#(( and raw determination to at least figure out what the song was!!! | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

amimimi · 3 years

Note

Hi it's actually my first time requesting 💀 can you do like the reader is a volleyball player from a different school who came to their school to compete and is hella intimidating cause they're really quiet and doesn't really smile that often and their team won. Maybe do yamaguchi, tsuki, tendou, bokuto and suna?

I'm sorry if it's messy i get nervous cause it's my first time requesting 😭✋

hey angel! thank you for sending this in!! And don’t worry, this wasn’t messy at all!

also, i didn’t know if you meant reader’s team played the guys’ teams so i’m sorry if i misunderstood!

the strong, silent type; yamaguchi, tsukishima, tendou, bokuto, suna

synopsis: in which you somehow manage to catch a certain someone’s attention without having to say a word (well, barely a word)

pairings: yamaguchi x reader, tsukishima x reader, tendou x reader, bokuto x reader, suna x reader

warnings: swearing

notes: this is my first haikyuu request!!

YAMAGUCHI

baby boy is intrigued to say the least

he’s also, you know, very intimidated

karasuno is hosting volleyball camp for the weekend so a few of schools from the area come over

karasuno lost a match so they go do a lap up the hill and back down

yamaguchi shakily walks back into the gym, panting and sweating profusely from the run

two other teams are playing so he decided to watch and catch his breath

it’s getting pretty intense until your team’s setter sets the ball for you

you run up and leap in the air, your brows furrowed with determination and tongue sticking slightly out, and you spike ball, slamming it to the opponents ground

and it’s slams so fucking loud

yamaguchi mouth drops, impressed by your raw power

by then tsukishima has joined him, standing alongside yamaguchi

“sheesh” tsukishima mutters at how hard you struck the ball

meanwhile, yamaguchi’s jaw is still on the floor as he watches you with sparkles in his eyes

your teammates erupt in cheer while you’re just like 😐👍

yamaguchi tells tsukishima that they should congratulate your team (he’s talking about you mostly)

and tsuki is like “okay have fun doing that!”

and yamaguchi is like “w-wait! please go with me? they’re scary 🥺”

and tsukishima is like “this is so stupid...” but he ends up going with yamaguchi nskdicnwiwjs

you’re drinking from your water bottle when you feel a slight tap on your shoulder

you whirl around to see tsukishima and yamaguchi LITERALLY standing like—

⠀ ⠀ ⠀(\__/)

(•ㅅ•)

　＿ノヽノ＼＿

`/　`/ ⌒Ｙ⌒ Ｙ　ヽ

( 　(三ヽ人　 /　　 |

|　ﾉ⌒＼￣￣ヽ　ノ

ヽ＿＿＿＞､＿＿_／

　　｜( 王ﾉ〈 (\__/)

　　 /ﾐ`ー―彡\(•ㅅ•)

　　/ ╰ ╯ \/ \>

yamaguchi pipes up from where he stands, slightly behind tsukishima

“that last spike you did was really cool!” he squeaks, mentally slapping himself for how he voice cracked on “cool”

you blink in surprise before you gently smile

and yamaguchi, in his head of course, is like “HOLY SH*T THEY SMILED??!&)&8:9:”

“thank you” you reply, “i don’t think you told me your name”

TSUKISHIMA

when i tell you this man is not FAZEDDDDD

like he does not give a shit how intimidating you are

he notices that you’re a great volleyball player and that you’re a great coordinator

but that’s where it ends

he’s not intrigued enough/doesn’t care about the motivations of other people

you both walk up to the lil fountain outside the gym to refill your water bottle at the same time

you both sorta halt, before tsukishima motions for you to go first

you nod and thank him quietly, moving to refill your water bottle

tsuki feels his eyebrows furrow when a loud yell suddenly splits the silence, already recognizing who that might be

he turns around and of course, it’s hinata yelping and dodging kageyama’s blows, while the latter yells profanities at hinata

tsukishima sees that you’ve turned around too, trying to see what was going on

“what a couple of morons...” tsukishima mutters to you

you blink at tsukishima, straight faced as ever, before saying, “you shouldn’t bad mouth your team mates”

MY BOY SIEZES UP SO F*CKIN QUICK DUCHDKDJD

he thought since you were quiet and serious looking, that you kinda hated everyone/were pessimistic

you thought WRONG

he turns back to you with raised eyebrows, a little surprised and slight embarrassed about being scorned

you just smile at him and tsuki is surprised for a second time

“see you inside” you nod politely and before walking past him

get rekt tsukishima

TENDOU

yes, my slightly odd looking yet handsome son

he is NOT intimidated by you—AT ALL (have you seen his bestie? 😭)

in fact, the first time tendou sees you, he watches you for like 17 seconds and is like “oh...oh i’m bout to ANNOY TF OUTTA OF THEM”

i feel like he just wants to single out serious people and f*ck around with them—all in good taste though!

will try and goad you into messing up from across the net

but you’re just like 😐😑😐

switches tactics by trying giving you odd compliments

“y/n, right? i like the curvature of your spine,,,very unique 😌”

or “you have such delicate earlobes, y/n!”

if anything, he’s annoying both his teammates and yours

but he’s not done

starts crooning these lil songs about you, that he’s making up on the spot

he’s still not throwing you off your game but you are glancing over at him with a strange expression on your face

that just encourages him even more

eventually, semi smacks the back of tendou’s neck and gives him the “stfu” look

tendou glances over to see your lips twitching into a smile and he’s just smiles real big and wide at you

BOKUTO

my precious boy

he’d probably see you, standing there off to the side from where your teammates are huddled

and he thinks “omg,,,they’re shy,,,and lonely,,,I HAVE TO HELP THEM!”

but you’re just zoning out or something, completely fine

bokuto is trying to collect introverts like they’re f*ckin pokemon cards

he thinks he’s good with all kinds of people (and he is!) but he thinks he’s especially good with quieter people

after your match, bokuto bounds up to you with akaashi trailing behind (he’s there for damage control mostly)

“hey there!” bokuto smiles and your eyes slightly widen at how his voice booms throughout the whole gym. “your team did amazing out there! i couldn’t believe how coordinated you all are! and the way that you flew? your spikes could use a bit more force but you’re amazing either way—”

you generally feel overwhelmed by hyperactive people, but you’re REALLY feeling it now

especially considering how tired you are after that match and how fast Bokuto is talking

you honestly can’t keep up with what he’s saying to you, his eyes glimmer are glimmering and his whole face is lit up and DAMN you don’t have the heart to interrupt him

so you just nod at him with wide eyes like “yup, mhm, yea, that’s right, of course”

when he finally finished his spiel, you take the opportunity to ask for his name

and you’re like “oh! yeah! you’re one of the top 3 aces in the nation right?”

bokuto’s grin widens even further, but before he can respond, akaashi cuts in with “top 5 actually”

and bokuto whirls around with a look that screams utter betrayal—like B*TCH!!&/8:73?

“that’s really impressive!” you smile and bokuto’s mouth drops because DID YOU JUST MAKE A FACIAL EXPRESSION???

he’s hyping himself up like “aha, didn’t even talk to them for FIVE minutes and i already cracked them 😤”

SUNA

he’s just gonna stare at you

like a creepy ass owl or something

he sees your minding your own business respectfully and he’s like “...this feels insulting”

he thinks that YOU think that you’re some tough ass b*tch

MF, I’M JUST MINDING MY OWN BUSINESS 😭

suna: they’re trying to intimidate us

ojiro: ...they’re just standing there

suna: you think they’re trying to intimidate us?

ojiro: no, i don’t actually—

suna: nah, they’re definitely trying to intimidate us

so suna tries to intimidate YOU—reverse uno that b*tch

will stare at you from across the court with his hands shoved in his shorts like—🧍‍♂️

it honestly is a little unsettling because you just see this tall ass, lanky figure in your peripheral vision and your turn to see this guy STARING AT YOU LIKE—👁‍🗨👄👁‍🗨

he scares your teammates too dkfjdkshs

if you’re team is playing his, he will forcefully block your spikes and then just stare back at you LIKE DAMN, YOU GOOD?

the whole thing lets up, when your teams go to shake hands

you take his hand in yours and give him a firm shake, genuinely smiling

“you play well!” you compliment

“...you do too” he says hesitantly and you nod slightly before letting go of his hand and going to shake Osamu’s

he tells ojiro later that you had a “firm grip” and ojiro’s like “...mhm 😒”

notes: i wanna write more haikyuu (specifically timeskip)! also not me projecting the odd feeling i have for suna where it’s like a cross of “everything about you annoys me” and “damn u kinda hot 🙄”. my love/hate relationship with aquarius men 😌

#haikyuu x reader #haikyuu!!#haikyuu headcanons #tsukishima x reader #yamaguchi x reader #bokuto x reader #tendou x reader #suna x reader #tsukishima kei x reader #yamaguchi tadashi x reader #tendou satori x reader #suna rinataro x reader

428 notes · View notes

wkemeup · 4 years

Text

Crawl Home to Her

summary: Stranded without coms, alone, and bleeding out in the middle of a Russian snow storm, Bucky is content to let nature take its course. Only you won’t seem to let him go. pairing: bucky x reader word count: 8k warnings: passive suicidal thoughts, hallucinations, ghosts???, its all very confusing but humor me ok, a/n: based on Work Song by Hozier ✨

No grave can hold my body down I'll crawl home to her

Laid amongst old wooden floors rotted in decades of weathering and the whistling brush of wind sweeping in steady drift of snow from the open doorway, Bucky wondered whether he might have preferred the coffin of ice Hydra once shoved him in for storage.

The chill nestled deep into his bones and he tried not to focus on the small puff of breath as it touched over chapped, cracked lips. It was the only warmth he had left and that, too, was leaving him.

It was getting hard to breath under the sting of freezing temperatures barreling into the cabin; sharp, like crystals had formed in his lungs and punctured into his chest from the inside. The fireplace long extinguished, his rifle laid in a heap amongst his tactical vest and gear too far out of reach. He was unprepared when the mercenaries barreled in through the windows, leaving shattered glass along the floor, safe house exposed to the elements of a Russian winter.

He’d stopped shaking an hour ago, which he knew was a bad sign. His body had given up on fabricating false heat through the tremors in his arm and legs, the twitches of his breaths, the chattering of his teeth. The serum only did so much before he was left with the frayed remnants of his humanity to cover the slack.

Bucky’s fingers dipped down and glazed over a thick, warm pool at his stomach. He pulled his hand back to find an unsettling, deep red coating his skin. It was warm to the touch and it dripped down along his fingertips into his palms, soaking into the dried patches.

A violent cough suddenly broke through his chest and Bucky’s head fell back to the floorboards, a dull ache in his stomach from the effort. He could taste copper on his tongue as a fuzziness began to take over, like he was floating on the edge of a cloud, somewhere high up in the sky. It was a pleasant feeling, he decided, a break from the world that had not shown him kindness in nearly a century.

He stared up at the ceiling, at the blades of a fan lined in decades of dust, as it spun around and around and around and around and —

“What the hell are you doing?”

Bucky jolted awake, a sharp flinch through this nervous system like the current of electricity. Eyes wide open, he turned to find a figure sitting on the loveseat to his left. The fabric was torn in the trajectory of dozens of bullets, cotton lining oozing out the cushions and littered amongst the snow. It was too dark to see but the dim flicker of the swaying light in the kitchen illuminated the corner for only a second. It was enough to still his heart.

“Y/n?”

You raised an eyebrow at him, a scowl on your face as lips pursed together.

“Hey Buck.”

No.

No. That—that can’t be right...

You were wearing a SHEILD crewneck with a rip on the hem of the sleeve, faded in color from the wash, and a pair of sleep shorts he’d seen you in dozens of times. The slight imprint of a pillow case fold on your cheek, your hair a little out of place in sleep, and cast in the glow of sunshine through his bedroom window despite the stars littering the night sky outside the cabin’s door.

It was what you were wearing when he left on assignment two weeks prior. He knew because he memorized every moment he left you behind.

There was always that uncertainty, that knowledge that every mission could be his last, so he took the time to bring you with him; a memory, an image, of you laying under rustled sheets, curled up against his pillow with that pout on your lips as you told him ‘five more minutes, baby’ when he was already ten late.

He held that memory close because he could feel himself slipping. The blood pooling at his stomach was seeping into the floor beneath him and he felt dizzy, the spin of the fan above him throwing him off balance even as he laid completely still. It was the last good thing he had left -- this image of you -- because he knew it was time to let go, time to let the universe make things right again, to take him from the time he never belonged in.

There was a relief in that... almost.

"You’re not giving up, are you?”

Bucky gritted his teeth as your voice pulled him back sharply from the edge of dreamless sleep. He glanced over to you and found there wasn’t a trace of goosebumps on your skin amongst the snow sliding along the floorboards by your feet. You were unbothered by the rush of wind barreling in through the open door though it picked up in the small wisps of your hair, carrying them away from your face before it settled again.

“This isn’t happening. You’re not real,” Bucky chanted under his breath, but the way you were looking at him—Jesus—he'd seen that look too many times before. The pinch of your brows, the slight tug of your cheek between your teeth, your eyes narrowing down on him from a distance, never in anger, but determination.

Bucky closed his eyes, clenched his jaw real tight, but he could still hear as you push yourself up off the couch, the slight squeak of floorboards under your feet as you paced. Bucky dared to steal a glimpse and you were kneeling down over one of the mercenaries he was able to get a shot in before hell broke loose. You pursed your lips, tilted your head just so, and pulled off his helmet to get a better look. It rolled a good few feet before it hit a sudden stop against the edge of the couch.

It was the wind, he told himself. His mind was playing tricks on him again.

“Jesus, they make ‘em big around here,” you murmured to yourself before you pressed two fingers to the side of the man's neck. You started ruffling through his pockets for weapons and Bucky could hear the jingle of coins in his pockets, the swish of the fabric. He was certain he’d gone mad.

“You need to get warm, Buck,” you told him and a coat dropped down on his left. “You’ll die if you don’t.”

“You’re not real,” he argued, keeping his eyes closed, hoping that you’d just disappear and let him die in peace. “You’re... you’re in my head.”

It was hard enough knowing he was going to die in Russia of all places before you ever knew he was in trouble, hard enough to imagine you crying over his body as his skin paled to blue and grey, hard enough that he’d already said his last goodbye, already had the last kiss from your lips…

“It doesn’t matter if I’m in your head or not, Bucky,” you warned, though he was almost certain he could feel the warmth of your breath touch his skin as you leaned down next to him. “You’ll die if you stay here. Do you understand? You’ll die."

Your hand slid into his hair and he could feel the trace of your fingertips, your nails, on his scalp; combing through locks matted in blood and dirt and drawing shivers in his spine untouched by the cold.

He whimpered, tears burning at the corner of his eyes, because you were right there and somehow not at all. He didn’t want to say goodbye but his energy was draining. It slipped from him in every breath, the pain becoming a tired memory and he knew his body was giving in.

He’d spent so much time fighting in his life. He just wanted to rest. That’s all. Just some time to rest...

“Bucky!”

He snapped awake, heart beating frantically for a few minutes before it lulled again; his breaths too short, too far apart.

You were hovering over him, hair falling down into your face and there was real fear in your eyes. Your hands settled on his chest, trying to draw his attention back to you and he was certain he could feel the pressure of it, the grip of your fingers to the fabric of his shirt. The touch of a ghost.

“You need to get up. We’ve got to get you out of here,” you ordered, hands fumbling for the coat you dropped by his side and trying to drape it over him, but he pushed your hands away. You sat back on your heels, wide eyed, desperate.

“I’m already dying, sweetheart,” Bucky choked out, voice raspy and raw. “There's nothing left to do. Coms are out... nearest town is a dozen miles away... I’m-- fuck—I've got at least four bullets in me. This is it, honey. I’m-- I’m sorry...”

It hurt as he said it and he dared himself to meet your eye. Draped in sunlight and all that was ever good in his life, you were an ethereal wonder; a stunning image of the women he left behind, even if his mind was fading on the edge of insanity. It was nice, he thought, to see this memory of you one last time, to hold onto it tighter as the darkness gently carried him away from this world.

His hand lifted slowly, wanting to touch you one last time, and he was surprised when it didn’t slip straight through you like a ghost, but instead, landed tenderly against your cheek. So tangible, warm to icy chill of his hand, he could feel the clench in your jaw, the strain of the muscle, the divot of a scar by your ear.

A final blessing he didn’t deserve.

“Bullshit.”

He winced as you grabbed a firm hold of his wrist and pulled it from your face. Everything started to hurt again, in his chest, his stomach. He was falling apart.

“I’m so sorry, honey, I’m—I’m not making it out of—”

“Bull. Shit.”

You slammed your hands to the floor beside him and suddenly, you were up and rummaging through the kitchen, tossing old utensils around and making a mess of the withering cabinets. You tore them to shreds, emptied the drawers onto the floor, the shattering of glass and the crash of metal to tile in an unsettling scream.

“You don’t get to do this. Do you hear me? Not after all you went through! Just to die in fucking Russia!”

Bucky swallowed though it tasted like bile. You tossed out the mugs from a cabinet with the swipe of your hand and the sound they made as they crashed to the floor skipped several beats in Bucky’s dimly beating heart.

“Sweetheart,” Bucky tried again, voice falling on empty, a whisper, “no one’s comin’...”

“Then you fucking get up and get to a goddamn phone!”

You froze then, your hand curling around whatever you were looking for with a sigh of relief. As you stomped back over to him, Bucky looked down at your grasp to find two sets of hand towels and an ace bandage clutched in your grip.

You were grumbling under your breath as you sank down to your knees. Hands shaking, you pushed up at the thin fabric of Bucky’s shirt. He didn’t even hiss as the cold air touched his skin. That wasn’t good.

You pressed a towel to his open wounds, hard enough for Bucky to groan at the impact and he bit down hard on his tongue. There was no apology as you wiped away the pools of blood, tossing aside the soaked towel to the corner and pressing down a new one in its place. You were angry, furious even, and Bucky had only seen you like this once before.

The Hydra base in Siberia. He was surrounded, ordering you to get back to the jet without him though he had no clear path to an exit. It was a diversion, one you saw through instantly, because he had no intention of leaving that warehouse, not as long as you made it out alive. You almost killed him yourself by the time the last Hydra agent fell to the floor. Panting, covered in blood, you had slapped him hard across the face before you gripped at his shoulders and kissed him.

The first kiss between you.

The beginning of it all.

Fitting it should end like this, too.

“Sit up,” you demanded, pulling Bucky back from his memories.

He sighed as he stared up at you, your teeth gritted as you pressed down harder to his wounds. Everything hurt. He couldn’t move, could barely breathe.

“Sit. Up.”

“I can’t,” he whimpered, voice breaking in the effort. “I-- I can't, honey. I’m sorry. Just—Just let me go. It’s time, Y/n. It’s okay…”

There was a silence, one that carried over the scream of the wind outside and the scratch of tree branches against the shattered windowpanes. Bucky’s own breaths were shallow, raw and wheezing through his lungs, and they sat in pained contrast to your silent, elongated inhales, the seconds you held them before you released it. He could have heard a pin drop even over the whistling wind and the mess in his chest.

“No.”

Bucky swallowed back the dryness in his throat. “No?”

“No,” you gritted out, sinking back onto your heels. “No! You don’t get to just give up, Bucky. You don’t get to leave me behind!”

“You’re not even here...”

You clenched your teeth, biting on the inside of your cheek. “Maybe not. But you know exactly where I am back home, don’t you?”

Bucky’s jaw wired shut in an instant. It was what he’d been avoiding, why he clung so hard to the image of you as he left, the glow of the sunlight on your skin and the sleepy mess in your hair. The perfect memory to take when him as he died, but it was being ripped from him, torn away in an instant because as you knelt beside him, your ghost began to change.

Dark circles colored under your eyes, a sunken look hollowing in at your cheeks and temples. Your hair fell down from the bun at your crown and braided down the side, a nervous habit you’d taken up to keep your hands busy when you were anxious. Lines formed on your lips, cracking along the center; broken skin now exposed on your knuckles from a restless night in the gym.

Tear tracks burned down your cheeks; some old, some fresh, and your eyes were bloodshot red.

“Please, stop,” he begged, trying to will his mind to give him the memory he had before.

“You know what this is doing to me,” you told him. “You missed your checkpoint eight hours ago, Bucky. We both know what that means. We both know I’m scared out of my mind for you. I’m panicking. I’m desperate to find you and you’re going to give up before I can.”

Bucky closed his eyes, choking back tears as he pictured you frantically pacing back and forth in the intel room next to Steve, waiting by the satellite phone, waiting on a call that would never come. His coms had been destroyed in the shootout, torn and shattered under the boot of a Russian enforcer. There was no way to get word to you, no way for you to track his location. He was entirely on his own.

You would have figured that out by now, too.

He could practically hear your voice as you shouted for an update every few minutes, biting the head off of an Agent who dared to give you any answer outside of Bucky being found safe and on his way home to you. He could see you clenching at your fists, digging your nails into flesh, and shrugging off Steve as he tried to ease your distress. You’d be terrified, with a deep kind of unsettling dread burning like a hole in your stomach. He knew, because it was how he felt when you were on assignment. It was agonizing.

“Don’t do this, Bucky,” you said quietly, softer now, begging. “Don’t give up. Don’t—Don’t leave me.”

He could hardly keep his eyes open, every breath drawing him further away.

“You’ll be okay,” he said slowly, achingly, though a flash of shock widened your eyes. “You’ll be okay without me.”

Bucky’s fingers crawled along the floor to you, nails digging through a mess of blood and splinters before the curled sweetly around the palm of your hand. He squeezed it gently, the most he could manage, and he watched with a fading smile as you stared down to where he held you.

“How could you say that?” you whispered, gaze glued to blood stained hands. You swallowed, a tear slipping past your eye as you turned to find ocean blue. “How could you possibly think that would be true? You’re my life, Bucky. I need you. You can’t—Please, baby. You have to come home to me. You have to.”

“You’ll move on,” he exhaled, closing his eyes as the exhaustion started to pull him under. “It might take some time, but you’ll be fine, honey. You don’t need me. You never did.”

“That’s not true—”

“You were always too good for me,” he chuckled sadly to himself. “At least now you can find someone who really deserves you…”

“Dammit, Bucky!” you cried, hands gripping into the fabric of his shirt and shaking him until he opened his eyes again. “You don’t get to just throw your life away because you have some backwards, fucked up notion that you’re not good enough to love me because newsflash, you idiot, I don’t care! I love you! I love every goddamn part of you and there is not a person on this planet, or any other, that I want to love me the way that you do!”

There was a silence that followed. The whistling wind and the scratch of branches on exposed windows the only solace between you. Your features softened, your hands releasing from his shirt and you gently patted his shoulder, running your fingers along his neck to touch the side of his face. He leaned into the palm of your head, jaw quivering as he bit back tears.

“Why are you here?” he whimpered, voice cracking as a sob crawled its way through his spine. “Why-- Why won’t you just let me go?”

Tears spilled out the corners of Bucky’s sides, sliding down along his temples and soaking into his hair. He was exhausted and aching and – god—he just wanted to sleep.

You smiled sweetly at him, brushed the hair from his eyes. “It’s you, Bucky, don’t you get that? I’m in your head, remember? I’m apart of you. Stop fighting yourself and come with me. Let me help you survive this. It’s why you brought me here in the first place.”

“No... that’s…” Bucky shook his head, heart racing a little faster, “that’s crazy.”

“Crazier than talking to yourself?” you chuckled light-heartedly. “It’s been you this whole time, Buck. Look.”

You gestured to the floor leading into the kitchen, and sure enough, there was a trail of bloody footprints in the size of his combat boots leading into the mess of shattered mugs and scattered utensils. His palms had tiny pieces of broken glass in them, colored in the paint of the kitchenware on the floor.

Then, you showed him the wrapped bandage at his stomach, the one with his own bloody fingerprints at the clasp. He’d done it all himself.

“Your imagination can’t do all that for you, baby,” you said, a soft smile on your face, though it faded to something solemn as he stared at you in shock. “You’re dying, Buck, really dying and I know you’re scared. I know you want to come home. Stop fighting me. Stop fighting yourself.”

“I don’t--” he swallowed, though his throat was dry and it burned amongst the cold air, “I don’t understand…”

“The mind is a funny thing,” you shrugged. “It does what it has to, to keep you alive. This is what you needed, to be reminded of the love you have waiting for you back home when you survive this.”

You nodded to the edge of the cabin, and sure enough, there was Steve standing at the door. Hands tucked into his pockets, wearing the thin white shirt and suspenders from their youth, though it looked a little funny now on the man he was today. He was smiling, that hopeful kind of look in his eye that Bucky never quite learned how to replicate.

Sam stood next to him, hand on Steve’s shoulder, smirk plastered across his face as he nodded at Bucky; the strange and varying brotherhood between the two of them full of bickering fights and unbridled loyalty.

Natasha was on Sam’s left, arms folded, scowl present as her eyes flickered down to the mess of bodies littering the floor. She raised an eyebrow at the burly looking soldier you’d rummaged through the pocket of— or, or maybe it was Bucky, he was still trying to wrap his head around it – and nodded as if she were impressed.

Then, there was Shuri and T’Challa. Lang and Barton. Wanda and Vision. Peter Parker sneaking his way in behind Steve, looking just damn excited to be standing in the presence of Captain America. Even Tony Stark stood in the corner of the cabin; arms crossed, sunglasses on, observing from a careful distance, but still present.

“You’re not alone, Bucky,” you said quietly, drawing his attention back to you. “Not here. Not at home. Please don’t give up on your family. Don’t give up on all you’ve built. We’re waiting for you, honey. Come home.”

A blur in his vision, Bucky couldn’t quite focus on your silhouette, not until you tenderly brushed the tears from his eyes, droplets on the edges of long lashes. He clenched his jaw, searching for a stronger breath as you held his face. Your lips pressed down to his forehead and he found his strength again.

“Okay.”

Bucky grabbed onto the edge of the couch and pulled until his muscles were at their limit. A scream tore threw him, his body raw and broken and falling apart at the seams. It burned in his throat, in his chest, and it echoed deep into the empty cabin. It was no louder than the wind outside.

“Okay,” he repeated as he sat up with his back pressed against the couch. He clutched at his stomach, heavy breaths in his lungs. The bandages were holding up, with little leakage onto his palm in all the effort.

When he looked back over to you, he found you smiling, proud, though your appearance had changed again.

Your hair was pulled down to a bun at the nape of your neck, a few strands falling out the sides. Dressed in a large winter coat with a thick fur around the hood and mittens on your hands; the navy-blue jacket you’d worn in your mission in the Swiss Alps last year where you’d convinced Bucky to stick around a few extra days in the blizzarding cold. You’d told him then how much you loved the snow, the mountains, but mostly the hot chocolate, the fireplaces, the snuggling in close to him at night. It was a pleasant memory.

Bucky smiled back at you, though it took most of his strength. He turned to look at Steve and the rest of his family, but they were gone, disappeared to thin air and his stomach lurched as he quickly shot his eyes back to you.

“You ready, baby?” you asked him sweetly, nodding towards the door.

“Stay with me. Please.” He felt childish as the words left him, talking to what amounted to nothing more than particles of snowfall and thin air, but it carried his whole world.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you replied, as if it was never a choice at all, and you offered your hand.

Bucky nodded, stringing together all the strength he had left in his body and slipped his hand into yours. He tried not to think of the logistics of it all, how he was really getting up on his own because you weren’t here to tug him to his feet. It created a dull ache in the back of his head and he figured he better not mess with the remaining functioning pieces of himself. Let his mind get him through this, even if he felt absolutely insane.

“Put the jacket on, honey,” you told him, bending down to grab the coat of the mercenary you’d swiped earlier. “It’ll be a long walk in the cold.”

“Y-yeah, okay.”

The wind barreled in from the open door and it pushed at the little balance Bucky had left, leaving him to sway unsteadily, grunting at the pain that resulted in his stomach. He clutched at the wrapped bandages, relieved when fresh blood did not add to the stains on his fingers and palm.

“Time to go,” you urged him, nodding to the door. “Let’s get you home, yeah?”

Bucky stared out into the blanket of darkness beyond the door, the snow falling and dancing amongst the violent sweeps of wind, illuminated by starlight untouched by the pollution of a city. He didn’t know where to go, but you promised you’d guide him; a piece of his subconscious that must have picked up on a sign along the road at some point, he figured.

As he made his way to the brutal cold, shivers tremoring in his spine and his feet limping dragging along the floor, facing a journey across miles of exposed land, he was thankful he wasn’t alone.

***

Bucky had never been so cold in his goddamn life; not even when Hydra would put him on ice.

It had been a relief then, a dreamless sleep and safety away from his captures, but this – this was torture in itself. His boots dragged through two feet of snow, the winds picking up the further he trudged out into the darkness. He wrapped the scarf tighter around his face, trying to shield himself from the cold, though ice crystals had formed on his lashes.

Everything hurt and each step was more painful than the last, but he kept moving.

“You’re almost there!” you shouted over the scream of the wind in his ears. You were smiling, jogging out a few paces ahead. It was easier for his feet to carry him when it was you he was walking towards. “Come on, sweetheart. One more mile. That’s it.”

Bucky panted, his breaths far too labored, his head feeling quite fuzzy, but as he looked over your shoulder, he spotted a light in the distance. Blurred by the snowfall, but still clear as day. A gas station with half the letters missing in its name. His saving grace.

“I’m coming, baby,” he whispered and for the first time, he wasn’t talking to the mirage beside him, but the woman waiting thousands of miles away.

Picking up in pace, Bucky pushed himself harder than he’d ever tested the limits of his body before. He knew that without the serum, he would have been dead before he even left the cabin. There were few moments Bucky was ever thankful for the hell he’d been through. This – giving him a second chance to get home to the love of his life – was one of them.

“Careful,” you warned him, gesturing to the trail of red droplets in his wake; blood that had seeped out from the soaked bandages at his stomach and trailed down under his coat to the snow below, marking his path.

Bucky nodded, determined as he finally broke through to solid ground, to dirt roads plowed just enough from the snow, and sprinted the rest of the way. You were on his heels, cheering him on like you did when he first got back on a treadmill after he broke his leg in New Mexico last year. He was smiling so wide it hurt his cheeks, laughing as artificial light illuminated his path.

He shoved his shoulder to the door, winced at the sound of the bell above, and charged straight up to the counter.

A man in a thick overcoat and a fur hat stood behind the counter, reading a newspaper quietly to himself, and paid no mind to the man frantically rushing up to him. He glanced up in Bucky’s direction, eyes flickering to the blood trailing in his wake, before turning back to his paper.

“Phone,” Bucky panted. “I need a phone.”

The man didn’t respond.

“Russian, Buck,” you reminded him quietly to his right.

“фона,” Bucky tried again, slamming his hand down on the table.

The man rolled his eyes and set the paper down. Stone cold expression, he took his time as he muddled around behind the counter, leaving Bucky on edge. You nodded at him, running a hand along his arm to keep him calm.

Then, the man set a flip phone down on the counter. He didn’t say another word as he sat back onto his stool and picked up the paper again.

Bucky grabbed the phone and quickly stumbled his way back to the far end of the convenience stores. Brushing up against rows of chips and shouldered a few to the ground, he was starting to lose his balance again. The dizziness was kicking in and it became evident as he tried to dial the SHEILD emergency call number and kept hitting the wrong numbers.

“Breathe,” you said softly as Bucky started to panic. “Try again.”

Deep inhale in, Bucky typed the ten digits and held the phone to his ear. It rang three times.

“Good morning,” a voice replied, deep and clinical, “this is Sandbox Bakery. What can I get for you?”

Bucky leaned his forehead to the glass of the freezers, cold compress on his skin touching a blaze of heat.

When did he start sweating? When did it start to soak through his clothes?

There was a stickiness under his feet and Bucky glanced down to find blood dripping down from the edge of his coat and staining the dull-white of the plaster floors. Dark red seeping into the cracks between tiles, filtering through years of dirt and dust and muddied tracks. The outline of his boots in perfect pattern.

“Good morning,” the voice said again, “this is Sandbox Bakery. What can I get for you?”

Bucky swallowed, trying to find his voice, but he was sure he’d left it behind in the cabin. He could hardly hold himself up, his hand slipping on the handle of the freezer doors, nearly taking him down to the ground amongst the blood and dirt.

Under hooded, heavy eyes, Bucky glanced over at you as you nodded encouragingly at him, but there was two of you; swaying over one another, blurred, out of focus.

“Good morning, this is—”

“Baklava,” Bucky muttered the code word between labored breaths, the meaning of it sitting somewhere along the line of I shouldn’t be alive but I am – Fucking come get me. The dizziness was starting to take hold on his body and he leaned his shoulder against the freezer doors in search of the cold glass to offset the burning heat on his skin.

A darkness started to tunnel at his vision, thick black rings closing in around him and he tried to grip at the handles on the doors, but he missed each time; his fingers too weak to grip onto the edge, his vision swaying and doubling over.

The agent on the other end of the phone was asking him questions, but they barely registered, like white noise no louder than the burrowing winds past the door. Bucky clutched at the handle, phone slipping from his grasp as it fell to the ground. He stumbled backwards, hitting a tower of plastic cups as they collapsed around him.

“Bucky, lie down,” you warned gently as he struggled to hold himself up.

“I’m—I’m okay,” he gasped, voice barely a whisper, unintelligible, before the darkness caved in completely and he met the floor.

***

When Bucky came to again, it was to hands gripping harshly at his arms, at his legs, dragging his body onto a rock-hard surface that smelled of plastic and the sting of sterilizing alcohol. Pain ripped through his stomach at the sudden movement and he whimpered quietly, painful breaths in, lips quivering as he tried to bite down hard on the dried, cracked surface; the movement jarring enough to make him wish he was back in the cabin amongst the snow and broken glass.

But there was a hand encasing his. One that was soft, impossibly gentle, a slight squeeze, and Bucky realized there were voices around him. Muffled, barking orders, but they were distant, like an echo at the edge of a ravine. They were too far away for him to hear.

All except one.

“Stop it! Jesus, you’re hurting him,” one of the voices warned; soft and melodic, even within the tension, within the slight tremor of panic. It was a voice that called to him, as the grip on his forearm tightened, and Bucky forced his eyes open.

He was seeing double, couldn’t quite focus on what was right in front of him, but he could see the three agents dressed in black combat vests huddled over him, strapping him on the stretcher while a petite Englishwoman with mousey brown hair and slender fingers worked to stabilize the mess at his stomach.

Then, he focused on the voice to his left, the kind voice, the familiar voice – yours.

“We’ve got to get him out of here, Simmons,” you urged, glancing back at the doors to the shop and the chaos of broken aisles in between. “God knows how long he’s been here like this...”

“I just need to stabilize him before we make a break for the jet,” the woman with the quiet English accent replied. She pressed down hard on Bucky’s stomach and he was surprised to find he didn’t feel a thing.

Bucky swallowed back the dryness in his throat, trying to find his own voice, catch your attention in some way, but you didn’t seem to notice him watching you.

“It’s been ten hours since he missed the checkpoint. Ten hours,” you stressed, your free hand reaching up to brush back hairs from your face, tucking them behind your ear. It was then Bucky noticed the braid sitting over your shoulder, the dark tactical suit, and the discoloration under your eyes. There were marks in the shape of crescent moons on your hand from where you’d dug your nails to your skin. You looked tired, scared; it was different than how you appeared when Bucky collapsed.

You gritted your teeth, brushing away tears Bucky so desperately wanted to reach to wipe away if he could only move.

“We don’t know how much blood he’s lost or— or if he has internal bleeding or--”

You froze suddenly, words pulled right out of your mouth as Bucky’s hand twitched under your grip. Slowly, you turned to meet his eye with a kind of panicked shock and relief and an array of complex emotion.

“Bucky?”

He nodded, a weak smile on his face.

You nearly cried. “Oh, thank God you’re--”

“You stayed,” Bucky muttered, voice groggy and slurred. A tired smile etching up against broken lips.

You blinked, biting back your tongue as your eyes shot over at Simmons. She shrugged, working quietly to reseal the bandages at Bucky’s stomach. There was a smile on Bucky’s lips, broken and cracked in dried blood, almost hazy, like he was floating high above in the clouds.

“Honey, I’m here now,” you told him, voice a little cautious, but Bucky shook his head, though his vision was starting to leave him again, the comforting pull of darkness wrapping its arm around him.

“You... you really stayed with me...” His voice was barley a whisper.

Your eyes widened, a fear taking over and your quickly snapped your attention back to the agents surrounding him.

"We need to get him out of here, now,” you ordered as Bucky’s eyes started to flutter closed again and he did not return the grip to your hand when you squeezed. Sudden movements and he was lifted into the air, though your grip on his hand did not leave him.

He fell back to the darkness before the cold air of Russian winter could touch his skin.

***

The first thought Bucky registered was that he was warm. Not warm enough for sweat to form on his brow, but enough so that a chill didn’t press its way into his bones, enough that the thin layer of a freshly washed blanket draped over his legs chased away the goosebumps on his arms.

He blinked his eyes open gently to take in the stream of light from the window to his left and the reflection held against bare, white walls. The room was not one he knew and quiet murmuring of strangers passing by outside in a language he couldn’t place didn’t help the rush of panic etching up through his veins.

Bucky turned to his left to see a monitor carrying his heartrate and the increasingly frantic rhythm of his pulse. There was a bruised mark on his right forearm around an IV that stemmed to a bag hanging over his head.

Could be filled with anything, he reminded himself. Always on the defense. It was how he stayed alive.

A hand settled against his stomach to find it wrapped in bandages, no longer searing in pain, but still sore; a dull ache left behind to remind him it was real, that he’d been shot and left for dead in the frozen wastelands of Russia, that he’d walked miles alone in a blizzard and found comfort in the ghost of –

Bucky jolted upright, a hiss pulling swiftly from clenched teeth as a sharp pain reemerged at his stomach. He groaned, breaths coming in a little heavier now as he glanced around the empty room. Up at the open door ahead of him, he watched as stray physicians and nurses passed by in white lab coats talking quietly amongst themselves in... German, maybe? His brain was too foggy to register much of anything.

“Y/n?” he called in search of your ghost, but his voice was too weak, he could barely hear it himself.

Kicking the blankets away from his legs, Bucky felt a chill sweep up his spine. The pain was excruciating, but he’d been through worse. He ripped the IV from his arm. He kept his hands gripped tight to the mattress, setting his bare feet to the cold floor and wincing as the pain in his stomach worsened with every movement.

But he needed to get out of here. He needed to get home to you. He’d promised.

He set his stance to the ground, careful to hold himself up on the edge of the bedframe, but his legs were shaky under him, muscles unused and tired and so incredibly useless, his left hand started to warp the plastic of the railing in his frustration.

“Bucky?”

Wide eyes shot to the door to find you standing in its frame, a Styrofoam cup of coffee in your hand, lips parted in shock. Your hair was swept to the side in a long braid, dark circles hanging under your eyes, your clothes wrinkled with days of use.

He tried to speak, but suddenly, his hold on the bed frame gave out. The smell of dark roasted coffee beans filled the air before he even met the ground and his skin touched the ice of tile flooring. Sharp pain in his hip and a heat of embarrassment in his cheeks, Bucky tried to find an ounce of his dignity on the ground.

You slid up on your knees beside him; coffee cup noticeably missing from your hands as it laid in a puddle by the door to his room.

“Jesus, Buck, what were you thinking?” you gasped, hands roaming down over his arms, fingers warm to the touch from the coffee you’d held between your palms. A worry line creased in your forehead, lip tugged between your teeth as you grazed your touch over his face, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones and jawline in concentration as you inspected for damage.

Bucky closed his eyes, a little lost in the feeling of it as he leaned into your touch, missing you and wondering how he could possibly feel that heat from your skin.

“You’re lucky you didn’t reopen your stitches,” you murmured, hands touching gently at his wrapped bandaged around his waist. It was still white, at least, so that was something. The scowl on your face was a comfort, something familiar, and he was thankful to have it.

But there were small differences he noticed as you tried to help him back up into the bed. Like how when the light from the window touched your skin, it reflected a little differently, got caught in your eyes and you’d have to squint away from it. Or how there was a new scratch on your jawline he hadn’t seen before. You huffed a hair away from your face as you struggled to life him back to his feet and it fell back into your line of sight almost instantly.

“Give me a sec, I’ll be right back,” you told him before you pressed a quick kiss to his forehead, hands sinking into his hair. It felt so real, he almost convinced himself you were really there.

When you came back into the room, a nurse was at your side, hands planted firmly on her lips.

“I thought you were joking,” the nurse huffed in a thick German accent, exchanging a glance with you. You shrugged, scowl present but lips curved up in a smirk. The nurse groaned, sinking down to the floor to grab Bucky’s arm. “Why would I expect a man who’s been under for nearly a week to just up and walk out the room? Huh? I wouldn’t! No one is that foolish, Sergeant Barnes.”

You were laughing quietly beside her as you helped to guide Bucky back up into the bed. As he settled back into place, he found himself watching you intently as you conversed with the nurse. She told you keep your eyes on him, that he was a flight risk, and that she’d be back to check on him again soon. You nodded, thanking her for her time and quickly pulled up a chair beside his bed.

“You've got terrible timing. You know that, right?” you chuckled, shaking your head. “I haven’t left this room for days, Buck, and the second I go to get coffee, you decide to wake up.”

“How long?” he asked quietly and the smile faded from your cheeks.

“Five days,” you told him. “Almost six.”

“Longer since I missed the checkpoint, then,” he reasoned, pinching at his brows. “We should get moving again. I’ve got to get home.”

“What? No,” you said quickly, leaning forward in your chair in an attempt to set your hand on him, but he pushed it away. It seemed to surprise you because you paused for a moment before you said, “Bucky, you’re still healing. You need time before we can—”

“I didn’t almost bleed out in a goddamn cabin in middle of Russia just to end up trapped in some hospital in Germany and still not make it home!”

Bucky threw the blanket off of him again, pushing himself to the edge.

You rushed forward, grabbed a hold of his shins before he could swing his legs off the side of the bed. Your grip was forceful, but not enough to hurt. You planted your hip down on the bed to block his path.

“We’re staying here, Buck,” you pressed, a slight tremor in your voice. “You almost died.”

“Why are you arguing with me about this now?” Bucky groaned and the flash of confusion on your face went unnoticed. “You’re the one that convinced me I had get home, aren’t you? You’re the one who wouldn’t just let me die and made me walk into a fuckin’ blizzard while I was bleeding out! I have to get home to you, right? That’s what you said! I’m not giving up on her – or, or us – or... fuck it— on myself, ok? Whether you’re with me or not. I have to get home to her. Even if I have to fucking crawl.”

Through the frantic swelling in his chest, the heavy pants of his breath, and the dizziness forming back in his head, Bucky didn’t register how quiet you’d become until his eyes flickered over to you. Your body was rigid, lips parted just slightly, a semblance of shock in your eyes and Bucky’s stomach sank.

“Is that... Is that what you meant when you said ‘I stayed with you’? Back in the gas station in Russia? Do you... Do you think you’re just imagining me here?” you asked slowly and a burning heat ached into his cheeks. Something like shame or embarrassment or guilt, but none of it stronger than the relief that coursed through his veins as your hand reached out for him, fingers encasing his. Smaller than his own, warmer, and so real he could feel the divots of your lifeline and old scars and the soothing trace of your nails. Tangible. Real.

“I...” Bucky started, stealing a glance up at your eyes before they darted back down to your hands wrapped so tenderly around him. He exhaled a heavy breath. “I don’t know.”

“Oh, honey,” you sighed, bringing his hands up to your lips and kissing sweetly at his knuckles. You pressed the chill of his fist to your cheek and he could feel the warmth burning there. The way you watched him, with eyes so filled with the kind of love and adoration he’d longed for his entire life, it was enough to mend his heart whole.

“I’m here, Bucky,” you whispered, another kiss to the tips of his fingers and it took the breath straight from his lungs. “I’m really here, honey. Your mind isn’t playing tricks on you anymore. You’re not alone.”

Bucky nodded, watching as you peppered kissed along his hands, over flesh and metal like they were one in the same.

“It felt so real...” he murmured, sinking into the way your hand stretched up along his arm, rising over his neck like the crest of ocean waves, and rested to his cheek. He leaned further into the touch.

“I know,” you soothed, your thumb tracing over his cheekbone. “But I’m here now, love. You found your way home.”

Bucky nodded, shifting in the bed just enough for you to crawl in beside him. The dull ache in his stomach lingered, but he didn’t mind, not when you curled up into the crook of his neck, your hand gliding down over the marred scarring on his shoulder, your breath warm against his collar.

“Home,” he echoed, the word slipping from behind broken lips, a curve of a smile etching into his cheeks. He leaned his cheek to the crown of your head, eyes closing in a relief that spread through his chest and through the very ends of his body in a gentle kind of warmth he could only ever hope to find with you resting in his arms.

He found his way home.

Thank you so much for reading! ❤️ If you enjoyed this fic, please consider supporting me at my ko-fi account ✨

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes

3K notes · View notes

starilicious · 3 years

Text

ishq wala love (echo x gn!reader)

》 summary: reader comforts an insecure echo after the end of tbb episode 4 "cornered" about having mechanical parts as part of his body.

》 word count: ~2.2k

click here to read on AO3

》 warnings: slight sensory overload, mild panic attack (i think it could be classified as relatively vague in regards to the description), insecure echo about his body, a teensy bit of in universe swearing, lots of flufffff and a dash of angst here and there, no use of y/n [if i should add more warnings, please let me know!]

》 spoilers: extremely mild ones from tbb episode 4 "cornered"

》 a/n: hello! this is my first tbb fic, so i really hope i do the show, the characters, and the fandom justice hehe ^_^ over the past few days, i've become obsessed with tbb fics, particularly the echo x reader ones bc my GOODNESS this man is such a soft bean who deserves all the love in the galaxy. as a result, please enjoy this sleep-deprived frenzy of a fic that i wrote at 1 am and let me know your thoughts! :)

》 misc. notes:

• title of the fic is from the hindi song "ishq wala love" from the film student of the year. i've linked the song (in blue) with some pretty good english translations in case you would like to take a listen, but it isn't necessary for the fic–i just thought it fit well!

• i kind of got way too invested in building up the environment at the beginning, so apologies if it seems like a slow start! i just had to indulge in having the other characters there too <3

• please ignore the inaccuracies of the havoc marauder. i don't really know what the ship looks like, especially the living quarters, so i unintentionally ended up using the ghost from swr to guide my writing for that part.

• what the reader says at the end about the word in love in her native language is true. the language i'm referring to here is hindi, and we have several different words for love. in my very humble opinion, i think it’s one of the many characteristics of the language that makes hindi so sweet-sounding and poetic :)

• THANK YOU FOR 100 NOTES OMG AHHH YOU ALL ARE TRULY AMAZING 😭<333 (7/1/2021)

After Tech piloted the Bad Batch away from Pantora and safely entered hyperspace, you all decided to turn in to get some rest–or at least attempt to. With the bounty hunter scare, you and the boys figured it would be best to discuss what to do tomorrow morning, for Omega’s sake.

You tucked Omega in with her doll and offered her a comforting smile. “Don’t worry ‘Meg,” you said softly, running a gentle hand through her cropped blonde hair. “You’ll be safe, I promise. You’re stuck with us for life.”

Omega smiled sleepily at your teasing and held her arms out for a hug, one which you gladly indulge. “Sweet dreams, love,” you murmur as you let go. You shut off the lamp in her makeshift room and closed the curtains as you climbed down the ladder.

You turned around to find Hunter looking at you from his seat in front of the blinking controls. You raised an eyebrow as you plopped down in front of him unceremoniously, the exhaustion of the action-packed day catching up to you.

"You're good with her," he murmured as you both glanced at the light beige divider and you shrugged in response.

"Just looking out for her. Besides, you're not so bad yourself. She mimics your every move," you grinned. Hunter chuckled fondly as he recalled the memory where they were all stuck in the Kaminoan prison cell and Omega copied his every gesture.

The two of you lapsed in a comfortable silence as you mulled over the day's events, the hum of the ship thrumming beneath your feet.

"We'll be okay. It's tiring and difficult and none of us know how to raise a child, but we'll be okay," you said, breaking the quiet with optimism. You placed a hand on Hunter's shoulder and smiled. "Crosshair will be okay too. Have faith."

Hunter sighed but nodded in agreement as he put his hand over yours. "Goodnight," he said as he stood up, stretching his muscles.

"Sleep well."

You sat at the small table for a few more minutes to think before standing up yourself. You quickly checked in on Tech in the cockpit since he was on watch, and he immediately shooed you away, insisting you get some sleep. You had a feeling he only did so to optimize the ship in peace without distractions.

Nevertheless, you obliged and left him alone. Walking to the back of the ship, you completed your rounds. Wrecker was snoring loudly and you stifled a laugh. At least he was sleeping well–it was all you could ask for really. But frankly, you had no idea how Crosshair was ever able to sleep through it. Thinking about him and seeing his empty bunk made your heart pang in loss, but you were as determined as the rest of them to somehow bring him back. You had to.

You opened the door to Hunter and Tech’s shared room to find Hunter already sleeping soundly and you quickly left. With his enhanced senses, he was already a light sleeper, and compounded with his responsibilities as a leader, he rarely got any rest. You worried for him.

Last stop was your and Echo's room. You stepped in to find the light still on. Echo was sitting on the floor in front of your bunk, staring at the ground.

"Hey there handsome," you joked lightly in an attempt to get his attention and mask your unease. Echo usually only came near your bunk when something was wrong and after everything that happened today, it was safe to say you were concerned.

Echo didn't respond. Did he hear me? You make your way over to your lover and sit down in front of him. You place your hands on top of his.

"Echo, honey?" You said softly and finally finally he looked up at you. Your heart dropped into your stomach.

"Oh, darling," you breathed and you moved to his side to envelop him into a hug, his head resting comfortably in the crook of your neck. You didn’t say anything more–you saw the deep pain swirling in his eyes, the grief, the loss. The anger. You let Echo take the lead; you knew how difficult it was to wrangle raging thoughts and muster them into words.

You didn’t know how much time passed of you two sitting on the floor, breathing each other in before Echo spoke.

“Today… when we went on the supply run, I was dressed as a droid.”

You bit your lip, knowing exactly where this was going. But you didn’t interrupt, letting him continue. Your thumb rubbed absentmindedly on his arm as you listened.

“That vendor we were talking to wouldn't take what we had. And then he saw me,” Echo took a deep breath. You stayed quiet, holding his hand in a manner that you hoped soothed his anxieties at least a little bit.

“Hunter sold me as a droid to him. I-I know he doesn’t see me as a droid. I know that. But–” Echo’s voice cracked. He cleared his throat of the emotion building up. Echo didn’t know how to express what he wanted to say. He didn’t even want to speak it aloud–that would make it feel too real. And Echo severely doubted he could handle the heartbreak. Can I do this?

“Cyar’ika,” he murmured and you hummed in response. Echo pulled away from you, his hand still in yours. Now or never. “I need you to be completely, absolutely, 100% honest with me,” he whispered. Echo steeled his expression, doing his best to hide how terrified he truly was.

You nodded because of course you would be. When were you not?

But the way Echo gazed at you threw you off. Something was wrong, very wrong. You were almost scared of what he would say next, but you made a gesture for him to say what was on his mind. Clearly, this was important.

“Do you really want to be with me when I’m just–” Echo struggled with the last few words and you strained to pick them up with how they caught in his throat. “–a pathetic, disgusting, hybrid machine?” It’s out, I said it. I said it. Echo felt like he couldn’t breathe, the pressure on his chest too much, too much. He stared down at the floor, face flooded with shame.

You stared at him in blatant disbelief, eyebrows furrowed and mouth open from a shocked laugh. No no no Echo. You’re nothing of the sort. You didn’t move. Echo’s breath hitched as he looked back up at you, broken and open and raw.

“Don’t lie, please don’t lie to me. I know there's no way you could ever love me when I… when I look like this,” Echo whispered, but he may as well have shouted with the way the blood was rushing through your ears.

And then something in you snapped.

You removed your hands from his and placed them on his cheeks, pulling him in until your foreheads were touching. “Echo, you need to listen to me,” you instructed and heaved a breath as you tried to sort your own rushing thoughts into articulated words. But the effort was futile as your careful speech turned into a haphazard and passionate stream of consciousness.

His eyes glistened with unshed tears and your heart broke into pieces. Echo gave you all of his attention. What are you going to say? He didn’t want you to agree, but he would understand if you did. Echo felt disgusted with himself. The walls were closing in on him. Breathing was getting harder.

“You are the best damn thing that has ever happened to me. I don’t give one flying banthashit about any of your mechanical parts. If anyone ever says anything about them, they’re di’kuts and you can send them my way because I will not hesitate to punch some sense into them,” you spat with pure determination, not even noticing the Mando’a slip. After being surrounded by clones for so long, you absorbed bits and pieces of the language. You didn’t even register how Echo picked up on the word, much too focused on getting your point across. You were a person on a mission and nothing would stand in your way.

The knot in Echo’s stomach was loosening a bit, the storm in his mind beginning to break. The walls were a bit farther from him. He wasn’t drowning in his own presence anymore.

“Because you know what? You’re still my Echo. You’re a man, my dear. Not a machine. You never were, and never will be. These parts?” you gestured to his scomp link, his legs, the cybernetic implant in his head. “They mean nothing. Absolutely nothing. Don’t focus on them.”

You smiled sadly as you rubbed your thumbs gently on his cheeks. “I fell in love with you, Echo, not your body. I love the way you make me laugh, the way you comfort me, the way you cry with me. As much as I kriffing hate that you have been through so much pain because of those damned Separatists, I’m grateful for the fact that I’m in love with a man who would do anything for his family, for his brothers.”

A tear slipped down your cheek as you remembered Fives coming back home from the Citadel but no Echo in sight. You would never admit it to anyone, but you swore a piece of you had died that day.

Echo felt like he was going to cry. The pressure that had been building up in his chest was releasing. He could breathe again, slowly, slowly. His only focus was you, was your words. The artificial lights didn’t seem to be as glaring now. They were softer, calmer.

“Echo, my love, even through it all, you not only survived, but you came out on top, victorious,” you paused, briefly overcome with how much love and gratitude you had for this wonderful man. “You came back to me, Echo, and you’re as handsome as ever. I have never stopped loving you, and never will. Don’t you ever forget that darling.”

Echo drew in a shaky breath. The harsh cold of the floor grates was biting into his skin, but he didn’t care. It grounded him as much as your warm touch on his face. He could breathe again. My cyar’ika.

Your fiery and passionate emotional speech came to an end as you stared into your lover’s eyes. There was so much more you could say, but you feared words would not be able to convey it all. You hoped your eyes would be enough to soothe his pained and tired soul.

Silent tears trailed down Echo’s face and you gently brushed them away as you pulled him into a tight hug. It was all you could do to not cry yourself. Echo was always so strong–you admired him for it.

“Thank you,” he whispered, voice thick with appreciation and love. You didn’t say anything. There was no need to. The charged air between you both was enough. The two of you sat in a comfortable silence on the floor of the Havoc Marauder, deep in your own thoughts.

“Ishq wala love,” you muttered fondly after some time, still caught up in your own mind.

“Hm?” Echo questioned, curious as to what you said. The soft sound gently pulled you out of the clouds and back to the man in your arms as you attempted to explain.

“There’s a phrase in my native language, ishq wala love. You see, in Basic, there’s just one word for love, which is love. But back home, we have several different words for love, each with their own subtle, but distinct meaning,” you blew out a breath as you tried to figure out what to say. Echo was hanging on to your every word.

“There’s… there isn’t really a direct translation, but the best I can come up with is that the love that we have, ishq, is much deeper than just romantic love. It’s deep and strong and pure and unyielding. It–it reminded me of us,” you admitted, a bit sheepish. Your fingers dance along Echo’s scomp link, nervous.

Echo took a moment to process your explanation before smiling. You felt your heart stitch itself back together again after seeing that beautiful smile. You would do anything to keep it on his lovely face.

“Ishq wala love,” he echoed, his pronunciation a bit off. You giggled in response. “Close enough,” you teased and Echo simply beamed. You leaned in and planted a chaste kiss on his soft lips, rubbing his metal arm gently.

Echo stood up then, offering a hand to you to help you up. You took it and he led you over to the bunk you shared together. You both quickly climbed in, relaxing in the warmth of the well worn blankets and the other’s presence.

Your head was near his chest and you could hear the soothing dull sound of his steady heartbeat. Your arm curled over his waist protectively and your head rested comfortably on his flesh arm. Echo shut off the light and you were ensconced in black velvety darkness.

“Goodnight, cyar’ika.”

“Sweet dreams, Echo. I’ll be here, waiting for you.”

please consider reblogging! it really helps me and is super encouraging ^_^

149 notes · View notes

writingsbychlo · 3 years

Text

it’s been a long, long time | bucky barnes

word count; 5,808

summary; you’re preparing to spend christmas alone, not expecting your soldier to make it home to you in time.

notes; this is a forties bucky fic, and it’s out of the normal mcu world, so he never falls off of the train, etc. he was just a prisoner of war. inspired by this song, take a listen, you’ll recognise it.

warnings; injury, reference to human experimentation, reference to death.

Staring blankly at the letter on the table, you ran your finger over the corner of the paper. The last letter signed from your lover, dated over fourteen months ago, a sigh on your lips, and the burning in your eyes came springing back to remind you of the tears threatening to fall once again.

The box beside you sat open, several other pieces of paper spread out around you, the fire in the corner crackling weakly and you thought maybe you should get up and put another log on it, but you just didn’t have the energy. Your cheeks were stinging, skin raw and eyes puffy and red, your throat raw from sobbing, choking back your cries, although you were all burned out by now.

It had been three years since you had shipped your lover off to the war, a kiss on his lips and a smile on his face as he was taken off to lead the 107th into battle. You’d written him every week, sending your letters to wherever he was, his own coming back to you in bountiful return, and you’d collected every single one in a box that you kept under your bed, close to your heart, to remember him forever.

The clothes he’d left with you had lost their smell years ago, and as of a few months ago, the boxes form his apartment had been sent to you. You’d spent a week straight with his sisters and his mother, sorting through everything, comforting one another when that news had finally come.

You’d known something had been wrong the moment it had been over two weeks since you’d heard from the man you loved, that something must have happened, the trenches expanding, taking him closer to the front line. After a month, you’d taken a trip across town to visit Peggy, a woman who had been a stranger to you and was now one of your closest friends, only to find Steve hadn't sent her any letter yet either.

Two months later, you had received a letter, one from Steve, who had been battered and bruised and completely exhausted, and without a best friend, who’d been taken during a firefight, a prisoner of war, officially announced missing in action. Even so, you’d been strong, you’d kept your hopes up, writing to him, as he was in the medical bay, listening to him get better, and saving up all of the drawings he’d done for you while unable to perform his duty. The letters had become less frequent, of course, once he was back in action, leaving you once again to realise just how cold and empty everything felt now.

You had run out of your favourite red lipstick a while ago, never bothering to replace it when you didn’t have paper to press kisses to as you wrote your lover back, and the cupboard door had fallen off a while ago, but you still couldn’t bring yourself to open up the boxes of Bucky’s things to find his toolbox and repair it.

A year to the day, an envelope with an army insignia on and a handwriting you didn’t recognise, announcing that ‘missing in action’ was now presumed ‘killed in action’, but you’d known it before even undoing the seal. That letter was in the box too, a tragic tale from beginning to end, following the first letter you’d received, shaky and jerky, written on the train, only hours after you had said goodbye and sent from still within America, before he’d ever been shipped away to his death in order to defend his country, to the final letter, confirming that the soul who’d perfectly matched your own would never be coming home to you.

With a heavy sigh, you forced yourself up from the wooden chair, back aching a little, and the darkness outside told you just how long you’d been sitting there, and you became overly aware of the room you could barely see now. A chill swept over you, an orange glow from the dying flames keeping it alight, and a sad laugh took over you as you realised just how pitiful you’d become. If Bucky could see you now, you knew exactly what he’d say. What the look on his face would be like, or how he’d shake his head at you, before rolling up his sleeves and being determined to fulfil his role as ‘man of the house’.

You were supposed to take on all roles now, you were supposed to look after your own household and future, and so instead, you rolled up the sleeves of the shirt that was loosely buttoned up the front that didn’t belong to you, and started by making your way over to the stove. Filling it up at the tap, you placed the metal down on the hob, lighting a match and flicking on the gas, watching as it sparked up. It left a glow throughout the otherwise dark kitchen, drawing out the pale moonlight that had been bathing the walls and tiles.

There was so much to do, so much that you wanted to get done, and yet you had no idea where to start, feeling like you were drowning in your thoughts, your mind becoming your worst enemy. You flicked on a lamp, warm and golden light pooling over the room and casting out the shadows, making you feel slightly less alone as the dark was cast out. Windows went black, the outside no longer visible to you, except for the pale linings of now along the edges of the glass, snow still falling as winter closed in.

It was cold, the chill in the December air making it so, and you knew you would be getting ready for bed within a few hours, and so in that light, you busied yourself with the fire next. Piling on logs, tinder, old scratching of newspaper until the glowing ashes had revived into roaring flames, the cage over the fire doing little to protect you, pops and cracks sounding from the logs.

It was less lonely now, a warm fire and some lighting making you feel like you at least had some kind of will in the world to take care of yourself, to stop everything from slipping away as you felt like you’d died right alongside him, but rather to live your life, and keep going on in the way you knew he’d want you to. The kettle was whistling, and you followed the sound, turning down the flame as the water bubbled, and finding a rag to cover your fingers with as you unscrewed the cap.

You had to search for the teabags, for the slightly fruity ones that always helped you to calm yourself a little, digging through the kitchen drawers, and pausing as you shifted through the boxes. Behind your teabags, an old box of cigarettes, ones you hadn't seen in a while but were painfully nostalgic, the edges of your lips flicking up in a smile. Your tea was forgotten, fingers brushing over the packet, before pulling it forwards. The tangible smell of the crushed leaves met your nose, and you pulled them out.

It was an indulgence you were considering. The smell had never bothered you so much, and it was rare that Bucky had ever lit up a cigarette, only when he was stressed or overly nervous, but you were considering it now. The acrid taste would remain in the back of your throat for days to come if you did, no matter how much time you spent trying to rid yourself of it, even if it felt like the perfect moment to have one, giving you a few simple hours of respite from your self-torment. There was a lump forming already, and you tried to swallow it down, flicking open the lid and bringing one to your lips.

Dropping a tea bag into the pot, stirring it slightly until the water changed colour, a herbal scent filling the air, and you searched for a single teacup and saucer as the roll hung from your mouth. Moving the pot from the flame, you leaned down, bringing it to the hob, and holding it carefully between two fingers, trying to light it, before jumping harshly at the knock that sounded through the house.

It echoed, fingers on wood leaving a sharp noise that bounced from every wall, and you glanced straight up to the clock on the wall. A brow raised, the hour far passed what would be considered appropriate, especially this close to Christmas, at the house of a woman living alone. Dropping the roll from your lips, you stuffed it haphazardly into the packet and sealed it away in its drawer, before hurrying through the small home to the door.

Looking through the gap in the wood, you couldn't see much, a tall figure, hands tucked in the pockets, back to you as they looked down, kicking at the snow, but you couldn’t make much of the hunched-over figure. You were sure it was a scam, or someone coming around to offer you blessings last minute, and so you left the lock on sealed across the door, cracking it open and shivering a little at the icy wind that swept in as you did.

The figure turned, and you looked up at them, eyes sweeping over their figure before realisation clicked in your mind. Longer hair and creases and wrinkles on the skin that had once been smooth. A patchy beard, new scars and sunken eyes, a frown where you knew a smile, but those eyes were the same, the same pale blue that always looked at you with love and admiration, and you could feel your heart leaping into your throat.

“Hey, doll.”

You slammed the door, feeling the pounding on the inside of your ribs make your chest feel as though you were aching, breaking part from the inside out as your forehead rested to the panels of the door, hearing his chuckle from the other side, before you were shakily sliding your hand up to find the lock, dragging the chain across and opening it up, before revealing the man to yourself once again.

He was facing you fully now, a grin on his lips that wasn’t nearly as bright and enthusiastic as it used to be, but still dazzling and beautiful, and you were silent as yous stepped aside, letting him over the doorstep. As he entered the light and stopped being as hidden from you as he had been, you could see the true extent of his injuries, a gasp leaving you before you could stop it.

Scars and worry-lines weren’t the only new developments. There was purple dotted along his skin, blue and yellowing at the edges as the bruises healed, and there was still fresh cuts on his skin now that you could see him. The stubble on his jaw was hiding a batch of cuts and marks, marring his skin, and you felt tears leaking from your eyes as you took him in. He closed the door, locking it up tight again, before his shoulders were slumping, and he was letting you take him in, his entirety, everything that had come back to you.

He wasn’t the same person he was, there was more bulk to him, the army routines, constant exposure, exercising for entertainment and lugging equipment around had certainly made him bigger, but as he stood before you, looking somewhat broken, he looked smaller than ever. You wanted or hold him, cradle him in your arms and never let him go, but you felt like if you did, he’d turn to dust in your hold, or you’d wake up and realise that it was all just in your imagination, a conjuring you had created on a cold and lonely night to ease the aching in your heart.

You had no idea what the extent of his injured under his clothes might be, unable to see anything of him. He wasn’t in the military uniform you’d sent him off in, the proud green with badges and ribbons, his name stitched across the front was gone. A pair of ripped and well-worn great trousers, a t-shirt with a logo on in a language you didn’t recognise and a jacket over the top, all of it looking as though it had been scavenged, blood on it that still seemed fresh, and it was all too overwhelming once again.

With a shaky hand, you reached out to him, cupping his face, fingertips smoothing over his skin cautiously as you tried to assess where you could even put your hands, where would hurt him, before pulling away when you realised he was still covered in dirt and dried blood, greasy hair and mud crusted to the ends, and he was so far from the man you recognised that you wondered whether he was even the same person inside anymore.

Pushing back his hair, you chuckled weakly as the flakes crumbled away, tucking the longer strands behind his ears and deciding he definitely needed a haircut, and taking a step closer to him as your eyes found his. Longing, sad, relieved; so many emotions were swirling within them, enough to make your stomach feel like it was twisting up into knots from nausea just at the sight of him. As you learned in, he produced his right hand, from his pocket, cupping your face lightly as the other remained tucked away, thumb smoothing over your skin.

Tipping your face into his hand, you held it to your face, eyes squeezing closed and you couldn’t’ hold back your cries anymore, a loud sob leaving you as you realised the touch on your cheek was real, not something you’d dreamt up for yourself to keep you company in the cold and the dark as you missed your soldier dearly.

“Please don’t cry, babydoll. What do I always tell ya’, huh?” You grinned, knowing the words he was bringing up, choking on the laugh you wanted to release, but tears flowed from your eyes. “Oh, baby, no. You’re too pretty ‘a dame to cry.”

His accent had faded, that familiar Brooklyn boy you loved had become a man of war, the same cocky teen you’d met years ago on the school courtyard was a new person now, and your emotions were taking over, crying in his hold, before his finger was wiping under your eyes, moving down to your chin to tip your face up towards him.

“Please, sweetheart, say somethin’. You’re killin’ me here.”

“That’s not funny, Bucky!” You glared at him, pulling away enough that his hand fell from your face, and he nodded, swallowing thickly as the amused expression on his features slipped away. “I thought you were dead! I got a letter, you haven’t written me in over a year, I went into mourning, I stayed with your mother and your sisters, we comforted each other! Where were you?”

“I don’t know.” He sighed, your anger draining from you at the way his voice cracked and trembled a little with fear, and you couldn’t help the tears that were flowing over once again. “Germany, maybe? No, it was colder than that, perhaps, Russia. Almost my entire unit was taken, I had no idea how long it had been, I lost count after a few weeks, they did experiments an-” He couldn’t get his words out, he could barely speak, and you shook your head, trying to wipe his own cheeks dry, breath shared between you as his forehead pressed to yours. “I’m sorry.”

“God, James, don’t be. You have nothing to be sorry for.”

He could only nod, and your throat felt raw with every breath you took, your mind spinning with a dizzy kind of vertigo that left everything else to melt away as he became your first focal point. Your legs felt weak, but you weren’t willing to step away, to let yourself drop to the floor no matter how much you wanted to let yourself give way, as the crushing weight of the day destroyed you.

“I don’t know what to do, I don’t know what to say.” He laughed lightly at your words, tucking hair away behind your ear, before tipping his head up enough to brush chapped and cut lips over your forehead. “Why didn’t you send me a letter?”

“I did, but I couldn’t wait any longer, I think I beat it here.” You took his hand, lifting it down form your face, before pulling him through to your kitchen, a room he was more than familiar with, and for the first time in a long time, you were accompanying your teacup with another. You no longer wanted the drink, and you doubted that Bucky did either, but you needed something to fill your time, just to occupy yourself. “I love you, doll.”

You turned, to the nose that was bumping against your temple, no more teasers to cry, sadness and confusion ebbing away as you allowed warmth and bliss to heat you up from the inside out, a feeling you hadn't felt since you’d let him go, the part of your heart that had been missing for so long was finally returned. “I love you too.”

You shifted, moving to catch his lips with your own, but he pulled back a little shaking his head slightly, and you frowned, peering up at him with wide eyes.

“What’s wrong?”

“I have to tell you something. Then you can tell me if you still love me.” Your brows rose, stepping back from him a little, and his head dropped. It was as his hand came across his body to untuck the one still hidden in his pocket, the sleeve falling limp as it was revealed. The right hand came up, pushing the material from his shoulders, shucking down his body and letting it drop to the floor. Bile rose in your throat, a hand clapping over your mouth, before a full-body wrack was shaking you from head to toe.

“What happened to you?”

“I think that’s pretty obvious.” He whispered, and you couldn’t tear your eyes away from the sight. His left arm was gone, the shirt sleeve knotted at the top where what was left of his arm ended, and you forced your hands up to the buttons on his chest, feeling like your arms were tied down with weights as you undid the buttons. When the final one came undone, white undervest revealed, you moved to push the fabric away, his hand sealing around your wrist, head shaking. “I didn’t come back in one piece, it’s not pretty under there, doll.”

“What happened?”

“Tests, nothing good. They injected me with something, a lot, my arm got infected but apparently, I was showing a good reaction to whatever they were pumping me full of.” He shrugged, letting you go with a nervous sigh as you continued to push away the shirt, helping him peel it down his arm, trying not to let your shock show as the remainder of his arm was revealed. When it left his fingertips on his right side, it fell away to join the jacket. “Guess they’d rather I lose an arm than they lose an asset.”

There were bandages wrapped gourd the patch, only a little of his arm left, not even reaching half-way down where his bicep would be, but the bandages were clean and fresh, no blood soaking through, and it was a blessing that you couldn’t have been more grateful for. “I love you, James Barnes. I love you so much.”

“Even though I’m not whole anymore?”

“I love every part of you, inside and out, no matter how much or little of you there is.” Finally, he smiled, the first honest and true smile you’d had from him in years, and he dipped down, lips pressing to your own tenderly. It was a moment you’d never forget; late into the night, days before Christmas like a miracle, having the man you loved back in your arms as he kissed you sweetly, just like he used to when he’d see you before he left, and everything in your life clicked back into place at long last. “Please don’t lose any more of yourself, though, before this war ends.”

“Well, I hope not, because I won't be going anywhere for a long time.”

“When do you go back?” He shook his head, stealing another short kiss from your lips, making you smile into his touch.

“I don’t, doll. The army has no use for someone who can’t shoot a gun.” You felt stupid for even asking, jaw dropping as you tried to speak, and he seemed to sense the drop in tone, his arm smoothing around your waist to pull you in closer to him, a hug that was long overdue. “Besides, if I went back, who would help you get a Christmas tree? It’s less than a week ‘til Christmas, where’s your holiday spirit?”

“Wasn’t feeling very festive when I thought that the man I loved was dead.”

“I’m home now, though.” He mumbled the words against your lips, barely letting you nod your head before he was diving in for another kiss. You had so much time to catch up on, but these kisses were deeper and far more intimate than any before them had ever been, because you’d never had this kind of pressure on your relationship before. You’d never almost lost him, feared for his life or felt like you’d been so alone, never had you been abandoned in your loneliness, and he’d come to sweep you back up out of the darkness.

It was evident in every drag of his lips with yours, it was clear in the love that he poured into the connection, each time his tongue flicked out to play with your one, in every panted breath, squeeze of his fingers into your flesh as he held onto you, pulling you just a little bit closer, and letting your arms circle his neck, pushing ourself up to meet his height.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“You’re really home?” You questioned, still a little unsure that this wasn’t a dream, and he didn’t even hesitate before replying;

“Yeas, baby, I’m really home.”

You could only hum, soaking up every moment that you got to spend in his arms. “You should look the part, then.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” He was a little scandalised, pulling back with a dropped jaw, brows shot up and hidden in his hairline from the length of the strands, your head shaking fondly as you brought up your fingers to play with his hair.

“You need a haircut, and a bath, and a shave. You look like a mountain man, not my Bucky.”

“I need to get into my own clothes, and my own bed, with my girl. How about that?” He slipped his hand down, finding one of yours and linking your fingers together.

“Only after you let me clean you up and sort your wounds. I’m not risking you getting ill, I only just got you back.”

“I’ll take that deal, babydoll.” He grinned, a final kiss, before the stove was being turned off, tea abandoned as it went cold, and he was tugging you from the room. “I’ll go and get a bath running, meet you upstairs?”

You could only nod, pressing your lips to a cheeky lined with scratchy stubble, before moving around the downstairs of the small home to prepare yourself for bed. Even as you plunged yourself into darkness and put out the fire once again, it felt warm and comforting, simply the presence of someone you lost returning to you being more than enough to light your life back up with bliss and joy. You could hear him moving apart upstairs, the creak of the floorboards as he wandered around, and the sound of the water heater starting up, loud and humming as it went, a groan under the pressure of the workings as it needed a little fixing, but that was something that could be left for another day.

After checking all the doors and the windows were locked, you began to make your way upstairs, cold wooden planks under your feet making you shudder a little as you went, following the sounds of the clattering around in the bathroom. On the wooden counter under your mirror, he had located his blade, that which has been tucked away in the back of the cabinet, placed down on the counter and he was leaning over the tub.

He was still fully dressed, or, as dressed as he’d been when he’d left the kitchen, and you leaned against the doorframe, watching him as he adjusted the temperature of the water.

“You gonna’ stand over there all night, doll?”

“I didn’t want to startle you.”

His shoulders shook a little as he laughed, turning to face you, and holding a hand out towards you. “Don’t think you could if you tried, sweetheart, I’ve been.. different, lately. Everything seems enhanced. It’s odd, I guess it’s just the war making me more alert.”

You shrugged, brushing it off and wrapping your arms around his waist, his chin balancing atop your head as he hugged you closer to himself, hand settling in the small of your back.

When the water had finished running, he helped you out of your clothes, doing the best he could with one hand, wincing at himself a little when your top got stuck around your shoulders, apologising in a whisper despite the soft laughter leaving you. When you settled into the water, it was a shock to press your back against his chest, warm and soft and welcoming as an arm fasted around your waist, fingers spreading out over your stomach, where you were more used to simply feeling the cold metal of the tub pressing into you.

You couldn't remember the last time that you’d felt this way, the last time that you hadn't been filled with worry and fear, or the overwhelming sense that you would never see him again. You were filled with love and passion, a renewed sense of life that made you want to pick everything back up and carry on, like these last couple of years hadn't been the worst of your life.

A sponge was moving over your skin, lathered up a little with a bar of soap and running over your body, before you were leaning forwards, twisting in his arms, to be able to get to his chest. Now that he was undressed, you were able to see the extent of the wounds, the blood around him turning a murky brown and red as you cleaned him, revealing which patches were simply grimy dirt and which were battered and bruised fading marks that were only just beginning to heal, and would certainly do much better with your nurturing and tender supervision.

When you were clean, fingers weaving through his hair as you washed the greasy strands until they were clean and shiny once again, you settled over his lap.

“Are you sure, baby?”

“About what?” Your brows furrowed, his lower lips worried between his teeth, before he was bringing a hand up to rub at the spot his arm had once been. There was a lot of scarring, still somewhat fresh, a terrible job done of it being sewn up, and you knew that even when the inflammation and swelling around it went down, it would probably never heal fully, and you wanted to support him for every step. “I told you, I love you, and I would never want to be without you.”

“I know, but it’s going to be different. I won’t be the same man, I’ll struggle with a lot of things. I don’t want you to feel obligated to me, or stuck with me.”

“I am stuck with you, you’ve owned my heart since we were teenagers, James, I’m never going to want anyone else. I can take the bad, because it comes with a whole lot of good, too.” He leaned in, bumping the tip of his nose with your own while letting out a shaky breath, relief flooding through his system.

“That sounded an awful lot like ‘for better or for worse’.” He grinned, and you pecked the dimple that appeared over his cheek, knowing where it would be, the crease of such a bright smile burned into your mind by memory, feeling him smile even wider. “The only thing that got me through the war, all those months locked up in a cell, was picturing making good on that promise I made to you the night before I left, that I’d come home and put a ring on that finger and sweep you off your feet.”

“My answer is the same as that night.” You mumbled, hands holding onto his jaw, bringing his lips in towards yours and he puckered them, receiving the soft kiss that you were offering to him. “I still want to marry you.”

“Good, because I don’t want anyone else.”

The water was growing cold around you, and while you couldn't have cared less about it all, you didn’t want him to catch a chill or risk getting an infection in a still-healing wound, and so you stood from the tub, water running along your body, stepping carefully over the rim as he held your hand to assist you, before you were searching for a towel. Wrapping it around yourself, you helped him too, sealing the towel around his waist for him and he pressed a kiss to your forehead.

Pulling the plug on the drain, you turned to find Bucky standing in front of the fogged up mirror, a patch wiped clean on it, as he rubbed at his wet hair with another towel. The strands were now lapping around his chin, long and knotty, and you moved through to the bedroom to pull the stool from your vanity through to the bathroom, placing it behind him and pushing him to sit down on it with a hand on either shoulder, leaning over him to kiss his cheek. “You should let me cut your hair.”

“Really?”

“Definitely, you need it.” There was a leather wallet with a comb and scissors tucked away in the drawer, he remembered its location, producing it for you with a grin, before he was soaping up along his jaw, and lifting his blade.

“Shave first, hair cut after.”

“You’ll look like my Bucky again.” You whispered, comb running through his hair gently, detangling the notes as you listened to the rhythmic drag of the blade along his skin, taking away the stubble that had been created. Once his skin was clean, bruises and marks revealed but flesh smooth and soft again, you were set to work on his hair. Chopping away the bad memories, clearing it all, chunks of soft brunette strands falling to ground and curling as they touched the tiles, severed from his scalp never to return as they carried away the memories.

The locks disappearing from his head was like lifting a weight, the pain and torment of all that he had been through slipping away. As his hair shortened and began to become springy atop his head, flopping over a little in the same playful style he’d always worn it, the dark and sad look in his eyes cleared a little. He was watching you work, watching you chop away his past to remove those years from his life.

“It looks good. Not great, we should probably take you to a real barber to get it perfected, but it’s better than it was.”

“Anything is better than it was, sweetheart.” He promised, reaching his hand up to cover yours that was sitting on his shoulder, and his eyes dropped down to look at it in the mirror. “Will you help me bandage it back up, please?”

There was a slightly embarrassed tone to his voice, words cracking a little as he spoke, but he squeezed your hand a little tighter and leaned back into you, letting your touch slip down to rest over his heart. There were gauze and wrapping in the small first aid kit under the sink, and as you shuffled through it, you made a mental note of everything you needed to patch up your boyfriend until he was healed, sealing it up and securing it tightly over his body, and he gave a happy sigh as the scarring was hidden from sight.

He followed you through to the bedroom, going through every drawer and his entire closet, familiarising himself with things he had forgotten than he’d ever owned, while you watched him from the bed with a smile. When he finally settled on his favourite shirt and pyjama pants, you lifted the covers, welcoming him to join you underneath them, and the bed felt crowded with his large frame beside yours, unfamiliar but treasured.

As the candles were blown out, the smell of smoke drifting around you as the blaze dissipated, and you reached out for him, the place where you were so used to being able to rest your head being different now, and he huffed out.

You shuffled forwards, heat crawling up your cheeks as you pressed your head to his chest instead, and he lifted his hand up to sit on your waist, smoothing around you, and trying to decide whether he wanted to play with your hair, or trace patterns on your back. “I’ll never be the same.”

“Do you still love me?”

“You know I do, doll.” It was too dark to be able to make out his features, and so you pressed your face into his neck, leaving a few chaste pecks there.

“Then you’re exactly the same person I’ve always loved.” His hand came up to find your cheek, pulling his head back and stroking his thumb over your cheek. “Stop thinking I'm leaving you, Bucky, because I’ll always be right here with you, so just kiss me, sergeant, and remember that I adore you.”

A chuckle washed over your face, warm breath fanning across your skin, before the tip of his nose was dragging over your cheek, lips brushing your own. “Yes, ma’am.”

His lips sealed over your own, a goodnight kiss better than any there ever had been, even more so than the first time he’d ever kissed you; a quick, uncoordinated and messy collision of lips after he’d walk you home from a study group when you were just teens, because this was the promise of a future, returning you to your lover, your hearts becoming on, once again.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes/reader #bucky barnes/you #bucky barnes sebastian stan #bucky barnes marvel #marvel #sebastian stan marvel #sebastian stan bucky barnes #sebastian stan x reader #Sebastian Stan #sebastian stan/reader #12 Days of AUmas

298 notes · View notes

thegreatestofheck · 4 years

Text

Heck’s Masterlist

OBX Masterlist

Since some of my fics are getting long, here’s a masterlist of everything I’ve made so far in relation to Outer Banks! It will continually be updated as more fics, blurbs, and requests are added!

Also, my requests are open! I don’t generally do smut, but I’m open to mostly anything else!

JJ Maybank

Requests:

Jump - You are John B’s sister and you’ve been following him around your whole life. After deciding to make your own path, you find yourself caught up with a boy who is no good and JJ is the only one who can get you out of it.

Wedding Dress - JJ makes a promise to himself that he’s now not sure he can keep.

Run - You’re John B’s sister and after sending him off on the Phantom, it’s up to you to cover for him. But Ward Cameron is still your legal guardian and he comes to collect his property.

Ransom - John B’s sister is taken by the square groupers. In exchange for her life, they ask for the compass and a heavy ransom price. It’s a race of time as the Pogues, with the help of Sheriff Peterkin, journey into the marsh to save her life before the clock runs out.

Not So Unrequited - in the middle of an argument with your best friend, he says something to you that you had never wanted to hear.

i love you - your relationship with JJ had always been rocky, built on a mutual desire for affection. that doesn’t mean he would never break your heart.

fill the void - she always felt alone, so when he needed her most, she couldn’t resist.

promises, promises - You and JJ have an unspoken thing, passed only though stolen glances and half serious flirting. But the day after he takes the fall for Pope, you find yourself standing at a crossroads; do you step in to protect him from his dad, or do you stay out of it?

Series:

Ocean and Alcohol - (1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, Epilogue, Rafe’s POV) You’re a kook, but your life is less than ideal. After a fight with some of the other kooks, you let slip a little about your home life to one JJ Maybank, who is more than intrigued. (reader insert with a name, tw: abuse, canon content)

Tempest and Gin - (1, 2) The gold is gone, but Elma’s problems are just beginning. With her dad in police custody and her mom once again AWOL and refusing to pay for legal council, Elma and Ms. Lana struggle to get through the trial with a court appointed lawyer. At the end of her rope, Elma finds herself juggling friends, family, rivals, and enemies as she struggles to keep her wits about her and do the one thing she’s always done; protect Kid.

Girl With No Heartbeat - (1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8) After a near death experience, JJ is saved by a girl in the water. When he and the Pogues find her washed ashore the next day, they are more than surprised to discover that she isn’t your everyday girl. (mermaid/siren au, canon divergence)

Imagines:

Sweet as Honey, Hard as Steel - JJ’s girlfriend is the complete opposite of everything one would expect. A straight A student with big life goals, Elena has never been the drinking, smoking, fighting type. And JJ wouldn’t have it any other way.

Coward - Your mom just passed and your absentee father has come to collect you. But that means leaving the life you knew and loved, including your best friend (and a little more), JJ Maybank. But he isn’t ready to hear what you have to say on your last night together.

Rafe Cameron

Series:

Fire and Storm - Rafe Cameron had always wanted her. He wanted to be hers and he wanted her to be his. But she wasn’t and he was slowly beginning to realize that he never would be. (this is Rafe’s POV for a bit of another series, Ocean and Alcohol)

Requests:

Better - Secretly dating Rafe as JJ Maybank’s sister isn’t the easiest thing, especially when your brother finally learns the truth.

Imagines:

Meant to Be Yours - Rafe Cameron, your boyfriend, was more broken than you realized. He wants more from you than you can give. (based on the song “Meant to Be Yours” from Heathers the Musical)

John B

Imagines:

Girl Crush - You spent years yearning after John B, your best friend. You just didn’t realize it until he fell in love with the most beautiful girl on the island...and it wasn’t you. After that, only Sarah Cameron was on your mind. (based on the song “Girl Crush”)

Tethered - (routledge!reader, John B’s little sister) Surfing the surge was a Pogue rite of passage. You had been waiting for the next big storm to show your older brother that you were ready to be one of them. But the storm was stronger than you or your brother could have imagined.

Just Come Home - (routledge!reader, John B’s little sister) You come home one day to find your brother bearing harsh news.

Series:

By Dawn - (1, 2, 3) John B meets a mysterious girl at his court ordered group therapy. After spending weeks trying to get to know her, he slowly realizes that she’s a tough nut to crack. But then one day, she leaves him a cryptic message...the night before she goes missing. With the disappearance of his father still so raw in his mind, John B refuses to lose anyone else. And he will stop at nothing until he finds her.

Sarah Cameron

Imagines:

Kie Carrera

Imagines:

For Forever - When you’re parents find out that you’ve been secretly dating your best friend, Kie, they go off on you. Afterward, she comforts you, reminding you that blood doesn’t mean family. (tw: homophobia, found family to the max)

she - As a Pogue, having a crush on Kie Carrera was almost a prerequisite. You knew that all the boys were crushing on her, at least a little bit, but accepting your own feelings for her is a different matter. (reader has a crush on Kie but isn’t really ready to admit her feelings)

Requests:

Nothing More - You’re secretly dating one of the Pogues and your brother is starting to become suspicious. The only problem; he’s fixated on the wrong friend.

Pope Heyward

Imagines:

Nothing to Prove - Pope helps you with some relationship problems. Later, while hanging out with your boyfriend, you realize that running from your fears got you nowhere and the only place you wanted to be was with Pope. (very soft)

Delivery Boy - With an absent mother and a distant father, you’ve always felt alone living in your empty house. But a certain delivery boy might be the one thing that makes running an estate worth it.

Seires:

Bare Bones - (Preview, Theory 1, Theory 2, Theory 3) Pippa Cantu has always been a little…strange. With a knack for knowing everything there is to know about every conspiracy, every mystery, and every weird happening, she doesn’t have much time (or desire) for friends. But when her chemistry lab partner asks her to join him and his friends on a hunt for the Royal Merchant, she just can’t say no.

Kelce

Series:

Simple Melancholy - (2) Jemma “Little J” Maybank finds herself a little over her head when she accidentally falls for a boy from Figure Eight. Between her overly protective brother and Kelce’s incredibly rude friends, neither of them are sure how they’re going to make it, but they’re determined to.

General (Everybody)

Imagines:

Do Not Stand - One of the Pogues passes away and leaves a message for her friends. Each of them take it in a different way.

Series:

Little Village - (1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, Finale) As the oldest of the Pogues and John B’s big sister, June always acted as their mother. She helped with assignments and studying, helped pay bills when it was needed, made dinner, reminded them about hygiene. But then she got pregnant and her boyfriend left and suddenly she found herself unable to do all those things she was once able to. When they say it takes a village, she wasn’t entirely sure they meant a bunch of teenagers. (post-canon, I haven’t decided who the love interest will be or if there will be one at all, so that’s why its here)

Requests:

Homeward Bound - After spending years abroad at a boarding school, Kie’s sister returns to the Outer Banks. The Pogues quickly realize that, despite her cold exterior, there is a free spirit inside her just longing to break free.

A Bunch of Love Stories Masterlist - A series of fics based on Taylor Swift’s album “Fearless”.

Outerbanks Playlist - This is just a list of songs that remind of the Pogues and other characters in the show. A few of the songs are connected to some of my fics as well!

ATLA Masterlist

Zuko

The Sun, The Moon, and the Stars - She is a non-bender from the Southern Water Tribe who somehow found herself smack in the middle of Fire Nation central, where a young prince is fighting an internal battle she hopes to help him win.

Harry Potter Masterlist

Fred Weasley

warm - you and your husband survive the second wizarding war, but so do some of Voldemort’s old followers, and they are hell bent on revenge.

Severus Snape

The Other Her - Severus Snape had two friends while he was at school. One, every body knew as Lily Evans. The other was you, an unknown student who wanted nothing more than to be noticed by your friend. You couldn’t help but compare yourself to the Gryffindor heartthrob every time he mentioned her name.

Only One - You return to Hogwarts years later to watch your son’s Quidditch match, only to find yourself a little bit in over your head.

Criminal Minds Masterlist

Derek Morgan

breathe again - he saved her life and now she has to deal with the aftermath. he’s there to help her every step of the way.

Aaron Hotchner

dark of the night - an agent gets taken in the middle of an investigation. in a race against time, the team at the bau must find her by diving into her deepest secrets. when a video tape arrives with horrible images of the state of their friends, aaron hotchner realizes just how terrified he is of losing her.

The Musketeers (BBC) Masterlist

Porthos

enough for you - the wife of a musketeer reflects on her relationship with her husband while Porthos watches from the sidelines.

1K notes · View notes

rax-writes · 3 years

Text

Full Circle

Fandom: The Chilling Adventures of Sabrina

Pairing: Nicholas Scratch x Reader

Warnings: None

Notes: This is based on a song that’s become popular very recently, so you could try to determine what it is as you read, if you want. I’ll link the song at the end in case you didn’t figure it out, or to listen to the song if you’ve never heard it. ☺

Being a hopeless romantic was practically a curse for a witch. Your kind wasn’t made for love. Lust, desire, sex – all of those things came easily for witches and warlocks. But love was a different matter entirely. You knew it was foolish to allow that particular emotion to creep into your heart, but all the mortal romance novels you’d read left you willing to be foolish.

A few months after engaging in a strictly sexual relationship with Nicholas Scratch, you confessed to him that you no longer wished to continue the affair unless he was willing to incorporate romance into the mix. He was hesitant at first, but didn’t want to lose the way your attention and affection made him feel important, valued, and cared for, so he complied. He took you on dates, bought you flowers every Tuesday, let you wear his jacket, cuddled together as you watched movies and read magical novels. He even wrote a poem for you, which he turned into a song with some assistance from the acoustic guitar he borrowed from the choir instructor. The dashing warlock swept you off your feet, and you had never been happier.

Then Sabrina Spellman came into the picture.

You truly had nothing against the plucky, young, promising witch. It was Nick who posed a problem. Ever since she arrived at the Academy, you felt him slipping away from you. He stopped buying you flowers. The dates became few and far between. He slowly took each of his jackets back. But all the while, he used that enthralling, silken voice of his to supply you with thinly-veiled lies of reassurance.

“There’s nothing between Sabrina and I, babe. And besides, she has a mortal boyfriend. Don’t worry your pretty little head about it, alright?”

It wasn’t long before his story changed.

“Being with you has been amazing, and you’ve opened my mind to the possibility of love for our kind. I love you so much, and I always will, but…. I won’t lie to you, there’s someone else. And I can’t, in good conscience, stay with you while having feelings for another person. That’s not fair to you. I’m sorry…. I’m so sorry.”

The contradiction of Nick’s lie of reassurance and his words as he crushed your heart never left your mind… nor did your love for him. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t shake how much your heart yearned for his touch, his kiss, his scent, his voice. It felt like a knife in the chest when you saw him and Sabrina together, shortly after the break up, and you weren’t the least bit surprised that she turned out to be the “someone else.” Nick constantly looked at her with more love and adoration than he’d ever shown you, and it never ceased to hurt.

Nevertheless, you did the only thing you could: you carried on. Ignored the pain. Shoved your unyielding love for him to the back of your mind. You continued your studies, and your dedication to the coven. You aided your cohorts, even Sabrina, in all of the coven’s efforts. Unfortunately, that included helping Nick become a flesh Acheron for Satan, then saving him, and watching from the sidelines as he struggled to cope with the lingering effects of being trapped in his own body with the Devil. Eventually, there came a time when the coven experienced a small dose of reprieve. Hecate became your new deity, the coven’s powers were restored, the Pagans had been driven out of Greendale, and all seemed to be right with the world. Drinking away your troubles, alone in your room with a hundred-year-old bottle of Scotch, had sounded like a fine way to spend a Monday evening – until Nick walked up to you, as you sat outside on the stairs of the Academy, enjoying the cool night air.

“Hey.”

One word. One, simple word was all he mustered up to say to you, despite the fact that it was your first private exchange since the break up. So, you merely echoed it.

“Hey.”

Nick just stood there, before joining you on the stairs, a few feet away from you. The two of you sat there in silence for several minutes before you became the first to speak again.

“Don’t you have some pretty blonde to be hanging out with right now? You know, the one who always made me doubt, yet you constantly assured me I had nothing to worry about?” you retorted, the liquor in your system acting as a conduit for your raw truth. You let out a dry, bitter laugh. “In all honesty, I suppose I can’t blame you for choosing her over me. She’s so much more powerful and skilled than I am. Now that I think about it, she’s the personification of everything I’m insecure about.”

Nick looked at you with sorrowful eyes, before looking away again, as if he couldn’t bear to look at you and see how much pain you were in, even after all this time.

“Sabrina and I broke up.”

The hot mess mixture of feelings that flooded you was practically dizzying. Admittedly, his statement initially filled you with hope. Perhaps this meant he’d give being with you another shot? This was immediately followed by anger – first toward yourself, for being so stupidly optimistic and naïve, then toward him. Did he come here to tell you that, assuming you’d forgive him and everything would go back to the way things were, as if you would be excited to be the consolation prize?

Too dazed by the dichotomy of your thoughts, you said nothing in response. He took your silence as an invitation to continue.

“Turns out, we were a lot less compatible than I originally thought. I thought she was the one. I was willing to die for her…” Nick mused, then trailed off before exhaling and continuing. “I didn’t die, but I did do something much worse – all for her. It didn’t matter in the end, though. We just weren’t meant for each other.”

“You have a lot of nerve to come to me thinking I give a single, solitary fuck about your feelings for her,” you snapped, and your eyes met for a moment then, but he averted his gaze. There was a poignant and tense silence before he spoke again.

“Can I ask you something?” Nick inquired, appearing extremely pensive. “Did you ever stop loving me?”

“No. Not for a second, despite my best efforts,” you replied honestly, and he smiled sadly at your quip as he looked down. “I know we weren’t perfect, but I’ve never felt this way about anyone. That’s why I can’t imagine how you were so okay when I was gone, after we’d broken up…. I guess you didn’t mean what you wrote in that song about me. Because you said ‘forever,’ now I spend every day alone and missing you.”

“I meant every word of that song,” Nick replied earnestly.

“Please don’t, Nick. Let’s just end this conversation here. I don’t even know why we’re discussing this,” you whispered, shaking your head and closing your eyes, as if that would somehow prevent his words from sinking in. You stood and took a couple steps toward the door of the Academy.

“Will you please just hear me out?”

“Why should I?” you yelled, turning to him with a blend of hurt and rage written all over your face, although the rage was what overcame your voice.

“Because I still fucking love you!” Nick shouted, his voice ripe with conviction. He exhaled loudly, then ran his hands over his face and leaned back on the staircase. “In that song, I wrote that I’d love you forever. And you may find it hard to believe, but I’ve never stopped loving you. I won’t deny that I loved Sabrina too, but I’ve realized with hindsight that it was a combination of infatuation and love – more so infatuation. But with you, it was only ever love. A deep, genuine, natural, true love.”

You found yourself somewhere between confused and shocked. What he said made no sense to you, because you’d spent this long believing that he hadn’t given you a second thought since getting with Sabrina. Yet here he was, pouring his heart out to you, and telling you that he still loves you.

Nick stood and took a couple steps toward you, now arm’s length away.

“I know I don’t deserve it, so I won’t fault you in the least if you say no, but…. Would you be willing to give me another chance?”

You looked at him then – really looked at him. You studied him thoroughly, and stared deep into those big, brown eyes of his, which held so much vulnerability, contrition, pain… and love.

“Don’t fuck it up this time, Scratch. I’ll take your life if you do. That’s a promise.”

The very next morning, a beautiful bouquet of blood red roses awaited you in the hallway outside your bedroom door.

Driver’s License – Olivia Rodrigo

263 notes · View notes

jostepherjoestar · 3 years

Note

I remember someone suggesting about the La Squadra child being Abbacchio or Mista’s nephew/niece and I was wondering if it’s ok to ask how would (I’m gonna go with Abbacchio) react to that?. Maybe before joining the kid was just a above average intelligent child but was still normal and now Abbacchio is confused as to why their stoic, cold and with a group of assassins.

La Squadra Kid backstory and relation to Abbacchio + general HC’s

Thank you so much for asking this, I’ve been meaning to summarise their backstory and how they ended up with La Squadra! This will be kind of emotional since it’s bit tragic imo. There’s also going to be some HC’s about our little bud so you can all get a feel at how I see them 😊

Long post!

CW: heavier subjects such as trauma, not fun situations for a kid to be in and usual gang related violence, mentions of abortion and mental illness

General HC’s

I’ve always imagined them to be around 7 to 8 years old, but unfortunately due to all that’s happened, their mind has been forced to mature a lot faster. Of course they should have never had to go through that but life isn’t that simple, especially for them.

Their name is Pomo, like an apple or a pommel :) thought it was a fitting and cute name! I’ll still refer to them as La Squadra Kid in titles but opt for Pomo while writing.

Pomo is not that tall for their age, just cute lil bean with puffy cheeks! I’ve decided to keep Pomo’s pronouns neutral, it just seemed to click more.

As far as their personality goes it’s been fun discovering them through your asks! Pomo is a quiet and stoic kid, they don’t smile that often but that doesn’t mean they’re not enjoying themselves.

They love drawing things as a way to express their feelings or the things they like. It’s a lot easier than verbally communicating for them. They’ll say what they need with the least amount of words necessary.

They’ve developed a weird sense of humour, very dry I’d say lol, also thinks it’s funny to scare Ghiaccio, who they know secretly likes them.

Pomo is quite independent and goes out by themselves, their stand is very powerful and kinda scary, even to their colleagues so they can handle any trouble coming their way. Pomo is slowly learning that they don’t need to do everything alone (i.e. asking for company after nightmares)

Though going out alone can result in people turning Pomo away in shops, that’s why Melone is their choice to bring along so it’s not weird a kid is just out alone spending money.

They’re also very glad to do tasks or things the others ask of them, they crave harmony and peace at home so Pomo will try to help achieve that in any way possible (unfortunately this is a result of trauma).

Pomo really likes La Squadra and sees them as their family now, knowing what member is better at offering different types of things and who to turn to for specific needs.

Their stand’s is named My Way (マイウェイ) after the Frank Sinatra song. It fits quite nicely imo, a force to be reckoned with doing it on their own terms.

And lastly, they do not like hugs or being touched that much. They’ll allow hand holding but only if they’re in a good mood, quick head pats are also ok. It really is touch and go with them, Pomo will let you know when they don’t like something.

Backstory and relation to Abbacchio

The world moved in a blur, the two lines on every single pregnancy test strewn out before her like nails getting hammered into her coffin. Suffocating while it was lowered into the ground, scratching and screaming for air, nails bloodied and raw as the reality set in that she was unmistakably pregnant. The panic followed, clenching her chest like a vice, threatening to shatter her heart and lungs in the process, gasping for air and wishing any other truth than this one. Abbacchio’s older sister wept for days, dark circles alternating with red swollen puffiness as the life she’d just started on her own already began to crumble.

The father of her child taking his exit as soon as she confessed her situation, knowing before she’d even tell him that he’d swiftly let her suffer in the mess. The thought of looking a doctor in the eyes, the cruel conversations she would have to endure before they’d let her suffer in uncertainty of the fate of her unborn child, making her choose to just endure it instead. Not that the choice would offer a softer outcome, it was her burden to bare, she thought. Whatever horrible things she’s done to receive such heartless judgement never occurred to her. The only thing the young woman was convinced of, is that she whole heartedly deserved it.

Her younger brother, growing up to be an impressionable adolescent, unsure how to care for his beloved sibling. His eyes always so full of innocent wonderment at his older sister, wanting to become as brave and independent as her. Living alone, working strenuous hours as if only this would make him worthy of the meagre salary of a rookie police officer. Slowly but surely he saw the woman he so admired creep away as her belly grew larger each month. Coming by often to check up on her wellbeing after school, spending nights or even weeks so he’d be by her side. All the while finishing up in high school. As his sister’s expression grew darker, the smiles fading and her laughter but a distant memory Leone Abbacchio could do nothing but stand by and let her lean on him.

The meagre support their parents could offer did little too ease her mind, the reality of becoming a mother and having nothing but emptiness to offer her child digging her ever deeper into the darkness that consumed her. She sobbed the day her child was born, little Pomo’s big eyes asking her if she was even worthy to hold the small babe. Every look at the child reminding her she had already failed, not even able to comfort their cries before feedings. Incapable of shushing them and finding the strength to coo at those tiny hands that ached to play and accept the warm touch of a caregiver. The young mother did what she needed, feeding the child and changing diapers. The depth of her troubles never easing as she had to go back to work, two different jobs needed to support herself and Pomo.

Abbacchio offered what he could, often babysitting and spending weekends at his sister’s cramped apartment. A child taking care of an even smaller one. The hope he held that his sister would regain her previous lust for life faltered. It only seemed to worsen as Pomo grew. The child never overtly fussed or cried, sleeping soundly and cooing gently whenever hungry. Those big eyes always seeming to bore straight through whoever leaned over the basinet to admire them. The child’s mother wished for it all to end, every night she’d pray to any god who would hear her desperate calls. But as she did only further hurting herself, her pleading like whips claiming penitence on her heavy shoulders.

She begged her younger brother to go out and make his dreams come true. “Never let your resolve falter Leone. Ever.” The voice that brought him courage, the broken woman’s words reminding him of the image he so admired once. But in pursuing his career as an officer it would mean less and less time to care for his dwindling sister and her child.

The night she told him the sisters of their local convent would relieve her of her child, the young officer held his sister for hours. The tears they cried filling an endless well of sorrow. It hadn’t brought the relief she thought she would feel, not a feather lighter as her child would be in more capable hands. Caregivers who weren’t afraid to look the toddler in the eyes as they searched your very soul for meaning. At merely four years old dear Pomo lay gently asleep in a different cot, in a stony building smelling of earth, heated by creaky copper pipes while sisters prayed in unison with beaded necklaces intertwining their palms. Praying for deliverance.

Abbacchio came by whenever he could, becoming more and more weary of his actions and the people he swore to protect as his career started to lack the fervour it had when he started out. Seeing Pomo grow into a silent and demure child, laconically learning to read and write, quietly pleading the sisters not to let their touch on their skin linger. Every stroke burning with an unknown memory that someone once held them, just once and decided to never do it again. Their very skin warding off any unwanted contact without even knowing why. A locked memory with a firm grasp on their being.

“Never let your resolve falter, Pomo. Ever.” The last words spoken to the small child before leaving. The lonely child left in the suffocating confines of the convent. Their uncle wouldn’t return for a long time, days spent hoping to see a sliver of his stark hair and bright eyes that had seemed to dull over time. But the child would never forget those words. Not even as the head sister punished them for not answering when spoken to, not when she would order them to remain on the prayer bench for hours as punishment, knees aching to settle as they were forced to remain. Their eyes boring through the other sisters as they came and joined them at their usual hours of worship.

Restraining the stand they were born with from acting out, self control being trained as they kept going, determined to let their uncle’s last words not be wasted on them. In the free time Pomo was allowed, they’d test out whatever the ghostly figure could, standing taller than them with thick black fog-like tentacles resting behind their back. Whatever those touched seemed to shrivel up like roses in wintertime. Pomo was intelligent, interested in more subjects than just his schooling that only seemed to bore them. The ease of the material offering no challenge as they completed tests with full marks, only making the head sister grow suspicious of them and unleashing more punishment.

Men in extravagant suits would visit the convent every so often, hushed whispers as they walked by the child who’d stoically stare as they passed. They’d always ignore them, scared of the glare and aura the child had started emitting. Many of the sisters had rejected the offer to tutor them when the previous one excused herself, feeling too uneasy by Pomo’s being. It didn’t hurt them, they just kept on doing what the sisters asked of them. Stay tidy, study and don’t get in their way. They had accepted their silence and aversion to touch, growing scared to try anything after the entire courtyard greenery was found shrivelled and dead mid spring. Every freshly planted flower grey and sad, the grass as crunchy as if it had just been burned to ashes. Pomo was sat comfortably on the stone bench that was placed there to admire the garden’s beauty. It wasn’t that they wanted it to happen. Someone just came too close and made them panic, not that it was clear to the sister that accidentally grabbed their shoulders while moving past them, the child remained calm, instead letting their stand take care of the burning sensation that crept over their body.

It was one of those days where a well dressed man would come by and whisper secretively with the sisters as they strode towards a private room and remained there until it was time to leave in an equal hurry. But this time a relaxed gentleman stepped out of the room with a large huff, stretching his neck and groaning loudly as he did. The taps of his heeled shiny shoes echoed through the stony arches of the hallway that led to the courtyard where Pomo had been toying a blade of grass between their fingers. Intensely staring at the green colour that stained his pads while their stand loomed over them freely. As the steps drew nearer, the child paid them no mind, instead grabbing a new blade and continuing the process all over. Soft padded steps made their way over casually until a large shadow covered Pomo. Hands rested in his pocked while his arms pushed back the sides of the loose suit jacket. The cigarette dangling from his lips bobbing after he took another intoxicating drag, puffing out the air harshly while peering at the kid.

“And who might you two be?” The man sunk down to a crouch, inspecting a small daisy that stuck out between the sea of green blades. “Pomo.” The child stopped rolling the tuft of grass as they processed his words. Two. Never had they met another who could see the figure that was their only friend. Unsure if the man posed a threat, he exuded a certain cocky confidence they weren’t sure they liked. “Nice to meet you Pomo. That other one looks a bit scary, don’t you think? But then again, you must be too. D’you mind showing me what they can do?” Offering a gentle chuckle as he gently pried, curious to see what this lonesome child could do, never having witnessed someone so young possessing a stand. It sure peaked the man’s interest as he twirled the daisy between his digits.

The amount of precision they possessed shocked him as the daisy was shot with a quick tap of a foggy black tentacle. It crumbled under his pads as he pressed it, letting it fall back onto the earth. Impressed by the ability and thoroughly interested in what it could do for him, the man proceeded. “Have you even killed someone with that?” There was no need to beat around the bush, that much was obvious when the child never seemed to have moved from their position, merely staring at the ground before them. A slow methodical dark tendril crept towards the man, stopping an inch before his polished shoe. Pomo turned their gaze upwards now, offering a look so unreadably neutral it made the man’s heart beat faster in fear, his many years in Passione not having prepared him to face another that lacked fear as much as the child in front of him. “Do you like it here, Pomo?”

A proposal started taking form in the man’s head, one he’d have to discus with his boss before acting on it. “No.” Clear as a bell their voice made a sinister hope grow, a hope that it would only take as little as just asking them to join up with Passione to get his desired answer. As an Advisor he’d have little hurdles in his way before bringing up the idea to his boss, being one of the only few allowed to even directly communicate with the mysterious man. “You seem fearless, to an unsettling degree, kid. If I asked you to kill a guy, would you?” Somehow the direct communication had been the most pleasant conversation Pomo has had in a few years, be it of a morally ambiguous subject, but refreshing to have another respect their space and not be afraid to ask what they desired of them.

“Are they bad?” The amount of troubling honesty behind the child’s harsh gaze making the man believe he’d met his fate, it had been like Pomo was asking if he deserved to live another moment, their stand still remaining at the tip of his shoe. “Not in their own opinion.” Clearing his throat to regain any sort of confidence, the kid’s eyes skipping through the pages of his soul, weighing his sins and good deeds. In reality they were doing no such thing, only weighing their options, grown tired of the convent and its inhabitants, aching to find any sort of family or support without even knowing it. “Ok.” As they gave their answer they chose to retract their stand, ending the conversation without another word. The Advisor’s sigh of relief deeper than any he had before, glad to be able to continue living.

The Boss was feeling generous, letting his Advisor know that placing the child amongst the men of La Squadra Esecuzioni could serve them well, perhaps make them regain any semblance of respect in the organisation. Opting out of putting their deadly stand in his personal Unità Speciale, fearing the effects of Cioccolata or Secco would build a threat larger than himself. Pomo agreed immediately, knowing it would be best to leave the sisters behind to pray for the child’s deliverance. Making their own money, be it a scanty salary, living with a group of other misfits and taking care of jobs here and there did not sound like the worst future for them. The sisters, terrified at the transfer, having no clue what the mafia would even want with the child, did not let the only person on the outside that cared for them know about the move. Too afraid of the consequences.

But after joining with Bucciarati, Abbacchio held great shame, afraid to face his sister’s child with those eyes that understood too much at such a young age. Fearing any visit would involve them with the tricky business he got entangled in, the little one becoming a distant and painful memory. If only he knew.

Further events take place after part 5 where everyone survives and La Squadra works under Don Giovanna. At Risotto’s request Pomo was left out of the fights regarding Trish and the Bucci gang.

While out with Melone to buy some more markers, Abbacchio felt like he’d seen a ghost. The familiar figure of his sister’s child standing next to a Passione assassin Bruno had fought not that long ago while he excitedly pointed out stuffed animals through the toyshop’s window. “Pomo?” Abbacchio had crept closer, carefully assessing if it were smart to approach. Melone had turned before Pomo could, eyeing the familiar gangster before him. “What do you need with Pomo?” Melone’s features hardened into a scowl while searching for their hand. All Pomo could do was stare up at their uncle they hadn’t seen in what felt like forever.

“What’s going on, is everything alright Pomo?” That deep voice reminding them of when he last visited, the voice that told them to never let their resolve falter, ever. “First of all, answer my question. What do you want with them?” Melone stepped forward, never one to initiate conflicts but needing an explanation as to why Leone Abbacchio knew their teammate that had explicitly never been in contact with his side of Passione. “That’s my sister’s kid. Step down you idiot. I’m not here to start shit. Now answer me; what are they doing with you?” Abbacchio growled back at the lithe man, searching Pomo’s eyes for an answer. “Pomo is part of our team. Been so for almost a year now.” He calmed down as he remembered all the fond memories they’d made together, even after the horrible fights with the other gangster’s team.

The amount of shock and confusion Abbacchio felt was immeasurable. After many “what”’s and “how”’s Melone calmly explained that Pomo had quite the powerful stand and still wanted to be part of their squad. “We ask every once in a while if they still want this. Never said no so far.” Melone practically beamed, the other man still trying to process the explanation. Pomo quickly understood their uncle’s position as well, clearly another member of Passione as they connected the dots. That small kid has never hurt anyone -that he knew of- and now they’re an assassin already in possession of a stand? What the actual fuck. His knees began to feel weak, looking for support as he slid down the toyshop’s windowsill. “I’m sorry.” Hands scrambling at his scalp while he stared at the ground, despair filling every inch of his being. Another person he cared about thrown into the complicated landscape of Passione.

The little one reached out their hand at the man that had meant so much to them, one of the only ones to ever offer the child any semblance of a connection. Until Pomo met their new family. A soft pat on the uncle’s platinum strands, grazing the man’s overworked hands. Melone felt his intrusion, staring off into the crowd as he kept some distance, sure to be within ample reach; should anything happen.

Abbacchio had grown so much, learned that his life was worth living. Following his sisters’s advice to strengthen his resolve and to never let it falter like he did before joining Passione. But this one memory, this one being of the past had made its way back. The child he so lovingly took care of and the pain he felt to have left them behind crashing through him as he sat there. Remembering his capo’s words, his kindness and that look of care and understanding making him reach up to the little hand. Memories of them fussing over touches reminding him a hug wasn’t possible. As his eyes met Pomo’s, the ones that always understood the ones they looked in but never let you know what was being kept behind their own. “I’m sorry for leaving you.” He uttered, the small hand getting enveloped in his bigger ones, begging them for forgiveness. “I’ve missed you.” the child spoke, their expression ever unchanging as Abbacchio felt tears flood his eyes and spill onto his cheeks. The purple haired man that had been following along from a distance couldn’t help but blink away his feelings, pitying the small one.

“Never let your resolve falter.” Pomo repeated. The words they’d clung to, any semblance of purpose all pinned on the only advice they’ve ever received. “Ever.” Abbacchio replied, squeezing the small hand between his before wiping away the tears, his actions were forgiven but not forgotten. “Are you ready, kid?” Melone stepped back into reach, offering a hand to the man he’d called an enemy not too long ago, helping him up. A quick nod from the child, a sliver of relief finally being felt, their uncle was still safe and alive. “You know where to find us. Don’t hesitate to come.” Waving goodbye as they entered the store, Melone offering as much assurance he could muster for his now-colleague. But mostly in awe of the child’s strength, they really were something else, huh.

#cozy ask #worked quite hard on this one #really like the result too #jjba x reader #la squadra x reader #abbacchio x reader #melone x reader #jjba fic #jjba x y/n #jojo's bizarre adventure #jjba imagines #leone abbachio x reader #pomo

110 notes · View notes

walkerwords · 3 years

Text

“The Savior Sessions” Part 20 of 33 - Negan x GN!Reader

IMAGE CREDIT: AMC/THE WALKING DEAD

SERIES MASTERLIST

Summary: The others return to Alexandria as the reader begins to recover. Michonne seeks out Negan while Daryl speaks to the reader. Still dealing with what happened at the fair, nobody is ready to relax and nobody is ready to back down.

Word Count: 3327

Warning: Swearing, Brief Mention of Child Abuse

Song I Wrote To: “Yours” by Ella Henderson

Note: This is definitely a filler, but I enjoyed writing a lot of the conversations.

----------

As the sun rose again in Virginia, everything was covered in blinding-white snow.

You lay in a soft bed as a thick bandage was wrapped around your torso, securing the fresh sutures in place. Negan’s body was pressed against yours as he slept soundly by your side. In the chair next to the window, Siddiq slept as well.

Everything that had happened the previous night came back to you. The storm, the pain, and the look on Negan’s face had you taking a deep breath. The past few weeks had been trying to say the least. You had lost too many people and for a while, you hadn’t let yourself feel the pain of those losses. Yet, as you laid in that bed which you knew was in Aaron’s home, you felt your heart being crushed in your chest.

What were you supposed to do now? How were you all supposed to get through it? Your thoughts went to Carol and Ezekiel. How were they supposed to move on after Henry? The death of a child was never easy, especially when they were taken by force with violence and blood.

There was a feeling of loneliness in that room. You began to think about what would have happened if you hadn’t gone after Negan and Judith in that storm. Would they have found their way back? Or would you be looking for their frozen bodies in the bright morning instead?

You always hated to think of Negan as a Walker, but you had never really let yourself think of him as actually dead. Negan was the ultimate survivor and it was as if nothing could touch him. You started to wonder if perhaps that wasn’t true after all.

Your injury stung as you shifted in bed, waking up your companion. “Hey,” he whispered.

“Hi,” you said back, blinking up at him.

“Get any sleep?” he asked with a yawn.

“Enough,” you said and then winced again.

“It’ll feel better in a few days,” Negan said. “Siddiq told me it wasn’t even as deep as my injury. You’re gonna be just fine.”

“That’s good,” you said with a sigh. “How’s Judith?”

“Finally with her brother,” Negan said with a glance towards the closed door. “She wouldn’t leave the doorway until she knew you were okay. Shivering and all with that damn dog at her side. Laura finally was able to drag her away just as you lost consciousness.”

“I don’t remember that,” you said with a frown.

“I don’t blame you, you were pretty out of it,” he said, brushing his fingers along your temple. “Don’t do that again, okay?”

“Do what?”

“Scare the shit out of me,” he said easily.

“Like you haven’t done it to me,” you said with your brows raised.

“I’m different,” he said.

“Not really,” you countered. Negan sighed, realizing he was losing the argument if you could even call it that. Instead, he leaned over and pressed a kiss to the side of your head.

“I’m glad you’re okay, (Y/N),” he whispered.

“Me too.”

“Siddiq wants to move you to the infirmary as soon as everyone is up and about,” Negan said.

“What about you?” you asked.

“I ain’t gonna leave you,” he promised. “I’ll be there until they can shovel the snow out of my cell.”

“You know,” you began, “as much as I hate storms, they have been beneficial for us.”

“Amen to that.”

Exhaustion was still leaning heavily on you as you began to drift off again. Negan kept his arms around you as you succumbed to the fatigue. However, he was wide awake, determined to just enjoy being by your side like this even with the good doctor snoring a few feet away.

It wasn’t long after you fell back asleep when the door opened. He figured it was Judith or Laura, but he didn’t expect to see Rosita peeking her head in. She noticed Siddiq first and rolled her eyes, however, when she turned to look at Negan her face remained neutral.

“Do they need anything?” she asked him, watching as you slept.

“No, but thanks,” he said awkwardly.

His relationship with Rosita was an odd one. While he had murdered Abraham in front of her, Rosita didn’t seem to store that same amount of hate and venom for him as Maggie did. However, she had been the one to try and shoot him after he gutted Spencer in the street.

He also knew that she would never forgive him for all the things he did and he didn’t expect her to. He just hoped that one day they could be civil with one another for more than a few seconds at a time.

Perhaps that started now. Just as she was about to leave, he stopped her.

“Rosita,” he said and she turned to look at him. “Uh, I—”

“I know,” she said quickly. It wasn’t much and he knew it was never going to be okay, but it was something. He nodded to her and then with a nod of her own, she left the room, closing the door tightly behind her.

----------

Michonne and the others arrived home as soon as the storm calmed down.

After a cheerful reunion and a few snowballs thrown back and forth, Judith finally told her mother what had transpired the night before. And so, Michonne went in search of her Daughter’s hero.

Again.

Negan was leaning his forearms on the side of your bed in the infirmary when Michonne pushed open the door, letting the cool air in. Siddiq had ordered you to the infirmary as soon as it was clear enough to walk. Negan hadn’t even let you take a step without lifting you in his arms and taking you himself.

While you were finally feeling as if your toes weren’t going to fall off, the pain in your side was still near excruciating. You were asleep before Negan could even place the blanket over your shoulders. He had been watching over you all morning and didn’t want to move. However, the look on Michonne’s face had him getting up and walking around the corner, careful not to wake you.

Negan stood before Michonne awkwardly but eventually made the first attempt at a conversation.

“Look who’s back,” he said quietly. Michonne then placed her hands in front of her and looked him in the eye.

“Thank you, for saving her,” Michonne said and Negan nodded to her. “Again.” She went on, “let’s try not to make it a third.”

“That one’s on her, Boss,” Negan said.

“Yes, I suppose it is,” Michonne said with the faintest hint of a smile and then glanced over to where you were sleeping. “How are they?”

“Bit busted up,” Negan said with a sigh. “But they’ll live.”

“Not a good feeling, is it?” Michonne said.

“What?”

“Thinking you’re about to lose someone you care about,” Michonne finished, but there was no malice behind her statement. Negan ran a hand over his head, feeling every beat of his heart in his chest.

“No, no it is not,” Negan admitted. “I thought I’d be waking up to white eyes in the morning rather than tired ones.”

“I know that fear,” Michonne said and then they were both quiet until Negan once again broke the silence.

“You know,” Negan said, “Dr. Babydaddy said that you got caught in the storm with the Royalty Brigade. Is everyone okay?”

“Do you care?” Michonne asked with raised brows.

“Look, I don't know any of those people from Adam,” he said. “I do know what it's like to lose a kingdom, see things fall apart. And it sucks ass.”

“The Sanctuary’s a shithole,” Michonne said as she leaned against the wall next to her. Negan chuckled slightly.

“Well, hell, I could have told you that,” Negan said and then something dawned on him. “You cut through Alpha’s territory,” he realized. “Ballsy.”

“We don't even know if they were there,” Michonne said.

“They’ll know you were there,” Negan said. “Something tells me they got eyes everywhere.”

“That’s reassuring,” Michonne scoffed.

“I ain’t trying to be reassuring, Michonne. I’m trying to be real.”

“I know,” she said. “I know you are, you’re not a bull-shitter.”

“No, I’m not.”

Michonne nodded, getting where he was coming from. No matter what people thought about the man, he never lied when it mattered and he wasn’t going to sugar coat anything.

“How bad is it?” Michonne asked then, gesturing to you in the bed.

“How bad is what?” he asked.

“You forget that I’ve been with them through all the ugly shit, Negan. I know about the way they have nightmares and how they shut down and internalize everything.” Negan frowned, but he knew what she was talking about.

“I can tell that they’re closed off, even to me. They told me a little bit of what happened, but I know there’s more,” Negan said, glancing over at you.

“Do you know much about Terminus?” Michonne asked.

“(Y/N) told me,” Negan said. “Some fucked up shit.”

“Yeah,” Michonne agreed. “(Y/N) wouldn’t eat for a while afterward. Even after we got here, they could barely look at food without gagging. The nightmares came the first night after we got out of that slaughterhouse and I still see them flinch when raw meat is in view. No matter what they tell you, there’s always going to be more.”

“I’m not sure I’m equipped to handle that,” Negan admitted.

“You are,” Michonne told him. “Can I trust that you will help them through this?”

“What exactly are you asking me to do, Michonne?” Michonne pushed off the wall and headed for the door. As she turned the doorknob she gestured to your sleeping form.

“(Y/N) helped you,” Michonne reminded him. “It’s time to return the favor.”

--------

The next time you woke up, you were greeted by a different face.

“Lydia?” you groaned as you tried to sit up. She was there in an instant, trying to help you. You winced in pain as you tugged at your stitches.

“Are you in pain?” Lydia asked, worried.

“It won’t last long,” you assured her as you finally got a good look at her. Her cheeks were pink, but she looked unharmed. You then glanced around and noticed it was just the two of you.

“I saw him leaving with Gabriel,” Lydia said. “He’s helping with clearing the wall and gates.” You were surprised to hear that.

“You met Negan?” you asked her, but Lydia was shaking her head.

“Just saw him and asked Daryl who he was,” Lydia said. “Kind of hard to miss considering how tall he is.”

“Everyone always notices the height first,” you said with a small smile. Lydia nodded then as she picked at the loose threads of her gloves. You lay your hand over hers. “Are you doin’ okay?” She shrugged then, but when she looked back at you, tears were welling up in her eyes. “Ah, kid,” you said as you pulled her into your arms gently.

Lydia leaned on your shoulder, careful of your injury as she cried. You held her back as tight as you could, smoothing down the bits of hair that escaped the hat on her head. “I should have told Ezekiel sooner,” Lydia said into your arm. “I should have known what she was going to do.”

“None of this is on you,” you said to her, fighting your own tears. “Do not think that you had anything to do with this. Alpha did this and she did it to hurt all of us, but most importantly, she did it to hurt you. That is not what a parent is supposed to do. They are supposed to protect their children from hurt, not invoke it.”

“She was all I had and now she doesn’t even want me,” Lydia said with a cough. You grabbed her by the shoulders and pushed her back so you could look at her.

“She was not all you had, not anymore. I’m here, Daryl’s here, Michonne and the others too. Nobody is going to abandon you again. We care about you, Lydia.”

“You don’t know that,” Lydia said as she wiped at her face. “I don’t even know if I’m able to care about someone anymore.” You frowned, taking a moment before deciding to tell her a story.

“I lost someone at the beginning of this whole thing,” you began. “I’ve never told anyone this, but it was one of my old students. His father used to beat him as your mother beat you. He didn’t think he was capable of having a family or anyone that cared about him enough to fight for him. I wasn’t going to let him think that he was that alone in this world. I got him out of his home when everything happened and I protected him when his father tried to kill us after he turned from a bite.

“What I didn’t know was that this kid, Elliot, had already been bitten by his father. He tried to comfort his dad when he was dying and his father turned too quickly. After everything that his father did to him, he still tried to show him just an ounce of love, even if he didn’t think he deserved it. Elliot was always capable of showing that he cared and that he had compassion. Even when he was dying, he tried to make sure that I was okay. You don’t lose that, Lydia. You were born with a kind heart and you’re not going to lose that.”

Lydia was looking at you as you let the tears fall on your cheeks. You had never told that story to anyone, not even Carl or Rick. Thinking of Elliot dying in that school gymnasium opened up that hole in your heart again. It wasn’t long after his death that you found your way to the hills and met Carl and Daryl. Elliot had asked you to go find a new family and so you did. Now, it was time for Lydia to realize that she had now found hers.

“Don’t give up on yourself, okay?” you asked, wiping away a few stray hairs off her face. Lydia nodded as she lay back down and curled up as she finally let herself rest for the first time in a long time.

------

Later that night, you were awake but Negan was asleep.

Michonne and Gabriel had once again let Negan stay by your side for another night. It wasn’t permanent, but his cell wouldn’t be back to normal for a few nights. They kept the infirmary door locked at night and Laura or someone would remain on watch inside, but Negan was still there.

His heavy winter coat was around your shoulders as you flipped through an old medical book in the candlelight of the room. You were getting to the section on breaks and fractures when footsteps came around the corner. Heavy boots that you immediately recognized as Daryl’s.

His eyes fell on Negan who was fast asleep in the bed next to yours, his arm tossed over his face. Daryl frowned, but then looked at you, and the tension in his body lessened. “Hey,” you whispered.

“Hey, yourself,” he said, sitting in the chair next to you.

“He sleeps like a log,” you said. “I don’t think an air siren could wake him up.”

“Just one more thing for me to find annoyin’ about him,'' Daryl said and you rolled your eyes. “I heard ya had an interesting night.”

“Yeah, had to save your damn dog, didn’t she? Always the little hero,” you said with a small smile.

“M’glad your okay,” Daryl said.

“Me too,” you said, gripping his hand in the low light. He gripped yours back, feeling the solidarity between the two of you. “You were so stupid to go through their territory,” you said.

“I know,” he sighed. “I guess we just gotta wait for the payback now.”

“I hate that she has this hold on us,” you said.

“We’re gonna figure this out, (Y/N),” he said. “I ain’t gonna let her hurt anyone else.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” you warned. Daryl sighed, leaning on the edge of your bed before looking behind him at Negan again.

“So, you’re good, then? The two of you?” he said, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder. You nodded and then hesitated, not sure if you were going to tell him more, but Daryl could tell you wanted to and so he was patient.

He was a man of very few words, but a great listener. However, your relationship with Negan would be something you told Paul about and not Daryl. Then again, there is a first time for everything.

“I told him I loved him,” you said quickly in a whisper. Daryl froze for a second before nodding and chewing on the skin of his thumb.

Now it was your time to be patient. You let him absorb the information you just laid on him and then you started to get nervous. Maybe this would be the final straw. He seemed to be fine with your feelings at first, but this was more than just glances through iron bars or the sharing of hot tea.

Eventually, he spoke. “I see,” Daryl said quietly, finally meeting your eyes.

“That’s all you’re gonna say?” you asked, surprised.

“I ain’t mad if that’s what you’re gettin’ at,” he said.

“Are you sure?” you asked.

“Mmhmm,” he said. Which from Daryl was as good as any promise.

“You still gonna talk to me?” you asked.

“Always.”

“Daryl,” you continued, “I want to assure you that if it came down to it, I would fight for this place and these people above everything. Even him,” you said. Daryl gave you a small smile before getting to his feet. From his pocket, he pulled out something you never thought you would see again.

One of your rifle casings, one of the ones you once fired at the Sanctuary.

Daryl set it in your hand and you could feel the years of corrosion on the inner rim. It felt odd to hold in your hand, but oddly comforting. Looking back at him, you could see that he wanted to believe what you said but didn’t.

“Daryl?” you asked.

“Like you said,” he whispered, “don’t make promises ya can’t keep.”

As Daryl left, you lay in that bed and thought of what was to come. That feeling was back in the air, the one your mother warned you about. Your people had crossed into enemy territory and you knew that what happened at the fair was nowhere near the end of it.

Alpha wasn’t going to stop and you knew Carol too well to know that she wouldn’t either. A war was coming and as you held that casing in your hand, you wondered how many more lives were going to be lost because of the masked enemy.

However, there was still the knowledge that all of you were survivors.

You had survived the CDC, the farm, The Governor, Terminus, and the Wolves. You had even survived the Saviors and their brutal leader, the same leader who lay in the bed next to yours.

All those years ago, Negan had stood before you and your family and welcomed you all to the “New World Order”. If only he had known what that new world would produce and just how terrifying it would be.

Turning to look at Negan, you could see the steady rise and fall of his breath and it gave you some solace, but not enough. Nothing was going to snuff the fear that crawled along your skin with every minute of wakefulness. The nightmares would be worse, but you did know one thing for sure.

The day that Alpha made her move, all of you were going to be ready.

AN: And into season 10 we go. There will be a small time jump, but I will work it in as seamlessly as possible.

Tags:

@lucillethings @stark-dreams @amaroho @thanossexual @yes-sir-hotchner @boom-bunny @delusionalteenagewhispers @scootankle @ritajammer21 @writteriguess @tea-atfive @jennydehavilland @waspyyy @yespleasejayhalstead @hoemadegrace @writingdeadangel @huffledor-able541 @pulplorrd @felicisimor

#walkerwords #the walking dead #the savior sessions #negan imagine #negan x reader #twd imagines #twd #the walking dead fics #negan x you #negan x y/n #gn reader

109 notes · View notes

painted-crow · 3 years

Note

Hey I hope this isn’t awkward but that post about your burned badger (lion?) secondary really hit home for me. I’m pretty sure I’ve had the same burned model in the past - I think I started off with a healthier badger/lion model (I can’t figure out which and am still figuring out my sorting anyway) and some external life stuff going on later, I’m really just pushing through and getting stuff done with all the delicacy of a brick. And same here with the emotional rollercoaster ... 1/2

And same here with the emotional rollercoaster of it between panic/apathy. And the burnout. And the ignoring physical pain. And I can see now how this was uh. Pretty unhealthy actually but it really was just so. effective especially given the circumstances and I kind of miss it in a way. It would be nice if I could get back a healthier version of whichever model it was. Anyway I love reading your blog you always have such insightful things to say thanks for reading this ramble <3 2/2

💙💙💙 :D

Not awkward! I'm glad that was useful for someone, rather than just being an angst dump on my part lol

Emergency secondary mode, Badger or Lion?

Links to previous posts:

- post describing my emergency secondary mode (cw for burnout stuff)

- the worst version of this post (cw for terrible memes)

So, after a lot of consideration and chatting with some lovely SHC people (looking at you @mooglesorts and you @magpie-of-a-birb), I've come to the tentative conclusion that I have a Lion secondary performance.

Which is not something I ever expected to say! I've long had a knee-jerk "aaaaa scary!" reaction to Lion secondary, but actually I think that's because I have this performance and I've had to use it in unsustainable ways.

I should probably put a trigger warning here for self harm through overwork... yeah.

So, I found this song:

youtube

(While it is a bop, it is also x2 trigger warning combo for self harm ahaha)

This song's primary is exploded Glory Hound Lion--that's not what's relatable about it to me tho. What I wanted my friends' opinion on was the secondary that's displayed here. Sounded familiar. So I brought it up on the SHC Discord server (which is out of beta, dm me for an invite link if you wanna join!).

I was thinking it might actually be the fully Burned "anything that works" secondary, but Magpie was like "no, that's a Lion sec with a Snake model" and I went "huh..."

...and then Moogle was like no that's a snakesec with an unhealthy Lion model, the masks aren't working so they're busting out Lion--and especially there's the focus on the character feeling powerful because they can hurt themself with it and keep going anyway

And I was like "oh shit that tracks more than I was expecting it to... whoops"

Badger hits different without unhealthy pressure

I do have and use a Badger secondary model, and I used to think my emergency secondary mode was just my Badger model taken to unhealthy extremes. But I don’t think so now.

First, because I actually think that my emergency mode is/was often a product of my exploded Badger primary model, which itself idealized Badger secondary.

I'm still picking through that thing's shrapnel and finding its influence in old memories and automatic reactions I still have and stuff like that--not to mention rooting it out of my system. Which is to say, now that I know what I'm looking for, I'm still discovering how far back this thing goes! Turns out I've been trying to whack this piñata for years, and it used to be so much worse.

The self-destructive "I'd rather run myself hard into the ground than fail" nature of my emergency mode makes a lot of sense in retrospect. When you tie your self-worth to achievement... well: the lyrics "I'll never lose / I'll never die" from the song seem less "I have achieved immortality!" and more "I basically equate failure with death." This song really straddles that edge of relatable but also obviously messed up. It's... something.

Second, my Badger secondary model is very different when it's not under pressure from the 'splodey primary model. I'm kind of having to figure out what it's like without that and it's weird. It seems to be a whole lot more chill and also I'm getting more Courtier than I'm used to?

Yeah, turns out if you dig out "you should help other people to justify your existence, but don't accept help back or it cancels it out" from your system (because damn, there's a system piece I didn't look at closely enough) it might have been holding up Courtier potential you haven't been using.

What's the difference?

I don't know who pointed this out first, I think I read it somewhere, but Badger secondary is very process focused and Lion secondary is very results focused. (Bet you this was from @wisteria-lodge. I'm not sure, though.)

Badger usually shows up as a few main things for me: mirroring, chipping away at big projects, picking up life maintenance and self care type tasks (especially when Bird secondary is burned), and caregiving/service stuff. It can also Burn on its own, which is its own brand of "motivation is a cryptid" exhaustion. None of this looks like Lion, so where does the confusion come in?

The only time my Badger model starts to look like Lion--and here the line really blurs with the performance--is when I've tried to get it to do tasks it's not really meant for. There are things I need Bird unburned in order to tackle (perhaps it's the presence of burned Birdsec that gets in the way? That injured confidence can be really debilitating) and I can't do them with just Badger.

I'm sure actual Badger secs know how to, say, learn Adobe Illustrator's unbelievably complicated controls while under deadline using Badger, but I have no clue. I powered through using probably the least efficient controls possible. (If you're using the nudge tool as a form of measurement, you're probably doing it wrong. I'm guessing.)

Needless to say, that's exhausting. I think there's some point in the project timeline where it stops being "well it's not efficient but at least I'm making progress!" and starts being fueled by raw stubborn determination and a little bit of spite. The contentment with the process goes out the window. I'm fighting my own perfectionism (and usually losing) because I just want this thing done.

Which, that's not necessarily a bad thing! Sometimes it's really useful to be able to go "screw it" and charge. It becomes a bad thing when you ignore all your other needs to do it, possibly because you've tied success and/or productivity to your self worth, and also you're still clutching your perfectionism and hissing "my precioussssss."

also:

It's not always obvious, but I sometimes use Lion secondary in ways not connected to the splodey Badger primary model.

(Occasionally it is obvious though... haha)

I do have this one story about realizing my younger brother might be in danger and charging off to find him, armed with a heavy wooden coat hanger against potential assailants. I went from Bird situational analysis to "this is the best weapon I can find on short notice" in like 30 seconds. In my defense, I was very sleep deprived at the time.

(It makes more sense in context.)

(Sort of.)

so.

I think the emergency secondary mode is a Lionsec performance.

This post took me like a month to write even after figuring it out. And then another few weeks collecting dust in my drafts, because how do you edit something like this

But I've been sitting on it for way too long and I'm tired of saying I should finish/post it, and tonight I'm feeling bored and a little impulsive... so, screw it--I'm calling this done.

(can you hear it? it's there... fighting my Birdsec/Badgersec model perfectionism again.)

(this time, I will listen.)

#sortinghatchats #shc performances #gryffindor secondary model #(i don't have tags for performances alas)#hufflepuff secondary model #burned ravenclaw secondary #splodey badger primary model #secondary toast revolving door #asks #paint speaks

23 notes · View notes

fenristheorem · 3 years

Note

Hello!

I was wondering if you could write headcanons for Lance during episode 26? Maybe the most significant moments in the chapter but from his perspective and how he felt

Hello there! This is such an interesting ask! I've always considered what Lance may have been thinking through episode 26, but I honestly never actually thought too deep on it. I hope at some point Beemoov gives us a long conversation between Guardienne and Lance in ANE that talks about his perspective in that episode...

Also, sorry this took so long to write. Tumblr ate this ask a few times and spit it back out (I guess it didn’t taste right lol) so I’ve been inconsistent on when I could work on it. Then I somehow ended up re-writing one specific part of this three times over so I had to figure out how to combine all of that information and edit it properly. And then Tumblr freaked out on me and deleted some recent edits - twice - but fortunately I remembered what I did so it didn’t take too long to re-write it. This may also be the longest headcanon I’ve written so far lol. The ask had one hell of a journey in it’s making but I think I love it even more because of that. 😂

~Below the cut~

Lance's POV in episode 26:

Oh how enthralling it was to have Guardienne on his ship! Not only was she his ticket to escape, and a prized asset - therefore collateral - for the guard, but she knew how to access the dragons. He would find his people by using her knowledge.

He knew she had spirit, but he considered sometimes that perhaps he should have thought a little harder on ways to get her to shut up and obey him. He certainly loved the thrill of banter and having her break her persona of peace for him, but by the Oracle was she irritating sometimes. Of course, he already knew she was also pretty amusing as well, with her wild thought processes and ideas. She could have been a bit friendlier with his kraken though...

He wasn't sure if he was surprised by how blunt Guardienne was at times. He had chosen the site in the forest because of its tactical advantage, but when she revealed her bad experience with that area, he could do nothing but apologize. She wasn’t trying to provoke him or stand in the way of his plans at the moment - it was a bad memory for her - so Lance understood her distress at staying there and didn’t wish to put her in further distress. There was no way that they were moving camp though.

Lance had her show him the island, and he was nearly surprised when she didn't try to escape. His attention was held by the ruins for most of the time; she could have tried to slip away thinking he was distracted. He was also quite surprised when she didn’t try to throw him off the cliff - it was the perfect opportunity, but she didn’t even seem like jumping at the chance.

Later on, when Guardienne talked with his mercenaries late at night, he tried to get a read on her. She seemed so unhappy stuck on the island with him, and yet she was so persistent on talking to his followers. She seemed to hate Lance, and yet she was so determined to understand why others decided to follow him. This sent his head spinning. Was she interested in joining him? Certainly not. Was she just curious? Most likely, but the typical person in her situation makes a point to not talk to those who hold them hostage...

He wakes her early in the morning, eager to find the gateway to his people, but his excitement drops when he realizes that Guardienne is in no mood to help him. She had been promising her resistance for many days, why did he expect any different?

This pissed him off of course; he was so close to finding his people and now he had to find a way to get her to comply. Threatening her didn't work too well, but she decided to lead him somewhere anyways. They go towards the library ruins and she leads him through a dark corridor that opens up into a room of alchemical concoctions, cages, and blood spattered walls before stopping. Lance knows immediately that she’s mislead him.

He turns on her, raw fury bleeding into him and coursing within his bones until he’s sure he’ll kill her. However, out of kindness and mercy, he gives her a second chance to show him to the dragons.

Lance didn’t know what he was expecting really, of course she would deny him again. So he takes her to the cliff to threaten her - and then those closest to her once he realizes she won’t crack. He really didn’t want to do this, he wanted things to go smoothly with little damage done, but more than that; he wanted to talk with his people.

She finally gives in and takes him towards the Door of the Dragons, but he nearly throws himself at her when they step into the library ruins again. However, she leads him a different way this time, and he can feel it in his bones that they’re heading the right way as they get closer.

Finally he witnesses the first monument of his people: the doors to their realm.

There’s a weight that settles on his chest and shoulders - after all these years wondering, searching, fighting to reach his people, he’s finally made it. Suddenly he’s aware of the blood surging through his veins, his breathing sharpens and the door is all he can look at.

He knows he's trembling as he reaches to brush his fingertips across the etchings in the stone doors, and he knows that she sees that as well, but he doesn't pay mind to it. In that moment, all that mattered is that he's finally among his people - the ghosts of them at least.

He snaps himself out of the awe the grand doors put him in, turning to Guardienne and requesting her to show him how the doors open. She does as told - finally - but the doors don't open...

Oh like hell he was going to deal with her shit now that's he's this close to knowing his people. She wasn't an issue before, but now she's standing directly between him and his people.

He turns on her again, his blood burning hot and arctic cold at the same time, but she's already explaining that they repeated the ritual the same way as last time. But perhaps... the moon could be an issue?

He's impatient again - there's no way they can stay on that island until the next full moon. Fortunately he brought a few toys to help...

Some time later, after many different attempts to open the door forcefully - all failed and leaving not even a scratch on the ancient stone - Guardienne comes bolting into the room screeching like a psychopath. As if it weren't bad enough that the doors aren't opening, now he has her to deal with again...

He's irritated but holds himself well - there's still the battering ram that may work.

Of course, Guardienne cuts in again, spitting wrath at him about his people and how much of an idiot he is. He humors her a bit, playing the hurt card (even though some bit of it holds true in some ways), and finding his own amusement when she thinks she actually hurt his feelings. Goodness she can be so adorable to fuck with.

The Draflayels come when night falls, drifting in the air with musical trills. Guardienne has found herself entranced at the beauty, but Lance seeths. How dare these creatures mimic his people? How dare they act as a replacement for the dragons?

She stops him as he goes to cut them down, saying that they'll show them something important. If he weren't so desperate to speak with his people...

He lets her lead him to the cliff, following the vile creatures as Lance glares at them, and they gather in sparkling clusters around them, singing their songs the whole time. Lance tenses his whole body and trembles - what he wouldn't do to get rid of these creatures - but then Guardienne steps into the cloud of Draflayels and begins... dancing?

He relaxes faintly, suddenly taken by surprise and slipping into hesitant curiosity as she twirls with the companions. She was so... happy, and carefree. How could she be this joyful with these useless creatures? Didn't she understand that they exist only from the sacrificial genocide of a grand race?

But she still dances with them, entranced by their harmony and twirls, and he's entranced by her as he watches her, careless and free, reminding him of the days where he was like that.

Wasn't it tiring? To be so cold and hateful for so long?

Didn't he miss the days where he ran free and proud, fighting valiantly alongside his brother?

Pain sparks in his chest as he watches her, his face betraying no emotions but the clawing agony welled in his chest and left him breathless all the same. He did miss it...

The Draflayels disperse and Guardienne backs away - straight into him. She's startled for a moment as she looks into his eyes, but he makes it clear that he's no threat.

As he stares at her, a different emotion stirs within him - a wistful wishing, whispered admiration, ghosts of jealousy and bittersweet knowing. She was so beautiful and happy, and he wanted to have that again as well, but he never could - not with everything he knows now.

Brilliant blue essence swam through the air, and Lance quickly turned his attention to it. A ghost appeared - one of his people - and spoke in a grand, cavernous voice to him. Guardienne - and all he once wished for - forgotten, he stepped forward to pursue his chosen path.

He had to argue to be allowed in sooner, but Lance regretted nothing when he was finally standing in front of the Door to the Dragons again, this time being welcomed in as family. However, he hesitated as he stared into the grand doorway; what information would he find hidden within this realm?

He allowed himself to spare a moment to think about his family... he would avenge them, with every bit of brittle, exhausted energy he had, he would avenge them. His heart twisted as he fell among them. These dragons were family...

Fafnir shows him around, and he keeps an eye on Guardienne the whole time - she could attempt to run away. But he wants her to like the dragons and their realm as well, so he keeps an eye on her for her well-being also. She did help him after all...

He argues with Fafnir much of the time, not understanding why the dragon is so steady and accepting about the destruction of their race. Fafnir is calm the whole time, a stable boulder underneath the rush of icy water that was Lance's opinions and emotions. He seemed so sure that Lance would change his mind about his quest for revenge, and even as Lance argues that, Fafnir still continues to show them around.

Fafnir mentions his mother not too long after, noting the similarities between them, and Lance is taken off guard. What would his mother think of him? What did Fafnir want him to know about his mother? Was it true that they were so similar? Would he be able to meet her ghost?

They continue their tour, and Lance knows immediately when Guardienne becomes uncomfortable as they step into the lava realm. Every change in her body language tells that she feels like she's drowning in heat, so he provides a layer of cooled air for her. Whether or not she wanted to, she provided him with invaluable help and remains invaluable as long as the guard is after him, so he might as well try to make her comfortable with him...

As she recovers and looks around, pride blooms in Lance’s chest. This may be the lava realm, but she had a right to stare in admiration at one of the realms of his people. The glitter in her eyes and awe on her face were enough to tell him that she thinks the world of the strange realm, and curiosity suddenly sparks in Lance. She hasn’t seen firsthand the power of the dragons; him and his brother are the only ones she’s been around enough to witness anything, and his brother doesn’t know how to evoke his abilities... What would she think about Lance’s abilities? Would she stare at him with the same look of awe and curiosity?

Lance dismisses his thoughts and probes Fafnir for information on his parents again - first discovering his father's element - but the ancient ghost hesitates when he begins to speak of Tia. Silence fills the air for only a moment before Lance yells at Fafnir to answer his rest of his question.

An ice dragon...

Fafnir compares him to his mother again, and once again Lance is taken off guard. Was he really that similar to his mother?

Lance begins to dig further into the reasoning for their sacrifice, and this only leads down a long path of arguing between him and Fafnir until the ghost finally snaps. They're brought to another location within their realm and Fafnir begins to question Lance's decision of partnering with the demon. Lance is nearly surprised when Fafnir doesn't ask who it is, but the solid weight of... shame? lands on his chest and shoulders as Fafnir seems to scold him for creating a pact with the demon.

So Fafnir knew about that then...

This shame was short-lived, though, before Lance quickly jumped to defend himself and explain the wrongs done to their kind and the foolish decision they made.

Fafnir eventually snapped and Lance quieted, feeling overwhelming irritation at the ancient dragon’s persistence. There was a rift forming that Lance could feel - an expanse hollowing out between him and Fafnir as he withdrew from Fafnir’s knowledge.

Lance watched as Fafnir created a sphere, faint images flickering within, and he was told to walk into the sphere if he wanted to understand the dragons’ decision. He hesitated, suddenly unsure if he wanted to understand in the first place. What if all of this was for nothing? Why would his people - upheld with such esteem within himself and around Eldarya - purposefully make such a foolish decision if it wasn’t forced?

Guardienne snaps him out of his thoughts and overwhelming anxiety, encouraging him to step into the sphere to find the answers to his questions. He hesitates further, but follows her as she steps into the sphere. Lance knew she was right; he came here to find answers, and Fafnir was giving him answers.

Lance isn’t very interested in where the sphere takes them to - it’s the dark-skinned woman who appears that catches his interest. She was talking to a man, pale skin and hair, and Lance quickly caught on to what he was seeing.

His mother and father...

Shocks freezes him and quivers through his body as his throat constricts. He calls out to them. Was he finally meeting his parents? Would they recognize him? Would he be welcomed home by them?

Fafnir quickly explains that they’re only a memory - that they can’t hear him - and Lance’s emotions collapse in on himself. He wouldn’t be welcomed, they probably wouldn’t know who he is, he was left without a family because of the sacrifice and it will remain like that. Pain and rejection hits him in a crushing wave; he finally met his parents, but they’re not even aware of him.

Regardless, he follows them as they fly off, desperately seeking just another second with them - just another facet of information that he could learn from them.

At the cliff, witnessing his mother’s own temper, Fafnir once again compares him to his mother. Lance retaliates again, not wishing for Fafnir to speak so fondly of him or his mother. He could barely stand the idea of not knowing her, but knowing how similar they are and yet not knowing anything about her bothered him in ways that left a yawning hole in his chest.

He starts to think things over - his people willingly sacrificed themselves, but certainly his mother must have known better! She must have been forced by her people! Fafnir agrees that she didn’t agree to the decision, but claims that she still did so of her own free will. In a thunderous state of denial and anger, Lance turns and storms off. He can’t believe that his own mother just abandoned him to sacrifice herself for a decision she didn’t agree with. It doesn’t make any sense!

Fafnir chases him down and, despite his anger, Lance agrees to keep exploring his mother’s past.

They follow Tia to the doorways within the Dragon Realm, where she talks with Fafnir. As much as Lance wishes to ignore it, he notices that her aggressiveness does mirror his own.

His thoughts wander about his mother for a bit while Guardienne and Fafnir talk, until Lance finally has enough with waiting and interrupts to continue on.

Fafnir takes them to the Council Room now, where they see discussion of the Blue Sacrifice taking place. Many arguments take place until Fafnir finally tells him that Tia kept looking for another solution - to no avail.

He’s silent now as Guardienne and Fafnir talk again. Everything tells him that this was the only solution, that the dragons had to do this, that there was no better way, but he couldn’t accept it. If that was true then everything he did was for nothing... If that was true then there was no need to avenge their deaths because it was their own choice...

A cavern of something similar to dread forms within his chest as he wonders if he set out to wage a pointless war, almost afraid of knowing if this was truth. He couldn’t be in the wrong, right? They were his people, certainly they could have thought of something else... right?

Fafnir calls out to make sure he’s ok before suggesting a break, and Lance finds himself nearly running from the memories - almost regretting learning everything he knows and hoping to leave it all behind alongside the confused assortment of emotions that nearly breaks his sanity. It was so much easier when he thought they didn’t have a choice...

He flees to the old camp area and Guardienne follows before calling out to him, asking if he’s alright. He’s heavily shocked when she explains that she does care about him, despite the assumption that he hates her.

After everything he’s done, why would she care? Does she think this will stop him?

She avoids his conflicted gaze before he turns and walks away. He needed time to think everything over; the sacrifices, his parents, even Guardienne’s sudden change in demeanor towards him. Nothing makes sense to him anymore.

Lance realizes that she's not following him. He turns and asks if she’s coming or not. One would think if she’s so worried about him, she would actually bother to follow him.

He wanders aimlessly for a while, not knowing where he wishes to go, but eventually finds himself at the cliff when Guardienne asks if he’d like to talk. Lance turns on her; he’s not in the mood for her to play false nice with him. He knows she hates him.

Guardienne contradicts that, though, claiming instead that she hates his actions but has faith that he can be good again.

Was she right? Was there some possibility of redemption? Did he even want redemption? What about everything he’s done to get to this point? Was any of it even worth it anymore?

Confused questions flood his mind in tidal waves until he nearly has a headache. Hesitantly, he begins to open up to Guardienne. If there was some chance that she could understand. If there was some chance she could help him understand...

He seeks her opinion on why his mother left him and Valk to the world instead of sacrificing them, and Guardienne explains that it’s normal that a mother would want her children to reap the benefits of her actions. Lance says he would have rather died.

Guardienne pauses at this, surprise flitting over her features and she goes to comfort him, asking why this is all so important for him.

Why is it all so important? He’s so confused, unfamiliar with these doubtful emotions now sweeping through him. Why was any of this important? What does he do now? Is everything he learned really true? Would his people actually be ashamed of him knowing he’s hurt others in their name?

She offers an ear to listen to his troubles, and as much as he doesn’t wish to confide in her, he does so anyways. He doesn’t know what else to do.

Guardienne is quiet as he explains their birth and the village, and he relaxes and allows himself to soften - just a bit. It was... nice to finally have someone to talk to. It’s been so long since someone actually sought to truly understand him...

This calm is broken when he speaks of the kind people who raised them - and Guardienne speaks up to explain that every world will have good people and bad. Lance turns on her in anger; what would she know about good and bad? She hasn’t needed to hide her nature because of others! She hasn’t needed to learn about the sacrifice of her people for the sake of these people! She hasn’t needed to suffer her whole life the way he has!

He explodes in anger, forcing himself to take a moment to cool off as Guardienne watches with a conflicted expression, and then turns back to her to reveal the horror of the Guard and faeries hunting down the dragons who survived the sacrifice.

He’s nearly happy when she reels back in disgust, refusing to believe that the faeries could have done something that terrible, but it was true all the same, no matter how hard she refused to believe it.

Lance turns away again - he needs to know more. He needs to know why him and his brother were abandoned to this world alone.

He manages to track down Fafnir and demands to know why, but the only response he receives is to follow and see for himself. They go back and forth, Fafnir pressuring him to witness the memories again while Lance argues it. He can’t see it again, he couldn’t bear seeing the past through memories...

Guardienne startles him when she lays a hand on his forearm.

Why was she doing that? Why did she care this much? What’s the reason for any of this?

She tells him that he needs to keep exploring his mother’s past if he wants to understand and find his answers, and while he doesn’t want to do that anymore - he can’t possibly do that again - he knows she’s right. It’s the only thing he can do right now in the mess of emotions he’s feeling. Guardienne promises that she’ll stay by his side the whole time, but that doesn’t help as she was probably hoping it would. Why is it comforting that she’s promising to stay by his side - he should be irritated at that thought!

Lance agrees, feeling more lost than ever, and ghosts back to the past memories alongside Fafnir and Guardienne with no further argument.

The Blue Sacrifice was being held soon, countless dragons sprawling across the land and swooping through the sky as Tia talked with Fafnir... about a pregnancy test. She doesn’t want to sacrifice her children with her. Then she speaks of her sons - that she had seen them.

She’s seen him and his brother before, can name their hair and eye color, and she thought they were... beautiful.

Lance watches intently as the memory plays out but he still has questions. She could have stayed with them if she had the choice, why didn’t she stay with them?

Fafnir further explains what happens after that - his mother and father leaving for a while and then returning to carry through with the sacrifice - but Lance’s thoughts are still scattered, and he demands that he sees his parents’ final moments. He needed to see everything in order to believe this...

They return to the pathway where the sacrifice will take place. Many different races are gathered, paying their respects to the dragons, and Fafnir points their attention to another group talking to his mother. Humans.

Lance is subtly shocked; why were they there? And why are they so close with his mother?

Fafnir says that they’re family; his uncle had fallen in love with a human, and Tia was hugging his cousin.

He has humans in his close family!? And they had children... Him and his brother weren’t the only dragons then! But Fafnir explains that they’re weakened due to the dilution of the genetics.

Lance doesn’t know how he feels about this. Was he nearly happy that he had surviving family - even if they were human? Were they really considered human in that case, or dragon? Should he be happy that those humans can’t compare their power to his because of their weakened genetics?

Lance is confused about himself again, shifting into anger at the realization that he’s thinking this only because of what happened; his closest living family is humans, and they’re only alive because they couldn’t have been hunted down by the Eldaryans. Fafnir tries to compare this to Guardienne and speaks of her angel genetics.

An angel?

Lance is truly surprised at this; she’s an angel? He has an angel in his clutches?

Fafnir seems shocked that Lance didn’t know, but the ice dragon is busy turning to Guardienne, many of his other questions now being answered. A wave of painful anger hits him, and he feels... jealous? That demon got to spend every day around this female angel - of course he’d be interested in her; they could attempt a revival of their race!

He had said to much. Lance collapses, pain wracking his body as he heaves for breath and clutches at his chest. The pact they made knew he had said too much. His vision fades into black and the last thing he hears is Fafnir telling Guardienne to help him bring Lance back to the real world...

Lance wakes... alone. Why was he alone? Where was the angel!?

He bolts up, cold burning anger flooding through his veins. After all he said to her! After he explained his past and reasoning for this war! After she promised she would stay by his side! She goes and tries to run away!

He quickly finds her urgently walking around - probably looking for some way off this island - and he approaches her in blind anger as she shrinks in front of him. He was glad, pleased, that she was terrified. She should be scared!

Lance can’t keep himself from yelling as he advances on her and draws his sword. He’s been so nice to her up until now, but that time is now long since passed. She cringes as he raises his sword... and stabs it into the ground next to her. Why did he find himself unable to do this?

Guardienne quickly begins to explain her reason for leaving, but he cuts her off. It doesn’t matter why she left - there was no way he could trust her on any account anymore. Of course she would try to escape, she’s still a hostage. He feels foolish for ever having believed she could possibly care for him.

He grabs her wrist and heads back to find Fafnir, thanking him for sharing his energy to strengthen him again. The ancient ghost asks if he understands everything now, and Lance admits that he doesn’t, but he does realize something important now - family needs to defend and stay with family, so he needs Valk with him.

Before anything else can happen the energy of the islands shifts - he can feel it and he knows Fafnir feels it too.

They have visitors, and it’s the guard.

Time is up, Lance realizes, and he quickly takes hold of Guardienne and drags her with him to the beach shores to find a horrific sight awaiting.

There are many boats sailing towards the island - too many for the kraken to take on. Lance realizes that he needs defense lines and orders Orion and his mercenaries to hold the guard back. He needs to find a good place for them to be found at if the guard gets past his lines.

Hints of panic start to crack his steady thoughts - they’re surrounded with no direct way off this island, and how the hell does he get his brother on his side!?

The angel; the thing they came here for! She’s his bargaining chip!

But she’s intent on not making this easy. She spits bitter truths at him that he doesn’t want to hear but knows it true all the same, and he turns on her to shut her up.

He paces around the island with her as the sounds of the battle rage on at the shore and she kicks at him, unbalancing him and tearing herself away as he regains his balance with pain shooting up his leg. Lance doesn’t let her go very far, though. He evokes his powers, pulling her back to him and snapping at her as he drags her around again, heading towards to cliff.

The roar of the waves is drowned out as Lance scans the cliff with screeching thoughts, finding no coverage and then choosing to place himself with her at the edge of the cliff. There’s nowhere else to hide, nowhere he can set traps for the guard, nowhere he can keep her while he attempts to fight off the guard - or even better; bargain with them for Valkyon. He can only stand here and brace himself.

Finally they arrive, and Lance calls to them to stop when they’re a comfortable distance away, holding Guardienne to the cliff for leverage. They stop, but his brother tries to convince him to let her go. Guardienne calls back, but Lance is tried of hearing her input and quickly shuts her up. This was between him and the guard, and if she convinces them to not worry about her, he’ll lose his bargaining chip.

As soon as everything is silent Lance begins to speak, calling out for his brother to join him - but he resists of course, and offers the opposite instead. Lance explains that the guard will kill him in no time, and his brother quickly gives in after that; choosing to join Lance as long as Guardienne is let go.

Just as he had hoped for.

He’s not even bothered as Guardienne cries out anymore, and lets go of her as soon as Valk asks - but he’s sure to keep her trapped on that ledge with a wall of energy. He knew if he just let her go they would attack him, so he assured his safety by keeping her at risk.

They say their tragic goodbyes and Lance rests a hand on his brother’s shoulder as they walk away, elated at the fact that he has his brother with him now. Things are exactly as they should have been since the beginning of this war.

He can hear Guardienne arguing with the others as they walk away, and when they’re a safe distance he drops the wall... letting it take the cliff she was standing on with it as it crumbled away to submerge into the surging tides below. She was no longer needed and it would be better if she were gone now, or at very least it’ll delay the guard from following him and his brother as they make their escape.

Lance learned many lessons from that journey - many things that were useful, and some that were... complicated, and he intended to use all of this to his advantage.

I hope you like this! I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again; this ask went through hell and back from Tumblr in it’s creation process, but I love it even more because of the quirks I encountered.

Thank you for asking!

Have a request? Ask them here!

But first, please read the rules list for asks!

#eldarya #eldarya lance #eldarya origins #eldarya lance origins #eldarya lance headcanons #eldarya episode 26 #fenristheorem writing #askfenris

44 notes · View notes

candy-and-writing · 4 years

Text

What A Triple Lutz Can Do

Dark! Bucky x Ice Skater! Reader x Dark! Steve

Summary: Steve and Bucky have found each other again, after everything they've been through. When Steve meets you at the Winter Olympics, he decides you're the perfect little doll for their plan.

Warnings: non con/dub con, stalking, drugging, kidnapping, male masturbation, pet names—kitten, oral sex (female and male), fingering, poly relationship (m/m/f), somnophilia, light bondage, more to be added as the story goes on

A/N: This is loosely based off @henchry post about Chris Evans dating an ice skater. I read it and instantly had this idea, I’ve just never posted it. I think I unintentionally used bunny by @buckybarney as inspiration in making final edits. They also helped me figure out how to make this moodboard, so thank you! Please let me know if you enjoyed this, I had a lot of fun writing this!

I am NOT responsible for your media content consumption. This work is not intended for those under the age of 18 due to explicit sexual content and/or dark themes. By reading this work you agree that you are at least 18 years of age. I do not consent to have my work posted on any third party app or website; if you are seeing this work anywhere other than tumblr and archiveofourown, it has been reposted without my permission.

Before the war, before Bucky had fallen off the train and Steve crashed into the ice, before the Avengers and before and the world made Steve Rogers harder—colder—he liked to call himself a hopeless romantic. He wanted to meet eyes with someone across a diner and feel the fireworks explode in his chest. He wanted to buy a girl flowers, he wanted to walk down the streets of Brooklyn while it was snowing with her hand warming his. He wanted to buy his girl a ring, he wanted to get married, have a family.

He thought he would get that with Peggy, but he missed his chance. When he woke up in another century, he thought for sure he would never get his happily ever after. The women today were so. . . brash. A lady was supposed to be kind, polite, and dutiful. He understood that times were different, but that shouldn't excuse the ungrateful attitudes.

Then he found Bucky again, and the crazy world he had been forced into didn't seem so hopeless anymore.

Tony had received a call from the International Olympics Committee, formally inviting the Avengers to the Winter Olympics. They were in Italy this year, Milan and Cortina. It was the first Olympic Games to be held in two cities, according to Bruce.

The committee had asked Steve to conduct the medal presentations for ice skating and hockey. They wanted Thor to carry the torch for the opening ceremony, but he was off-world and unavailable.

So here Steve was, sitting in the Mediolanum Forum venue next to Sam so he could watch the ice skating events. He figured if he was going to be giving the winners their medals, he should see why they won.

The committee had given the team access to front row seating, and that's where he was when you came out.

You were the third skater, and the first American representative, to take the ice. Your hair was pulled into a braided braid low on the side of your head with a blue flower pinned above the bun. The little dress you wore was modest—the same shade of blue that matched your flower and a sleeveless neckline that connected to a sheer fabric for sleeves and a higher neck, the little flowy skirt stopping in the middle of your thigh. Lines of little jewels dipped along your bust, beads varying in size. You had makeup on, like all the previous girls, but yours was light and glittery—save for the ruby red lipstick, but even that looked classical on you. It reminded Steve of the makeup women would wear back in the thirties.

He was so focused on you that Sam had to elbow him in the ribs to get his attention. He shut his jaw then, listening to the way your name rolled off the commentator's tongue, the syllables lining and matching each other perfectly.

You were twenty-one, and this was your first time competing in the Olympics. You've competed in other national and international tournaments, and you've done good in them if he was understanding correctly. It made an odd sense of pride swell in his chest. You were skating to Disney's Beauty and the Beast.

You moved to the middle of the rink as the announcer informed the stadium who conducted and performed your piece. You had four quads set in your routine, two in the first half and two in the second. It got quiet in the arena as you raised your arm over your head and arched your back like a ballerina. Steve counted five seconds before the music started and you spun around slowly. You started to move your body and—

Oh. Oh.

Steve was sure his jaw had dropped to the floor. The way you moved was bewitching, beautifully languid yet articulate. It was like the music moved through you, coursing through your veins as you made it entirely your own, bringing something so utterly delicate and ethereal out of the melody. You made it show in your body, in your movements.

The first of your quads were coming up, something called a quadruple lutz. Steve didn't know what it was, but when you threw your leg back and jumped, spinning in the air before landing and the crowd erupted into applause, he figured you did it correctly.

Your feet glided across the ice as you skated backward, your muscles tensing—you were preparing for your next quad. You kicked your leg back and used it as momentum to jump, spinning and landing what the commentator called a quadruple flip. The crowd cheered again.

Your expression—the raw focus and determination hiding behind your eyes—was gorgeous. Your crimson lips were parted slightly, eyelids hooded as you brought your head up. The delicate expression, the way your shoulders tensed as you jumped and spun in the air once, twice, three times before you landed gracefully on your toes had the breath leaving his lungs.

It was art. You were a work of art. So beautiful he wanted to lock you behind a glass cage and put you on display. You commanded the ice as if you controlled it, with such a degree of intricacy that Steve thought if you jumped high enough or spun fast enough you would grow wings and fly away.

You were in your element. You kicked your foot back before bringing it forward, using it to start your jump. You spun in the air and landed on one foot, your other leg spread out and leading the twirl you used to end the jump. The stadium cheered, Sam said something about a triple axel.

Steve wished the song lasted forever, wished he could watch you forever, but soon there was a flute trilling and you slowed, circling back to the center of the rink and just like that—your performance was over. The crowd exploded into cheers, throwing flowers, stuffed toys, anything they had in their pockets.

You broke into a smile, your plump lips parting and bringing out your dimples. Steve swooned as you waved to the crowd, bending to pick up a rose. Your gaze met his, and he swore he felt fireworks erupt in his chest. You smiled at him before skating off the ice, hugging a man sporting a red lightweight jacket with the USA logo embroidered on the sleeve, his dark hair slicked back. Steve watched as you smiled at him, not missing the way he stared at your ass as you turned away.

Then, suddenly, you were in first place. Your eyes went wide and you jumped up, hugging the man in the red jacket—Steve assumed he was your coach. He heard your squeal above the rest of the cheers.

Even from where he was sitting, your eyes were bright, brighter than your smile. Steve was proud of you, pride swelled in his chest as he watched you speak with a reporter. His eyes stayed glued to you as you shook hands with the reporter, your coach walking you to the locker rooms. He watched you until he couldn't anymore.

A strange desire pulled at his heart as he pulled his Stark Pad out, looking you in F.R.I.D.A.Y.'s database.

After watching your performance every other skater seemed dull, incomparable, to you. The judges must have thought so, too. You stayed in first place, winning the competition.

According to F.R.I.D.A.Y, you grew up in Chicago, but you moved to Manhattan for college. You got a new coach, Adrian Tucker, who was a gold and silver medalist back in the nineties. You're a junior at NYU, majoring in Art History. You have an Instagram, some sort of social media Peter had been trying to convince him to get, and Steve created an account immediately just to follow you. You had pictures of yourself, of friends, of the rink, even a pair of ballet shoes.

So you did ballet, good to know.

The award ceremony couldn't come soon enough. The idea of being closer to you sent butterflies fluttering through his stomach. Ever since he had gotten him back, Steve and Bucky have been talking about settling down—creating a life with a girl and starting a family. But they haven't found the right partner, but maybe. . . ?

When he stood in front of you, he swore he almost stopped breathing. You were gorgeous. Your hair had been taken out of the bun, cascading down your shoulders in loose waves. Your makeup was still done the same, but he noticed light freckles dotting along the bridge of your nose. Your eyes sparkled up at him—good God, you barely stood past his chest—your painted lips parted in a smile as you took him in. He placed the gold medal around your neck, congratulating you. You whispered a small, "thank you, Captain," and Steve felt a spark of electricity jolt down his groin.

Your voice was light, melodic, quiet. You were respectful, something he valued in people, in women. He could almost imagine you posed as the perfect housewife. With the perfect husband—or husbands—with the white picket fence, the kids. He could imagine your belly swollen, the little children running around calling you 'mama'. You were young, right at that age where women would start becoming wives and mothers back in his day. The thought only made his cock harder as he watched you on the platform, waving to the audience with the biggest smile on your face.

As he sat back down next to Sam, he pulled his phone out of his pocket. He pulled up Bucky's contact and sent him a picture from your Instagram.

'I think I found her,' he typed.

Bucky remembered the first time he realized he was in love with Steve—he was sixteen. He had danced around with plenty of girls already but none of them ever really seemed to stick. He had saved up enough money to spend Steve's birthday at Coney Island, that was the day he made Steve ride the Cyclone, back when he was still skinny. He had bought Steve a hotdog, which a pelican attacked him over. Bucky was crying from laughter, face red and stomach aching, when he looked over at Steve. Something just clicked then.

The past couple of months, Steve and Bucky had been making plans to add a third partner into life. After all this time, fighting Nazis and being mind-controlled and saving the universe time and time again, they both agreed they deserved it—that they deserved a family. They had both been selfless for so long, was it so wrong to want someone to be selfless for them? To want someone soft that could share their love?

Steve and Bucky were great together—the love of each other's lives, in fact—but they shared an overwhelming need to dominate, to control. On and off the field. When they fucked they were ruthless, full of scraping nails and biting teeth. Fingertips that left bruises that lasted for days. They needed someone else, someone they could focus that control on, someone who could take them so gently and lovingly, a way they rarely took each other.

Then he got Steve's text. You were young, and it wasn't hard to find out almost everything he needed to know about you. Steve helped him use F.R.I.D.A.Y to figure out where you live—a small apartment that was close to your college campus. You could walk to class if the weather permitted it. It also wasn't too far from the ice rink you trained at. It was easy for Bucky to find a building across from your suite where they could watch you. You liked to keep your window open, let the sunlight in.

They took turns sitting on the roof of the neighboring building, looking through a pair of binoculars. They would watch you for hours—watch you do simple things like reading. That was Bucky's favorite, the way your lips moved ever so slightly as you read the words on the page. You enjoyed reading horror novels—Steven King, Mary Downing Hahn, an author named Chuck Palahnuik. A worn copy of Bram Stoker's Dracula and Mary Shelley's Frankenstein sat on your bookshelf. At first glance, Bucky never would have pegged you as a horror kind of girl, you were too sweet and too timid. As he continued to watch you through the cameras Steve had him install, though, he saw that you very much liked psychological thrillers. You would watch a show on YouTube about true crime and haunted locations, a couple of amateurs who didn't quite know what they were doing. They were funny, though. Steve and Bucky would watch you laugh as you stared at your phone, smiling to yourself.

You trained at a ballet studio in lower Manhattan, worked out at a gym a block away from that. They were quick to memorize your routine once they started. You'd wake up at five-thirty every morning and make yourself some breakfast. On Monday, Wednesday, and Friday's you hit the gym and the studio; you'd go to whatever classes you had that day, grab a coffee at the campus cafe, then head to the skating rink for two hours. Two and a half hours max. You went home, studied, and then you were left to your own devices. Sometimes you read, sometimes you baked and God, Bucky almost couldn't stop drooling at the thought of tasting your cooking. You'd watch television in your small living room and be in bed no later than eleven o'clock every night to start your day again.

One Monday morning, Steve and had followed you to the gym. They'd been doing that the last few weeks. At first, Steve reasoned it was so they could watch over you, in case you got into some trouble. Some mornings they planned on running into you on the sidewalk, pretending it was an accident—there was a flower cart along your route you liked to stop and admire, sometimes buying a bouquet of daisies for your little bachelor pad—but the timing never seemed right. Steve was never wearing the right shirt, or Bucky's hair was always a mess from the wind.

You took a cab, which Steve followed a couple of cars behind on his motorcycle. The air was brisk, the first signs of spring coming into the city. Some of the trees had started growing their leaves again, vibrant greens against the grey winter sky. He parked his bike underneath a plotted tree that had just started to turn, the tips of the leaves a bright green as blossoms began to bloom, pastel pinks against vibrant greens with petals blowing in the wind. He bought a newspaper from a vendor a couple of stores down and sat on a nearby bench, catching up with the world as he counted down the minutes. You would be in there for an hour and fifteen minutes almost exactly.

Steve almost couldn't sit still. He was itching to get his hands on you, to feel you. He and Bucky have been watching you for a long time now, waiting for the right moment to get their hands on you. Steve was growing impatient.

At forty-five minutes, his eyes began to flick up at the building every few minutes. He knew it wasn't time yet, but there was always a chance you got done early.

At an hour, his gaze hovered just above the paper. Ten more minutes, he told himself.

At an hour and twelve minutes, you emerged. Steve watched as you hugged your coat to your chest and began walking. The studio you danced at was only a block away, so you wouldn't have to be out in the cold for long. Still, Steve couldn't help but chastise you for not wearing something warmer. All you had on were a pair of thin leggings—that hugged your ass beautifully, he might add—and a compression tank top under your lightweight sweater.

Steve rushed to his bike, folding the newspaper in his hand and revving up the engine. He drove down the block, parking in front of a cafe across from the ballet studio. He watched you enter the studio and sat at a table, ordering a cup of coffee. He saw you through the floor-to-ceiling windows, your let stretched up over your head. He reached for his sketchbook and pencil, laying it out on the table before him.

The night of the Olympics, the first time after Steve had seen you, he stayed up all night drawing you. He found a video of your performance on the internet, watching it on repeat as he drew you in different positions. The first sketch he did was of you with your arm over your head, just before you started skating. He found he loved drawing the shape of your lips, so the next sketch was a portrait of your face. Your long lashes were hooded, eyes downcast and your lips parted slightly as the pencil scratched against the paper, your plump lips etched in charcoal. The expression Steve caught you in was oddly ethereal, the kind of innocence that Steve found absolutely breathtaking.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. Steve sighed, pulling the device out of his jeans. Cursing, he reread the message Sam sent, looking back up across the street. You were still in front of the window, leg propped up on a bar with your upper body reaching for your foot. He sighed, closing his sketchbook as he stomped toward his bike.

Steve and Bucky trudged back into the Compound, exhausted and irritated. Not only have they been unable to see you for a week and a half, forced to watch you through the cameras hidden throughout your apartment, but the mission had been a complete bust. They had been sent away to Northern Peru, where Fury had given them intel about a group of HYDRA smugglers shipping illegal weapons into the country. Unfortunately, Steve and Bucky spent twelve days in a cramped, boiling building across from the target's warehouse and managed to find nothing before Fury called them back.

Steve was sweaty, Bucky hadn't taken a shower in a week, and they missed you. Bucky wanted to touch you, he wanted to kiss you until you were breathless. He watched you on his phone when he could, often opting to watch the camera feed than to sleep.

Once they were in their suite, Steve stripped his uniform off, leaving it in a heap on the floor to pick up later. Right now he just wanted to feel clean. He turned the shower on and peeled his boxers off as Bucky undressed, Steve stepping below the showerhead. The warm water felt nice against his taut muscles, his shoulders relaxing under the water pressure. He watched the dirt and grime from the mission get washed away, down the drain in muddy-grey color.

As he massaged shampoo through his hair, his thoughts wandered back to you, fingers itching to run against your skin. The way your lips always looked so soft, how utterly delicious you would look with them wrapped around his cock. The sweet little noises you would make as he forced himself down your throat—you were so small, it wouldn't take much to make you choke on him.

Steve groaned as his fist wrapped around his length. Almost two weeks without imagining you on your knees, imagining your mouth on him and he was oh so sensitive. He cursed, running his thumb over his slit. He pictured your tongue dragging against his girth, your wrecked expression as you struggled to take him deeper, as Bucky struggled to fit himself in behind you. He fisted himself faster, gasping out your name.

"Yeah, baby," he mumbled to himself. "Just like that. Fuck."

He could only imagine how beautiful you would look when you came. Your skin sweaty, hips bucking, your innocent little eyes rolling to the back of your head as you squealed. Oh, you were definitely a squealer. They would make you cum over and over and—

He bit back a moan as he came, hot white spurts coating his stomach as he slowed his movements, nerves on fire. He sighed, rinsing himself off before he turned the water off. He was still hard, he wasn't sure he'd be able to get himself off.

The tips of his fingers buzzed as he redressed himself and Bucky hopped in the shower. Steve didn't know if it was the stress of the mission or the adrenaline you gave him, but he couldn't wait anymore. He didn't have the patience to wait anymore.

He was watching the camera feeds in your apartment when Bucky came out of the bathroom. All it took was one look from Steve—they already had it all planned out, they just had to put it into motion.

You struggled to unlock your door, twisting the key in the lock a few times, cursing as you pushed your shoulder against the door, stumbling as the door swung open. You managed to catch yourself before knocking over your vase of daisies, straightening as you waited for your world to stop spinning.

You knew it had been a bad idea when you agreed to go out tonight. You're such a lightweight and after just three shots and half a glass of wine, you're going to have a killer hangover in the morning. God, and it's three a.m. But Annie had begged you to come with them. You haven't hung out with her in so long, you were desperate to see her again. You just wished she hadn't dragged you out to a bar.

You dropped your handbag on your little dining room table, opening the refrigerator to pour yourself a glass of orange juice. You drank half the glass in a couple of gulps, letting out a sigh as you set the glass down. As you moved to pull your phone out of your purse, you heard the floorboards creak, like someone was taking a step.

You froze, looking down the hall. The boards in your bedroom creak like that when you step down on a certain spot, but you've been in the apartment long enough to learn where it is exactly and step around it.

As quietly as you could, you made your way down the hall, checking the bathroom. You've seen enough horror movies in your life to know never to close the shower curtain when you weren't using it, so with a quick glance you knew the room was empty.

Your bedroom was at the end of the hall, the door cracked open. You walked in, carefully looking around. Your closet door was open, the windows were closed, you turned and looked towards your dresser mirror and—

You saw the figure behind you before you could react. Your eyes went wide, their hand coming up to cover your mouth before you could muster a scream. Your hands flew up to the hand, legs kicking out as the intruder dragged you out of your bedroom. You screamed into the hand, thrashing as you felt a sharp prick in your neck.

"It's alright," they cooed. "Shhh, it's okay, doll. You're just gonna go to sleep for a little while, okay?"

You shook your head frantically, tears streaming down your face as you felt your body getting tired. You blinked furiously, trying to fight the sleepy feeling. Your muscles felt like dead weight, you stopped kicking your feet as your grip on the man's cold hand went slack.

"That's a good girl," he crooned. "Just relax, kitten. I'm not gonna hurt you."

Your tongue felt heavy in your mouth. Your vision blurred, and then everything went black.

431 notes · View notes

lucky-bucky-boy · 4 years

Text

Cruel Summer Pt. III

Summary: Based loosely off of Cruel Summer by Taylor Swift. Things seem to be on a roller coaster, highs and lows and jumping emotions. A discussion about one of the pivotal points of their relationships that could either be the start of a new beginning or the awakening of a terrible ending.

Word Count: 1818

Warnings: Angst, fluff, manipulative-ish speech, very slight age gap, implied smut, almost ddlg elements but not quite (Please let me know if I missed anything, I will be happy to add on)

A/N: Tags are at the bottom. I am so sorry this took literally a lifetime to write and get out but its FINALLY HERE. Will be added to AO3 at some point. NO spoilers, takes place before the events of Knives out. Read Part One Here // Read Part Two Here

I do not own these characters. Do NOT repost my writing and/or fics anywhere without my written permission. Reblogs, likes, comments, and constructive criticism welcomed and highly appreciated.

Hummingbirds sang their beautiful song, fluttering through the evening sun. Wind bristling through the trees, the faint sound of wind chimes and a bird splashing in the bird bath. The outside air; light and warm, a breath of life and happiness. Almost taunting with how it didn't change from how it was left.

It was a stark contrast to the nearly tangible heaviness that cast itself inside, sitting thick and awkward. The sound of a metal spoon clinking against glass nearly drowning out the sound of the help Ransom paid to stay and make dinner. The warmth of the cup of tea keeping thoughts from straying too far as tension begin to settle.

Uncomfortable shifting in the dining chair, occasional, timid glances to the man next to you. Never had you ever seen him look so raw. His hair pushed back from running his hands through it so many times, instead of from the numerous products you knew he had stocked in his closet. The sweater he wore, albeit already worn, was so stretched out from him pulling on the cuffs that it naturally just rested against his palm. One hand fiddled with the fabric as he bit at his nails on the other.

The last time he even looked remotely this nervous was after a few drinks when he showed you some writing he had done, something he hid but was proud of. And that was easily more than a year ago. But now, now was different. This almost looked like regret.

After a quick sip of the warm liquid to calm your nerves, you cleared your throat, looking over at him. Ransom's gaze quickly snapped to focus in on you, waiting for you to speak.

"You asked me to stay, so what is it you could possibly want to talk about now?" You hadn't meant to sound so rude, but the exhaustion and irritability of the situation had settled heavily. You'd give anything to just have this over with, to be able to be alone and process everything.

Ransom opened his mouth to speak, but closed it before letting out a sigh as he ran a hand through his hair. "I just don't understand how we're somehow on the same page and not at the same damn time. Frankly, I don't understand how we were both there and you somehow… came out feeling like, like that about it, about me."

A scoff escaped from you, shaking your head and looking at him with utter bewilderment written on your face. "Ransom, you truly don't see how I could have fallen in love with you?" His only response was a look that was somewhere between confusion and certainty, as if he was confused as to how love was even an option.

"Okay then," you took another sip of your tea before staring back at him, determined at this point to at least make him see it your way, if not to even hurt him a little. "Tell me, how do you remember our trip to Paris?"

He huffed out a chuckle that was void of amusement, eyebrows scrunched as he shrugged, "I don't know, it was about a month after I started fucking your brains out. Woke up one morning and told you to pack a bag, which you did because at that point you did whatever I said, and we flew to Paris in my private jet. We spent a week there, having sex and eating at fancy restaurants. I bought you a bunch of clothes and jewelry. Then we came home."

Your eyes had fallen shut, shaking your head and clicking your tongue as you opened them. He looked smug, but his attitude quickly changed when he saw the anger and disbelief pouring itself out of you. "That's truly how you remember that trip?"

He shrugged, "Yeah," his voice faltered softly as he continued, "How do you remember it?"

Some part of you begged not to open that door, not to go diving in to memories that would no doubt leave you even more hurt than before.

Delicate touches and even softer sheets, a soft breeze rustling the sheer curtains that led to the balcony overlooking the city, intricate smells - a warming mixture of coffee, baked bread, and a touch of nicotine.

Everything about it screamed Paris, the city of romance, the city of love and adventure. The city that undoubtedly shifted the emotions that flowed.

"I know you're awake, baby girl," your eyes hadn't even opened yet, a smile creeping on your lips as your skin warmed at the sound of the pet name.

There was that low chuckle, the one the vibrated the chest your head rested on, that made you melt and float at the same time. The delicate touches, the soft swirls he drew on your back turned to a firm squeeze on your hip. "Get your sweet ass up, I'm taking you out."

Ransom slid out from underneath you, soft whines leaving you in protest as you finally opened your eyes to look at him. You were met with his bare backside as he made his way to the bathroom. "I'm too sore to move," you called out with a pout.

He stopped at the door way, looking over his shoulder at you, eyes dark and a shit eating grin on his face. "Well, I suggest if you want me to kiss it better, you better get your ass in the damn shower."

"Where are you taking me?" The words came out as a giggle as you clung onto Ransom's arm, blindfolded and letting him lead you to God only knows as. The ground beneath gradually became flat and smooth, unlike the walkways of the streets.

"You're not selling me off, are you?" You teased.

Ransom chuckled and you could feel his body move as he shook his head. "No, sweetheart. You're worth much more than everything you're about to see. It'd be hard finding someone willing to pay that much."

He stopped moving, reaching up to slowly pull the blindfold off. "You used to talk about visiting art museums all across the world when we were little, so I figured this'd be a nice little treat."

You squealed softly and you took in your surroundings. You were standing in the middle of the Tuileries garden at the Louvre, beautiful sculptures and flora overwhelming your senses. "God! You really do spoil me," you look at him with a bright smile. "Come on, I'm dragging you through as much as possible before you decide it's time to leave."

He smirked and shook his head, "Well, we have reservations at 6 for a restaurant not too far from here. But other than that, the day is yours, princess."

"You're letting me decide what we do for a whole day?" You raised your eyebrows at him.

"What can I say? I'm full of surprises," that cocky tone was something you were coming to love more than tolerate, "Lead the way."

It was no wonder Ransom made you wear a nicer dress that day, insisting on you putting a little more effort into your appearance than usual. He never asked for anything like that. You found it odd earlier that morning as you smeared his favorite red lipstick across your lips, but as you stood outside the restaurant where meals cost easily as much as your phone bill, you understood.

A balcony seat with a view overlooking the city. The sun was just starting to set, spreading hues of pink, purple, and gold in the sky as the lights from the Eiffel Tower could be seen glowing in the distance. People were still bustling in the streets, couples hand in hand, kids running and laughing, the occasional Parisian leaning against the stone building with a cigarette. It hit you then that there was no one else you'd want to be in Paris with.

Already, Ransom had pulled your seat out for you and pushed you in, ordered your drinks and food for you, and as you looked back at him you caught him staring. For just a split second there was something more to the look on his face, a glisten in his eyes you'd never seen before. But, just as soon as you saw it, it was gone. A smirk spread across his lips, his eyes set back to their normal hue and you wanted nothing more than to smack it off his face.

Not because he was being an asshole or because he was right about something (and knew damn well you were wrong), but because you knew this time that smirk was hiding something. But the time to pester and whine was neither here nor there when you were surrounded by riches, lavished in the luxury that was Paris, the upscale restaurant, and the company of Ransom.

The cool metal of the railing nipped through the material of your shirt as you overlooked the now dark city from the comfort of your hotel room. A few glasses of wine you normally wouldn't drink, a shared cigarette you didn't quite like but did anyway because "it's a part of the experience"; and quite honestly, Ransom could get you to try anything at least once.

The padding of his bare feet across the floor and onto the patio pulled you out of the replay the was looping in your head. The soft smiles, the feeling of his hand in your, the laughter and warmth that filled your chest all day quickly being pushed to the side as he reached his arms around you, quicker than you could turn around.

Ransom clasped a necklace around your neck and when you looked down to examine it your heart swelled. A dainty, chain with a nice size diamond laid against your skin. If you didn't know any better your say it resembled a heart but… maybe that was just wishful thanking.

"Ransom, you didn't have to ge-"

"I wanted to," he quickly cut you off, "And be a good girl for me and don't ever take it off." He looked at you expectantly as you looked back at him, eyes glossy and a slight pout to your lip as emotions overwhelmed you. "Promise?"

"Promise."

Reaching into your bag you pulled something out. Without even looking at it you tossed it at him, annoyance and hurt written on your face as you both watched the diamond necklace skitter toward him and stop by his hand that rested on on the table.

You watched as Ransom picked it up, swallowing hard and jaw setting as he examined the piece of jewelry. A sigh and shake of his head as he eyes fell to the little "H" he had engraved on the backside of it.

You smirked, huffing and biting the inner corner of your cheek before speaking, "Go ahead and tell me again how this was just an arrangement."

Taglis (cross through means you were unable to be tgged) @sweetlittlegingy @star-spangled-steve @jessiejunebug @fresa-luna @thegirlwithpaperheart @jesaigne @introvertedmouse @sinner-as-saint @sp2900 @qrndevans @dammitcaswhy @livsheph @darcia22 @paranjaperiyauniverse @dramaticsassmaster @rose-k @lovemesomeavengers @steeeeverogers @hidden-behind-the-fourth-wall @bemysugarbean @dreamlesswonder86 @ambrosixx @heyiamthatbitch @daazzeey, @fresa-luna @bitchcraftandwitchery @thatoneslytherinbeater @breezyfreezey @quesadellacatburglar @renxzs @imsonick @sambucky8 @honeybabybubba @lover1307 @marvelismysafezone @bxby-kittxn @nibbles7192 @21stcenturywitchcraft @ssworldofsw @im-married-to-chris-evans

148 notes · View notes

redqueen-hypothesis · 4 years

Text

tied together pt. 1 ➳ mlqc

➳ WORD COUNT: 1874

➳ GENRE: fluff

➳ SYNOPSIS: how would the mlqc boys (gavin and kiro) propose?

➳ REMARKS: this literally came out of nowhere, it’s 3am and i need to sleep. check out the inspiration for kiro’s song here!

GAVIN

he realises it on a completely average day

you’re over in his house for a surprise date-but-not-quite date, chiding him for not stocking up on his kitchen enough for you to make a proper dinner - he’s lucky you haven’t discovered his cup noodle stash in the bottom cupboard

the two of you end up ordering take in together

you’re blowing on some hot dumplings before you place them on his plate, rambling to him about your homemade food may not taste as good but is more healthy, when it hits him out of nowhere

yeah, gavin wants to have this everyday for the rest of his life

normal days don’t feel mundane in the least when you’re by his side like this, in fact, each day becomes more and more precious to him, no matter how ordinary they are

he wants to spend the rest of his life with you

this realisation almost scares him, because while he knows that he’s been in love with you for a long time, marriage is different - do you want to marry him? should he really go ahead with taking this step - making you his?

gavin is kind of out of it for the rest of the evening, just... thinking about it

imagining how you would be like if the two of you were married, his ring on your finger

his arms wrapped around you when he goes to sleep and when he wakes up in the morning

you helping him put on his tie before he leaves for work

all the cliches, he’s a sweet boy that way

gavin finds that he wants that more desperately than anything he’s ever wanted in the world, he wants to be the one that makes you happy. for the rest of your lives

the second you leave the house, gavin’s mind is scrambling to think about whether you’ll accept or not if he did propose

this goes on for a while, until one day eli calls you and asks you why gavin has been spacing out at work here and there

not enough for him to be a danger or for him to be shirking work, of course (you know how seriously gavin takes his job), but enough for eli to steal gavin’s pork chops right under his nose - and the man didn’t even realise!

that immediately has you worried

when you confront gavin about it, however, the man looks as cool as a cucumber as always

“eli thinks i’m spacing out? i noticed, i just let it slide.”

for some reason, that’s even more worrying to you (gavin giving up his meat? no way)

he’s actually panicking on the inside, oh my god eli shut up shut up shut up-

he eventually gets exposed to minor, who’s almost as ecstatic about this proposal as gavin is, this is his best bro trying to get married here!!

minor acts as gavin’s secret agent in the company, trying to figure out your ring size with the stupidest excuses

“it’s dark, i’m scared and just need to hold your hand.”

asks the most obvious questions ever like “on a scale of one to ten, how much would you like to marry gavin?”

anna, kiki and willow catch on fast enough and drag him away the second he tries to approach you in case you find out

minor has the subtlety of an elephant stomping through a china shop

plan minor is bust

gavin just gives up on elaborate planning and buys a simple ring

he doesn’t really know when the moment is the moment, so he just keeps the ring in a box in his pocket, waiting for whenever the moment shows itself

and the moment comes a few days later, when the two of you are washing up the dishes together after dinner, and he finds that he can’t stop looking at your soapy hands

part of his brain is terrified, insistent on putting it off, because what if you say no?

the other part of his brain is tired from all this wishy washy and just goes fuck it

reaches into his pocket to pull out the box and pops it open, knows he’s supposed to be kneeling but his brain isn’t working right. gavin stands there dumbly like an idiot, watching you hum to yourself as you continue soaping the dishes

even at this point, he’s still conflicted (to ask or not to ask) but luckily for him, just before he loses his nerves and shoves the ring back into his pocket, you turn around and spot the silver band in his hand

you start to tear up, shocked, while gavin internally panics because his head and tongue seem to have disconnected

forgot the script he’d spent nights working on writing and ends up fumbling out a hoarse “will you marry me?”

it’s then he realises why he’s been so terrified the entire time, he can’t chance you rejecting him, because he can’t imagine a future without you in it

you look at him as if he’s grown a second and third head, and he nearly flees out of your window before you’re wrapping your arms around his middle to tug him back into your apartment

“yes! yes, of course, yes! a million times, yes!”

there are tears in the corners of your eyes, and he brushes them away with a shaky hand before he kisses you on the lips

after the dizziness of the proposal settles down, gavin slides the ring onto your finger with gentle hands

keeps your hands together for the rest of the night

KIRO

realises it when you’ve been pouting a bit over female celebrities trying to get close to him right in front of you

he finds it cute, of course, but he feels like it’s time to settle down, to show you that he’s as much yours as you are his

the public does not know that he’s dating in secret, and the company would surely throw a fit if they know what he’s up to

decides not consult savin about this (uh oh)

has watched plenty of romance dramas, and has acted in countless of them. he knows the drill, diamond ring, tearjerker script and crying girl equals to profit!

but kiro doesn’t want that

he wants it to be special, a unique memory that only the two of you will share together

he’s releasing an album soon, it’s in the production stages, so he decides to add an unplanned song to it, one that he’ll compose and write completely from scratch on his own

manages to act pretty natural around you, although you tend to catch him staring at you with an uncommonly serious look when you’re not looking

it’s not that kiro can’t be serious, but it just isn’t like him to be silent for so long - he’s usually chattering on about something or bursting into random songs that are stuck in his head

surprisingly (to you), he consults you about the new addition to his album, asking you about your taste in music, how you feel about the lyrics

from what you can see, it’s a sweet love song with simple melodies, but deceptively emotional lyrics

he hides the full track from you though, even if you pout and whine

“you’ll just have to find out about it when it drops,” he laughs mischievously

you resign yourself to waiting for another month

the night before, kiro tells you to wait for him at the cross junction for him the next day so that the two of you can celebrate his album release together at souvenir - but he also makes you promise not to listen to the mystery track, he wants to be the first one to sing it to you, with his own lips, and his own voice

and the day it does, social media explodes into a frenzy over the mystery track, simply titled ‘sun’

while the song seems light and cheerful at first, the lyrics have a deeper meaning to them that fans can’t quite decipher, referencing memories and dates together, before bringing up hopes of a future - a future together

you don’t see all of this, however, firmly avoiding all social media to prevent yourself from breaking your promise to kiro

you’re waiting at the crosswalk for him at night after work, a little tired from your day at the office. it’s quiet from how late it is, and the streets are a rather empty, and yet, there’s still no sign of your boyfriend

kiro’s a little late

suddenly, the sounds of a guitar strumming ring out through the quiet night air, and you turn around in surprise to see kiro walking towards you slowly, playing a melody that’s both familiar, but also one that you don’t quite recognise

wait, he’s not wearing his mask or any disguises. people are already starting to turn and stare: is it really kiro? his gaze is fixed solely on you

normally, you would run to him, but the sincere, raw expression on his face glues you to the spot - others must feel it too, because not a single person dares to approach him, not with that fierce determination you see burning in his eyes

when he reaches a short distance from you, he stops and gives you a gentle smile, right before he starts to sing

“i was just one star out of infinity, but you made me your sun. this world of mine was barren, but your warmth filled me with life.”

it’s your song - the song that belongs to the two of you - of your story together, the way you’ve changed his life

“you said i belonged among the planets and the galaxy, but you held the universe inside.”

you don’t even realise you’re crying until kiro starts tearing up as well, and his voice breaks as he reaches the end of the song

“could i be selfish, reach up to pluck the stars and pull the universe into my hands?”

you know what he’s asking

“would you... be mine?”

as the song ends, kiro plucks off the ring hanging off one of the tuning pegs of the guitar, walking up to you with a shy, gentle ‘hey, miss chips’

you throw yourself into his arms when he’s halfway into kneeling, and that’s all the permission he needs to claim your mouth in front of the crowd that’s gathered at the cross junction

they scream and cheer, because it’s kiro finally getting together with the love of his life and he looks so damned happy they can’t help but feel happy for him as well

puts the ring on your finger and kisses it, stroking his thumb over it like he can’t quite believe that it’s there

the news blows up while the two of you beat an escape, kiro donning his disguise as you wrap your hand around his

the two of you have a quiet dinner in souvenir. the chef even makes a special pudding for the two of you, shaped like a small sun

savin throttles kiro the next day at work before congratulating him, and threatens to toss all his snacks in his sleep if he ever pulls such a stunt again

kiro still thinks it’s worth it

#mlqc #mlqc fanfic #mlqc headcanon #mlqc gavin #mlqc kiro #gavin bai #mr love gavin #gavin x reader #kiro #kiro zhou #mr love kiro

71 notes · View notes