#i just had this mental image in my head of sam having to endure this moment
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That Awkward Moment When...
What if Dean got Castiel back from the Empty, and DIDN’T confess his love right away? What if instead, Dean and Cas just...didn’t know how to bring it up to one another, and forced Sam to endure the most intense third-wheel moment that he’s ever experienced, while these two emotionally constipated dumbasses sat in awkward silence?
This is here to answer that question.
________________________________________
Ahem.
It was the fourth time within two minutes that Dean had cleared his throat, and pretended to look out the window.
Sam was counting, now, in a desperate bid to distract from the incredible, palpable awkward silence emanating from the front seat of the car.
He had given Cas the front as a KIND gesture. He was being nice! It was only FAIR that the guy who had just escaped from super mega turbohell got to have a free pass at riding shotgun.
Or, so he thought. When he sidled into the backseat an hour ago, he did not anticipate the absolutely lethal levels of weird that Cas and Dean would be radiating—all pretending not to look at each other, conspicuous rubbing of the back of their necks, and god DAMN it Dean was fake-looking out the window AGAIN! There was nothing out there but corn, Dean!! Corn for miles!!!
Sam sat back and groaned. This was one of the most intolerable hours that he had ever witnessed in this godforsaken car, and that was saying something.
He allowed himself to drift off into his thoughts, letting his analytical side take over. Whatever it was, it probably happened in the bunker, right before Cas was taken by the Empty. Dean had been very...vague, about that situation, which only made Sam all the more curious. What could they have SAID to each other? Sam was no stranger to having a tense relationship with Castiel, but...if they were mad at each other, they’d be doing that stupid stony-faced silent treatment. But no, they both seemed too full of nervous energy. Cas was currently rifling through the glovebox, of all goddamn things, and Dean was toggling the blinker back and forth on a two-lane highway.
Click, click. Click, click. Click, click.
“Are these...salted?” asked Castiel, holding up a box of bullets as if they were a sale item at Costco.
“Huh? Oh, yeah,” said Dean taking a quick glance, “We bought those for the uh...for the ghosts.”
“I see,” said Castiel, nodding for just a bit too long.
Click, click. Click, click. Click, click.
Sam scrubbed his face with his hands. He had been to hell before, but listening to bad small talk was its own special kind of hell. What happened in that bunker room that would make them behave like-
Like-
Sam’s mouth fell open.
Like the awkward morning after.
“Oh, my God,” Sam blurted, before he could stop himself, “Did-did you two have a one-night stand?”
Castiel dropped the box of bullets.
Dean choked on nothing.
“Sam, what the HELL?!” he coughed.
“Well, SORRY,” Sam said, in a way that he hoped conveyed how NOT sorry he was, “But you guys are acting, uhhh, really weird, and I thought maybe, I dunno-”
He shrugged, and held his hands up in defense against Dean’s murderous glare, “I thought maybe you hooked up! Y’know, last night on earth style!”
“Wha-no. No, no, no,” Dean said again, gesturing forcefully with one hand before pointing directly at Sam, “That’s-that’s not what happened in there.”
“Indeed,” Castiel murmured lowly, throwing a glance to the backseat, “I can assure you, it was worse.”
Dean nearly swerved off the road.
Sam’s jaw fell open again, eyes flicking from Dean to Cas. “W-WORSE?!”
“Oh my FUCKING god,” Dean whispered into the steering wheel.
“What I mean is, it was more...personally humiliating. To me,” Castiel clarified.
Sam blinked several times, trying to process this new bit of information.
“But I thought...you said, that the Empty's deal was about you experiencing happiness,” Sam said, shifting back into analytical mode, “Does it make an...exception, for humiliation?”
He sat back and grimaced, as he weighed the horrible possibility in his mind. “Is it into that??”
“W-well,” stuttered Castiel, his gravelly voice betraying his discomfort, “Regardless of the...preferences, sexual or otherwise, of the Empty-”
Dean suddenly slammed the steering wheel with his palm.
“Can you two PLEASE, shut up?!” he roared, “And let me fucking DRIVE in PEACE?!”
Sam and Cas fell silent, the atmosphere of the Impala even more tense than before.
Sam put his head in his hands. God, he should have just kept his mouth shut. Or maybe, he should have just taken shotgun in the first place, and stuck Cas in the back. Would've saved everyone all this trouble, maybe.
“I’m sorry, Dean,” Castiel said, finally breaking the silence.
Sam pursed his lips in annoyance. He could already tell, simply by the look on Cas’ face, that this was going to be another heart-to-heart where they completely forgot he existed.
Dean, meanwhile, didn’t react.
“I…” Castiel sighed, “I don’t...mean to make things awkward, it’s just that I didn’t-I never expected to SEE you again.”
“Really, Cas?” Dean exploded, “Really? After all we’ve been through, after all the times we’ve dragged each other out of the clutches of-of Hell, Heaven, you name it, you didn’t-you didn’t even consider the POSSIBILITY that we’d get you out?”
“Of course I considered it,” Castiel said quietly, “It was my most desperate desire."
He sat back, and turned to direct his gaze out the window.
“But there is a sort of...freedom, in confessing directly before death,” Castiel said, speaking a fog onto the window with each word, “All the vulnerability...none of the consequences.”
Sam’s eyes flew wide open as it all finally clicked.
No way. No way. NO WAY.
He shot up straight, incredulity plastered across his face that the other two were too preoccupied to notice.
DId Castiel...confess his feelings in that bunker? Make a move? Shoot his shot? And then DIE?!
What the fuck, Cas?
Sam sat back, reeling, running his fingers through his hair as Dean and Cas continued to stare out separate windows. He quite literally didn’t think he would LIVE to see the day that they acknowledged their...thing, and now they were doing it right in front of his eyes.
“I...I meant what I said, Dean,” Castiel said, fixing Dean’s profile with a longing stare, “Every single word. And I still do.”
Sam turned back toward Dean, hunched defensively over the wheel of the Impala. He still wouldn’t look at Cas.
Please, Sam prayed silently, Don’t fuck this up.
“But, I’m acutely aware that it made things different between us,” Castiel sighed, “And I’m sorry for that. I can’t take it back. However-”
“I love you.”
If he wasn’t literally watching Dean’s mouth move as he said it, Sam wouldn’t have believed his ears. Holy shit.
He whipped his head back to Castiel, who was stopped in his tracks like a deer in headlights.
Even the rain, beating against the windshield at 70 miles an hour, didn’t dare interrupt the moment at hand.
Dean was still staring out at the road, hands gripping the wheel like he was clinging to sanity itself.
“You didn’t let me say it back,” Dean said through gritted teeth, “In the bunker, you just-you dropped that on me, and then you were GONE, and you didn’t even let me say it back.”
Sam’s mouth was agape once again, eyes flicking back and forth between his brother and the equally speechless angel. The air between them was charged, and ready for a lightning strike.
“W-when you say that,” Castiel said, after a solid ten seconds of trying to find his voice, “Do you-do you mean it-”
Dean DID swerve off the road this time, sending Sam sprawling across the backseat as he skidded to a stop on the shoulder.
“Ow! Dean, what the-”
“Yeah, Castiel,” Dean said, finally taking his eyes off the road to fix him with a wild look, “I mean it. Same way you did. When you said that-that the one thing you wanted, you couldn’t have, it-it didn’t make any sense, because I always thought that I was the one wanting what I couldn’t-who I couldn't-”
He sniffled.
“Fuck, I didn’t want to do this in the CAR,” Dean said, wiping his eyes, “Not in front of Sammy.”
“Honestly? I prefer this over the past miserable hour,” Sam said, leaning back, “Do what you gotta do, man. Just...pretend I’m not here.”
Dean actually chuckled at that, but turned his attention back to Cas, who was still blinking in shock.
“Cas, you...you gotta understand,” Dean said carefully, reaching across the seat and cupping Cas’ cheek in a hand, “Come hell or high water, you have me.”
He swallowed hard. “You don’t have to...to want, I-I’m yours, a-already in the bag. Got it?”
Tears tracked down Castiel’s face as he nodded.
“Yeah,” he said, trying unsuccessfully to stop a wide, tearful smile from spreading across his face.
Dean visibly softened, and brought Castiel’s face in, kissing him right on the mouth.
Sam hoped he wouldn't come to regret the "do what you gotta do" comment, but they broke apart just a moment later to touch foreheads like a couple of saps.
“...Yaaay, congratulations!” Sam said, waving celebratory arms in the air as widely as he could in the cramped backseat. He searched around him and found some crumpled receipts, which he tossed into the front seat. “Whoo! Confetti!”
“Sam…” Dean said, closing his eyes and shaking his head.
“I appreciate your jubilation, Sam,” Castiel said, dead seriously, looking back at him with just his eyes, “Your approval means a lot to me.”
"Hey,” Sam said, clapping Castiel on the shoulder, “This changes nothing. You're still like a brother to me, man. You’re still family."
Cas smiled at him. “Thank you, Sam.”
“Aww, look at that smile, Sammy,” Dean said, tapping Cas on the cheek, “Look at it! How could anybody resist that smile?”
“I dunno, Dean, it’s pretty easy when you’re not in love with him,” Sam smiled.
“Welp,” shrugged Dean casually, as he shifted the car back into drive, “Guess I wouldn’t know, then.”
Sam was taken aback by the...ease, with which all that just rolled off of Dean’s tongue.
“God,” Sam groaned, “You’re going to be an INSUFFERABLE couple.”
Dean just laughed, light and loud, as he merged back onto the highway, offering out his right hand.
"I'm sorry, Sam," Castiel said, taking the offered hand with a twinkle of mischief in his eyes, "But as you can see, I cannot resist his charm."
Sam rolled his eyes at that, but he couldn’t keep the grin off his face. It was insufferable, yes, and Sam was going to have to have a LONG talk with Dean later, but...for now, he just laughed, as the tension bled out of the car, and Dean FINALLY turned on the stereo, letting the soothing sound of Led Zeppelin carry them into a lighter mood.
Sam took a deep breath, and let it out slow. Maybe sometimes, good things do happen.
#supernatural#destiel#15x19 compliant#i havent been invested in SPN since about 2013 but i dug deep into my recollections to summon these guys' voices one more time#i didnt put this on a main blog bc i didnt want people to expect SPN from me#i just had this mental image in my head of sam having to endure this moment#and i laughed so hard that i had to see it through#godspeed spn people and good luck on thursday#honk honk honk thats my clown nose when i started writing this 'as a joke'
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Talking to the moon
The rumors and trauma lived inside his head in fact it ate him alive. Each and everyday lifeless and a black cloud hung over his head. Except when he received and a test message from an unknown number. He knew it was unknown for three reasons. 1) Everyone knew to not text him or disturb him unless he contacted them first. 2) He could recite his entire list of contacts over anything else in his life. And the third was that he didn’t know that this unknown message would change him forever.
Word count: 15,000 *im so sorryyyy*
This is another dreaded Bucky Barnes x reader fic.
Viewers beware you are in for a scare with the: fluff, Bucky is a wanna be alcoholic, blood, angst, cheesy tropes *wrong number,etc*, bad jokes, one liners, awkwardness, sexual innuendos, mentioned sexual harassment, suicidal thoughts, depression, murder, slight dark Bucky who’s just trying to get through life, Sam Wilson mentioned, astrology and planets, knifes, ptsd, nightmares and terrors, flashbacks, sad bitch Bucky missing Steven and using the reader as a better therapist then the certified one, she/her pronouns used for the reader, mostly from Buckys POV, she/you referring to the reader JOHN WALKER SLANDER NO HATE TO THE ACTOR, glass.
(This is dedicated to my friend, tiny adjustments to buckys story and I am dearly sorry if I didn’t write bucky true to his character!)
He choked awake on the air that never left his cold lungs, meanwhile, his skin was afire. A coat of sweat coated him, he slept shirtless since this occurred so often. Always waking in the depth of night to little to no light, only the low gleam of the moon shone through his window near his kitchen along with the soft luminosity of the television sat in front of the sofa. One that he refused to sleep on. He couldn't even sleep on the soft bed tucked in the back corner of the room down the hall in his apartment. He debated why he just wouldn't move into a studio apartment instead of the one he resides in.
He huffed staggeringly and his eyes falling to the ground, searching for something that was never there. Tranquility. His brain trying to calm itself in some form, it never worked it took hours for it to. Even then it never lasted. He suffers another day's trauma trying to sort the world back into order. Sam would often notice but knew to never ask him about it. He knew from the months working together asking and attempting to comfort Bucky often led to arguments. Bucky strongly knew this was nothing and that others were just blowing it out of proportion.
That also led to bias work and Bucky not doing his best, since Sam put him in a bad mood beforehand. Bucky went to therapy. He was more forced than offered, the government felt he was more of a ticking bomb than anything else. Bucky thought of it as more of a joke than anything.
There was no sense in for him to go to the sessions. He often found himself trying to find excuses to skip sessions. He thought that the past is the past and trying to fix it wasn't a possibility. Bucky dealt with it the way he could. He pushed it deep, deep, down in the roaring sea of his mind and dealt with it later. Only in his dreams did it resurface to haunt him. Always making him uptight and tired from the lack of sleep.
However, at this point, he was use to the torture of it all. His brain is his worst enemy. Through shaky breath fanned on his arm, he was crouched over his left leg up his metal arm resting over his knee his other arm holding his weight. He watched the glow of the tv, his chest heaved in exasperation.
Nothing piqued his interest in broadcasting. It was all the same mumbo jumbo of stereotypical things like romance, the reality that was depicting the species as inhumane, the comedy he didn't understand, only one channel did hold his interest.
Perhaps it worsened his mental state but he didn't care and it was the news. It was all the current disasters of the world and the avengers trying to stabilize the circumstances and the best part of it all how disturbing the world is. Even if his bringing was normal to where he is now, he'd most likely be a deeply tormented individual.
He nearly had heart failure when a banner at the bottom of the screen read "John Walker elected as the new Captain America." In blinding letters. Above the banner was John Walker himself standing in front of the podium a hand raised in a gesture to recognize the audience's howl.
Buckys head burst with memories of Hydra and the way it evoked him. The way of how Hydra forced him to be something he wasn't. John Walker was the perfect example of an alternate reality with a substitute Steve. Everything Steve was for John Walker was against.
Images flashed in his head. He put his hands on his head his natural one warm and clammy, in contrast to the bitter cold one. It just gave his flashbacks even more fuel. Living with a constant reminder of who he is. A monster.
He grabbed tightly onto his hair the strands were being plucked as this was being written. He felt small patches of balding from this happening so regularly. His legs parted and creased by the knees. His face strained into pain. His extensive wrinkles from age, noticeable, and worsened from him doing so.
His blanket thrown away to the side with disregard, he started to rock softly front and back. The wood floor burned his tailbone from him sitting on it for so long. Suddenly he felt a different pain. A killer one.
The beige cabinets thrown open papers and documents scattered everywhere. The dark grey of a ceiling of the shelter peered over him judgingly. His arm pushed down into the metal of the chair burned from the uncomfortable position. The bolts leaving deep indentions in his skin. The helmet pressed tightly to his skull leaving him render less against the horror of hearing the words. So many times he had to go through this routine, the monitors loud and buzzing. He bit down strenuously onto the guard in his mouth and squeezed his eyes shut. The electricity drumming into his head, his brain setting fire to its system, he feels it in his muscles, in his blood, the veins that pop in his neck. The tubes behind his head generated and pumped large amounts which umped higher and higher in velocity each time an activation word was spoken loud and clearly. Spat carelessly not in his mother's tongue, he would never think of the language to be beautiful only to be a monstrosity of the world one of the greatest. His dull fingernails dug into the chair it did nothing other than to give him some sort of balance. He screamed but it was muffled to an extent of the guard doing its purpose. "Daybreak."
The announcer spoke into the fuzzy black microphone that's the only word he made out to hear. The daily news report drone on for what of which he came back into reality.
He opened his azure eyes and looked to the left the window that sat in the middle of a pale white wall and his kitchen showed the red bloom of the sun and the tall buildings of the city.
He felt resentful towards the time of day since his flashbacks usually only lasted a minute or so.
Lately, they've grown in duration and that stroke dread into him. He was horrified that someone would say or do an act that would put him in a state of mind. One that he wished to not be in.
Somedays he just yearned to be left for dead in the snowfall of the forest. Notably, so far from the arm that was taken from him that it would be hidden to the world for eons. And from the pessimism of the clouds above him.
He grew irritably hot and damp from the excessive sweat he did to himself, he felt everything was his fault, enlisting, going on the train, helping Steve.
He hated himself for a moment realizing what he thought, he felt selfish for thinking that Steve did this to punish him. He sighed and laid his head tilted to the plastered ceiling.
His neck outstretched. His legs and his arm, limp from the compression of him tensing them for so long. His muscles trying their hardest to relax. His figure seeming to be the equivalent of a sack of potatoes.
He didn't care about how he presented, perhaps it was his past with being a soldier the constant thriving to be the strongest and the son of Hercules. He pushed so far that his body couldn't endure the strength he put it through.
Super soldier serum and all, he was still just a man. He was still human deep into the last atom of his DNA. His eyes nonchalantly examined his ceiling a soft pale white like the rest of his apartment, it reminded him of the moon outside.
If he were to take out his ceiling it'd be right above him. He was enamored by how it seemed to have an ever-lasting glow. He let out a shaky huff then fell ever quiet. Until the day grew old.
Yori had scheduled a lunch meeting earlier that week, they had a routine. Yori attended and Bucky paid. This happened every Wednesday they would meet up and discuss whatever they wished. Yori was just an old decaying man who lived in Chinatown, he lived across from Bucky's building. Yori was kind to the ones he knew.
It was otherwise to people he didn't. After Yori's son died it was hard to, if he only knew who Bucky was entirely he'd die out of shock. Bucky swore to tell him but honestly, Yori was his only friend he had out of work, and even that he couldn't let himself go and confide in Sam.
So here he was in a plain-back leather jacket, some jeans and the same pair of boots he had since the war. He didn't understand the fashion trends of late. Last week he and Yori saw a woman in a bright suit, it looked like a second skin from how tight it was.
Yori was simple-minded as he was and had similar morals and interests. It was disheartening to say that Bucky had a sort of envy for Yori, Bucky wished to have lived a normal life of maybe dying in the war or growing old and gray like Yori.
Get married, have a couple of kids, live a normal life. He understood greatly why Steve went back but he never fully forgave him for it. He felt like Steve was selfish for doing so, but isn't everyone? Steve got a normal life while Bucky had to rot in the world alone and was terrorized by his brain.
He crossed his arms, the leather making a strange sound since he gripped himself so tightly. He sat up straight, his shoulders back, his face set with a profound scowl. It forever imprinted on his face the dark scruff of a new beard growing in.
He hated how it meant uncleanliness, but he didn't have the motivation to shave it off, there wasn't a reason to anyway. He hadn't been on a date in years, centuries even.
He poked and played with his sushi that Yori said was great to try at least once. Bucky felt bad and tried a bite, he had to give credit for a thing so small having to be so spicy. That was about the first and last bite Bucky had. Since then he just jabbed at it with one of the sticks.
The other laid across the small complimentary plate with the rest of the remains of the sushi he failed to eat, he lost his appetite a few weeks ago.
He's been nursing a strong drink called Shōchū. Every time Bucky ordered it Yori said that he put an accent on it and that it made him sound like a foreigner. Although Bucky didn't know how since he was fluent but that was an argument for another day.
The employees there grew to know that they should just leave the bottle there since he usually drinks half their supply on each visit.
He just simply didn't think eating was something he needed. Recently things just seemed to bore him to the point where things that he needed to do he couldn't.
All because his brain tells him this doesn't matter. He's just lived so long from numerous life-ending things and he'd be damned if he'd kick the bucket from starvation.
"That scowl of yours is going to scare the women away," Yori spoke, breaking Bucky out of his trance. Bucky only saw the select few people around them and the women that Yori was referring to were a few older women with smiles and when Bucky turned to look they suggestively waved their fingers.
When Bucky looked back Yori smiled and waved and went back to inhaling noodles. Bucky looked at the man across from him in the small sushi restaurant he grew to know too well, they always sat in the same place a small table near the front of the glass doors.
Some posters and decorations were scattered throughout the small building. The dim lanterns gleam radiantly against the cryptic night. It rained before and the droplets of rain still reside on the windows behind Yori.
Yori slurped pounds of noodles into his mouth at a time, the residue of it was left behind on Yori's pale-white mustache. Bucky was surprised that the stick didn't break from the weight of it. Bucky's eyebrows furrowed together in thought, his posture relaxing.
He laughed inside his shoulders coming up and the side of his lips curved in a smirk. The demeanor he held was appealing from afar, (specifically to the cougars adjacent from where they were.)The conversation always breaking Bucky's previous mood, Yori was very light-hearted when he wasn't in a mood. Especially when he had food and good company. He decided to further it:
"What do you know about the ladies here that I don't?" Yori swallowed a big round lump in his throat slowly going down to his stomach, he must've had a pile of noodles in it by now.
"Well first off all, don't test my ways of making them swoon over me," Yori stated it more of a threat than a declaration. He used his chopsticks and pointed them at Bucky and a warning manner.
His eyebrows perked up and the wrinkles on his forehead worsened similar to the ones that grew on Bucky. His eyes became wide at the thought of being disrespected like the way Bucky just did.
"Second of all, you don't understand how to look without your eyes." And with that Yori chowed down once again on his bucket of noodles. Bucky couldn't perceive Yori's advice, what does seeing without your eyes even could mean?
His smirk faltered into his normal resting face which Yori liked to remark and say was the equivalent to people putting the trash into his garbage can. There was no rhyme or reason for people to do so but they just did.
Just like the way Bucky was always in a sour mood it reminded him of himself always being angry at the world because of other people.
"Have you been seeing anyone lately, if not that might be the cause of your problems," Yori spoke as if he knew everything about Bucky and maybe he could Truth it since Hydra and after being the winter soldier and Steve passing.
Bucky hadn't really been ready to mingle. He just knew he had too much baggage for a partner to put on deal with him. Every now and then when he felt completely alone he downloaded some dating app he didn't actually want and deleted it on the same night.
He had flings here and there and since he met Yori he had been setting him up on dates whether Bucky liked it or not. None of them worked out since Bucky didn't try; he was too wrapped up in his own problems to be listening to hers.
Bucky's gloved metal hand wrapped behind his neck and scratched his stubble coming back down.
"You know Yori surprisingly enough I haven't," Bucky spoke grimly and clutched his teeth. He knew Yori was going to tell him off. He winced when he heard Yori's chopsticks fall into the cup of noodles. Yori sat back into his wooden chair, his arms crossed and a displeased look came across his face.
"And why is that?" Bucky began to open his mouth "Don't give me some excuse that you always give me or this will be our last meeting." Yori stated in a harsh manner with his face twisted in that fatherly manner. "I don't understand why it's a great value to you, to know about my love life,"
Bucky spoke of it as a statement but it came out more as a question. Yori quieted and thought for a moment thinking of the proper words to say. "The stars are aligned in your favor, in which that means you should try and put effort into those small details in what is grief, if not love persevering."
Bucky sat there thinking over the things Yori told him. Bucky stretched his arm out to sip on the Shōchū. He was about a quarter way through. They'd only been there for two hours.
Since Yori met Bucky he learned that people can't always be that bad. Unless of course, you're the type who knocks over his trash can and the men don't pick it up and so it rots to hell when he fills it.
Bucky sighed and reached for the half-full glass of Shōchū. Yori never favored seeing him drink. It was too similar to him drinking when his son passed.
So Yori being Yori he made a little catapult with his chopsticks and put a small piece of noodle into his device and flicked it at Bucky. Bucky glared at him and touched the spot where it hit. Right in the middle of his creased eyebrows. The residue of the noodle followed his fingers Yori went back to eating but before he did so he gave a word to Bucky
"You're not supposed to think about how to see without your eyes. It defeats the purpose entirely if you think about it as strongly as you do, I may have some years under my belt of practicing but you are going to go nowhere soon with the troubles that live in your scowl."
He paused searching into Bucky's storm-driven eyes, Yori saw nothing that lived behind them other than sorrow. It pained Yori to see his friend in such a state.
Yori rested his hands on the table interlaced in front of him, trying to find anything worth reviving if it wasn't already killed behind Bucky's aurora. But then all of a sudden a glimmer, a spark you could say flitted inside the fellow in front of him.
Yori leaned back in his chair and smiled softly, his eyes creasing. "Ah, there it is," Yori spoke softly. Bucky confused more than he had ever been in his life questioned everything.
He had no idea what Yori was doing or as to why he endured the unwanted staring contest they just had. Then his answers were spoken by the one who created the questions.
"The way you see without your eyes is simply to be at peace with yourself, look at the moon and the stars.
They have no troubles or worries and they are the most looked at things in the entire universe no matter where you are. They see everything, yet they still choose to have no regard for the ones that judge them. For you young sir, for them to have that happiness you take that amount doubled."
Bucky scoffed that he didn't intend to be disrespectful, but how in the world was he supposed to be calm when he knew Yori's speech was literal. Yori never made jokes or metaphors, he learned that the hard way.
He uncrossed his arms for the first time since they sat down, and rested his elbows on his knees, and leaned forward in the wooden chair. He squinted his eyes, questioning Yori's statement.
He knew Yori hated to be questioned and tested, they always led to night and day-long arguments that never fully were resolved. Maybe it was the half bottle of Shōchū he drank that made him confident. He spoke rough and dry from it taking over his throat and liver.
"So let me get this straight. the only way I can find peace and happiness is if I talk to the stars and the moon? Yori, you've got to be joking." Yori grew agitated but his composure remained ever the slightest of relaxation.
Yori reached towards the back of his pants to retrieve something while glaring at Bucky and the staring contest resumed. Bucky thought for a moment that Yori was going to shoot him in point-blank range in front of the small company that was set at different tables all over the place.
Instead, Yori pulled out a small crumbling paperback book with the cover filled with stars and galaxy-type depictions and inscribed above it was
"Talking to the moon, and other astronomic casualties"
Yori sat the book gently on the side of the table he got up and before he left he looked at Bucky for a long while before turning and walking out the door. Not another word was spoken between them until the next Wednesday.
Bucky walked home that night by himself. Usually, he would walk with Yori but what happened at the sushi place he felt disturbed by. He lost his temper and he never should've.
He's been put in worse situations than thinking that Yori made him out to be a fool for believing that the stars could talk. Who knows if they do. He should've been more open-minded, he's just been riled up from the flashbacks.
Shōchū seemed to make things worse but he'd forget about things for a while. He wanted to apologize to Yori;
he severely drowned the urge. With the rest of the bottle. Yes, the restaurant let him take the rest. He had to pay handsomely. He thought it was worth it until he had to walk up the stairs to get into his apartment. He swayed back and forth mostly to the left. The arm weighed more when he was like this.
He had not a thought in mind about the world other than seeing the bottom of the clear bottle made of glass.
He tried to walk up the stairs he really did but his chunky boots made it hard to judge the height of the stairs. He got about halfway up them and then he fell. He smashed his chin against the wood and his chin started to bleed. He didn't try to stop the fall.
His right hand was occupied with the bottle. His thick scarred fingers tied around the neck of it securely. He'd kill anything that would try to take it away from him. He pushed himself up off the stair and he winced in pain when his right hand was now in the pile of glass. It fell and broke when he did.
His back burned with being indented from laying on the stairs. His chin seeped down onto the pit of his neck where his jaw formed.
He pushed slowly up off the stairs entirely putting his damaged hand behind his back. How ironic that his normal flesh is the damaged one.
He lifted off with the metal one. He clutched his wrist and pinched it tightly with the metal one.
Trying to cut off blood flow so it won't get more infected than it already had. He walked to his apartment shamefully. His head hung down low, too insecure and awkward about what happened. His jaw stern and gritted he was embarrassed.
The alcohol dimmed it but it was still a major event. He'd hit the rock bottom of an endless pit.
He dug out his key in his pocket and went inside. When he entered he always felt worse than he had left. Yet he never had a problem leaving. It always felt like he was welcomed back into a deep aurora of depression.
He stepped on the back of his boots and left them by the door. He walked to the bathroom but he stopped and turned to look at the tv. There he was again in all his glory. John Walker.
Although this time in his clutches was Steve's shield. He grew saddened by the fact Sam gave it over. He felt betrayed. Sam was the only one he knew other than him how valuable that was and John Walker out of all people had it in his possession.
He'd have a long discussion with Sam in the near future about this. He was always infuriated by John but now he couldn't put it into words. Except for the word imposterous.
Bucky felt a sharp pain in his wrist and when he looked down. He soon found that he was nearly fracturing his wrist with his metal modeled fingers. He also took into mind how deep the glass shard was. Some tiny, some huge. He cursed under his breath a soft and crude
"Fuck."
He quickly loosened his grip and shook his head in regret when he looked down to his wood floor. He realized that blood trickled from him since he opened the door.
He hastily shuffled awkwardly to the bathroom trying his hardest to not make more of a mess than he already had. He walked with long strides and his white socks dirtied from blood.
The bathroom was small, with half tiled walls and a tiled floor, beige paint covered the rest of the wall. A shower shoved to the left of him, an off-white bulb accentuated the room.
He swore to change it but he never did. A mirror and sink in front of him, the mirror was a small white rectangular one, matching the shape of the sink. Sandwiched in between the shower and sink was the smallest white toilet imaginable.
He hated going into the bathroom for this reason alone. He saw how weak he was in the mirror.
A busted bleeding wound. That crept close to the imprint that marked the middle of his chin, dark drunk eyes, shaded pink lips, sharp cheekbones accompanied with a keen jawline, scars littered across his body. His face had a few abrasions, and cheeks hidden in the scruff that continued to grow.
His hair tousled and strewn every way it pleased. He never cared about it; he never tried to style it since he'd just put his hands in it. His shoulders were clad in leather and a beige henley that matched the walls. The calmness after getting pounded reminded him of when hydra made him fight the other soldiers. Then suddenly he was there.
It was a day that Bucky would think about for the rest of his life. Bucky had a lot of those days but this one, in particular, was one that made him feel excruciating pain. The fight he was trained to lose. The compound was a dimly lit walkway in between the cells. Two would fight momentarily continuously one was declared the winner and fight the champion. Bucky or the soldier.
The commanders of hydra love to evoke fear. Seeing the men riddled with fear. Some vomit, others beg. Some are like Bucky. Ruthless. They don't care who they are or what they want to be. All they strive to be or do is fight and the blood splatter after winning against the enemy, releases stress so sometimes it's a release unless you have a guilty conscience. For Bucky, it's the latter. He has nightmares, sure, but everyone does.
Bucky had perfect posture, his head tilted into the way hydra trained him to do or to be brainwashed until he was complicit. Bright ocean eyes were unknowingly dead. The thunder of the other candidates to fight by the cells on the sidelines until it was their time to fight.
Although before they went to fight they would have a fistfight with Bucky to higher their combat skills. Bucky was the best soldier they had to let them practice on. That being said Bucky wasn't being used to his full potential. Bucky hadn't fought anyone to his skill level, everyone was either at a lower or average level. They were put into groups of two in fighting whoever won would fight either Bucky or another soldier even crueler than Bucky. Bucky had some remorse and would hold back. He still deep down was a person but the other soldier killed many from going too far. And today was the day that Bucky had to fight that soldier. Bucky had three other men for the soldier to fight until it was him, all skinny and small, scrappy.
The soldier was big and unruly. He was undefeated, sure Bucky was scared but at the compound, it's kill or be killed.
No one knew the soldier's true name, just the series of numbers he was given. His confidence may be the death of him. Bucky believed-knew that he was more than the average man. He had courage, a heart of gold, and the endurance of a bull and here he was amping himself up and nervously fidgeting wondering what would happen if he won this fight. He wondered if everyone would think of him as superior or if he'd be more of a black sheep.
He heard a crack of a hydra man yelling to start. The man in front of him was next and the one that lost had gashes to the bone and blood oozing out of places where he didn't know could.
Bucky felt exposed when the man in front of him went to fight, there was still a very long list behind him to fight but he was next up. The soldier looked at him, his demeanor felt like the grim reaper and Bucky was fixing to pay his toll.
The soldier had muscles upon muscles and as broad as one can ever be. The word powerful couldn't even describe him in the lightest.
Bucky chewed on the inside his cheek he was nervous.
The soldier was known to put the others in the infirmary for days on end and those he hurt abnormally bad gotta not fight for a while and rot in their cell until. More often than none they'd put you back out in the field.
The stories of this soldier were the type you'd tell sitting at a campfire to scare kids, instead, it was grown, men. Even if Bucky was the bravest out there he wasn't like the soldier.
Bucky observed all of his techniques and styles over the weeks. Preparing himself for his scheduled fight. It was an algorithm for the soldier to react to specific hits and counter them with the same thing over and over. The hydra men taught all of the soldiers the same moves except the one Bucky was going to go against. They knew Bucky was their best soldier so they had to at least put him in a good fight. Bucky caught on to this pattern and that made him think that he could win.
The man in front of him laid in a fetal position with mud and red splatter across his pale form, the boisterous crowd making the shame feel unbearable.
Then all of a sudden Bucky felt a harsh shove on his back. One of the hydra men shoving him into the pit with the soldier. Bucky nearly fell face forward on the cement. A burst of loud booming laughter deafened him more than the crowd on the sidelines.
The soldier crouched low and Bucky knew what he was going to do. He took out the legs then beat his component to a pulp like a gorilla. Bucky did the same stance. He looked foolish, his hair stuck to his forehead, sweat-soaked his clothes which were already tightened to his skin from the excessive working out he did. Courtesy of Hydra wanting him to be in top shape. The other soldiers grew restless as they psyched one out. They went into circles staring at one other like vultures testing who was the quickest. Whoever blinks first wouldn't blink for weeks after.
A screech came from the soldier and he came after Bucky.
Now imagine a vicious lion combined with a cyclops coming at you. Bucky psyched him out and pivoted. That just angered him more since the battles never lasted more than a couple of minutes. This one was already the longest. The soldier turned slightly and looked over his shoulder and before he could do so Bucky had gotten close enough to kick the left of his knee in and he fell. It was as loud as the thunder when he did.
Although Bucky wasn't watching his feet and the soldier took his left foot and grabbed Bucky. He fell. The roar of the other soldiers boomed. His ears went out painfully, a ringing sound, and the rain flew harshly against his face.
He couldn't move, the wind knocked out of him that he couldn't breathe. He felt ashamed to have even thought that he could win. The black ceiling littered with golden beams.
The gold reminded him of the stars behind them, how someday he could be out of this dungeon to see them again. Abruptly all the ringing in his ears came back. He heard a low hum of breathing; he thought it was his own until he saw the beast above him. The soldier grabbed his arms and Bucky struggled even through his stupor. Bucky wiggled and tried to get out from his grasp but he was a god amongst men. Bucky then thought of how Steve felt when he'd get cornered in an alley and he'd come and save Steve from being killed. But Bucky didn't get saved. The barbarian struck Bucky over and over. The nurse would later tell him that she was surprised that he didn't have any brain damage. Bucky waved in and out of reality. Every time he tried to open his eyes it'd be welcomed with a fist. Bucky spat the blood out of his mouth onto the soldier. The soldier was just too strong. He was impossible to win against. The soldier rubbed the blood into his face and laughed. He leaned to Bucky's ear only so he could hear "puny."
Bucky screamed loud. Loud enough that the neighbors awoke from their sleep and he'd sure have a lot of complaints to address in the morning. In a split second, he found himself with his fist through the mirror, the glass falling every way onto the tile into the sink and toilet. Into the already damaged hand of his, the glass poked through his palm, and through the other side, the previous glass dug deeper into his flesh.
Severing the tendons. All he could think about was the pain of having to clean everything up. He didn't feel the pain he caused himself because that didn't matter. It made him feel the least bit human. Pain. Everything living thing felt alive and once he lost that. He'd feel like a complete and utter monstrosity.
He looked up from his hand and to the mirror. Shards still hung and it displayed a perfect depiction of what Bucky was. Damaged.
Bucky spent the rest of the night with a bandaged chin that kept bleeding like a waterfall. Hw picking out pieces of glass with the smallest tweezers known to man, that too ruby red water ran down the sides of his hand onto his bare beefy thighs and pooled in the middle of his palm.
He had calmed down after a couple of hours by sitting on the bumped-out window.
He often likes sitting there and watching the city. The cars zooming past the bright casinos.
The one thing he enjoyed the most was watching the constellations and making them out to be the things he liked. Often he'd see a star in the moon and he saw the shield.
He hated that one since it put him in the pain of remembering Steve and how he had no one.
He didn't need anyone. That's what he told himself but he was very wrong. His jacket was thrown over a wooden chair in the dining area. The sleeves of his henley rolled around his elbows showing the veins in his forearms.
He changed out his jeans for a random pair of dark shorts, he threw off his dirtied socks.
To say the least, he was at comfort for the first time this week. He started to read the book a little, the pages were torn and faded. Yori must've read this multiple times.
Bucky wondered why. The book was small and petite and was only a hundred or so pages. It was interesting, it was all about philosophy, it was written as if it was a big life poem.
He hated a lot of it but here and there were a few good points. He was about halfway through the book when a paragraph struck him.
Heart. Mind. Body. Soul. Great beings of life and they can only communicate by stars. Life and everything between can be carried through them. So if you speak to the sky of night. You will often hear a reply.
He thought of it as silly but then his brain began to wonder. What if he could talk to whoever he wished dead or alive. Just from talking to the stars. It seemed too easy and childish.
Although what did he have to lose the majority of the world hated him and the other half tolerated him.
He put the tweezers down and wrapped his hand with the bandage used to box. He had leftover wrappings since he used to do dirty street fighting when he got dumped from S.H.E.I.L.D's payroll.
He picked up the book that was under his thigh, holding the book open. He held it there since that was where the most light surfaced. He didn't exactly have the expenses to pay the electric bill so he always kept it off.
His eyebrows furrowed ever close as he came across a sentence he seemed to not understand.
The book looked like it shrunk in the size of his hand. His fingers twisted and ran over the cover and the letters on the page fell off onto his lap. The shorts rode up about mid-thigh and engraved their way into his skin.
He couldn't read anymore. He sighed when he read the same paragraph twice over.
All he could think about was being able to talk to Steve. He pushed it into the back of his mind, he carried the book carelessly in his hand, the feeling an odd one since he hadn't read anything for ages.
He walked over to his little place where he slept and laid down.
The news wasn't showing anything interesting. He became quite bored. He wondered if Yori was doing okay.
Maybe he should check up on him even if they weren't on the best of terms. He drifted in and out of consciousness, he played with the wrapping of his hand to try and keep him entertained.
He sat up against his wall observing everything around him how bland and monotone everything was.
He felt a buzz in the pocket of his shorts. He begrudgingly went to grab it. He didn't know who or why they were messaging him. Whoever it knew that it was just for emergencies.
He swears that he was going to murder Sam if he sent him one of the pictures with a caption that never related to the image. Sam said that supposedly there was a joke in the caption but that just made Bucky even more confused.
Bucky didn't know why he kept the phone. He never answers it and usually, he finds out everything he needs to know by watching the news.
When Bucky did finally open his phone to see the lock screen. He stared at it in bewilderment for a long while trying to make sense as to why someone messaged him.
He noticed that it was from an unknown number. That being said there was a one in a million chance for someone to know what his number was. He sighed he was going to have to change his number again. He was surprised what the message was.
"Hey! I had a wonderful time on our date today, I was wondering if we could go on another this week? If not I completely understand I'm new to this..um..blind dating thing. I really enjoyed meeting you instead of talking to a screen! Lol! Anyway, Ttyl!"
Bucky didn’t know how or what to feel. What date? Why was she (he assumed so since the person seemed vibrant and bubbly.) So happy to see him? He didn’t even know who this person was! A thought crossed Bucky’s mind.
Perhaps he could initiate the partner she went on a date with. He wasn’t exactly busy and had a girl on his arm. He realized that if he were to go on this hypothetical date that it would be very obvious that he wasn’t the man she was interested in.
He subconsciously stood up and paced his living room to his kitchen to and fro. The soft glow of his phone illuminated his face in the dark. It was wrapped tight in his metal fingers. The yellow stripes that were like a snake coiling around his arm grew more visible.
He threw his right hand into his hair, his henley slightly rising and showing a patch of skin between the waistband of his shorts and where the sweater laid. It allowed a drooling sight of a teasing view of his defined “V” of his hip bone that flowed below his shorts.
It's been a while since he felt any blood circulate under his shorts. He didn’t understand what this girl did to him but it got him going and that was certainly uncommon under his circumstances of life.
Don’t get him wrong back in his day he was a player. Now it's lessened to nothing. Not even dates, so this could be big for him. He stopped when he concluded. What the hell did ttyl and lol mean? It took an embarrassing text to Sam and Sam merely laughed at him and told Bucky to google it. That just made things worse.
What was google? He went through every single thing on his phone until he found the icon labeled google and he did google it. ‘Talk to you later and 'laugh out loud' Oh. Bucky was embarrassed how long it took him to figure that out.
He sloppily used both of his thumbs and stood in the middle of his living room texting out a reply.
'I'm totally down to go on another date with you, sweetheart."
He was proud of himself since he remembered Sam using the word totally in a sentence before. He was confident that the confidence and the suaveness from his past never left. And then the regret started to hit him with a bat.
Why’d he called her sweetheart? What if she didn’t like to be called that. God how could he be so stupid?! He started to give up after he didn’t seem to have a reply in his future.
He sat down, crisscrossed in front of his tv and his couch, and began to swim ever so quietly in his mind. His eyes burned with strain as he watched the bright screen in front of him. A festival celebrating the new captain he nearly lost his mind until he felt a buzz against his thigh and when he looked down he saw that the mysterious girl messaged him again.
He opened his phone to find three little dots appearing and disappearing continuously. He wondered what she was writing that required that attention to thinking of what she was writing to him. He wasn’t anyone special. He was a natural disaster but that was about the unique thing about him.
He grew impatient and shifted his weight every few seconds. He was very nervous about what she was going to say. He felt like a schoolboy asking out his crush and being afraid of rejection. Lord help him because he missed feeling something other than pain. Then another buzz ran up his arm and under his spine, it was the message she sent. It was short and simple of the lines of what remembered to be:
"..."
Bucky nearly threw his phone across his apartment. But then sucked a huge breath through his teeth when another buzz went through.
"It's just no one has ever called me 'sweetheart' before."
That made Bucky feel like he wanted to crawl into the deepest darkest ice chamber and live there for the rest of his life. This was it he destroyed his life by trying to flirt with someone hundreds of years younger than him. He exposed himself and he could never redo it. He should've known that this was a bad idea.
Technically he did but he just ignored it. How could he be so idiotic to spoil his chances of getting out of this cage of death. This was the epitome of a fish drowning. He was overreacting and hyperventilating solely because he doesn't know how to flirt like the modern age. He was doomed.
His fingers resisting the strength of his mind telling him not to type out sent her the message reading:
"Do you like being called sweetheart or do you prefer doll?"
He swore he died when he saw that he sent that. SWEETHEART AND NOW DOLL? He wanted to take a steaming hot bath and maybe splurge with bubbles and fall asleep and hey maybe he'd drown.
At this point, he didn't think it wasn't that bad of an idea. He put his palms on his forehead, his knees on his thighs staring at the pitch-black rectangle below him. Impatiently waiting for her response.
An on-set headache developing from all the stress he's had under the last thirty minutes. His heart jumped at the sight of the glow lighting up his screen. He quite literally jumped out of his sin to read it:
"You have no idea. It's way better than getting called mama and shawty by the fuck boys. Lol!"
Bucky was now in the crisis of not knowing what was a shawty and an *ahem* fuck boy. It was so worrying the amount of googling Bucky has done just talking to this girl. He noted to never call her..shawty or mama and to never be a fuck boy.
When he did figure out what those things were he wasn't exactly surprised. He was jealous and angry that she'd been called things that she didn't want. The feeling was common but never this strongly. It was an odd feeling it rose from his stomach to his throat and made it dry and hard to speak.
It made him clutch the sides of his phone so harshly that webs started to hatch from within the glass. His eyes cold and dead staring at the screen reading over her sentence once, then ten times over.
A little buzz came from his phone gasping for air from Bucky choking it out with his metal hand. (You wish that was you, huh?)
"I do love how polite and gentlemanly you are tho. It's hard to find guys like you."
Such short sentences made his heart gallop so fast in minutes. The logical side of his brain kept telling him that her compliments weren't for him but the attention for someone was much louder.
Maybe his old ways of flirting were beneficial, which caused him to be more at ease. His tensed shoulders relaxed along with his metal arm. Although his body felt he was burning alive. His free hand pulled his collar off his velcro skin, letting his structured collar bones come breathable. His breathing became shallow.
"It's hard not to be when you meet someone so radiant."
He didn't even know who this girl was but all he knew is that he didn't want to lose her and become utterly alone again. Not this time. His hair stuck to his face. He was going to have to take the coldest shower ever to get rid of her and even that he won't.
"LOL, Speak for yourself, I'm nothing compared to you."
He scoffed and typed furiously, how could she think such things about herself. He was deeply frustrated he didn't know why but he felt very drawn to her. He'd do anything in his power to just want her to promise him that she'd never leave him.
God, he sounded like a psycho and maybe he was. Maybe this was his last straw and when she'd break off he would too. He was so afraid of going back to the way things were to going back to being the winter soldier that he felt like he lost his mind trying to prevent it.
"Alright doll, how about this, we meet up this Friday for dinner and a movie at nine o'clock?"
He was scared that she would reject him. Fuck. She didn't even know what he looked like. What if she took one look at him and saw past his facade and into how broken he was and decided that no. All these feelings are what drew Bucky to stop searching and to think that he was a burden to everyone. Maybe that's why he felt the only place he could be himself was when he knew that he was 100% alone.
He huffed softly and threw his head back against the couch staring up at the ceiling once again. His Adam's apple bobbed as he listened to the soft murmur of the tv. All the world's troubles put onto Steve's back for years and he gets a little tongue-tied and that was it for him.
He needed help. He needed to get better. He laughed softly, his face breaking out into creases of his tanned skin, his lips parting and his teeth glowing against the white flush. He was insane and there was no going back. He laughed at himself for what seemed like an hour until he felt the familiar buzz against his heated skin.
"Hell yes man as long as we watch sharknado!"
Bucky's smile grew more and stretched his face into a radiance that made him look like he did when he was young.
Bucky didn't know what the hell sharknado was but he was glad to know she liked him enough to go on a date with him. Bucky Barnes had a date to go on Friday and he couldn't be happier. He didn't have any nightmares that night but he'd rather have a life-ending one than what he told Yori in the morning.
It was a couple of days after the fight with Yori. Bucky finished the book the day after he read it that's why he was here along with wanting to apologize for his actions at the restaurant. He was currently sat on the wise man's couch. His son's shrine right on the small table in front of him. He bit the inside of his cheek hard and let his eyes fall elsewhere. He was ashamed to have kept this secret for so long but he couldn't find a way to tell Yori.
"Yeah, hey I murdered your son but it was fine since I was brainwashed by wanna-be nazis?" He let out a small nervous laugh and ran a hand through his hair. Yori was going to find out somehow sooner or later. Bucky just hoped it was later. He didn't want what he had with Yori to end because of his past.
"What's worrying you?" Yori said softly as he walked briskly into the living room with a cup of green tea. He sat down on the couch on the right side of the Bucky. Nearest to the door. Bucky couldn't but think Yori was in some form afraid of him since he tested him that night at the restaurant. No one ever tried to test Yori.
Bucky was different. A way that Yori wanted to understand. But Yori saw the trouble of the glass downstairs when he went to put the trash away. The brand was still visible and Yori only knew one person who drank that. Bucky. Yori figured bad things came from it.
Partly the reason since he knew what came after from drunken mishappenings. Yori sat the green tea on the brown coffee table in front of them by Bucky and put his focus back onto Bucky.
"I asked a question," Yori said softly. It seemed that Bucky was in a trance his head downward and his eyes shifting searching for something maybe an answer to Yori's question but there were so many things going through Buckys mind that it'd take months for Bucky to explain to Yori everything.
Bucky looked up to Yori with a smile but in his eyes were nothing but disaster. Yori sat uncomfortably. He was disturbed not once in the few months of knowing Bucky did not smile.
Bucky ignored the question instead "I finished the book you gave me," Bucky spoke with a waver in his voice making him sound unsure. While he reached into his pocket to grab it Yori pursed his lips.
"I didn't want you to read it I wanted you to return it to the library," Bucky's smile faltered and his eyes dimmed even darker than the way they did before. "Oh" is all Bucky said before he put the book back into his jacket pocket. He messed with the wrapping on his hand that Yori took notice of. Bucky was acting odder than usual and Yori couldn't put his finger on it.
Yori took out a scratch piece of paper and handed it to Bucky. In scratchy handwriting, Bucky assumed it was another book 'life on mars.' Then Yori spoke up "Are you going to drink your tea if not I will," Yori jabbed a finger pointing to the white cup. Bucky cleared his throat "I'm not that thirsty,"
Bucky handed over the glass cup to Yori and he glared over to Bucky and he glared back. Yori smacked his lips together after he finished. "If you're here just to have a staring contest with me, then I'm afraid you'll be here for a very long time,"
Bucky readjusted his posture and breathed roughly. "I wanted to apologize for the way I acted at the restaurant. I know I shouldn't have lost my temper at something so minor."
Bucky stopped thinking of words to say he gave up. Yori got up and left the kitchen uninterested in Bucky's apology. His son's portrait started yearning to be alive again. He stared brutally into Bucky's existence. It asked to switch position with Bucky and Bucky swore that he was out of his body and then sucked back in when Yori started to swirl a spoon around the top of the lip of the cup.
"Sugar makes green tea flavorful," Yori sat down when he was finished he swirled it into the now full cup. Bucky guessed he made a few more for later. Yori came back up to the lip and dampened it with tea it made and a remarkably loud song.
Around and around it went putting Bucky into a trance his posture regained to straight and his shoulder back head high with eyes dead. "When my son, RJ, was one he used to sing this song 'a longing rusted freight car coming to an end where it went when the furnace descended.' it was quite a beautiful song when he sang it,"
Bucky heard bits and pieces before his brain went to a mush of the activation words being said in his head. "When he was nine had a tumor and we took him to the doctor but we found out it was benign."
Bucky couldn't hear. He couldn't see. The sky was filled to the brim with stars. The moon brightened and removed his appearance from the trace of a normal eye. He stepped carefully on the roof of the building. His suit blending him into the shadows. His hair stuck to his face closing him in and disguising him more than he already is. He saw RJ through the roof's window. This couldn't have gone more perfectly. He slipped behind one of the paintings and was quiet, his breathing irregular. He heard footsteps and assumed it was RJ and punched through the painting and grabbed tightly onto the neck of the man he mistakenly thought was RJ and tossed him back into the debris of the painting. A man came after him and he quickly threw the knife from the back of his belt and plunged it into the neck of his victim. Another man slammed into the stairway when he flew out of the painting the rest of the men flew down the stairs in pursuit of fleeing the winter soldier. As they shot at him he was faster and killed them first he jumped off the stairs and threw the other spare knife at the man in front of him. An old man grey in the green leather jacket he smashed against the wall even threw metal Bucky could feel the man's heartbeat quickening and then faltering to nothingness. "Hail Hydra'' The last words the man heard as he dropped from Buckys grip to a heap of a corpse in a matter of seconds. Bucky turned to his right and watched the RJ struggle to put the key to escape Bucky. Bucky wanted to laugh at how weak and puny his attempt was to get away; he was constantly looking behind him at Bucky. Closer and closer Bucky's strides were to capture his life. Bucky's shoulder swayed a demeanor threatened with authority and anyone who dared to test it would feel the stupidity of their choice. When RJ started to beg Bucky thought that was all he had in him. Bucky didn't care. He raised his hand and straightened it perfectly matching the hilt to the RJs head.
"I KILLED RJ!" Bucky yelled standing upright. Saliva flew onto Yori when he screamed. Bucky's metal arm was tightly tied around Yori's throat. Yori was in pure terror, his eyes wide, his hands in front of him wrapped around the metal as he leaned back to get away from Bucky as he confessed to him who killed his son.
His mouth was wide in shock gasping for air. Bucky's eyes widened in horror, his mind running thousands of thoughts per second he took his hand off Yori's throat and choked on air. Bucky stared down at his metallic pitch-black hand and then Bucky ran. He ran to his apartment. Hands in his hair pacing kitchen to the living room.
What the actual fuck did he just do? He felt tears brim his eyes and he couldn't believe what he just did. He ruined everything he worked for since Wakanda. His reputation was obliterated just like that in a matter of seconds. His breathing became ragged; he managed to take off his dark black leather jacket and tossed it to the couch.
The black t-shirt he had on raised slightly from his arms being on his head. His wrapped hand tore into his skin making him even more upset from the broken mirror in his bathroom that he still didn't clean up. The memory just kept running itself over in his head he couldn't stop thinking about it. Yori's reaction.
There's no way he'd be able to repair what he did to Yori and he'd had to live the rest of his life knowing how badly he fucked up. He wanted to so badly tear this goddamn arm off with everything he had. He remembered trying the old one off that Hydra gave him it never worked. He still had the deep gashes from his nails where they latched onto his shoulder.
The scars never really healed right, instead of being in the skin, they rose like mountains from it. Bucky clutched his head tightly, his form shaking with tremors. He just kept thinking of the word stupid.
"I, John Walker. Captain America has taken the super-soldier serum and in my disregard, I feel as if there are no consequences and it should be open to the public. And in retrospect of the world, I personally think that Steve Rogers was too soft on his components and since I have taken the serum I will no longer be tolerating the life of the terrorists. That being said I will in no regard will hold back. I will do everything in my power to rid this Earth of the monsters we know until their last god-ridden breath."
Bucky lifted his head from its place hanging down into his hands, his jaw gritted tight, his nose flared, and his eyes full of fury. John Walker. He was going to kill that man one way or another. Bucky was pissed so beyond natural anger that he stood up and walked straight in front of the tv.
This man was beyond no right in having that televised. What he said could destroy the world in an instant. Who or why did he get the serum from? And Bucky was the time bomb? Bucky closed his eyes, his hands turned into tight fists, and let the image of John Walker in an interview with a lady sat across from him at John's old school burn in his mind. The white noise of the crowd cheering John's opinion made Bucky's blood boil.
Bucky thought he had calmed himself until he opened his eyes he saw John look into the camera and point.
"The world would be a better place if there were more brave soldiers like me."
Bucky reared his metal fist back and pounded the tv until the screen was ridden of John Walker's face. Bucky came to the idea that when he got another tv maybe he shouldn't watch the news for a while. Glass fell on the table and pieces on the wood floor by his feet.
He fell to his knees. His knees cracked from all his weight on them with no support. His knees being crushed by the glass. His hands hiding his face from the world.
His cheeks and face grew warm from how he felt. His nose burned when tears started to fall ever so gently down his cheeks. Grey eyes becoming the most vibrant of blues. He choked softly, his throat closing as he sat there in the middle of his destroyed living room. His apartment is the greatest amphitheater in the world.
His shoulders rising and falling and stuttering when he gagged on air. He parted his hands from his face and sat upright. His hands fell into fists, his arms tensed and the veins in his neck pulsed when he let out a blood curdling scream. It was a long screech filled with his voice cracking his vocal cords giving upon him.
His tears despite his yelling still fell and stained his cheeks. He thought so many things at once and everything involved him being a monster. He was hurt and this was the worst self-harm. The arm was given to him and the brain that wasn't his own.
He decided that he needed to go on a walk to calm himself down. Maybe he'd go and return Yori's book. All he knew is that the world for Bucky Barnes was getting darker and worse by the day. Who knows how long until he loses who he is. But one thing was for sure. It wasn't going to be for long until he does.
He stayed home for the rest of that day. It was in the evening when he had gotten home from Yori's. He was still greatly upset by what happened. He couldn't think about it until he grew angry with a suicidal rage. He was alone. All over again the monster that kids are scared to go to sleep over.
He sat by the window again just in the same random shorts and no shirt out of fear of coating it in sweat. It was the least of his problems but it was still a burden. He wished he had something to listen to, his thoughts were so loud that he was surprised that mind readers didn't go deaf from it. He watched the people below him walk past the building complex.
Not batting an eye at the monster in the window above them. He wanted to laugh at how normal people were and how he was once like them but now turned into this creature. His shoulders broad and held his form up by the sides of his sculpted waist.
His legs crossed over another he leaned against the wall that joined the window in the corner. He sat across from the kitchen. His stomach growled at the thought of food, the last time he could remember eating something was at the restaurant and that was just a nibble. It wasn't like he could eat something. He never splurged on food, all the food he had was fruit sitting in a white complimentary bowl on the middle of the island.
He pushed his head against the wall swallowing thickly debating whether he should or not. He decided he didn't deserve it after what he's done. Disrupted from his thoughts he felt a buzz on his thigh in the pocket of his shorts.
He fished out the stupid little box and saw that it once again another text from Sam. He's been ignoring them since he's had Sam's contact; he deemed them not worthy of a response. They were all on the lines of are you okay? Bucky smiled at something so incredulous. He started typing out
Yeah. Just losing my mind but other than that I'm just fine. But went against it. When he read more of the missed messages one did pique his interest. Did you hear about the rumor of Steve being on the moon? Bucky's eyebrows furrowed and his face contorted. What? How could Steve be on the moon? Sam and he literally watched Steve grow old in front of them. How absurd to say that Steve was on the moon. But when Bucky thought more of it, it reminded him of what he read in the book.
Talk to the stars and they'll talk back. Bucky groaned in annoyance. Was this what he was resorting to in a desperate measure for interaction? Talking to inanimate things. He let out a deep breath his chest rose then fell shortly after. He closed his eyes imagining Steve back in Brooklyn and all the mischievous things they did.
He remembered the day Steve got rejected and then Bucky being deployed the next day. The day that started it all. The downfall of Bucky's life. Bucky didn't know what he would say to Steve but he thought he started out well enough.
"Do you remember when we were kids and we'd always have to act like we were soldiers because of you. God Steve even when we were kids you had your mind made up. Always wanting to be something when I couldn't even choose what cereal I wanted,"
Bucky stopped and thought over the words he said. It was true. Steve was always headstrong about everything he wanted. Bucky remembered that Steve was going to create this comic of this monkey who shot bananas out of a bazooka. And Steve did.
It never took off or anything it was just the thought of if anything Steve wanted he would never stop until he got it.
While Bucky always had his priorities elsewhere, the majority of the time he made Steve do his homework so he wouldn't fail. Two opposite people were the best of friends, who knew that one of them would turn out to be the villain.
"You know Steve I enlisted because I felt like I had to prove something, I had to prove that I was better at something than you. Just that one thing I ended up not even being better than you at."
Bucky's voice was dry and raspy when he spoke. The screaming fried his throat when he talked. It burned like a good bottle of Shōchū.
He'd kill for a bottle right now. He was starting to understand that this wouldn't work but he grew angrier at the thought of Steve trading him out for some girl. Bucky knew how much Peggy mattered to Steve but he still never got why he'd trade him out for her. He was jealous in a sense over the life Steve got.
"If I could I would change places with you in an instant, to be at peace. You got to live your life and I had to decay for years without my best friend. Maybe this was for the best so you couldn't see me become who I am now. Someone that we swore to never be ever since we were kids, the bad guy."
Bucky chewed on his lip after that. Til the end of the line his ass. Bucky ran his hand through his hair, the strands comforting his hand. He got up from the window and walked over to his little bed and went to sleep. The night's toll took everything out of him.
The only thing he currently wanted was this thing he had with this girl to be good. How wrong he was.
He decided that he was going to go and return the book Yori gave him. He still hated what happened and he knew trying to fix it would make it worse. The least he could do is get him the book he wanted. So Bucky put on his washed-out jeans, his shirt he wore yesterday, shrugged on his jackets and slipped his feet into his boots, and a black glove to hide his metallic arm, and went to the Library.
The library was a little old place with the roof caving in not far from the complex building. He wondered why Yori didn't just go and get it himself, Bucky didn't really care about having to go but he just wanted to know if Yori was okay and doing well.
Bucky went down the stairs and found a few remaining pieces of the glass bottle he broke last week. The memory of him falling and breaking it etched in his mind vividly. He felt a chill run up his spine at the feeling of someone seeing him like that.
He hurried down the last of the stairs and opened the glass door and went outside. The warm air wafted itself around him in a soft summer breeze. It was warm but not hot enough for him to go without a jacket and the chilly breeze lightened it up. It felt relaxing since he forgot how long it's been outside of his apartment.
He took long strides on his walk. But he couldn't shake the paranoia of being stalked. He was about halfway when he saw a shadow mock him. He walked faster not wanting to have to deal with this today.
The other person's shadow grew larger and bigger as Bucky walked further. When Bucky saw the library and a few he nearly bolted to the building. When he was inside he saw that it was just a lost dog. He was losing it. He sighed his mind relaxing and then jolting when he felt a hand touch his shoulder.
"Hey, are you okay mister?"
A warm voice made his heart pump faster than it already was he felt like he was going to have a heart attack. When he turned around he was met by easily the most beautiful girl. It was you. He thought in that instant that everything about you was perfect the way your eyes looked at him, the way your face was adorable, the way your hair fell behind your ears, the way your lips looked the most perfect shade along with your eyes. He promised himself when he got home that he'd paint his whole apartment that color.
He went cross-eyed from staring at the shape of your lips and how they shaped around the words he couldn't hear from being so entranced by you. He started to feel his heartbeat out of his chest. When he thought of how you'd look with pretty lips wrapped around him and dull bedroom eyes looking up at him through thick eyelashes. He needed to stop, he just met you and now he's so hard against his jeans that he was sure that he was bruised.
And your hands on his shoulders shaking him wasn't helping him. His trance was broken when he realized what was happening. "Huh?" That is all he managed to make out through his lust-clouded mind. You did this face that made him die, it was when your eyebrows furrowed and your lips went to one side pursed together. Your eyes were cut at him and he knew he was in trouble but he just couldn't help being enticed by you.
"I asked if you needed help," You stopped and wagged a finger in his way "You're all sweaty." He looked down at himself and you were right, his hair stuck down and his shirt showed pools. Shit. Way to embarrass yourself, Buck. You're sweaty, you're horny for some girl you just met. He was a trainwreck embodied. "I'm okay, it's just the heat," Bucky spoke with uncertainty. He had no idea what was happening why he was acting like this. He usually never felt like this around a girl, especially one he just met.
Your face was still cut, your lips went back into the fullness of how they are naturally. "Weird but okay." You spoke under your breath since it wasn't sweating weather outside. You were going to be the death of him and thankfully there were only a couple of other people in the library since it was the morning of a weekday.
"There's a cool spot where the ac is over there." She turned and pointed towards the left somewhere. He couldn't concentrate in the slightest even if he tried. And god your body from just the standard shirt and jeans you wore he felt his turn into skinny jeans.
"But anyway if you need me just yell, its y/n." And you left and when you walked away to assist someone else he got the perfect view of your ass. He scurried into the thick of the bookshelves and triple-checked if anyone was around him and adjusted himself.
It was so painful to not jump your bones right there. He rubbed his face with his hands and groaned. Get it together Buck. He realizes that he was going to have to go and talk to you again since he had to check the book in. He mentally stabs himself in the neck.
He calms himself down enough so that he could talk to you again. He feels like a prepubescent boy talking to his crush. Bucky guessed that he lost his cool with talking to girls over the years since he stopped. This was hell. You were at the front desk, the one in front of the door. You were reading some book that he didn't know.
He took a moment to admire the way your hair frames your face, the way your ass jutted out so you could lean over the desk on your forearms. Your free hand, the one not holding your page was used as a support beam for your face under your chin. God you were so beautiful, he hooked his finger under the collar of his shirt and started to flick it back and forth to generate air.
He was the human-dog drooling over a mate. He hated himself for not getting to know you and he already felt like this towards you. He was a monster but he wasn't impolite; he drew the line there. He was in the clouds that he didn't notice you staring at him with squinted eyes. "Can I help you, sir?" Your voice hung on sir in his mind.
He couldn't help but envision you beneath him moaning sir. "Uh, yeah, there's this book" He startled himself when his voice croaked out a response. He patted the pocket of his jacket and had a crisis when he thought he left it at home. But when he shoved his hands into his pocket he let out a smile of relief and grabbed it and slid it over to you on the other side of the desk.
"I need you to check that in and then" He stopped and searched for the piece of paper Yori gave him. He found it crumpled as lint in the bottom of his other pocket and the words faded. "Shit, uh, and check out this." He shoved his hands in his pocket and looked at his feet afraid of confrontation. You silently grabbed the book and checked it in and grabbed the note. You couldn't make out a single letter. Your eyebrows pinched together and when he looked up quickly and then darted his eyes away. He knew that you couldn't.
He wanted a sinkhole to open up and swallow him whole. You scratched the back of your neck trying to decipher the note "I can recommend something similar to the book you turned in, I'm sorry but I can't read this." You spoke with sincerity. And walked out behind the desk and poor Bucky followed you like a lovesick puppy.
You cursed Jordan, another employee for putting the desired book on the top shelf. The bookshelves were very tall and you weren't short but you weren't 7' foot either. You pinched your nose shutting your eyes and put a hand on your hip. "Do you see the book at the very top with the red back?" You muttered and Bucky looked up and saw the issue. "Do you want me to grab it for you?" Bucky looked at you with the softest eyes and you couldn't help but admire them.
You shook your head and lord you were about to melt. His body was brushed up against yours, you could've moved but you really didn't. You could feel the texture of his jacket against your soft skin and you cursed yourself for blushing. He took notice and let a small smile creep on his face when he handed you the book and your head was hung low when you walked back behind the desk.
Bucky guessed that he didn't completely lose his effect on girls. When you were checking out the book he noticed the book you were reading. It was The hobbit. He actually enjoyed the book when he read it when it first came out. He didn't take an interest in fantasy and so he shrugged it off until he actually read it.
When you stamped the books inside the page and slid it back. Bucky smirked "You know they all die in the end." The pure confusion on your face was amusing and with that, he left.
When he got home he started to feel the metal of his arm become rusted and thinking back it had been a while since the last time he cleaned it. He was wanting it to fall off so bad that he forgot he actually needed it.
He wondered where the girl went that texted him before. He didn't want to bother her by texting her first that to him was unnatural. It didn't bother him that much since he used to. And that the date was tomorrow so she would either show up or not and he'd suffer the consequences either way.
He went to the bathroom to grab the grease and a rag he uses every time in the cabinet under the sink.
He stopped shortly catching himself in the shattered mirror. The bandage on his chin began to fall off God forbid it started to at the library. He took it off slowly, the hair of his stubble getting caught in the crossfire. There was a bright pink little scar where the gash was. His skin healed relatively fast but it never cured the scars. He figured if his chin was healed that his hand should be.
He unwrapped his hand slowly for some reason he was scared of what it looked like. When he finally finished unwrapping his palm was littered with scars ranging in size. He touched the scars to see if they hurt with his metal hand and nothing.
Just a scar.
Bucky grabbed the grease and took off his jacket and boots and the first time he moved in he sat on the couch.
It was stiff as ever and it never got out of the store phase. He poured some grease on the white rag and it turned brown and he started to put it in the creases where he noticed it too slow. His mind ran back to you that never happened to him. God he was caught red-handed too, he'd have to take a very long and cold shower when he was done cleaning his arm. The rest of the evening all he could think about was what would happen tomorrow and how he'd destroy the girl of his dreams.
Bucky spent Friday constantly checking his phone for two reasons.
1) to see if his admirer would message him and
2) always checking the time.
He honestly couldn't wait; it's been forever and he was excited about something new. For change. The only source of entertainment he had was the book he checked out earlier. It wasn't the book he was supposed to get. The book in contrast was called American Psycho.
Bucky was about halfway and he fairly enjoyed it. Although it disturbed him since he found similarities in himself with Patrick Bateman. Bucky laughed at all the dark jokes and liked all the points where Patrick lost all sanity; it was the highlight of the book.
Bucky flipped one of the knives carelessly in the hand that wasn't occupied by the book. Bucky loved the power a single knife had. A single slip of the wrist could end something as fast as it began. Time flew by when simple hobbies turned into jobs. He cursed himself because it was seven o clock and he had only an hour to go to the restaurant which was the sushi place that he and Yori used to eat at.
He texted the directions to the girl, he grabbed his glove and jacket and shoved the knife in the back of his belt and fled down the stairs and out the door, and ran the rest of the way.
You sat at the small petite table, your phone clutched in your hand carefully watching the time. When it turned to 8:55 your gut twisted. Maybe he didn't like you as much as you liked him.
The waitress came by once again asking if everything was okay and if you'd like to eat and each time and you'd have to politely decline. You crossed and uncrossed your legs, they grew numb from you sitting in the wooden chair for the past hour. You didn't know what to wear so you opted for a sleek white dress and some heels.
You hoped you didn't overdress and make the wrong impression. You sipped on your water looking through the window to find any hint of your lover boy. You knew what to look for since you knew who it was. But maybe he didn't come and you were set up. How embarrassing this was. Yori told you that he was stubborn but he seemed pretty into you at the library. You know Yori through Leah, an employee at the restaurant who was a friend of yours.
She promised you that she would pay for your meal every time you ate there. How could you refuse? You sighed and began to get up and leave since you thought Bucky gave up on wanting to go on the date. You quickly sat down when you heard the bell of the door ring open and then there he was in all his glory.
Bucky Barnes, in the same leather jacket but you couldn't believe how good he looked underneath the dim light. His bandages were now gone and his face was sullen and structured from the shadows that made his face deepen. You smiled your ruby lips catching Bucky's attention and he hadn't seen something so pleasing to the eye in ages. Although he was confused since he didn't know that it was you who he was texting was there something going on that he didn't know about?
He pulled out the chair and sat across from you with his face stern. "Why didn't you tell me it was you that I was talking to?" He spoke slowly and his head tilted in question like a puppy's. "Yori told me about how you are with dating and he was afraid of you always being alone, and he gave me your number, I'm sorry I didn't tell you."
You fiddled with your fingers when you talked you were nervous about his reaction. You knew all about Bucky's reputation and embarrassing enough growing up you developed a crush on him, so you jumped for this opportunity.
You loved how strong and brave he was and even though he was brainwashed you thought of him as a good person. He chewed on the inside of his cheek thinking of what were the right words to say. "Just no more secrets from now on." With that, he waved down the waitress for a bottle of Shōchū.
After the half, the bottle was gone you couldn't help but be in wonder from how he managed to be able to drink all that meanwhile you were still sipping on your first shot. Every sip you took you gagged and your face turned into a kid who took their first sip of alcohol which made Bucky laugh.
Dinner was going along nicely there were many jokes and stories shared but Bucky couldn't help but be skeptical of how this could work. Bucky was severely messed up and couldn't care for another. He wanted to but he was just incapable, maybe he could just live this lie and things could be normal.
When they called for closure Bucky finished laughing at some remark you made, you and he were sat there talking for a couple of hours. It was just so easy to talk to him. Although you did notice a few times he would wince in pain and put his face in his hands. You thought it was odd but shrugged it off from his excessive drinking. Speaking of the devil he asked
"Do you want to go to my place. There have been complications with my tv so we can't watch a movie, but I can keep you company." You smiled a drunken buzz of Shōchū. Not nearly did you drink as much as Bucky but it was still written across your features. Your face flushed pink and your body made of jello hung off of Bucky's arm the whole walk to his house and Bucky every now and then had to pick you up.
Bucky didn't want to do anything rash to you but in the back of his mind, something kept itching it made it so painful that he couldn't ignore it. It kept making him shake his head and wince it was like a headache but much more painful. When he got into his apartment you took notice of what he meant by complications of a totaled tv. You shed off your heels and sat on the tv nervous to be in Bucky's house, your form off-putting to Bucky.
He sat down across the couch from you and he became hurt by you sitting so far away from him. "Are you scared of me or something?" He spoke grimly staring at the floor, his face holding no emotion to his words. "What? no!" You were shocked by his words. How could he assume that you were scared of him? Bucky looked your way and a strange look appeared in his eyes.
"Then why are you sitting so far away from me?" He gritted his teeth and his hands turned into fists, they were clamped tightly together on his thighs and this side of Bucky did scare you. He wasn't Bucky, he looked like him but his whole persona changed in the span of minutes. You wondered if it was something you said or did.
You became fearful when he fell off the couch onto his knees his head clutched in his hands. He started to scream not like the ones before this one was full of pain and torment. The moon's light made this scene unfold a lot more sinister. What was happening to him, why was he acting this way? Then all of a sudden he grew very quiet nothing could be heard other than your breathing.
You were confused and scared but you did care for Bucky and in his position, you assumed he was in serious need of help. You walked carefully taking notice to not step loudly to provoke him. You crouched down your dress falling over your feet, you reached your right hand out hesitant towards Bucky.
You stayed with your hand on his shoulder
"Bucky?"
You whispered softly, scared to disturb him. Everything was at ease at a calm one that felt too unrealistic.
That was true because a few seconds later Bucky grumbled out
"Who the hell is Bucky."
He slung around his body twisted and grabbed a knife from the back of his belt and stabbed you straight into the heart with it. Before you could even have time to run it was over.
The white of your dress now became a soaking deep red. The way your eyes forever open to the moon the way the moon took your life. And that day was when Bucky Barnes lost his sanity and forever came the winter soldier.
*A few months later*
She sat with her legs crossed, her hair tied up perfectly.
Her posture evenly to the ceiling while sitting. The only one that a soldier would perfect. She read over his portfolio over and over to get every last detail to stick in her mind so she wouldn't forget.
She breathed heavily finishing the last sentence. She took off her glasses and shut the case file on her lap, and put her right elbow up on the white seat, her glasses in the same hand.
She pursed her lips staring at the man in front of her and sat on the white couch in front of a forest mural. He was in all black a blank face, his hair a little longer and his stubble now thicker.
He played with the pink protruding scar on his right hand. Pushing and watching the blood rush to it. She wrote that in the notebook.
When he caught notice he stopped and tilted his head slightly. He narrowed his eyes and stared at her.
He was convicted of third-degree murder and numerous accounts of other convictions.
She thought over all the things that were stated in the portfolio but what struck her the most was that he drank excessively and faked being drunk just to feel
"more human."
She thought of a way to form a sentence to not upset him about what he's telling her to see if what he recollected matched what was in the documents but there was no easy way to do that.
She listened to him finish the last of what he was telling her:
"And that's how the story ended."
Fin.
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PARTY FAVOURS | EPILOGUE
💖 story masterlist 💖
This is it. This is the happy ending they deserve. Fluff. Fem!Loki, because we don't get enough of Loki's female form. Some musings about relationships in general, I think. Guys, I'm crying as I'm posting this.
note: I've got two posts of outtakes coming out sometime this week. Snippets that didn't fit in the story but that have the needed vibe, y kno? As well as a new story is coming out soon... Be sure to check out my main masterlist and taglist if you like my writing <3
I want to thank all my readers for this amazing journey. I love all of you, really, like- I haven't figured out how to produce serotonin on my own ever since I hit puberty, and you guys, you are an amazing source for it. I appreciate the time and the patience that it took to read this 120k word thing and I hope you found a little something for yourself in my writing. A comfort, maybe, because everyone deserves to be happy. I love you all 3000.
"You suck," I grumbled in Peter's direction. Luckily, the little shit was out of my immediate eyesight and I couldn't just pelt him with the assorted items that were scattered around me; luckily for him - after enduring hours of non-stop rambling from the spider boy, I was ready to bargain with Stephen for the sorcerer to put a temporary mute ban on Pete. His nervousness was becoming contagious.
"And you swallow," Pietro replied with a snicker as I heard him wrestle with Peter's tie over the pathetic noises of whining and grumbling coming from the younger man.
"I'm lady, ladies don't spit," I rolled my eyes into the skies, catching Loki's appreciative snicker. She - and yes, Loki was in her female form for this event - carefully combed and did my hair, something completely out of this world, all puns intended. I supposed she was feeling generous, because her female form generally made Loki even more moody and unapproachable. But in a hot way. I hope she didn't notice me ogling her like some kind of gallery painting. "You're a goddess, I can't believe you're friends with me," I addressed Loki, watching the careful movements of her slender hands in the mirror.
A small smirk and a dusting of pink over her pale cheeks was what I got, but the silence was so, so loud.
"Stop flirting," Wanda remarked from her spot by the window where she was doing Natasha's make-up with surgical precision. "You already have three boyfriends, leave some for us, Jesus," Her tone was playful.
"Oh my God, like you didn't brainfreeze and run into the fucking wall, forehead-first, when you saw Loki walk in," I scoffed as Loki's blush deepened.
My witchy friend grumbled something rude in Sokovian under her breath but refrained from any more comments, choosing to simp in defiant silence. Well, good for her, because I was about a hundred and five percent sure that Loki was as equally as smitten with her. It's just that neither of them knew how to approach the other. What can I say, idiots in love...
And yes, yes, I can say that because it takes one to know one. My own idiots were somewhere on the upper floors - getting ready in their own rooms, pulling out their brand new suits and ties for the annual Stark gala. It was supposed to be a charity fundraiser but as all of us were quite disillusioned, we knew it was nothing but a pissing contest between people with small PP syndrome. Even Tony himself said so.
Which is why I had assembled all the girls and theys in my room for a mission debrief. My own personal pride wouldn't let me be anything but a star, and to be completely honest, I just wanted to show off my family to the world - even if the delicate parts of our relationship were hidden from the general public, it filled me with immense amount of joy to be surrounded by my very own at their absolute best.
As for Pietro and Peter, they arrived not too long after me, Wanda, Natasha and Loki made camp in the biggest room with the most amount of natural light, surrounded by make-up and other assorted tools. Both boys were bickering but it was obvious that some of the older men had gotten on their nerves, forcing the youngsters seek solace with their peers.
"You know, Vanity Fair better be talking about us for at least a week," I grouched as Wanda helped me into my dress before I returned the favour. "The amount of people I had to actually, physically talk to, to get us these fucking gowns, is frankly disgusting."
"Agreed," Loki admired herself in the mirror, smoothing out invisible creases in her gown. "Although I must say, the dressmakers on Midgard are far more patient and open-minded than on Asgard." Truly, Loki had nearly driven the poor lady crazy. But on the upside, Loki looked like a living doll. Pristine, perfect.
"Our whims are their wages," Natasha piped up with a chuckle.
We stepped out into the main room, taking note of the men scattered on the couches, all of them wearing an almost identical expression of being already done with the formal event - which, I didn't blame them. Having gotten used to the informal, communal-living atmosphere, I wasn't overly keen on being surrounded by random rich douchebags either; as it was unavoidable, I was going to be miserable - but at least I was going to be miserable in style.
Predictably, the menfolk froze and hurried to pelt us with compliments as they surveyed our ensemble - all of our dresses had a distinct vibe despite carrying a sense of individuality to each gown. That was my idea, actually, to present the team as a family - both to satisfy my own need for one and to present a good public image for the press. Call it getting good cookie from the public - in advance.
"Stunning, absolutely beautiful," Tony chastely kissed my cheek, leading my by the arm towards the limo, Stephen and Bruce a pace behind us. "I'm the luckiest man in the world."
"We are," Bruce corrected him mutely. Stephen's smirk was a mile wide. "It'll be hard to keep my hands to myself for four hours but I'll manage," The scientist added, eyes briefly flashing a fluorescent green.
"There are children here," Peter interjected, nervously waving a hand. I gently elbowed Tony, speaking with my eyes rather than words, that Pete was in dire need of emotional support for his first big public event. With a sigh, the engineer relocated to sit next to the spider boy, both of them talking in hushed tones.
"Now, Bruce," I smiled innocently. "Why would I refuse a dance or five to my favourite lab partner in crime?" I winked at him as giggles erupted all around us. "And I'm sure there's a point somewhere about wizards sweeping princesses off their feet," I kept up the banter in hopes that any remaining tension would evaporate before we arrive to the venue.
I, however, couldn't lose all of it for we were absolutely assaulted by the photographers and press as we arrived to the red carpet; it was only sheer luck that me and Wanda didn't stumble ass over heels out of the limo. That luck's name was Loki: her magic delicately helped us to exit the car with grace despite our large gowns. Mental note to buy Loki all the chocolate: add to priority list.
It went about as good as it could. Peter was introduced as a trainee - and nearly had an aneurysm when Tony none-too-kindly corrected the host, calling Peter his prot��gée and successor. As for little old me? Rising star of biochemical engineering. No titles, no direct titles, but it was heavily implied we were involved.
I could fell the old, white rich men leering at me despite the layers of silk and tulle. Nobody was commenting on my champagne intake so I downed one after the other until I had a comfortable buzz going on. I could absolutely see why female scientists became either reclusive or brash.
Bruce's eyes followed me wherever I went. I had encountered some people I vaguely knew from all the socialite events I had to attend with my mother, so it wasn't as if I was a fish out of the water; it's just that every time I strayed further than ten feet from out group, I instantly grew a tail in the form of one of the Avengers.
"Sam, quit being creepy," I exited the ladies room, immediately spying the handsome man just 'casually' hanging out by a potted plant, glued to his smartphone and pretending to be very busy.
He looked up guiltily, shutting down Minesweeper and pocketing the phone. "Not taking any risks this time 'round, Princess," He offered me his arm, leading us back to our table. "Tony would have my head."
I rolled my eyes, falling into the chair next to Stephen. "My tracker implant is still in and the bracelets Natasha loaned me are actually tasers. Bird, chill," My hand snuck under the tablecloth, blindly groping for Stephen's hand. It didn't take much time for him to respond, cradling my smaller palm in his larger one, offering the small comfort with a tiny tilt to his lips. Both my large skirt and the fabric covering the table aided the secrecy; I felt like a middle schooler sneaking a kiss from my first crush behind the bleachers.
Coupled with the bubbles in my champagne, it made me giddy.
"Sam is just being careful, Princess," Stephen rumbled patiently. "This ball will be over soon."
I snorted, "But Stephen, I love balls," Causing the whole table erupt in bashful snickers.
"Yeah, think to me about it," Wanda downed the remnants of her wine glass, eyes wide, looking to the side. The giggling became a full belly-laugh as I didn't have the decency to play coy. I just smirked because, yeah, I did love me some...
The final hour dragged on forever. My feet hurt from the dancing. I had my suspicions that time would pass faster if I actually move around so I didn't waste the chance and cajoled Bruce into several slow dances with me. The energy between us was electric; I hoped my wife eyes and the red crawling up his neck would be attributed to alcohol. We spoke in hushed tones, about nothing in particular, the words being like sticks we threw into our fire.
Tony wasn't around much, way too busy to do much more than stop by our table every now and then. I both envied and admired him; he handled everything with grace and serendipity. Tony was right there next to Thor and Loki - literal royalty - and I had to pinch myself to prevent myself from ogling him, sighing in lovesickness every goddamn minute.
"If you ever stop looking at him like that, I don't think he'll survive," Stephen's tone was cheeky; his eyes were intense as he looked down at me as we danced. My sorcerer was rarely sappy, but when he found the words to describe his feelings... It was serious.
I met his eyes slowly, letting him soak in the very same admiration and awe I felt when I was with him. I felt his shudder, I heard the hitch in his breath. He wasn't jealous, no, he simply observed. I wanted him to see what I saw. "The day that I stop looking at you all like that is the day that I need to get my head screwed on straight." I wasn't a poet but neither was this a romance novel. "As far as I'm concerned, I won the lottery, the grand prize and the fucking life."
He chuckled. "You have way too much faith in us, Princess," Twirling me as to avoid the out of habit embrace.
Did I, though? I was inclined to disagree. Sure, we had our spits and arguments and sometimes Stephen would stick his cold ass feet under my blankets, Bruce's love for curry was a crime against anyone who slept in the same room as he and Tony routinely flirted with everyone and everything that had a pulse. I had days where my mother's temper surfaced.
Sometimes, one of us would inadvertently hog the other person and the remaining two would pout, roll their eyes or pitch a fit.
I just didn't see it as a big deal. All of those parts were normal - what couldn't be said about the rest of our situation. Compared to couples I've seen around, I thought we're happy. My boyfriends seemed to be happy, too, and if they weren't, it usually was pretty obvious.
So - okay, perhaps we definitely should be working on verbalizing our feelings. That would definitely solve if not world hunger, then at least the world war three that occasionally erupted in Tony's penthouse. And the ups and downs - not the steep kind, but ones not too different from waves rolling ashore - was what held us together. Because, well, our world was hectic and fast-paced and sometimes we needed that gentle rocking motion to sway us back to peace.
Tony's arm on my waist pulled me back to reality, steering me towards the balcony. Bruce and Stephen followed, all four of us power-walking through the inebriated crowd.
"Just so you know, I'm on board with whatever crazy shit you're planning," Stephen raised a palm towards a smirking Tony.
His mouth immediately dropped into a pout I could barely resist kissing. "But... I had a whole speech prepared," The engineer retorted indignantly, discreetly attempting to swat the sorcerer on the ass.
"And I'm sure it was amazing, honey," Bruce placated the upset Tony with a laugh, causing the latter to intensify his pout, eyeing us with mirth over the rim of his glasses, his stupid, lovely face more kissable than ever.
@another-stark-sub @mostly-marvel-musings @vozit @littlegasps @pilloclock @shereadsinquiet @downeyreads @hermione-grangers-wife @individualistfem @sleep-i-ness @capbrie @lillsxd @agustdowney @dee-vn @justanotherblonde23 @fanngirl19 @persephonehemingway @softie-socks @schemefrenzy @letsby @romeo-the-cactus @jelly-fishy-babie @mikariell95 @gladiosamicitias @warrior1-19 @toomanyrobins
#party favours#bun writes#tony stark x reader#Bruce Banner x reader#stephen strange x reader#Tony Stark x Bruce Banner x Stephen Strange x reader#I'm sobbing 😭#the end#estoy finito#конец блин
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Unsweet Dreams
Summary: Bucky may be free of Hydra’s influence, but he’s not free of that of the Winter Soldier. He’s slowly coming to terms with that.
Pairing: Bucky x Reader
Words: 2.1k
Warnings: PTSD, trauma and anxiety, brief graphic depictions of murder (assault & strangulation), chronic nightmares, fluff via post-nightmare comfort (if it’s any consolation, I tried to keep it balanced)
A/n: AHH, I’m so nervous! It’s been awhile since this corner of the interweb has seen my writing (I made a new tumblr and everything), so if whoever reads this could just, y’know, drop me an ask telling me what you think about this fic, I would really appreciate it. Also, I promise not all my fics will be this dark. I just needed the bit of catharsis at the end. :’)
Bucky used to live in constant fear. It was like a malignant tumor, slowly killing him and robbing him of the ability to live every damn day of his life.
To be in a crowd was like sticking him in a coffin full of nails. As he struggled to stay out of the swirl of hurried people, his anxiety would skyrocket to the point of short-circuiting his mental system. His whole body becomes stiff, his responses shortened and robotic, as he becomes helplessly overwhelmed by the blaring warning signs going off in his head. Until his brain, finding no other option, shut down enough to function on autopilot. Only when he was away from everyone, when his mind was sure they were a safe distance from the danger of the Winter Soldier, would he come back to himself. But, to be honest, was there ever a safe enough distance from such a mindless beast?
The idea of becoming him again was so crippling that before Shuri offered to fix him, Bucky would spend days at a time locked in his room and weeks without leaving the compound. Shuri said he would never be that man again, the crudely molded vague interpretation of one, anyway—not after whatever indescribable thing she had done to him with Wakandan technology that Bucky still finds respectfully confusing. Bucky wanted so badly to believe her, but why, even now, if she is as certain as she was then that the gangrenous part of him is gone, why does he still see him in his dreams at night? Sometimes standing before him like a ghost, void of his humanity, empty of soul, filled only with commands of murder and mission and the pain endured in every attempt to scrape away the bloodshed.
There’s no place in Bucky’s mind he can hide where the monstrous Winter Soldier cannot find him. In pleasant dreams of sandy beaches with the smell of salt on the open air, the beast will tear open a gaping black rift right behind him, grab Bucky by the back of his collar, and drag him into the void as his screams fall on apathetic ears. Where he ends up is a place where his cries are heard by no one, Where color cannot penetrate the bitter black, and where shapes and barriers do not exist. He can run forever and never hit a wall, and all the while, the Winter Soldier will stalk toward him. Inevitable, just as Bucky is with his surrender.
Agony awaits him, but he knows it will end. It has to end. And when it does, he will wake.
Bucky has long given up trying to escape on his own. Every attempt has proved futile, and it only draws out the agony. He prefers his death to be as quick as ripping a band aid. So, he goes nowhere, just stands in the very place the Winter Soldier dropped him, and waits.
The Winter Soldier stands maybe twenty feet away. His eyes are shrouded in smears of dark black, but his eyes are a stark contrast of light blue shards of cryogenic ice.
Knowing the end will be the same as every other end before it brings Bucky no semblance of comfort. He is helpless to it. No more than a prisoner to his own imagined fate.
After a while of the Winter Soldier reducing the encounter to nothing more than a one-sided staring contest, Bucky hangs his head, shaking it at the absurdity of being made to wait. “Just get it over with,” he mutters.
The shape of the Winter Soldier flickers and disappears, manifesting with daunting intensity right in front of him. Bucky finds nothing but the hoard of his own past screams in the Soldier’s empty gaze.
In a blink, the Winter Soldier moves. The plates on the Soldier’s metallic machine arm whir and shift as his cold metal hand latches around Bucky’s throat in an unyielding vise, squeezing tighter and tighter, killing the human, killing Bucky.
Then it is over. In that particular dream, after Bucky dies, Bucky wakes.
Most of the time, however, it is Bucky looking through the lens of the Winter Soldier as a captive, unable to control his movements. It is Bucky’s traitorous metal arm around the throat of someone he cares about, tightening around their choked gasps and rasped pleas...
[Bucky has no desire to live out the Winter Soldier’s greatest hits on all of his friends, so he asks that the burden be left to another’s imagination. If it is any consolation, he is very sorry.]
He’s killed them all more times than he can count. Steve always knows when he’s had one of the dreams the next morning and who it was about because Bucky is incapable of looking that person in the eye. The image of his hand wrapped around their throat is still too fresh a wound in his mind. He’s nothing more than a shell on those mornings. His eyes are gaunt, his attention impossible to keep, and he’s left haunted for most if not all the remaining hours of the day. It’s an inevitability.
It wasn’t until he met you that Bucky allowed himself to believe Shuri’s words of comfort weren’t just empty words meant to reassure him. It’s taken months for him to get to this point, but you have been nothing but patient, never forcing him into anything, never questioning the slow speed at which your relationship progressed. You only take what he gives and in return give what he needs. He still has nightmares, though they occur far less often with you sleeping beside him. In fact, before tonight, Bucky hadn’t had one in months. To know what it felt like to be well-rested, he hadn’t felt that probably since he was digging his stupid five-foot-nothing best friend out of trouble. Before either had turned their gaze toward joining the war.
When Bucky has either nightmare involving the Winter Soldier, it doesn't matter which, he always wakes up crying. Sometimes silently, sometimes with whimpers or explosive sobs—freshly rebuilt only to be destroyed by the horrors that play out in a hell of his mind’s own making. You sleep notoriously light, so it doesn’t take much for you to wake, and you never want him to apologize for it. His whimpers begin quietly, but they are enough. With the fast action of someone who has done this many times before, you move across the bed until your chest is flush with his back, throw your arm around him, and hold on tight as you whisper sweet assurances into the crook of his neck as his body is wrecked by sob after sob after sob. Grounding him in the existence of his humanity, in the reality of his life as it is now—good and warm and safe— until his tremoring body stills. It’s by no means a quick remedy, and perhaps the emotional exhaustion does most of the work, but with one final shudder, Bucky lets out a hard breath, his last few tears nothing more than wet stains on his pillow.
In unspoken words of comfort, you press kisses along the jagged scaring where flesh meets metal, before resting the side of your face against his shoulder which is damp with cool sweat, and guide his ragged breathing to a slower, fuller calm with the warmth of your breaths on his back.
In the now quiet dark of the bedroom, Bucky strokes the back of your hand, tracing lightly over every knuckle with his fingertips.
With tender movement, you turn your hand beneath his to grasp his hand loosely between your fingers. Your gentle squeeze is simply to ask, Are you okay?
He squeezes twice. No.
He shifts his hand again and after a beat, makes a small request by tapping three times on the back of your head. Your voice breaks through the darkness as you whisper to him, “Who was it, my love?”
It takes him a minute because he has to remember, and that involves reliving the memory of the dream, if only for a glimpse. But he wants to remember, if only for an attempted catharsis.
“Steve,” he says hoarsely. Or Natasha, Sam, Tony, or someone else unfortunate enough to have been dropped into the role of victim—But it’s Steve who affects him the most, sometimes in aftershocks that last for days.
Three taps means he wants to talk about it, but doesn’t want to speak first. Something about having to break the silence after having to relive that trauma just feels too daunting to him, especially now that he’s just been reminded of the monster hiding in his closet after months of silence gave him the false security of maybe being finally free. If anything, it was the sobering realization that he would never truly be free, but it’s an affliction of which he’s willing to find ways to cope. So far, his best success has been found in months of therapy and in the love he found with you. He doesn’t solely rely on you. That’s a burden, and he’s not about to expect you, an extraordinary ordinary human, to somehow be the cure for his chronic mental disturbance. But you bring him words of encouragement and a presence that puts him at ease, and if this is merely the baby-steps to learning to walk on his own, he’s willing to take it and continue practicing. No matter how much he falls, you have made it clear you will always be there to catch him if he needs it.
You wait until he’s ready for you to get up, spending several minutes brushing strands of damp hair away from his face and the rest of the uncounted time trailing your fingers up and down his arms and across his chest in an endlessly light, thoughtful caress. Only when he tells you it’s okay do you briefly disappear into the kitchen to put a kettle on the stove. It’s always been difficult for him to go back to sleep after a dream like this, but it’s easier after he talks through it, and it’s easier with tea.
He doesn’t find sleep again, but you fall asleep on the couch an hour before dawn and halfway through his fourth episode of M*A*S*H. Your whole body is curled in a tight ball on the other half of the couch as you hug an empty mug of tea close to your chest. He carefully removes it from your grasp one vise-like finger at a time (jeez, you have an insane grip for someone who’s asleep), vaguely feeling like he’s trying to disassemble a bomb, and sets it on the side table next to the couch .
As the credits roll, Bucky carries you back to bed and is part way through tucking you beneath the covers, all warm and snug like a cute little sausage roll, when you begin to stir. Instantly, Bucky freezes. Then he remembers you always do this as if it’s part of some weird post-nightmare bedtime ritual and always manage to go right back to sleep. Comforted by the assurance, and also a little amused by the memories, he turns to close the blinds to block out the rays that would have cut unbearably bright lines against your face had he done nothing (and he’s never been much of a do nothing kind of guy), but when he turns back around, you’re rubbing your eyes with your fingertips—awake, it seems. (Aw, hell.) You blink blearily at him with a lopsided smile he finds adorable, a smile there just for him.
Sometimes he forgets how lucky he is.
When your mouth opens with an obscenely loud, drawn-out yawn, he's never loved you more.
After smacking your lips, still in the midst of a sleepy haze, you ask, “You okay?”
While you look at him, Bucky realizes you’re trying monumentally hard to keep your eyes from opening fully, narrowing them to the point that he wouldn’t even know you were still awake if you hadn’t said something. Bucky’s smile turns butter soft at that.
His heart swells. He’s just so appreciative of you. Your kindness. That you willingly sacrifice precious hours of sleep just to tend to the wounds of his own psychological warfare.
“Yeah. I’m good now,” Bucky assures you, and he means it. He lowers his hand to cradle your cheek, sweeping the pad of his thumb back and forth across the swell of your cheek beneath your eyelashes. At the caressing motion, your eyelids flutter, then fall completely closed in total surrender. He leans down, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple. “Sweet dreams, doll.”
Your response is swallowed by the pillow as you shimmy down the bed to bury your face beneath the covers, but he’s pretty sure he heard you say something endearing.
#bucky barnes x reader#bucky x reader#bucky barnes angst#bucky barnes one shot#bucky barnes#james buchanan barnes#bucky barnes fanfiction#mcu#marvel#marvel fanfiction#mcu fanfiction#beckham writes
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What to do when you nemesis gets a boyfriend and doesn't have time for your rivalry anymore?
I woke up today and I couldn't get this idea out of my head. So I had to write it. Also. this is inspired in a post I've read on tumblr some time ago, but I can't find it now. If somebody knows what I'm talking about and has it at hand, let me know!
Also, yes, the first few paragraphs are just exposition. And this is completely self-indulgent and completely not serious. Not really sorry.
Nobody beta this but my own conscience.
Summary: Johnny gets a boyfriend and Daniel's whole world is shaken.
Pairing: Johnny Lawrence/Daniel Larusso (endgame), Johnny Lawrence/omc
Rating: No sex, but there’s some explicit language, I guess.
CHAPTER 1
Six months after Kreese was arrested and Johnny Lawrence got Cobra Kai back, things seemed to have gone back to normal. Daniel still wasn't happy about the other dojo, but he could now at least accept that it wasn't the same toxic place it had been in his youth. And the San Fernando valley was certainly big enough for both.
The two men reached an uneasy truce, that went as far as to refer students to the other dojo when they thought their philosophy was better suited for them.
And sure, he was now divorced, living on his own in an apartment. And he had also become little more than a figurehead in his own business. But it was fine, everything was fine. He was doing what he loved. Amanda and he had agreed to keep the relationship amicable. And his new place was closer to Miyagi-Do. He was, in short, generally happy.
When the date of the All-Valley Karate Championship arrived, Daniel brought most of his older students, but he knew that Sam and Robby were the ones who had the greatest chance of winning. And of course, Cobra Kai had to be there, too. They made its now traditional entrance to the delight of the announcer and the crowd. Johnny's flashy style had made the dojo popular, and, here and there among the audience, you could see people wearing Cobra Kai t-shirts and waving Cobra Kai flags. It made Daniel scoff. He would never debase karate like that just for the sake of merchandising.
Johnny entered after his students, followed by Miguel. The boy, decked in his black gi, moved swiftly on his crutches. He might not be competing, but he was his sensei's right-hand man and, in may ways, the heart of the dojo, so his presence was essential, even if it was just to give support.
Daniel tried to meet Johnny's eyes. He wanted the man to see him rolling his eyes at their flashy behaviour and needless commercialization of karate, but Johnny's eyes were focused on something else. Or rather, on someone else, a tall male someone else. He was standing in the sidelines saying something to Johnny and smiling. Johnny was also smiling and nodding. But the strangest thing of all was that, when the announcer started talking again, the man caressed Johnny's arm before he went to sit with the audience.
Daniel frowned just as Johnny looked in his direction. He couldn't decipher the man's expression, so he just turned his back and went to speak with Sam, deciding to ignore the whole incident.
And once the tournament started, Daniel forgot all about the stranger. He would never admit it out loud, but he loved seeing Johnny so supportive of his students. Win or lose, he'd be there to pat them in the back and give them words of encouragement. He regretted not seeing that sooner, not seeing how hard Johnny tried to do what was best, even if he didn't always go about the right way.
One by one, the students fought, and Daniel couldn't help but feel impressed about their progress. Eventually, Robby took the lead for Miyagi-do and Aisha, for the Cobras. And soon, they were facing each other in the final fight. They were well matched. Robby was a quick fighter with a knack for analysing his rival's style so he could predict their moves. Aisha was not as fast, but she had endurance on her side and an unpredictability that eventually allowed her to come on top.
When the referee raised her arm the whole place erupted in cheers. Robby was graceful in his defeat, he shook her hand and move away to let the celebrating Cobras surround her, and even some members of Miyagi-do joined them.
Daniel smiled at her from a distance, letting her enjoy her moment with her peers. Then he went to talk to Robby. He had fought a good fight and he told him so, but the boy didn't seem too concerned about having lost. He patted him in the back and went to look for Johnny. Robby wasn't the only one who could be grateful in defeat. But what he saw when he found him, stopped him in his tracks.
Johnny and the stranger.
Johnny kissing the stranger.
Johnny kissing the stranger who was a man.
And it wasn't just a friendly peck either, he could swear there was some tongue involved. The stranger's arms were around Johnny's neck, and Johnny's around his waist, their bodies plastered against each other. Daniel was fuming. It was completely obscene and inappropriate to do that in front of children. There must be some rule to forbid this in a public arena. And if there wasn't, maybe he would propose one in the next committee meeting.
He was already mentally drafting the proposal and considering if he could retroactively penalise Johnny when a hand on his shoulder stopped him in his tracks.
"Dad?"
Sam was standing there, looking at him with concern.
"Are you ok?" she asked.
"Why wouldn't I be ok?"
"You look... mad, what happened?"
"Nothing, well just..." he signalled Johnny and the stranger still going at it.
"What?" She looked behind his back, confused.
"It's disgusting!"
"Dad! They are just kissing!"
"In front of children!"
"Dad, you're not... You know that's normal, right?"
"I know it is! But not in public!"
Sam sighed. Robby appeared behind him.
"What's going on?"
"My dad has just seen Mr Lawrence with his boyfriend."
"His WHAT!?"
"Yeah, he told me Alex might come."
"Alex?"
"He's a lawyer. He helped my dad a lot with my case, and I guess they clicked."
"I think they are cute, your dad looks happy," Sam commented with a smile.
Daniel snorted but say nothing. The image of Johnny kissing that man was still engraved in his mind and it was making him queazy.
"We have to go. Moon is having a party and we need to change. You don't mind, right?"
"No, sure, go ahead."
"Thanks," Sam said kissing his cheek. "See you later!"
Daniel looked at his daughter and student walking away distractedly, as he mentally considered inviting the rest of the committee members to dinner to see if he could get them on board his "code of conduct" idea.
"Larusso."
And suddenly, Johnny was right in front of him. And at least he had the decency of being alone. But his cheeks were flushed and his lips were pink and wet, and Daniel couldn't stop looking at them.
"John," Daniel managed to say, trying to sound as cold and aloof as he could.
"What crawled up your ass? If you're mad about Aisha winning..."
"No, of course not!"
"Then what's happening?"
"What's happening your indecent spectacle back there," he said trying to control his anger and failing.
"My what? We were just kissing!"
"Just kissing?! That wasn't just kissing!"
"I don't know what to tell you, Larusso. I mean, if you don't recognise kissing when you see it, then I'm starting to understand why your wife divorced you," Johnny laughed.
"What did you say?" Daniel took a step forward, ready to pounce.
"Relax! It was just a joke!" Johnny said putting his hands up. "Really, what's wrong with you?"
"Nothing is wrong with me. Since when are you gay, anyway?
"I'm not gay."
"Well, the guy sucking your face a moment ago may have something to say about that."
"No, I'm bi. Bisexual. I still like chicks, but I like some cock too if you know what I mean."
"Ugh, you're disgusting."
"I'd have never taken you for a homophobe."
"I'm not a homophobe!"
"You could have fooled me."
"I just don't like seeing children exposed to... that. You better not be doing that in your dojo too!"
"No, don't worry, I don't kiss him in the dojo," Johnny said smiling, "I just suck his dick."
Daniel groaned, which made Johnny laugh.
"I'm serious, Lawrence. I can get you banned from the tournament for indecency."
"Yeah? And what do you think the committee is going to do about you being homophobic?"
"For the last time, I'm not homophobic!"
"Sure, whatever you say, Larusso. I gotta go, my boyfriend is waiting for me outside. We are going to have dinner and then we are going to fuck our brains out, possibly right there in the restaurant."
"You're such a dick."
"At least I'm getting some. I hear all you're getting lately is your right hand. So I better go. I don't want to keep you from your date."
"Go fuck yourself!"
"I already have someone to do it for me!" and with that, Johnny walked away laughing.
Daniel looked around. Everyone else was gone. He wanted to kick something in the face, something blond and cocky. And maybe his boyfriend too. He kicked a balloon hard, but it just floated slowly for a few meters and then came down again. He needed to go to Miyagi-Do and do some katas.
#lawrusso#cobra kai#johnny lawrence#daniel larusso#needed the distraction#back to my bullshit#but I didn't abandoned my other bullshit#I have enough bullshit for both
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Claws Of Blackened Memories
When he opened his eyes, it was dark in the room. That wasn't what had him on edge though...something just didn't feel right. He sat up to better assess his surroundings and that was when he felt it.
The unmistakable weight of a shock collar.
He panicked. Even though he knew it was pointless to struggle and try to get it off, he still tried. He yelped when he received a shock for his troubles and then flinched away when hands started sliding up his body. They weren't the warm, strong hands he was accustomed to...no...he knew these hands and it terrified him. They were smaller, cold...and when he looked up, he found himself looking into dark, manic-filled eyes. He tried to scream at her or get away, but to his horror he couldn't speak or move.
Had his rescue been a dream? How long had he been in her clutches? Was his mind so broken that it tried to soothe him with images of his family in a desperate attempt to hold on to the last sliver of sanity he had? If so, he couldn't decide if it was cruel to do that and then bring him back to this nightmare, or if it was crueler to not give him any kind of serenity in the first place.
He supposed his mind was doing him a favor. But how long had it been now? Another few weeks? Months? Had they given up looking for him? Had they looked at all?
Had Quill given up?
"Isn't this easier? I can make you feel so good." Her voice made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up and he finally managed to move enough to kick her away.
"Get off of me!" He yells.
Bad idea. The mania in her dark eyes intensified and she pulled out the remote to his shock collar and flipped the switch and the pain that followed was excruciating. His skin was already tarnished and burned and the strong currents she sent through him was making his neck flare up with a vengeance. He screamed from the pain and mentally begged for release. For oblivion.
He wanted to die.
As if the electrocution wasn't enough, he was being yelled at. She was screaming his name and then...it started to sound warped. Started to sound male.
"Scott!"
He startles out of his dream with another scream and shaking violently and he jumps away when he sees her standing over his bed.
"Get away from me!" He yells and starts grasping at his throat to try and get the collar off again.
"Grab his hands. He's hurting himself." A voice cuts through his panic and his eyes widen when his wrists are grabbed and pulled away from his neck.
"Nonono! Take it off!" He sobs out.
He could hear someone talking to him but he was too worried about the pain. He just wanted it to stop, but whenever he struggled to free himself, it was all for naught. When some light finally fills the room, he looks around the room with his heart still pounding and finds that the one holding his hands is Bruce. Stephen was next to him and looking back at him after turning on the bedside lamp and then frowned.
"Scott." The sorcerer repeats gently. "You're home. You're safe."
Scott continues to tremble as he takes in his new environment. They were still in their pajamas and it was still dark out, but he was home in his own bed. The dream...the nightmare...was so real--
"I am?" He finally whispers and relief courses through him when Bruce finally releases his wrists.
He held them close to his chest and pulled his knees to his chest in an attempt to make himself smaller. He saw Emir pacing by the bed, agitated from not being able to see whatever was scaring his human, and by his door he saw Cassie. The poor girl looked hurt and was on the verge of tears and that's when Scott realized the woman that was standing over his bed was actually his daughter.
He had yelled at her.
"Scott...how long has this been going on?" Stephen asks, pulling the thief's attention back to him.
Scott flinches away minutely when Bruce leans closer to inspect his neck. "...since the first day Quill was gone overnight after I came home." He admits with a whisper.
"Two years?!"
Stephen and Bruce look at each other and then Bruce opens the first aid kit that Stephen gives him. Scott flinches violently when the alcohol wipe touches his neck, but after being told that he had scratched himself quite a bit and that it was necessary, he endured it. It burned like hell and he wanted to cry again but he didn't want to worry Cassie anymore.
"Does the dream reoccur every time you go to sleep?"
Scott swallows and winces from the pain. "Just when Quill is gone."
Stephen nods and mutters something to Bruce who nods and gets up with the first aid kit and leaves the room. The sorcerer then gently takes Scott's arm and pulls him off the bed and leads him out. Emir follows diligently as Scott is led up to the penthouse (after Stephen tells Cassie to go back to bed), and the thief hesitantly climbs into bed when they get to the master bedroom. Stephen had to do a bit of climbing to get in the middle of him and Tony, and then it turned into a tight fit when Emir insisted on sleeping next to Scott. Athena grunted a little grumpily but laid her head back down once everyone was settled and Scott curled close to the tiger.
He miraculously slept peacefully for the rest of the night.
When he woke up the next morning, he and Emir had the bed to themselves and the bedroom was void of the couple that slept in it as well as the babies and the wolf. Scott got out of bed tiredly and when he opened the door, he was met with quiet conversation between Tony, Stephen, and even Sam.
"PTSD." Sam says softly. "I honestly thought he was just used to Quill sleeping with him when I saw how tired he got whenever he was gone...I never thought to check."
"None of us did." Stephen sighs. "He didn't think to tell any of us either. We all have our nightmares, but this is extreme."
"Can you talk to him Sam?" Tony asks.
"Maybe as an on-site counselor, but I think he should see a psychiatrist. Does Quill know?"
Tony sighs. "If Quill knew I'm pretty sure he would never leave."
"I'm not crazy." Scott mumbles.
The other three look up at him and watch as he descends the stairs with Emir.
"No one said you were." Sam says. "You went through a traumatic experience. You were taken and held against your will for weeks and on top of that, you were tortured."
"You were also very sick when we finally found you." Stephen adds.
"How did you even know I was having a nightmare?" Scott asks quietly.
"Victor woke me up." Stephen says. "Then you were...shouting so loudly that when Bruce and I came to check on you, you woke Cassie when we opened your door."
Scott sighs and sits on the couch, making sure that Emir doesn't bother the sleeping baby in the swing. Most of the kids were at school, and Valerie was coloring at the coffee table quietly with her usual cartoons on. Stephen sat next to Scott and gave him a look once he got his attention again.
"We had Friday send a message to Quill. He's on his way home."
Scott frowns. "Why?! He has responsibilities--"
"The Guardians can take care of it. Right now, he needs to come home and be with you. Your nightmares are so bad that you're hurting yourself because they linger when you wake up."
Scott couldn't argue with that. Last night wasn't the first time he had clawed at his neck in an attempt to remove a non-existent collar. There was even one night he was trying to escape from Kate in his dreams that he fell out of bed and woke once he hit the floor. Even though he had these nightmares every night (or every time he closed his eyes) when Quill was at the station or out in space, Scott knew he still needed to sleep.
Scott stayed up in the penthouse until Quill returned the next afternoon. While having someone nearby helped, he still woke up in a sweat and it took getting some light in the room to chase away the remains of his nightmare for him to go back to sleep. The second the celestial got home, Tony, Stephen, and Sam sat him and Scott down and told Quill why they asked him to come home early.
He was glowing by the time he was caught up.
"Can Diana take me back? I'm going to kill that bitch again!" He growls and Scott looks at him in surprise.
"Again?"
Tony winces. "I'll spare you the details...but she's not going to take you again. Did no one tell you?"
Scott shakes his head. "No...I didn't know."
"That alone might help, but you should still see someone." Sam says.
Quill's light ebbs away and he looks at Scott. "I'll keep my outings to the station. I won't go back up until you show some improvement.
"What about the Guardians?" Scott sighs.
"They'll be fine. You're more important right now."
After Tony told them he would find a psychiatrist for Scott, Quill took Scott and Emir back down to their floor and to their room. Both Emir and Flynn were happy to join them in bed and the second Scott's head hit the pillow, he went out like a light. With Quill there, he slept all the way until the next morning without a single nightmare, and when he woke, he was still curled against the god. Quill hadn't left even though he had clearly been awake for at least a couple of hours. He just readjusted himself so he was on his back, but kept Scott tucked into his side when he turned on the TV. It was something he usually did when they were having a lazy day. Today was going to be a lazy day of comfort.
"Feeling better?" Quill asks softly when Scott stirs and lays his head on the celestial's chest.
"A little." Scott answers honestly. "The nightmares...they always feel so real. I can feel the pain so vividly...her touching me…"
Quill frowns. "Scott...she can't hurt you anymore. I personally made sure of that."
Scott could only nod. It did help a little knowing Kate was dead, but he still avoided dark-haired women whenever he went out alone. He didn't even know he was doing it until Cassie pointed it out when the two of them were out grocery shopping one day. It was instinctive. When he tried to go down an aisle a brunette woman was in, he froze up and a wave of panic overcame him and he had to turn around and avoid the aisle until she left it.
"Could you…?" Scott whispers and motions to his neck.
"Yeah."
Quill wills light into the hand of the arm he had around Scott and gently places it on the younger's neck. Once Scott feels Quill's powers soothing the pain and mending the damage he had dealt to himself a couple of nights ago, he relaxed against his husband and turned his attention to the tv.
He really hoped therapy would at least help with the nightmares.
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youtube
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Not the only one
Summary: Rose suffers from nightmares from her time with Hydra. After Bucky joins the team, she learns that he has nightmares too. So one night when they both are awake because of their nightmares, they end up bonding over their similar experiences
Struggled breaths and a racing heart. Rose sat up straight in bed, sweating profusely. Her thoughts were racing as the images of her recent nightmare flashed in her mind. She was stuck with Hydra again. They were putting her through more endurance tests, and she had to fight a large dog for one test. She ended up losing when the dog jumped on her and ripped out her throat. Shortly after that, she woke up with a start.
Rose ran a cold hand through her hair as she tried to settle her breathing. Looking over, she saw that the spot next to her was empty. Right, Wanda was on a mission with Clint and Pietro. Not planning on going back to sleep, Rose crawled out of bed and walked out of her room and into the hall. She figured she’d head to the kitchen to grab a late night snack to take her mind off things. But when she got to the lounge, she stopped herself.
Sitting on one of the couches by himself, was Bucky. He was a new addition to the team and had been around for about a month and a half. Rose had made an effort to get to know him and the two of them became friends. Over time, she even began to see him as an older brother to her and he saw her as a little sister. They talked to each other about a lot of things, but neither of them knew about their connected pasts with Hydra.
“Buck? What are you doing up?” Rose asked as she walked over to the couch he was sitting on. Bucky jumped at first when he heard her quiet voice. When he looked over, he relaxed a little. “Oh, it’s you Rose.” He sighed quietly as she sat down next to him. “Everything ok? You seem a bit on edge.” Rose asked quietly as she looked up at him. “I’m fine, Rose. Just couldn’t sleep is all.” Bucky reassured her, not looking over to meet her gaze. Rose could tell he was lying though.
“Bucky, it’s ok if something happened. You can talk about it if you want.” Rose told him as she placed a gentle hand on his arm. She felt him flinch a little under her hand as he sat in silence for a moment. Bucky eventually sighed and looked over at her. “The truth is, I had a nightmare.” Bucky started off. “Back before I joined the team, I was a part of this other group, Hydra. The put me through years of mental torture and manipulation. I lost my memories a few times. But now that I’m free, I never realized just how much trauma I went through. So, I’ve been having sleepless nights because of constant nightmares.” He finished off his tangent with a sigh before looking down at the ground.
Rose was quiet for a little while. She never realized that Bucky had gone through something similar to what she went through. “You know Buck, I get how you’re feeling.” Rose said softly as she looked at the ground too. “You do?” Bucky asked as he looked over at her. “I do. Believe it or not, I was put through the same torture from Hydra. When I was five, I lost my mother to the Sokovia bombings. A few months later after I turned six, my father traded me to Hydra in exchange for a job. They used me for experiments and turned me into what I am now. They gave me powers, but they put me through awful tests, made me fight other bigger stronger animals. Not a day would I go by where my body wasn’t in pain. I was there for five years before Tony came and rescued me. But even still to this day, I dream that I’m still stuck in that horrible place.” Rose finished off her rambling as she leaned back on the couch, looking up at the ceiling.
Bucky looked over at her for a moment with a sympathetic frown before straightening up a bit. “You know what, squirt? We have a lot more in common than we thought. And I think that we’re both gonna be ok.” He said as he looked over at her. “You think so?” Rose asked as she looked back at him. “I don’t think so, I know so. Cause you and me, kid, we got each other’s backs.” Bucky told her with a small smile on his face. Rose couldn’t help but smile back as she sat up. “Yeah, we do. Thanks Buck, that means a lot.” Rose said with a sincere smile.
Bucky smiled back before pulling her into a tight hug to which she gladly returned. “I’ll always be here for you kid, and I promise to look out for ya.” Bucky told her softly. “Right back at ya, Buck.” Rose smiled as she pulled away. “Now come on, let’s head to the kitchen to get a snack. I’m pretty sure there might be some leftover chocolate cake from Steve’s birthday party.” Rose hummed as she stood up from the couch. “Think he’ll be ok with us taking a slice or two?” She asked, looking back as Bucky followed her. “I’m sure he will, and besides, I doubt he’ll notice the missing slices.” Bucky said as he put an arm over her shoulders.
..
The next morning, the rest of the team came through the lounge one by one, and each of them were met with the same sight. Bucky and Rose were curled up together on the couch, a blanket thrown over the both of them. It was an adorable sight and even Sam took a picture or two on his phone. While everyone was musing over the two friends cuddling together, Steve’s call from the kitchen got everyone’s attention. “Who ate my chocolate cake??!”
Tags: @astralshipper @aricka-and-her-fictional-others @frankiesselfship @cringyalienships @nougatships
#self shipping#self ship#selfshipping#self ship community#self insert#marvel#mcu#bucky barnes#big bro bucky#familial f/o#platonic f/o
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Day 1: Rainbow
Fandom: Until Dawn
Character(s): Emily Davis, though all the others are mentioned.
Words: 1058
Rating: T (Character death, swearing)
Author’s Notes: Welp, I honestly didn’t intend to even write anything for this writing challenge but here we are! I decided it would be fun to just see what ideas came to mind from one or two of the prompts has a joke, and thought it would be hilarious to give Rainbows to Emily of all people. And well, that was my first mistake clearly. You can find the original post here for any others that want to try!
I will not tolerate any Emily hate. She may not be my fav character in the game, but I still love her a lot and having a gun shoved in your face would mess anyone up.
Personally, Emily had never been a huge fan of rainbows. It wasn’t that she hated them per say, she had just always been indifferent to them. There were far more exciting things out there than looking at a spectrum of light that didn’t actually exist cause it was just light that reflected off of water droplets that sometimes appeared in the sky after rain.
None of which was helping her as she glared at the mug of coffee that one of the officers at the police station had given her.The chintzy rainbow adorning the one side was way too cheerful and uplifting for the shit she had endured and somehow survived. Jess had once told her that rainbows were supposed to be a symbol of hope or promise or of good things to come. If so, then they were pretty shitty symbols in her opinion. Nothing that had just happened at been any of those things.
(Unlike her, Jess loved rainbows. Her blue eyes would always brighten up when one appeared in the sky after a rain shower. She would squeal in childlike joy when she watched the colors dance across her hand when cast through a window.
She didn't want to think about Jess.)
She took a drink and grimaced at both the taste and texture. The coffee was more like black sludge, thick and bitter. Em had a feeling that no amount of sugar or cream would be able to save this tar in a cup. She stopped trying to drink it. The color and consistency reminded her too much of the oil that had been everywhere in the mines, that stained her hand and clothes.
(Matt should have been in the mines with her, but he had failed to save her and fell with her when the tower finally collapsed further into the mines. And when she had woken up, leg tangled in rope and miraculously alive, he was nowhere to been seen.
She didn’t care about Matt anymore.)
She had found Beth’s head in the mines. Had found Hannah’s journal in the mines. Had been chased by that, that thing in the mines. She had barely escaped the mines with her life.
(Sam and Mike had gone down into the mines to find Josh. They never came back with him.
That was fine. She hoped he froze to death and rotted down there.)
In an effort to stop staring at the glazed image on the mug, and to stop from throwing it at the wall with a soul shattering scream, Em looked towards the officer that was standing nearby to keep an eye on her. She wasn’t too sure why, leaving the safety of the building to go outside was the absolute last thing she wanted to do with her time. But to her horror, her eyes caught on the carefully holstered pistol around their waist. The same way her eyes kept catching on it throughout her interview.
Unbidden, Mike flashed across her mind, the barrel of the gun flashing in low light of the monitors and aimed at her face.
(Mike was dead now. The sickening crack of his spine shattering as he was thrown against the pillar ensured that there was no way he would ever walk out even if the lodge hadn’t burst into flames.
She didn't feel anything when she used the commotion as a distraction to run outside.)
There had been so much screaming. Worse had been Ashley and Chris egging Mike on, adamant that Emily was going to turn into one of those things and kill them. Her hand that encircled the mug still stung from when it connected with Ash’s face, but it was a better sting then the bite on her shoulder.
(They were dead now, too. She had been running behind them, away from the wendigos chasing them down the hall, but they had been too slow. So, she had shoved Ash out of the way and into the wall. But because Chris had been holding Ashley’s hand, she hadn’t been able to brace herself and fell, taking him with her.
She wondered if they had died still holding hands. She hoped not.)
Sam had been the only one to stick up for her. Trying to convince Mike to lower the gun and for Ash and Chris to calm down. Em still thinks she should have tried harder, should have ripped the gun from Mike’s hands.
(Sam was also dead, though she didn’t see it happen. A few seconds after she had made it outside, the lodge had quite literally exploded with Sam still in it. She didn’t know if Sam had stayed behind in repentance for closing the cinema room door and locking it despite Chris and Ash still being in the hall. Didn’t know if it was Hannah or the flames that killed her in the end.
She decided that she didn’t care either way.)
The sound of the only door to the room was enough to rip her eyes away from the gun, and very nearly dropped the rainbow mug in her shock. Jess stood in the doorway, huddling deeper into a very old and worn leather jacket that Em had never seen before, and she looked like shit. Jess’s always immaculately styled hair was coming out of her braid, her make-up was running down her face, long and deep gashes covered what little of her chest Em could see beneath the jacket, and every bit of her available skin was covered in blood and dirt and gore and who knows what else.
Before she could even move though, Jess saw her and ran towards her, flinging her arms around Em’s neck with a sob and broke down. The two of them sat in the same chair, rocking each other back and forth, as they both cried and apologized and swore that they would never let a stupid guy get between them again. Slowly, the two of them calmed down; emotionally, mentally and physically exhausted and all cried out. With nothing else to do, Em offered her the mug of coffee still in her hands and watched as Jess’ baby blue eyes lit up just the smallest amount at the rainbow on the side.
(Maybe Jess had been right. Rainbows were a symbol of hope.
Not that she would ever admit it.)
#until dawn#pride month prompt challenge#emily davis#jessica riley#which was my first mistake clearly#not how i intended to try my hand at writing em and jess but here we are i guess?#you: pride month is all about love and acceptance!#me: fuck you sole survivor em and jess#my writing#guess im kinda indebted to keep up with the rest now huh?
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Fics are incredibme!! How about Season 5!Sam (where his and Dean's relationship was really rocky) getting de-aged to like 4 and Dean realizing how much his kid loves him and how much he loves sam. His big brother love getting reignited in a ways💗
Aww de-aged sammy would be so cute😭 4 or 5 years old, being the most adorable,curious little mop of brown hair
combining these two prompts to avoid repetition. the mental image you guys are giving me is making my heart melt ;-;
–
One day, Dean is going to take some time out of his busy Apocalypse-busting schedule, and hunt down every single witch in the continental US. Then he is going to kill them. Slowly, painfully. First, he’s going to put splinters under their fingernails, and then under their toenails, and then he’s going to pull their teeth out with rusty pliers, and then–
“Dee! I’m done!”
Dean shakes his head as if he can physically clear it of the violent thoughts, and then steps inside the motel bathroom to help Sam. It’s very weird, having to crouch down to talk to him; he barely comes up to Dean’s knee. Dean’s not entirely sure due to not having his own age as a frame of reference, but gun to his head, he’d put Sam at around four or five.
Fuck witches. He’s going to use the same rusty pliers to pull their nails out once he’s done with the teeth.
“Help me!” Sam says, tugging at Dean’s pants and drawing his attention once more. He looks down at his unbuttoned jeans in dismay, and Dean chuckles, kneeling so he can help Sam with the button and zipper. Little guy hadn’t gotten the hang of that till seven.
“Gotta wash your hands,” he reminds Sam once he’s done, and hoists Sam up so Sam can access the sink. He supervises the handwashing, and then carries Sam back into the motel room, setting him down on the bed. “You hungry?”
Sam nods, brown curls flying.
Dean laughs again, leaning down to push Sam’s hair out of his face and tuck it behind his ears. “What do you wanna have?” he asks.
Sam shrugs his bony little shoulders. He’s drowning in the t-shirt Dean’s put him in, fashioned by cutting off the sleeves of his smallest shirt. They’d gotten lucky with the pants; Dean had found them hanging to dry outside someone’s house and grabbed them, but unfortunately there hadn’t been any shirts.
“Gotta tell me something, Sammy,” Dean tells him. This part of Sam’s childhood he doesn’t miss at all, the picky eater phase that had taken Sam forever to grow out of it and was probably – definitely – a contributing factor to John’s graying hair.
“Can we have pizza?” Sam asks after a moment of deep thought. The way he frowns when he’s thinking has remained the same throughout the years, despite his age – brow furrowed, bottom lip sticking out, nose scrunched a little – and Dean feels his heart ache a little from the nostalgia.
“You want pizza?”
“Yeah!” Sam says.
“What do you want on it?” Dean asks, reaching for the motel phone so he can order. He can’t really remember if Sam had liked vegetables at age five, but somehow he doesn’t think so.
“Um,” Sam says. “Cheese.”
“Okay. And?”
“Just cheese,” Sam tells him.
“Pepperoni?” Dean asks.
Sam shakes his head, his hair coming loose from behind his ears again. “No! Jus’ cheese.”
“Okay, then.”
He puts the TV on for Sam as they wait for the pizza to arrive, and sits down next to him with the laptop. Cas is not responding to any calls or prayers, so it looks like Dean’s on his own for now, stuck with a toddler version of his brother and hoping and praying that it won’t be permanent. The witch is dead, though, so maybe it’ll wear off in a couple days. He hopes. Until then, he’s just gotta deal with it. He’s already raised Sam once, it can’t really be that hard to do it again, right?
Sam squeals with laughter at something on the TV, distracting Dean from his thoughts. He looks down to find Sam giggling, face pink, little teeth out on full display along with his dimples, and the sight squeezes something in him. He can’t remember the last time Sam laughed like that, even as an adult. Not even when he racks his brains. Sam snorts at his jokes, sometimes, but his smiles and laughter – rare to begin with – are almost non-existent now.
With a jolt Dean realizes he misses it.
It’s not just the looming Apocalypse, and Sam’s guilt over it, Dean thinks. Some of it has to be him, too, and their deteriorating relationship. He’s been hard on Sam – deservedly so, he thinks – but the kid’s beating himself up enough as it is, and Dean adding on to it probably doesn’t help at all.
And ever since Dean threw away the amulet… Sam hasn’t smiled, not once. The first couple of days he could barely look Dean in the eye. Not that Dean wanted to look at him, either, if he’s being honest, but the few times he’d managed to catch a glimpse of Sam’s face, his brother’s eyes had been wet. He knows Sam hasn’t been sleeping well, but it was especially bad after that day. More insomnia, more nightmares when sleep did come. And Dean in the other bed, lying awake too and pretending he’s asleep. God, how did it all go so wrong?
Some of his sadness must show on his face – Sammy stops laughing abruptly, and tugs on Dean’s jacket sleeve. “Dee?” he asks, concerned little voice. “Dee, wha’s wrong?”
Dean attempts a smile, running his hand through Sam’s hair before tucking it behind his ears in the vain hope it’ll stay there this time. “Nothing, kiddo,” he says, not sounding convincing even to himself. “I’m okay.”
“You look sad,” Sam points out. His hand is still on Dean’s arm, tiny and warm.
“I’m okay, really,” Dean reassures him. On a whim, he puts the laptop aside, and then he puts his arms around Sam’s body and lifts him into his lap. “Promise.”
“Okay,” Sam says, squirming a little until he’s comfortable. He settles with his head against Dean’s chest, face turned towards the TV where Tom and Jerry is playing on mute. “Dee?”
“Yeah?”
“Can I ask you a thing?”
“Sure, buddy.”
“Why’re you so big?”
Dean has been anticipating this. Sam’s been perceptive at any age, and Dean knows he’s been thinking about this one for a while. He’s only asking now because his brain has failed to come up with a solution. “Magic,” he tells Sam seriously. It’s the truth, after all. “And it’s not me that’s big, you’re just small.”
Sam accepts this answer easily, because he’s five and lives in the sort of world where magic is something cool that happens to Disney characters, and because he’ll blindly believe anything from Dean. “Where’s Daddy?” he asks next.
“He’s, um, away,” Dean says. He’s been anticipating this question too.
“Are you as big as him?”
“Almost,” Dean answers with a chuckle. John is still a superhero to Sam, and he’s not going to be the one to ruin it for him right now. He’s just a child. Let him be innocent to the world for as long as he can.
The pizza arrives. Sam eats half a slice before declaring he’s full, leaving the cheesy travesty for Dean to deal with. Dean goes through four slices anyway before he’s done, and then helps Sam wash his hands. They settle in bed afterwards, the TV on again, but this time Sam climbs into Dean’s lap off his own volition before Dean can even reach for the laptop.
“Can I sit here?” he asks – pointlessly, considering he’s already made himself comfortable.
Dean chuckles. “Sure you can, little guy.” He waits until Sam stops moving and then puts his arms loosely around him, unmuting the TV as he does so before dropping the controller in Sam’s lap.
Sam’s body is so tiny in Dean’s arms. Dean can feel every bone under the baby-soft skin, can feel every single inhale and exhale. Sam’s got his head against Dean’s chest again, hair tickling Dean’s chin a little, and his chubby little hands are both holding on to one of Dean’s hands. They’re so small that Dean could cover them both just by closing his fist.
Sam laughs at something on TV, but it’s lacking his previous energy. Dean looks down at him in concern, wondering if something’s wrong, if it’s because of the spell – but Sam’s just sleepy, eyelids drooping as he struggles to remain awake long enough to finish the cartoon. He’s got the fingers of one hand wrapped around Dean’s thumb, the other clutching at Dean’s index and middle fingers, and his head is growing progressively heavier against Dean’s chest.
Dean’s heart swells. He had no idea how much he’d missed Sam’s dependence on him until it was gone, but this, right now, a five-year-old Sam falling asleep in his lap? It makes him ache for his younger brother, which is strange considering he’s always been right here. Physically, at least – the distance between them has never been greater than it is now.
He raises his free hand, runs it through Sam’s hair and down his back. Sam lets out a tired but contented little sigh, eyes fluttering shut finally, and lets his body relax completely into Dean’s. Within a few seconds he’s sound asleep, little chest rising and falling with every breath, his tiny mouth slightly open.
It’s hard to believe, looking down at him, that this kid is going to grow up to endure so much suffering. Almost impossible to believe he could be capable of starting the Apocalypse. Right now he’s tiny enough to fit into Dean’s lap, and young enough to still look at the world with awe and wonder. But when he’s older he’s going to lose his family just because he wanted normal. He’s going to lose his girlfriend because of a demon deal that happened years before he was born. He’s going to lose his father, and his innocence, and then his life. And then he’s going to lose his brother, and then he’s going to lose himself.
He found his way back, though. He did. It’s important Dean remembers that. Sam’s trying, he really is. He’s not sleeping and he barely eats and Dean can’t remember the last time they just talked without it being about a case or the world ending, but he’s trying.
The Sammy in his lap mumbles something in his sleep. Dean pats his hair, strokes his round, soft cheek, and tries to swallow down the lump in his throat. He’s so innocent like this, curled up against Dean’s chest, trusting him to keep him safe from things he doesn’t even know exist just yet. And he’s going to grow up, and lose that sparkle in his eyes, and that smile is going to fade, and he’s going to realize that he’s not safe no matter what he does. That there’s been a target on his back since before he was born, that he’ll never be able to escape from the taint in his blood, that he’s going to be manipulated into ending the world and he’s not going to know it until he already has.
It’s hard to believe it’s this body Lucifer wants. Someone as sweet as the child sleeping in Dean’s arms cannot be Satan’s true vessel.
Sam’s head is resting in the exact spot the amulet used to. Suddenly, Dean has to bite his lip hard just to stop himself from crying, though there are already tears in his eyes. He threw it away, and he did it knowing Sam was watching him, and why? For what? Just on the word of some asshole angels who have been trying to manipulate them since the beginning? Was Sam’s heaven even real? Sam sure as hell didn’t look too happy in it, and it was supposed to be frickin’ heaven.
God, how did it come to this? His little brother is fading before his eyes, and there isn’t a thing he knows that can stop it. The dullness to his gaze, the restlessness of his fractured sleep, the loss of appetite… Sam is dying, right in front of Dean’s eyes. Maybe not physically, but there sure as hell isn’t a lot of life left in him, on the inside.
And Dean misses him. He misses him so fiercely it hurts, like he’s already gone. He’s never had to live without Sam in his life. Stanford doesn’t count, because he’d known Sam was happy and as safe as he could be. And even now, when he has Sam, it still feels like he doesn’t. Not just the kid sleeping in his arms, but the adult Sam, whose world revolves around his big brother even now when said brother won’t speak more than five words to him.
He needs to do better. He needs to be better, needs to stop pinning the Apocalypse on Sam over and over again when it’s clear that Sam’s got enough self-loathing to begin with. Not like the kid did it all on his own anyway. Wasn’t fair to act like it was just him, like he did it all single-handedly. And even if he had, God, he’s Dean’s little brother. He didn’t mean to, and he’s trying so damn hard to make up for it, and he’s losing himself even more in the process, just a damn shadow of who he used to be, and God, Dean needs to do better.
He can start by making Sam laugh, he thinks. Or at least smile. It’s too late for the amulet – that’s a regret he’s going to carry for the rest of his life, every time Sam looks at his chest and then away like he can’t bear to see it empty. Even if they can’t go back to what they used to be – Dean can try. He can make Sam smile, maybe make him laugh. Make sure he eats and sleeps, make sure he knows he doesn’t have to carry all this weight alone.
Make sure he knows he’s not alone, that he’s always going to have Dean. No matter what.
In a couple days this sweet, lovely child will be gone, and Dean’s going to have his grown version of Sam back. He’s going to buy him breakfast, that girly coffee he loves, and he’s going to make sure Sam eats every bite. Sing him to sleep later if he fucking has to, though he hopes it doesn’t come to that. And the next time anyone tries to blame Sam for the world ending, Dean’s going to rip their tongues out himself. Angel, demon, hunter, anyone, he doesn’t give a shit. Sam’s beating himself enough without the rest of the world – without Dean – lining up to take a swing too.
He’s going to do better, he swears it. Sammy’s his little brother, his, and there’s nothing that can change that. Not a single damn thing in the world or anywhere else, and this time, Dean swears he’s going to remember that.
#dean winchester#sam winchester#supernatural#samdean#my writing#deaged sam#man it's harder than i thought it'd be to write baby sam#i had fun tho! he's so fucking cute ugh im gonna die#Anonymous
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Hope
It’s Fictober!!!!
Post Ep Emily
tagging @today-in-fic @fictober-event @fictober @suitablyaggrieved
from the drabble prompts
Prompts “Don’t shut me out.”
She traces the images of a smiling 3 year old. Whose short hair mimics her sister. The scattered tissues that barely hold her tears mingle with the dried blood under the floorboards. As she sits against the hard wood door in a heap of convulsing sobs. She was so strong at the funeral, her sadness contained in the shell of her broken down body. Everytime she closes her eyes she sees a scared little face begging her to stop the tests. She sees Mulder clutching yellow flowers too tightly as his own sorrow for her pours from his eyes. He knows what this tiny child was to her. He knows that she wanted another life another path, not because of him or their quest. But because fate had chosen her to live on, she had been returned survived the incurable and yet her destiny wasn’t to find the joys that she had forsaken it was as if she was being punished for fighting. She lived but she will never live on in the form of another, she will never have a child that bares her dna. She will never get to feel a baby rolling around in her womb. Never have to worry about labor pains, morning sickness. She will never be able to give Mulder the family he has sought after for 20 plus years. When she was dying it didn’t matter what she did, it was almost easier not caring for the consequences, because in 6 months she would be dead and it would be someone else's problem. That they would have to see how she shattered herself, shattered her relationships, pushed people away so that when she died the pain would be less. Her mother, her brothers.. Mulder. She pushed back and worked and focus on things that were tangible and lacked the emotional connection, a connection she wasn’t interested in forming when death's door was all but a breath away. But now she is here in a world that has cursed her to relive a walking nightmare, happy families practically taunting her, Mulder trying to be closer but yet still keeping his distance despite her practically throwing herself at him. He knew when she told him she couldn’t have children, he knew and that was why he pushed her away months ago. Now she knows why she never realized it, never realized that all he wants is a family. The way he speaks of Samantha of a life lost in time. He is frozen there, in this disillusionment of the perfect happy family and he craves it so badly. She should have known, should have realized when he was talking about baseball and small towns. Saw how his eyes lit up with Emily. He thought there was a chance, a chance for them and this little girl. He didn’t care if it wasn’t his he just cared that it was hers. He wanted to do everything he could to protect them, Emily and her and in the end as always they both lost. Her heart breaks a little more as she squeezes the tissue in her hand. She knows the human body can’t possibly run out of water from tears, but in moments like this she feels like it's as much as anything. She feels the knock on her door against her head. The lights are dimmed and if she doesn’t move perhaps her will let her suffer the pain alone, like she should. It wasn’t his daughter that died, it’s not his chance for parenthood that is on the line. Just hers. Just her that will forever see Emily's face in tiny toddlers, her that will envision an entire life for a girl she barely knew.
Mulders voice comes through “Please Scully, don’t shut me out.” The last of the words are barely audible and she keeps thinking I have to, I can’t have us both broken at the same time. How will we save one another if both of us just want to die?
Her breathe heaves in and out of her lungs as she tries desperately to control her emotions for just enough time to tell him she is fine, cursed and miserable, but fine. But he is whole, safe, able to share his beautiful genes with any woman who would be so very lucky to have him. Deep breath.
“I’m fine..” her voice practically shatters at the word and she can’t help the tears that mingle with her lips as she repeats it to herself in a whisper, ”I’m fine, it’s fine… everything is ….” and the door clicks and before she can even figure out how to control her tears she is in his arms and they are both crumbling to the floor as her sobs wrack through her body in uncontrollable spasms. He’s there not reassuring her but stroking her back like he did to Emily in the group home. God, Emily those tests how could she as her mother ever make her child needlessly suffer for the small glimmer of hope of what could of been.
“Mulder, I was such a terrible mother to her, I let them test her, I made her suffer just so that I could have a few more moments with the only child I will ever have. I failed her, the one person in the world that mattered.”
Mulders hand continues up and down and her face gets buried in his neck.
“You showed her love Scully, and tried everything to save her, to give her the life she deserved, to love her unconditionally. You are what all mothers strive to be,” he stares deep into her water filled eyes and continues “a protector, who had to make the hardest choice imaginable, and you chose to set her free from the confines of a world that would have only caused her more pain than anyone should ever experience.”
He cups her face in his hands kissing her tears as she hiccups in sorrow. He takes them to the couch and she is so mentally exhausted she barely notices. Barely registers the warm blanket that he drapes around both of them before her body finally gives in to a dreamless slumber.
When she wakes he has a small cup of tea for her. She rubs her eyes and mutters her thanks.
“You don’t have to stay, thank you for coming over, I just..”
He pursues his lips stares at her paintings, and sits next to her taking her hands in his.
He clears his throat “I know you think that my mother was terrible to me, that she neglected me and that my family life was horrible. But the problem was.. It wasn’t. Before Sam was taken it was perfect, it was the perfect life. Summers on the vineyard, baseball, peanut butter sandwiches, endless hugs, family barbecues. It was like your family, everyone was just happy to be together. Sure Sam was annoying, but she would play stratego with me. My mom would try to make pancakes in the shape of the Enterprise. My dad would throw a baseball to both of us, from the second his feet hit the driveway until well after the street lights came on. He never even got to go inside and put down his briefcase. Over the years, after, the baseball gloves collected dust the pancake mix went bad and all that was left was two people who were shells of their former selves. They weren’t my parents they were people who were so broken that no amount of love or devotion or success would put them back together again, and I was there and watched it all. I saw what losing a family member does to people. What it did to me, what it did to them. So I know you will be fine, because you need to tell yourself that, need to believe it like you believe in god and science. But you will wonder, you will wonder if Emily would ever have loved ballet, if she would be good at soccer, if she would love math and science like you or history and art like me. There will be moments where you will swear that you see her on the street, moments where a candle will flicker out and you feel her breath on your skin. You will hear her laugh in wind and feel her tears in the rain, and in every single one of those moments you will not be fine, and you need to accept that those moments Scully, those are the moments that prove that life is worth living. I want you to tell me when those moments happen Scully. I want you to tell me because being shut out, taking it all on your own, doesn’t make you strong, it makes you hate the world. It makes you into the shell of a person, and there is nothing worse than living life with deep seated regret and pain. I can’t watch another person I love become… hopeless. So I need you to tell me, so you and I can work on it together. To grieve together for the life we could of had, and for the pain we must endure. Can you do that for me Scully? Please?”
As the tears stream down her face she can’t help but nod. Because he’s right, of course he is, and years from now, when she still can’t get rid of him and him of her they will see a girl who they swear looks exactly like Emily, playing in puddles in her ballet outfit. They will see a kid with her smile looking at a science project. They will feel her presence in the darkest of circumstances and know for a glimmer of a second that hope endures.
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A Story Rough Draft
“Peripheral” - working title
“Yes, I work at home, but I'm still working, you know,” Greg explained to his sister, trying to avoid having her kids dropped off on him again.
No one seemed to respect the basic premise, least of all his own family and it was kind of driving him crazy.
“Hang on, sounds like the mail's here.”
“See, you can just go get the mail as soon as it shows up. Why can't you look after your nephew and niece?”
“Because walking out to the mailbox is only a couple of minutes, and kids take hours of attention?”
“Come on, it would save me so much in babysitters.”
“And it could cost me my job,” he muttered as he opened the mailbox. Unfortunately, having to hold the phone up by clamping it between his face and shoulder meant it was right up against his mouth, and she actually heard what was meant to be an exasperated comment to himself.
He was enduring the aggrieved reaction as he walked back and flipped through the mail when it happened.
It was just in the corner of his eye, blurry and indistinct. Some kind of insect, or whatever centipedes would count as, at least a foot long. It sported far too many legs writhing about randomly, bizarrely asymmetrical with some limbs just far too long. He shouted as he jumped up, dropping his phone onto the concrete porch.
But the horrible writhing creature had vanished. It was just a harmless branch of a ground shrub, dried and browned. He felt his face get hot as he looked around, but fortunately none of the neighbors were out and he probably wasn't seen. He picked up the stick and threw it in the yard. Then he picked up the phone and tried to apologize.
Things were normal for a while, going from day to day taking care of his cat and dog, Sam and Fred. The names were an aborted joke he feared might be a little too nerdy. Working from the computer and fielding the odd phone call filled most of the day's work hours. Then one night, while he was brushing his teeth, a vague blurry reflection slid in the corner of his vision. A long body that looked covered in spikes. Wiggling antennae, and way too many legs for reason. He fought the reaction to jump away, but kept his body still, and only moved his eyes, trying to bring it into focus.
A ball of fuzz this time, some carpet threads and pet hair that had escaped the vacuum in a big unsightly clump. He threw it away and wondered what kind of mental disorder could be responsible for a recurring hallucination. He spent some time trying to search for hallucination symptoms on the internet with little luck. He fought the impulse for a bit but eventually took to forums and question websites trying to figure out if anyone else had similar experiences.
“What, some kind of bug? Like a spider?” some anonymous poster with a string of numbers asked on his thread.
“Try something more like 'Hell's most hardcore centipede' if you want a mental image.” he replied with a huff he knew full well no one would see online..
His work suffered the next couple of days from all the time inquiring online to no avail. Maybe he'd have to figure out a way to talk to someone in the mental health field. Get some drugs at least, provided it was affordable.
The third time, he was working. He tensed and drew his feet up into his chair. He would not acknowledge it. He would not. Would not. Bugs had too many limbs to start with, but the thing he could but couldn't quite see in the reflection of his monitor shamed even the most nightmarish millipede. Unlike a millipede's strange gait this thing had no sense of rhythmic motion, just flailing asymmetrical chaos.
Sweating, he forced himself to stare ahead and keep typing, ignoring the thing that seemed to be beside him. The reflection grew more frantic. His head began to ache, making reading his own writing impossible. He shut his eyes and kept typing. The headache grew worse, pulsing, with a steady drumbeat. His skin crawled, as if those writhing legs were just about to touch him. He couldn't stand any more; something was about to break... Fred barked his annoying high pitched yap.
His eyes flew open, but the flailing monstrosity reflected beside him was still there. He spun around in his chair. This time there wasn't even anything there to fool his eyes. The dog was indeed barking at nothing, just the wall behind him. Fred was lovable but dumb, he wasn't even pointed at where the bug thing had been.
“How are you going to protect anyone if you can't even tell where to bark?”
A few more incidents let him figure out some patterns. Ignoring it brought pain, and no medication he tried dulled it any, it only went away with time. Nothing seemed to change his condition, not changing his hours or diet or sleeping schedule. However it felt crazy to keep spinning around to try and catch glimpse of a nightmare bug that vanished in an instant. More likely it was never there at all, so why should he keep stopping his work for it? Maybe it was only for a few seconds, but damn it he didn't want to give in on principal.
Then again maybe he was just going crazy.
Then one day a political volunteer rung his doorbell to convince Greg to vote for a favored candidate in the upcoming primary. Greg wasn't really listening. surprised to find himself jealous of the man's eyebrows though they were partially hidden by his glasses and the glint catching on the reflection. His own eyebrows were balding, and this guy’s looked straight model worthy. He let the man talk at him for a while, guessing that most people would be prone to closing the door on his face and he hadn't seen anyone face to face himself for a while. In a way it was nice to be talked to, even about a topic he found boring. Now if there was a way to trade eyebrows, he'd vote for whoever this guy wanted.
He was trying to distract himself with these thoughts from the antics in his peripheral vision. He didn’t want to appear crazy. However when the operative looked up from his pamphlet, he shouted in surprise and threw his clipboard at the wall next to Greg's door.
“What the hell?!”
Greg, shocked, turned to look. Of course nothing was there. “What did you see?” he asked, heart pounding.
The man’s excellent eyebrows had disappeared into his hair. “Sorry. I thought,” but he trailed off.
“Was it something like a centipede?” Greg pressed.
But the man was still staring at the wall, looking confused and flushed. “Um. I should get going, quotas and stuff. Don’t forget to vote,” he called over his shoulder as he hurried down the stairs.
Greg at first felt exultant, and then terrified. It wasn't just in his head! So what the hell was it? He started to go back in and noticed the clipboard, picked it up and turned around to yell at the guy only to find he was already exiting the driveway in his car. Oh well, he'd hang on to it for a while in case he came back for it. He had other things to worry about. He suddenly remembered the thing disappearing when Sam hopped on the desk – at first he hadn't thought much of it, but maybe that meant being observed by anything would dispel its presence.
He resolved to find out and went to the store, bought some cameras, and got the largest storage he could afford and set them up around the house. They caught the thing on tape, sort of. Only in the spots out of the camera's focus did the thing appear, looking just as hazy and indistinct as did in his own vision. He even showed the footage around and everyone confirmed they saw something, but usually gave him a bit of grief for trying to hide a bad special effect and prank people.
It was real, a hundred percent confirmed, but it either would not or could not be captured as a clear image. It could only show up as an unclear one, in the field of view that was out of focus. If he just got a ton more cameras and covered his house with them so no spot in it was out of focus then it couldn't get to him. The venture would very expensive and time consuming. Power would be an issue, for now he would try setting up only in whatever room he was using that moment. He'd focus on his work room since he spent the most time there and had the most episodes, only the bathroom came close.
A couple of days went by and it seemed to have worked. No more creepy crawly nightmares scampering about on the edges of vision. There weren't any headaches yet, but they had been somewhat infrequent most of the time. It'd be a while longer before he was sure he'd thwarted them. The bug showed up alone sometimes, but the headache never happened without the bug so there must be some kind of connection. There were still unknowns, but he felt confident he had won. He set back to work hoping to make up for lost time. He pushed it so long he found himself falling asleep at his desk. He'd have to get up before he really dozed off. Just one more...
He knew he had to be somewhere to do something. The sensation was vague but compelling, driving him to a brisk walk. He rounded the corner around a building and was caught in the flash of a camera. The flash of light wasn't just disorientating because of the momentary vision impact but it actually burned. He jumped back around the corner, stunned by the burned flesh peeling away. He ran back in a hurry and took an alley, away from the crowds.
He came out alright and scanned the people in the street for any cameras. He ran along, wincing away from any flash of light he saw. He tried going down a back alley and nearly walked into a giant burning eyeball. Feeling vaguely disappointed in himself on some creative level he backed away, barely aware of his skin peeling away in a terrible burn.
Finally he was at his destination, but there was a line of people holding cameras making him pause. How could he get around that? Some of them were taking pictures of something, whatever it was it wasn't important, but it was forcing him to keep a distance. Even so the flashes of light were causing blisters here and there, deepening wounds and exposing bone as he tried to find a way around.
No good the whole area was blocked entirely. He decided to try risking it, but as he approached the whole crowd seemed to pivot towards him and start snapping pictures. He backed away trailing smoke and flakes of blackened skin. He finally realized he didn't feel the pain that he should. So, a dream then... what was so important though? It wasn't like any dream he'd ever had.
Greg's vision was blurry as his eyes opened and light from the monitor made him want to close them again. He'd fallen asleep in his computer desk in spite of himself. Well, his back was going to be out of it for the rest of the day. It might almost be a welcome distraction from the headache he had.
Headache?
When he first tried to open his eyes he found the action strangely difficult but with some effort he forced them to open and immediately saw his computer's monitor in sleep mode. In the 'black mirror' of the powered down computer screen he could see himself and … something else. Strangely none of his normal surroundings were reflected in the monitor, just a strange cluster of shapes that seemed to make no sense. It was like an escher painting come to life but worse somehow, the effort to focus on any one group of shapes only resulting in his gaze sliding away from it. He tried to turn away from it but found his neck wouldn't respond. Probably stiff from his nap. He could hear Fred whining and scratching at the door. He'd hardly noticed the noise before, it seemed to be drowned out by something whirling through his own thoughts. Wasn't that supposed to go the other way around?
He tried to use his feet to spin the chair but they wouldn't listen. Now he was getting worried. Still, the bizarre thing or things in the monitor couldn't be helping his headache. He tried pushing backwards, pleased to find that it worked but wondering why he couldn't move to the sides.
A wave of pain and nausea hit him with such force he wanted to reel, double over, physically react in some way, but for some reason he seemed to be stuck staring at the reflection in the monitor.
This felt far worse than it had ever been before.
Another wave, at least as strong as the first.
It felt like his head might split open as he struggled against the urge to vomit.
He looked around as much as his nearly immobile head would allow but saw no sign of the bug apparition.
Another wave hit. They seemed to keep getting stronger. Or his resistance was weakening. Maybe both.
He fell back as he started to stand up. What was happening? No bug to be seen, but this headache was something horrible. Why couldn't he turn? They areas around his eyes and ears started to feel wet. He intended to look around for something to dab at the area, or to find the bug, but his head stayed looking forward. 'How many marketers would pay blood sacrifices to claim such a captive audience? He wondered trying to take his mind off the pain and nausea with a quip to himself.
Another wave.
This time he actually seemed to slide from the chair some, but his head craned to keep the reflection of the monitor in sight. He struggled to push himself back up. He thought about the dreams, and crazy as it was... he went back to the desk and flipped one camera down, letting it record nothing but desk and dark.
Yet another wave and he started to slide from the chair again, nearly slamming his chin into his keyboard's resting spot.
He pushed himself back up shaking the whole while. He tried to reach for the monitor but his hands wouldn't reach that way. He could grab just about anything else though, so since he couldn't turn to look for the other camera, he settled for taking things from his desk and throwing them in the general direction he knew it was. Books, his coin tray, some old CDs. He was about to sadly start with his mouse and keyboard when he finally heard a clatter that sounded right.
The next wave of pain came instantly afterwards.
He hit his head on the desk, but the pain of that was lost in what was already happening. He shuffled backwards, leaning into his rolling chair, throwing the last few things on his desk behind him. Nothing happened. He made his way back as quickly as he could force himself until he hit the wall.
Another wave and his vision was going blurry. He couldn't even see himself in the monitor any more. The strange shapes were the only thing to be seen as they shifted around in mind-bending bizarre patterns.
The wet feeling increased and his back spasmed. He flailed against the wall wildly for a moment until he managed to get a hold of himself enough to push himself up. The last camera went down after a long moment of scrambling wildly trying to grab at his shelf and nearly immediately he saw the tangle of buggy limbs that had been haunting him.
It was the easiest thing in the world to turn and find nothing. He looked back at the monitor through the corner of his eye and only saw a normal monitor reflecting a faint gleam of light. He laughed.
How was it possible? The grotesque bug monster too horrific to look upon directly was the good guy of the scenario? Something worse constantly behind him...
He needed to get rid of the cameras after all. He really hoped he could find all the receipts...
One weekend when his sister brought her kids over they came running to their mother screaming and sobbing. They were unintelligible and confused their mother.
He knelt down to talk to them and asked, “was it a bug?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Don't worry about it. It only looks scary.”
“Um...” the kids radiated uncertainty.
“Worry about what it's warning you about,” he smiled devilishly as his sister glared daggers at him.
“What is it?”
“You know how some people befriend crows? They give them food and the crows share shiny things? It's like they're friends, even if the crows are never pets. The bug creature is like that, I don't know what it gets from me, but it's always watching out for me. Us now I guess. So don't worry about it. I try to wave back sometimes, I like to think it likes it. I mean, it's waving at me all the time.”
His sister sighed, “I guess it's a good thing I didn't get you to start watching them after all.”
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You think either Tommy or Billy would of ever "walked in" on their parents?
Oh yes, of course. :D Hope you enjoy this way more than Tommy does.
They’d been on the road just long enough for Tommy’s fingers to grow restless, so about five minutes, give or take. Billy’s music choice is awful, far too angsty and coffee-house vibey for his tastes and he drives way too slow. But given Tommy got a speeding ticket his first week with his license, the parental units deemed him to always be the passenger. Five minutes, roughly, is also just long enough for his mind to finally catch up with his mouth. “Oh shit.” Tommy bolts upright and swats at his brother’s arm “Hey.” Nothing. Apparently his grumbling about having to spend the weekend watching Billy get all doe-eyed around Teddy really got to him. So Tommy hits his brother harder, “Hey.”
A sharp “What?”comes with Billy’s attempt at a steely side-eye.
“You grab mom’s sleeping bag?”
The car rolls to a stop at an intersection and Billy’s steeliness gives way to a pointed disbelief, one that says in big flashing letters you’re an idiot. “You told dad you grabbed it.”
He did, about four times because he was tired of the endless questions about their packing. It’s a three day camping trip and yet dad had a list long enough to survive a month in the wilderness. They aren’t even going far into the mountains, he checked, there’s a Walmart like fifteen minutes from their campsite. “Well…I didn’t actually grab it because I thought you did.” Which is a lie but he hates the self-satisfaction that oozes onto Billy’s face whenever he fucks up.
“Well, guess I’ll be warm since I actually grabbed mine.”
“Congratulations.” Billy grins and continues driving, as if everything is solved, but it’s not. It’s going to be negative five or some disgustingly cold temperature and mom’s sleeping bag is one of those expensive thermal ones that makes her look like a mummy in a sarcophagus. Dad got it for her like three years ago for Mother’s Day and Tommy would prefer not to freeze his ass off for a training trip led by Uncle Sam (which he never realized until now how fitting it is that Sam’s been tapped to take over the shield, what a perfect name for America’s hero), “We could run back, right?”
Billy shakes his head, hands gripping the steering wheel tight enough for his knuckles to turn white. “No, we’re already late picking up Cassie and I don’t want to run laps around the lake.” Sam’s favorite punishment for the sin of tardiness.
“It’s not that big of a lake.” It’s not, it’s maybe a mile around and Tommy has no issue running it and it’s not his fault his brother’s endurance isn’t great. “You just have spaghetti legs.” Billy’s face hardens even more, almost statuesque though no one would want to carve a statue of that face. A different tactic might be more fitting. “Fine, then I’m telling Sam about how Teddy’s going to find his way into your sleeping bag.”
They pull up to Cassie’s house but his brother doesn’t move beyond a slight twist of his waist to measure up how serious Tommy is being. Tommy flashes him a beaming, genuine, certified Maximoff shit-eating grin. The deep sigh out Billy’s nostrils is the surest sign that he’s about to cave. “Fine.”
“Hey, you just going to sit out here like creeps?” Cassie opens the back door and throws her duffel bag in, sliding into the seat with a smile that fades at the tension in the car. “If you two are fighting, it better end in this car, I’m not dealing with it all weekend.”
Billy’s voice doesn’t do anything to ease her concern, his, “We have to swing by our house again,” flat and unimpressed.
“Come on, I’m not doing laps.”
“It’s me, I’ll be fast.” Tommy does his best to eschew the concerns of both people, which has marginal success, the drive back to their house silent minus Billy’s poor taste in music.
When they pull into the driveway, Billy parks the car and stays buckled, turning expectant eyes to Tommy, “You know where it is, right?”
“Yes?”
“Seriously? Dad told you like fifteen times.”
The rest of the camping gear was in the garage, but Tommy feels like he would have remembered it had it been in the same crate as the freeze-dried rations dad insisted he pack. “Not the garage…” Billy stares at him, flabbergasted by the utter failure of the plan but given the sheer amount of information being thrown at them, how was he to remember everything? “We’ll be less likely to run laps if you help me out.”
Billy rolls his eyes with another nasally exhale, “It’s in their closet. Dad moved it there when the garage flooded last year.”
Which sounds vaguely familiar and, though he won’t admit it out loud, Billy tends to have the better memory for useless information, so he’s probably right. “Okay. Try not to miss me.”
His brother’s, “We won’t” fades into the background as Tommy sprints out of the car and up to the wrap-around porch, slowing down long enough to open the door with a friendly, “Did you miss me?” There’s no response, the lights out except the one above the stove, the one they always leave on when out of town. A note is stuck under the flower vase in the entryway, telling Rhodes which plants to water and how often. It seems they didn’t waste any time in leaving, going off on some romantic getaway while he and Billy are gone for the weekend. Which, good for them, he supposes, but they’re always unbearable after trips like this, ratcheting up their touchy-feely-ness to nauseating levels.
Tommy races up the stairs and down the hall, stopping long enough to stare at the closed door of the master bedroom. He reaches for the doorknob and then grins, realizing there is no one around to caution him against trying his hand at walking through walls, mom never happy when she has to send dad in to rescue him when he gets stuck. The closet is on the other side of his own bathroom, so Tommy jogs down the hall and positions himself in front of the wall, crouched and ready for impact as he bends at the waist. He centralizes his powers in his chest, building up the speeding molecules of his body, an action apparently similar to what his dad does, and once he feels as if his nose might fall off from the vibrations in his muscles, he steps towards the wall, his molecules discombobulated enough that he simply slips right through and into the dark closet. “Fucking nailed it.” There’s also no one around to police his language, really he feels like maybe he’ll just stay home for the weekend, let Billy go to the training, and just enjoy the house to himself. If only he wouldn’t be written up and reported to his parents.
A tug to a chain lights up the closet enough for him to find the sleeping bag nestled between two boxes on the second shelf. As he tucks the bag under his arm, the sound of a low, muffled voice comes through the door. His heart races as he, for once in his life, stands absolutely still. There’s a creak and it can’t be from him, neither can the thud of something hitting the floor or the line of unintelligible words that follow. Tommy weighs his options, certain there’s a burglar in their house, probably because someone posted about their trip on instagram (not that he’s pointing fingers but he wouldn’t be surprised if it was Teddy). Still, breaking into an Avenger household takes balls and he’s torn between doing the “responsible” thing and leaving to get backup (i.e. Cassie and Billy), or doing the heroic thing and taking down these assholes now.
There’s no question that he’s a hero, which leaves only one course of action.
Tommy places the sleeping bag down and pulls his goggles from his back pocket, affixing them to his face with a satisfying snap. On the mental count of three, he turns the door handle and barges into the room with a, “You chose the wrong house you motherfuc…” but the heroic quip trails off as he takes in the surprised faces of the burglars, who are not as unwelcome in the house as he thought. “No…no…”
“Tommy!” “Thomas?”
No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, fuck (no, not that word, not that word) no, no, no. It’s the only refrain in his mind as his feet carry him out of the room, down the stairs, and through the car door, not caring at Billy’s angry, “What the hell?!”
“Get it out,” Tommy’s hands shake in his lap and he can’t decide if he should keep his eyes open or close them, both options filled with the image of his parents, “get it out of my head,” naked, very very naked, not even a sheet tastefully placed like it is in the movies, “get it out of my head, Billy,” he dry heaves at the knowledge he now has, of confirming the internet rumors of how the Scarlet Witch is a top and he really never ever wanted to solve that mystery, “please.”
“Get what out?”
Now his brother’s voice is concerned, as it should be. “Mom and dad,” is it overkill to cry? Because he feels like crying, like a piece of his soul might have died and he will never get it back. “Were hav- were having…” he can’t say the word, “and using powers, I,” Kate and Cassie like to tell them about the most outrageously explicit and disgusting things Avengers’ fans write about their parents and sadly, he now knows some of them are right, “I want you to erase my memory and gouge out my eyes.”
There’s a knock on his window and Tommy almost screams, sinking lower into his seat at the concerned frowns of their parents outside the car, both, thankfully, fully clothed, though mom’s hair is far messier than usual. Billy, the traitor, rolls down the window. “We forgot the sleeping bag.”
“Yes, here it is,” dad hands the sleeping bag through the window, and Tommy grips it to his chest, hugging it close while keeping his gaze averted, not sure he can look either of them in the eye. “Thomas,” dad’s trying his most fatherly voice but it won’t get Tommy to stop staring at the stain on his shoe, “we understand you are likely uncomfortable with what you just witnessed,” this seems to shift the atmosphere of the car, Cassie biting back a laugh while Billy’s face grows dismayed, “but you should also be aware that sex,” now Billy’s a ghost, just like him, “for many couples, is an important, fun, and highly satisfying part of a relationship. Something we hope you one day experience as well, if that is what you want. ” What he wants is to die, right here right now, let God or Thor or whoever up there controls lightning to strike him down before this conversation keeps going. “Your mother and I were too absorbed in enjoying ourselves and did not hear you come in.” That’s it, he’s an atheist now, because no loving deity would let him live through this.
Out of the corner of his eye he can see his mom run her hand up dad’s arm, which only brings the image back to his mind. Thankfully, she doesn’t continue the conversation, at least not in the direction it was going. “What were you doing in our closet?”
Being an idiot and he vows to never walk through a wall again. “Just, um, getting the sleeping bag.”
“You know, Mr. and Mrs. Maximoff,” Cassie is an angel, a thoroughly entertained and devious angel who will lob this at him every chance she gets this weekend, but he’s not picky right now if it saves him in the moment, “we should probably leave, don’t want to be punished for being tardy.”
This seems to go over well, a sense of dad nodding his head in understanding. “Yes, you should not be delinquent for your trip.” Billy starts to shift the car into drive, but stops when dad bends down, his brow furrowed around the Mindstone and voice annoyingly calm, “I believe when you all get back, we should perhaps sit down to speak more on this issue, given you likely have many more questions now that you have begun pursuing romantic relationships.”
“Oh, goodie.” Tommy sends a thumbs up and then rolls up the window, waiting until they are down the street before he screams into the sleeping bag.
#tommy shepherd#scarlet vision#billy kaplan#wanda maximoff#vision#the vision#ask anon#mine#i hope tommy is written okay#never written him before!#deathofink#the maximoffs
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As He Breaks
Chapter 1
by Carver Edlund
Dean's wrists were badly chafed. He suspected his ankles looked the same, if not worse. He wasn't sure why he bothered fighting against the chains that held him to the rack just loosely enough to allow for some struggle but never enough to actually do any good. It had been weeks, months, years... maybe even decades, but still, he couldn't help himself. He had to fight against the pain. It was as natural a reaction as squinting after stepping into direct sunlight.
Sunlight. How long had it been since he'd seen that? Somehow that felt even longer ago.
He'd kept count for the first year. He would whisper it under his breath at the end of each day, at the end of each session. When Alastair laid his razor down on the table of instruments he kept close, Dean would grit his teeth and, through the blood in his mouth, groan out the number. The last he recalled saying was 368.
On day 369, he couldn't remember what yesterday was. Every day contained the same thing so he was surprised he'd kept track as long as he did.
"369," Alastair said when Dean didn't. His voice was unnaturally sympathetic. That startled Dean more than what he said. "It's day 369, Dean." He’d sobbed that day. Not that he hadn’t cried before here, but this time it wasn’t because of the pain—not totally, at least. Hearing his name said softly, almost kindly, broke his heart completely.
How long ago had that been, Dean wondered. Day 369 became 370, then it was 400, then he gave up keeping track when he realized that he had started counting because he believed it would end one day. But it wouldn't. This torture, this excruciating pain, it would never end.
On whatever day it was this time, Alastair glanced at Dean, returning from cleaning his blade on an already blood-soaked towel nearby. Dean’s jaw clenched tightly, the only pain he could control, and his eyes shut. His hands balled into fists and he tensed, knowing exactly what was coming. The day was nearly over, he never knew how he knew that but somehow he just did, so Alastair was cramming in what he wanted to finish before time was up.
The razor cut into the flesh just below his ribcage and, though he tried to keep silent, Dean cried out until his throat was raw. Or at least more raw than it had been at the start of the day. Water, or better yet whiskey, was unheard of down here. He knew screaming was just as useless as fighting, but he was powerless to stop either. No one would help, no one seemed able to hear, except Alastair.
Not that Alastair was the only one who took pleasure in Dean’s agony. Others came, some demon, some human on their way to becoming demons. But today it was just Alastair.
Finally, the master of torture stepped back, tilted his head, and smiled. He was hideous in every way, his un-vesseled form, but his smile made the ugly, evil face even harder to look at. Dean refused to open his eyes, instead hearing the smile in Alastair’s voice when he stated, “There. I think that’s quite enough for one day, wouldn’t you agree?”
Then, the same sounds he’d heard every night since he awoke here, suspended and chained in the abyss: the familiar metal-on-metal tick of the razer being placed on the table; a few footsteps; scribbling; Alastair’s notebook closing; more footsteps, nearing this time. Dean knew what the demon would say next and he knew what he had to say.
But yesterday something had changed. He’d felt his strength waning. Not that he had any left, but his reserves, the ones buried way down deep, were failing him. Years upon years of this had stripped away every ounce of resolve he had. And yesterday, when Alastair offered to take him off the rack, Dean hadn’t replied. It was the first time that he couldn’t find the will to say ‘no’, or one of the many other sarcastic responses he’d come up with. Instead, his silence spoke for him and Alastair returned the next morning with his tools and evil smile.
Dean couldn’t open his eyes if he wanted to look at the figure hovering over him, taking stock of the damage the demon had inflicted. Dean couldn’t recall ever being so exhausted. He had endured so much pain, he was at his breaking point.
“Did you know it’s our anniversary today, Dean?” Alastair asked, his voice just above a whisper.
Dean could barely breathe, his body torn to shreds, but he fought to focus on the words. What could it be, five years? Ten? Twenty?
“I know, you wanted to get me something special to celebrate but you’ve been just so darn tied up lately.” He laughed. Dean cringed. “Don’t worry, I got you something special.”
Alastair leaned in even closer as Dean angled his head as far away as he could manage. “I was thinking tomorrow, we get... a dog.”
Tears burned behind his closed lids and one escaped down his bruised cheek. His fists ached but he couldn’t release them. He imagined breaking these chains and... and what? There was no getting out or getting back to earth.
And Dean knew what kind of dog Alastair was referring to. A hellhound. It wasn’t the first time Alastair had let the beast at Dean but it had been a while—that was one thing Dean was thankful for.
“Oh, bother, I shouldn’t have told you. Now you’re so excited you won’t be able to sleep,” Alastair teased, straightening. “Unless, of course... you don’t want to.” He almost sang the words. “You know, if you wanted to get out of here, we could go somewhere nice to celebrate.”
There it was. The offer. Cruelly disguised as freedom, but it was there all the same: get off the rack and take Alastair’s place. Stop being the victim and start on his path to becoming a demon.
Alastair waited patiently. Moments passed and Dean said nothing. He couldn’t speak. He wanted to decline, scream it, shout it, spit it, but nothing came out.
“Alright,” Alastair finally replied, an odd mix of pleasure and disappointment in his tone. “Then I will see you bright and early tomo—”
“How long?” Dean didn’t recognize his own voice but he knew from the grating in his throat that he’d managed to speak.
“I beg your pardon?”
Dean swallowed painfully. “How long?” He forced his eyes open and tried to look Alastair square in the face.
The demon smiled. “How long have we been together? Why, Dean, I’m hurt. I thought you were keeping count this whole time.” He waited, expecting a snippy reply, but Dean had nothing to say. Sighing, Alastair replied, “30 years.”
Dean could have fainted. If it was earth and the natural rules applied, he would have. 30 years. To some extent, he couldn’t believe it had been so long but he was equally as shocked that so little time had passed. It felt like an eternity already. How could he possibly endure more, much less more without end?
His thoughts shifted to Sam, the only comfort he found here. Was he happy now? If 30 years had passed, Dean could believe that Sammy had moved on and had been able to forget about him. He’d be over 50 now. Dean almost smiled at the mental image of his brother with thinning hair and—
“And no, Sam isn’t an old man now.”
Dean froze.
“You see Dean, time’s different down here. Oh yes, it’s been 30 years here, but it’s only been 3 months up there.”
That statement, whether true or false, burned the last atom of strength Dean had left. He couldn’t fight anymore. He had fought for 30 years. 3 decades to the day. And he couldn’t take it any longer.
“Well, I’ll just be going now.”
Knowing the satisfaction it would give Alastair almost made Dean keep quiet but he also knew what would come tomorrow if he didn’t. “Wait.”
Alastair stopped at the door, his hand on the rusty knob. He didn’t look back. “Yes, Dean? Something you need?”
Dean closed his eyes against the spinning room. His heart slammed against his ribs like a sledgehammer. He was giving up and his body, or maybe his soul, hated him for it. “I’ll do it.”
The footsteps approached again. “I might have some blood in my ear, Dean, so could you repeat that? I want to get it just right for my diary.”
“I said... I’ll do it.” His voice was still unrecognizable to him. It was weak, unsteady, raw, just like the rest of him. It suited the victimized, abused man he’d become.
Then suddenly, he was that man no longer. His hands relaxed and the agonizing tension in every muscle eased. This had happened a million times before but this time the ‘healing’ felt different. He felt like himself again; powerful and capable, young and alive. The chains fell open as Alastair snapped his finger and for the first time in 30 years, Dean was free from bondage. He sat up slowly, cautiously. He felt sure that this was a trick, that the chains would close again around his limbs and he would be stuck again, left to contemplate his absolute aloneness until Alastair returned.
But it didn’t happen.
He swung his legs over the side of the cold metal rack and his torturer stepped back, giving Dean space. Dean couldn’t shake the unease he felt as Alastair watched him like Alastair was a starved monster and Dean was his lunch.
Even though he was whole again, uncut, unbloodied, Dean’s legs were not what they once were and his knees buckled when his feet touched the floor and his weight shifted. He held onto the rack and cursed. Alastair abruptly walked to the other side of the room to a cabinet that Dean had never seen open. Swinging it open and revealing at least a dozen bottles of liquor, Alastair glanced back. “Can I interest you in a drink to celebrate this momentous occasion?”
Dean’s mouth watered and his stomach growled at the sight. He was proof that food and drink wasn’t a necessity to survive in hell, he hadn’t eaten since his last meal at Bobby’s house, but he still craved it.
Alastair selected one and moved to the door. He opened it and called, “Bring her in.” Dean watched in shock as two demons dragged a woman in, wailing and begging. Dean moved away from the rack in horror as she was strapped into the space he had filled for the past decades. She too fought against the restraints uselessly, crying, her eyes darting around the room. She was as panicked as he had been his first day in this God-forsaken room.
Dean turned away from the sight, covering his face with a shaking hand. He knew what was expected of him, what his end of the bargain was for the woman taking his place. But he had spent his whole life helping people, saving them from monsters. Would he really become the monster now to spare himself?
“Oh Dean,” Alastair sang above the woman’s shrieks. Dean slowly, almost against his will, looked at the demon. Alastair held out the bottle of liquor but Dean wasn’t unaware of what Alastair was really offering him. His free hand rested over his razor and he tapped his finger impatiently on its handle. “Come on, grasshopper, it’s time to get started.”
Resisting the urge to vomit, if that was even possible in hell, Dean yanked the bottle from Alastair’s hand, broke the seal, and drank it greedily. He could barely stop but he needed air. Lowering it, he inhaled deeply, gruffly. Perhaps this was when the real torture began, he considered. Maybe there was a way to get free, to—
Suddenly Alastair was directly beside him, his hand tight against Dean’s throat. “I know what you’re thinking, Dean, and before you think it a moment longer, I want you to know that if you don’t pick up that blade and do exactly as I tell you, you will spend the rest of your days on this rack without another offer. And don’t forget, ‘the rest of your days’ is really just a figure of speech. You understand me?”
Dean understood perfectly. This was his only chance to be free of an eternity of suffering. He nodded once.
Alastair released him and moved away, close to the woman. “Hello, my dear,” he swooned. “You are in for a real treat, I mean a real treat. You see this man, oh he’s really something special, dear. You might even say he’s a virgin and you’re going to be his first. Yes, this is going in my diary for certain. Now come on, Dean, let’s not waste the lovely girl’s time, can’t you see she’s ready and waiting?”
Dean finished the bottle. Slamming it down, he heard the woman cry out in surprise at the noise before continuing to sob, begging Alastair to let her go. Dean wished he was deaf. And blind.
With a trembling hand, he gripped the blade and turned. She eyed the razer and screamed even louder than before.
Alastair grinned. “That’s right, come here now.”
Dean didn’t remember much of what happened next. He listened to Alastair’s instructions, where to cut, how to cut, what places on the body produced the most and least amounts of blood, and so on. To Dean’s disgust, Alastair was teaching him.
Something in Dean’s mind switched ‘off’ that day. And it was at the exact moment that Alastair’s blade, held tightly in Dean’s own hand, sliced through the woman’s skin, drawing the most fear-filled cry he had ever heard. But she wasn’t afraid of Alastair. She was afraid of Dean.
To protect himself, he imagined, it was as though his humanity turned away and all that was left was the wounded animal who finally, after 30 years, had the chance to inflict pain back. He couldn’t hurt Alastair, but he could imagine that every soul placed before him was the demon.
And instead of counting the days, Dean began counting souls. Until he lost count of those, too.
#Supernatural#spn fic#fanfic#Chuck fic#Chuck Shurley#Mine#Okay so#I thought this would be maybe 1000 words but it turned into quite the fic#Oops#But also I'm so pleased with it because it just kinda answered questions I didn't even know I had#Definitely relates to what Dean says in Heaven and Hell so I feel like I know the whole story now#I doubt anyone will read this because it's like a little novel but either way I must post it#Writing these Chuck fics **even though technically they're Carver Edlund fics under his pseudonym** makes me so happy#The only thing I love more than watching SPN is writing SPN#Okay I'm done now buh bye
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Chapter 15 - NED IV - That’s A Big Campfire
@helloimnotawesome - Chapter 15 updated. I’m SO sorry for the long wait. Thought I forgot about you, didn’t you ;) Well....finally there’s a new update for you as well as a new mood board :) Enjoy, my friend! <3
EDIT: Posted this earlier with the mood board but it got flagged!!! Stupid Dumblr, so while waiting the staff to realise their mistake here’s a repost and you’ll have to go AO3 to see the mood board. Sorry about that sweetie <3
NED IV - That’s A Big Campfire
"In a heartbeat, Dr. Stark!"
"Thank you so much, Sam," the boy is still so formal, "and Sam?"
"Yes, Dr. Stark?"
"Call me Ned, please." He smiled to himself.
"Ah right, yes, of course Dr. Stark...Sorry! Ned..." He could practically hear Sam blushing over the phone.
"Good! Now, once again thank you for helping with this, Sam."
"My pleasure, Dr. S..Ned."
Again, he chuckled at Sam's overly politeness. "Won't take more of your time. See you in a couple of weeks," not waiting for Sam's answer he hung up the phone. Crossing the big field of grass behind Dragonstone castle, he walked over to his wife and Rhaella currently busy cooing over his grandchildren who were rolling around on a blanket placed on the grass in the shadow of a beautiful old tree.
"Just spoke to Sam - it's all set."
"Wonderful, honey! He's going to be so surprised!" His wife was beaming up at him.
"Hopefully only in a positive way. I don't exactly have a good track-record when it comes to surprising my eldest son." He sighed as he looked around searching for the man in question.
"Oh stop it!" Rhaella grabbed his arm and pulled him down to sit between her and Catelyn. "He'll be so excited I bet he'll go speechless. You didn't see his sad puppy face when he was on the phone with Robb that day and had to tell him no. He looked like he thought he'd be ruining his brother's big day because of it. We didn't see him again until nightfall."
"He was always an emotional boy, Ned. Considering what he's lived through it's remarkable he's still able to be this empathetic." Catelyn gently stroked him down his cheek and kissed him. "Jon has a good heart. Been put back together with countless stitches yes, but at it's core still true and pure. He'll be over the moon when he sees what you and Robb has arranged."
He couldn't help smile at his wife's wise words. My sweet gentle sons. Trying to catch up on the time they lost together. "You're of course right - both of you." He quickly smiled at both women sitting on either side of him. "Instead of worrying I'll look forward to seeing some joy on my son's face." Joy! Wouldn't that be a sight!
"That's the spirit!" Rhaella gave him a big smile and light-heartedly nudged his shoulder with her own. "Now, not that I didn't know already, but I must say Robb has made a fabulous choice for his future wife." She nodded her head slightly to the riders further down the field.
Margaery and Sansa where on each their horse accompanying little Rhaenys on her pony between them. Rhaenys was in awe of both. Earlier in the day they had been sitting in the grass braiding each other's hair, adding flowers to the braids and even making garlands that they'd been wearing like crowns. He had to admit he found it adorable how the two took the time for Rhaenys and indulged her. Arya, on the other hand had rolled her eyes, pretending to gag and walked away. Oh how he loved his two girls. So different yet so similar. Just don't tell them that! They had the same fierce spirit, though when it came to expressing said spirit they'd chosen different ends of the spectre. Arya was, for the most part, hit first ask later. Sansa, on the other hand, would take the hits yet refuse to give in. My wild wolf and quiet wolf. Interestingly, he'd noticed a change in both over the past 5-6 months that Jon had been here at Dragonstone and everyone had made sure to make frequent visits whenever schedules allowed. The only one flying in a few times a week was Viserys for his therapy sessions with Jon. Arya was gradually beginning to show signs of something he could've sworn was a foreign concept to her - patience. Who would've ever thought! And Sansa, oh Sansa! She was slowly coming out of her shell, walking and talking with a little more confidence every day, and she was biting back. When Catelyn had told him that Sansa had suggested wearing a sleeveless dress as a bridesmaid, if Margaery agreed, his eyes had overflowed with tears. His shy, broken girl wanting to proudly put her scars on display like that to the world made his heart melt with pride and fatherly love. If I ever get my hands on Joffrey or Ramsey I'll smother them with my own bare hands!! Margaery, of course, had happily and eagerly agreed, knowing what a huge step this was for Sansa.
He couldn't help wonder what it was that caused all these changes. Has Jon returning helped fill a void we each had in our hearts? Is our individual healing contributing to us heal as a family? Have we all found our 'missing piece' in our lives and souls? Or are my girls just growing and maturing at their own natural pace? No, it was all connected to Jon one way or another. By his attempts to reconnect with his siblings and family for his own healing he was helping them with theirs as well. He knew Jon didn't necessarily do this knowingly. After all, the young man was simply trying to regain what he thought he'd lost. However, when he saw anyone in need of help - in anything - he immediately jumped in to provide any assistance he could. He'd always done that even as a little boy. Jon didn't want to see anyone in pain or suffering for any reason. Once again he was taken aback by his son's willingness to help others even if it meant at the expense of his own health. He had done so for years as a member of the Night's Watch, and it became even more ironic when taking into account Jon's blood type. O negative, also known as the universal giver because all other blood types could receive it without trouble - Jon however if given any blood type other than his own would die. It was as if the Gods had forged him to endure heartbreak, pain and suffering for the sake of others, to shield others, to help and save others. What was it Jon had said a few months ago? 'The same hammer that breaks glass forges steel'. That's it! Jon is teaching Sansa that she's steel while all this time she thought of herself as glass! Except he's hitting her with buckets of love. Ha! Jon you brilliant man! He made a mental note to go properly thank the gods when he returned to Winterfell before the wedding. Gods, the wedding! For a minute there he'd completely forgotten everything about it.
He was happy for Robb and Margaery, but at the same time he couldn't understand his little boy had grown up so fast. Oh Ned, you sentimental old fool. Every parent thinks that. He shook his head slightly. In just a few weeks his son and heir to the title of Lord of Winterfell would be marrying the granddaughter of President Olenna Tyrell. It was quite a match and the media and the public loved it! The media! Damnit! Another thing we need to try to prepare Jon for.
Just after New Year's the Starks and Targaryens had sent out a joint press release informing the public of the miraculous return of Jonathan Dayne, heir to Starfall and the son of Eddard Stark and late Ashara Dayne. The families asked to kindly give Jon and his family time and space to recover from the shock, and any press inquiries could be directed to Mr. Tyrion Lannister. Shortly after the President had made a public statement that the Starks were collaborating closely with the authorities, and that further investigations into the events of the years since Captain Dayne's kidnapping and the people involved were already under way, and how she was hoping to hear about more families being united despite all the time passed. The public had responded overwhelmingly positive and sympathy messages online and offline had poured in. Especially messages from Dorne and the city of Starfall was filled with excitement of how they'd welcome him back home with open arms. Luckily, Jon and the cinnabons, thank you for that nickname Arya, had managed to remain sheltered on Dragonstone for the past almost 6 months. Now though it was time for him to step out into the limelight and take his 'rightful' place in the media as the Lord of Starfall. Viserys had assured him that Jon was ready for the circus and that he'd be alright surrounded by family. At least he'll have Dany by his side as well.
"Speaking of future spouses," his wife interrupted his busy mind, "your daughter has made a wise choice herself, if I may say so."
"Indeed! She's had a few trial and errors, but I have a good feeling about this new man in her life." In a mirthful tone Rhaella continued, "I have on good authority that he's from a reputable family, and he's even a war hero!"
"Oh my! What a catch!" Catelyn played along with Rhaella's joking tone and comically pretended to be fanning herself. "But is he handsome? No fun in bagging a man if he's looking like an oaf!"
"Believe me my friend when I tell you he's the prettiest in all the lands!"
He couldn't stop himself from rolling his eyes. Giggling like school girls!! Gods!
Catelyn wrapped her arm around his waist. "Oh c'mon, Ned, have a laugh!"
"Not as long as you call any son of mine 'pretty'!" He said feigning offence.
"But it's the truth, dear Neddy!" Really don't like it when she calls me that. "Next month at Margaery and Robb's wedding there'll be swooning left and right over all of your sons, but in particularly your eldest. Oh Cat, can you imagine how dashing he'll look in his uniform?! I might even swoon!"
All three of them laughed out loud at that image. Rhaella herself so much she had her head leaned back and holding on to him to keep from toppling over.
They all sat quiet for a bit trying to catch their breath again.
"On a serious note though, I do have a good feeling about those two. They are clearly good for each other, and in due time I expect it to naturally end in vows as well." Rhaella stretched her arms and tickled little Adei and Amador on their little chubby baby stomachs and the air was instantly filled with delighted baby giggles. "They are both mature enough to understand that this is something that needs to be done slowly. It warms my old heart to see them take their time to get to know each other and enjoy each other and not rush in like headless chickens." She turned her head a gave him and Catelyn a warm smile.
"They grow up so fast don't they?" His wife was looking at the babies with a wistful look in her eyes. "Oh by the way before I forget, Margaery and I have managed to colour coordinate Dany's maid-of-honour dress to the colours on Jon's uniform. Wasn't easy as the blue and red doesn't exactly go with the colour scheme of the wedding, but we made it work." She flashed a satisfied smile before adding, "with a little help from Sansa as well."
"And what did my daughter say to the changes?" Rhaella had an amused look on her face as if fighting to hold back a laugh.
"She doesn't know. We didn't want her to keep secrets from Jon. Not telling how the bride and her maids will be dressed is one thing, but in this case the reason why would be a big secret."
"Thank you!" He leaned in and give his wife a tender kiss on her temple. She clearly understands how sensitive Jon is about secrets. Gods I love her!
"When she questioned it, Sansa told her that all the Starks were colour matched with the bride as a way of symbolically welcoming her to the pack. Dany of course still looked a bit sceptical." She chuckled at the memory. "So Margaery simply told her it was a bride's prerogative to change her mind."
"Of course!" Rhaelle chimed in clearly amused at the story.
"So that means she'll be as surprised when she sees him as he will seeing her?" He was a little puzzled.
She chuckled. "Yes. She's just expecting him to show up in the traditional morning suit."
"Oh, we better be ready to catch two pairs of young lovers when they see each other that day then!" Once again Rhaella and his wife were giggling like school girls. Once again he caught himself rolling his eyes at them.
Catelyn cheerfully slapped him on his arm. "Don't tell me you weren't thinking the same thing, Ned." Actually I wasn't. "Jon won't even notice the bride walking right behind Dany, nor will Robb notice anyone in front of Margaery!" Again he was surrounded by contagious laughing and he willingly joined in. Gods, she's right!
"I take it Arya enjoyed joining the boys for her first tailor-made suit?"
"Immensely! Although she did find the whole 'having to stand still'-part very tedious." Both women joined in his laughter.
"Well my dear, she is our wild wolf after all." There was so much love in Catelyn's eyes and voice when she said it that he had to kiss her.
Pulling back he looked in his wife's beautiful blue eyes and said, "that she is."
Rhaella cleared her throat as she with an innocent voice said, "want me to leave?"
"Oh stop it, Ella! You're just jealous." Catelyn teased back
"I am actually but that wasn't my point." Laughingly Rhaella wrapped little sleeping Adei in a blanket and stood up.
Catelyn wrapped up Amador, still looking curiously around. As she stood up she placed the little boy in his arms and she packed up the big blanket they'd been sitting on.
"Should I be concerned though," he caught the two women's curious look now, "that our little wild wolf will throw a fit because she won't fit with her new favourite brother now?"
Catelyn and Rhaella shared a look he couldn't quite decipher though there was a hit of worry there.
"Well...," his wife looped her arm with his, "what colour tie and waistcoat will she be wearing?"
"All groomsmen have grey waistcoats and colour of tie is set to match the bridesmaid. Being Arya she of course chose a gold coloured tie, and though her and Bran have switched places I don't think you'll get her to change the colour of her tie. Sorry ladies."
"Oh no, gold should fit well with the golden pieces on Jon's uniform so we should be in the clear. Thank the gods!" His wife huffed out a sigh of relief and Rhaella was just chuckling next to them.
As they were crossing over to where the boys had made camp Catelyn suddenly stopped by his side, pointed and laughed. "How much wood did you tell them to use, Ned? That's big a campfire!"
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Electric Feel: Part One
A/N: Alright you guys so last night I re-watched the movie ‘Savages’. You know, the one with Quicksilver and Serena Vander-Woodsen in it? Yeah, it totally rekindled my love for Polyamorous relationships and after reading a fuck ton of amazing Stucky one’s this site, I decided I just had to write my own. This is going to be a short series. Only five or so parts of fluff and smut. Smut with plot, but smut none the less lol. Enjoy ya’ll. Steve/OC/Bucky
CURRENTLY ON HOLD. WILL RECONTINUE IN 2018
Word Count: 3k+
Warnings: Heavy mentions Panic disorder, Anxiety, Depression and use of Prescription Drugs. Mental health/illness will be a heavy topic in this one so if it triggers you, I’m sorry my beautiful buttercups but this story might not be the one for you. Cussing because I have the worst mouth and my vocab is made up of four letter words.
Story Summary: Y/N, an overworked plus size model, is struggling to balance her career and her worsening panic disorder. Moving into Avengers Tower, at her Aunt Peppers request, was supposed to relieve some of the stress. She never expected to find solace in the arms of not one, but both of the Towers resident super soldiers
✨✨✨✨✨✨
Dragging yourself across the lobby of ‘Avengers Tower’ you feel absolutely numb. The static in your head seemed far away, like a station you just couldn’t tune into. Not that you wanted to. No, you’d take this reprieve, this moment of nothingness happily. At least you felt like you could breathe, like your lungs we’re actually working again, doing the simplest of tasks.
Jesus. How sad is that? That your actually happy you could breathe normally? The most natural thing a human could do, and yet even that seemed like a heralding task to you lately.
“Hello Ms. Y/N” The receptionist at the circular desk greeted as you passed and on queue you forced a smile on your face.
You’d gotten good at it by now, so good, that the woman didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary and went on with her work. Typing away at who knows what. It was nearly thirty minutes past 10. What could Tony have her working on so late? Whatever, you deduce. Whatever it was, you knew she was probably getting paid beautifully for it.
And wasn’t that the point of it all? What made the world go round?
Money is the reason we exist. Everybody knows it, it’s a fact. Kiss, kiss.
You recite to your self as you push your floor button on the elevator and lean back heavily on the rail. It’s only when the doors shut, leaving you in the solitary, boxed in space, that you let the smile fall off of your face, your cheeks felt relieved. The daily strain on your cheeks from holding that fake, plasticine smile sucked and as your face sagged you feel the most yourself.
“You have one major case of resting bitch face, kid” You remember Tony laughing at you years ago. It wasn’t anything you hadn’t heart a thousand times before. Your features we’re naturally…sharp. Moody. Your full lips instinctively pulled down at the corners unless you were either A)genuinely smiling or B) putting on that mask that you’d perfected.
In your line of work, resting bitch face was both a blessing and a curse. That pout of yours, yeah it had scored you a lot of high end jobs. Shooting for A-list magazines with renound photographers. Making you a bit of a “hot commodity” in the modeling world. But it had also earned you a reputation. Everyone had this image of you; thought you we’re extremely bitchy and stuck up. It was already hard, working in the modeling community. Plus size modeling was just starting to boom, to become a norm but even you didn’t fit some of the major guidelines. At well over two hundred pounds and barley reaching 5'3, you we’re an unusual peice for the industry in the first place.
Having everyone think you we’re a high maintenance, hard to work with cunt- well that didn’t help either.
They just didn’t know you, which you almost laughed at because isn’t that what everyone’s excuse is? ‘They don’t know me, I’m so misunderstood’.
Fuck, you we’re a walking cliché, you chide yourself.
Most who met you tended to think you we’re “stuck up” because a good chunk of the time you we’re so stuck in your own head that you couldn’t focus on anyone around you. Trying to breath, trying to focus on anything but the near constant bubble of nervousness that never seemed to leave your stomach. Running through your therapists guide list on how to avoid your next panic attack.
In truth, when most got to know you they were honestly shocked at your goofy, nerdy nature. Those few people, who tried to delve under the surface, we’re greeted with a girl who could make a joke out of just about anything and would rather stay in bed and binge on Star Wars movies and buffalo wings(well maybe no one would be surprised about that your love of chicken wings, you think humorously. Bitterly)
It hadn’t always been this bad, you recite to yourself. It would get better, you encourage.
When you get to your floor, all you want to do is go to sleep. The thought of having to have to drone through any other kind of human interaction physically made you wince.
Most of the time, you didn’t mind the floor you we’re on. Actually, you quite liked your “floor mates”. Yeah, it had been a little weird at first being “bunked” with all guys, but you’d soon found that you wouldn’t have wanted to be placed anywhere else. Steve, Sam and Bucky we’re good to you, yeah they babied you a little and left messes in the living room, but you had your own hoard of annoying tendencies and still, they never treated you like anything but…family.
Like the older brothers you never wanted- while simultaneously being the little brothers you had DEFINATLEY never fucking wanted because Jesus Christ, who had left the empty Oreo package in the middle of the floor? You bend down, almost robotically, to pick it up.
Steve and Bucky are lounging on opposite sides of the long couch, watching some sports show that you didn’t really care to know. You barley notice them, and you really hope that they’re not going to notice you. That they’re too invested in the game on the mammoth flat screen-
“Hey, babydoll. How was work?”
No dice. Not that you’d really thought for a second they we’re just going to ignore your entrance.
The smile, that smile, you plaster on is almost painful.
They both look up at you, Bucky’s head slightly cocked as he waits for an answer.
“It was fine, I’m really tired though. I’m going to change”
To anyone else your tone would have sounded pleasant. Tired, but normal.
To Steve, it’s a big red flag. Gone is the usual bite in your voice, the giggle. The light. You sound…monotone. Like you weren’t really there at all. And that’s what really makes him look at you, take you in. The bags under your eyes are pronounced, even with the makeup that adorns your skin. Your posture is rigid and you look like you might strain a muscle just from standing there but it’s your eyes that confirm it for him. He’d seen that look in them many a time before. He feels the tug on his heart strings as you hurry out of the room.
When Steve turns his head to Bucky, the mans eyes are still glued on your retreating frame. But the look on his face matches the one Steve knew he himself was sporting.
You’d had another hard one. Another attack. Being ‘roomies’ with you meant that they we’re no stranger to your illness, they’d experienced first hand what you went through on a near day to day bases. Hell, Bucky went through his fair share of his own. But it never ceased to put a felling akin to stones in their throats to see you in that state
“I want to go check on her, man” Bucky announces “She looked real rough”
Steve shook his head. They’d been through this. The trial and error of it all.
“Nah, pal. You know she’ll freak out if you go after her right now…let her go cool off” Steve reminds his friend. Didn’t he remember the last time…it hadn’t gone over well.
Bucky sighs through his nose and nurses the beer bottle in his hand. He knew what it was like, what she was going through and it made it worse, the thought of her feeling even a fraction of the strain that he himself frequently endured had him tied in knots. He felt like he had to get up, and go to her. And check on her and make sure that she was playing on her phone like she liked to do, laughing at some meme he knew she’d show him later and not curled up in a corner.
He still winces at that mental image. When he’d found her in the kitchens with her hands over her eyes and her knees pulled up to her chest.
“I’m worried about her, too” Steve’s voice cuts through the silence. He can see the cogs working in Bucky’s head.
Bucky nodded, chewing on the inside of his lip. Yeah, he knew.
Knew that they we’re both royally fucked.
And had been for a while now. Because nothing good could come from the way that they both felt about you. He’d never really thought about it before. Maybe, even though it was a little screwed up, it was because back in the forties he could run circles around Steve when it came to girls. Back then he’d never be in competition with the him. Plus Steve had always loved dark haired dames and Bucky had a thing for Redheads, so he never really thought there would be a day when they a single woman caught both pairs of their eyes.
And then came you. When Bucky had learned Pepper’s niece was coming to live at the compound he’d never in his wildest dreams could have imagined you. All ass and sass and bambi eyes. All understanding touches and long talks in the middle of the night when neither of you could sleep because your brains just wouldnt turn off. You seemed to understand him in a way that he didn’t even understand himself.
You’d snuck up on Bucky…
Steve was different. He’d met you a handful of times before you’d moved in. You were Peppers niece, after all, so you’d been around the tower. Never staying for long- just long enough to throw him that smile. To flip your sheet of hair over your shoulder and be the sweetest thing he’d ever encountered. You rotted his teeth. You brought out the side of him, the one that was foreign to everyone but Bucky.
You hadn’t snuck up on Steve. You’d hit him like a god damn freight train.
And it yet no one was willing to admit it, even though it was nearly palpable. The three of you went on, holding onto a friendship that seemed to keep all of you a float.
Because Bucky needed Steve. It wasn’t a fact he was ignorant to. He needed his best friend if he had any hope of ever truly getting back to the man he’d once been and Steve needed him back. The only link he had to his true self. To the man behind the shield.
So, they kept it unspoken. They didn’t even talk about it to each other, which if you knew Bucky and Steve you’d know was in-fucking-sane because those two told eachother EVERYTHING. Neither of them we’re willing to risk the century long friendship.
Hell no…
But did they really even have to say it? Steve witnessed the way you touched Bucky, your hands trailing over him in something liken to worship and Bucky noticed the way you sought out Steve. The way you needed him, the way you looked at him like he was the sun.
Funny thing? It didn’t make either of them jealous, there was no animosity. No hurt feelings just…need.
Need of what? Neither of them knew.
And so, almost simultaneously, they both tipped their beer bottles back heavily, the screen illuminating their faces. They could lie to themselves. But they never did get the hang of lying to each other.
You stand in the shower for what feels like ages, allowing the scorching water to rush over you. Trying to practice those visionary exercises you’d worked on in therapy. Letting all of the negativity swirl down the drain. When you exit the glass, walk in shower you feel a little better. When you go to your bedside table and pop one of the tiny, yellow pills in your mouth, that helps even more. You’d learned long ago to take your medicine. You would question taking Dayquil when you had a could, so why would you do that in this case?
You didn’t need to feel ashamed for having to use medicine. You repeated yourself that daily, still. It was such a stigma, you we’re still working through it.
You pull a pair of sliky pink pajama shorts up your curvy legs. They we’re your favorite ones, the little cactus’ print always made you smile and then threw on an oversized grey sweater, the one you’d had for years. The littering of holes on the bottom of the sleeves was just proof to your immense love for it. You then brushed through your mess of wet hair, getting out all of the snarls, working through the small kinks before you slathered on your face serum’s and body lotions.
You had to do this.
Because your job required you to take care of your appearance and because your therapist assured you that taking care of yourself even when you felt low was one of the keys to happiness. To getting through it…and you would get through it.
When your finish your nightly routine you stare at yourself in the vanity mirror for a minute or two or five.
You look like a fucking eleven year old without makeup. Your face child like without the sharp eye liner of defining bronzer. But there was a prettiness to you, your eyes seemed even (e/c)er. You shake out your hair, watching the still damp tendrils fall across your shoulder before slipping into a pair of slippers, feeling good enough to go and scower the fridge because your tummy was growling viciously and you knew it was a shit idea to let those pills kick in on an empty stomach.
Your not surprised to see Steve and Bucky still immersed in their game- or maybe it’s a different game because this one looks like hockey and you could have sworn the other was baseball.
“What'er you guys watching?” You inquire, just to start a conversation, as you walk across the living room.
Your voice is still worn out, but you look better. Like you always do after showering off the long day.
“The Rangers game. We’re gettin’ our asses handed to us” Bucky gruffs, taking a look-see at you. Your hairs long down your back, your swimming in that old sweater of yours and your face is bare. Just like he likes you best.
“Hey, have a little faith! We can still pull through” Steve urges and you giggle as you open the stainless steel fridge door.
“We got you an order of those perogi’s you like from Kinga’s” He tells you just as your eyes land on the white take out box and you thank whatever creation there might be for your boys.
“Mmm, thank you kindly sirs” You pop them in the microwave “Sam still on that mission?”
It been a week and you we’re starting to get a little worried. You knew him, Nat and Thor could more then handle themselves but you we’re starting to really miss his booming jokes. His dirty laundry basket in the hallway, not so much. You’d almost killed yourself on that thing in the middle of the night too many times.
“Yeah, don’t worry, he’ll be back on Friday. Unfortunately” Bucky hollers to you and you just roll your eyes and chuckle. Those two pretended to hate each other, but really you’d heard Bucky questioning the bird mans return this morning. No one brewed a pot of coffee like Sam.
When you come back to the living room, your hands full; the take out box in one and a glass of that green tea blend that you could never get either of them could drink because apparently it tasted like grass, it’s no shock that you plop down in the middle of them.
It would have been weirder if you had chosen to sit on one of the empty couches.
It was just normal for you now, your place between them and the comfortable conversation that ensues feels like home. You ask about how their day had gone, wanting to hear details from both about what they’d done for the duration of it. And then, they ask about yours.
To anyone else, even your Aunt Pepper, you probably would of lied. Would have told a wound a nice story about how the shoot had been so amazing. The team, the outfits. The set.
And that was true. Partially. But you don’t tell them the partial truth. You never do.
“I mean it was okay-” Bucky shoots you a knowing look and you sigh “The photographer was really intense. I mean he’s known for that, his crazy antics make for some kick-ass shots but that plus the lights that were set up was all just really…sucky”
You admit, quirking your mouth and swirling your tea. Steve reaches over, his big scorching palm coming to rest on your shoulder. The weight of it reassuring.
“I just feel- ugh fuck, you know? Like I cant go running away every time set gets a little loud or they shine a weird light in my eyes”
“But you didn’t run away right? You stayed and finished it” Steve’s voice is gentle- but not in that annoying clinical way. No, it’s easing the push, it’s encouraging not belittling.
“Yeah. After I had a minor breakdown in my changing room” that was an understatement, you recall the way you’d grasped at your chest. The way all the air in the room had seemingly gone out.
“Then? That’s an impressive feat all on it’s own, sugar” He continues on and you shake your head, poking at your perogi. Unable meeting either of their eyes.
“I’m just thinking maybe I’m not cut out for this anymore” It was so, so hard to admit that. To admit that maybe it was time to change your dreams, to let go of what you’d wanted for so.
Bucky’s chest aches for you, the empathy he feels in that moment is immense, he cant help but reach out. His hand going to you thigh, his thumb rubbing little circles into the smooth, plush skin as he talks.
“Why? Even when you felt awful you stayed put. Listen, doll, anyone who knows you knows how much you want this…I mean you we’re born for the camera, just look at that face- you roll your eyes and he chuckles- Not to mention if you don’t have a professional taking em’ your just going to sit in your room and take a thousand of those selfers anyway. Might as well get paid for your troubles ”
That makes you laugh hard and you tilt your head to him “Selfies, Bucky! God, you’re so old”
They have a way of doing this- making you feel better. Making it all melt away, even if it’s just for those moments when the three of you are huddled together. You dream of this shit, no joke. Of the feeling of both of their hands on you like they are now.
“You wound me, doll” Bucky melodramatically holds his chest leaning back into the couch, not moving his hand.
You continue eating, your stomach feeling more settled. You close your eyes and moan at the heaven sent explosion of favor.
“Mmm, Stevie, taste this” You urge as you stab one of the potato dumplings and hold it out to the lighter haired man, your hand underneath it incase it spilled over. Steve grins and opens his mouth wide and inviting as you pop the entire thing in.
“Amazing, right?”
“Uh, huh ‘real ‘ood” he says around the mouthful of food and you and Bucky both chuckle.
“Don’t hurt yourself there, punk” Bucky teases and Steve reaches across you to swat at his shoulder.
“Jerk”
Your more then used to them being hundred year old children “Alright boys let’s watch something that doesn’t make my brain bleed, yes?”
There’s a few moans and groans of protest, from the both of them, but in the end they do what they always do; give you what you want. You’re vaguely aware of your power over the two men and you deviously think how dangerous it is to have them at your beck and call. You end up making them watch ‘The Men in Black’ with you because “It’s a classic, oh my gosh I cant believe you guys have never seen this before” and of course you fall asleep twenty minutes in.
When people talk about anxiety attacks, they don’t ever mention how they physically drain the life out of you. The exhaustion that comes with them.
You end up sprawled out, your head resting on a pillow in Steve’s lap and your legs tangled with Bucky’s as he stretched out on the opposite side of you. Not an unusual positon for the three of you to contort into.
Steve plays with the near dry tendrils of your hair idly, he can feel your short, puff like breaths on his thigh. Bucky’s vibranium hand rests on your leg, where knee meets thigh, the warmth of your sweet smelling skin radiating off of you. It’s peace, the one sliver of peace it seems that you all will ever find.
“Steve” Bucky speaks first. He’s always been the bolder of the two. He’d known he was going to have to be the one to speak up sooner or later.
“Yeah?” Steve can hear it in his voice. Knows what’s coming.
“You love her” it’s not a question or an accusation. Just a statement.
“So do you” Is all Steve can think to retort and Bucky just sighs and nods wordlessly.
Will Smith fights aliens on the TV screen as they both acknowledge what they’d known wouldn’t stay unspoken.
“Ya’ know our lives would be a hellava lot easier if these guys really existed” Steve’s eyes narrow as he drinks in the film. Bucky’s snort fills the room. Aint that the truth.
There’s a moment of silence where they let the movie play, where your little wheezes and extraterrestrial battle sounds fill the living room.
“Your Agent K and I’m agent J” Bucky smirks, knowing his little comment is going to grate his best friend. Steve’s head snaps in his direction.
“That’s a load of crap, your older then me!”
“In years, yes. In spirit-”
“Fuck off, Bucky”
And even in your sleep state, you manage to be a smart ass. Because even though Steve cursed around you plenty, you’d grown up on those tapes of him that they played in school. And the cussing one had always stuck with you. “Language cap'n” you mother incoherently.
They both look like their eyes might pop out of their heads.
——————-
Okay guys I hope you liked this first part! I’m still trying to figure out the dynamic I want for the three of them, but I think I’ve got it. Please give me feed back, because I live on that shit. It’s the air I breathe. If you want to be tagged, let me know!😬💛
#bucky barnes x plus size reader#bucky barnesxreader#Bucky Barnes x reader#bucky barnes smut#steve rogers x plus size reader#steve rogers x reader#Steve Rogers smut#mcu smut#plus size reader#pepper potts#stucky x reader
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Mahendra Ramsinghani Contributor
Mahendra Ramsinghani is the founder of Secure Octane, a Silicon Valley-based cybersecurity seed fund.
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As the Gartner Hype Curve goes, from the peak of inflated expectations to the trough of disillusionment, so goes the founder’s emotional journey.
Most founders hit the trough sooner or later, the proverbial nadir of their startup life.
The company’s business model undergoes the dreaded pivot. Teams dissipate and the foundation starts to fall apart. Startups die. Investors cut their losses and move on to the rosier pastures of their portfolio.
And what is often left is a depressed broken founder, dealing with the consequences of ‘crushing it’. But too often, its the founders psyche that gets crushed. Not much can be done about it but that’s changing.
Gartner Hype Curve: No emotional support needed
Several venture capitalists have now stepped in to address this challenge. The Felicis Ventures pledge to set 1% of investments aside to support founders development is a start. Brad Feld has been writing about his journey for years. Former investor Jerry Colonna founded Reboot to find a way to help founders establish their own path of radical self inquiry.
When I reached Jerry to discuss founders emotional challenges, he invoked the compassionate kindness of a zen monk who has been dealing with wayward children for way too long. “A lot can be done but we need to start with changing the language around this subject,” he said.
From depression to dark angels
A prominent VC told me that “we are a blend of the dark and the light’ and we need to respect both parts. I was not quite sure what he meant till I dug around and found the works of Carl Gustav Jung. Jung describes these are forces inside us – the light being the benevolent and the dark forces of greed, arrogance, self-delusion and hubris.
Jung pointed out that “the word “happy” would lose its meaning if it were not balanced by sadness.” As we are forced to face our dark side, we begin to come to terms with our challenges. And it’s only then we can build our own compassion.
Those who have experienced the dark nights are able to emotionally empathize with founders, and help them become resilient. Just as a founder who has taken a company public can help a startup scale their business. Because Jung correctly said that “Knowing your own darkness is the best method for dealing with the darknesses of other people.”
This man of matter ……rose up too far in the world….(image and caption by Carl Jung. Source: “The Red Book”, circa 1930)
When we start to change the language around this subject, it can become safer and easier for founders to discuss their situation. Instead of saying “I am depressed” a different way could yet be “I’m facing dark times”. The goal is to not trivialize the magnitude of the problem, but to make it gentler in self expression and social acceptance. We are too sold on sunshine, but that’s only half of the equation.
With co-author (and friend) Brad Feld’s guidance, I am working on my third book tentatively titled “Depression: A Founders Companion” and am looking at ways of how (a) founders reflect and identify their dark nights (b) how founders endure these times and (c) how can society respond and serve them when they are at their emotional nadir.
Only if we understand these issues can we can serve each other well. If you know any founders who can share their anonymized insights with dark nights, please request them to fill this survey. It will take less than 10 minutes and can help us to collectively address these challenges.
So far, several founders have shared that the primary cause of concern is social stigma. VCs will abandon the investment, team members will see the CEO as a weak person or worse, they will try to behave differently. Even if someone musters up the courage to discuss their mental health, we as a society do not know how to handle this information. We run, hide or escape.
Often, we try to cheer up people with lame sentences or hijack the conversations by discussing our own stories. (Hint: Neither of these are effective). Not only do we need a new language, we need a new social framework. In this case, the overused VC cliche of “how can I help” is like a doctor asking the wounded patient, “so how can I treat you today”. I’ll let you guess how effective that approach can be.
Feel those feels – be vulnerable
Catherine Shu wrote in a post that asking for help when you are depressed is one of the bravest things you can do. Asking for help makes you vulnerable, but it does not mean you are weak. It does not mean you are deficient.
Brad Feld writes that “I encourage you to let yourself feel the emotions you are feeling.”
It’s a line his wife Amy uses with him all the time: “Brad, feel your emotions. Don’t suppress them. Just feel them. Process them. And then reflect on what you are feeling. Any, more importantly, explore why you felt them. It’s probably uncomfortable. But it’s part of being human. And, while tragic, we can learn from it to help ourselves, and help others.”
And Sam Altman, the former head of Y Combinator has weighed in on the subject, writing:
“… a lot of founders end up pretty depressed at one point or another, and they generally don’t talk to anyone about it. Often companies don’t survive these dark times.
Failing sucks—there is no way to sugarcoat that. But startups are not life-and-death matters—it’s just work.
Most of the founders I know have had seriously dark times, and usually felt like there was no one they could turn to. For whatever it’s worth, you’re not alone, and you shouldn’t be ashamed.
You’ll be surprised how much better you feel just by talking to people about the struggles you’re facing instead of saying “we’re crushing it”. You’ll also be surprised how much you find other founders are willing to listen.”
These struggles are not unique, but they are individual. That said, the best way to overcome them is as a community and these early steps from investors should go a long way toward building that community.
via TechCrunch
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