#meanwhile chip would push down those feelings like he's done with literally everything else that's bothered him. and be so shocked

[wings-of-flying]

y'all fncers are kidding yourselves if you think there's any universe in which chip makes the first move. no shot. no way. the guy who represses his emotions? bullshit. whereas gillion 'you upset me so let's duel about it' tidestrider? come on. it just makes sense

[omg-imagine]

All We Are

Pairing: Johnny Silverhand x female!V

Summary: V is jealous after Johnny’s date with Rogue, which leads to an honest discussion about where they both stand.

Words: 1.7k

Warning: spoilers for Blistering Love side job, a little angst

A/N: Requested by an anon. This may be a bit different than what you were expecting, but I was in the feels™. Hope you still enjoy :)

Also, can we please talk about how adorable he looks in the gif?? 

The long drive back to the apartment was silent; the utter stillness in the car weighs heavily on V’s mind. Hands gripping tight on the steering wheel, she tries to ignore this unsettling ache she has, not allowing even an ounce of thought to pass. Though she chalks it off as a side effect of the pseudoendotrizine, this strange, hollow feeling of hers continues to stir deep inside, burning, burning and burning.

And so, she switches on the radio and focuses ahead on the stretch of road winding down the North Oak hills, the approaching lights of Night City glowing brighter against the inky skies. A fresh breeze flows into the open windows, dulling the tension for a moment.

A moment of tranquility that ends far too soon, yet it was a moment V’s at least grateful to have.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Johnny points out, the gruff baritone of his voice piercing the air. “An enny for your thoughts?”

Kicking his feet up on the dashboard, his aviators glint in the silver moonlight, making him appear impossibly more obnoxious than he usually is. He acts as if he’s not aware of the recent thoughts plaguing V’s head, but perhaps that truly was the case. If it were, then she would be surprised— Johnny often invades her mind, poking and prodding at things he shouldn’t be. For a while, she assumes he knows.

“Just tired,” V replies monotonously. Her answer was far from a lie; she really was tired. Exhausted, even. All she wants is to collapse into bed, pass out, and hope that for a few short hours, she can forget about today, about everything.

“Huh,” he breathes out, and V spares him not a single glance. “Pretty sure somethin’ was up. You’ve been actin’ weird since we left the drive-in.”

A chuckle rumbles through her chest. V still finds it unusual for Johnny to act so… concerned. Almost caring, if she had to be honest. She’s noticed a change in him recently, which became apparent after their conversation in the oil fields. He’s a lot softer now, sometimes sweet, both in his own unique way, of course. As if his rough edges were slightly smoothed out with sandpaper, enough that they no longer cut and make her bleed.

V would often catch him staring when he thinks she’s not looking. She also doesn’t fail to miss the small smile that creeps across his face as she talks. And in those passing seconds that lasts an eternity when the relic malfunctions, Johnny was there to offer her comfort. He’d kneel down to the ground while she coils in agony, whispering promises that this will all be over soon. That one way or another, they would get rid of that goddamn chip slotted in V’s head and ultimately save her life.

Life. Life has a funny way of unraveling itself. Fuck, this all seems like a cruel joke the universe is playing on V. Fate is rarely kind to her, a sad fact she’s accepted over the years. Never would she have imagined that after experiencing the pain of heartbreak and loss, she’d find herself falling for someone at the worst possible time.

And that someone is the imprisoned digital ghost of a rockerboy-turned-terrorist studying her from the passenger seat.

But V’s adamant in denying it. Her life was too fucking complicated for this right now.

“Are you capable of shutting the fuck up for two seconds?” V bitterly snaps, the hands on the wheel clenching stiffly as her jaw. “You got what you wanted tonight. Finally got your dick wet after fifty years, so leave me the hell alone, would’ya?!”

She doesn’t mean to act on her muted anger, but it manages to get the best of her. V knows why, and because of it, she crumbles. She crumbles like the walls she’s built around herself. Like the facade she’s been hiding behind for the past couple of months. Because underneath the dirt and grime, V was just a poor, tragic soul, more worried about losing the man she couldn’t have than her awaiting death.

“Really think that’s what happened?” Johnny asks, pushing his shades up to his head as he shifts to sit up straight in his seat.

V grits her teeth, eyes remaining locked on the road. She had woken up an hour or two after Johnny took over, finding her lips still warm, still swollen. Her hair was tousled, and she had been stripped off of most of her clothes; the scent of Rogue’s perfume lingering on her skin. She didn’t need him to recount; it was all clear to her what had transpired. It was what she agreed on to make him happy, a date with the Afterlife fixer and whatever it could lead up to.

In the end, V regretted it, not because Johnny used her body to sleep with someone. But because even after the rollercoaster ride, the dog tags, the private concerts, and the heart-to-heart they had at his gravesite, she still wasn’t his. He was too hung up over Rogue, and she couldn’t blame him. Having shared a lengthy history, there was no doubt Johnny wouldn’t snatch up the opportunity to win her back.

But then where does that leave V?

“The fuck is wrong, V? Don’t make me figure it out by myself.”

Biting the edge of her lip, she ignores Johnny’s latest question and contemplates swallowing an omega blocker. She doesn’t even care that he’s threatening to search for the truth without her permission. Choosing not to do so, he keeps pressing on regardless, and V was getting pissed off. When he doesn’t stop, she loses her temper and slams on the brakes, the Porsche coming to a screeching halt on a dead street.

Huffing, V pulls over to the side, shutting the car’s engine as Johnny is left bewildered by her actions. Peace and quiet. She yearns for peace and quiet, and the pills would do the trick in an instant. Her hand reaches for the bottle in her jacket pocket, the pounding of her heart echoing in her ears. Popping the cap open, she turns her head to the side, unable to help herself. She sees the tenderness etched in his features, a wordless plea shining in his dark eyes.

“V… Tell me.”

V’s gaze slowly falters, her consciousness at war with itself. The storm of anger in her calms, yet she needs to know what her next move is. She’s always been terrible at this sort of thing, dealing with her feelings and shit. Growing up in the streets of Heywood, she’s learned how to shut people out and keep them out. Biggest rule she had imposed on herself was to never, ever fall for a choom, but this time was different. Despite him being a mere figment of her imagination, she feels safe around Johnny, appreciated and content. The two understand each other on a level nobody else has done. They’ve been through literal hell and would only sink further into it to find a way to survive.

A chrome palm comes to rest on V’s cheek, the sensation oddly warm, oddly familiar. Her attention flickers back to Johnny as he strokes her weary face. His touch was delicate, movements careful and controlled. He treats her as if she were porcelain, afraid that his metal hand would cause her to crack. V exhales deeply, relishing the feeling she’s longed from the moment she had broken that dumb rule of hers.

“Go ahead,” she mumbles, giving Johnny consent for him to read her mind. It only takes a second, maybe even less. V half expects his shit-eating grin to make its appearance. She couldn’t forget how cocky he was, and she thought this would certainly rub his ego.

It never comes. Instead, Johnny’s lips turn up into a genuine smile, one softer than the way his black hair falls to frame his face. V swears she was floating; this doesn’t feel all that real to her. It couldn’t be real. But as the first faint slivers of sunlight appear on the horizon, she starts to believe that she isn’t dreaming nor hallucinating. She was still very much wide awake.

“Didn’t know you were the jealous type,” Johnny quips as he leans closer. “You had no reason to be jealous, princess.”

“Why not?”

“Nothin’ happen between Rogue and me,” he clarifies, his fingers pushing back her locks. “Yeah, we made out a little, but I couldn’t go through with it. Wanna know why?”

V nods.

“’Cause I realized that ship sailed a long time ago. We’re too different people now; she’s got her own life, while I got mine sittin’ right here.”

“Johnny…” she murmurs his name as he brings up his other hand to cradle her face. “I wanted to have what you and Rogue had, minus the shitty things you did. But I could feel how much you loved her, how you basically worshipped the ground she walked on. Then I thought, can’t compete with her. She’s a livin’ legend, a badass. Meanwhile, I could be dead the next minute or two, either by this fuckin’ relic or a bullet.”

“Trust me, V, you wouldn’t want that,” Johnny returns, resting his forehead against hers. How could he feel so real? “What you and I have is special. Ain’t felt this way before, not even with Rogue or Alt. Like I said, you’re the fuckin’ closest to me. These feelings you’re afraid of? Shit, I have them too, and I’m fuckin’ terrified. But knowing that you’re here and we both share them, it makes things a lot less scary.”

“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

Johnny laughs softly. “Gotta spell it out for ya, huh? Well then, here it goes; V, I love you. I don’t throw that word around randomly, but know that it’s what I feel whenever I think of you.”

V doesn’t waste a second longer. Her lips meet his for a kiss that is gentle and bruising, all at once. They hold one another close, their grasps taut so that the other wouldn’t slip away, not wanting to lose what they’ve gained. Time goes by, ticking in the background as they kiss again and again, but to them, it’s slow, nearly everlasting.

And when it was over, when they finally had to part, they were breathless, panting.

“Love you too, Johnny,” she murmurs into his skin, tone dripping with affection as he hums in response.

Night melds into day, and the city comes back to its fullest life. V kisses Johnny a final time before driving back to the place she calls home, even though she’s found her true one in his heart.

—

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Johnny Silverhand Tags: @silverse​ @overheardatthecontinental​ @meshlababy​ @ataraxydreams​ @ineedpeetalikehekneadsbread​​ @savsselfinserts​ @the-bottom-of-the-abyss​ @donakamark

*If you would like to be added to the taglist, feel free to send me an ask or DM!

[emachinescat]

And That Would Be Enough

A Merlin Fan-Fiction

by @emachinescat

@febuwhump day 27 - “I wish I had never given you a chance”

Summary: In a moment of grief, Arthur says something to his newly appointed Court Sorcerer that he instantly regrets. 

Characters: Merlin, Arthur

Words: 2,752

TW: None

Note: Emotional whump is still whump, right? :) This was written while sick, and I didn't have time to edit, so please bear with me if there are any mistakes. I will go back and edit after posting; I'm on a bit of a time crunch. This takes place in an AU Camelot where Arthur lives, the knights are all alive, and Merlin is made Arthur's court sorcerer.

Keep reading here, or on AO3!

If you enjoy, please consider liking, commenting, or re-blogging, and you can follow me for more content like this! :)

Words are powerful things.  As king of Camelot, Arthur Pendragon knew very well how a few simple words had the power to heal or to destroy, to build or to tear down, to foster friendship or feed hatred.  He had seen words ruin lives, give hope, change the course of entire nations.  His own words had impacted his kingdom and the people around him in unprecedented ways. 

The words of a king held the potential for great and terrible things, which was why Arthur always chose his words as king so carefully.  The words of a grieving friend had just as much power for making or breaking a world, if not more so – and despite all his diplomacy, all of his training, the king of Camelot still struggled to choose his words wisely when he was hurting, particularly when he was speaking to those closest to him.  Perhaps that is the way of humanity – we allow our naturally self-destructive nature to chip away at the relationships and people that mean the most to us, and sometimes, when life spins too far out of our control, we snap, and words that we do not mean, never would mean, come flying out like an arrow from a ranger’s bow, aimed straight for the hearts of our dearest friends.

Now, Arthur Pendragon’s words had changed no one’s life more completely than his former manservant, Merlin’s.  Just a week ago, Arthur’s lips had formed the words in front of his court and Camelot that Merlin was not only to be a freeman of Camelot, but that magic was legal in the kingdom after over twenty-five years of fear and hatred for peaceful magic users, and that it was Merlin, his new Court Sorcerer, who would oversee the magical protection of Camelot, and who would ensure that magic was only used for good.  Arthur would never forget the disbelieving joy shining in Merlin’s eyes in that moment as he gazed out upon the home that finally accepted him, looked at his king and saw nothing but pride and friendship in his gaze where he had once feared fear and judgment.  It had been a staggering moment for Arthur, that weighty realization that Merlin had truly lived his life in fear of being killed because of how he was born, that the king was now witnessing a soul set free and the beginning of a new era.  Never, he told himself as he watched his Court Sorcerer wave tentatively to the gathered crowd, would he allow Merlin to go back to feeling like he was a mistake, like he was a monster, like he wasn’t enough.

He meant that oath when he made it to himself.  Unfortunately, tragedy has a way of taking our promises, even the most sacred ones, and stripping them from us like bark from a tree.  Pain and loss break us down and force us to our knees and pull hurtful words from the pits of our pain and we throw them around at those who want nothing more than to help us.  

The attack on the patrol had been unexpected and brutal.  For the first time, king and warlock had fought openly, side by side, and Arthur saw yet again how powerful his clumsy friend truly was, and his heart swelled with pride and love for the man who had stood so loyally by his side for so long.  Merlin protected his king and the knights diligently, but as so often happens in any battle, someone strayed too far from the group and fell through the cracks.  Merlin tried to save Sir Arnold, a young knight who Arthur had personally scouted, recruited, and trained as part of his initiative to bring in more loyal and talented men regardless of nobility.  Arnold had been a farmer’s son from a small village on the outskirts of Camelot, and he was a natural fighter, a brave, selfless young man who had wormed his way into the hearts of Arthur and his men.  

He was only twenty years old when he was killed in the senseless, stupid bandit attack, and though Arthur had seen Merlin fight, watched the pain at the loss fill his eyes the moment that Arnold fell, the king’s grief and loss shrouded his vision and he lashed out after the battle at the only person who might have been powerful enough to stop it and hadn’t.  He knew that Merlin had done everything he had to protect all of them, and knew that Merlin too had been close to the young knight, who had thought magic was the most amazing art in the five kingdoms and had followed Merlin around like a loyal pup, bright eyes alight for more displays of magic.  And yet, despite knowing this, Arthur’s words careened out of his grasp in his shock and pain, and he said words to Merlin that took everything his closest friend held dear and smashed it to a million pieces.  Never had Arthur regretted words he had spoken so desperately the second they left his tongue.

“I wish I had never given you a chance!  What’s the point of your magic, Merlin, if you can’t keep the people who trust in you alive?  Arnold trusted that you would keep him safe, and you let him down.  You failed him.  Maybe my father was right.  Maybe magic’s more trouble than it’s worth!”

He didn’t mean a word of it, of course.  But Arthur had just watched a young man who had had so much potential die before his eyes, cut down by a bandit’s sword – a weapon normally so useless in the face of magic.  Grief had sunk its raking claws into his flesh and spit vile lies into his ears, and he lashed out at the person who had just saved his life, and everyone else’s – Gwaine’s, Elyan’s, Lancelot’s, Percival’s, Leon’s, Arthur’s lives.  One person had gotten himself into danger that even Merlin hadn’t been fast enough to stop.  And yet, instead of focusing on the fact that Merlin had saved everyone else, instead of thinking about how Merlin would already feel guilty and devastated at his perceived failure, Arthur allowed his emotions to twist his words into something to harm, not to heal, and he watched with horror as Merlin’s tentative grasp on control and self-worth crumpled with his face.

Arthur could feel the glares of his knights on him the moment the words escaped, but he had eyes only for his Court Sorcerer, who was backing away with a horrible, broken look in his eyes.  Arthur reached out a hand as if trying to grab the hurtful things he had said, as if trying to snatch them back.  But it was too late, and he lowered his hand.  “Merlin, I–”

Merlin shook his head, and Arthur could see him trembling.  “I’m sorry, Sire,” the sorcerer said, then he turned and disappeared, quite literally, into thin air.  Arthur knew he wouldn’t be far – he wouldn’t leave them unprotected, but decided to give Merlin time before he pursued this again.  Meanwhile, he knew, his knights would not be pleased with him, and as he predicted, they made no attempt to hide their disapproval for his treatment of his closest friend.  Arthur carried Sir Arnold’s body on his own horse, and the ride back to the citadel was passed in solemn silence.

Arthur dearly missed Merlin’s company during the short but hard ride home.

***

That evening, after Arthur had personally spoken to Arnold’s poor father, had somehow found it within him to give him the news that no parent ever wanted to hear, Arthur found himself on The Balcony – the one that his father, and now Arthur himself, used to look out upon his kingdom and address his people.

For a while, he just gazed out at the citadel, at the manifestation of all that his father before him, and then he himself, with Gwen and Merlin and his knights by his sides, had built and refined.  After a while, he realized that he was no longer alone, though he could see or hear no one.  

“I can tell you’re there, Merlin,” the king said heavily.

Merlin shimmered into view to Arthur’s left.  The king glanced over, slightly amused, mostly proud, to see that Merlin had unconsciously adopted the same stance as his king – spine erect, hands folded and forearms resting on the railing, chin high and face set firm.  In that moment, Arthur felt power and nobility radiating off of the sorcerer more acutely than he ever had before.  For the first time, perhaps, he could truly feel the weight of the destiny Merlin had told him about, see the prophesied warlock Emrys stand tall with the world placed squarely on his shoulders.  Arthur felt an aching desire to take some of that weight from his friend and bear it on his own back.

Instead, because it was the only way he knew how to deal with his emotions and affection for his former servant, Arthur complained.  “It’s freaky that you can do that, you know.”

“Do what?”

“Turn yourself invisible.  Are you sure it’s a power you can use responsibly?”

He imagined an amused smirk on Merlin’s lips, but when he glanced over at his friend, the warlock’s face had not changed; it seemed to have been carved from stone.

And so Arthur pushed back his fear and discomfort and grief and pain and said what he truly needed to say, despite how uncomfortable it was, despite how much he felt that he had no right to even speak to Merlin in that moment, let alone request his forgiveness, his friendship.  “I cannot express how sorry I am for what I said to you today.”

This time, Merlin shrugged – Arthur caught the motion in the corner of his eye.  “You spoke the truth, Sire.”

Arthur really hated it when Merlin called him Sire .  

“No, I didn’t,” the king insisted, and when Merlin continued to stare forward, he couldn’t help himself – couldn’t stand to see Merlin shouldering a blame and a pain that Arthur had helped put there, had encouraged with thoughtless words and his own misplaced grief.  He reached out, grabbed Merlin by the shoulders, and spun him around so they were facing one another.  Merlin looked up at him, and Arthur saw why Merlin had refused to look at him.  

He was crying.

Arthur let go of his friend’s thin frame so abruptly it was as if he had been burned.  “Gods, Merlin, I’m sorry.  I had no right – no right – to make you feel like Arnold’s death was your fault.”

A tear crawled down Merlin’s face, caught on the edge of his cheekbone, and hovered there for a moment that spanned eternity.  Finally, it plunged, disappearing into the neckerchief that Merlin had insisted he keep wearing despite his new and improved title.  

“You made yourself very clear,” the warlock said in the most measured voice he could muster.  Anyone other than Arthur might have been fooled by the stoicism, but the king, who had known Merlin for so long and been through so much with him, heard the tiniest of tremors and could not recall a time that he hated himself more than this.  “And anyway,” Merlin continued.  “You were right.”  He spread his hands out wide, and magic, cerulean sparks of light that Arthur had come to associate with everything good that Merlin was, sprang to life between them.  As the king watched, the color changed from blue to purple to a dark, blood red.  “What is the point of my power if it can’t protect everyone ?”

Arthur, having been reminded so fully the power of words, chose his next ones very carefully.  “No one,” he said slowly, “not even the great Emrys , not even my oldest, dearest friend, can take care of everyone all the time.”

Another tear rambled down Merlin’s cheek, curled around his trembling chin before dropping off to join the first.  “But you were right, Arthur.  Arnold – he trusted me.”

“And he was right to.”  Arthur put every ounce of conviction he possessed into his assurance.  “I saw what happened, Merlin.  The moment he was hit, you were protecting Gwaine from a surprise attack from behind.  Your back was turned at just the wrong moment.  Arnold had wandered out of your line of sight, as well.  And you did everything to save him when he went down.”

“It wasn’t enough.”

“Sometimes our best isn’t enough,” Arthur reminded Merlin.  “But we have to make it enough.  We have to understand that even if we can’t protect everyone all the time, that we ourselves are still enough.  As long as we try , it has to be enough.”

“Well, it’s not.”

“I know.”

They stood in silence, and they grieved their fallen friend.  Somewhere along the way, Arthur’s hand found its way onto the back of Merlin’s neck, and without either of them realizing it was happening, the king pulled his dear friend into an embrace, and together they wept for the good man that had been lost.

When Merlin finally drew away, his eyes red and puffy – Arthur knew his own must look the same – he managed a shaky smile that didn’t reach his eyes, but Arthur knew that for now, it would have to be enough.  “I know you didn’t mean what you said,” the warlock acknowledged.  

“But it still hurt you,” Arthur observed.  Merlin dropped his eyes.  

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does .  Merlin, I would be dead a million times over if it weren’t for you.  So would the knights.  But – but , that does not mean that if something happens to one of us that you failed.  You may be magic itself, but you’re still only one person.”

“Technically, I’m two,” Merlin argued miserably.  “And Emrys is supposed to keep everyone safe.”

Arthur studied his friend in the moonlight, then patted him kindly on the back.  “When I look at you, whether you’re doing powerful magic or tripping over a blade of grass, I don’t see Emrys and Merlin – I just see you .  And you keep me safe, you always have.  You do your job, and you do it well, Merlin.  Sometimes, people are lost, and it hurts .  But the only person you have control over is yourself.  Something I have had to learn the hard way as king is that you can’t always keep everyone safe.  You just have to do your best.”

Merlin sniffled, and he now looked like a lost child rather than a powerful sorcerer.  When he spoke, his voice was thin, weak.  “Do you still wish you’d never given me a chance?”

The question, asked sincerely, struck Arthur in the heart like an assassin’s blade.  “I never should have said that,” he said earnestly.  “And I know that I hurt you, and that you will spend years fighting those words said in a moment of pain, but I promise you that I will not rest until I have convinced you of the truth – that I have never been happier, or more proud, to have you by my side, old friend.  I’m delighted to have given you – and your magic, and our destiny – a chance.”

“Maybe you have the makings of a great king, after all,” Merlin joked, and this time, the tiniest of smiles glinted in his eyes.  He added mischievously, “Tell anyone I said that, and I’ll turn you into a toad.”

Arthur smirked.  “I don’t know, Merlin – maybe being a toad would be easier than all of this.”

They sobered at the collective thought of the friend they had lost.  Merlin scrubbed his face with the back of his hand.  After a moment of subdued silence, he took up the olive branch his king had offered him and joked, “But just think about how many things would want to kill you if you were a toad.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow.  “And that’s different than now because…?”

Merlin gave a curt nod as the two, in some unspoken agreement, turned and began to make their way back into the castle.  “Fair point.”

“Either way, though,” Arthur pressed, jabbing his elbow playfully into Merlin’s side, “I’d have you to protect me, right?”

Merlin took far too long to think about his answer.

“Merlin!”

“It’s just I’m not too fond of toads,” Merlin admitted.

“Merlin!”

And side by side, king and warlock made their way through the grief and uncertainty and guilt and hurt the way they always did –

Together.

[lefaystrent]

Chaotic!Remus somehow switched Patton and Logan's aspects. Something happened and now logan as morality is breaking down sobbing and can't figure out why. Patton hasn't noticed anything other than super genius (he thinks he's a super hero now)

Logan felt a whoosh gothrough him.

It almost felt like wind, but therewas no breeze to be accounted for. Breezes didn’t exist in the mindscape. But somethinghad passed through Logan.

Logan paused to contemplate.

Nothing else happened so he resumedmaking his sandwich.

He was alone in the kitchen, preparinghis brain food. Just a sandwich and chips, nothing extravagant. It was only lunchtime after all. So he poured some chips from the bag onto the plate and—

One of the chips.

They fell to the floor.

Logan watched horror-struck as thepotato chip bounced off the edge of the plate, slid off the counter, andclattered to the floor.

It was like watching glass shatter.

Or seeing a dog wander into theroad and a car was going too fast and—

The bag of chips rumpled softly asLogan dropped it onto the counter.

He kneeled on the ground, but itwas already too late. The chip was dirty, and there were so many germs on the floor.This chip was inedible.

Logan could feel the loss of whatcould have been swell up in his chest and burst forth from his eyes. Overwhelmed,he dissolved into sobs.

“Logan! You’ll never guess whathappened! I’m a superhero now—wait, what’s going on?”

Patton had slid into view in hiscat onesie. He’d been excited before, but now his head cocked to the side as hewatched Logan bawl on the floor.

Logan pointed to the fallen chip.

“My chip!” Logan sniffled. “Itfell!”

“Oh, that’s sad,” Patton said, butit lacked his usual extra empathetic behavior. He shrugged. “It’s not the endof the world though, kiddo. It’s just a chip. It doesn’t really make sense tocry about it.”

“But I was going to eat it!” Logantearfully explained. In the back of his head, he noticed that his response wasincredibly out of line for his typical stoic behavior; Patton was right, itdidn’t make sense to cry about one chip. But he just couldn’t help it. “Now Ican’t eat it. Do you know how many germs collect on a kitchen floor? Too manyto risk!”

Patton put a hand to his chin inthe classic ‘thinker’ pose. “There are more chips though. There’s a whole bagon the counter. You could eat those.”

“I DON’T WANT THOSE! I WANTED THISONE!”

“Yikes.”

Virgil appeared suddenly as heoften did. He stood between them in the kitchen, headphones on his head. Hepushed them down around his neck.

“I could feel the angst-fest allthe way from my room. What’s up?”

“Logan’s throwing a childishtantrum because he formed an emotional attachment to a single chip.”

“I LOVED THAT CHIP!”

Virgil’s eyes bulged in that waythat said, “This is not the kind of mind-fuckery I signed up for.”

“I—….what?” Virgil asked, trying toprocess just what was happening. Patton was calling people childish? Logan wasprofessing his love for potato chips and crying? Wait, since when did Logan cry?

Patton sighed and shook his head. “Honestly,there’s no need to cause this much of a fuss. If you can’t bring yourself toeat any of the chips in this bag, I’m sure our budget will allow for us topurchase more from the store.”

“I’LL NEVER LOVE ANOTHER CHIP LIKETHIS ONE!” Logan whimpered. Like literally whimpered. Virgil’s jaw dropped.

Patton raised an eyebrow and shareda look with Virgil. “See what I’ve been putting up with?”

Okay, never mind the absolutelybaffling notion of Logan crying over anything. Since when did Pattonjust brush off people crying? Or look down on people like they were silly or stupid?He was acting more like Logan than even Logan was.

Wait…

Virgil looked at Logan. Logan whowas crying over dropping a chip.

Virgil pointed at Logan and Pattonand kept crossing his arms, trying to illustrate the connection his brain hadcaught on to.

“You…you guys, why are you guysacting like each other? Is this a prank? I don’t like pranks.”

“On the contrary, you enjoyperforming mischievous tricks every Halloween,” Patton corrected.

“That’s different. Also, since whendo you ever say ‘on the contrary’? You’ve literally never said that before inyour life.”

“I seem to have acquired the use ofan expanded vocabulary. Don’t I sound more efficient? At first I thought Imight have discovered a superpower, but now I am considering something morerational.”

“Uh, like how you and Loganobviously swapped places or something?”

“Indeed. We do seem to be actinglike each other. My apologies for the confusion, kiddo. Hm, ‘kiddo’ is an oddway to reference you, now that I think about it. You are clearly a man and nota child. I’ll need to rephrase the way I speak to you.”

Logan grabbed the chip bag from offthe counter and tossed it at Patton. “YOU’RE NOT MY REAL DAD!”

Patton brushed the crumbs off ofhimself. “Rude. Also, true. I am not your dad. I am a side of Thomas.”

Logan pouted, no longer crying butvery much teary-eyed. “I want my real dad back. I don’t like this. Everything’sso much all the time and I hate it. Just make us go back.”

“I wouldn’t be able to do that,” Pattonsaid. He glanced up towards the ceiling in thought. “Perhaps Roman would beable to help?”

Virgil frowned. “I bet he hadsomething to do with this.”

“He is the creative side; although,I do think that is an unfair assessment. Roman is, as they say, a ‘good boy’.”

Virgil wanted to snort. Or maybejust bang his head against the wall from the sheer weirdness of the situation.But the way Patton referred to Roman as being the creative side, it made Virgilremember that Roman was not completely the creative side.

Virgil scowled. “Remus!”

“You rang?” Remus said from rightbehind him.

Virgil jerked away and scuttled to theother side of the kitchen. Remus sat on the kitchen counter, legs crossed and asmile curling his lips.

“No time for chatting. Just changethem back,” Virgil ordered.

“Who said it was me?” Remus gaspedin offense. But the fact that he didn’t even ask about what Virgil meant wascondemning enough.

Virgil crossed his arms and stampedhis foot.

Remus threw up his hands. “Ugh,okay fine! It was me! You’re welcome.”

“I didn’t say thank you.”

“Well you should. I fixed them. SirStick-Up-His-Ass can finally feel~. And Prudey Pants over there won’t beso scandalized every time I open my mouth.”

“Oh no, I am still scandalized,”Patton said, but it sounded off due to the lack of emotion in his tone. “My reactionsare merely reserved.”

Remus blinked at him.

Then he looked to Virgil. “You know,now that he’s a robot, he’s way less fun. I kinda liked it when I made himscream.”

“Dude,” Virgil made a face at Remus’swording. “Just change them back already. They can barely function like this andit’ll only hurt Thomas in the end.”

“Okay, I’ll turn them back.” Remusgrinned like a shark. “But only if you come back to the dark sides.”

“What?! No!”

“Alrighty then. Have fun with Tweedle-Deeand Tweedle-Dumb then! Byeeee!” Remus waved his fingers at him before disappearing.

Logan let out a pained wail. “I’MGONNA BE STUCK LIKE THIS FOREVER!!!”

“Actually, you’ll only be stucklike this for the remainder of Thomas’s life,” Patton corrected.

Logan just cried harder.

“Hmm, it seems I’ve upset him.”

Virgil rubbed tiredly at his face.He blew out a breath. “No need to freak out. We can handle this. Crazy stuffhappens all the time. Just gotta—figure it out.”

“Maybe we should enlist Roman’sassistance like I initially suggested?” Patton said. “Him and his brother haverelatively the same abilities. Just different usage.”

“I’ll try anything at this point,”Virgil grumbled. “Princey! Get your butt in here.”

“Uh, excuse me! I could have beenin an important meeting,” Roman said, rising up into the kitchen.

Virgil raised an eyebrow. “You’re wearinga fuzzy robe and your nails are half done.”

“And who’s fault is it that they’reonly half done?” Roman sassed. “You could have asked nicely for me to… Why isLogan crying on the floor in the fetal position?”

“Early onset midlife crisis.”Patton nodded seriously.

Roman gave him a narrowed-eyed lookand shook his head. “Okay, what did I miss?”

Virgil let it out all in onebreath. “Remus switched Patton and Logan’s personalities or something and nowthey’ve been acting like each other and it’s super creepy and Remus won’tchange them back so can you just change them back already?”

Roman’s eyes went wide in a dawningrealization. “Why didn’t I ever think of that? Switching spots! Oh my gosh,wouldn’t that be such a cool video idea? Think about it—”

“No! No thinking!” Virgil cut himoff, waving his arms in an X motion. “Just change them back!”

Roman glowered at him. “Well youdon’t have to be so pushy about it.” He snapped his fingers

Instantly Logan stopped crying. Hesat up on the floor and wiped at his face. He stared down at his tear stainedhands in awe.

Patton meanwhile hugged himself. “Ithink I just had an out-of-body experience!”

“How cathartic,” Logan mumbled tohimself, still wiping away the tears.

“You’re welcome, now back to my meeting.Byeeee!” Roman sang and sank out.

Virgil leaned against the fridge. “Idon’t get paid enough for this.”

“You don’t get paid at all,” Loganresponded absently.

“Well I should.”

[winterbuckytho]

MEANWHILE, IT’S CALM ⁽ᵖᵃʳᵗ ²⁾ : THE CHERPUMPLE CHALLENGE

Pairing : Recovering!Bucky X Reader

Wordcount : 2395

Warnings : SFW, PTSD, Depression, Fluff…Fluff Everywhere

Plot : A slice of life with Bucky in his current living situation.

A/N : This was going to be the next morning from part 1 but, I decided to cut it to shorten the story trying to figure out if people prefer short or detailed stories. I guess my readers like long stuff so, this is probably the shortest I’ll go. Enjoy!

“Goddammit!” His chrome fist crackled with electricity less than a millimeter from the mirror’s surface and he strained against himself, wanting to punch and knowing it wouldn’t do any good.

“Who the fuck are you?!” He wailed. “What are you?! What are you even doing?! I want my life back, I want my self back!!”

Bucky dropped his arm and grasped the rim of the sink. “Who the fuck am I now?” He questioned the silence.

Ever since coming to in that garage, his head had been just swirling in a vortex of memories. Everything about what happened was awful including the way he now appreciated not knowing, not remembering; just following orders and completing his purpose. He could remember teaching other assassins with confidence, killing with no qualms, accepting their lies for so so long.

When he thought about that feeling after a jolt from the Mind Crown, that fresh, alert, empty blank clean feeling, he felt a vertigo and nausea so strong he spent most of the morning vomiting and wanting to just…be put back to sleep. 

Which made everything worse, considering everything Steve had gone through for him.

He knew that it wasn’t he, himself, Bucky, that had done those things, that he’d literally had no control over his body, But being in the back seating watching it all was so sickening… so many of them had no idea he’d be coming, he has so many memories of ending peoples lives, easily, like flipping a switch and shutting off the lights.

And of all the things they can do now-a-days, time travel is still a no-go, so there was no returning to the Bucky he was before enlisting. He would just have to live with it, live and know he’ll never be that Bucky Barnes again (’…there’s no going back’  a malicious voice in his head whispers, ‘you can’t get it back…’), live with it all inside him, live and carry all the memories with him each day from now until…

“I gotta do this…I gotta do this for him.” Bucky breathed. ’Take deep slow breaths.’ he thought. He closed his eyes and pictured Steve’s honest and beautiful face. That smile that just radiates with joy.

Maybe things can’t be the way they were and maybe they’ll never be perfect. But maybe things can be…ok. If he can push away the dark in his head, focus on that light Steve stands in, focus on the things that light up with positivity around Steve, he’ll never have to be alone with it all and that’s worth something, right?

But Steve is unavailable right now, he’s off doing even more for Bucky, negotiating his return to the US. All Bucky has is Y/N. He gives thanks to goodness for Y/N. You have fun, get along well, you have some much in common in the most unlikely ways, but he always wonders how much of being close to him is too much. Is he making your job harder, do you think of him as a client, a patient, a subject or a friend?

You’re currently lovers and Bucky knows Steve wouldn’t be mad about that. But how much can he depend on you and still call himself a man?

He shakes his head and turns on the water. The last time he made a comment like that around you, you turned on him stridently and said “Hey, you deserve good mental health just like anyone else. Yes, even men need help time to time. I know you grew up in a different time but, all that I’m-so-manly-I-eat-trauma-for-breakfast stuff is only hindering you.”

He’s rinsing his face when you knock on the doorjamb. You came over here because your aware this is one of Buck’s bad days. You’ve known each other a short while, but since you sleep together often you know while he loves sleeping, mornings can be hard for him.

He says it’s like being a tv that’s been turned on with the volume and the brightness all the way up in a dark quiet room. Waking in cryo is different, you drift up instead of off, he explained. The disorientation is so bad some days it takes him about three hours to roll out of bed, groom, eat and all the while having spells of vertigo and nausea.

“Bucky?” You say quiet and reassuring, “I’ve got some ginger tea when your ready.”

The water shuts off and the door opens. His dark hair is a literal bird’s nest of a mess, it looks like he started to comb it then gave up. His almost turquoise eyes are red and puffy. He’s a big man but he somehow crumples into himself when he isn’t feeling well, appearing short an stocky instead of tall and thick with muscle on an athletic frame. Bucky wears a pair of socks, grey lightweight sweatpants, an undershirt and a long sleeved thermal shirt. One of his pant legs is pushed up to his shin and on that same side he’s slowly losing a sock, which is a 1/4 of the way off his foot laying floppily in front of his toes. He’s pale and looks so miserable you could laugh with how much he projects how he feels without words; you’ve never seen anything that needed a hug more.

“Here,” You say, “Come on, let’s go to the kitchen. I want to show you something.”

You push the warm mug into his hands, which he takes eagerly. He’s learned the power ginger has over stomachs and welcomes it. You lead him by the elbow to the kitchen, he slips on to a stool and you walk behind him rub his shoulders lightly in a reassuring gesture. You brush your fingers through his hair loosening tangles and then use the hair tie on your wrist to pull it up into a bun piled on the back of his head.

“Bucky, wanna make a cherpumple today?” You ask, sitting down to your coffee beside him. His accent isn’t too pronounced, but it’s rubbing off on you any way.

He moves his head back just moving his neck, a movement that says ‘Say what!?’

“Make a what-what?” He asks, startled out of his sour mood. He literally can not tell what a cherpumple is or how it’s made. He in fact has never heard the word before now.

You turn around your phone in it’s holder and play the preloaded video. He doesn’t speak the entire time it plays, he just watched the young woman following through her recipe, sometimes shaking his head and sometimes making a closed mouth noise, “Uhnt Uhnt Uhn” that universal sound for 'What a shame’.

When it’s done he sips the hot tea and says, “That’s a terrible mee-mee. I don’t think that joke is funny. People waste so much these days, you guys take all this food for granted, Y/N!” He looks at you with a look in his eye like fatherly disappointment.

You shake your head slowly. “It’s not a prank, Bucky. It’s a real recipe and we are going to make one for Bruce’s birthday party. If we do it now and take it with us–"You start to say.

"Take it in what, a  wheelbarrow? It’s enough cake for 50 people!” Bucky interjects hotly.

You laugh and say “Your exaggerating and it will be for about 30 people.”

“You’re actually serious!?” He almost shouted back.

“Yes!” You say emphatically,“Besides you could stand to do something recreational. It’ll be fun.”

He flashes a charming grin. “Listen sweet pea, all you had to do was ask. My mind may be a little off kilter, but my body don’t quit and there ain’t ever been anythin’ wrong with my libido, baby.” He’s leering a bit and if a modern man tried this it would be disgusting, but this guy…

You roll your eyes and say, “I mean fun outside the bedroom. You know, I’m starting to wonder if this is really because you just don’t know how to cook and don’t want to embarrass yourself.”

When he’s feeling stubborn nothing gives him a boot to the ass like a mild challenge. Sometimes you’re sure he learned it from Steve.

He crooks an eyebrow and says,“I’ll have you know, I can cook and I cook really good. It may have been ladies work to the upper classes but in poverty finding enough food is work for everyone; kids, women, the elderly. Everyone chipped in and yeah, even little boys helped with cooking. I’ll have you know some more, I can cook Spanish, Italian, Jewish, Polish and Irish foods in circles around you. Let’s go to the grocery store!” He’s already rolling up his sleeves.

Bucky’s eyes are sparkling a bit. His color has come back and he seems like he’s broken out of the funk he woke up in. Your heart soars every time you can distract him from the pain he is in. Mostly it’s such a pleasure to be with him, you feel so lucky sometimes that it’s a gift to you to be of help. He makes you feel like such a good person and you love doing the same for him. 

You wish he didn’t need it, that he could wake up and just love himself one day, but you know it doesn’t work that way. He’s got to fight every inch now for everything positive he wants. It’s up to the people in his life to help him equip himself and you’re honored to be one of those people. He’s so beautiful and it hurts your heart that he can’t see it.

“Yeah, let’s cook this monstrosity! I stocked all the ingredients last time I went to the grocery, so what do you say, we’ll put on some music. I promise when you taste it, you love it.” You say with a giggle.

You start laying things out and he just can’t help himself, immediately making comments like “That’s almost the whole dozen!” and “That much cinnamon, how’s that supposed to tasty?!” But then you put on the radio and his mood further shifts from ‘We-can’t-do-this’ to ‘Let’s-do-this!’.

You measure and he mixes, pausing sometimes between ingredients to do a little swing dance move, crossing his right foot behind his left and doing a little twirl in place to the late 70’s tunes coming from the speakers. At one point he threw his hands up and did a little bouncing thrust move to Everybody Dance by Chic. You burst out laughing, you never seen someone this confident in their dance moves.

“What!?” Bucky says smiling, startled out of his groove.

“Nothing!! I’m sorry. It’s just really great seeing this kind of dancing.” You say measuring flour for the next batch of cake batter.

He uses his the back of his hand, silicone spatula still in it, to brush at a spot on his cheek leaving behind a lil’ patch of white there. “Oh, yeah, dancing was a huge past time in those days. There were so many kinds, it was really wild.”

“That’s sounds great. I’ve got a feeling you got a lot of music to catch up on, huh?” You reply helping him pour the spice cake batter over an apple pie in one of the three pans; 1 down, 2 to go.

“Oh, yeah. So far I’ve heard something of Queens of the Stone Age, Nine Inch Nails and Deftones, which, well, I guess you could dance to those but may be a different sort of dancing.” he says flattening the batter over the pie.

You try to imagine Bucky listening to the slightly erotic desert rock of QOTSA and you get images of him pulling some pole dancer-esque Magic Mike moves. You feel three pulse-like throbs below the waist and blush so hard you can feel it making your forehead tingle. You take the bowl and rinse it at the sink so you guys can start mixing the vanilla cake.

You get that one set up with more pauses for dance moves from the both of you and you wash up the measuring and mixing implements getting them ready for the next cake, the white with a cherry pie inside.

You take a quick break between mixing the next cake; he has some more tea and a scone, you have coffee and a cup of yogurt. Before returning to the kitchen you switch up the music going with an instrumental pop Pandora station. Bucky removed his long sleeve and just wears a sleeveless undershirt with his sweats.

The cooking is a bit quieter this time, the two of you enjoying the piano version of Heroes by David Bowie. You find yourself watching his every move at times like these. His strong dexterous hands gently distributing the ingredients as he mixes, the muscles in his neck shoulders and arm flexing and uncoiling smoothly, his other arm, for all it’s fluidity and seamless movement still existing in the uncanny valley, it whirs softly and clicks as metal plates shift and brush each other, the mild attentive look on his face, his bright lovely eyes catching the light, the faint upward tilt to the corners of his mouth.

Once each cake and pie are settled in their pans, you set timers for when the baking should be done and another for when to rotate two cakes from the bottom to the top and you settle in to watch Planet Earth. Bucky falls asleep part way through and you let him snooze whilst checking the cakes till they’re done. When they are, you set them on racks to cool. 

As you do you hear Bucky’s breathing quickening and sharpening: a sure sign he’s having a tough time waking up.

You mute the tv and rush to his side, take his right hand in yours and put your hand to his cheek. In a quiet calm voice you say, “Hey, everything’s ok, take your time. You are safe, there are no threats. You fell asleep watching some nature documentaries. You’ve been sleeping about 25 minutes. You’re lying on the couch in the parlor of your suite in Wakanda. Take a deep breath for me. Do you smell that? It’s the cakes we were baking. Breath slowly and open your eyes when you are ready.”

His breathing slows and he squeezes your hand in his right. He squeezes hard at first, almost on the verge of panic. He takes in your words nodding, still unable to speak. He slowly opens his eyes a little by little taking quick peaks at your face, reassured no one has come to drag him off to the Mind Crown as you’ve learned what the Russian memory erasing device is called. He’s always afraid on waking up that he’ll be there being wiped again and given a new mission that, even if he refuses, his body may just carry out anyway.

He lies quietly just holding your hand, looking around a little then closing his eyes for a few seconds. His grip loosens slowly and he takes in a shuddering long breath.

“Ughk, hate that feeling.” He croaks. Tears squeeze out from under his eyelashes and roll down the creases at the corner of his eyes.

“It’s ok. There’s no right and wrong way to experience trauma and it’s after affects. I’m here for you, so you don’t have to do it alone. Do you need ginger tea?” You respond.

“No, my stomach seems ok. It’s so bright, though.” He says.

You smile a little. “Sorry, Buck. We can’t turn the sun down, but I’ll go draw the shades. Just let yourself adjust here, don’t sit up yet, just ground with your senses for a few minutes, ok?”

“Y/N, thanks. Thanks for your help.” He says, sniffing and clearing his sinuses.

You walk over to the windows and balcony, shutting out some of the light. “Hey, no problem. I am here to help.” You come back to the couch, help him sit up a bit so you can squish in and rest his head on you leg.

“I know. And I think I need so many things, so  m-much help and your job kinda confuses me, how much of this is work to you? How much is us?” He says as he does you can sense him becoming sullen.

“Aww, come on. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to. Yes, some of my work over laps with the things I do for you because I want to. But put it this way, I get my cake and get to eat it, too. They pay me to do what I love.” You say, brushing hair from his squinting eyes.

“Me?” He asks with a little smirk, his voice a little raspy, lifting both arms and wrapping them around your waist in a strange semblance of a hug. If he were standing up he’d be carrying you over his left shoulder as you held on to his head and face with your knees bent behind his head. The image is so silly to you, you smile down at him.

“Yeah, you.” You answer leaning down and kissing him in an upside down and slightly sideways kiss.