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adaptacy · 8 months

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Hi! Love to see someone else who's obsessed with johnny! My request is headcanon/drabble/anything that gets you going about Johnny who happens to get a crush on someone who also is from cannibalistic family from another state/town? I'd like to imagine it's a family of grandpa's old military buddy maybe or something like that? Anyways ily and hope this gives you some inspo! <3

hi anon!! ofc, i already touched on this in my last post but i am more than happy to write a drabble for it!! also the idea of there being like a network of cannibal families that are all lowkey friends is so amusing to me LMAO

this is gonna be from johnny's pov cause his thought process would be fun to write hehe

GN Reader / s/o

"This is so good Mrs. Sawyer! Thank you so much for making this whole meal," they laughed, ripping the meat from the bone as they leaned back in their chair. Mrs. Sawyer chuckled and nodded, taking a bite of her own food.

Johnny narrowed his eyes, trying to get a read on them. Trying to understand something, anything about how the hell someone so gorgeous could be so incredibly fucked up. He knew this way of life was 'bad', he'd heard it from every single one of his victims. Monster this, sick that, fucked up family here, psychopaths there. And yet this stranger, at least to Johnny, sat across from the same dinner table as him, eating the same roasted human meat as him, and was laughing so carelessly about it.

Nancy had explained that they were a grandchild of one of the old man's friends from war, who came from a family not so unlike their own. They'd been flown down here due to some legal trouble, likely concerning the fact that their family were responsible for several murders, in order to hide out. All the way from Colorado.

And they'd complained about the heat. Not the fact that there were, right at this very moment, innocent, live victims tied up in their basement- No, that was hardly a concern. But oh, the Texas heat had them talking.

They were fascinating, really, and Johnny would be more upset that he had to give up his own room for them while they stayed here, but he was far too intrigued by them to care. They swallowed the final bite of their dinner and rose, gathering their plate. Sissy handed hers off as well, and they stopped by Johnny, motioning to his empty plate.

"Want me to take that?" They asked, a grateful smile on their face. Grateful for the dinner. Grateful for this illegal, criminally insane meal. Johnny chuckled.

"That's alright. I's planning on gettin' a glass of water, anyways," he responded, standing up. The rest of the family finished off their meals as Johnny followed them into the kitchen, where they ran the plates under the faucet.

"I don't think I've ever had roasted liver. Feels like a delicacy," they laughed, humming to themselves as they washed the dishes.

"Really? We make it pretty often. It's a hard thing to miss out on," Johnny responded, grabbing a glass and waiting for them to finish.

"Shoot, right," they mumbled, stepped to the side to allow Johnny to fill his glass. He stepped forward, dangerously close to them as he filled up his glass. When he was done, he took a step back and leaned on the counter, watching them as they finished their task.

"Oh, I meant to thank you, by the way. It's really nice of your family to take me in like this. I didn't know Grandpa Wilson was so close to Mr. Sawyer," they said, glancing over at Johnny with a smile.

There was something so innocently cruel about that expression. Like they saw no wrong in what they did. Like they didn't understand the weight of it. But he knew they understood. He knew their experiences were much the same. Johnny showed his experiences in his face, in his eyes, in the way he walked.

But they walked like anyone else. Spoke like anyone else. Smiled like anyone else. They were mesmerizing, and Johnny wished he knew how they did it.

"It's no problem," he replied, sipping his drink. "Sorry if it's messy. Don't often have guests."

"That's alright. I think your knife collection is really cool," they hummed, turning off the sink as they placed the final plate in the dish drainer. "I noticed one was missing, though. Did you lose it?"

"Oh, no," he chuckled, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a curved blade. "Just like to keep it on me."

"Oh, sweet. Is it your favorite?" They asked, their head tilted.

"I 'spose you could say that. Gets the job done."

"Is that your carving knife?"

"Carving knife?" He blinked.

"Y'know, for the livestock. The victims, the food, the prey-- whatever you guys call 'em," they giggled, their tone completely free of the eeriness it should've been tainted with. Johnny had nearly forgotten what they were capable of, but at the reminder, he cracked a smirk. Maybe he could impress them.

"Yeah, you could call it that. Does a whole bunch'a things, really. Carves, slices, stabs... Used it to castrate a guy once." Johnny spun the knife in his hand, and they leaned closer.

"I had a favorite, too. But it got grabbed up by the cops. It was really shiny, nice and sharp. My grandma gave it to me when I was eight. Had it ever since. It was a switchblade, and the handle was white. Always looked especially pretty dripping with blood, but it was super easy to clean," they explained, practically gushing.

"I'm sorry to hear that. How'd you get caught, anyways?" Johnny asked, tucking his knife back into his pocket.

"My daddy used a gun to kill one of our prey, they were trying to get away and we needed something ranged. I guess some drivers heard it when they were passing by, and we weren't ready for the cops. Once they found one body, they found 'em all. Couldn't eat them in time," they explained, fidgeting with their hands as they spoke. "I miss them. I've never gone this long without them. That's why I'm so thankful of your family. They remind me of my own."

Johnny frowned, feeling some long buried ache of sympathy for them, but he wasn't granted a chance to respond before Sissy came into the kitchen, requesting their presence. They dipped their head and left, following the brunette back out of the kitchen.

"What is it?" They asked, looking down at the paper bag that they'd been presented with.

"Open it up," Johnny directed, motioning with his hand towards the bag. They raised an eyebrow, but pulled open the bag anyways, and reached inside. They pulled out a black rectangular box, and their confusion only grew. Johnny found the expression adorable, and he was glad he'd decided to go for two rounds of packaging.

"You really didn't need to get me anything. You're already doing plenty enough," they chuckled awkwardly, and Johnny shrugged, crossing his arms.

"Just open it, will ya?"

"Fine, okay." With a deep breath, they pulled off the lid of the box, and an immediate grin spread over their face. They looked between the gift and Johnny, and suddenly jumped towards him, wrapping their arms around him. Johnny was completely taken aback by the hug, and he awkwardly pat their back, only relaxing his tensed muscles when he got the faintest scent of whatever shampoo they'd used. Their hair smelled like flowers, and it reminded him of the garden. It was almost comforting.

They pulled away, finally removing the white switchblade from the box. "I'll take it that you like it?" Johnny chuckled, and they nodded, even giving a short squeal of excitement.

"Are you kidding me? I love it! It's just like the one I had. You're the best, Johnny," they thanked, setting the knife back into the box and putting the cover on it. Right after, they hugged Johnny again, and he let out a quiet sigh, returning the hug much more comfortably this time.

"Say, you ever watched a Texas sunset?" Johnny asked, looking down at them as they pulled out of the hug.

"I can't say I have."

"Well, in about thirty minutes, give or take, the sun'll be goin' down. I know a real good place to sit 'n watch it. Clear your head, maybe," he spoke softly, rubbing the back of his neck. He wasn't blushing, but he certainly felt like he was.

"Really? Where?"

"We got a couple sunflower patches out back. Makes for a real pretty sight."

"I'd love to watch the sunset with you," they giggled, setting the box back into the bag. "Let me go put this away, I'll be right back."

"Sure thing," he replied, watching as they turned around and headed up the stairs.

Sissy poked her head in from the dining room, looking Johnny up and down. "Can I come?"

"No," he snapped, immediately frowning. Sissy pouted, but returned to whatever she was doing.

#johnny slaughter #johnny slaughter fluff #johnny slaughter tcm #tcmg #tcm game #texas chainsaw massacre #johnny slaughter x reader #johnny slaughter headcanons #johnny slaughter drabbles #adapting to johnny slaughter

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mayajadewrites · 2 months

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ghostin

chapter two: year one

read chapter one here

this chapter is short, but we're going by years. so this chapter is year one after the blip. next one is year two.

Year One

Every day feels like a war inside your mind. Constantly trying to figure out why this happened, why so many people had to perish. Why is the world so cruel?

Just when you let yourself jump and fall in love, let your walls down, bring your emotions and baggage to the forefront, he disappears.

New York is in disarray after the blip. Wilson Fisk has taken the position of mayor for the time being, which Matthew would hate. He would also hate who you are right now. You took a job under Fisk to take out any of his enemies and make sure the city is set for him to take over. Your nights are filled with fighting and watching people you've never met lose their soul to Fisk's wants.

Every night you return to Matt's apartment, running your hand over his side of the bed. His smell is almost gone from the sheets. The coffee stain is still on the floor along with the pieces of the cup. You refused to pick it up or disturb the pieces.

The world's heroes, 'The Avengers' haven't done shit about the blip. From what you heard when you were perched on a rooftop, a monster named Thanos initiated the blip and got rid of half of the universe. You watch Steve Rogers constantly try to reassure the city that they will fix this.

"Tch." You suck your teeth as you watch Captain America try to console New Yorkers. "You will never understand what we're feeling." You turn your head, trying to reverse the tears that are flowing out of your eye. Sometimes you feel like this is all a cruel nightmare and that Matt will come back any moment.

Every morning is torture. His touch, his smell, his voice, everything is gone. You think about his laugh every single day to make sure you don't forget the beautiful sound. You can't bring yourself to sleep anywhere other than his bed.

You try to put up a facade that everything is okay. That you're okay. Foggy calls you every now and then, checking in on you. If it wasn't for him, no one else would.

"Hey, Fog." You press the phone to your shoulder.

"It's been exactly a year since the blip." Foggy's voice was shakey. "I thought they would've fixed this by now."

You shake your head. The hope Foggy has in the Avengers is admirable, but you are quite pessimistic about the whole thing. "Tony Stark has gone into hiding basically with his wife, and he's the smarts of that team. I don't know."

"Damnit Stark." Foggy says. "How are you, though?"

"You know the answer to that." You look down at your black combat boots as the New York wind flows through your hair. "I'm the same as I was when I watched Matt evaporate."

"Hey, it's gonna work out." Foggy tried to reassure you. "I believe theres still good in this world."

"I admire you for that, Foggy. But right now every day feels like constant torture without him."

Foggy doesn't know you're working for Fisk. He thinks you're taking odd jobs to keep yourself afloat. He would be so disappointed in you and say Matt would hate what you're doing.

Matt would.

But Matt's not here.

No one is here.

#matt murdock x reader #matt murdock x you #matt murdock #daredevil #daredevil fanfiction #daredevil fanfic #marvel #marvel mcu #the blip

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midnightlee25 · 1 year

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Yandere ABC: Deadpool (Wade Wilson)

Affection: How do they show their love and affection? How intense would it get?

He is very affectionate with his darling. Feeling no shame of it using any chance he gets.

Blood: How messy are they willing to get when it comes to their darling?

He isn’t worried about a little (a lot) of blood so it’s going to get messy.

Cruelty: How would they treat their darling?

He isn’t cruel to his darling at all. In fact, he is quite smothering.

Delusional: How aware are they?

He is heavily delusional. There are some points when he is aware.

Exposed: How much of their heart do they bare to their darling? How vulnerable are they when it comes to their darling?

It does take him a while to open up to his darling but he will once they start showing that they feel the same way as he does.

Fight: How would they feel if their darling fought back?

He does understand why they are fighting him. It still breaks his heart to see them do so.

Hell: What would be their darling’s worst experience?

The whole situation can be a nightmare in and of itself but how worse it gets depends on his darling.

Ideals: What is their plan for the future?

He isn’t too worried about the future however sometimes he gets thoughts of having a more “normal” end.

Jealousy: How jealous are they when it comes to their darling?

He does get jealous fairly easily although depending on who it is and what the situation he may or may not be able to hide it.

Knowledgeable: How much would they try to learn about their darling?

He does get to know quite a bit and then learns more along the way.

Love letters: How would they go about courting or approaching their darling?

When it comes to courting his darling, he does take a cheesier route. But a mixture of romantic and silly cheesy.

Mask: Are their true colors drastically different from the way they act around everyone else?

He does act more or less the same but those who have known him for a long time can see the subtle differences but it’s still enough for them to brush it off. (Which in the long run wasn’t the best idea.)

Naughty: How would they punish their darling?

He doesn’t punish his darling at all.

Oppression: How many rights would they take away from their darling?

Except for alone time he really doesn't take away anything from his darling.

Patience: How patient are they with their darling?

He is very patient with his darling not really or at all getting frustrated at them.

Quit: If their darling dies, leaves, or successfully escapes, would they ever be able to move on?

If they were to escape, he won’t ever stop looking for them. If they were to die however, he would find a way to bring them back.

Regret: Would they feel guilty? Would they let go?

As long as his darling didn’t break or become super scared of him, he won’t regret anything.

Stigma: What brought about this side of them?

All it really took was having the right person. As scary as that seems he really does love his darling and doesn't want to lose them.

Tears: How do they feel about their darling crying, screaming, and/or throwing a tantrum?

He does try to comfort them as best as he can, which he does a good job at.

Unique: Does anything make them different from the classic yandere?

There are a few things that make him different. They are also the reason why he is quite a deadly yandere.

Vice: What weakness can their darling exploit in order to escape?

Technically they could use really good acting to get him to believe that they do love him. But that is pretty hard to do and once he finds out that they were only pretending he won’t be too happy.

Wit’s end: Would they ever hurt their darling?

He would never intentionally hurt his darling.

Xoanon: How much would they worship their darling?

He does treat his darling with great care. It can at times border on worship.

Yearn: How long do they pine after their darling before they snap?

It varies but there is a good chance that he will snap earlier than expected.

Zeal: How passionate would they be? Would they be passionate enough to break their darling?

There is actually little chance of him breaking his darling.

#yandere #yandere abc #yandere marvel #marvel #yandere deadpool #deadpool

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inkabelledesigns · 6 months

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Made-Up fic title: Look for the light

Oooh this has some great potential! Thank you Lucky!

My first instinct for this one is a Projectionist fic, since y'know, we have the literal light for him, but I also want it to get metaphorical with an inner light. Malice is walking around in the darkness, trying to harvest some hearts and parts for herself (I mean she had to do some things before Henry showed up, right?). She ends up in the lair of the Projectionist. There is ink straight up to your ankles, it's gross to slosh through and makes too much noise, no matter how quiet you try to be. And unfortunately, our angel attracts his attention and ends up running for her life, screaming. But that's not all she's attracted. The ink demon isn't done with her, he's still vengeful, upset she came out so well and all the more eager to rip that away from her, shred her little face even more than he already has. And the Projectionist, well, he doesn't like the ink demon being in his territory, and as we know, he's not afraid to fist fight him.

He sees Alice on the ground, struggling to crawl backwards away from this creature, and for just a sliver of a moment, he sees not Alice, but Susie deep down. Someone who was once a light in the studio. They were friends once. She made him laugh, she lit up the whole room with her energy. He sees there is some light again. And with that moment of clarity, he goes and fights off the ink demon. Perhaps this is an earlier cycle, before Henry came into the picture, and the Projectionist has something he didn't before. Perhaps the reel lodged in his shoulder is The End, and he banishes the demon away. And as the world fades and starts anew, flickering like a film reel, the angel that was once Susie Campbell looks at not the Projectionist, but Norman, and he smiles. "You're safe now angel. Try tah stay outta trouble, ya hear?" Alice is left crying when she wakes up in the cycle again, not sure why she's so heartbroken. Was it all just another nightmare, or was it real?

Alternatively, I think this works well for a BATDR fic with Henry, though my take is a bit unorthodox. Henry has gone through this cycle so many times, he knows that it is hopeless. It will never get better. And now that Wilson has entered the cycle with his Keepers and struck him down, terrorized its citizens in pursuit of control and vanquishing the ink demon, he is feeling more hopeless than ever. So instead of walking through the tunnel to get back to the surface, he stays in the depths of the ink, surrounded by voices who cry out in pain. He is numb. He can't do anything to save them, he just wants to rest. He can feel himself sinking deeper, fading away into nothing, no longer having to keep it all together.

But a voice calls out to him. It asks him questions. Asks him to please answer, please come back up. It's awfully dark and cold down there, he'll catch a cold if he stays too long. That gets him to chuckle a little. He asks the voice why it cares. And it answers back childishly, why wouldn't it? Getting a cold is no fun. They can't play if he's sick, and surely he would like to play, wouldn't he? Henry says he hasn't played anything in a long time, there is no time for games when he is fighting for his life. The voice says that the wolf would beg to differ. Henry has some recognition. The voice knows Boris, his Boris, the Boris who protected him. The Boris who was kind when the entire world was awful and cruel. The Boris who played cards with him in the safehouse. His Boris. His buddy. The voice reaches out. Henry follows. He follows their light until he reaches the surface. They're right, he has to keep going, he has to keep fighting. He has to try. If not for him, then for Boris. He makes it to the surface, and reformed from the ink, he sees the bright, golden eyes of a lost one with a big bow on her top. She introduces herself as Heidi. She and Boris are playing hide and seek. Would you please help her find him Henry? He's a little too good at hiding. And so they go off to find Boris. Henry's heart is touched by Heidi's playful nature, yearning to see his own daughter again back home. He is grateful for her light, she saved him when he needed it most.

Wanna send me a title and see what fanfic I would write with it? Come on over to my askbox!

#fic prompt #askbox #BATDR #batim #projectionist #alice angel #twisted alice #malice angel #susie campbell #norman polk #ink demon #henry stein #heidi #boris the wolf #bendy fanfic

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adultswim2021 · 7 months

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Tim And Eric Awesome Show, Great Job! #29: “Larry” | September 22, 2008 - 12:30AM | S03E09

A weak episode with some stuff in it I do like. We’re going to leave the meatiest segments for the end.

First there’s Burps, which is sort of a rehash of Zits. This one has okay ideas, but isn’t really that funny. Tim burps while talking, and Eric asks him questions that inexplicably all have the word “rain” in the answers. It’s a real “spaghetti and meatballs” approach to comedy. That’s not a bad thing, it just didn’t bowl me over here. This recurs later in the form of outtakes where Eric is beside himself with laughter. It’s maybe a little silly to complain about DVD extras, but there’s even more of this stuff in the bloopers on the DVD. Enough!!!

There’s another Tairy Greene sketch that has some amusing moments, and I consider this one “funny enough”. The main idea, where Tairy is making an example of a wheelchair kid for no good reason, is a decent bit.

Next is another guest star. It’s… Ugh, Rainn Wilson. He does the same bit Patton did a few episodes back of portraying a child singing a song about sexual matters. This one is about peeing in a girl’s mouth to make a baby.

Rainn Wislon is a wad, so I'll digress into childhood stories. Skip this paragraph if you want: I remember when I was little I used literally worry about the idea that a girl from school might hide in my toilet at home and wait for me to go pee, and then she’d wrap her mouth around my childish penis and impregnante herself, putting me at the forefront of a “with child” situation. At my tender age! In my imagination, it was shot like a scene in a movie trailer, set to “Bad to the Bone”, and her toilet prank would smash-cut to a Norman Rockwell-esque portrait of me, looking surprised to have a family.

Okay, the wraparound segments are a continuation of the Carol and Mr. Henderson saga. This is, perhaps, the weakest of the Carol and Mr. Henderson sketches, but it eventually pays off. Instead of Mr. Henderson being cruel to Carol, they are now fully in love and in a relationship, and the jealous Larry is left licking his wounds, upset that his friend Mr. Henderson is spending too much time with Carol. It’s a tale as old as time. While Carol and Mr. Henderson do some french kissing (accomplished with a “digital snake tongues” added in post; a detail I think I literally never noticed until this watch), Larry sings a mournful song about how his friend left him for “a piece of cooze”, which had to be censored by the network with a bleep.

The final scene in this sketch is also the final scene of the episode, where Larry just shows up to work with a gun. He shoots both Carol and Mr. Henderson, presumably dead, and then sticks the barrel of the gun in his out mouth and blows his own brains out. It’s hilariously grim and brutal. The twist is that both Carol and Mr. Henderson are wearing bullet proof vests, which begs the question: how the fuck did they anticipate this? Carol glibly states “this was fun.” mere feet away from Larry’s lifeless body. This is one of my favorite moments in the whole series! It’s the only great sketch in the whole episode!

Needless to say, it’s a little jarring that you can show a guy blow his brains out in a somewhat realistic, inimitable manner, but “cooze” needs to be bleeped. As with other Carol/Mr. Henderson sketches, there are plenty of outtakes and deleted material. We see Eric perform yet another one of his own stunts; keen readers of this blog will recall his brush with head-trauma in the first Carol sketch when Larry smashes a candy glass coffee pot over Carol’s head, which wound up cutting Eric through the wig. The stunt in this episode involved Eric diving in front of Larry’s bullet to save Mr. Henderson. In the blooper reel footage, you see him narrowly avoid banging his head directly into the cubicle desk. ERIC!!! WATCH IT!!!!

EPHEMERA CORNER:

youtube

MAIL BAG

I can think of a lot of things that would get RC cancelled. S11 was the first season in a while to not get an emmy nomination, Lazzo's not around anymore to keep greenlighting it, It got over 3,000 sketches which is plenty stockpiled to live off of youtube views, anytime I saw people mention it online they were surprised it was still running, Seth Green's embarassing NFT debacle that even his own writers and other NFT guys made fun of him for, COVID (that's what killed Shivering Truth), etc.

Good call. I too was ignorant about Robot Chicken's status, but that was because I hated it. Lapsed fans being unclear on that detail is definitely a sign.

#adult swim #adultswim2021 #tim and eric awesome show great job #Youtube

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carpe-duem · 1 year

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He's gone from Sisyphus to Lazarus

"He's gone from Sisyphus to Lazarus" is the phrase Wendy utters in Don't Starve together if Maxwell aka William Carter resurrects someone. And as soon as I found out about it, I just couldn't get it out of my head, it's like this... it's an amazing thing, so unlike the quotes of other characters, that I think about it too much. And I'll make you too.

Wendy, a girl with very dubious views for a twelve-year-old or-whatever-her-age-is and a predilection for quoting various kinds of literature. We are interested in the latter today. And she says about Maxwell "He's gone from Sisyphus to Lazarus" when he gets a resurrecting heart for the player. And what struck me so deeply in this phrase that I have not been able to get it out of my head for the third month? Well, first of all, she compares Maxwell's past with Sisyphus, and Maxwell is actually very, VERY mephistopheles-coded. Judge for yourself - in the text of the game itself, he is called a "demon". We have art with him and Wilson, where he hands the exhausted hero an apple - what is it if not an allusion to original sin? Several characters turn to him, although he still appears to the player as an NPC, as a "demon". Wigfried in one of the quotes (the attacker) says "I sense Loki's influence in ...(nickname)" and Loki is a character kinda related to Mephistopheles, they basically qualitatively similar, and Wortox, literally a demon, tells Maxwell "You have no power over me" (although, this, of course, is already far-fetched), and in the end, even his name is a reference to a thought experiment called "Maxwell's demon".

However, they say that outwardly he is based on Woland from the master and Margarita, although our antagonist also has the most obvious features of Mephistopheles - both a charismatic grin and sharp, angular facial features. "....growth was <...> high <..> he was wearing an expensive gray suit, foreign shoes in the color of the suit. Looks like he's in his forties. The mouth is kind of crooked. Clean-shaven. The eyebrows are black, but one is higher than the other. In a word, a foreigner." – there is some similarity, you must agree, even a part about a foreigner, given the fact that William is an immigrant from England, and among the hypotheses of Ivan Bezdomny (his pen name means "homeless") and Berlioz about the origin of Woland, there was also "An Englishman," Bezdomny thought, "look, and it's not hot for him in gloves" - but Woland in turn is also the image of Mephistopheles, which Bulgakov does not even hide, only a black poodle on the head of a cane is worth something, so we find ourselves at this point anyway. Yes, a trickster, yes, "part of that pover which eternally wills evil and eternally works good," but still, a demon is an image with a clearly negative connotation. And it is all the more surprising to see a comparison of his past with Sisyphus. Sisyphus is a character in Greek mythology, certainly not a positive one - a sinner who is forced to roll a stone uphill forever as punishment for his actions - he, according to one of the most common versions, chained the god of death Thanatos(or even Hades), thus defeating death itself, and stopping the death of people all over the globe for some time, and after his own death, with the help of cunning and deception, he returned back from the kingdom of Hades to earth, for which he eventually paid. And yet, remembering Sisyphus, we do not remember his actions during his lifetime - because, strictly speaking, the version of the myth that I have given is only one of several, there are several more where the actions of Sisyphus are described much more... cruel and socially unacceptable, I would say - for example, in another, less popular version, Sisyphus received his punishment for committing rape, but somehow Sisyphus in culture is primarily a symbol of hard, endless, fruitless work and cruel torment - there is a stable expression "Sisyphean labor" existing for a reason. Comparing someone with Sisyphus, we almost say what we feel for this person... pity? sympathy? And it's somehow very beautiful and touching, in my opinion. As you can see, such a character as Sisyphus is surprisingly far from the already familiar Maxwell-demon-Mephistopheles bundle, mentioned by other characters every now and then, which is simply amazing if you think about it a little longer. We see that Wendy characterized Maxwell, the Maxwell who was on the throne of shadows - if we consider this phrase of hers as a metaphor for all his being in the Constant- in a very peculiar way. In general, I must say, Wendy is an amazingly astute child - for example, her phrase about chess pieces, where she says about the queen "She holds the true power, here", and about the king "Alas, the king is but a figurehead, at best", very well reflects the situation with the rulers of the Constant, and such there are many examples.

#maxwell dst #wendy dst #fandom analysis #analysis post #and that's not all this is just the first post!!! there is a second one!#I wrote this text yesterday for four hours and translated it in twenty minutes

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the-hopeless-haze · 1 year

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I’ve been going Through It and listening to the most depressing songs ever but like this part right here

Like this is House. (This is also me but we’ll ignore that). Like this is him this is what he goes through day in and day out. He comes off as arrogant and sure of himself but the scenes where he’s vulnerable and especially the scenes where he’s alone we see him like this. We see the reason why he pushes so much against feeling because it’s easier to be abrasive and aggressive and arrogant. It’s hard it’s so hard to live your life and be gentle and kind and loving and it’s so much easier to give into the rage. His life may be miserable he thinks but then he looks at people like Wilson and Cameron and he knows he could never do that. He could never marry somebody he knew was dying just to give them a good six months when he didn’t even love them, when he loved their best friend. He could never pick a field to specialize in that doubled as being a therapist, a field where he had to walk people through their dying days and be a constant anchor of support.

So it’s so easy to laugh and have an acerbic cynical tone lightened with levity, it’s so easy to make snarky comments that you hope hide how miserable and fucked up you are. It’s so easy to tell your boss she looks like a hooker and it’s so easy to pinpoint the insecurities everyone else has because you have the most out of everyone. It’s so easy to make everyone else feel miserable because you are already there. It’s so easy to be cruel to patients relying on your care while you claim to rely on them for entertainment. It’s so easy to push buttons.

It’s so hard to change. It’s so hard to stop.

Everybody lies. Nobody changes.

#house Md #hate crimes Md #the smiths #I’m more partial to Jeff buckley’s version of this song #I’m very much going through it right now like I finally stopped crying and it’s 3pm

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oneoftheprettynerds · 3 years

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Welcome To The Darkside: Dark!Steve x Reader (Mob AU)

Chapter 1 in the Lipstick and Crayons Series

A/N: I just posted a story I know but I’m in love with this idea right now and this is my favourite fic right now. It’s going to be a three or four part fic I think and your support in any form: like, comment or reblog is appreciated greatly. Here is a piece of my heart right here.

Warning: Eventual Non-Con, Sickening Threats, Mob Themes, Violence, Death, Manipulation, sort of Blood Kink I think, Cheap Tricks later.

Genres + Characters: Mob AU, Single Parents AU, Steve Rogers x Reader.

Summary: Steve can't ever repay you for what you did. After meeting you, Steve believes his broken family is the missing piece in the puzzle of your own wrecked one. Indebting the crime lord to you has been the biggest mistake of your life, cause now you can't get rid of him, no matter what. Loyalty and favours go a long way in the mob.

Chapter 1 : Welcome to The Darkside

The gunshots around you frightened you more than anything in your life ever had. The merry, joyful ambience of the carnival was ruined in an instant. Screams around you provoked your panic-stricken form to gather your wits and run or hide. It wasn’t just you caught up in this dreadful situation, there was also someone you’d protect at any cost.

Picking your daughter up and setting her on your hip, you looked around for the way out. Who would have thought that open grounds were hard to get out of? Another wave of terror ran through you when the gunshots audibly neared and the crowd ran in random directions.

You decided to go along the way you recognised the games and shops at. You ran as fast as you could, checking on Grace in between to find her looking curiously all around but still more intent on eating her cotton candy than inspecting. You couldn’t be more thankful for kids' oblivion than at that moment in time.

A bomb explosion up ahead in your path made you halt in your tracks because you knew some of the attackers were scouting there. Turning back wasn’t an option, neither was crying and you were sure you closer to the exit this way. Another blast behind you took away the option of you retracing your path. You weren’t considering it but it gave you little comfort to have your options open.

As the shrieks and screeches grew tenfold, your best bet was to hide, the assaulters had already surrounded the field, the chaos around you informed you. Jumping through innumerable dead bodies, of kids and adults that ached your heart, and dodging bullets while laying low, you went inside a photo booth to hide.

This will not be in vain; you’d protect Grace no matter what.

The curtain to the photo booth provided cover from predatory eyes while the rest of the metal booth was quite safe against bullets you concluded hopefully.

You were just looking for a weapon to prepare for any adversity that might come your way, when the sound of crunching of pebbles made their way to your ears.

Failing to find a weapon in few seconds you opted to attack the intruder yourself when a voice reached your ears, “Mama?”

You puzzled your eyebrows and lowered your defences by just a bit when a toddler stumbled inside the booth, blonde haired and blue eyed. You were definitely not this girl’s mama but you grabbed the kid’s forearm and pulled her inside, shushing her gently and seating her beside Grace on the sitting bench inside. You were thankful Grace entertained her by offering her the pink cloud of sweetness.

You peeked outside but failed to find anyone else in 20 metre radii of you, nobody resembling the wandering kid nor looking for one. You did not know what you would do with another kid in your hands in this dire situation nor was it a wise decision to bring her inside and take her under your wing but you did not have it in you to leave an unsuspecting child, a mere four or three-year-old at that, during a calamity so extreme.

Your maternal instincts governed your thought process, imagining Grace to be in her shoes, all alone and discarded while a possible terrorist attack was happening. The kids’ corpses lying outside gave you no doubt that these children’s fate would be the same if found by the attackers.

A small tug in your dress made you look back and you found the azure eyed kid at your feet, offering you the street food you bought earlier while hugging your leg and observing you. Grace munched in the back silently, still happily eating and unaware.

You kneeled and whispered, “What’s your name, honey?” Maybe the girl understood the urgency, maybe she was just mimicking you but even she murmured in a low voice, “Sarah.”

You nodded, “Sweetie, I need you to sit there quietly and make no sounds, okay? We are playing a staying quiet game.” That was a stupid thing to ask of a kid but you hoped, you really, really hoped she would comply.

Her eyes widened in recognition of something as she eagerly asked, still in a hushed mumble, “Like I does for Dada in meekings?”

“Yes, you smart kiddo. Exactly that.” You replied with what you hoped was a convincing smile and ruffled her hair while nudging her towards her former seat. With kids, you knew a little encouragement went a long way to get them to do things. She whispered an ‘okay Mama’ and went about and sat.

You didn’t get to enjoy her obedience as the thud of pebbles crunching met your ears again. Your breath hitched; your intuition told you that this was not another kid confusing you for its parent.

Your eyes found a discarded piece of metal rod from the booth’s wrecked framework. You grabbed and hoped for the best, to save both the kids at your ability’s mercy.

Steve only saw red. The moment the first shot sounded in the air, he knew whom the assailants were, whom they were coming for. Going out tonight was a bad idea, a really reckless one indeed but when his daughter started bawling seeing the carnival’s lights from the car and wanted to get up and close, he couldn’t say no. He really tried to though, he really did.

It hadn’t been even a year since his wife died, but the father-daughter duo was getting by. He knew his wife took his daughter to the carnival and bought her things, toys and teddies, on every birthday of her own. It was a ritual his wife started, spending her birthday with her little offspring during the daylight and going out for a romantic dinner at the end of the day with her dear spouse. If only things could still be that way, could still stay the same.

When his wife turned out to be an elaborate spy all along, he was baffled. His professional side was, dare he say, impressed by the commitment to character but his personal side was beyond disappointed, disheartened in the worst way because his daughter was his most precious asset in this cruel world and that gift was given by such a treacherous person.

She begged and pled for mercy, to let Sarah have her mother and swore on her life that she quit her espionage journey when she actually fell in love but Steve didn’t trust a single syllable out of her filthy, deceiving mouth, not anymore.

He didn’t kill her though, because Sarah was his first priority no matter what. Her assassination was the work of his rival mob, ‘The Vice Kings’ led by the bastard Rumlow. It was an open invitation for war in the city, for them money came first and useless people had to die. They killed two birds with a single stone, git rid of a useless former member and successfully made a statement.

Then began the still happening rivalry between those Vices and his mob, ‘The Avenging Cartel’. The wound from his wife’s assassination was still fresh, he didn’t miss her as much as he had taken the hit to his pride. There had been a peaceful agreement until the brutal maiming of his spouse and now he was working more than ever, barely able to make time for his princess and that was his only regret, missing her childhood.

And now he felt more futile, his palette of emotions ranging from hues of ire to shades of dread. He couldn’t believe his entourage of trained professionals failed to monitor a two-year-old. He had just stepped aside to take a call, leaving her with his latest driver and three bodyguards. How could he be that clueless to not realise the imposters infiltrating his ranks, standing right there and selling away his location?

As soon as the sound of the first firearm shooting reached his ears, he leapt towards his daughter only to find her missing. His little minx thankfully escaped for one of her little adventures and successfully evaded these cheats, whom he shot right in the middle of the eyes when he glanced at the grenades packing in the coats’ undersides.

His moment of gratitude evaporated in mere seconds as he realised that the Vices now surrounded the entire area, their mission being his daughter’s abduction. If they wanted to kill both of them, they would have already, considering Steve’s distraction gave them quite too many openings. They wanted him to surrender, because mobs worked that way; only when one leader signed off his territories did it become the other party’s possession. If they just cut one head, another would grow in its place, a new leader would succeed the predecessor.

He sent emergency signals to both Barnes and Wilson, the only ones he could trust right now, summoning them with back-ups. The screams of the crowd did not ease him at all, piling on his burden and stress as he prayed for the first time ever, that by some miracle he would reach his daughter first in this field and she would safely be in his arms by the end of the night, not become a victim to what his enemies were planning.

He did have a tracker in her pendant but this realisation hit him later than he’d like to admit, the frustration clawing away his wits. The ground was now quite empty, piles of bodies scattered across the field abruptly where people became victims to the grenades, any person who failed to protect themselves, died. As he was pulling his phone out again, his eyes caught sight a flower bead. The same bead he and his daughter used to make a bracelet a month ago. She wore that everywhere, to day-care, while bathing, to birthdays.

The bracelet was obviously broken now but it was almost like a trail that led to his treasure, like in the Hansel and Gretel’s fairy-tale that Sarah loved. He followed with quiet steps, the beads far apart and some resting under the debris but they sure did lead him somewhere, and when he found the even the pendant in his path, he knew he had only the few beads to rely on.

Some thumps and crashes made him alert, his pistol ready, and when he neared carefully to a distorted metal framework of sorts, his eyes widened.

A young woman had a body in front of her lying on the ground. In a pool of scarlet it rested, still and unmoving while her breathing quickened, her eyes shining with tears that she tried too damn hard to confine to her eyes. He knew how hard the first kill always was, but one grows numb with increase in body count.

Brave women were his type and he would have been turned on by her courage, her hands stained red with whatever weapon she attacked with. Her soft facial features and her curves in the dress she wore were a show stopper for sure, and he would’ve been flirting with her if it was not for the brutal severity of the situation, his daughter missing and in possible danger.

His vigilant senses, courtesy of the epinephrin, picked up two things; the butterfly bead that rested in the door of the booth the woman stood at and the creep shadowing her from behind, ready to attack with a baseball bat he might have found in one of the other game shops.

Steve used his position behind the neighbouring booth to make a bull’s eye shot, the bullet going just an inch above the female’s shoulder and going across the creep’s head. The logo on the corpse’s leather jacket showed Steve he picked the right side to defend.

The sheer suddenness of the move caught the woman off guard as she dropped her weapon and twisted back to find the soulless eyes of her possible attacker staring at her. She quickly armed herself with her attacking rod once again and tried to trace the bullet back from its shooter, her eyes wide and calculating.

Steve decided it was time to interrogate, to find Sarah.

The graze of the bullet above your shoulder alarmed you and you stood dumbfounded only for an instant though. You were sure the bullet was meant for you but the thud of a body behind you, seemingly preparing to attack you proved you wrong.

Calming yourself, you still stood on the ball, because someone killing your attacker didn’t necessarily mean you were safe. With just a pull of the trigger, your fate could very easily be the same. You had to play this smart.

“Lower your weapon. I won’t repeat myself.” A husky voice called out, laced with seriousness which left no room for argument.

You did as he said, knowing that shabby rod was no match against the gun. He stepped out from his hiding position and gave away his location, steps slightly treading towards you. Your hands trembled, heart thumping a bit too loud while blood and sweat coated your frame.

When moonlight lightened his face, you saw his blonde luscious locks, slightly overgrown, a neatly trimmed beard darker than his hair and the cerulean blue eyes that were clear as crystal but shadowed with proficiency.

“Good, now did you see a kid around here? Blonde and blue eyes?”

His question didn’t surprise you, the gun barrel trained on you did. The previous man you had killed, that laid dead ahead of you had asked the same question. You did not know why they were after the toddler nor did you have the time to dwell on it. Time was of the essence now and he was expecting an answer.

The fact that he saved an unsuspecting lady was a plus point, but you also had to consider that he was threatening you all the same. But if that was his kid, it was understood, the resemblance between them was uncanny but that wasn’t enough proof. However, as your flickered to the man you killed, you noticed the logo on his jacket was the same as the one on your possible murderer’s jacket. It still wasn’t enough evidence but you had no choice, the man had a gun and you had two kids relying on you. At least he wasn’t on the bombing side.

“Yes, what is she to you?” You tried to be brave but you were sure he saw right through you.

“You don’t ask the questions here but this one I’ll answer. She is my daughter. Now, where is she?”

“How do I know you’re not lying? I can’t just and her over to you!”

“Her name is Sarah; she is my carbon copy. She is wearing a pink dress with white flowers; pink crocs and her hair is in a ponytail with a white scrunchy. She had two white clips in her hair beside the ponytail. Enough proof?”

No, you could be a creepy paedophile for all I know.

You were still contemplating when he spoke again, “She’s my daughter and I know she’s in that booth beside you. I appreciate you trying to protect her I think but she’ll respond to me calling her. Sarah?”

The little toddler poked her head out, her eyes brightening in recognition and you heaved a sigh of relief involuntarily. Your maternal instinct made you anxious for kids you barely even knew. She ran towards her father shouting ‘Dada’ and jumped into his arms while he hid his gun. You almost snorted at that, tons of dead bodies surrounding you and he was worried about the gun?

He propped her up, hugging her tightly, and with what you knew now, he was scared to death and rightfully so.

Grace poked her head out and ran towards you now, hugging you from behind your legs and silently peeking at the mysterious human. You held Grace’s hand now, intertwining your fingers and felt relief after long. Even though there was no knowing that the man would help you two but you gave yourself comfort you weren’t alone here, not anymore.

Sarah turned and met your eyes again and whispered lowly, “Oops Mama, I think the games over! Sowwy!”

Steve’s eyes widened at that and you laughed at her innocence, feeling light. You played along with the kid, “It’s alright.” You didn’t want to play ‘Mommy’ anymore after that thinking it would offend her father but even, he chuckled, his laugh beautiful and boisterous.

Suddenly men dressed in black and armed with weapons ran about, skidding and crossing you to survey the area out. You shielded Grace once again but the father ahead of you didn’t even flinch. Noticing your unease, he came closer and put a hand on you arm, “I’m Steve and don’t worry, these are my men, the good guys.”

You nodded, not agreeing with his idea of good and bad but since you hoped he did acknowledge that he owed you one, you hoped none of these men would attack you. You introduced yourself and he nodded.

With Sarah on his hip, he started following one of his men and you followed along hoping to get to the exit. He even asked to drop you home but you refused, just wanting to get to the parking and put all these guns out of your kid’s sight. He tsked over his shoulder and you knew he would insist again later but for now he listened intently to the man he addressed as Buck.

This Buck eyed you several times, not so discreetly, while Steve renounced the whole incident of some spies and whatnot. You closed your eyes, not wanting to eavesdrop and just wanting to relax but you could do neither right now. They were after Sarah; you had presumed right.

Sarah made grabby hands from over Steve’s shoulder while Grace slept soundly in your arms, maybe jealous of her. She pouted and then slowly began her lower lip began to tremble. A whine escaped her mouth as she started bawling. Steve stopped to shush her but she continued screeching, “I miss Mama!” and tried to get away from Steve and jump into your arms. Buck looked surprised while Steve’s eyes pleaded yours and you nodded and gave Grace to her and took Sarah in your arms, gently shushing her and patting her back. She drooled in the crook of your neck but that was nothing new and quietened down. You didn’t want to give Grace away but you couldn’t see another child so miserable, not when you had one of your own.

Steve and ‘Buck’ observed you, not saying anything so you broke the silence. “I’m sorry she confuses me with her mother, I hope she doesn’t get offended by this.”

“She’s no more.” Steve looked down and you cursed yourself for breaking the silence, make the situation more awkward and unbearable.

“I’m sorry.” Well that was better than joking about how Grace didn’t have a father either.

“Don’t be, she deserved what she got.” Steve mumbled and continued walking with ‘Buck’, lightly patting Grace and kissing her forehead.

The peck should have bothered you but you were too engrossed by his words to eavesdrop further or check on Grace. What did he mean she deserved it? You didn’t even want to think of the probability of him killing her. With all the soldiers that surrounded you, you suddenly realised he was capable of more than you thought and you felt stupid for feeling safe with him when you did. He was a leader of sorts, a person with unimaginable power and you had dived headfirst in the kind of things you should avoid at all costs. Even though you hadn't crossed him or weren't on his bad side, getting involved was a mistake.

You learnt this lesson the hard way soon enough.

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postmodernmulticoloredcloak · 3 years

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The shifting narrative of God’s interventism and how it reflects on the narrative on John

This post will ignore the issue authorial intent entirely because I can, but it’s also about authorial intent in a way, but I also don’t like to talk about things as happening “accidentally” because a) a serialized story like Supernatural, especially one that got renewed for much longer than anyone could possibly expect or hope in their wildest ambitions, structurally relies on serendipity, because that’s how stories work when they’re work in progress, b) a television show is an extremely multi-authored text and the chance that something happens out of the intent of any of the multiple layers of creators is kind of... statistically negligible. So, yeah, that’s my stance on the topic. Anyway.

The shifting narrative about God is simultaneously something that hangs on fortunate storytelling clicks on an essentially programmed narrative. At first, we don’t know where the fuck God is. Cas starts looking for him with little success. Raphael says he’s dead, Cas doesn’t believe it. Dean relates to his struggle because he knows the feeling of not knowing where the fuck your father is and going looking for him with little success, not knowing if he’s even alive. Then the theory that gets assumed as the truth is that God has left. He fucked off who knows where, who knows why, leaving his creation to struggle alone. Also essentially how Dean had felt after John had died; in that case there was guilt for his demon deal and everything, but the most cruel weight on Dean’s shoulder was that John left him alone to struggle with his devastatingly horrific instructions he doesn’t understand. The angels are also left with horrific instructions they don’t understand. No wonder Cas does his own ‘demon deal’ in season 6, as he desperately tries to do what he assumes his father wants from him, but he doesn’t actually know what that is.

“God has left” is maddening, and everyone is angry about it, but it has its own dignity. God has left us without clear instructions, we are confused and in pain and evil runs amock but at least, we suppose, the evil of it is our own doing. We are alone and we do our best, our best is simply not enough. We wish he gave us guidance, but he won’t. He wants us to figure it out ourselves, possibly. We don’t actually know what he wants. But maybe that’s the point. It’s possible he doesn’t even know what’s happening, he just has left the building entirely.

But then Chuck reveals himself. We find out that he never actually left. He was there. “I like front row seats. You know, I figured I’d hide out in plain sight”. He simply chooses not to intervene. He chooses not to answer. He chooses to be hands-off. He presents himself as a laissez-faire parent, because, he says, it’s better for his children to have the responsibility they need to grow up. He’s absent, but in a different way than we thought! It’s not that he doesn’t know what’s happening or isn’t interested in knowing what’s happening. He’s here, he knows what’s happening, he just stays there and watches as you stumble and struggle and scream. It’s worse, and it pains Dean so much he isn’t even afraid to yell at God. You know we’re suffering and you just don’t give us any support, any comfort.

You’re frustrated. I get it. Believe me, I was hands-on, real hands-on, for, wow, ages. I was so sure if I kept stepping in, teaching, punishing, that these beautiful creatures that I created... would grow up. But it only stayed the same. And I saw that I needed to step away and let my baby find its way. Being overinvolved is no longer parenting. It’s enabling.

But it didn’t get better.

Well, I’ve been mulling it over. And from where I sit, I think it has.

Well, from where I sit, it feels like you left us and you’re trying to justify it.

I know you had a complicated upbringing, Dean, but don’t confuse me with your dad.

At that point of the show, the writing team almost certainly didn’t have the s14-15 twist in mind. So this was probably intended to be Chuck’s truth. Later it gets twisted (retconned?) into a lie, but about that later.

Here, Chuck is really good at manipulating the conversation. Dean has a perfectly valid point, because there IS a middle ground between being overinvolved and not being involved at all. There is a middle ground between enabling your children and abandoning them completely. But Chuck hits Dean where it hurts, plays the emotional card, basically tells him that he’s too emotional to understand, too emotional to think rationally about it, because he mixes his feelings about his father to the issue and thus cannot see it clearly. He basically tells him he’s too close to it to get it. You don’t understand parenting, Dean, because you’re too blinded by your emotions about your own little life and cannot see the big picture.

It doesn’t really matter here if he’s telling the truth or lying, it already says a lot about Chuck that he’s emotionally manipulating Dean, silencing him by hitting the painful spot.

But the thing is, 11.20 immediately presents Chuck as a liar. He makes Metatron read his autobiography and the very first line is a lie (“In the beginning, there was me. Boom – detail. And what a grabber. I mean, I’m hooked, and I was there.” “I’m hooked too, and yet... details. You weren’t alone in the beginning. Your sister was with you.”) and the stuff he talks about his experience as Chuck is not exactly truthful about anything (“That, you know, makes you seem like a really grounded, likable person.” “Yeah, what’s wrong with that?” “You are neither grounded nor a person!”). Metatron calls him out (“Okay. There are two types of memoir. One is honest... the other, not so much. Truth and fairy tale. Now, do you want to write Life by Keith Richards? Or do you want to write Wouldn’t It Be Nice by Brian Wilson?”). Chuck SAYS he chooses truth and gives Metatron a different manuscript, supposedly containing the truth, to which Metatron reacts positively. Metatron believes it, and we believe it with him.

Oh! Oh, this! This is what I was talking about. Chapter Ten “Why I Never Answer Prayers, and You Should Be Glad I Don’t”, and Chapter Eleven “The Truth About Divine Intervention and Why I Avoid It At All Costs”.

Nature? Divine. Human nature – toxic.

They do like blowing stuff up.

Yeah. And the worst part – they do it in my name. And then they come crying to me, asking me to forgive, to fix things. Never taking any responsibility.

What about your responsibility?

I took responsibility... by leaving. At a certain point, training wheels got to come off. No one likes a helicopter parent.

This is sort of what he later says to Dean, except that to Dean he talks about “beautiful creatures” “my baby”, talks about helping, none of the harsh tone he’s using here. When Metatron accuses him of hiding from Amara, he retorts “I am not hiding. I am just done watching my experiments’ failures”. What a different language, uh? Then Metatron asks him why he abandoned them, and Chuck answers “Because you disappointed me. You all disappointed me”. Then, he admits he lied about “learning” to play the guitar and so on, because he just gave himself the ability, and then appears to Dean and Sam, after Metatron’s passionate speech about humanity.

So, no matter the authorial intent at the time - the truthiness of Chuck’s words was already ambiguous. He kept lying and being called out, or silencing the conversation with some good ol’ gaslighting.

The season 14 finale introduces the big twist: it was, indeed, all a lie. The whole of it. Chuck didn’t abandon shit. It was all him, minutely controlling the narrative of the universe, putting the characters through all the pain and struggles for his own amusement.

The “absent father” narrative was a lie.

What does this tell us about John? Nothing, according to the authorial intent that shines through Dabb’s Lebanon. But we don’t give a crap about Dabb’s authorial intent about John! He’s just one dude and plenty of other authors have painted a different picture. So I’m going to read the narrative the way I want, because I can, and the narrative allows me to. It’s all there.

I’m suggesting that the fact that Chuck lied when he talked about being a hands-off/absentee father parallels how Dean and Sam prefer to think of their father as an “absent father” when that’s not exactly a reflection of the truth.

You left us. Alone. ‘Cause Dad was just a shell. [...] And I-I had to be more than just a brother. I had to be a father and I had to be a mother, to keep him safe.

Setting aside how “I had to be a father and I had to be a mother” sort of retcons and cleans up the Winchester family picture painted by ealier seasons, the fact that John didn’t really count as a functional father figure and Dean and Sam were essentually alone is not incorrect or anything. It is true that John would leave them to their own devices a lot, thus the long stays in motels, the hunger, the food-stealing, and all. But John wasn’t always absent, at all. He trained them as soldiers, he disciplined them, he was around enough for them to be intimately familiar with what happened when he drank. He drove them around.

It’s almost like it’s preferable to Dean and Sam to spin their own “absent father” narrative, putting the accent on the time they spent alone, painting their childhood as a time they had to grow up on their own, rather than acknowledge they grew up under the thumb of a controlling, looming figure they would regularly live in fear of, even when he was not physically present.

The “absent father” narrative is what Dean and Sam need to use to avoid confronting the reality of the father figure whose moods and whims they had to dance around. “I know things got dicey... you know, with Dad... the way he was. And I just... I didn’t always look out for you the way that I should have. I mean, I had my own stuff, you know. In order to keep the peace, probably looked like I took his side quite a bit.”

John shaped their lives. He shaped their identities. Even in the episodes where he abandons Dean or both children somewhere, he’s portrayed as the figure who drives the car. He symbolically drives the car, you know? John shaped Dean and Sam’s relationship with each other, both on a surface level (the conflicts) and on a deeper level (the parental dynamic).

Heck. The entire first season of the show plays on John’s disappearance as the “elephant in the room”. John is there by not being there, you know? And after he dies, his death - his absence - is again the elephant in the room for Dean, the weight on his psyche that he shatters under.

It is not wrong that Dean and Sam had to spend long periods of time without John. But John structured their lives in quite minute detail. Where they needed to be, what they needed to do, what they must not do, everything had to follow John’s instructions. A drill sergeant, the narrative called him, ordering how his sons needed to live their lives. That’s no absence, except on a level where Chuck not showing himself and pretending he’s not there can be considered absent. That’s a presence, not necessarily always physical, but semiotical and psychological.

John is an absent father as much as Chuck is a hands-off god. He even writes himself into the story around the time Cas has the “season 1” phase (let’s go look for dad/let’s go look for god), which is when John actually was alive and appeared. Then he was no longer physically there, but he was still shaping his characters’ lives, just like he’d always done.

The “absent father” narrative on John is that - a narrative. Spun by the characters themselves because it’s easier and actually kinder on John. Or, better, it allows them not to be crushed by the psychological implications of having to accept that their father was such a looming, minutely formative figure in their lives. They know, but they can wave the “absent father” idea around to avoid thinking about it.

“I had to be a father and I had to be a mother” is something easier to tell yourself. I was the one who did it all. But he wasn’t, and that’s the problem. The fact that John was their father - Dean’s and Sam’s - is the problem. But ironically, blaming himself for every failure is a better option for Dean than fully acknowledging John’s abuse. As long as he blames himself, he has control over it. The moment he acknowledges the extent of John’s influence, he loses control over the entire narrative of his own identity and the family identity, the family dynamics. That’s scarier, just like realizing that God manipulated everything is much scarier than the alternative. “God abandoned us” was indeed a better option, and “John left us alone” was a better option. But neither was true, and the characters faced the implications of the cosmic level, but never got to face the implication of the familial level, because the narrative always danced around it and then Dabb’s apologist version “won”.

But what’s been put in the show is still there. The narrative of John’s abuse is still there. Nothing can take it out of the story.

#my spn thoughts #spn meta #dean and john #dean and sam and john #dean and chuck #dean and god #spn 11x20 #spn 11x21 #spn 14x20 #spn 12x22 #et alii #spn #long post

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spideyspeaches · 3 years

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Gold Rush ↬ t.h

Gif by @parkeraul :)

A/N: I'm in love with that song 🙈 also here's my super late contribution of professor!tom 😋 cause I've been procrastinating on the wandavision au (in my defence though, it's taking a lot of brainstorming 😂) anyway here you go-

Wc: 2.6k+

Warnings: lemme know if you find one :)

Summary: He taught British History and you chastise yourself for not auditing for that subject earlier.

Pairing: Professor!Tom x Student!Reader

Masterlist || Taglist

Waking up with a start, you groan at the shrill sound of your alarm. With a sigh that was more of a grunt of annoyance, you tried to reach for your phone at the side table, hissing when you felt the corner of your elbow hit the table, pain shooting up to your shoulder.

Great, you weren't even up yet and your day was already going shitty. You just hoped that your professor won't be grumpy about you being late for the millionth time this semester.

You hated cultural architecture. You had nothing against the course, but You hated your professor with a passion and wished that you could burn your textbooks for all you cared, right in front of your teacher's eyes, watch him writhe in fear as you banished the very existence of your material.

You were being dramatic, but in your defence, your professor was an old bastard who never left an opportunity to reprimand you, going as far as letting you know how uneven your margins were on your latest project.

He wore birkenstocks with a three piece. You wouldn't trust him with your assignments.

Getting out of your dorm room was work, hard work. But you got out, brushed your teeth and wore what you hoped were presentable clothing.

"You look hungover." Your roommate, Stacy, commented, spitting in the sink as you scowled at her.

She was straightforward, outspoken and somehow managed to look like one of those Victoria secrets models that you loathed, even at seven in the morning. You hated her.

(You didn't.)

"Thanks, I hope I smell too. Want that son of a bitch- what's his name, Wilson, to suffer for giving me that C minus on my thesis." You grumbled, rubbing your hands through your hair to flat them out.

"You really hate him, don't you." She snickered, popping off her shirt. You tried not to look, not wanting to come off as a pervert, but damn, she was fit. You contemplated her words, frowning at your own reflection.

You looked disheveled, the dark eye bags under your eyes very apparent as you tried to mask them with foundation, setting your hair for the millionth time. Oh well, you were presentable enough. Sweatpants would have to do for your only class today, you could binge Netflix after this wretched class.

"I do. I hope his third wife divorces him and he loses his thermos of coffee in the subway." You said, adding your look finally before wearing your shoes.

"That's cruel, didn't know you had it in you." She snickered, patting your back and following you as you closed the door, "Well I have to go to my boring science lectures now so, see you later hun."

"Yeah, enjoy your chemistry period with your boyfriend!" You cheered sarcastically, rolling your eyes and hugging her to tell her that you were only joking. Your relationship was this, of jokes and hugs and kisses. You considered her your best friend.

Rushing towards the gates of your university, you hastily tightened your loosening hair tie, adjusting the straps of your bags. You were pretty sure you had broken your record of being late to your class. You may hate the professor, but you actually enjoyed the subject.

Wheezing as you ran past the late comers, you nodded at the receptionist, hastily signing yourself in. You would blame your clumsiness for what happened next, because one second you were fixing your sande on the foot of the fountain, and next thing you knew you were crashing into a firm body, your nose hitting the random stranger’s chest.

"I’m so sorry! I’m kinda late to class and I wasn’t looking and- whoa, ow.” You rushed your words, groaning when you felt blood rush from your head to toe, nose throbbing with double vision, a reminder of your clumsiness.

“Whoa, hey calm down, it’s okay, I wasn’t looking either.” The stranger said, his thick South Western accent snapping you out of your self pity.

You felt blood rush to your cheeks instead, not anticipating your face in a flush this early in the morning, when you got a good look at the stranger. He was good looking, in his black high turtleneck and brown checkered pants. He had a small leather satchel clutched in his hands, face looking as flushed as you felt when you realised that you had been gawking at him.

He was probably no older than his mid twenties, making you wonder what he was doing in your university. He was too old to be a student, and too young to be a professor. But then again, you wouldn't judge him for joining college late.

Right?

"S-sorry, you um, you must be really late, you should go." He stuttered, your heart fluttering at his dimpled chin and thick accent. His eyes were gleaming in the morning sun, captivating in a way that left you in awe.

"Um yeah, I am." You nodded, composing yourself, hoping that you didn't look too sleep deprived or disheveled, "where are you going, if you don't mind me asking."

"Um, the architecture wing?" He said, unconsciously stepping besides you.

"Oh, I'm going that way. Is it your first time coming here? Haven't seen you around." You asked, trying not to stare at his sharp jawline and the way the morning sun hit him just right, illuminating and accentuating his curly brown hair.

"Yeah, it's my first lecture, so um, looks like I'm late too." He smiled. It was infectious, you noticed as you mirrored his expression.

"Oh, you're a student?"

"Actually, I'm a professor. Just transferred from UCL."

So you were right, he was a professor. He looks so young though. You thought, nodding at him, your thoughts interrupted by his laugh. Looking at him with confusion, you raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah, everyone says that. I started right after finishing graduation so, I guess I'm not much older than you." He smiled, kicking the small pebbles littered around the set grassy ground. It had just rained, the smell of wet ground still fresh.

"I said that out loud didn't I?" You smirked, ducking your head to hide.

"You did."

Entering the building, you realised that you hadn't asked which subject he taught, crossing your fingers and hoping that he would replace the old bastard that taught you cultural architecture.

"I forgot to ask, which lecture do you teach?" You asked, looking for your class in the end. The hallways were empty, it was way past your first lecture and all the students were already in the auditorium.

"Oh, uh, British History." He answered. You didn't let disappointment show too much on your face, smiling shyly before gesturing towards the class, "that's you."

"Oh, um thank you." He smiled, pursing his thin lips together as he walked towards the class. You could hear screaming of the students as you both neared the classroom, you still standing by the door, "I didn't get your name."

His question snapped you out of your disappointed gaze,

"Oh, it's Y/n. Y/n L/n." You said with a smile.

"Pleasure to meet you Y/n, I'm Thomas Holland, but you can call me Tom." He said awkwardly, before turning back to his class, who had yet to notice him.

"The pleasure's all mine Professor."

For the first time in your college life, you didn't feel like tearing your hair off during your lecture, your thoughts wandering around. You wanted to berate yourself for not paying attention, but your thoughts kept going there.

It was funny, how you met him not long ago and he was already taking up residence in your brain. You could not control your feelings after all. Something akin to nausea or excitement eased into your stomach when you pictured his smile, his black turtleneck that accentuated his biceps and pectorals. The little rebellious eyebrow and the tiny scar above it.

It made your heart flutter, everything seemingly seemed to stop around you. It scared you a bit, how You had managed to envision the little details of his face in your brain after such a short duration.

You didn't realise that you were smiling until you felt a nudge on your side, making you nearly jump on your seat.

"What?!" You hissed, scowling at your classmate.

"Who're you thinking about?" She asked, wiggling her eyebrows as she leaned towards you. You had known her long enough to know her name but never bothered learning, and you were too scared to ask now.

"It's none of your business." You muttered, glancing up to see your professor scowling at a student as they stood up.

"Well okay, but did you hear about the hot new professor? Apparently he's teaching British History, I regret not taking that as a subject now." She said, her cheeks flushed with excitement. You furrowed your brows, feeling a pang in your chest at the realisation that you were probably just another girl with a stupid crush on the hot professor, that there were already girls who would die to feel his touch.

"How do you know about him?" You asked, raising an eyebrow as you try to act nonchalant. You weren't being subtle, apparently, because you could see her snapping her bubblegum with a smirk, leaning forward as if trading secrets.

"You kidding right? Everyone knows about him, you got a crush on him or something?" She suggested, scooting close enough to make you squirm.

"I literally just met him, and ew, he's a professor, why would I see him that way?" You whisper, willing your heart to stop palpitating at the thought of said professor, your gut twisting in anticipation.

"I don't know girl, he's hot and young and so much better than this bastard." She sighed, leaning on her palm with a fake dreamy expression.

You went back to ignoring her after that, noticing how her notebook said 'Eloise'. At least you didn't have to ask her her name now.

Your class went surprisingly well, or maybe it was because you weren't paying attention and thinking about him again. You really needed to get a grip on yourself.

Walking out of your class, you decided to go to the cafeteria, your stomach begging for your attention.

Setting your things on a table, you took out your phone to scroll through Instagram, before switching it off and looking around the cafeteria. You didn't know what you were expecting to see, but your stomach was gurgling with hunger and nothing made sense when you were hungry.

Walking to grab something to eat, you pick up your bag, hanging it over one of your shoulders before getting in the line.

Just as you were about to turn with your bun and cup of coffee, you crashed into someone for the second time that day. Cursing your clumsiness, you heard a familiar British accent curse not very colourful words, making you stumble over as you tried to wipe off the hot coffee off his shirt.

"Hey, it's okay." He said, stopping your frantic gestures by holding your wrist with his to cease any movements.

"Professor Holland! I'm so sorry, it's like, I'm just clumsy. I have no excuse." You sighed in resignation, mentally facepalming at spilling your coffee at the hot professor.

"It's okay darling, I've had much worse spilled on me." He smirked, his hand still holding on to yours. You had started walking away from the location, and yet his hand didn't let go, "You know, I used to babysit during my college days."

"Oh, babysitting, right of course." You chuckled awkwardly, chest heaving with the sudden close proximity with the professor, dissipating the not quite PG thought that just occurred in your mind at his words..

"Sorry for-" You said in unison with him, chuckling.

"You go first." He said.

"I'm sorry for spilling coffee on You, it must have hurt and I ruined your shirt and now there's a big splotch of coffee right in the middle!" You said, circling your fingers around your palm as you walked with your back to the exit as you walked out of the cafeteria, food forgotten and him following your pace.

Before you could continue your awkward blabber, you were standing in the garden outside, leaning against a pillar with the garden in your view looking golden in the setting sun. He was standing in your view, the shadows around his jaw making it look sharp enough to cut glass.

Taking a breath, you looked up at his smiling form with confusion when he didn't answer, instead leant onto the pillar next to you.

"You were... gonna say something?" You reminded, smiling awkwardly as you fiddled with your fingers.

"Oh? Oh! Oh yes yes, You know, I was kind of disappointed that you weren't in my class, Mister Wilson talks very highly of you." He said, folding his arms on his chest, it made his biceps bulge.

"He does?" You looked at him with surprise, guilt panging in your chest when you remembered yourself bad mouthing the professor not long ago.

"Yes, says you're a bright student with a bright future." He answered, leaning his head back so that his neck was exposed, Adam's Apple bobbing as he gulped, his hair falling into place perfectly against his forehead. The arch of his neck was beautiful, tracing it with your eyeballs as you imagined which other curves of his were as beautiful, immediately dismissing those thoughts, chastising yourself for thinking such a way of a professor.

"That's… sweet of him. I've never heard him compliment me once in the two and half years I've been in his class." You chuckle, leaning your elbow on the pillar to get a better look at his side profile.

"Hmm, he says he's hard on you because he wants you to do your best..."

You stopped listening past that, your breath growing more erratic the more he talked, his smooth voice washing over you like warm honey with a squeeze of lemon. Swallowing a sudden lump in your throat, your heart leaping, leaving you nauseous and in a dream like trance.

Tom noticed immediately, noticing your slouched posture as you stared at him with a small smile, the upturn of your lips so inviting that he almost dived in, wanting to know the feeling of them what they felt like against his.

He wasn't the kind to date his students, in fact, he rarely dated after joining uni and becoming a professor.

He strictly believed that student/teacher relationships should end in only a professional non romantic set up. That was all up until he crashed into you that morning.

You had been in his mind all day, stirring him crazy as he imagined your smile, the way your eyes lit up when you talked about your subject of interest, the say your fingers fiddled with the ring you wore on your index finger.

He wondered if this feeling would last forever or become a vague memory, an attraction of hearts that didn't last but felt good till it did. If he was rushing, or if you even felt the same way.

He was smart, of course that's how he became a teacher, but he still couldn't place your feelings.

So when he saw you staring at him, his heart leaping in his throat at your adorable smile, the only logical answer his brain gave was that you liked him too. Temporary attraction or not, he wasn't one to look a gift horse in it's mouth.

Next thing he knew your lips were crashing onto his, your chest pressed against his firmly as your hands reached up to the base of his neck.

Your fingers were soft, tongue swishing against his as he opened his mouth to let you enter. His hands automatically reach for your waist, holding onto firmly as he slammed you against the pillar.

The sun was nearly down, the last of the rays hitting the garden, lighting you both up in a golden glow that left you breathless with a fire raging in your souls.

"What do you say that I audit for British history? I'd like to learn more lessons from you, Professor Holland." You said, breathless against his chest, hiding your nose against his sternum, blood rushing to your ears as his warm hand burned against the bare skin underneath your shirt.

"That would be great darling, anything to see your pretty smile every morning."

A/N: let me know what you think! :)

#tom holland x reader #professor! tom holland x reader #professor!tom holland #tom holland smut #tom holland x reader smut #tom holland x you #spideygirl writes

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shurisneakers · 3 years

Text

shut in [8]

Summary: When your high profile mission goes terribly wrong, you’re forced to hide in a safehouse with a man you’ve never met before. With seemingly nowhere else to go, you’re forced to work together to figure out who is trying to have you assassinated before it’s too late. (Sam Wilson x Reader, Hitman AU)

Warnings: cursing, implied abuse, death, implied ptsd, injuries, guns, anxiety

Word count: 4.2k

A/N: oh my god oh my god sam stans how are we feeling djkghdfjkhgdf. no thoughts only sam wilson in ep1 of tfatws <333

i also appreciate feedback so if you would like to, please consider dropping me an ask or comment ly guys!!

here’s my ko-fi if you’d like to support my writing <333

Previous Part || Shut In Masterlist

“Hey, I’m just going to step out for today.” You looked up from the doodle you were making on the corner of the paper. “Catch you later? Just find me if you need anything.”

“You okay?” You automatically sat up straighter, blanket creasing under you. Something was amiss in his body language.

“Yeah, just-” He seemed like he was struggling for words. “-Brooklyn.”

You didn’t get what he was making a reference to until it suddenly dawned on you.

It was the codeword he had suggested right at the beginning of your time in the house. If he was in danger you were sure he’d tell you, at least an inkling of information.

But no, this was for some time alone, further confirmed by the distant look in his eyes.

“Oh.” You blinked. “Take all the time you need. I’ll be here if you need.”

He gave you a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, turning around and leaving the room.

You were left staring after him, the drawing you were making of the house layout discarded on the bed. You were working on strategies, vantage points- anything that could help in case something went wrong.

Was it because of the dumb ‘moment’ you had shared two days ago? It didn’t seem like it because he hadn’t brought it up at all and God knows you would never. Was it something else that had happened, something you did?

Stop overthinking. He probably just needs a day to himself.

You had spent almost a month in each other’s company and he had never once complained. He had a tendency to be petty about minor inconveniences, like you trying to watch a movie when his favourite segment on the local news channel was going on. He liked the cooking show they hosted.

He had never made it a point to specifically tell you that he needed some time to himself, much less use the word.

“Get yourself together,” you whispered to yourself, shaking off the nagging feeling you had.

If he had an issue, he would have voiced it. He never shied away from doing that before and you knew he wouldn’t start now.

You forced yourself to think about something else, grabbing the copy of American Gods you had already gone over once before but were subjecting to a reread. Opening the page you had last left it at, you were determined to distract yourself.

Nearly twenty minutes later and exactly zero pages since you had started, you realised that no matter how much you forced yourself to get into it, you went over the same line over and over again, not a single word registering in your head.

“Motherfucker,” you groaned, letting the book fall on your face. You took a long look outside the window, mind drifting.

It was a nice day out. Maybe some sun would help.

You lifted your legs off the bed, taking your book with you to the kitchen. You could get a nice sandwich-- the same as the last three fuckin’ weeks but you digressed-- a glass of water, and you could sit outside for a while. A mini picnic.

You opened a new packet of sliced bread, taking two out before stopping. You pondered over whether you should make him a sandwich for when he returned, knowing that he didn’t eat lunch before he left.

You thought about it for a good minute before rolling your eyes, pulling out two additional slices to make him one as well. It was just a sandwich. It wasn’t a big deal.

Tucking your book under your arm, you carried your lunch and a glass of water to the patio around the back.

The wind rustled the leaves and the sun wasn’t harsh. The low buzz of insects was the only sound that kept you company.

The air was crisp and you instantly felt better than you had all day in the room.

Setting your stuff down on the bench, you sat down, inhaling deeply.

The book suddenly didn’t seem so impossible to complete as you tried once more, slipping into the pages easily. Even after you finished your food, you continued to lounge about there, too engrossed and content to move.

You didn’t notice the afternoon go by, evening coming and going just as swiftly. You swatted at the occasional fly but nothing else bothered you.

It felt like summer break. At least what you thought it would feel like. You never had one, being homeschooled about things from various people in the organization. There wasn’t a singular, long break. You were just forced to adapt.

You didn't know how to deal with the suffocating realisation of knowing there were so many things you missed out on. It grew the longer you spent time away. You just shoved it away, forcing yourself to deal with it another day.

He comes back when the sky is slipping into shades of orange, a backpack on his shoulder. There was a patch of sweat around his neck and his head was hung low as he walked.

“Hey,” you hoped it didn't look like you were waiting for him. It could easily be taken as you camping out there, waiting for your husband to return from a hard day in the fields.

Sam looked up at your greeting. You noted that the bruise on his nose was starting to change colour but the swelling had reduced from how bad it used to be.

“Left you a sandwich on the counter if you’re hungry,” you added. He nodded in acknowledgement, making his way up the stairs and into the house without another word.

You let out an exhale, feeling a little better knowing that he was at least back in one piece. No reason to believe otherwise other than the anxiety you had developed over imagining the worst case scenarios.

You picked up your book again, intending to finish off the last bit before you went back inside for the day.

About half an hour later Sam re-emerged from the house, your attention snapping to him as the door opened and shut. He had changed into a new pair of clothes, looking a little cleaner like he was fresh outta the shower. He had a sandwich in his hand that he had already taken a few bites out of. You wondered if it was the one you left for him.

You didn’t expect him to take a seat next to you on the bench. He didn’t look at you or open his mouth to talk so you followed suit. You continued reading, or at least tried to, as he just sat there, finishing his sandwich without any kind of other interaction.

There was a strange tension he wasn’t addressing. He instead leaned back, arms crossed behind his neck to support his neck and closed his eyes. His foot tapped against the wooden floor and rather than getting annoyed, you found solace in the repetition.

“They recruited me on this day,” Sam said to no one in particular. His eyes were still closed and his feet still tapped against the ground. “Parents died when I was a kid, I got shifted around orphanages and homes a lot. Finally Ransone had someone pick me up.”

You closed your book softly, setting it down beside you. That’s what was bothering him.

Secret adoption is what they called it officially in the business, but around the organization it was just known as the recruitment process. Every record of Sam being alive would have been destroyed to maintain anonymity.

To the world he just… disappeared.

It was a day that clearly brought with it so much pain. You were too young to remember when you joined, and no one had kept track either. You supposed it was for the good.

It was supposed to be a happy day, one filled with new beginnings. Maybe that’s what he would have thought when he got picked. It’s what you did.

“I’m sorry,” you said, not having anything else to offer. You relieved your memories everyday in your head. Having a morbid anniversary of sorts would no doubt drain the life out of you; remembering one singular day that would trigger the rest of the decisions you made in your life.

He didn’t say anything in return. You turned your attention to the sky, finding it easier to look at that than the disturbed look on his face.

“Do you regret this?” he asked out of the blue.

“All of it,” you replied, without skipping a beat.

“Every single one, huh?” Sam’s one eye opened to peer at you.

“It wasn’t up to me to take someone’s life away.” You were just a child. You knew nothing other than what you were taught; so then why was it so fucking hard to forgive your past self for straying into this. “Even once I realised that I couldn’t leave.”

You didn’t form any relationships while you worked with Ransone. Whoever you did allow yourself to care for ended up dead or worse, sometimes as a cruel lesson to not make friends in the organization you worked in because all they served as were distractions and liabilities. Others were plain scum; people who you knew were using you but you didn’t care. The loneliness hurt worse.

“What about you?”

“I’d give anything to go back and change things,” he admitted. He didn’t have a say either. It didn’t make things easier.

“You regret all of ‘em too?”

“Mostly,” he said. “One of them I don’t.”

“That one must have deserved it then,” you deduced. It was the only logical explanation you could think of; the worst of the worst.

“Nah. I let him go.”

It took a while to register what he said.

“What?” You twisted your body to look at him.

“First mission I ever did.”

His hands were shaking lightly, barely holding on to the gun. This wasn’t what he was taught. Stay calm. Stay calm. Stay calm.

He had already managed to get his way into the house through the back. His partner had taken care of most of it and Sam only had to knock people out. He hadn’t had to kill anyone yet.

But now his partner was injured outside the door. Quick shot to the leg, a punch in the face and he was out cold. Sam was already in the master bedroom by the time it happened. He had no idea about where his partner was, only the crippling fear of being left alone and the nerves from the threat posed to him if this didn’t go right.

He knew he didn’t have enough time. He had only a few minutes to kill him and get out of there before his family returned.

The man itself was sitting at the study table, his back towards Sam. Just pull the trigger and get out of here. It was deadly silent.

“I know you’re here to kill me,” the man said suddenly. Sam nearly jumped but instead tightened the grip on the gun.

“Stay where you are.” He sounded confident.

“I’m not planning on going anywhere.” His chair swiveled around, letting him face Sam. His hair was white with a beard that matched. He was dressed down in his pajamas, a robe covering him. He didn’t look nervous.

“Stop talking.”

“You’re younger than what I expected,” the man observed, not paying heed to what Sam was in. He was a considerable distance away. “You’re not even legal yet, are you? I got kids, I would know.”

Sam didn’t say a word, only lifted his gun up to align with his forehead. “I said, stop talking.”

“I’ve made mistakes. Several, actually,” he mused, “It’s why your boss sent you here. I’ve accepted my fate.”

“Then it should be easy.”

“Oh, it never is,” the man chuckled. “It doesn’t get lighter. You learn to ignore it but it’ll weigh on you for the rest of your life.”

Sam’s jaw clenched. It would get easier. It had to.

“I doubt that’s what you heard, however,” he continued. “Ransone’s a bit… unstable. It’s in his blood, but you- you don’t look like you could live with it.”

Ransone’s history was well known enough that rival gang leaders knew it too, apparently. The man would have been delighted at his infamous reputation.

Just shoot him. Just shoot him and end this.

“What’s your name?” the man asked, taking a sip from the tumbler he had in his hand. “You’re going to be the last person I talk to. It’d be nice to have a name.”

“Sam,” he whispered, inwardly cursing himself.

“Sam. That’s a strong name,” the man said, clicking the roof of his mouth with his tongue. “Are you sure this is what you want to do, Sam?”

It wasn’t.

“I don’t have a choice.” He hated how defeated he sounded. It was a weakness.

“They want you to believe that. It takes away your freedom. I would know, I’ve used it.” The man smiled, setting down his glass. “I’ll tell you this though, Sam. You always have a choice.”

“Stop talking, man.” Sam pulled the safety off.

“Once you go down this way, there’s no way you can escape. Someone will always have to die; either him or you.”

“That’s not true.” He could leave at any time. He just needed-

“You’ll see for yourself.” The man leaned back on his chair, resigned. “But for now, go ahead. I’ll make it easy for you.”

He simply closed his eyes and sat back.

You waited for Sam to continue.

“Couldn’t do it,” he said, shaking his head lightly. “Son of a bitch got in my head and I knew what he was doing too. Told him to get the fuck out before my partner shot him in the face.”

“Does Ransone know?” You were still reeling from the incident he recounted. You didn't know what else to say.

“Holds it over me every damn day,” he scoffed. “Some fucked up way of saying that I owe him one.”

To be frank, you were surprised Sam was still alive to tell you. Everyone knew that Ransone forgiven the first mistake someone made, but this was huge. If it were anyone else, he would have had someone try out a hundred different ways to push Sam to the brink of death and back; having him begging for the release that death would bring.

“He hasn’t ever cashed in that favour?”

“He did. Had me take out the leader of the Ten Rings after that.”

“So then why did you still continue?”

“I did something extremely dangerous a couple of years ago that he found out about recently. Used that to get me to come for this mission.”

He didn’t elaborate what he meant and you didn’t ask him to. You supposed it was a story for another day. This was heavy enough.

“He wants to get rid of me as much as I want to get away from him, trust me. We’re the weird, toxic relationship those self-help Instagram pages warned you about.” Trust Sam to make a dumb joke during a conversation like this. “Probably the only time someone from the gang let their target go and not died.”

That wasn’t as true as he thought he was but you didn’t want to seem like you were one-upping him. You didn’t want him to think you were making this about you.

“You remember the big break you were talking about?” you tread carefully, gauging his reaction before you continued. “The one that pushed me up the ranks or whatever.”

He gave a small hum of acknowledgement, bringing his hands from behind his head to fold across his chest.

“Similar story, ‘cept Ransone doesn’t know.”

“What?” His eyes shot open. “How?”

“I was so tired of him treating me like a child. Everyone around who joined after me was out there doinghardcore missions and I was stuck with petty shit.” You didn’t know any better. You wished you had. “So he told me if I made it through this one, he’d send me on more.”

This wasn’t your first mission. You had handled hits before, mostly in the shadows, from a distance.

This was different. It was broad daylight, waiting behind a wall near the gated entrance of the house for a car to pull up.

A challenge, Ransone had posed, with strict instructions to do it in broad daylight. If you got out of this undetected, he’d consider sending you on more sophisticated missions.

“Highly stealthy. They’re dangerous,” you were warned. “You won’t know what hit you if you’re caught off your game.”

The low rumble of the car outside the gate alerted you of your target’s arrival. The gates weren’t going to open, the guards were dead.

The car stopped, waiting for the path to open up. When it didn’t the car’s engine slowed to a stop. The man in the driver’s seat got out to open the gate, giving you a clear shot.

You took a deep breath, clenching your eyes shut for a second before taking aim.

The body hit the gravel and you quickly made your way to the car. You could see the woman in the backseat gaping at where the man was standing a few seconds ago. She was struggling against the door, trying to escape.

She finally succeeded, the door opening suddenly as she stumbled over herself trying to get out.

“Stay there,” you commanded. She slowly looked up at you, face white as a sheet.

“Please,” she croaked. “Don’t hurt us.”

“I’m sorry.” You truly were.

Her face changed, dropping the facade immediately. She just looked on in acceptance, not making an effort to move. Manipulative. She almost had you convinced

You held the gun over her, pulling the trigger. A single shot. Her body slumped over.

You stared at her in silence, expressionless. You let out an exhale, tucking the gun back into the waist of your pants, stepping over her body to leave.

A small, staggering breath made you stop in your tracks. It was so slight you barely heard it. You took a step back, trying to trace where it came from.

You ducked your head to peer into the car, your heart stopping. Your hand instinctively reached for your weapon.

“What the-” you muttered, facing a boy who looked only a few years younger than you. He was staring straight ahead, muscles in his jaw tight.

The son wasn’t supposed to be here. He was supposed to be abroad, according to the case file. Unless there were two of them you didn’t know about, this boy wasn’t supposed to be here.

“Listen,” you began, but he didn’t look at you. Just stared straight ahead, body trembling. He was scared. He didn’t show it.

“Show no mercy,” Ransone’s voice rang in your head.

“He’s a child,” you murmured to yourself. Your gun felt heavy in your hand.

Show no mercy.

You could only imagine what would be in store for you if you returned to Ransone with some tale of sympathy. This boy was only a few years younger than you. He didn’t have anything to do with this.

Show no mercy.

“Kid,” you called out. He slowly turned his head. “Go on. Get out of here.”

“What?” he asked, voice hoarse.

“Leave. You can’t be seen if someone comes back,” you urged. “I won’t be able to help you.”

“You killed my mom,” he jeered, unmoving.

“I’m sorry. I had to.” Your voice was quiet. Your hand clutched at the hood of the car to keep your balance. “But I don’t want to hurt you. Go.”

When he didn’t shift, you slammed the hood of the car, scaring him enough to pull at the door and stagger out of the car.

You turned your back to him, not waiting to see where he was going. The more deniability you had, the better.

“Did he make it?”

“He did,” you divulged the information you had found out a while ago. It was a messy confrontation to say the least but you got out unscathed.

“And Ransone doesn’t know.”

“There’s no record of this kid. He thinks he was at boarding school.” You shrugged. “Wasn’t going to correct him either.”

“If he did find out-” Sam trailed off.

“I’d be dead,” you concluded. “Being his favourite wouldn’t matter.”

“Why was it such a big deal, this mission?”

“She was a part of a major gang that Ransone was losing to.”

Sam just nodded knowingly, looking ahead again. You knew he’d done missions like this as well. Things like this were common so it didn’t need further elaboration.

“This job sucks,” he let out.

You gave a short laugh. That was an understatement.

“I want out. Can’t keep doin’ this for much longer,” he continued, however, to your surprise. “Don’t wanna keep doin’ this.”

You bit your lip, eyebrows knitted in concern. “You will.”

“How?” You hadn’t seen him like this before, this hint of desperation in his tone that left as quickly as it came. “I’ve tried, everything just comes up short.”

“I’ll help you.” You wanted to, God you did.

“You gonna kill him for me?” He looked at you. “‘Cause that’s really the only way out of this.”

If you were pushed to the limit, if he was on his knees in front of you and there was a gun in your hand pointed at him; would you be able to pull the trigger? Would you be able to kill the only constant you’d had for more than half your life?

“I can’t,” you muttered, dejection making its way into your thoughts.

“I know,” Sam said softly, “I wouldn’t ask you to either.”

You took a moment to observe him. The sun did him good. There was a soft glow to his skin, the colours of the sunset dancing in his dark eyes. Laugh lines were becoming more prominent around them, only adding to its charm.

He was a good man. He deserved better.

“I’ll find a way,” you sounded determined, “I promise.”

You didn’t say that very often. Your word didn’t mean a lot to people in the business, but it seemed to, to him.

“Thank you.” He appeared taken aback but didn’t show it in his words.

You simply sent him a smile, a reassurance. You knew what you had to do, just weren’t sure how.

He was right. There wasn’t a way out of it other than the one he proposed, but it wasn’t an option. You had to find another.

You would. You’d figure it out.

“It’s Cinnamon, by the way,” he said without any context.

You looked at him in question.

“My embarrassing nickname.” This was not where you saw the conversation heading but you were delighted all of a sudden. “My ma used to call me that all the damn time. Mortifying.”

“Cinnamon and Buttercup.” You didn’t bother hiding the grin that spread across your face. “World’s best assassins.”

“If that name ever leaves this conversation, I’ll know who to murder.”

“You couldn’t even if you tried,” you said playfully, nudging his shoulder.

He shrugged, face relaxed. “T’was worth a shot.”

An unintentional pun you snickered at. You didn’t tease him any further, just filed the name away as a memory. Maybe you’d use it later.

“Have you ever let anyone go after that?” You didn’t want to keep coming back to this conversation but you liked having someone to relate to.

“No.” Sam shook his head. “Didn’t want to test my luck.”

“Me too.” One had been enough. You lived in fear for so long, waiting for someone to pull the plug and tell him what you’d done. That fear only grew everyday, finding a place at the deepest corner of your mind to fester.

“It’s what I meant when I said Serpentine had a motive to want me dead,” Sam said, piquing your interest once more.

“Huh?”

“The man I was supposed to kill- he was their old head. He disappeared after that and no one heard from him but it pissed off everyone, right from Ransone to their stupid gang’s janitor,” he explained, your eyes going wide with every word. “So the irony is, if we’re right, I might have led us into this situation. They’re looking for revenge.”

“Holy shit,” you uttered under your breath.

“I just assumed he died of old age if someone didn’t get to him first. He looked like he was one birthday away from the grave anyway.”

“How are you still alive, Sam?” you asked in wonder.

“I’d do it again.” He laughed, a deep one from his stomach.

He was reckless, clearly. Happily and unashamedly so. And if you continued to hang out with him after this was over, he’d probably get you killed in some stunt or two.

But maybe you’d deal with that if the time came.

He leaned back again, this time no creases on his forehead from stress. He looked at peace.

You sat together in silence. You occasionally stole glances at him as the sun set in front of you, a small smile on your face.

You leaned your head on his shoulder tentatively. You could feel him tilt his head to look at you and you prepared to have him ask you to move.

It never came. Instead, he scooted closer to you, letting you rest against him more comfortably. Your heart skipped a beat; barely but surely.

A realisation quickly hit you, suddenly before consuming you. Your stomach sank.

“Fuck.”

Next part

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fanficsandfluff · 3 years

Text

The Wake-Up

Finally, I've crossed a fic idea off my daydream checklist! Enjoy!

Fandom: MCU, The Falcon and the Winter Soldier

Characters: Bucky Barnes, Sam Wilson, some Cass and AJ, a smidge of Sarah

Words: 2,010

Bucky hadn’t felt as well-rested as he had on Sarah’s couch, even despite being woken by her two boys. So, yes, maybe he did keep accepting offers to stay over. It helped his mental well-being, so what? He sought the rest and relaxation. Sam hadn’t even been there a few times, but it was still as welcome as ever. Sarah cooked great food. He brought her flowers the last time he slept over, and he loved the bright smile that sprung to her face.

“We need to clear a guest room all for you,” Sarah joked at the dinner table on one particular summer night.

“You can take Uncle Sam’s room when he’s not here!” Cass announced through a mouthful of grits.

Bucky grinned at all the jests and he knuckled Cass’s shoulder, “Oh, I’m sure Uncle Sam wouldn’t mind at all,” he always smiled whenever he heard ‘Uncle Sam’ being used to address the new Captain America. Brought a lot of nostalgia back, and even turned it into something positive.

But on the couch he remained, at least for the upcoming night.

Sam pulled up at 3 am, the whole house asleep. He had to get used to seeing Bucky on Sarah’s couch, but it was finally starting to become less surprising. As long as he was on the couch and not in Sarah’s bed, all things were fine by him. Sam tiptoed in after shedding his boots at the door, easing into the comfort brought to him just by being in the house. He adjusted the blanket by Bucky’s feet and pulled another corner over his bare arm, non-metal.

Sam smirked to himself. He always assumed Bucky possessed superhuman senses, so someone who decided to even step too close while he slept would be pulverized immediately. But no. The guy needed the sleep, he supposed. Bucky’s breathing pattern didn’t even change when Sam adjusted the blanket. Hmm… he could use this.

~~~

“Shhh, shhshh, hey guys,” Sam kissed his nephews on their foreheads when he woke them purposely later that morning. Dawn was just creeping over the bayou, shimmering the lights on the water.

“Wait, shh, you gotta stay quiet or you’ll ruin it,” Sam had his hand atop AJ’s head and he ruffled it around, making the older boy giggle.

“Ruin what?” Cass whispered.

“We’re gonna wake Bucky. The guy’s just always sleeping, isn’t he?”

Both boys shared identical grins, “Yeah, totally!” AJ slipped his glasses onto his face, Cass following suit.

And so the plot begun. Sam went to the bathroom with his nephews and gathered shaving cream after Cass had pulled a feather from his animal project from school. Sam explained what they’d be doing with these tools, since they’d never pulled this prank before (wow, Sam felt old).

AJ and Cass were practically vibrating with anticipation and giddiness. The trio snuck their way to the couch. Sam sprayed the shaving cream on Bucky’s metal hand since he knew how to not make the spray noise come out so loudly (and his human arm was tucked behind him on the couch so he couldn’t get to that one, okay? He didn’t go for the metal on purpose, he isn’t that cruel).

Sam pointed to Cass first as the three of them stood by Bucky’s head, hiding behind that edge of the couch, crouching. Cass stood and swiped the feather across Bucky’s forehead. No reaction. He gave it to AJ. AJ, more methodical, wiggled the feathered tip on the bridge of Bucky’s nose. Now he got his nose to scrunch, brow to furrow, but his arms stayed put. Sam next. He got the feather to move closer to Bucky’s nostrils.

“So close…” Cass whispered in the smallest voice, hands covering his mouth. AJ also put his own hand over Cass’s hands covering his mouth because of the comment.

Sam kept it up, even swiping around Bucky’s cheeks, when-- WHAM!

The boys both exclaimed, Cass jumping up and down excitedly while giggling. Sam laughed loudly, holding his stomach. The noise was a loud metal clang when metal arm connected with skull. It was hilarious.

Bucky shot up with a start, feeling his eyes covered in some kind of gook, and he practically gave himself a headache. He heard all the laughter and he sighed deeply.

“Gross…” he grumbled and wiped his eyes, not realizing his hand was the cause. He ended up smearing more shaving cream across his eyes.

“You got a little something…” Sam spoke, holding back more laughs. Anything to mess with Bucky was the highlight of Sam’s day.

Bucky got enough shaving cream off his face and wiped onto his pants to see again. He eyed the boys first, knowing he could scare them off quicker. He growled.

“Go go go!” AJ directed his younger brother, ushering him back towards the bedrooms, the two shoving each other and tripping over each other along the way.

Bucky’s eyes went to Sam immediately after.

Sam had to think quick. Run from a super soldier and inevitably get caught, or wake Sarah because there’s no way Bucky would do anything to him if Sarah was--- yeah, nope, not willing to face Sarah’s wrath either. Sam bolted out the front door, hearing the screen door clatter behind him. Not two seconds later he heard it clatter again, meaning Bucky was hot on his trail.

Sam ran through the yard, weaving between trees, feeling the dewy grass get kicked up under his bare feet.

Bucky threw himself at Sam when he had the shot and they both propelled forward, rolling in the grass for a few feet.

“Ow! Shit, Buck!” Sam exclaimed, groaning, feigning more pain than he was actually in.

Bucky was atop Sam, not falling for the act for a second. It took Sam a moment to look up and he burst out another laugh, unable to help himself. Bucky still had a white-painted face full of shaving cream, just now looking more smeared than goopy.

“You know you’re so dead and you’re still laughing? Where’d you get the balls…” Bucky tried to sound menacing, he really did.

“Nahah, no, you--” he cleared his throat, buying time so he could formulate a way out from under the Winter Soldier, “It’s good for your skin. Moisturizing. You look good.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes and his metal hand snapped to Sam’s when he tried to move, wrenching it up above his head. Sam was pinned. Now was the time he was getting nervous.

“It was all AJ and Cass, I just thought you should know.”

“Mmhm,” Bucky, man of few words, looked up and down Sam’s torso. He had him pinned. Now what to do. Bucky poked at Sam’s protruding rib. He did it again to the few above that one, making a little path of pokes.

Sam shifted under him, uncomfortable. His face looked much less jovial now. Annoyed. Good.

“Oh Sam, buddy, you never told me you were ticklish,” he drawled.

“I’m not--I mean, just stop. I’m sorry,” Sam apologized.

Bucky’s eyebrow actually raised. That was the whole fun of the game. Coaxing the apology. But of course Sam went and ruined that. Nice guy.

“For what?” Nice recovery, Barnes.

“For waking you up.”

Bucky allowed himself to quirk the corners of his lips, “Gotta be more specific than that,” and his one hand dug into the ribs on Sam’s right side. His fingers groped for the spaces in between and massaged his way in. Sam bucked and laughter was torn from his chest.

Sam was ticklish and only Sarah knew. Of course she knew, being the older sister. But dammit, he was never planning on Bucky Barnes figuring it out. And this was exactly why! The guy would be devastating!

“No! NohohoHO BUCKY!” Sam twisted side to side since that’s all the mobility he was allowed.

“What else are you sorry for? Here, I’ll give you the list,” as Bucky spoke, he had to raise his voice over Sam’s desperate giggles, hand switching to clawing at the other’s belly, “You woke me up with a prank. So there’s that. You lied and blamed AJ and Cass for something you 100% planned. You ran from the scene of the crime. Am I missing anything, Wilson?”

“Screhehehew you!” Sam got out before laughing louder as Bucky’s hand scratched at his armpit, “Stop! Stoppit, you fuhucking cyborg!”

“Oho! I’ll add that! Aaand, oh, and you lied to me about you not being ticklish. You said ‘I’m not,’” Bucky imitated Sam in a very stupid voice, “when clearly you are. Very. Very ticklish.”

Sam was pulling on his arms as much as he could without injuring himself. His veins popped, muscles straining. He was useless like this. Defenseless.

But he was laughing.

That was kind of nice.

Bucky contemplated letting go and allowing Sam to squirm. He liked having him at his mercy like this, though. Made him feel powerful… Hm.

Bucky kept Sam pinned with his vibranium appendage, and he wiped as much of the remaining shaving cream off his face as he could with his right hand.

Sam coughed as he sucked the humid morning air into his lungs. By now he didn’t know if the moistness he felt all along his back was from the dewy grass or from his own sweat.

“No, man, dohon’t,” he saw the absolute mischief painted on Bucky’s gleeful face and his raised shaving cream hand. Bucky planted his palm on the side of Sam’s face, chuckling to himself after the act.

“Aw, you-- you’re real gross, Barnes, you know that?” Sam spit out the imaginary shaving cream that got in his mouth.

“I think I’m just being fair,” Bucky pushed up Sam’s sleep shirt with his free elbow and he started tracing patterns with shaving cream along Sam’s belly. That got Cap giggling all over again.

“Buhuhucky, noho!”

“Keep giggling, Sam, it’s only gonna make me want to keep this up.”

Sam would swear up and down that that particular comment didn’t make him blush, but oh boy he felt his cheeks get warmer.

“I don’t g-gihiggle, asshole!”

“Oh, no?” Bucky switched to scratching at Sam’s taught tummy, the shaving cream making the experience extra slippery, causing Sam’s laughter to jump in pitch.

“I”m sorry!” Sam squeaked out before Bucky could even change tactics again.

Bucky chortled, “For…?”

“Everything! Eheverything you sahahaid!”

“Aww,” Bucky smiled. He pulled his metal arm back and just sat on Sam’s waist, still basking in the glow of winning like this.

Bucky leaned his head down closer to Sam’s, “I forgive you,” he said curtly. He watched the last few huffs and breaths of light laughs leave Sam’s lips. He could get headbutted being this close to Sam’s own face. Or kissed. Wait--

Bucky climbed off of Sam, sitting beside him in the grass. He pulled up the bottom of his shirt and wiped the shaving cream fully off his face.

Sam jabbed Bucky’s abs when the shirt came up and the Winter Soldier twitched.

Sam smiled wide. Bucky, eyes squinted at first, soon relaxed his face and allowed himself to smile back.

“Don’t do that again,” Bucky pointed a vibranium finger at Sam.

“Which part?”

“All of it.”

“You made Cass and AJ very happy.”

“Yeah, well…. They don’t need to prank me to be happy.”

“Yeah they did. Being mischievous. It’s all part of being little kids,” Sam sat up, head tilted Bucky’s way.

“Still.”

“Okay, I was trying to be thankful, jerk. Thanks for handling it like a good sport.”

Bucky looked over at Sam and he held his gaze for a few seconds. Did Sam like what just happened? Or was that just praise for him for not ripping Sam’s nephews limb from limb? Restraint?

“Oof, that brain malfunctions a whole lot, doesn’t it?” Sam was right back to teasing, “Code red!”

Bucky chuckled, head bowed. Sam, proud as ever to get that smile from the Winter Soldier, nudged him.

“You’re so stupid,” was all Bucky could think of saying. Sam laughed.

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forasecondtherewedwon · 3 years

Note

hey I loved what you wrote for sarahbucky! You are so talented. I was wondering if you are comfortable writing any NSFW content or smut related content for this pairing? If you are I would love you to write something, anything of the sort. If you're not comfortable that's absolutely fine!!

Chasing Water Pumps

Fandom: The Falcon and the Winter Soldier Pairing: Bucky Barnes/Sarah Wilson Rating: E Word Count: 5288

Summary: After banishing Sam, Sarah gets Bucky's help reinstalling the boat's water pump.

The water pump sits there on the dock through the morning. It sits there at midday. In the late afternoon, Bucky laughs when Sam almost falls over it as he walks backwards, waving his hands to guide a reversing pickup truck into position. A neighbour bringing spare lumber so they can replace a few rotting boards on the Wilsons’ boat.

Bucky can see—has been able to see all day—that Sam’s itching to just fix the damn pump back into position. Sam’s conscientious, neat, completing one job before moving on to the next, replacing pliers in the toolbox after rewiring the radio, coiling up the cord of a borrowed drill so no one can trip over it. Leaving a hulking piece of machinery just sitting there is killing him. All because Sarah won’t let him touch it.

For Bucky, watching this claim-staking over an old water pump is hilarious. It’s also something he takes absolutely seriously, backing away from the thing the minute Sarah ordered the two of them to quit tinkering and just leave it alone. He’s got no issue ceding to her authority. Oh, he’ll argue with Sam about other parts of the project, but he’s not gonna push back against Sarah. He’s only here for a couple days and she already won his loyalty by letting him bunk on her couch last night. They might be repairing a boat, but Bucky’s not making any waves.

When the sun starts going down and the helpers from the community start heading home to their suppers, almost as many of them shake Bucky’s hand as Sam’s. Bucky feels really good about that. He likes that they’ve become comfortable with him—many of them slapping his Vibranium shoulder as they take his right hand, like it’s just an arm. He likes the lingering warmth of the day and how it’s dried the back of his shirt where he sweat through it. He likes squinting into the sun to watch the vehicles pull away and seeing Sarah standing there, smiling at him. Cupping a hand above his eyes, he smiles back.

“Alright,” Sam says, taking a big step to bring him from boat to land. “Let’s get this water pump back in place.”

Immediately, Sarah comes forward.

“Uh uh, no. That’s not your job.”

“This whole thing is my job,” her brother protests.

Bucky stands on the sidelines, content to witness Sam lose this argument. Getting to study the way the sinking, burning glow of the sun catches on Sarah’s earrings is the equivalent of being handed an ice cream. The breeze that blows her open button-down against her to show him the intimate dip of her waist is the cherry on top of that ice cream. His gaze trails unhurriedly back up to her face and he sees that she’s been watching him admire her. Normally, staring is his default expression, but now his heart hammers with giddy yearning as he holds her eye. She smiles fleetingly before looking back to Sam. Oh right, Sam’s talking. Bucky had kinda tuned him out.

“It won’t take long.”

“No it won’t,” Sarah agrees. “Not if I do it. You’ve messed around with that pump enough for one day.”

“Sarah, come on. Be practical,” Sam pleads. “You can’t do it by yourself.”

“I won’t do it by myself. Bucky here can do the heavy lifting.”

Ok, he’s surprised about that, but when she glances to him, he nods readily. He refuses to meet Sam’s side-eye. He’s sure the message is ‘You traitor.’ Ignoring him, Bucky beams at Sarah.

“That’s what I’m here for,” he tells her.

“And what am I supposed to do?” Sam demands. “Watch?”

“Since you asked,” Sarah informs him, “you’re supposed to go pick your nephews up from AJ’s friend Marco’s house. If they haven’t eaten yet, feed them.”

“But—”

Sam motions indignantly towards Bucky, but Sarah waves away his complaint.

“You asked what I need from you and I told you. Let us get on with what we’ve gotta do here. We’re losing daylight.”

“You heard her, Samuel,” Bucky says, striding to the pump.

The wrench he and Sam passed back and forth while unbolting it is in the top tray of the toolbox when he flips it open. Tucking the wrench into his back pocket, Bucky turns and heaves the pump off the ground. Sarah’s watching. He throws her a smile with a little upward jerk of his chin. She rolls her lips together like she’s hiding her own smile but stands firm until Sam gives up and stalks off across the boatyard.

“You think it’d be cruel to yell after him not to wait up?” Sarah asks Bucky nonchalantly, hand on her hip as the two of them observe her brother’s retreat.

Bucky almost drops the pump before hugging it to himself too tightly, stopping when he hears the metal creak. But he tries to be cool.

“Only if you mean it,” he says.

She spares him a glance that doesn’t tell him either way and walks past, stepping onto the boat.

“You got it?” she asks.

“Yep,” Bucky assures her, adjusting his grip and jumping down onto the deck. Coulda stepped. Wanted to show off. Story of his life since he met Sarah Wilson maybe 36 hours ago.

He follows her into the cabin and she digs through a box of supplies, grabbing a flashlight.

“Might need this soon.”

Her explanation’s unnecessary (the sky’s darkening above them) and Bucky can see the nervousness in it, how she self-consciously plays with the hem of her t-shirt and twists her earring now that they’re together in a semi-enclosed space.

“Unless that arm of yours glows in the dark,” she adds.

“Unfortunately not,” he says with a smile as they duck below deck. His feet clomp sturdily down the steps, but Sarah still looks up at him from the bottom like he might teeter. “You shoulda been there while they were deciding on the specs.”

Sarah laughs, navigating the protruding inner workings of the boat more smoothly than movie spies crossing rooms streaked with red lasers. (Stupidest fucking scenes Bucky’s ever seen.)

“That was in Wakanda, right?”

“Sam told you?”

“He did. I guess you’ve seen a lot. Been a lot of places,” Sarah amends.

For a minute, his throat’s thick. She corrected herself to make sure he knew she wasn’t being nosy about his past. He wouldn’t mind. It’d be fair of her to bring up any worries she had, what with the two of them being alone here. But then, maybe he doesn’t make her nervous in that way. She’s the one who asked him to stay. (Or just told him he was staying more than asked, really.)

“So has Sam,” Bucky points out.

“Yeah, but Sam has to come back here to avoid getting an earful over the phone. Why would you wanna be here? Right here,” she adds, motioning to the spot where the water pump sat until early this morning. Bucky was one of the people who removed it, plus there’s a clear silhouette where the side rests against the boat, inside of which shape the wood’s less weathered, but he’ll be as clueless as Sarah wants if it results in more of this—her hand on his back as she trades places with him to guide him in ahead of her.

“It’s nice here,” he says simply. “Like a holiday.”

The instant he says it, he wants to backtrack. None of this is a holiday for the Wilsons; in spite of the block party atmosphere of the community coming together to restore the boat, they’re doing all this to ensure their livelihood. A good future for Sarah and her boys. She shoots him a benevolent smile like she knows he knows he just put his foot in his mouth. He can only shake his head at himself and carry on.

Squatting, Bucky aligns the holes in the pump’s base with those in the plate it has to mount back onto. They’re a little rusty, but the old blue paint’s just flaking, no problems with the actual integrity of the metal.

“You always do volunteer manual labour on your holidays?” Sarah jokes, putting a hand on his shoulder as she maneuvers around him. She drops to a crouch at his side and directs the beam of the flashlight down onto the pump.

“I like to be busy. I sleep better that way.”

“Until your host’s kids wake you up.”

“Aw, that was no problem.”

“Wrench?” she asks.

“Back pocket.”

Bucky could pass it to her. He could take one hand off the pump, retrieve the wrench, and hold it out for Sarah to grab. Hell, he could take both hands off the pump. The thing’s just sitting here. But he’s selfish, trying to make it look like he has to keep the pump from shifting out of the position he’s put it in, because he wants to find out what Sarah wants. He hasn’t completely thought this through, but some part of him’s saying a good way to find out what Sarah wants is to see if she’ll take the wrench from his back pocket while he’s squatting, jeans hugging his ass.

She laughs softly, looking at the floor.

She slides the wrench out of his pocket.

Now, there’s no actual contact required there, but she has touched him a couple times, so when she asks, “Bolts?” he looks at her in the dim light—flashlight still tilted towards the floor—and tells her, “Front pocket.”

When Sarah elects to maintain the angle of the light by holding the end of the flashlight in her mouth, Bucky thinks she might be capable of cruelty after all; he feels his face go slack at the sight of her lips around a fucking plastic cylinder. The choice leaves her hands free though, which is perfect because she apparently needs to grasp his knee with one for balance while the other goes to his hip, feeling out the line of his pocket. Bucky tries to breathe deep and even. This has gotta be it, the scenario Sam was most worried about when he left them here together.

Mercifully, when Sarah gets her fingers hooked into Bucky’s front pocket, she removes her other hand from his knee and uses it to hold the flashlight. He shifts forward onto his knees so his pocket isn’t pulled so tight and she can get her hand in there. Clearly a bad, terrifying plan now that his dick’s started to stiffen from the lingering image of the flashlight in her mouth and the proximity of her fingers to his crotch. It’s dark. Maybe she won’t see.

“Bolts,” Sarah says, wiggling her fingers deeper. “Nuts too?”

Their eyes meet and she pulls her hand back. Not too fast. Not like she embarrassed herself, saying something she didn’t mean to. Just like she did her bit and now the plan is to see what he’ll do. All he’s really capable of doing for the moment is extracting the nuts and bolts himself, dropping one of each into the raised palm she offers. He takes over with the flashlight and purposely doesn’t touch the end. It’ll drive him crazy if the plastic’s still wet.

“Thanks.”

“Yep.”

He spends three bolts being awkward, just pinching the head of each between his Vibranium fingers to hold them steady while Sarah tightens the nuts with the wrench from underneath the mounting plate. His other hand shines the light right where she needs it. They’re a different team than he and Sam are. Somehow, they can do two parts of the same job in the smallest scale, their hands practically on top of each other without either of them getting in the way. Bucky tries to think about that rather than her leg pressing against his or the fact that the gentle rock of the docked boat reminds him of rocking his hips forward when he… well. Does something he’s trying not to think about.

The wrench is old and though Sarah flicks the adjustment with her thumb to make it grip each nut in turn, it loosens and slips. It makes the task take longer and Sarah have to work harder. With two bolts to go, she sits back and pulls her button-down off, draping it over a pipe. Her t-shirt only catches Bucky’s eye because, even in here, the yellow’s so bright. It’s just the shirt. Absolutely not the shape of Sarah in it.

She leans back in, dropping the second last bolt through the hole. She feels beneath the plate to start the nut up the bolt’s threads with her fingers. With a soft noise of effort, Sarah simultaneously applies the wrench and reawakens Bucky’s erection.

“Sorry for keeping you from dinner,” she says, still tightening in the circle of light he provides. “You must be starving.”

“You have no idea.”

Bucky doesn’t mean for the words to sound the way they do, or maybe he does. Sarah falters, then finishes, but when she leans forward to fit the final bolt in place, the side of her breast presses his arm, and that’s the beginning of the end. Or possibly the end of the middle. Anyway, Bucky lets go of the flashlight and wraps his hand around Sarah’s waist instead. The flashlight must land on its button because the boat goes pitch-black. Why didn’t either of them think to turn the overhead light on? He hears the nut fall from her hand. It’s not one of the nuts he’s concerned with at the moment, so he tells himself they’ll look for it later and focuses on Sarah leaning in to find his lips in the dark.

Kissing her is… Hell, it’s something he’s been thinking about since they met yesterday. When she marched straight over to the boat and then changed her posture the second she spotted him. Bucky appreciates clear body language—it’s something he can do a quick read of and understand. If they’d had more time at that first meeting, of course he would’ve talked to her, flirted with more than a smile, but the smiles they swapped were an effective stopgap until they could end up right here. His mouth on hers. Being careful not to trap her braids under his fingers when he skims them up the back of her neck.

“Um,” Sarah says, breaking away with a shy laugh.

He keeps his hand on her lightly and feels her tilt her head forward like she’s avoiding his eye, even in the dark. Before he can worry that something is wrong, that he’s done something wrong, she lifts her head again and her braids flick, pattering across his forearm like rain.

“You should know,” she says, “since my husband passed, I haven’t really had a lot of time or inclination for this kinda thing, but...”

“That’s ok,” Bucky quickly assures her. “This doesn’t have to be anything. I didn’t mean to push.”

“And you didn’t.”

They sit in silence for a minute before he clears his throat.

“I’ve never… I’ve never had anybody special to me in that way, like your husband was to you, nobody to lose like that. But I do understand… uh, the sort of, um, momentousness… when it’s been a while.”

“You do?”

He can hear humour in her voice. This wasn’t supposed to be a funny conversation. Is he making it that weird?

“Sure. You know about me,” Bucky says quietly. He knows she must. She never asked who he was to Sam to be showing up here, being offered their couch for the night. Never asked about the arm, though he hasn’t tried to hide it. (He can’t remember the last time he just lived like this and the relief is enormous.)

“Tell me about the momentousness.”

He’d like to be able to see her better, but it’s also nice to know she has no idea the way he’s blushing over her request. It’s his own damn fault. Trying to be tactful and generous. Trying to say he knew how she felt, only for Sarah to call him on that. He’s gotta learn that this is not a woman who lets a man speak for her and, if he blunders into doing just that, she doesn’t let him off the hook. And she has a fish business. Who woulda thought.

“Well, it’s, uh…” Bucky rubs the back of his neck with the hand not cupping hers. “It feels like a big deal. Almost like being young all over again.”

“Hey,” she interjects, “some of us are still young.”

He laughs.

“Sorry. I just mean it’s… exciting. You know, thrilling. You wanna do everything at once but you’re also so scared to just…”

“Just…?”

“To just touch her,” he breathes out.

Sarah leans her head back so his hand’s not only touching her neck but holding it up. He laughs again as she straightens. He gets the point; he’s already touching her. So maybe it’s easier than even he thinks it is. Touch. Intimacy. Defiling the belly of a fishing boat with somebody who turned his head so fast he’s the one who needs something bolted back into place. Maybe one on either side of his neck, like Frankenstein’s monster. He sure does feel alive.

“I said I haven’t done this a lot lately,” Sarah says, loosely grasping his wrist. Bucky slips his hand off her neck to line it up with hers, lacing their fingers. “Not that it’s necessarily been that long since the last time I went on a date that ended with more than a kiss at the door.” Abruptly, she laughs. “I’m trying to tell you there’s a condom in the pocket of that shirt I threw over… wherever it got to. If you want this to keep going in a direction where you’d need to use it.”

“Yeah. Yes. I want that.”

“And not just to annoy Sam?”

“Not just.” Bucky smirks in the dark.

“Ok then.”

“I like you, Sarah,” he says as her fingers play with his. He shifts to face her better. “You don’t make things complicated.”

“I think we’ve both had enough of that.”

He can only make a noise of agreement as he comes close enough to feel out her mouth. He’s wishing he’d shaved his face smooth for this—obviously not as certain this encounter was going to happen today, or at all, as the woman who’s been carrying a condom in her pocket—but with a rough tilt of his head as he takes Sarah’s mouth harder, his cheek rubs against hers and she makes a sound into his mouth. A positive sound. An arousing sound. Bucky does something he never does and holds her face in both his hands, metal and skin. Sarah’s go to his hips, hooking into his beltloops, and they both rise up on their knees to press closer.

But she says, “Ouch, kneeled on the wrench,” and Bucky’s only being helpful when he moves his hands to the back of her thighs, running up over her ass as he urges her to her feet with him.

His hands behave themselves a little better when they’re both standing; he keeps them on the small of her back, scrunching her t-shirt in his fingers when she bows into him. He could kiss Sarah for a long time. It’s something he’s always enjoyed, got a lot of practice at when he was young, kissing in the back row of a theatre or savouring every moment until a girl’s curfew with some feverish necking in the alley around the corner from her family’s apartment. Nobody’s counting down the minutes on Bucky’s time with Sarah, so it’s looking like he might be able to just keep dragging his lips across hers for ages, stroking his tongue into her mouth. The geography decides otherwise.

He hears the speedboat’s motor approaching long before he really makes sense of the noise. That happens when the choppy wake hits Sarah’s docked boat, tossing her forward against him.

Alright, tossing him forward. He’s the one whose sea legs are for shit.

It’s evident that she feels his erection against her stomach. She’d have to be really unfamiliar with how this dance went not to notice with the way he’s swelling for her.

“Yeah?” Bucky checks when Sarah digs her fingers into his hips to hold him to her body.

“Yeah.”

He pulls out of her embrace to hunt down that shirt.

“You know, I’ve done this before.”

“I know. I’ve met your kids.” His voice says he’s joking even as his hands move desperately, caressing the boat’s innards in search of soft cotton.

“I mean specifically on this boat,” Sarah confesses, laughing.

Bucky hears a pair of thumps he determines to have been her shoes hitting the floor after the next sound he hears is her unzipping her pants. Wildly, he snatches her shirt from the pipe and dumps the condom out of the pocket and into his hand. He forces himself to calmly replace the shirt where he got it from so she can find it after—just the thought of there being an after has him hardening further.

“It’s startin’ to feel like I’m not so special,” he teases, lurching back to her when the speedboat seemingly swings around upriver and makes a second pass, causing the ground to slope once more.

“You might be,” she teases back. While his legs are tensed to keep his balance, Sarah has to be stretching up on her toes to brush her lips over his. “We’re gonna see about that.”

Her hands curl around the back of his neck as she presses up into the kiss. Bucky groans and gropes for her hips, condom caught between two fingers. His hands run over the sides of her underwear, but it’s mostly skin he touches. Warm and smooth. Kissing Sarah deeply, he traces the soft grooves of stretchmarks, signs of her body’s endurance. She’s given birth twice, lost her partner, come through the Blip and out the other side. This is a survivor’s body. Although she didn’t remove her shirt along with her pants, Bucky breaks the kiss to strip off his. With trembling fingers, he guides her hand from his neck to his shoulder, letting her feel the scars.

Sarah grazes her palm over him. It isn’t hesitant and it isn’t harsh. She touches the place where metal and skin converge the same way she’s touched his neck, his knee. Her other hand strokes over his chest, dawdling to outline his dog tags, then sliding lower. Her fingertips are so light on his abdomen that they almost tickle. The river flows around and against the boat in faint slaps. Sarah’s hand falls to fondle his erection and he gasps into the stillness.

He crowds into her and she presses back against the wall of the boat.

“Is it too cold?” he wonders.

“Cold?” she asks distractedly, popping open the button of his jeans. “No, I’m good.”

Smiling to himself, Bucky ducks his head until they’re almost kissing.

“Ok,” he says. “Well, you let me know.”

His hand wanders from her hip, down, then up her inner thigh. Sarah shivers but doesn’t say anything about being cold, so, breathing harder, Bucky touches his fingers to her underwear between her legs. He can tell she finds his tentativeness a little funny—she exhales a soft laugh—but he needs this short pause to stop him from getting too eager. Though he didn’t want to clarify, he’s figuring that Sarah probably had sex on this boat during her teenage years, and he really doesn’t want his touch to remind her of some adolescent boy’s horny fumblings. Not when the setting’s already bringing up memories for her.

“No heckling,” he jokingly protests.

“I’m not, I swear I’m not.”

He can hear the humour in her voice and he likes the way her words hitch into a panted breath when he relocates his hand to her stomach and nudges his fingers under the band of her underwear.

“Second thoughts?” Bucky asks before he touches her anywhere too interesting.

“Nope. Just a lotta thoughts about you lifting heavy loads off trucks and workin’ a wrench.”

“Yeah?” He pushes his face up under her jaw, kisses there while she tilts her chin to give him room. “You been thinkin’ I might be good with my hands, Sarah?”

He hears her shaky breath when he says her name and thinks there’s a chance he’s not too bad at this. Even now. Not with somebody he seemed to emotionally fall right into step with the instant they clapped eyes on each other.

“No might about it. I’ve been watching you for two days. I know you’re good with your hands.”

Pressing his mouth hard to hers, Bucky slides his fingers down towards warmth and, it turns out, wetness. He groans against her mouth and she jerks his zipper down with demanding fingers. Wedging her hands between his skin and his clothes, Sarah begins forcing his jeans and underwear off together. Even as he’s aching for her to get him naked, he’s gathering her body against his, arm wrapped securely around her back as his fingers slip through her arousal. He curls two fingers inside her and her hips jolt in an apparently automatic attempt to get him deeper. She tries to widen her legs for him, but his hand’s intrusion has stretched her underwear across her upper thighs, so he plucks at them hastily until they fall and she kicks them aside. His own bottom layers are hanging on around his knees. Bucky can’t be fucked to deal with that. He’s punched through a lot of walls rather than going through doors; he knows what is and isn’t a serious obstacle.

Sarah lifts her thigh to his hip and their mouths part with a ragged, shared breath. The Vibranium arm around her supports her—metal fingers clamped tight on the condom between them—as his other hand works her with more pressure when she asks for it in a moan.

“Can I get you off like this, or you want me some other way?” he pants.

It’s like Steve used to say about damn near everything—Bucky could do this all day. He withdraws his fingers from inside her to scrub his fingertips up and down over her clit.

“I’m sure you can,” Sarah says, chest heaving as her hips sway in response to his touch, “but…”

Her hands, which had climbed to his arms after undressing his bottom half, creep lower. The grip of one hand catches in his elbow, thumb to his pulse. The other wraps around his straining cock.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “But.”

Insistent on putting on the condom himself, he does it with one arm still encircling Sarah. While he’s tearing it open, he drops his face to her neck again. She sighs as he kisses down her throat and goes mmm when he licks along her collarbone. She’s sweaty, like him.

Though Bucky’s just dying to sink into her, holding her this close is a whole other kind of satisfying. He flicks the condom wrapper away and dips his head, taking hold of the front of Sarah’s yellow t-shirt with his teeth.

“Bucky! What…?”

But her hand pats the back of his head in time with her laughter as he drags the material up until it stays put above her breasts. Tragically, the ghost of Sarah’s horny teenage encounter on this boat possesses him and he’s compelled to mash his face into her cleavage as soon as it’s exposed. He rubs his lips over her breast and she takes the condom from him, reaching between them to roll it down his cock. The feel of her fist makes him grunt into her chest.

“You ready?” Sarah asks him.

Bucky lifts his head and looks at her. It’s dark, but not too dark to judge by her expression that she’s not just asking casually. This isn’t a carefree, youthful hookup—a couple teenagers sneaking onto a parent’s boat or perfecting their hickey-making technique in an alley. Is he ready? He hasn’t been. Not for the occasional assessing stare of a stranger on the sidewalk, or for dating apps and the staggeringly forward pictures people send in response to a simple ‘hi,’ or even for the low-stakes combo of beers and Battleship. But now? For Sarah?

“Yeah,” Bucky states, loud and clear, angling his hips forward when she takes her hands away.

“Alright,” she says, “so am I.”

He kisses her. He believes her.

He grips the underside of her raised thigh with one hand and his dick with the other, bending his knees slightly before pressing up into her. Heat slinks up his chest and twines around his neck like a scarf. Despite the tripping hazard of his pants around his legs, Bucky shuffles forward, holding Sarah so close. She doesn’t make a sound as he fills her, but when he pulls out and thrusts again, an uuuh catches in her throat. God, it feels good to be back in business.

Fingers digging into her leg and her ass, Bucky rocks his hips steadily, huffing sharply through his nose. Sarah’s hands move all over him. They’re on his shoulders, then squeezing his arms; grabbing his hips to encourage him to drive into her harder, then seizing his ass to hold him deep. When he does something good, he feels her tighten on his cock, a quick clutch and release. When he does something really good, she moans so loud the back of his neck tingles and he has to summon every bit of discipline he has not to just let go now.

The feel of the muscles in Sarah’s leg and ass flexing to sync the rhythm of their hips when things get rougher makes Bucky’s eyes roll back. He lifts her off the ground, thighs in his hands as he slings his hips sharply forward. Sarah curls into him, nipping one shoulder as she cups her hand over the metal of the other one. Her breasts bounce against his chest. He pins her between his groin and the boat and feels (and hears) it the second the motion of his hips drags at her clit.

“Bucky!” she gasps. “Don’t—”

“Stop?” he guesses, grinning even as he pants, even as he shifts his feet to make sure they’re gonna stay under him until this is over and he can set her down gently.

Sarah nods rapidly and Bucky keeps the closeness but progresses to fast, shallow thrusts. They should hum, like a machine, like a piston, like a pump, because that’s what it feels like, fucking her and falling for her, doing their dance with just the right friction. How it really sounds is wet, filthy, oh, but her smile is beautiful as she strives, fingers tangled in his dog tags. She comes calling his name. He’s right here, right there with her. She’s clenching so firmly around him that the pleasure might not end and he’ll just have to stay here on this boat, with her, and be Bucky, and get used to the luxury of it making sense again, his name in the mouth of somebody who needs him and wants him and could know him, after a few more nights on her couch and mornings with her kids. He could stand the sound of her name leaving his mouth every single goddamn day, but he’s gonna start with one day, this day, right now.

He says, “Sarah,” and wraps his arms around her, and hopes those arms feel strong.

#Anon you knew what you wanted and you asked for it nicely and I respect that #my writing #tfatws #tfatws spoilers #The Falcon and the Winter Soldier #Bucky Barnes #Sarah Wilson #bucky x sarah #sarahbucky

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fluffy-lee-boa · 3 years

Text

Teaching Me How To Move On

(A SamBucky tickle fic :3)

@tickleebug requested some Sam and Bucky, so I went a little wild with it and made a short story to show how Bucky is adapting to his new life, and his new partner. Spoilers for Endgame/TFATWS btw!

“Buhucky! Cut it out!” Steve snorted, swatting at the younger’s arm as he lightly dug into his sides.

Before he’d taken the serum, it had been a well-known fact that Steve Rogers was probably one of the most ticklish guys in Brooklyn. Sure, he hated to admit it in public, and Bucky respected that, but when he and Bucky were hanging out at home? All bets were off.

So James Buchanan Barnes took every opportunity like this to tease the other about his sensitivity, sitting beside him and carefully scratching at all the spots he knew would make the other squeal. He never took it overboard, considering Steve’s fragile state, but he did tire the other out enough that he would be sure the smaller wouldn’t get revenge.

“Come on Stevie, there’s no way you’re gonna make the army if you can’t handle a little tickling,” he smirked at the other.

Steve gave an snort, slapping a hand to his face before shaking his head rapidly, “This is just tohorture!!”

“Mhm. And?” Bucky snickered as he trailed his hands up to Steve’s stomach, relishing in the deeper laughter that it gave him.

This certain brand of “torture” continued for a few minutes, interspersed with cruel teases and barely-masked flirting that the ever-oblivious Rogers seemed to let fly over his head. Though it was easy to tell Steve wasn’t trying very hard to escape the other’s grasp, especially considering how lightly Buck was holding him down in fear of injury. He could stop any time he wanted, really.

Bucky finally let up once the wheezing started, almost immediately leaving the room only to reappear with a cup of water. He couldn’t help the smug grin on his face as the other struggled to hide his deep blush. The moment was perfect.

Too perfect.

He would wait another day to tell him about his draft card. He didn’t want to ruin what they had just yet.

Years.

Years had gone by since that day- decades, even. He had gone for most of that time without Steve, without those affectionate touches and softness, and without love. He’d gone for even longer now that Steve was....

No, he didn’t like to think about the past few months. About how the very man he’d grown up with, who’d told him he’d be with him to the end of the line, got off early. -He couldn’t be angry with him, though. It was his life, after all. His choice. Steve would probably be better off with Peggy, anyways.

But that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt like hell, and that he was absolutely starved for affection with no one in the world to fix it for him.

Well... almost no one.

Admittedly, he’d grown closer to Sam in the time since the new Cap was gifted the shield. Despite his reservations, and the rocky start to their partnership, they’d come to an understanding. Especially after all they’d been through in their mission to stop Karli, and then Walker thereafter.

And there was the boat, of course. Bucky hadn’t even known Sam had a boat before this week- never even been near one besides during war times. Yet he found himself spending hours and even days of his time on helping him fix it. Then the days after that teaching the new Captain to toss the shield.

Was this what having a friend was like?

He couldn’t tell. I mean, after Steve, nothing was going to feel just right. ...Or so he thought.

See, even if Bucky had tried to deny it, Sam felt safe. He felt like Steve did. They shared that same big heart Bucky had always admired, and honestly, the shield couldn’t have found a better wielder. But on the other hand, Sam was also more honest, and more direct. That was something he needed after all those years of manipulation and self-pity. Not exactly tough love, but the truth. A kinder, softer truth.

“Hey! Buck!” Sam had called from the other side of the open field, between a few lone trees that were wrapped in foam.

Bucky looked up, torn from his deep thoughts about friendship and Captains and shields. He didn’t give away any of it through his glance, much better at hiding behind an emotionless mask these days.

“Are you gonna throw it back or what? -The shield, I mean.” the figure laughed.

James rolled his eyes and walked over, trying to play it off, “Your stance is off. You’re gonna get someone killed if you don’t have enough balance.”

“Balance my ass,” Sam scoffed jokingly as he took the shield back from the other, looking him over suspiciously, “...You’re just deflecting again. You’ve been spacing out like crazy today... did something happen?”

Ah, there was that signature therapist-like concern that Wilson managed to worm into every conversation. It made Bucky’s heart beat faster and his stomach flip and he hated it. No one had been this worried about him since he came back from the icy abyss of HYDRA’s control. No one else had checked up on him so consistently for no other gain than his continued wellbeing.

“I’m fine.” He shot back despite himself, half of a glare on his face as he turned away to go back to his spot.

Sam rolled his eyes at the other’s dramatics, at this point being readily used to the cold demeanor Bucky used to push aside his own feelings. But he wasn’t ready to let it slide this time around. So he stepped towards him after setting aside the vibranium shield, reaching out to stop him from walking away again.

Quite a few things happened after that, one after the other.

For one, Sam had underestimated how quickly Bucky could power-walk away from him, and ended up grazing his side with a small grabbing motion rather than taking him by the wrist.

From there, Bucky had faltered in his pace with a quick giggle, before looking back at the other with a somewhat horrified expression. Oh no.

It was painfully obvious to Sam now, by Buck’s initial reaction and the way he seemed just about ready to jump out of his skin.

“There is no way in hell....”

“Sam, you don’t want to do this-”

“You’re ticklish?!”

Bucky cringed, almost immediately blushing just as Steve had whenever he’d done the same to him back in Brooklyn. Karma may have been delayed for almost a century, but it sure did come back to bite him. Figures as much, right?

Bucky had started walking backwards away from the now-very-menacing falcon, though with the woods around them, his ankle caught on a rock and sent him flying back onto his butt. Figures even more.

Before he could up and scramble away, probably going to rush to Sarah and beg for protection, Sam had pounced. The super soldier found himself being straddled, which didn’t help his confusing feelings from before at all. He hands ended up under Sam’s knees, and even if he knew he could probably escape, he was concerned he’d end up hurting the other if he lost control of his own strength.

“Sam! Get off!” He said in a shockingly squeaky shout, obviously flustered.

“Nu-uh. I need to see this for myself.” Sam snickered, making the other look away as his blush deepened.

“You su-AHAHUCK-“

Before Bucky could articulate what would have totally been a coherent and witty response, Sam had taken the initiative and dug straight into the dip of his sides. There was an explosion of sunny and bubbly laughter that didn’t suit the awkward Soldier at all, making Sam beam down at the other.

Bucky internally cursed as he looked up and caught glimpse of the smile. He was too perfect- it was unfair!

Sam chuckled as he lightened up, tracing circles around his hips and making Bucky jerk back and forth with a few left over giggles, “Wowwww... It’s worse than I thought.”

“Shut the hell uhuhup...” Bucky muttered in embarrassment, making Wilson roll his eyes.

Sam knew he could definitely find a worse spot, and ignoring Bucky’s continued insults and thinly-veiled threats, he scanned the other’s upper body as thought to himself.

His metal arm probably couldn’t feel anything, right? But what about the spot just where the two met...?

Bucky noticed where his partner’s gaze had fallen, suddenly looking alarmed as he turned to begging, “Hey, wait, hold on, that’s a bad idea, Wilson. -Agh- Please? Is that what you want? Fine! I’m saying please-“

Sam just shook his head with that stupid, handsome smirk on his face, “Saying please isn’t gonna save you this time around. Tell me what’s wrong.... and I won’t absolutely wreck you. And trust me, I have an older sister. I know exactly how to do it.”

Bucky went quite besides his quick breathes and squirmy giggles, looking off to the side as he tried to consider his options despite the continued teasing of his sides and hips. But no- he couldn’t say what was really on his mind. Stubborn is as stubborn does.

“Do your worst.”

There was only a moment of reprieve as Wilson took in the other’s bratty reply, before he wiggled his fingers into that horrible dip between Buck’s metal arm and his ribs, right in the hollow. His other hand went to the rest of his rib cage just as quickly, alternating between both sides and dipping in between the spaces for added torture.

Bucky was pretty much lost in a handful of seconds.

He cackled, kicking his legs and pulling at his arms with only a shred of resistance from the last part of him that was conscious, which was still bent on making sure he didn’t hurt Sam.

But, that part of him could only hold out for so long, and when Sam found an extra sensitive spot between his ribs, Bucky ended up arching so suddenly that Sam was sent a good five feet away by his super strength.

Whoops.

There was a long pause as the air around them stilled once more, Sam laying feet away and laughing hysterically at his friend’s reaction while Bucky himself calmed himself down to a frenzy of frantic giggling.

After he was able to regain control of himself, he sat up to look over at Sam, his arms wrapped around his own torso protectively so the falcon could no longer access his weak spot. His voice was hoarse as he asked sheepishly, “...Are you ok?”

Sam’s own laughter died down, and he waved his hand dismissively, “Fine, fine. I shoulda expected it. You’re a hyper-ticklish super soldier. I’m just lucky you didn’t break my arm.“

Bucky didn’t find much humor in that joke, but he got up and made his way over to the other anyway. He held out his hand to help him stand beside him, and Wilson smiled softly at the other’s still reddened face, “Maybe we should do that more often. You’re cute when you’re blushing like that.”

And he walked away.

Bucky, for better or worse, didn’t have the same luxury that his old partner did of obliviousness to such direct declarations of affection, so he simply stood in shock as he was left in the small field of grass.

...Maybe, just maybe, his new life wasn’t as empty and lonely as he’d previously thought. Maybe Sam... could be what he really needed, as a partner, and as a friend.

Or.... maybe something more.

Lots of maybes today. But then again, when is anything ever certain?

#lee!bucky #ler!sam #marvel tickle fic #tickle fic #mcu tickle #marvel tickling

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octupus-on-the-moon · 3 years

Text

A photo

《 Previous -- Masterlist -- Next 》

Fourth part of a nightmare

Word count: 1071

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Warnings: Mental health issues

“Thank you” he mumbled suppressing the urge to cry. It took a few moments, till he knew what to tell her.

“I´m… I´m trying to find the guy who ordered the mission that night. A... colleague of mine, found some information, about him” Barnes took out his phone. Y/n was a little confused about his reaction, but she did not interrupt him. “His name is Michail Belov. Here look.”

“That´s a chatroom” a grin appeared on her face.

“What? Oh I… just need a moment” Bucky started to tap concentrated on his phone. For a moment she admired his face. Blue eyes, a straight nose, high cheekbones, a sharp jawline, a cleft chin. A little unshaved, a little tired. Handsome she thought, blushing a bit.

“Sam is your colleague?” she queried, distracted by her observations “Sam Wilson. The Falcon?”

“More like some guy I know, an acquaintance” James corrected her, while turning his phone to show her the file with the photo. Y/n smirk froze.

“It can´t be” she reached for the phone, inspecting the screen.

“What is it?” Barnes stiffened by the look on her face “Do you know him?”

“That´s a picture of my father, but his name isn´t Michail Belov and he never had any business with S.H.I.E.L.D or hydra as far as I know” she explained, still starring at the photo.

“You´re father? Are you sure? The picture is pretty old and a little blurry so…”

“It´s him. There aren´t many photos of him when he was young, but I´m sure.”

Bucky sighted, running a hand through his hair. Didn´t he already had enough for today?

“Well” he started “If it´s really him. That would at least explain why I didn´t kill you.” And it´ll be easier to catch him, he concluded silently.

“But you almost did it” Y/n determined “What else is in the file?”

After a very brief summary, letting out the worst parts, to avoid any other emotional incident. Barnes looked at the clock. It was almost noon. “Are you hungry?”

Bucky directed her to a diner across the street. Taking an unnecessary long way, avoiding a certain sushi restaurant on the same street side. He felt guilty for involving her in this mess. Barnes really thought it would help a little, if she knew the other responsible person involved in the attack. How could he have known that her father was behind all this? They entered the diner. There was not much going on. An elderly couple near the entrance, a man on the bar and a few young people in the middle. Y/n took the lead and choose a desk in a corner with a good view over the whole room. Again, both were sitting in silence.

“What are you going to do with him?” she asked in a stone-cold voice. That bothered Bucky. He wondered why.

“Since I´m not allowed to do something illegal or hurt anyone. I´m just going to find out evidence about his changed ID and then hand him over to the authorities” Bucky observed her reaction and did not like what he saw. Once again only her eyes showed what she really was thinking. Barnes knew that look. He knew how to hide his feelings in plain sight. He also knew that his eyes always betrayed him. And hers only showed pure and utter hate.

“Hello my name is Ana. I´m serving you today” the waitress interrupted Bucky`s thoughts “Here is the menu. Today´s special offer are pancakes and coffee. Do you already know what you want to drink?” He looked over to y/n, but she was glaring callously forward.

“Ehh” Barnes forced a smile, while observing y/n from the corner of his eyes. “Cold water for her and a black coffee for me. Thanks” The waitress seemed irritated, but she had seen worse, so she shrugged it off.

“I´ll come back in a moment” The waitress turned around hurrying to the kitchen. Waiting for y/n to say or do something, he started to look over the menu. Barnes was not exactly afraid of her, but he always had some respect for the deathly stare of a woman. He decided to order eggs with bacon.

“I need to go to the bathroom” Y/n announced, almost throwing her chair over, rushing to a door in the back. Bucky waited patiently. Till the side eyeing and whispering in the whole room was too much for him.

“I didn´t know that visiting the bathroom was a matter of public concern” He replied, before following y/n.

Barnes could hear a quite sniffing from one of the stalls, as soon as he entered the bathroom. And a rash of guilt mixed with compassion rolled over him. Bucky made sure nobody else was in there and closed the door to the diner.

“Hey” he said in the softest voice he could.

“I´m fine. I just need a moment. Order some…”

“Stop it. Right now. I know you are not okey, I wouldn´t be either if I knew that someone close to me is a complete impostor. In fact, I know what it feels to be deceived like that.” He approached the stall from which the voice came from. “You don´t need to be brave. It`s okey to cry. I don´t mind it. You already saw me crying today. And to be honest you are the third person in my life to see me cry. You can be really proud of that.” The door flew open. Y/n was sitting on the toilet lid, knees to her chest, holding a piece of paper; Trying to get rid of the tears, that came streaming down her face. Barnes smiled a little. It reminded him of his sisters, always trying to play tough.

“I´m sorry. I´m usually not that emotional. It´s just. I always wondered how someone could be so cruel and order to kill people just like that. While I sat down with that person every weekend for breakfast and dinner for almost 5 years. Recently almost every day, since I lost my apartment, because of the fucking blip.” She laughed. Bucky´s shoulders sank down, letting out a frustrated burst of air. “And now I need to go back there, knowing this, doing as if everything’s fine. And. And. And I´m scared” another wave of tears made her shiver. Between all the commotion and feelings Bucky decided something.

“You can stay in my apartment”

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