#to open up to or maybe even face his trauma and scar and memories of his father and challenge his beliefs that he CHOOSES to be vulnerable

[niehuaisang]

I'm like half a year late but i finally finished tiger&bunny and WHAT was the fucking point of killing yuri in the end like why

Not to mention that they didn't even give us taibani facing lunatic at the end and instead gave us that stupid fight where he isn't even in control of his body

I feel like they had a clear vision of what to do with yuri as a character in the first season but appaently had none of that for s2? They just have his mom killed and then kill him off too in such a half assed way...

[pursuitseternal]

Introducing “Our Blood is Thicker:” Enemies to Lovers Astarion x Tav (OC female)

Astarion x Tav (female OC) | E | 4.8 K Chapter

Summary: He can’t remember anything, but she does. The betrothed she believed dead, the source of all her centuries of grief and heartache now in the middle of her path after the Nautiloid crash. He might look mostly the same as the one who stole her heart, but something is different about him. Dark. Changed. Something hidden. But her own centuries of becoming battle-hardened haven taught her wisdom and insight beyond her own elvish abilities. He is a monster she can tame, a challenge she will have to face. No matter the heartache.

CW: angst, heartbreak, enemies, sexual tension you can cut with a dagger, vampire trauma-induced memory loss, calculating manipulation (Astarion), Spoilers for the gameplay

A/N: Prompt fill, 3rd Person POV, female Tav OC, headcanon Astarion as Star elf ✨, our Little Star

Read on AO3 if you prefer

Chapter 1: Wondering

💞🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️💞

“Shh shh shh shh,” that sweetened, mellifluous voice whispered in her ear so softly. Lips nearly pressing against her sensitive, pointed ear. Something about it reached into the dark recesses of her memory. Jarring almost more than the danger he posed.

It was a sharp contrast. So caressing in tone. Strange, compared to the way he used every bit of his wiry, lean, overwhelming strength to push that dagger towards her neck.

“Not another sound… not if you want to keep that… darling… neck of yours….”

Shivers, colder than ice, colder than death ran down her spine at his words. Recognition shot right through her. It was a voice that once haunted her thoughts, one she once craved. But that craving had turned sour, that longing had long ago twisted into spite.

That silver hair, those piercing eyes and dangerous smile.

Even the way his arm cradled around her back, bracing her into him as he tried to threaten and destroy her.

But she had been here before.

Destroyed by him once.

Over a hundred years of loathing, resentment, anger, it all came rushing up, pouring out from her. Her hands swift and strong, she grabbed his body where she could, smashing her head right into the bridge of his beautiful, aquiline nose.

His howl of pain as he rolled away made her heart sing.

Her companions watched, mouths open as they stood in a line, some in surprise, some in delight. Karlach’s laughter was especially reassuring to her ear. Making her go just a hint faster as she scrambled for her own elegant blade.

But it was a struggle to keep her stance, to keep up. Maybe that fucking parasite is making me slow, she cursed inwardly, or maybe he’s just become quicker. Faster. But equally mean and threatening as before.

A ghost from her past, just as much of a… threat… as he once was.

Already at his feet, he clutched his dagger in hand, lips pressed in suspicion and cold, calculating spite. “I saw you on the ship…” he hissed.

She squared her shoulders, spinning her own blade expertly in hand. “That doesn’t give you the right to touch me, Astarion Ancunín,” she hissed back.

She saw it, giving her a sublime dark and twisted joy. His shock and doubt the moment she gave his name. A flicker over his face as his concentration, his intense charm and swagger, shattered. He eased on his toes, weapon lowering. Looking for answers, maybe for peaceful conversation. But it was too late for her, swallowing down the bile that had risen to speak his name again.

No backing down now, she sneered. And besides, she wasn’t alone this time. Her party stood behind her, their anxiety palpable as they watched. Waiting for her to choose: attack or speak.

And for every scar on her heart that bastard made, she longed to attack, but her own, ancient elvish sensibilities prevented her.

She couldn’t just kill one of her own. Not when there were already so few Star Elves to begin with.

“I take it, we’ve met before,” he replied. Cold, so cold in his tone. And cautious, as if he weighed every word before he let it out from those sneering lips. Same old Astarion. “At least before you crawled around the Mindflayer’s ship doing gods know what…”

That was it. She snapped inwardly. It was hard to control it, her need to pummel his pale face. “Don’t remember?” She forced a charming smile, narrowing her sharp, silver eyes at him. “Of course not, over a century of chasing your own ambitions and leaving your people behind…” She swallowed the need to mention herself… how he left you behind, her mind hissed at her with all the venom she had tried to bury.

He said nothing, but she could see how his mind was racing, scanning her up and down and all over with those… crimson… eyes.

She paused. Where were those deep violet ones? The ones she would once lose herself in, deep like the night sky she had stared into, abandoning all reason, forgetting her own self in, during those long and lonely years, wishing she wasn’t alone in her bed at night….

Rapidly, she shook her head.

It pulled him back into the tension, the pale elf hardened his form again, back on the offense, a second dagger in his fist now. “Tell me what you know about these parasites, or I’ll decorate the ground with your innards, darling…”

That’s when something pulsed in her mind, the parasite swimming, throbbing as their minds smashed together.

She saw through foreign eyes… crouching in the darkness, the tang of old blood… locked behind walls away from the stars, the sky, forsaking the sun… her stomach burned with a hunger she had never known. And slowly her mind raced, trying to cling to the memories of faces and names and the feeling of grass under her feet and wind on her face.

She wished she had chosen death as the blood on her back began to dry, as the pain of his knife still cut your senses and deadened her mind. She tried to remember anything, but it all faded into the dark…

Her eyes shot open, the glaring sun a relief to her heart as she gasped. As if she had been suffocated by that dank dark prison herself.

Astarion glared at her, so intense and angry as those crimson pools narrowed. “They took you too, I saw it during… whatever that was,” he scowled at her. Confusion, mistrust, wrinkling his porcelain brow. “It seems we have a common goal, darling, even though I could feel your hatred for me clear as… day.”

“Another gift from the Ilithids, it seems,” she scoffed, “glad I didn’t have to waste my breath telling you.” Her lithe fingers resheathed her dagger, turning on her heel to face her new found companions. But they didn’t budge even as she approached with all the confidence of a seasoned commander.

“That's it?” The elf called, voice sharp as he followed in her steps. “You’re going to just… leave me? Even though I am stuck with the same fate as all of you?” He sounded desperate, an edge of true fear flickering in his mellifluous voice.

She scoffed, tossing her shining red hair over her shoulder with a glare. “I seem to remember you always preferred to go your own way,” she jeered over your shoulder, feeling the tips of her own pointed ears growing hot with rage.

“Look, if I remembered anything, I’m sure I would have centuries to apologize for, but as it is…” he cleared his throat. She turned fully at the noise of discomfort, reassured by the closeness of the others beside her. She watched as he put on a well-practiced smile, making his arms soften as he flexed them at his sides. “I… I don’t, I can’t remember much other than my name, and little of my past.” His eyes scanned your company: wizard, cleric, tiefling… begging and pleading with their wide wetness in every way that matched his supplicant tone. “Please, I know you’re trying to find an expert, a solution…” he placed a hand on his heart, smile softening, forcing sincerity, “I’d like to, too.”

The wizard shifted beside her, leaning closer so his voice reached her ear. “It would be.. most extreme to just… ignore someone thrown into our path and bound to the same fate,” Gale’s calm and soothing lilt seemed to only aggravate her.

“We know nothing about him,” she snapped between gritted teeth. Hissing, her mind corrected those furious words: you know nothing about him.

“Do you know anything about any of us?” Shadowheart added, eyes so soft and sparkling, tone so damnably calm too.

Her nostrils flared, her temper beating in her head. Made things difficult to think past all feelings that swirled in her stomach and befuddled her mind. But she forced herself to take a breath, closing her eyes as she turned to face that unsought phantom from her past. “Fine,” she gave a relenting hiss, “for the good of the group, I will allow you to come.”

His brow quirked. Too attractively, too seductively for her own good. “Thank you,” he crooned in reply, catching her fist where it balled at her side and pressing his lips on her fingers.

His mouth was cold, but so was the air, she shook the observations from her head. Trying to keep everything he did at a distance. Hard to do as he smirked down at her, as rakish and roguish as once plagued her dreams. “I always enjoy being allowed to come,” he purred, quietly enough for her ears alone.

“Don’t,” she rasped through her tightly clenching jaw. “Don’t make me regret this spike of altruism on your behalf…” Finally ripping her hand from his chilled hold upon her. “Not that you would know the word at any rate.”

He stiffened, caught off guard again as she mentioned his past… who he was. “For as much as you think I should know you, darling, I don’t…” he squared his frame, rigid and defensive. “And for as much as you think you may know me, of what I once was, I assure you…” he seemed to sneer bitterly, his teeth flashing in the sun, “…you do not.”

Provoking him was fun, she decided. Maybe, making him pay would be a pleasant distraction from the fear of these damned parasites. She made her lips smile, giving her fiery, burnished red hair a toss. Cool and collected. “Then it seems we will have much time to get to know one another, Astarion.”

There it was again, that outward show of being polite, his feral nature just simmering beneath. “Of course,” he bowed his head, closing in so close, she had to push past him.

But the moment she cleared ahead, he was right there again, and this time, she couldn’t fight the aggravated sigh in her throat as he fell in step behind her. His body so close, she could feel the brush of his sleeve—richly colored, decadentally embroidered—with every fucking step. That’s when his sultry voice leaned too close to her ear so as to fill it. “So, since you’re so cunning and sneaky and beautiful, I’m sure you know about these parasites…”

“Certainly,” she threw him her most annoyed and caustic look. “I know enough to tell you they’ll turn you into a Mindflayer,” she snapped her reply. Quick and to the point.

“A…” he stopped frozen in his tracks, shaking his head as he scoffed with bitter laughter. “Of course,” he sneered with disdain, “it’ll turn me into a monster. What did I expect?” he commented, quietly, under that icy breath, almost to himself.

She sniffed, her own irascible, twitching grimace on her smooth face, letting out all the barbs that had piled up as he looked at her, that aloof veneer just… pissing her off. “You were always a bit of a monster, Astarion,” she teased, malice in her words. “Shouldn’t be much of a change for you.”

That did it. That broke into his ice-cold defenses. He roared, hands clawing into her upper arms, his massive strength shoving her little, flexible frame against the closest tree. He’s so close. His breath chilling. His teeth bared in her face, but all she could see was the feral, unchecked wilderness in the shocking red of his eyes. “Look,” he growled, voice barely more than a rumble as he pinned her into that unyielding tree. “I don’t know what you remember, or who you remember. But I don’t know you… I don’t recall your name, your face, your annoying, rash, irritating presence…”

“Funny,” she kept her face relaxed, pleasantly smiling softly, strangely calm as all the bile began to draw from the dark recesses of her soul. At last, her mouth spewed the words that had tightened in her chest since she recognized him. “I can recall everything. An elf’s memory is their curse, you know. I remember the depth of colors in your violet eyes, I remember the way your giggle would turn every head to give you the attention you longed for, even as a youth.”

His pinning frame eased, but he kept them on her body. Still heavy and strong as he pressed over every inch.

She wished he wouldn’t.

But it only kept the poison flowing. “I remember the taste of your tongue in my mouth, the heat of your hands as you caressed me through my gowns… I remember the way your voice cracked with feeling when you gave me your word we would be wed, my betrothed for every age… every lifetime…”

Now it was her silky voice that cracked. And she watched the shadows draw over his pale face. The lines around his eyes crinkling as he winced, as if her words were sucking a venom from sealed wounds.

“I remember that same untamable need for power, for ambition, the same that made you leave your people under the stars, in the woods, to go to Baldur’s Gate for your studies. For you to find a way to take power from society, exploiting the law… becoming a Magistrate so you could discover true power and freedom…”

Those dark red eyes shut completely. His lips drawing slowly in a pained sneer. But now the words just couldn’t stop. Not now.

She inhaled, shakily and deeply. The pain almost overwhelmed her. “I recall every second of waiting during those years, waiting for your letters… for your return to me… to make me your bride but…”

He gave a rattling breath from his chest. “But I never did…” his hands swept down her arms, lingering for a moment before he released her completely. “I couldn’t return…”

She gave a derisive huff, a laugh of pure ire and disbelief. “I know. Well, I thought I did. I went looking for you, Astarion. I found your… grave.” She almost shouted the last word. The full extent of her pain, her betrayal coating her voice, coloring her vision in pure, red rage. “I sought after how you died. Murdered in the streets. Like the traitor you were to me.” Her breath was rough and ragged. “I let you go from that moment, Astarion. So forgive me if stumbling upon you very much… not dead… is a bit painful.”

“I assure you,” he spoke through his perfectly white, gritted teeth, “it might not be as painful as the truth.”

“Well,” she sniffed in scorn, “once you deign to share it, then I’ll stop assuming you faked your own death, just to get away from me. What a sense of humor the gods must have to throw you back in my path now.”

“The gods have nothing to do with it,” he twisted his head, and she could see every muscle in his neck clenching and throbbing. “You’ll learn the truth, I’m sure. Maybe it’ll even come to you in the night…”

Brows furrowed, making her face screw in contempt, too irritated to be confused. “Maybe,” she snipped, “might be faster than waiting on you to do anything.”

He grinned, brows canting, those eyes gazed at her with that same amused stare that once made her thighs wet with need. And dammit, if she didn’t start to feel it again. Especially as that smirk started to twist more rakishly. Her heart skipped a beat. The wind in his hair, tousling those same silver locks, the scent of his skin, citrus and spice, she hated the way it still tugged at her body.

“Fuck,” she cursed, jutting her chin up at him, trying to look composed and undeterred. And unaroused. “I just hope you’re as good of a fighter as you once were,” she taunted, eyes scanning the daggers at each side of his narrow waist. “Seems your body remembers that even if you don’t remember anything important.”

“I would dare to say, darling, I’m even more dangerous now than I ever was,” he preened. Proud. Insufferable. “If you ever felt yourself in danger around me before, perhaps you may wish to watch your back… and your neck.” His eyes raked down her body, that same ancient heat in his eyes even if he didn’t remember it from… from before.

That was enough. She huffed and stalked on up the trail, trying to put as much distance and as many other bodies between her and him.

That’s when she saw it… where the rest of her party had already gathered. Something about the rocks ahead, the massive door in the wall, something inside her wanted to see what’s inside… and without another thought, she shoved on the big, wood planks.

“Locked,” she proclaimed, looking at her sweet Wizard, giving him a soft, pleading look for any help he and his magic could offer.

“Well, I do suppose…” Gale smiled, “anything to help our fearless leader, even if it’s just the gentlemanly thing of holding a door open…”

“Done!” Astarion crowed, his lockpick in one hand, the other gesticulating dramatically as he bowed. The thick door did, in fact, groan on its hinges as it opened into the mountain. “Who needs magic when you have a fine tool to shove in tiny holes, hmm?”

His eyes fixated right on her. Gods, her mind raced at the way he looked at her as if she was bared to the sun. Is he remembering?

“Well, Astarion,” the cleric taunted as she drew closer, “no one is accusing you of gentlemanly behavior.”

“I should certainly hope not,” his eyes shifted that heated, flirtatious stare on Shadowheart. “Gentlemen aren’t known for having as much fun as I tend to… enjoy.”

“Ugh,” that groan came from her, through, totally unplanned. She pushed between them to enter into the dark. But what she tried to ignore, try to distract herself from, was how her stomach knotted, how her blood boiled at the image that was now burned in her mind. Of how he was just… smirking at her…the cleric… undressing with his eyes… throwing those honeyed barbs…. And all he has for you is just anger and blades and pain, her thoughts scratched at those old, heartsick wounds.

As she entered into the dark adventure ahead, she didn’t know what was worse. The enemies in her path, or the traitorous ghost that haunted her with envy within her heart.

With a sigh, she could only hope he was as brutal a fighter as he seemed to think he was. External enemies he could slay, but she doubted he would help, could help, that bitterness and jealousy that had taken root inside her.

___________________

Hells below, she moaned, she made it to the night. Alive and in one piece. And… as she surveyed her companions that fate had shoved into her path, it was thanks to all of them. Even… she groaned inwardly… Astarion. He was indeed vicious. Worse than she remembered. He loved the bloodshed. He thrived in the chaos of battle. He became one with the shadows to sneak up on the enemy.

It was…. Gods forbid… impressive.

She mindlessly sorted through the food that everyone had pilfered on the journey today, every companion busied now piecing together sleeping places. Some of the more ambitious, entitled, conceited companions had begun to construct tents.

Like Astarion.

A heavy sigh, she tried to ignore how he was bouncing on his toes, fairly giddy to make a little abode under the night sky. Rolling her eyes painfully far back in her skull, she settled for a comfy, if austere, bedroll that she settled by the fire.

She looked at her hands as she fluffed her pillow, shifting the thick blanket to cover the leather of its back. So dry, so scarred. Calluses on both her fingers from holding sword and dagger. Seeing Astarion… it made it hard not to remember the days before. The days when pricking her fingers with a needle and thread were the worst she could do… days when she touched the finest silks, softer than starlight, that shimmered just as brightly and just as…

“Shame you can’t fashion yourself a little retreat away for yourself… a little place for privacy, secrecy,” that irritating and silken voice snapped her from her sweet memories, thrusting her right back into the agony of his presence. The reminder of all she lost. And he towered over her, looming above where she crouched.

Turning a look of pure spite up at him, she glared from over her shoulder, unable to miss how his legs stood so close to her rear. Nearly touching her with his body.

“What need would I have of secrecy, Astarion?” She taunted as she stood, carefully putting more room between them as she did so.

“Given how little I do recall about you, I’m sure I have no idea,” he purred, crossing his arms.

Exasperation. It had been a long day, ending it with more of him wasn’t ideal. She needed to… put something to rest. Anything.

“Okay, I get it,” she huffed, crossing her arms too, jutting her chin up as she met his sultry stare of indifference, “I remember much more than you. For whatever reason, I don’t know. And I know after all this time, I doubt I deserve any form of explanation. But my memory is all I have….”

She swallowed, the words you were all I had burning a hole in her throat as she fought them back down.

“But what I do know is that… someday… I would like to know what happened,” she blinked her sharp silver eyes, turning away hurriedly to hide the harsh sting of tears that began to burn. “When you’re ready… if you even remember enough to share that.”

Breathless, she waited for some snarky reply. For some witty rejoinder. But it never came. She turned. He was just… standing there. The light of the setting sun seemed to glow around him, almost making those soft, silver curls on his head incandescent.

Gods, she knew how it was she fell in love with him so easily, so long ago. A lifetime ago. Shadows darkened his eyes, and she saw it then, how he had let his guard down for a split second. Nothing but purest pain on his face.

“Astarion,” she breathed, those long forgotten feelings creeping back up. Timeless affection, boundless attachment, undying devotion.

“I will tell you… but,” he swallowed, giving a heavy, saddened sigh. “Gods, I wish I remembered more, remembered… you.” He looked at her then, really and truly. No squinting or leering or smirking. “You seem so, nice… when you want to be. You sound like you really, truly cared for me.”

“I did,” came her reply. I do, her heart screamed through the cage of spite that she had built.

“I am… sorry,” he kept his eyes fixed on her, so wide and soft. “I… must have cared for you too, I… I can almost feel it too.”

Her lungs burn. No, no. She was past this, for almost two centuries, she had buried herself in serving her people, defending them from enemies, seeking victories on the battlefield. Alone. Prowess with the blade. Feats few of her race have ever attained. No marriage or love to soften her.

And yet…except for his eyes, this was her love… her… gods, she swallowed the words… her betrothed.

“It’s alright, Astarion,” she shrugged, shoving down all that saccharine sentiment, “even if you did feel the same way as you did once, there is still the pain of losing you for such a long time.” Her head hung down, her eyes looking down the front of her well-worn linen shirt, as if she couldn’t examine the creases in her sleeves hard enough.

Then she felt him drawing closer.

“I… didn't fake anything,” he whispered. Standing right before her. Not touching, but staring back in the fading light. “I didn’t fake my death.”

She let out a quiet scoff. “So what, then if you didn’t fake it, you really died?” She couldn’t help the slight mocking edge to her voice as he dragged up all that pain she fought to still keep locked up tight.

He gave a single, loud, bitter laugh in return. Then, his face instantly lost all that softness, becoming all slanted angles, clenching muscles, and spiteful glare. “I was captured,” he hissed, “kept as a slave to a… monster.”

“Astarion,” his name was a sob in her voice, her body unable to stop her hand from reaching out to rest on his arm as it clenched at his side.

“No, I don’t want pity,” he snapped his teeth in rage, “I don’t want your pity. What I want is revenge. Freedom. These tadpoles have obviously affected us, in more ways than I think anyone can simply observe. There is a power here.” He trembled under her featherlight touch, but he hadn’t shaken it off. “And I would like to use it to its benefit for me, for once.”

“Sounds like even with… everything you endured, you haven’t changed all that much,” she tried to smile. Despite his pain and rage on his beautiful face. Despite her heavy heart.

“You have no idea what you are speaking of,” his voice was exacting, enraged, and sharp.

Her head nodded, the soft red waves of her hair falling gently as she did. “No, no I don’t. You’re right.”

And instantly something shifted in his frame. His gaze felt… different on her face. Even though she didn’t look up. Not yet.

“And I would want those things for you too, even once upon a time,” she added, “Freedom. Revenge.” She trained her eyes on the ground between them, feeling his stare’s intensity more than seeing it.

And still, he allowed her hand to rest on his arm.

“When we… once were… together, I would never have said such a thing. But I have changed in these centuries too. Fought enough battles, looted enough corpses to lose the softness of my hand and the gentility of my voice.” She struggled to breathe again. Something around her heart releasing at last. “Maybe it’s best that you don’t remember me.” She gave the hard sinews of his arm a gentle squeeze. “Maybe we just get to know each other as we are now?”

“I kind of like the sound of that,” he hummed. Then he cast that well-practiced smile, the only warning before his other hand came to cover hers arresting it from his body in his soft fingers.

His touch was still so… cold.

“I do still wish I could remember more of you,” his voice dipped low, soft and sweet and tickling in her ear as he seemed to draw closer. “Maybe you can think of some things to… trigger my memory?”

“I could certainly try,” she managed to reply, and as he began to crowd her.

“I’d be open to some ideas of yours, darling,” his hand raised her to his lips, placing a polite kiss on her twitching fingertips. “I also have some… suggestions that you might find… intriguing.” His eyes flashed as she looked into his face, as she felt his breath on her hand where he kept it pressed close to his mouth. “Especially since you say we were betrothed…”

Nope. She gave him a disapproving frown, a bitter chuckle. “If you can’t remember if we have coupled yet, then I am not about to tell you either way, Astarion,” she smirked at him. “If we are getting to know one another again, it seems only fair you should earn such a privilege again as well.”

He shrugged those strapping, broad shoulders. “Can’t blame a man for trying,” he purred. “Not with how… delectable… you smell.”

Her breath burned in her lungs, his hand turning hers slowly, running a thumb over that sensitive skin inside her wrist just once. Pressing it against his nose. Smelling her flesh. Even more painstakingly slowly, his lips caressed it, trailing a few more over those tingling nerves he was igniting on fire now. Then he released her just as quickly as he had stolen her hand to press to his lips.

Similar, but so, so much more daring. Devious. Desirous. Gods, kissing her fingers was one thing, but this. Oh, she felt molten inside, barely noticing just how cold he still was to the touch. Finally he released her. “You should rest, my dear. Tell the others, I will take the first watch to show you all I’m on my best behavior.”

She watched him turn and take two steps towards his tent.

Then he stoped, casting a smirk over his shoulder. Catching her in the glint of his crimson eye. “Sweet dreams… Cordehlia.”

Hells… her name. Her gut stabbed in on itself. Her legs gave out slightly, as she hoped he wouldn't notice.

No one had said it… her name… not within his hearing. How… did he…?

As he crept his way to the treeline, Cordehlia watched him as he stalked away. Wondering just how much he might remember.

Wondering at how much he had changed…

Wondering… why was he so cold, and why were his eyes so red…

💞🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️💞

Want more? Check out my Masterlist 🩸✨

[bensonoliviasstuff]

“Turning Page”

Chapter One! “ ‘I'll never leave’, never mind”

Masterlist for “Turning Page”

Bucky Barnes x fem! Reader

Summary: Once Bucky regained consciousness and was no longer the Winter Soldier, all he missed from the 40s was his wife. But maybe she's closer than he thought.

Warnings: English is NOT my first language, so I'm sorry if there are too many errors. Futhermore i don't think there are many warnings, a little bit of angst, memory loss, betrayal, trauma, Insecurities and other things that you will discover throughout the story. And the best part: Thanos doesn't exist here

The infirmary doors were opened in an angry shove, making a loud noise as the metal of the door met the wall. A nervous Bucky walked past with hurried steps.

“Bucky, Wait!” Steve shouted trying to keep up with his friend's steps. “No one can enter the room yet, they are carrying out tests”

“I need to see, Steve!” He shouted in a broken voice as he continued his way through the corridors of the compound's medical wing. “I need to see with my own eyes...”

The sentence died down when he stopped walking, facing the glass window of the hospital room.

It was you.

Bucky had the image of you memorized perfectly in his head, he could describe everything that had changed since 1940 with just one look, your hair was a few inches longer, there were a few small scars on your face. But it was still you.

He felt like his heart had stopped beating for a few moments.

He ran a metal hand over his face, holding back the sob that threatened to escape his throat. “It’s her Steve” Bucky placed a hand on the glass, almost as if he could feel it.

“It's her, Bucky” Steve said cautiously “But... We don't know what happened to her this whole time, we'll only know how she is when she wakes up.”

That's when realization hit Bucky, his fist closed against the glass, about to punch the wall.

“I’m going to kill those bastards” Bucky said, unable to calm the anger he felt towards those men, what if you went through everything he went through? All the torture he had to endure for years and years? The thought of you suffering like he did made Bucky's heart sink towards his stomach.

“Natasha is interrogating the man who told us she was there” Steve said “She’s waiting for us.”

“I was waiting for you” your voice echoed through the room before Bucky took you by the waist and gave you a kiss full of love. “Sergeant Barnes now then?”

You pulled away to take a good look at your husband, he was wearing the brown suit of a WWII soldier.

“For you it’s always ‘my love’, doll” Bucky said taking you in his arms, this was something you loved about your relationship, even after so long together you still acted like teenagers who had just started a fiery passion.

But Bucky didn’t fail to notice when you lowered your head to hide your teary eyes.

“Hey, doll, what’s wrong?” He already knew the answer, he knew it and it left him almost inconsolable before going to sleep.

“I’m afraid Bucky, what if you don’t come back?” Her voice became lower and lower as the doubt became more terrifying in her mind.

“I will come back doll, I promise you, not in a million years i'm leaving you alone” He placed a hand on your neck, forcing you to look at him.

“You can’t promise that” You said unsurely. “You don’t know if you’re really going to come back. ”

“Then you can marry Steve” He tried to joke to lighten up, and you couldn’t help but let out a tearful laugh, punching him in the shoulder.

“This isn't funny, you know?” You said wiping away your tears. “I know, I know” he apologized pulling you into a tight hug. “I will never leave you doll, that's the only thing I'll keep in mind while I fight: I can't leave my princess behind.”

“How did you know Y/N Barnes was alive?” Natasha asked the man chained in front of her, Bucky and Steve were on the other side of the mirrored glass.

“She was never dead, Hydra has been with her since Steve Rogers was presumed dead” Steve looked down, he still blamed himself for that, for leaving you alone even after you losing your husband.

“What did Hydra wanted with her?” Natasha asked coldly, leaning over the table. “Why did they taked her?”

“Even after we erased the Winter Soldier's memory, he always ended up remembering her at some point, we wanted to create an advantage in this regard, if he decided he was no longer on our side, we would threaten to kill her”

Bucky kicked the nearest chair, cowering in rage. He was ready to go into that room and kill that man in the most violent way ever recorded. “And why didn’t they do that when he disappeared?”

“He was already gone, we couldn't find him, but she didn't lose her usefulness, during the time she was at the base, she made a lot of noise after finding out that James Barnes was alive, sometimes she could spend an entire day screaming for her husband, it was irritating, so we decided to erase her memory, it became much easier to experiment on her after that.” The man was dismissive, he had nothing left to lose, he was already sentenced to prison, now he just wanted to see Sergeant Barnes suffer.

“Still, she always remembered him eventually, we also used it to test the soldier's memory, every time after we erased his memory, we took him to her, only to see he didn't recognize her, she would cry for days.”

At this point, Bucky was curled up in the corner of the wall, holding his head as the tears fell. You called out to him, you spent days screaming for him, you were in the same place as him all the time and he was never even able to recognize you.

It was tearing him apart, it was breaking everything inside him. He was about to leave, unable to listen any longer, when Natasha's question reached his ears.

“Experiments? So she has the super soldier serum?” Bucky turned around, waiting for the answer “No, but we trained her, she was very good at carrying out the missions she was sent, Y/N Barnes killed a lot of people”

That was the final straw for Bucky, they made his precious sweet girl spill blood.

He walked into the room, ignoring Steve's comments about calming down. He grabbed the man by the collar of his clothes and pushed him violently against the wall, starting to throw punches with his metal arm, he could spend hours beating and it still wouldn't be enough, but Steve ripped him off before the man's face was deformed.

“Never put her name in your mouth again! Your bastard! I'll kill you!" Bucky screamed trying to free himself from Steve, Natasha got in front of Bucky and ordered Steve to get him out of there.

Steve left dragging a nervous Bucky. “Look, I have the same desire as you, I wanted to go in there and finish him off, but that’s not how you solve things Bucky!”

Bucky sat on the chair he had kicked minutes ago, putting his head in his hands, everything in him was shaking, a mixture of hatred, anguish and guilt. “They put her through hell, Steve!” He stood up abruptly, putting his hand over his mouth. “All this because I left her alone, I forgot about her! I promised I would always be there for her and I just forgot about her!”

Steve looked at his friend with a very strong tightness in his chest, this whole situation hurt him in a way he couldn't even explain, imagine how much it was hurting Bucky? How much did it hurt you, going through all of this alone?

He still remembered when he had to break the news to you.

“Steve!” You said happily after opening the door to the apartment you and Bucky shared. “Oh, I'm so happy to see you! I still haven't gotten used to the fact that you're taller than me now” You walked forward giving Steve a hug, noticing that his face wasn't looking good but you wanted to ignore all the crazy theories in your head. “Where is my husband? Why didn't he come with you? I already said you can't steal it from me” You joked, despairing when Steve didn't laugh.

“I'm so sorry Y/n... Bucky...” Steve started to speak but you interrupted before he could finish his line of reasoning. "No! Don’t say that Steve, it’s not true, it can’t be true, don't you dare to lie to me!” You said taking steps back, with your hand on your stomach, feeling like you were going to throw up.

“He promised... He told me he would come back!” You started to cry as Steve walked over pulling you into a hug.

Your legs no longer had the strength to keep you standing when you started crying and sobbing in Steve's arms. “I'm sorry, I'm so sorry” Steve kept repeating, even though his heart was breaking more and more.

“He promised me Steve! He has to come back” You repeated between sobs, Steve didn’t know what to say when your pain seemed to be consuming you.

That day, he laid you in bed, made you some tea and sat next to you until you Say a sentence that ended that super soldier.

“The worst lie I’ve ever heard: ‘I’ll never leave.’” You sighed with heavy eyes “Never mind”

After saying that you fell asleep, Steve couldn't put into words how painful it was to see your red and swollen face sleeping.

“I promise to take care of you Y/n, I won’t leave you alone, for Bucky”

Even so many years later Steve's heart hurts knowing that if he hadn't left, maybe you wouldn't have been alone, and now he feels even more guilty knowing that if he had been around, Hydra wouldn't have taken you.

He felt like it was his fault, even if it wasn't.

Steve's thoughts were interrupted by the door opening.

“Sergeant, Captain” Tony appeared in the room, a curious and relieved look on his face “She woke up”

[ultralightpoe]

Final Girl Part 2 - Eddie Munson

Authors Note: Clearing out drafts.

Warning: Slasher, cursing, trauma

Word Count:3843

Part One Here

Enjoy!

“THAT WAS AMAZING!” Dustin cries coming out of the theater with wild eyes that make Eddie debate if it was a good idea to get the kid an icey. But at the same time he could not judge his friends excitement because he was just as amazed as the boy, his blood pumping under his skin. 

“I mean the chase scene was insane, when she has to climb through the window of the van?” 

“You just like that her panties flashed.” Eddie laughs, thoughts going back to the lead actress in the tiny slip dress they had put her in, and the way the camera just blatantly showed her ass in the shot. Not that he minded. “Which was an amazing shot.”

“I can’t believe they were upstairs screwing while her best friend was getting her throat slashed. Poor Mila, the main character *knockoff of your name k/y/n* was a shit friend.”

“Exactly! You knew people were dying and you still went to a party to get laid?! I would never leave you behind Dustin.” Eddie smiles, “Okay well maybe for 10 minutes.”

“All it would take you was 2.” Dustin scoffs and Eddie’s eyes widen. 

“Where do you learn to say these things? It’s that Wheeler dweeb isn’t it? Don’t listen to him because I can guarantee he has never even touched 10’s boo-”

“Eleven.”

“Yeah yeah.” Eddie smiles, hand subconsciously moving up to rub at his side from the memory of the girl, flashes of black and red smoke before bats teeth all coming at him at once. The breath gets caught in his lungs as he tries to blink the memories away while Dustin slurps down the rest of the blue icey. 

“You okay?” His curly haired friend asks, blinking slowly. 

“Yeah man,” Eddie forces a smile on his face as he shrugs, forcing his hand away from his side even though he could still feel the stinging. A giggle could be heard closer to the popcorn stand which made Eddie whip around as if there was a chance you would be there. 

This was not your scene, he knew that, and thinking back on it he couldn’t remember ever seeing you in a crowded place before. He didn’t ever see you with…anyone. 

But you had admitted yourself that you liked being alone and he could get that. He hated being alone but it was very easy to find all the loners of the world and form an easy alliance. 

“Munson!” Someone calls, snapping his and Dustin's attention over to where Paul was coming through the theater doors, mohawk and all. “Hey man. Rock on.”

“You here to see ‘Slashed’?” Eddie asks, a smile spreading across his face slowly as the punk rocker smiles himself. 

“You know it, man.” He laughs, bringing his tattooed hands up to hold a mask just like the one from the movie to his face. “What’s your favorite scary movie?”

Dustin laughs quickly, drawing Pauls eyes to him. They begin a conversation as Eddie takes a sharp breath in, excusing himself to the bathroom for a moment. 

The second he gets to the stall he lifts his shirt to rub his palm against the scarred flesh, feeling a bit of bone through the thin skin at his ribcage. A pained gasp tears from him as his eyes water a bit, blinking away the images of the bats attacking him. 

It’s not real. It’s not real it’s not real-

His forehead hits the nasty wall of the bathroom stall as he thinks of happy thoughts. Your kiss, dnd, his band, his uncle. 

His Uncle. Damn. When was the last time he called his uncle. 

- 

“Get your ass right back in that bed.” Wayne snaps, coming into the hospital room with a newspaper under his arm and a steaming cup of coffee, the bags under his eyes prominent and the red puffy eyes just as noticeable. “Before I take my belt and-”

Before he can finish his sentence Eddie is climbing back into the bed, eyes wide as he ignores the pain in his side and lays back down. 

“Don’t forget the mask.” His uncle snaps, taking a quick seat on the only open chair, a chair that Eddie was sure was entirely uncomfortable. 

They were at a weird stage. Wayne was pissed, pissed that everything happened and he still wasn’t getting straight answers. Pissed that his nephew, son, had been found near their trailer with half his skin torn off and practically bleeding out. Pissed that everyone had blamed him for Chrissy Cunningham. 

Pissed that his boy was keeping something from him. 

Meanwhile Eddie was scared. Scared that Wayne would become involved and scared that if he spoke the truth then Wayne would take the fall for some of it. 

They had gotten so lucky that Jason Carver was able to take the fall…..if anyone could find him. 

“Edward. Put the damn mask on.” Wayne grunts, watching the boy roll his eyes. 

“I am so bored.” Eddie whines. They had put him in a room with no windows or tv, keeping him from the outside world. The government was doing their best to keep everything under wraps. 

Wayne scoffs, folding up half the newspaper and chucking it at his face, it smacks Eddie’s cheek and his uncle gives him a small smile. A slight olive branch in this moment that Eddie takes greedily, smiling at his uncle and putting the mask on his face before reading his half of the paper. 

“Teenage Massacre at a lakehouse.” The main headline read, talking about a small town where it happened. 

4 survivors, 15 dead. That was absolutely insane. 

- 

It takes him a couple minutes to get the pain under control before he heads back out to the snack area where Dustin is buying another Icey.

“What’s going on?” He asks, looking to where Paul is walking back up. 

“Alright, three movie tickets to slashed on me. Let’s go boys.” 

“Again?” Eddie scoffs, watching Dustin take a slurp from his icey, this time red. He can see the sugar in the kids eyes and already knows the answer. “Alright. I’m in.”

- 

You spent the weekend in your blankets, ignoring the phone and ignoring the mean looks your roommate gave you going in and out. 

You didn’t want to know what the world outside was saying and if you moved then you might see them. You would not last it. 

By the time Monday rolled around you barely dragged yourself to the shower, sobbing under the water before trudging your way to class, keeping your head down as people ran around you. 

“RAHHHH!” Someone shouts right next to your shoulder, making you scream out and flinch, looking to the masked jock that was currently cracking up. “What’s your favorite scary movie?”

“Fuck off.” You snap, your knife wounds freezing under all your layers. 

“Woah, no need to be a frigid-”

“I do not recommend finishing that sentence.” The deep honey voice you know all too well sounds from behind you before you feel a warmth on your shoulder telling you that Eddie was standing right behind you. “She’s got a heavy book in your hand that I will gladly watch her shatter your nose with.”

“I’ll do it.” You nod, your stomach unclenching and your fists unraveling now that Eddie is near. 

The jock rolls his eyes, tearing the mask off his face and moving back to his friend group, something lodging in his throat when you catch a glimpse of Maya standing with them. She wasn’t talking to them, merely looking at you, smiling softly at you. 

She smiled at you. 

Sure you had seen them smile, but your friends never really looked at you, the only ones that looked to your eyes were….. 

“How was your weekend?” Eddie asks nervously, catching your attention easily as you turn around. “I tried calling your room yesterday and-”

“Sorry, I was extremely busy with classwork.” You lie, walking side by side with him. “I…. I am sorry if I seemed really off the other night-”

“Hey, woah woah.” He blushes, hands shooting out to stop you. “No need to apologize, if the kiss made you uncomfortable-”

“It didn’t.” You rush out, “I really liked it-”

“Good because I would love to do it again sometime.” He smiles, his rings glinting in the fresh morning sunlight as he fixes his leather jacket nervously. “My friend Dustin is doing a tour tonight with some of his friends from camp and maybe we can get some food tonight-”

“I can’t tonight.” I have plans for a dreadful call with my parents. “But how about lunch after class tomorrow?”

“Sounds awesome.” He smiles, holding out his hand for you which you take softly and walk to class with him. When you enter your eyes immediately go to your classmate Paul, who had dyed his mohawk a bright pink and lime. He lights up when he sees Eddie, holding up a rock sign and sticking out his tongue. 

Eddie does the same, and you catch him rubbing his side softly but don’t think too much on it. So instead you smile at Paul when he waves to you, but all you could see was Dylan. Dylan who had handed you your first beer of the night, Dylan who had yelled at you to run. 

Dylan who used to copy off your paper in math, then would complain when you got most of the answers wrong. 

“You okay?” Eddie asks, sitting down slowly. 

“Yeah. Just trying to remember if we had homework.” You smile and he raises an eyebrow. 

“You can always see if we had an assignment by checking the box where our professor writes them down.” He smiles, and you can’t fight your own smile as you sit down. 

-

“It will pass.” You snap, pacing back and forth in your dorm as you struggle with the phone chord. “This whole-”

“Y/n, they named a character k/y/n. You know how close that is to Y/n?” Randy scoffs.

“Considering my name is Y/n yes-”

“They named me Randall. And Maya is Mila and Dylan is-”

“What did they call……” You can’t say the names, even saying them out loud might make everything come back. 

“They kept their original names.” Everyone knows. Everyone is laughing at you. 

“This will blow over. The movie will lose it’s appeal and-” “They showed a kill in the first five minutes. People are already claiming it a cult classic.” 

“Randy.” You snap, rolling your eyes as you turn around to look out the window, drawing back when you see them standing there, smiling slowly at you. “Igottago.”

“Y/n, no please-” You hand up quickly, breath coming out ragged and uneven as you turn to your closet. A scream tears out when you come chest to chest with Billy. 

Not real. Notrealnotrealnotreal

A knock sounds off at the door, and Billy is gone. So you move to the door, taking a moment to breathe in and open it slowly. 

Eddie is standing there, holding a bag with a small smile on his face. 

“I brought you dinner because I figured you would be held up with our assignment tonight.” He says happily and a smile breaks out on your face as your shoulders ease up. But then his eyes slipped down your body, catching on the large scar that covered most of your right thigh. And just like that you were tense again, a panic coursing through your veins as you tried to smile. 

“J-just give me a moment to get dressed.” You rush out and he nods easily, hand rubbing at his side while you slam the door. 

He doesn’t mention the scars for the rest of the night while you joke around, sitting on the floor as he imitates your shared professor, barely able to breathe from all the laughing. 

“You gotta stop.” You laugh, rubbing at your eyes softly to stop the tears brought on by your laugh. 

“Am I wrong?” He laughs, coming to sit by you once more, tripping over his shoe as he hits the floor. You gasp out, laughing as your hands move to rub his arm and make sure he is okay from the fall while he throws his head back to cackle. 

The hellfire shirt he wore rides up a little, and you see a small glimpse of scarred flesh on his side that has your eyes widening, looking away before he could see you looking.

“Why did you choose this school?” You blurt, watching him pull himself and sit side by side. 

“Scholarship.” He sighs, giving you a side smile that screams lie lie lie. 

“Why did you really choose this school?”

“The government sent me here to get rid of me.” He sighs, eyes twinkling in amusement. And though you laugh at his joke there is something real in the answer. 

“They catch you stealing an alien?”

“How did you know?!” He laughs and you find yourself giggling. “What about you?”

You consider lying, but you never really wanted to lie and Eddie seems like the one person on this earth that you wouldn’t have to. So you found a good medium for both. 

“I figured no one would recognize me here.” You shrug. 

“Oh, secret rockstar are we?” 

“I’m surprised you didn’t recognize me.” And just like that you both were back to laughing, noses pressed to each other as you got closer and closer. Until finally your lips met, softly at first, slow and gentle. His lips were smooth and his hand was warm when it came up to rest on your jaw. 

Then it turned to something more, gentle became obsessed and before you knew it you were both making out on the floor, your hands in his hair and his own on your jaw. 

You felt free, and this was your first kiss since it had all happened, and you were extremely pleased to note that you weren’t nervous. You weren’t scared or nervous. 

You were yourself with Eddie, and you were absolutely obsessed with this. 

In a quick moment of bravery you move to lift the shirt you had been wearing, Eddie’s eyes going wide with excitement as his lips move in an ‘o’ shape, lips puffy. 

His eyes survey you, that o shape never moving as he reaches a hand up slowly to touch your collarbone every gently, eyes catching on the scar held on your arm and the longer one across your stomach. 

“H-how did you get-” Before he could keep asking the door opens and you rush for your shirt with his help, scrambling apart as your roommate comes in. Her annoyed look transforms into one of surprise at a boy in your room, a gasp tearing from her throat as Eddie scrambles up and snatches his shoes. 

“I should get going. Dustins tour will end soon.” He rushes out, turning to you. You don’t know what to say and he seems to be at a loss for words himself, and finally he leans forward and gives you a kiss, resting his forehead against your own before wishing you a goodnight. 

The second the door shuts behind him she turns to you and lets out a gentle laugh. “And here I thought you would be wallowing again.”

Bitch. 

- 

“God, your roommate is a drag.” Eddie groans two months later, laughing when you slap him with a pillow, tickling the bottom of your foot which makes you draw your legs away from him quickly. 

Two months had passed since the faithful day you exposed yourself to him, something you hadn’t done since. You had panicked here and there on whether he would get annoyed by this, by the lack of sex in your relationship but you were extremely pleased to see that he did not mind it. 

You never got to see his scars but he never really pressured you for an answer on your own since.

Today you found yourself sitting with him on your bed as you both caught up on your reading. Your roommate had left a mere couple minutes ago after spending most the afternoon gabbing with her friends on the phone while you and Eddie tried to concentrate. 

“Did you hear baby, Olivia is like soooooo pregnant..” Eddie imitates your roommate, rolling his eyes as he crawls up to lay side by side with you. 

“I heard it was with Mitchell from her chemistry class.” You whisper, matching the energy. 

“I heard it was Simon from chemistry class.”

“Oh no. She might have to get a paternity test.” You giggle, nose pressing against his. 

“I would recommend it. Otherwise we will see Simon and Mitchell fighting in the courtyard any day now.” He smiles, leaning in to kiss you quickly before moving to look at his book. 

“I did not read.”

“It’s because you were listening to gossip girl over there.”

“What page are you on?” 

“210.”

“Jesus, baby how do you read-”

“You’re a massive dork.” You scoff before looking over to the time. “It’s 3.” 

“Shit.” Eddie sighs, sitting up. “I have to get to work. Meet for dinner later? You can help me study since I didn’t read.”

“Meet you at 9?” You smile, allowing him to kiss your forehead before grabbing his jacket and standing. 

“Make it 8.”

- 

The shop had been too busy for Eddie tonight, and by the time he left his shirt was smudged with grease, and he had been forced to change into the backup clothes he kept in his locker. Ignoring the shocked look he got from his boss when his scars were exposed and pulling the black tee over his head. 

It was a plain black tee with the mask from the movie slashed over it, something Dustin had sent him as a gift with a firm reminder that Eddie was going to be hosting the movie marathon this christmas break and Slashed would be the main premiere of it. 

He had laughed at it but hadn’t worn the shirt out yet and was shocked to find that it still smelled new as he tried brushing his hair down. 

It had been two months since the movie came out, and two months since he began dating you. Things had been going great. 

Except for the fact that he couldn't work up the nerve to ask you about your scars. 

He never wanted you to ask about him, which was one of the biggest reasons he never asked. But there was something in his chest everytime he thought about yours, who had hurt you? How could he help? 

Who could he kill?

His scars, that you had yet to see, could be hidden by a quick ‘it was an animal attack’. But yours were from a weapon and he remembered the girl from slashed screaming in pain and pictured you in that role and rage built through him. 

But he never asked, and he never pushed you for an answer. Instead he chose to enjoy his time with you, and he was desperate to enjoy his time with you tonight after a stressful day at work. 

He drove back to campus, choosing to park his car by his dorm and walk to the pizza place, teeth chattering from the cold as he did his best not to slip on ice. 

He found that the further into winter he got the less people walked, but tonight? Tonight was packed.  There were whispers, and Eddie already knew that there must have been a great deal of gossip, a smile making it’s way across his lips as he thinks about telling you, probably would make a snide comment on ‘Olivias’ behalf. Take a guess who the father would be. 

“Yeahhhh, what’s your favorite scary movie?!” Someone cheers, shaking their newspaper at Eddie before pointing to his shirt, which confuses Eddie to no end. 

The shirt and comment Eddie understood, but the newspaper truly lost him. 

But he ignores it, coming up to the door of the pizza place and spotting you through the window. But something was wrong, you seemed to be looking everywhere and nowhere at once, and everyone seemed to be whispering about you. 

He rushes to the table, blowing hot hair in his palms as he sits across from you while you stare. “Are you okay?”

“Me?” You try to smile, reaching forward to help warm his hands. “Of course. But there is definitely something going on right now.”

But there was something off with you, he couldn’t read it but he could see that you were upset about something. Tellmetellmetellme.. 

“I’m saying it now. Olivia must have shown a baby bump.” He jokes, before getting a little serious. “Hey, I was wondering if we could talk about something…”

“What’s wrong?” You ask. 

“I… so that day in your room-” He blanches a bit, clearing his throat before nodding slowly. “I wanted to ask about your scars.”

He takes his jacket off, watching you slowly as your eyes widen and you fall deathly pale. Shit, I shouldn’t have asked. 

“Onlyifyouwanttotalkaboutitofcourse.”He rushes out, watching you blink slowly at him. “It’s just  that…. I…. I just want you to be okay and I want to make sure that I never make you uncomfortable-”

A sting hits his cheek quickly and a slap sounds out in the air, filling him with confusion and shock. His ringed hand comes up to cover his cheek as everyone gasps in shock, he makes eye contact with you and sees tears spilling from your eyes freely. 

“I am sorry for asking-” He rushes out, only for you to interrupt him. 

“Stay the fuck away from me you freak.” What the hell?

His chest tightens at the name as you rush out into the winter air, and it takes him a moment to catch up before he stands quickly and dashes to follow you. “Y/N!”

You ignore him, shaking your head as you try to dash off. Eddie tries to catch up, running into someone who is taking a picture of you with a camera and a protective flare fills him as he glares. 

“What the…”

“It’s her. Oh my god it’s the final girl.” Someone else whispers and Eddie can do nothing but watch as more people recognize you while you pass. 

You cast him one more look before running, and someone shoves at his chest. 

“She deserves privacy.” A hippie looking girl asks, shaking her head. “You are all disgusting-”

“What the hell is going on?” He blurts before someone in a mask comes up. 

“Fuck yeah man.”

Eddie was lost, he had absolutely no clue what was happening right now and his cheek stung in the night air. He couldn’t catch his breath and his side hurt, he was in pain and there were so many people around and- 

A newspaper is shoved in his face, your name catching his attention. 

‘Final Girl Revealed.’

Holy……shit……

Part three here

(There is no SCREAM without Jenna and Melissa.)

TAGLIST ::::::

@fried-peaches00

[themagical-soup-spaghetti]

Not requested!!

Karl Heisenberg x abused!male reader

Summary: Reader has stumbled across the factory while running away from his abusive ex husband who is seeking revenge for their divorce. He quickly finds a way into the factory and finds a place to hide, awaiting his ex husband's departure from the premises, where Reader meets Heisenberg for the first time.

Warnings: Angst, mentions of abuse, memories, abusive husband, trauma, mentions of attack, blood, scars, mentions of open wounds, mentions of attempted murder, semi soft Heisenberg

~

~

Cold, harsh air whipped Y/N's face and wounds as he ran through the snow that wad laid so softly on the ground. Snow was falling all around, and Y/N wasn't really prepared for the weather today. He expected to stay in his home, near the fire with a good book, maybe some hot cocoa or coffee or tea. So for the past 5 minutes, he's been running in a tank top, red flannel pajamas bottoms, Santa socks, slippers, and a long red robe. Not the most ideal running attire, especially in the cold and snowy weather.

Y/N's cheeks were extremely red and cold, but he was to fear struck to even notice the cold nipping at his exposed face and hands. All he was focused on was trying to find a place to hide away until his ex husband, Markus, had given up on his pursuit. His eyes scanned the open lands, nothing but snow and the occasional rustling of bushes or trees. Along with snow crunching under Y/N's slippers.

A little background on Y/N's relationship with his ex husband, and why this is all happening.

Y/N had been married to his ex husband Markus for 10 years, withstanding abuse of different varieties. Being physically hit with fists, knees, feet, beer cans and bottles, glass or ceramic vases, basically anything that was in reach that would do some sort of damage to him.

Once Y/N's parents had heard about this, they had called the cops and Markus was brought to jail. During his time in jail, he was served with a divorce notice and was taken to court. Ultimately loosing everything that he owned during his marriage, being his home, his cars, ect. Markus had plotted throughout his entire jail sentence to destroy everything that was now in Y/N's possession, or to ultimately kill Y/N altogether. On multiple occasions, Markus had tried to kill Y/N in subtle ways that wouldn't point to him. Cutting the brakes on Y/N's car, messing with Y/N's engine, ect. Soon Markus got tired of his attempts failing and decided right out he was going to murder Y/N himself.

Which is what got Y/N into running for his life. Now back to the story!

Y/N's head spun in all directions, looking for somewhere to hide. He grew more dizzy by the second; the cold and his open wounds finally getting to him. He then came across a building, factory looking. And he decided then that he would hide there. Y/N checked his surroundings, and hearing the steps of Markus become closer with every passing second. He immediately started to run towards the factory. The first entrance Y/N tried was sealed shut by something on the inside, so he ran around the building to see if there was another way in. Low and behold, there was another door that was wide open, which was a little worrisome. But that was his only option of safety so far, so he went into the building.

~

Several minutes had passed since Y/N had entered the factory and found a hiding spot amongst a bunch of machinery and metal scraps. It was silent inside other than machines moving, and the sound of Y/N's soft breathing. He could feel blood slowly rolling down his face, and his leg. But he tried not to move to wipe it or cover the wounds. He wasn't sure if there would be any noise if he moved. The wind whistled outside, and soon there was the sound of shouting. Markus has found the factory. There was the heavy crunching of snow before there was a pounding on the locked door Y/N had tried to enter through earlier. Then there was a sound of heavy footsteps on the wood inside.

"Who's inside of this place?! Are they going to kill me when they find me...?"

They subsided just as quickly as they came. It seemed the person who was inside was standing relatively close to Y/N's hiding spot.

"Y/N you open this goddamn door right now before I fucking bust it down!!" Markus shouted, pounding on the door with a good amount of force. Metal could be heard moving, and the door slamming against the walls inside was very evident. Markus was clearly about to start shouting, but instead took a step back in the snow. "Who- Who the hell are you?!"

"I assume that I could ask you the same thing," A voice unbeknownst to Y/N spoke, semi-deep, a hint of an accent in some words, it wasn't an accent that he could make out from his hiding spot amongst the metal scraps. Y/N listened further, "But... Since you so kindly knocked on my door, I'll give you three seconds to leave before things get ugly."

Markus was about to protest, but hearing the unsheathing of something metal, the sound of running across the snow could be heard getting fainter by the second. The door closed and was locked once again with metal, and heavy footsteps rang across the wooden panels of the floor once more.

Y/N stayed silent, shaking softly from the fear of being found by the person who was currently walking around in the exact room he was in. He took a shaky breath in, and right at that moment the metal he was hiding behind was moved at a rapid pace.

His hands lift in front of his face, and he scoots closer to the wall behind him. He can almost feel the cold through the wall. Footsteps grow closer, slowly, slowly, then they stop. Right. Infront. Of Y/N. There isn't any movement for a while between the two, just small breaths and hicks from Y/N as he slowly begins to cry.

"Please don't hurt me..." Y/N finally speaks up, softly, quietly, almost inaudible. There was a small gasp from the person in front of Y/N. The floorboards cried out as the person sank down in front of the shuttering man.

A rough feeling hand grabbed one of Y/N's, pulling it away from his face. He shut his eyes tightly, pulling whatever he could away from the person in front of him. "Come on, I'm not gonna kill ya, open up." Y/N was hesitant, but slowly opened one eye. There was a man with a beard, brown hair that reached the bottom of his neck, and a pair of sunglasses. He had his hat to his chest, his lips pressed and brow furrowed with a bit of worry. "Here, stand up."

The man spoke, helping Y/N stand. The man was much taller than Y/N, standing around 6'5 at least. No more than 7 feet though. Y/N cowered before the man got on his knees to seem less intimidating. "Hey, hey, relax. I'm not going to do anything to hurt you." This put Y/N slightly at ease, but he was still tense. The man sighed softly before dipping his head slightly. "My name is Karl Heisenberg, I own this factory."

"Own it? This place?" Y/N thought to himself, curious about how this man came to own a place like this.

Y/N grew less tense as he stared at the man, Karl Heisenberg. He took a deep breath in slowly. "That's nice..." Heisenberg watched Y/N for a minute, then two, then he spoke again.

"Who is that guy to you?"

~

Hours passed, Y/N had explained his relationship with Markus to Heisenberg; the taller man had patched up his wounds, and they were now sitting down for a cup of tea.

"How did you find this place anyway?" Heisenberg asked with a cocked eyebrow.

Y/N smiled and laughed a bit. "Well, it's a giant factory in the midst of a bunch of snow... It kind of stands out.."

"Well I suppose you are correct.." Heisenberg spoke before trailing off. He stared at Y/N for a bit before he spoke again, "If he did this to you before, he's bound to come back again. We'll go to your house and grab your things. You're staying here until I can build you a home closer."

Before Y/N could protest, Heisenberg had stood and walked off, probably getting something ready to take him back to the house to collect his things.

~

Time had passed once again and now all of Y/N belongings were in a room that Heisenberg had cleared out for him. He sat in the room, looking at all the things thst had been brought. His bookshelf, his recliner, the mattress that was now on a bedframe thst Heisenberg had made for him, and some extra things that Heisenberg had made. It was really generous of him.

Y/N wasn't sure what to expect, but he prayed that it would be better than his time with his ex-husband.

A/N: HI!! I finally posted again, if you have any requests for me I will gladly complete them! Have a good day <3

[belit0]

Hii!! First of all, how are you? And how do you feel? I first wanted to thank you for doing such a beautiful blog. You truly have a talent to write and you write so well. I am always looking forward for any new posts of yours, i just love your blog so so much!!!!<333 I’m sorry i am so obsessed with your blog and how you write the Uchiha man so fine ans well. Can you maybe write about how Madara gets into an argument with his wife and it comes to the point where he hits her, (slapping or punching her because of his anger) he hits her so hard it causes a bruise on her skin. And how he will try to make it up for her and how he will react to it? Love you and your blog! 🩷

Helloooooo!! I just bought my first iPad ever, so I'm really happy about it!!! In my country, it is very difficult to get cases and accessories, so currently fighting for them🤣🙌🏻. I really appreciate your words and your presence, it genuinely makes me very happy to know people enjoy what I do and like my content.

Nothing to apologize for, I love that you obsess, and having someone to share my own Uchiha fixation with!!

With this request, I am revealing one of my biggest HCS about the Uchiha brothers: a violent authority figure, and all the traumas that come with it.

He is not proud, not at all. When his hand connects with her face it feels exactly like the first time his mother hit him.

(Y/N) falls to the ground from the force of the impact, and looks at him in disbelief. Her eyes are so wide they seem about to explode, and she holds the area where Madara struck her as a silent tear slides over her fingers. The woman seems unable to move, paralyzed, and the Uchiha feels life stop for a second.

Never in his life did he think of becoming what he hated so much, of adopting the same actions from the figure who took it upon herself to make his life a living hell as a child. Madara grew up traumatized by his mother's hands, the violence she imparted both verbally and physically, and tried to channel it all on him to protect his siblings.

When she finally passed away, he was left with lifelong scars, both bodily and psychologically, which he decided would help him to never become the horrible human being she was. For many years, he conducted his anger through war, the battlefield, and the death he carried on his hands every day.

With the new stage of peace, that ordeal was over, and so was his source of personal liberation. Sure, training with the Senju or his brother always brought significant physical relaxation, but no longer being able to attack with the intent to kill made the practice sessions seem like a joke.

Frustrated by his inability to release without killing, Madara lost that one important outlet for his anger, for venting his rage, and began to progressively accumulate it. Between dealing with a new village, his younger brother and the entire clan still reluctant to accept peace with the enemy, and leading an entire family, it didn't take long for him to explode in the worst possible way, and evoke all his childhood memories at once.

His body moved on its own, without him even analyzing what he was about to do, and (Y/N) had no time to react. 

They were arguing over genuine stupidity, the Uchiha not having washed the dishes he used for breakfast that morning because he had to rush off to a meeting, and his wife having to take care of it for him. (Y/N) had made it clear from the beginning of their relationship that she would not submit to being a housewife, to living for and by her husband, and that she would maintain her independence despite having Madara by her side.

How little tolerance she had for the one time he left something behind, only because he was in a hurry, got on his nerves, and he exploded thanks to all the accumulated problems he was carrying on his back. His open hand connected with (Y/N)'s cheek before he could figure out exactly what he was doing, and sent her straight to the ground with the force of the collision.

As he stared at his wife on the floor, he could only see himself as a child, tiny in the face of his batterer, small with no options and no way out. Circumstances managed to bring out the worst in him, what he thought he had overcome, and he had no tools to face such a scenario. He never believed he had any aspect of his mother in him, he promised himself never to be like her, and he had failed.

He felt dirty.

The Uchiha is speechless when seeing how his wife gets up and runs away, terrified by the cruel action of her man, and takes refuge in her brother-in-law's house. Madara can only listen, from the same place where he stood frozen after hitting her, as (Y/N) lunges against Izuna's front door, demanding between screams and tears to let her in.

Seconds later, and with a sepulchral silence in the air, the Uchiha senses how his younger brother walks into his home, a small and incredulous voice asking "What the fuck did you do, Madara?"

It has been years since he last cried, back when he thought he was about to lose the only immediate family he had left, that time when he held his Otouto close in his arms and prayed to the heavens and all their gods to let him live on.

Today, Madara surrenders to the ground again, falling to his knees and indulging in his anguish, reliving traumatic events in his mind like a movie he cannot pause. He has no words to explain, nor does he know what to say, and all he can do is allow the uncontrollable flow of his tears.

Izuna, perplexed, falls to the ground beside him, hugging him and knowing no questions need to be asked.

He himself was a victim of his mother, and his older brother protected him at every turn, taking all the beatings and holding back tears to look brave in front of his siblings. The younger Uchiha knows what this is all about, and he knows better than to say anything.

Engrossed in his journey into the past, he knows there is no way to help him at this point, and Izuna retreats without further ado.

Madara, on the other hand, lasts in the same position all night, completely blocked by his emotions and unable to regain control over his body. He has been subjected to all kinds of tortures, faced the greatest warriors, and dealt with unimaginable powers on the battlefield, but nothing compares to this.

The next day, he can do nothing but disappear from the face of the earth, isolate himself in the old Uchiha compound, lose track of time in his family's abandoned territory, and continue to punish himself for what he did. He returns home, to the house where he grew up amidst punishment and abuse, and walks through each room, mentally seeing the image of his mother above him, harshly beating him.

He will stay there as long as he thinks necessary, without eating, without drinking water, tormenting himself until he thinks he has purged all his ills.

[blingblong55]

Runs in the family - 141

This is based on a request

Gn!Reader

Backstory:

You were one of the most recent additions to 141. Price thought you'd be great and made the call. The team, mainly soap, adored how you and the lieutenant wore balaclavas. He made jokes and often would tease you both. You soon received the nickname "Ghosty" by non other that Soap, and thought out the mission in Mexico, everyone knew you as 'Ghosty'. Of course Ghost hated how you and him got compared, but he also had some suspicion as to why you wore the balaclava. He often thought you also had a shitty past.

-----

After a call with Shepard, the team knew what they had to do. Mainly Ghost, and with the help of Price, he created "Ghost Team". You walked alongside the team, entering the unfortunate new and small base for Los Vaqueros.

"Orale, Vaqueros, pongan atención," Alejandro commanded his men. They all gathered around the table. "Alright, listen, we are taking back your HQ." You looked around the room, not fully aware of what was going to happen next. "We are killing Commander Graves." he spoke, "when?" Rodolfo asked, "now." he answered. "This is a fight against our own, we are not 1-4-1 and Los Vaqueros, we are a team."

Ghost grabbed a duffle bag from under the table. You're raised an eyebrow. What could this be, you thought. He threw what was contained in the bad on the table. More balaclavas. "Ghost Team." Price mentioned. And shortly Ghost, now Simon, took his mask off, revealing his identify. Your eyes widened. Bloody hell, you knew something was off and scary familiar with his features.

"Good to see you again Simon." Price welcomed back the soldier he once lost. "If you're in, take a mask. If you're not, don't." he finished. And as the other men around you started to grab the masks, you took of yours. The whispers continued. "There's two of 'em?!" Soap was the first to notice how similar you and Simon looked.

And for a split second, Simon understood why he had a weird feeling about you.You were his only living relative, his own blood. His god damned sibling. Your eyes meet and he gives you a subtle nod. A mutual agreement to speak about the matter later. You winked at him and he shook his head, a small smile appeared on his lips. Both of you placed the balaclavas over your heads.

-----

In the vehicle as you all made your ways to the head quarters, soap nudged your shoulder. "who would've thought that this entire time we actually had two Ghost's on our side." his voice low but hinting the smirk on his face.

"you cheeky bastard" you shook your head, and even though no one else saw, you smiled at your now new sibling.

It was true, your father wasn't the best of the best. That man was cruel and he treated you like he treated Simon. He always taunted you. He was your boogie man. Because of him, Simon and you were very alike. And sadly enough you two carried somewhat the same childhood scars and trauma.

It is up to both of you to see if there could ever exist a new, better and safer Riley Family/blood line. Who knows maybe just maybe the last name will finally carry some good memories.

You saw the possibilities. But Ghost? He was scared, he knew what happened to his family. He knew that the moment others found out you two were related you'd be dead. Nothing more but a piece of leverage for the enemy. Yes it was nice to know he had one relative alive, it was a funny feeling he couldn't shake off, but he couldn't loose you like how he lost Tommy.

He had to think of something else while on the mission. But every time he remembered how you and Soap would joke around about things, he couldn't help but picture his brother. He'd be your age by now. And shortly he started to wonder if you had a spouse and kids. And if maybe he would be invited over for the holidays, he pictured himself sitting on some couch watching his nephew or niece open a present he bought for them. He pictured his nephew, Joseph, mixed with your kids.

Then it really hit him, the waves of emotions. Hope. He really did have a family. And after the mission was over, he swore to protect his newly discovered family.

A/N: couldn't keep this from lurking in my head no more. To the anon that requested this,,,thank you<3

REQUESTS ARE OPEN!!

[i4bellingham]

can I request an imagine (or it could be a hc) abt how the reader and trent are so wrapped up in each others love. like the world around them dosent exists when they are together. it could be when going out with friends or after a game 🫶🏽 not sure if I came abt this right but I hope u get the idea. thanks!

LOVE BUBBLE: trent alexander-arnold x reader

NOTE: i don't know if this is satisfactory level but i definitely love writing for soft!trent 🤧 he's my baby boy and i would definitely be looking at him with heart eyes every time like it's me against the world just for my favorite right-back.

It’s probably Trent’s beautiful face.

Or his Scouse accent that immediately hooks your attention on to him when he speaks, like a magic melody that enchants those who hears him talk.

Or maybe, you just love both and the entirety of him too much to be enticed by the things happening outside of your bubble.

Trent has the same love-dovey eyes when he's with youㅡ from an outsider’s perspective he's definitely someone who holds a personal vendetta against those who are not you.

It's the nonchalant, almost detached and cold look he possesses when he's having a conversation with the others, but that look drops because he's all smiley and attentive and chatty when he's around you.

The both of you don't notice of course, too wrapped up in each other's presence to notice those things that the other people from an outside perspective have observed.

Your hangouts with your friends should be infested with ants, they think.

You could be having a small random conversation with Trent, a simple talk about the most nonsensical topics but it's almost like you're talking of the greatest adventures you both went together due to how invested you two are of what the other has to say.

Trent would be leaning down to catch your words better, smiling too much for someone who doesn't smile a lot and you would be laying a hand or an arm over his and your boyfriend would use that as an opportunity to tuck a stray hair behind your ears, or wipe something off your face or pull your chair close to his as if you're both not sitting close enough, the distance an outrageous offense.

It's not overbearing (yet) to your friends to see two people act the way you both do, knowing of how horrible your past relationships had went, not even to the point of them being bearable and you, opening up traitsㅡ good traits from a closed-off person like Trent which truthfully, helps eliminate the idea that he's an imposing man especially in front of the media and fans.

It's just very sweet and new to the eyes of the people who had a fair share of memories enough to dapple you with.

It's like witnessing two soulmates finding the red thread on their pinky finger, slowly lurching towards the other as they get to know each other better, unraveling certain things that only the both of them can find and helping each other heal their traumas from years-worth of existing within the range of people that left them scarred.

What love you have is just so mellow and full and beautiful. It's a love that the others wish they have and by the reaction of the bystanders witnessing you and Trent be complete with the presence of the other, it's definitely a relationship that they knew would last for a lifetime and possibly even the next to come.

[valentinedaughtler]

Tainted Opal (Part 9)

Kaz Brekker x fem!reader

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8

T/Ws: violence, romantic feelings, blood, mild spice scenes sometimes, fem!reader and she/her pronouns, sexual abuse/trauma (not explicit)

Synopsis: You truely recall the time you and Kaz crossed paths as young teenagers. How you fled from your pirate ship into the dark streets of Ketterdam, only to find a scoundrel to scar.

REQUESTS: OPEN✅

____________________________________________

9 - His Eyes of Hatred

"We met before, haven't we?" I try to keep my voice calm, but the tone was desperate; a consuming curiosity brewing in the cauldron of my mind. It began to bubble over as the existence of silence grew. The sliver of sunlight left in the day cast a long shadow across Kaz, exaggerating the sharp parts of his face; the dark lines left from a life in the Barrel. It is a constant reminder of who he is and what he will always be. The Bastard of The Barrel.

"Life isn't fate driven, Y/n," Kaz finally mutters while tapping the metallic crow head of his cane with a long, gloved finger. My eyebrows crease in annoyance, I'm not going to get a direct answer out of him. I sigh softly and lean against a barren tree. The sharp bark still pierces my skin through the thick jacket wrapped around me; Kaz's jacket. A blanket of heavy silence draped over us as the moon became the only source of light. I close my eyes and attempt to sift through the old, painful memories from my arrival into Ketterdam.

✶ ♧ ✶

The thick smoke of the endless line of boats had filled my lungs. I surepressed coughs that tried to escape my cracked lips. The smoke and fog masked my clumsy escape off of the wooden ship; off of home. I looked back for longer than I should have, soaking in the remnants of my childhood.

I trudged past bellowing merchants at makeshift stands filled with stealable goods and promising services. The voices of the bustling streets meshed together into a white noise more crackly than the sea I was used to, and diverse smells wafted through the air; food, dirt, death.

My stomach growled like a starved beast, my muscles felt strained and tight. My hungry gaze had landed on a man selling fresh fruits and breads; a strange assortment, but an appetizing one. He was younger, but old enough to have to avoid taxes illegally. His dark skin and curly hair contrasted pleasantly with his orange button up. He had been calling out to possible customers; the walking wallets that roamed the streets. I shifted my demeanor and softened my expression; an attempt to look sweet and desperate. Do what your mother taught you, I had told myself. I took long, elegant strides toward the stand, clasping my hands together as he looked at me. A glint of intrigue sparkled in his deep, dark eyes as he rested his elbows on the wooden counter. It was covered in apples and grapes, as well as warm baked goods.

I greeted him with an innocent smile as he spoke to me, "Ah, what can I do for ya' miss? Maybe a pear, a biscuit... a date?" He had winked and flashed me a dimpled smile. I giggled softly and batted my eyelashes. It felt so embarrassing— so degrading at the time.

"Well, maybe a loaf of bread and an apple?" I requested with my honeydew voice, which poured into his ears with a pleasurable vibration. He nodded with another wink and placed both into a cloth bag. I searched in my pockets, calm at first, but then frantic, a false panic spreading across my face. "My wallet! Oh no, I think someone stole my wallet," my lip quivered as I looked at the shop man with desperation. His expression was unfazed, he even huffed with a deep chuckle.

"You're not from here, are ya', little miss?" He rested his soft-edged face in his hands, amused with how naive I seemed. I had blinked a few times, cocking my head in confusion. He sighed as tears began to pool in my eyes, wiping them away with a calloused finger. "I'll give em' to ya' for free, but next time you come around, take me out for a nice meal," he smirked and extended his hand towards me. I accepted the bag of finessed foods from his outstretched palm, thanking him excessively.

I had whisked my way through the tight crowds until the outdoor markets became scarce. The streets were darker now, oiled lamp light more haphazard the further I walked. The way people took up space was different here. Before, in the markets, pedestrians had grand attires, with even grander ambitions. The cramped space was borrowed by anyone who took it, and the attempt was abundant.

But here, it contrasted immaculately. Those who roamed visibly tried to take up as little space as possible; small slivers of rotting life in the decaying world around them. Most people hadn't wandered openly, instead choosing to slip through the cracks of the city.

These seemed to be the rules of those who lived here, except for a handful of daring strangers I saw lingering outside a packed bar, a few chuckling loudly, drunkenly swaying with the leaning buildings. The rambunctious group had begun to make their way down the street, following a tall man with a cane that clacked against the cobblestone roads. He looked old, or maybe just worn, from his intense angularity and sharpened points. Though, further inspection had proved otherwise, showing the man's— er, boy's- cheeks puffed slightly on his angled face and hard expression. His soft jaw had seemed to be the only way to know he was young. He had actually appeared to be my age.

As the gang passed me with animated motions, I gave a quick wink to one that peered at me for far too long. My eyes were welcoming; entrancing. They were an enticing trap; a siren song that lured in those who thought too little about importances and too much about lust. The man whistled at me and even stopped, turning in my direction. I scanned him for any riches I'd need for future purchases or predicaments. A pocket watch had caught my eye. It dripped out from his chest pocket by a chain, which adorned his tailored suit that had been mishandled from the bar.

His mates had stopped, one making a groan of frustration. "You cannot hit on every pretty gal who acknowledges ya', Big B," a man slurred with a drunken scowl. The broad man, apparently Big B, strutted his way to me, towering over my body with a sly grin.

"You alone in the Barrel?" His words slipped on the sharp constants and bubbled in his deep voice. The Barrel? I remember being confused by that statement. I looked away bashfully for a moment before offering him batting eyes and a small smile. He took both with haste, his gaze narrowing as I had stepped closer to him. Big B's  friends behind him protested, a few stumbling towards him to drag him away. Shit, time for the emergency plan B, I had thought to myself, anxious to snag him watch and sell it to the nearest pawn shop for much too little.

I tripped over the uneven cobbles in the road as I shrunk the space between Big B and I, my hands falling in front of my tipping body onto his chest, right by his pocket.

"I am so sorry, sir, really, I didn't mean to-," my nervous pleas and apologies were stopped shortly by a deep, throaty laugh from the muscular man.

"Doll, no worries at all," he said. I had clutched my hands over my chest, the golden watch trapped between my palms. Shortly after, a few dirtied hands grabbed the thick arms of Big B before dragging him away from where I stood. I made a quick escape to a nearby alley as the men squabbled with one another. I slipped the watch into my pocket as I heard the enraged yells of Big B; he hadn't been able to find his watch for some reason. The roars faded and meshed with the voices of Ketterdam as I climbed my way up to the rooftops of the city.

The night had ticked away on the watched I clutched, my eyes filled with greed and satisfaction with every tik and tok it made. I had found myself my very own sliver of Ketterdam to hide in, an indent of a building that was covered with a dirtied sheet and stacked crates of spoiled produce.

My dreams of freedom and riches were halted by the familiar sound of a cane hitting cobblestone, followed by an unfamiliar noise of a cane hitting me in the arm, not hard enough to break it, but enough to leave a large bruise soon; a warning. I had yelped and contorted my body around the cloth roof of my shelter, lunging at the shadow of a figure; a diversion, as my father taught me, an eye catcher, as my mother had said. The attacker smacked me in the stomach with force, their cane causing my ribs to vibrate like a xylophone. I ignored the intense throbbing pain— another trick I had learned on the boat- as I rolled part of the sheet up. With a few flicks of my wrists, the wrung cloth was tightly around the neck of my current opponent. I squeezed tighter as I stared at them.

Before me had stood a reddening face— suffocation has that affect on people- of the sharp, dark boy from earlier. The ring leader of his own gritty circus. He once again used his cane to hit me in the leg, but I used this falling opportunity I had felt to smack my forehead into his. This along with the chokehold I had him in caused the boy to fall back, his well-groomed, dark hair covering his eyes a bit. He was strangely beautiful now that I had noticed it, in an intense sort of way.

Time was ticking away as I observed him, so I shoved him into the alley wall, where an eroded brick cut his lower lip. I ran with haste into the slick street as rain began to pour down in large globs. My hair had stuck to my skin, along with my wet clothes, where the gold watch was pocketed.

✶ ♧ ✶

My chilly hands fumble through my pants pockets, finding the signature time-teller of mine; a—now quite scratched- good pocket watch that hung from a thin chain. I held it in my palms, the sharp cold nipping at my finger tips. Kaz's eyes were glued on the small clock, his lower lip twitching. I toss it to him, and he unsurprisingly catches it with a single gloved hand.

"Maybe there is some fate," I finally melted the silence with a warm voice. I chuckle softly, looking at Kaz, his round cheeks and soft jaw were long gone, and he seemed to have become sharper and harder over the two years that past, the Barrel chipping away at his humanity with greediness to destroy a boy. His lower lip had a scar that ran down the center, an immortal reminder of the time a former pirate girl got a leg up on Kaz Brekker, no one got a let up on Kaz Brekker.

"Or maybe Ketterdam is too small for those with such high ambition," the oddly attractive boy responds with a rasp.

"I think that may be the nicest thing you've ever said to me," I reply with a light laugh. Kaz doesn't  say anything, but he met my gaze with eyes that weren't completely filled with hatred.

________________

Word Count: 1889

________________

I took a quick break from writing to allow my creative drive to return, thought it's better to write better than write more.

-Valentine

[spacegoathours]

takes a deep breath

here u go. takes place maybe only days after Callie's PAK is placed on Nyx's body, and Callie wants nothing more than to be dropped back off on Earth. there might be small references to other writing that i haven't shared so apologies if something doesn't make sense

written 12.7.2022

Callie woke with a start. She recognized the room - it was similar to the one she'd been in the previous week but across the hall in the medbay. Fair enough. She did completely destroy that bed, and that mirror, and basically the entire room. The memory replayed in her mind, and she shrugged it off. Still angry.

Her PAK leg and other damage had been repaired by the same, endlessly patient Vortian nurse who took care of her while she was out for the first week aboard the Resisty ship. After that, a different nurse, one of a species she couldn't quite place, took over for hourly check-ins. Once again, fair enough.

Gingerly, Callie sat up in bed, swung her legs around the side and put one foot down on the floor, then the other. Not knowing how her body would react to the hell it had been through, she slowly and carefully lifted herself up. To her surprise, it went just fine. Maybe a little sore, but everything seemed to be in working order, aside from her singed antennae and some scars and bruises that weren't yet going away.

Her PAK was hooked up to a monitor beside her bed, displaying numerous error messages but also showing an energy capacity of nearly 100%. That explained why she felt pretty good despite the bodily trauma.

Great. She had work to do.

She removed the connection to her PAK. Taking a few tentative steps, and still feeling good, she opened the door to the hallway and made her way down the hall towards the cockpit. Given that this was a Vort ship first and foremost, many of the signs she passed were in Vortian, and her PAK didn't seem up to the task of translating them automatically, so she had to guess at a few turns as to where the front of the ship might be. As she passed other Resisty members, anger must have been radiating off of her at an alarming rate, as no one tried to converse with her or stop her. In fact, they all swiftly got out of her way. Eventually, Callie noticed someone leave the cockpit and while the door was open for a brief second, she peeked in and noticed her target. Awesome.

After the other member had walked away, she slammed the doors to the cockpit wide open, stepping in and pointing up at the captain's chair.

"NAR, YOU ASSHOLE. TAKE ME TO EARTH."

Any chatter and conversation going on came to a sudden halt. Callie stood her ground, panting slightly from the trip up here but with a raging fire in her eyes. All eyes were now on her. Lard Nar looked like he wanted to sink into the chair, never to be seen again.

"Uhhhhh…" Spleenk broke the silence, looking between Callie and Lard Nar rapidly until one of them said something. This seemed to break Lard Nar out of his initial shock.

He looked down at Callie. "Callie. Office. Now." He pointed behind him, to a door against the back wall. He jumped down from the captain's chair and headed in that direction. A ton of crew members started their 'ooohs' and 'aaahs' as she, too, made way for the door, never losing her fiery stare at the back of Lard Nar's head.

Once inside, Lard Nar shut the door and walked to the other end of the room, in front of a pretty typical executive-looking desk. Callie stayed nearest the entrance. He faced away from her, taking a deep breath before spinning around and doing his best to maintain composure.

"We've been over this, Callie."

She narrowed her eyes, looking straight through the Captain and into the distance. She remained silent.

"You're in no condition for fast travel; even if we made the decision to go to Earth now, we couldn't get there much earlier than a month or so."

Callie appeared to be taking this information in one antenna and out the other. She started approaching him, slowly, menacingly.

"We can talk it over more, when you're in a better state-of-mind. Last night and this… latest outburst are evident of continued instability, which is to be expected with what you hav--"

Lard Nar stopped abruptly, meeting eyes with Callie. She was halfway across the room, footfalls heavy and purposeful. Her eyes were filled to the brim with anger.

One PAK leg extended out from behind her, hanging above her left shoulder. Then another, facing upwards next to her hip. Then another to her right. And the fourth.

"T-There's no need for violence…"

Suddenly, Callie was towering over Lard Nar, who was forced up against the back wall with all four PAK legs trained on him.

"C-Callie, we can.. t-talk about this…" He forced a few words out, sinking to the floor under Callie's intense stare. He tried to hold her gaze for as long as he could, but as soon as the distinct sound of PAK lasers heating up filled the room, he ducked his head and turned away, curling up so close to the wall he might just fuse through it.

The PAK lasers reached a high tone, indicating they were ready to fire.

…..

…

.

When Callie recognized what she was doing, her PAK legs dropped to the floor with a loud CLUNK. In front of her was Nar, shaking violently and curled in on himself against the wall of… she guessed this was the Captain's office. She looked down at her hands. Her fists had been held so tightly that her claws broke skin multiple times on her palms. Pink blood dripped down to the floor, next to the PAK legs that occasionally made quiet sizzling noises as they powered down.

Her legs buckled, and she fell to her knees.

"Nar…" She breathed, trying to steady herself. "What's wrong with me…"

Hearing Callie's voice, Lard Nar lifted his head just enough to peek out and see what was happening. When he realized he wasn't in immediate danger anymore he uncurled himself, only the slightest bit. He inched a little closer to the desk.

"I-I didn't mean…" Callie tightened her fists again, causing some more blood to spill.

While she was still distracted looking down, Lard Nar continued to inch closer and closer to the desk, hiding his left arm behind it.

"I'm not. Like them. I-I'm not… not…." Callie visibly shook; she tried to hold her right arm in place as it trembled. "I just. Want to go HOME." She let out a desperate, angry scream, sending her fist flying into the wall to the right of the Captain.

At the same time, Lard Nar pressed a button behind the desk, and not two seconds later two giant alien guards barrelled into the room. They went straight for Callie, each seizing an arm and locking them together behind their back in some sort of hi-tech space handcuffs. The whites of Callie's bug-like eyes narrowed into tiny specs as realization hit her like a ton of bricks. She looked up at Lard Nar.

What passed between them in that moment was a sudden understanding of pure, uncontrollable fear, for wildly different reasons, and it only lasted a couple of seconds before Callie was dragged off to an isolated area of the ship.

[boxofbonesfic]

Title: ᴅᴇᴠɪʟ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ᴜꜱ [4]

Pairing: Rockstar!Bucky Barnes x Reader

series masterlist || series playlist || chapter song

Summary: Drowning in women and designer drugs, Bucky Barnes of Valkyrie’s Revenge is in a race to rock bottom. Fed up, his bandmates give him an ultimatum—straighten up, or fuck off. In a last, desperate bid to maintain his place, he agrees to return to the one place he swore he’d never set foot again—home.

Warnings: Angst, Drug Addiction, Mental Health issues, Toxicity, Recreational Drug use, Hard drug use, PTSD, Dealing with trauma, Slow Burn, Fluff, MINORS DNI, [More to be added]

A/N: another installment down! i’m really eager to hear what folks are thinking and feeling, so please don’t hesitate to hit my inbox with comments or questions! divider by @firefly-graphics​

series playlist || chapter song

This work is entirely unbeta’d, and unedited. Though I don’t own any of Marvel’s characters, this work and the plot contained inside are entirely mine. I do not consent for this work to be posted anywhere else by anyone but me. Enjoy 😘

🎤

You don’t sleep until the sky starts to turn from deep purple to pink at the edges, waiting for your phone to ring, or the doorbell, or a fierce knock—but nothing comes. You begin to slip down into slumber as the dawn stretches bright fingers up the faded wallpaper of your bedroom, and your anxieties follow you in. 

 You’re in the car. Why are you in the car? The window is cool to the touch beneath your fingers—it’s winter. It was winter. Maybe here it always is. Someone squeezes your hand—Bucky, you know it without looking. You know him so well that even the guitar callouses on his fingertips are as known to you as the folded pages of your favorite book. 

 You stroke your thumb over the creases in his skin. They are the familiar lines of a map you have learned down to the letter—every scar recorded to memory. 

 Why are you in the car? Rebecca is there too, her face blurred in the mirror as she leans over to whisper something to Bucky’s mother. You can’t hear her, like she’s speaking from under water. 

 “You think you’ll ever come back here? When you get famous?” You know how this goes, you remember this part—

 “When we get famous, you mean.” The world tilts on its head and suddenly you are standing in the rain on the shoulder of the road, staring at the smoking, twisted metal—

 “Mommy?”

 Your eyes are slow to open, like your body doesn’t actually want start moving again so soon after falling asleep. Iris is perched on the edge of your bed, her wide gray eyes searching your face. 

 “Hey, sweetheart. I’m sorry,” you sit up onto your elbows with a huff. “I didn’t mean to sleep so late.” You hadn’t slept at all, really, but your daughter doesn’t need to know that. “Were you up long without me?” She shakes her head. 

 “No.” She looks so much like Bucky as she cocks her head at you, her eyebrow lifting ever so slightly as she regards you. It’s almost laughable how many of his mannerisms she’s seems to have inherited despite never being around him, how much of him is in her. 

 Iris crawls up to the head of the bed and scoots underneath the blanket with a little sigh. You wrap your arms around your daughter, pressing a tired kiss to her forehead. 

 “You sleep okay? Any bad dreams?”

 “No. I was a mermaid in my dream.” Iris replies seriously. 

 “Oh? Did you see anything cool down there under the ocean?” As she begins describing the intricacies of her subconscious, you start trying to ready yourself for the day. It’s Saturday—one of your only full days off. Generally, your off time consists of taking Iris to absorb what little culture Meridian and the surrounding counties have to offer, but today, you’re dragging. 

 You haven’t dreamed about the crash since after Iris was two, but you know you shouldn’t be surprised by it’s reoccurrence, not really. The past has a way of biting your ass when you least expect it, your grandmother had said that to you when you were young, and you found it still held true. First Bucky, then Steve—it had been bound to happen sooner or later. 

 You can’t stop thinking about it as you slide out of bed, only managing to half listen to Iris as she describes the flavor of kelp ice cream to you over freezer waffles. 

 Following Bucky back from the softball game, riding in Steve’s truck because Winnie’s tire blew out on her sedan—Bucky was going to go back and pick it up later with the spare from the garage.

 Kissing him and telling him you’d see him at home, that you loved him.

 Watching the drunk driver plow headfirst into Bucky’s truck. 

 Bucky pulling his mother and sister from the wreckage, and screaming, so much screaming—

 “You’re sad today, mommy.” Your head snaps up, your fingers loosening on your fork in your shock. It clatters against the plate, but Iris doesn’t blink. “I can tell.” 

 So fucking much like her dad.

 “I guess I am,” you say after a moment.

 “Why?” 

 You’re not sure what to say—you certainly can’t tell her that you’re thinking about the crash. The one almost exactly a year before she was born. You can’t tell her that that’s when everything fell apart, when Declan Forge’s truck jumped the divider and slammed full speed into Bucky’s Dodge.

 But you don’t want to lie to her either. 

 “Something… bad happened, just before I found out I was pregnant with you. There was an accident, and some people I was very close to passed away.” Iris knows what death is; you’ve never shied away from some of the harsher truths, but this one is still hard for you to stomach. Iris looks like she’s thinking hard, her little brows scrunched up as her nose wrinkles. 

 “I’m sorry you’re sad, mommy.” Your chest goes painfully tight when she places her little hand on your cheek. “You shouldn’t have to be sad.” There’s a simple, childish wisdom in her words that makes you want to protect her, keep Iris just like this forever—but the concern written in the lines of her little face tells you otherwise. 

 You wipe at your tear filled eyes, fixing Iris with a soft smile. “Thanks, kiddo.”

 You bundle Iris into the shower as she talks a mile a minute. There’s barely enough time to answer one of her questions before she’s firing off others, each thought biting the tail of the next as they rush to get to her mouth.

 “Are we going to the center today, mommy?” She asks as you towel her off. “Miss Kitty said there’s berry picking today.” 

 Truth be told, you don’t want to spend any more time at the community center than you have to, these days—especially now that Bucky practically lives there. You’re bound to run into him—Meridian is smaller than a goddamn speck—but you don’t want to do it more than you have to. If Steve is already noticing the uncanny likeness between your daughter and his best friend, you don’t want to add more opportunities for Bucky to do the same. 

 “Wouldn’t you rather go to the park?” You suggest, but Iris shakes her head. “Or maybe the library? Or we could go see—”

 “Mommy, I want to see my friends at the center,” she whines, scuffing her foot against the bathroom tile. “Please?” You can’t deny her trembling lip and wide eyes, and you heave a sigh as you draw the wide toothed comb through her hair. 

 “Sure, sweetheart. We’ll go see your friends at the center.” 

 —

 Steve’s house is better than the studio apartment Tony had rented in his name, Bucky’s grateful for that. Waking up from the withdrawal induced nightmares to stare at the creepy painting of cherubs by his bedside was driving him crazier than the cravings. And now, there’s more than one place to sit around all day parsing out what a piece of shit he is—there are options; the kitchen, the porch, the living room, the den; all laid out for his choosing pleasure. 

 Bucky is currently parked on the porch, smoking what he thinks is either his fifth or eighth cigarette of the morning—he can’t remember. He’d been up early enough to watch the sun rise over the old warehouses in the distance, stretching golden fingers through the streets until it passed beyond the dead-end cul-de-sac where Steve’s mother used to live. 

 He’d missed that funeral, too. Bucky tries to recall where he was when Sarah died, tried to dredge up the memories—but they’re too cloudy for him to sort through. What a good friend, he thinks sourly, shaking either his sixth or ninth cigarette loose from the carton. Don’t even remember when my best friend’s mom kicked the bucket.

 “Hey.” Steve’s voice makes Bucky turn, squinting in the bright morning sun. “You’re up early.” Bucky appreciates that Steve doesn’t comment on the fact that Bucky’s always awake, knees trembling as he picks the cuticles on his hands down to the quick. 

 “Couldn’t sleep.” 

 Steve sits down beside him, shaking his head when Bucky offers him a cigarette. He’s not sure when Steve quit smoking, another memory lost to the shuffle. 

 “You going down to the center today?” Steve asks, and Bucky’s lip curls as he exhales smoke. He doesn’t much fancy going down there to wallow in self pity and regret. Easier just to do it here, where there isn’t anyone to ask him how he’s processing it all. 

 “If I said no would you make me go anyway?” He asks, and Steve actually laughs. 

 “Probably wouldn’t be too hard,” he replies with a chuckle. “You’re skinny as shit.” 

 When they get to the center, Kitty is already there and going strong. She gets an almost religious fervor about herself as she speaks, her eyes bright as her lips move impossibly quickly. It reminds Bucky of what it was like on stage, the crowd’s attention and devotion like a steady morphine drip. He wonders if that’s Kitty’s addiction—being the center of attention. 

 “We talked about rock bottom last meeting,” she says, clapping her hands. “Now I want to talk about moving up. I want to talk about moving forward.”

 No forward for you, the demon mutters. Just under. Six feet, right?

 “Obviously today’s session isn’t mandatory, but it’s still useful. We’re going to give back to our community today, the community that has held us through these tough times.” Bucky’s not sure which community she’s talking about, considering that most of the folks inhabiting Meridian are no better than rabid dogs, but he keeps that little thought to himself. 

 “There’s a local business in need of a little assistance, they’re short staffed this quarter, and we’re going to assist! Isn’t that wonderful?” Bucky wants to shake his head, but refrains from doing so—barely. “Raul’s Berry Farm, out north on 49.” 

 Great.

 Kitty’s rented a van for today’s excursion, but Steve volunteers to drive him, which Bucky is thankful for. He’s not really sure how many more “uplifting” and “inspirational” stories he can handle. He gets back into Steve’s pickup, leaning his head back against the headrest. Steve pulls out into traffic, following the van. His fingers drum nervously against the wheel, tapping out an anxious rhythm Bucky’s not even sure he notices. Steve’s always been fidgety when he’s nervous, though, ever since they were little. 

 “What?” Bucky asks, and Steve turns to look at him like he has three heads. Bucky gestures at Steve’s fingers, tap-dancing across the dashboard. “What’s the problem?” 

 Steve shrugs. “Nothing.”

 “You always were a shit liar.” 

 Steve scowls at him. “It’s nothing, Buck. Seriously.” 

 The berry farm is a Meridian institution, one of the local businesses that had been around since before the town was a town. Bucky doesn’t think that’s a particularly impressive resume, but he knows better than to mention it when he hops out of Steve’s pickup and down into the dusty parking lot. Kitty gestures for everyone to circle in, clapping her hands excitedly. 

 “Alright everyone. We’ve got some little helpers here today too,” she points at a short yellow school bus that Bucky assumes also came from the community center. “I think we all know how important it is in the process to make amends not only to ourselves but to our community!” 

 Can’t make amends to people who are dead though, can you?

 Bucky picks up his five gallon bucket and starts down a line of blueberry bushes. He pops a few into his mouth, tart sweetness bursting over his tongue. He doesn’t wait for Kitty to deliver instructions—after all, how much directing could they possibly need to pick berries? The smell of the hot sun, the laughter of the children racing up and down the rows—it’s nostalgic. Bucky had been here many times himself on school field trips, the farm being one of the only “historic” locations within forty-five minutes of Meridian. 

 A group of children rounds the corner, flying down the dirt path at top speed. One of them crashes into his legs, and then lands back on the ground with a soft oof.

 “Easy, kid.” Bucky reaches down to help her up, and his heart leaps into his throat when Iris beams at him. 

 “Hi, Mr. Bucky!” Her wide smile is missing a couple of teeth. “I’m sorry I runned into you.” 

 “That’s okay.” He glances around, looking for you, but he doesn’t see you. “Where’s, um. Where’s your mom?” She cocks her head at him. 

 “She’s talking with Miss Kitty.” Iris points back towards the parking lot, and then makes a face. “Grown-up stuff.” She looks so much like you, wrinkling her little nose with distaste the same way you do. He can’t help but wonder who you’d found after him, who had tried to help you pick up the pieces because Bucky wouldn’t. 

 Couldn’t.

 And perhaps that’s the worst part of all, that when he’d broken you, he expected you to stay that way. But you hadn’t. You’ve moved on, you’ve grown, while Bucky is stuck in the same mud pit, nursing the same old wounds. Or maybe he isn’t nursing them at all, just tearing them open again and again because he knows he doesn’t deserve peace. 

 If he did, he’d be in the ground same as Beccs. 

 “Do you, um. Do you like blueberries?” Bucky asks lamely. He doesn’t know how to talk to kids, not really. Iris looks around conspiratorially, before gesturing for him to lean in close. 

 “They’re mommy’s favorite,” she stage whispers, and Bucky nods. He remembers that, at least. “She’s sad today. If I bring her something she likes, maybe she’ll be happy again.” Iris says resolutely, secure in the soundness of her childish reasoning. It makes Bucky’s heart ache a little, though he isn’t sure why. “Can you help me?”

 Bucky rubs the back of his neck. He knows you probably don’t want him anywhere near your kid. He looks around, searching for you, but he doesn’t see you. 

 “I dunno, kid, I mean… your mom, she…” Bucky stops, unsure of what to say. He can’t exactly tell a six year old that he’d nuked their relationship, can he?

 “Please?” 

 “I guess I could… help you get a few.” She chatters aimlessly at him, and Bucky struggles to keep up and respond to every loose thought that seems to fly from her little mouth up to his ears. Iris is so much like you—and it isn’t just the fact that in more than a few ways, she could be your twin. She reminds him of you before. 

 His fingers are stained purple by the time Iris’ bucket is even a quarter of the way full. Bucky can’t believe he even remembers how to do this, gripping the soft fruit gingerly and twisting it off of the vine. Iris’ mouth and hands are purple too, though that’s more from eating than picking. She stands up away from the bucket and waves at someone Bucky can’t see, crouched underneath the thorny vines the way he is. 

 “Hi mommy!” He pulls hurriedly away from the bush, wincing as one of the thorns catches his finger. You look less than pleased, but not angry. Panicked might be a better way to describe your tight expression, the frantic way your eyes move back and forth between Bucky and Iris. 

 “Hey, sweetheart. I was looking for you,” you reply. The weak smile on your features grows strained. “Hello Bucky.” 

 “Hey.” 

 “Mr. Bucky helped me get lots of berries, mommy, see?” Iris reaches indigo stained fingers into the bucket, and lets a handful of berries fall through her tiny fingers like gold coins. “Lots!” 

 “Woah! That’s so many,” you agree, placing your hands on your knees as you bend over to peer into her bucket. “I thought maybe we could head out, sweet pea. Maybe go for dinner? My friend made reservations for us somewhere special.”

 “Is it Andy?” Iris replies, her nose wrinkling again. “I don’t like him, mommy.” 

 You wince. 

 Who the fuck is Andy? The live-wire of jealousy that flares to life within him is neither logical nor fair. It’s the same one that had sparked when he’d found out you’d gotten pregnant, moved on, had an entire life without him while he was drowning in pills. But you like pills. The demon’s sly whisper makes him wince. More than anything. 

 “Okay. Well, why don’t we talk about that in the car, hmm? You should go say goodbye to your friends.” 

 “I don’t want to,” Iris whines. “I don’t want to go to dinner, I want to stay and—” You crouch down in front of Iris, grasping her hands in yours. 

 “I know, sweetheart. I know you’re frustrated because you want to stay and play, but it’s time to go. But you’ll see all your friends next week after school, won’t that be fun?” Iris’ pout is gut wrenching, her little lip poking out and trembling as she stares at you with watery eyes. 

 “Okay.” She scuffs her foot against the dirt, kicking up a few pebbles. You massage your temples as you watch her go. 

 “Sorry about that. I hope she wasn’t too much trouble.” You stuff your hands into the pockets of your jeans, making small talk. 

 “No, no. She’s, um. She’s great.” Bucky says, shaking his head. “So… Andy.” He can’t help the bitter tinge that colors his words, he can only hope you don’t taste it too. Your jaw tightens at the mention of his name, and you blow out a breath. “The um. The police guy.” 

 “Yeah.” You look away. “He’s nice.” 

 “I didn’t think badges were your type.” He scoffs.

 “What would you know about my type?” You fire back, hackles already up. Bucky’s lips draw into a thin scowl, and he opens his mouth to loose more venom, but stops, and deflates. 

 “Nothing, I guess.” He says after a moment, shrugging. He attempts to steer the conversation back into safer waters. “Your kid, she’s, um. She’s really something.” 

 “Yeah.” You hook your thumbs through the belt-loops of your jeans. “Even if she does announce my business to the world.” Bucky laughs at that. 

 “That’s what they’re for, right?” He says, and for the first time since he’s been back you really smile at him. Bright and wide and beautiful, like you used to. His chest goes tight. “Looks just like you.”

 You shake your head, laughing. “She…” You hesitate, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear as the two of you watch her gesticulating enthusiastically at another group of kids her age. “She looks like her dad.” It hangs in the air uncomfortably between you. He wants to ask. He wants to ask so badly, but he knows it’ll just make you throw up another wall. He wonders how many you’ve built just because of him. 

 “I didn’t know they would put you guys to work like this,” you say quickly, as though forcing more words out will cover up the ones that went before. “Is that legal?” Your stiff joke lands, and the corners of Bucky’s mouth turn up. 

 “I don’t know. Probably not. Pretty sure there’s hazardous chemicals in the sheds that we could use for nefarious purposes.” For a moment the two of you are laughing together, and Bucky feels the clock rewind—and then it’s over, dirt crunching under Iris’ sneakers as she approaches. 

 “Okay mom,” she says decisively. “We can go.” 

 “Oh, well, thank you very much,” you reply, shaking your head a little. You glance at Bucky over your shoulder. “I guess I’ll, um. See you. Around.”

 “Yeah.” Iris looks back at him too, giving him a wide smile. She tugs her hand out of yours and jogs back over to him, reaching conspiratorially into her pocket. 

 “I saved you some,” she says, and then holds a purple stained finger over her mouth. “Don’t tell, okay?”

 “Okay,” Bucky whispers back, nodding seriously. “I won’t tell.” The berries are a little squished and hot from the heat of her palm, and they stain his fingers with fresh purple juice. He watches you go, Iris bouncing excitedly beside you as—Bucky grimaces. He remembers Andy well enough, his manicured beard and sharply pressed uniform hard to miss. Bucky gets a perverse sort of pleasure watching Iris’ lukewarm greeting, and the way you turn your face so that he gets your cheek when he drops his head for a kiss. 

 Prick.

 At least he knew Andy wasn’t Iris’ father. That would have been a much harder pill for him to swallow, and all the more distasteful. Who is her father? The question plagues him as they head back to the community center. It’s like a rock in his shoe, impossible to ignore no matter how many times he shifts it’s position. There are other rocks too, ones that make him narrow his eyes as he stares out the window at the passing countryside. Iris’ allergy, her age… 

 He supposed he had been trying not to think about it, the thought playing at the edges of his conscious mind. Mainly because it would be unthinkable—you’d agreed, both  of you had agreed that you would get an abortion. 

 So Iris couldn’t be his. 

 What if she didn’t? The oily smooth voice at the back of his mind whispers. What if she didn’t?

 Steve’s pickup rumbles into the driveway, and Bucky sits in it vacantly for a few minutes after Steve hops out. The thought eats at him, won’t leave him alone. 

 What if?

 What if?

 What if?

 “Buck, you’re pacing.” Steve comments from the doorway of his room. “I can hear you downstairs.” Bucky scrubs a hand down his face. 

 “I’m sorry.” He perches on the edge of the bed, his hand tapping nervously against his knee. “I just, I can’t stop thinking, you know?” Usually he has the pills to help with that, to dull the anxious turning of his mind. But now, he has nothing. 

 “Yeah?” Steve moves to sit beside him. “What about?”

 “About Jellybean, and the kid, and fuck, what if it’s mine? And I never fucking knew this whole goddamn time? That would fucking serve me right, wouldn’t it?” Bucky barks out a humorless laugh. He looks at Steve, waiting for him to say something, anything. “Right? I mean it’s not possible, right? It-It’s not.” 

 It’s so silent, Bucky reckons he could hear a pin drop. For once he’s thankful to be out of the haze, because it lets the puzzle pieces slide together almost disgustingly easily. His face contorts as he jumps up, away from Steve. 

 “Oh my God.” He presses the heels of his palms into his closed eyes as he shakes his head. “You fucking knew.” Steve holds his hands out placatingly. 

 “Buck.” He reaches out to place a hand on Bucky’s shoulder, but he shoves him away. 

 “No, you shut the fuck up,” Bucky says, shaking his head disbelievingly. “You fucking knew.”  His voice cracks, just a little. 

 “She asked me not to say anything. I swear, I didn’t know before we got back—” Bucky’s already running down the stairs, the sound of his pulse roaring in his ears blocking out the sound of Steve frantically shouting his name. He doesn’t realize he’s leaving the house until he’s already outside, rapidly fleeing into the coming evening before Steve has a chance to follow.

 I have a daughter.

next chapter

Hello friends! I no longer maintain a taglist, so please follow @box-of-bones-library​ for updates and new work, thank you!

Likes and comments are amazing, but reblogs are golden! Please consider sharing my work so that others can see it too!

[fordtato]

YES. So I'm not the only one that has MANY things to say about Return to the Bunker. I was super hyped up for this this before, but then for the whole 32 minutes of watching I was like "...are you even serious? c'mon!"

This thing felt less like a Gravity Falls episode and more like a big Ford Hate Party. Wtf?! He had a few interactions with Mabel in the series, but literally ALL of them were positive, since she never talked about her issues directly to Ford (not trying to blame her, I love Mabel with all my heart). And here Ford's straight up a huge ass to her. Not wearing a sweater in the summer (HE LITERALLY DOES?!), telling her in the face he doesn't trust her, acting like spending any time with her is wasteful and a scar on his honor (?). Dudes, did we really watch the same Gravity Falls with the same characters? Ford can (and is) be dramatic and too serious sometimes, but he's also silly, fun and adventurous! And it's SHOWN in the series! And he loves the twins more than anything!

But let's get to the thing I have the biggest problem with. The way Ford's trust issues were treated. Guy's been through hell and back. Every person in his whole life that was his close friend, ended up stabbing him in the back (from his perspective). He literally spend 30 years all by himself, FORCED to trust only himself, because trusting someone else might have ended up in him being dead. Now he's barely back home, everything is new and complicated and dangerous, there's the rift, there's Bill being a huge thread, there's his relationship with Stanley, there's his house turned into a mockery of the only thing he was ever proud of, AND this guy still stays relatively calm and collected. Now you're also expecting him to suddenly forget about 30+ years of trauma he experienced and trust people he barely knows (Soos, Wendy) with his worst fear?! And you're punishing him for being jumpy, terrified and paranoid, when he has all the reasons to act such way?! And what's with the scene when he gets on his knees and in teary tone admits that just a sad, lonely boy, but now thanks to Mabel and her friends he might change? Like, sir? Are you the Ford Pines we know? Pre-weirdmageddon afraid-to-his-death prideful and emotionally withdrawn Ford Pines? And then he "learns" absolutely nothing AND ERASES THEIR MEMORIES WITH A MEMORY GUN?? WHAT THE FUCK? I barely forced myself to watch until the very end, because I wanted to scream. You think that Ford, WHO IS A VICTIM and was against the memory gun for most of his life unless absolutely crucial, who had to erase his brother's whole personality and the only reason he remained relatively sane after that was because said brother's memories were brought back, would EVER erase memories of his own twelve year old niece and her friends, RIGHT AFTER BEING ALL OPEN HEARTED and admitting he was wrong?! I can't. I'm sorry. I got all emotional.

Mabel's not really Mabel. Ford's definitely not Ford. Stan was... well, weird, but I could maybe go with that? The B plot was better anyway. The only one that remained more or less close to their canon characterisation was Soos. Even McGucket didn't really click.

ALSO. Ford's relationship with Fiddleford in this one. Wtf. Ford, who mourned what happened between him and his former best friend for years, who had a fucking "I'm sorry Fiddleford" as one of his thoughts on mind reading machine, and who, after seeing him for the first time during Weirdmageddon was all regretful and sad, in this episode is, again, an ass to him?! And their meeting, for the first time in 30 years, is not really a big deal? Ooof.

I'm angry. I didn't like it at all and I thought I'm the only one, because all of the comments are so happy and enthusiastic. I'm glad I'm not alone. It's really not good. Well, it had good moments. I laughed REALLY hard during that dating show with the shapeshifter and a few jokes had me chuckling, and, as you said, the art is really great and you can see all the time and passion that went into it. But the plot itself... I guess it's supposed to be canon complaint. It makes it even worse. The writers really hate Ford, don't they? Eh.

Sorry for the dump. I don't know what's gotten into me. I was so excited for it, a beginner's mistake, I guess.

It felt, personally, like the writers greatly misunderstood (or did not interpret from series as I did) which qualities of Ford, Mabel, McGucket and Soos made these characters loveable and made the show work.

The script of this fan project, at times, seemed specifically antagonistic to the source material, to these characters, and to the motivations these characters held.

I am not trying to shit on something people loved, but I did not enjoy the writing at all.

[thewriterowl]

So, I'm exhausted and stressed and can't focus fully on writing fan fiction but seems ready to unleash creative spew on the SW-series we have gotten and how it could've been SO much better. I wanted to start with one, the one that seemed to have been the trigger of this weird ripple of poorly written series and see if I can unleash more for others (Not you Andor, you are perfection)

Book of Boba Fett

Scrap Din. Completely. Remove him. He doesn't even touch the show. Mentioned is acceptable, maybe even a sort of cameo where Fennec comes in to see Boba talking to him but hears nothing as they disconnect. Boba makes some note on what Djarin is doing as a way to express how much time has passed since the end of Season 2 of the Mandalorian. Maybe. But that's it.

Instead, there will be more memories opening up the episodes, even after Boba heals and is back to true form. For one, I think it would be beneficial to show a bit more young-Boba and show how angry and hateful and scared he was after Jango's death (let's get some re-makes of Clone War scenes) and how it shows his anger is consuming him. Show clips of him connected with Cad Bane and the dent in his helmet. Give little pieces to show how he went from that very angry and feral child to the rather composed man in Empire Strike's Back-Return of the Jedi to where he is now.

The tension of the politics are stretched out more. We will see Boba trying to actually take on a leadership role as Daimo but has the urge to be like he was before. And it's only when he starts allowing more of his self out does the good leader really blossom (ie. his brilliance of having the dinner above the supposed empty cage). He can even have conversations with Fennec of, "I was reckless and stupid with my anger before. And I got a face full of a scars and a head with less hair because of it." With her, ever the snarky wise one, going, "Being angry doesn't mean you be stupid."

Street kids are good, but not with the motorbikes. I feel they should've been more like the one character Kenobi met (his daughter in real life) who was telling him to get high and forget his problems--it's easier that way. They felt too punk and it was out of place for this planet at this time. They steal, maybe Robin Hood things here and there but are mostly out for their own group and themselves; exactly how Boba and Fennec were just a short time ago. Fennec could even connect to that girl and scoff in memory, "You're tough...I met a kid just like you on a job before" and now we have the presences of Omega within this series and how important she is here and not just in a singular location and can give audience the hope Omega and Boba will one day meet (season 3 of Bad Batch sorta helping confirm or deny this). While Boba is able to connect and warn them to not be like him and let their anger and hatred fool them into trusting arrogance. maybe someone makes a point, or maybe Boba realizes it himself, but this sounds very Jedi-esque and that haunts him.

Boba spent so many years hating the Jedi (mainly Mace) so having these moments of maturity would make him pause. It would end, of course, with him denouncing the belief because he is Mandalorian, like his father before him, and not everything is about the Jedi, because he fully believes in revenge and anger just not like how he used to. Now, he controls it. It doesn't control him. And he can let his hate for the Jedi finally go (ghost Mace, who was probably watching him the whole time is so relieved and lets the man go as well; not in the show but just in my heart).

The Tribe is not dead and, instead, at least a few survived (ie the child and the warrior and a few others; we did not get that incredible train scene for them to be all killed off camera) and we see Boba, who is dealing with the trauma of everything in his life, have a moment where he breaks down and apologizes to them (maybe not anything specific; maybe not really to them but to his younger self who never had a chance) seeing this as his fault. They forgive him, cause he needs forgiveness in some way, and offer him a home within their smaller tribe but he isn't ready for that and they accept it. Now, they are the ones who return to him and assist him in the final battle. This will also lead up to where it comes full circle for him. He will offer them a place within the city but they do not accept (they are a colonized people after all; I do not see them wanting to be within that city) and instead are welcomed to his territory as a home-base to return to should they ever wish and they part on good terms and promises of seeing each other again. It would end with Boba watching them leave into the setting suns, feeling longing but also a sensation of peace that they were going where they should go and he was where he was needed. So, he turns from them as they disappear into the melting suns and grunts out, "Just a simple man who made his way in the universe." And FIN.

We can keep a lot of the other craziness--he has his Rancor (i love this part of the story), he deals with corrupt politicians, Peli meets her next boy-toy cause Din (name cameo) suggested her for Boba's use, Black Krrsantan is in the picture, Cad Bane is the big bad who shoots down Vanth (and that final end scene is still there), and so many other ridiculous parts! They could all connect and make sense!

And there can be this theme that is trying to beat Boba over the head about anger. Because we have seen anger so much through the eyes of Jedi--this can really be a new type of accepting and letting things go. More akin to the anger we see constantly simmering and boiling over in Andor but in a more personal way and showing that it doesn't need to be snuffed out but honed (controlled). It can be why Boba seems so mild at times, it's because he is learning about who he is to be, but then is able to show us the (fan) Boba that was so popular is still there--he's just someone who is trying to fill a role he thinks he has to completely change for.

[loverboy-cc]

A future to hope(?) for/The looming dread of horrors you can’t yet fathom

In which Zevlor (unwillingly) thinks through the course of his life, and fights the urge to set a perfectly innocent book on fire.

Tw. unprocessed trauma resurfacing at inopportune times, vomit + graphic nausea, inconsistent/failing memory, victim blaming (on himself,) abuse, graphic depiction of a panic attack, implied death, self hatred.

(Yall can thank @hallowsden for this btw, she had the idea of Zevlor having visions of his future that this entire fic revolves around)

The little pad of parchment in his hands taunts him. His name messily embroidered in the leather. (And the name of his baby sister below it. Guilt crawls up his spine as he turns it over, one name of too many lost.)

On its backside is a moon, the embroidery much cleaner, in the same yarn the book was bound in. It’s aged leather burns his hands, yet his calloused skin is not marred.

This first of many dream journals, and idea of his mother from when the dreams, or perhaps more accurately, visions began.

He remembered this one well, or did he? Was this truly the first? Surely not, (it is) surely he should toss it to the fire and dig up the true original. (He doesn’t)

“Momma- I had a funny dream!”

“Is that so sweetling? What was it about?”

(His head spins, he tosses the book onto his desk as he tries desperately to find the sound of her voice in the haze. It doesn’t come, only the words, flat and empty. He pushes on.)

“I was a hellrider! I had one of the big swords an’ everything!”

“Ooh you should tell your father, i’m sure he’d be more than happy to teach you to wield a sword.”

(An old scar, imperceptible under a myriad of newer ones, aches anew. The timbre of his fathers voice rings clear as daylight between his ears as an intense wave of nausea crashes over him, he cannot run. He pushes on.)

He sees himself, barely 5 years old then, running to his father. He scolds himself for his impatience, he should’ve known better than to disrupt him.

His memory jumps (thank gods) to years later, he’s almost as tall as his mother now.

“Momma I had another dream!”

Concern etched into her brow, his baby sister sleeps in her arms. (What did she look like..? The face forms slowly, older than she was then? Before he can stop it the face of her corpse is plastered onto the memory. The nausea climbs further up his throat, he swallows thickly, and he pushes on.)

“Hopefully not another nightmare..?”

“I dunno, it wasn’t a good dream, wasn’t bad either? I was old, older then you n’ dad. But I was… sad? My chest hurt like I was sad, but I couldn’t cry like when you’re sad.”

(Should he be crying? Has he not done enough?)

Her expression is complicated (she knows the word loneliness, he realizes that he did not) she reaches into the bedside table, the book now in front of him, the cover is blank.

“You remember when we found out about your sister, and I told you I might not have time for your dreams all the time?”

“Mhm.”

“Well, I think since you’ve been having so many not good, but not bad dreams you should try writing them down.”

His sister stirs in her arms. The memory falls away as her burnt flesh warps into something akin to an open mouth. He can’t look away, she cries for his help, for their mother, for peace. Her voice swallows him, and he’s out of his seat and retching into his chamber pot before he's consciously aware of having moved.

Time crawls, his entire body aches as he lets himself lay flat on the floor. He is safe here at least (he is not- he needs to run? Run where? Away, he can’t help her- he can’t help any of them. Pathetic oathbreaker he is he can’t save them.)

He wheezes, feels it more than hears it, barely even that over the thundering of his heart. It’s all a world away now. He realizes slowly that he is afraid, though he knows not what is causing it. A thick layer of mud between him and his body, he is afraid. He is afraid? He is afraid.

The book, it’s in his hand? Maybe not, his senses come to him slowly. His throat aches, has he been screaming? Or perhaps just sobbing. The nausea wanes and he sits up slowly, his body protests, he pushes on.

The acrid smell of bile hits him finally as he sits fully upright. The nausea returns. His body doesn’t have the energy to make him throw up again, does it? Hopefully not.

The book?

The book.

It used to have a latch, he thinks. One of them certainly did. A gift from a friend (don’t think about faces don’t think about faces don’t think about faces-)

His writing is cleaner than he expected, as far as expected for a child that is.

‘Momma says i’m supposed to write my dreams down. I think its silly, but if she thinks it’ll help I’ll try!’

It it silly? Maybe he should start a new dream journal, commission dammon to make the latch, he must know a leatherworker for the cover. He could bind it himself, he’s sure-

Off track. He’s off track. Flip the page.

‘I didn’t like this dream. It was so hot, I was tired, but I wasn’t allowed to stop. It was like when-’

Avernus. Flip the page.

Flip the page.

Flip the page.

Flip the page.

‘My chest hurt this time, it was hot again.’

Avernus. Flip the page.

‘There was a lot of screaming too, I don’t know who was screaming.’

He should flip the page.

‘A little kid with one eye was staring at me, maybe she was screaming?’

FLIP THE PAGE

‘I’ve been stabbed, it wasn’t like that kind of hurt. It was deep between my ribs, like something was missing?’

FLIPTHEPAGEFLIPTHEPAGEFLIPTHEPAGE

His chest aches

Deep beneath his ribs

Like something’s missing.

He sees himself, sitting on the floor of his office, is it his office? His room? He’s not wholly sure actually, he was so focused on the visions he’d not fully processed how far he’d moved when he saw his si-

(DON’T THINK ABOUT FACES YOU PATHETIC WHELP)

Yes, pathetic. A feeble excuse of a paladin, a worse leader, he feels his breathing get heavy again.

He flips the page, and with it he is unceremoniously stuffed back into his corpse. Again, nausea, again, he pushes on.

‘I start martial training today! Real martial training! Not just father yelling at me and hitting me with sticks and stuff, I’ll get to use a real sword! I think I will anyway.’

That at least gives him a reference for how long it’s been, did he really use this journal for that long? He was 16 that day.

‘I don’t like the commander. He reminds me of father, mother says that’s a good thing. I do hope he actually teaches me something.’

He was taught plenty, a firm hand did him wonders.

Did his father not have a firm hand?

Perhaps he did, but his father said little to help him parse his mistakes.

When did he stop calling them dad and momma?

(When did he start forgetting things?)

Flip the page.

He’s at the end of the book.

The end of the book? There were many years of visions, they only recently stopped, he thinks in passing that it’s because he’s fast approaching the end of his life. Just over a decade between him and the average lifespan of a healthy tiefling, he’s hardly healthy, perhaps kelemvor will weigh his soul sooner for that.

… of all things to ponder and not react strongly to his own looming mortality certainly is something.

Perhaps he is just exhausted.

He lays back on the ground where he sat. He is home, he may lay wherever he likes. (A strange anxiety claws at him anyway)

His visions from when he was at the grove pull themselves to the front of his mind. Did he see this perhaps? A mess of a man laid on the floor focusing extraordinarily hard on not hyperventilating (again)

He didn’t.

He saw the pod though, of being an absolute thrall. The gap in his chest “filled” (filled with deceit and gore, ripped further open with dirty claws.)

He's glad of all things, of hundreds- perhaps thousands of visions he had been able to decipher that one. The first and last one he’d been able to.

He still couldn’t save them, he knew of her lies and he still fell to the influence of a tadpole he didn’t yet have. (And would never receive)

He sighs, and closes his eyes a moment, don’t think of faces.

Who are you looking at? His face is familiar yet distant, it’s been an age since you’ve seen him. (Has it?)

Halsin? Halsin. Former Archdruid, one of the group you have to thank for your (pathetic, doomed) life.

He is sad? He has certainly been crying. You are comfortable, your chest nor joints ache, there’s a soft pressure beneath you. Like a comfortable bed, but it presses too close to your shoulders to be a bed.

You are tired.

Another looks down at you, pale as a ghost. The vampire, you think. His name eludes you. You feel guilty, it passes quickly, as does he.

You are tired.

Yet another, with a false eye, Wyll. He smells of Avernus, the smell is uncomfortable but somehow not unpleasant. Then another behind him quickly, one horn and a booming voice. You can’t hear their words, but they’re both crying.

You are tired.

More come and go, you are tired. You cannot move, cannot blink. (Are your eyes even open?)

(they are now)

He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he wakes up more sore than he wanted, with an awful headache and an odd, comforting calm. It’s rare that he doent’t remember his dreams, typically they sit vivid in his mind like memories would. He stands slowly, anticipating the nausea, the dizziness, the ache.

Nothing.

He pours out his chamber pot and returns it to its usual spot. The book remains on the ground.

He considers leaving it there, before tucking it into his desk.

His ribs begin to ache, it's manageable now. He’s not sure what changed.

As usual, he pushes on.

© cakeboxie •• 2024 •• Please do not translate/repost. reblogs are appreciated and requests are open!

Part of @eveningatthemoviesnetwork

~~

Taglist: @yarnnerdally • @starrry-angel • @yuelqnn • @yeonpm

Wanna be added? Send me an ask off anon and lmk if you want to be on the sfw only list!

[revnah1406]

ONE LAST DRINK, BROTHER...

⚠️CALL OF DUTY MW3 SPOILERS UNDER THE CUT!! ⚠️

I was so sad about Soap's death. And I wanted to write a small fic about how Sparrow would handle it. 🥺

Words: 1.546

Let's add a little more drama with this song😭

Sparrow's hands were still shaking. The fresh scars burned inside her, still hurting when she moved. They were deep, too deep.

She still had flashes, every time she closed her eyes she still had the vision of the mountain falling on top of her. Her brother's screams, the rocks, the sharp ice, the lack of oxygen, the blood. K2 was a shark that hunted her every night with nightmares and memories of the accident. When was the last time she was able to sleep? Maybe ten months ago, when she was in a fucking coma for weeks.

She believed she was ready to return, she had recovered from her injuries, she could walk, she had exercised. She was strong again. She thought she could go back to 141 and go back to what she was before. Oh birdie... how wrong you were...

Now there is a before and after. There always is. The Sparrow from before the accident on K2 is not the same as now. You don't think you're immortal anymore, do you? You have played arm wrestling with death and you have lost, only death has let you win, it wants to play with you a little more.

Hannah was brought out of her thoughts when the sound of a bottle being placed on the table was heard over that lonely dining hall at 3 in the morning.

She raised her head. Smiling but sleepy blue eyes looked at her.

"Being a bad lass and staying up late, birdie?"

Sparrow forced a smile.

"If it was up to me I would sleep for days but..."

Soap also placed two glasses on the table and sat next to her.

"But K2 doesn't let you sleep." Soap finished the sentence. Always with a small smile, it wasn't evil, nor was it trying to make fun of Sparrow. He did it so Sparrow would smile back at him.

And Sparrow did it. She returned the smile.

"Yeah... I never thought a bloody mountain could chase me that far. It doesn't even have fucking legs."

Soap chuckled.

"Well, Dr. Soap has come here to help you." He placed the bottle in front of Sparrow.

"Scotch?" Sparrow raised an eyebrow. "You think getting drunk will cure my trauma? Have you heard of therapy, Johnny?"

"Yeah, but this is cheaper." John winked at her as he opened the bottle. "And we all go to therapy and it doesn't help one bit."

He managed to get a laugh out of Hannah.

"You're just using me as an excuse to drink inside the base." Sparrow rolled her eyes but the smile didn't go away, even her hands stopped shaking.

"Hey, the boss does it all the time in his office and no one tells him anything. Even Ghost drinks with him from time to time." Soap poured the amber liquid into both glasses. "Besides, you're not going to deny your brother from another mother a drink, are you?"

Sparrow chuckled and shook her head.

"Every time I say no, you chase me like a fucking hawk."

"Because I have good eyesight! I know when you need a drink. And you always end up giving in."

He pushed one glass toward Hannah and raised the other.

"What do you want to toast?" Soap asked.

"Do you want to toast?" Sparrow raised her eyebrows.

"It's very sad to drink without toasting. Come on Sparrow, I know you'll think of something."

Sparrow thought for a moment and then raised the glass. She looked her friend in the eyes and smiled.

"For fucking K2 who couldn't kill me. And for our deaths to be the most unforgettable of all!"

"And may the Valkyries call our name when the time comes!"

They both clinked their glasses and downed the Scotch in one gulp. Sparrow scrunched up her face as the alcohol burned her throat, but the scars hurt less now.

"And?"

"What?" Sparrow looked at him, confused

"Do you still believe that Irish Whiskey is better than Scotch?" Soap raised his eyebrows.

Sparrow chuckled.

"I think I have to drink a little more to make up my mind." Sparrow poured herself and Soap some more.

John laughed.

"This Scotch is not just any Scotch, my friend."

They both toasted again and drank. There was a comfortable, calm silence.

"So you finally took the title." Soap spoke again after a while of drinking in silence.

"Title? What title?" Sparrow asked strangely.

"From the ugliest person in 141." Soap laughed.

Sparrow laughed too and stroked the scars on her face.

"Are you saying that because now my scars are bigger than yours?"

"Partly yes. But you know I'm bloody handsome."

Sparrow rolled her eyes.

"Whatever you say Mr. Humble."

Soap laughed again.

"Hey, do they hurt? The scars."

"Well, yes... it's something I'll have to learn to live with..." Sparrow stared into the glass.

"We learn to live with many things. And some we have to let go. As you often say, we have to cut the rope." Soap patted Sparrow's shoulder.

"Yes... cut the rope..."

________________

The wind chilled her hands. She didn't care, nothing could matter anymore. The clouds roared, spitting thunder, threatening a storm. But nothing mattered to her.

The grass was stirred and the waves crashed aggressively against the cliff. Scotland was crying. Just like her, although she had no tears left to cry.

Sparrow was sitting on a rock watching the angry sea. She was angry too. It had taken her months to return since his ashes were thrown away. She wasn't able to go back. But she had to do it.

She sighed and looked back. Amara, her girlfriend, was there waiting for her. Hannah had asked her for a moment alone with her friend, with her brother from another mother as he used to say. Amara hugged Hannah's coat, she was very cold. It broke her heart to see Hannah like this, so broken, so... Amara still remembered the day Hannah came home, how happy she was to see her girlfriend return home after so long, and how the world had changed when she fell to the ground. When Hannah dropped to her knees and started crying and screaming just a second after getting off her bike. Amara never really liked soldiers, 141 especially, but Soap was the exception. And she cried too.

Hannah was no longer the same. Amara knew it. As always, there is a before and after. For everything.

Amara smiled sadly waiting for Hannah to smile back but she never did. Instead, she turned her gaze to the sea.

She sighed and opened the backpack she had between her boots. She took out a Scotch and two glasses. The same old bottle from that night. She never touched it, she always said she would drink it at the right moment. Well, that moment has arrived, little bird. So she poured the liquid into the glasses and grabbed one. She didn't drink, she didn't like to drink without toasting. Drinking without toasting is too sad.

She played with the glass trying to think of what to say to him.

"I've tried to cut the rope... All these months I've tried." Sparrow's lower lip trembled. "But every time I tried to cut it, the knife gets caught in the threads and gets stuck."

She sobbed a little.

"Maybe because it's not time to cut it yet." She looked up at the waves again.

The wind froze her face.

"I'm going to find that son of a bitch, Johnny... And I'm going to make him pay for what he did." She nodded slightly a few times. "And after that, I'll be done, sarge. 141 won't need me anymore, and I won't need them either."

She took a breath and let it out shakily. The tears had already come, rolling down her cheeks and freezing halfway. The cold didn't matter to her, nothing mattered to her anymore.

"Rest for now. Just wait for me..." she looked at the glass. "C’mon. One last drink, brother."

She sighed again and raised the glass to toast.

"May the Valkyries welcome you and lead you though Odin's great battlefield. May they sing your name with love and fury. John "Soap" MacTavish. So that we might hear it rise from the depths of Valhalla and know that you've taken your rightful place at the table of kings, for a great man has fallen. A warrior. A sergeant. A friend. A brother." 

She clicked her glass with the one resting on the rock and drank the scotch in one gulp. As always, she scrunched up her face as she felt the alcohol burn her throat.

She put the glass next to the other and stood up. She looked at the sea a little longer when the sound of a hawk made her look away. She looked up, the bird was circling around her. Sparrow smiled, whistled, and the hawk responded.

"You're a little far from home my friend. Although maybe you found a new one here..." she looked at the horizon again "There's always a before and after."

Se grabbed the backpack and left with Amara. Leaving both glasses and the bottle there. Knowing that the rest of the 141 would return to have one last drink with him.

[lewis-winters]

I know I should be working on other WIPs-- and just working in general-- but I watched The Old Guard again yesterday so here, have the Winnix TOG Canon Divergence AU

tw for: depictions of death, the effects of mustard gas, gore, trauma, and angst!

"Stop touching it."

Dick doesn't. In fact, just to be annoying-- though mostly on reflex-- he brushes past the newly formed scar of Lewis's brow one more time, prodding and poking until finally, fed up, Lew waves his hand away with a weak growl. "You'll open it back up."

Ah. That gets Dick to back off, pulling away abruptly like he'd been scalded. And maybe he has. After all, there's blood on his mind, now. A memory both too fresh to do anything but hurt; but a situation too resolved to feel anything but indignation at his own continued terror.

It's been nearly a millennia since the beginning of their renewed existence, and while they know their lot of second chances are bound to run out one day, surely the familiarity with Death should have settled in their old bones by now. Yet, when She comes, She brings with her all the fanfare that accompanies all finality. Almost immortality does not always warrant camaraderie with pain and grief.

They were luckier this time, at least.

They hadn't been as eager to join this war as they had been the last. Not that he'd been eager to join that war, either. But just like all things, Dick's need for a cause called out to Lewis' need to make sure Dick doesn't lose his goddamn mind fighting until he drops. And so, in the midst of the 1910s, they managed to find themselves spending long nights in the deep, damp French trenches, huddled together in the dark. For two and a half years, they lived like that, shaking apart with fear, both real and imagined, as the rats nibbled on their fingers and infections slowly overtook their lungs and toes. Any warrior worth their salt would know that it's not the fighting that fucks you over, but the waiting in between. The rotting wounds left to fester. The fear that threatened to eat you whole from within, if the bullets about you didn't get to you first. Together, they passed days watching their boys die, either from sickness or bullets or both, their corpses stacked around them so high, in the dark they looked like fortress walls, caging them in as they waited for the moment it would all come toppling down.

Then, the gas came pouring in.

Lewis had taken the brunt of it, in the end, ripping his gas mask off in a desperate attempt to save what was left of Dick's face. Neither of them had enough sense at the time to hear him scream in agony, clawing at his eyes until they were nothing but pulp underneath his fingernails; but the echoes of it would have a chance to ring in Dick's ears anyway. The screaming didn't stop in France.

And it took Lew years to regain his old self, in both nerves and sight; and it took even longer than that for Dick to stop dreaming of scar tissue, gnarled and twisted and angry red, in place of dark brown eyes. The damage healed a lot slower than either of them have ever experienced before, and required more outside help than either of them were comfortable with. By the time the last of Lewis' sight had been restored to him, a whole decade and several new identities had gone by, and Dick had done his best to promise: no more fighting.

They made it through another decade before he broke that one. It barely felt like a blink of an eye.

And now, here they are again. Huddled together, blanketed by dark night, with each other's blood once again under their fingernails, a new scar on Lewis' forehead, and the tangible memory of a crater in the back of his head, where the bullet found its exit and his brains had spattered out of his skull.

"Hey," Lewis breathes, sensing the dark turn Dick's thoughts have gone and reaching out for him, touching his face with cold fingertips. "I'm sorry. That was a bad joke."

Yes. It was. But Dick is not going to reprimand him for it. He's learned that jokes are Lew's best defense against the weight of their prolonged existence. Just like drink. Just like nicotine. Or just like Dick himself, his only lone companion in this casually cruel world. How could Dick ever deny him this?

Tilting their heads together, Dick guides his lips to the new scar, and resolutely tries not to think about how much longer Lew bears the marks of his deaths, and what that might mean for him. "It'll be gone tomorrow," he says, more to himself than Lew. "You'll see. Like brand new."

"Like brand new," Lewis echoes. Resigned. Going boneless as he leans all his (dead) weight into Dick's arms and buries his face in his neck. "Always brand new."

Even against the heat of Dick's skin, Lew stays cold. Dick doesn't think he's ever known a time when he was warm.

--

Dick and Lewis were made immortal sometime between 58 and 50BC, when Rome waged war against Gaul, as explained in this deleted line: "Lewis was not made for warrior-hood like Dick had been, having gone from the luxury afforded to him by his roman senator father's fortune to a miserable roman centurion on the back of a single mistake alone. He'd known almost nothing the first time he'd fallen under Dick's Gaulic blade; that his own sword had pierced Dick's chest at the same time was a mere fluke he's since been unable to replicate."