail you.

It speaks, and the whole room can hear it. Its voice reverberates in more minds than just his.

You are a thing of dust and ash and soot, and the name you chose for yourself was a prophesy, the Egg says, and you may pretend to have the strength to raise your steel high and drive it against me, you may pretend, but I know you better than you know yourself and I know that even if you had the strength, you would fail, because you have a choice to make and there is only one correct path, only one way out for you, only one way, and you will see it, and you will take it, and what use will your sword be, then?

“You talk a big game for something that the universe itself has sided against,” he says, rather proud of himself for stringing such a coherent sentence together, even while he desperately searches for what the Egg means, what it’s talking about. Because this is a trap, he knows. Likely intended for him. But what the Egg means by a choice, he has no clue, unless it means the choice it’s been trying to get him to make all along, but—

And then, as one, Niki and Jack move. Jack dives for Tubbo, catching him off guard, and there is a terrible snap as Tubbo hits the ground, and Tubbo screams. Tommy shouts, and Wilbur curses, trying to aim for Jack, but there’s too much movement, too much that could go wrong if he misses, because Jack has got Tubbo pinned down, still screaming, each scream interspersed with curses, and Jack doesn’t look like his weight could possible keep Tubbo there, but somehow, all his struggles accomplish nothing. And even as he and Tommy both move forward to help, and even as Fundy seems to be shaking himself out of his stupor, Niki launches herself forward and puts her blade to Tommy’s throat.

And everything goes still.

A choice, the Egg repeats. And Wilbur understands.

“I want to kill him now,” Niki says, her eyes locked on the Egg. And then she scowls, whatever the Egg tells her not for the ears of anyone else, but while she presses the blade further against Tommy’s bare throat, drawing a thin line of blood, she does not cut down. “A choice, then,” she repeats, shifting her gaze to him, and her expression is something like anger and something like defeat. “I wonder if you even know how to make the right one.”

“Let me go,” Tubbo is saying, between sobs. Something is surely broken, but Wilbur can’t get a good enough look to see what. And moving closer may very well spell Tommy’s demise. “Fuck you, let me go, let him go.”

“Just, fuck, just settle down, would you?” Jack demands. “This’ll all be over soon.”

Niki is still watching him.

You have no control here, no power, and here is the choice.

“Wilbur,” Tommy says. His voice trembles. He swallows, and the action pushes his skin just slightly closer to the blade’s edge. More blood trickles down. “Wilbur, you—what is it asking you?”

But he says it like someone who already knows.

(and his brother has a sword to his throat and still seems more concerned for him than for himself and it breaks his heart just as it always does again and again and again)

You may strike your blow, you may take your shot, and no one here will impede your path, and if that is your choice then so be it, the Egg says, but know that should that be, your brother will fall and his blood will sustain me, and behind you his life will fade away even as you toss him aside to strike at me, but it does not have to be this way, void seeker. It does not have to be this way, and you can make the right choice, and the peace you want will be yours, and your brother will live.

He draws in a breath. The beginnings of a plan hatch in his mind. Desperate, crazy—but then, what up to this point hasn’t been? He’s out of options, has let himself be outplayed, and he can’t even let himself think about this too hard, or else it will pluck the idea straight from his mind and it will all be for naught. But he has to try.

There really is only one choice to make.

Tommy’s expression changes.

“No,” he says, “no, no, no, whatever you’re thinking, don’t you fucking do it, don’t you—it’ll be alright, it’ll be alright, I swear, just kill the thing, just kill it, don’t, don’t worry about me, don’t” —He takes in a shuddering, gasping breath, and when he continues, he’s no longer talking to Wilbur— “don’t hurt them, please, you can have me, you can, but don’t hurt them, you can’t, and, and Tubbo, Tubbo, it’s gonna be okay, ‘cause, ‘cause you’re still yourself without me too, and it’s gonna be, it’s gonna be, just, please, Wil, please don’t—”

“Tommy,” he says, and Tommy falls silent. Tubbo does too. They’re all looking at him, and he can’t look at any of their faces for too long, Tubbo’s scrunched up in pain and anger and Fundy’s open wide, almost childlike in his—disbelief, perhaps. He can’t look at their faces, because that makes it hurt worse.

The Egg doesn’t say anything. Nothing he can hear, at least. But it’s waiting. And it feels victorious.

“Tommy,” he says again, “Tubbo. Fundy.”

He breathes in. And out.

“Sometimes things are never meant to be,” he says, and he doesn’t know where the words are coming from, but he lets them flow. “Sometimes things are destined to end even from the very beginning.”

“Wilbur, please—”

“But not this. Not us.” He pauses. “Do you trust me?”

Tommy’s face crumples. He doesn’t respond. Fundy takes in a long, shaky breath, and for a moment, that’s all he can hear. No one really answers him, and he supposes that in the end, that’s an answer in and of itself.

But that’s alright.

He turns to the Egg.

“Our deal,” he says. “The one you offered me. I want it extended. I want everyone in this room alive and safe.”

Everyone in this room. That includes Niki. That includes Jack. Because they were his countrymen, and he owes them this much. Owes them his best effort, even when his best effort once meant their destruction.

(because they were once his countrymen and they were once his friends, and what a picture they make now, and what a picture they made then, back in the summer heat with the walls high and proud around them, as they messed with a camera in their military uniforms, smiling and laughing and free, and it is easy for him to forget that L’Manberg was something beautiful once but it was, it was, it was, and they were beautiful too, and the world was laid at their feet, and they took that photo and he wonders where all the copies went, whether any still exist or whether they all went up in flames, and they were six then and they are six now, the same six, and how bitter and twisted they have all become, how far from that hazy memory of peace they all are)

(and how fitting, perhaps, that it should be the six of them here and only these six, here where it all will come to a close one way or the other, ending just as it began on that sunny summer’s day)

“Wilbur, stop—”

It is nothing to me, the Egg says, and he can feel it, still, can feel it pressing in around him, ready to swamp him, ready to pull him under, and he can hear the whispers, too, just the same as they have always been, whispering fire, whispering death, and he can feel himself begin to lean into them already, can feel himself tempted, can feel his own longing.

And he can still feel, beyond the Egg, Dream watching. Waiting. Considering.

“Fine, then,” he says, and traps his last apology under his tongue. “A deal.”

And he lets the static claim him.

It rushes in around him, and the red dives in eagerly, filling out all the corners of his mind, all the spaces and all the cracks, and he remembers this, remembers this sensation from before, remembers how the Egg coaxed him, persistent and careful, and this is not quite like that, because then, it was like a siren singing a victim to a willing drowning, and now, it as if the entire ocean has opened over his head, a red sea.

There you are, and it is a homecoming, isn’t it, the Egg croons, and his breath stutters in his chest, and I know what you want, I know you long for the fire’s murmurs and the explosion that you once caused and the end of your symphony, forever unfinished, and you were wrested back to this world so cruelly and without your permission, and you do not want to be here, you long for the darkness and the rest of the void, you wish for it with every fiber of your being and you only need listen to me and you can have it.

Yes. He’s having a hard time remembering why he spent so much effort on resisting. Why he resisted the drumbeats that now ring out in his head, a rhythm of war, of blood and of fire, a rhythm that will send him to sleep, if he lets it, and he wants to let it, because the Egg says it is so, and he has let it in, has let it take him over, and the Egg is right. The Egg is right.

(the Egg says it is so, and the Egg must be right, feels right, right like nothing he has ever felt before, but so then why does he)

Come forward, then, and let me grant to you what is yours, the Egg commands, and his feet step forward, once, twice, three times, taking him closer. Behind him, someone is sobbing.

“Wil,” someone whispers, and it sounds like his son. He doesn’t turn around.

Your mind is laid bare to me, and all that you are is mine, the Egg says. I can read your plan, and you thought you could fool me, could take yourself close with none the wiser and break free of my guidance, break free of me and strike before harm could befall your brother, but you cannot be free, because you do not want to be free, because I am giving you everything you want. Did you think you could do as you did before and claw yourself away from me using thoughts of your brother? There is nothing there to use, for I have assured his safety, and you know that.

He does know that. He’s pretty sure that was indeed his plan,

(was it?)

but why shouldn’t the Egg know it now? The Egg is going to give him everything, is going to give him what he could have had before if he was not taken from the room as he was, and now that he is with it again, beating in his mind, a consistent pounding pulse, he feels that jubilation fill him, a hot, heady joy, settling sickly sweet in his gut.

This is right. This is how it was always going to happen. This was meant to be. And the Egg is right; it will be a homecoming, in more ways than one. The void awaits him, and with the Egg curling around him, almost smothering him, he remembers how badly he wants to answer the void’s call, how badly he wants to be dead again, because he made himself an ending and never asked for the story to restart, and it’s unfair that more has been demanded of him.

You played your part, and they were fools to think that you could ever be anything better than what you were, the Egg whispers. You have not changed from the bitter thing you became, and they could not have expected more from you, should not have thought that this would end in any other way, because the void hums like a siren and you want to go, and I will take you there, and you will bleed out before me and feel peace at last and nothing more will be wanted of you. Drop your totem.

Ah, yes, his totem. The one that Techno gave him. He summons it from his inventory, feels its weight against his palm, cold and solid. Its emerald eyes gleam up at him. And then, he goes to drop it, as the Egg says. Somehow, he ends up tossing it over his shoulder instead, rather hard. He’s not sure where it lands. He doesn’t look.

Dream watches. Dream feels—smug. He ignores him. The Egg is what matters.

People are still talking to him. Crying, maybe, but it’s all fallen away, become white noise. There is him, and the Egg, and what the Egg will give him, as long as he does exactly as it commands him. It is as a god, and he is as its vassal, and that is what he’s always striven for.

You love to be useful, the Egg agrees, will abase yourself to anyone to earn your worthiness to live.

(Phil’s voice, steady, sure, and loved: you don’t need to do anything to be worthy of love, you don’t need to do anything to deserve to take care of yourself)

And I know you, the Egg continues, better than you have known yourself. You wanted the fire, wanted to see it all burn around you, and the glee that filled you when you pressed that button was like none you had ever felt.

(no, that’s wrong)

And that same glee again, when you had your father run your sword through your chest, and how eager you were to die, and how eager you are now, how eager, how eager, and you are the same creature you were then, at your core.

(wrong, something about what it’s saying is wrong because these are thoughts he’s had himself so very often but)

A few steps more, and he’s standing next to the Egg. Close enough to touch it. He almost wants to, but doesn’t, something holding him back.

His head pounds. Throbs. Each breath comes as a struggle, though why he’s trying so hard, he doesn’t know.

And you are mine, the Egg croons, my creature now, and I can do with you as I will, but I will give you what you seek so desperately, can you feel it?

He can. He can feel it, the red, soothing as it always has been, and every inch of him cries out for it, cries out for what he

(but does he?)

wants.

And you shall have it, the Egg says. You shall have it.

They’re all calling to him. All of them, but Tommy most of all, calling his name, begging him to stop. He doesn’t turn, even now. Part of him wants to, but when he thinks about it, the Egg pulses in his mind, burning him, expressing displeasure, and he won’t go against what the Egg wants, not when it is about to gift him everything, not when it understands him so well. So he does not turn, and—distantly, he thinks that this was the idea. To use Tommy to pull himself out again, just as he did before. But it won’t work this time, because Tommy is going to be safe. The Egg has sworn that he will be unharmed.

You never had a hope of resisting me, the Egg says, as I know you as no one else does, and I know what you want, and you shall have it now.

Vines creep around his ankles, slide around his legs, his arms. And one rests around his neck, lightly, but he can feel the thorns. They’re a caress, an embrace,

(but you know what an embrace is like and this is not that you know that this is not that because en embrace is Phil’s wings or Tommy’s face in your shoulder or Techno gripping your shoulders and pulling you in and you know better you know better)

a promise.

(but something isn’t right and your mind stirs and there is disquiet hesitation that even the red cannot drown out)

You wanted fire and to let it all burn down around you, and you wanted it all to end, and if you cannot have the fire again, your fire you so love, if you cannot dance victorious on the wreckage then you will have the dark.

The vines tighten. And through the red, Wilbur realizes what’s wrong.

(because here is a secret you keep locked away: you love the fire not for what it is, but for what it granted you, for the ending so desired, but the fear has never left you, the fear instilled in your veins the first time your country went up in a blaze and your people fell around you and it was no game, and here is the second secret: you fear the fire, and at the last, you decided you deserved to die afraid)

(it all comes down to deserving)

It’s difficult to think. Difficult to wade through the red haze, but this—this is important, because the Egg is going—is going to give him what he wants, so why does it—it’s supposed to understand him, so why—

(it all comes down to deserving, and what he thinks he deserves, and the Egg is in his head, and what is the Egg drawing from if not his own thoughts, but the thing about his thoughts is that they might be)

“That’s not what I wanted,” he whispers. “It’s not what I want.”

The Egg presses in further, and he can feel it in his head, pulling at his thoughts, at his emotions, telling him that he is wrong, that this is what he wants, but he stands his ground, because—his head’s a mess, but he—he doesn’t—

(Phil’s voice again, careful and sad and gentle and kind, because for all his father’s faults he has never doubted that he loves him, and Phil’s voice says, remember that you do deserve better things, and there’s an implication in there that Phil thinks that what he believes he deserves is wrong, and he hasn’t really had time to think that over, but)

The vine tightens around his throat. The thorns dig into his skin. Not breaking it, not yet.

“You’re offering me what I think I deserve,” he says, and it’s like coming up for air, if only for a moment, and finding that the sky is still blue. For a second, he exists outside of himself, outside of the hooks the Egg has dug into him, and he can experience its presence for the horror that it is. And then the red takes him again, and he’s drowning, suffocating, his lungs full of syrup, and the Egg is unhappy, and part of him wants to grovel and apologize and do anything to be sure that he receives his due, and the Egg speaks again and rakes its voice across his body, and he shudders violently.

Then what is it that you think you want? it asks, and it is angry and it is patronizing, and it is pushing up against him, twisting him, forcing him to agree with it, to believe its words, and half of him does and the other half comes up for air again, bobbing in the open ocean, sharks circling, and that gives him just enough room to consider the question, to truly consider it.

What does he want?

(freedom, once, freedom and choice and a place to call his, a place where he and his loved ones would be safe, and he built the walls as both practicality and symbol, and he wanted to protect, wanted to lead, wanted a land that was good and a land that was free)

If he could have anything, anything at all, what would he—

You want rest, the Egg hisses, and you know it, know that you are the villain and you deserve death, and you want rest and you want peace, to be released from this world that is cruel and corrupt and full of darkness, to be released from your responsibilities, you want rest and I will give it to you—

Yes, perhaps, but

(Tommy smiles at him with sunlight in his hair and in his eyes and Tubbo grins sharp and sure and Fundy is with him and no longer regards him with hatred and Techno has a book in his hand and his voices are quiet and Phil stares on and his posture is straight and not bent with guilt and with pain)

(and he is with them, and he has so far to go, but he is happy)

(and if he puts all of himself aside, puts aside his self-loathing and his fears, puts aside all the harm he knows he has done and all of the punishment he knows he still deserves, then that is what he’s always wanted, isn’t it? his family with him, the days stretching on, and here is a realization, breaking like the dawn itself: he hasn’t ever thought that he deserves to be happy, but he wants it, he wants it, he wants it, just as he wants to be a better man, he wants to be happy again, he wants, even if he doesn’t deserve he wants)

he has always wanted rest. Since coming back, he has wanted rest. But he is still here.

He decided to be better, and perhaps he’s not doing a very good job of it in any sense of the word, but he decided, and he’s sticking to it, and that is what he wants. More than death, he wants another chance.

He wants to stay. Not only for other people, but for himself, too. He wants to stay, and he wants to stay more than he wants to die.

Admitting as much lifts a weight from his chest, one that he hadn’t known was there at all.

Then I shall give you that, as well, the Egg says, and for the first time, he hears it: desperation. Slowly, surely, the red begins to clear, leaving him with shaking limbs and a headache that makes it difficult to focus, but the Egg’s voice is no longer so welcoming, the red no longer so appealing, and he hurts, and he hears Tommy’s broken protests, Tubbo’s sobs, Fundy’s whimpering, he can hear them, and they tug at his heartstrings where only a moment before, he ignored them, so sure of his course as he was, so sure of his course as it made him.

He’s pulled himself out. He pulled himself out, and he did it himself, with shaking, bloody fingers, and he hasn’t climbed back over the top of the cliff yet, but he’s hanging on. He’s hanging on. He’s stopped his fall.

(and he doesn’t know what healing is doesn’t know what it is to be better but perhaps here, now, he can admit to himself that being better includes being better to himself, too, and he has never allowed himself to think as much before but perhaps it is truth, and perhaps he can let himself hope, and what a time it is to finally come to this conclusion but something of truth rings in it and he knows that this is right)

They will be happy, the Egg says, and they will be alive, and I will keep them safe, and you will be happy as well, and you will have what you desire.

The words are like hands, pulling on him. But he can recognize as much. Recognize the sensation, slimy and insidious, of something else trying to change his thoughts, trying to reach in and change him. The ground beneath his feet feels more stable now, his footing found at last. He almost let himself slip. Almost, but he’s found footholds, handholds, and he did it himself, and that feels important.

“You and Dream are the same,” he murmurs, and he can feel it paying attention, feel it wanting to know what he’s about to say. And beyond it, somewhere further away, he thinks he can still sense Dream looking, too, Dream watching him, listening to them. “You’re always so eager to talk. So certain that you’re right. But you’re too prideful, and that’s the end of you.” He summons his best glare. Plants his feet. Playing his hand like this is not wise, but somehow, he knows that the Egg will let him finish, will let him get to the end of his speech before trying anything. It wants to know. Even now, it is prideful, sure it can contain him, that he will not be able to harm it. “Even knowing what my plan was, you let me get close. You assumed you could overwhelm me. You thought I’d be yours. And for a minute, you did. I was. But do you want to know what your biggest mistake was?”

The vine around his neck tightens.

“Even when you knew you were losing me, you still let me talk,” he finishes, and in one movement, drops the sword into his hand

(and he can hear the universe again, can hear it humming, vibrating against his skin, and he burns with it)

and slices through the vine before it can strangle him. In the next second, he drives it forward, putting all his weight behind it, and shoves it into the Egg.

It slides in like a knife through butter, and several things happen at once.

Behind him: chaos. Chaos that he can only hear and not see, but several people shout, and then Jack Manifold cries out, and there is another clash of metal, and then Tommy shouts, not in pain but rather a loud, wordless denial, and there is a great cracking sound, like the air tearing itself apart, and the golden flash reflects off even the Egg’s surface, and the room crackles like ozone, like a bend in reality, and it is the activation of a totem, and he can only hope that it will be enough.

And the Egg screams.

It is like a thousand voices crying out in a thousand discordant notes, like several hundred orchestras all out of tune in different ways, like a shriek of violins and a moan of tubas and the drums stutter and falter and tap out infinitely different rhythms until it’s all a clanging, howling mess of static and white noise and still, something screaming, something old and powerful and terrible in its death throes.

He screams too, he thinks. He can’t hear himself anymore. Can barely feel himself, though he tries to tighten his fingers on the hilt of the sword.

At the edge of his perception, the universe encroaches. Humming, humming, and for a second, they harmonize with him, and in that second, the universe says,

(you did well, and now look, look upon your adversary and know what they are, know the darkness and the corruption and the rot and the sickness)

And he does look, and he sees

(the Egg indeed is not an Egg and for this second, for this one moment in time and out of time, he sees it for what it is, something incomprehensible, something existing against all the laws of the world, all things natural, a blight, a bug, a twist in the code that makes up all things, a virus, and even despite that, it was not done growing, not done gathering strength, and one more sacrifice would have done it, glutted as it was on Dream’s shared power and the blood of the Blood God, one more meal would have done it, and he was close to being that meal, inches away from dying and giving it what it needed to hatch, and perhaps it would have kept its promise, perhaps it would have allowed his loved ones to live, but it would have been no life, no life at all, under the control of a thing that at its core sought to devour worlds)

But the universe says,

(but it is well, it is well, for your strength was enough and you are stronger than you know, and you are worthy and you have come to the beginnings of understanding, and you realize now that you are deserving of the world, that you deserve to live, and you want to live and to make yourself better, and you are deserving of time, and we are with you, and you are not alone, and you have freedom now to make it all right)

A million stars twinkle in his vision, and then, he comes back to himself. There is no more screaming. No more whispering. His head is quiet.

He still holds the sword. But the Egg itself is shriveling, blackening, twisting, collapsing in on itself, and as he watches, it and all its vines become husks, dark and small. He draws the sword out, and the area around it crumbles to dust.

It seems so small. So small, so impotent. But it is a corpse now, he supposes, so that is only right. Relief floods him.

It’s over. At last, it is over. The Egg is gone.

The sword no longer shimmers, no longer shines. The runes are only shapes, now, not glowing, not humming. It has served its purpose; it’s just a sword, now, like any other sword, and he’s tired of holding swords. He never was much good with them anyway. So he puts it back in his inventory, and turns

(and as he does, he catches a glimpse of something in the husk, in the shriveled shell, something impossibly blue, but that can wait)

around, and in that motion, his heart stops beating.

Only for a moment before it starts up again, but its rhythm is stuttering, weak, too quick and too slow by turns. He wonders if that’s something he should be concerned about. He feels no pain, though his body seems rather numb, now that he’s thinking about it. What’s important now, though, is the scene in front of him, because they’re all alive. All of them, alive. Tommy is hugging Tubbo, tightly, like he thinks he’ll disappear, and Tubbo himself glitters with gold, shimmering all around him. He had to use the totem, then.

He tries not to think about what would have happened if he hadn’t thrown it behind him. He’s pretty sure that he was trying to give them a failsafe, even under the Egg’s thrall as he was, but he can’t be sure. Can’t trust his memories of only a few minutes ago, probably.

Niki and Jack are both on the ground, surrounded with dust from the crumbling vines. Their eyes are closed, but their chests rise and fall. They’ll be fine, then, and relief mixes with sorrow; they’re not under the Egg’s control any longer, but he knows better than to think that means all is fixed. Fundy has staggered to his feet, is hovering by Tommy and Tubbo, face still tear-stained.

But he’s fine. He’s okay. They’re all okay.

He lets out a breath, and takes a step forward. It’s more difficult than it should be. Pain flares in his—flares everywhere, actually, his abdomen and chest and limbs, and his head is still killing him, though that much, at least, doesn’t surprise him. But then, it dies down, replaced by the numbness again.

Tommy pulls back from Tubbo. “You ever do something like that again, I’m killing you myself, Tubbo, fuck,” he says, and Tubbo laughs, a little tearfully. And then, Tommy rounds on him. “And you, what the fuck did you think you were doing? How stupid are you?”

“A bit stupid,” he agrees. The words come out slurred. He frowns, and so does Tommy. Or at least, he thinks that he frowns. He can’t feel his face. Tommy is definitely frowning, though, and then Tommy is walking toward him, or stumbling, more like, and then all three of them are.

“Are you good?” Tommy asks. “You’re making weird faces.”

“That was a good throw, with the totem,” Tubbo says, almost at the same time. Where Tommy stands right in front of him, Tubbo goes around to stand at his side, looking him up and down with narrowed eyes, narrowed eyes that flicker with golden light. He’ll crash once the magic burns itself out, though it shouldn’t be nearly as bad as what Techno went through. He keeps rolling his shoulder, flexing his arm, as if shaking out a wound that is no longer there. “Saved my skin, there. But man, that was a risky play.”

“I can’t believe it worked,” Fundy says quietly. “I thought the Egg could read thoughts. I mean, I felt it in my head, man. It was awful. But how come it didn’t know you were pretending?”

“Pretty sure he wasn’t pretending,” Tommy says, and—he wishes he didn’t say that, because now still doesn’t feel like the time to talk to Fundy about any of this, even though he probably should, at one point, because if he’s going to be a better father, he ought to start by telling him things that he wants to know, despite the part of him that still screams to shelter him, screams that he’s not ready to learn about such terrible things, but—he’s grown. Fundy is grown. He needs to work on keeping that in mind.

“I just can’t believe it’s over,” Tommy continues. “Just like that? After the days we’ve had? Feels anti-climatic—”

“Anti-climactic,” Tubbo supplies.

“Oh, piss off. Anti-whatever, it feels all sudden, doesn’t it? Though I suppose there’s still Dream.” Tommy’s face darkens. “Guess we need to go see about everyone else.”

“Uh, Wilbur?” Fundy breaks in, hesitant, but not angry. Not too upset. Perhaps concerned? Is Fundy concerned for him? “Your, um, your nose is bleeding.”

Tommy and Tubbo go silent, and he blinks. Is it? He can’t feel it, can’t feel any blood dripping down, but he can’t seem to move his arm to check. He can’t seem to move anything, actually, and when he opens his mouth, intending to say something—though what, he has no idea—he finds his airway obstructed by something. He coughs, and their faces all go very alarmed.

“Oh, shit, he’s bleeding from his mouth,” Tubbo says, and at the same time, Tommy steps in closer, right up against him, and grabs his shoulders, peering into his face.

“Wil?” he says, and Wilbur would try to respond, he really would, but Tommy’s touch has chased away the numbness, starting at the points of contact and radiating outward and in its wake is—is too much, too much to think about, too much to describe, too much to handle, and he’s been stabbed and he’s been shot and none of that felt anything like this, because this feels like lava’s been poured down his throat and he’s burning alive from this inside out, and his lungs are having severe difficulty inhaling, and his chest is tight and he can’t feel his heartbeat so he thinks that maybe—

“Get him on the ground, get him down, get him down, oh, fuck—”

The world tips, and he’s lying down. The ceiling above is red, and dust drifts into his eyes. Dust from the vine husks, breaking apart as he watches them, crumbling into nothingness. It’s like watching ash fall. Like watching soot fall.

His chest constricts further, and he gasps for air. Air that doesn’t come. Air that doesn’t come, because, because—

They’re all talking over each other. He can barely follow the conversation. Dimly, he realizes that he’s quite panicked, though that fact itself has taken a backseat to the fact that he can’t breathe properly. Can’t breathe properly, because—

He thinks he might be dying, actually. He’d forgotten, how the Egg strikes back at those who strike it. He’d forgotten. He wonders if the universe did, too.

The vines aren’t burning, so there’s no ash falling. Not really. But there would be a twisted kind of poetry in it if they were, if it was flakes of soot tumbling down. Soot falling.

Soot falling.

#mcyt #dsmp #dream smp #dsmp fic #wilbur soot #tommyinnit #tubbo #fundy #purpled #nihachu #jack manifold #/rp #cat writes fic #long post #*jazz hands*

23 notes · View notes

imaginejamesandsirius · 4 years ago

Note

Please could you do angsty James comes back to life and finds out Sirius has been in Azkaban and feels really guilty about it. Thanks!

((A/N: Warning for trauma both for Azkaban reasons and coming back to life reasons))

James loved Sirius. He loved him so much that sometimes it felt like he couldn't breathe. He couldn't find the words to explain how much he loved him, but that hadn't stopped him from trying-- a dozen poorly written poems that were probably long since lost to the elements had been proof of those attempts.

Loving Sirius was always good. Being in love with him wasn't always good, though. It was hard. They couldn't have all the good things from a relationship without also having a few bad things. It meant figuring out how to comfort him because sometimes a really nice hug wasn't enough. There were nightmares and long nights, and a hundred different misunderstandings that James hadn't known to expect and had difficulty patching up-- and all of that had been before the war started. After the war, it was hard to be in love with him because he never knew which time would be the last time they got to see each other or which kiss would be the last one for the night.

Sometimes Sirius would tell him that he loved him, and it didn't make him feel better. He loved Sirius so much, and the chance for losing him was too damn high. If Sirius died, James wouldn't know what to do with himself; he wouldn't know how to live. Worrying about it nearly made him sick some days. He'd never felt better than when he was with Sirius, and he'd also never felt worse. It was a trade-off, he supposed, and it was one he would choose to make each and every day because it was worth it.

Then James died.

And he came back.

Loving Sirius was as easy and wonderful and amazing as it had always been. Being in love with him was harder than it used to be. It's not like Sirius had gotten more difficult or summat, but... Azkaban. Sirius had been in Azkaban. The nightmares weren't actually worse to deal with than the ones he'd used to have from Grimmauld Place, but these felt different to James. Grimmauld Place had been horrible for Sirius because of his parents; he'd only been in Azkaban because of James. Sirius had gotten locked up there because of him. It was his fault that that had happened. Sirius tried to say that it had nothing to do with him, but if James had just carried his bloody wand, he would've been able to apparate away in time, and they all would've survived it. It was his fault that Sirius had been in Azkaban for twelve years, and he was horribly aware of that fact.

It was his fault.

James's eyes were stuck on the pan, watching the eggs cook. It looked like he was very interested in seeing the egg whites cook through at the edges, but his mind was a million miles away. Sirius had a dozen new scars interspersed with tattoos James had never seen before. He'd asked Sirius about it last night, fingers trailing along his ribs. He'd thought that it would make for a good story, but Sirius had gotten all sad and mumbled that he'd gotten the scar on his collarbone from another dog after he broke out of Azkaban-- that's how he'd phrased it: 'another dog', not 'a dog'.

"Dad?" Harry asked, his voice coming from somewhere near the doorway.

James pulled on an automatic smile and turned to face him. "Hey sprog." Sprog that was like six years younger than him. Seven, at most. "You're up early."

"It's seven," Harry said as he got closer, like that wasn't plenty early.

James chuckled. "When I was your age, you couldn't pry me out of bed before nine."

Right after he started talking, Sirius came into the room too. "That's funny," Sirius said. "All I had to do was ask, and you bounced right up."

"Well that was different," James said, turning back to the stove. "Anyone want eggs?" He wasn't actually hungry. He'd needed something to do, some sort of excuse so that people didn't (rightly) accuse him of brooding. He hoped someone said yes so that he could offload them.

"I'll take some," Harry said.

"Great. Sirius?"

"Nah, I'm not hungry yet," Sirius said, coming up behind James and wrapping his arms around his waist. He hooked his chin over James's shoulder.

James didn't relax against him. He didn't deserve that comfort. In the war, he should've insisted that Sirius stay the secret keeper. He'd let them switch to Peter because Sirius had looked so desperate, but he hadn't wanted to. Sirius had held his life in his hands, and that's exactly where James had wanted it. He shouldn't have let Sirius change his mind. If he'd stuck to what he wanted, none of this would've happened. Sirius wouldn't have that haunted look in his eyes any time he stopped laughing; Sirius wouldn't be so thin that James could count each and every rib when he laid down.

He did like that Sirius was comfortable enough to do this with him again, though. When he'd first gotten back, Sirius hadn't initiated anything. Not a single touch, let alone kisses or hugs. This was a good thing for Sirius. He'd come a long way in a very short amount of time, and James was happy for him. He was happy for him in a small, specific way that sort of paled in comparison for what he was being forced to get over.

James wasn't used to hating himself. He used to be a pretty great bloke, all things considered, and he generally liked himself. What wasn't to like? He was amazing. Based on Quidditch prowess alone, he was one of the better people he'd ever met. That Sirius loved him bumped him rather solidly up to the top, with his handsome face an added bonus like the cherry on top of a sundae.

The problem now was that he was buggering horrible. Not bad enough to be at the bottom of the list, but he was so fucking low he might as well be on the floor. It was a crock of shite. How had this happened? Life wasn't fair, he knew that, but it was quite another thing to say that Lily was still dead and Harry had grown up around people that hated and feared him and Sirius had spent twelve years locked in Azkaban for a crime he didn't commit, and James was the one that managed to skip all the terrible shite. He died sure, but he came back. He was given the love of his life, their son, a new wand... everything. He'd been given back everything. And he didn't deserve any of it.

He sodding hated this.

Harry was okay-- mostly-- and that was good! It was great, even. But half the time when James looked at him, he didn't recognise him. He looked like family, sure, but he wasn't the baby that James had held a year ago. He would recognise that baby if he saw him again, but it had been years. It had been years since James had been alive, and that meant that Harry had went and grown up. He was his own person, with opinions and mates of his own, and James had missed out on all the time where he got those things.

To everyone else, James had been gone/dead for fourteen years. To James, he'd been knocked out with an injury and woke up to find that everyone was different to what he'd known. Some things were incredibly similar. His father's house, for example, looked exactly the way that it had when he'd last seen it. Sirius looked different, but he was ultimately the same. Some of his edges were rougher-- both physically and emotionally-- but the base was the same as it had always been.

It was easier with everyone else than it was with Harry. James was supposed to have been there for him for each and every step he took, and he'd missed all of it. Lily would know what to do if she was here. It's not that she always made the right decisions, but she didn't like not having a plan. When she was uncertain, she would make a plan. She used to tell him that everything was better with a plan, even if the plan was 'wait and think more', because at least then he would have something to work towards.

James didn't have a plan, here. People had been asking him what he planned on doing-- about Harry, about Sirius, about the war-- and he never had an answer. He didn't even have the plan to wait and think more. He was just... focusing on Sirius. Pretending that everything was fine because if he tried to think about everything else, he couldn't get himself to stand.

"Are you okay?" Sirius asked.

James turned to him, a smile coming automatically to his face. "'Course. Why, what's up?"

"That smile, for one."

"Er, okay?" James said, his expression turning into something more like a frown. "I can be miserable if that's what you want, but I gotta say that it's a little weird."

Sirius didn't say anything for a moment, but he looked worried.

"Are you okay?"

He raised one hand and rubbed his thumb over James's cheek. Not the cheekbone, but the round, middle part where it would plump up when he smiled. "You keep smiling when you're not happy. You want to explain that to me?"

James's smile came back automatically. "What are you talking about? I'm fine."

"Like that," Sirius said, looking more worried than before. "Right now you're smiling, but you're not feeling it. You're allowed to be sad."

He imagined that, were his calm emotions a marble counter, there would be a massive crack in it. It was jarring. He'd thought he was hiding it pretty well. Smile, and no one would notice that he wasn't feeling as great as he pretended. He should've known that Sirius would realise it, but he'd hoped that he wasn't looking that closely. After all, Sirius had enough to deal with without worrying about what James was doing now that he was alive again. "I'm fine," James said again. "Stop worrying."

"Don't lie to me," Sirius said quietly. James swallowed. He didn't like lying to Sirius, but it had been over something so small this time that he didn't think it really counted. Evidently, Sirius did not feel the same way about it. "If you're not upset, then you're covering something else up. So what is it? You can't keep on like you have been." When James didn't say anything, he said, "Talk to me. Whatever it is, I promise I can deal with it."

"It's nothing," James said, but it was weak.

Sirius didn't even have to say anything else. All he had to do was keep looking at him, and James broke. The crack in his calm deepened until it fell into two separate pieces, and he started to cry. He didn't even feel like he needed to cry; he just started to, and he couldn't make himself stop. Sirius held him the entire time. He didn't tell him that it was okay or that he was safe or any of the things that James normally said to Sirius when their positions were reversed; it made James feel a little better because there wasn't a fix to this. The world had changed when he wasn't around, and now he had to deal with that. Making it better meant that he had to adapt, not that the world needed to change back to the way it had been before.

When James's sobs tapered off into sniffles, Sirius said, "If it- if it's about us or me, you can tell me that."

James immediately shook his head. "It's not." His voice sounded small and croaky to his ears from crying, but maybe that was just in his head and not anything that Sirius could hear. "Not really."

Sirius was quiet for a moment, smoothing his hand up and down James's back. James could straighten, could get his face out of Sirius's shirt now that he wasn't really crying anymore, but he didn't want to. Not looking at him made it easier. "Not really?" Sirius repeated.

"You were in Azkaban."

"So?"

"So? So? What the hell do you mean by that?" James asked, shooting up to stare at him, dumbfounded. His initial idea to not look him in the face went right out the window. How could he be so flippant about it?

Sirius squirmed a little at the sudden scrutiny. "It happened. There's nothing we can do about it. I don't want to think about it because it makes me feel worse. I just want to focus on what we have now."

"Just like that? It's that easy for you?"

"James..." Sirius reached over, putting a hand on the back of James's neck. "I thought I'd lost you. Forever. I never thought I'd see you again, but you're here. You're back. I don't care about the other shite. I would've done anything to see you again. Twelve years in Azkaban was worth it now that you're here."

James started to tear up again. He shook his head. "Nothing's worth that," he choked out.

"I disagree," Sirius said softly, and it was that simple for him.

James curled up against Sirius's side. Sirius always slept on his back, so it was easy for James to sleep cuddled up to him. He looked worlds better than he had when James had first gotten back. He still wasn't up to his normal weight, but he didn't look quite so emaciated anymore.

He got to know Harry. It was weird to be more like his older brother than a father, but at least he had the chance to know him.

He didn't feel like he'd been awake for very long, but it must have been because when Sirius shifted and James lifted his head, he could feel that the half of his face that had been on Sirius's shoulder was imprinted with red.

"How long have you been awake?" Sirius asked sleepily, his words slurring together.

"I dunno."

"You okay?"

James thought about it before answering since Sirius didn't like when he said yes automatically. He put his head back down where it had been before. It wasn't quite as comfortable as it had been ten seconds ago. "I think so. Things are... getting better."

Sirius nodded, then yawned. "You gonna get back to sleep?"

"Are you getting up?"

"Yeah."

"Then no. I'll just get up with you."

Sirius nodded again, turning his head so that he had a face full of James's hair. "Love you," he breathed.

"Yeah." Somewhere along the way, he'd forgotten that for a few weeks. It had taken Sirius saying it a couple dozen times before he properly remembered. "Yeah, I love you too." He knew that the way his hand tightened on Sirius was slightly uncomfortable, but he eased up after a moment. He needed the constant reminder that Sirius was there; the same way that he knew Sirius liked constant reminders that James was still there.

#prongsfoot #marauders #james potter #sirius black #fanfic #harry potter #filled #first war #james lives #established relationship #siriuslystarbucks #Anonymous

35 notes · View notes

when-they-write-stuff · 4 years ago

Note

No. 25 - Wrapping arms around them when they make breakfast - but with a specific twist. In canon. Pre relationship. Stiles fell asleep at Derek's (exhausted after research, hurt after fight with big bad, it's up to you but nothing too dramatic ^^) or Derek stayed at Stiles'. When Stiles wakes up Derek's in the kitchen, making breakfast. Then the prompt happens. Then awkward silence xD cause, wtf are you doing Stiles? Set season 2ish? Or something? Idk.. But only if you want to! XD

“I told you to stop touching it.”

“I’m not touching it!”

“I can see you touching it, Stiles.”

“Whatever,” Stiles said, crossing his arms as he dropped back onto the bed. “I totally wasn’t touching it. You don’t have eyes in the back of your head.”

Derek huffed and turned back around, a first aid kit in hand. Stiles sat straight back up then, only to groan and wrap an arm around his side once more.

If anyone asked, Stiles would say that he totally got injured in some badass, heroic way. He totally wasn’t running from the current Monster of the Week only to trip over his own feet and nearly brain himself on a rock.

There was a gash sliced open across his chest. Stiles winced as Derek knelt down in front of him, frowning at it. Like the injury had somehow personally offended him or something. Stiles snorted at that, earning a strange look from Derek.

He just shrugged. “I’m just curious, but when was the last time you cared that I nearly died?”

“I’d care if you died.”

“Aw, Sourwolf. Would you say some nice things at my funereal?”

“Don’t talk like that.”

“I’m just saying,” Stiles said. “There was this one time I showed up with a bruised face, bloodied lip, and cracked rib and I don’t think even Scott cared.”

Derek’s face hardened at that. He glared even harder at the gash before angrily dabbing at it. Stiles squeaked and tried to shy away.

“Dude, ouch! That hurts!”

“I should have checked in on you,” Derek said. Stiles blinked at him.

“Dude, it’s fine. I’m not bitter.”

Derek looked a little bitter. Stiles studied him for a moment longer before barking a laugh.

“Oh my god, you totally care about this token human.”

“Shut up.”

“Derek, I’m just gonna say it. I’ve totally gotten under your skin.”

“Like a parasite.”

“Rude!”

Stiles thought there was a hint of a smile playing along Derek’s lips when he rolled his eyes and set the cloth aside, studying the injury again. Stiles was pretty sure it wasn’t bad at all, but Derek had taken one look and told Stiles either he came back to the loft, or Derek was taking him to the hospital.

Looking at it now, Stiles laughed again. “Dude, that’s just a little baby cut.”

“It could’ve been worse.”

“Oh yeah, definitely. I could have gotten an infection and died.”

“You could have.”

“Oh my god,” Stiles said, pushing himself up. “You’re no fun, you know that?”

Derek rolled his eyes. Stiles pulled out his phone but then hesitated, glancing back. Slowly, he raised an eyebrow.

“Why the hell do you have a first aid kit lying around anyway?”

“Why do you think?”

Stiles grinned from ear-to-tear, turning around again. He scrolled to his dad’s name, just to let him know he was finally heading home, and waved a hand through the air as he wandered back out of Derek’s bedroom.

“Whatever, you totally care about me. Now if you’ll excuse this token human, I’m going home. My bed is calling and it’s like… oh my god,” Stiles blinked at his phone. “It’s three am, dude. I can’t go home now! My dad is the lightest sleeper you’ve ever met and he’ll totally ground me for life.”

Derek stood silently in the doorway. Stiles spun around, pointing a finger at him.

“I blame you. This is your fault.”

The man just blinked silently. Stiles thought for some reason, he looked a little pleased. Groaning, he typed out an ‘At Scott’s’ message, knowing there was no way his dad was going to fall for that. But Stiles still had yet to explain… things. Werewolf things. And currently, he’d take distrust over putting his dad in danger.

“I’m staying here,” Stiles said flatly. Derek raised an eyebrow and Stiles crossed his arms. “The pups are already asleep and you, sir, can spare the couch. The next time you nearly hospitalize me over a small cut, I hope you remember this.”

“I will,” Derek said. And Stiles didn’t think he was being sarcastic.

Huffing, he stuffed his phone into his pocket and wandered down the hallway to find some extra blankets or pillows. But, finding nothing, he popped his head back around the corner.

“Dude, I’m not sleeping on that lump of a couch without at least a pillow.”

“Okay,” Derek said, pushing his bedroom door open. Stiles blinked a few times and then narrowed his eyes.

“What?”

Derek raised an eyebrow, his meaning obvious. Stiles crossed his arms, sitting back on his heels.

“Dude, what are you playing at?”

“It’s a big bed, Stiles,” Derek said flatly. “If you don’t like it, you can sleep on the floor. I don’t care.”

“You totally care.”

In response, Derek turned back into his bedroom, vanishing from sight. Stiles stayed rooted to the spot for a moment, debating his options. Because yes, he could probably share a bed with— oh my god— Derek Hale. But Stiles was… okay, you know what? Stiles was a growing boy. The feelings he may or may not possibly have were completely not his fault.

But he was totally waking up early tomorrow morning and making a run for it. Stiles did not need to see Erica’s smug grin if she came across any of this.

Stupid werewolves and their super-sniffers. She always caught him thinking bad thoughts at the worst moments.

Usually when Derek was around.

After another long moment, Stiles plodded into the room after the werewolf. He could share a bed just fine! He and Scott used to all the time.

When they were literal children.

Derek was already under a giant pile of blankets, his back to the door. Stiles held his breath as he climbed in bed behind the man, carefully turning his back toward Derek was well. The last thing he wanted to do was have his throat ripped out because he accidentally ended up snuggling the man come morning or something.

It took him a long time to fall asleep. And by the time he did, he was nearly falling out of bed trying to make sure he stayed very far away.

Stiles woke up first.

That was exactly like he’d planned except for some reason, he was sweating. Like, drowning in his sweat, and he was pretty sure he couldn’t move. It took a few moments of tired blinking to realize there were a pair of giant arms wrapped around his chest, caging him against the mattress, and a stubbles face pressed into his neck.

Stiles froze.

If Derek woke up to this, Stiles was so dead. He’d never be able to show his face at the loft again. He could probably get his stomach sliced open and Derek wouldn’t bat an eye.

Stiles was an idiot. And he had to escape.

He tried to move slowly. A wiggle there, a bit of ducking underneath Derek’s unfairly muscular arms here. By the time he was halfway out, Stiles was pretty sure he was going to be caught in the most compromising position ever.

He ended up with one foot out of bed, one foot still tangled up in the sheets, and ended up just oozing to the floor.

Derek grunted and Stiles froze, staring in terror at the ceiling. But then the man rolled over, seemed to go right back to sleep, and Stiles let out a soft breath.

His phone read six o’clock in the morning as he crept out of Derek’s bedroom.

Erica was sitting on the couch.

“Oh my god,” Stiles said, resisting the urge to groan. “What is wrong with you betas? It’s six in the morning! Go back to bed.”

“Sleep well, Stilinski?”

“I am not engaging in this,” Stiles said, ignoring Erica as he pulled his shoes on and started toward the door. But the beta cut him off before he could make his escape, a smirk tugging at both sides of her mouth.

“I won’t say anything,” she said. “If you make us breakfast.”

“That’s blackmail.”

“I want pancakes and eggs.”

“I’m pretty sure Derek doesn’t have anything in that kitchen of his other than protein powder, raw meat, and bread,” Stiles said flatly. Erica just grinned.

“You’d be surprised at the things he has around this place to impress the annoying token human.”

Stiles blinked at her. Because… he was the annoying token human, wasn’t he? Allison was definitely very human, but Stiles was pretty sure she was just drop-dead gorgeous and exceedingly nice, not annoying.

Erica raised a brow and rested her shoulder against the loft door, waiting. After a moment, Stiles groaned, turning back around and starting toward the kitchen. Erica’s laugher followed him.

Stiles hated Derek’s betas sometimes.

He was pretty sure he heard the sound of Erica’s door shutting and of course she was going back to sleep. Stiles briefly considered making a run for it, but then he just sighed, resigning himself to his fate.

He made some mean pancakes. He better get all the praise in the world for this.

By the time Stiles had a neat stack of pancakes on one plate and a skillet of scrambled eggs on the stovetop, he realized Derek was standing in the doorway of the kitchen. Just standing there, looking at Stiles with an odd expression on his face.

Stiles froze, feeling a blush creeping up his neck. A dozen excuses came to mind but none were better than, “Erica made me.”

Which Stiles realized also wasn’t great. But Derek just nodded quietly and plodded into the kitchen, coming to stand behind Stiles. The man studied the food over Stiles’s shoulders and Stiles shivered a little, painfully aware of how close he was standing.

For a moment, all he could feel was arms locked around his chest. A stubbled face tucked into his neck. Derek’s warm breaths on his skin.

Stiles was pretty sure his heart skipped a beat.

Then Derek was reaching around him, stubble brushing against his ear. Stiles went stock-still, not moving a muscle, only to realize Derek was reaching for one of the pancakes. He made a noise of protest, trying to smack the man’s hand away, and Derek’s arms wrapped around his waist instead.

Stiles froze. “Derek.”

The man didn’t say a word but he’d gone stock-still too. Stiles swallowed hard.

“Dude.”

“You’re making breakfast.”

“An astounding observation.”

“In my loft.”

“... Erica made me?”

Derek finally pulled back, fingers ghosting over Stiles’s sides. Stiles shivered despite himself and then Derek was reaching over again, grabbing a pancake and moving away before Stiles could protest. He glared as Derek took a giant bite.

“You animal.”

Derek raised an eyebrow. Stiles glared harder.

“Pancakes with no syrup is a crime.”

“I don’t like syrup.”

“Because you’re an animal. Next thing I know, you’ll be begging for ear scratches and whining when I pet you.”

“No dog jokes,” Derek grumbled, dropping onto the stool in front of the counter. His hair was sticking up in all directions and he was still wearing the same rumpled clothes from yesterday. It was kind of adorable. “It’s too early.”

“That’s the only objection you have about what I just said?”

“If you ever try to pet me, I’ll rip your throat out.”

“There the Sourwolf I know.”

Derek gave him a flat look, taking another pointed bite of his pancake, but Stiles thought he could read a hint of a smile. Before he could say anything though, the betas came plodding in. Erica last, looking from Stiles, to Derek, and then back with a small smirk. Stiles rolled his eyes and returned to finishing the eggs.

This was blackmail. The only reason he was still here.

Stiles could still feel phantom arms wrapped around him, though. The brush of stubble against his ear. Once more, he shivered and this time, it was Derek watching with an amused expression. Or maybe a pleased one. Stiles just rolled his eyes and looked away.

Whatever. He didn’t care.

There was another first aid kit in the drawer that Stiles opened, searching for the silverware. Despite himself, he smiled. Another one. Because apparently Derek didn’t trust him to not be an idiot.

Or maybe the man cared a little too.

Stiles closed it carefully and might have been smiling even brighter when he turned back to the eggs. Erica was downright beaming now and Stiles flat-out ignored her. Whatever. He could survive this level of blackmail.

And maybe he would accidentally stay over again some time.

- -

I accidentally misread the prompt a little and had Stiles make the breakfast instead. But it still works, I hope? I had fun with this one! I love some awkward accidental domesticity. Thank you for the prompt, my friend!

(if you enjoy my writing, consider supporting your struggling student writer? You can also request a prompt if you’d like!). https://ko-fi.com/rh27writer

#teen wolf #sterek #derek hale #stiles stilinski #all the fluff and humor #auriette #prompts

70 notes · View notes

sinningismywinning · 5 years ago

Text

Do As You Please - 1

This wasn’t something you did often. Yet again, that doesn’t mean you haven’t thought of doing it more. The wet cobblestone clicked and cracked beneath your heels. The smell of musk and filth filled your nose. You tried to avoid bars at night, but after the day you had working alongside head seamstress Jeanne Tousaint, you could really use that bourbon.

Everyone in Birmingham knew that the best place to drink was the Garrison. Well, all the men knew that. People weren’t particular about women strolling into bars, unless they were whores, or chaperoned by husbands. You knew people would strew you a line of shit once you sat down to drink, but you figured that you’d get too drunk to notice. You pushed open the doors, feeling the central slab of copper, grease your hands with grime.

With your head held high, you made your way inside the dimly lit bar. There was an uproar of conversations. You noticed a few heads turning your way, but this was a regular card you dealt with. The pub was packed, so finding a lone seat was hard enough. You sat far from the door with an empty seat to your left. On the other side of that empty seat, was a man who smelled like the floor of the bar. He had an unkempt mustache. For whatever reason, that stuck with you. The barman walked towards your section. He paused at the man who looked like he had been drinking all day. “Another one Mr. Shelby?” he questioned while puling away his empty glass. Another one? The poor bastard was drunker than a doorknob, yet the man behind the bar seemed to egg him on, or so you thought.

The man mumbled back incoherently to your ears, but somehow the tender understood perfectly what he said. Must be a regular. It didn’t take long for the bartender to pour your drink. You thanked him kindly and slid your money to him. This process carried on 3 more times, until you stopped counting.Hours had passed, and time was not your friend. Everything in your vision was warping, and quite frankly you had enough confidence to chat up any patron in this vicinity. You loved being social, even in situations when you shouldn’t. It was easy to bite your tongue, but tonight was a night of fun. You spoke freely to the man behind the bar. He didn’t shut you down for speaking about your political beliefs, and quite frankly, seemed to treat you to the same standard as any man within that very pub.

The man a few seats down had suddenly traded places, as he began to sober up, and you went in the opposite direction. He would occasionally chime in to whatever conversation you held. The bartender watched his words carefully around the man, but you didn’t get the hint to carry yourself the same way. “Say, I’ve never seen you here before,” he spoke directing his body towards you. Long nose. You always picked up on odd attributes.

“As I, to you.” You slurred raising your glass. Wrong answer. He wanted to know your name, not your input. You saw the squint of his eyes and couldn’t help but giggle. He was trying to pick your brains. “You’ve got a mouth on you, yeah?” You were a smart-ass, but alcohol brought that out completely. You nursed your drink as the bartender rubbed his stubble with angst. “Don’t all faces have mouths, Mr... Sheldon?” you shot back, trying to remember what the bartender referred to him as. He didn’t know whether to laugh, or pity you. “It’s Shelby,” he spoke deeply, getting the hint that you had no clue who you were speaking to. He was right, you didn’t. “Shelby, Sheldon, all sounds the same,” you quipped with a short laugh.

He didn’t know where you had came from. You were dressed well, and seemed to take care of yourself. You couldn’t be a whore, or a street vendor. This puzzled him more. “Names Arthur, just leave it at that,” he shook his head with thinning patience and turned his body back to the bar. You were a tricky thing to figure out. You noticed the bar drop in noise as a man walked in. He solemnly nodded to a few lads sitting down in booths. Once he filled the gap between you and Arthur, the bar resumed its previous momentum. The man depressed his posture to quickly light a cigarette. His eyes glanced to you, but only momentarily. He didn’t have to flag the man down from behind the bar, it was almost as if the bar-hand waited in place for his arrival.

You watched the interaction as you sipped your watered-down bourbon. “The usual, Mr. Shelby?” he asked sincerely. The man now sitting next to you just nodded in response. Another Shelby? They certainly didn’t look alike, and they didn’t have the same affect on a crowd as the other did. It puzzled you. You leaned forward and looked down the bar at Arthur. Some would say your balls were bigger than most. “Brothers? Or Cousins?” you asked completely dismissing the presence of the man in-between you. Arthur let out a laugh and just shook his head. He found it entertaining to watch you run your mouth with disregard. Some would find it disrespectful and embarrassing, he simply found it amusing. “Brothers,” he spoke turning to the bar-hand. “Her drinks are on me.” He had taken a liking to you.

Your eyes widened. You didn’t know whether to be flattered, or annoyed. It was as if he spoke down to you by saying that. “I haven’t drank in a long time,” you swirled your glass. “You sure you can keep up with tonight’s habit?” Now the tables turned. He was on the other end of not knowing whether to be annoyed or curious. Maybe both. His brother, the middle-man, didn’t take his eyes off of you. He wanted to see how Arthur would play this one out. The drinks were having quite an unruly effect on your mouth. “Like what you see, love?” Your words made the bartender cringe. Tommy tilted his head with amusement. “Alright miss, I think its time I catch you a walk home,” he spoke lowly. The middle man raised his hand, “No James, it’s quite alright.” he spoke with a smoother voice than his brother. James nodded from behind the bar, not wanting things to get out of grasp.

“Maybe I do like what I see,” he turned to you. His sharp eye contact was more than what you expected. Usually men were intimidated by you. He seemed to have the higher ground with this altercation. Arthur shook his head from behind him in disbelief that his brother was feeding into this. Just as you were about to respond he beat you to it. “How much do you charge?” His words floated just like the smoke that left his mouth. He knew better. He knew you weren’t a whore. You were too posh to be one, and you set your standards low to even drink in a place like this. You let out a hearty laugh. If you didn’t, all of this liquid courage might’ve made you smack him. Men and their entitlement. That’s all that rang through your brain. You could tell by his suit that he had money. Yet, the way he spoke showed that he was raised here, in the slums.

“I charge more than what you could ever afford,” you stammered, caving in to his false perception of you. Bastard. “Tommy,” Arthur spoke trying to divert his attention from you. “Ooo, like Tommy gun?” you retorted to get under his skin. He may be blunt but you were rude. His face didn’t move in reaction. “No, Tommy as in Thomas,” now he knew why Arthur didn’t move away from you after drinking. No one else spoke to them like this. No one else dared to speak to them like this. You couldn’t be genuine with your remarks, you had to know who they were. How could you not know who the fucking Shelbys were?

“Can’t afford? It’s not about money, its about standards.” He said turning away from you. You weren’t going to be walked over like this. You set your drink on the bar to get a better grip at your words, but you managed to tip it over. It spilled onto his lap in a genuine accident. People in the booths were already eyeing your altercation with the brothers. “Aw fuck!” you stumbled trying to stop the spill of the glass. People went dead silent, some even stood. Most knew that the patience of Thomas Shelby, was none.

You immediately reached for a rag resting on top of the bar. “I’m sorry I didn’t mean to-” You reached to dry his shirt. Boundaries and bourbon didn’t go hand-in-hand. He grabbed your wrist to stop you. Even in your moments of coldness, you still apologetically tried to help. He opened his mouth slightly to say something, but quickly closed it. You were just a drunk girl on the wrong side of town. He had figured that much by now. Your eyes locked with his. “I think its time for you to go home dear.” Arthur spoke with pity as he got up to stand next to his brothers seat. It wasn’t suppose to be a night like this. Thomas’ cigarette burned in the ash tray. You were defeated. Embarrassed by your actions. He held his grip a little too long. When you looked at his hand he let go of you.

He turned over his shoulder to see everyone else in the bar drawn to you. No one broke their gaze. He turned to Arthur. “I’’ll take her home. Don’t need someone from here following her, and throwing her body in the Cut.” he poorly whispered. Arthur nodded in agreement. Thomas came into the bar to occupy his mind. He didn’t need your interaction weighing him down, as well as how he’d feel if you, a woman, was killed after he let you drunkenly leave the pub. He turned back to you, “Let’s go.” He spoke with no room for interjection. You knew better than to be rude in an instance like this. You looked down at your feet as the floor moved and wobbled. Your eyes played tricks on you as the alcohol warmed your chest. His hand found the small of your back as he pushed your way through the crowd. You didn’t expect your night to end this way.

#tommyshelby #thomas shelby #peaky blinder imagine #peaky blinders #thomas shelby x reader #angst #slow burn #arthur shelby #original character #y/n #thomas shelby x y/n #tommy shelby #cillian murphy

98 notes · View notes

blaithinwrites · 6 years ago

Note

Hey this is purple_ducky00 from ao3, and I'm just gonna submit my winteriron ficlet idea... someone (idc who) cheats on Tony and he starts to doubt his self-worth. Luckily, there is someone (Bucky) who can convince him of the opposite. I'm a huge fan of angst with a happy ending 😊😊😊

Pairings; Bucky/Tony, mentions of Tiberius Stone/Tony Stark

Warnings: Past abusive relationship between Tiberius/Tony, references to one-night stands, sex, alcoholism, Howard Stark, infidelity

Cross the Line

Bucky woke up naked.

With an 800-thread-count cotton sheet beneath him, it wasn’t anawful experience. The equally bare form curled up next him, soft and inviting,wasn’t bad either.

Bucky glanced down at the dark head pressed into his shoulder.Tony slept like the dead, slept as he had never had a good night’s sleep in hislife. The first time they had done this, Bucky had laid awake for ages, notwanting to jostle and disturb Tony’s sleep. God knew the man needed everyminute he could get.

“I’m going to get something to eat,” Bucky said softly, mouthbrushing against dark hair.

“Mmhhh,” Tony mumbled, eyes still shut.

Gently unlatching the tan arm that had been thrown over him duringthe night, Bucky slid out from the bed. At the movement Tony made adisappointed noise, forehead crinkling unhappily, and rolled over, folding uptight into himself and disappearing into the dark sheets.

For a moment Bucky thought about getting back in bed and gatheringthe man to himself, of comforting him. But their relationship wasn’t like that.It was, as Tony had been quick to emphasise, a purely physical relationship. Aone-night stand that had somehow become two, three, four nights in as many weeks.Bucky sometimes wanted more, hungered for more than brief nights together. Butit didn’t matter, it wasn’t what Tony wanted and Bucky tried to be happy withwhat was offered.

Bucky padded into the apartment kitchen, still slightlyoverwhelmed by the displays of wealth around him. Bucky usually avoided richcity boys, finding them almost universally unbearable. But Tony hadn’t lookedparticularly wealthy that first night at Bucky’s favourite dive bar: nursingbottom shelf whiskey in a rumpled white shirt and water-logged shoes. The rain had ruined whatever hairstyle Tonyhad been going for and dark curls had tumbled wildly around sharp cheekbones.His mouth had been swollen, cherry red and inviting against his pale, chilledskin. His eyes molten in his face.

Bucky had rarely seen a man so beautiful or so sad.

They ended up at Bucky’s apartment. Mostly, because Bucky’sapartment was across the bar and Bucky had been ready to tear Tony’s clothesoff in public if he had to wait much longer. In hindsight, he wondered whatTony thought about his roach-infested bedsit but Tony hadn’t said anything,seemingly content with the lumpy mattress and peeling wallpaper.

Tony kissed like he was preparing for a fight, fucked like he wastrying to punish himself. Afterward, they fell asleep curled up together, Tonyslotting perfectly into the circle of his arms, fingers skimming his metal armwith a strange, religious reverence. Bucky had mostly come to terms with theloss of his arm, accepted himself for what he had become but he knew the metalarm made people uncomfortable; that his bed partners found it uncomfortable totouch.

“No; it’s beautiful,” Tony mumbled, pulling the arm back when hadBucky tried to turn away. He was half asleep, eyelids closed. No one had evercalled Bucky’s arm beautiful before.

Their one-night stand should have been exactly that. Theycertainly hadn’t exchanged numbers the next morning and yet somehow, they hadrun into each other again. Bucky had been filling in for Steve as a waiter atsome charity event and Tony had been having a drinking vodka out of a flask inthe disabled toilet.

“Well, this is fucking awkward,” Tony said, mouth twisting up intosomething that would have been a sneer if his pupils hadn’t been blown widewith panic, his hands shaking.

Bucky reached out and took the flash from Tony’s hands, taking onelong, slow swig; Tony’s eyes locked onto his exposed throat, following the movementof his Adam’s apple. Bucky sighed and gave the flashback to Tony, “Tastes likehell, Darling.”

They fucked right there, Tony’s face pressed up into the greasesmeared bathroom mirror and afterward Tony took Bucky home and they madethemselves similarly acquainted to the unused polished oak dining room table.It was the next morning that Bucky realised Tony’s apartment was a ManhattanPenthouse. Tony had been passed out, impossible to wake no matter what Buckydid. After a while, Bucky decided that if Tony was as rich as he seemed, thenhe wouldn’t notice if Bucky made himself breakfast before leaving. Thus, had begun a strange routine where Buckymade himself breakfast and brought Tony coffee in bed and for an hour or twothey existed in an unspoken, undefined bubble of familiar domesticity beforeTony remembered this was a one night stand and asked Bucky to leave.

Bucky shook himself out of his thoughts and peered into thefridge. As always it was a pitiful sight, a half-drunk bottle of milk. A congealedtub of Chinese take-a-way and some eggs. There were a few wilting vegetables onthe side and Bucky took them and the eggs and sent a little prayer to whatevergod was watching that this didn’t kill him.

For a moment Bucky considering eating his omelette by the sink asusual and then decided to take the food back to bed, balancing the plate andTony’s oversized coffee mug as he opened the bedroom door with his foot. Tonycracked open an eyelid as Bucky slipped back into bed.

“Are you bringing crumbs into my bed? Tony asked sleepily, handsalready reaching out eagerly for the coffee.

“Hopefully not. But you should help me eat it, to be sure.” Buckyheld out a fork, hovering before Tony’s mouth.

Tony was low in the bed, mostly flat on his back, head tilted upto look at Bucky in a way that made his big, dark eyes even bigger. Hehesitated, his expression uncertain. The type of expression that made Buckythink he hadn’t seen a used to a lot of small gestures of kindness.

There were faint, fading clues scattered about the penthouse thatTony hadn’t been alone long. A worn toothbrush abandoned next to Tony’s, a toobig coat gathering dust by the door. A forgotten post-stick note left near thewindow with a message: ‘Tony, I’m going to be late. Don’t wait up.’ Thedecaying remains of a relationship.

Bucky didn’t mention it but when Tony looked like that – wary inthe face of kindness, a dog beaten too many times – he wanted to find the ownerof that coat and hurt them.

Tony opened his mouth warily and Bucky slipped the omelette intohis mouth, laughing as Tony’s eyes lit up.

“I know, I’m the full package,” Bucky said and Tony smiled, eyescrinkling in happiness.

The moment was broken abruptly: a series of bangs echoing loudly,shattering their lazy morning.

Tony glanced at Bucky in disappointment and then slipped out ofbed, throwing on an oversized t-shirt. Bucky stayed in bed, finishing theomelette, as Tony made his way across the apartment towards the front door.Whoever had decided to disturb Tony was still pounding away and had taken toshouting Tony’s name, unable to wait the few minutes it took Tony to answer.

“Ty!” Tony’s voice was shocked, high pitched and choked sounded.Bucky hadn’t heard Tony sound like that before and he looked up curiously,tilting his head so he had could see Tony and the unexpected guest.

The man at Tony’s door was tall, impeccably, richly dressed withslicked back blonde hair and a shark’s smile “Tony, you look tired.” He said ingreeting, pressing forward into the apartment.

“Ty…. Tiberius…..”

“That is my name – sharp as always, Tony,” Tiberius replied. Hisvoice was light, joking but there was something in the way Tony seemed to beshrinking, cowering in the face of his jokes that made Bucky’s hackles rise.Tiberius took another step forward. “Aren’t you going to ask how I am?”

Tony gaped. “Why are you here Ty?”

“What I can’t come to see my boyfriend?”

Bucky stopped breathing. He dropped the plate into the sheets,uncaring about the mess and sat frozen in bed. For one second, Bucky almostbelieved: this was the reason Tony was so unwilling to discuss anything moreserious, he already had something serious with someone else. Bucky leanedforward, trying to catch Tony’s face, to see the truth on his features. Therewas nothing.

“We are not together!” Tony snapped, his voice cracking. He washalf tucked behind the front door clutching it in front of him like a shield,his jaw twitching nervously.

“Of course we are,”Tiberius levelled a cool stare down at Tony and pushed the door away, forcingit out of Tony’s hand and exposing Tony. Tony took a step back into theapartment and Tiberius followed easily, stalking him. Tiberius smiled, hisvoice honey smooth, soothing. “Look I know things have been hard for youlately. But we love each other, we can’t let something this small, ruin that –”

“You cheated on me.”

The words were so quiet that Bucky wasn’t sure he heard them.Tiberius didn’t seem to because he continued talking without pause, surgingforward with his proclamation of love and how things were meant to be. Tiberiusreached out to Tony and Tony slapped the man away with a snarl.

“You cheated on me!” Tony repeated, his voice loud, broken. “Icaught you, remember, in our bed with Sunset. She was meant to be my friend!You laughed when you saw me crying!”

Bucky had got to his feet, his hand clutching the doorknob. Itgroaned in protest, bent from the sudden hot rage that filled him. He toldhimself to stay where he was, that this was none of his business and Tonywouldn’t thank him for interfering.

The smiling expression slid off Tiberius’s face: a mask fallingaway to reveal the truth beneath. His features were hard, carved, emotionlessmarble like. “Oh stop being so emotional, Tony. It’s embarrassing.” He said andmoved past and around Tony, like a shark circling his prey. “I did you afavour, I showed you what Sunset was really like. You should be thanking me.”

“Fuck off.” Tony hissed, defiant. He had twisted around to keepTiberius in his eyesight and ended up with his back to the wall, cornered.“Don’t try to pretend this was a gesture of altruism. You like just likeplaying with me.”

Tiberius grinned, his mouth wide and full of sharp white teeth. Hesurged forward, pressing one hand near Tony’s head and looming over the darkman.

“Playing with you is so much fun, Anthony. It’s pretty much theonly thing that is. You’re an embarrassment: your drinking, your insecurity.Don’t think I haven’t noticed that hickey on your neck, you cheap slut.”

Tony slapped a hand to neck, voiceless and cringing at the onslaught.Tiberius leant in close, his mouth almost touching Tony’s cringing face. “Yourfather was right about you, you’re a disappointment. Who else would ever wantyou?”

“I would.”

Tiberius turned just in time to see Bucky’s fist arching downtowards his face.

The blow knocked the pale-haired man off his feet, sending himtumbling to the floor at Tony’s feet. Bucky reached out, taking Tony by the armand pulling him away from his cringing position against the wall, pushing himbehind him protectively. He could feel the tremors running through the man,shockwaves running up and down his arms. It made Bucky want to punch Tiberiusagain.

Tiberius staggered upright, his mouth was faintly blood, hairfinally broken out of the uniform slicked by style. He turned his gaze ontoBucky and his eyes were the palest blue, iced shards set in his handsome,furious face.

“I know you.” Tiberius hissed, voice dangerously soft. “You were awaiter at the foundation gala. A poor one at that.” He laughed; his expressiona twisted, a grotesque parody of a smile. “Is this what you were doing thatNight Tony? Slumming it with the help?”

Tony most definitely had been slumming it with Bucky that night,Bucky remembered it with a vaguely prideful fondness. He also remembered howhe’s found Tony, hiding and drinking like a fish. If this is what he wasrunning from, Bucky didn’t blame him.

“He’s not – “ Tony starting to say from behind Bucky, fallingsilent at the cruel, mocking look Tiberius levelled at him. A trained response.

“He’s not what? He’s probably stealing from you while you sleep.Why else do you think he’s here? You always were so careless. It’s lucky I’mhere.”

“I don’t want you here!” Tony blurted, voice shrill. “I can’tstand to look at you!”

“Anthony, come on. Be reasonable,” Tiberius tried to step towardsTony. His expression turning murderous when Bucky stepped between him, his bulkhiding Tony from view.

“I think it’s time for you to leave,” Bucky told Tiberius shortly,unable to listen to any more of nasty rubbish coming out of the other’s manmouth. He wanted him away from Tony.

“I’m not taking orders from you!” Tiberius snarled. He looked atTony, his voice dropping back to honeyed sweetness, ‘Anthony, please. Don’tthrow our life away, what will people say about you?’

Tony was white-faced, blank at the plea. “I don’t care. I don’tcare what they.”

Bucky raised his eyebrows vindicated and gestured to the frontdoor, “You heard the man.”

“You’re an idiot!’ Tiberius snarled as he was pushed through thefront door. “You’re going to end up alone. You’ll be begging me to take youback.”

Bucky slammed the door shut in his face. He stared at the heavywood, breathing out a sigh of relief. He was going to go round Tony’s apartmentand burn every sick reminder of that man.

“I’m sorry.” Tony’s voice was quiet, a barely-there whisper behindhim.

Bucky blinking, turning to find Tony stood in the centre of theroom. His arms wrapped tight around his middle, his chin tilted up, ready totake whatever Bucky unleased upon him. Bucky’s heart ached

“Tony.”

‘I didn’t mean to drag you into that. I didn’t know he was goingto come here. I understand if you want to just leave now.”

Bucky stepped forward. It was easy, so easy to fold Tony into hisarms, to wrap him up and hold him as he shuddered, fractured apart. Buckypressed his mouth against’s Tony’s dark hair, kissing his head softly. “He’s anabsolute jerk by the way.” He said.

Tony laughed, the noise strangled. He peered up, dark eyes slowlyreturning to life. “Everyone seems to love him. I’m pretty sure my father willdisown me when he finds out I broke up him.”

“Well, then your father’s an idiot too. No one should ever speakto you like that.”

Tony winced. He took a step backward, hands nervously runningthrough his hair. “He wasn’t completely wrong. I drink too much and I’m aworkaholic, I forget birthdays and anniversaries. I’m boring – ”

“I have one arm, no career and a mouthy best friend who startsfights everywhere he goes. We all have shit. But he used your insecurities tomanipulate, to make you feel bad. And you are the least boring person I’ve evermet.” Bucky could feel his teeth grinding in remembered anger.

A flicker of a smile appeared on Tony’s face and Bucky pressed on,bringing them closer once again.

“I meant what I said. I want you. I’ve wanted you since that firstnight in the bar. I want a proper relationship.”

Tony gaped, mouth open and eyes huge and disbelieving. Bucky couldsee the want, the hope in his face.

“Tell me you don’t want me too.” Bucky said, “We can carry on withthis, I just needed you to know – .”

“No, I. I do want you,” Tony said like confessional, guilty andquiet. “But… I’m not any good at serious relationships.”

Bucky reached out, a hand fitting into the curve of Tony’s face,drawing him closer. “Me neither, maybe we can learn together.”

Tony kissed him tentatively, wanting.

It was a beginning.

Author’s note: We obviously have the same taste! This was loads of fun to write. The ficlet bloated to 2.5k though! Hope you enjoyed.

#winteriron fanfic #tiberius stone

19 notes · View notes

carrieautumn-blog1 · 7 years ago

Text

Magic March 1:

NOTE*: D: Let me just say that I hate this story. I have been editing and rewriting it for the last two days and I cannot get it right. It just won’t come together! I plan to revisit this concept in the future, because I really enjoy it, but for now I surrender. I’m hoping the rest of March will go much smoother!

Magical Girl:

“No one ever thinks it’ll be their town. Why should they? People would go mad if they spent their every moment trying to calculate when their numbers up. There is no point in living in fear of the improbable. Yet, when disaster finally strikes it doesn’t feel like a statistic or an outlier. Because in reality, it’s an inevitability.

Our cities are built on what are essentially massive stilts that hold us high above the rotting Earth and rising sea. We keep building higher, to keep above the boiling waves and the sinking ground. We build our cities to withstand the unending tempestuous rage that nature rains down from above and below. Our floating isles survive, they are peaceful, even though our resources slowly dwindle. One day we will have nothing left, we will be unable to support the weight of our meager populace and we will be unable to build any higher. They tells us that this is centuries away, as they always have, and we believe them. As we always have. Though we may build monuments to our denial, rest assured that day is coming, and the world will exact her revenge.” - Ro Burke 2101

CENTRAL SETTLEMENT B, 2167

Today started when the walls fell down.

I was thrown from my bunk onto the floor as the tenement cracked like an egg. The side of the building I was on was the lucky side. It tilted away from the other side that crumbled and shortly thereafter burst into flames. I could only focus on the sight from my opened tenement building. I stood gaping at the edge of my little world, outside my damaged little box everything was on fire. A cold shudder ran threw me as another building crumbled like sand before my eyes. When I think back there must have been a barrage of sound, but I can’t recall it over the flood rushing in my ears. I don’t remember a lot from that day, but I remember that sight. I remember how small and isolated I felt because I was just one person who need to be rescued, out of all of them. When you see a disaster on the news your heart might ache for those you cannot reach. You might feel a false sense of community, a oneness with them, but at that moment I felt alone. “I may not escape this,” I remember thinking that. I had to help myself, but I had never experienced a fear so palpable. I froze, I dared not move fearing the floor or ceiling would cave in on me. A water pipe burst on the floor above me and sent water shooting out into the air and I screamed bloody murder. I tried to pull myself together, I checked myself for injuries and found myself miraculously unharmed. I made mental checklists of what I should do, I had been drilled since I was old enough to talk, but none of it was clear. The peripheral of that day is unclear, but the fear is sharp.

The walls are down, I realized. The walls that controlled the climate, and protected us from the storms, and most importantly kept THEM out, were down. That’s when I saw them, The SeaWin beings, marching through the streets. The race of beings that come from the ocean that resemble poorly thought out Science Fiction creatures. The SeaWin are reminiscent of octopi, with their camouflage skin and curling limbs. They wear reinforced armor made from the calcified reefs that sit deep under the sea, and brandish the same limited probability altering technology as we do. No one knows when they came into existence or why they attack us, as they never speak no matter how they are provoked, but ever since the first attack in 2110 we have lived in fear of them. To see them inside the walls of my crumbling city was like watching death walk in with open arms.

I watched people run for their lives only to be sliced into pieces from the spinning blasts of their weapons. A few brave souls tried to assault them with whatever they could find, but they were heavily outmatched in strength. Some were shooting at the water tanks on their backs from the rooftops, but soon the SeaWin scaled the buildings with their strange limbs crawling in and out of the windows like ants, and threw people to their death. The invaders searched doggedly through the rubble for survivors. We were being exterminated. They turned onto my street and I was confident they would not leave my building untouched. I crawled across the tilted floor, trying to stay out of sight. Every creak of the floor sent my heart into my stomach. The hard stone bruised my arms and knees, but I inched my way to the door. I pulled open the handle and let the door fall open, happier than I have ever been to see the stairway in front of my door in tact. I gingerly moved out onto the pathway, grabbing the rail, trying not to notice how much closer the ground was. From what I could see there were no SeaWin approaching from this side of the city, I had to act fast, but was getting dizzy from the slanted floor and the potential drop from five floors up. I made it to the stairwell only to find rubble completely covering the bottom half of the stairwell. What happened next created the phantom of the rest of my nights.

I wanted to climb over the railing, and make a run for it, but there was a deep pit waiting below. If I tried to climb the rubble I was worried it would collapse further. I began to panic again, tears rolling over my knuckles as I bit my fist to keep from screaming. I was a rat trapped in a maze, too stupid to find my way out. I looked above me, thinking to double back. There was a small girl grasping onto the rails from the floor above. She had blood covering the front of her, she looked her small eyes with mine and began to scream. She called out to me, begging me to help her. Instead of running to comfort her I stared wide-eyed at her, I was convinced she’d given us away. They were going to find us. Another explosion went off in the distance.

The building shook as it began to sink further into the ground. I gripped hard onto the railing, as I was nearly thrown like a rag-doll. I watched the little girl go tumbling over the railing and fall past me into the pit. The building was almost completely sideways, and beyond all reason I miraculously survived again. There was an opening in the rubble now, and I could see the street on the other side. I hurried toward it, ignoring the tiny pleas coming from behind me. When I recall that moment now, I realize that that was the little girl I used to babysit when her mother had to work late. She was six years old and I left her to die. I tell myself I didn’t hear her, that she was already dead. I can tell myself there was no way I would have been able to get her out, but I didn’t even try. Some nights I’m woken by her screams, other nights I dream I talked with her from the stairway until she bled out. I’m so cowardly that I can’t even face the guilt-ridden truth in my dreams.

After I reached the street I started running, indiscriminately in any direction. Finally I began to think, where would they not look for me? Where would people not hide? That’s when I turned around. If I could hide in the places they’d already searched then maybe they wouldn’t find me. I realize how stupid that is now for a number of reasons, but thinking under pressure was not my strong suit. I tried to take the long way around to circle around to the edge of the city. I took the smaller alleyways for cover, but when I turned the corner I locked eyes with a SeaWin. I skidded around, falling and then scrambled back down the way I had come. I was already out of breath from the brisk pace I had foolishly been maintaining. I was vaguely thinking to run back to my dilapidated building when a blast knocked me off my feet. I went sailing and this time I didn’t come out so clean.

Adrenaline is a hell of a thing. I registered that my leg was broken and something was wrong with my arm, but I still tried to move. I was pulling my mangled self away from the approaching group of SeaWin. Eventually a pang of pain went through me, I couldn’t claw myself forward anymore. I realized half of my hand was gone and I was touching the exposed bone of my arm into the dirt. I craned my neck to watch as the lone SeaWin slowly trained his weapon on me. This was it then, I thought as the spinning particles began to vibrate and glow like a small sun. Instinctively I lifted my arm to block the shot, shutting my eyes tight.

No matter how many times we retaliated against the SeaWin we could not have won. They resided in the sea in settlements we called New Atlantis. The sea was already dangerous for us to traverse, but with the SeaWin defenses it was impossible to penetrate. With most of the world underwater they were a growing threat who we couldn’t hope to challenge in their own waters. We created the walls that helped to keep them out, it seems they weren’t yet familiar witht he technology, but our most important defense is our guardians. With the best biological enhancements and technological weaponry we could muster our guardians watch over our cities when nature or the SeaWin attack. Our heroes destroy the offensive units the SeaWin send up to attack the columns that hold up the city. Because only women of a certain age are able to take the treatment and the nature of their abilities they are commonly referred to as Magical Girls.

I always wanted to be a Magical Girl. I know how foolish that seems, given how much of a coward I am, but the one brave thing I did was sign up as a potential candidate. I grew up watching Magical Girls saving people on the news, girls who were only a little older than me who wore a glittering aura and sparkling clothes. When a Magical Girl showed up everyone knew things would be okay. Even when there was no emergency, if a Magical Girl appeared on the street people were happier and felt safer for it. I always wanted that, for someone to be happy just at the sight of me. I never been able to do that, in fact I tend to have the opposite effect, not even my mother was pleased to see me. I’ve always been weak and useless, but when I tried out to become a Magical Girl I gave it my everything. I studied, I trained, I watched video after video of other Magical Girls in action trying to learn everything I could. I didn’t even make it past the first round, but when I opened my eyes to see that shimmering form shoot past me I felt that bravery again.

Ashe, Magical Girl. The golden glow around her was her armor, it made her look celestial, like she was bathed in falling starlight. On closer inspection she was covered in scars, she smelled of soot, and her clothes were torn and bloodstained. She still looked fantastic. She threw me over her shoulder and we stood over the ruins of the SeaWin that had been hunting me. “I got a live one. They’ve moved into the East Sector.”

Everything was dark after that, save for one moment. High above a dizzy world with a single word, “Detonate,” and the world below burst into fire. I didn’t hear the words before or after, but I understood. They’re like an infection, once they’ve spread to far you have to amputate. Central Settlement B was no more.

I woke up in a hospital on another island, one arm short. The survivors were being kept on this interim island while our leaders did damage control. Reinforcing the walls of the other Settlements, raining down constant bombs and Magical Girls driving back the sea invaders with a unceasing barrage. It was here that I saw Ashe again. I had seen plenty of Magical Girls coming in and out, and each one was magnificent, but I was searching for Ashe.

I was still on the mend, but other than my arm, I was almost physically functional. I stumbled after her, a pain shooting up my hip and into my back, I shouted after her. Her glow was down, but when she turned to look at me I was stunned for a moment. “Thank you for saving me.” I finally managed after stuttering gibberish into her impassive face. She nodded and turned to go. As I was watching her tattered skirt trail vanishing soot on the floor behind her, innumerable things welled inside me. I don’t know why I asked it, but a darkness that I had been carrying far longer than the destruction of my city came crawling out of my mouth. “Why did you have to blow it up?” Ashe stopped. She whirled around, her eyes darting to the people around us. She marched toward me and glowered at me with her smoldering gold eyes.

“You don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.” I did not want to challenge her. I did not mean to accuse anyone.

“Why did they have to die?” Why I said that was beyond me, I felt tears fall down the face of whoever had possessed. She snarled and lifted me by my scrubs.

“You’re luck we saved any of you.” A calm fell over her face and she set me down, satisfied before walking away. I leaned against the wall, unable to stand.

1 note · View note

teamkaiforever · 8 years ago

Photo

Friends

Kai Parker x Reader

WORD COUNT : 1 899

Reader is a witch and her friends try to hide her existence from Kai , but he finds out about her and shows up unannounced at her house. *not my gif _____________ Y/N was a witch , a few years younger than Elena and one of Jeremy’s frinds. Y/N didn’t like to practice and tried her best to stay out of it instead of the middle of it. None of her friends however believed that she could protect herself and they kept treating her like a procelan doll. She understood why her friends were being so over protective , specially with everything they’ve had to deal with over the years - vampires , witches , hybrids , original vampires , travellers … and now Kai. Damon was a little freaked out when he learned Kai had got out and since Kai was a siphon and didn’t have his own magic , everyone were afraid if he finds out about Y/N , he’d go after her , siphon her magic and kill her. Over the past few days Damon had been over to her house in Grove Hill more than a few times , trying to get her to stay home and to tell her how dangerous Kai is. “I am not afraid of him , Damon !” she nearly screamed for what seemed the 100th time this week. “I know you are not , but he is dangerous … So for now , stay at home. Don’t invite anyone in. You will be safe there.” Damon said , his tone making it clear it was not up for discussion. Y/N sighed and sat on the stairs. “Fine. I’ll stay here.” she gave up , “But I won’t be a prisoner in my own home. I still have school..and honestly if I get stuck between four walls for more than a few days , things will get ugly and Kai will be the least of your problems.” Damon sighed. Y/N was strong and stubborn as Hell , sometimes he forgot about it and just saw a young fragile girl who needs protection. “OK , Y/N … ” he gave up. “I’ll have Caroline come pick you up in the morning , take you to school and then someone will go pick you up after … …” Y/N smiled and hugged Damon. “Thank you… for being the big brother I never had.” , then she turned around and walked inside , leaving Damon alone on the porch. A few days passed … Caroline came to pick her up , drove her to Grove Hill High School and then took her back home every day. She was a fun person to be around. On the way to school they’d blast music in the car loudly , singing along then go get some coffee. Even tho Caroline had a lot to deal with at the moment , she always found time for fun things to do with Y/N.On the fifth morning things turned horribly wrong. Y/N woke up , got ready for school and waited for the doorbell to ring. When that happened that morning and she opened the door , it wasn’t Caroline who was standing in the doorframe. “Nice house.” the boy said. He was tall , chiseled jaw with brown hair and blue eyes. For a moment she felt her knees go weak but recovered fast. “Who are you ?” Y/N asked confused. The boy standing in front of her was a complete stranger , yet he acted as if they had known each other for years. “Oh , sorry… Manners. Hi , I’m Kai.” he said outstretching his hand to shake hers. So this is Kai , Y/N thought to herself. He was hot and didn’t look that dangerous at all. Kai kept starring at her. “Aren’t you going to invite me in ?” he said. “I’m Y/N , and no.” Y/N said plainly , grabbing her backpack and going outside , locking the door behind her. “I am late for school. I assume you are not here to walk me there … are you ?” she asked curious. “Not really.” Kai said , a smirk showing on his face. “I actually came to see who it is everyone is ready to do anything to protect.” he said , walking with her down the street. “I assume you are not a vampire ? You are a human.” Y/N stopped abruptly and turned to face him. “Look , Kai. I know the others are scared of you for some reason. Honestly … to me you seem like a nice guy.” she said , pausing for a minute. “Whatever dissagreement or whatever you have with Damon or Bonnie or whoever …. leave me out of this. It’s my senior year. I have enough to worry about as it is.” Kai looked surprised and amused at this girl. Something about her … she wasn’t like the rest of them. He couldn’t understand why the Salvatores were so over protective , she looked fragile but … clearly wasn’t. “OK.” he simply said to her after a few minutes. “Can I walk you to school then ?” Y/N looked at him , then looked down the street. There was no sight of Caroline and she was going to be late. Y/N took out her phone and typed in a text message to Caroline : ‘Hey , Care. I’m not feeling well today , think I might be coming down with something. I’ll be OK. Call you later.’ and clicked sent. Kai was looking amused. “Did you just lie to Caroline ?” he asked , laughing. “I’ll admit , I didn’t see that coming.” “Maybe…” Y/N said , trailing off. “If you want to walk me to school today , we had to be alone … or else who knows what would’ve happened.” Y/N smiled and started walking down the street leaving Kai a few steps behind her completely taken off guard. A moment later Kai ran up for a second to catch up with her. That same afternoon when Y/N’s classes were over and she walked outside , she saw him again. Kai was sitting on one of the benches in the school front yard. Y/N sighed and walked towards him. During their walk to school today , she had gotten to know him better. Y/N saw something in him , she couldn’t quite figure out what it was but it made her think that maybe there is good in him and eventually that good could balance out the bad , if he was given a chance. Y/N sat next to him on the bench , looking straight ahead. “Did you stay here this whole time ? ” she asked , turning to face him. Kai turned around and smiled at her. It wasn’t his usual arrogant smile. There was none of that now. “I had forgotten what school feels like.” was all he said. “It’s so funny how everyone is running around campus… or sitting somewhere with their noses stuck in a textbook.” He laughed. His laugh making her laugh. “Come on ” she said. “I want to show you something.” They walked for a while , reaching the cemetery. Going straight throught it and into the forest. Kai didn’t say a word to her , but she could feel his eyes burning into her back. After about 30 minutes of walking in silece he finally spoke. “Where are we going?” Y/N turned around to face him , “Just a little bit further. Can’t you hear it?” “Hear what ?” he asked curious. “The waterfall.” Y/N smiled and took his hand. Kai looked at her confused but just shrugged his shoulders and went along with it. Y/N couldn’t explain it but a part of her was starting to trust him already. He had had a chance to hurt her earlier and he hadn’t. It was curiousity that brought him to her door that morning… and now she was curious about him.* * *A few days later Y/N called in sick again. Kai had shown up early in the morning at her door. “Why are they so over protective of you?” Kai asked her. He kept wondering about that. There had to be a reason why they’d all go through so much trouble to keep her off his radar. Y/N hesitated for a moment. A part of her was scared what Kai might do if he found out. “Do you want some breakfast ? ” she changed the subject and headed to the kitchen. Kai following her closely behind. “Eggs or pancakes?” Y/N asked. Kai studied her for a moment , resting against the kitchen’s door frame. “How about … I make breakfast and you answer my question.” he said , moving to the stolve. “Fine.” Y/N said , a loud sigh following before she continued. “I know Jeremy. You know , Elena’s little brother. We were kind of a … thing.” she lied. Kai glanced at her for a moment before speaking. “Crinkle.” he said. “What ?” she asked confused. “When you lie , you always get a crinkle.” he said simply. Y/N was actually amazed he had picked up on her tells so fast. They had barely spent a few days together. “No , I don’t.” Y/N lied again. “There it is again …” Kai said a smirk on his face, nearly done with the pancake dough. "I could’ve killed you the moment I met you a few days ago. I could’ve killed you about a dozen times since. Including 15 minutes ago when I walked inside.“ he said , already starting to make the pancakes. Y/N shifted uncomfortable in her seat. That was true , she couldn’t been dead the moment he had stepped through the door. She spent the next few minutes watching Kai flipping pancakes in the air. "Why won’t you tell me? It can’t be that bad.” Kai said , flipping another pancake in the air , the pancake landing perfectly in her plate. “I’ll tell you. … when you are done flipping the pancakes. It’s distracting.” she said indiferently.Nearly five minutes later Kai had flipped the last pancake and they were about to have breakfast together. He sat next to her , looking at her expectantly while pouring maple syrp all over and eating his pancakes. “Those are really good.” Y/N said. “You have some pretty awesome pancake skills … I like that.” “Quit stalling.” he said suddenly serious. There was something in his eyes , he was starting to get impatient. “Fine. I’m stalling.” Y/N said pausing for a moment before leaning in closer to him. “I am a witch.” she whispered. Kai’s eyes widened in a surprise and he reached to grab her wrist. His hand glowing red where he was touching her skin. Y/N flinched a little but didn’t try to escape or push him away. A second later he let go off her hand. Kai laughed for a moment. “Yes , I am a witch…. but I don’t practice.” Y/N said taking another bite of her pancakes. “They were afraid you might siphon my magic and / or kill me.” Kai studied her face. She wasn’t lying but there was something else that surprised him. “Why aren’t you running away?” he asked. “It was so easily for me to grab your wrist and siphon your magic … what makes you think I won’t do that again?” “Because …” she said “.. unlike the rest of them , I don’t hate you. In truth … I actually kind of like you.” Y/N said refusing to meet his eyes. “You are actually a fun company. Plus if you want my magic - go ahead , I don’t use it much anyways.” Kai grabbed her wrist again , not siphoning just to make her look at him. “If it makes you feel any better… I don’t hate you either. If I did , we wouldn’t be having pancakes right now." _____________________ MASTERLIST _____________________

NOTE : This is actually one of the first stories I wrote and had completely forgotten about it until I started cleaning up my laptop today.. So, I did I few edits and here it is :) I hope you like it ! __________

#kai parker #fanfic : min #fanfiction #kai parker x reader #kai parker imagine #malachai parker #malachai parker imagine #malachai parker x reader #tvd #the vampire diaries #the vampire diaries imagine #vampire diaries imagine #vampire diaries #fiction #fan fic #fan fiction

408 notes · View notes

evolutionsvoid · 8 years ago

Photo

The life of a natural historian is an interesting one, but a difficult one at the same time. I am not one to say that this field is the hardest one out of them all, but I would claim it is high up there. It is true that it does not face the sheer physical exhaustion as a miner or lumber worker, or the dire threats that knights take on in battle. In the end, though, these jobs/positions are pretty much the same thing day by day. Break the rocks, collect the ore, haul the load, or in the other case, don't get stabbed. For a natural historian, though, your field completely changes every time you study a different creature. Some have gone around this by focusing their entire career on a single species, but many others prefer to look at the amazing biodiversity our lands have. So at one point you may be observing Great Mottled Caecilians in the hot, humid jungles, then suddenly climbing cold, rocky peaks to get a good vantage point on a group of trolls. Each one has its own environmental hazards and travel troubles, not even mentioning what danger the beast may present in itself. Some are thankfully docile, so worry of life and limb is quite small. Others, however, can be quite dangerous to study, and it is no surprise that natural historians often leave this world by the hands of the very thing they were researching. I thankfully have yet to be horribly mangled by my subject matter yet, and hope that the sun may continue to shine on me in such a favorable fashion. That is not saying I haven't been wounded in the line of duty, cause that would be an obvious lie. Regardless, despite the threats my line of work encounters, each species offers an exciting challenge to overcome in order to get the privilege to research them. Out of all of them, though, I would say one of the hardest species I ever had to study would be the Grand Basilisk. I have to say it is quite difficult to observe their behavior when the act of looking at the creature could be lethal. Grand Basilisks are a single species in the small family of Basilisks, gaining its name from its impressive, crimson crest and horned "crown." Grand Basilisks stick to dry land, preferably forests, savannas and grasslands. Despite living in wooded areas, they do not climb trees. Rather they prefer to hide away in caves and burrowed nests when they wish to sleep or escape the elements. They also enjoy the presence of small water bodies. Though they are a species that enjoys heat, a Grand Basilisk will be known to submerge itself in water during the hottest days of summer. It was once believed that a Grand Basilisk lacks the ability to shunt off excess heat, so they must cool themselves with water. It turns out that this behavior can be one of two things. One involves the process of shedding its skin. It appears that water aids in the process and helps get the dead layer of scales off quickly and efficiently. It probably makes a good meal for the fishes too! The other is actually a method of hunting. People thought that the super hot days of summer drove the Grand Basilisk to water, but it is actually more towards the other animals that live in the area. There are other species in these habitats that have a harder time with heat, so they seek out water. Be it for cooling or drinking, certain beasts will head towards water for relief from the sun. This is why the Grand Basilisk submerges itself in the ponds and lakes. It will hide itself in shallower parts of the pond, keeping its body down on the bottom. Its long head and neck allows it to reach its nose to the surface for air, without disturbing the water around it. When large game wanders close for a drink or bath, the Grand Basilisk will strike from below and sink its venomous fangs in. If the prey is smaller in size, the Basilisk will hang on until venom or exhaustion downs the victim. If the prey is larger, it will immediately let go and let the beast flee. Within minutes the potent venom will drop the animal, and the basilisk will leisurely follow it and dine. The hunting method of the Grand Basilisk is pretty much the same on land. They remain motionless in certain hiding spots and wait for prey to wander by. All meals are swallowed whole, and the Grand Basilisk will crawl off to a sunny spot for a nap.

Grand Basilisks are quite territorial, and claim a rather impressive chunk of land for themselves. The size of their territory is measured in miles, and in some cases, a single basilisk can stake out an entire forest for its hunting ground. Grand Basilisks live a solitary lifestyle, only joining up with other basilisks when mating season occurs or when fighting for territory. Fighting amongst each other is the most common form of socialization. Due to their large territories, overlaps often happen or a wandering basilisk is looking for a place to call home. Regardless of the reason, the two will begin to duel. First will come a show of fashion, as the two will flare their crests at one another and circle around each other with heads held high. Perhaps this is to show age and health, as older basilisks have much larger and vibrant crests than the young. Perhaps the younger opponents can see if an enemy is too experienced and healthy to risk a fight with, or if they are now old and sickly. If none flee from this showing, they will then fight. The two will strike at one another, their heads snapping back and forth as they duel. Apparently their venom does not affect other basilisks, as they survive these bites and scratches. The whole fight involves hitting the other combatant, while staying out of range of the other's strikes. Whoever gets the most bloody and bit from the match will eventually retreat, and the winner will reap the spoils. The interaction that comes from mating does not come nearly as often, as they only reproduce once every decade. When this special time occurs, things change in the basilisk's routine. In an interesting twist, the females are the ones who hunt for viable males. Leaving their territory, they will follow scent trails and markings to find males who are in the right condition for mating. Through the entire time they are tracking down males, the female will be developing unfertilized eggs within her body. When a male is tracked down, the mating ritual begins. On second thought, "ritual" may not be the right word. That kind of implies that the two play equal roles in this process, which the male does not. In fact, female Grand Basilisks seem to have a dominate behavior around males, and have been seen roughing them up and pushing them around. This reproductive process does not involve any elegant dance or showing off, which one would expect for a creature with the word "grand" in their title. Rather the females just want the males to fertilize and nurture the eggs, nothing more. While most accept this role and play it, others actually resist it. For whatever reason, some male Grand Basilisks may try to fight the female or even run! If this occurs, the female will actually rough up the male with strikes from her tail or slamming into them with her head. Female Grand Basilisks are larger than their male counterparts, so a healthy female will always beat a male any day. Eventually the male will surrender and the process will begin. Well, "process" might not even be the right word either! What happens is that the female will deposit one or two gooey eggs at the male's nesting place, and have the male fertilize them externally. After that, the female just ups and leaves! It is then up to the male to protect the eggs and young that will eventually emerge. After fertilization, the eggs will slowly grow a tougher skin around them for protection. In time, the young will hatch and the male will keep them around the nest. The young will essentially take care of themselves, but they stay close to the nest so that the presence of dad always wards off predators. Eventually they will reach the age in which the father will drive them away and they will have to find a hunting ground for themselves. The females, however, just simply head out to find another male! Female Grand Basilisks pretty much use the entire season to hunt down as many males as they can and leave them with eggs to raise. If a female finds a male that already has eggs, she will often eat them and then leave her own instead. When mating season is over, the females will return to their home territory, which sometimes can be taken by other nomadic basilisks. Often these are young males who are looking for their own territory and end up taking a female's by mistake. This is not tolerated at all by the female, and she will brutally chase off the young bachelor. You know what they say about a woman scorned! Now I know at this point, some may be wondering if I am ever going to bring up the thing that makes basilisks famous. I will, but I just wanted to cover other things first! Anyways, what many know about the basilisk family is their deadly gaze. Everyone knows how locking eyes with a basilisk is lethal, but that is not entirely true. For Grand Basilisks, yes, making eye contact with their eyes will kill you. No doubt about that. There are other basilisks, though, that do not have the lethal punch behind their gaze. They may cause pain, drowsiness, disorientation or blindness instead. We will talk about those in later sections, but I just wanted to point out that not all basilisks have the killing gaze. Interestingly enough, basilisks all seem immune to these sight effects, even when dealing with other basilisk species. Grand Basilisks indeed possess this killing power. It is all locked in their single eye that is embedded in their tongue. Most of the time, this eye is kept hidden in their jaws, as basilisks hardly rely on sight for travel and hunting. Their other senses are more than enough to function with, so the eye is rarely unfurled. When danger occurs, that is when the eye pops out. Hidden within the tip of its tongue, the eye is embedded in a bulb-like structure. Four tendril flaps cover it and protect it from debris and meals that come through the mouth. When needed, the jaw will open and the tongue will shoot out. The flaps will flare open and expose the eye, which can whip around on the flexible stalk. The eye seeks out the attacker and looks to lock its gaze with them. When the eyes make contact, the victim will fall into spasms and then die within seconds. Simple as that. Studies have been done on victims of these attacks to find out what causes such a lethal gaze. Autopsies have revealed that the brain is severely damaged by the process. Entire chunks have been found practically liquefied, and the amount of bleeding within the organ is enough to shut the entire thing down. So far the theory is that something goes from the basilisk's eye to the victim's, which than travels to the brain and causes the lethal injuries. Some kind of magic or signal causes this, but it is really difficult to find out what it is exactly. There are not many who wish to test out such a lethal weapon, or get anywhere near a Grand Basilisk. They are territorial creatures and will see anything that moves as food. If the deadly gaze wasn't bad enough, they have extremely potent venom and can move surprisingly fast. Grand Basilisks are seen as monsters and feared as such. Despite that, not many are willing to face it in battle. In fact, some villages have found that moving their entire town is easier than dealing with a Grand Basilisk. Honestly, I don't think fighting one would be that bad. Of course I never tried it, so I can't judge, but I have seen a lot of their behavior! Their lethal gaze is not used all that often, and there are ways to combat it. In fact, if I patented my special mirror hat, no one would have to worry about it again! I rigged up this hat during my time observing basilisks in the field. It involves a whole system of mirrors that allow you to see perfectly fine through a series of reflections. It would be great! Then again, it is a little bulky and fragile. I would also recommend being careful on sunny days with it. I nearly burned a hole through my face with it once. Probably could use some improvements... Chlora Myron Dryad Natural Historian

#basilisk #monster #creature #snake #myth #mythical beasts #art #drawing #king of snakes

8 notes · View notes

3ndoftheline · 8 years ago

Text

Savior

Bucky x OFC

Summary: Story time is always necessary once you’ve broken the rules.

Warnings: i don’t think i swore in this but knowing me i probably did so i’m going to put up the language warning anway

Author’s Note: woohoo, part six (i think?) of Savior and i’m excited for this part since one of my favorite stories of greek mythology is going to be told. i hope you all enjoy and feedback is encouraged :)

Sophia vs Solitude

Avengers Facility: Upstate New York

I didn’t go to interrogations for a whole week. Nobody came down to see me, not even the guards. Food and water were supplied by a robot.

All of a sudden I wasn’t the main attraction. I wasn’t the fire-breathing lion or the trapeze elephant. I was the clown, the lonely monkey that everyone laughed at. I was hard to look at. I was a joke.

Which I guessed was fine. I mean, it was better than being tortured or something. But isolation sucked. Being stuck with just your thoughts…it gets to people; I’ve seen it drive people to absolute madness. It turned some people into mania, insanity spirits. When the person has long since died but the soul remains, wreaked into an absolute manic state and it controls the body. It destroys not only the soul, but the people around them.

Luckily, I was so close to insanity anyway I’m pretty sure my soul was saying Come on, I dare you to get any worse. Instead, I wasted my days away making my cell into various forms of the jungle. That was entertaining for a solid six minutes. Then I tried to make the largest flower crown but then I sliced myself on a thorn and got so mad I ripped the whole thing to shreds. Again, lasted about ten minutes. So sixteen out of the 10,080 minutes I was isolated in my cell were occupied with something only slightly productive. Awesome.

I knew things could’ve been a lot worse. Like, catastrophically worse. At least I wasn’t with Hydra anymore. Gods that place had been the worse. And the food there? Completely subpar. I had no idea who their chef was but he needed to be fired ASAP.

On the seventh day of complete silence, the door cracked open. I attuned my senses and could tell immediately that whoever was tromping down those steps like a fucking elephant was human. I turned my head and was surprised that it was Natasha. I always pinned her as a light walker.

“You’re awake,” her voice held a hint of surprise. I wondered what time it was. “I brought you breakfast.” Ah so it was morning. A little space opened up in the electromagnetic wall and she placed a plated on the tray. Even from here, I could tell the omelet had potatoes in it and they had home fries on the side. It was like these people only survived off of starch, eggs and meat.

She sat down on the metal chair that looked so uncomfortable. She crossed her legs and eyed me like I was a new toy in a shop window. I ignored her, something I had mastered, and continued drawing patterns on my jeans. “Sam is okay,” she said. “He’s in therapy since he needs to regain muscle function but he’s walking and functioning. Just as you said.” I didn’t look at her. Her words sent a cold relief through me, even though I knew he’d be fine. Apollo’s medicine never failed, unless the Fates planned it differently. I shuddered at the thought. The Fates were pretty much the personification of the idea of fate itself. They planned a person’s life according to how they wanted it to play out. And you didn’t mess with their plans. What they said went. Whether you liked it or not. But they were easily the creepiest old ladies I had ever met in my life, and I’ve been to the Underworld.

“You saved his life,” she stated but her tone didn’t sound extremely thankful. She said it more like I had dunked him into a vat of poison. “How did you get out of the handcuffs? Those were designed to keep people like you contained.” Maybe because I’m not an Asgardian psychopath, I wanted to bite out, but I kept my jaw screwed tightly shut. Suddenly she sighed and I realized where this interrogation was going. “I want to get you out of here, you know. I don’t like keeping you locked in here, especially after what you did for Sam. But you’re not helping your case. You staying silent don’t make any of us trust you any more than we do.”

I wanted to gag. It sounded like something straight from some shitty cop show where the good cop tries to reason with the bad guy while the bad cop smokes a cigar in the corner.

Natasha leaned forward and a hard look settled over her eyes. “You are powerful. We’ve deduced that pretty quickly. We don’t know to what extent, and that’s the problem. A man comes in claiming he’s Hades, someone who doesn’t exist – a myth – but apparently does. We’re cut off from the interrogation room and even Bucky couldn’t get through the door, no matter how hard he tried. Then, when we can get in, you’re unscathed and Hades is gone. Without a trace. He doesn’t even appear on our security cameras, nothing. Then you sing a few words and bring Sam back from the dead yet you claim that he was alive the whole time even though Helen said that nobody could survive those injuries. All I want to know is who you are. That’s it.”

I stopped tracing the pattern on my legs. She was good. She made herself sound sympathetic, like she was just trying to do the right thing. So heroic. The problem was that I hated heroes. So I turned my head to her and smiled, just because I knew it would piss her off. And I was right. Her entire body stiffened as she slowly rose and walked to the wall. Or at least as close as the wall would let her.

“I think you’re powerful, but I think you’re afraid,” she stared down at me. Her body shook with anger and her eyes danced with a vicious fire. I tilted my head; she had never reacted like this before. Suddenly, it clicked. Hades. Whatever had had shown her, whatever that fear had done to her, it had changed her. She was afraid. He had incapacitated her in a hot second and that scared her, and pissed her off. She couldn’t take it out on him, so I was her next best thing. “You’re afraid of what we can do to you. You’re afraid of our power. Because I think if you were as powerful as Tony claims you to be, you would’ve escaped long ago. You would’ve beaten us long before. Maybe you aren’t as powerful as everyone here thinks you are.”

Something ticked inside of me. Perhaps Hades had gotten to me too, who knew. But if there was one thing I hated more than anything else, it was superiority. People who saw themselves as above another, who looked down on others and saw themselves on a fucking pedestal.

And I was tired. I was tired of being patient and listening to her questions. I was tired of her running herself dead trying to get me to do something. I was tired of listening to the same damn thing every day. And I was tired of people trying to tear me down. First it was Hades and his stupid skeletons, I was not about to let Natasha gain the upper hand. Not this time, not ever.

I stood up slowly. My eyes leveled her gaze as anger coursed through me. I held it back as I walked towards the wall. It hummed with energy, like a river rolling through a mountainside. She didn’t back down and from the triumphant flash in her eyes I knew she thought she had me. She wanted me to break, she wanted me to explode, she wanted me to prove her right. She wanted me to show how dangerous I truly was. Just like Hades did.

Instead, I straightened my shoulders and smiled at her. I raised my hand and pushed against the electric barrier and watched as my hand passed through with ease. There was a little tickle, like the electricity was giggling. I opened my palm and focused on the center of my hand. Immediately, the energy pushed outwards and flew into the palm of my hand until a medium sized ball crackled against my skin while the barrier that had caged me in fell away. I looked up and saw Natasha’s eyes widen and she struggled to keep a neutral expression but I could tell she was feeling anything but neutral inside.

“You’re right,” I said, my voice soft yet held a dangerous edge to it. “I could’ve escaped a long time ago. I could’ve made this entire place disappear and none of you would’ve known. I could’ve killed every single one of you in a single second and no one could’ve stopped me. But I didn’t. Because I don’t need to. I am not afraid of you. I have no reason to be. You have given me no reason to fear you.” I wiggled my fingers and the bright energy swirled between my fingers like golden ribbon. I smiled slightly as I watched the light sparkle and twist against my skin as if it were saying thank you. I looked up again and my smile was gone. I lifted my head and stepped forward until I was standing right in front of her. My voice changed to a tone that I hadn’t used in hundreds of years. “But, do not taunt me, Natasha Romanoff. Or I will prove to you just how powerful I can truly be.” And with a flick of my wrist, the electricity shot backwards and wrapped around my cell again, returning back to the crackling wall behind me.

Natasha’s expression hadn’t changed but I noticed the muscles in her neck work as she tried to swallow or how her stare wavered when she stared at me. I had gotten my point across. That was all I needed. With a final steely look her ways I turned around and strolled through the electric wall and back to my bed.

When I turned my head again, she was gone.

* * *

After Natasha’s little two second vacation, my cell went from the Sahara Desert to Grand Central Station within the hour.

First it was Tony who stormed down the steps and began demanding answers to questions he couldn’t even formulate properly. He hated me. He truly, honestly, hated me. Which was fine, I wasn’t really looking for his love or affection anyways. He spent about two hours rattling off equations and theories all the while asking me how I got the energy to bend like that, how I was immune to the electricity when the mere touch of it to my skin should’ve killed me, and why the hell all of his tests were coming back either normal or inconclusive.

Next was Helen Cho (I finally figured out her last name) and it was just a quick update on Sam. She asked me about the incantation I had sung and what healing abilities I possessed. I didn’t answer her, same with Tony, but I smiled at her at least. Gave her something. I felt bad for her. She was honestly curious but if I gave her the answer she wanted, about 5,000 more questions would follow and Gods I hated questions.

Steve followed not long after Helen with my lunch. He sat down and didn’t say a word (a bit creepy) and then he began rambling on about ice and airplanes and intergalactic stones (not so creepy, but very weird). He then realized pretty quickly that I wasn’t going to talk and he wasn’t making any sense. He mumbled an apology and glanced at my full plate (steak and, of course, potatoes) but didn’t seem very surprised. He then walked away with a stuttered out apology before the door slammed shut behind him.

After that I dozed off for about a glorious ten minutes before the door opened again. I knew someone was coming down the stairs but I chose not to open my eyes. Hopefully they’d leave me alone.

“You sure know how to create quite a disruption, hm?” The smooth voice caused my eyes to snap open as I turned quickly to find Bucky resting his hip against the back of the metal chair as he regarded me with an amused expression.

My heart did not stutter painfully in my chest. It did not.

I shrugged but didn’t respond. Steve, Tony and Helen had all been bugged (they did such an awful job of hiding it) so I wouldn’t be totally surprised if they had Bucky bugged too.

“S’alright, I’m not bugged,” he said as if he could read my mind. He had a nice voice, deep and rough from years of not using it and sometimes his Brooklyn accent would peek through. “Jus’ wanted to see how you are.”

I shrugged again as I sat up this time. “I’m fine. I liked it better when no one came down here though.”

Bucky forced out a chuckle but something dark crossed over his face. “Do you want me to leave? I understand if you want some alone time.”

My knee-jerk reaction was to say yes. Because honestly, most of the time I liked being alone. But since we’re on the path of honesty, I also really enjoyed Bucky’s company. He was like a breath a fresh air and he was probably the only person within the facility that wasn’t either absolutely terrified or loathed me. “No, I don’t mind having you around,” I said without even thinking, and immediately wanted to dive into the Earth and never come back.

Bucky leaned back and I saw the ghost of a smile flicker over his lips. That meant he was either over the moon, or just really didn’t care for what I said. I was still busy figuring him out. Absentmindedly I traced the moss that covered my bed. Right now, my cell was transformed into the forest. Moss and bright green ferns were nestled in the shadows from thick oak and pine trees. The sunlight (or in this case, the incandescent light bulbs) flitted through the branches of the trees and created dancing sunspots across the soft floor. Wild flowers grew in speckled bunches and turned the air sweet and fresh. It reminded me of home, and my heart ached for it.

Bucky made a noise which sounded oddly like a grunt and I looked up to see his eyes narrowed at the back wall of my cell which was wrapped in vines and moss. “I’m sorry,” he suddenly said and I jerked my head back in surprise.

“What?” I answered oh so eloquently.

“For this,” he waved to my cell which sent me spiraling into a deeper sense of confusion. “No one should have to live like this.” I stared at him, wondering what the hell he was going on about, until it clicked for me.

The Fog.

The Fog was like a mist that wrapped around mortal minds (i.e. people not like me) and obscured the truth of my world. So if a ten foot tall monster was charging down the interstate and a bunch of heroes dressed in battle armor were chasing after it, mortals saw it as an eighteen-wheeler barreling away from a bunch of cop cars. It was our way to keep people safe and keep them from asking questions.

“What do you see?” I asked. Bucky flashed me a look as if to say are you crazy. I probably was but that was beside the point. While I had a forest inside of my cell, he could’ve been seeing the exact opposite.

“Mold. And dirty and grime and filth.” He pointed specifically to the back wall where most of the vines were. I almost laughed as a picture began to form in my mind. It was funny how The Fog worked sometimes.

“Do you want to know a secret?” Bucky furrowed his brow and I knew I was treading on dangerous territory. Manipulating The Fog was already dangerous enough for mortals, but erasing it for a moment? It could cause them to spontaneously combust, or send them into total madness. But Bucky wasn’t really mortal. He was enhanced, and due to the serum, he could withstand so much more than regular mortals. “That’s not how my cell looks.”

Bucky stared at me like I had three heads. “What do you mean?” His voice was soft and my heart stuttered in my chest as I stood slowly. Steeling my nerves, I walked forward and open my palm. The electromagnetic cage collapsed into the palm of my hand again and I raised my hand up. The crackling ball of energy floated at the center of the ceiling, throwing off dancing yellow beams of light. I looked at Bucky and his eyes danced in the light but he didn’t seem scared. Curious, confused, but not scared.

“Do you trust me?” I whispered my voice so quiet. Bucky stood up and I tried to swallow but my throat was too dry.

“You saved Sam’s life.” Bucky took a step towards me. He didn’t answer my question, but at the same time, he did.

I nodded and squared my shoulders before I lifted my hand. Bucky watched me carefully and I flashed him an encouraging smile before I snapped my fingers sharply.

The sound reverberated throughout the room as the air shimmered and curled around Bucky’s head. The burst of air that left my fingers pushed against his forehead until he closed his eyes. When he opened them, he looked the same except for the tiny glimmer that laced through his hair. A halo. It made him look even more angelic than he already did. Not that I thought he looked like an angel, or heavenly, or anything.

Bucky searched my face, most likely to see if he noticed a difference but I knew he wouldn’t. Plus I was too worried about how fucking sweaty my palms were to really focus on anything else. His brow furrowed and his mouth opened – probably to ask me what I did until he looked behind me and his mouth actually dropped open. Finally, he saw what I saw.

“Holy…” he let the sentence hang in the air as he cautiously stepped forward. He eyed the crackling ball of energy that shimmered as if to say we won’t drop on you, not yet anyways. He skirted around the electric ball before he cautiously set foot on the thick grass. The wild flowers waved gently at him as the sun beams chased each other across the patches of moss. “How…I don’t–”

“It’s called The Fog,” I explained gently as I let him explore. “It obscures reality, so that mine can remain secret.”

Bucky was quiet for a while as he ran his hands over the wall of vines that he originally thought was scum. His blue eyes were like kaleidoscopes as they shimmered with facets of light. The shadows played against his sharp and thick features. It made him seem more mysterious, yet softer at the same time. “So, this whole time, this has been–” Bucky shook his hand over to the oak trees that he still couldn’t seem to understand.

I shrugged. “Most of the time. It depends on my mood, what I miss, what I want to see.”

“What you miss…” he murmured as he stared at me with a mixture of awe and excitement. It made me breathless.

“Yeah.” I walked closer as the flowers bent towards me. I let their petals tickle my palm. “Today, I missed the forest. Yesterday it was the beach. The day before that was McDonalds.”

Bucky tipped his head back and laughed and I swore the flowers sighed. So did I. “McDonalds?”

“I miss their cheeseburgers, don’t judge,” I admitted playfully. Bucky shook his head, still in disbelief as he did a full 360.

“So this can be…whatever you want it to be?”

“Within reason.” I saw a flash of longing in his eyes and I took a cautious step forward. “What do you want to see?”

Bucky frowned. “I – I don’t know.” He paused as he seemed to weigh his options. “Coney Island. Y’know, back when it was really Coney Island. With the lights and the dancing and the cotton candy.”

I smiled and waved my hand over the cell. The forest fell away as across the floor, the ocean rolled in and sand spilled over our feet. A warm summer breeze mixed with sugar and sea salt whisked past our shoulders. Bucky’s eyes widened as he whirled behind him, only to see a wall of black.

“Sorry,” I murmured. “This is the best I can do. I’m still limited, to a certain extent.”

Bucky shook his head and walked forward. “S’perfect,” he mumbled as he breathed in deeply. And for a brief moment, he was a sixteen year old kid amazed with life. Cheeks flushed from the carnival and smile as sweet as the cotton candy that peppered the sides of his mouth.

I knew I was staring so I forced my gaze away and watched the waves roll inky black over the bone white sand. Seagulls cried in the distance though I knew none were nearby. The air held a sense of serenity to it that seemed to be lost nowadays, that blanket of peace that none of us felt anymore.

Bucky came and stood beside me. The air buzzed around me as if charged with electricity, until I realized that it wasn’t electricity at all. It was fireflies, dancing and dipping behind and above our heads.

“Fireflies,” Bucky whispered in the softest, loveliest voice you could ever imagine. “Steve and I used to catch these all the time as kids.” His eyes flickered like the lightning bugs. He looked young and happy.

“Do you know what Pleiades is?” I asked him as I watched the fireflies dance in the summer breeze. It was random and totally not relevant in the slightest but I saw the stars and sort of just…blurted it out. Plus, I was nervous as all hell so the fact that I was even able to formulate a full sentence was staggering.

“Yeah, it’s a cluster of stars that are seen around winter time, right?” Bucky furrowed his brow as if he were answering a question on Jeopardy. Gods he was cute. But that too was totally irrelevant. To the story, anyways.

“They weren’t always stars,” I murmured as I gazed up at the night sky. I looked for Orion and found him, his bow strung as his stars twinkled in the sky. He seemed tense and domineering, even in the sky.

“What do you mean?” Bucky seemed genuinely curious, so I sat down and dug my feet into the sand.

“Pleiades were originally seven sisters from Greek mythology. Their name originally meant ‘daughters of Pleione’ but that got too long to say so they became collectively known as Pleiades. They were nymphs – spirits of nature, in this case water – and they were associated with rain and Artemis, Goddess of the Moon.” I sat down and soon found the cluster, six gleaming stars that formed a little half-moon. “Their father was the titan Atlas. The titans ruled the Earth for years before the gods came into power. But once they did, Zeus punished the titans and forced Atlas to carry the weight of the heavens. Once this occurred, Orion,” I pointed to his constellation and Bucky nodded silently for me to continue. He didn’t seem too lost or incredulous which was a bit of a relief, “He was the greatest hunter in the entirety of Greece. Before he joined the Hunt of Artemis, he pursued the Pleiades. In their fear of Orion, they begged Zeus to help. Since Zeus felt a bit guilty for punishing their father, he turned them into doves so they could escape. But, since Orion was such an experienced hunter, it wasn’t long before he would shoot them down. So, Zeus immortalized them into stars and created the cluster Pleiades.” I pointed out the cluster to Bucky, whose eyes narrowed, then widened, then narrowed again.

“But there are only six stars.”

I nodded. “Merope, the youngest daughter, she shamed her sisters by falling in love with a mortal man. A king, but mortal. The sisters cast her away and thus, her star disappeared from the constellation.”

Bucky frowned slightly. “They punished her for love?”

I shrugged. “Honestly, she got it good. The seven stars became six, and that was it. They could’ve tortured her or her husband, or made their lives miserable. Really, she got off easy.” I tried to hide the envious tinge in my voice but Bucky picked up on it instantly.

“You sound like you’ve met her.” Bucky eyed me carefully and I swallowed the lump in my throat. I shrugged nonchalantly but didn’t answer. He didn’t press on, which I was grateful for.

“Humans studied the sky for centuries and fell in love with the story of Pleiades and Orion. You know, mortals love the whole stalker storyline. In a poem, one mortal described the constellation Pleiades: Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising through the mellow shade, glitter like a swarm of fireflies in a silver braid. Zeus became a huge fan of the poem and he always had a soft spot for the Pleiades so he made the firefly their calling card. So when the fireflies were out, it meant that the Pleiades would begin to show.”

“But Pleiades is already in the sky,” Bucky glanced at the fireflies. “Why are there fireflies?”

I smiled softly. “Because, Bucky. This is what you wanted to see.”

He stared at me and I couldn’t allow myself to look away. His eyes were now sea foam green that flickered with a myriad of emotions. Then he smiled. An honest, full smile that lit up his whole face. I hoped to the gods that he couldn’t see my pulse slamming erratically at the base of my jaw.

Bucky joined me on the sand and his shoulder brushed against mine. His gaze was transfixed on the sea and I tried not to focus on the electric sparks that twisted down my spine.

“Thank you, Sophia.” His voice was low and velvet rich and sparked something so deep inside of me I almost forgot that part of me existed. But instead on focusing on what was going inside of me, I decided to focus on the sea and the breeze and the faint scent of Bucky’s aftershave. Because for once, everything was fine.

And I doubted we’d get a moment like this again.

#bucky barnes imagine #marvel imagine #marvel fanfiction #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x ofc #marvel one shot #bucky barnes one shot #bucky barnes fanfiction #marvel #marvel cinematic universe #bucky barnes #james buchanan barnes #fanfiction #imagine #one shot #judywrites

26 notes · View notes

onecanonlife · 3 years ago

Text

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: 7,618

Chapter Warnings: swearing, referenced past suic.ide, description of past injury, scars, discussion of c!Wilbur’s overall terrible mental health

Chapter Summary: In which Phil and Wilbur finally sit down and have a talk. They both have things to say that the other needs to hear.

(masterpost w/ ao3 links)

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

Chapter Eighteen: quiet now

They do come up with a plan. A simple one, as far as plans go, but that means less moving parts, less things to go wrong. Sometimes a simpler plan is better. And considering the effort it takes to get them all there, to get them all on the same page, he’ll accept it. But night has fallen by the time they figure it all out,

(and by that time his throat is hoarse and his hands are shaking so he shoves them into his pockets and Tommy keeps shooting him looks and Phil is doing the same and Techno is kind of hovering a bit but he ignores them because he’s fine and he keeps his shoulders straight his shoulders straight set and straight so that no one looks at him and sees his exhaustion the way he’s crumbling and he tells himself that he’s not and that he’s alright that this is nothing but he’s not sure he believes himself anymore and that in itself is terrifying because if he’s not alright then he has to confront the dark confront what he does not want to confront so he tells himself he’s alright but the walls are cracking they’re cracking)

so they’ll set it all in motion in the morning. For now, they retire to bed. Almost all of them; Eret says she’ll keep watch by the gates. Once, he wouldn’t have trusted her word. He’s not sure that he does, even now. But he doesn’t object, and neither does anyone else, so.

It’s night. He should sleep. He is even aware that he needs to sleep, that he’s been dealing with a pounding headache ever since just after the last time he let Schlatt materialize, that every so often his vision swims for no apparent reason. He needs to sleep, because he’s no use to anyone like this, not if he can’t wield a weapon, whether physical or verbal, and he used all the rest of his energy on getting through the rest of the meetings. The collaboration. The planning. The day, plain and simple.

He knows when he’s running on fumes.

Eret gave him a room. She gave everyone a room. Because she has a bloody enormous castle, with rooms to spare. So he’s lying in an unfamiliar bed, staring at the ceiling, watching the moonlight slowly creep in as the clouds outside finally clear, and he can’t sleep. Exhaustion grips him with a thousand clinging hands, and he can’t sleep. He knows exactly where everyone is, knows that Tommy and Tubbo are sharing the room next to him, that Techno and Phil are on this same hall, and he even made sure to locate Fundy despite—everything.

Everyone is safe, in this moment, at least. But he can’t sleep, can’t give his body the rest it’s demanding of him. His mind is contorting in on itself, itching, buzzing, like a swarm of bees that can’t find the home hive. And his thoughts, as have been their wont lately, slip away before he can examine them properly.

(or perhaps he’s letting them go, has been letting them go all along, because he does not want to look at them, does not want to understand, because he wants to achieve that nebulous concept of being better but if he looks at himself too closely then he will have to acknowledge that being better doesn’t only have the meaning he’s assigned to the phrase, doesn’t just mean being better to others but also to)

He can’t sleep. So he gets up. Steadies himself against the bed’s banister until the world stops spinning. And then goes out into the hall. The stone is lit with flickering torches, and the soft crackling of the fire is the only sound. He slips out quietly, footsteps light on the carpet, and just walks. To the end of the hallway, glancing back just once, and—

Schlatt is at the other end. Staring at him. He stares back.

And then the ghost shakes his head and vanishes. The glimmer of blue is still there, still present as a shimmer if he doesn’t look at the spot directly, but the message is clear. Schlatt doesn’t want to talk.

He doesn’t particularly want to talk, either. Not after the mess that today has been. He regrets laying out all of his cards in front of Schlatt in the way that he did. The fact that Schlatt now knows how to make himself solid only adds to that. He’s not fond of the sensation, of his strength leaving him in a rush, pulled away from him without his consent.

(and his heart constricting in his chest)

The ground tilts a bit. He places his hands against the wall, and the dizziness passes. He keeps going. Keeps stalking through the halls.

He’s done this before. He felt like the castle’s passages were haunted, then, a few days ago. He still feels the same. Especially now, at night, when the whole castle is still. When he might as well be the only person alive.

(if he is that)

Except then, he rounds a corner and nearly runs over Ranboo. Or rather, doesn’t run him over, exactly, because Ranboo is exceedingly tall, and he somehow seems even taller now. But it’s him, his skin divided in black and white, wearing that suit he always seems to have on. Wilbur remembers to avert his eyes before meeting his gaze, but not before catching the fact that Ranboo’s are glowing purple. Which is different from usual. Definitely different from usual.

“Wasn’t expecting anyone else to be up,” he says, backing up a step. He fixes his gaze past Ranboo’s shoulder and tries to observe him surreptitiously.

Ranboo is holding a block of dirt. Grass intact. Interesting.

And then, Ranboo chirps at him. An enderman sort of warble, distorted and yet, somehow, gentle.

“Um,” he says. “Are you—is this the sleepwalking thing again?”

Immediately afterward, he realizes the stupidity of asking a sleepwalking person whether or not they’re sleepwalking. But the eyes are new, for sure; in the Egg’s chamber, when he was sleepwalking before, his eyes were just like they’d been previously, one red and one green, just glazed over.

His eyes now aren’t glazed at all, are bright and alert. But purple.

Ranboo vwoops.

“Alright, you know what, good for you,” he says. “I’m just going to keep walking. Maybe you should get some rest later or something.”

It’s not any of his concern what Ranboo’s doing. As long as he’s staying in the castle, he can sleepwalk and be an enderman to his heart’s content. It’s none of his business, and if he really feels the need, he’ll go get Phil. Since Phil seems to be halfway to adopting him in any case. Let Phil deal with it.

So he moves to walk around Ranboo. Except Ranboo mirrors him, and suddenly, the grass block is being shoved against his chest. Lightly, but enough to stop him in his tracks.

“Um,” he says again. Not up to his usual standards of eloquence, but Ranboo likely won’t remember this later if he actually is sleepwalking, so it’s fine. “You want me to take it? Is that it?”

Ranboo vwoops, still holding the block out at him, so he reaches for it, curling his fingers into the dirt. Ranboo releases the block as soon as he does, and the dirt immediately starts to come loose, to lose its shape, and a good bit of the grass starts to fall off. But Ranboo nods in satisfaction, letting out another warble, so he keeps hold of it as best he can. At least until Ranboo has passed by him, evidently content with whatever he thinks he’s accomplished. Wilbur turns to stare at his retreating back until he’s vanished around the corner.

And then he looks down at his hands. At the block, which barely resembles a block anymore. Mostly just a lump of dirt.

“Right,” he mutters, letting it slide through his fingers. Some of it clings to his skin, and he wrinkles his nose, brushing his hands against his coat.

He’s not sure what that was. But alright.

He finds his way out into the open air, eventually, climbing up and up until he gets to the roof of the castle. The sky above is lit with stars, and if he tilts his head and closes his eyes, he can hear them. Humming, always humming. Or perhaps he’s imagining it, his brain filling in a sound he can’t truly hear but that he knows is present. He’s not sure it makes a difference either way. It’s still a comfort. A small one, but a comfort nonetheless.

He’s considering whether to try to sleep up here instead when he sees that Phil is here too. A little off to the side, a dark silhouette staring out over the SMP, sitting on a stone bench. Why Eret put a bench on the roof, he has no idea; or perhaps Phil made it himself. He wouldn’t be surprised.

He should probably leave him be. And yet, he doesn’t want to go back inside, and—

Phil really ought to be resting too.

So he crosses the rooftop, slowly, almost reluctantly as he picks his way across the stone. He hesitates before sitting next to Phil on the bench, leaving a bit of space between them. This close, he can see the bags under Phil’s eyes better than ever, as well as the way his cloak twitches as the wings underneath move.

“Any particular reason why you’re up?” he asks. Phil doesn’t act surprised at his appearance; he knew he was there, then. Heard his approach, most likely, or perhaps just sensed his presence. Hundreds of years have made Phil a difficult man to catch off guard.

(though you did it once, in a different way, in that room, you caught him off guard and broke him in the catching)

Phil snorts. “Nightmare,” he says, clipped, though Wilbur is somewhat surprised to have gotten even that admission out of him. “I should be asking the same of you. You need to get some fucking sleep, Wilbur.”

“I’m well aware,” he says. “I’ve been trying. Thought a walk might clear my head.” He hesitates, not sure that he should push any further, not sure that he wants to, that Phil would welcome it. But then, he’s never been one to let such a small detail as whether his prying is welcome stop him. “Can I ask what about?” he asks, and is satisfied with that. If Phil wants him to fuck off, then he’ll tell him so.

But Phil is silent for a moment.

“You, usually,” he says.

“Oh,” Wilbur replies.

He didn’t expect that. But he feels like he should have.

Phil shifts, then, his clothing rustling as he turns to half face him.

“I didn’t mean it that way,” he says. “It’s not your fault. You get as old as I am and you pick up a few recurring nightmares. Persistent little fucks, but it’s not anything to be worried about.”

But this one is bad enough to cost you sleep on the eve of battle, and I know you know better than to let that happen, so it must be bad, he doesn’t say. But this one is about me, he doesn’t say. But there is still an uncomfortable tightness in his chest, one that doesn’t let up no matter how deeply he breathes. So he doesn’t look at Phil, but he says, “Tell me about it?” and immediately curses the weakness of his voice. He almost sounds scared, which is not what he was aiming for. Inviting, maybe. He wants to know.

(he doesn’t, actually, but he feels like he should, so it’s the same thing in the end)

Phil sighs.

“We’re on a cliff, you and I,” he says, sounding tired. “There’s an ocean below us, far down. Neither of us speak. You throw a sword down at my feet, and I—I do it. Just like I did. And then, you smile at me and fall backward. Off the cliff.” He looks down at his hands, flexing his fingers. “I jump after you. And then I remember that I can’t fly.”

Wilbur swallows.

(he has no trouble conflating himself with a nightmare, no trouble at all, but it becomes more difficult when the nightmare is not him but rather losing him and he should have expected as much from Phil because Phil for all his long years has never been good at letting go at giving up on something that cannot be saved but he still doesn’t know what to do with this what to say)

“I thought falling from a cliff was a Theseus thing,” he manages.

Phil chuckles dryly. “Techno does like his myths,” he says, “but life’s not so cut and dry as those are. Not everything has a perfect parallel. We’re not storybook characters.”

It’s not a pointed comment. But his mind still cringes away from the words.

“But stories come from somewhere,” he says softly. It’s not a plea, because he doesn’t have anything to plead, but if that’s so, then he doesn’t know why his voice is lined with desperation, all of a sudden, why his heart is thumping against his ribcage. “Even in real life, we all have roles to play.”

“Is that what you’ve been doing, Wil?” Phil asks. “Playing a role?”

His breath catches, snags in his lungs, like his chest is full of thorns.

(you do not like to be seen do not like to be perceived not like this not in a way that lays out the heart of you your core beliefs those are for you and you alone and you guard them so no one else knows and they receive only what you choose to present and so you do not like this at all do not like to be known beyond what you have explicitly chosen to share)

(you have always been a showman)

“I don’t know what you mean,” he says, but it’s stiff, too stiff, and Phil is too perceptive a man to be fooled by it.

“I’ve noticed what you’re doing,” Phil says. “You’re running yourself ragged trying to pull everyone together. To direct them. And I know you’re a leader, Wil, I really do, and you’re damn good at it, too, but you can’t possibly believe that wearing yourself out like this is healthy.”

He shuts his eyes. “It’s not like that,” he says. “I’m just doing what needs to be done.”

“It needs to be done. But not necessarily by you, mate. A lot of the people here are more than capable of taking on some of the responsibility. Your brothers included. Also, you didn’t answer my question.”

“I didn’t hear you ask one,” he snaps, sudden irritation welling up. “It’s not a matter of health, Phil! It’s a matter of what’s important, and what’s important right now is dealing with all of this bullshit. That has to come first.”

Phil sits up straighter. His hands grip his knees, and his eyebrows draw together.

“You come first,” Phil says. “You always come first. Your health is important, and you—you can’t take care of anyone else before you take care of yourself. Wil, how long have you—”

He cuts off, but Wilbur knows what he was about to ask. How long have you thought like this? Or something like that, anyway. This is another thing that he should have expected from Phil, this persistent concern for him. It’s unnecessary, since he

(decided long ago that his health could fall on his list of priorities so long as he was effective, so long as he was getting things done, and he did get things done, in his country, in his exile, he got things done and that was what mattered because he himself has always been so much less important than the things he could create and the things he could do for others)

has matters well in hand, but he doubts Phil would understand if he tried to explain it.

(easier to tell himself that than to admit that he can’t explain it at all, that no explanation he could give would hold up to a moment’s scrutiny, that Phil will see right through it to the real underlying cause, and Phil has already perceived far too much)

“Right, health is important,” he says, placating. “I didn’t mean to imply that it wasn’t. Though, honestly, you’re one to talk. Did you think I didn’t see the state your wings are in? When’s the last time you bothered to preen them?”

It’s a low blow, and he regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth. Phil flinches, his face setting in a harder expression. More closed off, and he really should have known better, shouldn’t he? Should’ve known better than to bring it up like that, because Phil’s wings used to be his pride and joy, and now they’re ruined and it’s his fault to boot, and he can admit that he was looking for a sore spot to hit, but that wound is far worse than a sore spot.

“Sorry,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry.” He looks away, unable to meet Phil’s eyes, and finds himself looking up again. To the stars.

“It’s alright.” Phil laughs humorlessly. “I can’t say that you’re wrong.” He sighs, posture relaxing slightly. “I caught that, by the way. I know when you’re trying to distract me.” He tilts his head upward, staring at the stars just like Wilbur is, his hat sliding further back on his head. “I’m not trying to lecture you. I just want to understand. Why can’t you let yourself rest, Wil?”

That is a far more complicated question than he knows. That is a question that has its roots in months long past, in a drug van and an idea and a revolution and a nation, in his drive to get recognition and his determination that his country would succeed,

(because if it was not a success then it would be a failure and he too would be a failure)

in sleepless nights spent screaming into his pillow and days pasting on a smile and a confident stride. And then, in relinquishing his power when the people called for it, when he lost, conceding gracefully even as his stomach dropped into his boots, and getting an arrow in his back for his troubles, he and his brother chased like dogs from the home they built. And then, in the ravine, every shadow a threat, every person out to get him, every whisper a lie, every moment settling the despair more deeply into his bones.

But perhaps Phil knows that. Or some of it at least. He doesn’t know how much Phil has guessed. But Phil knows enough to know that the him that he encountered in that room was a far cry from the him that he portrayed in his letters, before he stopped sending them at all, before he could no longer bring himself to pick up the pen, before the thought of lying to his father again left him feeling physically ill, and the idea of telling him the truth was worse.

Phil knows enough to know that something went wrong.

Perhaps a bit of honesty wouldn’t hurt. Perhaps trying to get him to understand wouldn’t hurt. At least, not more than it already does, no more than he already has.

“It’s because I know what I’m like, Phil,” he says softly. “I know what I’m like.”

The stars twinkle at him.

“Okay,” Phil says. Patient. “What does that mean?”

He considers it. Considers everything.

“You know the legacy I left on this server, right?” he says. “You know what I left behind when I died.”

Phil turns his head, looks at him. His expression is slightly pained.

“I sort of destroyed the legacy you left,” he says, and it takes him a second to realize what he’s talking about.

“Not that L’Manberg,” he says. “That L’Manberg wasn’t mine. I suppose it was Tubbo’s more than anything, but it’s hard to say, I think. I can’t really speak on it. Ghostbur—saw things differently than how I would have.” He stops for Phil’s reaction to that, but aside from a slight narrowing of his eyes, there is nothing. “I mean the original. L’Manberg. My L’Manberg.”

Phil sucks in a sharp breath at his choice of words.

“No, Wil,” he says. “No, I didn’t really get to see it.”

“That’s the point,” he says. He closes his eyes, searching for the right words. The stars are pinprick lights dancing on his eyelids. “I destroyed it. I destroyed it all, Phil. I waffled back and forth a lot, for weeks, deciding whether I was going to do it or not. And then I did. I pushed that button, Phil. I made the decision. I destroyed it. I destroyed people’s homes. I betrayed all of my friends. And the thing about that is, even if I regret hurting them, now, I still don’t regret the action itself. I don’t regret destroying it, Phil. It needed to go.” I needed to go.

“Why is that, Wil?” Phil asks quietly.

“It wasn’t good anymore,” he answers easily. This, at least, he knows. “It wasn’t—it wasn’t mine anymore, either, but mainly it was that it wasn’t good. It became—it became corrupt. Bad. And it was never going to be good again, so it had to stop. It had to end. It all had to end. But that’s not my point right now. My point is that that was my legacy, right? L’Manberg? And I destroyed that, but what’s most important is the pain I caused. That was my legacy. That pain. That was what I left behind me. And even before that, even before everything, when I started it in the first place, I brought war to the server, Phil. Suffering, conflict. And the war was a game at first. We were all friends at the start. But then I decided that it wasn’t a game. I declared independence, and I meant it. So in the end, all of the problems on this server can be traced back to me. Something I did, or something I said.” He leans his head forward again, gazing out at the horizon rather than the night sky. “It all comes back to me. I’ve never been good for this server.”

He pauses, waiting for Phil’s reply. None comes, and he glances over; Phil is staring at him, face white as a sheet.

“I haven’t answered your question yet,” he says. “But you need to—you need to understand all of that so you understand why I feel—” He breaks off. His tongue feels clumsy, and his mind suddenly blanks. He’s not even sure that any of what he’s just said makes sense, and if it doesn’t make sense, then he can’t continue, because if he’s really going to do this, really going to put this all out there for Phil to hear, then he needs it to make sense, needs to be sure that he actually understands.

“Why you feel what?” Phil asks. Still quiet.

He takes in a breath. Tries to gather his thoughts. The exhaustion isn’t helping. It’s like wading through mud.

“I know what I’m like,” he repeats. It makes a good springboard. “So I know that I sure as hell don’t deserve to be back here, even if it had been what I wanted. But I am, so I need to do something that’s worth that. I need to pull myself together and get us all out of this. For Tommy’s sake, if for no one else, and for Tubbo, and—and Fundy, and everyone who doesn’t deserve to be pulled into this mess. Another mess. If I have the ability to help, then I have a responsibility to do that. I can’t just—push it off to someone else, Phil. That’s not how it works.”

“Why not?” Phil asks.

“Because then I’m not worth it, then, am I?” he erupts. Why isn’t Phil getting this? “Phil, we’re all measured by the things we create. By the things we’re able to do, our accomplishments. If I can’t do anything that’s worth something, then what the fuck am I here for? Because it’s not because I asked, Phil. I got what I deserved in the end, and that was supposed to be all. I wanted it to be all, Phil, I wanted—”

He cuts off, horror mounting in him. This was a mistake. He never should have said anything at all, never should have started in on this. He should have dodged the questions, the probing comments, until Phil finally got tired and left it alone.

He should have gone back inside.

But Phil still hasn’t spoken, so he presses on, trying to wrap it up in a way that’s understandable.

“In the end, it all comes down to the fact that I have experience with this kind of stuff,” he says. “Someone needs to step up, and I can. So I need to. That’s all it is.” He scrubs a hand down his face. “I probably should’ve just skipped to that part.”

“No, I’m glad you didn’t,” Phil says, and there’s a tremor in his voice that he can’t place the reason for. “I’m glad you—I’m glad you told me this. But—Wil, okay, first off, just because you can do something doesn’t mean you should, and it doesn’t mean you have to.”

“I knew you wouldn’t understand it,” he mutters. He really ought to go back inside. But the night air is so fresh and clear, smelling of humidity and petrichor, and the thought of returning to that empty, dark room only to stare at the ceiling until morning makes something in him shrivel up and die inside. If he’s not going to be able to sleep, then he’d rather be awake out here than in there.

“Wil,” Phil says, insistent, and suddenly, Phil’s hands are on his shoulders, turning him toward him with a light but firm touch. He blinks. “Do you not take care of yourself because you think you don’t deserve it?” Something in Phil’s voice folds like wet paper, just as fragile, just as flimsy.

He opens his mouth to respond, and no words come.

(there is is, the crux of the matter, the core of it all, because he is a person built of pretty words and self-loathing, and long before he directed any anger at the world around him, he pointed it inward, lashed at himself until only scars remained, and he called that just, called that right)

He’s not sure how Phil jumped to that conclusion from all of that. But—he’s trying to deny it, trying to refute the point, but the words just won’t form.

“Oh, Wilbur,” Phil says, sounding a bit wrecked, and then, the hands on his shoulders move to his arms, gently pulling him forward and into Phil’s embrace. Phil’s arms circle him lightly, his hands rubbing patterns into his back, and then, his wings rise from under his cloak, swooping forward and closing around him in a motion that is all-too familiar from his childhood, in a motion indicating that even now, Phil is trying to comfort him, trying to protect him with all that he is. It’s a hug that means warmth and safety and love, and Wilbur begins to tremble, because—

He doesn’t deserve it. He doesn’t. He doesn’t understand what he did to deserve it.

“You don’t need to do anything to be worthy of love,” Phil murmurs. “You don’t need to do anything to deserve to take care of yourself. And—you’re wrong about your legacy. It’s not just pain and suffering. You’ve done so many good things for so many people, and they remember that, even if you can’t. I see it every day. You were missed, Wil. So fucking missed, by so many more people than just me.”

And that can’t be true. That can’t possibly be true, because he remembers his ending certainty, his declaration that everyone would thank Phil for killing him, that everyone wanted him to do it, and he was so sure of himself, then, because he was the traitor, he was the villain, and villains get what they deserve. And perhaps he wasn’t entirely right, not in Tommy’s case, at any rate, because Tommy wanted him back, at least, but everyone else should have wanted him dead.

But no one has. No one has thus far, at least. No one has tried to do anything to him aside from a few pointed comments. No one has tried to lock him up or kill him. No one has tried, even when they should, they definitely should, because he was hated by the end—wasn’t he?

(no. except for by one, and you have never judged yourself fairly)

So, what does that mean, then? What does it mean that he understands far less than he thought he did? What does it mean that he is struggling for control, falling back into old patterns because it’s all he knows, struggling and falling and failing? He thought he knew, thought he understood well how it all ties together, how to measure his own worth by what he can do, but here is Phil saying that that’s not right at all, and what is he supposed to do with that?

He has vowed to be better. Has been trying to be better. Has he been getting that wrong, too?

Or perhaps he isn’t wrong. Perhaps Phil is. He would like to believe that Phil is. It would be so much easier if Phil is. But here, now, held with arms and wings both, the contact chasing all of the day’s chill away, he’s not sure that he can arrive at that conclusion. Not sure he can let himself deny it, deny this.

But if he is wrong about this, he is wrong about so much, and that—that is terrifying.

“I’ve been trying to be better. I’ve been trying so hard,” he gasps out. “Phil—Phil, I don’t think I know what I’m doing. I don’t think I know how.”

“That’s okay,” Phil says. “That’s okay, you don’t have to. You just have to try. That’s all anyone wants. And it’s a process, not a one-and-done thing. It’s okay to not know.” Phil pauses. One hand moves from his back and goes up to card through his hair. Wilbur lets out a sigh. “But part of that is being better toward yourself. You deserve that just by virtue of existing. You don’t have to do anything or make anything. You deserve better things.”

(his own voice: you deserve good things and you can have them. but that was to Tommy, for Tommy, and it surely can’t apply to him, surely, because he is different, is not good like Tommy is, because he may be trying not to be the villain anymore but he was one once and he is not good and even before then he was not good enough so surely he cannot turn that around on himself surely he cannot)

“I don’t know if I can believe that,” he admits.

“That’s alright, too,” Phil says. “We can work on it, okay? We’ll all work on it together. Just, remember that you do deserve better things. No matter what your brain is telling you. Your brain is fucking wrong, okay? In this, it’s so fucking wrong. You deserve to be—to be fucking kind to yourself.” He pauses for a moment, and when he continues, his voice is full of trepidation. “Wil, you are—I mean, you do—you do want to—”

He seems to be struggling to phrase it, but Wilbur knows exactly what he’s asking.

“I don’t know about want,” he says. He’s been honest thus far; may as well continue. “I—I didn’t tell you about the time with the Egg, before you got here. It got in my head good. Really good. And it offered me—rest. I tried to give in to it. If other people weren’t there, I would have.”

Phil’s grip on him tightens.

“But I’ve decided I’m staying,” he continues. “I’ve decided. For the sake of—I mean, some of you people seem to care about me, for some godforsaken reason. And I don’t want to hurt you. So I’m staying here. Alive. I’m going to keep trying.”

“Okay,” Phil whispers. “Okay, that’s a good start.”

If that is a start, then what is the end goal? But he’s too worn out to ask. Exhausted in so many more ways than one.

But his mind is quieter. No longer buzzing. Like a storm has finally passed over, leaving destruction in its wake, but also calm.

He finally brings his arms up and embraces Phil in turn, leaning his weight against his chest. The moment he lets himself, all his muscles go limp, his body finally succumbing to the break he so sorely needs.

“You’re a sappy old man, do you know that?” he mumbles.

“I’m your father,” Phil says. “Comes with the territory.”

He hums, pushing his face against Phil’s robes. He’s clutching at his back, but the cloak has shifted, now that Phil’s moved his wings to wrap around him, so if he inches his hands up a bit, they’ll hit the wings’ base. So he does, slowly, cautiously, and then just lets his hands rest there, against the feathers. Phil stiffens.

“Let me preen them,” he says.

Phil takes a second to answer.

“Didn’t we just have a conversation about not taking on as much responsibility?” he says, and just as Phil can pick out when he’s trying to dodge a topic, he can tell right away that the question is an avoidance.

“This is completely different,” he says. “If you don’t want me to, I won’t. But—” He moves back so he can stare Phil in the face, taking a moment to chew on his next words. “I want to. Please.”

He’s not sure why this is suddenly so important to him. It’s probably something about how the state of these wings is his fault in the first place, about how Phil wrecked them in an effort to protect him, about how he turned around and begged him to kill him a moment later, with no regard for what Phil had just sacrificed. It’s probably something about how Phil is talking self-acceptance at him and yet obviously has not been taking care of himself, not in this aspect, at least, and he hates it, hates to see this disregard for things that he once held so dear, hates to see it and know that the blame lies with him. It’s probably something about how being held like this takes him back to when he was younger, and he always loved running his hands through his father’s feathers when he was still a child, straightening them and cleaning them and taking pride in the fact that he was helping, that he was a part of something, part of a family at last after so long on his own.

It’s probably all of that at once.

Something in Phil seems to deflate. His shoulders slump, which is not exactly the reaction Wilbur was hoping for.

And then—

“Alright,” Phil whispers. He leans back from the hug, stretching out his wings so that Wilbur can get a good look at them. So he does look, and he struggles to keep his face neutral; he’d hoped, somehow, that his glimpse of them in the Egg’s chamber, ragged and bleeding from the thorns, was exaggerated in his memory, that they’re not actually in as terrible a way as he remembers. But as Phil allows him to stare, his heart sinks.

Even in the dim light of the stars, he can see that the wings are a mess. And his stomach rolls as his eyes land on bare, scarred patches of skin, on exposed bone. A few places are still bandaged from the damage the Egg did, though potions have done much in the way of healing those particular wounds.

And only those, it seems.

(the Angel of Death will fly no more)

But there are still plenty of feathers, feathers that Phil obviously hasn’t been looking after, feathers that fall every which way, sticking out at odd angles. There are a few spots that Phil has evidently straightened himself, but not many. Some appear to be overlapping strangely, poking into the skin in a way that cannot be comfortable.

He looks back to Phil’s face. Phil’s expression is odd, some combination of resignation and defiance, as if halfway daring him to comment.

So Wilbur doesn’t. Just scoots forward slightly and runs his hand across some of the offered feathers.

And then gets to work.

Even in his tired state, the motions are familiar, far too familiar to mess up. Straighten the feathers, pick out dirt and other detritus that’s been caught in and beneath them. His hands are more hesitant than they ever have been, struggling with what to do as they near the more obviously injured places, but he does know how to do this. He has done it so many times before.

(and if Phil is allowing him this now, when he obviously has not allowed anyone near his wings in a long time, even Techno, even the son whose side he remained by, then perhaps it is a good sign, and perhaps he can take it as a sign of hope, as a sign that things can be better are getting better no matter the hurts that have yet to heal)

“Do they hurt?” he can’t help but ask, voice low.

Phil hesitates a beat too long. “Not usually,” he says, and Wilbur knows it for a lie.

There’s a lot of feathers loose. A lot of feathers coming out at a mere touch. And Wilbur knows how this works, knows that if the feather is already falling out then it needs to be removed, but it still concerns him, just how many there are, just how many now litter the ground, stirring in the wind.

It’s on the tip of his tongue to ask if it hurts right now. But another glance at Phil’s face forestalls him. His eyes have drifted shut, the lines around his eyes and on his forehead smoothing out, and the tension has bled from his frame.

(a memory: you have lived in this house scarce weeks and you barely trust these two at all but this boy who will become your brother has sat you down with the man who will become your father and is telling you, determinedly, seriously, resolutely, that if you’re going to stick around then you need to know how to do this, and Philza is laughing at the both of you and you are nervous, because you have never had a home before and you want to keep this one, but Technoblade shows you how to card through the feathers, and Phil chirps at you every now and then, soft and encouraging, and it feels a bit like a home, you think, if you’ll let yourself have it)

For a moment, he lets his hand hover over bone. It’s so very wrong, so very disturbing. Bones should not be extended out of flesh in the way that these are. His stomach flips again.

“This is my fault,” he murmurs. The words slip out.

“It was my choice,” Phil says, opening his eyes. “I’d do it again.” It’s a steady declaration this time, no indication of a lie.

(and he almost wishes that there were, because he has never known what to do with unwavering protection, protection that he does not deserve—but then, Phil has told him that his sense of what he deserves might not be right at all, and he doesn’t know what to do with that either)

(because the protection offered is without a doubt resolute, unquestioning, unconditional, and in that moment, as the explosions went off and Phil shielded him with no hesitation even though he could not have known that a life lost to them would have been his last because he did not tell him did not tell him anything at all)

(you try not to remember that Phil must have waited for you to respawn and try not to imagine the look on his face when your body remained and somebody had to tell him had to tell him that this is a three-life server and the life he took was the last the last the last the finale the ending an ending he surely did not intend to grant and you cannot let yourself imagine the moment he found out you cannot)

He doesn’t have an answer to that. None that Phil would accept, at any rate. So he doesn’t answer at all, just keeps dragging his fingers through his father’s feathers, neatening them, cleaning them where he can, and there’s only so much he’s going to be able to to like this, here and now, but it’s a start. Judging by the way Phil’s eyes are drooping again, he feels more comfortable than before. And really, that was the goal, wasn’t it? To do something? Anything?

(anything to ease the weight to lift the burden and Phil has a point, perhaps, about responsibility and taking on too much but this is not a responsibility is not work this is taking care of family and if Phil is allowing you this then perhaps you ought to consider accepting help in return perhaps letting your loved ones in would not be such a bad idea perhaps you can put a little more of yourself on display and trust them to smooth out the rough edges perhaps perhaps)

Eventually, he runs out of feathers to preen, to fix. There is nothing he can do about the scars, the bones, but he has done what he can, and perhaps that means something, even if not everything.

“We should go back inside,” Phil murmurs. His words slur slightly; he’s listing to the side a bit, obviously just on the edge of sleep. It makes Wilbur glad to know that some things don’t change.

“Probably,” he says. “I’d like to stay out for a few minutes longer. The stars look nice tonight.”

Phil yawns, and halfway through, the noise transforms into a warbling chirp.

“I s’ppose we can do that,” he agrees, and in the next instant, Phil is wrapping his wings around him again, pulling him closer, and he doesn’t fight it. He lets himself lean into Phil’s side, warm and secure. Overhead, the stars spin. And hum. They always hum, even if he can’t quite hear the notes, and for the moment, he feels right with his place in the universe.

He falls asleep like that, finally. His dreams are full of music and feathers and distant birdsong.

--------------------

He wakes up to the clanging of a bell.

“Oh, fuck,” Phil is saying, and the weight of his wings disappears in a split second. Wilbur almost topples over as Phil lurches to his feet, catching himself just in time, bracing himself against the bench and squinting against the morning sun. It is morning; that’s probably the best night’s sleep he’s gotten in the past few days, the beginning insomnia notwithstanding. His weariness is not quite gone, but it’s far less prevalent than it has been.

It takes a second for his eyes to adjust to the light. The first thing he sees are the red vines crawling over the sides of the castle, inching toward the roof.

“Shit, fuck,” Phil is still saying, “the enchantments are gone, we need to move—”

The bell clangs twice, then thrice more, and then falls silent. Eret said they had a bell, didn’t they? That they would ring it if something happened, to wake everyone up?

“Fuck,” Phil says, suddenly hushed. “Wil.”

He rises, coming to stand by Phil’s side, peering out toward the gates, the wall, the place where the enchanted boundaries are supposed to be set. The castle itself doesn’t yet seem to be overrun, but the walls are covered in the foliage, and if he watches them carefully, he can see them growing in real time, unfurling toward them like bloody banners.

Dream stands just inside the gates. Behind him, there are others: Bad, Ant, Ponk, Punz, the four they knew to expect for sure, along with a woman he doesn’t recognize, white flowers strewn in her hair and wrapped around her arms. In front of them, Eret stands with their sword held out, and Sapnap staggers to stand beside them, obviously just woken up. Hopefully the others are on the move, too.

But what draws Wilbur’s attention is Ranboo. Standing next to Dream, slouched. Eyes no longer purple, but vacant, staring, dull. Dream has a possessive hand on his shoulder. Ranboo himself isn’t moving.

(betrayed betrayed betrayed even if history does not repeat it rhymes echoes and rhymes and he should’ve known better than to trust should’ve known better than to think that no one would stab him in the back because that’s just what people do)

“I hope you took advantage of the time we gave you to prepare,” Dream says. “We thought it’d be only fair. But it’s checkmate now.”

And the smile on his mask seems to grow.

#mcyt #dsmp #dream smp #dsmp fic #wilbur soot #philza #ranboo #dreamwastaken #/rp #cat writes fic #long post #i am currently Not At Home so i was worried i wouldn't be able to post #but here i am!! i did it!! :D #we really are in the endgame now

22 notes · View notes