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radioactivepeasant · 2 years ago

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Snippet Friday Week Two: Blackmail au

First

The cheers were deafening. Overwhelming. Too much noise and too many people and-

Jak clamped his hands over his ears and shrank behind Sig.

Ahead of them, Damas carefully navigated a throng of warriors, all of whom seemed to want to slap his back or tousle Mar's hair. Jak didn't like them touching his brother. He wasn't their kid. He wasn't theirs!

"Easy, kiddo," Sig murmured, and wrapped one thick arm around his shoulders. "There's not too many kids in Spargus. Losing Mar hit everybody hard."

There hadn't been too many kids in Sandover, either. But Jak could say with reasonable certainty that no one would've kicked up this much of a fuss if he or Daxter had gone missing.

Well, maybe they would have if it had been Keira. She had a parent to miss her, after all.

Jak swallowed down a prickle of envy. It tasted like anger, and stale bitterness. In Haven, it was easy to look at people there and think of his childhood as ideal in comparison. But Spargus made it clear that Sandover had provided the bare minimum of what a child needed to survive. Necessities, but no true emotional investment. No genuine love.

Mar seemed to be getting as overstimulated as Jak. He grew quiet and subdued, huddled against his father's chest. There was just too much happening.

Damas smiled softly at him and hefted him a little higher in his arms. "I know. You're doing so good, baby. We're almost home."

"Want Dax an' Jakky," Mar signed, beginning to look zoned out.

Damas turned to face Sig and the older boys.

"Jak," he called gently, "Could you come take your brother for a moment? He's asking for you."

It was as much strategic as it was simply responding to Mar's needs.

Jak needed something to ground him, and by the looks of it Daxter was too overwhelmed to help.

Mar needed his older brother to feel a sense of normalcy.

And Damas wanted- needed- to make it known that this older boy was his.

Jak stepped up beside him and held out his arms for Mar. Honestly, Damas had no idea how he could carry his little brother and an ottsel the same approximate weight without a hint of difficulty. Had he always been so strong? Damas pushed away the questions for later and put an arm around Jak’s shoulders -- shielding him from the crowd and silently declaring to the onlookers that the boy was his at the same time.

A buck-toothed child sitting on her parent's shoulders called out in a voice just high-pitched enough to be heard over the crowd, “Who's that guy?” as she pointed at Jak.

Damas smiled in the girl's direction. “This is Jak, my firstborn!” he declared proudly. “We were separated when I was first exiled. My enemies could not find him and so they told me instead that he was dead. Yet here he is, the thorn in Praxis's side he cannot remove!”

The praise set Jak’s teeth on edge. It reminded him too much of hero talk. But at the same time it was an uncomfortably unfamiliar experience. Someone was talking about him to others as if he was proud not of Jak's accomplishments so much as his mere existence.

Jak pulled his eyes away from the crowd to focus on Mar. He could put aside the discomfort of crowds for his brother.

“Hang in there, kid,” he murmured.

Daxter patted Mar's head, almost falling off Jak’s shoulder to do so. “Just try to think of whatcha wanna show us first when we get to your room, okay?”

Mar brightened a little at the suggestion. “Show you my toys!” he decided. “You can play with me?”

Jak hefted him a little higher. “Uh…sure kid.”

As long as his idea of play wasn't “hold on to Jak’s back while he goes Dark and play Flut-Flut Ride" like they did in Haven sometimes. Jak really didn't feel like explaining that to Damas and Sig.

________________________________________

Mar had...a lot.

Just. A lot.

Jak counted six picture books sticking out of a bright red crate in a corner that had been furnished with a stack of pillows and a bucket of blocks. There was a drawer of clothes, long outgrown, with a scant two shirts that still fit. He had toys-!

So many toys!

Jak sat on the floor in something akin to shock as his brother ran back and forth from his cot to deposit things into his arms.

A soft Lurker made of cloth and feathers.

A little leather thing that looked like a bald Flut-Flut.

An old, worn-out teddy-bear with a crude "P" stitched onto its chest.

A rubber ball.

A wooden top with a string on it.

Jak frowned and held up the top, keeping it out of reach of Chopper's curious jaws. "I've never seen one of these with string on it before. What's it for?"

Damas looked up from sorting out the clothes that no longer fit Mar. "Oh. That's a trompo. Loop the end of the string around your finger, then throw the top. If it lands on its point, it spins."

"Huh."

Jak set the other toys to one side. This did not deter Mar, who proceeded to hand them all to Daxter.

"So you...just pull it and throw? Like a grenade?"

Jak took the toy and wrapped one end of the string twice around his middle finger. With a shrug, he flicked his wrist and let go of the trompo. It bounced, only barely glancing the tip to the floor, and rolled away. Jak's eyes narrowed. There had to be a trick to it. He picked it up and began winding the string around it again. Maybe he'd thrown too hard? Maybe it was more like casting a fishing line than a grenade.

The second time, the trompo landed on its point and spun around once or twice, but soon wobbled and fell. The third time, it spun for nearly four seconds before clattering to the floor. The fourth attempt was too fast and sent it rolling across the room again.

Sig sat down beside Damas to watch the boys. Daxter and Chopper had both been completely buried under Mar's four beloved stuffed animals -- none of which had been forgotten in the last two years.

Mar had grabbed his weighted Star Blankie from his cot and was menacing Daxter with it, intent on tucking him into "bed".

And Jak crouched barefoot in the center of the nursery, watching the spinning top with wide, fascinated eyes. It was as if he'd forgotten the rest of them existed, hyperfocused on unraveling the secrets of a little wooden trompo.

"Well, at least two shirts still fit. Pants will be an adventure, but-" Damas looked up and his words trailed away.

Beside him, Sig was watching Jak with such a sadness in his eye that it drove thoughts of clothing from Damas's mind entirely.

"...Sig?"

The breath Sig took was shaky. He swallowed hard.

"I've never seen him play," he whispered.

"I didn't think he even knew how after what they did to him. I-"

He stopped and covered his mouth with one hand. He didn't want Mar to see him looking so distraught. But he couldn't help wondering how many years it had been since Jak had played. Since he'd even been allowed to act his age. Had the "training" started early? Did he ever know what it was to be coddled? To be tucked into bed, or held close during thunderstorms?

Would he allow them to fill in the holes Haven had left behind?

Sig's throat ached when he looked at the innocent smile on the teenage mercenary's face. There was still a sweet little kid in there, there had to be. But they had to make him feel safe enough to come out.

"Daym, we have to get him some toys," he whispered. "I...I don't think he's ever had any."

The same realization Sig had made dawned slowly on Damas’s face. His brows knit together and the lines etched around his mouth deepened. Perhaps he needed to take his resolution to treat both boys equally a little more literally than he'd first planned.

"Oooo!"

Mar had finally noticed the trompo.

He stopped trying to bury Daxter and Chopper in toys and scampered over to lean on Jak’s back.

"Oowow, Za!"

That innocent look turned bashful as Jak twisted to look at his little half-brother. "Pretty cool, huh?" he asked.

"Do it again!" Mar signed enthusiastically, "Make it go all the way to the door!"

Jak shrugged. "Why not. We'll give it a go."

"Heads-up, in five minutes I think Mar needs to get ready for bed," Sig warned suddenly.

"I'm not tired!" Mar protested.

"Mar-mar you've been rubbing your eyes for fifteen minutes," Daxter tattled from under the stuffed animals.

Jak bounced his shoulder, causing the toddler to slide off. "And you turn into a Lurker when you're overtired. We'll do one more spin, and then I'll-"

He frowned. No, they weren't in Haven anymore. Things were different now. He didn't know the rules here.

"Uh. I guess they'll get you ready for bed?"

Damas actually looked embarrassed, and even a little sad. He blew a breath out through his teeth.

"Jak," he began, "It's been…It's been two years since Mar was home. As much as I want to fall back on the routine we kept…before…I- I don't think that's what Mar is used to."

Sig nudged Damas’s elbow in an attempt at comfort and nodded. "He's right, cherry. Do you…want to show us what you usually do?"

Jak exchanged a look with Daxter. Daxter shrugged and extricated himself from the pile of toys. He brushed himself off and eyed the room critically.

"Yeeeeahh….I don't think he's gonna sleep. Not without the lights on. Those barbarians in the Underground never turn the lights out. And lemme warn you now: this kid? He's a climber. That dresser better be anchored to the wall, or he will try to monkey his way up it in the middle of the night."

“Ah. So he still does that.” Damas chuckled ruefully. “I can't say I'm surprised.”

He raised his brows at Mar.

“And for the record, little one, Daddy, Ba, and Jak and Daxter are all on the same page here. You're not staying up to break of dawn just to play with your toys. They'll still be here tomorrow, I promise.”

"Well, then can Dax and Jakky sleep over?"

Mar ran to climb up into Damas’s lap, beaming winningly at him and Sig. "So they can play with me tomorrow?"

"Of course, Marmo," Sig answered warmly. "They can stay as long as they want."

Mar's eyes lit up and he threw his arms up with a jubilant hiss. Then a puzzled look came over him.

"Does he have to ask his grown-ups? With the scribbly face and Mr. Green Man?"

Jak's face hardened. "I don't have to tell them anything," he scoffed.

Sig nodded with a hard set to his jaw. "They aren't his grown-ups, baby. Me and your daddy are, or close enough to it."

If anything, this only seemed to confuse the little boy more. He wrinkled his button nose at Sig, then looked to Damas. "But I thought Jakky lived in the stinky city!"

"Not if I can help it," Jak grumbled. He let out a gusty sigh and shifted his eyes away. "Look, um. Your dad is...we...we kinda...share the same dad. It's weird, I know."

He missed the gentle expression that passed over Damas’s face. It was the first time he'd acknowledged their connection at all, let alone out loud. That was a promising sign. Damas could only hope his firstborn would continue to be open to getting to know them.

Mar blinked slowly as he digested this information. The big boy had been calling him "little brother", now that he thought of it. But Mar had thought they'd just decided to be brothers, like how he decided to adop' his puppy! But if he and Jakky shared the same daddy-

"Are you Jakky's Ba too?"

Sig laughed awkwardly. "Uhhhhh no. At least, not originally. I wasn't related to his ma."

He glanced up at Jak.

"You can call me what you want," he joked, "long as you aren't knockin' my marksmanship."

Jak looked just as awkward. "I'll uh, I'll stick with Sig."

He fiddled with the string of the trompo and wound it up. When he was satisfied that he'd twisted the cord correctly, he shifted his weight and prepared to throw the top again.

"Okay squirt, last spin, then you pick which side of the bed the dog gets tonight."

Daxter stretched out his spine and leaned on the stuffed Flut-Flut.

"You want us to camp in here with ya, kiddo?"

Mar started to nod, then a thoughtful look came over him. He snuggled closer to Damas’s chest.

"Um," he mumbled, then looked a little guilty as he signed, "Yes, only I think maybe Daddy might get scared tonight. And I am a big kid now, so I should help him be not scared."

Jak actually cracked a grin, alleviating some of the guilt on the little boy's face. "Oh yeah? You're gonna be his bodyguard tonight?"

"Yeah!"

"Well who's going to stay with Chopper?" Jak teased.

A look of consternation wrinkled Mar's brow, then just as quickly melted into stubbornness.

"You! You sleep in my room with Chopper!"

The boys sent a skeptical glance at Mar's alcove bed. While it had been commissioned with growth in mind, it was still over a foot shorter than would be comfortable for a teenager. If he stayed in a fetal position the whole night, Jak supposed he could manage it. After all, on his first night in Spargus, Jak slept in the indoor oasis, curled up between potted palms and safely out of sight.

Apparently, that wasn't acceptable for a long term stay. Not that Jak intended on staying that long. Not while the Baron was still alive and still a threat to his brother.

He told himself he didn't need a bed. Why bother when he wasn't even meant to stay that long? He'd done his part, he'd brought Mar back to his -- er…their -- family. Any moment now they'd probably give him an air train pass back to Haven.

Keep your expectations low enough, and it's harder for people to disappoint you.

Sig noticed his quiet and cleared his throat meaningfully at Damas. And for his part, Damas interpreted the sound as quickly as Daxter could read Jak's faces. He stood and, after reluctantly handing Mar to Sig, excused himself.

Daxter folded his arms. "Where's he off to?"

Sig held Mar's hands and bounced him up and down. He smiled. "Oh, just moving some bedsheets around to make a curtain."

"Is he into interior decorating on the side?" Daxter demanded, "And does he do free consultations?"

"What."

Daxter shoved Jak's skeptical face. "Hey, if Krew's dead, the bar's mine. And the way that man decorated is a travesty!"

Sig laughed outright. "Well, the "incident" left poor Tess at the bar all by herself for a couple days, so I'm sure she's tweaking lots of things here and there."

He leaned back against the squishy blue bean-sand-chair thing. "Nah, this is just a privacy curtain for the sitting room. Til we can find just the right room for you two chili peppers."

With a wink, he added, "You won't have to fold in half just to sleep if we put you on the couch. If your old man remembers to get his clean laundry off of it."

"I'm working on it!" Damas shouted from the other room.

"You...don't have to do that," Jak mumbled.

This much attention without a task attached to it was...weird. It made him nervous.

Sig gave him a no-nonsense look. "You're teenagers," he said bluntly, "You need boundaries. As much as you and Mar love each other, he can't be up in your space every minute of the day. Having a room of your own lets you...regroup, y'know? Have some privacy when the world gets to be a little too much."

Jak started. It was as if the big man had been reading his thoughts. He did feel overwhelmed. He needed a safe place to withdraw to. But he didn't know this place. He didn't know where the safe places were! Jak folded his arms tightly over his chest and let the channeling ring dig into his skin, cold and hard and proof he was there, and real.

"What's the catch?" Daxter asked on his behalf.

It didn't seem like the question surprised Sig much. He wrapped Mar in a tight hug, then set him down on the floor. With a grunt, he pushed himself to his feet and feigned nonchalance.

"Well, you gotta keep your room clean enough to walk in. Easier said than done for some kids."

Jak relaxed slightly. So there was an exchange. Easier to accept things when he knew exactly what the terms were. Borrow a room for a while in exchange for keeping it clean. Made sense, they'd need it again later, probably. But it didn't seem like a fair exchange. Surely there had to be something else they wanted from him!

"What else do we have to do?" he asked.

There was no hostility in the question, only mild curiosity. But Sig winced all the same.

"Well, considering we ain't Krew, or whoever you worked for in the Underground, nothing. This isn't a job, cherry, it's a home! We're not employing you, we're trying-"

He scratched his head, stumped for how to phrase it. How to explain to the boys that they were entitled to being cared for.

"We- Damas and I- we just want to give you back the childhood they took. Dunno what that looks like yet, but...give us a chance? We just want you to be okay."

First

#jak and mar are separate people au #fic prompts #writing prompts #jak and daxter #jak and daxter au #dadmas #king damas #dad sig #damas and sig are platonic life partners in this one #jak and daxter mar #long post #blackmail au #snippet friday #free day friday #jak has to learn how to be a kid again 🥲#don't worry though. by the time they defeat Kor he will have amassed a staggering amount of legos #also he will have built hotwheels tracks around the walls of his room everywhere

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hislittleraincloud · 1 year ago

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Friday Snippet(s)

In Three Bites still being written, edited. Her texts need editing. All the stuff in between needs writing, polishing. But rn I'm working on 8 and don't want to share any of that.

UGH okay fine. From 8.1:

What DID you do, Donovan? 👹👹👹👹👹

#friday snippet #a day late as usual #in three bites #satisfying afterburn chapter 8 #satisfying afterburn #wednesday #wednesday addams #donovan galpin #sheriff galpin #tyler galpin #cairo sweet #jenna ortega #jamie mcshane #jonathan miller #martin freeman #miller's girl #uvcniverse

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wikiangela · 1 year ago

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fuck it friday

tagged by @tizniz @bidisasterevankinard @kirkaut 💖

more of the leg pain fic! still not sure I wrote everything the way I want in this snippet, but it's the general idea, future me will deal with whatever I don't like when editing lol

prev snippet

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“It’s really nothing to worry about,” he whispers, eyes locked on Tommy’s. For some reason it’s just- it’s not easy to say it, to admit he’s hurting, and to accept the inevitable love and care he knows Tommy’s about to shower him in. He loves it, he loves Tommy, but there’s something about letting people take care of him while he’s in pain that just feels almost too vulnerable. But it’s Tommy, and Buck wants Tommy to know him. And a part of him wants to let his boyfriend fuss over him and take care of him, at least let him bring him some painkillers from downstairs, because he’s dreading going down all those stairs while his leg is in a state of constant throbbing pain, which turns sharp and stabbing whenever he moves. But then there’s the other part of him, the stubborn part that wants to manage everything on his own, that feels like a burden, like he’s asking for too much, being too much, and he can do it all on his own, he really can. But, well, it’s Tommy. Buck doesn’t need to feel like this with him, doesn’t need to prove anything. He can be vulnerable and needy, and he can be as Buck as he can, and Tommy will never mind – he’ll love it, actually. Sometimes it’s hard to remember that Tommy is so loving and supportive, and Buck can be just unapologetically himself, and that he can actually lean on him.

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no pressure tags (lmk if you wanna be added or removed): @shortsighted-owl @eddiebabygirldiaz @watchyourbuck @loserdiaz @ladydorian05 @diazpatcher @monsterrae1 @spagheddiediaz @rainbow-nerdss @epicbuddieficrecs @pirrusstuff @bucks-daddy-issues @rogerzsteven @giddyupbuck @honestlydarkprincess @911-on-abc @jesuisici33 @steadfastsaturnsrings @buddieswhvre @fortheloveofbuddie @daffi-990 @aroeddiediaz @thewolvesof1998 @exhuastedpigeon @underwaterninja13 @hippolotamus @your-catfish-friend @loveyouanyway @theotherbuckley @diazsdimples @kinard-buckley @evansboyfriend @bucked-it-up @spotsandsocks @hoodie-buck @weewootruck @strandfirefly @41noodlesoups

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psychicthepsychic-daily · 2 years ago

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he was a black hole

he did exorcisms

and they were fourth cousins, thrice removed

(thrice removed, yeah)

#and radi got left out ; ;#jkjk #he AND SUMIRE got left out dfskjads #fic snippet #fnf psychic #fnf radi #fnf void #purple guys #void and the tall bois #friday night funkin #the friend of my friend is my enemy #hey daily void i'm using your suggestion fdskjsfk #one day i'll write a song about them being weird cousins hjdsjdfsjk #psychic daily

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apples4wce · 2 months ago

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i'm working on smoke bit by bit i'm gonna get there i promise i'm so close to finishing the first chapter

#seom writes #smoke. - updates #the chapters work as little snippets every day in a week #so there's seven main parts in a chapter each corresponding to a day of the week #idk i'm bad at explaining things but you'll see #the first part is on a monday bc that's the day that d-day came out #well for us westerners anyway #so i'm writing the friday part right now which means there's only saturday and sunday left #exciting things yes yes #i envision it will be about 8k

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booksandteaandtears · 27 days ago

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Building something

Michael 'Dr. Robby' Robinavitch x f!prosecutor!reader

continuation of Teaching Hospital (was meant to be a short, but now I can't stop myself from turning it into a mini-series)

summary: something starts building between the two. quite literally. ft. chaotic mornings, highly interested colleagues, furniture and a very stubborn reader

genre: pure fluff, a few shorter snippets, an overview of them falling in love, Robby is a simp

about 2.1k words

masterlist

You hadn't expected Dr. Robby to call you literally fifteen minutes after you left the hospital, but that wasn't to say you weren't happy with it. He'd opened the bottle of wine two days later, seated on your balcony, heaps of Indian food in front of you, Elle Fitzgerald playing in the background -your choice.

He'd been a real gentleman, especially because your arm was still in the sling: pulling back your chair, cutting pieces that were too big, insisting you were not allowed to do the dishes. There were jokes and prolonged eye contact, subtle touches when reaching for the wine bottle and flirty remarks.

When he was saying goodbye on your doorstep, you promised him you'd cook next time. "Next time?" He asked. You nodded at him. "I'll pick you up when your shift ends Friday. Try not to be too late. Emphasis on try." Then you kissed him on his cheek, turned around and closed the door. Robby was stunned on the step for a minute, unaware that you were squealing on the other side of the door.

All your dates flowed easily, conversation was great, the banter even better. The second date (where he had been late, because a trauma had come in ten minutes before he was supposed to leave), had earned Robby a peck on his lips. By the third date he couldn't help himself, and pulled you against him when you tried to make it a quick kiss again. After a second he could feel you melt into his chest, hands gripping the hair in his neck. When you both came up for air he leaned his forehead against yours, noses touching. "Sorry," he whispered. "I've been wanting to do that since you came into my ER. Couldn't stop myself this time." You smile back at him, turning you lips towards his ear. "I know." You whispered. "I was trying to test when you'd finally make a move. Took you two dates longer that I thought." Upon hearing this, his hands shot towards your jaw and his lips found yours again.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Dana tried to be subtle. Keyword: tried. It just did not come naturally to her. So when Robby turned up to work with a smile on his face after date three, she could not help herself. "Did you help the lady with her wine? Got your hoodie back yet? You're looking less of a sad boy every week." By some unfortunate miracle both Langdon and Abbot were near enough to hear her ask, and they abandoned whatever they were doing to join the questioning committee. "The lady? What lady?" "You gave your hoodie away? You never allow me near the thing." Robby sighed. "Thanks Dana. I'll be withdrawing your wingwoman title." He turned towards the break room, the two men stalking behind him.

"Come on, brother. You can't keep this stuff to yourself." Abbot was saying as Robby poured himself some coffee. "I can, and I will." "What can't he keep to himself?" Collins had chosen that moment to join them. Robby sighed. Timing was not on his side today. Collins grabbed the coffee from his hand and took a sip. "Is this about the patient wearing your hoodie a couple weeks ago? The one with the pretty face? How did your flirting turn out?" "Fli-flirting?" Langdon stuttered, "In the ER? With a PATIENT?" Robby sighed, again. "Yes, Langdon. Flirting. In the ER. With a patient. Did you think I had forgotten how to?" Then Robby turned out the door and fled from his residents.

Half an hour later a betting pool was started on when exactly Dr. Robby would admit he had a girlfriend. Dana's money was on four months, Jack's on five.

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The morning after date four Robby had woken in your bed. He smiled to himself when he realised where he was and pulled you closer against him, breathing in your hair. There had been no awkwardness, not the night before, not that morning as you took a shower while he made breakfast. He was fascinated by your morning ritual, the speed at which you shoved eggs into your mouth, while somehow simultaneously applying mascara and reading emails. He leaned back in his chair, calmly sipping coffee. "You know, you told me you hated mornings, but now I see why. I know women can multitask, but this is too much too handle at once, for anyone." You smirked. "You caught me on a good day, Michael. If it'd been a court day there would be stacks of paper everywhere. And I would have taken an extra fifteen minutes getting dressed." It had taken you a good half an hour already today. Robby blinked and mumbled something about efficiency. When the last of breakfast had disappeared you sprinted upstairs, grabbing you bag and heels, and came charging down the stairs again. "Right," you mumbled as you sifted through your bag, "Keys, laptop, charger, phone, wallet." You wobbled on one heel as you tried to put on the other. Robby stepped in and stabilised you. "Thanks," you smiled at him. "Thanks for last night, and for breakfast. It was calm this morning because of you." Robby chuckled at you. "This was calm? I can't wait to catch you on a bad day." You pulled him towards yourself and kissed him, closer to his lips now you were on heels. "Sleep over again tonight and you might experience it tomorrow. I'll be back around 8, you up for some Chinese food tonight?" Robby smiled and kissed her again. "Text me when you leave, I'll take care of the food." With another peck she bolted out the door.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

By month three of dating you decided Robby needed some wardrobe space in your house. He'd started taking extra clothes to work so he'd have a chance to change after he'd spend the night, but you hated that. You wanted him to feel at home in your place. Robby argued that he felt quite at home, as he'd spend almost every night of the past two weeks there, but you wouldn't hear it. You had decided on it, and nothing an nobody could steer you from it now. Robby was learning to work with that stubbornness, so he'd agreed on it eventually. There was, however, the small issue of actually making space in your wardrobe. It should have been easy, having a massive walk-in, but it had been filled to the brim for years, piling over into other rooms recently.

At the moment you were both staring at the walk-in. Robby tried to keep the smirk of his face. Your eyes pinched in determination and gestured towards a cabinet at the back. "If I fit more shoes into the right side of that cabinet, I can give you a plank on the left." As you opened the right side, shoes fell out and you were nearly buried beneath them. Robby was working hard on keeping a poker-face, knowing you'd stop being stubborn when you were ready for it, but not before. He kept his distance in the doorway. After you'd opened two more cabinets and the floor was littered with clothes and shoes, he'd had enough of it. You were sat amid the chaos, feeling defeated. He shuffled in front of you, knees groaning as he sat down. His back was leaning against one of the closet doors that wasn't opened. "I think," he started carefully, "You might have a few too many clothes to be making space." You pouted at him. "How about you pick out an extra wardrobe, we put it in your spare bedroom and I take a drawer there? You can fill the rest with your overflow. Might even be able to buy that new dress you've been eyeing since we saw it in town last week." You shuffled yourself towards his laps and straddled him. "Excellent problem solving skills, Dr. Robinavitch. I can see why you're good in an ER." You laughed and kissed him, his hands finding your waist. "But you'll be the one putting that wardrobe together, cause I've got two left hands and I don't want to end up in your Pitt." "Deal." He whispered against your lips and pulled you closer towards him on his lap. The two of you stayed in that wardrobe quite some time.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

While Robby had thought a new wardrobe would mean a trip to IKEA, you had tastes that pointed you the opposite way. That was how Robby was now stood in you spare room, looking at the pieces of an antique wardrobe you had picked out. You were in court all day, and he had a day of, so he'd decided that this would be the day he'd try to build the thing. No audience when he'd inevitably end up cursing at the wardrobe. IKEA building he could do, that was as easy as following the manual, but this required actual skill in carpentry. After ten minutes of staring at the heavy wood he decided he'd need to call in back up.

Court was adjourned for fifteen minutes when you finally dared to take a peek at your phone. Your background was still a picture of a trip to the Alps a couple years back, but you were debating on changing it to the close up picture you took of you and Robby holding hands at the farmers market last weekend.

Robby: So, I'd rather not admit it, but I need to call in back up for that wardrobe of yours. You okay with me inviting a friend into your home? 😅

You: As long as you serve him the good coffee I'm all for it! 😉 Top cabinet next to the mugs.

You: And with a friend you mean Jack, right?

Robby: Yep, he's coming over in ten

You: Will said friend stay for dinner? I'd like to meet him. Planning on making pasta alla norma! 🍝

Robby: He'd be delighted 😘

And so there were three of you on the balcony that evening. Abbot had saved the day. As a reward, you had taken a nice, Italian red from your stash and were enjoying it slightly chilled. Robby had learned early on that he had nog choice in wines, not at home, nor at a restaurant. He had picked up a very sour white wine once and was banned from ever choosing wine again.

He'd been worried about you meeting his best friend, but in all honesty, not a second had been awkward between the two of you. You were in excited conversation about the workmanship that had gone into your new wardrobe, Abbot apparently got just as animated about good carpentry as you, so Robby had zoned out of the conversation a while ago. He was quite content looking at the view, hearing you and his friend go on about dovetail joints and how to best treat mahogany. At some point you stood up to get more wine, leaving Abbot and Robby.

"So," began Jack. "Why the hell have you been hiding her from us all these months?" Robby rolled his eyes. "It's been barely three months, give me a break." Jack laughed. "She's a catch, brother. And you know it. She gets it, doesn't she? Your life? How work overtakes it all some days?" Robby nodded. "It's not the same, being a prosecutor, but it's similar in some things. Work never stops, the responsibilities are massive, making mistakes hurts people. She understands the pressure, the stakes. She knows the hurt people can bring about, the terror a human being can bring onto someone else." It was Jack's turn to nod. Robby looked at his friend and smiled. "It hasn't diluted her though, that life, she's so bright and happy and sure. She's strong." "And Dana approved of her." Jack replied. Robby laughed, a genuine smile reaching his eyes. "Yes, that she did."

When Jack had left, the two of you were sat on the sofa, staring out of the balcony doors, enjoying the end of a lovely evening. You had snuggled up into Robby, head resting on his chest. He closed his eyes and kissed the top of your head. "Michael," You whispered, "I think I love you." You looked up at him. A warmth filled his heart. "I know I love you." He whispered back.

#the pitt #the pitt fanfiction #dr robby #dr robinavitch #dr michael robinavitch #michael robinavitch #dana evans #dr robby x reader #dr robby x you #heather collins #the pitt imagine #the pitt fic #noah wyle #the pitt hbo #jack abbot #dr abbot #frank langdon

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onlyforsebastianstan · 24 days ago

Text

Betrayal

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: When a mission goes sideways, the Avengers are left reeling from what appears to be a devastating betrayal, yours. Believing you've turned on them, the team cuts you off. But the truth is darker than they imagined.

And when you came back, bleeding and broken to warn them of the threat coming… they still turned away.

⚠️ Warnings: → Heavy emotional angst → Team betrayal / abandonment → Offscreen torture (non-graphic) → PTSD and trauma aftermath → Guilt / grief / emotional neglect → Slow trust rebuilding → Hospital recovery scenes → Regret-heavy

The static had long since faded, but the echo of your voice still lived in the compound. It had been three months since the mission. Three months since Bucky had replayed that final communication over and over, clinging to the dissonance between your words and everything he knew about you.

"Y/N, we're not seeing the files come through. What's going on?" with Natasha on the other end of the line she asks.

"…I was never on your side." The silence that followed was like the pause before an avalanche. "Hail HYDRA." The words crackled through the comms and shattered everything. Then nothing but static. You disappeared. No trace. The intel was never recovered. The facility was destroyed. And every trail went cold.

The team tried to convince themselves it was a trick, a ploy, a forced hand. But evidence piled up. Footage, grainy, but damning, of you walking through the ruins with known Hydra operatives. A bodycam snippet of you smiling. They tried to deny what they were seeing. Bucky didn’t sleep for days, then he stopped talking about it altogether.

No one ever expected you to come back. You stood outside the gates of the Avengers Compound three months later. No weapon. No backup. Just your hands trembling at your sides.

Your voice over the intercom was ragged, uncertain. “It’s me.”

There was a long pause before Friday replied coolly, “They don’t want to see you.”

“I need to expla—”

“They don’t want explanations.”

The gate remained shut.

You didn’t leave. You couldn’t.

They called you a traitor, though never to your face. You heard them whisper. Natasha’s cold stare sliced through you. Steve wouldn’t even meet your eyes. Sam avoided you entirely. But Bucky was the worst of them all.

Because he didn’t yell. He didn’t glare. He didn’t do anything. Just looked at you like he didn’t recognize the person standing in front of him. Like you were a ghost with a stranger’s voice.

You told them you never wanted to hurt them. You told them it wasn’t what it looked like. You begged them to let you explain. But every word that left your mouth just made the wound deeper. So eventually, you stopped talking.

And that’s when Hydra found you again. It happened fast. An explosion rocked the south wall of the compound. Sirens blared. Automatic lockdown failed. Hydra soldiers flooded the halls, and the team jumped to action. They thought it was a coordinated assault. A revenge strike.

Bucky spotted you first. You were dragged into the hangar, struggling against restraints, blood on your temple. Rumlow held the gun to your head, grinning with smug satisfaction.

“You’ve got one shot to back down,” he warned the team, “or I paint the floor with your little agent.”

No one flinched. Not even Bucky. You saw it in their eyes. That fractured trust. They believed this was what you deserved.

"You think we care?” Tony called, his voice sharp but unsteady. “She’s HYDRA. Your kind.”

Rumlow’s laugh was cruel, his gun pressing harder against your temple. You winced but stayed silent. “Oh, sweetheart,” he said, his voice dripping with mock pity as he looked down at you. “You tried so hard, didn’t you? Begging us to release you, fighting with what's left of your energy, and all those struggles to escape... for this. They really thought you turned.”

Steve’s shield lowered slightly. “What are you talking about?”

Rumlow’s eyes gleamed, still talking to you, his tone taunting. ascended “That little comms stunt? Wasn’t her. We had her locked up, screaming, while our mimic played her voice. You really think she’d join us willingly?” He shook his head, smirking.

"Hail HYDRA" a voice similar to yours was heard. but it didn't come from you. A woman Appeared behind the team as she chuckles. "My my, I guess my mimicking really pulled off." she said still with your voice.

Bucky froze. You weren’t the voice. You never were. His mind reeled. That voice he memorized, clung to, wasn’t even you. It never was.

Rumlow cocks his gun ready to shoot you as you look at Bucky. “And they bought it. Hook, line, and sinker.”

You don’t know what hits the Avengers harder. Rumlow’s confession, or the horror dawning in their eyes as they look at you with new clarity. The betrayal wasn’t yours. It never was.

Steve’s shield is already in motion before the Hydra soldiers can even raise their weapons. It slices through the air with a thunderous clang, knocking two operatives off their feet as if they were nothing more than bowling pins. In the space of a single breath, everything erupts.

Gunfire crackles around you, sharp and stuttering.

Shouts echo, orders, names, warnings.

Metal screams as it collides with metal, the high-pitched wail of blades meeting armor. Somewhere behind you, Wanda’s powers surge like a pressure wave, knocking another Hydra unit into the wall.

But none of it feels real.

The world fractures. Blurs. Tilts sideways.

Your hearing distorts until all you can make out is a high, keening ring inside your skull.

And then you felt the cold, hard ground.

A terrifying, creeping cold that starts in your fingertips and crawls up your arms, settling like a weight in your chest.

Your breath catches.

You look down.

There’s blood.

A startling amount of it. Blooming like a grotesque flower across your abdomen. You don't remember falling, but suddenly you're on your knees. You press a hand to the wound and feel the warm, wet slick of it soaking through your fingers.

So much blood.

Your name is being called, shouted somewhere. Maybe Sam? Maybe Bucky?

But the voices sound so far away now.

The battle rages on around you, but all you can see is the red soaking into the concrete beneath you. All you can hear is that endless, bone-deep ringing.

And all you can think is, they weren’t supposed to shoot.

Then darkness edges in from the corners of your vision, and the world begins to slip away. Spilling from your abdomen, spreading across your clothes, pooling beneath your body in warm, sticky waves. Your legs feel numb. Your fingers tremble as they try to press against the wound. They slide through blood instead.

You didn’t even feel the shot go off.

Rumlow must’ve fired just before Bucky got to him. Maybe on purpose. Maybe not.

But it didn’t matter now.

From the ground, you can hear the crunch of boots. The thunder of fists against armor. Someone screams. Probably Rumlow. You think Steve just knocked out three men at once. Maybe more.

But you can’t turn your head to look. Your body won’t obey.

Your vision tunnels.

You blink slowly, trying to hold on. The ceiling lights flicker above you, too bright. Your breathing is shallow.

You hear a voice, one that cuts through everything else like a sharp blade.

“Y/N?”

It’s hoarse.

Disbelieving.

Then it says your name again, more frantic this time. Closer.

You manage to turn your head just enough to see Bucky drop to his knees beside you. Blood stains his gloves. You’re not sure if it’s yours or someone else’s.

Maybe both.

His face is pale. Like he’s seeing you for the first time again. Like he’s realizing something awful too late.

“No, no, no—stay with me,” he breathes, pressing down on your wound. You choke on a gasp as pain explodes through your side.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” he asks, voice cracking.

You try to laugh, but it comes out wet. You can taste copper. “I did,” you whisper.

And you did. You tried. Again and again. They just weren’t ready to hear it. The others gather around slowly, cautiously.

Steve lowers his shield, his entire body tense with grief and disbelief. Natasha’s expression is unreadable, but her jaw is clenched tight. Sam curses under his breath, pacing like he doesn’t know what to do with himself. Wanda sinks to her knees opposite Bucky, her eyes wide and shining.

“What the hell did we do,” she whispers.

And then, Tony. He pushes through the crowd, scans the scene, and when his gaze lands on you, everything shifts. His hand twitches like he wants to do something, build, fix, create, but this isn’t something blueprints or tech can undo.

“She needs a med team. Now,” he says sharply into his comm. But even you can hear the doubt in his voice.

Your fingers weakly brush Bucky’s arm. He catches your hand instantly, both of his closing around yours like he could will your blood to stay in your body through sheer force.

“I didn’t betray you,” you manage to say, your voice paper-thin. “I tried to come back.”

He nods frantically. “I know. I know now. Just hold on.”

You offer a faint smile, the kind that costs too much energy. “You hated me…”

He shakes his head hard. “No. No, I didn’t. I hated—what I thought happened. But not you. Never you.”

It’s enough. You close your eyes. Not to give up, but because staying awake is getting harder.

“You’re not going to die,” he growls, like he can order the universe to listen to him. His fingers tremble where they press into your wound. “You’re gonna wake up and yell at us. And I’ll take it. All of it. Just—don’t go now.”

Darkness curls around the edge of your vision. But just before it takes you, you hear the sirens of the emergency med team racing down the hall. You think maybe, just maybe—it’s not too late.

The med bay was quiet, dimly lit by the steady glow of monitors and the occasional flicker of diagnostic screens. The air felt heavy, like the walls themselves were holding their breath.

You lay in the center of it all, silent, unmoving, pale. A tangle of wires and tubes connected you to machines that beeped steadily, marking the fragile rhythm of a life that was barely clinging on. The ventilator hissed every few seconds, a mechanical echo that filled the space between heartbeats.

Wanda stood at your bedside, unmoving, her eyes locked on your face. You didn’t stir. Not even a twitch of your fingers. The only movement was the rise and fall of your chest, aided entirely by the tube down your throat.

Behind her, Steve paced. His jaw was tight, arms folded across his chest as he walked the length of the room for the hundredth time. He didn’t speak.

And Bucky hadn’t left.

He sat beside you, hunched in a chair that looked too small for his broad frame, as still as a statue. His metal hand rested on his knee, twitching with restrained energy. But his other hand, his flesh hand, was wrapped tightly around yours. There was no mask on his face anymore. No stoicism. Just raw, open desperation. The kind that didn’t need to be said aloud.

No one had spoken in hours.

Until Wanda finally stepped forward.

“I can try,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. She glanced at the others, eyes wide with something like hope, but tinged in sorrow. “If I go into her mind… I might be able to see what really happened.”

Steve halted mid-step, turning to face her. “You sure you’re strong enough after the fight?”

Wanda nodded once, her gaze never leaving your face. “They can’t speak for herself right now. But her mind might still remember.”

Bucky’s voice broke the silence next, hoarse and low. “What if it hurts her?”

She turned toward him, slowly, and said, “I won’t push. I��ll be gentle.”

Steve looked between them both, then at you, and after a beat of silence, he gave a single, solemn nod.

Wanda stepped closer, her fingers trembling slightly as she reached down and placed two fingers lightly against your temple. She closed her eyes.

And the world shifted.

Inside Your Mind

The moment Wanda connected, she was overwhelmed by a tidal wave of emotion. Pain. Desperation. Terror.

There was no peaceful entry. No gentle memories or quiet landscapes to guide her in.

Just screaming.

Searing pain, hot and endless, ricocheted through the mental space like a wildfire. She staggered instinctively, feeling it almost physically, but forced herself to push deeper.

Through the chaos, images began to claw their way to the surface.

You—dragged roughly down a metal corridor by two Hydra agents. Your body limp, bruised, bloodied.

You—thrown into a dark cell, the clang of the door shutting behind you like a gunshot.

Then a room.

Bright lights seared Wanda’s eyes even in the memory. A metal chair. Restraints. You, strapped down.

And Rumlow.

His voice slithered into the scene.

“The comms are still active. Let’s give your little friends a message.”

Wanda flinched as she watched a Hydra tech approach you. A woman. The woman they saw during the fight.

“Target secured. Uploading the data now.”

The sound made Wanda’s stomach turn. It was uncanny. Flawless. There was no distortion. No artificial cadence. Just you.

“Y/N, we’re not seeing the files come through. What’s going on?”

The imposter responded again, using your voice, calm, steady, terrifyingly cold.

“I was never on your side.”

And then Rumlow stepped into frame, smirking as he delivered the final blow,

“Hail Hydra.”

From your position in the chair, Wanda saw your eyes go wide with terror. You tried to scream, but the gag was already back in place.

You screamed anyway.

But no one could hear you.

The team wasn’t listening to you. They were listening to your ghost.

Then came the torture.

Wanda felt it. Not just as an observer, but as if her own body endured every lash, every cut, every jolt. The Hydra agents kept the comms channel open, using the mimic to keep up the ruse. It was all planned. Coordinated. Cruel.

In your thoughts, Wanda saw you praying they'd notice the difference. That someone, anyone, would realize that voice wasn’t you.

But no one had.

Memory after memory cascaded around Wanda, too fast to stop:

You—curled in the corner of your cell, body broken, blood drying on your skin.

You—scraping at a vent cover with trembling fingers, whispering over and over, please… please…

You—dragging your mangled body through an air duct, escaping only to collapse in the snow outside.

You—waking in a stranger’s clinic, delirious, desperate to get home.

You—standing at the gates of the Tower.

Begging.

Screaming your name into the intercom in the pouring rain.

They never answered.

You waited outside all night.

And they never came.

Wanda tore herself free with a sharp gasp, stumbling backward from the bed. Her knees nearly gave out. One hand caught the railing beside you, the other pressed to her heart as if it might stop it from tearing itself apart.

“Wanda?” Steve asked, stepping quickly to her side.

She didn’t respond at first. Her throat worked silently.

Then she looked up, and when she finally spoke, her voice was a whisper.

“She didn’t say it,” she breathed. “That voice on the comm... it wasn’t her.”

The room went still.

Steve froze. Sam’s brow furrowed. Bucky’s hand on yours turned white-knuckled.

Wanda’s voice shook as she went on. “They were already captured. Hydra made a voiceprint clone. They listened to everything through the comms and used it against us. While they tortured Y/N… we were listening to a machine pretending to be her.”

No one spoke.

Not a breath passed between the others.

And then Bucky stood. Slowly. As if rising from the grave.

His face was unreadable, locked in a silent battle between anguish and rage. His fists were clenched so tightly his knuckles split, blood trickling down his palm.

He didn’t say a word. He just turned and walked out.

He didn’t make it far.

Just two halls down from the med bay before the weight in his chest crushed him.

Bucky staggered into an empty sparring room, the lights flickering to life with a soft hum. He didn’t even notice. His breath was ragged, shallow. His vision tunneled.

The door hissed shut behind him.

And then—silence.

It rang louder than gunfire.

Louder than that damned voice he’d replayed a hundred times.

"Hail HYDRA"

He slammed his fist into the wall.

The plaster cracked. Bone didn’t.

Again.

This time, the drywall caved. Dust rained down. The pain helped. For a second. But it wasn’t enough.

Nothing would be enough.

They’d told him to stop listening to the audio logs. Said it was messing with his head.

But he had to. He had to. Because he couldn’t believe you said those words unless he heard them himself.

Again. And again.

Because maybe this time he’d catch the lie.

Maybe this time he’d hear the hesitation, the wrongness.

But it never came.

So he believed it. He let himself believe it.

You were the one person who never flinched when you looked at him. Who never held the Winter Soldier against him. Who fought beside him and chose him and saw the man behind the metal.

And he threw you away.

Not with a fight.

Not with rage.

But with silence.

He didn’t say a word when they shut the gates on you.

Didn’t move when you begged for five minutes.

Didn’t look at you when you cried in the hallway outside his room one night, curled up against the door like maybe, just maybe, you’d get through to him if he waited long enough.

He waited.

And you stopped coming.

Bucky dropped to his knees in the center of the room.

His hands trembled.

His breaths came out in short, choked gasps.

He leaned forward, bracing his forearms on the floor, forehead pressing into the mat.

He couldn’t breathe.

Not because of the guilt.

Not just that.

But because for the first time in decades, he’d trusted someone completely.

And when that trust was tested, he failed you.

He failed you worse than anyone had ever failed him.

He saw your face again, bloody, fading, your voice shaking with your last words before you passed out.

“You hated me…”

And he didn’t say the one thing he should’ve said.

“Never you.”

His fist hit the ground again. And again.

Until he was curled around himself, shaking.

Until the grief crawled out of his chest like a scream with no air.

He wasn’t crying.

Not at first.

But then, He broke. Silently. Violently.

And for the first time since the war, Bucky Barnes sobbed like a man who had nothing left to lose.

Time passed. He didn’t know how much. Minutes. Maybe hours.

Eventually, footsteps came. A pause in the doorway.

Steve’s voice, quiet. “Wanda told us everything.”

Bucky didn’t lift his head.

Steve stepped in carefully, kneeling beside him.

“You couldn’t have known,” he offered.

Bucky barked a broken laugh. “I should have known. I knew her. I knew her voice. How did I not hear it?”

Steve didn’t answer. Because what answer was there?

Bucky looked up at him finally, eyes red, jaw clenched.

“I didn’t lose her when she disappeared, Steve. I lost her the moment I stopped believing her.”

The conference room was too quiet.

Not the usual silence before a mission briefing. Not the kind of silence filled with anticipation or focus.

This was the heavy, suffocating kind, the kind that followed ruin.

No hum of computers. No tapping keys. No rustling papers. Just the cold, hard absence of sound, and the weight of everything they hadn’t said.

Wanda stood near the tall windows, arms crossed tightly over her chest. She stared through the glass like she could will time to reverse, like maybe she’d see your figure walking toward the compound, smiling, alive, not a ghost made of their guilt.

Steve sat at the head of the table, the spot usually reserved for leadership. But today, it felt like a place of judgment. His posture was rigid, hands folded tightly in front of him, eyes fixed straight ahead like he was bracing for a verdict he already knew.

Sam leaned against the far wall, jaw set, arms folded like a barrier against the blame, though it did nothing to hide the tension locked in his shoulders. His eyes flicked between the others, waiting for someone to speak first.

Natasha sat at the table, nursing a mug of coffee she hadn’t touched. Her eyes were dark, fixed on the faint ripples in the black surface, like they might reveal some alternate version of the past where they hadn’t let you down.

Bucky didn’t sit.

He stood just inside the doorway, arms stiff at his sides, his face carved from stone. The kind of stillness that meant he was barely holding himself together, that sitting still might shatter what little control he had left.

Tony was absent. Whether by accident or choice, no one asked.

No one wanted to say the first word. Because words meant responsibility. Meant facing it. All of it.

Then Wanda exhaled, a sound that broke the tension like a snap of wire.

“She was awake during all of it.”

The words landed like a blow.

Bucky’s jaw clenched.

“She heard Rumlow fake her voice,” Wanda went on, her voice trembling. “Heard us. Heard us believe it.”

Steve flinched visibly. “Wanda—”

“She screamed for us,” she said, cutting him off. Sharper than she meant to. Her breath caught. “She screamed. And no one came.”

Sam opened his mouth, stopped. “Because we thought—” His voice cracked. He didn’t finish.

“You thought she betrayed us,” Bucky said flatly, his eyes staring somewhere distant. “So did I.”

He dropped his gaze to the floor. His voice came quieter, tighter. “I listened to that comms feed every night like it was proof. Proof she lied. That she turned on us.”

A breath shuddered out of him. “I made myself believe it.”

Natasha finally spoke. Her voice was quiet. “We all did.”

Wanda nodded slowly, once. “We didn’t just turn our backs. We exiled her. Left her alone. Let her believe she deserved it.”

Steve’s head shook slowly, his expression tight. “She’s not dead. She’s going to wake up. We’ll make this right.”

Bucky let out a bitter sound. It wasn’t laughter. It was what you got when you tried to laugh with a broken rib, dry, painful, wrong.

“Make it right?” he echoed. “How? There’s no mission plan for this. No clean op. We left her bleeding outside our door. And she still came back to warn us about Hydra.”

His voice grew louder, rawer. “And the worst part? She didn’t stop trying.”

Sam’s shoulders sagged. He let out a breath, shaking his head slowly. “I heard her outside the hangar. That night after the mission. She was asking to talk. I turned up my music to drown it out.”

“You’re not the only one,” Natasha murmured.

Wanda’s gaze swept across the room. “Do you think she’ll want to stay when she wakes up?”

The silence returned, heavier than before.

Because none of them knew.

Because the version of you they remembered, the one who laughed in the kitchen, who stitched up Steve’s side mid-mission without blinking, who fought like the team’s safety was more important than your life, that person was gone.

And the one lying unconscious in the medbay?

They didn’t know if she’d come back.

Didn’t know if she even wanted to.

Steve finally stood, his hands braced on the table. His voice was steady, but low.

“We owe her more than apologies.”

Across the room, Bucky didn’t lift his head.

He just said, quiet and firm, “We owe her everything.”

Darkness wasn’t empty.

It pressed against you, not with silence, but with pressure. Thick and slow, like sinking into a dark ocean where sound bent and meaning vanished. You couldn’t tell which way was up. Couldn’t find the edges of yourself.

Then, a sound. Dull, distant, and familiar.

Beeping. Slow, steady, rhythmic. Life.

A flicker sparked in your fingers. A twitch. Then breath, shallow and dry against the raw scrape of your throat.

Voices emerged from the dark.

“…any change?”

It was rough. Worn thin. But you knew it. Bucky.

A pause.

“No… but she’s breathing on her own now.”

Sam. Steady. Tired, but hopeful.

You weren’t alone.

The darkness began to thin, shadows peeling back from your senses. You floated there, tethered by their voices, by the familiar sound of machines and distant footsteps and something soft beneath your spine.

A bed.

And then, a touch. Not pain. Not intrusion, just a hand.

Calloused. The cold edge of metal across your knuckles, softened by the warmth in his grip.

Bucky.

You didn’t open your eyes. Couldn’t. But your chest lifted just slightly, breath slow and steady beneath the faint weight of blankets and time.

You were alive.

And you weren’t alone.

When you finally stirred again, daylight filled the room.

The sun spilled golden through the wide windowpanes, painting the medbay in soft light. Your body ached. Not just from wounds and muscles unused, but deeper than that. Bone-deep. Soul-deep.

But you felt.

That mattered.

You blinked slowly, vision fuzzy.

The scent in the air was familiar. Warm, subtle. Aftershave. Bucky’s. He’d been there. Maybe only just left.

The door creaked.

Wanda stepped inside, the soft swish of her coat marking her approach. She froze the moment she saw you, your eyes cracked open, barely, but open.

Her hands flew to her mouth, tears rising fast.

“Y/N?”

You couldn’t speak, not yet. But your fingers twitched. Enough.

She crossed the room in a heartbeat, her movements careful but urgent. She reached you, brushing your hair back gently with trembling hands.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, her voice thick and bare. “I didn’t see you. I should’ve. I should’ve known.”

You blinked once.

And still, she smiled, a sad, grateful thing through her tears.

“You’re safe now,” she said. “They’re all waiting. When you’re ready.”

She stayed a moment longer, her thumb brushing your cheek with the lightest pressure. Then she stood.

At the door, she paused.

“Bucky’s been here every day,” she said. “He never left your side.”

And then she was gone.

Time passed in fragments.

Moments of awareness. Fleeting conversations. Familiar faces hovering above you like dreams.

Natasha. Sam. Steve.

Each came alone, quiet and hesitant. Each one carrying guilt they didn’t know how to put into words, but they tried.

You listened.

You didn’t have the strength to answer. Not yet. But you heard them.

And every time they left… you waited.

Until one day, your voice cracked through the stillness like a match to dry tinder.

“Is Bucky here?”

The nurse didn’t answer. Just smiled and stepped out.

And within minutes, he came.

The door opened softly.

Boots scraped lightly on the tile, hesitant. Then he appeared, shadowed by the doorway, like he wasn’t sure if he had permission to step inside.

You looked at him.

His eyes widened at the sight of yours open, focused.

“Hey,” you rasped.

The sound shattered something in him.

His jaw clenched. He nodded once, stepped inside.

Closer.

He looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks. Like guilt had been carved into his ribs and he’d learned to breathe around it.

You tried to sit up. Pain flared down your side.

“Don’t—no, it’s okay, I’ve got you.”

He moved instantly, metal fingers adjusting your pillows with a gentleness that nearly undid you. His other hand hovered near yours, waiting, not assuming.

When you finally settled, you turned to him.

“Everyone’s already said their piece,” you whispered. “I figured you were avoiding yours.”

He flinched.

“I wasn’t avoiding it,” he said quietly. “I just didn’t… I didn’t know if you wanted to hear it from me.”

You studied him, the lines in his face deeper than before. “I wanted to explain. The night I came back.”

“I know.”

“You wouldn’t even look at me.”

“I couldn’t,” he whispered. “Not because I hated you. I just… I couldn’t see your face and not think of that moment in the comms. Your voice. Telling us you were Hydra. That you’d been playing us.”

You looked away.

“I heard it too,” you said. “While they hurt me. While they let that voice pretend to be mine. I listened to myself destroy everything I cared about.”

His hand twitched.

“I kept hoping… someone would figure it out. That you would.”

He stared at the floor.

“I failed you,” he said, voice rough.

You looked back at him.

“I didn’t question it,” he said, breath hitching. “I didn’t ask for proof. I didn’t listen to my gut. I just assumed the worst.”

A pause.

Then you said it. The truth that still ached.

“You loved me. And you still didn’t trust me.”

His eyes shone, red-rimmed.

“I never stopped,” he whispered. “That was the problem.”

You looked down at his hand, still hovering near yours.

“If I had trusted you,” he continued, “then believing that voice would’ve broken me. I think I was trying to protect myself by not believing in you. But it cost you everything.”

Silence.

And then slowly, painfully, you turned your hand, laced your fingers with his.

“It’s not your forgiveness you need to ask for,” you said. “It’s mine.”

He looked up.

“Do I have it?”

You squeezed his hand.

“You’re going to have to earn it.”

He nodded, fiercely. “Then I will.”

And in that moment, something shifted.

No more silence.

No more pretending.

Just the truth, bruised and raw, between you.

A beginning.

Together.

See my other stories here >>> Masterlist <<<

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space-writes · 7 months ago

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friday kiss

tagged by @artdecosupernova-writing, thank you! here’s an oldie but a goodie from what’s still one of my favourite Obsession fics, feel me from the inside

cw: vivisection, gore

[ID - a red decorative divider]

He realises his eyes have drifted closed when Pharaun slides a bloody hand into his hair and tugs, lightly. He blinks, struggling to focus. Pharaun’s other hand is lifted up, and hooked around his delicate wrist is a looped coil of glistening intestine. A deep and wonderful void of wrongness lies in Vizaeth’s core, pulsing, throbbing with Pharaun’s magic. He turns to meet Pharaun’s kiss and hopes the blood never washes out. “I think you might be dying,” Pharaun whispers into his mouth. He tilts his wrist and Vizaeth’s guts fall back into place—the wrong place, probably, but even if that’s the case, they’ll work the better for Pharaun having touched them.

[ID - a red decorative divider]

no-pressure tagging @revenancy @viscerawrites and @winterandwords

#writeblr #tag games #snippets #friday kiss tag #obsession fic blogging #c: vizaeth thaezyr #c: pharaun mizzrym #fanfiction #wotsq fic #war of the spider queen fic #this one is still in my greatest hits imo #writing this altered something in my authorial nature i think #two original posts from me in a day what is this #it's the fact i forgot i was posting a fic today and also had a friday kiss ready to go lol #anyway enjoy!

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stellar-haikyuu · 7 months ago

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word of the day ☆ kageyama tobio x reader

synopsis: due to a conflict in schedule, yachi asks first-year reader to cover for her english tutoring session with a certain volleyball prodigy. details: fluff | mutual friends to lovers | first meeting | ~2.2k words | gn! reader | requested by @wordsofelie as part of my karasuno writing event

From your seat by the window, you catch snippets of Yachi’s anxious voice from the hallway.

“You’re only available this afternoon? Oh dear. Um, okay, I think I can go, but I need to double-check first!”

Leaning forward on your desk, you spot Yachi speaking with a student you don’t recognize. Judging by the neatly labeled folders the student hands her, they’re probably from the first-year project design committee.

You feel a small wave of pride. You convinced Yachi to sign up after seeing her beautiful volleyball posters.

Moments later, Yachi skitters into the classroom, her steps quick and slightly frantic as she collapses into the seat in front of you. She turns around, clasping her hands together nervously.

“Um…can I ask you for a favor?”

You raise an eyebrow, taken aback by her unusual boldness. “A favor? What happened? I could hear you worrying from all the way here.”

Yachi winces, the tips of her ears turning pink. “Uh, you see…the design committee wants to hold a meeting this afternoon after school. I’ll be excused from club activities, but that’s not the issue.” She sighs, brushing her bangs aside.

“What is it, then?”

“I promised to tutor Kageyama-kun in English,” she explains, voice softening with guilt. “He’s got a test this Friday, and I agreed to help him study for an hour today before practice starts.”

Kageyama? Oh, right.

You vaguely remember him—one of the two volleyball players who occasionally show up in your classroom to study with Yachi during lunch breaks.

“I see,” you say slowly. “So, you want me to cover for you?”

“If it’s not too much trouble?” Yachi’s hands clasp together as she leans forward slightly. “And…if you have questions about volleyball, this might be a good chance to ask?”

Her hopeful tone makes you pause. You suppose it wouldn’t hurt.

“But if not, I don’t want to bother you!” She shakes her head vigorously. “I can just double my other session with him later this week-”

“Alright. I’ll do it,” you say with a small shrug.

“I- wait, really?!” Her eyes widen in surprise.

“Yup. What time and place?”

Bracing yourself, you knock gently on what you hope is the correct clubroom door.

“Uh, hello? Is this the volleyball club?”

A voice from the other side calls out, “Yeah, come in!”

Taking a deep breath, you slide the door open, stepping into a room filled with what can only be described as chaos. A group of boys—clearly the team—turns to stare at you in unison, their expressions ranging from curious to outright surprised.

“Um, hello!” You clear your throat, suddenly aware of the weight of their attention. “Is Kageyama-san here?”

Technically, you’ve seen him before, but you’d rather not embarrass yourself by scanning every face in the room.

“That’s me,” a deep voice responds.

You follow the sound to a dark-haired boy seated a few feet away. When you meet his gaze, you’re taken aback by the sheer intensity of his stare.

His eyes look like blueberries…why haven’t I noticed that before?

You chuckle softly at the absurd thought before regaining your composure.

“Hi! Yachi couldn’t make it today because of a meeting, so she asked me to fill in for her.”

“Oh. Okay,” he says simply, blinking in confusion.

“Wait a second!” A boy with bright orange hair practically bounces up from his seat. “You’re Yachi-san’s classmate, right? You sit behind her during lunch sometimes!”

“That’s me,” you reply with a small smile.

You introduce yourself to the team formally before settling on the ground beside Kageyama.

“So, your vocabulary test is this Friday, right?”

“Yes,” he replies curtly, handing you a stack of papers and worksheets.

As you skim through the materials, the reason for his struggles becomes glaringly obvious. You suppress a small sigh.

“Hmmm. Okay, let’s start by marking the words you’re completely unfamiliar with. Could you underline them with a pencil?”

Kageyama nods and sets to work, though it doesn’t take long for him to underline more than half the list.

The orange-haired boy—Hinata, you later learn—leans over to peek at the paper. He immediately snorts. “Man, you really suck at this, Kageyama.”

Kageyama whirls to face him, glaring. “As if you’re doing any better!”

“Hinata, could you shut up and work on your proverbs? I don’t have all day.”

“Tsukishima!”

Well, isn’t this interesting…

“This is so hard.” Kageyama huffs in frustration. “I won’t even need this stuff in the future.”

“Yeah, but you need it to go to the next training camp,” Hinata chimes in.

“Also, don’t be rude, King,” Tsukishima adds. “They weren't even supposed to tutor you at all.”

At that, Kageyama immediately straightens and bows his head toward you. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude.”

“It’s fine, I get it.” You wave your hand dismissively. “I’m not too fond of science because I don’t see how chemistry will help me be a better sports journalist.”

Kageyama stops writing before shooting his head up. “Sports journalist?”

The rest of the members scattered around the room pause too, almost like you’ve dropped the most shocking revelation of the century.

“You like sports?” Kageyama questions.

“Yep! I don’t have a particular favorite at the moment.” You tap your chin thoughtfully. “I’m still trying to explore everything, but-”

“What about volleyball?” Kageyama’s full attention is on you now. He’s leaning forward and the pencil that was once in his hand is now rolling on the floor.

You hear an amused huff from somewhere in the room.

“Uh, volleyball?” You fumble for a response, caught off guard by the sudden shift in focus. “Well, it’s the sport I enjoyed playing the most in physical education.”

“What did you like about it?” He presses, moving a little closer.

“Uh-”

Yachi wasn’t kidding when she said volleyball was his life.

“Relax, Kageyama. They're not going anywhere, give them some space,” a gray-haired senior advises him.

“Oh, sorry,” Kageyama mumbles, leaning back a bit.

“It’s fine.” You smile, finding his passion quite endearing.

“I guess I like that I don’t have to handle the ball for a long time. Plus, your entire team just stays on one side of the court. When it comes to basketball or soccer, I look like a fool because I can’t dribble the ball well. It always gets away from me, and the other teams snatch it before I know what’s going on.”

You pause mid-ramble, momentarily embarrassed, but Kageyama doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, he looks even more engaged.

“Also, I find volleyball unpredictable and thrilling. The rallies always keep me on the edge of my seat. I’m sure you understand what I mean?”

“Yes. I do.” Something in his eyes shifts. “Thrilling…”

“Yeah-”

“Thrilling. Causing a feeling of great excitement or happiness,” Kageyama recites from memory.

The atmosphere in the room lightens instantly. Everyone attempts to hold back a laugh, including you. A few of his team members fail to do so, but he pays them no mind.

“That’s right, Kageyama-san. Volleyball is thrilling,” you nod at him with a shaky smile.

“Yes!” He cheers to himself silently, pumping his fists in genuine excitement.

Cute.

An idea suddenly pops into your head.

“Speaking of volleyball, do you have plans to play professionally?”

“Of course!” He answers with absolute confidence. “I don’t plan on doing anything else.”

“Ah, I see. And you plan on playing on international teams one day?”

“Definitely,” he responds without missing a beat.

“Great. You know what I think, Kageyama-san?”

“What?” He looks at you expectantly.

“Maybe learning some basic English could help you play better with foreign teammates.”

Kageyama tilts his head. “English can…help?”

“You don’t need to be a fluent speaker, but teamwork improves when you can understand each other more, right?”

“That’s…” He stops to think about it carefully. You wait, hoping that it motivates him to study a bit more.

“But, wouldn’t there be translators and everything?” Hinata pipes up.

“That’s true, but they won’t always be there,” you respond in a steady tone. “I believe it’s always better to be prepared. It helps to have a common language at times.”

“A common language…” Hinata repeats.

“Well, for instance, I plan on being a sports journalist here,” you continue, “but there’s a chance I’ll need to interview foreign players. It could help to know a bit of what they’re saying so that it doesn’t get very awkward. But, that’s just my perspective.”

Kageyama looks up, and to your surprise, he speaks before anyone else can.

“You’re right.”

The room goes silent. For a moment, you’re sure you didn’t hear him correctly.

“You’re right,” he repeats, more firmly this time. “How good should I be?”

“I—huh?” You blink again, confused by the sudden shift.

“How good should I be?” he asks, clearly serious, his intense gaze fixed on you.

“Oh, I heard you the first time,” you clarify, still trying to make sense of the situation. “I just don’t understand what you mean.”

“What should my goal be? How many words should I start memorizing?”

“Your goal?” You blink at him. “Your goal now for high school is to pass your English classes.”

Kageyama pouts. “I know, but you said it was important for volleyball. I need to be good enough at it then.”

You scramble your brain for a possible answer. “So…we’re talking about many years from now?”

He nods, patiently waiting for your verdict.

“Okay, fine,” you sigh. “If I get the chance to interview you in the future, we’ll do it in basic English. How does that sound?”

“I’ll do it,” he replies immediately, eyes lighting up.

Did he even process what I said?

“Please continue to teach me.” Kageyama bows before you, causing everyone to startle.

“Look at that! The King’s actually asking?”

“Shut up!” Kageyama grumbles at his teammate before turning back to you.

You’re flustered by his unexpected gesture, but can’t help the tiny smile tugging at the corner of your lips.

“Alright. Now come on, we’ve got thirty more minutes before you guys start practice.”

Yachi calls you later that evening in total disbelief. “Kageyama-kun just told me you guys went through his entire vocabulary list today.”

“Yes.”

“I couldn’t believe it at first!” Yachi exclaims, her tone rising in excitement. “Sometimes we barely get through half the list after an hour.”

You think back to his progress before you found a way to motivate him. “Well, it seemed that way at first-”

“Then he says that learning English is important for his future after all! He even wants to dedicate extra time to study for it. He never would have done that before!”

“Ah-”

“And here’s the thing,” she continues, “he asked if you could tutor him again on other days! What exactly did you do?”

“Well, I-”

“Or is it something that I didn’t do? Did he say anything about me being a bad teacher or-”

“Yachi-san!” You cut her off before she spirals any further. “Don’t worry, he didn’t say anything about you. I think this is all because I may have challenged him to do a basic English interview with me in the future.”

Yachi blows a fuse. “You challenged- wait, what? In the future? What do you-”

“Wait, is that a bad thing?”

“No! I mean, it’s good, I suppose?” Yachi’s voice softens as she carefully chooses her words. “Um, it actually explains something he asked me for help with earlier.”

“What is it?”

“You told him to write down one word every day and use it in a meaningful sentence, right?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Well, you see, his sentence, um…”

“What’s wrong?”

“He asked me how to write, ‘Meeting Yachi-san’s friend was thrilling.’”

You freeze for a moment, the weight of her words sinking in.

“Wait- what?”

“He said meeting you was thrilling.”

“Oh...”

The silence on the line stretches, your mind racing. Something electric runs through your veins, and you can almost feel your heart thumping faster.

“What about you?” Yachi asks, her voice hesitant but curious.

“Me?”

“Was meeting Kageyama-kun thrilling too?”

You think back to that afternoon and it’s easy to respond with certainty.

“Yes.”

A week later, Kageyama walks into your classroom during lunch. He shows you a test paper with what he says is the highest score he’s ever gotten on an English test.

You can hear Hinata grumbling to Yachi about how unfair it is that Kageyama got extra help, but all you can focus on is Kageyama’s smile. It’s the most genuine, beautiful one you’ve ever seen.

I want to see it more.

I want to be around him more.

I want to achieve our goals together.

“Dream.”

Kageyama’s voice snaps you out of your thoughts.

“What?”

He points to the bottom of his test paper, where he was asked to write a sentence in English using any of the provided vocabulary words. You attempt to read his messy handwriting, but he reads it out for you anyway.

“Their dream is to be a sports journalist.”

You feel the heat rise to your cheeks.

He wrote about me?

Hinata squawks, reaching for the test paper and reviewing it with Yachi.

“Oh my gosh, he actually got all the grammar right,” she gasps in awe. “Good job, Kageyama-kun!”

He thanks her briefly before fixing his gaze on you once more.

“Dream. That was the word of the day.”

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