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mistydeyes · 9 months

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the butterfly effect: you die because of their actions

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summary: The butterfly effect "the idea that small things can have non-linear impacts on a complex system. The concept is imagined with a butterfly flapping its wings and causing a typhoon." Everyone never believed the saying, that was until you died at the hands of your love.

pairing: 141 x fem!Reader

warnings: SWEARING, character death (previously established relationship)

a/n: my first angst piece for the rest of the 141!

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price

Price's mind raced as he shoved the doors open to the post-operation recovery wing. If he had known you would end up on the end of a gun, he would have never put you in this position. He never would have introduced you to General Shepherd.

When you met John, still known as a Lieutenant at the time, you were a First Lieutenant in the US Marine Corps. You were an expert at planning travel and assault routes and the SAS used your skills to their advantage. You worked together in a joint-op in Canada, one that required you both to find refuge in a snowed-out cabin. No one was surprised when you both emerged as a couple. Now after 13 years of dating and a happy marriage, you lived a comfortable life together. You had two daughters, both away in college, and lived close to Price's home in England. You made sacrifices, dividing your time in the English countryside with an apartment in DC.

Price was away on a mission as you sat in your countryside home. Last you heard, he was in Amsterdam with Sergeant Garrick. He was unreachable but you knew there was a fair share of times when you had the same status. Laswell had informed you that something had gone on with his unit and after reassuring you John was safe, she encouraged you to stay low in your home. You informed your daughters and they would soon be escorted to your house. Laswell had arranged a security detail for you and you sat at your living room table with a concealed firearm for protection.

As you tried to drink some tea, a series of knocks were heard from the door. You recognized it and holstered your gun as you answered. You opened the door to reveal General Shepherd, an old friend that John had introduced you to at a military ball. "General Shepherd, what a pleasant surprise," you said as you ushered him in, "can I get you anything?" "Just some water if you don't mind, Captain," he said and followed you into the kitchen. As you turned your back to him, he made polite conversation. "Captain, you didn't tell John about the op in the Middle East, right?" he asked and you remembered providing input on a cargo route earlier last year. "Of course not, General," you answered as you finished pouring the glass." "Then no harsh feelings, Captain," was the last thing you heard before you fell against the counter, a bullet lodged in the back of your head.

Back to the present time, Price shoved past the queue and slammed his fists on the receptionist's table. Laswell informed him that he was needed at the hospital immediately as you were in critical condition. He had taken the first flight home from Chicago and was now helplessly begging to see you. "Where is my wife?" he roared as the nurse sheepishly asked him for the name of the patient. "Captain Y/N Price," he said and she quickly typed it in for him. "She's not here, sir," she said quietly as he shook with rage, "she's in the morgue."

Your funeral came with all the proper traditions for a Captain. As the decorated Marines played Taps and folded a US flag, Price held onto your daughters' hands tightly. As a soldier presented him with the flag and your dog tags, he broke down in tears as your daughters joined. The last Price saw of you was your casket being lowered into the Arlington dirt.

As Price prepared to finally kill General Shepherd, he clutched your dog tags and wedding ring close to his neck. He pulled out a picture of you and your wedding day and kissed it before heading to finally end the bastard.

soap

After months of waiting the day was finally here. You and Johnny were expecting your first child after trying for so long. As you rested in a recliner, he had decorated the nursery with all the preparations for a newborn. You decided on a space theme for their room and Johnny would call the baby "our little astronaut." For the last month before you were due, Price let Johnny head home to be with you as he had known this is when you needed him most. When your water broke that morning, Johnny quickly rushed you to the hospital. The baby was two weeks early and you could feel the painful contractions as you entered the delivery room. You were in agonizing pain as the doctors delivered an epidural. Johnny could only watch helplessly as you were in labor for 10 hours.

He held your hand tightly as you screamed. "I see a head!" the doctor exclaimed and the nurses encouraged you to continue pushing. Even with the epidural, you felt dizzy and your eyes watered from the torment of childbirth. The room smelled of iron and blood as it pooled around your body. The doctor's hands were coated in the red liquid as you continued to push. "Almost there, love," Johnny reassured you as his hands turned white from your grip. "She's coming out beautifully, Mrs. Mactavish," the doctor reassured. "You hear that, it's a girl," Johnny exclaimed, "she's going to have my charm and your looks." You gave him a weak smile as the doctor updated him on how far out the baby was.

Finally, as the child exited into the doctor's arms, you released Johnny's hand. You slumped back into the bed as a nurse tended to your sweating face with a washcloth. The doctor delicately wiped the baby and swaddled her in a fresh blanket. "You can cut the umbilical cord, Dad," another nurse said as your baby girl cried. "Hi little one" he whispered as he cut the umbilical cord. He held her small hands with his and went to give her to you. But as soon as he turned, he saw your face was ghostly white. The monitor loudly beeped as the nurses and doctor began to panic. "She's losing a lot of blood," the doctor said as the room was thrown into chaos. Your vitals were beginning to drop and a nurse screamed for a crash cart. The delivery unit's PA system informed other attending nurses of a Code Blue and a variety of new staff rushed into the room. "Sir, you need to leave," a nurse demanded as he saw someone perform chest compressions. "She's not breathing," someone else yelled and Johnny tried to fight his way to the front. Everything was happening in slow motion as he held the baby close and saw you convulse under the shocks of a defibrillator.

"What's happening to her?" he demanded before he was shoved into the hallway. The nurses quickly closed the curtains as Johnny pounded on the glass. His hand grew numb as he fell defeated with your daughter in his arms. After 5 minutes, the doctor emerged. "You better tell me right fucking now what's going on," Johnny screamed at her. "I'm sorry sir, she's gone," she said and he could barely hear her say that you flatlined after a tremendous loss of blood. When she finished, he broke down and let the entire hospital hear his cries and screams.

As he cradled your daughter's head, the baby wailed and Soap joined his heartbroken song. A new life in exchange for one lost.

gaz

"Kyle, I don't know about this," you said as you boarded the plane. "C'mon love, teenage recruits do this," he encouraged as you both strapped in. Kyle had heard about a skydiving experience and convinced you to go. He used the fact that it was his birthday and you swallowed your doubts about flying. As the plane ascended, you gripped his hand tightly. You always had a fear of flying and even had a psychic tell you that flying would be involved with your death. Kyle comfortingly drew circles on your hands as you approached the descent level.

“Alright, flyers! It’s almost time!” you heard the pilot announce through the cabin. Kyle helped you unbuckle and guided you to the tandem diver. He introduced you both and the tandem diver promised a safe descent. “This is my 1000th flight, doll, you’ll be fine,” he reassured and helped to strap you in. You smiled nervously as Kyle similarly strapped into his flyer. He insisted you take a picture together as you shakily gave a thumbs up.

“Here we go!” Kyle’s tandem flyer shouted and they leapt out of the airplane. You tried not to look down as you swallowed your fear. You then felt your legs leave the plane as you and your flyer jumped into the sky. As you felt the rush of air on your face, you kept your eyes shut closed. “Look at me baby!” you heard Kyle shout and you peeked through your fluttering eyelids to see him smiling widely and holding his arms out. You tried to emulate his actions but as you looked up at your flyer, you could see him panic.

Something was wrong as Gaz also saw that your parachute had not yet deployed. He saw the tandem diver struggle to deploy the reserve but that too seemed to fail. He screamed at you as you both flew closer and closer to the ground. You looked up at him in fear and tried to reach out before gravity and the lack of a chute pulled you forcefully to the Earth's surface.

Gaz could only watch helplessly as you and your guide plummeted to the ground. He let out a flood of tears and screams but they too fell and followed along with your deadly descent.

ghost

Ghost watched in horror as two people sat next to one another on a platform. From what he could see, one of the people was a clear head taller than the other and they squirmed in their bindings. Their heads were covered in burlap and they both were sporting matching jackets that hit their figure. "Make the choice, Simon," Makarov said as his voice crackled through the comms, "your wife or best friend." Ghost's eyes dilated in horror as he realized Makarov's implications. "Before you try to be the hero, just know that I'm watching you," he taunted and Ghost knew there was no way out.

His mind flooded with any possible solution but he could not find any. This was supposed to be an easy fucking recon mission that only he and Johnny had to handle. Now he was without allies, without options, and an alternative plan. He shakily put his hand on the sniper's trigger as he fluctuated between looking at you and Soap. Beads of sweat pooled at his neck as he tried to think of any way to get you both out of this alive.

"Time is ticking, Simon," Makarov spoke again, "If you don't choose, they'll both die." That moment, two fluorescent dots appeared on your heads and he knew that somewhere two snipers were ready to take you both out if he didn't decide. Ghost's mind was clouded, he wondered if there was any way to save both of you but came up empty. The deadline and the thrashing of the two figures under their restraints made him finally decide. He made the most difficult decision of his life, he would save you instead of Soap. He couldn't live without you.

He said a silent prayer for his friend as he lined his sights. "Just stay still, Johnny," he painfully whispered as you both fought against your bindings. He knew a bullet straight through the heart would result in a quick and painless death. He held his breath as the gun fired, making a direct target with the body. It fell back in with a sickening thump and Ghost dropped the gun before rushing towards you.

Makarov was always one step ahead of the team. Ghost ran to the scene to see that the chair's size had deceived his eyes. One of the people who Ghost had assumed was taller than the other, was sitting on an elevated crate. The other figure thrashed about but Ghost was more focused on the one in front of him. As he went to pull the bag over what he believed was Soap's body, he was horrified to discover it was you, a single gunshot through the heart. A bullet he had sent into you. You died choking on your blood because of his actions.

As Ghost clutched your body in agony, his tears and screams echoed in the empty lot. In his haste, he had killed you and was now alone again in the world.

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blingblong55 · 3 months

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Can't catch me now- Simon "Ghost" Riley

Photo credits: @ave661 ---- No mentions of reader, angst, comfort? fluff? death of character ----

"GHOST!"

It was too late, the body hit the ground. Simon Joseph Riley was pronounced dead. Gunshot to the head, his heart penetrated by the bullet and the ones to witness this are his mates from the team. His blood ran down the rocky mountain. The team witnesses something. During this whole mission, they only experienced rain and thunder, to their surprise, the second Simon dies, the sun shines through the clouds. A rainbow was born over the horizon. "Enjoy your new home, soldier," Captain Price nods at his own words as with glee he knows his comrade is finally home. "Take it easy," Gaz takes his cap on and looks at the sun that pours from the clouds. "Tell Soap we'll meet him for drinks someday," Price adds and fights back tears.

It's the end of an era but the beginning of a good life for the two past comrades.

Three days later, there he is, his body in that casket, a proper military funeral given to him and he is laid to rest with the rest of his family.

Simon opens the door to his childhood home, the sun rays casting through the window, the walls grey and white "Welcome home, son," his mum greets him. There is confusion in Simon. Why was he here? is this a dream? Before he can even gather his thoughts, his brother, nephew and even his sister-in-law walk into the entryway and hug him. "Welcome home, brother," Tommy whispers as he hugs a confused Simon.

Why is his dead family here? Welcome home! what does this mean?

Oh...

Oh by all luck, he's dead.

"Mum?"

"Yes, Simon?" the woman's sweet voice rings in his ears.

All of a sudden, he is excited and happy. A smile creeps into his lips and there it was, that good feeling. He is home. His body doesn't ache, the scars are gone and all that is left with him is a smile and an afterlife where in this one, he finally has it all.

"The girls are in the kitchen," his mum whispers.

His wife and girls? There it is, that smile. He hasn't seen them since their funeral, this must mean he truly is in heaven.

He walks past his mother and goes into the kitchen. The sight is too much to not just stop and idolise. His wife, his three daughters and those smiles and giggles. "Girls?" His voice is raspy. There is a knot in his throat. He is home with them too. "Daddy!" His youngest smiles and runs to him with her small arms open, his two other daughters follow suit.

"Oh, my loves," his big arms wrapping over all of his daughters. Tears run down, happy ones. It's been two years since he last held them this way. "My lovie," Simon holds his arm out so his sweet wife can join this moment. That gentle and soft hand of hers, god it's like the heavens finally gave him peace. He sobs, it's uncontrollable and how can a man like him control such tears when after so long of losing his family...families to his job he finally has both?

He gives kisses to all their foreheads. "Daddy, what took so long?" His eldest little princess asks. "I don't know princess, but I'm finally home," he reassures and hugs her again. Those tears run down yet again and he won't stop them.

This is his heaven. The walls, the giggles, the hugs, and that familiar scent. Heaven is not clouds and a pearly gate for him, no, but it is this. A kitchen, his four loves, his mum, Tommy, Joseph and even Beth, everyone that has ever mattered to him is here and for once, he is in heaven.

"Uncle Soap!" Joseph smiles.

Soap?...Johnny?

"About time you came to the party, LT," Soap pats Simon's back.

"Great to see you, mate."

"Likewise. I held onto a good bottle for ya, yer girl won't let me open it though," Soap sends a teasing annoyed look at Simons's wife and a small chuckle escapes Simon.

"She's a stubborn one, like yer, Lt." Soap teases. "I married her for a reason, isn't it right, love?" Simon can't help but smile as he gets to finally say that nickname again. "Very, Si." What a sweet delight, to have his pretty girl call him that again.

"Price and Gaz joining?"

"Not yet, give them a few good years."

"Daddy, let's go play outside!"

This is what he missed. The demands from his princess, the giggles, the big eyes and that pout when he would say no. "Okay, but only before your mum wipes that chocolate stain from your nose." He chuckles. "Deal," the little girl runs back to Simons's wife.

From a corner, Simon sees Tommy. He's playing catch with his son, laughing at some dumb joke.

It's beautiful. It's painfully beautiful how one can die on Earth but live in their heaven.

One soldier dreams of this, they yearn for it and that is what Simon did for nearly 28 years. Now, all he has is this. No more war, no more aches, no one to chase. He can grow in this home again. He will live the life he always dreamed and right now, that is all he wants and needs.

Yeah, you thought that this was the end

A/N: I honestly don't know where this was heading so....im sorry if it's shit

Tags:

@joyfulmarvelofavengers @ghostnna22 @hermizery @liyanahelena @ghostslillady @moonsua1 @rvivienner @krinoid24 @iruzias @idklols @saoirse06 @vampsquerade @juneonhoth @tiredmetalenthusiast @jinxxangel13 @enarien @Simonssweetgirl @luvecarson @willowaftxn83-87 @ikohniik @nobodys-coffee @strawberrychita @sae1kie @queen-ilmaree @pbcartii @Llelannie @macnches2 @bbyfimmie @avidreadee123 @talooolaaloolla @skelletonwitch @bittermajesties @Nyx_Flower @honestlyhiswife @who-can-appease-me @ghostwifeyy @konigssultwithghost @kaoyamamegami @the_royal_bee @beansproutmafia @soapybutt17 @asianbutnotjapanese @a-goose-with-a-knife @foxface013 @anonxasian @born4biriyani @thegreyjoyed

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viviennevermillion · 10 months

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ᴀʟᴡᴀʏꜱ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ

❝ always there to warm you in the winter.... always there with shelter from the rain... always there to catch you when you're falling... always there to stand you up again... family...❞ — Lady & the Tramp 2

notes: i see chapter 7 part 4 did things to our puny little minds. part of @briarvalleyarchives "anthems of old" event. a short story about lilia, malleus and whom they've lost.

warnings: character death, major chapter 7 spoilers

The winter after the beloved princess had passed was a cruel and solemn one. The snowflakes would travel through the cold air of Briar Valley as they had done so many times in the years prior and hit the ground, melting into the ones that had come before; a fate that was all too familiar to the residents of the small nation. The war had left its scars upon the lands. Beasts had run rampant in the villages; destroying homes that had been carefully built with love and dedication. The caves in the mountains were stripped of their glamour, the crystals that had reflected the sunlight that would, despite all odds, break through the cracks, were stolen by beasts unfamiliar to the once peaceful home of the fae.

Because some beasts were not as easy to handle as the demon beasts that came from the mountains to wreak havoc in the settlements. No one knew that better than the fearsome General Vanrouge. From the moment Lady Mallenoa had entered her eternal slumber; with no amount of love able to wake her once more, it was as though winter never ended. Memories of times gone by would flash through his mind; the way they had played in the snow as children and the young princess would never go easy on him; using her magic to turn the previously innocent game into a battlefield of snowballs that left Lilia no room to fight back. It took centuries for him to be able to hold a candle to her power.

Now the snow was stained with the blood of his enemies. At the time, the general had never taken a moment to think about whether the Silver Owls he had slain had a family waiting for them at home as well. They had taken his, so they were undeserving of theirs. General Vanrouge had been consumed by the rage and bitterness in his heart, destroying all who dared stand in his path, for his heart now belonged to battle. This way, he wouldn't have to mourn the past.

He remembered vividly, always, the day they laid her to rest. It seemed as though the whole kingdom was present to say their goodbyes to her. Each citizen who attended the burial was dressed in black for this day, illuminated in the dead of night only by the candles they held as the princess was carried in a casket to her final resting place. The queen had placed a single rose on the ground that to Lilia seemed as though it had swallowed her. Lilia had walked up to the grave later when everyone had left. He thought of the egg still rested and protected within the chambers of the castle. "I promise, for as long as I live, no harm shall come to it. And not a day will go by....that I don't miss your smile", his voice cracked as the tears started streaming down his face. The seasons would go by and yet the cold never passed. Not when the sun would rise on the next day, not when it had risen a hundred years later.

General Vanrouge remembered how she had taught him to play stringed instruments, something he found boring and pointless as a child. Princess Mallenoa always had such a soothing voice. He remembered how she'd sit next to her egg with Prince Levan and sing a soft song to the unborn child. Now Lilia's heart sang without a sound; a quiet melody of grief and unrest. Her funeral was the last time he had allowed himself to cry. The numbness in his heart when he'd open his eyes in the morning didn't fade for decades, centuries even. These were lifespans in the eyes of a child of man; and they seemed to have forgotten all about the devastation they had brought to Briar Valley just a few hundred years later. But a soldier's heart never forgets. It never forgives. That was what Lilia thought at the time. Pain had made him heartless and his heart had been locked away for he feared the pain it held more than any foe on the battlefield. He only hoped, wherever she was now, that she had found peace.

How many times had he wished to feel again? To wake up in the morning and hear her pounding on his door, angry about something. It had annoyed him at the time. But she had been alive.

Yes, the seasons had gone by, yet eternal winter resided in the hearts of the people. But nothing stopped another day. Nothing stopped the inevitable; that the general's heart would thaw one day and spring would arrive in Briar Valley.

It was a miracle. At this point, the egg was more of a reminder of a future that would never be. A memory. Something to make one realize that the royal family would die with Queen Maleficia; the future of the kingdom as uncertain as it had been since the day the war ended. And who would blame anyone? It had been centuries.

But Malleus was spring.

He was the reason General Vanrouge shed a tear once more. One of relief and of love he thought he no longer had inside him. He had smiled when he first saw the little dragon fae with his eggshell on his small face. A smile he was sure the princess would have teased him for. After all, wasn't it him who had always said that he hated children? Who had refused to hold her egg when she had offered it to him? Yet in that moment, he couldn't help to do so. He had picked the little prince up and looked at the queen with the brightest smile she had seen on him in centuries. Tears were streaming down his face as the small fae was just looking up at him with awe and curiosity in his eyes. People say that when someone passes, in a way they are still with you. Lilia had always thought that this was bullshit, he had been far too bitter to notice. But in that moment, he realized that Mallenoa was all around him. He held her legacy in his arms. "She saved us once again, didn't she?", he had whispered quietly, wiping the tears from his face.

The little prince grew up healthy and not one bit less of a fire hazard than his mother had been. He grew up unaware of the bloodshed that had stained his beloved homeland when his egg had come into existence. Unaware of what his parents had sacrificed, of what Lilia had sacrificed, so that he could live and grow. But he had often wondered what it would be like if his parents were still around. Sometimes Malleus would sneak out of the castle, quietly observing the people in the village at the foot of the mountain in awe. He saw little children, not much older than him, protesting under tears because they didn't want to go clothes shopping for their uncle's 900th birthday as they were dragged by their parents' hand and promised their favorite candy if they would go along without making a fuss. He witnessed a mother explaining to her toddler what a bird was. He watched and listened as a father read his son a story on a bench by the fountain. Lilia had read him lots of stories before. But Malleus had always wondered what his father's voice would have sounded like doing this.

The prince spent most of his days alone in the castle. Lilia still had work to do and his grandmother was busy ruling an entire country as he would come to do one day as well. So as soon as Malleus had learnt to read, he would spend his time in the library, curiously exploring stories from a world beyond the castle walls; hoping that he would one day spread his wings to set off and see it for himself. Lots of the stories contained themes of family but few of the families looked quite like his. There was always a mother, a father and at least one child. Malleus would take the books and show it to his guardian, asking Lilia what his father was like and whether he would have taken him fishing like the farmer did with his son in the picture book. There was a flash of pain on Lilia's expression that Malleus had never noticed back then. "I'm sure he would have", the older fae had answered. The stories Malleus heard about his own parents were always short and vague. But Lilia had told him that they were exceptional people who would be proud of him if they could see him now.

Malleus had always wondered what having a father was like. He would get his answer when Lilia took a small human into his custody. Malleus was curious about the baby, always sneaking out to visit the cottage in the forest to see what his guardian was up to. At first he was pouting because Lilia was now giving most of his attention to someone else. But with time he had grown to care for the little child of man. Lilia seemed much happier now. Time had healed his wounds despite the scars of battle and loss never truly fading. He would arrive at the castle to do a task the queen had assigned to him and the prince would greet him to ask about how Silver was doing. Malleus was happy that Silver got to grew up with a father. He never fathomed that both of them could lose him.

The world was simple back then. It was just the castle, Malleus, his grandmother, Lilia and the little human he was raising and that Malleus would often play with or read to when Lilia had work to do at the palace. He couldn't ever have imagined going to Night Raven College and finding the world had changed so much from the one he read about in books. Or that his third year would mark his last with Lilia. That he would see Silver cry and grieve like this.

The world outside of Briar Valley was one he had always longed to see and that brought him many curious, but happy memories. He had learnt about the Halloween traditions of other nations and celebrated the holiday together with them. He had cooked a meal for the first time and the person he had served it to had enjoyed it. He had seen other countries and took part in their culture.

Even Lilia still found the school to be a place for new experiences. He had met a friend on this strange invention called the "Internet" and treasured that friendship despite never having met this friend in person. This online friend would often talk to Lilia in the chat, casually mentioning how he had obtained the newest addition of his favorite manga or played a game with his brother. Lilia would hesitate for a moment, recalling memories that seemed so long ago to him now.

"I had a sister... once."

He deleted the words before he had sent them. No need to bother Gloomurai with a sob story from his life that happened centuries ago. Little did he know that the stranger on the other side of the screen understood all about the struggle of losing a sibling.

Yes, Night Raven College was full of new beginnings for Malleus and his family. But it was the way of the world that nothing could truly last forever, tragic and unfair as it was. Nothing stops another day. Not even a sleeping curse or an overblot dragon. The spell laid waste to Sage's Island, and although the damage was way less than it could have been, the aftermath of it could still be seen everywhere one looked. Malleus felt ashamed of what he had done and Lilia was reminded of scenes from the war long ago.

But everyone joined together to help and rebuild what had been destroyed. Night Raven College and Royal Sword Academy. Fairies and Humans.

"Seems as though we avoided the worst case, huh?", Lilia mused as he noticed Queen Maleficia, the dragon fairy who had raised him since he was a baby, standing next to him. The queen nodded and noted what a bureaucratical nightmare this whole ordeal would be despite all.

Lilia looked at the scene that was unfolding before his eyes. The fae who had come to the island to break through the spell and fight against Malleus's overblot were now helping the locals rebuild their houses with magic. The students would hand out meals to everyone who helped. The citizens were already planting new seeds in place of the trees and fields that had been destroyed. They would one day grow into an idyllic image of a peaceful home. Just as Malleus and Silver had grown into formidable people. The young prince had fallen further than he ever did before, but now the old general was certain that he could stand on his own feet at last. Both of his sons could. And the bat fae was glad that he could depart knowing this much.

"It seems the children of man truly know no rest when it comes to progress", the queen remarked, looking at the humans who fixed the fields beside the village and the fae soldiers who were assisting them.

"It appears so"

"What are they planting?"

Lilia looked at the rising sun, remembering the faith that Princess Mallenoa once had; that mankind and fae would one day live in peace and help each other grow. He had called it foolish at the time, mocking his sister's words by calling them a fever dream. Yet this was just another way in which she had changed his world, just as the little prince he raised had been. There was a smile on his face as he thought about how this day might just mark the beginning of the future the princess had envisioned.

"Hope."

#twisted wonderland #twst #twst chapter 7 spoilers #twst spoilers #twst chapter 7 #malleus draconia #malleus #lilia vanrouge #lilia #general lilia #twst fanfic #twst fanfiction #mallenoa draconia #maleficia draconia #malleus x reader #malleus draconia x reader #lilia vanrouge x reader #lilia x reader

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annesstardustchords · 6 months

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I'd Go Through it Again (If I Could Hold You For a Minute) - Part 1 / Simon “Ghost” Riley X Reader

hi babies! im so sorry ive been MIA lately, school is fucking me raw and I haven't been doing mentally well at all. that being said, yall deserve some good, angsty smut. luv u all <3 (smut will be in part 2)

(my mental slump may have slipped into this one a little bit...)

Description: Ghost had passed away; killed in action and DOA a couple months prior. You hadn't been handling it well. He was the love of your life, your rock, your muse; all of it. After one particularly bad day at work, you shuffle home in tears, but what you don't know is that there's a little surprise waiting inside for you...

CW: angst, fluff, sobbbbinnnnggg

TW: Mentions of death, suicide, self-harm (non-graphic)

READ WITH CAUTION!

MINORS DNI! I WILL TELL UR MOM!

Four months ago, you received the letter; he was gone - Fuck it, dead. No need to put it nicely.

The love of your life, torn from the warmth of this earth, from you, in a split second. A bullet the size of a pill had ripped through his chest, surpassing his heart and exiting through the thickened muscle of his back. How can something so small do such damage to someone as strong as him? How can something so small take a life? How could he be gone, just like that? How could he leave you?

Angry, intrusive questions swam around in your mind every second of every day; replaying the moment he was shot, the moment he took his last breath in your brain as if you were there. abut you weren’t. You could see it; his massive frame falling to the ground, suddenly appearing small as his eyes widened, and his breath stopped. It haunted you, knowing he was alone when it happened. Soap hadn't found him until hours after he'd passed. "DOA" the letter had read. Dead on fucking arrival. How long had he been there? You could've saved him, you think. You should've been there. But alas, you were deployed to another field, another team just days before. You couldn't protect him.

"Aye!" your superior calls out from behind you, "Head in the fuckin' game, soldier!"

You snap out of your thoughts, raising your gun to the practice target and firing without thinking. You were a great shot naturally, but not these days; your mind focused solely on Simon, your eyes fogged with his decrepit silhouette inside of his casket. It was open the day of the funeral; not your typical soldier send-off, but you had requested it. You hated what you saw when you looked inside that box. You had lifted the mask to ensure it really was him, and sure enough, it was. His scarred face, and tight-shut eyes. It haunts you everywhere you fucking go.

You hit the white plastic of the target, not even close to the drawn body of the thing. The Sergeant laughs from behind you and you toss your gun to the side, embarrassed and exhausted.

"Thank god this is just target practice, eh? You really did a number on 'em, probably killed em' with that fuckin' shot," he cackles as you walk past him and grab for the door handle, "Ay now, Soldier. Where do you think you're goin'?"

"Home, sir," you bluntly answered, too disappointed and spaced out to give a shit about your current ranking or the fucking novelty of the trade.

"You go home now, Soldier, and you're done," he barks, "You understand?"

"Yes, sir," you respond bluntly, swinging open the door and walking out with a huff.

You weren't one to disobey your orders. You weren't one to leave your post. You weren't one to quit. But, honest to god, if you had been put on the field the next day as planned, you would've thrown your un-armoured body against the first bullet shot.

Anything to see him again.

As you gathered your things from your locker and left the base, you could feel tears burning down your cheeks beneath your mask. You didn't sniffle, you didn't wipe them away. You didn't care. You just needed to be home. Being around this many guns, around a fucking armoury, couldn't be safe for you in this state. The morbid fascination you faced daily following Simon's death was nothing short of constant, but you were scared. What if he got into heaven, and you couldn't?

God, you just needed to go to bed.

You held your keys tight to your hand as you walked to the door of your apartment, the harsh metal breaking skin; not that you noticed, though. You turned the key and walked in, locking the door behind you and chucking your belongings onto the floor along with your shoes. You tore your mask from your face, and walked down the hall. As you made your way towards your bedroom, you noticed the familiar shine of your lamp seeping through the slightly ajar door.

Certain you hadn't left the light on yourself, much too weary of hydro costs, you quickly grabbed the gun from your safe. You hadn't even looked at the gun since that wretched day, untrusting in yourself and your thoughts, but with your job being what it was, you couldn't take any risks. You hold the gun tight to your side, slowly opening the door, and raising it to the dark figure sitting atop your bedsheets.

"Get the fuck out," you harshly whisper, "I don't have fucking time for this."

"Hi, darling," a familiar voice says as the figure turns his head.

Your heart nearly stops then. Your eyes meet the ghastly white of a skull mask, one you were all too accustomed to. You wrap your finger around the trigger, ready to end this sick joke immediately.

"I don't know who the fuck you are, or what the hell this is, but you need to go. Right fucking now," you bark, tightening your grip on the pistol.

"Y/N, please, put the gun down," the soft, British voice pleads.

"You're real fuckin' stupid if you think that's gonna happen."

You take a step inside the room, pressing the gun hard against his forehead as you take an unwavering breath.

"Make a move, and I swear to god, I will put a bullet in your brain," you mutter, "Who are you?"

"It's me, Y/N. I promise it's me," the man says, confident but composed, fully aware of the gun pressed between his eyebrows though seemingly unafraid of it.

"Is this some kind of sick joke? Hm? Putting a fucking widow through this?" you nearly yell as you press the barrel harder into his skull, causing him to wince, "You wanna beat me, interrogate me? Fucking fine, but this... this is sick. He's gone. I saw the body myself."

"Y/N, I-"

"Don't say my name," you snap, "Who fucking sent you, huh?"

"Love, please. Back up, let me take my mask off, yeah?" he asks, carefully lifting his hand to your wrist, tapping it gently in request.

"Don't fucking touch me. You're not him. God, when Price hears about this..." you dryly chuckle, trailing off when you notice a bump under one of his gloved fingers.

"Take your glove off," you demand, motioning your head towards it.

"Wha- I... Okay," he stammers, lifting both of his hands cautiously and removing both of the gloves. You grab his left hand, tugging off the band prominently placed on his ring finger. You raise it to your face, your other hand still firmly holding the gun to his head.

"Y/N L/N, in combat and in devotion," read the inside of the ring, matching the words circling the ring placed on your left hand in similarity.

"Where'd you get this?" you whispered, your once stern demeanour shifting into something much smaller; more pathetic.

"The pastor on our wedding day. Gaz got them made for us," he answers calmly.

You pull the gun off of him, raising your hands to your face and pressing your palms to your eyes as you turn around.

"What the fuck is going on?" you cry, hardly audible.

"Y/N, it's me. I'm so sorry," he whispers, shifting to stand.

"Sit the fuck down," you yell, "Take your mask off."

He nods, turning around to check the curtain is closed before gradually and carefully tucking two fingers under the hem of the mask, lifting it over his chin and nose.

You feel tears brim your lashes, slick to your under eyes as his mouth and nose come into view. It's like a b-roll as the mask is lifted higher and higher off his face; the scar on his right cheek, the dark war paint, his furrowed brows, his fluffy hair. He discards the mask, tossing it next to him and grabbing a makeup wipe from your bedside table to rid himself of the smeared paint around his blue eyes.

"See?" he says, a sad smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Your hands shake as they go to cover your mouth, holding in the deep wail threatening to pour from your lips as you sob. The man you loved so much, the man you fucking married, the man you buried just four months prior, was here; alive.

"Si," you whimper, throwing your full body weight onto him after placing the gun down, your thighs on either side of his hips as you wrap your arms so tight around his neck that he nearly chokes.

"Hi, Lovie," he whispers into your neck, wrapping his strong arms around you and pulling you close to him. You take in everything; his scent, the feel of him so close to you, his scruff against your jaw. All of the things you swore you'd never get to feel again, tucked between your limp arms.

"How could you fucking do this to me?" you croak, your throat raw as you slam your weakened fists against his vest-clad chest.

"I know, I know, darling," he says, pulling away just far enough that he could see your eyes, lifting your chin to look at him before holding your face between his strong hands, "I had no choice. Trust me, I wanted to come back to you the second it happened."

"Then why didn't you? Do you know what I've been through? Do you know what it's like to watch the love of your life get fucking buried?"

"No, I don't," he sighs, "but I do know what it's like being dead to you, literally and metaphorically, and that's nothing I ever wish to relive."

"So why'd you do it then? I can't fucking live without you, I tried to fucking kill myself just to see you again, Simon," you accidentally admit, tears falling off your face and down your neck.

"Oh, my love," he sighs, worry adamant in his gruff features as he gently caresses your hair, "I wish I could've called, sent a letter, fucking anything. I'm so, so sorry I put you through this."

"Tell me what happened, Si. Tell me there was a good reason you faked it all."

"Two of the opposing had intel on you. They must have seen you without your mask, or someone let something slip; I'm not sure. I got cornered by two of their men, and they gave me an ultimatum; Either I take the bullet, or they tell all divisions outside of 141 your identity. Knowing your past with OpFor, I couldn't let that happen - couldn't risk your safety. Soap shot both of them before I could say anything," he explains, never breaking eye contact.

"So, they're both dead. Why did you have to-"

"There's more," he says, taking your hands in his, "There was only one other opposition out there who knew about you, and I couldn't come out of hiding until I was sure he was dead, so I faked my death under Price's orders to give us more time and to keep you safe. As long as this guy knew I was alive, he wouldn't have let it rest until he ruined you. This guy was good - stealthy, and stayed hidden. I knew you were safe as long as I was out of the picture, and that's all that mattered to me."

"Oh my god," you whimper, the tears seeming to be endless, "Please tell me you caught him? I can't risk losing you again."

"He's gone, baby. We caught him. I wouldn't have come back if I knew it could put you in jeopardy," he softly smiles, wiping your tears away with his thumb once more as you slowly smile.

"Si-" you choke out, a look of realization crossing your soft features.

"Yeah, love?" he asks, concerned.

"I'm so sorry, I-" you sob, unable to get the words out, choking on your own tears.

"Baby, baby. Shh," he coos, trying to stop you from hyperventilating, "What on earth are you apologizing for?"

"I was so angry at you. I- I was so mean. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have blamed you," you mutter, letting your forehead fall against his.

"Oh, my love. It's okay. I can't even imagine what you've been through over the last four months. I don't know what I'd ever do if I lost you," he admits, grabbing at the nape of your neck gently as his eyes flutter shut.

"It was hell. I walked out of target practice today. I can't even aim anymore. I don't think Sergeant is gonna let me back," you confess.

"He'll let you back, baby. Price and Soap both know what happened, and we've all got your back, okay?" he says, gently rubbing along the back of your head.

“I don’t even care if he does, I’m just- I only care about you; about you being here,” you softly smile, wrapping your arms tighter around him as you sniffle.

“There’s that pretty smile,” he whispers, “I missed that face of yours so much.”

“You can’t even begin to understand how much I missed you,” you say, gently kissing his soft lips, “I thought I’d never get to do that again.”

“‘M not goin’ anywhere baby. Never again,” he murmurs, kissing you back, “I couldn’t bare knowing how much I’ve hurt you again.”

“I love you, Simon,” you whisper, the words rolling off your tongue like an oath, like a god damn prayer.

“I love you, too.”

You know it’s more than just words; it’s a promise. He’s yours.

#cod mw2 #cod modern warfare #ghost simon riley #ghost #simon riley #smut #cod smut

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ikarus-wax-wings · 4 months

Text

Depression Room

This mess, You don't know how to look at it; This bumbling pile, So spread with chaos- It could almost be in motion- Terribly, Secretly- These parts switch out/ Those appear-

But let me show you: As an artist knows each brush stroke in some way- Though sometimes somewhat forgotten- You see the big picture: the monster in it's grand frightfulness: Claws and teeth, Enormous hide, Starving red eyes, Such bulk- Such unmountable horror- A hill you go to die on- But: I know the details: The mind and the smallest hairs and scales;

( Maybe as a murderer knows it's victim's insides more than the victim ever can, what sweet irony that the one to destroy knows so well the details, almost lovingly)

So let me guide you now: First, Look upon the spilled wax: Red and marring different surfaces: - This painting- unfinished- - Stacked upon this book, - Stacked upon this sketchbook-- Stacked upon: -This old table: Wobbly legs akin to Atlas'-- - Dripping down to the carpet

Oh- Now- Here- Here, this pile of books: Bought in the summer, Opened for less than five minutes each; They stand as a pillar on the left

And- Here- The floor- No, watch it again- Watch it again: Polluted like the sea, Bloated fishes swimming sluggish through plastics and silts and- The small bits: Unidentifiable- too small and quick- moving as a mass- This sea bed is layered. Layered. An archeological find each level down/

See this?

The paper, so overwhelming, but- Notice how they are all different: - Cut pieces from white paper, - Cut pieces from coloured paper, - Tiny crumbs of paper, - And paper with holes: Outlines of some printed shapes stolen from their home- their 2d world- - Here, blank printer pieces: my dutiful soldiers standing at the ready- -Cardstock thrown there Pieces, pieces So many little cut pieces

Then here: - Spilled salt mingling with dirt and dust, And there- - The fallen bodies of markers and pens-

A moment of silence.

- A glue gun: it's cord wrapped like a noose around itself- - An empty box of tic-tacs: a gaping casket; - A bandana: disregarded bandage- // Was it used? // - The page of a book, torn out- - A box, wooden- - A box, cardboard,

Pieces, pieces,

A moment of silence // Two moments of silence- For the war I've brought to this room.

Sadistic nature (must be) what makes me smile Almost smile? This neurotic display: It looks like blood. How funny- Almost funny- When it has been brought about by something so silent: Depression's slow, seeping gasses; No guns to fight their whispering fingers- How lovingly they hold you, How achingly sweet they slip around each part of you, Filling you, Filling you, Loving each piece of you with such devoted tenderness, Touching each part of you- And this action: so slow and soft: Doesn't feel like a war at all // Until they constrict. And you realized you never had any chance- Their tendrils have entered your lungs-

And here the battle scene: Piles and piles of mess; Layers and layers: A collage of Destruction, Corpses of your own failings, Piling high, Piling higher, Step into the mess: Up to your ankles, In blood and mud: (All this litter)

And you're so silly. Really, quite deranged, Or quite stupid- Really- To think of your little disaster Like a war, Like a monster, Like an ocean, And a tragedy, And something horrific, And something not quite inevitable-- Something horrible because it wasn't quite- Inevitable. No, these human horrors, They're never quite inevitable,

But you are inconsequential: You are dramatic- Look at this: // Let me speak to you: Like a dog Who's chewed up my shoe- // Look. At. This. You made a mess. A stupid, silly, mess. Stop crying. Stop saying you can't breathe. Your Depression- Imaginary friend- Poltergeist so convenient- They cannot be blamed. Clean up this mess.

Repeated, repeated Command, criticism, --plea? Clean up this mess- These piles are not funeral pires; Not corpses; Not fallen soldiers; Pick it up Pick. It. Up. Pick it up? Why can't you? You can. How dare you not

How?

Clean. This. Mess. ... (please) (please?)

Piles high,

Piles higher-

A moment of silence-

Two

moments

silence

. . .

#original poem #vent poem #poetry #original writing #tw depressing stuff #idk

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quietwings-fics · 7 months

Text

Rarely About Victory

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Archive Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death Fandom: Mass Effect Trilogy Ship: Gen (OC & OC) Additional Tags: Reaper War (Mass Effect), Major Original Character(s), Major Character Injury, Blood and Injury, War, Age Difference, Whump Wordcount: 2999 Summary:

The last moments of two soldiers in the Reaper War, both of them too far from home.

He got separated from his squad quickly in alien streets. Each of the few human cities he’d been in had been disorganized, pure chaos littered with bodies and husks with the only way to tell the difference being which ones started to twitch and writhe as he got close. He had learned early in this war not to take that chance. Every corpse got a bullet, the dead and the reanimated, unless he wanted to lose another friend. If they hadn’t been wasting time clearing the streets with that kind of efficiency, (the official order from command was not to do that, something about human funerals, open caskets, diplomatic relationships, but the ones they actually obeyed brokered no argument: a few ruined human memorials were worth the trade-off of fewer turian ones.) then they might not have gotten ambushed and he might not have been cut off and forced down a side street with no way back.

He held his own for a day and a half with no food and little water. He didn’t dare sleep. The ammo he used sparingly was replenished by fallen human soldiers. (Or sometimes, by dropped guns with no one nearby who held them in life. He tried to believe they’d be shedding dead weight when they got away from husks, but he knew their true fates.)

Inevitably, he’d gotten unlucky. Too tired, too hungry, too damn stupid for his own good, wandering without a plan when the bloodcurdling shriek of a banshee made him spin in place. The sound was a distraction, made to mask the lumbering footsteps of the brute behind him. He didn’t feel the shiver of the ground beneath his feet until it was too late. It slammed into his back with the force of a frigate, its massive and misshapen arm launching him across the street with one swing. His shields had given out at the end of the yesterday, leaving only his armor to take the brunt of the damage for him. He heard cracking as he hit the ground again and rolled away from the brute.

He couldn’t catch his breath. Everything about Earth made fighting more difficult. They had the wrong gravity and never enough air for his lungs. He forced himself up, the drill sergeant in his head shouting down the roar of the brute that had thrown him. His rifle had fallen feet further from him. He scrambled towards it, his talons barely brushing the grip when he heard another shriek. His eardrums popped the way they always did around biotics. He didn’t even have time to turn around.

The banshee slammed his head into the concrete. He felt teeth crack inside his skull. His mandibles, flared wide in panic, screamed in pain as he struggled beneath the banshee’s grip. It bowed over him, hissing in his ear. It almost sounded like language.

He felt the long, clawed fingers of the banshee force their way into the cracks in his armor. With horrifying strength, it ripped open his only protection, leaving his carapace exposed underneath. He tried to pull himself away from it, but it grabbed his head a second time and knocked it against the ground. It held on to his crest, pulling him back until his neck began to protest, about to snap from the pressure. His saving grace was that his crest broke first, sending shockwaves of pain down through him. He couldn’t let it stop him from taking advantage of his brief moment of freedom.

The banshee lashed out, tearing through his carapace as he reached for his gun. He felt the sickening lurch of being peeled open. He pulled his rifle closer by the butt and swung it round when he finally held the grip again as the rest of his body turned. The barrel of the gun landed in the center of the banshee’s chest, the butt pressed hard against his shoulder. He was blind with fear and pain, only the pressure of the banshee lurching forward against the barrel, reaching for him again, to tell him where to shoot.

His ears rang with the scream it let out when he buried his shot into its chest. The recoil drove back into him with so much force that he heard another crack. Not his armor this time. His shoulder joined the cacophony drowning out his other senses. His ears popped again as the banshee drew back in on itself and warped off of him.

His reprieve, what little there was of it, lasted only moments before he heard the brute he’d almost forgotten about shamble towards him again.

He struggled to his feet. His spine burned. He felt nauseous, twisted up inside from stomach to gizzard in a way he hadn’t felt since his first days in the military. His own fresh blood splattered across the ground where he’d been laying.

His only chance was to run.

Somehow, he got away from the brute. Maybe it lost sight of him, or maybe lost interest in prey that was already dead on its feet. He could feel his energy flagging as he stumbled forward. He turned his gaze left and right, seeking shelter. The burned-out buildings could almost seem welcoming, if not for his experiences in the last day. They would be filled with husks waiting for a fool like him to try and hide inside.

In the end, he found a turned over tank, leaning on the hood of a car with no body. He limped towards it like it could save him. As he rounded it, he heard a growl that set him on edge, forcing his rifle up again even as his shoulder ached fiercely under it. He leveled it at the head of the other thing curled up behind the tank.

“Don’t shoot. I’m no abomination. Only an old crone licking her wounds,” the thing said with a voice like gravel. He froze, and it took him longer than it should have to recognize it as a krogan. Both of their armies (if what krogans had could be called an army) may have been deployed on this same planet for the same reason, but they didn’t mingle. One cured genophage did not a friendship make.

The krogan he was looking at was incalculably old. Her hide was made of scars more than anything else, and her right eye was missing. That wound was probably older than him. She cocked her head to survey the world around her with her one good eye before she turned it on him again. It was a threatening red around the narrow pupil. He could feel his own blood running down his back and his ruined armor, dripping down his legs. She sniffed the air and tossed her head. “Might as well get comfortable to die.”

He wouldn’t call the ruined road they sat on comfortable, but leaning back against the tank’s underside let him drop his rifle. His shoulder continued to ache, but if he could keep from moving it, he could almost ignore it.

“What’s your name, turian?” the krogan asked. Every lesson ever drilled into him rebelled against the idea of telling her, of sharing anything with someone who had been the enemy for so long.

“Dormus,” he eventually said. It was easier to breathe sitting up against something like this. Dormus waited for her to note the lack of surname or even his bare face, but she never did. Any turian would have made sure to mention it twice, once so that he knew they saw him for the disgrace he was by birth and once to put him in his place and keep him there. “Do I get to know yours?” She sniffed the acrid air again before her eye flicked to his. It had always unnerved him how little krogans needed to blink. Her slitted pupil lingered on the blood pooling under him.

“You already do,” she said. He stared back at her, mandibles twitching. Even that slight movement hurt. Her lips curled up, revealing the sharp fangs beneath. More than a few were missing. They left wide, dark red gaps in between the ones still there. “I’m just a very, very old crone.”

It was hard to think between the pain and the distant screeching of banshees and the ever-present smell of death. He managed to grasp at some old knowledge. “Is that like the asari? A matriarch?” He had never met an asari. A banshee screamed, too close for comfort, and he amended that statement. Never met one who was still an asari, anyway. The krogan laughed too loudly, like she wasn’t afraid of what could hear them. He awkwardly chuckled along.

“No, turian, it means they despise me. No krogan would ever come to me for wisdom,” but her voice was fond, nonetheless. “Never could have children, not even dead ones. Little use on Tuchanka for a female who can’t breed except as bait. It’s a tactic that you get tired of fast, but if you do it enough times, you learn how to get away from anything.” She settled back, gaze turned up to the sky. “My clan is long dead, and my name faded away with its memory. That answer your question?”

“…Not really.” He followed her gaze to the stars obscured by smoke. Palaven was far beyond his reach. He would die here in the muck of another species’ planet. They told him this would save his home, but it felt too distant to grasp as truth.

“You don’t have any medigel?” he asked. The Crone glanced back at him. He didn’t see pity in her eyes, a small relief, but there was no false hope there either to buoy his dying moments.

“No,” she answered, “and you know it wouldn’t do much for you anyway.” He hadn’t known his body had so much blood in it. He had never felt so cold. He clicked his talons against his rifle. That wasn’t an option. No matter how low he’d always been, he would not let his death sink him lower. Then the thought crossed his mind of his barely-alive body being dragged away by those monsters wandering the streets and the end of his barrel looked even more tempting. He threw his gaze back to the Crone. She looked like she was carrying far more before he met her. That could have been minutes or hours or days ago. A krogan could survive on these streets far longer than any turian, if only because they could eat the scraps of food left in the ruins without getting sick. Across her body, he saw empty straps where he could imagine well-cared for guns would rest and wait for use. The pistol she still held was emblematic of its missing brothers, an old model, maintained to perfection.

“They aren’t meant for you,” she said, interrupting his thoughts. He guessed his gaze was rather obvious combined with the way he was beginning to pant for breath.

“For yourself, then?” She growled at him again. It sounded disturbingly like the noises the brutes made. If he didn’t have one foot in the grave, it might have scared him.

“For those things, to take as many of them down with me as I can.”

“Can’t spare one?” It was meant to be a joke, a bad one, a dark one, but she returned it with all seriousness.

“It would take more than one. You turians have thicker carapaces than you’d expect.” It was said with the full confidence of an experienced killer. He swallowed. (It was getting harder to. His throat felt blocked up and dry.) He wondered how many turians she’d killed in her long lifetime.

He wondered how many krogans he would have killed in his shorter one, if there had been no war with the Reapers.

In the end, he decided grudges weren’t worth taking to the grave.

“How old are you, anyway?” She broke the silence before he did again. He blinked his eyes open, unaware of when he’d shut them.

“Twenty-two years,” he answered. That made her chortle, not lacking in cruelty as she asked,

“What, did the reapers kill all the adults left?” Dormus didn’t have the energy to bristle at that.

“Military service is mandatory for all turians when they come of age,” he said.

“Meaning you didn’t want to do it.” His head snapped towards her so fast that he felt dizzy. His broken crest scraped painfully along the tank’s underside. “What? It’s not that hard to figure out. The only ones who wheel out the party line about how everyone must serve are the ones who don’t want to serve at all.”

“It’s an honor,” he hissed.

“It doesn’t matter. You’ll die for it either way.” Dormus’s stomach dropped. He looked away from her again. “What did you want to do rather than shoot a gun, turian?”

“You don’t care.”

“No. But I might live through this. Give me another war story to tell, boy. One about Dormus the…” She trailed off. Dormus sighed.

“Musician,” he said, quietly. “I used to compose.”

“Not anthems, I take it.”

“Operas.” Dormus wouldn’t look at her for this, not for scorn or for pity. “They weren’t very good.”

“You might have been the best. It’s not like you had great competition.” That shocked a chuckle out of him.

“As if you listen to turian operas.” The idea was comical, this battle-scared krogan sitting down to listen to an hour of music from the species that plotted to destroy her own. The Crone snorted.

“I’ve listened to turian operas, read batarian poetry, studied the hanars ideas on how to wage war,” she listed, “and to tell you the truth, none of it was very good. But it was all different. You get old enough, all that really matters is hearing something new.”

“I’m not going to get old enough,” he muttered, bitterly. His feet felt numb. He moved sluggishly, and even he could hear the growing slur of his words.

“Hm,” she grunted. “I can’t sing, and you don’t have much left to learn about war. There’s still poetry.”

“Fine,” he said. “Batarian poetry. What’s that like?” He’d only met a few batarians, all pirates, all hanging their heads in disgrace or glaring with murderous intent at him and his squad.

The Crone tipped her head back to the sky. “There was no warning, there was no goodbye. We do not know if they saw the fire streak across the sky. Or if they slept in peace, unaware, of all the danger that was headed there. Our only way to count the dead, they say was shattered to save us instead.” She paused, and he thought it was over until she finished it with hollow grief. “We cannot go back. We cannot go back.”

Dormus’s mandibles fluttered weakly.

“I thought it would be more triumphant,” he said.

“Shows what you know, Dormus. Batarian poets rarely write about victory.”

He shut his eyes again. He did not expect to open them. It was the Crone’s sudden inhale that pulled him back to awareness. He opens his eyes as he felt the ground beneath them roll like a wave, making the tank behind their backs shudder threateningly. His gaze turned up, and he could no longer even catch a glimpse of the stars between the smoke. There was only the back of a reaper, impossible to comprehend as its shadow blotted out the sun. The Crone stood in an instant. Dormus couldn’t, he only stared at it.

Reapers were not ships. Reapers were minds. He had never been able to understand that. They moved too much like the ships he had served on, and they seemed to attack with the same mindless destruction as their husks. They weren’t capable of more.

He understood it now. The reaper turned. Its massive legs ripped up the ground around it. The world began to brighten again but only because of the reapers charging laser. Dormus stared into the blinding red light and knew that it hated him. Not life. Not turians. It hated him.

The Crone hauled him to his feet. He gasped in pain, “What are you doing? Run!”

She made him lean against her before she began to move. They went slowly. He could still hear the reaper turning to aim at them, still feel every one of its footsteps threatening to knock him down again. “Leave me,” he ordered. The Crone ignored him. She wasn’t even trying to force him to go faster. His limping pace became her own as she kept his gaze away from the reaper behind them and moved them forward.

“Keep walking,” she said, though his feet dragged across the ground, his whole weight supported by her strength. The roar of the reaper nearly drowns out her voice. The ground quaked beneath her feet, but she stomped on like she was used to the tremors, like they were nothing compared to whatever happens on Tuchanka. He only saw the ground below him, the debris moving backwards through his vision as she dragged him forward.

The world was bathed in red.

“We have their attention now,” she said, calmly and easily, like she had said it a thousand times before, and despite himself, he couldn’t be scared. “We’ll lure them away. We’ll protect the future of-“ Another roar, louder, bursting through his ear drums. The ground is shuddering so hard that even the Crone has trouble walking. They could see nothing but blinding red light. He felt heat, impossible heat, burning, melting, destroying.

He felt the Crone hoist him higher against her. She did not stop moving. She did not leave him behind.

They didn’t not make it. There would be no statues to mark their passing. No bones to bury. No one to mourn. Only the carved-out street, melted cement, and the craters left by the footsteps of the Reaper that walked over their graves.

(Enjoyed it? Any interaction is welcomed. You can even support me on Ko-Fi <3)

#whumptober2023 #no.12 #red #mass effect #fic #blood #death #injury #war #violence #fanfiction #1001-5000 #teen and up audiences #genfic #OC

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dendrosys · 1 year

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the Columbina brainrot was rlly getting to me so i decided to mix up something quick.. @eujean @just-haunter-thoughts @maehemthemisfit

They say the people in my homeland do not believe in tears, a stereotype carried to legacy by outsiders and traveling Snezhnayans alike. They joke and say our tears will freeze before they leave our eyes, that the part of our brains that let us cry was frosted over. They don't know about the warmth that keeps us able to weep for our many lost ones, the joyous flames in the campfires we hold to stay alive. Blaming them is hard though, even I have only seen her a few times.

For years I’ve traveled as a Fatui footsoldier, never ranking up, just moving posts. I wasn’t useless, they just spent so much time moving me around and adding me to new teams that no one ever thought to put me higher. I’ve seen my teammates come and go. Some die on the field, some get too injured to keep working. Some run away and never come back. Somehow I ended up getting invited to funerals for all of them. Often I didn't attend, here and there a teammate that I really cared for would succumb to one of the three fates and I’d consider it, but it always ended up being ‘It's better that I don't go’.

Inbetween moving periods I had a week to rest, and it was during the rare occurrence where I actually considered attending a funeral. I counted the Mora I had stashed in my pocket, just enough to buy something acceptable to wear at a funeral. Guess it couldn’t hurt to go once.

The funeral was held in the home of the deceased, it was an open casket ceremony. I don’t think I ever saw one of my teammates' faces before that moment. Uncovered, without bandages or masks, the two of us didn’t look all that different. White faces, thick eyebrows, high-bridged noses. It almost scared me how close to a dead person I looked myself. I backed away from the casket after being told the ceremony was about to begin. A woman on the shorter side with her eyes covered in silk and body covered in a puffy black overcoat, many sizes too big for her, stood beside the late soldier. Everyone seemed to be familiar with her, faces brightened and conversations came to a halt. A warm, serene aura flooded the room as she opened her mouth and began to sing. The other guests around me mouthed her words in unison, hands clasped together and eyes closed. I closed mine too.

‘O’ spirit of the dead

Hear the Damselette sing

Let her chorus ring

Through your hollow head

O’ spirit of the dead

May you find your way

May your loved ones pray

That you may be gracefully lead

Into the heavens

Into the Tsaritsa’s arms

Into the heavens

Far from here’

As the song ended and I opened my eyes again, I realized I had been mouthing the words as well after all. The lady, the “Damselette” in the song, gracefully made her way down to me, gifting me with a soft hug. I had another realization then, I had met The Damselette once before. Years and years ago, at the only other funeral I’d been to. She sang that same song at my brother's funeral, who died to probably much of the same fate as the person this funeral was for. Nothing much about her changed from then to now, at least as I could remember it.

“So many deaths around you… and yet you only now come to see them go?”

I gulped, feeling a feeling I hadn’t felt since I lived with my family. Guilt. Shame. I prayed a silent prayer that no one else heard what she had said.

“I’m sorry. I–” “Nono. It is okay Yulia. You’ve been out battling. I am proud that you fight for our nation.”

It’d been so long since I heard someone call me by my name, I nearly didn't recognize it. The Damselette reached her hand up to my face, caressing it like an aunt caresses her niece that she hasn't seen in so long.

“Just be sure to attend when you have the chance, okay? Avoiding funerals will not spare you from one of your own.”

I was in awe, she saw through me so easily. I nodded silently and watched her go around and visit the other guests. I left the house, the warm aura of The Damselette slowly freezing back into cold air. As I walked to my sargeant’s office, I wondered when my turn would come. How many of my own teammates would become part of my silent parting choir? Would any live to see the day? To even hold a funeral for me? Regardless, I knew the Damselette would be singing from afar. And the memory of her voice is what keeps my tears of faith running down my cheeks, warm and sincere.

#Columbina #columbina genshin impact #fatui #fatui harbingers #this is so bad guys im so sorry but i had to get it out of my headdd

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hentaimommi · 1 year

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In The Bush | Armin Arlert x Female! Reader

A/N: sad-ish story, I hate I can never use these prompt ideas for anything not niche like anime fanfic 😭

Warnings: Mentions of death, delusions

Rain seeped heavy in the clouds over Shiganshina. The air was thick, cold, and unforgiving; maybe a representation of the feeling all people had.

"Could you pass me that tissue?" Mikasa murmurs to Hanji. They briefly share eye contact as the request is filled and soon Armin felt the sweet sting of paper against his cheek. Both of them were very red, and raw, stung by the tears and sweat of the day. Everybody had been sitting in common area together, lingering before proceedings.

The light outside had an orange tinge, or at least it felt that way each time they left the building during what Eren created. Armin could do nothing but curse him really, seeing as he had turned even agaisnt those who loved him most. But that wasn't on his mind exactly as much as the clear cur image of you had been settled into his brain. He missed you. So greatly that even his hands had began to tingle for the touch of your embrace, of your hair brush being pulled through your hair, as much as your scent.

During the battle and the takeover Eren has structured, you were taken into the hinges of the jaw titan. Armin knew he lost you as he looked out onto the sea of people, just over the steam of the colossal. There was a thickness in that air too. After Eren found you laying on the ground, he hovered for a moment.

Three years ago you met the shy blonde Armin during a camp, where you all became very close. Eren saw this, he listened to Armin tell him of your glory, describe every detail of your personality, and how your eyes carried so much light in them. He could only feel regret as he peered into the grey orbs you had now, vaguely staring back at him, but also into nothing at all. He sighed picking you up, throwing your dead weight over his shoulder.

When he laid you down in front of the team they all had the same look of horror plastered onto their face, but he saw Armin, it was a different kind.

"Eren? What is going on?" Hanji asked, looking at your body, then back at him. Armin began to crawl over to you, as everyone watched. His warm thin arms scraped you up from the ground, holding you close, where he used to feel your heart beat. He cried out, pushing away Mikasa when her hands began to fling to comfort him. "WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO?" His voice cracked pitifully at Eren, who said nothing, walking away. Armin continued to sob into your cold nape.

Today was the day you'd be buried. Historia paid for a very expensive funeral, royal budget approved of course. They all sat in the crowd as you were spoken above. Mikasa spoke for Armin.

"It was as if the light of life had been knocked from beneath her, a strong soldier, and an even stronger woman,"

It was a beautiful speech.

Everyone took their turns coming around, looking into your casket. You had very beautiful gemstones in your jewels, and a gorgeous dress. Yet nothing could stop Armin from going cold when he felt your hand again, saw your face, and knew you weren't even anatomically the same.

He began to look away, only to be drawn back to the image of you, sitting up right, looking into his eyes. He said nothing, as you said nothing; but your eyes looked colorful. He wanted to touch you, to hold you; if only he hadn't been so terrified this would take you away again. His heart shattered when he looked back into the casket, just to see you were still grey, lifeless.

The ride home was silent. He did not mention you or the fact he saw you, no one would believe him. Mikasa gave him a huge before he found his way to your quarters, opening the door to the wall of perfume scent you'd left behind. A simple lavender. He smiled a little, walking to your desk. Looking at himself was hard, he noticed his eyes were red; his face wrinkled, worried.

His nimble hands began to fiddle with your objects, a little comb and some wooden sculptures. He then found his way slowly into his desk, where he rummaged a bit. There were notes from your parents, notes from him, notes from the captain about performance. One stuck out, and it read:

"You may as well take my heart Armin, it's already full of you."

#armin aot #armin shingeki no kyojin #armin arlert #eren aot #aot imagines

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sophluorescentmusing · 1 year

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DOG GOSPEL (?)

The weight of the pendant on his chest only becomes noticeable in moments of suspension, when nothing is set to stone and everything stands to collapse. Baekhyun’s thumb passes across the heavy, golden face of it—his print feels the grooves of its engraving—and watches as his step-brother greets Se Horangi’s Jung Jaesang with a distinctly false smile. He’ll be feeling slighted (Baekhyun knows him well), but he’d be a fool to make a scene, not after the gift Se Horangi bestowed upon him.

The decision for Baekhyun’s senior to assume his father’s position, regardless of actual birthright, is one that has not affected Baekhyun’s mood. It is not that he is disinterested in the organization, nor that he feels any sort of derision for Hayan Dal-pa, but when the mechanisms of this great hydra begin moving all at once it is time to pay attention, to duck one’s head, and to wait to see how it will ride out. Baekhyun might have a personal-ego about himself, an interior understanding that he can (and one day, will) outwit Baekbeom at his own game, but like his brother… he is not stupid. He knows when to recognize what is within his hands, and what is not.

Hwang Daesik stands at his back. His thumb is wrapped over the lip of his plate and his thick, ringed fingers splay across the bottom of it. He’s eating, because if he’s not eating he’d be talking and the things he’d like to say would have Baekbeom splitting his skull right outside of the building door.

Considering it’s a funeral home, Baekhyun can’t help but think it’s fitting.

“How long will we have to stay here?” His mother stands at his side, even though she was the woman scorned. Her lash-line is thick with unshed tears, but her lips do not tremble and he will pretend as if her hands are just as steadfast (they are not). A flash of guilt runs through him at asking the question in the first place, but it just as easily succumbs beneath a wave of anger.

His father was not cruel to him. Never.

Nor did he ever raise a hand to his mother.

But, he scorned her. He disrespected her.

All for the politics.

“Once Baekbeom leaves.” Kang Sang-mi will not allow her son to chance his brother’s ire; she will not allow her son to die for something foolish. “Will you be remaining in Busan?” She has floated her own ideas, all of which involve moving back to Bucheon, where Baekhyun was born (though he doesn’t remember the neighborhood and would never call it his birthplace). He has not decided one way or another. He thinks that moving back home with ensure his getting killed, and will put his mother in the crossfire.

Staying close is almost as certain a death, but she will be left to her own. “I’ll be staying,” he says slowly. “Baekbeom has promised to show me the business.” Nevermind that Baekhyun already understands the business. He was tolerant of his father, up until he treated Baekhyun’s mother as he did. He learned the business like he would inherit it. If he were a few years older, it is likely he would have inherited it, regardless of Baekbeom’s own closeness to the Byun patriarch.

“So he says.” Sang-mi understands danger. She also understands her son; his need to try and protect her. She’ll allow it too; it is part of his growing up. “You’ll visit.” She doesn’t say this like a question, nor like a command. It is a statement of fact—a close understanding of what will happen based off of what she already knows of her son.

Baekhyun nods, rocking on the balls of his feet, then stepping into motion. He weaves through black-suited bodies, ignoring each hand that reaches out in fealty. The casket lies beyond each of these soldiers. Its cushioned interior is revealed by the open lid, and as Baekhyun strides more closely, he follows the quilting down into the bed of the coffin.

The mortician did well cleaning the old man up, but make-up cannot easily hide the injuries one knows to look for. Baekhyun had been in the car as his father bled. He’d been in the car as it crashed. He’d been plucked from it like a stray cat from a gutter—wet with rain, motor oil, and screaming like his life depended on it—and brought past the body (as they bagged it) on a gurney that rattled across the asphalt. Not that Baekhyun had needed it. He’d been unscathed in both altercation and accident.

“You almost can’t tell.” Baekbeom is too loud for the circumstances. His voice grates on Baekhyun’s nerves, fraying the patience he’s kept wrapped around himself for the entirety of the proceedings so far. “Don’t look so hard.”

“Fuck off,” Baekhyun drawls, rolling his eyes. “Junhee’s looking for you.” He jerks his head towards the waspy-woman standing in their peripheral. He doesn’t say anything else to his brother.

Baekbeom’s hand closes around Baekhyun’s bicep: “Watch your tongue, little brother.” The threat falls flat. Baekhyun has nothing more to fear than he already does. He’s almost resigned himself to his fate anyway. His lip quirks into a semblance of a smile and he watches as Baekbeom retreats towards his own mother. A trio of mourners descend upon the two of them (Baekhyun is not unhappy to be recognized as the more unapproachable son, not if that is how strangers treat Baekbeom).

His attention returns to the casket.

He steps closer to it. Places his hand on the side.

The wood feels strong (strong enough to hold beneath the weight of the world?) and sturdy. The scent of flowers and perfume wafts up at him—cologne too, the one his father often wore. Baekhyun can almost imagine his eyes blinking open. He can almost imagine the man crawling out of the case. But he will not. What is dead tends to stay dead. Baekhyun stews in conflict for a minute, then another, and another. He hears mourners passing behind him, murmuring about his place before a dead man, but it is secondary to the thoughts whirling through his head.

He reaches into the casket. His manicured nails scrape metal, then his fingers close around the pendant resting on his father’s own chest. A golden scapular means nothing—the Madonna promise does not extend to those engraved for appearances.

Baekhyun considers the medal, the man wearing it.

Then, he tugs with a pitiful amount of force.

And the chain breaks.

#sneak peek?#this is either the opener or its getting scrapped #i had a funeral theme with dog gospel #so i almost want to do a wedding theme with this one #i think itd be fitting since we close out dog gospel with a wedding invite #subaek wip

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helloraymondme · 2 years

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US soldier open casket

#soldier funeral home open casket

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autumnsghosts · 2 years

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Dust to Dust

summary: When you come back from the blip in the graveyard having just been at your grandmother’s funeral, the cemetery seems like the safest place to be. Cleaning old gravestones had certainly never been a dream of yours, but now you find yourself there most days, scraping dirt and moss and algae from stones of people long dead and most likely long forgotten. It also doesn't hurt that a certain blue-eyed super soldier visits the cemetery weekly, placing flowers over two plots. pairing: Bucky x female reader word count: 7379 (this really got away from me…) warnings: some cursing, mentions of death author’s note: This is my entry into @pellucid-constellations Love Letters Writing Challenge (cut it right down to the wire)! This is only my second fic and my first time writing for Bucky. I was originally planning on writing something completely different but I couldn't get this out of my head. Completely inspired by the awesome folks who do this in real life and post about it on Tik Tok. playlist: Dust to Dust by the Civil Wars on repeat forever

You were well aware that to others, your new hobby would appear more than a bit morbid. But as you scrubbed the dirt from the tombstone with a wire brush, watching as the brown suds ran down into the soil below, all you felt was catharsis. Peace and catharsis. Cleaning old gravestones had certainly never been a dream of yours, but now you found yourself here most days, scraping dirt and moss and algae from stones of people long dead and most likely long forgotten. And that was the reason you continued. There was something comforting about being in the presence of others who had been forgotten, even if they were no longer living.

The first stone you had cleaned had been your grandmothers. Your beloved grandmother who took you and your mother in when your father walked out, no questions asked and no judgment given. Your grandmother who told you bedtime stories of fairies in magical woods and of strong princesses who didn’t need rescuing. The one who taught you to paint and to bake chocolate chip banana muffins and above all things, to be kind. Sometimes that last lesson was difficult to carry on when the world had treated you so unkindly.

When she had died, it felt like your whole world had ended. And then it really did. On the morning of her funeral, as a soft, warm wind lifted your hair and the sun beat down against the black fabric of your dress, the world had ended for what felt like a held breath. The small crowd that had gathered around the upturned earth felt suffocating and you were almost glad when they started thinning out, even if it meant you were now truly alone. After what felt like hours, eternity, you reached down to grab a handful of grave dirt and as you stood over her grave, the last person on earth who loved you, the handful of dirt slipping through your fingers and falling onto the smooth, wood casket , your own fingers turned to dust.

You could still remember the feeling, numbing cold and then nothingness before returning to the same spot, hands empty. Green grass had replaced your grandmother’s open grave and her tombstone was already dulled with the wear of 5 years. You would go back to the grave over and over again in the few weeks after the blip. You had lost your job, lost the warm, cozy home you had loved so much. The last part of your grandmother now well and truly gone. Maybe that is why you continued to go back to the cemetery, day after day. Marveling at the quiet. Wondering how the graves could go so long without anyone caring for them, becoming dirt covered and worn. So you had gotten to work, first starting with your own grandmother’s tombstone, pulling the weeds from the base, cleaning the smooth marble until it was bright again and planting a bright yellow mum at the base. You had researched the proper tools to get, the correct techniques to use as you surveyed the gravestones dating back decades. Your first course of action had been to ask permission from the caretaker, who had taken some time to track down. Just one man who should have been retired responsible for acres of final resting places. He had been thrilled for the help. And then you just couldn’t stop. You felt like you were doing something, something useful, something good.

You never felt alone as you walked through the cemetery, and sometimes you weren’t. The old cemetery frequently had visitors but was never crowded by any stretch. It had been two months, and you had still not moved on from the section of plots near your grandmother you had started in. When you returned home to your tiny walk up studio apartment, you spent hours researching the history of the names on the stones you had cleaned that day. You told yourself that you were just being methodical, cleaning stone by stone. But if you were being completely honest, you hadn’t really moved on to a different part of the cemetery because of a certain handsome stranger who came once a week on schedule, bringing a bouquet of yellow roses and white daisies to lay at the base of two headstones.

Of course, he wasn’t exactly a stranger. You knew who he was. He had cut his dark hair and kept his metal arm buried under a leather jacket and gloves, even in the heat of late summer, but you recognized him. Though you hadn’t worked up the courage to talk to James Barnes, you had certainly worked up quite the crush. The way he knelt in front of the stones of the people he was visiting, the sadness evident in his blue eyes even from afar. You felt drawn to him. Marveling at more than just his handsome face, you wanted to know him. You wanted to know who he was visiting and why he seemed so hollow. But the thought terrified you, not because you were afraid of him. You were terrified because it had been so long since you’d actually had a conversation with someone. You spent your working hours in front of a computer screen and when you weren’t working, you were here, cleaning old tombstones in ragged clothes, hair pulled up and dirt smudged on your face.

You knew, of course, that you could just look at the gravesites he visited after he left, but it strangely felt like such an invasion of privacy. The sites you cleaned were old, sometimes over a hundred years, and no one had visited them in years. This felt different, more personal, and you couldn’t bring yourself to look.

As you worked on the stone in front of you, the final resting place of Sarah Monroe, an amazing woman who has driven the city’s first bookmobile, you glanced towards the tall maple tree you always found Bucky under. He usually was here already, crouched in front of the two graves under the maple but you had yet to see him today. You surreptitiously glanced up every now and then, looking for him, but as the sky darkened and you finished with your last grave of the day, you still hadn’t seen him. You stood, dusting the dirt from your jeans and rinsing off your tools with your water sprayer. You wrapped them in a towel and placed them in your bucket, snapping a quick picture of your work and heading towards the center of the graveyard. Richard, the caretaker, would let you store some of your things in the garden shed, especially your water sprayer that made the job a lot easier but was too heavy to walk with. When you looked down at your watch, you realized it was a lot later than you realized.

When you reached the shed, you yanked on the door but it didn’t budge. Richard had never locked it on you before. You glanced down at the heavy water sprayer and tried the door again but it didn’t budge. You felt panic rising in your chest. You could just leave them here, but your tools, though not particularly expensive, had taken a while to procure on your very limited income. Plus, if the shed was locked that must mean that Richard had already left for the evening. You glanced over to the iron gate inside the high brick wall and ran, heart thudding in your chest. You weren’t necessarily concerned about being in a cemetery alone at night as much as you were concerned about being anywhere in the city alone in the dark at night. When you finally reached the gate your heart sank even lower as you noted the large lock in place through the chain, barring your exit. You dropped your tools to the ground and pressed the heels of your hands to your eyes, whirling around as if another exit was going to materialize. You desperately beat against the gate, rattling the chain which sounded particularly ominous in the empty graveyard.

“Are you okay?” In your panic, you hadn’t heard anyone approach. You screamed, tripping backwards over your bucket of tools and falling with a resounding thud right on your behind.

Bucky stood at the gate, hands raised in front of him as if you were a startled animal he was trying to placate.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” He said.

“You’re late,” you said, not fully recognizing the words as they poured from your mouth until it was too late to take them back. You closed your eyes tightly in embarrassment, ducking your head to avoid his gaze, missing the way his eyes crinkled in confusion.

“Not that I know your schedule or anything. Or that I watch you when you are here…oh my god, I need to stop talking.” you managed to choke out, scrambling to your feet and dusting yourself off.

But Bucky laughed, actually laughed. It was breathy and quiet but it was a laugh and you immediately looked up to see his face, broke into a grin.

“I…had some things come up. Do you need some help?” He asked, nodding towards your supplies.

“I’m actually kind of locked in?” the words sounded like a question and you heard him laugh again. You suddenly wanted nothing more but to make this man laugh for the rest of your life.

Bucky wasn’t sure if you knew who he was. He had a feeling that if you did, it was not his help you would want when you were alone at night in a dark cemetery. He glanced down at the lock before looking back up at you. It would take a simple pinch of his fingers to snap the lock open, but he didn’t exactly want to expose who he was if he didn’t have to. His session with Dr. Raynor had left him more than a little frustrated. He had thought going to visit his parents every week should count for something, some sort of way to reconcile his past, honor the Bucky Barnes he had once been. But Raynor had just reiterated again how very alone he was.

He thought about that fact as he looked at you, still clearly flustered from being scared half to death in a cemetery. He had seen you, of course. He had been intrigued by the care and concentration you gave to each grave. He had guessed that maybe you worked for the city or some historical preservation society but now he wasn’t so sure. He wanted to find out

“Why don’t you gather your things while I work on this lock.” He suggested, hoping you would turn. You seemed to understand, nodding as you turned, gathering the things that had strewn across the walkway after your trip. You heard a metallic click and then the screeching echo of the rusty gate swinging open.

“Lifesaver!” You said as you turned around. Bucky ducked his head.

“Need some help with that?” He offered, gesturing to the tools at your feet.

“I usually lock it up in the caretaker shed but I guess Richard forgot I was here tonight. I don’t want to put you out, you’ve already helped enough.”

“I really don’t mind.” Bucky said again, reaching down to grab your things, swiftly holding the water sprayer and bucket of tools with no effort.

“Thank you, seriously, I really appreciate it. I’m Y/N, by the way.” You said.

“Bucky.” He found himself saying.

The walk to your apartment is mostly quiet, but it is comfortable, occasionally filtered with questions.

“Cleaning the graves, is that your job?” He asked. You let out a soft chuckle and sighed.

“Sadly, no. That would probably make it less creepy. My…grandmother passed away, right before the blip. I was actually at her funeral when it happened and when I came back, it kind of became the only place I felt comfortable. God, that sounds so weird.”

“It doesn’t. Not at all. So you were…gone? In the blip?” He asked, his voice gentle. You nodded, glancing up at him.

“You?”

“Yeah” you both fell quiet for a few moments before he said “I think it’s pretty incredible, actually. Spending your time caring for people you'll never meet.”

You looked up at him again, catching him looking at you. You gave him a grin before ducking your head again.

The evening was turning cool, and your shirt had gotten wet in the cleaning process leaving you shivering. Bucky looked down, wanting to do something normal like offer you his jacket, but he didn’t want to break this spell, this comfortable bubble of companionship he had somehow stumbled into. He didn’t want to scare you off if you didn’t know who he was. But you were shivering and he was still the gentleman his Ma had raised, so he stopped walking, setting your tools down on a front stoop and shrugging off his jacket. He held it out, silently offering to drape it over your shoulders and you turned, grabbing the soft leather as soon as it fell over your shoulders.

“Thank you,” you said, snuggling into the jacket and Bucky felt warmth spread all the way down to his toes.

When you neared your building, your stomach dropped. You didn’t want the walk to end and you also were nervous about Bucky seeing your apartment. After losing your grandmother’s cozy brownstone, your small 5th floor walk up paled in comparison. The building was old, but not in the historic pre-war beauty of a few blocks up. Yours was crumbling with age and poor maintenance, made of chipping concrete and a front stoop with a broken step and bent railings. You hurried to get past the front of the building, hoping your creepy neighbor wouldn’t make an appearance tonight…or maybe rather wishing he would. Bucky was certainly a looming presence, maybe the creep in 4B would finally leave you alone.

As you climbed up to your apartment, you thanked Bucky up each flight of stairs. Bucky caught your nervous glances around and was on edge himself. He noticed the immediate shift in your movements and was worried that you didn’t feel safe here. When you stopped in front of the last apartment down the hall on the 5th floor, digging through your bag for your keys, he opened his mouth to say something but stopped. What would he say? Can you please find somewhere safer to live? When you finally found your keys in the depth of your tote bag, you unlocked two deadbolts, which made Bucky feel a bit better, and stepped inside, opening the door wider for Bucky to come in.

“You can just set that stuff right by the door,” you said, continuing to head inside the warm apartment. Bucky placed your tools down and then stood, closing the door and finally taking in your apartment. It was small but exceptionally cozy and nothing like his own barebones government mandated housing.

A small kitchen was directly to the right, overflowing with cooking equipment. To the left, a small dining nook, really just a table pushed up against a window, covered in a delicate lace tablecloth as well as two candles and a white pitcher with a delicate blue design holding a bouquet of dried lavender. There was floral wallpaper, mismatched rugs on nearly every bit of exposed flooring. There were no overhead lights, lamps on nearly every surface emitting a warm glow.

This home, filled with clearly loved things neatly arranged with care, felt so much like the home he grew up in that he stalled at the door, taking in a shaky breath. You must take his harsh inhale as a form of judgment because suddenly you were by his side again, taking in your space with hands clasped in front of you, fidgeting.

“I know, it’s…small. And I don’t think I could ever be described as a minimalist so, I know it’s, well…a lot”, you say.

You had taken his pause at the door to mean he was uncomfortable. You had spent the last few months scouring thrift stores, trying your hardest to recreate the cozy and safe feeling your grandmother’s home had enveloped you in as a child. But seeing a super soldier standing on your braided rug in the doorway, taking in your tufted velvet sofa and lace curtains separating your “living space” from your bed, you felt oddly embarrassed.

“No! No, it’s…it’s, uh. It’s really nice. I think…” Bucky wanted to reassure you that even through his shock, he felt instantly at peace in your home. And that’s what it was. Unlike his apartment with barely any furniture and no personal traces, your home felt like a warm hug. He could tell exactly who you were just by stepping foot inside, like he was peering straight into your mind. “I think my mom had that exact pitcher.” He said finally, gesturing to the milk glass on the table.

“Oh yeah?” You said, smiling now. You hand him back his jacket as you move towards the kitchen, filling the kettle and setting it on the stove.

“Want some tea? Coffee?”

He did. Bucky felt the instant urge to never have to leave your side again and that was terrifying. You had seemingly just met. You hadn’t even taken a glance at his arm, either out of politeness or fear he wasn’t sure and he didn’t think he wanted to find out. He felt his heart rate increase, sweat beginning to gather at the nape of his neck. Flashes of memories forced their way to the surface. His mother, teaching him how to dance across the hardwood floors of their home, doing the same with his sister when she was older. Coming home to the smell of a home cooked meal, sitting together at the table, a table not unlike the one sitting to his left. Even the scent was familiar, lavender and honey. He could feel the panic rising and he knew he needed to get out of there.

“I should actually head out,” Bucky managed to say from the doorway. Your face falls for a moment before you realize that to him, you are essentially complete strangers and your silly crush is one hundred percent one sided.

“Thank you again,” you say, turning for just a moment to reach for a glass from the cupboard but when you turn towards the door again, he is gone.

You had made the decision as you lay awake that night, unable to sleep. Clearly, Bucky was visiting the graves of someone he loved, or at least someone who meant quite a bit to him. He had saved your life, or at the very least saved you from a cold and uncomfortable night spent on a park bench inside a cemetery. You wanted to do something for him, something to thank him properly, and all you kept coming back to was the gravestones. When you woke the next morning, after a fitful few hours of sleep, you had made your mind. You gathered your supplies, dressed quickly into a pair of worn jeans and an oversized gray sweatshirt and your green rain boots before heading out the door.

It was Thursday, and while you knew he wouldn’t be coming today, you still glanced over your shoulder as you neared the cemetery walls. You walked reverently towards the stones he always visited, two stones clustered together underneath one of the large maple trees that had just begun to turn color. This part of the cemetery was towards the center, away from most of the city noise and surrounded by trees. It was one of the reasons your grandmother had picked her plot so early. You thought it had been incredibly morbid at the time but now you understood. It was a beautiful place to rest.

You set your tools down, arranging them in order and mixing your cleaning solution. You inspected the stones for flakes or cracks, any damage that might be made worse by cleaning and thankfully found none. You soaked the stone with the water from your sprayer and picked up your paint scraper, gently scraping away the areas where moss had taken over, obscuring the stone. Then you got to work spraying your cleaning solution and scrubbing the stone with your brush, using a toothbrush to get in the small nooks and crannies to make sure the inscription was legible again. While you were letting the stone sit for a few minutes, you finally took the time to read the epitaphs.

Winnifred Barnes

1895 - 1955

Beloved wife and mother.

George Barnes

1891 - 1940

Beloved husband and father.

You trace the dates with your finger, breath catching in your throat, marveling at the fact that they must be Bucky’s parents.

After rinsing the stones completely with water, you stand back to admire your work. Though they are simple, they truly are beautiful, and you run your fingers over them, sending a silent hello to George and Winnifred. You wondered what they had been like. If Bucky had been close with them. If he had once had siblings. You gently arranged a bouquet of flowers at the base of each stone and slipped a note inside the wrapping.

The next week, Bucky can’t stop his eyes from drifting across the cemetery, looking for the green rain boots you always wore. He can’t help but smile when he finds you. Your back is to him, scrubbing a stone a few yards away and Bucky is surprised at the comfort your simple presence brings him. He feels like he needs to apologize. He had been on the brink of a panic attack in your apartment last week and left with barely a goodbye. When he reaches his parent’s graves, he stills. He has to do a double take to make sure he’s in the right spot. He feels a tightening in his chest, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes as he lets out a shaky breath and crouches down for a closer look. The stones were beautiful, back to the palest gray and their epitaphs were dark and clear. You had even laid flowers at each of them, bright, sunny bouquets that his mother would have adored. He sees a sliver of paper sticking out from the wrapping of the bouquet in front of his mother’s stone and he picks it up, delicately unfolding it.

“Bucky,

I truly hope this isn’t out of line. Normally I never see the families of the graves I clean and I think it is truly remarkable that you are still here, that you can visit their memory. I hope that this brings a bit of beauty to your weekly visits.

Thank you again,

Y/N”

Bucky is enamored with your thoughtfulness. He runs a hand over the smooth marble, taking in each detail he hadn’t bothered to notice before.

“Hey, Ma. Dad.” Bucky says, still crouching low in front of the graves. “I don’t know if this is you sending some sort of sign, but I’ll take it.” He looked up for you again before leaving his own flowers and saying goodbye to his parents.

You catch just a glimpse of his back as he leaves, shoulders hunched, completely unable to read him. Your own shoulders fall. Maybe you had overstepped? Maybe it truly had been some invasion into his private life that he resented you for? Out of anyone you could think of, you knew he certainly deserved his privacy, after everything he had been through. You knew that you only knew a fraction of it, only what they had thrown at him during his pardon proceedings. He had strangely become this constant in your life, and now that you had actually met him, had a conversation with him, you knew him to be sweet and caring. You didn’t want to think lose that now. You felt tears gathering in your eyes and you shook your head. This was stupid! You hardly knew the man, and you had overstepped. This was all on you. Instead of packing up and heading home, like you wanted, you gathered your things and moved a few stones over, preparing to start cleaning again.

After another twenty minutes had passed, you had lost yourself in the process enough to clear your mind somewhat. The music playing through your headphones certainly helped, which was why you didn’t see Bucky as he returned, a coffee in each hand.

Bucky called your name before seeing your earbuds. He transferred the coffee cups into one hand and gently laid a hand on your shoulder. Which was exactly the wrong thing to do. You screamed, stumbling back and again falling flat on your ass, wielding your putty scraper like a weapon. This time, though, Bucky laughed. A head thrown back, hand on hips laugh that you heard even over your music. You ripped out your earbuds, a hand placed over your heart and joined him. He held out a hand to help you up and then offered you one of the coffee cups in his vibranium hand, which you noticed, was not covered by a glove.

“You are going to be the death of me, Barnes.” You said, not knowing why you had the urge to call him by his last name, but the blush on his cheeks made it clear he liked it.

After he left the cemetery, Bucky had begrudgingly called Sam. He had been out of the game for…a long time. Sam, after teasing him relentlessly, had told him to just be direct. Ask you out for coffee, if that would be easier than dinner. So instead, Bucky brought the coffee to you.

You reached out to grab the coffee, brushing the hair back from your face with your other hand and smudging dirt across your forehead. Without pausing to think, Bucky leaned forward and swiped a thumb across your forehead, clearing the smudge. “You had some dirt.”

He was being bashful, you thought. That had to be a good sign that he wasn't angry with you. That and the coffee he had brought. Maybe you hadn’t truly messed everything up.

“Thanks,” you breathe out, holding up the coffee in a salute.

“Do you have time for a break?” Bucky asks, nodding towards the bench just across from you.

“Yeah, just give me a second to rinse this one off.” Bucky reaches for the coffee cup and then watches you work, spraying down the stone with water and watching the brown suds clear. You held such concentration, such reverence as you moved around the stone, making sure all of the soap was gone, reaching down to swipe away a few errant strands of grass that had plastered to the bottom of the stone. He liked the way your nose scrunched in concentration, the tilt of your head as you examined your work. When you were done, you looked up and he realized you had caught him staring, but you gave him a soft smile, reaching out your hand.

“Okay, all set.” You said, taking the coffee he offered back to your outstretched hand. You walked over to the bench, sitting close but not touching. At first the silence was awkward, both not sure what to say. Bucky ran a hand across the back of his neck, letting out a quiet chuckle before turning to you.

“I want to say thank you. For taking care of my parents' graves. That was…I just really appreciate it. They deserve that.” He finally said.

“It was my pleasure. You deserve it too, you know.” You wanted to shy away from his gaze but you held strong, making sure to look in his eyes so he would know you meant it.

“I don’t know about that.” You noticed the instant his body language changed and you knew not to push so you changed the subject, asking him gentle questions about his parents and were pleasantly surprised when he answered. He told you stories about growing up with his best friend Steve, the trouble they would get into. He asked you about your grandmother, about your life before the blip. You didn’t realize how much time had gone by until the sky began to darken, your coffee long gone.

Bucky helped you store your tools into the shed and offered to walk you home. This time, he said goodbye at your door, not coming inside and you reached up to wrap him in a quick hug before you lost your nerve. He was stiff at first before he wrapped his arm around you. He smelled like leather and citrus.

You watched him as he walked down the steps, turning once to give you a wave. When you head in, locking the door behind you, eager to take a shower and wash off the dirt, your hand brushes against something in the pocket of your sweater. You reach in and pull out a folded piece of paper with a phone number scrawled across it and on the back “dinner tomorrow?”

You can't help the excited squeal as you hold the note to your chest before sticking it on the fridge with a magnet. You make yourself wait to text him until after your shower. You rush through making dinner, settle in on your sofa and clutch the phone in your hand like a lifeline. Finally, you type in his number.

“That was very sly of you, Barnes.”

“Too much?” he responds, just a moment later. You grin at the phone.

“Not at all. Tomorrow night is great. Where should I meet you?”

“I’ll pick you up. 7 okay?”

“Perfect.” You send with a smile.

When he picks you up the next evening, he has a bouquet in his hands. He walks you to a diner just a few blocks away, and you grin up at him. It was a favorite spot for you and your grandmother. The waitress, Stella, an old friend of your grandmother gives you a hug when you come in, ushering you to a corner booth and teasing you about how handsome your date is.

Over the next few weeks, Bucky consumes your life. He meets you at the cemetery each week, walking you home at night. Sometimes he comes in, and you watch a movie on your couch, usually ending up with your head on his shoulder. You meet for coffee and sometimes dinner at the diner. You spend late nights on the phone. Through bits and pieces, he starts to share his life with you. His past life, his guilt.

Sometimes he stays the night, though usually only when you both fall asleep on the couch and you have both yet to make a move, to turn this into something more. On one of those nights you wake in your bed, unsure of how you got there before seeing Bucky hunched over on the couch, clearly not sleeping. He must have picked you up and tucked you in after you fell asleep. You sit up, whispering a quiet “hey”, just to make sure he really was awake. He turns to you then, and you see his eyes, haunted and wide. You move towards him slowly, not wanting to make any sudden movements and frighten him away. As you sit down next to him on the couch, you take his hand in yours, rubbing your fingers over his knuckles.

“Nightmares?” you ask, already knowing the answer. He had mentioned them to you before, though only briefly and never wanting to get into them.

He nods, still not turning to look at you.

“Do you want to talk about it?” you ask, voice still low. He shakes his head and you lean in closer, trying to offer him your warmth.

“Okay. What can I do?” you ask. At first you think he isn’t going to answer, but then he inhales and lets out a long breath, angling towards you.

“Why do you clean the tombstones?” he asks. His voice is rough from lack of sleep.

It takes you a minute to answer, not sure exactly what to say.

“I think…,” you start before taking a breath, “I think it’s because I felt so alone. Alone and worthless, if I’m being honest. I guess I didn’t feel like I had done enough to help my grandma when she was alive. Maybe it started as a way to try and apologize to her.” Bucky looked up at that, eyes wide. You shifted closer to him and he draped an arm around your shoulders.

“I think it started out of guilt, out of…just emptiness, but the more that I did it, the more I felt useful. It sounds silly but I never felt alone when I was in the cemetery. I felt…feel…safe and comforted.”

You are both quiet for a long time before Bucky speaks. “I’ve been working since my pardon to...make amends. For the things I did.”

“Bucky, that wasn’t you. You didn’t have control…” you start and he shakes his head. “I know. I know that. But the things he did. I’m not him anymore, but those things are still in my head, it doesn’t feel like it’s separate from me and I can’t…” he breaks off in a gasp.

You pull him in closer, wrapping your arms around him and carding your hands through his hair.

“Do you think maybe it might help? Cleaning the stones? Would you teach me?” You lean back just enough to look in his eyes.

“Of course I’ll teach you, Bucky. I don’t know if it will help but of course I will.”

And you do. You meet in the cemetery twice a week, showing him how to scrape and scrub. How to check for damage before continuing. Bucky is surprised to find that he truly enjoys the work. It forces him to concentrate just enough to clear his mind and he likes being outside. He tells you that in time, he’d like to look for some of the Winter Soldier’s victims, to find where they are buried and do the same for them and you spend evenings researching with him, keeping lists of places you hope you will be able to go with him.

When Autumn is in full swing and the temperatures dip into the forties, making it unsafe for the gravestones to be wet, you still meet in the cemetery, sometimes sharing a picnic, sometimes just talking. It had become such a part of his routine now, something he didn’t have to think about. It left room to think about your smile, your kind, sweet voice, the lavender scent of your hair. He could think about how close you had become, something just more than friendship.

Bucky had been waiting on the bench beneath the maple tree for the last 45 minutes. After thirty, he had called you, just to check-in. For the last few months you had been meeting, you had never missed a day. You had never been so much as five minutes late and he was starting to worry. He wiped his palm on his black jeans, realizing he was sweating.

He couldn’t stop the thoughts that immediately rushed through his mind. Glimpses of you, taken by invisible hands. Someone taking revenge for the things he had been forced to do. After the third unanswered call, he bolts up, unable to pause to wonder if he is overreacting. He’s at your apartment in no time, knocking on the door.

You hear the sound, a gentle knock, coming from just outside of your awareness. You had been lost in the hazy space between dreams and wakefulness and it was hard to open your eyes, fatigue weighing heavily on your entire body. You don’t remember when exactly you fell asleep or how long you’ve been in bed. It could quite possibly have been last night or two days ago. It felt as if every muscle in your body had been hammered with a meat tenderizer and your throat was on fire. Your chest tightened every time you let out a shaky breath, wheezing as you attempted to suck in air. You didn’t think you had ever felt so sick. You were drenched in sweat, sheets soaked through and yet you were shivering. You had the vaguest notion that you were meant to be somewhere, that you were forgetting something important but you couldn’t fight through the thick fog in your brain to remember. You attempted to sit up, desperate to get a drink of water but you felt as if you were moving through mud. You heard the knock again, wondering if you were still sleeping. You called out a weak hello, attempting again to get off your bed but stumbling and falling to the floor.

“Y/N, I’m coming in!” you heard, and though you were miserable you smiled at the sound of his voice.

“Bucky” you whispered.

You heard a loud bang and the sound of splintering wood.

He was by your side in an instant, placing the back of his hand against your forehead.

“Jesus, you’re burning up, doll.” Bucky gently lifts you up, placing you on the bed. You barely recognize the movements but you are instantly filled with relief.

“Have you taken anything for your fever?” he asks, brushing the hair from your eyes. You shake your head no.

“Shower,” you whisper, realizing just how crusty you feel. Bucky glances to the bathroom door and back to you. He gives a quick nod and searches your drawers for a pair of clothes for you to change into and a towel and stacks them neatly on the sink.

“Do you think you can manage?” he asks and you nod again, slowly standing up and accepting his help to the bathroom door. He turns on the water, adjusting the temperature so it is just slightly warm, not wanting to overheat you more than you already are.

“I’ll just be in the kitchen, okay?” His face is clouded with worry so you attempt to smile reassuringly but it doesn’t reach your eyes. You leave the door open a crack and only start to undress when you hear him in the kitchen, the comforting sounds of him making tea and rifling through your drawers.

Initially, the shower feels good, but after a few minutes, it is becoming increasingly difficult to stand. When you turn the water off, you hear a knock on the open door. Bucky reaches through the curtain to hand you your towel and you realize just how cold you are now that the water is off. Shivering, you towel off and wrap the towel around you, carefully opening the shower curtain and accepting Bucky’s hand. You briefly think this isn’t how you wanted the first time he saw you naked to go and Bucky chuckles, his face turning crimson. You must have said that out loud. There is no time to feel embarrassed at the moment, though, because all you want is to get back into your bed under hundreds of blankets and sleep for eternity.

Bucky turns around to let you get dressed as you sit on the edge of your bed for support and you notice that he’s also changed your bedsheets. There is a cup of tea perched on your nightstand along with a full cup of water and a bottle of ibuprofen. After helping you take the medicine and drink a few sips of tea, Bucky tucks you in, pulling the extra quilt from the end of your bed. He turns to leave just as your eyes drift closed but you hold out a hand, desperate in your fever haze for him to stay.

“Are you sure? I’ll just be right over there if you need me.” He points to the couch across your studio apartment, but you nod, grabbing onto his hand and tugging with what little strength you have. Bucky kicks off his boots and takes off his jacket.

He lies down next to you, stock still, feet crossed at the ankles and arms crossed over his chest.

“Cold.” You mutter, teeth chattering, and the sound breaks Bucky’s heart. He turns then, opening his arms and you shuffle closer. Bucky inhales as you snake your arm around his neck, leg hitching over his hip, just trying desperately to get warm and completely lacking any inhibitions you normally would have in your feverish state. Bucky pauses for a moment, frozen, before wrapping his arm around your back. His fingers trail through your hair as you nuzzle deeper into his shoulder and the last thing you remember before finally drifting to sleep is a gentle kiss on the crown of your head.

You wake often through the night, each time Bucky is already awake and looking at you, asking if you are alright. He gives you more ibuprofen once during the night but you never truly stop touching. The weight of his arm around you is a comfort. When you wake in the morning, the sun is already making its way higher in the sky and you don’t feel quite as achey. You roll over slightly, watching as the light drifts across the floor, filtered through the lace curtains. You reach a hand out to find Bucky but you are met with cold sheets. Had you dreamed he was there? But as you sit up, looking at the cup of tea you definitely don’t remember making, you find a note.

“Heading to the hardware store so I can fix your door. I’ll be back soon. - Bucky”

Fix your door? It occurs to you only now that Bucky must have kicked it in to get inside last night. You roll out of bed, grabbing the robe hanging on the bedpost and sliding your socked feet into your coziest pair of slippers before making your way to the bathroom. You splash some water on your face and brush your teeth before heading towards the kitchen. Bucky is already back, unloading a paper bag of every type of cold medicine you have ever seen. You smile gratefully at him as you see he also brought you a coffee and a bagel from the shop down the street that you love so much.

“Buck, you didn’t have to do any of this.” You said as you came up beside him. He takes a moment to answer, as if he is steeling himself to say something.

“I was, uh. I was really worried when you didn’t show and weren’t answering your phone.” He pauses to clear his throat. He fiddles with one of the boxes of medicine, turning it over in his hands before setting it back on the counter. He looked around your kitchen, eyes stopping at your fridge and the tiny note with his phone number that was still stuck there.

“I was worried that somehow…because of who I am, something had happened to you. And I realized how devastating that would be…to me. God, I was terrified, doll. I felt like I couldn’t breathe.” He stepped closer, cupping your cheek and lowering his forehead to yours.

“I’m sorry I worried you.” You whispered, just as he said “Your fever’s gone down.”

He chuckled.

“Please don’t be sorry. Honestly I kind of needed the push. Because I’ve been denying just how hard I’ve fallen for you.”

You sucked in a breath, looking up into crystal blue eyes that felt like home. After a moment Bucky let out a nervous chuckle.

“You’re killing me, doll. Say something. Am I out of line?”

“I really want to kiss you right now, Barnes.” You said, finally.

“What’s stopping you?”

“You’ll get sick,” you said with a smile.

“Super soldier, remember?”

“A definite perk, I guess.”

You were smiling as your lips touched, a gentle, sweet kiss that held the promise of something more. And despite the exhaustion in your bones, the ache in your head you were exquisitely happy.

“You need rest. Plus, I need to fix your door. Gotta keep my girl safe.” He said, giving you another peck on the lips. You couldn’t argue with that.

#loveletterswritingchallenge #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fic #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky x y/n #fanfic #fanfiction

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allyouneedisbuck · 3 years

Text

when my time comes around (lay me gently in the cold, dark earth)

summary -> bucky wasn’t perfect, but he was a good man.

words -> 1.4k

warnings -> MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH, dealing with said death, religious themes, google translate russian (roughly translates to love of my life) spoiler he doesn’t come back to life

notes -> sometimes… when you’re stressed, you write angst. after this piece it will most likely be awhile as i focus on much longer pieces i desperately want to finish. title from work song by hozier….love of my life…. hozier if ur out there im free everyday for u

— ➶ —

It’s like cold has washed over you permanently. Which, well, which is a sick sense of irony when you think too hard about it.

He was here one minute and gone the next. Bucky was here, laughing by your side and pulling you close to press kisses against your cheeks one day and the next you were falling to your knees with Sam’s arms trying to hold you up.

How could he just leave? Just die?

It’s like ghosts are phasing through you over and over and over again. Flashes of cold mixed with burns that leave your skin tingling.

How could Bucky leave you?

“Promise me.” You whisper into the night. Bucky’s hand is intertwined with yours. So tight you think you may lose circulation but you don’t care. “You and me. Forever.”

“I promise.” Bucky’s knuckle grazes your cheekbone. You lean into his touch. “Nothing is keeping me from coming home to you, my love.”

Did a promise count as kept if he came home in a casket?

His funeral is on a Friday in the middle of fall. Leaves are brown, orange, red and scattered across the grass you walk across. They crunch under each step, you grimace every-time. Sam’s hand is intertwined with yours, Sarah and her boys trailing behind you two.

You don’t listen to what anyone says. All you can think of is Bucky not being the one by your side.

“Bucky’s fiancée is going to say a few words.” You think it’s odd that you’ve gotten a priest. Bucky had been through so much, what person comes out the other side believing in a just God who put them through hell? “Please.” He steps aside, your train of thought cut short.

“What do you think happens when you die?” Bucky asks so quietly you almost don’t hear him. “Do you… Do you believe on heaven?”

You turn to look at him with furrowed brows. “Do you?”

“I don’t know.” He won’t look at you. Bucky’s eyes are stuck to your ceiling fan as his fingers tap anxiously against his stomach. “Even if I did, I don’t think I’d be there.”

It’s a small crowd. You supposes that’s not surprising. Those who knew Bucky before Hydra were dead, Steve was gone. T’Challa is here though. Shuri too. Grim looks on their faces as they come to stand beside Sam while you step forward to make your speech.

You open your mouth, but no words come out. The speech you’ve written is held so tightly in between your fingers that it rips. You flinch at the sound a jarring reminder that Bucky had always been the one to unravel your tightly wound fists when the stress became too much. That he would no longer be able to do so.

Who would now?

Your eyes trail over the casket, an American flag draped over it, and you laugh. A hysterical fit of laughter that has people looking around uncomfortably.

“How does a man live through one of the worst wars the world has even seen just to…” You trail off. Tears are burning in your eyes and you can’t care enough to force them back. “Bucky Barnes was a good man. He wanted to right his wrongs in the world.”

You crumple the pre-written speech up entirely. “He wasn’t perfect. He… He never made his side of the bed. He always left his shoes lying around for me to trip on. Then laughed about it,” you smile grimly at the memory.

“Bucky!” You groan as you cradle your knee close to your chest. You can feel the throbbing pain of what no doubt will be a gigantic bruise across you knee cap.

He looks over his shoulder from the couch to stare at where you’ve fallen in the entry hallway. You glare as amusement dances in his eyes. “Yes, любовь всей моей жизни?”

“Don’t try and sweet talk me.” You can’t stop the smile as you climb to your feet. “It won’t work. How many times have I told you to put your shoes away? I didn’t build the shoe rack for nothing.”

Bucky laughs brightly. He walks over to you with a big smile that you know will kill your anger within minutes. “Brat.” Your murmur as his arms wrap around you.

You glance down at your feet. “He didn’t believe in separating colors so our laundry always had color bleeds.” You swallow thickly. “He broke promises. He… He was supposed to come home. He promised to come home.” Your voice is choked up and tears stream down your cheeks.

“But he was good.” You force out. “He once asked me if I believed in heaven or hell and I… I still don’t know the answer,” you glance at the priest, who just looks at you with pity, “but I do know Bucky was good to his core and whatever there is after death, he’s in a good place. I hope you all find comfort in that.”

As you step back into Sam’s space, soldiers step forward. It had been Sam’s idea to give him a veteran’s honor funeral.

You can’t say thank you when they hand over the folded flag because your legs give out underneath you. It’s like the flag being placed in your hands made it all official.

You crash to the ground, the leaves screech underneath your knees and the wet grass soaks through your black clothing but nothing matters. Not when Bucky was being lowered six feet into the ground and you were still waiting for it all to be a joke.

“Breathe.” Sam says softly as he kneels down beside you. It’s impossible though, all that comes out are choked breaths and sniffles as you clutch the flag close to your chest. “You’re okay. Breathe.” He tries again, rubbing a hand up and down your back.

“Marry me.” Bucky blurts. It’s three in the morning and you should both be asleep, but it was hard when each episode ended on a cliff hanger. You laugh, and Bucky shakes his head with a smile. “I’m serious, marry me.”

Your heart nearly stops. “W…What?”

“I was going to,” Bucky rummages through his nightstand drawer as he speaks, “do this later. At dinner or the park, but this… This feels right - ah hah! - So, marry me?”

He turns to you with a ring in hand. Your mouth falls open in shock while he grins smugly.

“любовь всей моей жизни.” Bucky murmurs when you don’t respond right away. There are small ticks of nervousness, the way he vibranium fingers clench and unclench or the small smile that overtakes his smug grin. “Marry me?”

Like you would ever say no.

You visit all the time. Your therapist says however you want to grieve is okay. Nobody can judge you, but you can sense visiting him everyday doesn’t help you move on. Could you ever really move on though? Bucky was a piece of you, a part that you would never get back.

“I miss you everyday.” You whisper. “Not a day goes by that I don’t wake up and for a brief second look for you then realize…” You fiddle with the ring still on your left hand. “I’m doing better though. I… I’m working again. Sam and I go out to dinner once a week. I’m trying. I know you would’ve wanted me to try, so that’s what I’m doing.”

“I love you.” You say softly. “любовь всей моей жизни.”

You stand hastily wiping the tears off of your cheek, the metal now glaringly absent from your hand.

All that’s left of Bucky Barnes is a headstone surrounded by flowers, a flag and a diamond ring.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Here Lies James Buchanan ‘Bucky’ Barnes

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Sergeant 107th

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎WWII

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Prisoner of War

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Beloved son, brother, friend and partner.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Not perfect, but good.

— ➶ —

notes -> this is bad i’m just bleh. i forgot how rough school and work was because i was lucky enough to not have to work last semester. have a safe week 💗

#james bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes oneshot #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes #tw death

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wkemeup · 3 years

Text

Losing Riley

summary: Before she met Bucky, Y/n’s world was shattered. Sam was the common thread that helped her pick up the pieces again. pairings: riley x reader, hinted future bucky x reader warnings: character death, grief 🧡 series masterlist / series playlist

You woke to cold sheets. A hand slid over to the left side of an empty bed and your heart clenched. The startling realization settled in each morning as the distant glow of the sunrise peered through the curtains – Riley was still an ocean away and you were still emphatically alone.

But you were determined to make the most of the day, even if Riley wasn’t there to spend it with you. It was his mother’s birthday whether he was stateside or not and you were insistent not to let the ocean waters sweep you under in his absence. So, you pressed on a smile and dragged your feet to the bathroom to tame your hair and dry your eyes. His family would be expecting you and one of your homemade cakes by the evening.

You dared a glance at yourself in the mirror, clad only in the US Air Force t-shirt Riley had left behind. It was rich in army green color and the logo stood bright against your chest. You wondered how much wear the shirt could handle before it started to fade. It had lost Riley’s scent after you’d worn it for a week straight, the lingering glimpses of his presence dimming night by night. You could only hope it wouldn’t shrink in the wash.

You spent the day perfecting the cake his parents had grown to crave; three-tiered and coated in layers of chocolate frosting. Billy Joel sang on the radio and you mumbled your way through the verses of We Didn’t Start the Fire to distract yourself from imagining Riley seated at the countertop, watching you with love struck smirk on his face and a dab of frosting at the corner of his lips. The book on the counter held a gentle layer of flour on the pages. It kept you company until the timer rang.

The dress you wore was one you’d purchased with the intent to wear for a date night when Riley came home after his first tour. Though it was red in color, it was not striking or bold – instead, it was soft, almost muted, and it carried a sort of gentle effervescence to it. Modest but charming. You’d hoped it would make him smile. You hadn’t counted on how the war stealing his ability to do so.

It was the first time you wore the dress since you bought it. Maybe you’d ask his mother to take a picture of you with the cake to send to him. He might like that. He seemed to be himself more when he was away than when he was home in your arms these days.

You had the cab drop you at the end of the driveway. It was long enough to catch the glow of Christmas lights still draped around the trees outside and hidden under layers of snow, despite the fact that it was well into January. The suburbs were so quiet compared to the city; you’d forgotten how much you enjoyed spending time at his parent’s house. They’d welcomed you to their table, even in the months Riley was overseas. It was a burden you shared together – to be left behind.

You’d only made it halfway up the driveway when you noticed the two men standing at the porch. They were dressed in formal uniforms, white hats held down by their hearts. You hadn’t realized you’d stopped moving until the snow started to soak into your shoes. It piled on the pointed toes of your heels.

Riley’s mother stood in the open-door way, a vacant look upon her face. Her husband was at her side, shaking his head as he struggled to grab onto his wife before she let out a wail that echoed so painfully, birds scattered from nearby trees.

Her knees gave way from under her as she fell to the ground in sobs. The two men in uniform did their best to comfort her, only to be shoved away. They stood back and watched a mother grieve her only son at a respectful distance.

“Y/n?”

Your hands were shaking. The cake tray had slipped from your fingers and fell into the snow. A mess of sweet chocolate amongst pavement and ice. The voice called your name again, concerned, frantic, and you could only vaguely make out a blurred figure racing towards you.

Everything around you tunneled, your knees weakening as you struggled to fight against the ice under your heels and the weight suddenly barreling down on your shoulders. All you could hear was the screams of Riley’s mother as she held onto her husband, unable to move from the comfort of the ground.

“Y/n, come with me,” the voice eased and you looked up to find Sam Wilson standing a few paces ahead of you dressed in his formal Air Force blues, gold wings on his shoulder and a series of colorful pins on his left breast. He held out a hand to you.

“Let’s go inside, okay?” he tried again but you shook your head, eyes darting back to Riley’s mother.

You tried to take in another breath but found it shallow, as if your lungs had collapsed beside your heart in mutual surrender.

“You’re having a panic attack,” Sam told you calmly. “I need you to listen to me, okay? Focus on my voice.”

You nodded quickly, tears burning in your eyes, though you couldn’t tell if it was from the shattered remains in your chest or the light headedness pulling your vision under. Sam bent down and grabbed a handful of snow.

“Here. Feel this,” he ordered evenly, placing the snow in your bare hand. He stepped back, shaking out his gloves. “It’s cold, right?”

Yes, you tried to say though the word didn’t quite leave your lips. It stung, but there was a comfort in it. You watched as it melted in your palm, your skin burning from where it had been.

“Smells like Christmas trees out here, doesn’t it?” Sam added, taking in a deep breath. He smiled. “Reminds me of the tree farms I used to go to with my dad every year growing up.”

You followed his lead, taking in as much of a breath as your body would allow. He was right, it did smell like pines. Riley’s family planted a few along their property line because his mother loved Christmas so much. It smelled like Fraser and Balsam Fir all year round.

You concentrated on the smell of the trees, the chocolate that had scattered into the snow in clumps of frosting and cake; the sound of Sam’s voice, of Riley’s mother’s cries; the feel of the chill on your skin and the snow in your hand. You focused until you could draw in a full breath enough to make sense of the destruction around you.

“He’s dead, isn’t he?” you asked, voice trembling on the verge of tears.

Sam’s shoulders fell, a terrible longing pressed over his features. “I’m so sorry, Y/n.”

Despite your efforts, your knees buckled in mirror to Riley’s mother. Sam caught you before you could hit the ground, his arms encasing around you as your body fought the violent tremors shaking through you. You cried against his jacket, as the snow built upon your shoulders and wet your hair. You cried until there was little else your body could give.

***

You barely remembered the funeral.

A folded flag had been placed in the lap of Riley’s mother as she sobbed. A casket had been lowered into the ground. Guns fired in salute and you flinched at each one as they echoed against the stormy grey skies. Sam held your hand through the entire ceremony, squeezing it hard enough to leave a mark when it looked like you were teetering on the edge of an endless void. He stayed on your couch that night and pretended not to hear as you cried yourself to sleep.

There was an emptiness that took hold of you when Riley left for his first tour, but there was still a lingering hope. You’d managed to hold onto the image of a man at war and his woman waiting for him to return. He wrote often and you kept each letter in a shoe box under the bed. It was a script of a movie you’d learned to follow – the scraps of love you could grasp from the shores of the Atlantic.

When he came home, he was hollow. He wasn’t the man you’d kissed goodbye with a cheesy, hopeful grin on his face. He’d lost the spark behind his eye and the glow in his skin. He became withdrawn and angry; lashing out when you reached to him with an anchor in your hand as if he favored the unforgiving currents pulling him under.

The time you spent with him before he left again hurt worse than when he was gone. He longed for the sky like a bird with a broken wing. It was within reach, so close and so impossibly far from his grasp. He pushed you away, convinced you would never understand the resentment he carried towards civilian life and the utter inability to conform to it.

Perhaps he was right. You’d shouted it yourself one night until you were both hoarse and in tears. You would never understand, but it didn’t mean you couldn’t try, that you didn’t love him any less.

You’d seen the way the war had hurt him. It shoved nightmares to his dreams and panic in his veins. It made him hypervigilant and paranoid. It isolated him from his friends and family. It made him feel like a monster in the skin of a man, pretending to be someone he wasn’t; smiling through aching muscles as if he were a portrait hanging in a museum.

He pretended to be fine. He pretended to try. He never was.

It didn’t surprise you the day he told you he was going back.

Still – you begged. Despite the tears, the months of heartache and panic attacks and night terrors, you were desperate for him to stay. You were desperate to rebuild what the war had broken between you. You loved him and it wasn’t enough.

After he left, you tried to pretend as he did – that everything was fine, that you didn’t feel an ache in your chest at the thought of him, that you were a woman waiting on your soldier to return home.

He was more himself when he called. He became the Riley you remembered in the beginning; full of hope and eager to prove himself. He smiled often and laughed as his friends teased him for the blush in his cheeks when you appeared on the screen. It was those moments that encouraged you to hang on, that reminded you why he was worth the pain and heartache.

Those moments gave you hope that this time would be different. When Riley came home, the two of you would be just fine. The soldier and his girl.

Always optimistic. Always sunny. Always finding silver linings.

You should have known better than that.

***

Mrs. Jefferson was surprised the day you showed up at work dressed in shades of grey and black, returning the piles of books you had yet to read.

“You should go home, dear,” she eased, slipping the glasses from the bridge of her nose to rest on the beads against her chest. “It’s too soon for you to be at work.”

“I’m fine,” you mumbled. You didn’t put much effort into the lie but you couldn’t stand to be in your apartment another second longer. It was too quiet, too empty. You’d never lived with Riley but his things were scattered around your place. The Air Force shirt sat crumbled at the foot of your bed.

“Honey, you forget that I know what you are going through,” Mrs. Jefferson sighed, placing a trembling hand over yours. You paused. “Be patient with yourself. Have kindness for the man you lost. You’ll see the sun again, my dear. I promise.”

You didn’t know whether it was the tenderness in her words or the way her aged hand curled around yours that broke you. Tears blurred over your eyes and you sank into her embrace as she drew circles against your spine. If the visitors noticed your grief, they did not say anything. For that, you were grateful.

***

It took time before you could think of Riley without crying. Months, maybe, but it was progress. Sam stopped by daily in the beginning, showing up with coffee and donuts from Luciana’s and forcing you to get out of bed just to open the door for him before he woke the neighbors. You’d come to expect him and started to ready yourself before he arrived.

He swung by after work some days with takeout and some weekends he dragged you to his friend Steve’s house where they watched football and you filled your stomach with nachos and buffalo chicken dip.

He taught you to smile again despite yourself because Sam was infectious no matter how deep the void you’d caged yourself in. It was impossible not to return his smile, impossible not to try for a man who so genuinely wanted you to succeed. He was Riley’s partner and he knew Riley on a level not even you had seen. Sam grieved different than you did, but he grieved nonetheless. It was something you shared in. Something you overcame together, too.

The day he brought you to the VA, you’d dragged your feet the whole way.

“Trust me, kid,” Sam urged, yanking your hand along the sidewalk, but you planted your feet. Sam rolled his eyes. “Do it for Riley.”

Your jaw dropped, though Sam started to smirk. “Don’t evoke Riley’s name to guilt me into working for the people who took him from us, Sam!”

“I’m guilting you into volunteering. Let’s make that clear,” Sam retorted. “I’m not paying you shit.”

You laughed despite the frown on your face.

“Second, these guys aren’t the big shots who sit in their cozy offices while our boots on the ground see the real fight,” Sam said, squeezing your hand. He wasn’t teasing anymore. His smile was genuine as his features softened, a sad sort of memory on his mind. “They’re guys like Riley, Y/n. Guys who could use the help he should have had.”

Your lips parted, unable to come up with an excuse to say next. You thought of Riley curled up on the floor with his hands pressed over his ears as fireworks lit up the sky on New Year’s Eve. You thought of the dark circles under his eyes from sleepless dreams and the toll it took on your relationship. You thought of the shame he felt for pushing you away, for being unable to stop himself from hurting you, too.

You shook your head. “I don’t know if I’m strong enough for that, Sam.”

“Just come with me to the open house,” Sam tried, tugging on your hand and this time, you let him drag you a few steps. “If it’s too much, I won’t push it again...” he bit his lip, “until next year.”

“Fine!” you laughed, falling in stride with him as he fist pumped the air in victory. “I don’t know how Riley put up with you for so long.”

“With much reluctance,” Sam snickered.

It felt nice to be able to talk about Riley without it hurting. It still ached, but it was a pleasant ache – like maybe remembering him didn’t have to be a bad thing, like maybe it could bring you a little joy, too.

Sam brought you into his office first to draw you away from the crowds. It gave you a chance to take off your coat and ease yourself into the surroundings before Sam inevitably threw a handful of strangers on you with terrible stories and sad faces to convince you to stay.

“I just gotta find a file for Steve and we can head out to the main room, alright?”

You nodded, taking the time to look around Sam’s office. It wasn’t anything like you’d pictured it to be. You’d expected it to be in chaos – disorganized, with papers stacked high on the desk and a basketball hoop hanging over the trash bin – but it was rather professional. He had awards framed on the wall, metals encased in glass. File cabinets labeled and not a pen out of place.

But it was the photo sitting on his desk that drew your attention. You picked it up, recognizing Sam at the center in his Air Force uniform and a younger, more doe-eyed Steve Rogers who stood beside him dressed in army greens. But there was a third man hanging off Sam’s left shoulder you didn’t know.

He was handsome. Smile bright enough to rival even that of Sam’s. With short, brown hair and eyes as blue as you’d ever seen, you wondered whether his face might be one you’d see out in the crowd of veterans gathered in the lobby.

“That’s Bucky,” Sam grinned, pointing to the man in the photo. “He’s still out on tour.”

You handed Sam the picture, tucking your hair behind your ear nervously, and he seemed to enjoy how flustered you were.

“He’s scheduled to be home next year though,” Sam added, studying for your reaction. “I’ll see if I can get him to swing by if... you know... you’re volunteering here.”

You glared at Sam until he broke into laughter.

“Come on, I’ll introduce you to the regulars,” Sam grinned, grabbing your hand and dragging you out into the crowd in the lobby.

You knew before Steve’s presentation on the services at the VA even began that Sam had tied your heart with string to this building and the people in it. You saw Riley’s face in everyone who shook your hand – from the petite, red headed woman with a questionable background and kind eyes to the son of a billionaire who had joined the Air Force in rebellion and found he rather liked being just ‘one of the guys.’

It was as if you could feel a hand on your back, urging you forward, into the arms of these people and the compassion they could give to you. You wondered if Sam knew that it would be as much a kindness to you as you could be for them, to be able to give your time to this place. Ideas began to spring in your mind of how you could bring your love of books to your work here and how much you’d missed reading yourself.

Maybe this place could heal you, too.

It took a single glance from Sam across the room to know he’d convinced you. He smiled, raising a glass of cheap red wine, and nodded. It was the first time in months you’d felt a glimmer of hope, a reason to be excited, a possibility for good amongst the broken.

You clung onto it with everything you had.

#Idk how to tag this?#riley x reader #bucky barnes x reader

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ilkkawhat · 2 years

Note

Please for the prompts? Mac and Jack with "They won't take you away from me ever again."

[GOOD MORNING EVERYONE ENJOY THE ANGST]

They buried an empty casket.

Mac knew it was empty when the news came, when his dog tags were swung in front of him like a pendulum, when his mother called him with an unrecognizable voice underwater in a sea of tears.

He knew it was empty and had to pretend that it was real, that he had just lost his best friend, just lost the biggest mistake in his life in not following him, not going kaboom when he went kaboom.

He even had to pretend that there weren't sandbags in the casket that he helped carry to its rest, right next to his senior that he conversed with very often, to keep him from being lonely while his son was away on a suicide mission, and to tell him the truth of what that mission was.

He had to act so stoic at the wake. At the funeral. At his house afterwards. Had to watch as the rest of his team—his family mourned the idea of a man that they just buried in the ground.

And even on their revenge mission, Mac had to pretend that he was dead, even with all of the clues that obviously pointed out that he was very much alive.

He had to pretend his hopes weren't ridiculously high, however. Especially when he started seeing people on the street who looked just like him, when Riley stopped wasting time on tears and became an unstoppable force, when even Bozer threw life ending punches with just one fist, when Matty took all her anger out on Mac, chastising him for his dumb calls and dumb references and dumb attitude because she knew, too.

That he was just pretending.

He even allowed himself to have a sliver of fun in the facade, paying homage to the fallen soldier in the best way he could when he found himself face to face with the entity that supposedly killed him.

Two guns, two pieces of duct tape.

One battle cry that would call out to him, bring him back home.

Mac had to pretend that was it. Took a joyride with Riley in her inherited GTO, moved all the boxes out of his apartment, helped his family settle all of his affairs while he was opening separate bank accounts under his name—well, a code name, because Matty and Riley would whip anyone's ass that tried to steal his identity.

He had to pretend that he was taking a vacation when he flew solo, and when he landed, he didn't have to pretend anymore.

He found him under the rubble of the explosion that supposedly killed him. He knew the first responders had been tipped off, bribed into saying there were no survivors, collecting a few jars of dust as the "ashes" that were sent to the soldier's home country.

But all the while, that team that should have been dead was very much alive, and rose like a phoenix out of those so-called ashes.

And then Mac had to start pretending again, while the reason he came here was wheeled to the ER on a stretcher. He had to pretend he wasn't crying, had to pretend that he wasn't afraid of what he found, had to pretend it would all be okay.

He had to pretend to be innocent when he made the call to the Phoenix, telling them where he was and what he found.

He had to pretend that he recognized the man wrapped up in bandages, tied up in tubes, his breathing hissing out of the pump that kept him alive. He had to pretend that the heart rate monitor wasn't going to flatline, that he had hung on this far, and would make it out of this.

He had to pretend he wasn't so drained, so exhausted from everything that had happened, and almost fell asleep.

Almost.

He didn't have to pretend when scorched fingertips wiggled, when a pair of foggy eyes opened and met his, when he heard the voice of this mystery man that confirmed everything he had hypothesized.

"Mmmmmmaccccccc..." a long moan, an attempt to break the silence that had bricked its way between them since he walked away out of Mac's life.

"Jack," Mac couldn't hide it anymore, the floodgates opened and he, as firmly and yet as gently as he could, cupped Jack's hand between his own, a few teardrops melting into the bandages and hopefully didn't sting Jack as much as it stung him.

He waited until Jack was fully conscious, when Jack was able to say more than one word, when he was able to even hear more than one word, before Mac told the man that he loved more than anything in the world how he found him, and made a promise to him that he wished he would have made years ago.

"They won't take you away from me ever again."

#patriotproblems #jack dalton #angus macgyver #macgyver fic #macdalton #jack and mac #shippy or platonic take your pick this can go either way #mk.fic

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labyrinthof-fan-fiction · 3 years

Text

We Were Happy

Sam Wilson X Reader

Summary: Sam’s ex-fiancee is a member of the Falcon/Winter Soldier duo, fighting alongside them. It’s all good, until the events of TFATWS Episode 4. (this summary sucks, but my brain is so wiped from writing this)

A/N: This one is not for the faint of heart. I was listening to Taylor’s “We Were Happy” on my drive home today, and for some reason my brain immediately just went to Sam, I really can’t tell you why. I don’t own TFATWS, its characters, or “We Were Happy”

Warnings: Major Character Death, Blood, Graphic Depictions of Violence, Gore, Death, Violence, Funeral Scene, Swearing.

Word Count: 2,665

Sam was shaking, Karli had threatened Sarah and the boys. He wasn’t thinking straight. “She overstepped.”

“Sam, you can’t take her on alone.” You said, pulling on your combat jacket.

“I agree,” Bucky said, as you both chased him down the stairs and onto the street.

Violence begins after page break.

You knew you were walking into a fight, but you hadn’t expected John Walker and Lamar Hoskins to show up. You should have known they were tailing you. They always were. All hell broke loose, then you heard Lamar’s body hit the column next to you. You glanced down and knew he was gone. John ran and checked his pulse, but you knew he wasn’t going to find anything, then you saw his eyes turn black. You had seen that look before, “John, don’t.” You started, the Flag Smashers in the room shifted uneasily, then they started to run.

John snarled and chased one out the window. For a fleeting moment you glanced back at Sam, he was shaking his head. You closed your eyes and ran headfirst out of the window, your wings caught the breeze and you landed on your feet, chasing after the man clad in red, white, and blue.

He tripped the man he was following and threw him into the fountain, the shield raised above his head. You picked up your speed and slammed into the Flag Smasher, pushing him out of the way and putting yourself directly under the shield. A scream fell from your lips as the first blow landed on your chest. Your head fell to the side and you saw people gathering as John continued to deal blows to your body, cellphones filming.

“John.” You managed to say, but you looked up and saw the unhinged look in his eyes and you knew, this was your last fight. You glanced over and saw Sam run up with Bucky next to him, Bucky grabbed onto Sam’s shoulder. Tears fell from your eyes as you saw the panic rising in Sam’s eyes, you focused on him, just Sam. Maybe just staring into his eyes would be enough to save you.

Sam was frozen in place as he watched John deal the final blow to your chest, horror washed over him. Bucky’s grip on Sam loosened and he ran to your body on the steps. “No, no no,” He chanted as he fell to his knees at your side. He tried to not see the blood that was pooling under you, tried not to think about how bad it truly was.

“Sam.” You murmured weakly, reaching your hand for his. He clasped yours tightly.

“You stay with me, you hear me dammit? You’re not going anywhere.” He said through a clenched jaw, tears were falling down his face. His eyes traveled down to the wound from the shield and he saw the engagement ring hanging from your neck. He pressed his spare hand against the wound, trying to stop the blood.

“Couldn’t get rid of it.” You said before a cough shook your body.

“Baby, please.” He whispered, “Please hold on, we’ll get you to a hospital, they’ll save you.”

Your eyes closed as another cough ripped from your lips. “Sam,” You murmured. “I love you.”

His other hand moved through your hair to cradle your face. “I love you too, baby, so much. Hold on. Please, hold on.” He chanted, but he heard your breath growing weaker. He gently placed his forehead against yours, “Please, God, not this.”

Your eyes met his as you felt the rattle in your chest grow stronger. “Goodbye, Sam.” He watched as a small smile came across your lips and your eyes closed, he felt your hand grow slack in his.

“No, no, no!” He shouted through his tears as he pulled you close to him, resting your head against his chest as your final breath left your body. He could see the cellphones all pointed at him, he couldn’t take it. He cradled your body against his chest and found himself eye to eye with John as he stood.

“Sam….” John started, Sam’s eyes fell on your blood on the shield, he refused to meet the man’s eyes.

Sam gritted his teeth and clenched his jaw, he knew that this was not the time to say what he truly thought of the other man. Not here, not now. He expanded his wings and took off with your body, not saying a word to John.

Sarah helped him with planning the funeral, honestly she did most of the work. Choosing flowers, the casket, making arrangements with the church. He found himself on the dock, standing next to the family boat. He stared out on the water, remembering when you both had been children and played on the docks while your parents worked. He could hear your laughter. He was broken from his stupor by Sarah coming up next to him.

“Are you going to carry her?” She asked gently.

Sam met her eyes, “I…” He had spent the past few days trying not to think about your funeral. “Yes.”

Sarah placed her hand on his back, rubbing a circle, comforting him like she had when they were kids. She looked down and saw the engagement ring he was twirling in his fingers. “She held onto that for so long. She was convinced that you were coming back.”

Sam chuckled, “Then I came back and fucked everything up.”

Sarah sighed, “I don’t think you fucked it all up, you both had the past few weeks together.”

Sam looked over the water, “There’s so much I wish I had said. I wish I had done.” The sun started to sink beneath the horizon. “And now, I’m not sure where I go from here.”

“You don’t have to have a plan right now. No one expects you to have everything together, after what you just went through.”

Sam scoffed and stared out watching the sun fade beneath the tide, wishing that you were next to him. John had murdered you, in broad daylight, with the shield that Steve had chosen him for. And Sam rejected it, gave it to America, and America gave it to the man who ended your life. He knew the reasons he gave it up, at the time, they had been the right reasons. But now, all he wanted was to go back in time and force himself to keep it, let it rust in a corner of a barn for all he cared. If he would have kept his nose out of any of the Avengers business, you would still be here.

Tears were streaming down Sam’s face as he carried your casket to your final resting place. He had remained silent through the entire funeral, Bucky at his side. Bucky had given him space and he was grateful, but now he was grateful for his support. Sam watched as they lowered your casket in the ground, Taps began to call through the cemetery, the shots of the salute felt like they ripped through his heart. He remained silent as they finished, then a man walked up to him with a folded flag.

“I’m sorry for your loss.” He saluted, then placed the flag in Sam’s arms. Sam’s eyes fell on the small triangle that was meant to honor your memory, your service, then a sob broke through his lips. He felt his knees buckle and Bucky grabbed his elbow to hold him steady. The cemetery cleared and he was left with the flag cradled in his arms. Bucky removed his arm from his elbow and Sam’s legs gave out. Sam’s heart felt heavy as he sobbed at the pile of dirt that covered you, Bucky stood vigil with him until the sky turned to night and the stars sparkled against the black. Bucky accompanied him back to the house. Sam paused on the street, remembering the night he had proposed to you, right before you both had been sent to you assignments. The porch lights had illuminated the two of you, he put his hand in his pocket and thumbed at the ring. The two of you had been so happy in that moment, carefree kids, for just one moment.

A week later, Sam was alone in your apartment, he took in the sight of the kitchen, almost expecting you to step into it and chide him for standing there and doing nothing. He moved around the table and found an envelope with his name scrawled in your handwriting. It seemed so out of place in your kitchen, he thumbed at the edge, debating if he wanted to read it. What could you say? Did you know this mission would be your last? He sighed and opened the envelope, seeing multiple pages inside.

Sam,

If you’re reading this, I’ve gone and done something stupid. I don’t know if you’ll be the one to find it or if someone will pass it along to you. Maybe it will end up on a landfill somewhere, unopened and left to rot into the Earth. Either way, I’m going to assume you are reading this.

I’m sure you’re wondering, why a letter? We have technology, there is such thing as video recordings. Well, after the snap, I went to therapy. Yes, I know, hell froze over. But losing you, I dug myself into a hole and Sarah pulled me out, then left me on a therapist’s doorstep.

As a way to cope with loss she recommended that I write letters, to you, about you, put everything in writing. And I did, this won’t be the first one I wrote. I doubt you will find them, maybe you’ll be the one cleaning my apartment and you will find them. When I got the call to join you and Bucky I was surprised. Things between us hadn’t been the same since the blip, you barreled headfirst into work as an Avenger. Did I ever tell you how proud I am of you for becoming an Avenger? Baby, I am so proud of you. God, you’re amazing. I’m babbling, I know, but I’m probably dead, so let me get the last word in.

Remember when we were younger and we’d sit by the dock, watching the sunset over the boats. We hatched that scheme to buy back Dad’s farm, you’d have equal parts in the fishing business with Sarah, and we’d live out the rest of our days there. We were happy, weren’t we? I mean, on some level we had to be, I was going to marry you. You wanted to marry me. Then life got in the way.

I still wear the ring, on a chain around my neck, but it’s still on me. During the blip people told me not to hang onto it, he’s gone, find someone else and move on. But I couldn’t let go of you, not even when a crazy purple alien ripped you from existence. Because loving you was the happiest time of my life, I know you might not believe me, with how we left things that one night.

I don’t know how I’m going to die, I guess no one does, maybe you do, don’t the Avengers have the ability to time travel now? Ideally, I’m 99 and I’m sitting on Dad’s old porch, in the rocking chair next to you, watching that sun set behind the boats. We’d have lived a full life, had some kids, grandkids, kept the Wilson legacy alive. I’d like to think my last breath was taken, holding your hand the minute the sky changed to night. But I know, in our line of work, that’s not what happened. Don’t blame yourself, I expect that I knew what the consequences of my actions would be. I probably bet too much on luck. But that’s life, it’s a give and take, and eventually we all get the take end of the stick. Don’t turn to vengeance, I know you’re an Avenger, but don’t take that so literally. You are one of the best people on this planet, revenge would not be a good look on you, or Redwing.

The last thing I need you to know is that I never stopped loving you, I don’t think I will even in the afterlife, if there is such a thing, I’ll be waiting. I know I said harsh things that night, we both did, but that doesn’t mean I stopped loving you. I assume that I will end up in at least what is heaven, although thinking back to some of the things we did as kids, maybe not. But let’s say that I get to the pearly gates, know that I’ll be watching you, making sure you don’t meet me too early. Maybe I’ll see you in the clouds, but let’s not pull an Icarus, I don’t know if I’ll be able to save your ass. Do you think I could get my own pair of permanent wings?

One last thing, I know I’m longwinded, but c’mon, I’m dead, these are my last words. Remember when the circus came to town and we snuck in? Something I don’t think I ever told you is, that was the first day I realized I loved you. You wrapped your arms around my neck and pulled me in for a kiss. I don’t know what that kiss meant to you, but that kiss, when we were stupid teens, ruined me for anyone else. I wish I could have apologized to you, made amends. We both needed a break, to find ourselves, to remember who we were. The world changed so much after all those people snapping their fingers. Maybe if I was braver I have said these things to you before you read this, if not, I’m sorry. Sam Wilson, I love you and have always loved you. Even though we’ve been on hold, I always knew that we would make our way back.

I don’t want you to think that you have to hold a candle for me until the end of times. Find someone who cares about you, who loves you so much. Maybe move into Dad’s farm, and make a home with them. I probably haven’t told you yet, but I bought that old farm a year ago. It’s not in the best of shape, it needs some love. The deed is enclosed with this letter, along with my will. If you don’t want it, sell it, give it to Sarah and the boys, hell torch the place. But it’s yours, just like my heart.

Love you, forever and always.

Sam’s tears fell onto the pages, he moved them away and wiped his tears away. He’d be lying if he said that he moved on from you. You both had decided when he returned that taking a break would be a good plan, he was going to be focused on missions and you were trying to help others rebuild their lives. Then he asked you to help him with missions, with Bucky. It had almost felt like nothing had changed. It was great, until John got involved, until John killed you. His fingers tightened on the pages, wrinkling the edges. He sat down at your table, reading over the pages, looking at the deed in his hands. He had set the will on the table, keeping his eyes from it. The top corner that he could see had his name scrawled across it.

He glanced around the kitchen, and looked back at the letter, I’m so proud of you. “We were happy, baby. We were so happy.” He folded the letter, deed, and will and put them in the pocket of his jacket. He zipped the jacket and exited the building, Bucky was waiting outside, he raised his eyebrow at Sam. Sam simply tilted his head and the pair fell into step next to each other, walking the streets of your old town, intent on their next mission.

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