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vbpotter · 3 years

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Malfoy (James Potter x reader)

Warnings: Angst

A/n : I take requests <3

We all love someone . They say, that loving someone is the best feeling. They say that loving someone feels like you are floating in the air, their thoughts clouding your mind. They say that loving someone is peaceful, because you have finally found your home. They say that Loving someone is like having something to heal you, to carry you, to encourage you. They say that loving someone is worth living for.

But, only a few people know what it is like to not be loved. Only some people know what it feels like. Only some people know how much it hurts. Only some people know how it feels to be ignored, to be the second choice, to not be loved by your family, to not be loved by the person you have handed your heart to. Only some people know how much it hurts to be not loved , to always be the second choice, to always be the least preferred one, to always be not enough, to always be a disappointment, to live with no love.

Someone who knew exactly how it felt like was Y/n Malfoy.

Yes..... Y/n Malfoy.

The Youngest Malfoy of the family.

Now..... Growing up as the only daughter of the family, and not to mention the youngest child would have been easy, right? especially if you are from a rich family who has high standards and is very respectable, having elves to do your work left and right, to be raised like a princess?

Yes.... She was raised like a princess..... But not a normal princess..... She was raised as Rapunzel.

Trapped in a tower, hidden from the outside world , learning everything that the people of the tower taught her, believing that what the people of the tower said was always true ..... Until one day, she decided to know what the outside world was.

So she ran, escaped from under dozens of gazes, unseen. And..... For the first time in her life, she saw something worth looking at.

She happily skipped around, looking at the trees filled with flowers, that were so different from the dark trees surrounding her Manor. She saw beautiful birds chirping , multi coloured birds that were so different than the white peacocks that she usually saw at Malfoy Manor. She saw the sky, light blue with different shapes of clouds floating in it, it was so different than the dark ceiling of the Malfoy Manor.

She smiled and ran, admiring the scenery around her. That is when she reached an open area, that she guessed was a playground. She saw a couple with a young boy. That was the time five year old Y/n Malfoy met James Potter for the first time.

Since that day, Y/n would sneak out from Malfoy Manor every evening for an hour, during the time when her mum was at her daily Tea Party with her friends, her father in his library and her brother playing the piano.

She and James would play on the swings and chat happily. She even got to know his parents, Fleamont and Euphemia Potter, who were very happy that James had someone to play with ,since they lived in a large Manor at the edge of a small forest .

Everything went smoothly, until one day, her brother caught her sneaking out. That was probably the worst day of Y/n's life .She still vividly remembered her brother's harsh glare, her parents' disappointed looks and the punishment she received afterwards. That was the first time Y/n had been tortured with the Cruciatus Curse, not knowing that she would be receiving more of it in the future.

The Malfoys were forced to move away , since - the Dark Lord ordered them to .

Malfoy Manor was then established at an even worse place, in the Middle of a Dark Forest , its location unknown to everyone. Even Y/n didn't know in which part of the world they were living in , but, the life of the six year old Y/n was already ruined.

The next five years of her life were the worse. She felt as if she was trapped even more tightly in the tower, like Rapunzel.

There were house elves around her room every hour of the day. She was forced to wear long and puffy dresses , which she hated . She was forced to go to fancy Balls and meet new people, mainly boys her age. She hated it, her parents were determined to get her married at a young age to a respectable boy form a pure blood family, so that they didn't have to deal with her anymore. It was disgusting. They were trying to arrange or even engage a six year old with a boy her age, or even quite older than her.

She hated their ideas. She would wince, whenever someone talked about Muggles and Muggleborns.....in such a way t-that even the worst person in the world didn't deserve to be t-talked to or about. She had snapped at such people many times, and she had been punished...... The same number of many times. So much, that the cruciatus curse didn't hurt her anymore.

Her parents couldn't kill her, nor disown her. Because , the dark lord said that young children were valuable and that they would be useful for his army in the future .

Y/n still remembered ,the day when she was united with James Potter. She was on the Hogwarts Express , going to Hogwarts for the first time. Her parents had just lectured her about not to talk to 'filthy people ' and her brother had left her with a harsh glare , running towards the prefects compartment where he was to be sitting.

Y/n sighed after her brother left her with another of his classic Malfoy glares. She looked around and headed forward, searching for a compartment with the least people or no people at all. She finally found one, only one person was sitting in there.

" Hey! Can I sit here? " Y/n asked. The person who was staring out of the window looked at her, and Y/n felt her throat dry down when she was met by a familiar pair of Hazel eyes, only this time - they were covered by thick round glasses.

"J-James ?" Y/n muttered, her voice shaking.

" Y-Y/n?" The boy asked and Y/n felt a wave of Happiness overcome her.

And then after years, the two long separated friends embraced each other in a warm hug. But, James didn't know that Y/n was ten times more happier to see him than he was to see her.

As Y/n, now in her 7th year, sat in the couch of Gryffindor common room, she felt herself smile as she was reminded of the memory.

Y/n was sorted into Gryffindor, giving her parents and brother another reason to hate her.

She and James were quick to become close friends again , and soon, they were joined by Sirius, Remus and Peter - the 5 of them, together being the Marauders.

Since First year, James was obsessed over Lily , Y/n's fellow roommate. She and Lily weren't friends, per say, but - they didn't hate each other either. The two would always have small conversations and would often discuss their homework notes together.

Y/n never opposed to the idea of her best friends chasing after Lily . She always encouraged him to go forward , she always encouraged him that he could do it . But , It was in her fourth year did she realize that what she felt towards James wasn't just friendship . She realized that the little weigh she felt on her shoulders after hearing him ramble about Lily was not tiredness , she realized that the little churning of her stomach around him , the blush she got when he flirted with her without even realizing it .......all of it , was not just platonic ........at least not for her .

But, she didn't act Bitchy like others would have in this situation. She didn't get angry when James ditched her loads of times just to try to spend time with the red Head. She didn't get annoyed when he treated her like one of the boys.

All she did was smile. She plastered a fake smile on her face and encouraged him to keep going, to try and get the Red Head.

But, even though she felt the weight of the whole world on her shoulders, even though she felt her heart sink down day by day - she was happy. She was Happy for her best friend.She was happy when she saw him progress on the Red Head he had been chasing after, She felt happy when he was happy. And..... She knew that she shouldn't be Selfish. She had accepted her fate long ago, she had accepted that she and James weren't meant to be together. She had accepted that she had to stay with this weight her entire life. But a little part of her ...........It told her that she could at least hope ...................But then , another part of her told her that she was useless and worthless, nothing but a waste of space . And Oh-How it crumbled her .

Despite it all, Y/n always stood by him. She stood by him when he cried , she stood by him when he felt like he was not good enough , she stood by him when he needed to hold someone ..........he held onto her and she never complained .

James didn't know, but, he had landed all the weight of his life and feelings on the girl, and it broke her. But she still stood by him, every time, as a friend, never asking for anything, never asking for more, never caring about herself, never wanting anything other than helping him, even though her whole existence was the thing she needed help with.

She didn't only stand up alongside James. She stood up for Peter when he was bullied and body shamed for being fat. She comforted him when he cried.

She stood by Remus when he felt like he was a monster. She was the one to help him along with the other Marauders during the full moons .She was the one who would heal Remus's wounds in the middle of the night, in the early morning, or whenever Remus felt like he wanted someone to heal is wounds and whisper soothing words in his ear. She was the one who taught Remus that you always have something worth living for, even though she herself didn't know why she was living.

She stood with Sirius when he was disowned, when His Brother hated him, when Sirius felt like he was a mistake, a disappointment.

Despite, she never had anyone to hold onto . Her parents and brother , who were supposed to be her family, treated her like a piece of trash . She was alone , but she never showed it . Just because she didn't want to be a burden , just because she didn't want to be Selfish .

Sirius and Remus knew about her feelings for James, the two could look through her smile completely. Peter was an oblivious person and he never knew what was going on, but still, the three of them always were there to cheer her up , but - none of them saw the completely broken her.

Y/n looked around the Gryffindor common room she was currently sat in. She looked at the time and realized that the boys should have been back from their daily "boys time" by now.

Just as the thought crossed her mind, The portrait hole of the Common room opened and in came Remus , Sirius and Peter, laughing loudly.

" Good evening, gentleman. You are 5 minutes late " Y/n said, folding her hands over her chest and showing the three her watch. The three gave her guilty smiles and settled themselves on the couches around her .

" Guys.... Where is James? " Y/n asked looking around. Sirius and Remus exchanged a look and avoided looking at her . Peter was sitting as if he didn't know what was going on , like always.

The next second The Portrait Hole opened and In walked James and Lily, their arms wrapped around each other and their clothes and hair looking disheveled and.... Both of them had the biggest smile on their faces.

Y/n saw , as James led Lily towards the girls' dorm staircase . Lily whispered something in his year and the both of them giggled . Lily plated a kiss on his cheek , and then giving him a wink-she left , leaving James behind - Who's face was as red as Lily's hair.

He stared at her all the way until she disappeared . Then , he turned around swiftly - Smiling so widely that it looked as if his cheeks would split in half .

"SHE SAID YES! SHE SAID YES , GUYS!!!!!" James Shouted , his voice shaking a bit due to happiness .

In a second , Remus and Sirius's heads snapped towards Y/n - giving her sad looks . But , the reaction from her was not what they expected .

She smiled. And it wasn't a fake one - it was a genuine one .

Y/n felt her heart clench at James's words . But , she noticed how happy he was , she noticed how happy she made him . And in that moment, she completely accepted the fact that he loved Lily , and that the two belonged together . She accepted that Lily made him happy . She was happy that her friend finally found someone he deserved , finally found someone worthy of Him . Y/n always knew that she didn't deserve him , she didn't deserve to have him in her broken life . Even though she was distraught , her best friend's happiness was all she needed . And she smiled. She smiled because he was happy , she smiled because she finally figured it out , she smiled because she knew that he would be happy . And Y/n would do anything , anything to bring her friends happiness , even if it meant giving up her own .

" Ooohhh ..............Congrats , Romeo " Y/n said enthusiastically , smiling up at her best friend .

Part 2 coming up..........

#marauders #marauders era #hogwarts #angst #James Potter #lily evans #jily #james potter x reader #james potter x lily evans #Remus Lupin #malfoy #y/n malfoy #Sirius Black #marauders angst #i am going mad lol

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pyroclaststan · 3 years

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“Am I ever gonna get your name?” Ricardo asks, sunset lit like amber against his bronzed brown skin, reminiscent of a painting you’ve seen somewhere by someone who will never catch the colours vividly enough by comparison to what’s before you.

A hard swallow follows that thought—the movement most likely caught with your mask raised as it is. The perspiring rim of your beer sends beads of water that cut paths against the grime that has settled onto your lips and chin.

You are, as always, thinking too much.

Hearing and feeling and seeing too much. Like the burgundy blush across the cheeks of a man who’s only heat and fevers have come from a hard day’s heroics, port infections, and the lipsticks of tabloid flings.

You’re still doing it.

“I know: I ask too much, too often,” he continues in a softer tone, “but I’d really, really like to know. You’ve gotta be someone other than ‘Sidestep.’ Who’s under the mask?”

It’s almost an aside with the way his voice goes far too soft, as if the question were more of a prayer to some distant deity listening far too closely to the business of mortal men. He stumbles on, uncharacteristically hesitant enough for you to know he’s sincere: he’s trying his best to patient when he’s only ever been about being on the move. Charge changing pace?

He’s speaking like you do. Less stutter though.

You tilt the bottle upwards and let the bitter hops wash down panic that threatens to lodge itself in your throat and choke you. It seems that beneath the bile and nerves, it’s actually words holding themselves hostage in your mouth. A taste far more bitter than anything Ortega has ever brought you to drink.

But isn’t he right? You have to be someone at the end of it all. You have to be someone right now: no more mimicking and miming and piecemealing from the minds you pick like carrion to get through the day. You have to be you, whoever that’s going to be.

You swish once, then twice, letting the mouthful swirl around your brain as you fish for answers with your tongue. A swallow of decision.

It’s an unintentionally hard sigh that slips through your lips. You will regret this: not because of him, but because you will not live up to the humanity a name will give you. Or so you think.

You do think too much.

“Kingsley.” The word—the name—comes too easily and unbidden to your mouth and sits too heavily in the air.

That’s probably a foolish name, a suspicious name... definitely a name meaning little-to-nothing for someone self-made. Now that you’re actually thinking, it probably sounds as fake as your presence in his life, and your dread is palpable as he mouths it, tasting the authenticity of it. Perhaps setting it against the memories he has of you that he has yet to admit to having, or against some cover name he’d heard you called back when you were another rough soul on the streets.

“Kingsley,” he repeats with an air of breathlessness, of reverence, of relevance you’ve never thought yourself owed nor deserving of.

It’s a single word, your word—your name—yet it knocks the breath from you. Feels right, despite it all. And more so, it feels safe on his tongue, locked away behind his lips or the brilliant grin he shines your way, somehow eclipsing the blinding glow of the Los Diablos sun.

You stop thinking so much, probably still too much, but the thoughts aren’t threatening in the way they were earlier. The hum from Ortega’s mind, mods, and mouth is grounding in a way you hadn’t expected of the electric hero. Everything is duller yet more crisp in the same moment, buzzing almost. Not as tense as before.

Now is your focus on the cool glass in your hands, moistening your glove’s fabric and resting in your palm like relief.

Now is the almost musical tune to the way he whispers your name over and over under his breath as if trying to find the perfect tone to it, accompanied by the rhythm your dangling leg taps away at against the side of the roof.

You’ve never sat this still since your life started.

But now is filled with the static that builds in the air, his feelings reflecting in his mods that make his hands almost crackle with electricity—he didn’t protect his exposed palm ports from his wet bottle.

You’re not sure if the charge in the air is that alone, but you’ve no intention to even mention that.

A soft chuckle reverberates in his throat and despite any kind of telepathic connection due to the storm cloud of his mind, you could swear you almost feel it in your own, too. A curious thing from a mind you’ll never know; thoughts and jokes and ideas that pass by you whether you know it or not. Privacy, secrecy. Exciting, terrifying.

He glances your way as you take another sip, then turns a little more, striking a sort of pose as he bends his knee and leans his arm against it, resting his head against his hand. Nothing good will come from his buzz. The grin on his face has replaced his previous expression from wonder to down-right mischief.

“So,” he drawls along, sing-songy, “Will I ever get a last name too?”

“Good night, Ricardo Ortega,” you say with finality, but not without a tone of amusement. Also rubbing it in a little, you can’t resist being an ass in the face of his charms sometimes.

Charms? No no no, his attempts to be charming.

On that note, you finish the rest of your drink quicker than necessary, setting the bottle between the two of you just a little too hard. You stand, keeping a careful balance on at the roof’s ledge, unfurling your limbs to your full height with a stretch and shaking out the numbness and tingles from the way you ball yourself up.

“See you, uh… see you in the next fight.”

Ricardo looks up at you, almost gilded—certainly golden; you’ll never visit another museum again. After his presence, you know they’ll never do beauty any justice. None of those paintings or artefacts would alight the same flame in you as they used to: they don’t carry the same impact as an evening on a Los Diablo rooftop. You suppose that means something, but you’ve yet to figure it out. Or maybe you’re just ignoring it, equally likely.

Something’s changed you think.

Ortega is still there, still watching you with some expression you’ve avoided too much to know.

“Looking forward to it… Kingsley,” he tries out, smiling, satisfied. You could swear his face grew a little brighter.

And with that, you’re off, running and vaulting across the gaps of the buildings, moving freely up and down the heights of roofs and fire escapes and whatever else you can find purchase on. Free running in an attempt to outpace whatever it is that nips on your heels and churns in your stomach.

Kingsley. You let out a breathless chuckle, not entirely devoid of mirth but a little exasperated with how you gave in to him. Again. You’re stuck with that one now.

Ricardo sits there, staying behind, watching you go, wondering what kind of place you rest in when he’s not attached to your hip or settled against your back. He wonders what kind of people take care of you or watch your back in his absence. He hopes you don’t have to do it all alone.

He also knows you’d prefer it if you did, but it just sounds lonely. You feel lonely. Like you could use someone who won’t just let you push them away.

He won’t let go that easily, not when he sees how soft and how warm you can be underneath it all.

He thinks he’d like to meet the real you, underneath it all.

“Kingsley.”

The taste of your name sits so sweet against his lips that it clashes against the beer on his tongue: he couldn’t remember having purchased something so bitter. Something with so much bite.

Right. It had reminded him of you. He’d pick a different one next time.

With your absence the night feels like it’s getting colder, faster—like the drinks are going flat and the air tasting stale. Probably just the tiredness catching up to him: he sees a lot more action-packed days when his partner is cracking skulls alongside him. Partner. He’s got to admit, it’s nice to have someone outside the team watching his back—even a vigilante—when you’re Marshal. It’s not a paycheck, or a duty, it’s choice you made.

Just like you giving him your name. You could’ve said no: you’re never shy about doing so. It wasn’t a nickname, a shortened version, a riddle. Just you.

His cheeks and stomach are both a little warmer at that, and he stands up to shake it all off and get moving. The last hour had been more eventful than any fight they’d picked today. Sure, it wasn’t a whole lot of conversation, with Sidestep—Kingsley—it never was, but it had felt like more was said than ever before.

It feels like something has shifted.

Probably just the balance between the two of you, now that he’s finally receiving knowledge about you in return. Not that he’s minded giving more than you have: the best things take the most work, offer the most challenge. Except you’re not work.

He’s thinking too much—he does that, he’s told.

So he lets his mind wander. Tracing back to past moments, little confessions, brief gestures, and all the small things that mean more with Kingsley than anyone else on Earth.

“Too much,” he chuckles internally, but unwilling to stop.

Something’s shifting.

#The Mischief Scribbles #Fallen Hero: Rebirth #FH:R #FH: Rebirth #fanfic #MC: Kingsley Chrysanta #Ricardo Ortega #Chargestep #firstly: look! something soft instead of sad!!#secondly: I promise I’m still writing lol I’ve just gotta transfer everything from phone notes to tumblr and then clean it #Sidestep #pre-Rebirth #long post

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mintmatcha · 3 years

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9 months, 29 days

Matsukawa and Hanamaki

chapter two of 10 months

CW: nothing in particular for this chapter, but series is an angst story containing mentions of death. be warned

“Oi,” Mattsun’s tugging on his outdoor shoes, trying his best not to crumple the heel. Rain beats against the roof, so hard that a leak has formed in the center of the locker room. It drips so rapidly, that constant little dripdripdripdripdripdrip that dips into his brain and makes him irrationally angry. Everything’s been making him angry today though.

Practice was supposed to end an hour ago. As much as he loves playing, Mattsun wasn't like Oikawa; this kind of work, this kind of pushing himself to the brink, wasn't fun. He wanted to go home, to finish up his homework in complete silence, maybe jack off, and then sleep all fucking weekend.

In fact, if he could go the next couple days without speaking to anyone, he’d be perfectly happy. No parents, no siblings, no exceptions.

“Oi, Issei,” Makki’s shoe thunks against his lower back, firm enough to push him deeper into a squat, and Mattsun feels the corners of his mouth twitch up into a smile. Pain pulses in his knees everytime Makki thumps his dirty old shoe against him. "Did you forget your umbrella again?”

Mattsun’s umbrella sits in his open locker.

“Aren’t you being too casual?” he tries to remember why he was just in a bad mood, but just can’t. His name on Makki's lips bounces around his skull on loop. Issei, Issei, Issei- it's such a pretty name. If he asked, he'd say it again and again, but the gym door's there, unlocked, waiting to be opened, waiting to catch them being too friendly with each other.

“It’s just us. The underclassmen left already and our fearless leaders are still practicing.” Makki shrugs, “They wouldn’t think it was suspicious anyway.”

Mattsun jumps to his feet with all of the energy his body can manage, knocking Makki off balance enough to knock him onto his ass. He lands with a splash, sprawled on his back. They look at each other for a moment, wide eyed as they process the scene. Makki lays in the puddle, that dreaded drip bouncing off his nose and down into his mouth, which is parted in fake horror. His school uniform and bag covered in growing, dark wet spots, probably crawling in athlete's foot. Mattsun freezes, unsure of whether he should apologize or laugh. With a scowl, face knotted up in disgust, Makki silently undoes the latches to his bag and pulls out his umbrella. With a press of the button, it unfolds. The leak forms little droplets that roll down the black fabric onto his stomach.

“No one warned me it was raining inside too.” Makki huffs before then both break into laughter. It’s not that funny, but it’s what Mattsun needed. He doesn’t stop until he’s hunches over, clutching his side and trying to blink away tears, completely breathless. His eyes never leave his friends and that makes it better, makes his body feel warmer.

“Don’t open an umbrella inside; it’s bad luck,” the brunette reaches out a hand and Makki takes it.

The others always talked about holding girl’s hands and enjoying the size difference, enjoying how tiny they felt. They liked the delicate fingers, the thin palms, but Mattsun never really understood it.

Makki’s hands were the same size as his. Coarse and dry, a bit calloused on the palms, and they fit perfectly together with his. His fingers are thick, still sweaty and warm from practice, and yet Mattsun wants them interlaced with his own. Makki squeezes, rubbing his thumb along with lines of his palm like he knows exactly what Mattsun’s thinking about, before pulling himself up.

“Bad luck doesn’t exist, dude.” Makki twirls the umbrella, “Nothing’s going to happen to me.”

“I hope not.” Mattsun adjusts his grip and does exactly what he wants to, squeezing his fingers in between his best friend’s.

“So, did you forget your umbrella?”

Mattsun’s umbrella sits in his locker. It’s sitting there in the open, a bright Seijoh blue. They both see it, they both know it’s there. Mattsun reaches in and pulls on his shoulder bag with a shrug. Then, he silently closes the locker.

“Yeah,” he lies. The lie makes the next part easier to explain to the others, “I was going to wait until the rain stopped.”

Their hands are still joined. He tries not to fixate on the warmth.

“Nah, don’t be stupid,” Makki starts walking and Mattsun follows. He knows the drill by now. “Share with me. I’ll walk you home.”

They step out into the downpour, shoulders pressed into each other, only half covered by the tiny umbrella. They occasionally squeeze each other’s hand, a silent acknowledgement. I know what this means, it says, I know you didn’t need me to walk you home. I know we just needed an excuse.

“My bookbag’s getting soaked, Hiro.”

“Then switch arms, dumbass.”

“Then I couldn’t-” Mattsun chokes on his words as something clatters behind them. He quickly swivels, checking to see if the campus was empty, only to be greeted by emptiness. The rain fogs up the street, giving them a curtain of privacy. This thing between them, whatever it was, was just for the two of them.

“It’s just us, Issei,” Makki cackles, “You worry too much.”

He sighs and continues forward, “I just don’t want people talking.”

“Some friends, like us, are just touchy, it’s no big deal.”

Mattsun dips down and presses his forehead against his friend’s temple suddenly. The humidity of the rain doesn’t hide the long, warm breath Makki lets out at the touch, and the rain doesn’t hide how his eyes flutter shut. Solitude makes him bold.

“Yeah,” Mattsun whispers, lips so close that they almost brush against his cheek. It’s plump, dusty pink that almost matches his hair. “I’m just touchy, I guess.”

Makki nuzzles into the touch. “Your future girlfriend is gonna love that about you.”

“Don’t say stupid things like that.” Mattsun whispers, tugging him closer by the arm until they’re chest to chest. Being wet makes the fabric seem thinner and the space between them seem smaller.

The other guys always talk about short girls: dipping down to kiss them, having their girlfriends stand on their toes for a kiss, feeling big and strong compared to them.

Makki’s face is level with his. It'd be so easy.

“I don’t want a girlfriend.” Mattsun says.

“Oh yeah?” Makki flashes his typical grin, “Then what do you want?”

3:24 Two full hours before his alarm. Mattsun stares at the texture of his ceiling and tries to think about nothing. His hand feels empty. It’s unfair of his brain to remember that moment so vividly. It’s a meaningless memory, something that should have been long forgotten, but god, his brain refuses to let it go. If he closes his eyes, he can still feel the smooth, supple skin against his nose, smell the hint of aftershave Makki bought from the corner store. He flips the pillow and buries his head into the cool side. He tries to think about nothing. Makki's eyes were so sunken in, so flat. It makes his stomach churn to think about it, to think about how he’s dying. He gives up and pulls his phone from the side table. Why does he care? They don’t talk anymore. Makki just wants him to help plan a stupid party. They don’t mean anything to each other. Not anymore. Mattsun checks Twitter. The top trending story is about a breakthrough in neuroscience, but his eyes won’t focus to read it. Exhaustion makes him stupid. His hands shake when he opens his texting app. He tells himself he's texting Midori, but he types in a new number instead. One he knows by heart.

mi>hey mi>could you do breakfast

ht>who dis?

ht>i told you to lose my number yuuji

mi>not yuuji

mi>issei

ht>lmaooooo sorry ht> the old place at 9?

mi>k mi>... why are you awake

ht> headache. ht> why are YOU

Mattsun doesn't answer. He just stares at the ceiling again.

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angstyaches · 3 years

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Please Please Please could you maybe do the next part of that Felix "drinking blood and getting a tummy ache" fic??? I'm just craving tears and fluff and tummy rubs and just 🥺🥺🥺and you are also so talented omg

Aagghh, I promised this so long ago, anon, I’m so sorry! I was reluctant because I thought I had to write emeto into it and Felix would be so ashamed and guilty and I couldn’t bring myself to do it (Fee’s already got quite an angsty storyline coming up), but your request was perfect.

CW: accidental stuffing/overdoing, drinking blood, mention of a dead animal, guilt and worry (but it turns out okay), nausea, stomach ache, mention of emeto (no actual emeto)

Continued from this fic.

“Fee? How are you doing, boo?”

The haze of something between sleepiness and drunkenness was thick as Felix looked up at his talking pillow, Elliott, from the taller boy’s lap. He took a moment to let his hammering heart calm down from the fear of whatever he’d been dreaming about, and admired the wide curves of Elliott’s jawline from below, and the soft smile it was offering.

Remembering the events of the afternoon made something like an anchor sink in Felix’s gut, a metaphor that here was quite appropriate. He wasn’t exactly sure how much a typical anchor weighed, but the weight in his belly must have been at least somewhat comparable.

Then, in a flurry of panic, Felix realised that they were both in the back of Ryan’s car without seatbelts.

He pulled himself forward, feeling Elliott’s hand rest on his back to help ease him up, but the movement was still way too strenuous for his full, aching stomach. Felix whimpered, feeling as though something with giant feet had just tried to use his belly as a trampoline.

“Fee.” Elliott rested his hands on Felix’s shoulders. “Boo, take it easy.”

“Seatbelts.” Felix’s voice was thick and heavy. “We have to put on – put on seatbelts.”

“We’re sitting in the driveway,” Elliott half-laughed. “We’ve been home for about an hour, but I didn’t want to wake you in case you felt sick.”

Felix felt a flash of gratitude amidst the pain radiating from his gut, and turned his body slowly in the seat so that he could face his boyfriend.

“Thank you, darling.”

Elliott gave a tight smile and nodded, as though agreeing that he should be thanked. “My legs are very numb.”

“Sorry. Ugh…” Felix mumbled, easing his back into the seat and running his hands carefully over the swell his belly had made beneath his green, loose-knit jumper. He heard Elliott getting out of the other side of the car, but closed his eyes quickly after.

His senses were tingling with acute awareness, probably heightened by whatever chemicals were produced in a vampire’s body during a hunt. He wasn’t used to feeling like this, to noticing the rhythm of his own heartbeat, the whistling rush of air in his throat and lungs, the volume of liquid in his stomach rocking back and forth like it had its own tidal pull.

He also remembered it all way too vividly, with too much colour and saturation; he remembered getting caught up in thirst and lust and the need to try to impress Elliott by being on the same level as him. He remembered feeling the creature’s meat between his teeth as he sucked the blood from its veins, though it was still pulsing so quickly that it probably would have filled his mouth quickly even if he hadn’t sucked. It had been so fresh, so freshly-delivered from the condition of being alive.

Felix winced as tears sprung to his eyes, partially from the ache in his belly and partially from the memory. It was like all of the nausea and regret of waking up with a hangover.

He opened his eyes again as Elliott slowly opened the car door.

“Come on, Fee,” Elliott coaxed as he offered Felix his arms. His voice was soft, like he was trying to soothe a frightened dog.

Felix took the help with a little pout, leaning his weight against Elliott’s chest when he could. He whimpered when he felt strong arms close around his back, careful not to pin him to tightly.

“Oh, my gosh,” Felix groaned. “Elli, I drank too much. I drank so much –”

“Sssshhh, no, no, no, you’re fine,” Elliott whispered.

“No, I’m not, I – I’m weak, Elli.” The sob that shook Felix’s frame was dry and gentle, like all of his muscles were conscious of the swell of pain in his gut, and knew that sudden, harsh movements would make everything so much worse. “I can’t do a single thing I set my mind to.”

“What are you going on about, boo?”

“I’m just so weak...”

“Come on, crazy, we’re getting you inside.” Elliott’s sigh made his chest rise and fall in front of Felix’s face. “You can take another nap if you want, and I’m sure Ryan has something you can take if it hurts too much. How does that sound?”

Felix ran a hand over his sore belly, shuddering at the oppressive warmth radiating out from it. His stomach was churning in an optimistic attempt to be productive; it hadn’t accepted the fact that it was futile just yet, even if Felix had.

A wet belch rumbled up, tying a knot in his oesophagus somewhere along the way. Felix promptly pressed his fingers a little harder against his stomach to coax up one more burst of air, this one sounding hollow as it made its way up.

“There you go,” Elliott chuckled, rubbing a hand across Felix’s back before attempting to direct him towards the front door. “Does that feel better?”

“No? I hate this so much,” Felix whimpered, lips trembling miserably as he allowed himself to be led. He still held onto his belly, as though afraid of what it would do if it was left to its own devices.

“I know you do,” Elliott assured him. “You’re doing really well, though. Let’s just get you inside.”

He held Felix up as best he could until they made it inside the front door. Felix sensed his boyfriend hesitating in the hallway by the foot of the stairs, as though considering whether their bed would be a better option.

Felix peered up at Elliott from behind drooping eyelids.

“The front room is fine, darling,” he groaned. “I can’t walk upstairs right now. No chance.”

Elliott scanned Felix’s eyes very carefully while holding him in place. “How about a bathroom?”

The trembling in Felix’s lips still hadn’t subsided, and was even creeping into his jaw and making his teeth rattle a bit. There was no doubt that he would probably empty his stomach of every last drop if he was given a toilet to lean over, and his tummy even gave a pleading whine at the thought.

“N-no, I – I don’t want to be sick.”

Elliott’s eyes stopped searching Felix’s, and began to cross over his pale face instead. “You mightn’t have much of a say in that, Fee.”

“I’ll be fine, darling, I promise.” Felix gulped, his throat bobbing ominously. “I just want to lie down. It hurts so much.”

The sofa in the front room was a dark shade of beige. Everything in this room was styled to look a little earthier than the rest of the house. The absence of pure white walls was an instinct relief, but it was nothing compared to sinking down into the cushions and curling up.

“Oh – ow,” Felix whined, unfurling his legs to stop the pinching cramp that gripped his belly. He rolled halfway onto his back so that his stomach wasn’t being pressed into the sofa either.

“That’s it; I’m going to get Ryan,” Elliott decided.

“N-no, darling, don’t.” Felix took hold of Elliott’s hand, drawing it to his chest before holding it gently against his belly. “Please, I just need you to be here with me.”

“What if something’s wrong –?”

“Nothing’s wrong.” Felix let out a shaky laugh between gasps of discomfort. He could feel how pale he face must have been, along with a ripple of cold sweat that broke out across his forehead and shoulders. “You know me, Elli. I just like to complain.”

Looking unconvinced, Elliott turned his hand over so that his palm rested against Felix’s stomach, just as the unsettled thing let out a growl. Felix felt the grumble begin in the swollen point beneath his ribs before it bubbled down and tapered out somewhere just above his belly button.

“Look like you’re not the only one complaining,” Elliott pointed out, smoothing his hand over Felix’s belly with the slightest amount of pressure.

Felix hummed under his breath, all too aware of the sensation of digestion once again trying to take place inside his stomach walls. He could feel a shift in his throat, a quickening of his heartbeat. A shaky hand went to his mouth, hovering uneasily, but there wasn’t even any air trying to escape.

He shivered without warning.

“Are you okay?”

“Mmm – yeah,” Felix mumbled thickly. His throat bobbed with another nauseous gulp. “I’m getting there.”

Elliott’s frown deepened as he kneaded his hand softly over Felix’s abdomen. He paused to redirect his hand whenever a gurgle was emitted from an unexpected area, doing his best to seek out the most uncomfortable points without pushing too hard on anything.

“I know you’re hung up on this,” he said after hearing a growl that travelled halfway up Felix’s chest, “but there’s really nothing to be ashamed about, if you feel sick –”

“’M okay.”

“Okay.” Elliott’s lips were pulled into a thin, resigned smile. “How the hell can you say you’re weak, hmm? You drank almost as much as I did, and you’ve got a much smaller – you know.” He patted Felix’s belly very gently. “Capacity.”

A shaky sigh left Felix’s lips. “My capacity is still very achy.”

“I’m not doubting that at all. Just try to relax. I’ve got you. Okay?”

“Mmhmm. Okay.”

He didn’t know if it was the relief of finally being home, or the gentle press of Elliott’s hand, but the gurgling in Felix’s tummy eventually didn’t feel (or sound) quite so angry anymore. In its calmed state, it swirled and bubbled with the motion of Elliott’s hand, continuing to do so even when Felix’s drifted into a light, if somewhat twitchy, sleep. He smiled semi-consciously at the sensation of Elliott’s lips pressing gently against his cheek.

#Swallow the World #vampire sickfic #vampire stuffing #sickfic #nausea #stomach ache #stomach kink #stuffing kink #ugh I don't usually have to tag for stuffing and it feels weird #but this was fun to write so I don't really mind #Felix #Elliott #sick Felix #belly rubs #belly rubs fic #sick boys

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lookalivefrosty · 4 years

Text

Summertime

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader (but, really, Winter Soldier Bucky x Female Reader)

Summary: Three days ago, the Winter Soldier walked away from Hydra. They’ve just sent you to bring him back.

Word Count: 7,656 words (!!!)

Warnings: a heavy helping of angst, descriptions of injuries and pain, canon typical violence. The reader is an enhanced human with the ability to manipulate pain. (Let me know if you come across any others I’ve missed, I’ll gladly add them!)

*Reblogs of course are welcome, but please do not repost this story to any other websites without my permission!!*

A/N: This was written for @jbbuckybarnes‘s birthday writing challenge. Happy belated birthday, and thank you so much for reassuring me that it was okay to post this past the deadline! I didn’t mean for it to take this long, but the good news is, this is the first thing I’ve written and actually liked in about five or six years. So, yay? I really hope you and everyone else who reads it enjoys it!

P.S: my prompts are bolded, the not too shabby moodboard was made by me, and the title of the fic and lyrics within said moodboard are courtesy of My Chemical Romance’s ‘Summertime.’ Oh, and, the totally awesome text divider seen just below (and several times throughout the fic) was created by @writeyourmindaway (thank you)!

EDITED ON 5/24/2021 - no major changes, only a change in spelling for two of the characters' names.

“You ever think of where you’d go if you got out of here?” you’d asked the Soldier once, the two of you hunkered down in a safe house somewhere in Alaska. It’s been so long since then that you can’t even remember what mission had brought you there - or maybe you should say, so much has happened since then that you can’t remember.

He didn’t answer your question. He couldn’t. His programming limited his dialogue to giving orders to those ranked below him and answering the questions of those ranked higher. You’d been able to see his answer in his eyes, though, sitting there on the opposite side of the hallway from him, your faces illuminated by an oil lamp he’d found while sweeping the basement for any threats.

They had narrowed slightly, his way of wordlessly saying, ‘No.’

No, because he never thought he would ever escape from Hydra; and neither did you, for that matter. But it was nice to think about, especially back then. Freedom.

“I can remember,” you’d said slowly, not missing the faint look of surprise that crossed his usually stoic face at the words. You shouldn’t be able to remember anything that occurred before they wiped you the first time. But you remember this vividly, too vividly for it to be a mere fragment of your imagination.

“I can remember,” you’d started again, “this place my parents and I used to go to along the Blue Ridge Parkway.”

And then you’d told him about it. How after visiting a few tourist attractions you’d park the car at a lookout spot and stare out over the miles and miles of autumn colored trees in the valleys below, untouched by man aside from the randomly placed house. Far away from where you stood, blue tinted mountains pierced the overcast sky - and it was beautiful.

He’d listened to every word you’d spoken intently, his gaze never straying from your face as you reminisced on happier times. And when you’d finished, he’d looked sad. You could feel the longing in his chest within your own, and see a sparkle in his stormy blue eyes that seemed to say, ‘I would take you there, if I could.’

And he has, hasn’t he?

Here you are, standing at the very same lookout you’d told him about that night. It’s warmer than you remember, greener, seeing as it’s summertime - but it’s no less beautiful. If you squint you can see ghosts of the past; two figures standing against the most breathtaking of backdrops, smiling with their arms around one another as you took their picture.

You miss them.

Your parents.

You wish you could remember more about them.

About yourself.

Your old life.

“Empat.”

His voice startles you, but not because you didn’t know he was there. You’d felt his presence step within the reach of your powers almost twenty minutes ago; had known it was him because you know his aches and pains as well as you know your own. The phantom pain where his left arm used to be, the carpal tunnel syndrome in his right wrist and hand from years of holding a gun, and all the other wear and tear seventy years of assassination work has put on his still visibly young body. New to the roster, though, is the break in his right forearm - no doubt an injury gained during his fight in D.C. three days ago. A fight you’d been sidelined for, but should have been battling alongside him.

If you had been, that break wouldn’t be there. You’re certain of that.

You could only do so much with the amount of distance between you, but because you care, because you wanted him to know that you knew he was there, you’d cast your healing warmth over the fracture, numbing it until you could touch him and heal it completely. As thanks, he’d given you this time with your memories. Time before the inevitable had to happen.

But time is up now, and he’s standing right behind you, his voice startling you not because it’s unexpected but because he’s never been able to call you anything, let alone the name Hydra had given you. Empat, meaning Empath. His programming simply didn’t allow for it. To hear his voice say it now - after months and years of knowing each other, fighting alongside each other, nearly dying for each other - well, it’s quite a shock to the system.

Three days, you think. It’s only been three days since he walked away from the Triskelion wreckage, walked away from Hydra, and already he’s regained the ability to speak autonomously. And here you are, sent here to drag him back to the very same people who stripped him of his ability to do so in the first place.

You, because they know that in spite of their best efforts to keep him as emotionless and empty as possible, he feels something for you. Because if it’s you asking him to, he might come back willingly, without a fight. Because if it comes to a fight he’ll hesitate before killing you, and give you the opening you need to-

“Empat,” he says again, interrupting your internal ramblings. The sound of it threatens to bring tears to your eyes.

You don’t want to do this.

But you have no other choice.

“Hi, Soldier,” you greet him gently, and he takes that as his cue to move to stand at your side. He places himself on your left and it’s such a familiar position: you and the Soldier shoulder to shoulder, against the world. Normally it would bring you comfort; but today, it just makes you sad.

As if he can sense it - which he probably can; he has a knack for reading people - the Soldier brushes the back of his hand against the back of yours in a silent offer of comfort. You turn your wrist and intertwine your fingers with his without a second thought, and together you gaze out over the mountain range, silence hanging thick in the air between you for what feels like a lifetime.

And then, “Is it what you remember?”

So you were right. The red star on the tracking device had stopped in this town with a familiar name yesterday not by coincidence, but on purpose. He’d traveled west, deep into the peaks and valleys of the Blue Ridge Mountain range just so he could bring you here, to the location of your only remaining memory.

It’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for you - that you can remember, at least - and, God, do you want to cry.

“Yes,” your voice and your smile is strained, “Thank you.”

He squeezes your hand tighter in response, causing a bolt of pain to shoot up towards his shoulder and down to the tips of his fingers - but he shows no signs of feeling it when you glance in his direction. He was trained to suffer in silence; if you weren’t, well, you, you wouldn’t have the slightest clue that he was in any pain at all.

“Your arm?” you inquire, turning your head to face him at the same moment he turns to face you. It’s only then that you realize what he’s wearing: a black baseball cap pulled down over his brunette tresses, a dark denim jacket over a black t-shirt, blue jeans and his usual pair of boots. The shoes are the only part of his attire that you recognize, but you have to admit, this casual look he’s got going on…

You like it.

“Steve,” he tells you, as if you know who Steve is. You raise your brows. “The guy on the bridge,” he amends. “Captain...Captain America.”

Right. The target Hydra had sent the Soldier to kill not once, but twice - an anomaly, as he usually gets the job done on the first try. You’d been as shocked as your superiors when he came back from the fight on the bridge to report the mission as failed - but more so due to the foul mix of emotions churning within him than the failed mission itself.

It was astonishing to see him in such anguish so openly; to feel the full force of his normally repressed guilt, anger and sadness. You’ve gotten glimpses of it in the past, during those precious few minutes between him being awoken and being wiped. But only one other time had you seen him so distraught, which could only mean one thing.

The target - this Steve, whoever he is - had somehow broken through decades of wipings and programming to free the man Hydra had tried so hard to keep contained, and every sour emotion he’s felt while locked in his cage - though only for a moment before Alexander Pierce ordered him to be shoved behind the bars again.

It’s not easily done; liberating the man that lingers beneath the surface of the Soldier.

You would know.

You’ve done it before.

“You knew him,” you say simply, recalling the trembling words he’d spoken that day. Words that, when combined with the look on his face and what had happened after he’d uttered them, had shattered your already broken heart into even smaller shards.

“But I knew him.”

“I don’t know,” the Soldier replies eventually, and he’s lying - to you and himself.

But that’s okay.

You assure him as much with a small smile.

“Here,” you change the subject, “let me…” you turn your body towards him and bring your right hand up to cup the back of his, which still clings to your left one, as he turns to face you as well. You close your eyes and focus on the break, casting your warmth over it and holding it steady as it guides his bones back into place. As it does, your body takes his pain and converts it into ammunition, adding it to what’s already been piled high within you thanks to the metal choker around your neck.

Hydra’s scientists had designed it especially for you; a necklace that would, whenever your handlers deemed it necessary, electrically shock you continuously so you would have to be constantly taking your own pain away. Whenever you use your healing abilities - regardless of whether you’re using them on yourself or someone else - your body absorbs the pain and stores it within until you either unleash it on someone or your handlers shut the necklace off and the power coursing through your veins is allowed to dwindle away on its own.

It flows through you now, but you’re so used to the uncomfortable prickling feeling that accompanies it at this point that you hardly even notice it’s there anymore.

How sad that is.

“Thank you,” the Soldier says after you’ve finished healing him and open your eyes again. That’s another first: the Soldier thanking you aloud instead of with his eyes and soft, secret touches. If it weren’t for the current circumstances, it would have brought you joy.

“Don’t thank me,” you beg with a rapid shake of your head. “Not when you know what I’ve been sent here to do.”

“Empat, it’s okay-”

“No,” you interject harshly, dropping his hand and retreating a few steps backwards. “It’s not okay, Soldier. It’s not. Because you knew,” your smile is sardonic as you point a finger in his direction. “You knew they’d send someone - that they’d send me - after you. You knew what they’d make me do to bring you back. So why, Soldier? Why didn’t you cut the tracker out? You could have been free,” your voice cracks on the last word, and you feel his chest ache in response.

He holds your gaze for a moment longer before dropping his focus to the grass between his boots. You stand there, blinking tears from your eyes and waiting for him to say something - anything - in defense of himself, but he doesn’t say a word.

He’s maddeningly silent.

“Why would you do this?” you demand again, your voice frail in spite of the anger rising inside of you. The Soldier is slow to raise his gaze back to yours, and even slower to give you an answer.

“‘Cause I wanted to.”

It hits you like a punch from his left fist, and you find yourself unable to speak.

He... He wanted this? He wanted you to be sent after him? To potentially have to fight him, to have to drag him back to the people you’ve always told him you wished you could help him escape from?

“Listen,” he urges, seeing the look of hurt and betrayal that’s overtaken your features. He’s lifted his hands in a pacifying gesture, and his left one catches your attention, as it’s donning a black winter glove. Where did he even find one of those this time of year? “I did it because I didn’t know how else to find you. I went back to the bank after...after the fight, and everyone was already gone. You were gone, and I had no way of knowing where you were but I knew that if I left the tracker in, it wouldn’t be long before they sent you after me. It...It was the only way I had to be able to see you again,” he finishes with a sad, tearful smile, the same one he’d given Alexander Pierce that night after his first encounter with Steve.

It pulls at your heart now just as it did then, but at the same time -

“You could have been free,” you echo your earlier words, sounding every bit as devastated as you feel. Your tears make the Soldier a blur as he steps closer to you, raising his hands to tentatively cup the sides of your face. You blink and a pair of them slip down your cheeks only to be quickly smeared away by his thumbs, gloved metal and bare flesh alike.

“I don’t want to be free if you’re not free with me,” he tells you softly, and you see those words for what they are: a testament of his love for you. It’s the first time he’s been able to voice such a thing, and you want to find joy or at the very least solace in it. Truly, you do. But right now, with the situation at hand, knowing he’s tossed away the only chance at liberation he’s had in seven decades all because he didn’t want to leave you behind, you can’t.

You just feel guilty. So incredibly, debilitatingly guilty.

“I’ll never be free of them,” you state grimly, pulling out of his hold and putting some distance between you. “As long as this necklace is around my neck, I’m stuck. They’ll ramp it up as soon as I get too far for their likings and kill me. But you - you had a chance. And you threw it away because of me,” you practically choke out the last word. You pause for a few moments to collect yourself before continuing to speak, your eyes fluttering shut to send another pair of tears down your cheeks.

“I’m begging you, Soldier. If you love me, cut the tracker out and leave. I’ll tell them you beat me unconscious before I could move to apprehend you, or… I don’t know. Something. Just please don’t make me take you back there. Don’t make me the reason you go back there, I…” your throat gets too tight for you to speak any further, so you open your eyes and try to communicate with him through them, as he used to you.

I won’t be able to live with myself if you do.

He lets your unspoken words hang between you for exactly seventeen shaking breaths, and when he goes to speak, he looks apologetic, telling you he’s not going to change his mind even before he confirms it aloud.

“You know I never get to choose what I want for myself,” he says, a pleading tone to his voice. His eyes are equally as imploring as they stare into yours, trying to get you to see just how much he needs you to do this for him. “I want this, Empat. I do. So, please, for once in my life - let me have what I want.”

…How are you supposed to say no to that?

The answer is simple:

You don’t.

“Alright,” you sound as defeated as you feel. “Alright.”

The corners of his lips twitch upwards, but the glossiness of his eyes conveys what you feel twisting inside of him. The fear. The sadness. The anger.

He reaches out, asking for your hands, and you unfold your arms to give them to him, biting back a sob as he intertwines his fingers through yours.

“Whatever you have to do,” he says slowly, “Do it.”

You squeeze your eyes shut and inhale deeply to gather what little strength and courage you have left in you; then, you breath out a single word:

“Sputnik.”

A moment later, the Soldier collapses at your feet.

…

...

You couldn’t do it.

You’d told him you would, and had fully intended on honoring his wishes - but it was one hour into the three hour drive back to the safe house your handlers were waiting for you within that you realized you just couldn’t. You couldn’t take him back to the people who have been holding him hostage for over seventy years, doom him to another who knows how many more years of brainwashing and torture. You couldn’t, and you wouldn’t.

So you turned the car around, much to the displeasure of your handlers. The wattage of your necklace shot up almost immediately after you’d made the u-turn, and you’d almost driven into the guard rails due to the sudden onslaught of pain. You’d quickly smothered it, though, and righted the vehicle on the road, backtracking until you reached the abandoned house you’d spotted only a few minutes prior in the drive.

It had caught your eye because of its reminiscence of that safe house back in Alaska. It’s a small and barely standing home made of deteriorating wood, its front door hanging by a single hinge. Upon entering it you’d found it had the same damp, moldy atmosphere, and a similar, familiar layout - a ground level with two bedrooms and a bathroom, a living room and kitchen area, and a basement. Its windows were shattered, parts of the wood flooring were either caved in or missing altogether, and you’d even found an oil lamp while you were scoping out the basement.

Talk about déjà vu.

As for getting the Soldier into the house, it was as much of a struggle as it’d been to get him into the car your handlers had sent you out in. Somehow, though, you’d managed, and had tied him to a weathered dining chair that had squeakily threatened to collapse under his weight when you’d dropped him into it.

What had happened after that is nothing more than a blur of blood and tears, right up until you’d collapsed into an identical chair in front of a boarded up window, staring as if you could see right through the planks to whatever lies beyond.

You don’t know how much time has passed since then, but you haven’t moved since you’d sat down. You’ve barely even breathed.

There’s a pounding in your head from previously shed tears and there’s dried blood on your hands, your clothes. You’re shaking so badly you don’t know how you haven’t vibrated right off of the chair and into a clump on the floor.

He hasn’t woken up yet. You’re starting to worry he may never - that there’s another code word that has to be used to wake the Soldier after he’s been shut down by ‘sputnik.’

Wouldn’t that be just your luck? To do everything that you’ve done in the time since he’s been unconscious just for it all to be futile because-

A soft groan sounds from behind you, and you hold your breath.

Did you actually hear that? Or did you-

“Empat?” he rasps, a confused lilt to his voice. You almost start crying again at the sound of it.

He’s awake.

Everything you’ve done isn’t for nothing, after all.

“I’m here,” you get to your feet and move towards him slowly. Taking in his disoriented expression, you ask, “How do you feel?”

You being you, of course, you already know how he’s feeling; he’s got a headache similar to your own and he’s discombobulated, stiff and sore. Still, you ask him - not only because it’s nice to do so but because you want to hear it out of his own mouth.

However, instead of answering your question, he raises one of his own. “Why are you covered in blood?”

You stop right in front of him, shaking your head.

“It’s not mine,” is all you offer, reaching forward to brush his hair out of his face since he can’t do it for himself. You then trail your fingers down the side of his cheek, watching as his eyes flutter shut briefly in response to the gentle touch before he seemingly forces them open again, assessing you with his stormy blues.

“Where are we?” he asks. You freeze in your movement.

“Hour away from where we were,” you supply. He ponders that for a few moments, tearing his eyes from you to take in what he can of the room before meeting your gaze again.

“Are they coming to extract us?”

You drop your gaze.

“Empat,” his tone is low; dangerous - the closest it’s been to the one he uses while giving orders on missions this entire time. You turn away from him and clasp your trembling hands together.

Every so often your handlers have been knocking up the voltage of your necklace to tell you to hurry up and get you and the Soldier back to the safe house. You’ve been having to use more and more of your powers to keep yourself from feeling it, from being harmed by it, and it’s drained you more than you’re willing to admit.

You don’t know how much longer you can fight against it. You need to get moving before they ramp it up beyond the reach of your powers and kill you, which they’d very clearly told you they would if you failed them.

You’ve only hung around this long waiting for the Soldier to wake up to make sure that he would wake up; you didn’t want to leave him behind without knowing for a fact that he was going to be okay.

But he’s awake now, and really there’s no reason for you to be here anymore... Yet, you can’t bring yourself to move any further away.

“Empat,” the Soldier calls for you again, this time more desperate. “What did you do?”

You close your eyes.

He’s going to be so upset with you over this.

But perhaps that will make it easier for him to move on.

“I cut the tracker out,” you inform him, hearing him inhale sharply in response. “I…Understand why you didn’t do it yourself. I’d do the same thing, to see you one last time - but you know that if our roles were reversed you would refuse to take me back to them. So you shouldn’t expect me to,” you face him again, letting him see the tears that started running down your cheeks as you were speaking.

He looks as devastated as you feel.

Biting back a sob, you walk back up to him and cup the sides of his face, as he had yours earlier, and lean down to rest your forehead against his. You remain in that position for only a moment before pulling away enough to peer into his tear-filled eyes.

“I’m sorry I have to be another person keeping you from what you want,” you brush your thumbs over his cheekbones, “but I can’t do this to you. You’ve been with them so much longer than I have, Soldier; you’ve been through so much - too much. You deserve to be free, to live. And you’ve got a chance,” you smile at him sadly. “I can’t take that from you.”

Those words appear to be what takes him over the edge, as with his next blink, the Soldier’s tears spill over. They run down his stubble covered cheeks and quickly find themselves wiped away by your waiting thumbs.

“They’ll kill you if you show up without me,” he chokes out. And he’s right. You know he is. But,

“You would do it for me.”

You have him there, it seems - because he has nothing to say to contradict your statement. You nod, for no particular reason, and press your lips to his forehead; your silent I love you, your wordless goodbye.

You pull away from him with the intentions of leaving, but before you can even straighten your spine he says, “Y/N.”

You freeze.

That name…

You pull further back and meet his gaze.

“What?”

“Y/N,” he says again. “That’s your name. Your real name.”

Your breathing hitches.

You don’t know how, but you know he’s right. You can feel it.

“How-”

“You told me,” he answers your unfinished question. “When we first met, before they wiped you that first time - no one told you I couldn’t talk and you - you introduced yourself to me. You were terrified of me, I could tell - but you still stuck your hand out and told me your name. I couldn’t,” he pauses to gather himself, Adam’s apple bobbing. “I couldn’t have told you my name even if I could have remembered it, but I put my hand in yours, and you smiled at me. Do you know how long it’d been since someone had smiled at me? Without any malice behind it?” he leans forward against his binds, baring his wet eyes into yours.

You don’t say anything. You’re completely and utterly speechless, staring at him with wide eyes and a trembling lower lip. You drop your hands from his face and take a step back, absorbing every single word he has to to tell you.

“They wipe me to make me forget, but I never forgot that moment, Y/N, no matter how many times they did it. I never forgot your name even though my own was long gone.” The Soldier presses on, “I don’t know why, but I feel like it was for a reason. Like I was supposed to be the one to remind you what it was - to help you remember who you were. But I can’t do that if you’re...If you…”

He doesn’t finish, but it’s not hard for you to figure out what he was going to say.

I can’t do that if you’re dead.

“I don’t know what you think I can do,” you force the words out around the lump in your throat, “I die if I go back without you. They’ll kill me if I stay with you - either way, I’m dead. There’s nothing we can do-”

“Yes there is,” he insists, desperate. “We can go there - we can fight them-”

“And they’ll kill me as soon as they realize what’s happening,” you dismiss the suggestion, “right in front of you. I don’t… Want you to have to watch me die, Soldier. I don’t want you to have to carry that around with you for the rest of your life - can’t you understand that?”

“Untie me then. Let me try and get that thing off of you-”

“What?!” you take a step back as if he’s struck you. “Are you insane?! You’ll get electrocuted if you touch it!”

“Not if you protect me from it,” he counteracts. You shake your head and go to protest against the idea, but he starts talking again before you can. “Don’t you remember the day you realized what you could do? What you could really do?”

Of course you do. That’s another memory Hydra couldn’t rip away from you no matter how hard they tried: the day you found out the true extent of what powers Loki’s scepter had bestowed upon you. The day that you were promoted from the Winter Soldier’s nurse to his partner in crime - literally.

Seeing the look of recognition in your eyes, the Soldier latches onto it. “You can do it again. I know you can.”

“Your arm,” you point out. “It’ll conduct the electricity - send it straight towards your heart. And I don’t know if what I can do is enough to protect you from the damage that would cause.”

His face falls.

Clearly, he hadn’t thought of that.

He parts his lips to make another argument but before he can get a single word out the wattage of your necklace suddenly increases again, making you cry out and fall to your knees. You just barely manage to smother the pain this time; if they turn it up any higher, you’re not sure you’ll be able to.

“I knew you couldn’t do it,” a voice taunts in Russian from somewhere behind you. Recognizing it, you lift a hand in the general direction it came from and feel the power coursing through your veins gather in the palm of your hand before a cloud of black smoke erupts from it. The man lets out a scream of pure agony a moment later before hitting the weathered floorboards, dead. You look over your shoulder and take in the lifeless form of the handler before turning back to the Soldier, wide eyed.

“Untie me now,” he orders, and you know better than to argue with him.

As Hydra’s motto claims, ‘Cut off one head, two more will take its place.’

You’re gonna need his help.

So you scramble to your feet and round the chair he’s tied to, unsheathing the knife strapped to your thigh. It’s not easy to cut through the rope, which had been specially designed to restrain the Soldier, but it’s not impossible, either. You have him free before long and he puts his hand out for the blade, which you hand over without even thinking just in time for two more figures to step through the doorway.

“Sput-” the handler who had been just a syllable away from shutting down the Soldier again gets cut off by the knife you’d given him embedding itself in his chest. A cloud of black smoke engulfs him a moment later and he chokes on it for a moment before collapsing just as the first had.

Next, gun shots ring out. If any bullets hit you, you don’t feel them - all you can feel is the power in your shaking hands, the slight ease of its pressure as more of it is released onto the third Hydra agent. She does little more than gasp before her eyes roll back in her head and she lands on top of her comrade.

The Soldier surges forward, scavenging the closest body for any weapons. He finds a gun just in time to get a head shot on a fourth agent.

“We need to get out of here,” he states the obvious, taking a shot at a fifth one.

He doesn’t miss.

You clench and unclench your hands, the power surging within them making it impossible for you not to fidget. “My tracker’s still in, they’ll just follow us,” you remind him, “and the necklace-”

“Search them for the remote,” he meets your eyes briefly over his shoulder. “Someone here has to have it.”

You nod and kneel beside the body he’d taken the gun from. You rummage through the handler’s pockets, coming up short on finding the device that would free you from the necklace. From Hydra.

It’s unreal to you that this is even happening right now; you never thought you would ever have even a chance at freedom, but now -

As if it’s punishing you for even thinking about escaping, the wattage of your necklace suddenly spikes. And as you’d predicted, this time you can’t completely cover the pain it’s inflicting on you - it’s too strong, hurts too much.

You scream and fall sideways, clawing futilely at the electrified metal around your neck. For several long, agonizing moments, all there is is pain, pain, pain - and then, suddenly, it’s gone.

You think at first you’re dead; in fact, you’re certain of it. But then a hand taps on your cheek and you open your eyes - when had you even closed them? - and see the Soldier’s face hovering over your own. It melts with relief and he says something to you, but you can’t hear whatever it is over the ringing in your ears.

You’d tell him that, if you weren’t so dazed.

After some time the Soldier gives up on getting a response out of you and helps you to sit up, watching you closely afterwards, presumably looking for any signs that you’re going to pass out. You don’t, though your head does swim, and find yourself blinking rapidly trying to get your eyes to focus. They land on the doorway when they do, where a familiar man stands holding a familiar object, the sight enough to make your blood run cold.

Having noticed the shift in your demeanor, the Soldier follows your line of sight, tensing just as you had when he realizes what you’re looking at.

The ringing in your ears fades away just in time for Talon, the highest ranking of the handlers, to speak.

“Drop the gun, Soldat,” he commands, shaking the hand holding the remote to your necklace pointedly. “Or watch your precious little empath die.”

The Soldier swallows thickly. Then, he obeys, the gun clattering onto the wood floor just beyond your reach.

“As I thought,” Talon muses, his smile anything but friendly as he approaches you and the Soldier at a slow pace. His eyes are fixated on the latter, but his thumb hovering over the red button on the remote is enough of a deterrent to keep you from trying anything.

You don’t refrain from openly glaring at him, though.

“You’d do anything to keep her safe, hm?” Talon inquires coolly, his lips falling into their natural frown. “First chance at freedom in almost seventy years... And you toss it away for a girl you’ve known for two,” he holds up two fingers on his free hand for emphasis, and you flinch. Even though they’re the same words you've been telling yourself this entire time, they somehow sound even worse coming from someone else’s mouth.

The handler doesn't show it outwardly, but he notices how his statement hits a nerve. You know this because, for a moment, his irritation gives way to amusement; he can tell you're feeling guilty, and he's enjoying it.

Bastard.

Talon comes to a stop a few feet away from where you and the Soldier are sat. His eyes, their irises the color of green peridot, flicker back and forth between the two of you a few times before he seethes, “She makes you weak.”

The Soldier tightens his arm around you, and you can feel the anxiety rising within him; the anger. You want to spare a glance in his direction but opt to keep your gaze fixated on Talon, afraid of what he might do if you were to be momentarily distracted.

“It’s pathetic,” the handler goes on, “and if we didn’t need her help to sort out the mess your failure-” he jabs an accusing finger at the Soldier “-created, I would have you kill her. Slowly and painfully, to punish you both.

"I should regardless, considering what she was about to do,” he moves his focus onto you, now. “You should count yourself very lucky, Empat, and pray that I still find you useful when all this is said and done.”

Your glare turns deadly at the threat. In response, Talon hits a button - not the red one - to make your necklace come to life, albeit on a much lower setting than it’d been on before.

It’s a warning more than anything, but it still hurts.

“Yes, you will both be punished harshly for your recent acts of disobedience - eventually,” Talon states, tossing the remote into the air and catching it, quite literally playing with your life. “There’s simply no time for it now, as we leave for Sokovia tonight, per von Strucker’s request. He’s made a call for all of his creations to return and help defend their birthplace,” he stuffs the hand holding the device into his pocket and seems to consider you before adding, “He’s very interested in seeing how your powers have developed since he’s last seen you, Empat.”

Unease claws its way down your spine at the words, and though you’re not sure why - you trust it. You may not consciously remember von Strucker, but there’s a girl locked away in your mind who does; who’s warning you that he’s no one you’ll want to see ever again.

You trust her.

Talon sighs exaggeratedly, having seemingly grown bored of this one-sided conversation he’s been having with the two of you.

“Get her up, Soldat; we must get going,” he commands. You feel your heart lurch, and finally tear your gaze from the handler to look at the man who’s yet to let you go.

There’s a look of calculation on his face; the one he bears whenever a mission goes wrong and he has to come up with a new plan on the spot. What could he possibly-

“My name,” the Soldier snarls through gritted teeth, glaring up at the other man with pure hatred swirling in his chest. “Is James, Buchanan, Barnes. Not Soldat, not Asset - James. Bucky.”

You gasp silently in response to what he’s just revealed, and place your hand over that of his that rests on your waist, squeezing it tightly. Right now is the most inappropriate of times to feel happy, but you are, because the Soldier, your Soldier, he has a name. Well, he’s always had one - but now he remembers it; now you know it. You know his name and you know your own - your first one, at least - and, wow. You have names. Real, genuine names and it feels so surreal, so right, even if you are currently standing on the verge of losing them again.

“I gave you an order, Soldat,” Talon emphasizes the title pointedly, and you whirl back onto him with a glare even more murderous than the first had been. “And I expect you to follow that order, or I’ll-”

In your peripheral vision, you see the Soldier - James, you remind yourself - pull out a gun and line up a shot with expert ease. You barely register the action before he’s pulling the trigger and an ear piercing bang echoes throughout the abandoned house.

The bullet hits its mark, of course - a fatal head shot.

Talon’s body falls towards the ground and when it makes impact, whether his hand was just carrying out his last request or your luck is just that bad and he happened to land on it, the red button on the remote gets pressed.

The wattage of your necklace spikes, and it’s the most excruciating and unbearable pain you’ve ever felt. Your lips part to scream but the cry doesn’t even get a chance to escape before you succumb to the pain being inflicted upon you, your world going dark.

And then…

And then there’s light.

Not a heavenly, bright light, but a dim, golden glow.

You blink against it a few times, trying to focus your vision, all the while casting your healing warmth over the pain in your head. The world around you finally aligns and you realize that you’re in a car, sprawled across the back seat with your head lying on top of a rolled up denim jacket.

Your last few moments of consciousness return to you as the headache is successfully smothered to nothing, and immediately your hand shoots up to grasp at your neck - the action sending a jolt of pain through your arm.

Brows furrowing, you withdraw the limb and bring it to eye level, finding a bandage wrapped tightly just below your elbow. You bring your other hand up and pull the bandage down carefully, revealing a stitched up wound right where Hydra’s scientists had implanted a small tracking device beneath your skin seemingly so long ago.

The implications the sight brings forth make your heart stutter.

Slowly, almost afraid of what you’ll find, you lower your hand back towards your neck -

Finding nothing there.

And the fact that your necklace is gone is your second indication that something huge happened while you were unconscious, as the only time your handlers ever take it off of you is when you’re off mission and locked away in a cell. Gingerly, you rub at the scarred skin where it usually rests, putting the few pieces you’ve gathered so far together.

Your tracker has presumably been cut out, your necklace is gone, and both of those things could only mean-

You stop yourself short, realizing you’re getting ahead of yourself.

You can’t let yourself think that until you know for sure it’s true.

So without moving - because if it isn’t him, you’re gonna want the advantage of the person in the driver’s seat not knowing you’re awake - you close your eyes and reach out with your powers, studying the only other soul in the car. You take into account every familiar ache and pain in their body, the fragile hope within their chest, and you smile.

“Soldier?” you call, ignoring the pain in your arm as you push yourself up into a seated position. Startled, his icy blues snap towards the rear view mirror.

And then they melt.

“No,” he responds, a smile tainting his tone. “I’m Bucky.”

Disbelieving and overjoyed, a laugh bubbles up in your throat. He maneuvers the car to park it on the side of the rural road and you slide off of the back seat, leaning over the center console to look at his face. He turns to look at you, too, grinning - something you’ve never seen him do before.

He’s offered you slight tugs at the corners of his lips in moments where he was more ‘James’ than ‘Soldier,’ yes, but not ever this - this flashing of his teeth and crinkling at the edges of his eyes. Bathed in the golden glow of the rising sun and freedom, he’s one of the most beautiful things you’ve ever seen.

“Hi, Bucky,” you greet him breathlessly, smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.

“Hi, Y/N,” he returns, and the next thing you know you’re being pulled - squealing - from the back seat towards the front, and his arms are around you, holding you tight against him. In the cramped space of the car, the embrace is awkward and even on the verge of painful - what with all the levers and the steering wheel digging into you; but you don’t care. You just wrap your arms around him, too, and pull him impossibly closer, a different kind of tears filling your eyes as you bury your nose into his dark hair.

“I thought I lost you,” he heaves out the shaking words against your chest, trembling in your hold. There’s so many emotions twisting within him that it’s hard for you to decipher them from one another, but most prominent of all is his guilt; his overbearing, gut-wrenching guilt. It makes you realize, with a sinking heart, that not only had he thought you dead, he’d thought he’d been the one to kill you - inadvertently - by shooting Talon.

“I’m right here,” you murmur into his hair, pressing a kiss to it after. “It’s alright - we’re alright, Bucky. We’re free.”

At your words, he pulls back enough to meet your gaze, an almost mystified look on his tear-stained face. It’s the smallness of his voice as he repeats your last two words back to you that causes your own tears to spill over.

“We’re free.”

He almost sounds like he doesn’t really believe it, and you can understand that, as you hardly do yourself - but still, you try and reassure him, nodding quickly.

“Yeah, Bucky, we’re fr-”

Bucky presses his lips against yours, cutting you off.

Taken aback, you stiffen at first - but then you melt into him, one of your hands moving to cup the side of his face and pull him closer, the other sliding down to rest over his heart. It beats strongly against your palm, setting the pace for the kiss, the first the two of you have ever shared. And, oh, what a first kiss it is: gentle yet passionate, grounding but freeing all the same.

It warms you from the inside out and tingles beneath the surface of your skin in the most exhilarating of ways, making you feel so alive - reassuring you that you are, as it would be so easy for you to convince yourself that you’re not, since this is the closest to Heaven you’ve ever been.

If you could have it your way, it would never end; you would stay in this moment for the rest of your life, reveling in the feeling of Bucky’s lips moving against yours and his arms encasing you, the mix of positive emotions swirling in your respective chests. Your lungs however eventually betray you, and you have to part from him to catch your breath - but you don’t go too far. You only move to rest your forehead against his, a happier rendition of a moment lived not too long ago.

You stay like that, just basking in one another, for an eternity. And then he asks you, in a tone that tells you he’s open to anything you might suggest, “Where do you want to go?”

You smile as you open your eyes, meeting his waiting gaze.

“Anywhere,” you tell him simply. “As long as I’m with you.”

A/N: first and foremost, if you’re reading this, bless you for making it this far, and I really hope you liked this one-shot! I’d love to hear any thoughts you may have on it :).

I’ve been planning the story of Bucky and this specific reader in my head for months now, so to see them finally “come to life” is a pretty great feeling. I hope you guys love them as much as I do, because I’ll hopefully be sharing the journey that led them to this ‘epilogue’ with you soon 💜.

One last thing, I want to give a shout out to every single person who has given me words of encouragement and advice over the past few months as I’ve talked about picking up writing again. Especially @stop-obsessing-over-those-actors, whose reaction to just a snippet of this one-shot and constant support throughout the writing process pushed me to keep going even when I felt like giving up and dropping out of the challenge. I’m so sorry I kept you waiting to see what happened for so long! I hope the wait was worth it!

( @buckyreaderrecs and @stop-obsessing-over-those-actors, I did it you guys!! 💜)

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peanut-in-the-goal · 4 years

Text

TW: suicide attempt, blood. I actually hate this ending but I have homework to do soooo. also I didn’t beta sorry

“I always disappoint someone!” Sirius yelled, his voice raspy and hoarse from his breakdown earlier. “Whether it’s you or James or Pete or - or...” He cuts himself off. His ragged breath being the only thing heard in the otherwise silent room.

Sirius held his hand out in front of him, watching them shake before clenching them in fists, tight enough to make half-moons carved to his hands. He looked back at Remus, broken and upset. His thoughts all over the place, he opens and closes his mouth before managing to end his sentence.

“My parents,” his voice cracks and he breaks all over again. The tears finally fall, a sob ripping through his throat.

“Re...” he breathes, doubling over. “I— I can’t. Re I can’t!” he sobs. One hand clutches his chest, the other gripping onto Remus’ sweater, like a lifeline. And from all Remus knew it was.

“Si—” But Remus gets cut off. Sirius looks up eyes frantic, hands shaking as they are both gripping onto Remus now. He can’t leave. Stay, Remus has to stay! Sirius doesn’t know what he would do if Remus actually left.

“I can’t do this anymore! Moo— Moo-ny I can’t!” Tears streaming down his face, his voice cracking over his words.

Remus looked down and his concerned and curious. He holds onto to Sirius’ arms lightly before pulling him into a hug.

“Can’t do what Siri? Come on I need you to breathe for me.” He ran his hands up and down his back, feeling Sirius sob into his shoulder. “Shh,” he soothed gently.

“I can’t take it! I can’t Rem! I— I just want it to end. I want to be g-gone.” His voice muffled through Remus’ sweater. Remus’ heart shatters. He holds Sirius tighter as if it were the only thing keeping him together.

His mind is brought back to when Sirius first tried.

It had been a Monday night, at the end of the fourth year. He had turned 15 earlier in the year. It had been only a week until summer break. Remus found him, picking up his scent when he walked into the dorm.

***

Finally, Remus thought, Class, is over.

Sirius had been missing most of the day. After lunch, he had disappeared.

“Be back lads,” he said with a smile, before promptly getting up and walking out of the Great Hall, only hours before. Remus shook his head, ridding himself of all those intrusive thoughts. Surely Sirius hadn’t done anything stupid. Honestly the idiot probably just skived off today to try to catch up on sleep or something.

As Remus reached the dormitory door he immediately got worried. He could feel the wolf clawing and fighting to reach the surface. To take over and break free. It registered to him that the wolf could sense something vulnerable was nearby,

Something weak, something hurt, some sort of prey. Slowly Remus opened the door, doing all he could to fight the wolf back down. Immediately the smell of copper hit him. His eyes widened “Sirius,” he breathes. Throwing the door open he sprinted to the bathroom.

Grabbing the door handle he twisted it. Shaking it, trying to get it open in his flurry of panic. Locked, he noticed. “Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit,” he curses. Raising his hand to bang on the door.

“Sirius!” He yells. The scent of copper had gotten stronger, easily recognizable as blood. Frantically he pounds on the door, before searching his robes for his wand.

Finding it, he casts the simple unlocking spell, before almost slamming the door off his hinges, rushing into the small room. The smell of blood is so much stronger, it surrounds him. He spots Sirius quickly.

Laying in the bathtub with a puddle of his own blood around him. His wrists slit and his skin and face were so much paler than natural. His body limp, eyes shut, his chest showed no indication or him breathing.

Remus’ stomach churns. Sirius, his mate, was covered in his own blood. The boy he loved, had taken his own life. Remus felt tears spring to his eyes, a sob breaking through the normally composed marauder. He hadn’t even gotten the chance to tell Sirius how he felt. Now he’d never known if Sirius felt the same.

“God I could have prevented this!” He yelled at no one. His frustration and rage came to the surface. Unwillingly so, the wolf broke free.

Mate, love, protect, it said. Save, must save.

He threw himself down next to Sirius, gingerly picking up one of his bloody wrists. Pointing his wand at it, he willed himself to remember healing spells. The one Snape made, that was one of the strongest he’s ever seen.

“Santauer, vulnera, what was it, what was it?” he mumbled, “Vulnera Santauer!” He said, remembering the correct order. He traced his wand along the edge of the split skin, repeating it twice more before moving to the other wrist. He did the same to that one, before trying to shake Sirius awake.

He had tears running down his face, Sirius couldn’t die! He wouldn’t! He wouldn’t do that to me. Remus yelled in his head.

He took Sirius by the shoulders, shaking him. He cried harder seeing Sirius’ head lull side to side. Remus’ vision was going blurry he had to get help, fast!

***

Remus remembers that night vividly. It was only 2 years prior but he thought Sirius had been getting better. After he woke up in the hospital sometime later, Remus had confessed his feelings to him. He told him of the way that he noticed his beautiful smile, the way his eyes lit up in the light.

He thinks back to the way Sirius smiled that night, the way he held onto his hand. A whispered I love you too, into the silence of the hospital wing.

Remus couldn’t lose him again. He wouldn’t lose him again. So he decided, he would never let Sirius go down that road again. Not alone.

He hugged Sirius tighter if that was even possible. The memory of that day bright tears to his eyes.

“Don’t do it.” He whispered. “I’m not losing you. Okay? I can’t.” He knew it was wrong. He knew he shouldn’t be trying to guilt Sirius into staying, but he didn’t know what else to do. He doesn’t know how else to convince him! Sirius would stay if he realized that someone didn’t want him gone. That once he realized that everyone didn’t hate him, it was just in his head.

“I need you okay. I need to know you’re here when I wake up when I go to sleep. I need to be able to kiss you good morning and goodnight. I need to be there for you, and for you to be there for me. I need you, Sirius! Promise me something, love. Promise me you’ll always be here for me, that you won’t leave me. Please, Sirius, I don’t know what I would do if you left,” he sobbed. He hadn’t realized how true this was until he said it.

Slowly he backed them away for the astronomy tower ledge. Feeling Sirius’ gasps turn into hiccups and his body relax slightly into he felt reassured.

“Okay,” Sirius said, “Okay.”

#GG writes #Wolfstar angst #Wolfstar #suicide attempt

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the-magnus-backlogs · 3 years

Text

Statement of Suzanna Harkness regarding a manuscript she reviewed for publishing.

Statement taken direct from subject, 27th December 1993.

You wind up stumbling down a lot of weird rabbit holes when you work for a small press long enough. Niche genres you’d really rather remain oblivious to, arts majors trying to break the mould by submitting something they swear up and down you’ll have ‘never seen before’. Never mind if it’s actually legible, but that’s…that’s another matter, I guess. I’m not here to talk about the subpar sci-fi erotica or whatever, I’m here because I found something weird.

I’d like to say right off the bat that I’ve got a strong stomach. Wouldn’t have lasted this long in the company if I didn’t. We only publish a couple hundred books a year, but we take in all sorts around here. Sometimes it feels like our only real submission requirements are ‘unmarketable to the general public’, and it seems like anybody with a half-baked idea is willing to try their luck at tossing their unedited manuscript into the ring.

That’s where I come in. Wading through the mountains of unusable garbage, hunting for hidden gems. I’ve even found a couple, but mostly it’s just about finding something readable. Or something we can pass off as being readable for those rare readers capable of ‘comprehending the author’s artistic vision’. Yeah, the marketing team winds up throwing phrases like that around a lot.

Maybe I’m being unfair. I was a lot more patient about that sort of thing when I started. So preoccupied with not coming across as judgemental, but I’ve worked in publishing over ten years now.

It used to be more common for us to get manuscripts sent in through the post, back then. Nowadays it’s pretty much all done online. A couple we get from literary agents, but most are just emailed in by aspiring writers who stumbled across our site, usually after receiving their rejection letters from the two dozen publishing houses that show up above us on pretty much any search engine.

Every once in a blue moon, though, a manilla envelope will find its way onto my desk. Some bright spark who thinks they’re above using a laptop decides to send their manuscript in the old fashioned way. Sometimes it’s just a precaution in case we somehow miss the half dozen emails they’ve already sent out to every listed staff member on the site. Hell, sometimes it’s written by typewriter.

You know typewriters require special paper to print? Special ink, too. They probably spend more writing the damn thing than they��ll ever see in royalties, but to each their own, I guess. I even got one handwritten, once. The idiot sent a follow-up a month later anxiously asking if he could have it back if we weren’t going to consider it because it was his only copy. Can you imagine? Mailing off the only copy of your handwritten manuscript to some backroom small press without any insurance.

By comparison, this manuscript was relatively normal. It had been typed, I think. The paper was…I guess it was sort of crumpled, but I didn’t think much of it at the time. The postal service isn’t always the most careful about this sort of thing, and it wasn’t really packaged properly. Just shoved loose in a box and shipped out.

It was pre-bound. Just a bundle of papers held together with a few strands of red string. A little unusual, but not exactly throwing up any red flags. Even when I started reading it, I didn’t know. How the hell could I have?

It was good, though. Maybe that should have been my first clue. The prose dragged on a bit, but hey. There are plenty of successful writers out there who probably could have benefited from a harsher editor. They made up for it, in my opinion. Even just skimming those first few pages, I was hooked. Didn’t even really realise it when I was due my lunch break. I was so focused on that damn book.

The visuals were the thing. Plenty of writers can pour out half decent prose, but something about this writer…they had a way of making it feel real, you know? All the little touches, the scenes they crafted from the ground up. It felt…it felt like I couldn’t stop reading. Even if I’d wanted to, and trust me, back then I didn’t.

I didn’t leave my office that day. Barely noticed it when the phone rang, ignored all my emails. I really, really thought we’d accidentally stumbled on a gold mind. Not just a passable debut novel, but an honest to god genuine talent.

The funny thing is, I can’t even really remember what it was that drew me in. Couldn’t tell you what genre it fell under. The plot itself was practically non-existent. A girl who dreamed of being a dancer and crept out of her house to practice under the moonlight in a clearing in the forest behind her house.

Then, one blissful night, illuminated by the full moon, the forest provided her with a partner. The partner.

Nothing too out there, right? Your basic fantasy-romance type stuff. Pretty tame compared to a lot of what we publish, but I was enthralled from the first description of their first dance. Barefoot and so light on her feet her toes barely skimmed the dew-slick grass. They loved each other, and in that moment, I think I understood that. Really knew what it was to love someone so much you’d offer them your still beating heart if it would mean holding onto them for just a second longer.

Except it wasn’t love. Not really. It was an obsession.

I couldn’t stop devouring page after page as their budding romance grew and spiralled, twisting into something unrecognisable. Those whispered words of I can’t live without you became their mantra as they clung to one another so tightly they left bruises on one another’s skin. Soft kisses turned sharp as they came to understand what it was to need to consume and be consumed. They needed one another in a way neither could truly provide. Not really.

In their despair, they begged the forest to offer them a solution, and it gave them one. A way to lie in the sweet summer meadow forever, and in their glee they didn’t think to ask what it would cost.

Not until they began to rot, anyway.

My memories around here get a little hazy, or maybe the words were just less clear. The writing seemed…hurried towards the end, but the couple didn’t seem to mind much when the insects began to burrow through their skin and make their homes inside. They had so much love to give, literally brimming with it. As sickening as it was, it sounded almost…fond. Like the writer truly wanted to give them the happy ending they deserved, but somehow couldn’t think of anything more befitting than allowing their decaying corpses to be infested with creepy crawlies.

It was sick. The concept was sick. Everything about it was sick, but even now I can’t truly convey how vividly they described it. The picture they painted was so clear. Even the affection the insects lavished upon them as they crawled and burrowed through their decaying flesh. It was…God, it used to make me sick just thinking about it, you know that?

Because it wasn’t enough that I had to read it. That I physically couldn’t tear my eyes away. I had to see it. The idea of it…It got its hooks in deep.

By the time I got to the end, I was at a loss for what to do with the manuscript. On the one hand it was probably one of the best written pieces we’d ever received, and there are plenty of twisted readers out there looking for something to churn their stomach.

Somehow it didn’t feel right to publish it, though. I’ve read body horror before, but this…It wasn’t right. I couldn’t…I couldn’t just inflict that on people. How do you make someone understand, truly understand, when they’re signing up to read something that won’t ever let them go? How do you make them understand that the words they’re paying you to read will imprint themselves against the backs of their eyelids? That they’ll grow and spread and fester.

I dream about that dancer in the moonlit meadow. The descriptions of her actual appearance were relatively scarce, but I can still see her face when I close my eyes. I see her intertwined with her dance partner, caked in a mossy fungus that failed to disguise the living hive crawling beneath their skin. I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins, anymore. Not even sure if I could tell them apart looking at them, what with their withered skin being so covered in filth and grime.

That damned book made it sound like something beautiful, but their beauty decayed with their childish notions of romance. They chose to become hollow husks of themselves to make room for the love they could no longer contain, but that’s…that’s not love. It can’t be…right?

So why can’t I stop thinking about the way their fingers intertwined before rigor mortis set in and cemented their bond forever?

I can’t concentrate on anything else anymore. At first it was just a niggling seed of doubt at the back of my mind, but it’s grown so much since then. That image burrowed so deep inside my mind turned its hungry mouth towards the parts of me which were most vulnerable, eating and eating and eating and eating until I could think of nothing else.

I don’t know why I never thought to burn it. Maybe I was worried it would make it worse. Maybe it felt too much like sacrilege. I never read it again after that first time, though I considered it often. It sat on my desk while my other assignments lay scattered around it, disregarded without a second thought. After all, there was no room left in my mind for anything else anymore. Every other passage I tried to read just seemed so…dry. So false. I used to get so invested in the lives of paper people, but now I know what true love is, how could the half-baked notions of romance ever compare? I tried at first, but by the end I just…stared at it. Waiting.

Maybe if I’d tried to destroy it…Too late now, I suppose. I never let it see the printing presses, but I did let it go in the end. Some old man came in asking for it specifically. Something about it being a collectable.

I don’t know how an unpublished manuscript could be considered a collector’s item, and frankly I didn’t ask. I’m not sure if I even really cared about what he’d do with it by that point. Did it bother me that I might be condemning him to share my fate? It doesn’t now, I know that much.

It’s…I was hoping this might help me clear things up, but I just couldn’t see any of it straight. I can’t see anything, anymore. Not really. It may have started in my dreams, but once I let her in…They’re everywhere, now. I saw him in the faces of my colleagues before the press finally let me go… I don’t remember how long ago now. I think the power company cut the power at some point. It doesn’t matter now.

The funny thing is, I really thought they cared about me. They did, at first. I think. It all sort of blurs together, but I remember how they used to talk about me when they thought I couldn’t hear. The nervous looks they’d send me when I zoned out at my desks. Then they staged their first intervention, and I saw it. I saw her. It was the man I saw painted across the features of everyone I knew, in the arches of eyebrows and slants of cheekbones, but it was her I saw reflected in their eyes.

It was her I saw in the mirror, before they ran out of space inside my skull, and the maggots took my eyes…or maybe I imagined that part too.

I’m pretty sure it’s too late for me now, but when I heard about you guys I figured it was worth a shot. I’m full of it. Whatever that feverish contagion that claimed the couple was. That sickly, rotting thing they mistook for love. I can feel it now. I can understand it now and it’s so much. Already I’m on the brink of bursting with it, I think.

I just can’t wait to share.

#submission #the magnus archives #corruption #cw #body horror #insects #obsession #death

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baekterflyeffect · 4 years

Text

half moon ― one

You remembered the messy clothing sketches sprawled on the desk, and also remembered how proud you were when you modeled for his final assignment. The promise of you being the first one to wear his first official product was made. Years passed by and the promise was forgotten as it wasn’t meant to be kept; until you received an invitation that has B.B.H signed on it. Ironically, you found yourself confronting your past at your ex-boyfriend new collection launch event with your memories with him flashing through your mind.

☽ pairing: byun baekhyun x fem reader ☽ characters: exo members, red velver members, others. ☽ genre: angst, slice of life, adult-hood, hurt-comfort. ☽ aus: ex to something!AU, beauty youtuber Reader, fashion designer Baekhyun ☽ warnings: none ☽ word count: 1.7k

☽ half moon masterlist | general masterlist

― note: first of all, i’m sorry if this chapter is rather confusing, this chapter was written for aff and i wrote it with an oc name. this story will also be in a 3rd point of view and reader will be addressed with “she/her”.

― taglist: @fullsuninbloom / @in3vitably3v3 / @byunbeautifulb / @itsbaekhyunsbutt. let me know if you want to be tagged or untagged!

It’s never ending. She thought to herself as she went through the piles of delivery packaging that she received earlier the day. She was not one to go through her packages right away, but for some reason, something in her package piles calls for her. Although now, she’s starting to regret her decision as two hours have passed and she still didn’t find something that will intrigued her enough for her to talk about.

She knew she had multiple videos that she needed to film before the deadline, yet she ignored her obligations and acted like she didn't have any.

She likes her job, likes filming herself reviewing products and trying out something new, uploading it for the whole world to see. Editing her own videos is also a pleasure, but of course, she’s only human. And being human means there are times where she’s too lazy to do anything.

At the end, she ended up by sorting through half of the new cosmetics she needed to review, doing brief reviews on her Instagram story for some products that she’s excited about.

After a few more hours of organizing her packages, a box caught her eyes. It is not the first time she received a package from said company, she reviews, loves, and even wears said product from time to time regardless who owned it. Yet, something about the new package box feels unsettling.

Privé. The box reads. There is no difference from the previous boxes she received in the past, except for the card that was glued on the corner of said box. With shaky hands, she reaches out to take the box, mindlessly taking the card to read what’s written. The messy penmanship in the card is too familiar in her eyes.

Dear, ... Thank you for always loving our product and giving us a spectacular review. We are proud to inform you that you are invited to our new collection event. We expect to see you at the address written down below.

With gratitude, B.B.H

Her mouth parted after she finished reading the content of the card, feeling as if her breath had been taken away from her. She couldn’t believe her own eyes, it is not because this is her first time to be invited to a launch event, it is because she knows very well who wrote the card, she had dreams of the man himself. She could feel a little clench in her heart at the realization that he personally wrote the invitation card, personally wrote her full name, and not her Youtube user.

She knows the abbreviation of the invitor. Byun Baekhyun. The man of her past, the man who never stops coming to her dreams even after decades. But why now? Why, when she has gathered herself together and slowly forgetting about him? Of course, it is something that she should expect when she signed up to be someone who reviews any product. Yet, she never once expected to be directly invited by him.

By her ex-boyfriend that she last saw ten years ago.

With her thoughts running in different directions after reading the invitation card, she knew that she couldn’t organize the packages more. Leading her to call her best friend.

It was a miracle that Sehun answered right after the first beep.

“Did you get the invitation?” She asked right away, not wanting to be specified in what invitation, biting her own lower lip in nervousness.

“Yeah, I did. You want to come?” Sehun answered—knowing right away which invitation she refers to—, his tone skeptic, as if he was afraid to say something wrong and it is so out of character for him.

“Of course, I will. After all, it’s my job to be there.” She sighs, her eyes focusing on the invitation card.

Her mind vividly remembering how she used to receive love letters with the same exact lazy penmanship, she knows she still keeps the love letters inside a box that she placed on her closet.

“You know me and Seulgi will be there, and the rest of our friends. Don’t worry too much about it, alright?”

She mumbled out a yeah, briefly telling Sehun she has to go and edit her newest video. With a take care, and see you soon from Sehun, the phone call ended. Leaving her in her own thoughts.

Out of all her influencer friends, only Sehun and Seulgi knew about her past with Baekhyun. Who always reminds her that Baekhyun was just a fragment of her past and it would always be that way and she believed it.

But god fucking damn it, she has to receive an invitation that was written personally by him; making her long, buried feelings surfaced. And god fucking damn it, how much she misses him.

Even after years of not seeing him.

“Girl, you are dressed to kill.” Joohyun said when she saw her in the parking lot of the event building. She just grinned shyly at her, playing with the hem of her curled hair.

She did dress to kill, spending her entire day in her penthouse with her stylist and makeup artist to help her get ready for the night’s event. Joohyun isn’t the first person to say so, even her stylist said the same thing with an addition of her dressing to impress someone.

She hated to admit it, but they’re not wrong. She chose to wear something that is not her style; an oversized satin blue shirt that she customized as an outer to hide her black strapless body con dress feels like a second skin to her. Her thigh high boots feel the same too.

“Well, it’s not everyday you get invited to a launch event that was personally written by the owner of the brand.” She playfully said, bumping her shoulder to Joohyun. Though, the confusion on Joohyun’s face makes her grow rigid.

“Huh. I got a typed out invitation, so did Seulgi and the others?” Joohyun said, taking out the invitation from her purse to prove her her words.

And true to her words, Joohyun’s invitation is typed out. Printed, signed by Privé instead of B.B.H. She right away took her own invitation card, showing it to Joohyun that her invitation was different.

Joohyun shrugged once she inspected it. “Maybe because you have been wearing their clothes even before they’re an it brand, and B.B.H himself acknowledged you?” Joohyun wonders. The word acknowledge leaves a sour taste in her tongue.

By now she is conflicted, nodding her head, and trying her best to act nonchalant by shrugging her own shoulder. “Maybe,” she purses her lips, wanting to let go of the topic. “Where’s Seul and Hun?”

“They’re probably close. Do you want to wait for them or let’s just mingle inside?”

She pursed her lips, contemplating either she should go or to prolong her upcoming doom more. Joohyun didn’t look phased, as she has always been the one who is unbothered. So, she braves herself, inhaling deeply before she links her arms to Joohyun’s. “Let’s go.”

When the dimmed lights of the venue met her eyes, she couldn’t hide her own nervousness. She doesn’t even realize that the launch party is located at some high-society club downtown. It’s not a big deal, yet something inside her churns uncomfortably and her heart beats the same way as the booming music.

She couldn’t focus, only giving people a small―rather awkward―smile as a greeting without pursuing a conversation. If she was to be honest, she’s wondering why Baekhyun sent her a personal handwritten invitation? Or maybe Joohyun was right, that she got one because she’s a long time customer of Privé, thus why.

“Bubs!” A familiar voice screamed out her name, making her turn her head to where the voice came from, but before she came up with a reply, her body was brought into a rather tight hug. She giggled, returning the hug as tight.

Her eyes shone under the dimmed light when she pulled away to reveal Seulgi. They may be close friends, but because of Seulgi’s busy modelling schedule they barely have the time to talk to each other let alone to talk.

“Girl, you look so fucking stunning.” Seulgi murmurs under her breath after she inspected her appearance, Seulgi’s hands squeezing around her waist. “Wanting to impress someone, huh?” She teases.

She shook her head, a smile that was genuinely stretched in her lips. “Maybe yeah. But I doubt the one I’m trying to impress will..”

Her words cut off as Joohyun who was silently inspecting the area blurted out something while looking at a certain spot of the club, “Is it just me or B.B.H is looking at our direction?”, and she reacted automatically, turning her head to the direction Joohyun was looking at only to have her breath taken away.

In the balcony of the club, there stand Byun Baekhyun with a glass of champagne in his hand; his eyes focused on her direction that lets them have eye contact. She gasped like a fish in need of water, her hand fell to her sides. And the memory she long buried flashes through her mind.

Byun Baekhyun is still as beautiful as she remembered him to be. Still absolutely stunning even under the dimmed lights of the club. Just like all those years ago when she first encountered him at a nearby club back in her university days. She was stunned, to say the least, as if the world stopped and it turned black and white with only Baekhyun’s blue shirt that stood out in her eyes.

Everything is grainy, everything is fuzzy, the loud booming sound of music turns into a white noise as she sees Baekhyun walking down to her direction. Her feet automatically led her to Baekhyun. She doesn’t even realize how Seulgi called her name, how Joohyun gaped at her, and how Sehun tried to reach his hand out to stop him.

Her head was empty, and only Byun Baekhyun filled her thoughts.

“Princess,” comes the breathless voice, the nickname he always used for her left his lips and she would never admit to miss it, only to notice that Baekhyun’s voice is deeper, huskier, sexier. “You’re here.” He stated, his eyes never leave her and oh, how much she wanted to kiss his eyes just like the old times.

And just like old times, Baekhyun’s eyes shone ever so brightly. His rounded irises filled with the whole stars in the universe, twinkling inside of it.

Her observation makes her realize; that even after being separated after ten years, he still captivated her. And maybe, maybe, she never really moved on.

― additional note: i know, i know. ten years? is a lot. but in this universe they are rather old and they’re adults. think of it this way: it took years for someone to build their career as a fashion designer or youtuber. and also i like my characters old and independent :”) i hope you guys enjoy this chapter and let me know what you think of this one.

#baekhyun scenarios #baekhyun scenario #exosnet #bbh-net #livia writes #baekhyun fluff #baekhyun angst #im sorry if the preview are too long #i dont know how to cut this thing ugh

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bellatrixobsessed1 · 4 years

Text

Kissing Dead Pearls (Part 4)

It was sunset they found their favorite place on the docks. The sun reflected itself upon the slowly undulating waves, a vivid golden disk bobbing upon a dancing surface. Sokka’s hand curled around hers, he flashed her a pretty smile. A soft and charming smile, outlined by the sun’s fading glow.

With his other hand, he pointed at a cluster of craggy rock formations, some large and others stout. “Ma used to tell Katara and I that the sirens sing on those.” He pointed at a natural arch of sandstone that was several feet away from it. “And that, that was a gateway into an underwater world. Or sometimes where ghost ships pass through to get to the otherside.”

Azula nodded along as he recounted his folktales. She had never been much into them, preferring to look at what is real over a fantasy. But his voice was soothing and he was so enthusiastic to be sharing so she let him go on.

“She said that sometimes lost sailors will come through those arches to let their loved ones know what happened.”

Azula didn’t know if she believed in ghosts. She stared at her feet as she kicked them at the water below.

“Don’t lose your sandals again!” Sokka exclaimed, recalling how she’d had him fish them out the last time she’d done it.

She offered only a mischievous smile. She decided to show him mercy, instead of deliberately letting them slip off again, she replies, “tell me about the sirens.”

“Of course you want to hear about the sirens.” He grumbled. “You are a siren.”

“Oh?”

“According to Ma, they’re really beautiful...alluring and their voices are even lovelier.”

Azula nodded, “I am beautiful and alluring, yes.” She agreed.

“They like to sing in the middle of the ocean, their voices are hypnotic. They put a spell on people. On the foggiest days, usually when sailors are lost, they’ll hear voices in the mist. Enchanting and beautiful music. That’s how ma described it, enchanting. And the sailors would be so drawn to it that they’d throw themselves overboard and drown. Ma never clarified whether the sirens drowned them or if they just could get back on their ships after jumping.”

“What do you think happened?” She asked before the full meaning of his ‘compliment’ sunk in. “I don’t lure men to their deaths!”

He quirked a brow. She had half the mind to chuck him off of the dock, but that would have only proved his point. Anyways, he’d put his arm around her.

She watched as something rose up from the water, and for a second, stories of fantasy and oddity fresh in her mind, she could have sworn that it was a siren’s tail. She craned her neck for a closer look.

“Sokka…” She pointed.

The dolphins usually never got that close.

.oOo.

Azula was at La-bsters when the news came. Zuko had a fish sandwich and a plate of fries. She remembers just picking a few fries off of his plate and occasionally taking sips of her icedtea.

She was overlooking the shoreline, the midday crowd of tourists lined the beaches. She was still smiling, because Sokka would be entering soon with a collection of stories from his days at sea.

Katara had been similarly excited…

Azula clicks her phone and puts it aside, assessing in full just how extensive the damage to the pier is. Mai seems to have taken the news well, but then Mai is never particularly expressive and she knows that Michi will be bawling. She wanders over to the Cod Shack and picks up one of the out of place blue and white chairs. Though it is hard to tell which table it belongs to, they are all so scattered. Scattered like her feelings. She doesn’t want to think about that now.

The sails resurface in her mind and she isn’t sure if they had truly been there. It may be that she is slipping again. She shakes her head and begins moving all of the chairs and tables into the center of the outdoor dining area. Once that is accomplished, she begins reassembling them as they had been to the best of her memory.

She is lightly panting by the time she is done heaving heavy chairs and tables around. She feels an arm on her shoulder, it is too large to be Zuko’s. Hakoda pats her shoulder and flashes her a warm smile that looks too much like Sokka’s for it not to put a pang in her heart. “Thanks for doin’ this.” He says. “I’m sure that you and your brother have your own mess to deal with.”

Azula shrugs. “Taken care of. We just need to get a new door for the lighthouse when we can get the money.”

“The two of you have always been very helpful. If you need a new door, I can get you a new door.” He looks his restaurant over. “We made more than enough last year, I was gonna put it aside for renovations but I don’t mind helping you two fix your door.” Before she can decline the offer, he continues, “I’m gonna have to put those off anyways to keep us afloat this season. So, no big loss.”

But she feels as though it is. “I’d rather work for what I have.”

Hakoda chuckles. “You and your father…” he trails off. “Neither of you two like charity.” He sighs, “If you must, think about it as payment for helping with this mess.” He gestures to the havoc around him.

She sighs, “alright, fine.”

He pats her back. “At least you aren’t as stubborn as he is. Would you mind helping me untangle these.” He points to the knots of patio lights.

Azula nods. “I can probably climb up there.” She tests her weight upon the arbor, finding that it can accommodate her, she scales it. She reaches the top and finds herself a comfortable position. She supposes that having such a short and light build has its perks.

“Careful!” Hakoda calls up, drawing the attention of Zuko and Katara.

“Azula, get down from there!” He shouts.

“I’m fine, Zuzu.” She insists as she works to unravel the first strand of lights. “Besides, if I fall, it won’t be any worse than a broken ankle…”

“A broken ankle isn’t a good thing.”

“She’ll be fine, Zuko.” Katara says. “Look at her, she’s more balanced than those seagulls that always squat here.”

The anxiousness doesn’t leave his face. She supposes that she can understand why. It is the same reason that he had been so panicky just the other night. She remembers the feeling of saltwater wind on her face…

She remembers it just as vividly as she remembers how it felt leaving La-bsters with no appearance from Sokka. Katara had promised to call her when Sokka got home. As she’d walked out she’d heard Hakoda mention to Kya that Sokka was just running a little late.

And that had to be it because the weather was pristine.

But Katara never called that night. She never called at all to inform Azula that Sokka was home, because he never came home. The first few days were fine, there was still a decent chance that he was simply running late and on his way. A week from his set arrival date, they sent the search parties out. It was on the news, a segment about a lone lost sailor. That if anyone spied a long sailboat, with a dark blue and white body and sails painted to look like ocean waves, that they should report it. That the boat’s name is Pearl Racer and the sailor’s name is Sokka. This was followed by an image of him, the one on his boating licence, and a verbal description, age, weight, height.

The search continued for another two weeks. By the third it was called off. Azula isn’t sure who was the most furious; she, Kya, Katara, or Hakoda. None of them thought that the coastguards had done everything they could. None of them thought that the search had been long enough.

After a little over a month had gone by, he was pronounced legally dead. She remembers a numb hollowness.

The string of lights come free and fall back into their correct places. Azula triumphantly declares as much as she carefully makes her way to the next set and the set after that.

“Please come down.” Zuko winces as she nears the middle of the large arbor.

Azula rolls her eyes as she drops the final strand and climbs down. But really she can’t fault him too much. In part, she’d done this to herself. The wind on her face isn’t all that similar to the wind that had caressed it that day. The day she’d wandered to the cliffside.

The numb, hollowness hadn’t abated. In the weeks to follow, if anything it had grown. More and more intense. She may not have been as close to her mother as Zuko was, but the woman had been very loving. To lose her was a hard hit. To lose her had been, in some way, losing her father; he no longer smiled. No longer walked down to the back with her to show her new surfing tricks nor attended her surf competitions. No longer had barbeques with them on the beach. No longer did anything but drink and drink until his words slurred and his temper flared. He wasn’t the same man. He was meaner, more distant. But at that point, distance was safer.

She had lost her mother and her father. And just a few years later, she lost Sokka. The thoughts had carried her out of the lighthouse and to the edge of the cliff that she and Ursa used to sit on and watch the sunset. The churning and relentless waves below called to her long a beautiful liquid song.

She remembered thinking about how Zuko had already lost mother and father. But he still had Katara. Or maybe she hadn’t thought about Zuko at all. Now that she really thinks about it, she is almost certain that she hadn’t. If she had thought about Zuko then she wouldn’t have put her feet over the edge.

She wouldn’t have woken up in the hospital. She wouldn’t have a large gash that runs all the way down her arm and another scar beneath her chin.

She remembers her father saying that she had been born lucky. After that she is inclined to agree. She should be as dead as her mother.

Azula wanders over to Zuko who is still jittery and rolls her eyes again. “It wasn’t that high.” She almost tells him that if she could survive a cliff dive into ruthless waters, that she could handle a teeny leap from an arbor. She thinks that this will only put him more on edge. He doesn’t like talking about that day. That day when he almost lost his whole family. Well...he could have gone to stay with uncle Iroh who lived on the other coast…

“I don’t want to have to pay your hospital bills when you break your arm.” He spits, trying to play it off, but she can sense the unease in his voice.

“I’m fine, Zuzu. I can handle myself. I know what I can and can’t do.”

“Yeah but accidents happen” he trails off. She knows what he wants to say, “look at mom. Look at Sokka.”

“Well it didn’t.” She shrugs. “Let’s go eat some seafood.” She thumbs at the restaurant behind them. “You can take two customers before you close for the season, right?”

“How about you drive home with us and I can have Kya cook up one of her special lunches?”

“Mom misses seeing you guys.” Katara adds.

It sounds like as good a plan as any.

#Avatar The Last Airbender #Azula #Sokka #Sokkla #Zutara #Zuko #Katara #Fanfiction

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forevfangirlwrites · 4 years

Text

Roses and Regrets

A/N: Thanks to @yourtrashyfangurl for selecting the prompt from here!

She hasn’t talked to Percy in two weeks.

She’s acutely aware of the fact too. You’d notice if one of your closest friends suddenly stopped talking to you. Well…not that suddenly. If she thinks back, the distance had been growing between them as unspoken tension lingered in the background and unsaid words grew heavier.

But even then, the off-kilter feelings and friction between them seemed to have come out of nowhere. It just doesn’t make sense to her.

But everything is like that with Percy. Nothing ever really makes sense. He is like a whirlwind of emotions and half-sentences and loose puzzle pieces.

A honk shakes her out of her thoughts, as she catches sight of Luke’s car outside. It’s a shiny silver, very clean, and he gets out of the car to open the door for her, offering a smile and a single white rose.

It’s very nice.

He tells her she looks beautiful; she blushes, and they talk over a quiet radio and arrive at a nice restaurant. And from there they follow the beats of a date: dinner, sweet smiles, dessert, a kiss good night.

She sighs when she shuts the door, a pleasant smile on her face. It’s been a nice day, no tensions, no fighting, no whirlwind. A good time with nice company and she feels calm for once.

Fishing out a vase, she puts her single white rose in water. Simple and perfect. She thinks maybe she’s finally got what she wants.

-.-

Luke makes sense, she realizes while walking in the park (she’s supposed to be jogging but has absolutely no motivation to do so). She can understand him, his actions, his goals, his personality.

As if on cue her phone rings. It’s him, of course, calling exactly when he said he would.

She picks up and he’s polite and charming, asks her how her jog is going, and chuckles when she tells him it isn’t and it’s nice to feel comfortable.

Her mind harkens back to Percy (without her permission, she might add) and how by now he would have made a teasing comment about her getting out of shape if she continued on like this (even though his homemade cookies that he always brought over were the problem). But even though he’d obviously be teasing, it’d annoy her enough to make her jog twice the distance she would’ve just to prove a point.

Even just thinking about it has her a little worked up and she shakes him out of her mind. Luke is asking her about dinner and she readily agrees, finally admitting defeat on her jog in favor of going home and getting ready.

Dinner is nice, as is everything with Luke, and by the end of the night she gets another white rose and a sweet kiss to show for it.

When she gets home, she puts the white rose next to the other and they sit there next to each other, pristine and perfect.

She goes to sleep with a smile on her face.

-.-

“We don’t have to go if you don’t want to,” Luke says as they’re debating going barhopping over the weekend. A lot of her friends are going, and it’ll probably be fun but…

“It’s not that I don’t want to go, I just…I don’t know!” She’s frustrated⁠—she hates being indecisive⁠—but bars and parties aren’t that much her thing so she’s on the fence about it and…

Luke puts his arm around her and continues in his calm voice, “It’s alright, Annabeth. We’ll do whatever you want.”

It’s such a stark contrast to what Percy would do. By now, Percy would have declared his opinion and would probably be pushing her towards going to the event with that stupid wide grin on his face.

She huffs at the thought. She tells Luke she doesn’t want to go.

So, they don’t. She ends up with another white rose and goes to bed mostly content with her decision.

The next day all her friends have posted about how fun the event was. She stares at her white roses and thinks it’s probably alright.

-.-

A week later she’s hoisting up groceries to her apartment, huffing and puffing by the time she gets to her door. ⁠

She makes a face as she sets the bags down and toes off her shoes. She hasn’t been out of breath like this in a long while, especially since she’d been building up a better tolerance for cardio through her daily jog⁠—

Except…she hadn’t actually jogged in weeks.

Her frown deepens as she puts the food away. She needs to get back into the habit, but she doesn’t know why she stopped in the first place.

Her phone dings with a notification that Piper has posted something on Instagram. To fulfill her best friend duty, she immediately opens it up to like it.

The post is about the bar hop event that she missed and features a grinning Piper, Thalia and Jason all holding microphones, captioned with “never sang Eye of The Tiger better!!”

She likes the picture and comments a heart emoji, but her frown isn’t going away. She really should have gone…she just…

She’s frustrated again. It’s been like this for a while now, everything seems kind of off and she can’t put her finger on why. And she’s frustrated more often than she ever wants to be.

She sighs. She’s just had a bad run of it, it’ll be alright. She’ll get back into the swing of things.

Lost in her thoughts, she doesn’t realize her frown has settled on the white roses sitting prettily in the water.

-.-

Luke drops her off at the coffee shop she’s meeting Piper at. The smile she’s been faking slips away and the frown settles back on her face as she aimlessly fiddles with the with today’s⁠— of course⁠—white rose.

“Hey Beth!” Piper is one of two people in the entire world who can call her that. She tries not to think of the other person.

She gives her best friend a hug. “Hey Pipes.”

“What’s with the white rose?” she asks, dropping her bag to the floor as she sits down.

Annabeth shrugs. “Luke gives them to me.”

Piper raises an eyebrow. “Why?”

She shrugs again. “I don’t know, to be nice?”

“But you don’t even like white roses?”

It’s true that she had once declared she didn’t care for white roses and would carry red roses instead at her own wedding. Granted, that had been a few wineglasses and years ago, but she supposes it still rings true.

She shrugs for the third time, suddenly anxious to get away from the topic, and sets the flower down a little ways away. It’s bright against the dark wood of the table.

She turns towards Piper and asks her about Jason.

-.-

It’s two am and she cannot call asleep. Her mind is spinning with way too many thoughts and she can’t turn any of them off. One thing just leads to another and another and another until sea green eyes fill her mind and she’s thinking about Percy.

It’s been a month and now in the darkness of night she can admit that she misses him. She doesn’t even know why. Everything was a mess with him, nothing made sense, it was all complex and chaotic emotions. He pushed her buttons, pulled her away from comfortability, and it was a constant whirlwind.

With Percy it was all breaking down and coming undone and an almost roller coaster kind of rush. She swears he’s insane but⁠—

But she still misses him, despite all that.

She curses his name, turns over, and tries to block out the memories of hearts beating fast and the strange freedom that came with screaming in the rain.

-.-

She’s ready early, because Luke always shows up on time, looking aimlessly out the window for signs of the shiny silver car.

Her gaze naturally lands on the vase of white roses, still looking pretty and pristine, and suddenly they’re making her frown instead of smile. They’re suddenly too elegant, too perfect, and it makes her stomach churn.

It’s such an intense emotion and it comes out of nowhere and⁠—

It doesn’t make sense.

Strangely enough, the thought makes her smile. Things not making sense? She’s used to that, used to figuring that out, used to it because Percy⁠—

Percy motivates her to jog when she doesn’t want to (because he knows how she hates herself for it afterwards if she skips out). Percy pushes her towards new experiences that might be a little out of her comfort zone (and it’s those experiences she remembers the most vividly). Percy is a mess, he’s rain and screaming, puzzle pieces that don’t quite fit and a rollercoaster she didn’t know she missed.

Percy doesn’t make sense.

And Percy is everything she nee⁠—

A honk breaks her out of her thoughts.

Percy is late.

The beat up, messy, blue Prius is a sigh for sore eyes. He doesn’t get out of the car to let her in but invites her in by turning up the volume and belting out Rick Astley’s Never Going To Give You Up.

He offers a wide grin, telling her she looks absolutely stunning, and a few seconds later she’s screaming along to the lyrics with him.

She’s jogged everyday for the past week, they’re on their way to some event downtown that she’s not sure of, but Percy’s look of excitement is everything.

As quickly as he had turned it up, he lowers the volume suddenly, and when she turns to look at him questioningly, he’s just staring at her.

It’s a little uncomfortable and completely out of left field and of course it doesn’t make sense.

But she’s used to it, used to figuring it out.

So, it doesn't take her long to figure out the look of love in his eyes.

-.-

She sighs when she shuts the door behind her. It’s been a great day, she has tingling lips and a smirking Percy in front of her to show for it.

His next kiss causes her to lose all brain functions and she wonders if maybe she’s the insane one. Her hands let go of her stuff and it falls to the floor as she tangles her fingers in his hair.

It’s messy and wild and she feels the whirlwind inside of her. She never knew she could feel this much.

They stumble further into the apartment, giggling and happy. It’s been a long time coming.

And on the floor by the door lay shoes, a purse, and a single red rose.

A/N: Thank you so much for the prompt! I hope you liked it and this little fic (with a hint of The Way I Loved You by Taylor Swift) fulfilled what you were looking for when you chose the prompt Roses!

#percabeth #percy and annabeth #percabeth oneshot #writing prompts #ask #thanks for the prompt #percabeth au #fanfiction #thank you again!

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feistypaants-archived · 4 years

Text

False Positive [Chapter 6]

Rating: M Words: 2467 Pairing: Kristanna Summary: When things don’t go according to plan and Anna finds herself alone and pregnant, she looks to her sister’s best friend, Kristoff, and almost makes a huge mistake.

[Chapter Index]

Where To Read: [AO3]

Notes: This chapter is definitely ... different. I think it works though lmao... thanks again to @kristanna and @frozenwritingcorner kiss kiss kiss kiss

Enjoy!

Anna felt the weight of her duffle bag digging into her shoulder as she stood on the side of the road, waiting desperately for Hans to show up. He said he’d be there as soon as possible, but it had been almost three hours and she couldn’t stop crying. A few of her neighbors had slowed down to look at her suspiciously, but none had stopped when they saw her red eyes, smeared makeup, and shaking body.

Finally, god finally, his silver BMW coupe pulled up beside the curb, and he rolled down his window to look at her. “Well, look at you, all dolled up.”

She knew he meant it as a joke, so she forced out a laugh, but it stung her to her core. “O-only for you,” she sang, her voice tight, before she threw her duffle into the popped trunk and climbed into the passenger seat. “Thank you.”

He pressed a kiss against her forehead before driving off. “Anytime.”

The rumble of the car lulled her to sleep.

Until the squealing of tires and the sirens of an ambulance shot her awake, and she was sitting in the hospital with her sister, who was paler than normal and unmoving. Anna turned to face her, trying to figure out why they were back here. They couldn’t be back here…

“Elsa?” She asked, her voice quiet and meek. Anna looked down at herself, in the same hoodie and jeans she was wearing that night. No, it couldn’t be. She refused to believe it. Panic started rising in her throat. It had been six years. Six. She wasn’t here. “Why are we… Where are… What’s…” None of her sentences would finish, tongue literally tangling behind her teeth. Until she managed to shout just one thing. “Elsa!”

Cold blue eyes darted to her, upset that she would make a scene. “Quiet, Anna.”

Anna felt a shiver race up her spine and pierce her heart. This was wrong, this was all wrong. Elsa would comfort her, right? Elsa wouldn’t treat her like this… Elsa… “Where are mama and papa?”

But her sister’s eyes were unblinking. “I said be quiet, Anna.”

“No!”

Elsa’s face stiffened, froze, and she turned calmly to face the front desk again. “Then leave.”

And the floor fell out from under her. She was falling, reaching up to her sister who wouldn’t even acknowledge her, crying out for someone, anyone, to catch her. To help her. To see that she was there.

Her back slammed against something hard, stars bursting behind her eyes as her head followed suit. It was a struggle to stand. She felt heavy, like something was weighing her down. It wasn’t until she touched the wooden handrail that she noticed she was back at her apartment. But she wasn’t, not quite, and her whole body shook as she looked through the window. Another her stood in the kitchen, hands clenched by her side as she fought back tears.

“I’m eighteen, Elsa. I’m not stupid.”

“You’re a child. And he’s… too old.”

Elsa’s own hands were wrapped around her upper arms as she closed herself off, obviously not open to discussion.

Anna watched herself throw a tantrum, watched herself slam the plate down on the table as her voice rose, laced with frustration. “This isn’t fair, Elsa! You can’t decide who I date! You’re not mom!”

“If you don’t like it, you can go.”

“Go?”

“You’re eighteen,” her voice was full of venom, mocking. “Leave.”

She moved to wipe her cheeks, tears falling fat and heavy, when a new set of arms wrapped around her shoulders, warm and strong and comforting.

“I’m here, whatever you need.”

Anna turned in his embrace and tears of grief morphed into tears of joy, her arms wrapping around his waist as he tucked her under his chin. “You can stay as long as you need, okay? I’m here for you, Anna.”

Her name echoed in his voice and she breathed in his scent, a new sense of safety enveloping her.

Anna.

Anna…

Anna?

“Hey, Anna!”

She woke up with a start, gasping for air as she looked around for the source of the voice, not entirely sure where she was or how she got here… until she found her little snowman plush smushed against her pillows. A sigh of relief escaped her.

“Over here,” he laughed, waving at her from the screen of her computer. “You fell asleep.”

Anna shimmied back up her bed, laying back down in front of the camera. “Sorry. Growing a human is exhausting, apparently.”

Kristoff’s warm honey laugh came through the speakers, and she couldn’t stop the smile that stretched over her lips.

After she had confessed her big mistake, they had spent another few hours talking, making sure everything was out in the open and that they were at a good understanding and a place to move forward. Since then they had video chatted most nights when he got home from work and she was too tired to trek over there, and Anna couldn’t help but admit that talking to him was quickly becoming the best part of her day.

They had grown apart a tiny bit in the last year, but mostly because Hans wasn’t the most fond of Kristoff. He always assumed men just wanted to screw Anna and didn’t particularly like her spending time around other guys. But since he was out of the picture, it was pretty nice to have Kristoff back in this kind of capacity.

“Have you told Elsa yet?” He was folding clothes in front of the webcam, shoving up his too old and too loose glasses in between every shirt.

“Oh you’ll know when I tell her. The whole city will freeze over because of her disappointed glare. You know the one.”

Kristoff laughed again, nodding.

“Think I can just tell her I’m getting fat?” Anna rubbed at her tummy, wondering how long it would take for everyone else to notice that she had a little person growing inside of her.

“Probably not.” He rubbed at his eye. “I think she’ll figure it out.”

Anna groaned before shoving her face into the pillows. “She’s gonna kill me. Do you remember when I started dating Hans?”

Kristoff looked up, straightening his spine. “... Yeah.”

“Sorry, I literally just was having this dream about it.” She rolled back over to look at him. “She kicked me out for dating Hans. God… she might literally kill me for getting pregnant.”

He stayed silent, and she nodded with pursed lips. “I thought so.”

“... If you need a place to stay, you know where I am.”

Anna frowned, closing her eyes. “I think I need someone else to be the dad.” She froze, before sitting up and leaning closer to the screen. “I’m sorry. I’m… I didn’t mean…” she sighed and dropped her face into her hands as a small smile pulled up one side of his mouth. “God, I can’t believe what an idiot I am.”

“How’s your foot taste.” He laughed to himself before realizing she hadn’t caught on to his joke. “... since it’s in your mouth so much.”

“You’re the worst. I cannot believe I ever had a crush on you.”

She heard him drop something before coughing. “You…”

Anna couldn’t help but look up at him, her eyebrow cocked with confusion.

“You had a crush on me?”

His cheeks were pink and Anna smiled, rolling her eyes with a chuckle. “Oh yeah, big time. It started when I was thirteen, and you were sixteen, I think?” She tried to ignore how cute he looked when he moved his glasses up on top of his head, his hair pushed back out of his face. “I was grounded because I failed a test.”

The memory came flooding back to her, vividly, like it had just happened.

“And you… snuck into the kitchen and got me my favorite chocolates - you know,” she gestured, leaning closer to the computer. “The ones my mom kept up on the top shelf of the cabinet so I couldn’t reach?”

He nodded, and his cheeks flushed a deeper shade of red.

“Then you sat with me at the table, and helped me study math until I got it, and gave me a piece of the chocolate as a reward each time I figured something out. It was…” she bit her lip, twirling her hair between her fingers. “It was so sweet. You were just so sweet.” Then she changed her expression and stuck her tongue out, blowing a short raspberry in his direction. “And then I got an A on every other test because I was too embarrassed about you coming anywhere near me ever again.”

Kristoff looked like he had swallowed a frog, his face bright and contorted.

“... You okay?”

He sucked in a deep breath, before blowing it out with almost incomprehensible words. “I’lldoit.”

“What?”

“The… fake the pregnancy thing?”

“... What?”

Kristoff’s whole face had paled, and he was looking anywhere but at her. “... If you want… to pretend I’m the dad…”

Her breath quickened and she grabbed the sides of the computer to pick it up so she could sit up properly. “... What?”

“Can’t you say anything else?” He choked out, rubbing his hands down his face. “Like… not forever, okay? And not like… pretend dating. That’s… not what this is…” He was clearly doing his best to ignore her dumbstruck face. “And in the end… when Elsa is fine with it… you can do like a … paternity test or something… and just act like it was a big mistake… or… something…”

“You…” Anna was completely speechless. Was he crazy? Was he kidding? Was he… “We don’t… you …. dont…” her breathing was shallow, she was so shocked that she could barely catch her breath. “... What?”

Her stomach was churning. He was saying something else, but Anna couldn’t hear him over the blood rushing in her ears. Had he just agreed to this? Was this real? Was this… no. She was still dreaming. She had to have been! There was just no way…

“So… deal?”

Anna suddenly felt bile rise in her throat and nodded as she scrambled off the bed, through the doorway as quickly as she could.

Kristoff watched her, expression shocked. But he missed the small voice come through his speakers.. “Guess the morning sickness is starting.”

And then he saw Elsa’s head peeking around the corner.

“Morning sickness?”

Ah, shit.

Kristoff slammed his computer shut as quickly as he could and stood, pacing back and forth as Sven watched him irritably from his bed. What did he just do? Did he just agree to — no, suggest that they concoct some crazy plan to appease his best friend? And then accidentally reveal the secret?!

She could be a bit brash, but she wasn’t so unreasonable that she would abandon her pregnant sister… right? Right!

She was a good person. Kristoff had known her for almost a decade and when she finally came out a year ago and started being her whole, true self, he noticed a difference in her. She was less angry, slower to make impulsive decisions, more caring and understanding… But god, she still scared the shit out of him. She had dropped out of law school, abandoning all her efforts so that she could focus on her art.

Which he was so, so proud of her for. He wanted her to be true to herself and do whatever made her happy.

But when it came to Hans, Elsa and Anna never, ever wound up on the same page. Which was fair, he was… the worst. But Kristoff knew he and Elsa couldn’t really have any say in what Anna chose to do with her life. And when Elsa kicked her out the first time, Anna had gone to stay with Hans for a while.

And that left Anna easily startled and even more anxious when she made mistakes than before. And Kristoff was not prepared to ever let her be in that situation again.

He swallowed his pride before opening the laptop back up and pressing the call button.

Anna picked up on the second ring, her face red and hands clasping at her stomach.

“Hang on,” she mumbled, before returning to the screaming match with her sister.

Kristoff wondered why she even answered, but did his best not to interfere. He had seen enough of their fights to know that you just had to sit tight, stay safe, and wait for it to be over. Kind of like a blizzard.

Or a hurricane.

“Well?!” Elsa’s voice was sharp, as if all her zen, I ride magical horses into enchanted forests and paint naked fairies sitting on mushrooms hippy personality receded back into a hidden pocket. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

Anna opened her mouth to speak, freezing when Kristoff’s voice came from the computer.

“It’s mine, Elsa. I, uh, did that.”

She turned on him, then, her eyes alight with rage. “You… did that? You and Anna? When!” They both hummed noncommittally as his eyes avoided both of theirs. Elsa threw her hands up with frustration. “It doesn’t matter! What… what are you planning, here? Are you even… together?”

“No!” They both rushed to answer, their eyes meeting before darting quickly apart. Anna took in a deep breath.

“It was just a… get over Hans thing. One time.”

“And you’re keeping it?”

“Yes.”

Anna was firm and confident, Elsa was rigid with anger, and Kristoff was just doing his best to remain relatively unnoticed.

“Okay…” she took a deep breath and stood up straight again, nodding. “I’m going back to sleep.” Her words were slow and calculated, as if she was trying to calm herself down. “We will continue this discussion,” she said, looking at Anna and then at the computer screen that held Kristoff. “In the morning.”

And then she left and Anna flopped down onto the bed, and Kristoff let out a sigh of relief.

“Well,” Anna huffed, dropping her hands hard onto the comforter. “That went just about as well as I expected it to.”

“...Yeah…”

Anna’s breathing slowed, and Kristoff didn’t doubt she was close to dozing off again. “Well… I guess this is happening now…”

“Yup.” Her lips ended the word with a pop.

“I’m sorry.”

Her head snapped over to look at the computer. “Why?” She turned her whole body to face the same way. “It would have gone way worse if she thought it was Hans’.”

Kristoff laughed, feeling a tiny bit of tension ease from his body. “This is a mess.”

“Yeah.”

“We’ll figure it out.”

Anna nodded, and she smiled up warmly at him.

“Thank you.”

He almost couldn’t control the absurd laugh that tickled his throat.

“... Anytime.”

#FPfic #feistypantswrites

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familybusinesswritingbro · 5 years

Text

Last Time

A/N: I did this on mobile so sorry for any weirdness with how it turns out. Couldn’t sleep, and ended up churning this out. Hope you enjoy!

Maybe it’s 6:45

Maybe I’m barely alive

Maybe you’ve taken my shit for the last time

Bullets ricocheted off the back wall behind the target, spent casings littering the floor. Dean had been down in the armory for the better part of three hours. He had changed guns twice already, having run out of ammunition for the first two around the same time he had drained his third bottle of Jack.

His lungs felt like they were on fire. Maybe this feeling would never stop. He wasn’t sure. But it kept him grounded as he planted his feet, took aim, and blew another hole through the head on the target. He had contemplated doing the same to himself.

He wasn’t even sure which point exactly had done this. What had been the straw to break the camel’s back. He knew it was his fault though. The fights were almost always started by him and his goddamn mouth, ever since the beginning. If he had just kept it shut, not purposely tried to get under her skin, then maybe she’d still be here. If he had a better control of himself, if he didn’t act out towards her at all. Any one of the thousands of things bouncing through his mind would’ve been better than what he did.

Dean couldn’t explain why he did it. It wasn’t like she was even his to begin with. If anything, she was closer to Sam than she ever was to him. He could understand that,that too, had been his fault of course. Since the first day they had met, he had been too hard on her. She’d given him an inch and he’d taken a mile, and then some.

The fight that had led to her storming out of the bunker, and possibly his life, was stupid. That was the only thing that kept flashing back through his mind. He had already lost Jack, he hadn’t done a damn thing to keep Cas from leaving, and spinning all of that hurt into anger on her was the big finale.

A bullet sailed through the air, this time missing the target and lodging into the wall. That only made him angrier.

Dean knew, deep down, that everything she had said to him was true. He was a dick. He was, as she had put it, insufferable. He was a jerk. Pick any name you wanted and it probably belonged under a ‘Description of Dean’ chart.

He wasn’t sure why he acted like this. Why he had pushed her from the start. But, in a way, he did know. It wasn’t some fairy tale story, she didn’t save him nor did he save her. They didn’t fall in love at first sight, there were no butterflies or wedding bells or anything even remotely similar. It wasn’t love.

It was a respect for another hunter being able to keep the Winchester pace, and a chick at that. She was badass, held her liquor, and had a mouth that would put a sailor to shame. She was wild, and the fire in her eye hadn’t yet dimmed out. She didn’t need him, or Sam, or any other man to rescue her. Dean admired her for that.

After a year or so of bumping into each other, she finally agreed to help them out. It had been like pulling teeth on Sam’s end, trying to convince her that Dean’s attitude would be insignificant in the grand scheme of it all. That memory still felt like it was only yesterday. She had flat out refused the offer to live in the bunker - she was too independent to rely solely on them. Or maybe it had to do with Dean constantly having some smart remark.

So they found a nice little house in town that suited her. They would call each other up for beers when needed, or she’d call Sam to bounce case theories off of one another. There had even been her weekly ‘Jack and Me’ trips where she’d take the kid to do who knew what. Wednesday’s were movie nights at her house where she made sure to sit as far from Dean as possible, and Sunday mornings were breakfast at the bunker where he would purposely make sure to never correctly fix her coffee.

It worked out well, for a while. Sam had a new research buddy, Cas had someone that would actually talk in depth with him about crap Dean could never begin to understand. Jack had someone he could confide in, sort of a fill in for his actual mother. And Dean? Well, he had a new person. In hindsight, maybe that had been why it was so hard for him to pinpoint the change.

He had, from the start, tried to keep his feelings at bay. He didn’t want someone else joining the group only for him to lose her like he had everyone else. He never considered her a friend to anyone that asked. His guard stayed up. It was better to hold her at arms length, to only be acquainted with and a backup plan for a hunt, than it was to admit he was actually letting her into his small circle.

So after a year of relentless teasing, of the occasional but intentional cold shoulder, of picking fights over the smallest things he could find, she was still around. But she was always Sam’s friend, truly. Those two were practically attached at the hip, despite all of Dean’s snide comments. Jack thought she hung the moon, once he discovered what that expression meant. In his eyes, she was one of the best people God had ever created.

When Dean had wheeled around, arms crossed and chest puffed after Cas shut the door, that had been it. The look in her eye was fierce, her eyebrows scrunched in disbelief as she raised a finger at him. It was a pointless argument. She was right about everything she had said, but he was too mad. Too hurt. Couldn’t recall exactly which comment had set her off, but he vividly remembered telling her this wasn’t her home and she was welcome to follow the angel if she wanted.

Maybe he was expecting some kind of argument. A rebuttal to that comment. She always had something to throw back at him when he acted like an ass. The silence she returned, had not been expected.

He could see it in her eyes that he had went too far with his comment. His mouth and opened and closed, trying to think of something to say to make it better, but the damage was already done. Her shoulders slumped briefly, and then she was snatching her keys off the table and shoving past him. Right out the door, just like Cas.

Dean’s grip went slack on the pistol, carelessly tossing it onto the table. Grabbing yet another bottle, he slumped down onto the floor. He could deny it all he wanted, but deep down he knew exactly why she was gone.

Because even if they had never acknowledged it, even if he had been on her bad side more often than her good side, she was always home with them. And he had taken that from her. The ache in his stomach was the least of what he deserved.

He had fucked up, and he had no idea how to make it better.

#supernatural #dean winchester #sam winchester #castiel #dean winchester imagine #supernatural imagine #dean winchester one shot #dean winchester fic #dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester angst #jack kline #spn fic #spn one shot #dean x reader #kinda #dean x reader fic #dean x reader angst

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gold-eyes-vengeful-heart · 4 years

Text

Apologies

((Runya goes to deliver an apology.

Contains 5.2 spoilers! Also some vaguely gross imagery and also parental mental abuse of an adult child in the second half courtesy of @semper-miles Merceus being an asshole, mind that warning))

===

When Runya approached on the back of his Shinryu-egi, he would admit he didn’t expect to find Blue carving big furrows into the shores of the crater-lake with his body.

He dismounted and dismissed the aetherial construct without looking, his eyes registering his amusement at the Weapon. He kept skidding along, tilted to one side, in a vain effort to—Runya imagined—scrape off the crystalline substance coating the former injury he had from the Ruby Weapon. Even spotting Runya wasn’t enough to get Blue to totally stop, either; sure, he got to his feet and came thumping over, but when he paused in front of Runya, it barely took a moment before he hiked up one leg and started scratching at the crystal with his knee joint. It left him balancing on one foot, but he seemed steady enough, even as he craned his neck to look down at the much smaller Miqo’te.

{Runya-friend Runya-friend}

The little eager calls bounced onto his mind like raindrops. He couldn’t help but smile lazily up at the thing, even. “Ah, so you haven’t forgotten my face after all this time?”

The sarcasm earned him a flurry of mild huffiness, but as Blue kept scratching, Runya kept eyeing that leg and the shavings of crystals he was scraping off in the process. “...I can presume you itch.”

And he probably, in turn, should have expected Blue to project that feeling into his head so strongly that his body immediately echoed it, with a penetrating tickle that he almost doubled over onto before he started to rub furiously at the spot. “Excuse you, that was uncalled for!”

{Yes it was.}

“No it wasn’t.”

{Yes.} The thought sat there glacially, refusing to be moved even by him. “...You just did that to amuse yourself, didn’t you?”

The glacier-facade cracked and trickled merriment, and the Weapon physically chuffed like a laugh. And in response, Runya just raised a hand to his forehead with feigned drama, sighing heavily. “Oh, heavens save me, he actually has a sense of humor.” A strange thing, that. He had to say, after seeing what he had done to an entire lab full of Garleans, he hadn’t expected Blue to be...well, quite this human.

And yet all the same he knew full well from that panic that he had had a couple times over that the Weapon was indeed still a weapon. And there was something...off in the depths of Blue’s mind, too, he came to realize the more he hung around the creature. It lurked not quite at the heart of Blue but frighteningly close, a tattered void-like slash in his mindscape like a gouge across a throat. Every time it occupied his thoughts, it drew him silently closer, beckoning him towards a tempting and all too familiar madness that both begged for help and bit furiously at any being that dared listen—it both threatened to consume him and yet also didn’t quite dare consume Blue himself, held in check by rocky scarred tissue mountainous around its edges but not quite enough to keep him away it would be too simple to peek in and see what memory lurked under the surface but all the same he could catch a familiar glimpse of dead eyes and mountains of bodies twisted and gored and cracked open like eggs but they weren’t human and some were tall and robed under the layers of char and gore—

He jerked back from the contact as the black yet vividly blaring, projecting scar threatened to consume his vision entirely. Even then, it dotted across his vision, bug-like, making him blink rapidly as he looked up at Blue.

For his part, the Weapon had paused with his hind leg half up in the air, and his head was very slowly cocking to one side until he nearly turned it sideways in confusion. Strangely, he didn’t seem to have even felt Runya’s intrusion into that mindscape incarnation of ancient mental trauma, and even Runya’s secondhand echo of it just concerned him more than alarmed him.

{??????} A cold fish-slimy slap of worry flew right into his face.

“It’s quite fine, thank you.” He waved off the now-crouching Weapon, despite how his body twitched and burned with secondhand panic not his own. His hand shook as he ran it through his hair. “I...aah, I shouldn’t have gone poking into your mind so offhand. That was rude of me.”

{...Very rude.} The concern soured into a sulk and heated into an accusation. {I don’t look into YOU like that. Even if your whole mind is like that.}

The two words didn’t need to be explained, at least; Blue knew immediately what he had been looking at, and perhaps he wasn’t entirely wrong that Runya’s entire mindscape was little else but a vast wound in and of itself, with only the faintest hints of something more around the edges—and even then he couldn’t stop picking at it long enough for those little hints to take hold.

“Perhaps.” He still waved off the notion with one hand. “But I do swear that I won’t be nosy without good reason. Does that sound alright?” And the second he got a grudging agreement, he continued, leaning on his elbows on the tip of Blue’s jaw. “And I actually came here to ask you a question. You do know that Macbalor isn’t an enemy, don’t you?”

The Weapon’s discordant jangle of negativity clashed against his thoughts so ferociously it put him in mind of jars of marbles being thrown down the stairs. Loud. Disorienting.

“Ah, come now...” Runya waggled a finger in his ear as if it would stop it ringing after that...that. “It’s an honest question, Blue, if you don’t mind.”

But no matter how genuinely honest the question, Blue didn’t want to cooperate; he could feel that much. The Weapon snorted and the gust of ocean-smell wind ruffled his robes.

{Pilotnotpilotpilotnotpilot—} The confusion, Runya could nearly taste; Blue had wanted to run but he couldn’t with her exerting that pressure on his mind, no matter how subconsciously she did it—he remembered the small Garleannotgarlean being brought to him as a last resort and he refused until she broke through his will like butter but even then he fought the whole way down the corridor as she made him move—

Runya actually snapped his fingers at Blue as the right half of his vision and the left half of his vision disagreed so wildly so that his stomach churned with nausea—one eye stuck in Blue’s past and the other stuck in Runya’s present. “Ah ah ah, you’re going to make me ruin your lovely paint job if you keep doing that.” And his head felt liable to explode, but that was obvious, he hoped. “Focus, Blue. I would prefer not to get shoved out of my own head again.”

Luckily for the both of them, he listened and did exactly as asked. The Weapon took in a deep breath and audibly blinked, and the wild torrent of uncontrolled memory receded to just a trickle of faint impressions. {...Sorry.}

“Even if I didn’t have a literal safety mechanism for my brain, I still do not enjoy migraines and feeling as if I’m going to lose lunches I ate years ago.”

{Said sorry.}

“Just a reminder that it’s unpleasant, is all.” He gave Blue’s nose a pat, the claws on his gloves clicking lightly against the metal. “You have a very loud voice. Mine pales in comparison.”

{Like it though.}

Runya cocked his head and flicked his ears forward. “Well, there’s a good thing.” He wasn’t going to question why, particularly not when even the most tentative of pushes on that front met an unyielding wall. “I should be honored, I suppose.” {Work with. Not over.} But whatever that enigmatic remark meant, Blue wasn’t keen on explaining. Instead, the top hatch hissed open, and he wordlessly peppered Runya’s mind with the urge to go run, fly, run. To move. Boredom, perhaps, but the reasons were irrelevant to Runya.

(It was so easy to get addicted to that feeling of power—and that was even without the Resonance active. He could, for a while, be not in a carved-apart-sewn-together nightmare of a body, but in something fluid and powerful and vibrant in a way that even a normal, healthy body would never be able to give him.)

“Oh, as you wish, dear.”

— — —

Shifting patterns of light roiled over Legatus Silentius’ face, as he replayed the footage over and over. Footage not just of the VIIth Legion’s vaunted Ruby Weapon, but also of his Weapon, dueling fighting clawing flying biting, until it flew into a rage at the sight of the monstrous Van Darnus and tore her apart. He scrolled the recording back automatically, without conscious thought, his attention so focused on what was before his eyes that he almost missed the soft thuds of footsteps behind him. Almost.

“Sir?”

Ariadne’s voice. But it held hesitation, weakness, and when he craned his neck around to look sidelong at her, she stiffened.

“Have you come to bring me your sister?”

“No sir.”

“Hmm. The Weapon, then; have you captured it and dragged it back here?” Ariadne swallowed. “Sir, I came to tell you that Angerona is on the move. She disappeared again—“

“I did tell you,” Merceus interrupted lightly, “only to interrupt your father with news of your successes...not your failures.”

The reprimand set Ariadne’s shoulders even stiffer than before, but really, he had told her that her only purpose now was to drag her wayward sister back here. He had not, for a moment, insinuated that he would tolerate one of his blood failing him. “Were you expecting help, Ariadne?” He smiled. “This isn’t the first time she has very suddenly eluded even your sight. And Celia’s. I don’t care why; I just want her found again. That is the task I set both of you to: finding her, and also finding the Weapon that is key to irreversibly ensuring our dominance over the weak. I did not send both of my loyal daughters on such a simple task only for them to come crawling back demanding assistance with something they should have no issue with.”

His chiding done and met with silence, he languidly returned his stare to the screen, the projected light flickering across his eyes. To no one in particular, he spoke aloud. “The Seventh was always short-sighted. They just wanted to repeat their same old mistakes, expecting that they just had to work this time.” He chuckled. “We were on to something, with this Weapon. Even in the hands of the unworthy, it carved through one of Baelsar’s glorious projects. One of the others even steals our Sapphire Weapon’s name...”

The smile disappeared. “And yet, none of us could get it to fight even half as well. It disobeyed us, routinely made us override its mind just to make it move...It refused to show us this potential, and yet here it does just that in the hands of some useless savage.” Or at least, he was quite certain that had been an Eorzean; no one else would dare stand up to the Empire. “If you do drag that pilot back here alive, Ariadne, I will be very sure to squeeze whatever foul spell he’s cast on that thing out of him before I finally let Celia have a little fun with him. But if you have to kill him, very well. I will not have both one of my daughters defying me and our Weapon being used so casually by a savage.”

Ariadne frowned, as she came to stand by him, but not too closely. (Experience, perhaps, informed her how terrible an idea that could be. “He loses control of it...there, though. When that Darnus monster appears. That’s more like when it went berserk at Celia—“

“It would still be a grand help, Ariadne,” he interrupted testily, “if you were able to drag him back here so we can dissect him properly instead of guessing.” He would not be reminded of failures—

“It has to be fond of him, somehow, to let him do this...” But Ariadne visibly winced as Merceus walked over and painfully clapped her shoulder with an even wider smile.

“This family does not make friends with things, Silentius. Nothing ever could, with that beast, even if they tried. And if it wouldn’t willingly cooperate with the very people that gave it such power, there is no chance that it is willingly cooperating with an Eorzean, either.”

“Of course, sir.” She only relaxed once he let go of her, and she turned to salute to him. (A sharp, precise motion, born of practice unyielding until he had been satisfied with it.) “I’ll take a magitek ship and continue the search, Legatus. By your leave.”

He had half a mind to deny her, after she came crawling back empty-handed and begging like some pathetic worm. But...for the moment, his mercurial mood took a turn for the marginally more lenient, and he just dismissed her with a wave of his hand. “Do not fail me again. Bring her back, bring the Weapon back, even bring the savages’ pilot back...or don’t come back at all.” And even then, he wouldn’t suffer such failure of his bloodline to live...but he didn’t need to say it out loud. Ariadne swallowing audibly was proof enough she didn’t need to hear it, either.

“Yes sir.”

He would find those three, even if he had to go out and find them himself. Even if he had to sacrifice all of what remained of his family and his men to do it. Even if he had to kill them with his bare hands. He would not tolerate such an insult to his pride as a Legatus to continue existing unhindered.

The Weapon was his. Angerona was his. And the savages all belonged to him, even if they refused to believe it. They would see, when he had the full extent of his power aligned...they would all see.

#; writing #5.2 spoilers #semper-miles #:3c #tl;dr i'm a sucker for runya and blue's tiny spite and big goober dynamic #also another villainlad isn't thrilled that runya's joyriding around in 'his' Weapon

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