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blurredcolour · 10 months ago

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II. "Just Had To Trust You."

"Trust" Series Masterlist

John "Bucky" Egan x WAC!Female Reader

The second half of August brings with it the horrors of the Regensburg/Schweinfurt mission, Bucky's absence in Africa, and two smaller missions in France. With this as the backdrop to your blossoming relationship, the pair of you find creative ways to connect with one another.

Warnings: Language, Alcohol Consumption, Death, Grief, Minor Bucky Injury, Blood, Scars, Minor Reader Injury, Hospital Setting, Inevitable Historical and Military Inaccuracies, Mature/Explicit Themes [thigh riding, inexperienced reader, allusion to male masturbation] - 18+ ONLY.

Author’s Note: Thank you all so much for the warm reception you gave part one. That combined with my evil brain has given us a full series! Just a reminder that reader has been given a brother for sake of plot. This is a work of fiction based off the portrayal by the actors in the Apple TV+ series. I hold nothing but respect for the real life individuals referenced within.

Word Count: 6713

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The day of August 17th dawned so thick with fog, it was difficult to tell it had even dawned at all. The walk from your quarters to the mess and then onto the control tower was fraught with anxiety – the fear that a vehicle might suddenly appear behind you through the milky atmosphere driving you to constantly glance back over your shoulder. Eventually, you decided to walk just alongside the road through the damp grass, listening to it squeak against the leather of your shoes, the only sound around you once you parted ways with your friends.

Cutting across the field in front of the equipment hangar, you gasped as Bucky stepped out of the mists in front of you like some kind of apparition from a ghost story. You gulped harshly at the way your stomach dropped in response to that mental imagery.

“Morning, doll. Seems like someone left the soup on the stove a little too long.”

You managed a chuckle, taking in his flight suit, his life jacket – or Mae West as the boys called them. He was flying today then. “I’m sure it’ll clear up soon, Major Egan.”

His lips twitched fondly, and he stepped closer to murmur in your ear, the fine hairs of his moustache tickling the delicate skin there. “See you in a few days, doll.”

“Take care, Bucky.” You whispered emphatically in return, and he stepped back to reach into his flight bag, producing the book you had lent him.

“I’ll have that answer for you promptly on my return, Lieutenant.”

You grinned softly. “I expect you will, Major.”

You turned to watch him go as he took long, easy strides to join his crew waiting on the truck to be driven out to their plane, disappearing in a swirl of persistent, pervasive fog. “I’ll see you soon.” You murmured after him.

Seven days.

Seven agonizing days of little news and empty skies passed as you impatiently awaited his return. The decision to send the group destined for Regensburg nearly five hours ahead of those bound for Schweinfurt had been catastrophic. It took almost seventy-two hours for the 12th to reach those who had made it to Telergma, and when numbers and names finally made their way back to Thorpe Abbotts, the cost of it all sunk in like a stone.

Rather than wasting the return trip to East Anglia, it was decided the survivors would undertake a retaliatory strike against some Luftwaffe bases in Bordeaux, one more hurdle to clear before they made it back to safety. It was mid-afternoon on August 24th by the time the droning of plane engines filled the air once again. Taking a steadying breath, you grit your teeth and forced yourself to focus on the keys of your typewriter as the brass all hustled outside to count the number of returnees.

‘Please let Bucky be among them. Please let him be unharmed.’ You had closed your eyes briefly to send up your silent prayer before launching back into your work.

It was nearly an hour later when, report finished, you tucked the neatly typed sheets of paper into their folder to deliver to Colonel Harding and stood only to meet the eyes of one Major John Egan through the window overlooking the Operations Room. He looked weary, sunburnt, with cuts and abrasions adorning his face and neck, unsteady on his feet, but nevertheless flashed you a brilliant, devil-may-care smile.

‘Thank you…thank you for bringing him back to me.’

You exhaled deeply for the first time in over a week, the folder nearly slipping from your fingers, contents nearly scattering across the floor. Mercifully, you managed to avoid that outcome, albeit with a fair bit of fumbling, tucking it securely against your side to prevent further mishaps. The next time you looked to Bucky he was smirking at you, eyes twinkling knowingly, before he gestured with his head toward where the washrooms were. Glancing at your colleagues, heads bent diligently over their work, you looked back to him and raised a finger to beg for one moment.

He nodded in silent understanding, sauntering toward the hallway casually. You took a moment before letting your desk mate know you were delivering a file and then taking a bathroom break. She nodded vaguely as you headed across the room to place the folder in the outbox before making your way to the washrooms. Furrowing your brows in confusion as you found the corridor empty, you barely managed to smother your startled cry as Bucky poked his head out of the janitor’s closet and pulled you into the cramped space with him.

“Bucky!” You hissed as he pressed you back against the door, his lips pressing tightly against yours, silencing any further admonishment you might have been able to summon.

Clinging the to straps of his harness, you rocked up onto the balls of your feet, pressing flush against him, a wordless expression of the gratitude you felt for his safe return. He had barely parted his lips when you mirrored the movement, welcoming his tongue with your own. A soft grunt of pleasure left his nose, his fingers digging into your hips tightly. The telltale tinge of copper seeped into the kiss, making you pull back sharply, groping for the pull string on the lightbulb dangling from the ceiling behind him.

You frowned deeply to see his lower lip was oozing blood. “You should go to the hospital, Bucky, you’re still bleeding…”

“M’fine.” He rumbled tiredly, cupping the back of your head gently as his thumb traced your left eyebrow.

You sighed softly, leaning into his touch as your eyes slid closed.

“My definitive answer is Blood Pressure.” He spoke in a hushed tone and your eyes fluttered open in confusion.

“What?”

His other hand left your hip to dig into the pocket of his flight jacket, producing the borrowed book, holding it out to you with a satisfied grin.

“You’ve already read the whole thing again?!” You gasped, eyes wide.

“Couldn’t very well keep you waiting now, could I?” He smirked and stole another kiss.

“I’m going back to my desk and you’re going to the hospital, please?” You looked to him pleadingly.

He sighed heavily. “That look is utterly unfair, doll…particularly in my condition.”

Your lips twitched slightly as you fought the urge to smile, doing your utmost to hold the plaintive expression until he huffed and pressed one last, copper-laced, sloppy kiss on your lips.

“Fine.” He conceded and you pressed your lips to his forehead tenderly.

“Thank you, Bucky.”

Slipping from his arms reluctantly, you peered out into the hallway before making a dash into the washroom, cleaning your face of his blood and tidying your hair and uniform before rushing back to your desk, hoping he would hold up his end of the bargain.

Judging from how well he healed over the next few days, you were fairly convinced he had done as you asked. His lips had healed to their normal supple perfection, though it seemed he would be left with a few scars across his nose, cheek, and forehead. Unfortunately, you had not been able to sneak a moment to confirm if he had indeed gone to visit the hospital or not. When your duties did not occupy you, it seemed that his did and vice versa. Passing glances or encounters while surrounded by colleagues seemed to be all the fates afforded you the rest of the week.

The effect it had on your mood was something that did not escape Mary, Vi, and Ruth – for despite your best efforts to conceal your activities, they had been onto you since you had returned from that eventful trip to the pub.

“We’ll just have to make sure you’re simply irresistible at tonight’s dance, then.” Mary grinned darkly upon your return to your shared quarters that Friday, a dangerous gleam in her eye as she closed in on you with Vi at her elbow.

“Oh yes, Mary, a little feminine revenge ought to remind the Major of his priorities.” She drawled, arms suddenly loaded with supplies – from where they had appeared, you were not entirely sure.

You landed heavily on your bottom upon your cot, staring up at them warily as Ruth laughed from her perch across the way.

“Just give in, darling, it’ll be less painful that way.” Came her friendly advice, though her words did not prove at all true.

There was next to no consideration for your comfort while your hair was combed and restyled, hisses of pain escaping your lips as a plethora of pins scraped along your scalp as they were pushed into place to secure the style they were creating.

“Beauty is pain, darling.” Vi pursed her lips in mock sympathy, but you were altogether relieved when they declared their creation stable and moved onto your makeup.

Somehow, despite their dedication to perfecting your look for the evening, and then freshening up a little themselves, the four of you still managed to arrive at the officer’s club before Bucky and many of the men. Securing a martini and your favorite spot along the wall, you forcefully shooed them off to dance with the early arrivals who quickly approached them. You glass was roughly a third empty when Bucky arrived with his best friend Buck and their tight knit group. All eyes turned toward him, as always, that infectious grin and magnetism making him ever popular.

Now that he had arrived, the party would truly begin. Taking a deep sip of your drink, you nearly choked as his eyes met yours and he made a beeline straight for you. Swallowing roughly, your eyes widened as he plucked the glass from your grasp to set it on a nearby table before holding out his hand to you expectantly.

“I’m not very good at this…” You warned him softly, voice a bit thick from your battle to swallow your drink.

“All you gotta do is hold on, doll, I’ll do the rest.” He winked and wrapped his fingers around yours once you finally set your hand in his.

Leading you onto the dancefloor, he pulled you close, one hand at your waist, the other holding yours out to the side. Bucky grinned at you warmly as he began to lead you across the floor confidently, and you clung to his shoulder, feeling the eyes of almost everyone on you. His actions were so public in contrast to the moments you had shared previously. So very declarative. It took a lot of strength not to hide against his shoulder from all the attention the pair of you were receiving. Even your friends were shooting you grins and nods and little victory signals from behind him.

“You got all dolled up tonight, is there a mission I should know about?” He teased gently, immediately pulling you from your thoughts.

“I was ambushed.” You huffed ruefully.

“Ah, so this mission has already been carried out.” Bucky smirked, lips stretching wider as you laughed softly, relaxing somewhat in his arms as he continued to lead you confidently. “You look gorgeous…can’t wait to get that lipstick all over my face again.” He hummed against your ear, and you smacked his shoulder playfully even as your pulse jumped at your throat, feeling his laughter shake through him.

“I hope I didn’t keep you waiting too long, Kidd thought it was the perfect moment to launch into an excruciating meeting about…well I wasn’t listening, quite honestly.” He smirked, making you shake your head fondly.

“You ought to listen to the man, he is your Air Exec you know…” You teased gently.

He hummed thoughtfully before shaking his head. “I was too busy thinking about how I’d rather be doing this, right here, right now, with you.”

You met his eyes briefly, startled by the transparency of his statement, before glancing away, teeth buried in your lip in a vain attempt to moderate your rapid heartbeat.

Bucky kept you on the dancefloor for at least five more songs, until your feet started to hurt, your legs getting heavy. “Let’s get you another drink.” He kissed your temple and slid his arm around your waist, leading you to the bar. He ordered a whisky for himself and another martini for you, finding a table in the corner and sitting in the chair right beside you. “For someone who claimed to be not very good at dancing, you held your own, doll.”

You smiled at him shyly. “Just had to trust you.” His resulting grin made you bow your head in response to its brilliance, shivering as his hand squeezed your knee beneath the shelter of the tablecloth.

Taking a steadying sip of your drink, you glanced at him through your lashes, biting your lip at his eyes had never left you, his fingers tightening where they still rested over your skirt. You glanced to the side, suddenly afraid you might forget how to breathe under the intensity of his gaze, sucking in a somewhat ragged breath as you watched another couple canoodling in the opposite corner of the room. There was nothing subtle about the way they were pressed against one another, despite the very public place in which they found themselves, and you averted your gaze yet again to watch the bartender mixing drinks as you sipped yours steadily.

The resulting loosening of your muscles as the alcohol reached your extremities gave you the courage to look in Bucky’s direction once more, taking in his profile as he eyed the dancefloor, toe tapping to the beat. His arm was slung over the back of your chair, an action you had no memory of, and he was slouched low in his seat, legs spread wide. His posture was altogether too inviting, and had you gnawing on your lip once more, yet unable to tear your eyes away despite the alarm bells ringing inside your head.

“See something you like, doll?” Bucky’s voice in your ear made you jump. Made you wonder when he had closed the distance.

You hoped, briefly, that the Luftwaffe might indulge you by dropping a bomb directly on your head right then. No such luck. Bucky’s hand slid higher on your leg to squeeze your thigh, forcing you to raise your gaze to meet his. His normally stormy blue eyes were notably darker, pinning you to the spot as his tongue darted out to wet his slightly parted lips.

“Come on.” He spoke suddenly, sliding to his feet and holding out his hand again.

Following him back to the dancefloor, you gasped audibly as he pulled you improperly close, his hand splaying against your lower back as his cheek pressed against yours. “After this song, meet me at our bench. I’ll be five minutes behind you.” His lips brushed against your skin as he spoke, making your feet clumsy.

Bucky simply pulled you closer in response, bearing more of your weight to keep you dancing smoothly as you somehow managed a nod in agreement, heart hammering in your ears. There was no mission tomorrow, the control tower would be relatively quiet, and therefore so would the bench outback where you had shared your conversation about Runyon’s book. As the band wound down their tune, Bucky shuffled the pair of you to the edge of the floor, kissing your cheek softly.

“Goodnight, doll.”

You exhaled shakily, nodding as you mentally reached down to the bottom of your toes to summon your voice. “Night, Bucky.”

He gave you a crooked smile and one more kiss on the cheek before releasing you gently, watching patiently as you lurched into motion, heading toward the door and out into the relatively cooler night air. Making your way along the road, you swallowed back a curse as your eyes met those of your Captain who was standing watch over the route to the women’s quarters.

“Evening, Ma’am.” You saluted quickly.

“Lieutenant.” Captain Miller nodded crisply watching you continue on before you cut around behind the barracks and circled back toward the control tower to meet Bucky.

Due to the necessitated detour, he was already there, waiting, hands on his hips, shoulders slightly raised with tension. You frowned guiltily and crept up to gently set a hand on his arm, feeling him jump.

“Sorry, I had to appease the dragon-lady, she saw me leave and I–”

He nodded once before kissing you fiercely, making you sigh heavily against his lips. Sliding your arms around his neck, you allowed your fingertips to brush against the curls at the nape of his neck. His chest rumbled happily, his tongue tasting so sharply of whisky as it slid along yours that you wondered if he had taken those five extra minutes to have one more drink before following you.

“Thought you’d changed your mind, doll.” He grinned against your lips before he began to nibble along your jaw, sending ripples of gooseflesh down your neck.

“Uh-uh.” You breathed, gripping the skin of his neck as your knees felt about ready to give out.

“Just hold on tight.” He tilted his head to suck at your earlobe, gripping your hips as he slowly sank down to sit on the bench behind him, pulling you with him.

His hands slid further down your legs, guiding them apart to straddle his thigh, pushing your skirt higher to allow you to settle snuggly against his broad quadricep. Your jaw dropped open as your core pressed tightly against him, a mortifying squeak-like sound escaping your throat.

“Yeah?” He smirked, kissing back towards your lips. “Figured by the way you were staring you might want to give it a whirl.”

If you had been able to speak, his mouth would have swallowed any reply that you could have summoned as it sealed tightly over yours once more. As it was, you brain was filled with static like a wireless that could not quite be tuned to a frequency. Your predicament only worsened as his fingers curled into your hips, ever so slowly rocking them forward against him, making you whimper raggedly. The sensation was only outdone by the feeling of him dragging you backward, the friction causing an unspeakable reaction to roll through your body.

“That feel good, doll?” Bucky rasped against your lips, and you nodded rapidly, mewling as he repeated the motion, though you also began to move of your own volition, chasing the feeling needily. “Sorry, didn’t quite catch that.” He teased and you tugged at the hair peaking out the back of his cap.

“Yes!” You gasped sharply before kissing him hungrily, your leg accidentally brushing against the bulge at the apex of his thighs, shuddering at the groan you earned from him in kind.

Perhaps it made you a wicked woman to take satisfaction in giving him pleasure, but it went to your head faster than any martini you had ever consumed. Digging the toes of your shoes into the grass, you shuffled closer to him so your thigh might brush against his length with each of your self-serving motions.

“Christ, doll.” He growled under his breath.

“Feel…good?” You panted teasingly, biting your lip at his ragged laugh.

“People underestimate you at their own goddamn peril.” He nipped at your chin, breath fanning hotly down your neck as you worked your body against his thigh with increasing need. “Try…this…” He grunted and tilted your pelvis forward.

You slumped forward against his chest, mouth gaping in a silent moan at the intense pleasure radiating from the new point of pressure. Legs nearly giving out from the blinding power of it, you were immensely grateful when Bucky obligingly kept on guiding your hips, continuing to pull the strings of tension tighter and tighter within your body.

“B…Bucky…” You gasped against his neck as your thighs began to tremble, on the precipice of something, wondering if this is what it felt like just before a B17 lifted off the runway.

“Go on, doll, it’s gonna be great.” He rumbled, pace not slackening, though his arms must have surely been aching by that point.

Inhaling sharply, you pressed your face tighter to his neck, desperately trying to smother your cry of pleasure as every string of tension snapped inside you with the force and brilliance of a fireworks display on the fourth of July. Melting against him, you were naught but a shuddering mess, underwear ruined, struggling to satisfy your body’s demand for oxygen as you gasped for breath. Bucky’s grip eased on your hips, his hands shifting to caress your back tenderly as he kissed down your temple to your cheek.

“As promised?” He cooed and you shivered at the feeling of his breath against your skin, every sensation still heightened.

“Better.” You licked your lips and dropped your hands to his chest, slowly pushing yourself up to sit properly, shuddering at the pressure against your still throbbing parts.

“Here, doll.” He carefully lifted you up to swing your legs across his lap carefully. “Take it easy.” He kissed your cheek tenderly, squeezing your side.

You sighed softly, swallowing thickly as you lifted your eyes to his. “People underestimate your sweetness at a great loss to themselves, Bucky.” Cupping his cheek, you guided his mouth to yours to place a gentle, appreciative kiss on his lips.

Feeling the curl of his smile, you could not help but echo the expression, breaking the seal of your mouth against his.

“Our little secret.” He teased, voice still raspy.

Hearing the crunch of footsteps on the gravel path leading up to the control tower, you tensed against him, frowning as you became acutely aware of the persistent problem that remained in his trousers.

“We should go.” He whispered and you nodded quickly.

“Sorry you’re still…” You trailed off, sliding onto oddly unstable legs, grateful for his bracing hands on your hips as he rose to his feet.

“Don’t worry about me, doll, I can take care of myself.” He pressed his lips to your ear after uttering his quiet statement, making you swallow almost painfully as your mouth went dry.

You lost all ability to function for a moment, swept up in the lurid possibilities contained in that simple phrase, before the sound of a door opening cut through the night, and your stupor.

“Night.” You whispered sharply before sprinting off towards the barracks, keeping to the edges of the field and hoping to stay out of sight.

Luck, it seemed, was not on your side, as Captain Miller called your name just a few feet shy of your quarters. You had been so very close. Turning quickly to face her, you scrambled for some excuse as to why you were not on the other side of the door behind you.

“Lieutenant, did you get lost on your way over here?” She arched an eyebrow coldly and you had to remind yourself the mechanics involved in a proper breath.

‘Inhale. Pause. Exhale.’

“No, Ma’am, I just…realized when I got back here that Vi had asked me to be sure she didn’t stay out too late, and that I had left without her.”

Captain Miller’s eyes narrowed skeptically. “And where is your Georgian, troublemaking friend now, hmm?”

The lie had come so naturally, had been so plausible, but now that you were wrapped up in it, it felt like it might just drag you down to the bottom like an anchor.

“I’m here, Captain Miller, Ma’am.” Came a cheery call from further up the path, you friend still cloaked by darkness but by some miracle, arriving just in time to save your hide.

An exhale of annoyance escaped Captain Miller’s nostrils as she whipped back to see Vi, arm linked with Ruth’s, sauntering over to your shared quarters.

“Thank you again, darling, for reminding me to come back on time.” She gave you a tremendous, edging on comical, wink and it was all you could do not to grimace.

You may have been off the hook with Captain Miller, but Vi would surely exact a price for this rescue.

“To bed with you all, then, ladies.” Your Captain grunted and the three of you delivered a set of sharp salutes before ducking into your hut quickly.

“All the gory details, now, darling, or Captain Miller will learn just what you’ve been up to, and I’m certain it’s far from innocent.” Vi grinned wickedly as she dragged you to sit on her cot between herself and Ruth.

You were reticent to share the gory details, wanting to keep the taste of him on your lips, the way it felt to be pressed again him, as just yours. But there was a part of you that revelled in the telling of the simplified, polished version of your encounter on the bench behind the control tower the pair of you called ‘yours.’ And it certainly seemed to satisfy your debt, both Ruth and Vi grinning, crowing in glee by the time you got to Vi’s rescue.

“Our darling dark horse, unexpected champion at taming the rogue Major Egan.”

You scoffed and shook your head shyly. “I doubt that I’ve tamed him, Vi…” You protested but she just smirked with a tilt of her head.

“I’m willing to bet money on that fact, but I suppose time will tell.” She winked dramatically and you just rolled your eyes.

Within four days, Bucky was on his way back to France. The target was an aircraft factory in Rouen near Paris. Of those chosen, you undoubtedly preferred the targets closer to England. The flying time was shorter and thereby so was the period of wondering and waiting. Strategically, you absolutely understood the importance of the targets deep in Germany, but if the Regensburg raid had carried any lessons, it was that those targets were invariably the costliest.

Hoping to catch a glimpse of him before he went up, you retraced your steps, following the same path you had on the morning of the seventeenth, cutting in front of the equipment hangar. The feeling of a leather-clad hand seizing yours and tugging you behind the building had you gasping in surprise before you laid eyes on your target, grinning slightly at your success.

“Morning, doll.” Bucky murmured and kissed you quickly.

You allowed his lips to linger on yours for several seconds before pulling back quickly to glance around, checking if you had been spotted. “Be safe up there, Bucky.” You swallowed and he nodded.

“Think you could wear that lipstick again for me later? It sure looked nice all over my neck.” He smirked broadly as your jaw dropped in response, lifting a hand to smack his shoulder.

“Don’t push your luck.” You chided, wagging a finger playfully, and he laughed brightly in reply, lips meeting your cheek before he strolled over to the waiting crew truck.

You watched him go from your obscured vantage point, waiting until the vehicle had pulled away before you turned to continue on your way to your desk.

“Lieutenant?”

You jumped and turned to see the post clerk, Petty, hurrying towards you with a letter in his hand.

“Letter for you, Ma’am.”

“Thank you very much, Sergeant.” You smiled. “Did you manage to get the boys first?” You asked curiously, and he nodded so quickly you were worried his head might fall right off his shoulders.

“Yes Ma’am, got ‘em at breakfast.” His boyish grin of pride was infectious, tugging at the corners of your mouth, briefly easing the tension that seeped into your bones on mission days.

“Well done, Sergeant. Have a good day!” You returned the quick salute he gave you before he hurried on his way, heavy bag hefted over his shoulder.

Glancing over the envelope you swallowed as it appeared to be written in your father’s handwriting rather than your mother’s – unusual. She was often the one to manage the letter writing and mailing process and he would add a paragraph or two depending on what was happening back home that he thought would be of interest to you. Swallowing down your sense of unease, you slid the envelope into your pocket to focus on the mission. The letter had already taken several weeks to reach you, a few more hours would not make any difference.

Shortly after noon, they were already back; Colonel Harding walking past the office muttering about Major Egan’s displeasure in the weather. It seemed only one plane had been able to drop their bombs, and not even on the primary target. Exhaling deeply to hear confirmation of his return, the ever-present feeling of the envelope in your pocket suddenly took on an immense weight. Claiming an upset stomach, which only garnered a knowing grin from your desk mate, you excused yourself to step out back, wandering to the edge of the field to tear into the flap with somewhat savage impatience. Heart in your throat, your shaking fingers pulled the folded paper from within its confines and your eyes began scanning across the page rapidly, your sense of unease cresting like a tidal wave.

I need you to be very brave for me now, dear girl…

Your father’s words blurred in front of your eyes behind a sudden influx of tears. You did not even need to read the rest of the sentence to know. Perhaps you had known all morning – since Petty had set the envelope in your hand. Your brother was gone. Most likely had been for weeks, for all the time it had taken the news to reach you, across one ocean and then another. An agonized sob clawed its way up your throat, and you quickly pressed a hand over your mouth to smother it, taking off running towards your quarters, trying desperately to keep your grief at bay until you could be alone.

Eyes barely open, running across rough ground, it was no surprise when your foot snagged on some unseen obstacle, wrenching your right ankle and sending your sprawling across the grass and partially onto a pathway. Your right knee dashed against something sharp, your hands flying forward to catch your body, the letter you had been clasping fluttering to the ground beside you. The gravel bit angrily against your palms as it chewed its way into your tender flesh, and you could feel the warm trickle of blood soaking into your ruined right stocking. The shock and pain of your collision with the earth overthrew your ability to control your emotions and a strangled sob of anguish, frustration, and loss flew from your lips.

“God…dammit…” You gasped out, suddenly furious with the universe at large.

You had never known a world without your brother. His existence was a constant you had apparently come to rely on, and now that he had been wrenched from this plane, you were not certain what you could believe in at all. Allowing just a few tears to escape began an unstoppable chain reaction, your shoulders shaking as you remained sprawled across the ground, clenching fistfuls of gravel as you gave into your grief. It was utterly self-indulgent. You were not the first woman to have lost a brother to this ugly war, but he was yours and he was gone.

‘Get. Up.’ The lone, rational part of your brain chided. ‘Your father needs you to be brave. You’re making a goddamn scene. Get. Up. You petulant child. What if someone sees you.’

Like some kind of prophecy, you heard the quizzical call of your name. You could only hope the owner of that voice was still far enough away for you to make your escape. Sniffling sharply, almost painfully, to try and stem the flow of tears, you tried desperately to struggle to your feet. Your knee throbbed in protest, your ankle wobbling unsteadily, your palms stung in pain, and all you managed was to roll onto your backside.

A pair of strong, familiar arms slid around your waist, pulling you back into a warm chest, the fleece of his collar brushing against your damp cheeks.

“I’ve got you doll.” Bucky murmured into your hair, and you shuddered, fighting back the urge to simply break down sobbing once more.

Holding out your hands awkwardly in front of you, trying to minimize the transfer of blood onto your respective uniforms, you leaned back into his warmth despite the fact that it was a sunny August day.

“Let’s get you to the doctor.” His voice was tense, wound tight with concern, and absent his usually playfulness as he slowly eased you to your feet.

“I’m fine.” You tried to protest, but an inadvertent whimper escaped your mouth as you tried to bear weight on your right leg.

“The hell you are.” He growled a little, pulling your arm over his shoulders, sliding his own arm around your waist, practically hefting you against his body.

As he turned to begin walking you down the path, you gasped to see your abandoned letter tumbling through the grass on the breeze.

“My letter!”

“I got it.” He grunted and set you down, fetching it quickly and shoving it in his pocket before lifting you up against him once more, helping you towards the hospital.

“I’m sorry…” You whispered, keeping your gaze on the ground as you hobbled along beside him, not wanting to meet the eyes of anyone you may have passed along the way.

“Got nothing to apologize for, doll.” He shook his head, assisting you through the doors and into the building that smelled sharply of disinfectant.

“What about the blood on your clothes?” You protested.

“Probably mine.”

You looked to him quickly, frowning at the mirthless smile he delivered – an empty attempt at his usual humor. You noted he did seem to be in one piece, thankfully.

“What on earth…” Gasped the nurse on duty at the front desk as she hurried forward to slide your other arm over her shoulders, leading the pair of you to a bed in triage where she quickly began to remove your ruined stocking and deal with your still-bleeding knee. “This is probably going to need stitches, Lieutenant.”

You nodded silently, frowning down at her as she began to pluck the debris from your hands.

“What’s happened, Lieutenant?” A new voice joined the conversation, and you looked up to see one of the doctors, denoted by his white coat, had come to stand beside the nurse while Bucky loomed in the background, arms crossed, brow furrowed as he watched on intensely.

“Got some bad news, sir.” You replied, seizing the inside of your cheek between your teeth to deliver a sharp, steadying bite to your flesh as your lower lip wobbled traitorously. “It made me clumsy, and I tripped.”

You watched Bucky’s face somber even further than it already was, his arms unfolding to fall at his sides, though his fists remained clenched. You looked away quickly as you were certain he had been able to do the math. To figure out just what terrible news had driven you to your current state and you could not endure his look of sympathy – not and remain collected.

“We’ll take good care of her, Major.” The doctor said in a kind yet obvious dismissal and there was a moment of silence before you heard Bucky approach the side of your bed, pressing his lips to your temple.

“I’m going to let that terrifying Captain of yours know that you won’t be working the rest of the day.” He spoke softly, for only you to hear, and your head whipped to look at him, startled that he would dare take on Captain Miller.

Your eyes fell on the lingering marks on his cheek and nose from the Regensburg raid, wanting to protest, but on finding you simply did not have the energy to fight him, you conceded with a nod. By the time he returned, no more than thirty minutes later, you were cleaned, stitched, and bandaged with a tensor wrap on your ankle and a set of crutches.

“You need to keep off that ankle as much as possible, Lieutenant.” Doctor McLean, it turned out his name was, instructed.

“Yes, sir.”

“Shouldn’t be a problem, Doc, I’ll make sure she gets where she needs to go.” Bucky chimed in and you looked to him, surprised he had returned so quickly.

“Thank you Major, with that in mind, you are free to go young lady. Keep to the pathways moving forward, please?”

“Yes, sir.” You repeated and used the crutches to rise to your feet, tucking them into your armpits to make slow progress toward the door.

Bucky followed along, patiently, removing any obstacles from your path before gesturing at the waiting jeep out front.

“Your chariot, doll.”

You looked to him skeptically. “I highly doubt this would be considered an appropriate use of army property, Major Egan.”

He shrugged. “No one else was using it, come on.” He guided you around to the passenger’s side, helping you onto the bench seat before taking your crutches to stash in the back. “You really, ok?” He asked quietly as he came to sit in the driver’s seat.

Nodding softly, you squeezed his hand as his fingers laced briefly with yours until he was forced to take it back to drive the vehicle. The trip to your quarters was markedly shorter thanks to the jeep, and you were unspeakably relieved to not have had to face it on crutches alone. Turning to thank Bucky, you blinked as he was already climbing out, bringing your crutches around.

“If you get caught in this area…”

“I’m assisting you to your quarters after an injury.” He insisted stubbornly and held them out to you.

You glanced around slowly before taking them, sliding to your feet carefully before making your way inside, once again grateful for his assistance as you hobbled over to your cot and sat heavily.

“Thank you, Bucky, you’ve been a really big help, but if you’re caught in here someone is going to murder you…”

He came to rest on his knees beside your bed, clearly choosing not to hear, or simply not caring about, your continued warnings. You pressed your lips together tightly, tucking them between your teeth as he produced your father’s letter from his pocket, setting it on the blanket beside you.

“I’m real sorry about your brother, doll.” He said quietly, forehead creased with unmasked sympathy. Your defences promptly crumbled, tears welling in your eyes and promptly spilling down your cheeks. “Hey, hey, shhh.” He shifted to quickly sit beside you, cradling you across his lap, holding you close as you turned your face to sob into his chest, fingers twisting into the fleece lining of his jacket where it hung open.

You lost all track of time in his arms, feeling safe enough to simply let your emotions run their course, have their way with you, in the privacy of your quarters. Thus, it was a surprise when you heard the gently clearing of Mary’s throat, lifting your head quickly to see her holding out one of her immaculate hankies while politely keeping her gaze on the rustic ceiling above.

“I have it on good authority that Captain Miller will be checking in on our darling Lieutenant shortly, so you may want to make yourself scarce, Major.” Her tone was warm and conspiratorial.

“Thank you, Mary.” Bucky spoke for the first time in a while, voice somewhat roughened by disuse. “I’ll see you for your ride to breakfast, doll.”

“Bucky, that’s really not necessary–”

“She usually eats at 0545.” Mary cut you off, clearly allying herself with him and against you. “Now I’ll take it from here.”

You huffed affectionately as he pressed his lips to your forehead. “You rest.”

“You, too.” You insisted stubbornly, feeling somewhat encouraged when he bestowed a smirk on you in response, sliding you from his lap onto the cot carefully and making his way out to remove himself and the jeep before your Captain could find him where he ought not to be.

“What was that you were saying to Vi and Ruth about not having tamed him?” Mary smirked, grabbing the hanky to begin dabbing at your cheeks with motherly roughness.

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

Read Part Three - "Trust Me, He's In Good Hands."

"Trust" Series Masterlist

Tag list: @gretagerwigsmuse, @precious-little-scoundrel, @rubyfruitjungle, @storysimp

#john egan x reader #bucky egan x reader #john egan fic #john egan imagine #mota fanfic #masters of the air fanfiction

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anamelessfool · 1 month ago

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A Naming (part 2 of 5)

Rated Teen, Papa Emeritus II’s Son and Family

Tags: Halloween Hijinks, Eldest Kid Anxiety, Suburban Dad Secondo, Disabled Secondo, Post-Retirement Life, Magic Rituals, My AU with Seocondo being Papa from 2001-2008

CW: Underage Drinking

Paul is at the party. He gets a little too over his head. And he can't completely blame the punch.

Dedicated to @kissingghouls thanks for cheering me on you’re my little Hell Pumpkin🎃 I’m on AO3 with all my other fics but Tumblr gets mad at me when I post links check out #anamelessfool halloween tag for the prev chapter

The first thing Paul noticed when he approached the house party was that he was the only person not in costume. Even the most leather-necked of linebackers attempted something with a Ghostface mask perched on their heads. Everyone around him looked big, capable. He distracted his nerves by typing in his phone.

Paul L: I'm here

Dana: 🙂

Music thudded softly from within as he climbed the stairs. If he didn’t look to either his left or right he could pretend that he was confident about his choice of no costume. Yes, it was some sort of defiant, anti-establishment sort of thing. But they had just witnessed him exit a car driven by his father and piled high with little kids and their sugar-fueled screams, so perhaps the rebel act wasn’t very convincing.

Dana waved from the front door, ushering him in. He darted in like he was escaping some oncoming storm, and she the only chance at rescue. Inside the fairly large house was packed with most of the upperclassmen shouting over some punk rock cover of Monster Mash. “Hey, so happy you’re here.”

“Thanks for inviting me,” he replied, and at once he slowly removed his hands from his hoodie pockets.

“A freshman… You invited a fucking freshman?” Right. Dana wasn’t the only person here. A sour looking boy tossed the hair from his head, his mouth a thin line.

“Relax, he's cool,” said Dana with a small smile. Paul felt a warmth flood his entire body. “He’s most of the orchestra pit.” Dana was the lead role for the fall play. And midway through Act II he could get a clear view of her singing at the front of the stage. She was just as beautiful now, all dolled up in some kind of half-hearted witch getup that gave her the excuse to have glittering goth makeup.

“Yeah well what do you play then?” Asked the older boy.

The better question was what Paul didn't play. His father was a prodigy on piano but dabbled elsewhere. Paul took after his grandfather Nihil, who somehow despite his foggy brain took to every instrument like a duck to water. “Guitar, bass guitar, piano,” Paul listed and his confidence started to crawl back. “All percussion. Some violin. Trumpet. I'm learning saxophone because Mr. Baxter needs one for the Spring show. And…that's it. So far.”

“Wow, no wonder you’re a shut in,” quipped the boy before melting back into the crowd.

“Asshole!” Dana jokingly swatted at him as he left, then turned back to Paul with a wince. “Sorry. Hey. Make yourself at home. Go get some punch, okay?”

“No, he’s right I’m…not really out there…”

“First time for everything, right?” Dana held out her hand and he took it, deciding he’d be okay with dying right then and there. He floated along beside her as she led him to the punch bowl and ladled him a glass. “Just have fun, Paul.”

Yes. He was going to have fun. He didn’t dare want to let her down, and that fifteen foot walk from the foyer to the dining room was one of the greatest things that had ever happened to him. Partygoers wandered in and out around him but their voices were muffled from the pounding in his ears. The music felt miles away, at the bottom of a lake. At last he recognized someone coming towards him, an older kid named Brian who he spent most of his time with in the orchestra pit.

“Yo! You came!” Brian grinned. “No costume?”

“No time.”

“That’s cool. Hey… you want a little…excitement…” Brian whipped out a flask from his jacket, leering.

“I mean um…” Maybe it would do something with his nerves. And he didn't want to spend the rest of his life known as the fucking freshman invited out of pity. He was cool. Talented. Able to hold his liquor. He was supposed to have fun: Dana’s orders. “Um, sure.”

He tipped the punch down his throat, perhaps a little too fast. There was very little burn at all to scold him. As Brian kept talking to him, his mind kept floating away. He squeezed his eyes shut, leaned against the wall but nodded all the same like nothing was the matter. A stupid smile began to creep across his face as Ben talked and kept introducing him to the girls that wandered by. How may Poison Ivy costumes were there? At least five. Or was he meeting the same girl over and over? The red cup creaked in his hand as he held it like some sort of safety rope.

“Since dawn of time the fate of man is that of lice…” His father's voice unmistakably seethed out from the playlist. Paul looked desperately for the exit but the windows and doors swam unsteadily in front of him.

“What, you scared?” asked another girl dressed as Poison Ivy. Yes, he had seen at least three others in the past hour. “It's Ghost, you ever heard of them? You like metal?”

“HELL SATAN! ARCHANGELOOOO!”

“Yeah a little bit,” Paul said. “I don't think they're real metal.”

“His name’s Secondo, actually,” explained the kid who had attached the aux to his phone. “Yeah, he's out. His brother is in. They say now he's a…hey man what’s up with you?”

“Yeah, I know him,” Paul slurred with a slight giggle. “That's my uncle. Haven't seen him much, though.”

The kid peered suspiciously into Paul. “You…know them?”

Paul flashed a fuzzy smile and moments after speaking he wished everything was a dream. “Yeah. The guy singing. He's my dad.”

“What?” yelled the kid, and more party guests wandered over. “What, he's your dad?!”

“He uh…got sick. Retired.”

“He will ascend to the heavens! Above the stars of God! Hell Satan!”

A few phones whipped out from pockets and Paul watched in growing horror how every one of these upperclassmen started typing into search engines. A boy held out his phone and Papa Emeritus II glared out at them all. “This? This…is your dad?”

Paul smiled painfully. He decided never to drink ever again. “Yeah.”

“Yeah, I've seen him around! Holy shit!” A girl laughed and flashed another photo for them all to see: A photo of his father in shades, flanked by two women dressed as sexy nuns. “Is one of these girls your mom?”

“And he like, chops up dead bodies now,” said another kid. “You got dead grandmas in your freezer yeah?”

“Well, uh, my dad doesn't chop up the bodies, that's my mom’s job—” This was going nowhere, but the spiked punch made Paul plod on. “Yeah there's um a big difference between mortician and funeral director ya know my dad sorta just handles the documents….for the state….” He ended his statement with a careful sip.

“Holy shit this kid is a fucking riot.”

More partiers began surrounding him, and through his dizziness he was completely certain they were there to laugh at him. Voices swam in and out.

“Who’s that? Oh yeah, the gravedigger kid…”

“Wait, have you seen the music video? And your Dad was in that? Dude there were naked chicks in that video dude!”

“Yeah, uh…I guess…yeah…” Paul was ready to die. He waited for some holy lightning bolt to come down from on high, but if anyone noticed that his own mother was also featured in that video he would do the job himself.

The Aux kid was fully grinning. “That’s amazing dude, amazing, he’s literally Satan, dude—“

“He’s sorta boring, actually,” Paul threw in. His solo cup was thoroughly demolished. The sugar mixing with the alcohol was making his stomach turn. Perhaps vomiting would deflect all of this attention to the more ordinary embarrassment of destroying someone’s living room carpet.

“That means he knows spells.” Dana emerged from the shadows, flanked by some equally attractive friends. Her black lips pursed as her heavily-shadowed eyes gleamed. “If he's the devil he knows spells, right?”

“It's not real,” stammered Paul. Her gaze made him weak. “Well…it's…sorta real…”

“Real? It's all fucking real, no way! Have you seen him do spells?!”

Every morning, an odd musical chant. Every evening, another droning mantra. The man would not shut up about the weather and piles of his journals were scattered around the house. No flicks of wands or fairy dust or leaping demons. No fireballs or bursts of healing light. Just the sound of his father droning syllables and a disgusting collection of animal skulls and jars filled with rusted nails and weird smells. “Yeah, I guess…” And of course, Paul would not shut up. He could not, with how everyone was paying attention to him. He had to get out of this. And the only way out was through. “I can do them too, you know.”

***

Sandra was snuggled up on the couch with the on-call phone when Paul returned.

“How was it? So happy you went.” On the television two men chained in a filthy bathroom argued and came to the realization that yes, one of them would have to amputate.

“It was alright. Any…calls?”

“No, just little ol’ me alone,” Sandra replied, sitting up. “And Ed checking in to tell me the guys brought all the kid cousins out for a late dinner.” She rubbed her eyes, refocusing on the men screaming on the television. “The sequels didn’t compare to this one. Gratuitous. Real fear is all just head games, ya know? It’s all just…in the mind.”

“Yeah well, good night then.” Paul hugged her then walked down the hallway, glancing quickly back as he passed the door to his room and silently slipped into the office.

Secondo always kept a lamp softly illuminated in the corner. Paul moved soundlessly across the beige carpet to arrive at the TV hutch. His fingers trembled as he gently untangled the red ribbon across the knobs. Secondo was miles away surrounded by screaming children in a busy pizza place but still Paul was certain he’d hear the smallest disturbance. Maybe not his flesh and blood father but the Eye would.

The hutch opened and light shone across the crystal skull in its nest of dead flowers. The strong scent of frankincense and charcoal wafted across him, fleeing into the air like a freed spirit. In Paul’s heightened mind everything inside seemed much more foreign and terrifying than usual. Some sort of large, milk-white snake floated in a jar in the far back. There were stacks of rocks, rose petals in a stone urn before bundles of feathers arranged in a bouquet. A few mummified hawk claws hung on a string. Daggers were arranged like surgical instruments on top of a rabbit skin. A series of small journals were crammed where a VCR should go. And buried deep within, the golden goat head of Baphomet peered from behind a collection of railroad spikes, their arm raised as if scolding him for daring to do all this.

The topic of the admonishment was not necessarily betraying his father’s trust. The deepest shame the statue bestowed on Paul as he rummaged around it was the fact that all of this trespassing was done in the name of impressing some mortals the boy decided was worth the cost.

Paul knew his father barely worked with every material in his collection, but he had to make a good impression. His new friends wanted to see some magic, so a decent show of arcane wisdom was essential. He chose a thin deer’s tibia as his wand. An oddly shaped chunk of rainbow obsidian would make a decent centerpiece. He collected some chalk into his hoodie pockets along with a few dried rose petals and a black candle.

Now for the book. Paul was so distracted with worrying about his plan that he hadn’t really sat down and considered exactly what kind of magic he’d actually want to do. There were too many books on the shelves for him to skim through in the small scrap of time he had before his mother checked on him. He struggled to unwedge one of his father’s journals from the VCR shelf, and at last he had a sample of what he actually could do.

The front of the journal was dated: Oct 1999- March 2000. Inside was a mishmash of charts, sketches and the impeccable script handwriting of Secondo himself. Beautiful, but incomprehensible. Long strings of text were arranged in lattices, grids, and atop each other in a flurry of swirling ink. Some pages were perfectly mirrored, others held odd anagram symbols and ciphers.

All In all beautiful, but worthless.

There was not a whole lot of time. Dave was waiting down the street with everyone in the car and he had to think fast. Paul knew that luck and destiny were huge components to magic rituals so perhaps the book he picked out was the one that he needed to use. He’ll figure out which page later. He tucked the journal into his back jeans pocket and closed the hutch, carefully retying the red ribbon to the best of his memory. He turned to go and his father’s framed diploma fell off its nail and onto the floor.

Paul sucked in a breath. Nothing in here was an accident. Everything had magical Significance. He picked up the frame, staring past the large crack on the glass: …conferred upon MICHAEL LEIDER The degree of MORTUARY SCIENCE AND FUNERAL SERVICES. Paul returned it to its nail, apologizing to the piece of paper before sneaking out the room once more.

After climbing out his bedroom window Paul met up with the car of kids waiting for him. They squeezed him in the back between the door and an athletic junior boy, who leered at him as Paul attempted to get on his seatbelt. It was Dana’s warm smile from the passenger’s front seat that finally calmed his nerves.

“I thought you lived at the funeral home,” A boy stuffed in the opposite corner of the backseat called across the car.

The car lurched forward and Paul gave up on finding the seatbelt buckle. “Nobody lives there, my mom’s family owns the place.”

“So like, you ever see a ghost there?” The boy beside him had eager bright eyes but his breath absolutely stank.

“Well, everyone there is dead so like their soul’s moved on somewhere else so there really wouldn’t be any… y’know, ghosts—“

“Come on,” chided a kid from the hatchback trunk. He reached out and grabbed Paul by the shoulders, the other boy beside him hooting.

“Fine, yeah, I did see a ghost.” Paul’s voice was terse as he stared hard at the road. He had been mostly sober for an hour now, psychically punching himself for ever getting involved in a caper this stupid. Too late now. “It was…some old woman. By the freezers. She had old time clothes on.”

The reverent awe that descended on the kids in the car would have made a past version of himself swell with pride. But now he just felt sick.

A little too sick.

Like it? Reblog it! Thank you!

Next chapter is in comments!

#ghost band fic #domestic fic #halloween fic #papa emeritus ii #dad secondo #ghost scenes from the void #my art #anamelessfool halloween

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missacidburn928 · 4 months ago

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My brain did that dialogue driven thing again...

I am choosing to leave the characters up to you. Whoever you feel fits the role is who is should be. I'll leave who I'm feeling after the dialogue driven words my brain wouldn't shut up about until I wrote it out.

----

"Come on, baby. Hear me out. It's been 2 weeks already. You know she meant nothing to me. It was a stupid bet. I couldn't let him try and punk me like that by refusing."

The idiot has stopped me in my escape by placing his ridiculous frame in my path. Forcing me to confront him after I made my declaration of the end of our relationship and my intentions of never gracing him with my presence again.

As much as I do not want to. No matter how much I want to turn and just run away from the pain seeing his stupidly handsome will give me. I need him to get the message that we are well and truly over. Which is going to require some bravery on my part as I look him in the eye.

"You know what hurts the most? That you weren't even the one to realize how good you had it once it left you. No your little jesters had to point it out for you before it even registered in that thick skull of yours. God, I'm so pathetic to have given myself to such an asshole. Wait, no that gives assholes a bad name and some of my favorite people are assholes. You're just a vapid narcissist fool who can't see past his own ego to save himself. I am so thankful your carelessness and lack of self restraint pulled the e brake on your twisted carnival ride. Allowing me to walk away with my self esteem still intact. So please just go away. I meant what I said when I told you I never wanted to willingly lay eyes on you again. The sugar sweet apologies still perched in the back of your throat. I hope they turn to ash and poison. Slowly suffocating you in your delusions until self preservation takes over and you finally. Leave. Me. Alone."

I give myself a moment to catch my breath as my words sink in. I can already tell they are barely penetrating his thick skin. Movement to my left catches my eye. A body frame and gait I know all too well walking my way. With one quick look in their eyes I know my escape is not only imminent but will leave a devastating blow.

"There's my favorite human."

My shaking hand is quickly engulfed in warmth. Easing the tremors and replacing them with a sense of safety and ease as I am pulled away from my waste of space ex, into the embrace of my best friend.

"Hope I didn't keep you waiting too long, sweet face. You know how chatty my boss can be."

A kiss is placed upon my forehead. Extinguishing any remaining anxiety like a xanax to the bloodstream.

"Not at all. As always your timing was impeccable."

A throat is cleared beside us.

"Can I help you man? Me and the lady were just on our way home. Cozy date night ya know."

Eyes filled with barely restrained rage and hurt stare daggers into me.

"Him. That's whose bed you're warming now. Should have figured he was more than a friend this whole time. You know what, fuck you. You'll never have all of this again."

"So you can listen."

He steps forward.

"Fucking bitch."

I am smoothly pulled behind my black knight.

"I know that most of your brain cells are located in your biceps but I'm gonna need you to take a step back from my girl before I have to do something rather ungentlemanly."

"You against me? I don't care how big you think you are you couldn't land a punch on me if i gave you a free-"

Before he can finish his sentence, the sense as well as his consciousness is knocked out of him by a firm fist to the jaw. As soon as he hits the cold ground I am scooped up and carried valiantly over the limp body of my ex.

"Now what did you have in mind for dinner? I'm suddenly feeling rather ravenous and I'm not quite sure if food will be sufficient enough."

---

The pairs of men my brain came up with: (Let Me Know Yours)

Ex!Ransom & Bestfriend!Jax

Ex!Billy Hargrove & Bestfriend!Eddie

Ex!August Walker & Bestfriend!Will Shaw

#dialouge blurb #poc reader #poc author #ramblings #ransom drysdale x reader #ransom drysdale x you #jax teller x reader #billy hargove x reader #eddie munson x reader #august walker x reader #august walker x you #will shaw x reader

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haveafuckingfanfic · 3 months ago

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*Wisdom Saga Spoilers*

CW for spoilers and TW for mental health, PTSD, S1 and Su1cide.

Many people have probably touched on this, but in the last minute of the song ‘Love In Paradise’ we hear about Odysseus’ time on Calypso’s island. He clearly is still clearly struggling with the death of Telemachus and the rest of his crew.

These lines stand out to me:

“‘Odyseus?’”

“‘All I hear are screams…’”

“‘Ody, get away from the ledge.’”

“‘You don’t know what I’ve gone through! You don’t know what I’ve sacrificed! Every comrade I long knew, every friend, I saw them die! All I hear are screams...’”

“‘You will be fine dear, come back inside dear. Love of my life comeback~

‘Every time I close my eyes…’

‘~to paradise. I know your life’s been hard, I’ll stay inside~’

‘All I hear are scream!’

‘~your heart.~’

‘All I hear are screams!!~’

‘I love your mind dear, all of our time here. Life would be so much worse if you had died.~’

‘~Just let me close my eyes!’

~Please stay away from harm. Stay in my open arms.’”

Jorge captured the affects of PTSD so well. As a PTSD survivor, it hit home. The depression that sets in after a traumatic event is very intense and can be overwhelming. For survivors, we enter a stage of our bodies and minds trying to make sense and process what had happened. This is shown by the lyric above where Ody says he hears the screams of his crew over and over.

Often time we don’t understand that the event we went through was even traumatic at all. In an effort, our brains replay the events as a way for us to process it and it often just ends up causing *more* pain without proper help. Without help, we can dive into depression, anxiety and suicidal ideation. This is clearly shown in Odysseus as well, since his brain isn’t processing what happened he then blames himself for the deaths of his crew and doesn’t know to how to live and cope with such a large tragedy.

This is also where the behavior of pushing others away comes in. This is a common behavior when you are depressed. It’s something that feels too large or traumatic to ‘burden’ others with. We withdraw the more our brain loops and struggles to understand.

If your brain doesn’t comprehend the trauma or make sense of it, it searches for escapes. Thus where suicidal ideation, hyper-sexuality, and self harm is introduced. It serves as a distraction, a way to cope or a way out of the pain. That’s why we find Odysseus contemplating and attempting suicide. He wants a way away from the way his mine plays and replays his trauma. He sees no other way out and is driven to the cliff. There’s a level of exhaustion that comes with constantly dealing with trauma, that exhaustion will also fuel suicidal thoughts.

And to circle back to the beginning, with PTSD survivors we experience a heightened sense of danger. Our fight or flight is on 24/7, so we will be slow to trust and quick to be on guard. Odysseus is showing these symptoms too, he does not trust Calypso and is quick to let her know that he doesn’t trust her.

So to cap this off, I feel so incredibly seen as a PTSD survivor. The things we go through when we are coping with our trauma and what comes with it are demonstrated clearly in this song. Thank you Jorge💗💗💗

#the wisdom saga #epic spoilers #ptsd #actually ptsd #si tw #tw sui ideation #suic1de #epic the musical #epic fandom #odysseus #athena #epic the wisdom saga #calypso #epic discussion #jorge rivera herrans

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fushiglow · 8 months ago

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a short fic for the prompt: satosugu + first time

hope you enjoy the prelude to come get your honey. it's probably not as fluffy as you hoped, anon, i'm sorry!! satosugu trying to heal the rift using their bodies is important to the original fic, so i wanted to establish that dynamic here and i really love the result

still, thank you so much for the opportunity to return to this special fic 🫶 listen to 'my only love' by porij while reading!!

If Suguru hadn’t been awake, straining to hear them, the footsteps padding along the hallway would have been inaudible. Satoru was back late again. Blinking into the blue light of the alarm clock on his nightstand, Suguru frowned. At approaching 3am, he wondered why Satoru hadn’t simply booked a hotel. Actually, he wondered why Satoru bothered coming back to the dormitories at all these days. It certainly wasn’t to see Suguru, judging by the way he crept around the place as silently as the grave. It was a thoughtfulness Satoru only showed when he thought no one could see him. Suguru saw him though. Always had. He saw Satoru then and cursed all the times he’d pestered the boy to be more considerate of others. He wanted the Satoru from before back. He wanted the Satoru who wouldn’t have thought twice about barging into his room at some ungodly hour. He wanted the Satoru who would have crawled into bed with Suguru and held him, personal space be damned. But things had been different since the summer. There was a distance between them that hadn’t been there before, and Suguru didn’t know whether it was he or Satoru that was the cause of it. Maybe it was both. The pair of them had always been joined at the hip, closer than was perhaps typical for boys their age. Part of Suguru had always known, but he’d felt no rush to acknowledge it. After all, they were the strongest. They had all the time in the world. Until Satoru died. If Satoru hadn’t recognised the shape of the thing between them for what it was back then, Suguru knew he did now — he knew, precisely because Satoru didn’t come to his room anymore. It was such a Satoru way to care and, against his better judgement, Suguru resented it. They’d been given a second chance, so why had it driven them apart instead of together? Why, when Suguru wanted nothing more than for Satoru to be selfish, had he chosen to be selfless instead? The soft click of Satoru’s door in the hallway beyond echoed around Suguru’s brain like a gunshot. The terror of it was enough for him to decide it didn’t really matter who was at fault. A thousand nights spent staring at his bedroom door, wishing for Satoru to walk through it, wouldn’t bridge the chasm between them. If Satoru wanted to be selfless, Suguru would be selfish in his stead.

He didn’t knock; didn’t want to lose his nerve during the wait. When he opened Satoru’s door, it didn’t surprise Suguru to find the Six Eyes already locked onto him. What did surprise Suguru, however, was the rush of fiery want that burned through him at the sight of Satoru’s strong torso, all smooth planes and hard edges in the low light. It incinerated any lingering anxiety he felt. ‘Hey.’ Satoru’s voice was uncharacteristically soft, though he didn’t look the least bit ashamed by his halfway undressed state. ‘Did I wake you?’ Suguru’s gaze caught on the summer skies captured within Satoru’s eyes, twin pools swirling with concern and curiosity and something else entirely. His body moved across the room of its own accord. There was no resistance when Suguru brought his hands to those broad shoulders and pushed Satoru down onto the bed. There was no resistance when he climbed into Satoru's lap and seized that angular jaw in a bruising grasp either. Blinking up at Suguru, wide-eyed and unguarded in his awe, Satoru was unexpectedly docile. It fed shameful ideas in Suguru’s mind. He wondered if Satoru would let him take anything he wanted; if he could find the limits of this limitless boy. So, perhaps Suguru wouldn’t have said it if he cared about Satoru less than he did. 'Stop me if you don’t want me to kiss you, Satoru.’ In hindsight, he probably should have waited another moment — but Satoru’s lips fell open in a silent gasp and Suguru could resist no longer. It wasn’t Suguru’s first kiss, but he could tell it was Satoru’s. Not that it mattered when Satoru had always been a frustratingly quick learner — when he was enthusiastic enough to make Suguru preen, almost overwhelmingly eager as he grabbed at Suguru’s pyjamas, grinding their bodies together with a muffled moan. It was such a relief that Suguru couldn’t find it in him to slow things down. He chased his salvation with the same ferocity that Satoru chased whatever it was he was seeking in Suguru’s body. As they gathered speed, Suguru knew they were fooling themselves, but the thrill of falling into each other subdued all rational thought. Reaching terminal velocity, Suguru made a promise to himself. They would talk. Satoru deserved his heart and his mind as well as his body, and Suguru wanted to give it all. He wanted to give himself to Satoru entirely. Not yet though. Not when he felt happy for the first time in months. Not when it would only shatter the fragile peace he'd finally found in Satoru’s arms. They would talk. They would. Just not yet.

if you wanna submit a prompt or request, head over to my retrospring — make sure to read the guidelines first!

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sturionic · 10 days ago

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Yo im looking for some advice

I want to come out of my shell and start contributing more to the world around me after years of being shut down and silenced

Im not good at speaking or forming sentences in conversation or delivering my true thoughts

I want to be confident enough to speak instead of nod when peers say something to me

Its agonizing being this way. I want to do so much and i want to be a part of the community and help the people around me but that is quite difficult when i am too scared to speak or do, despite how badly i want to

I know youre just some guy but i admire your dedication and outlook. My head and heart are full of potential but something is holding me back

You dont gotta psychoanalyze me or anything but if you have anything to say id love to hear it, even if its critical

Hey anon <3

Indeed lol, I am just some guy, and I won't psychoanalyze you. But I can say one thing confidently: You being “this way” is a testament to your resourcefulness. Silence is a strategy that has worked for you at some point (and may still be useful at times in the present.) Try to see yourself this way as you read these next bits: a fundamentally resilient & resourceful person who is simply learning how to apply these tactics with more nuance.

The best analogy I’ve heard about anxiety is that it’s like driving a truck through deep snow. For whatever reason, your brain has been driving the truck down the same path over, and over, and over again. As a result, the snow on this path is compacted and very easy to drive on.

You can’t erase the path. It’s already there, and your brain knows the way well. What you can do is break a new path. It’s slow and difficult work, but eventually you can make an off-ramp from your usual highway: one that is just as smooth and wide and compacted. When you’re in a moment of profound anxiety, a split-second turn down an easy safe path is much easier than breaking new trail through dense snow.

In the context of community organizing, the way to start building off-ramps is to start very small. (Sending an ask like this is actually an incredible step to take - you made a decision to safely and deliberately seek out contact, and thank you so much for putting your trust in me there. I hope you admire yourself for it as much as I do.)

Local libraries and community centres often have low-pressure events & programs that are essentially ways to just get out and coexist with other people. Some examples I love and attend frequently: my local library’s writing sessions (sitting around a table in silence for two hours, working on whatever writing project you want) and my community centre’s ‘gardening work bees’ (same thing, but out in the garden.) Or maybe there are more activity-driven ones that will speak to your desire to help in a more tangible way: picking up litter, doing grocery runs for disabled folks, etc. The point is to get your brain to start building a path that associates other people with safety, rather than danger. Because it's fundamentally true: we're safer as part of a community.

Once you feel more up to the ‘talking’ bit of it, here’s a hot tip: start with seniors. Old people are often very lonely and have a lot of talking stored up, so socializing with seniors is easy mode: you just get to sit back and listen to a bunch of cool stories from their lives. (Little kids are exhausting but another fun socializing bet. Again: not as much talking on your end, a lot of listening, a lot of fantastic games, very safe except from small flailing limbs.)

And then you keep working your way up from there, slowly and surely building your off-ramps reinforced by safe, mutually caring, and rewarding experiences.

Let me clarify: this is critically important work, and not just as a way to build up to activities more popularly perceived as activism. Even if you’re not organizing a food drive or whatever, you are still benefitting the people around you. If you benefit from working silently next to someone at the garden, then they are also benefitting from you - just you, existing, as a quiet and unthreatening human being by their side. We all need this. This is the basis of community, and the essential building-blocks for community organizing.

I hope this helps, and my inbox is always open to you!

#asks #community #community organizing

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altschmerzes · 6 months ago

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🌹🌹 Wriggle Up and/or New York Minute pleassssse 🙏

yesssss okay new york minute has taken over my brain for a moment so i'll go with an excuse to share some of that one

('new york minute' is my first fic for the bear, btw, it is a cousin michelle from the christmas episode pov of The Whole New York Debacle. as always i am really really anxious taking my first try at character voices, and picking a pov character who is a minor side character in one (1) episode has been both freeing and anxiety provoking LMAO. so. here's this.)

(also it's.... long. we know this about me and clips.)

As soon as Carmy is under her roof, safely tucked away in her guest room, Michelle takes what feels like her first full breath in since Christmas. It’s not like everything is magically okay now - Carmy certainly isn’t okay, and he’s just one little piece of the whole fucked up puzzle, but she’s finally done something about it. Michelle has found the one piece of that puzzle that she can do anything about at all and she’s done it. That’s the part that’s driven her the most out of her mind - knowing that things need to be done, that nothing is alright in Chicago, and not knowing what to do. Who to try and help, never mind how.

Natalie has Pete and her friends from school. She’s got a home and distance and she’d mentioned while on a walk with Michelle, looking away like she wasn’t sure what the response would be, that she had started therapy after Thanksgiving. And Michael has… Well. When they talk on the phone, Natalie doesn’t have a lot to say about Michael that’s encouraging. Michelle is worried about Michael but it’s not like she can do anything about that. They were close when they were younger but the older they got and the more Donna took a shine to her the more strained her relationship with Michael got. They were a competition of their own, really, or at least a battlefield on the war between their mothers.

Grandpa Berzatto, right? Michael Berzatto. A looming figure gone before any of her generation was born, and so of course the oldest grandchild is named after him - both of them were, at the beginning and the end of the same year, one down each branch of the family tree. Michael and Michelle. They thought it was funny when they were younger. Used to tell people they were twins, when they were real little. It’s not like that anymore. At least Richie is there, though. At least Richie is always there.

Thank god for Richie, said almost no one ever and Michelle several times over the course of her life.

One time, she was seventeen and going out with a guy who was far too old for her and a massive asshole on top of that. When she finally dumped him and his reaction scared her enough to tell them what was going on, Michael and Richie got a baseball bat and a tire iron out of the garage and broke every window and light cover on the guy’s car. Richie took one of the pieces from the tail-light to wood shop class the next day and while the teacher was off making sure some sophomores didn’t lose any fingers using a table saw, he sanded down the edges and put a hole through it, then gave it to her on a keychain. Michelle still has it somewhere. Michelle still has that keychain somewhere and Richie still has Michael and so that’s one thing she doesn’t have to worry about not being able to fix.

So there’s nothing to do for any of them, because Natalie is going to be okay in ways that even Michelle isn’t, and Michael is out of her reach, and Donna is out of everyone’s reach. (Donna needs help. She’s obviously suffering and needs some serious help, but Michelle learned long ago with her own mother that there’s no forcing help on someone who won’t accept it and will stop speaking to you for months if you try to push it anyway.)

But Carmy… Carmy is in her guest room and it’s still pretty early but she thinks he’s asleep and this she can do. This, him, Michelle can help.

(Michael caught her on the way out, when she and Stevie were leaving. She was worried for a moment, because he had that intense look on his face that meant trouble could be coming, and when he said heard you asked Carm to come stay with you for a few days in New York she steeled her nerves for one last explosion for the road. Michael was silent and Michelle was silent and he still had a hold of her arm but he wasn’t squeezing or anything so she let him keep his hand for now. And then he just said Good. Get him the fuck out of here and do not let him come back. Then he gave her a hug so tight she couldn’t breathe and kissed her on the cheek and said love you, Mitch and he was gone.)

#there is so much like. woe. this VAST NETWORK OF HEADCANONS IVE DEVELOPED be upon ye #in this fic #about the specifics of like. how is cousin michelle related to them. what's their relationship like. did they grow up together etc.#gav gab #gav answers #define-lying #writing liveblog #ask box games #fic: new york minute

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soobrat · 2 months ago

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this isn't whining, this is an explanation and a request for information. if not, I may not be active anymore

So recently I've become a more disciplined and driven person. If you don't know, I'm in college and I have a job. I've recently realized my dream and have set aside hours of my time to dedicate to it. I've also put more time towards things like skincare and exercise and meditation etc. Why am I saying this? Because after hours of productivity, I have a gap. Free hours where I don't have anything that needs to be done. This is where I decide to write for you guys. And every time I do, I wonder if it's a good use of my time. I wonder if I should use that little time for video games instead.

You are free to ignore this, but just being transparent, that makes it more possible that I don't log in again. I used to be afraid of addressing this head on as to not offend or upset you guys, but honestly vitriol and annoyance would be better than the embarrassing silence I'm met with. This isn't coming from high levels of emotion, I'm actually very calm and kind of excited to finally get this off my chest. These are just the facts of what's going on in my brain.

If you just want to know what to do to guarantee I'll stay, scroll to the bottom of this. If you don't care that much, that's cool too.

I'm working on Mosquito part three because I realize it's been much too long since it's been updated. I'm busy, but still. And I can't even have fun with the story I admittedly really like because the entire time I'm overthinking. You see, when a story doesn't get notes, that in itself isn't the problem. The problem is what's in between the lines. Did this not get notes because people didn't like it? Does this topic bore them? Do they not like idol/celebrity aus? And while I'm writing, I can't stop nitpicking what I think is causing the eerie silence.

I used to be spoiled. Fics like loosen up, brat/slut, oblivious were very well received. I would be reblogging feedback constantly, see notes fill up my notification center, I would get the message. I did take a lengthy hiatus and stopped updating as fast, but when I finally came back, people would never guess my follower count by my engagement.

Don't be fooled though, this number has been hovering around this for possibly a year, maybe even longer. It dips and then rises by a few and then dips again. Repeat. I started to think that this just wasn't a lot of followers. In the grand scheme of things, it ain't. But then I look on my dash and see a writer thank their readers for 300 followers. I click on their page and a fic they posted yesterday have ONE HUNDRED times more notes than a fic I posted several months ago. And it's not just a fluke, most of their fics are this way. People who have been writing as long as I have and have a similar follower count (I assume) have very high note counts as well. Some of them even have spotty posting schedules and have had lengthy hiatuses.

Again, I want to stress that this isn't coming from heightened emotions or jealousy. Honestly it's mostly confusion. Wondering if I did something wrong. The closest I've gotten to getting emotional is with the embarrassment. I see other creators get flooded with asks and response to their normal posts just talking about their day. And when I do it, radio silence. Again, this sometimes happens with writers with a fraction of my follower count.

I'll make a confession. I have been sending myself anon asks. Which ones are me? That's for sherlock holmes to deduce. Why did I do it? I've already admitted it, it's embarrassment. I feel embarrassed when I post something and am met with crickets. I honestly feel pathetic.

I am diagnosed with anxiety so I'll chalk up the following to that: I have come to the conclusion that I annoy you guys. Even that I annoy other writers since I don't have many writer friends on here. It's gotten to the point where I feel like every interaction I make with anyone on this website in any way is annoying someone. When I changed my theme and no one commented on it at all, My mind automatically went to "God the theme is obnoxious and embarrassing" and I already want to change it despite all the time I put into it.

Can you see now why I dread opening up Tumblr? I dread opening up docs of my fics for this reason. Idk how to transition so I'll just pivot to my next point.

My fics have a head scratching amount of notes. This started around when I posted Industry Babies and Amusement, when I was genuinely shocked by the lack of notes. I stopped Mortal Sin out of embarrassment because I posted a part and it only had ONE note for DAYS. Let me show you the best performing recent fic:

This is Mosquito pt. 1. I'm very proud of this! It made me so eager to continue the series. In hindsight, this is still a negligible amount of notes, and a chunk of these are ICYMI reblogs from me, but I'm still happy about it. Here's part two even with a lot of ICYMI reblogs:

I'll be honest, this was a head scratcher. This has barely budged since then, too. The message I ultimately received is that people won't read if there is 0 smut. Well? That fucking sucks because this is a slow burn fic! And honestly I don't want to throw in Soobin randomly fucking random girls just so people will read.

I also recently posted the final part of FUML. Final parts always get the most notes (I always assumed people just skipped to the last part which always perplexed me) and here's how that did (with ICYMI reblogs):

This is so so good and I'm so grateful. And it got a lot of notes very fast.

Now I did two requested fics, mind you this is the amount of notes they got with NO ICYMI reblogs:

Now, I'm about to say that this is pretty damn good, because I actually think so and I'm thankful for it. But every so often I kinda sit there and think about how it feels like I'm begging for pocket change. This feels so conceited and ungrateful of me. But remember, the reason why we're even talking about this is because my time has become a lot more valuable, and to be frank, the notes are making writing fanfics seem like a bad way to spend my time.

I'll be sad to go, but after all this, you have to understand while I'm hesitant to stay. I'd have to be a narcissist to think anyone actually sat and read through all this so I'll do a little TL/DR:

The lack of engagement has changed from a little disappointing to mixed signals being sent about what you guys want (hence all the polls)

The lack of banter and casual asks or just engagement to my casual posts has made me a little embarrassed compared to writers with similar follower counts or less followers

The simple act of not liking a post affects the overall notes and can harm the chances of a fic being posted, or send a message about what you want to see

I get the unreasonable feeling I annoy you guys and other writers so frankly it makes opening tumblr or interacting with this blog in any way just. not. fun.

I forgot to add this in the doc but to be frank (again), it kind of annoys me to see a fic get little to no interaction, and then I reblog a picture of an idol and all of a sudden my followers are acting. Juuuust being honest.

As a reader who doesn't want to see you go, what can I do?

Be honest! Now, I'm not asking for lengthy dissertations on why my writing is bad. I'm not looking for writing criticism. What I am looking for is for the people who are silent readers or just straight up scroll past what I post, tell me why. Don't be afraid to hurt my feelings. Is it my posting schedule (or lack thereof)? Is it because you just don't feel the same as you did when you read my older stuff? Or do you just never bother with pressing the buttons? The silence is worse than whatever you have to say.

Let me know that you always press like on my fics, but are just a bit shy and don't like leaving comments or asks. This is totally fine by the way, knowing you exist is enough.

Be more active from now own, reply to posts, send asks, reblog and just keyboard smash in the replies. ANYTHING is good. Don't take this as me scolding you, just as a suggestion in case you wanted to know how to help.

I won't be sending myself anons anymore (yeah... if you missed that, scroll up the the indented section) so if you see my blog in it's natural dead state, disrupt the deadness! You'll actually make my day.

If this flops, I'll still proooobably use my main acc. But honestly I'll probably just be on my poll acc (@kpolls ) because it's actually really fun lol. See you all on the flip side!

Mal

#txt #nct #kpop #smut #stray kids #anon #kpop smut #the boyz #angst

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unhinged-ghoste · 7 months ago

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I really love talking about my cats so I wanna share my cats with you (pics included)

This is Toast. I got her first. Her birthday is April something, like 7th-17th. She's my most photogenic baby. She's very lazy and fat. We think she's part ragdoll bc you can literally just fling her around and she's like "ok". I adopted her out of sheer anxiety bc I went to the pound alone and picked the first kitten I saw and was like "this is the one simply bc I'm anxious and I wanna go home." Her original name was Athena but I didn't want that name so I named her Toast bc the top of her head looked like toast. Also she has cat herpes.

This is Whisper. He has anxiety like me. My bf picked him out at a different shelter. My bf clearly has a thing for creatures riddled with anxiety. We call him Boy a lot bc he's our only boy cat. His original name was Lennon but who tf has a cat named Lennon so we named him Whisper bc he was quiet as a mouse when we first got him. This has since changed. He is the loudest mf I've ever experienced. He screams when he forgets where you are. He screams when he's hungry. He screams when he's bored. He would open doors if the knobs weren't spherical. He used to SH??? But he's stopped finally. He can speak English slightly but only the word Hello. His breath smells like ass and he needs constant attention or he'll cry. He's the same weight as every cat else but his bones are so heavy bc when he steps on you its like blunt knives are being attemptedly driven into you.

This is Fart. Yes, Fart. Her full legal name is fartsoundeffect.mp3. She's my meme cat, I have so many funny pictures of her. Her original name was Roxanne but she is very deserving of the name Fart. She loves concrete time and her wet food deeply. She is a War Criminal and has been convicted of at least 72 felonies. She was thrown out of a car window as a baby and because of that, she only has 1 brain cell and it is full of Rage. Here is some things wrong with her:

* Rage. Anger. Spite.

* liquid shit

* Insanity

Here are some crimes she has committed:

* Shit on me while I was in bed twice

* shit in my mom's home office, her bathroom, her living room, and behind the stairs in the stairwell

* ripped my dad's, my bfs, and my arm open

* pissed on multiple bathroom rugs multiple times

* dug a hole in the litter box, aim properly, then completely missed and peed all over the floor. In front of me.

* farted in front of house guests, my late grandma's physical therapy nurses, home health nurses, and a church pastor.

* Vomit logs onto the floor

I have taken her and her poop in a Tupperware container to the vet to analyze it to see if it was a bacterial infection or anything wrong with her in that way, and she's perfectly healthy apparently. We've switched food brands 28 times and she's still like this. So. Yeah. I would however go back and choose her again bc I truly believe no one would put up with her other than me.

Anyways thanks for reading ab my disabled cats I'd love to learn and read ab your cats.

#cats #cats of tumblr #cute cats #cat #pets of tumblr #my cats #my pets #pets #pets of the week #pet of the day #pet of the month #animals #Toast #Whisper #Fart

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mydisenchantedeulogy · 3 months ago

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Where the Tainted Kiss [Chapter Twenty-five] Head or Heart [Vaas Montenegro]

A/n: I am so very sorry for how long it took me to write this. I've rewritten this chapter so many times, it's driven me insane. Honestly, I'm still not happy with it, but it turned out better than my other outlines. Please enjoy.

Thank you all who have been patient and supportive of this story.

Warning(s): Vaas being Vaas, guns, anxiety, blood, death, fear, OC, mixed emotions, breakdown, language, threats, tears.

No Minors Allowed!!

At the first sound of gunfire, Olivia McKenna jerked awake in a panic, sitting up so fast that for a moment her brain felt like a bowl of soup. Her heart was racing. Liv darted her eyes around the crate, searching for the source of the noise, but of course, she could not see much. One thing she did find strange was that the door was ajar. But why?

She remembered staying up late with Vaas as he confided in her about Jason; about how one or the other was destined for death. Liv recalled her revelation, staring down at the man who kidnapped her, whose insanity infected her like a virus. But then what? The joint relaxed her enough to fall asleep. She drifted off, leaning against the wall of the crate as Vaas rested on her thighs. He must have moved her when he left.

How sweet of him.

Liv turned up her eyes, ran a hand over her face, and then tottered to the opening of the crate. As she peeked out, expecting to see the interior of the red shipping door, she was shocked to see the courtyard instead. It was still dark out, and yet the compound was strangely empty. Open wooden crates were lying around, and a bonfire raging, reaching high into the starlit sky as though everyone packed up and left in a hurry. Liv was bewildered.

She stepped out and crept down the ramp, anxious that she was going to get caught, but no one even uttered a word. Then Liv noticed why. Shoved beside the corner of the building and a crate was the body of a pirate. At first, she thought he was asleep, drunk, or high, but she noticed bullet holes in the building and upon closer investigation, she noticed blood staining his red shirt.

Before she could make heads or tails of the discovery, she heard gunshots in the distance. Her heart began to race.

"But I feel it right fucking here. This feeling in my chest tells me that he is coming for me."

Jason. Could it be him?

Liv squatted beside the crate, listening to the chaos that was unfolding across the compound. It felt like she was in the middle of a battlefield, regarded as a prisoner of war, or worse, one of the enemies. Reaching up to her neck, her fingers brushed the torn grimy cloth, and in fear of being mistaken for a pirate and shot down, she untied it and tossed it to the ground. For a moment, she felt free, but that meant nothing if she could not escape.

The front gate was closed, likely locked up tight. So how did the Rakyat - or Jason - get inside? A hole in the border, perhaps. Liv groaned. It would be too much of a risk to run through the warzone in search of it, especially when she did not even know if it existed or not. To make matters worse, as she mulled over her options, a fire had broken out in the adjacent buildings. The gunfight was getting closer to her.

The main gate. I don't have much of an option.

The console was inside one of the buildings, she knew. It was the only way to unlock the front gate. But she feared what lay in wait for her. Would the Rakyat consider her friend or foe? They left her to the mercy of the jungle once; they might just shoot her this time. Like it or not, she was alone.

It's fine. I can do this. Find the panel; find the way out.

She would figure out the details of her way back to the mainland afterward. Liv took an uneasy breath and peered into the wooden crate. It was empty aside from some foam inserts, but the dead pirate had a 1911 semi-automatic lying near him. It would do. Having a gun was better than not having one. Liv reached for it, but no sooner had she grabbed it, had a loud unexpected voice startled her.

“Jason, look at you. I mean look at you.”

Vaas. Her blood ran cold. Where was he? It sounded like his voice was coming from all around her. A PA system no doubt. He must have still been inside the building she wandered from.

“Stupid motherfucking white boy. You come here in MY fucking jungle and you think you’re a fucking warrior. You think you know what it takes to kill?”

Liv tightened her jaw. Warrior this, warrior that; he was obsessed with the notion. What bullshit did Citra fill his head with? And then there was Jason. He was falling down the same rabbit hole into madness, chasing the same ridiculous concept.

Checking the magazine to make sure it had bullets, she took an uneasy breath. Of course, she would have to face Vaas to open the door; it was like a damn video game. Liv was getting pretty fucking sick of being yanked around. If push came to shove, then she was ready. She turned and darted back into the storage building, ignoring the crate, and rounded the corner into the room with the abandoned cars. There was a set of grated stairs that she had not noticed before when Vaas brought her in. They lead up to what she hoped was the control room.

Liv crept up the stairs, gun positioned down with the safety off, making it to the top and around the corner before someone grabbed her from behind. She squeaked in fear, attempting to turn around, but a throaty laugh made her halt.

“¡Mierda (shit)! What the hell are you doing outside your crate?” Carlos asked.

He released her, and Liv swung around to face him. Her first thought was to shoot him, but he did not seem hostile. His gun was at his side, so she too kept hers down. If she could go about this peacefully, then she would.

“The door was open,” she admitted.

Carlos grunted in annoyance, cursing beneath his breath.

“We are getting our asses mowed down out there.”

Liv gave him a look as if to say ‘And I should care, why’? She was not in the least bit sympathetic.

“Is it the Rakyat?”

“Snow fucking White,” Carlos answered.

One man was causing so much chaos? Liv could not believe that. There was no way he could have survived the things he had.

“I'm in Hell. I have to be.”

Carlos snorted. “It was all good until you came along, gringa (foreigner). Un paraíso (a paradise).”

She was sure it was. Liv merely flipped him the bird, then peered down the hall. There was a door at the end, propped open, but she could not see what was inside. Carlos mistook her curiosity for concern.

“Worry about yourself, princesa (princess). This fight isn't yours.”

So, he was down there, waiting for Jason. Liv bit back a rude remark. It was her fight though. She was as much involved as Jason was, maybe even more. Just because she did not have any friends left to save did not mean she didn't have any to avenge. Tightening her grip on the gun, she tightened her jaw.

“He might die, might not, is all I'm saying. But you won't be the one to pull the fucking trigger,” Carlos stated. “As much as he likes you, he won't let you intervene in this fight. It's beyond the two of us.”

“This warrior shit again,” Liv snarled.

Fuck it.

“What then?”

“We'll wait it out. Vamos entonces (Come on then). Before someone puts a bullet in your ass,” Carlos suggested.

It took Liv a moment to realize what he meant, and as much as she wanted to see the confrontation, she knew he was right. Vaas would kill her before he ever let her take away his moment with Jason.

"He's coming, querida (darling). We are the same, he and I. It can only fucking end when one of us is truly dead."

She sighed. Was he warning her? Or saying goodbye. In the end, she reluctantly chose to follow Carlos and let fate do as it intended to. If Vaas died, she was finally free. A part of her, however, was wailing, begging for him to live.

Carlos led Liv downstairs and back to the crate, to her dismay, closing the door. So long as the bar was not pulled down, the crate would remain unlocked and could be opened from the inside. Quietly the two waited in anticipation, hearing nothing for a while, until rushed footsteps broke the uncomfortable silence. Even though she did not need to, Liv held her breath until the footsteps receded.

Then what she heard next could only be described as utter chaos. Jason began to shout, saying things that made no sense to her. He rambled like a madman, then the bullets began to fly. He went through an entire clip of a machine gun, halted, then began to fire again. How many bullets was he going to waste? Was he even hitting anything? All Liv could picture was Jason in a Stormtrooper uniform failing to hit anything. As comical as the image was, she could not muster a smile. Her nerves were too screwed up. By the time it was over, she for some reason felt sick to her stomach. The outcome was weighing on her like a wet blanket.

Waiting for what felt like an hour, Liv nearly gasped in fear when Carlos yanked the latch up and opened the door. It made such a loud squeak that her ears rang. He held up his hand to halt her, peeked outside, then motioned for her to follow him. She did not know if she wanted to. With a deep breath, she tottered outside the crate for the last time and into the warehouse. Carlos went right, so she followed him.

The air was stagnant with the scent of gunpowder, growing stronger as Liv ascended the stairs. She noticed holes in the walls, holes that were not there earlier, diverting her attention only when the toe of her shoe hit something at the top where Carlos had first snuck up on her. It was a used 1ml syringe. She curled her nose in disgust, ignored it, and walked behind the brute down the hallway to the room at the end. The two hesitantly entered. Even if he did not seem to care, Carlos let out a groan of remorse at what he saw.

“Fóllame (fuck me). Hand of fate, you crazy motherfucker.”

What did he mean? Liv shoved past him, seeing both Vaas and Jason on the floor. Neither of them were moving, but only Vaas had blood around him. She could not believe it.

“A-are they dead?” She asked.

Carlos checked on Vaas first, pressing his fingers against the pulse point at his wrist. He groaned, then went to check on Jason. As he did, Liv hesitantly wandered over to the former, staring down at him. She gently nudged his arm, but he did not move.

He's dead, isn't he?

Tears stung her eyes. She was not sure if she was crying because it was over or because she didn't want him to die. Either reason she believed. She stared at Vaas long enough in a zoned-out state that when she heard Carlos curse beneath his breath, she swore he tightened his jaw. Liv glanced over at the brute to see him raise his 44 magnum and point the barrel at Jason, who was holding a tribal knife in one hand; half of the blade was covered in blood.

“What are you doing?” She asked in a raspy voice.

“Finishing him off,” Carlos answered. “The fucker is still breathing.”

Jason was alive. Liv widened her glossy eyes.

“Why? He won. Vaas is dead.”

What sense did it make to kill him now? Revenge. She took a step toward him to stop him, content with using the gun if she had to, but a hand weakly grabbed her leg. Liv squeaked in surprise, glancing down to see that Vaas had moved.

“So quick to…count me out, no?”

How was he alive? For a moment, Liv was relieved, but then the feeling was replaced with an extreme sensation of anger.

No. No…no.

Raising the gun, her hands trembled. She pointed the barrel at him, but instead of anger or shock, Vaas simply grinned.

“I always knew those fucking tears were genuine. From the heart, yeah?”

Tears. Liv almost did not hear Carlos shout for her to stop, lost in her thoughts. What tears?

Lying on his back, Vaas weakly raised his hands to his head, lifting his fingers to give the impression that he had horns.

“Monstruo (monster).”

“I'm not a fucking monster…I'm not.”

“I don't w-want you to die. Please stop…please.”

Liv tensed.

“Shut up. Just shut your fucking mouth,” she hissed.

Why did he bring that up? Why did it matter? Liv placed both her hands around the gun, begging herself to prove him wrong, but the barrel of a 44 magnum touched the back of her head and she froze.

“This won't save you, puta (bitch),” Carlos sneered. “You pull the trigger and you will die right here.”

“Ey fucker!” Vaas shouted. He motioned with his hand for Carlos to put the gun down. “Don't interrupt. The grown-ups are talking.”

What sort of game was he playing? Did he not think she would do it? Liv tightened her jaw.

“It takes a monster to kill a monster,” she uttered.

He laughed weakly.

“And you are that fucking monster, huh?” Before she could answer, Vaas did it for her. “No, not you, querida (darling). You aren't like me.”

Even with a gun pointed at him, he was still underestimating her resolve.

“You don't know a damn thing about me, Vaas.”

“Show me,” Vaas ordered. “You want to be a monster. ¡Muéstrame! ¡Vamos! (Show me! Come on)!”

Liv tightened her jaw in irritation. She was not afraid of him, but her hands trembled. Tears slid down her heated cheeks and her stomach churned. Vaas was right here; he was on death's door. He was at her mercy, and yet she was hesitant for some reason. Her time on the island crossed her mind like a reel of memories, silent yet nonetheless intense.

She hated to admit it, but she was drawn to Vaas in more ways than she should be. It was a terrible realization, even more so when she realized that he walked her through her trauma. She forgave herself; she let her dad go. Her lip began to tremble. He was right, she was not a monster. Perhaps it was in her eyes; eyes that stung with tears as she tried to force herself to be like him, just as Jason had.

“You bastard,” she sobbed.

The gun felt like a weight in her hand, growing heavier and heavier as her strength failed her. Liv realized it was easy to set herself up in that mindset; that she had to kill Vaas to be free, but she could not go through with it. Her morals would not let her take his life, even after everything she went through. She slowly dropped to her knees, letting the heavy gun slide to the floor in front of her. No matter how hard she tried to get her feelings together, she couldn't.

Wiping away her tears, she glanced at Vaas to gauge his expression, but to her shock, his eyes were closed and his body was still. Liv could tell based on the shallow breaths that he took that he was still alive; he had merely passed out. The fucker. He did not get to make her feel this way and then pass out. An air of annoyance washed over her and like the flip of a switch, she lunged at him, straddling his waist. Despite Carlos’ protests, she drew back her arm, tightened her hand into a fist, and punched Vaas in the chest.

Her wrath knew no bounds. Liv did not care where she hit, so long as her fist made contact with the man below her, stopping only when she missed and struck the floor beside his head.

“Fuck!” She shouted.

Her hand was covered in Vaas’ blood and her knuckles burned. If anything, it just made her more angry that he was not awake to listen to her.

“You psycho fuck,” she wept. Reaching down, she buried her fingers in his shirt. “Wake up. You have no idea what you've done…what hell you've put me through. I want–”

A fresh bout of sobs wracked her. For a moment, she could not speak. No matter how hard she tried, nothing came out but her cries. Liv did not find her voice again until Carlos slid his hands beneath her arms in an attempt to move her.

“Don't fucking touch me!” She lashed out, jerking away from him.

She wasn't done, but Carlos did not care. He jerked her up, holding her back.

“Calm the fuck down. He can't hear you. You're acting loca (crazy). Breathe.”

For fucks sake. She was having a mental breakdown, wasn't she? Liv took a deep uneasy breath, but it did little to calm her trembling body. She supposed she did look crazy, attacking an unconscious man who was bleeding out.

“Are you good?” Carlos asked.

Honestly, no. Liv shook her head, but luckily he let her go. She watched as he walked over to Vaas and began to strip him of his tank top, using a knife from his boot to tear the fabric. As he was wrapping the strips across Vaas’ abdomen where he had been stabbed, she heard the sound of footsteps smacking against the grated walkway outside.

A moment later, Yada stumbled in, holding his hand over a wound on his side.

“Fuck me,” he uttered, taking in the scene before him.

His eyes met Livs for a moment as though he was debating her involvement before Carlos shouted for him to help.

“He's bleeding out. We need to take him to the Doctor.”

Doctor E.

“Will he make it that far?” Yada asked.

“The fuck if I know,” Carlos retorted.

Yada cursed beneath his breath and helped him lift Vaas, supporting his weight.

“And Snow White. He alive too?”

Liv darted her eyes to Jason, then back to Carlos, giving him a pleading look that said ‘Leave him be. Please’. He thankfully listened.

“We need to go. This place is fucked.”

She considered staying behind. The island would no doubt be liberated by the Rakyat and in a few hours it would be swarming with them, but she was not sure she could trust them. The sad truth was that she trusted the pirates more. Liv swallowed hard. She had a choice to make.

Glancing around the room for the first time, she noticed a control panel in the center with multiple TV screens surrounding it. Some of them were broken, riddled with gunshot holes, but she could make out sections of the compound. One of them pointed at her shipping crate. Liv snorted, then walked over to the panel to look it over. There were a series of buttons; one of them read ‘main’. She pressed it down, then turned. A shelf in the corner of the room held multiple items, one of which was a can of red spray paint. An idea came to mind.

Before she left, taking her gun with her, she sprayed a message on the floor for Jason to see. ‘Break the Cycle’. She opted not to leave her name. After all Olivia McKenna was meant to be dead.

Hurrying outside, Liv was pleased to see that Carlos and Yada had not yet left her. They had loaded Vaas into a Scavenger with an open trunk bed and were talking to another pirate who had somehow managed to live. By the time she made it over, he walked away, heading back into the compound.

“There are others?”

“A few. With Vaas on the verge of death, we need to step back and take a look at the damage. Go into hiding,” Carlos answered honestly. He paused for a moment, then sighed. “You coming, princesa (princess).”

Honestly, she had nowhere else to go. There was a chance Vaas would pull through and there was something she wanted to tell him. She hoped that she would not come to regret this.

“For now. I need to see if he lives or not,” Liv retorted.

Her answer was cynical, but Carlos could respect her resolve. He nodded, then motioned for her to get into the Scavenger. Liv sat up front while Yada sat in the bed with Vaas. They planned to take a patrol boat to the north island, and then drive to the doctor's house. She knew nothing beyond that.

For the most part, the trip was safe. Carlos stayed in contact with an unnamed pirate who had eyes on the roads. A large handful of territories had been liberated and were now taken over by the Rakyat, but there were still pirates hidden about, lying low. By the time they reached the Doctor's house, the sun had risen. Liv slid out of the front seat and stretched her sore back. She was exhausted, both mentally and physically, but felt slightly better after her breakdown.

The house the Doctor lived in was gorgeous. It looked like a mansion compared to the shacks on the island. There was even a greenhouse situated to the side, where the Doctor himself emerged moments later, swaying a bit.

“This is…a pleasant surprise I must say,” he stated, as she and Carlos approached. “Am I hallucinating?”

Liv raised a brow. One hard look and she realized that he was high. His blue eyes were glassy and his pupils were dilated.

“Jefe (boss) is in the back. He was stabbed,” Carlos told him, ignoring his question.

Doctor E sucked in air between his teeth.

“A patch-up. I'll go grab my bag, wherever I might have left it.”

Liv was in disbelief. This was Doctor E? An elderly, unkempt man who seemed to sample a bit too much of his product. She waited until he strode away before she turned to Carlos.

“Are you sure about him?”

“He works better when he's high,” Carlos simply answered.

Whatever. It was not her life that was on the line. She sat down on the front porch out of the way while Doctor E, who later she learned was called Alec Earnhardt, attempted to save Vaas. He managed to stop the bleeding and sew him up, but he had lost quite a bit of blood, which with a transfusion might save him. It was honestly up to him now.

Liv thought in some cliche manner that her blood would be needed, but luckily Doctor Earnhardt had it handled. Vaas was, ironically, a regular blood donor. In a place like the Rook Islands, she reckoned giving blood was not a terrible idea. It was more weird that the old man kept the bags in his fridge next to his produce.

A short while later, Doctor Earnhardt joined her on the porch, cleaning the blood from his hands with a wash rag.

“Are you hurt?” He asked.

Liv hummed, then realized that he meant the blood on her hands and clothes.

“It's not mine.”

She reckoned that he was used to such remarks, or he simply did not care, because he said nothing in return. He was silent, watching the pirates talk amongst themselves, then turned his eyes to Liv again.

“You don't belong here miss, not with these chaps.”

He was right. She didn't.

“Neither do you, by the sound of it,” Liv retorted.

She was referring to his accent. He sounded like he was from somewhere in Europe, Britain most likely.

Doctor Earnhardt snorted softly. “I'm right where I am meant to be, I assure you.”

Liv was not sure what he meant. She watched him faintly smile, then walk back into the house. If she had known that this was the first and last time she would talk to him, she would have asked him to come with her, though she doubted that he would have followed.

Walking down to the Scavenger, she crawled into the front seat, taking a look back at Vaas. He looked like he was in an eternal conflict with himself. His brows were knitted, eyes darting back and forth beneath his lids. Liv wondered if he was dreaming. Whatever was going on inside his mind must have been chaotic. If only she knew.

The sound of the door coming open turned her attention to Carlos who sat behind the wheel.

“What now?” She asked.

“We lay low for a while. Fuera de la red (off the grid). Then we will see,” he answered.

Liv hummed. Reaching over to the radio, she cut it on, surprised to hear ‘Mama Morenita’ playing. An air of nostalgia washed over her.

“Mama Morenita is the best song on the radio, no?”

Carlos snorted and started the engine. Vaas would agree.

#vaas montenegro x oc #oc #far cry 3 fandom #far cry 3 fanfiction #vaas montenegro

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