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in-superbloom · 3 years

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did you ever hear about the girl who got frozen? (a.i.)

right where you left me: prologue

pairing: ashton irwin x olivia jones (oc)

warnings: uhh a kinda grieving theme i guess? but no deaths. it has a sad tone overall, but nothing major (in this chapter hehe). foul language because i can't help myself. the tiniest mention of alcohol, but as a memory. think i should probably warn you that this contains a very sad ash. also not much dialogues. this is mainly for explanation and introduction, but very important for the story. if you find anything else that might be triggering, please let me know so i can add it here !!

author's note: oof okay. so. this is the prologue of a series very very dear to my heart that i've been working on for what it feels like my whole life but really it's been just a few months. but i'm in love with the story (which rarely happens with my own writing) so i hope you can enjoy it too !! this is also my very first time posting a fic since 2013 so pls keep that in mind <3 no i am not shaking as type this ofc not also: although i have the full story ready in my head, this is the only chapter that's written. i wanted to wait until i had at least a few ready before posting this but i'm too anxious for that lmao just saying this bc it will take a good while until i have any more chapters, so <3 (p.s.: i went over this thing a million times since may so if you find any errors pls look away, i'm not fixing this thing anymore. thanks <3)

another note: anna from the future here to say that i completely forgot about the playlist i made for the story lmao here it is in case you're interested k thanks bye <3

credits: title is from taylor swift's song right where you left me. model in the picture: paola locatelli. banner by me.

i also wanted to take a minute to thank some really nice friends that i've made here over these past few months & that i'm extremely grateful for @wastelandcth @suchalonelysunflower @littledrummerangie i cannot thank you babes enough for inspiring me the way that you do & for letting me yell about this to you && for encouraging me so much 🥺 i'll never be able to explain just how much this means to me, so i'll have to settle for saying thank you at any change that i can get <3 i love you all 💜 also gem my baby, thank you for the inspo with the banner 💚

@bluesdelis look babe i did it 😌 you know how grateful i am for you & for you letting me have a breakdown every week about my writing for the past 8 years so let's not dive into that or else i will write something bigger than this prologue jsjsjdjd love you 🖤

i hope you all have a good reading and a nice day ♡

let me know what are your thoughts about the fic ! ♡

word count: 4.1k

☆☆☆

Cold. That was the first thing that Olivia’s brain processed.

Still with her eyes closed, she buried herself more into the duvet, while her arm blindly reached for the furnace in human form that she calls boyfriend. However, as soon as her arm was only met with cold sheets, her eyes shot open.

Blinking the sleep away, she sat up on the bed, searching for the infamous red clock resting on Ashton’s bedside table that was supposed to look like a vintage alarm clock. Olivia had ordered it online at an auction website a couple of years back, as a gift for his 23rd birthday, since it was something he had mentioned multiple times prior that he was looking for, but still hadn't found. But when it finally came in (two weeks after the due date), it looked nothing like the picture she saw on the website. Feeling beyond frustrated, she wanted to send it back immediately and ask for a refund and maybe leave a not so polite review on the seller's page. But Ashton stopped her right away, laughing like the situation was absolutely hilarious to him, while saying, 'I like it, it’s quirky'. So, the clock stayed and found a home right next to him in their room.

Some days, however, she would wake up at some ungodly hour because of the blaring noise of the only ringtone the clock had. But whatever annoyance she could feel towards the object, it always vanished as soon as she felt Ashton's lips gently touching her face in a good morning kiss before he would get up to start his day, leaving her to catch some more hours of well deserved sleep.

As the furthest from a morning person as a touring musician could possibly be, Olivia had always feared that living under the same roof as Ashton would turn her into an early bird like him, but she's thankful that it never happened (not that he needs to know about that).

When she sees the red clock, she smiles at the sudden but welcome memories of them flooding her foggy brain, but frowns slightly when she realizes it reads 12:13 pm. Ashton rarely lets her sleep past 10 am.

Gathering all her strength and will, she rises up from the bed, smoothly picking up a grey wool sweatshirt from the chair (way too baggy on her slim body, but it smells like him), pulling it over her head and relishing on the soft material warming up her body. Making her way to the door and calmly going down the stairs, she can’t help but stop for a minute to admire the picture frames on their walls, one in particular catches her attention – probably one of the most prized pictures and memories they had. It felt older than it actually is, but it was around 4 years ago, she's sure – a little while after the two of them met. The picture was of their group of friends that still remains the same: Ashton and his best friend, Luke; Olivia, her best friend, Calum and their old hometown friend, turned into Calum’s new friend at college, turned into everyone’s friend, Michael; and her then newly band members, Suki, Eli and Ravi. Together, their group was the life of the party through all their college years, and it showed by the big smiles and drinks in hands they all had in the picture. It was a very special night, the first time Olivia’s little band played for the public – for a small audience sure, but it was a wonderful night nonetheless. What a long road it had been since that night.

Her nostalgic thoughts were interrupted by a shiver that went through her whole body, and it made her realize how oddly cold the whole house was, not only their bedroom. Which, granted, it was November in New York and the weather was just getting colder, but that’s exactly why Ashton always made sure to keep the house warm enough. As much as she loved the chilly season, the warm weather always reminded him of his hometown, and who was she to deny him that?

The smell of fresh made coffee could be sensed even before she reached the kitchen. Arriving there, the curly haired woman still found no signs of her boyfriend, so she went straight after the coffee maker pot sitting on the far left corner of the cream marble counter. Smiling softly at the tons of memories of Ashton's sleepy figure making their favorite beverage, she reached for a coffee mug on the cupboard on top of the counter and poured the remainder of the hot liquid on it (it's her favorite mug, if she must choose – it was a gift from a fan, and it had printed on it a collage of the pictures of her and Ashton that were posted on social media through their first year of relationship).

Moving to the glass doors that lead to the mini garden they cultivate, she didn't have to open them to spot the 6-feet-tall man sitting on a bench outside, looking oddly small in his oversized clothes, coffee mug tightly held between strong hands. Something about his figure made Olivia frown, however: he was staring with an unwavering look at her small but eye-catching pot of yellow daffodils that were almost as much of a pet to them as Stitch at this point. Sensing that there’s something definitely off about his semblance, she made a mental note to talk to him and find out what’s wrong later. So she goes back to the kitchen, knowing that he might need this quiet and private moment for himself.

She lost count of the minutes that went by (couldn't have been more than five) before she hears the garden's door opening and closing, and then his bare feet are dragging his brawny body to her. Except, he goes over to the sink, walking right through her, not showing any sign that he even saw her hunched figure over the counter table in the middle of the room.

Alright, someone's in a mood.

Olivia tries to swallow the annoyance already bubbling inside her – he knows how much she hates to be ignored, no matter how mad he might be – by trying to think of what she can say that won't piss him off. This is always a hard feat to accomplish when Ashton gets in these moods, but there’s a reason for them to work so well together.

“I missed my favorite body heater when I woke up,” she says in her best sweet voice, knowing how quickly his resolve crumbles when he hears that voice.

Still, no reaction.

That settles a worry at the pit of her stomach, because Ashton is never like this. Even when he's not in the mood to talk, he always gives some kind of reaction to her words; it doesn't matter how small, just enough to make her feel acknowledged.

When he's finished washing his mug and the few scattered dishes across the sink – she noticed that he already had lunch, if the lone plate in the drying rack is anything to go by –, he dries his hand in a towel, turns around and throws it on top of the same counter Olivia was leaning up against. Once again, he walks away not even sparing her a look.

Indignant, she leaves the now empty coffee mug on top of the table and follows him as he walks up the stairs, any determination to not aggravate his mood now well gone.

“Hey! In case you didn't notice, I'm right here. Whatever got you in this sour mood, I'm certainly not to blame, so can you stop being a child now and talk to me?!”

Ashton just keeps walking – more like sluggishly dragging his body – until he reaches their bedroom and suddenly stops just merely two feet inside the room, looking around with vacant eyes; like he was expecting to see something that wasn't there.

“Okay, that's really mature of you. Are you planning on ignoring me all day then?” Olivia questions exasperated, staring angrily at the back of his neck, where the condor tattoo lives – her favorite of his, but that sight doesn't bring her any peace today like it usually does.

Her glare only breaks when she hears the familiar sound of dog tags swaying on her right side. Shifting her gaze to the direction of the sound, Olivia notices Stitch, their small, black & white French bulldog – who she thought was outside in the garden – slowly trudging his way from around the bed until he stops at Ashton's feet, looking up at one of his humans with sad eyes. That realization only makes the worry in her stomach grow uncomfortably.

“Hi buddy,” Ashton's voice cracks a bit from the lack of use, but he smiles softly at the sweet dog, and crouches down to pet him.

Olivia can't help but gasp as she notices three things all at once that leave her overwhelmed: first, how she didn't even notice Stitch was in the room when she woke up – which never ever happens, in fact, most days he wakes her up whenever he deems her bedtime as finished and can't ever contain his excitement when she finally gets up; second, how the windows blinds are closed, which, again, rarely occurs under their roof, not if Ashton can help it. And third, how sad and melancholic the whole scene in front of her is – how sad and melancholic Ashton is. Pointless to say by now – that's also a very rare occasion.

A chill creeps up Olivia's spine, putting her body into high alert and also serving as a reminder of how everything looks out of place today. Trying to keep her head from spiraling down way too soon, she wraps her arms around herself and crouches down beside her two favorite boys, trying once more.

“Ash? Can you hear me?” even with her throat closing, she softly asks, purposefully putting her face in Ashton's point of view. Her only answer is the low whispers he's letting out to Stitch, while cradling the tiny dog in his arms, spreading gentle kisses on his head.

“I know, bud, I know. I miss her too,” is the only whisper she could understand and immediately wishes she hadn't. The weak wail that comes from Stitch's throat seems to fit perfectly with how the three of them feel.

Ashton then looks up and for a couple of seconds, and Olivia can swear he’s staring right into her eyes. But when he shows no reaction, she knows he’s just staring ahead and not at her, with that look that says there’s too much going on inside his head. She feels the urge to embrace him and get him to talk about whatever is on his mind, so they can share that weight like they always do, but when Ashton gets up from the ground and settles on the bed with Stitch, Olivia can physically feel the crack in her heart caused by the feeling she’s left with.

While Ashton is pulling the duvet over him and the dog, with clearly no intentions of getting up anytime soon, Olivia stands up on her feet with a new-found determination – she needs to figure out what the hell is going on.

This nightmare had to be just that, right? Nothing but a very vivid dream – she's had those before. Scary sure, but they always go away, and soon enough she's back into Ashton's arms, with Stitch jumping on the bed ready to lick their faces off. She just needs to wake herself up from whatever fucked up dream this is – right?

She's running down the stairs this time, frantically in search of something, of what exactly, she doesn’t know – but she knows she needs an answer. The more she looks for something, the more desperate she gets, not knowing what to look for. Then suddenly, something catches her eyes.

The white and blue calendar that's held up by magnets on the side of the fridge. She knows their calendar is red and yellow. They got it from their favorite flower market. Slowly, as if scared of what it might be there – “It's just a calendar, for fucks sake” – she approaches the damn thing. Upon inspection, she deems it as a normal calendar – she really doesn't know what she was expecting – until.

She knows what's wrong with it now.

It's November. She knows it, because the Asian and last leg of her first world tour is about to begin November 21st, eleven days from today. Right after Mike's birthday, she knows this.

Then why does the calendar say today is January 14th?

☆ ☆ ☆

Ashton woke up with a jolt. He quickly sat up, frightening the little Frenchie that was asleep right next to him on the bed. Trying to make sense of his surroundings, he roughly rubbed his face to get some sleep off of it and soon reached for the dog that was staring at him with sleepy but sad eyes. Ashton is sure Stitch understands far more than a dog is supposed to understand about their current situation.

The room is covered in shadows, almost pitch black, but he can see the sunlight even through the thick dark grey blinds covering up the windows. Ashton knows he won't be able to sleep again at that moment, so he gets up from the bed – much slower than he used to. His heartbeat is still out of control because of the nightmare that woke him up, but he can't bother to pay attention to it when Stitch is softly wailing beside him. Ashton lets out a ghost of a smile when the dog rests his head on his right upper thigh, looking up at him with an expression Ashton knows all too well.

“C'mon you little ravenous creature, let's feed you,” the bulldog excitedly jumps to the ground, already running his way down the stairs, not even waiting for Ashton to get up.

That gets a real smile out of him, but it vanishes as soon as he glances at the alarm clock on his bedside table. It reads 5:13 am, nothing out of the ordinary for him. But that small and inoffensive clock, with its red paint peeling off, holds a lot of memories for him. Memories that two months ago would bring joy to his heart, but now he almost wants to throw the object across the room.

It was a stupid thing, really. He had been wanting a vintage alarm clock and Olivia got one for his birthday. But the product they received was definitely not the one she bought, and if he's being honest, he didn't like it as much as he made out to. But seeing her so excited in the weeks before it arrived, and how disappointed she was when it did, he couldn't help but try his best to make her smile that luminous smile again. It's part of his nature by now.

That's also the reason why he lets her think that he doesn't notice when she wakes up at some ungodly hour (her words, not his) along with him, because of the annoying and only sound the alarm clock is able to produce. He always leaves soft kisses in every inch of bare skin he can find on her sleeping figure, so she goes back to the dream land and doesn't wake up before 10 am. No one wants to deal with that kind of bad humor, not even him.

As much as he likes being a morning person and absolutely enjoys her company in the mornings, he knows she'll take any and every extra hour of sleep she can get before starting the day. And that's why he loves that she's so stubborn that his early bird tendencies never got to her – he knows she feared that this would happen when they moved in together, but he met her like this, fell for her like this. He wouldn't change a single thing about her.

Ashton drags himself out of the bed, wincing slightly at how cold the wooden floors are under his bare feet. He doesn't bother putting some socks on, or a sweater – the cold weather in the house is uncharacteristically comforting to him. Nothing feels warm without her anyway.

While descending the stairs, he mentally curses himself for not being strong enough to look past the picture frames on the wall. One in particular catches his eyes – a picture from the night of Olivia's first concert with her band. The memories of that night are still painfully vivid in his mind: the laughter among their group that eventually infected everyone at the pub, Suki and Luke's first kiss and the silly smile that didn't leave his best friend's face all night, the standing ovation Olivia got after her three-songs set, and her captivating and breathtaking smile that made him realize right then and there, while watching her sway to the music, that he was definitely falling in love with her and there was nothing he could do to stop it – not that he wanted to.

So many memories held up on that wall, in the relatively short time since they met, that he can't help but wonder if that's all they'll get in this lifetime.

Ashton is abruptly taken out of his thoughts by Stitch's barks coming from the bottom of the stairs. He quickly jogs down the few steps left and goes straight after the dog's food in the kitchen's cabinet. After Stitch starts to happily devour his breakfast, Ashton goes to make his coffee, doing enough for two people like he always does, since Calum drops by most days for a chat or to drop Duke before going to work. Although all three of them know he just can't bother to make food for himself in the morning, while Ashton is the group's elected chef. Ashton always says he just needs a boyfriend – Olivia says Calum already has one who makes him breakfast every day.

He grabs an apple from the fridge and makes his way outside to their garden. Even though a lot of their memories took place there, the garden is the only space in the house where he doesn't feel like suffocating all the time. At least here, he can breathe some fresh air and look at the sky when he's feeling overwhelmed – which is basically all he's been doing for about a month now.

Yet, a lot of the garden has Olivia's name written all over.

He remembers vividly the day she came home after spending two weeks in LA doing some pocket shows, with a pack of daffodil seeds and the largest smile. She excitedly told him that a friend gifted it to her when she mentioned the little garden they were planning to build together at their new house. The friend told Olivia that daffodils symbolize rebirth and new beginnings, so as the good lover of symbolism that she is, Olivia loved the idea of having those flowers to symbolize their new beginning.

Ashton, on the other hand, wasn't a fan of the flowers at first – he just didn't see the appeal to them. But nonetheless, he indulged her, letting Olivia plant the seeds near the bench they used to sit during the quiet and unrushed afternoons, so they could admire the sunset, and she could happily look at the daffodils.

Pointless to say – the damn flowers grew on him.

Now, however, looking at them without Olivia and her contagious joy next to him, they were back to be as dull as they were before, if not more so.

Still lost inside his head without any sense of how much time went by since he sat down, Ashton doesn't hear the front door closing, and doesn't notice that he's no longer the only person inside the house until someone sits next to him on the bench. Yet, he doesn't show any sign of acknowledgement to them.

A few minutes go by before either of them speaks up.

“Luke said you didn't go to see her yesterday,” Calum starts softly, not wanting to disturb the calmness of the morning.

Ashton takes a few seconds to respond, “No point in doing that.” The black haired man licks his lips while thinking carefully about his next words.

“You know staying inside this house all day by yourself won't help either,” Calum turns his head to his left and takes a good look at Ashton's uncharacteristically hunched over figure, and immediately thinks that anyone can tell this man is not himself anymore. His second thought is that Olivia would hate seeing him like this.

“And what exactly do you expect me to do? Move on with my life like nothing happened? Like I'm not slowly and painfully losing the love of my life? Just because it’s easy for you doesn't mean it's easy for me.”

Calum closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He knows Ashton doesn't mean it, it's the anger and frustration talking. He knows it. Doesn't make it sting any less.

“I'm not telling you to move on with your life, because that's far from what I'm doing, and I certainly don't expect you to do it. I'm just saying you need to occupy your mind or else–”

“I'll go insane? Think it's a bit too late for that,” Ashton interrupts with a bitter tone that doesn't belong to his usual chirpy voice.

“You know it's not,” Calum sighs and drinks the rest of his coffee, moving his body slightly, so he's facing the blonde man, “I got a job interview for you at that school you talked about so much last summer, the principal said you can go any day this week. I went ahead and sent her your resume as well as explained everything that she needs to know about Olivia, so you don't have to. You just gotta put on some decent clothes and show up.” he sees Ashton's face softening a little and takes it as a victory. A few beats go by and then, “Maybe take a shower too. That's gonna make you feel better.” Calum leans in closer to his friend's personal space and takes a sniff, causing Ashton to deflect from him slightly, but not to push him away – another small win.

“Definitely take a shower, you stink. When was the last time your hair saw shampoo?”

“Fuck off,” is Ashton's only reply to the younger man's inquest. But Calum can see a smile creeping up on the blonde's face, which brings out a smile of his own.

“I'll send you all the details later today,” he checks the hour on the watch on his wrist and gets up, “Just please, Ash, go. I can't lose you too.”

Calum gently lays a hand on Ashton's shoulder and squeezes a little. The man doesn't look up, but gives a curt nod to his friend, who's satisfied enough. Calum stops on the threshold of the garden glass doors to give some kisses to Stitch – who came to make Ashton company as soon as he finished his food –, and then he puts the coffee mug on the dishwater. And soon enough, he's on his way out of the door. But not before snatching a tangerine from the fridge.

Ashton is left by himself once again. As he hears the sound of the front door closing, he thinks that this might be his life from now on. Just him and Stitch, trying their hardest to make it through another miserable day without the love of their lives. While everyone else comes by just to make sure he's still breathing. Breathing, maybe, but alive?

Swallowing the tears, he looks up at the sky. It's a deep, beautiful mix of orange, pink and blue, but he knows that it won't last long and soon the rain will be pouring down. He thinks about how much Olivia loves the rain.

God, he needs to pull himself together. She would hate to see him like this. Maybe he should take Calum's offer after all, he really needs to occupy his mind.

Making a mental note to thank Calum later, and also to apologize for how rude he was to him this morning, Ashton slowly gets up from the bench to put his mug on the sink and makes his way to the living room, with the small dog loyally following his every step. He puts on some cartoon that for once doesn't remind him of her (she always lovingly made fun of him for still watching those) and cuddles with Stitch on the couch. He can take a shower later.

Not half an hour goes by, he falls asleep and has a good dream for a change. He dreams of the days he spent with Olivia in the Philippines last February, right before her first world tour started. Some of the most magical days of their lives – surrounded by delicious food, a whole new culture to learn about and the warmth of the sun. Infinite counted days full of love and passion, where they were the only people in the world.

Even his subconscious knows to hold on to that brief moment of happiness, because he might never live that again.

#anna writes #perhaps she does write after all #alright i'm gonna go hide somewhere now bye #ashton irwin fanfiction #ashton irwin fic #ashton 5sos #ashton irwin x oc #5sos fanfic #5sos fic #ashton irwin imagine #5 seconds of summer #5sos imagine #anna writes: rwylm

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yelenasdog · 4 years

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the pillowtalk of a pessimist (spencer reid x fem reader)

genre: fluff with a millisecond of angst

summary: pillowtalk takes an interesting turn for spencer at the mention of the harsh realities of his work.

words: 1.3k, she’s a shorty.

warnings: nsfw themes (nothing smutty, it’s just implied and also directly stated that they slept together), typical criminal minds violence + death, and maybe cursing? idk.

a/n: btw this isn’t the fic i was ranting on about that i’m writing, she’s still in the works. also! this could be an x oc or anybody bc i didn’t use y/n if you would prefer to read it as such.

🂦∙🂦∙🂦

A pale stream of moonlight shone through the open window of apartment 23, the home of Doctor Spencer Reid. It illuminated a small section of his bedroom, specifically on one of his many floor to ceiling bookshelves, a beacon of knowledge that was there 24/7 for the taking.

The gold engravings on the spines of his many reads shimmered, a beautiful contrast to the dark mahogany the shelf was made out of.

The room smelled like a mixture of his cologne, her perfume (Chanel no. 5, specifically), and the results of their previous affairs that lingered in the crisp air of the night.

She took a deep breath, settling down further into the white duvet, pulling it over her bosom in response to the chilly temperature. The dark green walls of the room welcomed and calmed her, overwhelming the girl with a wave of serenity that could only be brought to her by him.

He quickly took note of her unsteady breathing and shift in position, immediately jumping to action. He pulled her closer by her shoulders with his strong arms, eliciting a squeal from her and a chuckle from him, more so at her reaction than the move itself.

Her head laid on his bare chest, her hair splayed out with half of it residing on his pillow, the other half on his bicep. She could have appeared to be an angel, although in his eyes, she truly was.

She rested her hand on the left side of his chest over his heart, her fingernail ghosting shapes on his tanned skin. Circles, squiggly lines, even abstract faces.

“How do you do it?”

Her voice was quiet, barely above a whisper. If his hearing wasn’t so acute, he was sure he would have missed it. This would have saddened the genius greatly, as he valued everything she had to say with a burning ferocity, and even one word lost would be a shame.

“What?”

He was confused by the nature of the question, attempting to search every corner of his brilliant brain for what she might have been referencing. Was it an equation? No, she hated math. Perhaps the way he so effortlessly could play any instrument because yet again, math. He decided that couldn’t be the subject at question either, she played better than he did, glorious melodies flowed from her fingertips. So the doctor was truly stumped.

The answer was simpler than he had imagined.

“Your job.”

With those doe eyes he was so fond of, she looked up, meeting his own glance.

If the term “heart eyes” was able to be personified, Spencer would be the guy to personify it whenever his eyes landed on the one in front of him.

“What do you mean? I get up in the morning, drink some coffee, and get to it.”

She giggled, but the sound he loved so much ceased with her pout.

“That’s not what I mean, Spence. How do you go on everyday, seeing body after body,” she trailed off, obviously distraught. Spencer wrapped his large hand tighter around her, placing his chin on her hairline.

“How do you consistently manage to look at these victims, these people, with lives that they never got to finish living-“ A tear slipped down her cheek, she bit her bottom lip, tasting her own salty droplets on her tongue. She sniffled, burying her head further in his neck with what he presumed was shame.

“And not break down when you do.” Her voice was muffled, but the emotions she felt were evident nonetheless.

He took a moment to carefully articulate an appropriate response. The gears in his mind turned ever so diligently, finding a solution to dry her tears.

“It’s not much different than what I initially said. I get up in the morning, drink some coffee.”

He pushed a hair away from her face, admiring her distinct features as he often did. She looked up, moving her left hand to trace his sharp jaw as he sat in thought.

“And I realize that these people that are now dead, are a part of the hundreds, of throusands, of millions of people that die every year. It’s a part of life, what gives it meaning.”

She gave a dry, humourless laugh.

“What, you don’t have a specific statistic for that?”

“Oh, I do, but I don’t think you want to hear it.” He tilted his head, weighing the option of disclosing the information but deciding against it.

“But the bottom line is, they have families. Families that are grieving, and hurting, and needing answers and justice. I cannot do my job and give them the closure they deserve if I’m staying focused on my own emotions and delving deep into who the victims were, rather than how to catch those responsible for hurting them.”

She moved on to her back, stilling managing to keep her eye contact with Spencer.

“But you’re a profiler! That’s what you do! You’re supposed to, what did you call it, ‘delve deep’ into who they are.”

“Pretty girl, are you trying to tell the one with 3 doctorates how to do his job?”

She rolled her eyes, lazily throwing a hand on his neck, right behind his ear. She ran it back and forth, savoring the intimate moment.

“Yeah, yeah. Shut up, Agent.” She taunted, poorly trying (and failing) to agitate Spencer. She had a hunch (that was more true than either of them would let on) that it wasn’t possible for her to do so, and he found himself proving it to be correct.

“I just had to learn to let the family do what they had to do so that I could do the same.”

The girl’s tone softened as she spoke, staring at the popcorn ceiling.

“I guess so. I’m just too empathetic, my heart is too pure.” She joked, a feathery laugh falling past both of their lips.

“Of course. I would expect nothing less.” He teased back, enjoying the dynamic they both held in the tender moment.

“You amaze me.” She muttered, leaning in, analyzing him and his ruffled post-sex hair, his gorgeously long lashes, and his light 5 o’clock shadow that donned his chin.

He huffed quietly, doing the exact same thing, minus the scruff of course.

“I could say the same to you, pretty girl.”

Their lips connected once again, in a different manner than the feverish and needy kiss from before.

This time, it was a union of two individuals, allowing themselves to mould together in a way only the two of them could. It was slower and sweeter, with more feeling poured into their lips while they moved in sync.

“M’ tired.”

“Yeah? You wanna go to sleep, bubs?”

She grinned as she snuggled into his arms, her exhausted eyes fluttering to a close.

“Bubs, huh? That’s new.”

A worried frown made its way onto his face as he rushed to cover up his previous words.

“D-do you not like it? I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable-“

“Spence.”

He stopped, looking over her for any microexpressions, only seeing positive signs. That wasn’t technically profiling, right? He hoped he would be in the clear if she ever was to find out.

“I love it, baby. Say it again.”

“Bubs?”

“Mhm. Say it again.” She sounded with content. He smirked, a proud feeling infiltrating his body, causing him to puff up his chest in the slightest way.

“Goodnight, bubs.”

He reached up, his paranoia forcing him to close the window above him, despite being a more than qualified FBI agent with a revolver safely tucked away in the top drawer of his night stand that never quite was shut all the way.

It was just the pessimist in him.

She wrapped around his figure, intertwining his form with her own.

“Sleep well, Spence.”

He felt happy with her, happier than he had been in a long time. He relished in that, allowing it to lull him to a well needed rest.

But what could he say, she just brought out the optimist in him.

🂦∙🂦∙🂦

hj posting at a time that isn’t 3 am?????? unheard of. also i may or may not have pulled an all nighter to write whatever tf this is bc my ex posted something with his new gf and i felt pathetic LMAO. anyway, i hope your day is fabulous, go drink some water and remember things are what you make of them and it’s all about intent! love you, xx hj.

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haikyuu-scenarios-drabbles · 4 years

Text

Shower Friends (Miya Atsumu x F!reader)

The dorm you live in has co-ed bathrooms. Why that’s remotely a good idea is beyond you; and recently, your precious shower time is being interrupted by a certain blonde haired setter for the volleyball team. When he lies to his teammates that he has a girlfriend, somehow you get roped into his scheme.

genre(s): college!au, fake dating, angst, fluff, mutual pining, enemies to lovers (kinda), eventual smut (maybe) words: 3.5k

a/n: ah the sweet sweet smell of mutual pining. also 3 more chapters are planned, not written yet though bc i just decided i’d be writing them lmao. hopefully can get started on that this weekend and post them next week 🤗

taglist: @apollochjld @kurosarium @vicassa @carbs-need-more-love @underratedmage @idek-at-thispoint @wtfeverbrandi @food8me @yikes-buddy @ntimacy @nyxiie @oikawasbooty @chocolate3010 @sugawarabby @greenyiplier @kritiiiii @tokyosdawn @youstydiaa @h3llok1ttygirl

one | two

Chapter Three

“You want me to help you with what?” You ask, a bit stunned when he showed up at the door, a terribly annoying but also cute pleading expression on his face.

He groans, his shoulders hunching forward in exasperation. “Ya really gunna make me repeat it?”

You peer closer at the top of his head and see that he’s being serious. The roots of his hair growing in are a dark brown and it had never even occurred to you that he dyes his hair the blonde color you’re so used to. “No, but why do you need my help?”

This is so embarrassing. Normally his roommate or a teammate can help him but none of them are available today and he’s already let the roots grow longer than he likes. But when one of them suggested you help him out instead, something inside him rebelled. For some reason, the thought of having you dye his hair for him made him uncomfortable, like he’s showing you an intimate part of him. This hair has been a part of him so long he can’t remember the last time he’d let it grow out.

“I can’t see if I got everything,” he admits. It took a lot of pacing around his room and staring at his roots for him to get up the courage to come over here to ask you. He can’t really explain why he was so against it, especially since you don’t seem to mind after you got over the initial shock of realizing this isn’t his natural hair.

A wave of relief washes over him when you sigh, conceding, “Alright. Just let me change into something I can get bleach on. I’ll meet you at your dorm.”

While he waits for you, he busies himself with mixing the dye together so it’s ready for you, and when you arrive in a t-shirt and shorts with paint splatters all over them, he mentally kicks himself for thinking about how even wearing something so simple you still look better than anyone he’s ever seen. Crossing your arms, you motion for him to take a seat at his desk. Before he does so, he reaches behind his neck to grab at the collar of his shirt and pull it over his head.

You stand there dumbfounded for a moment, it taking you a second to process that he’s now standing before you shirtless and you’re free to ogle his muscular chest and arms to your hearts content. He doesn’t pay any attention to you, knowing if he meets your gaze, he won’t be able to stop the heat threatening to crawl up his neck. Instead, he wraps a towel around his waist to protect his shorts and sits in the chair to wait for you.

Except now, you have free reign to stare at his back, which is just as defined as the front of him and you need a few more seconds to reel your thoughts back.

“Whaddya waitin’ for darling?” He drawls, throwing you a glance over his shoulder, not expecting you to be standing there frozen, eyes pinned to his now bare chest.

He opens his mouth to tease you further, but your eyes snap to his and you practically shout, “Do you have another towel?” He just cocks a brow and then points to his closet where another towel is hanging on a hook. Snatching it, you return to him and drape it over his shoulders, hiding most of his annoyingly toned body. “Don’t want to get any bleach on your skin,” you explain, no way in hell ever admitting to him that you’re finding it hard to focus with him on display like that.

Absentmindedly, he hands you one of the clips he bought a long time ago, one that’s almost completely bleached itself and you start running your fingers through his hair to section it. He closes his eyes, focusing intently on the soothing sensation of your fingers on his scalp, doing his best not to groan out loud at how good it feels. With anyone else, this isn’t anything special, normally he sits as patiently as he can whilst trying not to annoy whoever is doing his hair (lest they decide to ‘mess up’ as punishment). But with you, it’s a different feeling entirely.

It's jarringly intimate as you clip his hair back and reach over him to grab the plastic gloves that came with the dye. Lathering up the applicator brush, you start slathering it onto his hair, trying your hardest to make sure it’s evenly distributed and surrounding each strand. As you do so, you ask, “How long have you been doing this?”

He resists the urge to shrug, not wanting to jostle you, replying, “Osamu and I started in middle school.”

“Osamu dyes his hair too?”

“Yeah, he goes for gray. But I’d heard blondes have more fun so—here we are.”

He grits his teeth as your fingers skim over his scalp, glad for the towel you wrapped around him to hide the goosebumps skittering along his bare skin.

“Let me guess,” you muse. “You guys did it because people couldn’t tell you apart?”

“That,” he laughs, “And we thought it would look cool. The first time we did it, it looked like shit.”

Your answering laugh warms his heart as you unclip a section of hair and keep working. “I can’t imagine your mom being too happy about it.”

“Livid. We got bleach everywhere.”

You laugh, continuing to move through his hair methodically. It doesn’t take very long as you’re just dying his roots and they weren’t that bad to begin with, contrary to what Atsumu thinks. When you finish, he gives you a sheepish look and has to swallow his pride to ask you to help him wash it out. Every time he’s tried to do it himself, he always ends up leaving a huge chunk of bleach somewhere.

You oblige, following him to the bathroom, not bothering to care about the looks you get along the way. If they want to stare at a shirtless Atsumu and then glare at you for having that all to yourself, that’s their prerogative. It does wonders for your confidence, regardless that all of this is a ruse.

Luckily, the bathroom is empty and Atsumu dutifully bends over the sink to let you start washing the dye out of his hair. He’s immensely grateful his eyes are shut, and his face is shoved into the sink to hide his flushed cheeks as he thoroughly enjoys your fingers running through his hair. The sensation of your fingernails lightly scraping over his scalp makes him ball his fists as he has to bite his lip to keep from making any sounds.

You’re unbothered, until you notice the towel has slipped from his shoulders and with the way he’s bracing himself against the counter every muscle in his back and arms is on display for you to see. It’s an effort to continue your task as if nothing is wrong and force yourself to look off into the distance instead of eyeing him up.

It’s no easy feat. Especially when you finish and he rises, scrubbing at his face with the discarded towel before moving on to his hair. You press your lips into a firm line and let yourself indulge just a little bit looking at the way his muscles flex with the movement, droplets from his damp hair trailing down the planes of his chest towards the waistband of his shorts and—your attention is broken at the sound of him chuckling and you snap your gaze to his.

You find him staring at you with mischief sparkling in his eyes, so you speak before he can tease you. “Is that it?”

“We have to actually dye it now.”

“Oh.” You turn on your heels desperate to escape his gaze. “Let’s go then.” A smirk plays across his lips, but he refrains from teasing you, solely because he very much enjoyed the way you were looking at him and doesn’t want you to stop.

And yeah—sue him if he thinks about your hands in his hair for the rest of the day. In the end, he might be a little grateful no one else was available to help him.

When mid-semester break arrives, it comes as a surprise that you actually miss each other. What surprises you even further, is that he’s the one to bring it up. Within the first night, he video calls you, a sheepish expression on his face, explaining he needed someone to complain to.

“What do you mean?” You teased. “Sounds like you’re getting stuffed with good food from Osamu and you have plenty to brag about.” You winked, smiling devilishly at him and pointing to yourself. You’re only joking. Slightly. You aren’t sure what will come about if he tells his family about you, or if that’s even a good idea. It’d be much easier to break this off cleanly without the involvement of each other’s families.

He sighs, flopping down on his bed and scrubbing his face with one hand. “They’re just dyin’ to meet you now.”

Your brows lift, half-expecting him to have tried to keep this a secret. “You told them?”

“I wasn’t gunna,” he explains. “But apparently some college sports news channel caught um—,” he coughs awkwardly, remembering very vividly this day, yet the two of you haven’t acknowledged it since. “Our—uh—celebration.”

Eyes widening, you stare at him a moment before the both of you burst out laughing. Between your giggles you manage to say, “Oops.”

Laughing alongside you, he grins, despite the pang in his heart at the voice in his head desperately trying to remind him all of this isn’t real. You aren’t his girlfriend and the moment all of this ends, you probably won’t bat an eye at him ever again. He hates how much that hurts.

Forging onward towards his demise he discloses, “I am now a very proud owner of a very jealous brother now, so thank you.”

That only makes you keep grinning, setting a hand on your cheek and dramatically saying, “What? Of little ol’ me?”

He fights the urge to tell you that yes—jealous of little ol’ you. The girl who is slowly becoming the girl of his dreams. The beautiful, funny girl who deals with him and everything that comes with him. He swallows all that, keeping the mood and saying, “He refuses to let me try any of his onigiri. A crime, really.”

“Of the highest caliber,” you agree, stifling your laughter. “Though I’m sure you steal some when he isn’t looking.”

“Yeah, but he caught me and hit me on the head with his spoon.”

“How dare he. Lucky for me, my family is clueless.”

“What do they think yer doin’ right now then?”

Shrugging you say, “I told them I had a project to work on with a classmate. Which isn’t entirely a lie, I do have a project to work on. But someone interrupted.”

He smirks. “Wonder who that could be.”

“Beats me.” His responding grin does something to you that’s been happening a lot more frequently lately. Making you feel like all the air has been punched out of you and like your heart is going to beat out of your chest. Though, you’ve gotten quite good at hiding it.

In the distance, you hear someone calling his name. He panics, it’s bad enough his family knows about you now, but he isn’t sure if he’s ready for them to meet you. Especially Osamu, who he has the sinking feeling is already suspicious of this. It’ll be a miracle if he can slip this by him.

“Gotta go!” He says quickly, and before he ends the call, he hears you chuckle and say, “Beware the spoon.”

Every day his situation only gets worse.

The next night he can’t get Osamu off his back. Enough that when he tries to retreat to his bedroom to give you a call, pathetically missing you again, Osamu bursts in when he’s about two minutes into the video call with you. He tries to shove him out, embarrassed and afraid Osamu will see straight through him. But Osamu is stubborn, and he hears you laughing on the other end of the call before saying, “Aww, Atsumu won’t you at least let me try to charm the pants off him?”

He grits his teeth, the thought that he wants you to charm the pants off of him, not his brother flitting through his head before he can stop it. But he relents, letting Osamu sit backwards on his desk chair to join the conversation.

He isn’t sure how, but somehow you get Osamu to believe this is real in a matter of minutes. You have him laughing and talking about culinary school and he almost feels jealous that your attention is now on Osamu instead of him. It’s a ridiculous notion, he knows it, but it doesn’t stop him from keeping the camera on him as much as possible.

When the call ends, Osamu looks at him seriously, and for a moment Atsumu thinks he’s just been pretending to believe you this entire time. However, he breaks into a smile and smacks him on the back saying, “Got yerself a keeper, there.”

Atsumu tries to grin with as much sincerity as he can. Yeah—he knows he does. But that isn’t going to stop this from ending.

That night, both of you go to bed feeling like you’re getting in too deep.

And as per usual, when school starts back up again, neither of you bring it up. You’re happy to keep ignoring it, hating yourself for liking this arrangement and him more and more every day. It sad really, how much time in your day is spent thinking about him. Wondering if there’s any possibility that the two of you could just transition to a real relationship. Because to you, that’s already what this is. Nothing would change, but at least you’d stop feeling guilty every time you enjoy his hand in yours or the soft press of his lips to the top of your head.

A few days after returning to school, you find yourself alone with him in his dorm room studying. He’s sitting at his desk, hunched over a textbook while you lay on his bed, head propped up by an elbow. You can feel your eyes drooping, the words blurring together, it becoming harder and harder to stay awake. His bed is too comfortable and smells overwhelmingly like him, a scent you’ve come to enjoy every time you’re pressed up against him. A mixture of his body wash and the ever-present faint smell of the volleyball court. Eventually you’re powerless against the solace of sleep.

When Atsumu notices you, his heart jumps into his throat. You look so serene and peaceful, your chest rising and falling ever so slightly, part of him wants to crawl in beside you and press his face into your neck and fall asleep right along with you.

But he too has begun to feel like this game has gone too far. The moment he had to tell his family, lie to Osamu, he knew he’d crossed a line. It isn’t fair to you. No longer does he need to pretend for his teammates that he can have a serious relationship, there isn’t a reason to torture himself and keep you tied to him anymore.

Yet, thinking about not being without you, no longer eating lunch together, studying together, or having you in the stands at his games wrenches his heart in such a way he actually feels like it’s crumpling inside his chest. He hasn’t been able to admit it, but at some point along the way, he thinks he fell in love with you. And it just hurts too much to keep pretending. Especially when you’re only doing this for peace and quiet during your showers.

For you, he shouldn’t drag this on any longer.

So, a couple days later, you texted him telling him you were in the library and can join him anytime if he wants. A harmless text, one you’ve sent him many times since this whole thing started, but this one makes his heart sink. Knowing this is the opportunity he’s been waiting for to talk to you. He tries to not think about it, trying to let volleyball take over his thoughts, but it’s futile. All he can think about is saying those words to you, and how it’s quite possibly going to utterly destroy him.

But you take it well, as he expects, squashing the hope that you might feel something for him too.

That night in the library feels particularly lonely. There’s no quick-witted remark from the boy who carved himself a place in your life, no one there to make you laugh when you’re struggling with a problem. Instead, you’re met with nothing but the darkness and silence of the library. It’s almost too much to bear, and once the silence starts closing in on you—you force yourself to leave, refusing to let yourself wallow.

The next weeks are hard. He never imagined that he’d think that after all of this was over. He keeps showering in the mornings to avoid you and uphold the deal you two struck months ago. He ignores the empty hole in his chest when he eats lunch without you, or studies late alone. The most jarring thing is your absence at his games. He constantly finds himself searching the crowd for your face, before remembering you won’t be there. He misses that intense gaze he could always feel on his back, the one that kept him awake at night when he let his thoughts run wild.

He feels as though something has been ripped from his life, leaving nothing but a gaping hole behind that seems intent on devouring him whole.

The same can be said for you.

Who knew you’d ever miss his teasing remarks while you shower? Or miss how you could complain to him endlessly about classes and then have him comfort you in the warm solace of his arms? Even the little things like walking to class together, now that you do it alone, it feels like there’s something missing.

The two you go on like that, thinking of the other every night before sleeping, tossing and turning with the thought of what could have been.

And eventually, you reach the point where you’re over it. Over pining after him day after day, peering out your door to make sure he isn’t around, or taking detours just to avoid him in the hallways. You’re over it. Enough that you’re willing to swallow your pride and confess to him, even if he doesn’t feel the same way—maybe you can fucking move on then.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you stomp to his dorm room, his roommate opening the door; his eyes widening upon seeing you. Immediately, he grabs his keys saying into the room, “I forgot I need to go to the store Atsumu, see you later.”

He leaves no time for Atsumu to protest, out the door in a matter of moments, leaving you standing in the doorway. Atsumu is just sitting in his desk chair, looking dumfounded at you, having fully expected to never see you again.

The gears in his head grind to a halt as you say, “This is stupid.”

He gives you a bewildered look, unsure what exactly you mean by that.

You steel your courage and press on. “I like you. And you like me. I think. And all this pretending that we don’t is stupid.”

After a few moments, his lips curve into a smile, the mischievous one you used to hate but now feel relief seeing. He can’t help the joy building in his chest at your confession. How many sleepless nights thinking about this very moment did he endure?

“You said it,” he teases.

Despite giving him a look, you do nothing to stop the grin rising to your lips. “Well, it didn’t seem like you were going to.”

His smile only widens, and he motions you into the room. “Get yer butt over here already.”

You move on instinct, striding into the room and climbing into his lap, settling your legs on either side of his you wrap your arms around his neck. The overwhelming sense that yes—this is exactly where you want to be, washes over you. He smirks up at you, his large hands resting at your waist, waiting for your next move.

“I can’t believe I actually missed that stupid smirk,” you say, lowering your lips to his, fingers slipping into the short hair at the base of his neck.

His smile hasn’t faltered, muttering against your lips teasing, “Does this mean I can shower at night again?”

A laugh bubbles out of you, but he smothers it in another kiss and refuses to let go.

#miya atsumu x reader #haikyuu x reader #atsumu x reader #haikyuu reader insert #miya atsumu #miya atsumu imagine #miya atsumu scenario #miya atsumu reader insert #haikyuu imagine #haikyuu scenario #haikyuu

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reinerispretty · 4 years

Text

reminiscence (? x f!reader) pt2

thank you so much for all of the positive feedback on the last chapter!! i’m super happy you guys enjoyed it :) just for some clarification, the reason i made who the reader will end up with a mystery is bc since she has amnesia, i thought it would be fun if we all found out together hehe :) enjoy this next chapter!!

pt1

pt3

“Thank you,” The woman said, hunched over as she caught her breath. When she stood, Bolin got a good look at her face. She wasn’t a woman at all: she was a girl, probably the same age as him. “I thought I had an agreement with the Triads to leave me alone, but that guy must not have gotten the memo.”

Bolin let out a laugh. “You have an agreement with the Triads?” The girl furrowed her brows and pouted.

“Gotta keep myself safe somehow.”

“Who was that?” (Y/N) asked as Kya and Korra rifled through dressers and chests to find Air Nomad clothes that would fit her. Kya gave Korra a sharp look before the girl could answer.

“That was Bolin,” Korra replied cautiously. “He’s Mako’s brother.”

“Oh,” (Y/N) said. “He looked really nice. Did he know me too?”

“Um, yeah, I think so,” Korra said and Kya glared at her. “What? Am I just supposed to lie to her if she asks?”

“I appreciate the honesty,” (Y/N) admitted. “I would really rather no one tiptoe around the past.”

“If you receive too much information at once, or someone tells you something too painful, it could harm your chances of ever getting your memory back,” Kya said as she handed (Y/N) an Air Nomad dress.

“So everyone is just supposed to pretend that they’re fine with me? That hardly seems fair.” (Y/N) gave Korra a pointed look. “I know you know something that I don’t and that’s why you’re a little stand-offish toward me.”

“You’re not wrong.”

“Tell me, please? I’ll be okay. I need to know what kind of person I was.”

“Not today,” Kya interrupted. “You need rest. Lots of it. You’ve been going since you woke up.”

Now that she mentioned it, (Y/N) did feel rather exhausted. She stifled a yawn. “I’ll lead you to your room,” Kya said. “Since Korra can’t be trusted to not tell you everything.”

(Y/N) stood as Kya grabbed her by the arm again. “It was nice meeting you, Korra, even if it wasn’t nice meeting me.” Korra didn’t reply. She just watched as the girl padded down the hall.

The room (Y/N) was given was bare. It held a desk, a dresser, and a bed. The window looked out onto the courtyard below. She could see the people down there, undoubtedly talking about her, and she reached her fingers up to open the window. She paused, thinking on Kya’s words. If she found out too much about herself too soon, she would risk the chance of losing her memories forever. She let her hand fall to her side.

Everyone down there knew who she was. Maybe they knew her likes, her dislikes, or even her birthday. She wondered if at one point they had been friends.

Her experience with Mako had definitely put a sour taste in her mouth. He had said she wasn’t a good person. Was she mean? Evil, even? What made her that way? What did she do to him that was so awful?

And then there was Bolin. Mako had mentioned his name earlier, when she had arrived on his doorstep. “Bolin’s not here,” He had said. Why would it matter whether or not Bolin was there? She sighed as she looked down at the boy dressed in green. What did he know about her?

(Y/N) felt the familiar stinging at the backs of her eyes that alerted her to tears. Since she was alone, she let them fall freely. She moved away from the window and to the bed, her body shaking as she cried. She felt so alone. How was she supposed to cope with something like this? She was completely lost on the inside and it seemed like the only people who knew her didn’t want her around.

She didn’t bother wiping her tears away. They fell too quickly for her to catch them all. She wondered if she had ever had someone that would wipe her tears away. She got under the covers and prayed that sleep would come to her soon.

---

Two years ago, Bolin had been walking down the streets of Republic City. It was a warm night, signaling the start of summer, so he wore his jacket slung over his shoulder. The streetlights shone against the puddles on the asphalt. It had rained earlier that day.

He and Mako had gotten in a fight over money again. It was stupid, really, but sometimes Bolin was just so sick of Mako treating him like he was incapable. He had slammed the door as he left their shared apartment and marched into the street, walking with no destination. He was far away from home now. He could tell he had been walking for a while because the neon lights of the shops had already shut off. Republic City was beginning to quiet.

He made a right onto a dimly lit street and noticed a female figure walking ahead of him. Bolin decided to stop. He knew sometimes it freaked women out if men walked behind them, even if there was no ill-intent behind it, so he leaned his back against the cool brick of the building and waited until she had rounded the corner to start walking again. That was when he heard the scream.

Out of pure instinct, Bolin started running toward the sound, his jacket billowing behind him. He skidded around the corner, watching as the woman he had seen struggled against a member of the Triple Threat Triad. He and Mako had done some work for them in the past, but he didn’t recognize the man. He was large, towering over the woman and probably Bolin too. He had his hands around the woman’s wrists and was trying to lead her into the dark alley beside them. “Hey!” Bolin called out. “Let her go!”

The man stopped, a sinister smile creeping its way onto his features. “This doesn’t concern you, kid.”

Bolin wracked his brain for a clever reply, but when he couldn’t find one, he resorted to his next best option. He stomped against the ground, causing small boulders to pummel the man. He let go of the woman’s wrists and she ran over to Bolin.

The man let out a roar, jumping into the air and sending a slice of firebending at the two of them. They screamed and Bolin grabbed her hand, running back down the street and taking the back alley ways he knew so well.

“My place is the other way!” She shouted at him.

“I don’t think you wanna take him to where you live!” Bolin shouted back. They made a sharp right turn onto one of the busier streets in Republic City. Bolin stopped, using his head start to earthbend the ground up, completely blocking the man from following them. They dashed into the crowd then, Bolin’s grip still tight on the woman’s hand, until he was sure they were safe to stop.

Bolin let out a laugh. “You have an agreement with the Triads?” The girl furrowed her brows and pouted.

“Gotta keep myself safe somehow,” She said. She looked down at her hands and sighed sadly. “When he grabbed me, he made me drop my dinner.”

“Oh no!” Bolin exclaimed. “Come with me, I know a place!”

“Thanks,” She said, “But I don’t have any money on me.”

“Let me buy you dinner!” The words came out before he could stop them, and he knew Mako would be so mad if he found out, but he couldn’t help himself. The girl raised an eyebrow.

“I don’t think it’s fair to make you pay for my dinner after you just saved my life,” She said with a laugh. Bolin smiled at the sound.

“How about this: you can repay me for saving your life by accompanying me to dinner. And if I—hypothetically—ordered too much food and couldn’t possibly let it go to waste so you’d have to eat it…then I think that’s fair!”

The girl smiled up at him. “Then I guess, hypothetically, I’d have to say yes.”

Bolin grinned and began walking in the direction of the restaurant, then paused. “Just to be clear, you are coming to dinner with me, right?” The girl laughed again and nodded.

They slid into the booth of Bolin’s favorite twenty-four-hour noodle shop. “They’ve got everything,” Bolin explained as they poured over the menu together. “Ramen, pho, pad thai…you name it, they have it.”

The girl hummed. “Think they have sea prunes?” Bolin’s face contorted into disgust. “I’m kidding! I hate sea prunes.” She picked up her menu, biting her lip as she looked at its contents. “Do you like soup dumplings?”

“Like soup dumplings?” Bolin asked. “I love them! They’re my favorite!”

“Mine too!”

“We’ll get a double order then,” Bolin decided. He went up to the counter and ordered their food. When he returned, he leaned his elbows onto the table. “So, what should I call you?”

“You mean besides the girl you just rescued? (Y/N) will do.”

“(Y/N),” Bolin repeated. He liked how it felt in his mouth. “Nice to meet you, (Y/N). I’m Bolin.”

---

“Bolin.” The boy snapped out of his thoughts, looking up at his older brother. They had returned home only a few hours ago and the sun was starting to come up. He could feel its warm rays cascading through his windows and onto his skin. “You need to go to bed,” Mako ordered.

“How can I possibly go to bed?” Bolin groaned, flopping sideways onto the couch. Pabu hopped up and curled himself into Bolin’s side.

“Easy,” Mako said. “You close your eyes and then you’re asleep.”

“Every time I try to close my eyes, I think of how (Y/N’s) on Air Temple Island and she has no idea who she is or who we are.”

“Try not to care about it, alright?” Mako poured himself a cup of tea. He had work in just a few hours. His under eyes were dark with exhaustion but as long as Bolin was awake, he’d remain awake. “We’ll figure it out and get her memories back and then she’ll go back to whatever she was doing when she left Republic City.”

Bolin chewed on his bottom lip. He had a feeling there was more to the story. The cogs in his head were turning tirelessly. He sat up, disturbing Pabu, and turned to Mako. “What if-“

“No, Bolin, you’re not gonna do that.”

“Do what?”

“Try to make excuses for everything that happened because she has amnesia.”

“But what if there’s something bigger?” Bolin asked. “She’s been gone for months and says she woke up a week ago without her memory. What happened in that time?”

“We’ll find out soon enough. They’re gonna have her do some meditating tomorrow to try to bring some of her memories back.” Mako sat beside Bolin on the couch.

“I should go back,” Bolin started to stand up. “I need to talk to her.”

“Bolin, no.” His brother pulled him back down. “You heard Kya. She can’t find out too much or she risks losing everything. While she’s focusing on getting her memories back, you need to focus on what you know: she broke your heart, little bro. She definitely didn’t have amnesia then.”

Bolin’s eager appearance deflated completely. He knew his brother was right but there was still a part of him that wanted to go see her. Maybe if Bolin told her about her past, then it would be okay. They’d had the strongest connection out of all of them.

---

That morning, (Y/N) sat between Korra and Tenzin in a gazebo. Her legs were crossed, her arms were loose in her lap, and she inhaled deep breaths to try to connect to any of her lost memories. All that she got was a whole lot of nothing. She peeked her eye open to look at Korra, who was blatantly staring at her.

“Keep your eyes closed!” Korra snapped.

“Your eyes were open!” (Y/N) argued.

“No one’s eyes should be open!” Tenzin grumbled decisively. The two girls sighed and returned to their previous states. (Y/N) inhaled another deep breath and tried to do what Tenzin had told her. She recounted the first memory she had: waking up and gasping for air, the night sky high above her. She could feel the grass that surrounded her. Once she had gained her bearings, she took in her surroundings. A small fishing village sat at the bottom of the mountain she had laid on. She got to her feet, legs wobbling, and looked at herself. Her coat was covered in spots of dirt. She reached into its pockets and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. The writing on it was scribbled and quick, written with haste, and was obviously an address.

(Y/N’s) eyes popped back open. She didn’t notice anything different this time around. There hadn’t been anyone at her side. The first people she had interacted with had been the people in the village. They had asked her name and (Y/N) had started panicking when she couldn’t remember it. She didn’t want to delve too deep into that memory. She could still feel the pain and anxiety in it.

She buried her face in her hands. “I can’t remember anything! I’ve been trying for the past two hours and all I can see is the same memory I’ve been going over for the past week.” She felt the stinging behind her ears again, but took a breath to halt it. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to get so frustrated. I just don’t know anything and I know you guys do and trust me, I understand why you don’t want to tell me, but it stinks not knowing anything other than my name and that I’m a bad person.”

Korra frowned sadly at the girl. She knew what it was like, to be judged before she got the chance to redeem herself. While she had heard some pretty bad stories about (Y/N) from Mako, she also recognized that he was biased. Especially when it came to Bolin.

“How about we go into the city and get some lunch?” Korra asked. (Y/N) looked up at her gratefully.

“I don’t know if that’s the wisest idea,” Tenzin’s deep voice rumbled.

“Relax, Tenzin. We won’t talk about her life. She needs something normal right now.” Reluctantly, the man conceded.

Korra helped (Y/N) to her feet and whistled for Naga. The polar bear dog bounded toward them, her tail wagging excitedly. “(Y/N),” Korra said. “Meet Naga.”

The polar bear dog gave (Y/N) a huge lick on the side of her face. She giggled, rubbing behind Naga’s ears. “It’s so nice to meet you!” (Y/N) squealed. “I wish I had a pet just like you!”

“She’s kind of the best,” Korra admitted as she hopped onto Naga’s back. She pulled (Y/N) up to sit behind her.

“I don’t doubt it!” With a whip of her reigns, they burst into a run toward Republic City. (Y/N) couldn’t contain her laughter as they sped toward the water. She didn’t realize that they’d be traveling by sea until Naga dove headfirst into the icy water. (Y/N) closed her eyes tightly, gripping onto Korra’s back. The Avatar laughed.

“You can open your eyes now,” She called back to her. Slowly, (Y/N) relaxed and looked around. They traveled under the water in a giant bubble. Korra’s arms moved in flowing movements in front of her.

“You’re waterbending!” (Y/N) exclaimed.

“The Avatar is the master of the four elements,” Korra explained. “I’ve been training my whole life.”

“All four?” (Y/N) let out a gasp. “That’s so cool! I wonder if I was ever a bender.” Korra looked back at (Y/N) for a moment.

“You weren’t,” She said, her eyes kind as she stared at (Y/N). Although a little disappointed that she couldn’t bend, (Y/N) was grateful for Korra’s honesty.

“Thank you,” She said, a soft smile on her lips.

---

Tag List!

@beifongsss , @realimbo , @lavendercrystals , @tomshollandz , @zukosvice , @itsivyberry , @awesomelupe , @musicalkeys , @aroyaldarknessblr , @ilovespideyyy , @zukostan221 , @nataliahaslosthershit , @dailytrashypanda , @marvel-ing-at-it-all , @astralsaf , @ryleyrooroo , @yuhaino , @hotgirlazula , @thefandomimagines ,

#lok #legend of korra #korra x reader #asami x reader #mako x reader #bolin x reader #bolin #korra #mako #asami #writing #fanfiction

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stevesharrlngtons · 4 years

Text

what i want.

roman godfrey x reader

summary: takes place in s1 of hemlock grove just after roman’s coma and the aftermath.

word count: 3.1k

a/n: yeaaahhhh so i know this is st related but it felt more right to post this here over my marvel account? anyways, i just really really wanted to write for roman and this poured out of me yesterday (which is surprising bc i can’t remember the last time i wrote a fic all in one day) but even though i already know this is gonna flop, i wanted to post it anyway just for fun (: i hope you enjoy and if you do read, please let me know that you think!!!!

With an ear pressed to his chest and a hand cradling his neck, you counted the rhythmic beats of his frail heart.

He looked the same, felt the same, smelt the same; but the man we lay still below you wasn’t Roman. Not in the metaphorical sense at least. This man who’s lashes lay gently against the apples of his cheeks obscuring his large doe eyes, wasn’t your love. He was still and quiet and lacked the emotion of your Roman. Your Roman who could never hide how he really felt, who wore every feeling on his sleeve, unable to mask his emotion.

At least, always around you.

A soft french ballad played in the background as you hunched over his hospital bed in the attic of the Godfrey home. You could hear the faint scratch of the needle against the vinyl, more so when there was a lull between songs.

Heavy footsteps entered from your right and you knew before they reached you that it was Shelly to fetch you for school.

“I know, Shell.” You said quietly, like you might wake Roman from his restless sleep if you spoke any louder, “I just need a few more minutes with him.”

The tall girl loomed over you both, watching you stroke Roman’s cheek lovingly with your thumb, the rest of your nimble fingers still holding his thin neck.

She had never experienced the kind of unequivocal and palpable love that she did when she observed you and Roman together. She often wondered if all the tales of true love and soulmates that were regaled in some of her favorite novels were actually true? Because the way you looked at Roman, and the way Roman looked at you, could not be fabricated or faked.

After a long beat of silence, Shelly gripped her phone and typed out a simple message to you.

“I miss him, too.”

She could see tears forming in your eyes once more. Your eyes that seemed to have not ceased their perpetual filming for the last two weeks Roman had been under.

All you could was nod in response. When Shelly placed a dense hand on your shoulder, you silently wept.

It all felt so surreal. But Roman was always larger than life, you probably should have prepared for something like this. You were just so scared.

That night two weeks before, when he had come to you in the pouring rain, drenched to the bone, you had been scared then, too. Roman was dramatic, yes. But never anything like this. He trembled fiercely and his fingers twitched and his muscles rippled with fear.

He didn’t seem himself as you wrapped him in blankets and placed him in your bed to warm his icy bones. You had wound your arms around him as he cried into your neck, tears and snot streaking your skin as you soothed him the best you could.

“I’m ugly, I’m a monster, I am unlovable and disgusting.” He chanted between hiccups and deep intakes of breath, like he was under a spell.

“Please stop, please don’t say that. You’re not, you’re not, you’re not. I love you, I always will.” You whispered sincerely to him, beginning to shutter yourself at the uncharatieric behavior he was displaying.

He startled you even more when he grasped your wrists together with one hand and flipped you onto your back, meeting you with a fierce kiss before you could comprehend his actions.

It was all teeth and tongue and labored breathing as Roman pulled your strings in only the way that he could. Once he was inside you, he only became more brutal. It was more pain than pleasure as he looked at you with soulless eyes and his mouth agape. But everything Roman was, was good. Even now he felt like heaven.

When he had finished and pulled two orgasms from your body, he collapsed on top of you. You cocooned him with your limbs, whispering loving words and frightened questions as his body seemed to pass out from sheer emotional exhaustion, anchoring you beneath him.

The next morning, you were dressed in nothing but Roman’s cardigan and tucked underneath your duvet with no knowledge of his departure the night before.

It was only minutes after you woke that Olivia called to curtly inform you of Roman’s condition.

You placed your own hand, the one not holding Roman, over Shelly’s and squeezed it.

“He is so lucky to have you.” You said, swallowing thickly to look up and give Shelly a smile, “He loves you so much, I know he’ll wake just for you.”

Shelly knew you were trying to soothe her as well, something you had a knack for since you came into the two Godfrey’s lives. She appreciated it greatly, but wished you would let yourself swim and stop trying to make sure she stayed afloat.

“You, as well. He will wake for us.” Shelly typed and you squeezed her hand in a tight pulse.

“We can only hope.”

You dropped Shelly’s hand as she went to turn the music off while you kissed Roman goodbye.

“Where, today?” Came Shelly’s mechanical voice as the music ceased.

“His left eyelid.” You replied, standing up and stroking Roman’s porecelain cheek.

You had taken to kissing a new part of Roman each day as you left him. To cherish him even while his mind was missing. You were saving his lips for when he woke, hoping his subconscious would crave your mouth on his enough to jar him from his slumber. Roman was never quiet about his appreciation for your lips.

“And tomorrow?” She asked.

“The other.”

As you sat in english class, you couldn’t help but feel Peter’s absence in the seat next to yours. With neither him nor Roman around, you felt off kilter. The boys had been going through a rough patch lately, but Peter was still your friend when Roman wasn’t looking. Giving you winks that would reply with an eye roll, and chatting between classes. You believed you could mend the fence between the two men by simply being Switzerland, but after the police incident, Peter wasn’t so sure.

But you and Roman were alike in many ways, you told Peter as much.

“You two will work this out. Even if it gets hard.” You say flippantly one day as you rummaged through your purse for a tube of lipgloss.

“Yeah? And how do you know? Are you an oracle and just haven’t told me?” Peter jokes as you take the cosmetic from your bag.

You remove the fuzzy doe-foot applicator from the pink make up with a loud squelch and smirk at him.

“Because not only do I know everything,” a swipe of the goods on your lips, “But, I always get what I want.”

Now, his absence along with Roman’s seemed to be significant. Connected.

And then you got a call.

And the ID almost gave you a heart attack.

You fled the classroom without the formality of an excuse. It wasn’t any secret that you and Roman were a couple, so some teachers had been far more lenient with you since he had fallen under. Thankfully, Ms. Day was one of them.

You ran from the class and around the corner for the veil of privacy before you picked up the call.

“Roman?”

“God, how I’ve missed your voice.” He said, punctuated with his melodic laugh.

You burst into tears, clenching your phone tightly in your sweating palm as Roman cooed to you.

“Hey, hey, no. No tears, baby. Too fucking hot to be sad, you know that?”

“I’m not sad, God no! These are tears of joy, of fucking relief.” You felt suddenly very fatigued from the worry and dread escaping your body at the sound of Roman’s voice, and slid down the wall to the grey linoleum below.

“Good, hate to think you’d forget about me after two weeks out of commission.” You could see his smile in your minds eye and your stomach twinge with love.

“You know I could never forget about you.” You replied, whipping your damp cheeks on the back of your hand.

“I’m glad. I was counting on it.” You can see his smirk now.

“Dick.” You laughed and he did as well.

“Eh, you love me.”

“Yeah, yeah I do.”

There was a silence and you wished so helplessly that he was in your arms. Your Roman. Not the still and sterile one. The one with a wicked tongue and a beautiful smile that he offered to you so freely.

It was in this silence though, that you heard the purr of an engine.

“Baby, are you in a car? Are you with Olivia?”

“Uh, no. Not exactly.” And the bubble of joy popped just as it had formed.

“Roman, where are you? Why are you in a car?”

“It’s nothing for you to worry about, my love.” He hummed quietly his adoration and immediately you knew what was happening.

“Put Peter on the phone.”

“How did you-”

“Just fucking do it, Roman.”

You could hear him curse, then the shuffle of the phone being passed between hands.

“Hey, (Y/N/N), how’ya doin’?” Peter asked, faking a calm tone.

“Let’s forget the goddamn pleasantries, Peter. What in the living fuck are you doing trying to track this wolf when Roman just rose from the dead?”

“Rose from the dead sounds a bit dramatic, don’t you think?”

“Does it sound like I give a shit?”

“Frankly, no. It doesn’t.”

“And what does it sound like I give a shit about?”

“Probably Roman not doing this right now.”

“Bingo, Fiddo. Now you either take him back to his house or I am coming to find you two and I promise you, I can be scarier than Olivia.” You hissed into the receiver, looking around to make sure no rouge students in the halls were hearing your conversation.

“Oh I don’t doubt it. But this was his choice, (Y/N). Nothing neither of us can do anything to change his mind.”

“Peter, I swear to-” This time, you were the one cut short.

“Baby, listen,” Roman said after commandeering his phone back.

“No, Roman, you listen! I know you have some attachment to helping kill this thing, but now isn’t the time.”

“But it is. It’s complicated, but you just have to trust me on this.”

“I do trust you, Ro. I do. But I don’t trust whatever this thing is.” You sighed, leaning your head back against the wall, “Unfortunately I do trust what it is capable of. Which is a fuck tone pain.”

“I’ll be safe. I have Peter, Peter’s got me. I got this. We know what we’re doing.”

“Wish I could believe that.”

“Baby, I promise. I swear, even. We are gonna find some answers and then I’ll be home to you in one piece.”

You pause and Roman calls your name from the phone, his voice vulnerable.

“It’s funny. This morning you were in a coma and you were more safe then than you are right now.”

“I love you.” Roman says firmly.

“I know.”

Another pause and you know you can’t scold your way out of this one.

“Just… please call me when you get back. I don’t think I can take another minute of being away from you.” Your tears were beginning again.

“Me too. You’re all I can think about,” Roman sniffles, “I need you, I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

You both sit in silence on the line before Roman tells you he needs to go.

“Ok… but hey, Turner?”

“Yeah?”

“Tell Hooch to be careful. Both of you just… be careful.”

“Always.”

And the line goes dead.

After school you debated going straight to the Godfrey residence to wait for Roman to return, but decided against it. You weren’t sure exactly what Olivia knew and didn’t know, and didn’t feel like being alone with her while you figured it out.

So, you waited anxiously in your bedroom, doing everything possible to quell your shaking nerves. You had a perpetual tremor in your body as fiddled with your phone to try and distract yourself. Which was partly true, the other reason your phone was glued to your palm was so you would know the second Roman contacted you.

Though, as the sun descended in the sky and the night sky spanned for hours, you were becoming more restless. Whatever Peter and Roman were doing was no doubt dangerous and time sensitive, and it made you sick that it was nearing midnight without any word from either boy.

As the night continued to wear on and your mind ran away from rationality into an amalgamation of pure fear and absurdity, you decided you couldn’t sit around anymore. You weren’t going to wait for Roman to call and tell you he was home safe. You were going to drive to his house and wait for him there, and if he wasn’t back in an hour, you’d go out looking for him yourself.

As you put on a pair of house slippers and a sweatshirt over your nightgown, your phone vibrated on your vanity. Your heart began to speed up in your chest as you rushed over to the table and picked up your buzzing phone. On the screen was a text alert from Roman, with only one word present:

Come.

And you didn’t need to be told twice.

When you arrived at the Godfrey’s, you fled your car so quickly you almost forget the keys in the ignition. You ran up the front steps and banged both fists on the door needing to use your excess anxiety and adrenaline for something. And while you didn’t want to face Olivia’s wrath, your judgment was clouded by the chance of seeing Roman, alive and well.

When Roman finally opened the door, you wasted no time throwing yourself into his arms. He stumbled at the impact of your embrace, but was quick to remedy his shock by wrapping his arms around you. The feeling of this made your throat constrict.

“Jesus fucking Christ I missed you.” Roman all but growled as he firmly smoothed flyaways from your hair and placed his strong hand on the back of your neck.

“You have no idea how much I missed you, Ro.” You said, voice thick with tears as you began to pepper kisses anywhere you could reach.

Neck, jaw, ear, temple, cheek, shoulder, trap, clavicle, repeat.

Roman groaned appreciatively in your ear as you covered him in your lips.

“You scared me half to death you know?” You said between kisses.

“I know, I’m sorry. Things have been… odd. I still can’t remember it all.” Roman says, his tone confused.

“Well, Olivia said-”

“I know what she said. I just don’t know if I believe it.”

You furrowed your brows and tried to wiggle in his hold, silently signaling for Roman to place you back on your feet, but he only gripped you tighter.

“Not yet. Just, stay a while.” His voice wavered.

You finally pulled back to look at him, his eyes red from tears and shadowed. Sometimes it was difficult to look at him, his beauty and pain were just too much.

“I’m staying, Roman. You couldn’t get me to leave if you wanted to.” You reply.

A wash of emotion washes over his features as his lip quivers and his eyes attempt to blink back tears. You opened your mouth to try and alleviate him of whatever he was feeling when his mouth crashed to yours.

You forgot how good his lips felt against yours as your mouths meshed together. The velvet of his tongue and the mint and smoke on his breath. His hands gripping you everywhere as he pressed you impossibly close, moaning into you with deep primal noises sounding from his chest.

“Roman, baby,” You pulled away for air and Roman promptly moved his attention to your neck and clavicle. “I need you. Take me upstairs, I can’t wait any longer.”

Roman groaned and bit you hard on the shoulder before hitching your legs higher on his hips and running you both up the winding staircase behind him.

Bruises, at the behest of his mouth and fingers, littered your body as you lay on Roman’s chest as you both still reeled in the blissful aftermath of your climaxes. Roman’s fingers idled along and spine while his unoccupied hand rested behind his head.

He had begun to tell the tale of his night, of Peter and the turn and Chasseur and his mother. He told you Peter was upstairs unconscious and that he was unsure what was going to happen when he woke.

“So, after all this, everything’s still shitty? Is that what you’re saying?” You muttered.

“Essentially. But I have hope… we’re going to figure this out. I know it.” Roman nodded, like he is reassuring himself more than you.

“Me too. You two are smart,”

“You flatter me.” Roman chuckles and looks down at you.

“Just trying to butter you up to get into your pants.” He laughs again and slaps your ass.

“Clearly it’s working.” He replies.

“Well that, and I always get what I want.” You say with a content smile.

Roman hums, “Don’t I know it.”

“You enable it.”

“Again, I know.” He kisses your forehead and you burrow closer to him.

You two lay in silence a bit longer before he sighs.

“I think we should move to sleep in the attic. Just in case something happens with Peter and he needs us.”

We. Us.

The small implication in his word choice makes you smile and once again fall under a wave of emotion, just so happy that your Roman was back to you.

You don’t know what you had done if there was no we or us with Roman any longer. But you choose to not fixate on the past.

You just nod and kiss the underside of his chin. Roman gives you a small grin and begins to get up. As you do the same, Roman throws you one of his white button downs, giving you a stern look as you raise an eyebrow in question.

“Just put it on. I got two weeks to make up for, baby. It started with reuniting, then fucking, and now you in my shirt.”

You try to hold off the wide smile that was threatening to take over your face and put on the shirt, buttoning it to just above your cleavage.

“Yeah? And what’s next?” You ask, watching Roman round the bed toward you.

“Sleep.”

Now in a pair of threadbare silk pajama pants and nothing more, Roman extends his hand to you.

“Shall we?”

“We shall.” You reply, taking his hand, weaving your fingers as he led you to the attic.

i hope you enjoyed even though it was for a different show!! and if you did, pls i’d love some feedback (:::: also let me know if you would possibly want another roman fic bc i have other ideas lol

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kittybellestark · 4 years

Text

Straightening Things Out

Part 2

Hey everyone so this is going to be a two part fic, tumblr told me I hit my limit soooo.

This is the long awaiting MayxSkip with Bi!Peter fic I’ve been talking about, idk how long a 2nd part will take but I already have a bit written, which is super nice. Uh, yeah, this is heavy stuff, so prepare your hearts, bc mine hurts

TW: homophobia, depression, self harm, homophobic slurs, eating disorder (?), abuse, sexual assault, thoughts of suicide, questioning sexuality, alcohol

He’s not sure how he got here.

Well, he knows, but he just doesn’t understand it.

A year ago Peter was trying to get May with Happy. It seemed logical and safe. May wanted to get back into the dating pool, and while Peter was hesitant about the idea of May being with anyone other than Ben, he felt like Happy could be a good person for her to be with. That was safe, controlled even.

Pushing for May to be with Happy seemed like the right step. Supporting May in her decision to start seeing people again also make sense. Now, Peter regrets it. He should have told her no. That he wasn’t ready or comfortable with that.

He doesn’t understand why he’s in the bathroom cleaning up his own blood. He didn’t even go out as Spider-Man. Peter hates May’s new boyfriend.

Skip wasn’t safe. He wasn’t very kind either. And there was just something about him bothered Peter. And yet when Peter tried to talk to May about it, the complaints weren’t heard or taken seriously.

May doesn’t understand that Skip is a danger, and Peter can’t really talk to people about this.

Six months ago…

“Hey Happy.” Peter smiles jumping into the black ‘inconspicuous’ Audi.

“Hi Pete.”

After a few minutes of talking the conversation finally turns.

“How’s your aunt.”

Peter snorts, rolling his eyes. “She thinks she’s doing great. Still with Skip, he lives with us now. May isn’t very happy that Skip and I aren’t getting along too well though. She thinks that I have a problem with seeing her with other men, amongst other things.”

“Sounds like you don’t like him. I didn’t even think that was possible, you’re like a lab.” Happy chuckled.

“I resent that. I don’t like a lot of people who I don’t need to disclose to you. I was just expecting her to get with someone else, someone who was less I don’t know, just less.”

“You and me both kid. You and me both.”

Five and a half months ago…

Peter and May were making dinner together, the radio was playing softly and Skip was sitting in the dining room, beer in hand, listening to Peter and May’s conversation.

“How was school, baby?” May asked.

Peter hums as he chops some carrots. “There’s a new transfer at school. From Tennessee, he even lives with Mr. Stark.”

May pauses mixing the stir fry they were attempting to make. She smiles at Peter an eyebrow raised, waving the spatula at him.

“Is he cute?” She asked in a song-song voice.

Peter rolls his eyes with a smile. He sticks out his tongue, flicking some water at May. Skip watches with a smirk on his face.

“Yeah, yeah he’s really cute. Blond hair, blue eyes, southern charm and he’s so smart too. And tall. May, he’s also like muscular too, his arms? He used to work in a mechanic shop where he grew up, he could probably bench press me without breaking a sweat.”

“Sounds like you have a crush!” May squealed pulling Peter into a hug.

“You have a crush on a man? Are you gay?” Skip huffed with a laugh.

“Bisexual, actually.” Peter deadpanned. “Is that a problem?”

“No, no, not at all. Just surprised.” Skip laughed.

Five months ago...

May was at work, it was just Peter and Skip at home. Peter was in his room, the door was closed over, and Skip in the living room watching a sports game and drinking some beer.

While this wasn’t the most common occurrence, it wasn’t necessarily uncommon either. Peter would stay in his room and do homework or play some sort of online video game with Ned, Harley and MJ, typically Minecraft but sometimes they chose something else. Skip would watch sports or the news, but never a reliable source, always the Daily Bugle or Fox News.

Today was supposed to be like every other time. Peter was supposed to be in his room and Skip in the living room. But then Skip was in his room with him. Peter felt uneasy. It just didn’t sit right with him having the older man in his room.

“I think we need to talk, Pete.” Skip said sitting on Peter’s bed, while Peter stayed sitting at his desk.

“Sure, what about?” Peter tried to sound pleasant and kind, doing this for May.

“Well, I’ve been trying to broach this subject with you gently, but May and I have spoken about how we can cure you.”

Skip had the decency to look somber. His shoulders hunched forward, frowning. His eyes held remorse and regret. It only seemed to enrage Peter.

“Cure me? As far as I was concerned I was perfectly healthy.” Peter couldn’t help but snort.

“Of your sin, Peter. You like men, and we know that we have to cure you of it.”

It felt like all of the air had been taken out of his lungs. His heart stopped and the world blurred for a moment before Peter shook himself out of it. He pushed himself up out of his chair trying to back himself up, away from Skip. This wasn’t right. This was really wrong.

“May accepts me. She said so. She’s always supported me and accepted that I’m bi.”

“She didn’t know how to tell you she didn’t. She was crying quite a bit. May just didn’t know how to tell you. So she asked me to help fix you.”

Skip got up from the bed, walking over to Peter, trapping Peter in. Skip put an arm on each side of Peter’s body, resting his hands on the wall behind Peter. Peter felt trapped, his eyes wide as he looked around unsure of what he could do. May and Skip thought he was sick.

“She can’t-“ Peter cried, tears coming to his eyes. He didn’t want to accept it. This couldn’t be happening.

Skip put a hand on his shoulder.

“She does, Einstein, but it’s okay because I’ll fix you.”

Peter sat at their usual lunch table, Ned next to him, MJ, kiddie-corner to him and Harley across from him. His leg was bouncing as they all ate, but he couldn’t do more then push his food around his tray.

“There’s nothing wrong with me being bisexual right? Like, I’m still normal, I’m not sick or anything for liking more than just women right?”

It used to be old-hat for MJ and Ned to have to reassure Peter that being bisexual is okay. It was just last year that Peter finally started to feel secure in his sexuality and not question whether he was normal or not. It just always felt like Peter was faking his attraction to other genders.

The group became silent with shock. None of them were prepared for Peter to have any insecurities about his sexuality, and it certainly wasn’t something that Harley was there to witness. It had been such a long time since he voiced this doubt. Ned and MJ gave each other looks, while Harley sat there starring at Peter slack-jawed.

“Sorry. I’ve just been in my own head recently. Bisexuality is valid and so am I. I know, I’m sorry, I just- what if I’ve been lying to myself this whole time? I’m sorry, I know I’m being silly.”

There was another moment of silence before Harley grabbed Peter’s hand.

“It’s not silly to question you’re own sexuality, Peter. Being bisexual is hard because people always try to invalidate you and tell you to just choose. It’s okay to be confused. Prefaces change from day to day and it is so confusing sometimes. We’re your people, we’re here for you no matter how you identify.” Harley smiled, something sad and soft.

Four and a half months ago...

Peter was trying to sleep. It wasn’t coming easily anymore. Skip and May were in the next room over. He should be able to sleep. But nothing felt right. Everything was always off, never normal, almost safe. It didn’t feel good.

There was the sound of footsteps in the hall before Peter’s door opened and closed. Peter tried to pretend to sleep, but the footsteps came closer to him then Skip’s hand was on his shoulder.

“Hey Einstein. I’ve got something for you.” Skip whispered, getting Peter’s eyes to open.

Peter pushed himself up and into the top corner of his bed, knees drawn to his chest. He really hated Skip. Hated his deep voice and pointy chin and crooked nose. He hated Skip’s receding hairline and beer belly. Peter hated Skip and everything about him. But mostly Peter hated that Skip and May knew there was something wrong with him.

Skip dropped some razors onto the bed. All loose and brand new. Peter looked at Skip like he was crazy. It was too late at night to register this.

“May and I were talking again. Anytime you have a sinful thought, any homosexual thoughts or desires just give yourself a cut. Obviously don’t do it in front of anyone other than me, but this should help bleed the faggot out of you.”

Peter gasped, eyes wide and shaking his head. He didn’t want to do this. Cutting himself was not something Peter ever wanted to start doing again. He got away from it, he recovered, and now the blades are being provided to him. Peter is being expected to cut this time.

“I can’t do that. Anything but that Skip, please.”

Peter didn’t realize the tears that were pouring down his face, or how hard it was to breath. If it wasn’t for Skip wiping the tears from Peter’s face, he probably wouldn’t have noticed.

“Hey, no, no it’s okay, Einstein, it’s not as bad as it seems okay, look,” Skip took Peter’s wrist slicing it a few times, just enough to bring up blood up before handing the razor to Peter, “See? Nice and easy. Now I’m not going to leave until I see you try okay?”

Peter nodded, bringing the razor down on his skin and breathing a sigh of release as he broke his own skin.

Tony dropped food in front of Peter, two burgers and fries, before sitting down beside him. They were finally watching a movie after spending time in the lab and now Harley would be joining them too.

“Kid, we’ve talked about your eating habits. You need to eat more than a regular person. I don’t like seeing you lose weight this fast. I just like to see you happy and healthy.”

Peter knew he should say something. The razor in his pocket wasn’t normal and he should tell Tony. And his need to cut every time he thought about Harley, or the need to cut when he realized he was playing into Skips hands. But Peter didn’t want to lose his little therapeutic treatment again. He could do better at hiding it this time, especially with his healing factor now. Peter could keep this.

It’s his little secret with Skip. Peter could keep it safe. It made him feel better, and that’s what everyone wants, right?

“Oh yeah, sorry, I’ve just had a smaller appetite recently, I’ll do better, promise.” Peter nodded with a smile.

At that moment Harley walked into the room, giving Peter a crooked smile, a blush painted across his cheeks.

Peter would have to cut later, for thinking about Harley like that, and for doing what Skip told him and also for scarring Tony. Peter deserved this.

Four months ago…

Peter and Skip were alone together again.

It seemed to become more common now. Or maybe Peter was just getting used to having Skip try and cure him. He hated himself for wanting it to work. Peter just didn’t like himself much anymore.

“Einstein,” Skip slurred, “are you still a faggot?”

Peter flushed with shame, nodding. Peter really hated Skip for making him feel like this. For feeling shame for being bisexual and wishing he were straight. Peter hated himself a lot. He just wanted to be better.

“Shame, thought I’d have you straightened out by now. May is going to be disappointed to know you’re still a homo. I’ll have to start getting more aggressive with your treatments.”

Peter shook his head. He was already so tired, and he just wanted to feel safe in his home. He just needed to do what Skip and May wanted and then they’ll like him. All Peter needed to do was be straight, no matter what. He’s doing the right thing.

“How much more?” Peter’s voice cracked.

“As much as it takes to turn you straight.” Skip smiled.

He now gripped Peter’s face in both hands, thumbs on his cheeks. Skip used the hold he had on Peter to bring him towards the bathroom doorframe- the only metal frame in the house.

Peter didn’t fight. He was doing this for May. May wants him straight and wants Skip to do it. Peter scratched at his legs, where most of the cuts were, hoping that would convince Skip from stopping whatever he was doing. But it didn’t, of course it didn’t. Why would it convince Skip, when he’s only doing what’s best for better?

With his hold on Peter’s head, Skip jerked Peter’s head into the doorframe, with enough force to make Peter forget how to stand. Peter was only being held up by Skip's grip on his head when Skip lifted up his knee, forcing it into Peter’s stomach.

Peter groaned with the impact and Skip let him go and Peter fell to the ground. He barely managed to catch himself, resting his forehead on the cool floor. There was barely a moment before an on slate of kicks were delivered to Peter.

“No,” Peter sobbed, “stop, please, stop, stop, you’re hurting me.”

It was another few moments before Skip stopped kicking him with a huff. Skip sat down on the ground, putting a hand on Peter’s shoulder to comfort the boy. Peter continued to sob, barely able to support his own weight to get himself sitting.

“Einstein, I just want you to know that I don’t like doing this. I don’t want to do this, but May and I agreed that I have to do this. I’m sorry Einstein, but it’s for your own good.”

Skip pulled Peter onto his lap, rubbing Peter’s back to bring him some comfort. Peter relaxed into Skip’s hold when he realized that there wasn’t going to be more pain. They sat there for a while before Skip finally stood up, as Peter’s sobs were finally ending, bringing Peter to his room and tucking Peter into bed.

“Peter I’m worried about you.” MJ said after Academic Decathlon practice.

Peter was wide eyed, holding his book bag in front of him, using it as a shield. His clothing that used to only be a little bit large on him, now swallowed him completely, his cheekbones were sharper and anytime his sweater moved a little bit, his collar bone was revealed to be protruding from his chest. Peter flinched at people who moved too fast and his skin was pale with dark bags under his eyes.

“I’m okay MJ.” Peter smiled, but his eyes were still empty.

“Are you cutting again? You’re acting like you used too. I don’t like seeing you lose your spark.”

MJ moved forward, grabbing Peter’s hands in her own. His hands were cold against hers and shaking slightly. Her head tilted just a bit as she searched for answers on Peter’s face.

“I’m not- no, I moved past that.” Peter lied.

He couldn’t tell her. He needed to cut. He needed the freedom it gave him, the relief. It was one of the only things he had anymore that he still enjoyed. By telling MJ, Peter would lose his sanity. Everything would be okay as long as he had a razor on him, as long as he got to cut his skin open.

But he should tell her. Maybe that would get everything to end. If he just told someone, maybe Skip would stop hurting him. Or maybe they’d push for Skip to continue on with trying to cure him. This was for the best, after all.

“Peter, you’re one of my best friends, okay? So if you were cutting again, hypothetically speaking, know that you can come to me, I won’t tell anyone. Not even May or my parents.”

Peter nodded, looking away from her, hating himself for lying and hating that MJ was trying so hard. It would have been so much easier if he just liked MJ instead of Harley.

“Look, look, MJ, see no cuts,” Peter rolled up his sleeves to show healed skin and no scars, “I promise, I’m just a little stressed out right now, don’t worry about me. I’m just focusing on myself for now, I’ll be okay.”

“Okay, well, when is the last time you ate?”

“Right before practice.”

It felt nice for Peter to actually tell the truth. He was eating almost as much as usual. Typically the same amount unless he had time alone with Skip. Peter was just stressed and sometimes couldn’t keep his food down, but he still ate more than enough. He should be able to keep up his weight, the weight loss just sort of happened.

Three and a half months ago…

May was working the overnight shift again. It was a school night so Peter was at the apartment with Skip instead of the Tower like he would be on weekends.

Peter was finally sleeping, well actually he was passed out from exhaustion, but it was still a sort of sleep, technically. Somewhere between Skip moving in and their ever-more-frequent talks “chats,” Peter started to lose sleep. He would stay awake later, slit his wrists longer, and on top of that the surprise beatings from Skip were really taking an affect on Peter. All except the desired affect.

Peter was still bisexual. He didn’t want to be bisexual anymore. He just wanted to be normal, straight. Liking men was wrong, Peter was wrong. May and Skip just wanted what was best for Peter. And this was what was best. Skip was just helping Peter. He was straightening Peter out. This was just want needed to be done.

Skip stumbled into Peter’s room. He saw that Peter was tucked in under his blankets deep in sleep and Skip couldn’t help but climbing into the bed too. He pulled the teen into his body, breathing in how Peter smells, nuzzling his nose behind Peter’s ear.

Peter woke up trapped in Skips arms. He panicked trying to get out, it was just like The Vulture dropping a building on him again. But this time it wasn’t concrete but instead a man. A man who was supposed to be in love with his aunt.

“Skip.” Peter whined trying to wriggle free.

The older man moaned, moving a hand down to feel Peter’s length.

“I didn’t realize that you’d rub off on me. You’re trying to turn me into a homo. Einstein, you’re rejecting your treatment and trying to change me instead, and I don’t tolerate this very much.”

Peter shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut. His whole body shook with nerves, and he thought he was going to vibrate out of his body.

“Skip, I promise I’m taking this seriously. I should be straight, I want to be straight. Just like you Skip, I’m trying really hard to be straight. I promise, I don’t want to be a disappointment to you or May anymore.”

The older man laughed, holding onto Peter tighter. He ground his hips further into the teen, making Peter whine and squirm more trying to break free.

“Einstein,” Skip moaned, “You’re ass, I swear it’s a woman’s. Your such a fairy, Einstein. I could just imagine you as a woman, you’re hair at your shoulders, this great ass and a tight pussy, your tit’s would probably be smaller, barely a handful, but you’d be so cute. Too bad you’re just bent.”

Harley sat across from Peter, cheeks blushed, watching Peter carefully. Peter no longer felt that the freckles painted across Harley’s cheeks and nose were cute, and he no longer felt comforted by being in Harley’s presence. Now Peter only felt dread. There was no more warmth or the feeling of being safe.

Peter wasn’t attracted to Harley. He didn’t want to be with Harley, he was afraid of Harley. What Skip was doing was working. Peter was going straight. He wasn’t going to be bisexual anymore, he was only going to like women now. Peter wasn’t going to be a freak or a fag or a fairy or a homo or bent. Peter was going to be straight. Skip was fixing him.

“Peter are you okay? You’ve been really spacey recently.” Harley asked keeping his voice soft and cautious.

Peter smiled. It didn’t feel natural and probably didn’t look all that genuine, but Peter felt like he should be happy. He was happy that he this meant that May and Skip will not be disappointed in him. Maybe then Skip will like him. Now they can be a family

This is going to fix all of his relationships. People are going to like him better if he’s straight. He’ll only like women and be normal. It’ll solve so many problems for him.

“Yeah, Harls, I think I’m actually really good. Like, for real.”

Peter laughed, not one of his soft, bubbly and contagious laughs, the ones he was known for. Instead it was hallow and empty, self deprecating even. Harley’s eyes widened, suddenly more concerned for Peter than he’d been previously.

“Peter...” Harley sighed.

He reached out to grab Peter’s hand, watching Peter flinch back hard. Harley saw the moment Peter recognized what he did and how he tried to shake himself out of it, but he also saw how Peter moved to stay farther away from him.

“I’m good, Harls, really.” Peter nodded again.

“No, you’re not. There’s something seriously wrong. I’m going to figure it out. I’m going to make sure you’re okay.”

Three months ago…

Peter and Skip were finally alone. May had been on a stretch of day shifts and Peter’s friends were more persistent on having Peter go out with them during evenings. They were even tracking his food intake. The group was becoming obsessive over Peter now. And Peter was sick of it.

But now Peter was home alone with Skip. He could finally tell the man the good news. It’s been well over a week since Peter had and romantic or sexual feelings for another man. There’s only been fear, with any he looked at. Peter didn’t want to be attracted to men. Skip was curing him. May and Skip will finally accept him again.

As soon as May stepped out of the apartment Peter left his bedroom and sat down on the couch beside Skip. The man smiled at the boy, licking his lips before pinning Peter onto the couch. Skip groped at Peter for a moment, before pressing sloppy kisses onto his neck.

“No, stop, Skip I don’t like this.” Peter fought. “I just wanted to tell you that it worked. I don’t- I’m straight. You cured me. It worked. You and May don’t have to be disappointed in me anymore.”

Skip laughed. Loud and boisterous, pressing his weight down onto Peter. His hands moved up and down the teens frame, removing Peter’s clothes. Peter struggled harder, tears pouring down his face, sobbing out pleas to be let go. He tried fighting it, fighting Skip to keep his clothes on.

“You see Einstein, while I’ve made you straight, you’ve made me a fag. So this is going to have to continue, just a little until I no longer view your twink-ass as jailbait.”

Peter sobbed harder, trying to use his elbows to get away. Instead, Skip just pressed a hand into a patch of fresh cuts, forcing Peter’s vision to white out for a moment, that was just long enough to take off Peter’s underwear off.

“Skip, Skip no. No. I’m not. I swear, I didn’t make you like men. I didn’t do it. I’m straight now. You fixed me, I swear. You need to stop. You don’t want to go there. You don’t want this.”

Peter tried begging. He tried pleading, but he couldn’t stop Skip. It was too late. Skip had a plan and he wasn’t going to stop.

“Real funny that you think you know what I want, Einstein. This is for the best though, I promise, I’m doing this for you.”

It was movie night with May. Skip was out meeting up with his old friend was college. So it was just Peter and May. In their living room.

Peter couldn’t sit on the couch. Well, sitting in general wasn’t really working. So Peter just laid down on the ground, and May took the couch.

“Peter, I’m proud of you, you know that?” May finally spoke, halfway through Tangled.

“You are?” Peter didn’t anticipate his voice cracking, but hearing that May was proud of him? It was worth everything.

“Of course, baby. Skip told me that you let him help you, and I’m so proud of you for accepting help. He said that you’re problem was resolved with his help too. I’m so glad you two are getting along.”

Peter heard the words of confirmation that what Skip has been doing is what May also wants. She’s proud of him. She’s happy that Skip fixed him. May is glad that Peter is straight and that Skip turned him. It breaks Peter’s heart to actually hear it from May.

Peter never wanted to do it anyways.

And yet here he is. Having done it for her. He did this for May. To be accepted by May. So that he isn’t a disappointment in her life. And he isn’t happy. He’s not happy with himself, or Skip or May. Peter thought this would make him happy.

Peter wishes he born properly. Born straight. Born not wanting to harm himself. He wishes that the feeling that he needs to die never existed. Peter wishes he could be himself and be loved by his family. It shouldn’t have to be one of the other.

“Thanks.”

He tried not to choke on the acid rising up his throat.

Two and a half months ago…

It doesn’t stop. Skip doesn’t stop. His brain doesn’t stop. The fear didn’t replace the attraction like Peter originally thought. It’s just more confusing now.

Peter just wanted this to end.

Skip wasn’t going to end this.

Tony and Pepper had invited Peter, May and Skip over for dinner. Tony had made loads of his famous lasagna, and Pepper made a spinach dip appetizer and they ordered cheesecake for dessert.

All the adults seemed to be having a conversation together while Harley and Peter talked among themselves.

“I have an announcement.” Skip smiled at May, bringing the attention to himself.

“I asked May to marry me yesterday and she said yes.”

Peter was sure that this would be what killed him. Skip was his life sentence for whatever Peter did wrong. Skip was going to be his step-uncle, his new guardian.

Tony, Pepper and Harley congratulated the couple, and Tony patted Peter’s shoulder. Wine was brought out Peter couldn’t take it anymore.

“I’m just, I’m going to the bathroom, I’ll be back.” Peter smiled pushing himself out of his spot.

“Hurry back Einstein, we’re gonna be a family, we have to celebrate together.”

Peter was going to be sick.

He nodded and left the room, shutting himself in the bathroom and throwing up.

This isn’t what he wanted. Skip can’t be there for the rest of his life. This was wrong. Everything about this was wrong.

One month ago…

Peter was sure Skip was going to kill him. Or use him forever.

Peter didn’t like either option.

“I don’t want them to get married.” Peter confessed.

Happy pulled the car over, turning in his seat to see Peter. The kid wasn’t looking very good, he reminded Happy of 2008 era Tony. It wasn’t a very good look on a kid.

“You feel like it’s too soon after Ben? Or is it because of how fast-paced their relationship has been?”

Peter had tried not to think about Ben since Skip moved in. He didn’t want to picture the look of disappointment Ben would give him. Peter didn’t want to think that he is a failure in Ben’s eyes. Ben would believe that Peter brought this onto himself.

‘With great Power Comes Great Responsibility.’

Ben always said that. And yet Peter failed. He gave away his power, and was completely responsible for where he is now. Peter did everything wrong and Ben would know that. He took his uncles advice, his dying words, and ruined them, broke them, tossed them in the trash and set them on fire. Ben would hate this Peter, and Peter knew that like he knew how to breathe.

“Oh, uh, yeah. I just- I don’t think I’m ready for May to be married yet. It just feels like Skip is trying to replace his spot. I don’t want the to get married yet.”

Happy nodded in understanding, trying to give the teen a small smile.

“Pete, no one is ever going to replace Ben. He was your uncle, your guardian, your parent, he raised you. Skip could never live up to that.”

Present day…

There’s blood.

Peter is in the bathroom cleaning up his own blood and he doesn’t understand how he got here.

Well, he knows how. He just doesn’t understand it.

And he doesn’t know where to start cleaning it. Peter doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do. This was all horribly wrong.

Peter knew he couldn’t stay here much longer though. Skip had gone back to his own bedroom, after a rough ‘session’ with Peter. And now Peter is alone, and bleeding and he needs to get out.

Peter picks up his phone and makes a call.

“Hey, can you uh, come pick me up, I can’t stay here, I need, uh I need to get out of here.”

“Yeah kid, you got it. I’ll be there in half.”

“Meet me, uh, two blocks up from here actually.”

“You okay, Underoos?”

Peter hung up the phone.

He hoped in the shower hoping the water would get rid of the blood, hoping the soap would wash Skip away. And when that didn’t work Peter put on an oversized sweater and large sweatpants. Peter packed untainted clothing into his book bag and left through his window and down the fire escape, putting his hood up.

This was a mistake.

Leaving was a mistake. Skip was only doing what he thought was- no. No. No. Peter can’t go back.

He won’t live through this. Peter doesn’t want to live through this.

He scratched at his arms as he made it to the spot that Tony was supposed to pick him up.

Peter was going to be sick.

How could he let it get this far? Peter shouldn’t have let this happen. This was all wrong. Why is he relying on Tony to take him away. What if Tony agrees with Skip?

Peter coughed up blood.

New plan.

Go with Tony, make sure his stomach isn’t bleeding, once he’s good, leave. Go fast. Stay away from cameras. Go to Canada. Or Florida. Get out of New York. Go far. Somewhere where May and Skip won’t think he’ll go.

Tony pulls up and Peter hops into the car quickly. Tony doesn’t start driving right away though. Instead he looks at Peter, seeing the fear in the boys eyes, as well the way he is unconsciously scratching his arms.

“What’s happening?”

Peter shakes his head, tears filling his eyes.

“Please, just drive, I can’t be here. Can’t be in the city right now.”

“Is this drugs?” Tony asks as he starts to drive, hoping that Peter won’t leave. “I don’t care if it is, I can get you help.”

“It’s not drugs. It’s probably be easier if it was drugs. Honestly, I wish it was drugs. I can’t go home though, okay? Please don’t tell May.”

“Okay. We can do that for now but I will eventually have to tell her where you are so her and Skip don’t get worried.”

“You can’t” Peter shouted jerking upright and pushing himself further away from Tony. “You can’t. Skip can’t know. He’ll kill me, I swear, he can’t know, I can’t go back.”

Tony nodded, as Peter seemed to fall apart in front of him, hoping that appearing casual while driving will keep Peter talking.

“So we don’t like Skip, alright. Is there a reason why?”

Peter sobbed and Tony was tempted to pull over right then and there, but he knows that scaring Peter would cause him to run, so he needs to keep driving.

“He said he’d help. He did the opposite.”

Tony hummed, bringing them out of the city and towards the compound. Peter was rocking himself slightly, clearly uncomfortable. He started to cough, blood splattering across his arms.

“What the hell, Parker?” Tony said stepping on the gas.

“No Skip, Tony. Promise me, we don’t get him involved even if that means keeping May in the dark. You bring Skip into this then I’m leaving. Okay?”

“Jesus, yeah, okay, promise. We’ll keep him out of this, I got you. No Skip, we don’t want him, I got it Pete.”

Peter nodded, feeling relief wash over him as he was finally in a safe spot. He was out. He was out of that god forsaken apartment. No Skip means he’s safe. Safety means he can finally sleep. So he closed his eyes.

Tag List: DM or send and ask if you would like to be added, if you only want to be tagged in pt2 please make that clear

@peterbeanie @jean-and-diet-coke @dead-inside-pt2 @they-were-cloudsinmycoffee

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savagesbonergarage · 4 years

Text

Nightsister OC pics and backstory ❤️

So I kinda got my Nightsister oc worked out today!

Meet Eilantha!

No makeup and with makeup since I like both. :) I know her outfit is Rey’s, but it turned out to be the one I liked best after going through all of them. This was so much fun to do! I’m on mobile rn so I don’t have a link, but search ‘rinmaru star wars avatar creator’ and it should be the first result.

The nightbrother is also an oc called Sever. He’s more bulky in my head and his tattoos are different and more brown than black, but whatevs. Also he looks more like a teenager here, which is NOT the vibe, lads. Mans is in his late 20's-early 30's. 👍

I know I’m sorta biased and all since she’s mine, but I’m in love with her? I’m not a huge fan of the Nightsisters and their misandry and general terrible-ness, but this girl is the exception. 💕 Learn more about her under the cut if you’d like. :)

She was born in 46BBY, making her around 27 in the final year of the clone wars. From the time she was a youngling it was clear that she had a natural affinity for magicks and spellcasting, which allowed her to participate in more advanced rituals and rites from an early age. This inevitably caused some contention among the sisters in her age group that felt this privilege was wasted on her, and therefore she had few friends during her time within the coven. She didn’t really mind, as she preferred to spend her days on her own anyway, learning as much as she could about whatever she fancied (usually spells that piqued her interest whose texts she discreetly snuck from within the cavern).

When she wasn’t studying, she loved music - writing, playing, and singing. It wasn’t anything like the typical malicious sounds of tribal chanting and drums you’d hear from within the grotto; not that she didn’t appreciate that also as she practiced it well, but her heart leaned toward a softer, more soothing genre of arias and melodies, bordering on lullabies based on her wanderlust, and, though she’d never admit it, her loneliness.

As she reached adulthood, she underwent the trials for her dark baptism as all Sisters did, which consisted of returning from a challenging hunt to add a token from her kill to the Water Of Life, and receiving her ichor tattoos that signified her coming-of-age before being ritualistically bathed in the ominous liquid which sanctioned her as an active member of the Nightsisters.

After this, I have two different routes (or however many, depending on who I’m shipping her with at the moment 😅 bc I ship her with everyone, no lie) that I like to take with her story. The first is expanded upon in the fic by @fallenrepublick here (still my favorite thing!) where she starts sneaking away into the nightbrother village and befriends Savage and Feral before they go through Asajj’s selection trails. This is the nicer, less-traumatic arc.

This next one gets really, really dark. I'm not going to post it all here bc honestly this post doesn't need all that angst, so I'll save that for later. Essentially, I like to think that Eilantha did at one time have a nightbrother of her own (Sever) that she actually loved, rather than treated as a slave. As you can imagine it doesn't end well, but we're not gonna get into that. We'll talk about how they meet. :)

Instead of sneaking away to the village, Eilantha is pressured into conducting her own selection trails by Mother Talzin. She doesn’t inherently have any reason to object, after all, she was taught that this is was simply the way of things. Part of her even looked forward to obtaining a manservant, whose loyalty would belong to her and her alone.

Perhaps he’d be a useful asset when it came to sneaking spelltomes to and from the vaults, and maybe he’d even be the only one staying by her side while she practiced her songs. What if he’d even appreciate them? Not that he’d have much of a choice, but the thought was comforting nonetheless.

From the moment she stepped foot in the village, all she could focus on was the feeling of the uneasy and fearful gazes of the men who undoubtedly knew more of what was to come than she did. She chose her roster at random, unsure of what she should have really been looking for or what she actually wanted from a servant. Even before the fighting, she knew deep down that she didn’t want to inflict any unnecessary harm on them…but why? From what she’d overheard at home, the violence was half the fun.

It wasn’t.

She evaded and blocked every blow with ease, yet avoided retaliating and taking the offensive in any manner that would prove fatal, causing the battle to go on far longer than anticipated to the point where Brother Viscus insisted that she take the next opening for the kill. With reluctance, the blade of her weapon collided with the ribs of the next brother to reveal himself a target. She watched in horror as the light faded from his hateful, reflective eyes, and she was nearly sick. She didn’t want to do it, but it had been done, and it couldn’t be undone. His body thudded against the ground and she screamed.

“Enough!”

The battlefield went silent, and as she came to her senses she attempted to save face.

“I’ll have none of them!”

Before Brother Viscus could interject with any alternative propositions, she was gone. She ran, fleeing as far away across the rocky terrain as she could. She didn’t cry; at least not until she was certain she was alone. She felt so pathetic - Nightbrothers were meant to be disposable, yet she couldn’t handle killing one. Her shame shifted into heartbreak, and she crouched low and wept for the death of the brother she’d just caused, as well as for all those who came before him. All the needless, thankless, mindless deaths of these men whose lives may not have mattered to the Sisters, but they mattered to someone.

As night fell, she trudged along the jagged landscape and thought of what explaination she’d give to Mother Talzin upon returning home. She had run in the opposite direction of where her speeder was stationed at the base of the village, so she had plenty of time to consider on the long journey back. She casually hummed a tune to herself in some meager attempt to self-soothe, which served to distract the shadow that had been trailing her for some time. The sound of a twig snapping in the rocks behind her alerted her to the presence and she confronted him.

"Are you lost?" she asked in a derogatory tone after he revealed himself.

"I'm not."

Of course not, this was his home, after all. She couldn't say the same for herself, however, she pressed him further.

"Then why are you following me? I never asked for an escort."

The amber-skinned nightbrother looked as though he were choosing his words carefully, though if his aim was self-preservation he'd done a terrible job of it.

"I saw you crying."

Eilantha was hit with a pang of embarrassment, though she feigned otherwise as her eyes met the ground.

"Well, you can forget what you saw. Now leave me alone."

She turned away, but the brother remained there in quiet contemplation before he spoke again.

"I've never seen a Sister cry. I've never seen a Sister feel."

Something about those words struck her directly in her heart. The confirmation that she was inherently considered to be a heartless monster in the view of these villagers hurt a little more than anticipated, though she had no right to refute it. No amount of apologies would ever remedy the divide that separated the Nightsisters from the Nightbrothers, regardless of how she felt. She clenched her fist as she turned to face him again.

“I said, leave me alone. Don’t make me-”

She actually choked on her words, unable to say the rest.

Don’t make me put you in your place.

Despite her partial warning, the nightbrother stepped closer. He grabbed the edge of his already tattered tunic and tore a piece of it off, inspecting it for cleanliness before holding it out to her. Eilantha froze, uncertain of what to make of this interaction.

“You aren’t done,” he explained.

She hadn’t realized that her hot tears continued pouring down her cheeks during her retort. She accepted the cloth with some reluctance, her dainty fingers lightly brushing against his as she took it and dabbed it against her wet face. He promptly turned and started walking away, as instructed. This strange...kindness, or rather, strange act of servitude via obligation perturbed the young witch, whose thoughts were now fixated solely on the zabrak male.

“Wait, Brother,” she implored.

He paused, resuming his attention to her after hearing the endearing use of “brother” from a Sister’s lips for the first time. She continued, an unusual softness in her tone.

“What is your name?”

“It’s Sever,” he revealed, “May I ask yours, Sister?”

She repeated his name in her mind, determined never to lose it.

“Eilantha.”

He did the same, only out loud. Gods, it was an enticing sound.

"Will you be returning?"

This was a question she wasn't prepared to receive, and one that she herself didn't fully know the answer to. Her reply was engineered from a concerned sigh.

"I'm not sure. It might be problematic returning to the coven empty-handed. I may come back, I may not. I don't know what the future holds."

Sever pursed his lips slightly.

"If you do find yourself here again, will you..."

He coughed into his fist and centered himself before continuing.

"Will you consider me?"

Her eyes shot up to meet his hopeful gaze, a golden yellow in the night. She had a hunch as to what he was alluding to, but a little clarification was needed.

"Consider you...?"

He swallowed, his countenance displaying concern that perhaps he was stepping too far out-of-bounds this time, but he wanted to know all the same.

"As your mate."

Eilantha clutched the piece of fabric in her hand. This man was offering himself to her. The images of all the nightbrothers staring her down when she first arrived with fear in their faces raced through her mind, revealing the dread the men felt when they were met with her kind, and yet this one was volunteering. She wasn't sure if she should be flattered or angry, as any other Sister likely would be at a savage that dared to seek special permissions. Of course, she wasn't like that.

Imagining him as her mate, however, was certainly...something. She thought of how she would discover just how much of him was tattooed and he would learn the same of her. She could claim him right then and there if she wanted, and he would be obliged to obey. It would solve her worries about returning home if she decided on a servant after all, although, her soul was unsteady. Though she was entitled to any male she desired, she couldn't allow herself to do it. Even though this man was offering, it would weigh on her conscience knowing that even a part of him would only be with her out of fear and obligation, rather than his own free will. This nightbrother wasn't free. None of them were.

"I'll consider it," she replied genuinely.

This news seemed to please him to some extent, a tiny smirk curling at the corner of his lip.

"I'll look forward to the possibility of serving you, Sister Eilantha."

She watched as he turned a final time and disappeared further into the darkness, leaving her alone with her busied mind.

The course was set for the Nightsister temple once she finally got to her speeder, servant-less. She looked over her shoulder to see multiple pairs of glowing golden eyes quizzically prying at her in the darkness, and she smiled before taking off.

It was a long journey home, and the entire trip her mind was occupied with thoughts of the intriguing zabrak male who saw her for what she truly was. She pulled out the tattered cloth from her pocket and pressed it against her chest as the wind rushed all around her before bringing it to her lips and kissing it.

It became her greatest treasure.

That is, until she finally had the real deal in her arms months later when the separation became too much to bear, and they arranged to meet in secret during their first rendezvous of many.

Sever, my treasure.

#Nightsister #nightbrother #star wars ocs #Eilantha x Sever #savage opress #feral opress #dathomir #maul #darth maul #mother talzin #tcw #brother viscus #oc x canon

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hazymultiverse · 4 years

Note

Not sure if this is allowed but, ★★Reader being railed by Purple Haze because Fugo is sexually repressed, but reader doesn't know Fugos feelings OwO

Oh its allowed.

And encouraged. Send me all your stand fucking asks, I’m literally asking you nicely please send stand thirst thank you.

Warnings for: NSFW, rough sex, slight dub con??? Bc reader doesn’t know if Fugo wants it (but he does.)

—

“I think Fugo hates me.”

Mista shifted the phone from ear to ear, and you could hear the rub of the speaker against his hat, “Why would you say that?”

“Come on man, you heard what happened with Purple Haze.” You wince slightly, recalling the earlier events.

The stand had charged towards you as soon as he was summoned, paying no heed to Fugos panicked demands to stop. He had been wrestled before any true damage was done, but you’d been knocked to the ground, driving the wind out of you, and the mission had nearly been compromised. Fugo had been mortified, refusing to talk to you afterwards, the entire drive to the safe house was kept in suffocating silence.

Even after arriving, he insisted on you staying back while he went to pick up food, which gave you ample time to call Mista.

“Stands are just manifestations of the soul, right? So if Haze keeps attacking me, that means Fugo has some subconscious hatred going on.”

Mista bit his lip, he knew Fugo didn’t hate you. Quite the opposite in fact, the guy was in love with you, but apparently all the book smarts in the world couldn’t teach you how to man up and talk to your crush.

“Well, it doesn’t always work like that.” The gunslinger offered instead, “I mean, look at the pistols! They don’t always act like me. A lot of stands have their own sentience and independence, maybe it’s just that they’re a bit disconnected.” Mista was grasping at straws at this point, partially trying to dance around spilling his friends deepest secrets, and partially from trying to put rhyme or reason to stand logic. (An oxymoron if he ever heard one)

“So, maybe it’s just Purple Haze that hates me?” You theorized.

“I wouldn’t say he hates you, I don’t think you’d be alive if he really hated you. I just don’t think he knows what’s what. Fugo doesn’t exactly let him out much.”

“So, he’s just not used to me, maybe?” You frowned, then shot your attention to the door as you heard the rattle of keys, “oh, Fugo’s back, gotta go.”

“Alright, take care- and uh, don’t worry about Panna�� hating you. Trust me, if he did? You’d know.”

—

Fugo had excused himself to one of the bedrooms as soon as he was done eating, and with not much else to do, you did the same, taking the room next door.

It was quiet, you had heard some pages turning through the thin wall, but they’d stopped, so you assumed he’d finally gone to sleep.

What was the problem? You’d never seen Fugo -or his stand- act like this around anyone else, but whenever you were around it was like he couldn’t get any control over Purple Haze. Had you done something wrong?

Shutting your eyes, you sighed, worrying about it all night would solve nothing, better to just go to sleep, and see about talking to him about it in the morning-

The air felt different.

Loud, rasping breaths hit your ear, warm air hitting your face.

Slowly, you opened your eyes, freezing in place as you saw Purple Haze standing over your bed.

You stayed, eyes locked, for what felt like ages. No sound in the house but his breathing, and the pounding of your heart.

“H-hey bud.” You finally croaked, “What’s wrong?”

A firm hand grabbed your shoulder, pushing you farther down into the bed, on instinct you went to push it away, but the thought of the capsules made you pause, gently placing your hand on his wrist instead. At the contact, the stand let out a low whine.

“Are you okay? Is something the matter?” You asked quietly, perplexed by the whole situation at this point.

With a growl, Haze leaned in closer to you, carefully nuzzling against your face and neck, steadily crawling onto your bed.

“Oh- alright- uh, not quite sure what this is, but uh, did you come here to spend time with me?”

The stand was fully on top of you now, hands wandering and rubbing at any part of you it could reach, pressing a hand firmly on your chest to hold you down when you began to squirm.

“I’m gonna be honest here, I have no idea what’s going on and- oh.”

Haze slid a hand under your hips, angling them up just enough to align with his pelvis, where in the dark of the room, there was definitely something rubbing against you.

Your mind raced, did stands have dicks? Or genitals at all? What the hell was happening? Is this why Haze kept jumping at you? Thank fuck that this hadn’t happened during the mission, if Fugo had seen, you’re sure he would have died of embarrassment.

“Hey, Fugo, are you awake?” You said, not quite a normal volume, knowing the walls were thin, but got no response, “So you just came out on your own?” You whispered to Haze, who simply gurgled and continued to rub against you.

Taking a deep breath, you attempted to assess the situation.

There was a highly dangerous stand with violent tendencies dry humping you like a horny teenager in your bed. The user of said stand, who would usually keep it from even reaching you, was asleep.

Your body had gotten undeniably warm from the rubbing and grabbing the stand had been doing, making your mind wander. You couldn’t quite see in the dark, but whatever was grinding against you was big, and tempting.

Your deliberation was taking too long however, and with a loud growl, you felt strong hands begin to tear your clothes off of you, unheeded by your pushing against his chest, and your lower half was quickly laid bare, cool fingers grabbing and poking at you.

When you felt a blunt tip of something that definitely wasn’t a finger poking at your slit, you quickly lunged forward, “No no! Wait!”

That caught his attention, and in what little light there was, you saw Hazes pleading, confused expression, accompanied by a garbled whimper.

“You have to be careful about this, just, if this is gonna happen, you can’t go in dry.” You felt crazy, when had you agreed to this? But something about the situation just drew you in, “Help me get my fingers wet?”

Drool and spit dripped down onto your fingers, oddly warm from the stands mouth.

“Thanks.” reaching down, you rubbed your spit covered fingers against your entrance, slowly sliding in a finger, then two.

Haze grumbled, clearly impatient, garbling and poking your hand.

Drawing your fingers back out, you sat back a bit farther, propped up on your elbows, a low anxiety building in your gut, you were excited to do this, and couldn’t deny the fact the stand had always intrigued you, but there was no way you could overpower it if things got out of hand, you’d never been able to, it was always Fugo.

Fugo.

“H-hold on, is your user really okay with this? I know you’re basically him, I don’t wanna do anything without his- oh god!”

Your time had run out, and Purple Haze thrusted inside of you, giving you no time to adjust before beginning a brutal pace.

You bit your hand, struggling to not cry out, Fugo was sleeping on the other side of the wall, and if he woke up and walked in on this? He’d never speak to you again.

On the other side of things however, you hadn’t been quite thorough enough in stretching yourself, unprepared for the stands sheer size. Thankfully, he seemed to have learned quickly, having slicked up his cock similar to your fingers beforehand.

The bed creaked loudly, and the loud wet noises of your pussy accompanied by the slap of his hips was near deafening in the still house. Blunt fingertips digging into your thighs as he rammed into you, drawing choked gasps from your lips.

The stretch quickly dulled into pleasure, your voice straining against your hand as pressure began to build deep in your core.

“Fuck!” You yelped out, clutching onto his shoulders, scrabbling for anything solid as you were sent hurtling towards your climax, “fuck, fuck fuck fuck- yessss~”

Haze seemed unaffected, continuing to snarl and pound into you at the same frantic pace as before, still holding you down and gripping your hip tight enough to bruise. Any thought of staying quiet had vanished quickly, though subconsciously, you prayed Fugo wouldn’t wake up to stop this.

Your orgasm wracked through your body with unmatched intensity,a low moan tearing from deep in your chest. No matter how tightly your walls clenched around him, he didn’t let up, nothing seemed to get through to him as you wailed and spasmed in his grip. Your hands pushing wildly at his chest, struggling to get enough breath to beg him to slow down just a bit as your oversensitive walls burned hot from the merciless treatment.

“Please- wait- fuck I can’t!” You yelped, and he let you go, pulling out and sitting back on his haunches. You whimpered at the relief, rolling over to bury your face in the cooler part of the sheets, “Thank you, good boy, so good, thank you.”

Familiar cool hands pulled your hips up once more, and with a groan you gripped weakly at the sheets, “again?”

The spit ladened howl said enough as he entered you again with a slick thrust.

“Alright, fine, but just take it easy. Ah!”

He did not.

Rutting into you like his life depended on it, Purple Haze hunched over you, voice far more pronounced, snarling and growling like a rabid animal.

Mind still numb from the previous orgasm, you gripped your pillow desperately, letting your mouth run.

“There we go big boy, you like that? Yeah? Oh come on, I know you want it so bad- you’ve just been trying to do this for weeks? Is that all?” You let out a disbelieving laugh, “Nearly got us killed earlier just to try and get your rocks offfffffffuck! Oh there we go baby there we go, right there.”

The praise seemed to strike a chord, one of the stands strong arms wrapping around your torso and pulling you close, wet slaps of his thighs against yours drowned out by the breath in your ear, panic inducing earlier, but comforting now, grounding you in a rhythm.

“You’ve got a lot to work out huh?” A growl in response, “Yeah, thought so. We’re just gonna be here a while then.”

—

Fugo sat, heart racing, ear pressed against the wall, listening to your sweet moans, cock in hand. Someday, he vowed, he would finally talk to you, and be on the right side of things.

But if this were the first step? Feeling the phantom warmth of your pussy around his dick, begging and praising his stand so sweetly, welcoming it with open arms and pulling it closer?

He could live with that.

#Asks #not sfw #inappropriate use of stands #Purple Haze #Pannacotta Fugo

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kashimos-hajime · 4 years

Text

run to you | amaranthine (6/6) | b.b.

summary: “How dare you make me choose between the son I chose and the man I love?”

WARNINGS: blood, civil war bullshit, swearing, angst like HELLO, mentions of torturing/brainwashing, but some softness too, ends on a hopeful note pairing: bucky barnes x fem!reader word count: 11.2k

a/n: super long chapter bc i tried to pack the essentials of 2016 into here! hope you enjoy loves and sorry for the wait!! there’s a LOT of subtle tony and reader family vibes. it’s 224 am as i post/edit this so excuse any of that. vibes are run to you by pentatonix.

amaranthine masterlist

I've been settling scores I've been fighting so long But I've lost your war And our kingdom is gone

You move Bucky Barnes to the bunker he left forty years ago while he heals. He sleeps a lot, although nightmares plague then more often than not, and you try to busy yourself by running errands—trying to find something for you to do. You’ve spent the last forty years focused on achieving this one thing and now…

Now, you’re bored.

It’s only been three days.

“I’m going to find Tony, okay?” you mumble into the pillow, relishing the gentle, tentative caress of his fingers along your bicep. He’s been watching you sleep for the past hour or so, blue eyes muted and soft. You’d spent the night soothing his nightmares, wiping away the sweat, assuring him that you’re here, and you’re exhausted, but the day needs to start no matter what. Opening your eyes, you meet those blue eyes, and brush strands of hair away from his forehead. His pink lips are twisted into a frown, and you smile. “What is it?”

“If I’m staying with you, then we can’t stay here,” he whispers. You wrinkle your nose, leaning forward to kiss him chastely before getting up but he cups the back of your neck, bringing you close again.

“I can’t just disappear on Tony,” you mumble against his mouth. “I need to tell him.”

“No.” It’s sharp, succinct, the taste of fear and desperation that seeps into your skin as he grabs your wrists, and you sit up, pulling him up so you can look at him. You swallow your words as he shakes his head, metal arm clicking, clicking clicking.

“Bucky, I can’t keep this a secret from him. I can’t keep what happened with Howard and Maria a secret. He’s my family.” Your hand gently rubs the scarring of his shoulder before running down his bare chest, and your fingers trace the stitches where the chest tube had been before finding his waist. “I can’t, and you can’t make me choose between him or you. Please don’t make me choose.”

“I wouldn’t,” he whispers, his hand going up and down your arm. The rough calluses of his palm, the warmth of his skin, it sends shivers down your spine. “I could never do that to you, but don’t you see he’ll hate me?”

“He’ll understand. When you explain it to him, he’ll understand that that wasn’t you.” You hold him closer, his forehead pressing into your chest and you close your eyes, running your fingers through his hair. Your other hand holds his head to you, and he’s silent, grabbing at the sheets around them. He’s holding himself back from touching you. “I’m not going to let him hurt you.” You rest your chin on his head and he lets out a shuddering breath at the feel of your fingers tracing the curve of his back. A sort of desperation sinks into your gut and you slide your arms around him, palms smoothing over the scars carved into his muscle. They’re faded but still waxy to your touch, and you bury your face into his hair.

“They’ll take me when you tell him. He’ll take me,” he murmurs, voice hoarse and breaking. “You can’t stop them from taking me.”

“Bucky—”

“It doesn’t matter.” He pulls back, eyes empty of anything. He is the void of grief, guilt, anger. He is the devil’s puppet, and now that you’ve cut his strings, he does not know how to move on his own. He wants what he thinks he deserves. “It doesn’t matter whether or not I was the Winter Soldier. I still did it.” Your hands cup his face, and his hands find your waist as he sucks in a huge breath, trying to calm a heart rate you can hear racing through his body. Sitting in his lap, you simply soak in those tired features, before sliding your arms around his neck again and hugging him tight.

“Let me do it all,” you whisper. Kissing his hair, you pull yourself away, and his eyes drop to his hands. You press your lips together, jaw clenching, and something inside you breaks at how small he looks, hunched over in your bed. “Don’t worry, okay? Get some sleep.”

“I should pay for what I did, shouldn’t I?” he whispers. “At least you’ll know where I am.”

“Let me handle it, love,” you repeat. “Don’t spiral on me before we know for sure, alright?” Pulling on a shirt, your mind is running through the list of all the things you can do. Everything you can’t do. Some very selfish part of you wants to hide Bucky away from the world, give him the time he needs—the time you need, but you think of Tony who you’ve always put first before anything else.

The abject horror of watching him fly into the wormhole, the death of his parents, nearly losing Pepper…

Tony has grounded you ever since he was born. He’s been with you despite everything you’ve lost. You grieved his parents together, you were there when he walked across the stage even though his father wasn’t. You love Tony… you love him…

But Bucky… you have dedicated your entire life to him. You have loved him, searched for him despite all odds. You mourned him for thirty years, and then the other forty he wasn’t with you. You stay up at night imagining all that could’ve been, and still be.

To pit them against each other is impossible, yet you must choose anyway.

You meet up with Tony for lunch and say you have a new lead in Europe. I need a ride, maybe some supplies. This’ll have to be off the grid.

Tony worries, but that’s in his nature, and you can’t say anything about it.

You ask Bucky where he wants to go in the world, and you promise you’ll take him.

He tells you Bucharest—a place untouched by the kiss of frost, untouched by the Winter Soldier, a place where the two of you can start anew.

You fight off the nausea curdling your stomach the whole flight there.

It’s been two years since Washington, and Bucky still wakes up surprised when you present to him a cup of hot coffee and a plate of breakfast. It’s become one of your favourite things, to spoil Bucky Barnes, and you do it every chance you get. There’s a quiet routine the two of you have fallen into ever since the two of you decided to settle in Bucharest, and you enjoy it. You don’t mention his nightmares—they’ve receded into only three times a week instead of every night—nor does he bring up the fact that you’ve left everything behind for him—you pick up your phone to call Tony at least once every day before convincing yourself it’s better this way and setting it back down without dialling.

No, you follow the routine.

Wake up in bed together with the occasional surprise breakfast in bed

Shower and then plan out the day after breakfast

Go out to the markets

Have lunch together and go to the library

Your afternoons are normally spent together, but there is the occasion Bucky will go on a run or you’ll spend yours baking, and you won’t see him until dusk, but you don’t mind.

No one’s searching for you now, although the backpack underneath the floorboards and the one in the false bottom of one of your empty drawers still whisper in your ear.

“How about plums for dessert?” he asks, uncertain as the two of you walk the markets. It’s bustling, loud with life, and you smile, wrapping an arm around his. You squeeze his hand, and his eyes soften when his eyes meet yours. You’ve given him a haircut just this morning, and it makes him look younger, like the man you knew back in the forties. Those eyes are his, too. Bucky’s slowly coming back to you every day. “They should be in season, and fresh fruit seem nice.”

“That sounds perfect. I’ll go get the papers,” you say, and he nods. They don’t normally waste the money they have on things they didn’t need like the papers just in case the two of you need to pack up quickly and move, but you know he likes to read news about Steve. Steve. Hah. You wonder what he’d think, knowing you’ve been hiding your best friend away from him for two years. Knowing Bucky wanted to hide at all.

Bucky’s eyes are doubtful, but you merely adjust the cap on his head and smile. Although your fingers want to brush hair behind his ear, you know that you’ve snipped it all away. Instead, you cup his cheek, thumb brushing underneath his eye. You lean up to peck his jaw, untangling yourself from him and his eyes linger on your face before he turns to walk into the maze of stalls. Surveying your surroundings, you watch people pass by, going on with their day, before spotting a vendor across the street. He’s chewing lazily on a straw, leaning on the desk as he reads the newest lotto numbers, and you wait until the light turns, crossing the road.

“Good afternoon,” you begin, approaching the stall. Your gaze trails across the magazines, the little toys and bobs that tourists would love, before glancing up at the man who drags his eyes away from the little TV he has hanging at the top left corner of his stall. You smile, adjusting the hoodie on your frame. “Do you have today’s paper?”

“Yeah.” He lazily grabs one from the box, sliding it first page down over. “Three leu.”

You procure three one leu bills, handing it over for the paper and you dip your head in thanks before heading back across the street. You tuck the newspaper underneath your arm, eyes scanning for a place to give it a brief read. Bucky’s still wandering the markets, his hand holding onto a bag of some other vegetables you know he hadn’t intended to buy, but you’ve convinced him you can come up with something no matter what he buys. You like the variety it brings, and you hope he likes the choice of it all.

His eyes catch yours as if he knows you’re staring and you wave, unclamping the paper from your arm. His lips twitch into a faint smile before he approaches the fruit vendor and you find an empty spot on the bench, sitting down with your bag in your lap.

The day’s not too warm or too cold, and you relish in the gentle breeze kissing your cheeks as you set your gaze on the paper.

Your breath spears into your ribs, everything inside you draining out as you read the front page of the news.

Winter Soldier. Bombing in Vienna at a United Nations Conference. The Winter Soldier.

Winter Soldier.

Your eyes widen as you soak in the black ink, printed boldly, sharply into the dulled paper. Your hands tremble and your guts are in knots. Chains wrap around your stomach, squeezing bile up your throat as you throw the paper off of you like it’s poison. Your eyes sweep the area, blood rushing down to your legs as you search for threats and Bucky, bumping into random civilians who have no idea what you’ve just read. You can barely contain yourself to a run, unwilling to draw attention to yourself as you scour the markets. He isn’t at the fruit vendor’s stand. Not at this one anyway.

Shit, shit, shit.

You know it isn’t Bucky.

Bucky was here with you.

Shit, shit, shit. Where is he?

Holding your bag tight to you, you feel the contours of the pistol you carry with you at all times, eyes searching, eyes trying to find you. His eyes—ocean eyes—brown jacket, that red henley. Red and blue and brown—

His voice, that sweet voice speaking Romanian, pierces your hearing and you turn to the source of the sound, seeing him lean over as he rolls a plum between his metal fingers. Fingers you know feel just like his flesh hand does, just as your hand does.

You focus on this as you walk towards him, as strange as it seems. You focus on his metal hand covered beneath glove and sleeve, and how whenever you hold it, you don’t feel like you’re holding something dead. How whenever you hold Bucky’s hand, you do not feel like you are dead.

“Love,” you call in Romanian, and he turns to you. For a moment, his eyes study you before he smiles and looks at the wooden tray of plums proudly.

“What do you think, angel?”

“They’re lovely, but we have to go,” you whisper, not giving the fruits a second glance. Bucky’s still eyeing the rows of plums but you reach up, turn his face towards you. His eyes soak you in, soak in the panic radiating out of your every pore, the wild fear, and his eyebrows furrow together. He takes your hands, squeezing them gently, before excusing himself from the vendor and pulling you away.

“What is it?”

“We have to get back to the flat, now,” you whisper, pulling him close to you. He wraps an arm instinctively around you, ducking his head so his face is covered by the shadow of his cap and you keep a smile on your face. Both of their sets of eyes are making sure no one’s tailing them as you explain in English under your breath, “There was a bombing at the United Nations conference in Vienna. Someone framed you. King T’Chaka is dead.”

“What? Who?”

“Someone who doesn’t want you to rest.” His arm tightens around your shoulder as you reach the apartment building. Urging Bucky into a quick march, the two of you part and you run up the stairs first as he bars the door to the lobby behind him.

“My journals—”

“We’ll go get them,” you assure quietly, already running through a list in your head of what you’ll need on short notice. You’ve been prepared for weeks for this. You’ve never had the luxury to be comfortable in that cramped apartment with only a mattress between them and newspaper plastered over the windows. Entering the apartment silently, you head for the bathroom first, unhooking the mirror from the wall to grab quinjet keys from the tiny hole in the wall. Your eyes pass over the trash can littered with Bucky’s hair, and you swallow, grabbing the scissors off the sink countertop.

Running into the kitchen, you unzip your purse and toss it aside, shoving the pistol down the back of your pants before crouching down and pulling open the drawer with the false bottom. Bucky hides next to you, helping you lift the false bottom to a backpack containing all your assault rifle parts, canned foods, water, and first-aid.

Unzipping it, you watch him stuff the little snacks they’ve spent money on, candy bars and granola, into your back as you listen out for intruders. You throw the scissors, just as you look at the back door.

Something scuffs outside your front door and every muscle in you freezes.

The door gives in quietly, and you pull the pistol out of your waistband slowly, eyes trained on Bucky. He shakes his head. He doesn’t recognize the sound of their footsteps either. Not their nosy neighbour, or the kid from upstairs who knocks on their door every once in a while.

The intruder steps foot and the wood gives in immediately. It’s their trap plank, one they know squeaks, and you know immediately it is a stranger. Shooting up, your arms press against the countertop, fingers hovering on the trigger as your thumb pushes the safety off, and you swallow, taking in a deep breath to steady your heart rate. Your mind is sharply focused on the feel of the gun in your hands, and your throat folds as the image of the intruder burns itself into your brain.

“Y/N?”

“Steve?” Straightening up, you lower the pistol but your body does not ease at the sight of Captain America here. “What are you doing here?”

“Heads up, Cap. German Special Forces approaching from the south.”

“Why are you here?” His shield is still to his side, and your jaw clenches. Bucky is still crouched by your feet, and you reach down to grab the backpack, swinging it onto your shoulder. “Tony said you were off the grid.”

You pull up your hood roughly, tying the drawstrings tight. “I am.”

“They’ve set the perimeter.”

“Where’s Bucky?”

“He wasn’t in Vienna. I can testify for him.” Your voice is taut as you walk out from behind the counter. Your foot is just over the floorboard where Bucky’s backpack full of journals is and you inhale deeply as you glance back at the door behind you. It’s a long fall down from the twenty-seventh story.

“Well, the people who think he did are coming here now. And they’re not planning on taking him alive.” His words sink into the air, and you nod. You hadn’t thought any different. “He’s here.” Steve‘s voice dips at the words, and you falter for a moment, finger finally relaxing on the trigger. His eyes scan the apartment, before landing on the kitchen counter and it’s almost as if he sees right through it and then this man, this sad, sad man looks at you again with grief powerful enough to kill anything. “He’s here, isn’t he?”

Your voice, soft, delicate: “Yes.” You turn to the crouching man who stands, head bowed before turning to meet Steve, and you can feel the tension, thick as butter on your tongue. How much you ache to just slice through it with a sharp knife, but you merely watch, study Steve’s expression. Although half his face is covered by a helmet, his eyes tell you everything. His eyes, wide with shock, blown with nostalgia, as they see a short-haired Bucky—a shadow of his best friend, who stares at him with such emptiness it pains the soul.

“Do you remember me?” Steve asks softly.

“They’re entering the building.”

“You’re Steve. I read about you in a museum.”

“We have to go, Bucky,” you whisper and he turns to you, nodding. Steve steps forward but you merely raise the gun to him. He freezes in his tracks. “I’m not afraid to shoot a soldier, Rogers.”

“They’re on the roof. I’m compromised.”

“You used to be,” he says and you sigh heavily as Bucky pulls off his leather glove to reveal that metal hand, gleaming and elegant and cold. You can hear the pattering of boots up the concrete steps, and your mind runs over escape routes through tunnels, sewers, ways you can escape without hurting anyone on your way out. The thought of death makes you exhausted.

You head towards the kitchen, pulling open a cabinet and grabbing the black holster, clipping it onto your belt, shaking your head to yourself. “We don’t want to hurt anyone.”

“This doesn’t have to end in a fight.”

“It always ends in a fight,” Bucky murmurs. You turn the safety on, slip the pistol into the holster. The two of you share a look, and you nod to reassure yourself and him.

“Five seconds.”

An uneasy glance to the window.

“You pulled me from the river. Why?”

“Four seconds.”

“We don’t have time for this.”

“I don’t know.”

“Three seconds.”

“Yes, you do.”

“Two seconds…. Breach! Breach! Breach!”

Glass shatters and you turn to the window as a flash bang barrels through the air. Smacking it out of the air, you turn away and close your eyes tight, away from the blinding white light just as another one is thrown through the glass. Steve muffles it with his shield and there’s German shouts on the other side of the door as the wood begins to give beneath the ram.

You’re grabbed by Bucky who shoves you towards the mattress, and you lift it up, rebounding another flash bang. A high pitched whine fills your ears, and you turn to see Bucky fling the table at the door to buy them more time. Letting the mattress fall, you run to roll behind the kitchen counter as soldiers burst through the window. Tackling the man, you manage to disarm him with a quick break to his arm before another guy bursts through the back door to the balcony. Steve takes care of him easily and you punch through the floorboard, grabbing the straps of Bucky’s backpack and flinging it out the door just as three more men stream in through the broken windows. Pushing yourself over, you roll into one of the soldier’s space, reaching up and grabbing his gun just as Bucky punches him out. Steve lands a nasty bash of a shield to the other man’s head, ringing him out, and you grab a cinder block, flinging it towards the last one.

The contact dazes him, shattering against his helmet which cracks upon impact and Bucky kicks him through the wall, letting him dangle off the side of the building just as Steve grabs at him.

“Buck, stop! You’re going to kill someone.”

Two more men repel down the side, landing on the window sill and you barely hear Bucky whisper ‘I’m not going to kill anyone’ before he grabs Steve and throws him at the intruder.

The other man detaches himself from his rope, dropping onto your mattress and you sprint at him, too quickly for him to bring up your gun. He raises his arms, trying to protect his face but you fling yourself at him, legs wrapping around his chest, arms catching him in a chokehold. Wrenching him back, the two of you fall together before you fling him off of backwards, letting him crash into the bookcase before you roll to your feet again.

Shotgun blasts disturb the pitched whining in your ears as they detach their door from its hinges and you suck in the breath of sulphur and gun oil, approaching the barred door with a determined set to your jaw. Bucky walks past you, leading the way while you keep an eye on his six. His metal fingers curl into a fist as you take a moment to gather yourself. The adrenaline pumping through your veins is pure fire and your muscles welcome every stretch and pull as he punches through the wall, knocking out whoever’s holding the shotgun, before barging through.

Slipping past Bucky, you jump onto whoever’s at the top of the staircase, bringing him and his friends down behind him. You fall into a messy heap, your body nipping from the sharp edges of the stairs as glass shatters above and you spare a glance to see someone repelling from the glass roof. The sound of an AR going off makes you flinch, but it’s cut short as more men climb up the steps.

Climbing up onto the red rail, you balance atop of it and wait for a man to pass just across from you on the flight below, and jump. Landing on him, you use him to break your fall, soldiers crowding around you, and you bring up his body as a shield, lunging into whoever’s down the steps next to you. Once you’re on solid ground, you block whatever hits come your way, flinging people off of you left and right.

You punch a man in the throat, fist leaving him breathless as you throw him into the wall before ducking underneath a swing from someone behind you. You grab their wrist, twisting it behind their back and pulling enough for his shoulder to give away in a small pop. He crumples before you as you kick the back of his knees before climbing over the railing once again and swinging down. You bypass all the other soldiers trying to catch up, too quick for them to realize you’re their target as you try to think.

Bucky’s still far above you, but he knows where his journals are and where the meet up point is.

You can’t count how many nights you’ve spent staying up with him, compiling a seamless escape plan with so many exchangeable routes. You descend down the steps, another wave of soldiers storming up and the first one swings up his gun, a smattering of bullets causing you to duck.

You spot a door that leads to an outer staircase and barge through with your shoulder. It opens with a slam, the sound ringing in your ears, and you don’t give yourself time to second doubt your abilities before you’re jumping.

Your legs bunch, stretch, bring you to the concrete railing before launching you forward. You flail through the air, the wind dragging at your clothes, and your heart shoves its way up your throat. You’re weightless for just a moment before you land, body tipping to roll out the momentum. You grab Bucky’s backpack, holding it to your chest and you turn around to see if he’s following.

Not even a minute later, you see him bursting from a few stories above you, landing with a painful grunt. He pushes himself up, sprinting towards you and you throw him his backpack just as a shadow flies over you.

Raising your gaze, you squint against the sun to see a black figure soar through the air. Bucky whirls around just as the attacker lands on him and you run towards him. The black figure is sleek, human, and you frown at the cat ears, the silver weave in between metal fibres.

The Black Panther.

Shit.

It doesn’t stop you from running at him full force, pushing him off his balance. You duck underneath a swipe of his claws, turning to Bucky quickly. “Go!”

Blocking a swing from the left, you grab his wrist and pull him into your fist, jabbing him twice underneath the ribs but the Panther's claws latch onto your sleeve, pulling you over and kicking you in the abdomen.

You crash into an air vent with a gasp, the air pushes out of your lungs as the Panther comes at you again. His claws dig into the vent beside your ear and you grimace, pushing back against his hand that comes gliding through metal like soft cheese. Slouching, you let his arm run over your head and bring a knee to your chest. When your foot connects with his chest, you launch him across the roof, his claws nearly nicking your other ear.

A whirling fills the air, the vibrations running through your bones, and you peer up at the sky to see a helicopter. The shudder of the machine gun ripples through the air and your eyes widen as a trail of bullet fire cracks the roof, dust spiralling through the air.

“Come on!”

A rough hand grabs your shoulder and you’re pulled roughly to your feet. Shoes digging into the concrete, you can feel the bullets nip at your heels, the spat, spat, spat of death chasing you before you throw yourself off the edge of the roof and onto a narrow edge. Bucky lands before you, not pausing before jumping off the roof and you follow after him. He catches you by the waist, softening the landing but it’s still a shockwave up your legs.

An ache festers in your shins, your lungs are on fire, and you try to keep your eyes on target as the helicopter cuts you off and you stutter to a halt while Bucky jumps into the tunnel. Glancing behind you, you see the Panther run after Bucky, and you vault over the barrier, your mind already making a new route.

The helicopter flies after you as you run across rooftops, the tunnel still running below you, and you feel weightless as you jump from building to building. Your feet slap against the rooftops, your lungs burning.

Dropping down onto the street, you spot a brick barrier around an opening. There are civilians, women, men, and children, who are sitting on the benches or going about their day and you wave them off, screaming for them to get to cover as the helicopter speeds after you. Jumping onto the bench you use it as a stepping off point and you jump into the hole, onto the tunnel road just as a car swerves to miss you. You whip around, trying to find Bucky and you see him sprinting towards you. Behind him are a plethora of blue and red and white lights, piercing the dimness of the tunnel.

The ground rumbles beneath your feet and you turn to see a couple on a pair of motorcycles speeding towards you. Buckling your backpack across your chest, you run towards the woman and you knock her off as carefully, as quickly as you can. She lets out a terrified shriek as you swing it off the road, your leg hooking on the seat.

Your fingers wrap around the handlebars, and as soon as the wheels are grounded once again, you speed against the direction of traffic. Leading the way, you press yourself against the motorcycle.

Everything falls to a blur, your eyes ahead but when an explosion prompts you to look back, your eyes widen at the rubble collapsing the tunnel. Bucky floors it, trying to catch up with you just as something is flung through the air.

You open your mouth to warn him but the next thing you know, Bucky’s skidding across asphalt, tumbling and you brake hard. Tires screeching and leaving black marks in the road, you jump off the cycle and run towards him while Steve tackles the Panther off of Bucky. There’s a loud crash of vehicles, and you barely glance up before you skid to a stop. Crouching beside him, your eyes search for injuries, road burns, anything, as the sound of sirens echo through the tunnel. Cars surround them on all sides.

“Are you okay?” you whisper, helping him up, and his hand snags on yours as he nods with a grunt. The Black Panther stands, and you eye him with scrutiny, standing in between the two men. When you’re sure he won’t attack you, you turn to look at Bucky. He’s panting hard and his hand finds your forearm, gripping you protectively as if he isn’t the one they’re searching for. You gently take his hand and put it down, raising your head to meet his eyes.

I’m sorry, he seems to say.

We’ll get out of this, you promise. You cup his cheek briefly, the flashing blue and red lights illuminating his face and he nods, eyes trained on the Panther. Letting your hand drop, you turn to assess the situation.

You eye your surroundings discreetly, keeping your body turned into Bucky, counting the number of guns pointed at you. All of the German Special Forces are taking cover behind their cars, suited in black bulletproof vests, the air rank with burnt cement and melting rubber. Behind the Panther, officers exit their vehicles, and you feel the landing of War Machine before you hear his voice.

A clank of metal, the quaint sound of his repulsors firing up. James Rhodes. Rhodey.

“Stand down, now. Congratulations, Cap. You’re a criminal.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Steve raise his hands and you’re nudged away from Bucky as he’s forced to his knees. A gun pushes into your back, forcing you into line beside the Black Panther. You let out a grunt but willingly go, not keen on having a gun shoved into your face even more than it already is, and keep your head down as Bucky is pushed onto his stomach. Manacles clink into place and you raise your hands. Undoing the drawstring, you feel the hood loosen around your head.

“Your Highness.”

You turn to the man beside you, a man who shares similar features to a man you’ve met in the past and he holds his helmet in his hands as he meets your gaze.

T’Chaka’s son stands before you and when you tug down the hood, you hear James’ filtered breath, a soft inhale he fails to mask to your impeccable hearing.

“Doctor.”

The guns lower and you raise your hands again.

"Hey, Rhodey.”

You stare into the thick, three inch glass cell, but Bucky refuses to look at you. He’s chained by the legs and wrists to the exam table, and you cross your arms over your chest.

“You should go,” he whispers in Romanian, his voice muffled by the barrier between them. “They only want me.”

“I’m not letting them take you without fighting for you. You didn’t do it.”

“They don’t care.” The task force around you is arguing about moving him, but none of them seem eager to go even close to the most dangerous man in history. “I’m sorry.”

“It wasn’t your fault.” The forklift’s engine ignites and you step back as it lifts him up, the glass cell tipping back and cutting off your conversation. You press your lips together, watching as his eyes struggle to meet yours, and every nerve in your body is telling you to follow after him, but you don’t.

“So, this was your off-grid mission, huh? Playing house with my potential godfather?”

You close your eyes, lower your head. Tony steps in beside you, and you sigh. “Tony, I—”

“How long?” He doesn’t sound angry, furious as you’d expected. Simply… simply interested. Opening your eyes again, you look up and Bucky’s gone.

“Ever since Washington. He didn’t want anyone to know.”

“Well, I’m glad you found him. I knew you were just one call away.”

At this, you turn to admire your boy, and he smiles. He looks tired, his red silk tie doing nothing for the beginnings of eyebags pulling at his face, but he’s still the boy you raised and love as your own. “It’s good to see you, Tony.”

“Thanks, auntie.” Your body melts at the name, a name he hasn’t called you since he was twenty-one and you two were standing at his parents’ tombstones while he sobbed into your shoulder, and you wrap your arms around him desperately. He sinks into your embrace and your eyes close as you stroke his hair. “I don’t know what to do.” About the Accords, about Steve, about Lagos. I read your emails, Tony. Every single one.

It’d been a weekly trip to the quinjet parked outside of Bucharest, just a little hike with Bucky to reconnect and refresh themselves. You were supposed to go tomorrow.

“You’ll do what’s right,” you murmur. You know it because that is what Tony has done since he’s been a little boy. “You can try, and try, and try, but sometimes, people won’t change, or they’ll do something you didn’t expect, and it won’t be your fault.”

“Ma’am, we need to take you to your cell.”

Pulling apart, you run a thumb down Tony’s cheek like you did when he was younger, and he smiles. He’s still got that little boy’s smile, but it fades quicker when he realizes what the task force member said to you.

“Cell. Right.”

“H.Y.D.R.A. still tampered with me, too,” you mutter, inspecting his hair. “They want me for a psych eval, priority number two after Bucky.” You spot a few grey hairs at his roots, and you frown. “You need to get some sleep.”

“Pepper and I are on a break,” he says with a shrug. “Still getting used to the empty bed.” Clicking your tongue, you sigh and pull him into another tight hug quickly. “I’ll see you in a bit. I need to sort this out.”

“I know you will.” You draw away and walk after the soldier down the same path Bucky was taken. You look back to see your boy still looking, and you smile. Everything’s going to be fine.

Tony will figure this out, you tell yourself. We’ll figure everything out together.

“What’s your favourite colour?” a guard asks you in heavily accented English, and you smile. You’ve been staring at your handcuffs ever since they put them on you.

“Blue,” you tell him in German. “And you?”

“Purple. It is my wife’s favourite colour,” he explains and your smile softens at the sentiment.

“Blue is the colour of his eyes,” you reply and he ducks his head, trying to hide his smile. You sit at the table, tapping your fingers against the metal, and he stands at the doorway, rifle held in hand, but you’re not afraid.

“You love him, yes?”

“For decades, now.”

“I am a big fan. My father told stories about the Howling Commandos, ma’am.”

“I’m flattered.”

We’ll figure it out.

The lights switch off and the room plunges into black before the emergency lights turn on. Everything around you is illuminated with red or bathed in blue shadows as you look up.

“What was that?”

“We will stay here. I’m sure it is nothing,” he says, and you nod. Something bites at your stomach and you look down at your chained ankles before glancing at the security camera in the corner of the room. “He does have beautiful eyes,” the soldier offers as a comfort and you chuckle. “My children have blue eyes.”

“You have children?” you ask with a wonderous grin. The idea of children has always been so far out of your mind that just the thought sends your mind into a flurry of possibilities. “How many?”

“Twins, a boy and a girl. They are three years old.” He’s extremely proud of it and you tilt your head up at him, your smile growing. “Albert and Ada.”

“That’s adorable. How long—” Your question is cut off by a violent scream, and your head jerks to the wall, the wall that separates you from Bucky. “What the hell was that?”

“Ma’am—” You stand up and he looks tentative to raise a gun towards you, but you’re too terrified to do anything else.

“That is not the sound of a man going through a psych eval.” The memories of the last time you confronted the Winter Soldier blazing through your mind, you shuffle around the table.

“Ma’am, sit down, or I will be forced to shoot.”

“Take these cuffs off of me, now.” You raise the silver chains to him, and he gazes at you apprehensively. You know, with enough effort, you could probably tear your wrists out, but you don’t want to hurt this man. “If what I think is happening is happening, you are not safe. The most dangerous man in history is just through that wall. You’re not going to be able to stop him.” When the man still hesitates, you let out a frustrated growl that’s punctured by another desperate scream. “Think of your wife, your children, and leave.”

You lift your cuffed hands again and you meet his gaze, dark brown almost black in the red lights. His mustache twitches before he lifts up the key. The mechanical cuffs click and release, a hiss of air escaping and you let out a relieved breath, tossing them aside while the soldier ducks to unlock the ones around your ankles.

As soon as the manacles unlock, you’re stepping out of them, your legs unusually heavy. You feel as if you’re swimming through molasses, flinging open the door and running to the room next to yours.

“Bucky!”

The pounding against glass, like a drumbeat, shatters your skull and you rush into the room, spotting a man holding a red book slowly pacing around the glass cage. Bucky’s fist is slamming against the glass, his head hanging low as he lets out a low groan of pain. At your entry, the man looks up and frowns, as if you are a mere nuisance, and your blood chills at the sight of that book in his hands. Red leather and a printed black star. H.Y.D.R.A.

“You don’t know what you’re doing,” you breathe, carefully approaching the man and he flips pages in the red book, eyes not straying from yours.

“Oh, I understand completely the consequences of my actions, and they are intended to rip them apart.” His finger settles on a line on the page and you watch him warily. Bucky leans against the cell door, and you edge towards him slowly. If you can just put yourself between the two and get him out—

“Angel, go,” he croaks breathlessly. You do not listen. “No, you have to. There are words—“

“Step away from the patient, Doctor,” the man says softly, arrogantly. “I do not wish to harm you.”

“You don’t know what you’re doing.”

“I do.” His eyes flicker to the page. “Angel of death,” he enunciates slowly in Russian, and you’re rooted to the spot as his eyes finally lift off the page. “An apt name for what you could’ve become.”

“Stop.” You ache to forget. You almost do sometimes, and sometimes, it is all you know. “That’s not who I am.”

“Ah, so you do know.”

“Get out of here. Please, go—”

“Unfortunately, I cannot have what I want unless she is out of my way.” You’ve almost reached Bucky’s cell, and your fingers stretch for the handle. The doctor doesn’t stop you, merely looks at you as if committing your image to memory, but not in a fond way. In a way for science: you’re nothing more than a test subject, a data point. Bile crawls up your throat at the thought. “Malady.”

Your brain short circuits. The smell of burning skin sinks into your sinuses and the agony that speared itself into your temples as they shocked your past out of you returns tenfold yet quaintly numb. Something inside your head unwinds, your feral rage you’ve locked away growling in anticipation.

“Three.”

Your whole body is sluggish as you try to work against the voices in your head to give in to the temptation. Pushing yourself against Bucky’s cell, you slam your fist into the glass. It cracks underneath your knuckles.

“Stop!”

“Brimstone.”

The smell of sulphur, the grime beneath your nails. You can taste the still water they shoved towards you, the vomit burning the back of your throat. Voice hoarse, skin slick with oil and sweat. Hell on earth. Your next punch comes weaker, and your knees begin to tremble as the voice in your head grows louder.

The feral rage pokes its head from the shadows, licks its bloody muzzle. It’s starving.

“Longing.”

It slams itself against the metal cages of your mind. Closing your eyes, you collapse against the glass and sink to the floor. You try to ignore his voice, the firm order to his accented German, but the words still sink into your head as if these are welcomed.

“Eternity.”

A hollowness, the weight of your heart wilting in your chest, the unending agony of searching for someone you don’t even know exists, causes you to let out a soft moan. It aches to feel it all at once, to plunge into a darkness you’ve clawed your way out of, and you want to scream, release the knot in your chest. You feel like you can’t breathe—

“Stop!” Bucky’s voice, terribly hoarse as he shouts through the glass sounds so far away and you raise your head to the wretched light. A breath pries its way out of your throat. “No!”

“Nightfall.”

A terrified scream wrenches its way through your throat and you claw at your wrists, eyes unseeing. There are cuffs—Zola is chaining you to the table because you’re thrashing too much. Lurching, you scream for Bucky, your mind unravelling as everything surges back to you. You are in that Austrian prison again, shivering against a bony body. The clamp of the machine against your head digs into your skull and you reach up to your hair. Electricity runs underneath your skin.

Fistfuls of hair bunch between your fingers as you tug, your stomach turning at the rawness of the injections running through your veins. The blood curdles in your head and you pitch forward, head pressing against the concrete floor. You slip away, your vision spattered with stars. The cage creaks under the force of your rage, still chained back but just barely. The metal is rusted, and as the man speaks, you hear it purr in satisfaction. These words are gifts to the animal inside, a fuel to its fire, and the voice sneers, obey, obey, obey.

Repeat after me, soldat.

Ready to comply.

Again.

Ready to comply.

Again.

Я готов отвечить

You wake up in a prison cell, your body aching and your throat raw, and you feel like you’ve been charged by a hundred rhinos as your neck sets itself on fire in pain. Trying to narrow your eyes on the side of your neck, you crane your head to spot the giant, blooming purple mark on your throat.

Your skin is red, split with dried blood and bruised. Your lips tremble as you work through each muscle and you let out a soft hiss as you look up at the metal wall. Your reflection is haunting, warped beyond compare.

The blue jumpsuit hangs off your frame, your arms locked together with maximum security handcuffs that are just little more than holes in a big block of titanium. You stand up uneasily, your arms dropping heavily, and approach the bars.

You’re in a circular shaped room, cells just like yours in the wall. Within five of them are Avengers you’ve read or know, and you search for Bucky as one of the guys notices you’re awake. Clint is leaning against the glass, staring at you with a deadly focus from across the room.

“Hey, Doc.”

You don’t respond. Your throat is raw, and it tastes like metal as you send him a nod before continuing your survey of the surroundings. You lean forward, eyes scanning the other empty cells and you notice with a heart wrenching lurch that there are at least two cells between you and the next inmate.

What have I done?

There’s a single door, cameras at every angle. The only other female in the room, a girl, sits in the corner of her cell with her arms strapped to her as she stares up at the camera. The Scarlet Witch.

You turn away, sliding down to the floor with a sigh. Your head is pounding. Closing your eyes, you try to soothe your raging thoughts as you lean against the wall, but your back protests when you move too sharply.

You hear the gears in the doors turn before it opens, and you open your eyes again to see Tony stride in. A wave of shame washes over you once you catch sight of a bruise blooming on his eye and his arm in a sling. It’s searing cold as he stops in the middle of the room, soaking it all in as you are still trying to do. Did I… do that?

“The Futurist, gentlemen!” Clint’s loud clapping pierces your eardrums and you squeeze your eyes tight, twisting away from the center of the room. “The Futurist is here! He sees all! He knows what’s best for you whether you like it or not.” The words are dripping with bitter sarcasm and you suppress a growl.

“Shut your mouth, Barton,” you call, your voice grating on your own ears. You tuck your knees to your chest, your titanium cuffed hands in your lap. Your stomach is churning and every shift causes a dull ache. You simply stare into your lap, sore neck arching, and wonder if he’s safe. Wonder who you’ve hurt—how could this have happened?

His footsteps stop before your cell.

“How’re you feeling?”

“Did I do that?” you ask quietly, unable to even look at him. Tony’s sigh reaches your ears, but you can’t tear yourself away from staring at where you know your fingers are, encased because they’re dangerous—you’re dangerous.

“It was Barnes. Are you okay?”

Turning to Tony, you feel so small under his gaze, so pathetic. You’ve always wanted to be strong for him, but the way your mind feels—decimated, torn to shreds—you can’t help but release a shuddering breath in response.

“Whatever he did, it wasn’t him. Please don’t punish him for it.”

“I won’t,” Tony says, and you look up into his eyes. He has Maria’s eyes. “Look, I got them to transfer you to a psych facility in New York,” he adds, tapping on his watch before expanding on an image. He shows it to you and you lean forward, squinting. On the screen says: I know where Barnes is. “Great faculty and staff. You’ll be transported in ten, fifteen minutes? Happy’s overseeing everything, but it’s good to see you awake.” A swipe and the screen shifts. Ping my location once you get on the chopper. “It should run smoothly.”

“What happened with everyone else?” you murmur under your breath, and Tony sighs.

“Ran into some people at an airport in Leipzig.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah.” He reaches through the bars but you jerk back, swallowing. Angel of death. “What was that back there? I never knew—”

“I didn’t know either. I suspected it, but they wiped memories, tortured us in so many ways, I guess I thought it was a nightmare.” Your eyes flutter shut at the agony that had splintered you apart, and you press your back against the wall, resting your blocked hands on top of your knees. Something inside you pulses unnaturally. “How many people—”

“Don’t do that to yourself. It wasn’t your fault.”

“I barely got to the sixth word before I lost control, Tony.” Your eyes flash to his and his lips press together as you push yourself up. Ragged and exhausted, your skin is not your own. You’ve slipped someone else’s on—a someone you left behind the minute you found Bucky again. Murderer.

“Probably Dad’s work fucking with the programming,” Tony mumbles before raising his voice again. “Natasha and Sharon Carter worked to take you down before you could do any more damage, but Carter ended up with a bruised face, tailbone, and a few other scratches. A shattered hand and wrist. She caught one of your punches before Natasha got in a good blow. Widow’s Bite to the carotid.” When you don’t reply, your godson touches the bars with gentle fingers. “I’ve got to go, but I promise I’ll see you later.” You nod, and his hand falls away from the bars as he walks away. You watch him go, eyes trained on his back, before sitting down on the bed and passing time by staring at the wall and thinking.

When Happy escorts you out of what you now realize is the Raft, your chest deflates at the chopper waiting for you.

When you lift off and the Raft is nothing more than a speck in the waves, Happy unzips the black bag at your feet to reveal all that you need, and he relays the instructions, keeping his eyes steadily on his datapad as you change out of your blue jumpsuit. Changing into a long sleeve thermal shirt, you pull it snug over your chest before pushing your feet through pants.

“Tony’s heading for Siberia,” Happy begins, and you glance up from where you’re lacing up your boots. They’re sturdy, hard, and you juggle your weight from one ball of the foot to the other, trying to work them in. “We’re dropping you off in Bucharest to pick up that quinjet. F.R.I.D.A.Y. will upload coordinates when you start her up.” Grabbing a bulletproof vest, you slip it over your head and begin to velcro it tight. Your insides are twisted and you fight to keep your expression calm as you crouch down to examine the assault rifle. “Ma’am?” You glance up.

“Yes?”

“Good luck.”

Your smile feels grimmer than death. “Thank you, Happy.”

“Howard… Howard!”

Maria’s voice echoes in your ear, the tape playing over and over again, as you scramble over a small edge of the facility. You’d watched it once before it reran itself, and you couldn’t hold back the bruising in your chest at the vision of your lover beating to death a man you trusted for decades.

Everything around you is collapsed debris, the smell of electricity and smoke plunging into your sinuses. Dust stirs with your every step and you glance around as a force pulls you towards the silo. Ground up cement and grey snow is still falling gently down and you look up to see the hatch closed before a scream tears your attention away.

Beneath the grate, you hear the wind howling, the sound of a repulsor firing. Shouting echoes through the silo. There is a whine of warning, the crunch of metal, and then blast. Your heart leaps into your throat and you glance around to see if there’s a quicker way to get down than merely jumping.

There isn’t.

You take a deep breath and jump to the ledge just opposite, lower than your starting point. The metal trembles beneath your feet and you freeze for a second as it stabilizes, and then jump again. There’s the sick hammering of metal, clunk, clunk, clunk, and you swallow a breath, glancing down at how far down the bottom is.

The clunking fades, and you steel yourself for the sensation of freefalling.

You don’t give a damn about however many feet are between you and the floor, and you jump. Only one thought is on your mind.

Tony. Tony’s in danger. Tony—

Your fingers wrap around the grip of your rifle, your knees bending at the shockwave of pain that rolls up your legs. Rolling onto your side, you feel your battered body nearly give in, your neck protesting violently at the sudden jerk of your head as something lands with a thud. Your mind is a whirlwind of scenarios, of what you’ll find, and you force yourself to continue the roll until you get onto our knees, whipping up the rifle without a second of hesitation.

“Stand down, now.” You don’t recognize your voice—harsh, flat, cold—as it echoes and escapes into the Siberian winds. Steve sits on top of Tony, his shield poised in the air as he stares openly at you in shock. Your godson looks at you in utter relief, his face bruised and gashed, bleeding. Bleeding.

Have you caused this outcome? Is this what you’ve done?

You have felt guilt before—it is something you have learned to live with—but this is different, seeing Tony no more than a little boy in the eyes, an anguish in his gaze that reminds you of the first time he asked you if Howard did love him. The memory alone makes your throat cinch shut.

Your back is screeching at the strain, but you merely aim your weapon steadily at Steve as you slide down the ramp. Your eyes barely lift off of his to the black mass laying still on the ground, and your heart nearly jumps out of your mouth when you see a glint of silver, the sparks of wires.

Eyes narrowed down your sight, you walk slowly until you stand right beside Steve, the gun muzzle pointed right at his temple. Steve’s audible pants rattle in your ear as you kick him off Tony, launching him against a sloped column with a painful gasp.

Crouching, you drop your gun and help Tony stand up. He holds back a groan with a clenched teeth. His arm, around your neck, pushes down to steady himself and you hoist him up as you pull him away from Steve. His armor clanks, his movements slow and dragging, and you inhale sharply as you watch Steve slowly get to his feet.

Wiping at blood that smears his cheek, he picks up the shield and begins to limp to Bucky. Tony lurches forward, and you can taste the anger in your mouth—sour, bitter with grief—as he yells himself hoarse and you barely hold him back as his words ring in your ears.

“That shield doesn’t belong to you. You don’t deserve it. My father made that shield!”

Tony lets out a painful gasp, pitching forward. Your hand presses against his chest, feeling the hum of the arc reactor as you push him back up, and you swallow at the hollow ring of the shield colliding with cement and stone. As Tony stumbles from one foot to another on the spot, you watch Steve pull Bucky up.

“So?” Steve asks quietly, and your eyebrows knit together as he turns to you for a moment. There is no animosity, just a blank look.

“So, what?” It is your turn to be angry. It’s a hot, raging thing that shoves up your esophagus, and your words spit hot. “You expect me to go with you after you tried to kill my family?”

“Bucky’s not going to be safe. We need to find a place for him to hide,” Steve murmurs, and the most incredulous laugh pries its way out of your mouth. You feel Tony’s glare weigh heavily at Steve, still too heartbroken to say any more than what he’s already said, and you glance at him, the image of his bloodied defeat printing itself into your head. “It’s going to be easier if you’re with us.” Bucky raises his head weakly, blood streaming down from his broken nose, and your heart splits at the soft glow of his eyes.

No, he seems to say, even through the pain of losing his arm. Don’t come. Even if it means we have to leave each other again. A sweat is starting to gather at his brow, and he’s still struggling to breathe, and as much as you want to run to him, you don’t. You hold Tony up just as Steve holds Bucky up, and you realize it then that you are a mirror image of Captain America. You will always choose the person who is somehow, and always will be, more important than the other, no matter the personal cost.

No matter the splintering of souls.

Please don’t make me choose.

I could never do that to you.

Your palms are sweating, your eyes trained, and your heart is wild in your throat as you whisper with a fury untamed. “How dare you make me choose between the son I chose and the man I love? How dare you bring this on us?”

“On us,” Steve repeats quietly, almost mockingly if not for the way his eyes seem to fall, if not for the way it all seems to pull him down then. “Yeah, this whole thing’s on us because you didn’t tell Tony either.”

Frigid waves crash down over you, extinguishing your rage as Tony stiffens, and you stare at Steve, shock blocking your ability to speak. Steve’s whole body caves inward, and then he turns away. Bucky’s eyes linger for as long as they can, a silent, loving apology, and you merely soak in his broken gaze before he’s trudging away. Your bones splinter under the weight of a world placed on your shoulders again.

There he walks away from you again, and you must play your waiting game.

Tony doesn’t ask questions until you’re both on the quinjet.

“So you knew?” he asks, his temper a quiet thing. It’s simmering beneath his skin and you grip the controls until your palms sweat. “How long?”

“Two years. I had my doubts since it happened, but he confirmed it two years ago after the spill in Washington.”

“Two years.”

“Tony—”

“So, you chose him anyway. When it mattered, you chose him.” Swiveling the chair, you stand up and look at Tony who you’ve patched up as well as he’d let you. His laceration isn’t stitched yet, but you’ve managed to tape the minor scratches shut, and he’s holding an ice pack to his swollen face. His bashed armor lays on the strategy table, and you glance at the hollow thing for a moment, trying to gather the right words.

“I just wanted to be selfish,” you admit quietly, looking at Tony again. He’s staring at you with wet, dark eyes, and you lower your head in shame. “I wanted to be happy.”

“No matter what it meant for the people around you?” he asks, and his words don’t need to be blunt or sharp for them to be harsh.

“I’m sorry.” You tentatively sit beside him, and you swallow. There is a distance between you and Tony that you don’t know how to cross. “I knew it then, and I know it now, that it was wrong, keeping it a secret from you, but I thought it was his story to tell, and he asked me not to say anything.”

“So, you chose him,” he concludes again, and you nod. You want to touch his shoulder, his knee, some kind of comforting pat but you know he will flinch away based on how coiled up his body is.

“I did, but I choose you now. And I promise I’ll always be here for you, no matter what. Even if you hate me. Even if you never want to see me again. I can’t ever say how sorry I am that I kept this from you, and—” Blood tracks down his temple, a slow, languid trail that drives you crazy. You grab a clean, moist towel from the table and wring it between your hands, small droplets landing between your boots. You glance from the white cloth to Tony, who’s still quiet— “Tony, you’re still bleeding.” His eyes search your face, and you meet his despairingly. You’re hollow, chock full of what ifs.

“Growing up, you were the only person I talked to about everything,” he says quietly, and your eyebrows rise in surprise. His voice is dulled, near to breaking. “Not even J knew some of the stuff I told you. You just understood everything so easily, and I never understood why when I was little. It was when Mom and Dad died did I get why you could pinpoint how confused I felt, how hard it was. Because of him.”

He pauses to look at you, and you nod, your lips pressing together in a sorrowful smile. “Because of him.”

“You know, even when I was little, I used my Christmas and birthday wishes on you.”

“On me?” you repeat, your smile waning and growing again, and he nods earnestly, his lips pressed together in an effort to squish his tentative smile.

“I just wanted you to be happy like Dad used to say you were. Guess that meant the Sarge had to come back, so I asked Santa if I was extra nice, if he could bring people back from the dead. That was before Dad told me Santa wasn’t real, and that I was too old to be believing in those things, but I fell into the habit again after they died. You know, wishing for the dead to come back to life. Guess my wishes got mixed up between Santa and Satan.”

“I taught you that,” you whisper, and his smile, just barely, lights up his face at the memory. “I told you Santa and Satan were brothers and if you were naughty, Satan would come and eat you up.”

“Yeah.” He lowers his ice pack, hand reaching to wipe away the blood but you catch him before he does, offering the rag again. He merely leans forward and you smile, tinged with exhaustion. It was his way as a boy to tell you he wanted your hug, by putting his chin on any part of you and pouting like a puppy with those dark eyes. Except now, he merely closes his eyes and seeks the comfort of his mother.

A comfort you can’t give him, but you’ll damn well try to come close to.

“I’m sorry for hurting you, Tony,” you whisper, gently swiping the blood away from his face. “I never wanted to do that.”

“I know.” Not forgiveness, not yet. “I just want you to be happy, auntie.”

“I know.” You gently rub his forehead before wrapping your other arm around him. His own snake around your waist and you embrace him tightly, eyes closing as he melts into you. “It’s okay.” His shoulders shudder beneath your palms, and you kiss his hair, eyes closing. You press your cheek against his skull. “When you’re ready, I’m gonna stitch you up, okay? Fix you up.” A shaky nod. You run your hand up and down his spine as he raises his head to suck in a lungful of cold air, and with Tony’s head on your shoulder, you wonder where Bucky is now.

You hope it is somewhere where he can rest, even if it means he never sees you again. Is this what you fought for? Killed for? Your peace only to be shattered by something out of your control?

Two years is better than nothing at all, a quiet voice tells you, and as you stitch Tony’s cut, you tell yourself you can be happy knowing he’s safe, but even that, you don’t know.

“You’re thinking about him, aren’t you?” your godson asks as you pull the final thread through. He’s been studying you rather intensely for the past fifteen minutes and you don’t answer. Cutting the thread, you clear your throat and put away your supplies, pulling off your gloves.

“I’m just thinking about what we’re going to do when we get home,” you reply lightly.

You can tell Tony doesn’t like your answer by the twitch of his lip but he doesn’t bother to pick a fight and picks up a handheld mirror you left next to him to check out his new stitches.

“A lot of cleanup with Ross,” he says, “and you probably don’t want to go to that psych facility.”

“I don’t.”

“Thought so. I can probably negotiate something about that, set you up with a personal psychiatrist. We’ll get you a room at the compound; it’s been a while since you were home.”

Your smile is tentative as you zip up your medicinal bag, and you narrow your eyes at the sunlight that streams through the windows. An outline of a city cast in gold is in the distance as you approach the pilot’s seat once again. You try to fight off the disappointment, the hurt. You always dreamed you’d come back here with Bucky one day.

“I won’t get mad at you for thinking about the man you love, auntie,” Tony whispers when you land at the compound, and you nod to yourself, closing your eyes at the memory of the last time you were in here, flying to Bucharest two years ago. Bucky’s gentle hand on your shoulder as he coaxed you into letting him take over. Tony kisses your cheek and you open your eyes as the ramp lowers, and you get up, shaking yourself of the memory.

Wherever Bucky is, you know one way or another your paths will cross again, whether you search for him or not, and the stirring in your restless soul tells you rather that it will be sooner rather than later.

#fic: amaranthine #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x yn #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes imagine #bucky fic #sebastian stan #sebastian stan x reader #sebastian stan x you #sebastian stan x y/n #sebastian stan x yn #sebastian stan fic #sebastian stan fanfiction #sebastian stan imagine #my writing

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