#my partner said they cried when they read this and I simultaneously feel horrible and triumphant

[anip-ocs]

A Visit

Short fic below!

TW: Parent death, mild suicide ideation

The sun hung low in the sky, streaks of pink and orange beginning to paint their way across the sky. Darkened silhouettes of large trees blocked out parts of the sky, old branches hanging, craggly with time, above rows and rows of tombstones. The field was silent, save for the quiet footsteps of a visitor. His dark cloak hung around him, dark as if made from the shadows themselves, tattered red converse scuffing against the grass. Across his back, a bow and a quiver of arrows glowed, pulsing with a gentle orange light. Had anyone else been present in the graveyard, they would have easily recognized the hero, Shadow. Though, at the moment, his hood was off, and he didn’t look all too heroic cradling a bouquet of flowers to his chest. Of course, none can be too heroic standing amongst the remnants of the dead. And though he wore his hero attire, Shane Parker wasn’t here to be a hero. He was here to be alone. But not quite alone, all the same.

As he approached his destination, he took a breath, the plastic wrap around the flowers crinkling as he shifted his arms a bit. “Hey, Mom.” he said, his voice so shaky and quiet he himself could barely hear it. He could feel he was about to cry if he stayed a moment longer, but if there was ever a place to cry this was certainly it. “I was in the area, so I thought I’d drop by.” a bit louder this time. He lifted his gaze to look at his mother’s gravestone head on, lifting an arm to wipe at his tears as he tried to smile. “I brought your favorites.” he kneeled down and set the pink and white carnations before the grave, before taking a seat next to it. He wasn’t too embarrassed to admit the grass where he sat was worn away a bit.

A moment of silence hung in the air, as he tried to get a grip on the stuttering in his chest. This was a one-sided conversation between him and the two month old corpse of his mother, and the tiniest part of him felt stupid for almost expecting her to say something, expecting her to sit up and hug him to her and promise everything would be okay. Hell, his mother hadn’t been able to sit up in almost a year now, let alone hug anyone. Now was not the time to be craving something impossible to get.

“...everything seems so weird now, with you gone.” Shane said quietly. “Before, I could… I could keep going because I thought you’d get better someday, and we could be a normal family again, y’know? I think we all were hoping for that. Or maybe I was just naive. But now… its so hard. I mean, i-its always been hard, but everything feels like its piling on.”

He sighed, glancing at the grave, at the stems of the flowers he’d brought. Pink and white.

“...Alice got kicked out of ballet, and it's all my fault. I know you really wanted her to do ballet, and she loves it so much, I just… I couldn’t afford it. Haven’t been able to pay the studio in almost a year now, and they’d let it slide, but…” but enough had been enough, he supposed. But they didn’t have to be so cruel about it, did they?

~~~~ ~~~~ ~~~~ ~~~~

“I-I’m sorry, I can’t pay this month, but I promise--” he stammered out, quiet and weak under the glare of the receptionist.

“What, you ‘promise’ to pay next month? You’ve been singing this song and dance for a year now, and I’m having a hard time believing you!” she said, tapping her pen against the record book with a scowl.

“I know, and I’m sorry, I just--I’m working as hard as I can, but--”

“If you can’t afford dance lessons, then don’t come get dance lessons!”

“If it were just for me, then I’d do it, but it's for Alice, I have to, she--”

“Well, then.” the receptionist’s voice suddenly went cold, her glare icy through her dark-framed glasses. She stood from her desk, the pen clattering to the floor. “I’m officially terminating her lessons with Miss Anne. Starting now.”

It felt like his heart skipped a beat, and for a moment he was frozen as the receptionist came around the other end of the desk and marched for the practice rooms. Then his brain kicked back into gear as he realized what she was about to do. “W-Wait, you can’t!! She has a recital in two weeks, she’s worked so hard, please--!!”

“Oh, the big recital?! Swan Lake?! In order to participate she’d need a new tutu, new slippers, new tights, a new leotard in order to match the other dancers, and you, sir, can’t even afford for her to be here! There’s certainly no way she’s going to ruin the big recital, especially if she should’ve been out of here a year ago!”

“M-Miss Greenwich, please, you have to believe I’m trying--”

Before he could try and get another word in, the receptionist threw open the door to the practice room, three dozen little faces stopping what they were doing to turn and see what was going on one by one. Forcing her way through the sea of children, she picked out a frizzy-haired little girl and grabbed her by the arm. Alice let out a shout as her nails scratched at her arm and she was yanked out of the room.

“What’s going on here, we’re in the middle of--” the ballet instructor began, pausing the music and turning to address the receptionist.

“Alice Parker hasn’t been paying the studio fees in almost a year now, Miss Anne, so her time in this class is over. Hopefully she didn’t have too big of a part, though I can’t imagine she would.” Miss Greenwich barely even turned her head as she continued her way across the room, grabbing Shane by his sleeve and dragging them both out of the dance studio entirely, practically tossing the two onto the sidewalk.

“Miss Greenwich, please--” Shane began, only to be cut off once more.

“You’re lucky I’m not calling the authorities! Your girl’s not welcome in here ever again until you can actually afford tuition, and to repay twelve months of it too! Now get off of our property before I do call the authorities, cheapskate!” and then she slammed the door in their faces, her form walking off through the frosted glass. Shane felt like time had frozen for a moment, his brain still trying to process that that had just happened, until he heard Alice start to cry beside him. He picked her up, and she wrapped her arms around his neck as he carried her back to their beat down pickup truck, her tears beginning to wet his shoulder.

“I’m sorry, Alice.” he mumbled, hugging her tight a moment as a heavy weight bore onto his shoulders.

~~~~ ~~~~ ~~~~ ~~~~

He pulled at the sleeve of his cloak, just thinking about what happened made him feel incredibly… small. “She was heartbroken. But honestly, the only thing worse is that now she feels like she has to worry.” he let out a sigh. “She stopped using the lunch money I gave her… she stopped eating lunch for two weeks before I found out, she said she didn’t want to use up money we need for something else. It’s taken me forever to even convince her that it's okay for her to eat, I don’t know what to do anymore! I’m working as many jobs as I can, but with Disillusions I... “

He laid back in the grass, the bow and arrow fading into sparks of light. “Its… selfish of me, isn’t it. I could be working so much more, but I have to take off to fight villains and monsters and go to team meetings… one of my jobs even threatened to fire me if I took another unauthorized break. I can’t blame them, but I just… Disillusions is one of the only other places I feel like I’m doing something. I could stop, but… I guess I just don’t want to.” he sighed. “Stupid, right?”

Of course, he could get help through Disillusions. Ken was rich, loaded rich--his father owned one of the largest technological corporations on the globe, and sent him $500 allowances that the boy barely used. All he had to do was tell him just how bad the situation really was and Ken was near-guaranteed to throw enough money at the problem to make it not a problem anymore. He’d helped Maddi a ton already, paying to rebuild her entire treehouse home when it was destroyed in a storm and even buying her groceries every other week.

But… he was too afraid to ask. Maybe he was just too prideful to admit that he was struggling, especially to someone who’d been raised in opulent captivity for so long he barely understood what middle class even looked like. Yet… that wasn’t quite it. Honestly? He was just kind of scared of Ken.

It wasn’t hard to be. With his dark black eyes and icy demeanor, most people shied away upon seeing him. Seeing him dressed in a cloak, big angel wings out for all to see, grinning as he sliced the head off the thirtieth little monster that day only solidified the fear. Ken was typically so stoic, it was hard to tell how he felt about… almost anyone. Shane wasn’t even sure if Ken liked him--he didn’t want to ask for help from someone who possibly hated him.

But he did need help. And soon.

“If we could just join the city’s program, that’d make things so much easier, but we can’t. The Independence program only allows one person per home, and Alice is still too young to apply for her own little place through the program. If we want to stay together, we’d have to go to the orphanage… I don’t think I want to do that.” he sighed.

“...I think I’m cursed. Well, I know I’m cursed, but I think it's reaching farther than I thought.” he rested an arm over his eyes and let out yet another sigh. The curse. He’d been cursed with immortality, which gave him an interesting sideset of powers but came with the weight of knowing he’d outlive everyone he’d ever cared for. He’d never imagined he’d lose his mother so soon, but she’d gotten ill and never improved. Only declined. It had started about a year after he’d been cursed in the first place, almost to the day. Since then? It had all gone downhill, until now Shane was struggling to pay utilities on the apartment and everything around him was falling apart.

A fresh set of tears welled up in him, and he wiped at his eyes. “I don’t know if I can do this, Mom…” someone his age was never meant to go through all of this alone--hell, he felt like no one should have to go through all of this at all, let alone on their own. Everything was piling up, and it was a guarantee that the problems would keep piling on his chest as everyone fell around him until he was alone carrying the weight of lifetimes of issues. Part of him wanted to just lay there beside his mother’s grave for eternity, through wind and rain, heat or cold, let himself be buried alongside her until he didn’t have to worry about anything anymore. The life of the dead (or lack thereof) seemed rather peaceful, after all.

But he couldn’t. He had to keep going, if for nothing else, for Alice. He was all she had left, and she desperately needed him to keep going so she could even dare hope for a future of her own. He’d sworn to himself that, if nothing else kept him going, that he’d keep going for his little sister. Even if it meant running on fumes, on bare remnants of energy and self. As long as she stayed happy, he could be a bit happy too.

But he still missed his mother, desperately. It was a constant ache in his chest, like a hand was squeezing at his heart. It sucked the life, the joy out of… everything. The burning determination he felt to care for his sister and those he cared about was nearly swallowed up by a dark void of nothingness. Sometimes he wanted to just fall backwards into it, watch everything fade to black and--

No. He couldn’t think like that. Shane sat up, biting his lip, gripping the grass in hands tight. He had to stick around. He had to. He could grieve, yes, but he had to keep living. Not because he didn’t have much choice, but because he had his reasons to want to. He felt a fire burn in his heart, and knew he could find the strength, the means to go on. His fingertips glowed, orange and hot. If he was strong enough and capable enough to fight hordes of giant monsters, he could find a way out of this mess they were in.

He fought monsters with a team, didn’t he? Maybe what he needed here was a team too. He just had to ask for help. Even if it meant facing down Ken Shinigami himself, he’d do what it takes.

He stood up, turning to face the gravestone again. Aziza Parker, it read, 1978--2019. The doctors had sworn to him that she’d never stopped fighting her illness for even an instant. His mother was headstrong and determined, had been as long as he remembered, and he couldn’t help but feel like she’d just shared a bit of that strength with him. He managed the smallest of smiles, took a deep breath. “Thank you, Mom. I’ll make you proud.”

Then he teleported, vanishing in a flash of orange sparks, bright against the dying light of the sun as the stars began their reign over the sky.

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

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[hunky-dunky]

Helpless

Castiel x Reader

Gif above belongs to subcas

Warning:

Kidnapping, graphic and horrendously realistic depictions of violence and torture -far more graphic than in the show-, gore, various types of assault, bodily fluids, swearing, degrading terms, hospitals, suicide mention

Rating:

18+ for strong language, incredibly intense violence, and brief sexual references.

Pairings:

Castiel x Reader

Platonic Sam x Reader

Platonic Dean x Reader

Important Note:

*Deep sigh* This is a big one, guys. I would just like to start by saying that I am not in any way attempting to portray kidnapping or any of the other mentioned warnings in a romantic way of any kind, or make it seem like it is meant to be taken lightly. And i wholeheartedly apologize for anyone who has been through anything of the sort, I am so sorry people are so cruel. I do also believe these topics can be written about in a respectful or informative way, and can even be used to help cope with situations or relieve stress for readers and writers, or for understanding, education, or I guess in sometimes in certain cases, entertainment. I am only attempting to put a realistic spin on the TV Show Supernatural and use the truth of kidnappings and torture, and write in a way which captures some of the evils of the real world, and that the true monsters can be other people. I’m also testing out different genres. This is much darker than anything I’ve ever written.

I did do some research on this topic before writing, but if anything is incorrect or you think I may be romanticizing something or need to add another warning, please inbox me and let me know.

Please, do not read if you may be harshly upset or distressed by anything mentioned in the warnings. And if you ever need to talk to anybody, my ask box or my messages are always open. Please don’t be afraid to talk to someone.

If you ever feel like you’re in a dark place because of previous situations, here are some phone numbers you can call. Let me know if you think there is something else I should add.

Suicide Prevention: 1-800-273-TALK

Sexual Assault: 1-800-656-4673

It’d been days, I think. No.

Maybe weeks?

Months?

I couldn’t tell anymore, I faded in and out of consciousness frequently, at least I think so. I couldn’t really remember.

The only thing that could maybe tell me how long I’d been here, how long I’d been suffering, was a broken clock on the other side of the room. Hanging on the wall, ticking so slowly that it seemed to not work at all. Maybe it didn’t work. But the faint ticking sound said otherwise.

Or maybe it was perfectly normal, and everything was just moving so slowly in my version of reality. I at some point began to think, maybe that’s why it’s there. 

Maybe it was put there to torture me, and make me question reality. Made me question everything. Made me question if any of this was real, if I was real. Drive me slowly towards my own insanity. Half the time I was in the room, pain all over, the sound of ticking or maybe my own pained sounds and ragged breathing. If it was an especially bad moment, the sound of my own heartbeat.

Surely any creature, no matter what species or kind, no matter how evil, could do this to anyone. It had to be fake.

But I know that’s not true, it’s a demon, right? The most cruel demon I’d ever come across. I’d only heard of such ruthless acts, never experienced. At least I thought it was a demon at first, but I saw no black eyes in all the time they held me. I smelled no sulfur. I saw a passion in their eyes, a cruel and sadistic pleasure taken from the pain I received. I guess maybe that’d be the most dangerous type of creature. Something with a soul, with a horribly sick passion.

Captured, humiliated, tortured, for information I didn’t have. “Where are the Winchesters?” They’d asked, but I did not know. They weren’t demons, why did they want the boys? How did they know who they were, who we are? Hunters  with a thirst for revenge? A reward? Or did they just enjoy causing pain?

I’d gone on a hunt on my own, yet I knew the boys weren’t at The Bunker either. I knew they weren’t, they’d left on a hunt just hours after me. They didn’t say where, or at least not that I’d heard. I found myself sometimes wishing I’d listened to where they said, so I could tell them and make it stop... But I felt guilt whenever I had those thoughts. These people, no -these monsters- -they don’t deserve to be called people- were worse than any being I’d ever run into. I didn’t know if the boys could have even handled them if somehow they did go after them.

But it wasn’t even about answers anymore. It was about something else. Along the way, they definitely learned I had no idea. They just didn’t want to stop. Maybe it was about something else the entire time, and wanting answers was only an excuse.

Castiel, my partner, was supposed to meet me on my hunt at a diner at 8, but I never made it to the location. I don’t think so, at least. I couldn’t remember anything past falling asleep in my motel room for a nap. I’d been driving for hours and hours until I couldn’t even feel the steering wheel in my hands anymore, so I was so relieved to finally arrive, and be able to get some rest before meeting up with Cas. Well, I thought so.

When they took me, they either broke or took my phone, they beat me until I could hardly think anymore. Or at least nothing except for, why? And at that point I couldn’t feel anything except for pain

But they didn’t want to kill me, no, they wouldn’t let me die, they wanted me to hurt. No matter how much I screamed, begged for them to stop, or to kill me, or do something, anything, oh God, help me please.

I screamed until my throat was beyond raw, until I thought my lungs were bleeding.

They were beyond inhumane. In behavior, actions, words... And yet they looked so human. A man, a woman. I was tortured, I was broken, and they enjoyed every second.

And that’s how I was in the position that I was in. For so long, all that I could smell was blood, and hear a deep ringing as well as a constant drip as my blood or whatever else hit the ground. I could barely hold my head up, and I could feel the lack of blood in my hands as they tied me with a rope to a wall, strung up at the wrists, my feet to the floor. It was an almost medieval torture.

I didn’t know what they did to me when I was unconscious, I was briefly thankful and yet simultaneously terrified about that. I tried to block out the thoughts, the ideas, the pain I knew I felt, the bruises on my sides and the pain in my legs, but I tried to pretend I didn’t know or feel a thing because it made it easier to live. As easy as things could possibly be.

But when I was awake, they dragged red heated knives all over my body, blood leaking, dripping, pouring, searing hot pain spreading throughout my entire body as I let out violent screams. And that was only in the beginning. A human being could only take so much. I got weak at some point. I spewed whatever locations to the people I could think of. Random states, cities, anything to get it to stop. But they kept going, they didn’t believe me, or they didn’t care.

I screamed in pain until I couldn’t breathe, until I didn’t have a voice anymore. Until all I could do was let tears stream down my face as my shrieks came out as gasps, or nothing at all. I cried until I didn’t have any tears left and I was left with a headache almost as bad as the pain they made me feel.

I felt pain, such horrible pain as they stuck tiny needles into my body and cut open my skin with shards of broken glass, and whatever else. At the beginning, I had it easy. It began only as stripping me of my clothes as a way to humiliate me. Or something else.... I preferred not to think about that.

Because of the pain, shock, and intense emotions, I ended up with my own vomit all down the front of myself until my insides ached worse than they ever had. Over and over again as the pain only got worse, until I didn’t have anything left to escape my gut except bile. And even then it didnt stop.

I wanted to die. At this point, I was ready to. And I didn’t want to be found like this.

They put a pillow on the wall behind my head, they must have assumed I was getting desperate enough to slam my head against the wall until my heart stopped beating. But at this point, I couldn’t pick my head up anymore anyways. I couldn’t move my fingers, or my arms, or my legs, I could hardly even open my eyes. A combination of being weak from the hell I'd endured, and my eyelids being swollen.

I tried so hard to fight back, to not let them have the satisfaction of taking away whatever I had left, whatever I had left of myself, but I lost it. I lost it. I lost control of functions of my body, of my voice, my organs, my waste. I was a mess of a human being, if you could even call me that anymore. I tried to convince myself that maybe they took care of me, maybe they sprayed me with a hose to clean me, even if the pressure was painful, because I know they cleaned my wounds every now and then, but really I knew it was only enough to make me stop bleeding so I didn’t die so they could keep on with the suffering, and stitched me up with a painfully large needle. They tried to break me in every way they knew how, and it worked.

Their words were cruel too. “The scars are going to cover your face and your body when you heal. If you manage to live, your angel will never want to fuck you again. He’ll just see you as the ugly, pathetic, used whore you are.” But those became compliments in comparison to the other things. I was in candyland if all they did was insult me. But it didn’t stop there.

I could feel the blood and whatever else crusted to my face, to my body. They accomplished what they wanted. I knew it deep down inside, the boys weren’t coming to save me. This world, my world, it doesn’t work that way. I was going to die, I wanted to. But it wouldn’t happen soon enough.

Sometimes the monsters aren’t even monsters. Sometimes they’re other people, with no intention other than to be evil. To make you hurt. To break you down in every way possible.

They say you can die from extreme pain, that your body can get so worked up that you can just die. Your heart can give out, or something like that, I couldn’t remember. 

Why couldn’t I please be given that? The sweet mercy of the end?

Hell would be better than this.

Being kidnapped and tortured wasn’t beautiful. Or romantic.

I wasn’t a damsel in distress.

I was a broken piece of something that used to resemble a person, who now couldn’t breathe properly without wheezing and pain, who couldn’t breathe in through my nose without choking on my own blood.

Everything was dark, all of the time, except for the small dim light on the far side of the room. I could see that much when I could still open my eyes. But at some point, I could just hardly even open my eyes to see what a mess I was. Where I was going to die.

Whatever I did to deserve this, I’m sorry. I found myself thinking that a lot. I just wanted it to be over. Small holes lined my abdomen, scrapes and slices lining my skin. Pain, everywhere. Bruises, blood, and the psychological torture. I think any time I was out with a weakening heartbeat, they shocked me or gave me a shot of something to get me going again. That’s why I couldn’t die.

No reapers came. Nobody came.

Eventually, the captors stopped coming in. I couldn’t even pick up my head, I could feel the broken capillaries in my previously numb hands every time I had a bit of strength to tug at the restraints, I could smell the bile and whatever else coating the floor at my feet, or dripping down the front of my bare, exposed, ruined body.

Nothing was ever like it was now. Not a thing. Nothing had ever been so bad.

I prayed to Cas every single day, and he was nowhere. Maybe he didn’t care. Maybe nobody did, just like they’d told me. Maybe he was dead. Or maybe the place was heavily warded. I didn’t know who these people were, maybe they did have it completely warded inside and out. If they were humans, they sure knew what they were doing. With a plan of breaking another human being.

I hung there for- I don’t even know how long. My head slumped, my stomach had been previously screaming in hunger. But now I was in too much pain, too nauseous. I had no more strength. No more will.

When I finally thought they’d leave me, maybe I could starve silently, I heard it. Footsteps in the distance.

“Not again” my voice cracked, raspy, desperate, tearful, hopeless, and in all honesty I’m unable to even complete my broken statement. I couldn’t even talk. I couldn’t even say those two words. I could feel the pain, but it was dull. Weaker. I was almost numb, in a way. It felt like I was feeling it, but from outside of my body, if that made any sense.

Then, the door popped open. I could slightly hear it over the sound of ringing, and my own heartbeat pumping in my ears.

I couldn’t open my eyes now though. My lids were crusted, or maybe swollen shut.

A pause of silence, and then gently “Oh my God”, but I can’t even think straight to process it much more than the notice of a distance echo in the sound.

Whoever or whatever it is, maybe they can put me out of my misery.

And then they cut the rope at my hands,, and an inhumane and guttural wail that I didn’t know I even had the energy for left me. But I couldn’t feel myself making the sound. I couldn't even tell it was me at first.

The only thing I could feel was an intense pain all through my body, as if every single piece of me was being ripped apart all at once. As if the slight return of blood flow in my hands caused the feelings to return. Caused the nerves to work again.

Whoever held me, bawled as they lifted me, not saying a word and shaking, wrapping me in something. Somebody beside them freaked out, panicking, rushing out words.

“Oh my fucking God, Y/N you’re okay, everything is going to be okay.” The person said shakily. But I couldn’t even process the words. I could barely process the familiarity of the voice I heard.

“Cas! Sam!” Another voice is heard from the hallway. I think it came from the hallway at least. I couldn’t think, hear, or even breathe right, and I was getting weaker.

Is it Dean?

Sam and Dean? Who was holding me? Cas?

Did they finally come?

Broken sobs and shuddering breaths are all I could hear, and then the sound of someone throwing up in a corner, and then nothing except for ringing, as I could for a few seconds feel myself being carried out of the room.

In all of the time I was here, I waited, and waited.

I couldn’t wait anymore.

-

Right, so um... That was definitely the darkest thing I’ve ever written. Would anybody like a part two to this? A conclusion, or maybe make it a series? Let me know.

[justanotherbuckydevotee]

Not The Only Monster

Summary : Sometimes the truth doesn’t set you free -- Bucky x Reader

Warnings : Angst. Talk of murder.

Word Count : 1,204 words.

A/N : Now THIS ONE I’m a bit anxious to share. I knew someone who did this (not literally) and at that time I didn’t think much of it because it’s her decision, and quite frankly I’m neutral about this whole ordeal. I don’t want people to be saying shit to me because of what I think so please… just don’t. If you’re uncomfortable with the issue of babies and abortion please DO NOT read this. I have an alternate ending for this story (that I still have not finished) so if you think the ending is unsatisfying, or it could’ve gone better don’t be afraid to tell me what you think; I value and encourage criticisms of my writings. Again, take note that English is not my first language so any errors that you want to point out, just go ahead and shoot me a message or ask (:

masterlist

There was heaviness in the air between you and Bucky. The both of you had stayed silent, your eyes avoiding his hard gaze as you studied the floor. Your heart was hammering against your chest, the beat banging loudly in your ear.

The conversation the two of you had was still fresh in your head, your last words replaying at the back of your mind.

“You’re not the only monster in the team, Barnes” you chuckled lowly as you recalled the one horrible, sinister act you executed. Your eyes may still be looking at him, but your focus was elsewhere. Even though you were here, in your room at the compound surrounded by your team mates, the danger lurking put off at bay, you could never escape your unforgiving past –because behind these four walls you were left to contemplate on your sins.

“What are you talking about?” he asked as he noticed the way your eyes were void of any emotions. He recognized that look anywhere; you were somewhere else, revisiting a memory and letting the weight take over your being. Bucky placed his hand on your shoulder, and his touch had brought you out of your walk down memory lane.

“Y/N?” he asked, his voice gentle, as if asking a terrified child where their mother was when they got lost.

You began focusing on him, noticing his worried expression. His furrowed eyebrows, the blue in his eyes filled with concern at your sudden change in attitude. He had never seen the walls you carefully built crumble to dust, and it pained him to know that you too had a fair share of a tragic fate. He saw the internal battle you were waging in that very moment. He knew the torn feeling of wanting to divulge a predicament, but also not wanting to be judged by it.

“I killed someone” you finally managed to murmur and your eyes began to water.

At first, Bucky couldn’t understand what you meant –of course you had killed someone. The whole team had killed someone at one point in their lives in order to make the world a better place, ridding of any evil. Then it dawned on him; you weren’t talking about killing the wrong people, you were talking about committing a murder on an innocent life. Suddenly he felt a searing pain where his hand touched your shoulders, and he quickly returned his arm to his side as you looked down the floor.

‘I killed someone’

He wanted to know who, to know why you decided to do so. And you wanted to reveal to him, to finally let someone know about the one thing you were mortified of. But how could you formulate a sentence that would release that burden off of you while simultaneously make him understand why you had done it in the first place? For once you let your emotions get the best of you, and let yourself cry –finally allowing guilt to wash over you.

Bucky heard you sobbing on the edge of your bed, and never had he encountered such a pitiful sight before him. You were letting someone in, allowing them into the deepest and darkest part of your soul. On the outside you were strong, confidence practically running in your veins as you sauntered around the compound with your head held high, but this? This was everything but that person.

You were fragile, and any wrong movement or words he spilled will undoubtedly scare you away.

“You can trust me” he spoke gently, making you cry harder. Inside you were scared, so scared of what he’ll think of you when you reveal to him your most personal issue. Will he ever look at you the same again? Will he tell the others? Will he abandon you too? Mustering all the courage you had left, all the energy that was still in you, you returned to meet him.

“In the Institution” you began, swallowing the lump in your throat before continuing “where I was raised, where I was trained, I was partnered with a guy”. You closed your eyes and inhaled a shaky breath. The secret was at the tip of your tongue, and the courage that you mustered was beginning to waver. “I hated him. He was vile and cruel” you explained, your body now shaking but from what you couldn’t identify.

“He did things to me, things I will never forget” you told him, hoping he knew the ugly truth underneath it. You tore your eyes open when the face of the man you detested came flashing by, his evil smirk plastered on his lips.

“it’s a boy” a doctor announced, holding a baby in their arms. He was crying softly with his tiny hands flailing around, begging to be touched by the warm hands of his mother. “Get it away from me” you screamed, looking at it with disgust. Your partner then came charging in, wrapping his large hands over his son protectively. He looked down at you and said “Don’t worry, my doll. You will learn to love him”, before taking the baby away and leaving you behind.

“I…” you croaked, now unsure on your decision to tell him. Nobody knew of this, not even Natasha. You had kept this side of you hidden deeply inside of you in a vain attempt to forget it. But how could one forget?

“He was just three” you finally confessed, bringing your hands to cover your face, the shame burning your whole existence.

Shocked, horrified, revolted –those were the emotions that whirled inside Bucky when you finally let it out. He was speechless, and your cries the only sound that echoed in your room. He thought HYDRA was cold-blooded, but nothing could be as merciless as to what you had done. He wanted to scream at you and to get away, far away from you as possible because he never thought you would do such a terrible thing. He recoiled, taking a few steps backwards as if the space between you and him was flames.

You heard him retreat, and you knew he was disgusted by you. Who wouldn’t be? You were a monster they let in, disguised in the form of a woman who had skills that were beneficial to their operation.

You cried harder, feeling the consequence of being honest bite you. There was nothing but silence from Bucky’s end and your muffled weeps for a time, and maybe that was what provoked a few hurried knocks at the door. Damn these paper thin walls.

You didn’t even hear the door being torn open as Steve barged in, his worried voice booming from the silence that had plagued you and Bucky. Not wanting to let your secret be told freely while you were here, you ripped your hands from your face, revealing to them your drenched cheeks and reddening eyes, before standing up and running past them.

One of them knew, and that’s all it takes for private information to be turned into public knowledge. You didn’t want to witness these people that you had learned to care, to value, and see them turn against you.

So you did what was rational, and left.

Deserve This -- continuation 

Tagging: @imaginingbucky @avengersnthings @bexboo616 @bucky-plums-barnes (Tell me if you want me to stop tagging you / to tag you).

[mfangeleeta]

Last Call for Vodka Update

Taking a pause from the super fun Some Sort of Au with @beatricethecat2 for my first update to Last Call for 2017. We’ve got a lot going on in this one. m. A one shot in my favorite universe, Somewhere in London, a season 4 cannon divergence, a cannon contemplation in two parts and alternative to the season that dare not speak its name.  This is also based on one of my all time favorite Bjork albums on repeat. Thanks for reading! 

Homogenic

If travel is searching and home what’s been found, I’m not stopping

The prep for assignments was for most the worst part of the job. You would have to study, plan, observe and repeat for months in order for things to go off without a glitch.

Or without you getting caught.

HG stood and stretched her back. She’d been working on an assignment in Peru that Yuri had begrudgingly given her. He had warned that she was too new as a solo act in the business and that this particular target had proved treacherous for the previous two people assigned this job.

One had been killed in action, the other caught and now sat in prison.

Her predecessors, despite their immense skill and experience, had clearly not set themselves up for success.  The terrain was tricky, the locals untrustworthy, and the escape routes extremely limited.

The prep was the worst part for most, for almost all but HG thrived on it. The careful study and observation, sussing out patterns and misdirection.  Finding those locals who could not only be bought but be swayed to her perception.  Creating escape routes where none thought possible.

That was what she enjoyed most, the planning. Execution was just a pull of a trigger or drop of a poison. That was the easiest part of any job. It was everything else that she lived for.

It was almost-almost-as good as an artifact hunt. Prowling the streets of London with Wolly or McShane or Donnelly.  Searching back alleys or roughing up those who weren’t corporative. Almost as good as those days.

But not quite.

Grabbing a water from the fridge she sat back down at her kitchen table. Pictures, maps and blue prints scattered behind her laptop.  Post it notes with comments and observations covering the table.  She touched a key and the computer sprang to life. It looked  as if she’d finally broken through the firewall. Soon she would have access to her target’s travel plans.

Settling in she refocused on the task at hand . Peru. The impossible target.

She was going hunting.

 You don’t have to speak, I feel

She was back, Helena was back from God knows where and Myka didn’t quite know what to do with herself.

There were hugs and some tears and an embarrassing celebration dance by Pete but Myka still couldn’t quite feel like this wasn’t some artifact induced hallucination.

In all of the excitement she’d been able to avoid speaking with Helena for any great length of time.  Despite being a member of two consecutive Warehouses there was still a considerable amount of paper work to complete and the Regents had to meet before everything could become official.

So after a mid morning surprise and a celebratory lunch in Univille, Helena had been whisked away by Artie and Mrs. Fredric and Myka was left to ponder what to do next in Summers 314.

They had never said anything or done anything that indicated that they could be more but Myka knew deep down that no one else ever had made her feel like Helena had.

A simple look would make her breath catch. A simple touch on the shoulder would make her head spin. And when she smiled.

Well, Myka didn’t want to think about those things at work.

 But they had never said or done ANYTHING that indicated they could be more.

 But why would Helena offer to sacrifice herself in the forest? And why did she keep having those horrible nightmares about Helena saving them all while she died in a fire?

For a moment she let herself remember that gut wrench dream and she nearly cried in the middle of the Warehouse.

They had never said or done anything that indicated that they could be more but Myka couldn’t wait any longer to find out.  She had to know.

Tonight after dinner, they would talk.

 I’m a fountain of blood in the shape of a girl

She loved Myka. Despite the darkness and the madness and the unquenchable thirst for the end of all things she loved Myka.  They had never discussed it, only acted on it with a few hasty and stolen kisses while on missions or at the bed and breakfast.

But her empty soul still held one spark of warmth for the thoroughly modern woman who was all that she’d hoped and dreamed for in the bronze.

Love was a distraction. A complication. Something that she was not capable of.

Yet here she was at Charles de Gaulle, the parts of the Minoan trident wrapped and packaged for transport to the Colonies.  She had been researching the most effective location for the strike and the semi-dormant caldera under Yellowstone National Park was perfect.

 She was in love with Myka Bering.

 Frowning, she pulled out her notebook to review her plans and countermeasures. The compact was already on its way to Pete’s paramour as a distraction. Knowing that Myka would never leave her partner in a desperate moment of need, she was sure she would be free to complete her mission. One that she’d dreamt about for over a century.

 The destruction of the world.

She was in love with Myka Bering.

 She had never met another who could challenge her, question her thought process while understanding it simultaneously.  Someone who could keep up with her in all aspects-mental, physical, spiritual-and was a liberated woman, free of familial and romantic entanglement.  Yes, it had taken her a few moments to process that her most beloved author was a woman but once that hurdle was overcome, it had been glorious. Not since her brother had she sparred and analyzed her thought processes for story concepts and the science behind them.

 She must avenge her daughter and reset this Godforsaken world.

She was in love with Myka Bering.

 Baby, you can’t handle love, it’s obvious

She supposed this was the anger part the five stages of grief.  

They had been so carefree, so perfect, so everything that Myka had wanted before Egypt and Yellowstone. For one bright and beautiful moment she’d let herself think of the possibility of forever.

(Well that had been an unmitigated disaster.)

So then she made due with a “consciousness” in what Claudia had called a Pokeball.  Helena in holographic form appearing from time to time to help their little Scooby Gang solve the artifact mystery of the weak.  The Horn had been rough but after than things seemed to settle.

Pete relented in his hatred and Claudia toned down the hero worship.

And you were skilled enough to hide the bitterness and pain that HG Wells brought to your world.

Then Emily Lake and Sykes and “old times” had given you a glimmer of hope.  After much soul searching you’d forgiven Helena of her trespasses because part of you (the incredibly foolish and childish part) had thought there still might be a future.

But as quickly as you’d vanquished Walter Sykes, your artificer had been taken away by the Regents. You knew (because you had pestered) that Artie had pushed for HG’s reinstatement as an Agent but instead she’d been given a special top secret mission.

Fuck all that.

Of course everything became clear thanks to Artie’s brush with madness. How this had been the timeline he’d created thanks to Helena’s ultimate sacrifice that made it possible. How he had changed time to make sure the Warehouse survived.

And how the love of your life had given hers to save you.  At least Artie had been honest about that part.

(And there was not enough time to process how you really felt about that. Jesus Christ on a cracker.)

 But that had been half a year and a lifetime ago. Helena had told you that Nate was an ordinary yet a good man. That Adelaide was a great kid. And that Boone, Wisconsin was where she had felt the most welcome, the most at home in this century.

And you wanted to barf. To punch something. To call Helena on her bullshit.

But you couldn’t because damn it all to hell you still loved her. And knew that at some point she’d realized the gigantic lie she was telling herself.

 Twist your head around, it’s all around you, all is full of love

You looked over at the woman who has captured your soul as you packed up the world you had known in this century.  In a past life you had helped select the very ground that the Warehouse had been built on. And at one point you might have held sway over the first generation of Agents who walked its aisles, but madness and bronze closed that door to you decades ago.

Instead you find yourself guiding a 26 year old in the art of training new Agents as you pack up centuries of history and magic. Given the current political climate in the United States it had been determined that Warehouse 14 was needed. After careful deliberation (and consideration for things such as climate change and population distribution)  Botswana would be its new home. And as with all Warehouse relocations, the home country chose its Agents.

Which left one of the most decorated and most vilified Agents in the history of the Warehouse without employment or a permanent residence. (The Bed and Breakfast would close since Abigail wanted to resume her career in photography.)

Pete and Steve had signed on to train the next generation of the Warehouse. This new world and new location would need the best of the best and the partnership of Latimer and Jinks had proven almost as skilled as Wells and Wolcott.

With far less insanity and time traveling tendencies.

So your main enterprise, the one that had sent you traveling the path of endless wonder. The occupation that had sent you through time both literally and figuratively was over.  There was no more need to traipse across the globe in hunt of curiosities.  

That job was complete and it was on to your most important task next to being a mother.

Loving Myka Bering (now Bering-Wells).

A job that you took far more seriously than any other in the 20th or the 21st century.

 “This is the last of it,” Myka sealed the final box in your shared room.  “Hard to believe our lives are over.”

“Far from it my love,” you smile, “we have just begun.”