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lailawinchesterr · 12 days

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nightmare [dean winchester]

pairing; dean w x fem! reader summary; you go on a hunt with the brothers but when it goes to shit, dean can’t help being overprotective. tags; angst, stitching yourself, alcoholic dean, some you and sam in there cause he's the cutest baby, your dad died.

“fuck! sam, quick, get the girls.” dean runs into the impala forcing the engine to roar to life and flashes his lights at the highest setting for the vampires, burning their eyes as the other four get into it and he drives off.

it's quite for the first five minutes, except for the heavy breathing. the two girls that the trio rescued are sleeping peacefully, though you think it's anything but peaceful. their faces aren't relaxed, instead covered in blood and frowning, but their breaths have slowed, at least.

five minutes. that's all it takes before the tension is broken with a, “let me drive, dean.” the older winchester lets out an exaggerated airy laugh for all of two seconds before putting on a straight face and telling him no. “you're hurt, you can hardly keep your eyes open, let me drive, either of us.”

sam is right, dean is hurt way more than both of you combined, he fought off most of the vampires on his own while you took the girls and ran, but he was mostly hurt because he hadn't expected it.

your plan was to get the girls and dip then come back in the morning to wipe them out in their sleep, but you had woken one of them up with the loudest noise you've ever made when one of the girls stabbed you in the stomach with some glass she’d found on the floor.

again, taken by surprise. obviously the girls thought you were one of the vampires.

“shut up. it's only a ten minute drive to the nearest hospital.”

“we're going to a hospital?” you don't usually hunt with sam and dean, opting to stay in the motels and do some research, maybe figure out a better plan, but you've never seen them go to the hospital for their injuries, they'd always come home to you bleeding out on the floor.

“for you and the girls, yes.”

“what about you and sam?”

“it's fine.” that shut you up, his strict tone, and stare in the rear view mirror made you slide down in your seat.

ten minutes later you’ve reached 'northwest tawara horspital' and sam is helping the girls out of the impala. dean, while a wanted fugitive, does the same with you.

but you refuse. “i won't go inside if you two aren't.”

“what?” he moves a little too quickly and holds his side as he winces. god, that can't be comfortable.

“i won't go inside, we're just wasting time,” sam comes back and stands in the drivers side to talk to you, door open. “see? sam's back, let's get home quickly so we can fix you both up, and me.”

“no, you're going in.” sam was the one to insist this time but you just shake your head and stay planted into your seat. through the corner of your eye you can see both men discussing what to do then they get back in the car with a sigh.

on the drive home it’s mostly silent until you feel your eyes flutter closed. just a few seconds of sleep— but dean’s loud shout of your name wakes you up, “don't close your eyes, we need to fix you up first.” you nod and straighten up, “and what you did back there? fuckin’ reckless, don't pull that shit again. when we tell you to do something, you do it. or you don't come on hunts with us.”

“what the hell? i was the one who decided i didn't want to come with hunts on you guys, you can't take away my choice.”

“like hell i can't!” he isn't looking at you through the mirror, instead focusing on the road because you're on a busy one, but you can still feel his eyes burning into yours. it makes you shrink down in your seat. you hate how much his words affect you, and how visible it is too.

sam has has never yelled at you really, but even if he had it wouldn't have done much damage, he's too soft for that. dean though... he scares you sometimes, not that he'd hurt you or kick you out, just that he'd be disappointed in you, maybe give you the silent treatment. you don't want that, but you also hate being barked orders at.

“you can't, dean.” sam says to his brother, slapping his shoulder once to ground him back, and it seems to have worked. because you’re not a bad hunter— if anything, you have their back most of the time, you aren’t clumsy or unreliable and what happened had been a mistake that any other hunter would have made. this isn’t about hunting. this is about dean being too controlling.

you thought it was over now that you're at the motel but when he parks baby, he looks back at you, “i can, and i fucking will. you can't act like a child and expect us to let you come on the hunts. you listen to whatever the fuck we tell you to do.” your lips part in surprise, thinking of how to respond, but he doesn't even give you the chance and gets out, slamming the door behind him.

you don't look at sam as you close baby's door and start walking to the motel. sam catches up and tells you to wait and because you don't have it in you to be yelled at anymore, you turn back and face him.

he says your name, low and soft, “that wasn't an order,”

shut up before i cry “hey,” he hugs you, your head on his chest and you just let it all out. god, you feel so stupid. you can't believe you were so unprepared and you caused them all this damage. if you had just been in defense mode you would've never screamed, you've been through worst and kept quite. and though you know it’s a little irrational, you can’t help but blame yourself for not being quiet.

“hey, he's just worried about you, he means well, you know that.” you let go slightly and he kisses your forehead, telling you to go into their room and that he'll be in yours to get cleaned up.

walking into the room of the man who just basically called you a two year old is nerve-wrecking. you don't want to be screamed at and god knows you don't want to be treated like a child again. every time you think you’re getting through to dean, or that you’re becoming closer, something happens and he reminds you you’re still young, naive, and only with them because your dad had told them to.

your father is— was a hunter, he used to hunt with john sometimes, and when he heard about the apocalypse that's soon to be here and all the angels that seem to stride onto earth, he wanted to tie up loose ends, so he asked the winchesters to keep you with them until further notice.

then he never came back. but all of this is something you’ve dealt with ages ago. years even. but this? dean pushing you away all the time? acting like you’re some burden? that, you can’t get over.

“hey,” you hear his voice and turn around, not even having seen him walking towards the bathroom. “how you holding up?”

it’s a stupid attempt to make amends, but it works. the second he says anything, it works. it always does.

“fine.” you mumble and notice he’s finishing supplies to stitch himself up. ouch. you know the boys prefer to do it themselves than help the other out but you’ve always found they need a gentler hand.

you walk towards him and hold his hand in place to stop his movements, taking the needle from him. he doesn't complain, just drowns the bottle of whiskey. with one hand, the other holding his shirt up.

when it’s done you hold my hand out for the bottle and he scoffs, as if wasting his alcohol hurts him more than the wound that just got stitched up. he hands it over reluctantly.

you pull down his shirt and decide it’s better if you take a swig too. “does it hurt?” the questions rolls off easily, no matter how angry you are at him.

“i'll survive.” he shrugs like it's nothing. like the gash over most of his stomach is nothing.

“not what i asked.” dean half-heartedly glares at you but your expectant expression makes him think there isn’t a way out. and there isn’t.

“it's fine, my arm’s just sore.” you sit next to him on the bed, pushing his sleeve up and he hisses, muttering something under his breath and snatching the bottle from your hand to drown it.

“dean...” it’s surreal. it knocks all the air out of your lungs. you’ve never seen the mark, the one an angel of the lord imprinted on dean’s shoulder, though sam talked about it a couple of times. you clear your throat before he notices the staring and point to the wound, “i think you need to stitch that one too, hand me another needle.”

he does and you get to work. it’s mostly noiseless but it feels like there's something heavy in the air, a confession. though it’s impossible to tell who’s supposed to make it.

“i'm sorry.” you try to hide the surprise on your face by looking down but he doesn't let you, hooking his fingers under your chin and he makes you look up at him. “i was so worried about you.” he lets go, taking a breath in, “the way i felt when you screamed? damn it, i've never felt so scared before and i've been to hell,” he lets out a dry laugh and you smile a little. god he's so perfect.

“i don't wanna hurt you, sweetheart, never, so when i ask you to listen to me it isn't because i'm treating you like a child, i just wanna keep you safe.” there are more words on the tip of his tongue but he shuts up and it doesn’t nothing to help the growing smile on your face. it's more than you thought you’d ever get out of him.

you pour a more of the alcohol on his stitches and pull the sleeve down. “okay, you officially need a shower now, you're all booze and cologne. i need to clean this place up.”

“it's fine, sammy and i will do it.”

“not happening. go get cleaned up, i'll finish here.” you knew that what you’re doing is painfully obvious, but you hope he lets it go, just this once.

of course he doesn't, instead pulling your shirt up to reveal the various cuts that don’t need stitches, just some treatment, and the stab wound you fixed in the car when they were both too busy sulking in the tension. you’ve gotten a lot better at handling pain since you’ve started with the winchesters.

“when did you do that?”

“doesn't matter, it's done. get in the shower dean, let me clean up and go to sleep.”

“damn it, just answer me when i ask something. when did you do this?”

“car.” you’re scared, tired and you don't want to fight. but he just apologized, for god’s sake, can’t he give it a rest.

you wait for his harsh blow. words that will knock you off my feet, anything really, but he just sighs, letting the shirt go and stands up. you do the same and he embraces you in a hug that you’re quick to reciprocate. so quick you’d already had your arms around his neck before he got his around your waist.

the whiskey burns your nose but it's nothing compared to how your body burns with you so close. “dean?”

“you're so strong, you know?” he takes a beat, a breath, “but that doesn't mean shit to me, i still wanna keep you safe all the time because god knows i don't deserve you but i'm too selfish to let you go.”

you pull away just to see his face. you need to know he means what he's saying. that you’re talking about the both of you in the way you’re thinking. the desperation to convey how he feels to you, it gives you all the confidence in the world to stand a little taller and finally kiss him.

you kiss dean winchester because for the first time in ages, someone cares, someone wants you safe. someone learned from their mistake and did better, someone is fucking perfect and it's dean.

one of his hands is rough on your waist, the other on you cheek. his tongue, his cologne, it all makes you melt into him.

then ten seconds later, way too deep into the kiss he pulls away slowly, shakes his head and groans, “why'd you do that.”

you step away him in panic. you were ready for rejection, sure. a small ‘i don't see you like that’, not this.

“i'm sorry, i didn't mean to—”

“no, no, hey,” he steps closer “i just... i don't wanna do this if it's gonna hurt you. i don't know how good i will be if we go down that road and you deserve something good.”

“you are dean,” he licks his bottom lip and it catches you attention, forcing you to bite on yours, “you're good. you're perfect.”

one thing i will not allow in my household is the winchester brothers being insecure that they're not enough (pov it’s all they do). anyways sooo this is for the jensen-a-thon for @artyandink so excited to have my first entry and there’s another one i’ve been working on for a week (hopefully i’m almost done with it). hope you enjoyed this!

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wonderwomanfantasy · 2 years

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under the stars together (part one)

hey. this is the longest thing I've ever written. if you want to just jump to the smut it's pretty self-contained so feel free to just read those chapters.

part one/ part two/ part three/ part four/ part five/ part six/ part seven/ part eight/ part nine/ part ten(smut)/ part eleven& epilogue.(smut)

werewolf!OC x Fem!Reader

warnings: Daddy issues AND Mommy issues, mentions of illness and surgery, acts of violence, mentions of blood & gore, smut, werewolf smut,

word count: 1,300 (for this chapter, 20k~ when all is said and done)

summary: the sun is hot on your face as you ride into the unknown. home is to your back and you don't know what the future holds. Just how you like it. You've run here all on your own, and there's nothing tying you down, It would be so easy to pick up and start running again. It's freeing, It's terrifying. You could run, but you're choosing to stay.

You were 30 miles away from home when you stopped and pulled to the side of the road. "stopped" was a light way of putting it, you had almost fishtailed off the road and barely got control of yourself again before deciding to pull over. You cursed under your breath looking around at your surroundings. The rain had overtaken the road, there was a good inch of water over the pavement and the dirt shoulders were nothing but mud. Your motorcycle couldn’t make it in this. You took a steadying breath and took off your helmet turning your face up to the clouds, letting the onslaught of rain wash away the sweat from your brow. The rain was all wrong here, warm and heavy, not at all like the summer rain you were accustomed to. You couldn’t even tell if the wetness on the back of your neck was rain, sweat, or just the humid air pressing in on all sides.

You were in the middle of nowhere stuck on the shoulder of a two-lane highway. You thought bitterly of the way your father had laughed when you told him you were leaving, maybe he had been right, that you weren’t grown up enough to make it here on your own. Or maybe he just checked the forecast, you snapped at yourself.

“Come on, you’re a big girl, what do we do now?” you said aloud to yourself.

You leaned against your bike and considered your options. you could keep driving, either to your mother’s house or back 20 miles to the last town you’d passed through. You took another look at the road and quickly ruled that out, you’d hydroplane and crash long before you got to either place. You could call your mother, who was expecting you and would happily get in her car and come to your rescue, no matter how exhausted she was. You didn’t like that option either, it would mean abandoning my bike here on the road until the storm died and worse, relying on your mom.

You thought of the last time you saw her. Her skin and eyes had turned yellow, she was thinner than I’d ever seen her, except for her stomach which bulged with her sickness. No, you couldn’t ask her to help, even if she would love to.

You could wait, but who knew how long this storm would leave you stranded? you didn’t need the rain to stop, just die down you reasoned.

There was a flash of light, you almost thought it was lightning but it didn’t fade. Headlights, you realized as your next option pulled closer.

“--Hell of a night to be caught outdoors haven’t seen a storm like this one in years no ma’am haven’t seen a storm like this since, gosh musta been back nineteen years-” The driver babbled on. He had introduced himself as Sam Tucker, and he’d been nothing but kind, even going as far as to let you load your bike into the bed of his pickup. His voice had a thick southern twang that you had to fight to keep from imitating. You crossed your arms and held yourself close and nodded along to his rambling about the rain.

This truck really wasn’t so different from your father's, old but sturdy, the kind that had one long bench making up the seats and the gear next to the wheel instead of in a center console. The cracked leather felt familiar under your fingers, and the faint smell of cigarette smoke reminded you of home.

Your parents had gotten divorced before you were even born your mom getting pregnant was a big part of that divorce. your dad never wanted kids, but your mom wouldn’t get rid of you, so they separated, and in a cruel twist of fate, the courts decided that your mother was unfit to raise a child and dear old dad got saddled with you.

He told you that story every time we took a road trip to see her. At first, it almost sounded like he was joking like he didn’t know he wanted a child until he had one forced upon him, now of course you were older and knew better. you tried not to think about your father or the dull weeks you spent with your mom during winter vacation as a child.

Now that you were somewhere dry you were starting to feel the wet sink into your bones, you shivered and Sam noticed.

“Shoot I’m sorry Ma’am you must be half-frozen here-” He turned the truck’s heater on full blast.

“Thank you kindly, Sir,” you said as politely as you could muster and gave him a weak smile before folding back in on yourself. You had never been called Ma’am before, you were only twenty. Sam seemed nice enough but he still scared you a little bit, the way all older men tended to scare you. You pressed your ankle to the inside of your boot, feeling the hunting knife safely lodged against my leg. you felt better knowing that you could protect yourself if things took a turn.

Your father’s voice echoed in your head, Don’t like going into town without a knife. You couldn’t help but glower at my feet. You hated being like him, even in small ways, like carrying a knife.

“Where are you headed to Miss?” Sam asked, pulling you from your thoughts, you hesitated for a moment before answering,

“Ultimately I’m trying to hit Sunfield, but honestly sir just drop me off at the nearest town and I’ll be fine,” you told him. He grinned at me

“Well, I’ll be! I’m headed to Sunfield myself, won’t be any trouble at all. Say, Sunfield ain't a big place what’s bringing you here?” he asked with enthusiasm you wished you could match.

“My ma- my mother, Is sick,” you had to fight from adopting his southern accent now.

“Oh,” he said and the silence hung between us for a long time. You slicked your wet hair back and absently whipped your hands on your jeans before realizing your clothes were also wet and it did nothing to absorb the moister.

“What did you say your name was again Ma’am?” he asked turning away from the road for a split second to face you. He must have been trying to place your face, not an easy task in the dark.

You repeated your name deftly.

“Hell, you’re Nicole’s girl?” he asked a little disbelievingly.

“That’s me,” you admitted. you should have known, Sunfield was a small town of course he would have known your mother just by last name.

“Shoot, I knew she had a girl about your age but, don’t take this the wrong way but, you don’t look like your mother,” he laughed. you had gotten that a lot.

“I take after my dad,” you said bluntly.

“Shame, she used to be such a happy woman, even if she doesn’t drink anymore she’d still come down to the bar every Friday and have a good laugh with everyone. Now she's just too tired to come out,” his voice had grown softer, you had to strain to hear him over the pounding of the rain.

“You’re here to help?” he asked when you didn’t answer. You had to bite your tongue to keep from snapping at him. Sam had been kind to pick you up, he was your mom’s friend you should be nice. You didn’t want to talk about her.

“Help, and give her half of my liver,” you said bitterly. Sam let out one short laugh.

“Your mother is lucky to have you, I don’t think my boy would do the same for me,” he said. Then smiled and pointed to the sign welcoming us to Sunfield. For the first time since you were twelve, you were home.

#werewolf x reader #werewolf oc #fem reader #monster lover #monster boyfriend #monster x reader #monster romance

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droplet-dread-cat · 2 years

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Villain Rei AU

AU in which Rei breaks out of the psychiatric ward because she sees just how much Fuyumi and Natsuo are suffering. Previous to her breakout, she has a whole Uncle Iroh-esque prison training arc (only hers is obviously in the ward) and she swears to herself she’ll kill Enji (omg, like mother like son) for continuing his bullshit even though Touya died because of it and free her family from his oppressive presence.

Rei doesn’t just jump headfirst into a murdering spree. No, she spends time befriending various shady people who can be trusted to care for her kids should she not survive.

Then she has a whole epic duel against Endeavor in the dojo after sending her children to Giran (who whips out fake identities for all of them). Endeavor and Rei both sustain major injuries during their fight (Enji loses a whole arm to necrosis, has numerous slash wounds from icicles and ofc chilblains while Rei has severe burns all along her body and her lips as well as partially her cheek were melted off) and the Todoroki house goes up in a storm of fire and ice. None of them go out of this fight as a clear victor but when Rei collapses and Enji still stands and tries to go for the finishing blow, one of Rei’s contacts steps in. Mr Compress spirits her body away...

...and in the wake of Rei’s attack, she’s declared an A-rank villain overnight.

Mind you, this is before Touya wakes up. And when he inevitably does wake up, he finds his whole world in shambles. His dad has become a rampaging lunatic, who’s hellbent on catching the villain Eshi (engl.: necrosis)... who is his mom. Who is also Endeavor’s arch-nemesis. Great. Oh, and his siblings have gone off the grid. So, he investigates and finds out his father’s been an abusive ass to his siblings while his mom was institutionalized. Well, then. The villain Dabi decides to join Eshi in her... endeavor.

Fuyumi, Natsuo and Shouto are still in sporadic contact with their mom, meaning they’re given money to live and Fuyumi and Natsuo accompany her to some minor investigations and heists. Just so they know how the world works. They both end up as sort of Dean and Sam Winchester but, like, as vigilantes instead of hunters. (Omg, they drive around Japan in Fuyumi’s beloved 2020 midnight blue Toyota Corolla, listening to early 2000′s western pop rock while journalling about quirk trafficking rings they’ll bust.) Natsuo also really fits the role of Sam, as he’s a med student who’s trying to leave that kind of lifestyle behind but finds himself with Fuyumi once again because his girlfriend’s been brutally murdered by someone who knows too much about their family. (They chase for clues etc., it’s a whole five seasons until they find them... you know how Supernatural went. Something along the lines of early Supernatural.)

In the meantime, Shouto’s trying to find out who he is. Maybe he ends up kidnapped by Endeavor, who resumes his training to make Shouto into a weapon that can’t only surpass All Might but also kill Rei (because he finds himself weakening as Rei majorly messed him up along their years spent in animosity). Maybe he goes the route of a hero on his own volition because he wants to change the system from the inside. Who knows? One thing’s for sure: His issues with the fire side of his quirk are much more pronounced than in canon, since Endeavor hurt his mom with his fire.

#todoroki family #rei todoroki #touya todoroki #enji todoroki #mha endeavor #mha au idea #villain rei todoroki #mha dabi #dabi #my hero academia #mha au #fuyumi todoroki #bnha natsuo #mha fuyumi #natsuo todoroki #todoroki shouto #mha shoto

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hahahahahangst · 2 years

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Prom Dress (Be the Young 8)

GIANT TW which will be valid for each episode for suicidal thoughts, self-harm, violence, cursing, relatives dying, mentions of sex, s*xual assault

All chapter titles are song titles, some of them translated from Italian songs. We start from the first season and make out way through the series. I will break canon (mostly from the S2 finale) but will try to get back into it for the sake of ✨ lore ✨ . Summary: Emily's life used to be normal. Until one day, her family died, leaving behind just one letter.

"After reading this whole letter, call John Winchester. [...] He’s your real father."

MASTERLIST

Prom dress

I tend to handle things usually by myself And I can't ever seem to try and ask for help I'm sitting here, crying in my prom dress I'd be the prom queen if crying was a contest Makeup is running down, feelings are all around [...] I guess I maybe had a couple expectations Thought I'd get to them, but no I didn't'

“So you guys have never hunted vampires before?” Asked Emily when they stopped at a gas station. Dean and Sam were going to swap places so that Dean could rest a bit while Sam drove. The eldest shook his head, confirming it was their first time. Emily could not help but get slightly anxious. She knew how good her brothers and John were, but she was also very worried that they would be outnumbered or taken by surprise by something.

The Sam and John situation didn’t help either.

Dean left the car to go pay for gas. Sam sat in the front, ready to drive. Emily stared at him through the rearview mirror. He looked angry and upset. Definitely not the mood she would have liked to go into hunting with.

“Sam?” She called, tentatively.

“Uh?” He looked in the rearview mirror, looking for her gaze.

“Listen… Can we, uh- press pause on this fight with dad for a second?” She said, he raised his eyebrows, surprised. “We do not know what to expect, we could be outnumbered. I don’t want-” She hesitated, trying to hide how unsafe she felt. A hint of mocking appeared on Sam’s lips. “I just don’t think we should be hunting while arguing like that.” He looked at her, then shrugged.

“Uh- sure? I can try.” he said. Emily wasn't too sure he was being serious, but Dean came back in the car just in that moment and so she was not able to investigate it.

“So, get this.” Said Sam, starting the engine while looking at Dean. “Emily wants to pause the fight with dad.”

Right, thought Emily, he was mocking her. She should have expected it. Dean raised his eyebrows as well, surprised. He looked back at her.

“I do not believe it. Did some sense finally grow into that bitch brain you have?” Chuckled Dean with a quaint, sarcastic smile.

“Shut up, Winchester.” she giggled back. Sam, however, looked very serious. Emily looked at him driving, unsure of why he would try to make fun of her for that.

It wasn't long until Dean's phone started to ring, their father calling. He spoke with him briefly, before hanging up and then reporting to Sam. “Pull off at the next exit.”

Sam's knuckles whitened around the steering wheel. “Why?”

“Because that's where dad thinks we should go.”

“How?” Asked back Sam, angrily.

“He didn't say.” Sighed Dean.

After that answer, Emily regretted not wearing her seatbelt for a couple of seconds. Sam dangerously overtook their father's truck and then cut him out, stopping the engine on the side of the street. John stopped right next to them. Sam stormed out of the car. Dean tried to stop him, but to no avail.

When Emily got out of the Impala, she heard Dean trying to stop her as well, but decided to ignore him and instead, give way to her instincts who said that she should punch her brother.

Hard. On the nose. Preferably causing damage.

He had not been the same since John was back. For a while, he was caring and he was nice to her, they had a good time together, especially being weird and geeking out of research and lore. But since John was back, he had gone back to being an unlikable son of a bitch, which was a concept Emily could not wrap her head around: okay, he didn’t like how John treated them, but what did she have to do with that? Why did she have to pay for the consequences? Mocking her for trying to keep everyone safe was really too much for her to keep shutting up about it. John was already walking towards Sam, angry. Before John could get there, Emily walked in front of her brother, cutting the way to their father. She pushed her brother from the shoulders, making him walk a couple of steps back for the excessive strength and pointing one finger at his chest, accusatively. “I asked you one. fucking. thing.” She spelled. “Only one. For safety. Since when are you too smart to listen to me?” She said, pushing him repeatedly. She soon felt her father's hand on her own shoulder. She rudely moved it away, determined to argue with Sam, who was however too busy staring at their father in anger to pay any attention to her. “God, you are an asshole.” She whispered, before snapping her fingers in front of his face aggressively and screaming “HEY!” Emily barely got his attention. “I’M TALKING TO YOU!”

“I just want some answers.” He finally said, staring at an indefinite point behind her..

“Oh, is that it, uh?” she said, sarcastic. “Sammy wants his answers? Sure, let’s put everyone in danger because he has no auto-control!” At that point, she was almost screaming at the top of her lungs.

Sam scoffed, finally looking at her. “You are one to talk about auto-control! How is it that you deal with your problems? Ah, right, you don’t! You cut yourself or have a nervous breakdown!”

“What does that have to do with anything?” She said, exasperated, mimicking a big “anything.” in front of her. Emily then shut her fist, ready to strike Sam. Suddenly, Dean intervened. He moved in the middle of the two siblings, moving Sam away while John did the same with his daughter. “Now, that's enough! Both of you, calm the fuck down.” Said Dean, stern. Emily shrugged her dad's hold away and made a couple of steps sideways. “You don't tell me what to do.” She whispered, low but not low enough so that Dean wouldn’t hear her. Dean scowled at her and was about to start arguing back, when he was interrupted by John's voice. “Emily, what is Sam talking about?” He said, trying to mimic a parenthood feeling Emily doubted he had ever felt in her regards.

“Great,“ she whispered, turning around, trying to gather some kind of patience. “Thanks, Sam.” She scowled at him. Then, she looked at her father. “When did everybody decide to suddenly care about how I deal with pain? It has never crossed your mind before, what happened now?” “It has been brought to my attention, that’s what.”

“Ah, because I was not enough of a sign? Someone had to tell you?” She said, this time walking towards John, threateningly. “Holy shit dad, LOOK AT ME!” She pulled her sleeves up, aggressively showing her father all the scars she was covered with. “Does this look like I am alright to you? Someone had to FUCKING TELL YOU?” She yelled. “All the times you heard me cry myself to sleep and all the times I locked myself into bathrooms was not enough? Did Sam have to tell you I was not fine?”

“You are a grown woman, I expect you to-”

“AND I EXPECTED YOU TO BE MY FAMILY!” She screamed, all her emotions finally topping out of her again in crying. “Goddammit, when- WHEN IS IT GOING TO BE THE TIME FOR YOU TO MEET MY EXPECTATIONS?!” She lashed out at him, who did not move an inch. Dean grabbed her arms and stopped her, holding her firmly away from their father.

“Is that what you think?” Said John, still looking relatively calm opposed to Emily. “You better start paying me and your brothers some respect, young lady, or-”

“So, now I am a young lady?” She said, bitterly. “I thought I was supposed to be a grown woman!” Not only was she furious, but his lack of any kind of interest towards the conversation, any kind of tone shift, made her even more angry.

“Until you keep behaving like-”

“Like what?” She said, escaping Dean’s grasp just for one second and regaining her position in front of her father. “A child? Is that what you were about to say? Is having feelings so childish to you?” She had planned to stop, but the more she yelled, the more things came to her mind. “So what, I had a nervous breakdown! Boo-ooh.” she said, mimicking a child crying. “How I deal with my pain is my own business, not your unaffectionate asses’ for sure!” She pointed at the three men around her.

At that point, Dean was just looking at them, making sure the fight didn’t top off in the wrong direction. Sam was also looking, a little back, still looking extremely upset towards his father.

“Enough now. We have work to do.” Said John, closing his jacket and starting to walk back to his car.

Emily’s exasperated “Really? You son of-” was covered up from Sam’s voice: “We are not going anywhere.” Emily suddenly remembered who she was upset with in the first place.

“Sam, is there something you want to tell me?” Said John, reluctantly stopping again and turning around towards his sons again.

“That's an understatement.” Answered back Sam.

“Oh God…“ Whispered Dean, who had clearly hoped for a break, now having to separate Sam and John.

“Sammy, we should do this later.” He tried to intervene, but to no avail.

“I want answers.” Said Sam, ignoring Dean. “Last time we saw you…” He looked at John. “...you told us it was too dangerous to be together. Now you want our help? Why? There is obviously something big going on!”

Emily let out a disgruntled sound, drying her face from all the tears. “How many times do I have to tell you that there is no fighting while on a hunt?” Said John, barely reacting to Sam's words. “Get back in the car.”

“No.” Sam refused.

“I said,“ Emily saw her father gather all of his patience. ”...get back in the damn car!”

“And I said no.”

That childish answer was what made Emily snap again. “I thought I was supposed to be the kid…“ she muttered, making way for herself between Dean and her father. She pointed at Sam again, looking at him sternly and cold and holding her breath to try and not let out any other sobs. “Drop the attitude, Sam, I am not going to let us all get killed because you can't stop trying to prove you are a tough guy.”

“I am not going anywhere.” He answered. Emily's first instinct was to slap him, but she had to fight that urge back in order to prove a point.

“It wasn't a request. This is over.” She stared at him, feeling her anger slowly turning into tears again. She tried to stay as serious as possible. She felt Dean and John’s stare on the back of her neck. Sam stared back at her until he could see the light of a small tear breaking through the dam. He smirked.

“Damn, you really can’t keep a straight face for more than one second can you?” He mocked, cockingly walking away from her. “By the way,” he added, pointing at their father. “This is why I left in the first place.”John heard him and before Emily could do anything, the fight was back on.

“It was your decision to leave!”

“You are the one who said to not come back! You closed the door, dad, not me!”

While the two men discussed, Emily was standing next to Dean, nervously picking at her nails. All of a sudden, Dean spoke. “I hope you’re happy.”

“What?” She turned, thinking she had misheard.

“I said I hope you’re happy, this is what you wanted, right?”

“What? Not at all! I was actually saying we should do the opposite!”

“Yeah, right. But you’ve still been disrespectful to dad all this time, haven’t you?”

Emily blinked in disbelief, barely holding it together. “You know what?” She said. “I’m done!” She raised her hands and started walking towards the car. “God, I am so done.” She repeated. Dean looked at her as she walked away.

“What did you say?” He asked, following her while she opened the car door.

“I SAID I AM DONE! DONE WITH YOU, WITH SAM, WITH DAD!” She screamed. Dean looked between her and her father fighting with Sam. He hesitated for a second and then kept walking towards her. “I AM DONE WITH ALL OF YOU!” She repeated.

“Emily, calm down.” Dean tried to approach her, still gazing between her and the other fight.

“Stop pretending that you care!” She said, pushing him away. “It’s clear- clear as hell that you don’t give a shit about me!”

“Em-”

“Don’t you Emily me.” she mocked him, pretending to be him when he tried to calm her down. “Just admit it already! IF I KILLED MYSELF TOMORROW YOU WOULD NOT GIVE A SHIT!” He hit her. It wasn’t a punch. It was a slap. The kind parents give you when you cross that line. “WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT FOR?!” She tried to answer with another slap but he was faster. He locked her arms crossed in front of her and pushed her on the car, locking her arms behind her. and preventing her from moving. "You need to calm the fuck down." Said Dean. Emily tried to squirm herself free, to no avail, but anger transformed into frustration, which made her break into sobs.

The fight going on between Dean and Emily seemed to have attracted Sam’s and John’s attention, and when she managed to see shapes in a defined way again, they were both staring at her. John was the first one to break eye contact with Emily, whose eyes were screaming “you did this to me.”, and hopped back onto his truck turning on the engine. It was a clear sign he was waiting for them. Sam followed, a couple of seconds later, accurately avoiding her gaze. He reached for the front seat, but Dean stopped him.

“Get in the back.”

“What?! Dean, come on-”

“I said, get in the back!” Roared back Dean, still not letting go of Emily. He finally freed her only when Sam had taken place in the back seat.

“You alright?” He asked, stretching his shoulder and assessing his jacket. She scoweld at him, meaning to get mad, but immediately felt her stomach contort and was forced to turn around in order to not puke on Dean.

After she had vomited, however, she went back in the car and reluctantly sat in the front with Dean, arms crossed in front of her and coldly staring in front of her.

She spent the rest of the trip trying to not give away that she was crying by delaying her sniffing and repressing her sobbing.

Eventually, she calmed down, although all the problems she had raised with Sam and her father remained clear in her mind.

A while later, they were getting ready to get inside of the nest. Emily took a machete from the trunk and sat back, waiting for everyone else to be ready and tried to not attract any unnecessary attention that would have led to more fighting. She leaned on the side of the car and looked at the sharp blade, inspecting it, hoping Dean was not going to try and bench her for the thousandth times that month. He tried to intercept her at least 20 times to ask her if she was okay, but Emily pretended to not hear him or changed the subject every single time. Her attention was raised by her father finally revealing the story of the gun they were after, which was presumably made by Samuel Colt and was able to kill anything.

John thought he could use it to kill the demon he had been looking for for the past 20 years.

The hunt was messy, the vampires woke up while they were trying to break into the nest, but they were all able to run back to the motel. There, John nonchalantly sent Emily and Dean to steal some dead man's blood from the morgue of a nearby hospital. The first part of the journey was pretty much silent, only animated by Dean humming songs on the radio but eventually, he tried to make some conversation. “Are you-”

“I swear to god,“ she immediately snapped, shutting her book. ”...if you ask me if I am okay one more time I am going to punch you.”

”...alright, change of subject then.” He looked around, searching for something to talk about. “What do you want to listen to?” He pointed at the box of cassette tapes lying on the ground next to Emily’s feet. She scoffed.

“Dean, we don’t have to talk. It’s okay.” She tried to reopen her book.

“But you see, that’s where you are wrong.” Said Dean. Emily closed her book back again, this time putting it on the dashboard, giving up on reading. “We are siblings, we should be able to talk.”

“Dean, we are not real siblings. We are half of that. It does not mean we need to like each other, it just means we have to deal with each other.”

“Half siblings are still siblings to me.” He gazed at her quickly. She stayed silent, trying to avoid answering. “So?” He asked a couple of minutes later.

“Okay, you know what?” She said, assessing herself in her seat. “You want to talk, let’s talk.” She slapped her hands on her thighs. “What do you want to know?”

“How are you doing? Really, I mean.”

“How specific do you want me to be?”

“As specific as you want.”

“Okay,“ she said. “but remember that you asked for it.” She sighed. “How do I put this lightly?”

“No need to.” Said Dean. She completely ignored him.

“I am tired. Not ‘go to sleep’ tired, but ‘i can’t take it anymore’ tired. My family is dead, my new family hates me, I tried to go out with a friend and I was kidnapped, Sam seems to hate me all of a sudden, dad doesn’t give a shit about anything that is not his crazy mission and you- well, you are just a pain in the ass!” She scoffed.

Dean didn’t answer. He kept driving and stared in front of him. Eventually Emily started reading again, shaking her head.

Her brother only spoke again once he had parked.

“By the way, we are worried. All of us, but especially Sam.” He said. “I don’t know what makes you think we don’t care, but we do.” She rolled her eyes. “I mean it.” She ignored him and stepped out of the vehicle.

When they arrived back at the motel, Dean gave their dad the blood they managed to collect and it was then time to dip dozens of arrows in it. Luckily it was a very repetitive task, so the time went by pretty quickly.

“Emily, have you ever used a crossbow before?” Asked her dad. The question took Emily by surprise.

“Well, no, obviously.”

“Then I guess it’s better if you stay home tonight.” The moment had arrived. Emily had been waiting for it for a while: John was benching her. It was not surprising.

“Anything you want me to do while I am here?” Emily asked. She didn't even try to argue back: after all, she was not in the mood to hunt anyway.

“You can be ready to hurry there if we need help.” Said her father. She shrugged and finished helping with the arrows.

The moment her brothers and father left felt kind of apocalyptic. The tension was palpable as they approached an enemy they didn't know much of. Emily looked at the door shutting in front of her and then stared at it for a while.

She spent the night worried to her bones. She kept pacing back and forth, waiting for a call, the keys of her father's truck in her hand, ready to leave, ready to run to them in case of emergency, checking her phone over and over. The whole night passed and she got no news. She was just pacing, all by herself. No calls, no texts.

One of them would have texted by now. After all, they were outnumbered and against something they had never fought before.

Maybe they were-

The door opened just as the thought was fabricating itself into Emily's mind. In silence, John, Dean and Sam entered, seemingly all in one piece, but tired.

She couldn't help herself and hide the relief in seeing them, so she lept towards Dean and hugged him right in the middle of the door frame. “You were worried about us or something?” He asked, dropping the bag he had and awkwardly hugging her back.

“You didn't call, I thought something bad happened.” She said, quickly letting go of him after realizing what she had done.

“Well, actually, your brothers disobeyed a direct order.” Her dad immediately brought down the mood. Emily sat on the bed for the first time since her family had left and rested her chin on her knees.

“We saved your ass.” Answered back Dean. Sam looked at him, taken by surprise by the sudden rebellion. John, instead, just looked a little bit angrier than usual.

“You are right.” The answer surprised all of them.

“I am?” Dean could not believe his own ears. Emily raised her head from her knees.

“It scares the hell out of me, but you are all I've got. I guess we are stronger together. I am sure if Emily was there, she would have been good too. We should go after that thing. As a family.”

The siblings looked at each other for a second before resuming their normal activity. Emily was the first to speak, when Sam took away his shirt, exposing a deep cut on his left shoulder. “I'll help you with that.” She said, searching for the supplies she gathered earlier in her bag. She disinfected his wound and covered it, not much talking happening other than “pass me that.” or “stand still”. Emily was trying her hardest to look angry and serious. but she was relieved that they were all fine. In the meantime, Dean also took away his shirt and Emily saw he was also wounded. He started to try patching up by himself, but she immediately stopped him. “Dean, don't you dare touch that with your clumsy, butcher hands!” She threw a box of tissues at him. He smirked but kept going. “This clumsy butcher saved your ass last time you were injured and could not hold a single needle.” “Shut up, you might have saved my life but I will never be able to wear a bikini again.” She threw him another unidentified box. He finally stopped. Then she looked over to her dad. “Dad, how are you doing? Need some help?” He shook his head, lying down on the bed and looking at her doing what was once supposed to become her job in regular society.

“I'm sorry about what I said earlier.” Said Sam to Emily while she was about to finish up. “I should have listened to you.” She did not acknowledge what he said. Instead, she stuck the last piece of tape way too aggressively and then announced that he was good to go. She heard Dean sighing in frustration behind her, but she was determined to not speak with Sam, as it looked like everytime she did she would find a new reason to punch him. She moved to Dean's bed. “Look at the mess you have made!” She said, taking a closer look at the wound. “There, pass me that bottle.” She pointed to a bottle resting to the night stand and started cleaning a small cut Dean had on his neck. “What on earth did you touch with those hands, dog shit?” She poured the content of the bottle on his cut, making him hiss in pain. “That's what you get for touching your cuts without washing your hands.”

“You have no idea how much I hate your bitch face right now.” Said Dean, breathing to the sting of the disinfectant.

“This bitch is making sure you don't get an ugly scar, so you should stay still.”

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ama-dillo · 1 year

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Did anyone else forget they viciously hated season 15 of supernatural. I'm on episode 17 of my whole series binge and I'm seething at what they did to Dean. Let alone how passive Castiel is before his final moments. Knowing the next episode they kill him off makes me infuriated.

Watching this season is like sex on meth. It's good when it's there but for terrible reasons and it feels nice untill it's all gone and your left empty and sad and worse than you started. (I wouldn't know, don't do drugs, kids.)

Watching Dean go on a world ending tantrum. Jack dying with the Adam bomb (get it, Adam). Cass not using any of his resources or even stopping Dean like he was supposed to.

Sam's classic we need each other speech used before every season finale was honestly stupid that it had to come to that. The Dean thing was wayyy out of left feild I was half expecting him to stamp his foot into the ground and pout.

I just don't see an ending. I see panick and rush and big stakes but what I don't see is reccelaition or Dean finally getting peace in any way shape or form.

I don't see Castiel getting treated any better than he has since season like 10. He's the most useful asset and he's treated like shit and then when he leaves everyone gets pissed like they didn't drive him away.

And Sam... Don't get me started on how much Sam DOESN'T KNOW HOW TO PICK HIS BATTLES!!! He was all for trapping Jack in a box (L.O.L) for enternity just a while ago. Sam can't decide if he wants to be Dean's supportive yes man cheerleader or a character with problems and emotions. The flip flopping is making me mad. He can't even have his own opinion about Jack without Dean's approval.

Speaking of Jack I just kinda don't think they knew what to do with his character when they're done doing the whole " oOoO is he good or eViL" thing they just try to kill him and and give him kind the same arc he has with Duma about making his Dad's proud which is stupid. I don't think he was givien a lot of character let alone character development so any season plot solely about him flops in my mind.

Speaking of character development. Instead of deep plots with character growth and soft down to earth inner meaning. They yell and scream at each other and I feel like none of the characters like each other anymore. Happy moments are few and far between. Dean had some serious character assassination and Sam basically got declawed after the show decided he wasn't "main character enough" to have his own arcs in Dean's spotlight.

Btw at multiple points I was SCREAMING at my television the writing 😭💀. I think at one point I said " it feels like the writers are slamming their faces into the plot and painting with their wrinkly foreheads" (for well needed context, I am pro union always have been and no matter what choices execs or producers or writers choose to make everyone deserves live able wage)

But the writing got worse with age (though the direction and color grading got way better shots from the show look fantastic) I just don't think the team had any heart of new ideas to share with the class and as someone who goes to Supernatural to cry at the end of the day when the world is too much. It breaks my heart when Sam and Dean aren't Sam and Dean anymore.

God is the writers.

Chuck wanted an ending where the brothers killed each other.

The wanted an ending where everyone dies the end.

Though chuck didn't get what he wanted they certainly did.

I don't know. If you like this season I envy you. If you think this is the perfect ending and you love it, I am so happy for you. But me personally. This is not it.

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heli0s-writes · 2 years

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where the shivers won’t find you*

Summary: In which Bucky’s Winter Soldier programming turned him from an Omega into an Alpha, and because he hasn’t suffered enough, the universe decides it’s time he gets turned back. Fan-fucking-tastic.

Warnings: trauma, references to hydra sexual abuse, flashbacks, explicit smut, male masturbation, overstimulation, an unholy amount of come, etc. ~8.7k words of hurt/comfort porn in A/B/O-verse.

a/n: Hey anyone ask for an Alpha!Reader and Omega!Bucky? No? Here it is anyway! P.S. I love writing unhinged women. Title from St. Vincent :) xx

Bucky wishes like all hell that he didn’t know what was happening to him. Better yet, he wishes it wasn’t happening at all or that the world wasn’t this.

He’s met plenty of other species who have sneered at human dynamics, clicked their appendages, and blinked their seventeen eyelids at the way humans were structured to exist on Earth. Species with three spines or two heads or were nothing more than a faint effervescent light that commented disdainfully on the base framework of Earth’s hierarchy.

He thinks that Earth couldn’t be the most fucked up planet out there—that their solar system and all its unknown variables could be topped by some other star cluster and its machinations—but unfortunately, he exists in this one.

And this one has the audacity to breathe James Buchanan Barnes to life as a goddamn Omega.

Like, that’s got to be the biggest your life sucks designation anyone could receive. Omegas are hardwired to be subservient for chrissake and he’s got the double-rare gift of being a male Omega at that. Like whatever divinities schemed together during their monthly meetup of assigning genders and preferences to the next batch of birthed kids decided that in 1917, after sprinkling a smattering of identities on a group of souls, pointed directly to Bucky’s and said, “Yeah, fuck this guy in particular.”

So he grows up being the source of his parents’ fear and shame and he’s told no matter what, he can’t let anyone figure him out. Meaning, naturally, he’s been plied with scent blockers and beta boosters since puberty.

As a fuck you right back, you sick little angels when I get up there I’m gonna lay your fluffy cloud hell to waste, Bucky goes and dies.

And, of course, as a bitch, you thought! the gods wake his ass up on an operating table with a bone saw to the scapula and he spends the next 70 years getting throttled in and out of his own body being The Winter Soldier.

He’s got to thank Hydra, though, because despite their forsaken safety procedures, the overall unsanitary practice, and oh yeah, captivity, the serum unpeeled his brain so thoroughly, reworked his DNA exhaustively that by the time Bucky came to for the last time—his metal arm in an industrial clamp with Steve and Sam gazing down at him in a warehouse—he had the vague notion that he’d been living as an Alpha for a while.

Until now, because of course.

His gut is on fire. It sparks deep inside his belly and aches on and off like he’s being repeatedly kissed by a sledgehammer every fifteen minutes. If he shuts his eyes at the exact moment the pain begins, he feels like he’s back on the operating table and instead of a bone saw, scientists are there with a baseball bat and playing whack-a-mole with his organs.

He’d been in militant denial for the past few months, too caught up in trying to keep the final vestiges of that easy-go-lucky Alpha life to truly sit down and come to terms with glaring signs. He was having adverse reactions to the usual suppressants he’d slap on his forearm when he couldn’t be bothered to ride out a rut because he was too busy on a mission or simply didn’t want to deal with it. Other Alphas could bunker down with their lovers or their toys and go at it for the week, but Bucky never found pleasure in having to do that out of sheer animalistic drive.

But then six months ago he smacked on a suppressant patch and noticed that the skin around his forearm swelled up something ugly, dried into an upsetting shade of pale, and when Bucky finally soaked it off, it only took forty-five minutes for his cock to spring up into the angriest, most furious hard-on he ever experienced. And he, blessedly, had just enough sense to deadbolt himself inside his house, text everyone to make themselves scarce for the next three days, and plow through his rut with minimal nerve damage to his poor dick.

It was off.

He hurt afterwards, more than the usual dullness and lethargy of being drained post-rut. His blood felt sludgy in his veins, his breath so sticky and leaden—and even his brain, something was sparkling between the folds, trying to alert him of what, he didn’t know.

He didn’t want to know.

A few months later and one more deeply worrying, exacerbated denial of a rut where he shoved his dick into lubed up, squelching silicone sleeves, coming until he blacked out to no avail later—he knows now.

He’s not in rut, he’s in heat.

And there’s a hair thin line of difference between the two, but the implications of Bucky reverting back to being the bottom of the food chain in his current state is going to either get him killed—or worse—because the world is a whole ass shitshow on fire, and he’s freshly touched down in the city after a tiring mission with little energy to fight his instincts or anyone lucky enough to stumble on him emanating pheromones, and he cannot—he fucking cannot lose control over his body again.

Not again. Not again.

Not ever again.

If he had it in him to scream, he would. But he’s riding at breakneck speed back to his house, his bike roaring through the sleeping streets of the city, every unavoidable bump or pothole impacting his entire quivering body head-on because he hardly has the organizational skills to dodge and steer and breathe at the same time.

He’s two hours away, shoving through a red light, barely missing a sedan that blares a vehement horn at him when his ribs start squeezing inward and air is being strangled out of his throat. He can’t see straight much less have enough sense to successfully cut around another patch of traffic, and when he pauses at the next stop, his heart is well on its way to overclocking.

The intersection is quiet, nothing but the beeping of a crosswalk alerting no one to pass and Bucky is trying to gulp down his breath, smacking up the visor of his helmet to get the night into his lungs, unzipping his jacket to allow his chest to cool. He’s panting with blood in his ears rushing up into his scalp, and it’s dead—it’s so fucking still that he thinks maybe he can do this, he can make it up the service road and streak past the next seventeen exits—until a car pulls up to his left.

The worst part is, they’re kids.

A handful of them with the top of their convertible down, whooping along in conversation about the party they’d just left. Three are in the back, woozy with underage drinking, kicking at the seat of the driver, who swats them in good humor. The one in the passenger side is a bit more alert than his other friends and leaning his head on the crook of his elbow as he laughs, saying, “Shut the fuck up, man.”

The light is stretching longer than any light should, and Bucky’s trying to shake himself lucid, trying to balance the fear of the unknown with the horror of his immediate reality, and when he chances a look over his shoulder, he catches the kid’s eye.

One second, the kid, hair wild and scraggly but ash brown and framing his face in a way that’s placating, is still smiling but then he takes in a lungful of the night—a lungful of Bucky only five feet away—and both his hands are on the metal frame of the door, tension bulging out of his shoulders.

“Hey!” he yells, his pupils blown out wide. His friends startle at his volume, gradually more curious about the waft of scent beginning to float over their heads.

“What the fuck is—”

“Woah—shit is that an Omeg—”

And Bucky can’t listen to it. Can’t chance it. Can’t allow it. He doesn’t even let the whole word into his ear, fuck his faculties, fuck his ability to dodge and steer and breathe at the same time. Fuck the gods and the world. He kicks himself off past the red light, making a sharp bank away from his current path at a speed even more reckless than before, the yelling behind him getting eaten by the wind.

Nobody’s here.

He knows this because he delegated the rest of his mission to the owner of this house. It’s a single safehouse in a tiny neighborhood up a hill lit by a yellow porch light because said owner heard that yellow light keeps the bugs away.

It’s a modest place mostly kept as a supply drop and makeshift rest area; the money spent on the purchase mostly for the large perimeter rather than the structure itself. The elderly neighbors are far enough away so that if anyone trudged to the door coughing up blood or towing an unconscious teammate with them, there’d be no questions because any possible witnesses are both too far to notice and retired to bed at sunset.

He swats at a moth as he trudges up, wincing with each step, and tries to find some joy at how the yellow light advert was probably wrong.

You’d hate that. You’d get real pissy about that and it brings a satisfying smirk to Bucky’s grimacing face. You’d yell or something. Pitch a whole fit and either try to search up research articles to prove him wrong or make him take responsibility for ruining your life. It’d be a real dramatic production of Bucky Barnes Needs to Mind His Own Business.

God, he’s looking forward to that bullshit. Something categorically normal to soothe his extremely and suddenly, once more, abnormal existence.

His boots clatter on the tile when he clambers in, shuffling himself against the wall, fumbling to make it to a soft surface. He tears into the bathroom on the way, rummaging around the cabinets for anything to help his pain before the next inevitable round of organ-bashing resurfaces. He squints at labels and rattles a glass of tweezers and exacto blades, knocking over some rubbing alcohol before finding a container of muscle relaxers and rattles at least three into his gullet.

The recent intervals have picked up their pace during the time he started his heat to now, and the waves have begun come every ten or so minutes, trickling down the more time he spends with his hands not on himself.

He swallows, willing the damn pills down his throat, knowing they’ll be out of his stupid Super Soldier metabolism sooner than he’d like, but at least staving off a few rounds of what feels like atomic warfare trying to bust out of his nuts.

It’ll be enough for him to ransack the place and collect his survival tools as if he’s in a zombie apocalypse movie.

He’s hauling in two gallons of purified water along with an armful of dried goods when his phone buzzes nonstop in his pocket.

“Hey,” the voice on the other line huffs loudly, “I didn’t ask for this Mickey Mouse bullshit.”

Bucky winces and clicks his volume down.

“The locals are reaming me out about this cleanup job. Do you know the amount of paperwork I’m going to have to file for this? You started a fire.”

“Hello to you too,” he responds, kicking the gallons toward the bedside, dropping the food into the small sofa chair near the window and taking off his shoes.

“A woman’s cat didn’t make it—she says she’s gonna sue the entire United States— my Pashto isn’t good enough to threaten her back."

There’s chatter in the background and echoes of footsteps as if you’re in a lobby, and someone comes by to get your attention. Bucky squeezes his eyes shut because he’s got other things to worry about right now, and he’ll promise he’ll let you ream him out later. Hell, he’ll let you knock his ass back into the paleolithic age if you want; you’d be doing him a favor.

“You owe me so bad,” you grumble, “You owe me a limb for this, sweetheart. The good one. The metal one.”

Bucky sighs deeply, “I’ll give you a free punch, how about that? Listen, I gotta go,” he barely manages to say as a jolt rushes up his side.

“Hell no, you’ve got to suffer at least five more minutes of complaints or else I’ll be calling back until one of our phone dies.”

“Two free punches, and I’m hanging up.”

And then he turns the entire thing off and drops to his knees at the edge of the bed, bowing his head. He’s blearily unbuttoning his pants, letting go of the low, pained wail he’s been keeping in in his chest, and shakes his way through it until he’s got no more air left, until his mouth is filled with saliva and his throat is hoarse and crackling.

He pants dryly, clutching his middle. Fuck, it’s going to be this again: the crying and screaming and thrashing because he was never correctly taught on how to be easy through heat. Because suppressants in the early 1900’s were shoddy at best and his parents did what they could with an Omega son, but their best consisted of turning their clammy basement of pickled goods into a provisional dungeon for when the heat was stronger than the medicine. Or when they couldn’t afford it. Or when the local doctor started asking why the Barnes family needed this many blockers.

So he’s gonna hurt physically, emotionally, and he’s going to re-experience his fucked-up Omega life in both memory and reality.

On the bright side of it—a tiny fragment of silver lining—the serum consumes everything like a flashfire. As an Alpha, his (and Steve’s) ruts were a few days shy of a week, which is like the blessing of a lifetime when you loathe the experience, so he tries to find solace in the fact that his heat will go on shorter than he’s previously experienced it.

Bucky stares at the water a few inches away from his face. It’s been about an hour and the muscle relaxant is ebbing out of his system. He pats around the scattered bits of goods on the chair for the rest, grabs a protein bar on the way, and crams it into his mouth along with six more pills. Fuck yeah, he’s gonna be out like a light.

His eyes are fluttering when he flops down on the covers, ignoring the dust that bounces off the bed with his weight. He can’t exactly be mad at you for that— this is a last resort kind of dwelling. You come this way maybe three times a year to re-stock, because your loft in Manhattan is your happy place and this one is just—

He looks around through the haze swimming over his vision, shivering lightly as goosebumps rise up his arms.

It’s sterile here. Scant furniture in the living area and dining room. The kitchen houses maybe two pots and a single knife, from what Bucky remembers as he dug around. Mostly canned creamy soups, a lot of protein powder, and an outrageous amount of pudding cups. The bathroom contains an overabundance of medical supplies, which is the norm for these places, but other than that—the only room that seems like it was given some care to is the bedroom.

It’s carpeted with lush fibers, firstly. The bed he’s on, despite the thin covering of dust, is phenomenal, and almost an immediate reprieve on his tortured skin. The sheets are silky and cool and slip right off. Loads of blankets are bundled inside an oversized wicker basket by the dresser, the inviting sofa chair currently holding up Bucky’s trove of necessities, and a single lamp on the end table. The shade is a simple beige covering but there’s a colorful bulb inside, and when Bucky turns it on with trembling fingers, it flushes the room in warm, calming tangerine. There’s even a white noise machine, a small humidifier, a fan, and a portable speaker that he could probably put some music on.

That’s nice, for now, when he’s kind of swaying off into la-la-land because you’ve got horse tranquilizers in capsule form and he’s not gonna look at that proverbial gift horse in the mouth. Bucky supposes that it pays to have a friend who’s fifty shades of questionable.

He picks himself up to reach into the side table, making the lamp wobble. He pats around for what he needs, and when he pulls out a container of what looks like high-quality lube, he mutters fucking thank you and hopes you feel his gratitude across the world.

It wakes him with a jolt.

Full-on, unstoppable, un-dampened because the bottle of benzodiazepine is now blissfully empty and mocking him as he shudders to life and begins to rock against the headboard, fist over cock, stroking hard and fast and lewd. Coral pink spreads to his chest and groin and thighs in an embarrassing shade of aroused, but thank god, thank god, he made it here.

Thank god he didn’t crash into someone, didn’t get hauled off somewhere, into an alley or a hospital—to be discovered that the goddamn Winter Soldier was a helpless Omega begging to be fucked.

Bucky moans loudly as he feels the first orgasm approaching, then pouncing, then tearing him in half as he comes, spraying long lines on his abdomen and chest, the smell rising up into his own nose as a heady, desperate aroma.

He whines and arcs back into his hand again and fucking ashamed of it.

He hates this. Hates the way he’s trapped in a fever he can’t dig out of. Trapped in the basement, in the operating room, the chair, the ice, immobilized and taken under by a force that renders him absolutely powerless. That hacks at his humanity until he’s gone—reduced to the lowest form of animal, until he has no agency left, at the mercy of who-fucking-ever who never chooses to have any mercy on him.

He comes again, feeling better temporarily, the quick rush of endorphins hitting him like a summer breeze until the flame returns, licking slowly, as if goading him on, pretending like he has any chance against it. He knows he doesn’t. Done this enough to remember, viscerally, that he doesn’t. Even if he was still in denial, there’s no defiance stubborn enough to ignore how his ass is fucking slick, his balls tight and pulsing, and his cock a graphic hue of erect.

He comes again and it doesn’t help. Course not.

He comes again and slugs down half a gallon of water afterwards, gagging slightly from the effort.

He comes again and wipes himself off with one of your many towels he grabbed from the bathroom. He’s a gross fucking asshole because this towel is periwinkle and fuzzy with an embroidered flower on the corner now nasty with spunk. Oh god, he’s going to deep clean the place after this.

He comes again and passes the fuck out.

Time blurs into one long mockery. Minutes pass. Hours pass. Maybe the sun rose and hung and set. The curtains are a thick material, made to block out light, engulfing the window on the other side, and he hasn’t got the mental fortitude to face the outside world like this, not even behind a glass pane. He doesn’t want to know. He doesn’t want to know anything.

Bucky’s up again, much later, finished chewing a miserable protein bar that did not have enough cashews in it, despite advertising as a primarily cashew-y snack. He’s dirtied with sweat and the filmy, lingering layer of come, but he can’t shower yet because there’s no point. His skin is still thrumming with the early onslaught of another wave and if he showers now, he’ll have to shower again in a couple of hours. He doesn’t even know if you have enough soap for more than one or two—so he’s got to ration his washing appropriately.

His legs are stiff from his toes to his upper thighs. He hurts so fucking much and it’s revolting that the only time he doesn’t hurt is right as he’s having an orgasm so hard that he feels half-blind, and it’s the screech of falling over the edge that whites out the rest of the pain. But as soon as that light flickers back to the rich amber of your room, and his cock twitches; he has to restart or else he’ll feel like sobbing.

Is it worse this time around? Was it this god-fucking-awful before? He thought so, but he was also pre-serum, and doesn’t have the kind of pain tolerance he does now.

But, considering his pain tolerance… and the absurd clawing in his belly, he wonders if somehow his body decided that re-writing its DNA back into being an Omega would call forth some horrific primordial heat? Like it’s been vengefully amassing all those years he skipped out on and now lording the compounded weight of nature’s veiny, throbbing fuckstick over him and oh god, if the first ten times were any indication to the rest of this cycle, Bucky can’t say it’s humanly possible to survive.

Next thing he knows, he’s shooting off with a high, keening noise. He wheezes out curses under his breath as it splatters up like the rest, before moving to grab at another poor towel, thinking thank you and I’m so sorry as he pathetically wipes himself off, shuddering through the aftershocks.

He’s weak and dehydrated, so he chugs another ten gulps of water and pops open a pudding cup for quick calories, gagging down the cloying chocolate aftertaste.

Why do you have so much fucking pudding? Why is this unquestionably cozy bed starting to piss him off? Why is this room so small and huge at the same time?

Why can’t he breathe.

Why can’t he fucking live.

He’s got to—got to fix this. Got to immediately pass go and collect his 200 dollars and get the hell up out of here. Gotta find something that’ll knock him into next week. Put him in a coma, for all he cares, if that means he’ll wake up feeling at least 45% back to normal, sans heat, pending drug withdrawal. He’s gonna make the worst cocktail out of your stash anyone’s ever seen.

This is your fuck around and find out safehouse. This is your I’m on my last leg and maybe I got stabbed but give me seven minutes and I’ll be ready to stab back safehouse.

This is the place he swung by to check in on you once after a FUBAR mission and found you on the floor, sucking and spitting poison out of one arm’s wound while simultaneously stitching up a gash on the other arm. And yes, exactly seven minutes later you were out the door, blood casually smeared up to your forehead like warpaint, and yes, you did, indeed, stab back.

There’s a hell lot more than a single tube of muscle relaxants in this place; he’s just got to sniff it out.

Bucky rolls himself off the edge of the bed, landing with a muffled grunt when he hits the floor and scrambles to feel around beneath the mattress. Nothing. He groans as his clammy body shivers and has enough decency to wrap himself up in a knitted blanket from the wicker basket.

He’s pilfering the drawers of the repurposed dresser, scattering knick knacks on top. The dimmer to the lamp goes flying, a box of tissues gets tossed elsewhere. The drawers squeak in protest as he shoves his fingers inside, feeling for things that he knows in his right mind he should not be finding.

But he’s not in his right mind. And he’ll clean up, he swears. He’ll apologize for taking advantage of the spare key you gave him, replace the pantry of food and water and lube, he won’t mention that he ejaculated all over the place, or that he’s discovering that beneath your extra tac gear and change of clothes, there’s a trove of toys.

Bucky gawks at the assortment. The shapes and sizes and—he thinks he’s blushing even though he’s been the one desecrating this property for the last 32 unholy hours. Some of them are nearly luxurious—in subtle shapes and colors—while others are garishly vulgar. He’s starting to spiral as he palms them, vaguely debating on their efficacy before he catches a scent.

It’s beneath the middle drawer.

He yanks it open.

What the hell…

What the hell.

He pillages through the stack of clothes. Why didn’t he notice it before? He yanks them out and tosses them onto the bed, frantic, staring at his open hands like they’re not his own, then pressing his fingers to his nose where the smell wouldn’t have register to anyone else if they weren’t Bucky. If they weren’t a serum recipient. If they weren’t an Omega.

Oh, it’s strong. It’s musky and delicious and there’s been an attempt by an overload of detergent to scrub it out, but it’s still there. Sweet, bitter, making him deliriously angry that he can’t seem to sniff out any more of it—that it’s not actively coating his fingers and his face.

He mindlessly returns to the bed and burrows into the sheets, seeking more. He’s been drowned out by his own need and panic but now that he’s on the trail, he can taste it everywhere. The pillowcases were clean, and now soaked with his perspiration, but the scent is inside between the fibers stuffing. The sheets, the comforter, the mattress itself, washed and lined—spotless bordering on clinical—but he’s got it in his lungs, on his tastebuds.

He knows he’s being crazy as he twists into the covers, letting the cool fabric loop around his thigh and calf, bunching it up in his fists and shoving it over his face. The shirts and sweatpants he tossed over are twined up in the mass of cotton, falling on him, covering him up.

And it smells—so. fucking. good.

Like sweat. Like spit. Like come.

Like the shadow of an Alpha’s rut.

Bizarrely, like you.

You.

You. You? Alpha?

That can’t be right; he must be hallucinating. He’s so far in the deep end of his heat that he’s making it up because for as long as he’s known you, as long as he’s been your friend, you’ve been a no-nonsense Beta. Sure, you were more troublesome than most he’s met, but personalities are valid despite hierarchy. And your personality happened to be more… hostile toward most of the Alphas on the team.

Steve, Thor, T’Challa, Sam, and Bucky. The lineup was stacked with them.

No one could help how they presented, but also no one complained that it was extremely beneficial to have the advantage of being one in their line of work.

Alphas were dominant. Strong and powerful and their presence alone asserted control. Get caught in a hysterical mob as a Beta and no one will give a flying fuck about whether or not you’re trying to corral them to safety; you simply don’t have the authority to herd anyone. Alphas are mostly men, and it’s not as bad for a woman to be an Alpha as a man to be an Omega, but that doesn’t mean you’re not both holding onto adjacent split ends of a short stick.

Listen, he’s got some choice words for the universe that he’ll shout himself hoarse about later, but right now he’s angrily trying to suffocate himself with your clothes. His erection is back, unchecked, raring to go and harder than before because now he’s caught a whiff of you, and now he’s spellbound and keening for more of this specific drug.

Bucky’s head is so dizzy, so enamored, so enraptured with wanting to come, with fantasizing about coming for you that he folds himself in half, face buried into your clothes, buried some more into the covers, both hands between his legs and pumping forcefully. He’s abandoned his senses now, crying out as he rolls his hips forward for any more friction from himself or the bed, so lost that when he orgasms again, he lets go of a string of expletives and pleads and dry sobs that he hardly registers as his own voice.

It hurts so fucking much, everywhere.

The pleasure of your scent isn’t strong enough to overpower the confusion or the shame or the exhaustion that’s eating at his soul. He’s not only defiled your space, but your bed, and your clothes, and your… trust? If you never find out, he would still know. He would know that he wasn’t strong enough to stop anything. That he was going to forever be subject to existing as the cruelest display of humiliation from the powers that be.

He can’t breathe again, feeling crushed in every way. He muffles another howl, curses and bites at his hands and fingers and lips and feels the fibers of his muscles scream as he clenches his entire body up in self-punishment.

“Fuck,” he grunts, the syllable bouncing back at him. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

And on the last curse, he hears an echo of the noise not reverberating from his hand, or the blanket, but from behind him.

Bucky whips up, startled.

You’re mirroring his surprise, standing in the doorway with your tac suit still on, a tender welt striped across your nose and cheek, expression wide open and petrified.

In his mind, he’s roaring for it to stop. Screaming for the moment to somehow rewind, take him all the way back to last year and put him out of his misery there. Take him back to last month, even. Or last week, or hell, he’ll take 48 hours ago, when he was on the phone with you, and he could kick his past self for not realizing that as slim of a possibility as this would be the one out of three times you’d check in here—that he could at least tell you to stay away.

Hey, I didn’t sign up for this Mickey Mouse bullshit.

I know you didn’t. I’m sorry, I don’t tell you enough, but you’re the best friend a fella can have—now do me a real solid, champ, do me the favor of a lifetime, and don’t go to your drug-den-safehouse. I’m starting my heat and I’ll explain everything later but you’re the best. Don’t forget it.

He’s still stark naked in the middle of the mattress, bent over the comforter and sheets, the array of bedclothes knotted chaotically around his thighs and waist and clutched between his hands as he lowers them numbly. The muscles in his back flex as he breathes, and the words fall out of his desolate head as soft, useless gasps.

You swallow thickly, taking a step back, nostrils slightly flared, leaning out of the room for as clean of air as you can get.

Neither of you know what to do. The shock of the situation is beginning to dissipate, but it leaves behind an oppressive awkwardness where both of you try to not be so obvious as you dissect the possible options and take stock of each other.

Scent, temperature, shallowness of breath. Injuries. Expression. Body language. How long are your eyes going to stay on his face? When will they move—oh, they’re moving now—down his spine, his waist, his elbows. His shoulders, red and clawed; his cheeks, puffy and swollen with crying; his lips, bitten at and parted.

Your brows tilt in pained ways and he’s never seen you so torn about anything. After a couple of tries at engaging the moment, you finally make an attempt, and it comes out jilted as if you’re reading a prompter.

“What do you need? I—have— things.”

His sweat-slick, burning, numbed face crumples inward. He chokes back a distressed noise, ransacks his muzzy brain for a remedy.

All that comes up is, stupidly, “I can’t eat any more pudding. There’s so much goddamn pudding.”

You snort a laugh, blindsided, and your shoulders relax.

“It’s an easy, high-calorie food.” You shrug, “Long shelf life and you don’t have to worry about chewing if you’re too tired. Goes down simple. Won’t make your belly too full like protein shakes or soup.”

He frowns, “Personal experience?”

“Yeah.”

“Is this… your rut safehouse?”

You shrug distantly by way of reply.

“I didn’t know.”

“Yeah,” you nod faintly his way, “looks like we don’t know a few things about each other.”

Bucky doesn’t realize his nails are digging into his thigh until the indents are prickling blood. He doesn’t realize that he’s been holding his breath until he exhales shakily—and upon an inhale, the quick rush of air oxygenates his lungs and sends waves of shock to his senses. He’s burning. He can smell you. He can smell you, aroused by him, trying to hold your own instincts back.

He winces and doesn’t speak because if he does, he’ll betray himself.

He needs control. He needs to remain intact. If he lets go now, he’ll never stop.

He changes course.

“Why do you hide it?”

“It’s not useful to me,” you say, only a tiny bitten back exhale sounding out, “There are too many preconceived notions about gender and label.” You tick them off on your fingers with a wry grin, “Whether or not I can keep my head every season, where I am in the pecking order… if I’m subconsciously trying to usurp power from the men.”

Then you shove your hands in your pockets and work your jaw like you’re chewing the dynamics to cinders. “I dislike many aspects of being Alpha—”

And there it is.

Bucky tries to corral it, but he breaks out into a groan, and then clamps his jaw shut, gasping hard and fast.

Your eyes widen at him before they flick away. After a moment, you continue, “—I dislike how I act as one, and I don’t want to become a self-fulfilling prophecy as one. So I take blockers and boosters and I have more of a grip on it.” Then, you look up with a forced smile, “Besides, can you imagine me, full force, going head-to-head with Rogers on a bad day?”

Bucky attempts, “You have different personalities,” which is a lie and a half because the problem between you and Steve is that you are eerily similar, except one of you is more eager to inflict grievous bodily harm than the other.

“Sure,” you deadpan, “Now take the Beta boosters out of the equation and I know myself enough to acknowledge that I’m on the wrong end of the Big Bad A variety. You don’t want this au naturel, Barnes, trust me. Rogers thinks I’m half to unhinged now— but I miss my dose and there won’t be a hinge left for me to hang on.”

The sincere grin you give him is disarming, but it’s the sobering way you’ve said it that splinters something in his chest. Wrecks and pulverizes it to a fine dust like gunpowder, and the confetti of its aftermath is clinging to his capillaries. Feels on the cusp of ignition.

Bucky’s seen you lunge the length of three cars after a running start and dive knife-first into someone’s rib cage. He’s seen you slip into the fine opening between the third and fourth rib like the spot was made to catch your blade. You’ve always inhabited your body effortlessly and he’d always said you were the craziest fucking thing he’d ever met, glad you were on their side than the others’, glad you were his friend and not his enemy.

Jesus, you’ve been operating under boosters this whole time—the magnitude of raw ability intentionally tamped down.

He knows it’s his heat raring. He knows its that reptilian brain of his, overzealous with its primitive desire to witness the animal. The crux of being an Omega—the core of his marker—that is beginning to salivate at the idea that you could, very much, and especially right now, tear him to pieces—and easily.

And, please.

He can’t help that he wants to hear it again. He wants you to admit it, on a base level, to assert the truth, tell him what you are, tell him what he is, and make him surrender to you. Take the agony from him and… take him.

Then, belatedly, he realizes, “This is your rut safehouse.” As in, you are here, because you are in rut. Right now. Didn’t he already say that earlier? Is his brain only now catching up?

“Ding ding ding.” Your tone is flat and joyless, “Only here twice a year. Even my obstinate ass can’t stand the pressure of suppressed heat— you know that it builds up? I go meds-free half a week before bunkering down but you are in more of an emergency situation at the moment, so give me a couple of minutes and I’ll get out of your hair.”

His stomach lurches because he suddenly doesn’t want you to go. Doesn’t want you to move anywhere but closer because the air is flexing around you in currents, rippling out and out and out and over him like a heatwave and it smells so good, tastes so good, feels so good. Like mercy or compassion. The taste of rainwater during a summer heatwave. The breaking of a fever, the parting of an impenetrable fog. The first breath of a new life.

He’s starting to become agitated again, and hell, what would those disdainful extraterrestrials that clicked their pincers at how Earth was little more than a blue rock populated by insatiable little animals think of him now? Fuck them for having the privilege of fucking off a trillion light years back to their own whatever-color rock and perhaps reproduce via unproblematic sporing. Lucky bastards, but Bucky doesn’t know any other life; he’s just got the one that’s trying to repeatedly kill him for simply existing.

And he’s really, really tired of that.

So he demands, much too loud, “Bite me,” before you can turn around. And in case you needed further clarification, he goes ahead and tacks on, “Mark me up. Control me,” he pleads, the words hemorrhaging out now, “Give me my control back, I’m fucking begging you.”

“What—"

“I think,” he says, terrified. “I think before the serum changed me all the way… when I was captured…"

He trails off, unfocused as linoleum flooring sparks at the edges of his memory. Big, calloused, cruel hands grabbing him everywhere despite the way he screams in his mind, can’t make his mouth move any way except how they tell him to.

His fingers fist the sheets as he figures out the aversion his entire body’s having to this is more than flesh memories from a damp basement and an unlucky childhood. It’s Hydra, too. When they broke him down into little pieces before they put him back together wrong.

A blink later and he realizes his cheeks are wet.

You’re the closest to being in shock he’s ever seen you, looking like you could throw up or level the building. The muscles of your neck move jerky, your limbs stiff and angry and unsure. Bucky’s not, though; he’s very sure. This is the surest he’s been about anything in a long time.

“You mark me, and we stop worrying about our cycles for the rest of our sorry natural lives. We hole up here and—whatever with each other. I stop being a free-for-all fuck signal for every Alpha within a five-mile radius, and you—”

Your eyes skitter over him, his flesh wet with perspiration, his lips trembling, jaw bulging from grinding his molars together. There’s only the sound of his ragged wheezing, and your own shallow ones following in a ferocious tempo.

“I don’t know,” he mutters, shoving the heels of his palms into his eyes in defeat. “I actually don’t know what you get. How fucked is this?”

“It’s… pretty fucked.”

His heart plummets down to his belly, which is beginning to squeeze again, twisting and hurting until he re-folds into the sheets, clutching them between the webbing of his fingers. The agony feels different this time. Feels vindictive, feels personal.

“But to answer your question,” you suggest, a little choked, a little kind, “maybe I get you. How do you feel about that?”

“What?” Signals are backfiring now. He’s overloading, he thinks, impacted with the buildup of about 70 years of heat, bone tired and off the rails—he must have not heard you right.

“Yes,” you say.

“Y-yes? Just like that?”

“Yes,” you confirm, “just like that.” You step forward, shoulders in a hard line, focused on him. “Maybe we’re both— maybe heat’s not a good time to make these decisions, but I could fuck you senseless and then go kill every Hydra agent still alive if you asked me.” You bare your teeth in a show of dominance, of fury, and Bucky’s heart slams up to his throat at the sight of your canines—so sharp and pretty. “How do you feel about that?”

“Holy shit,” he says, refusing to question himself anymore. He feels everything. He feels… relieved, excited, grateful. Fuck, he feels ready. “Holy shit, come here, please. You gotta—you gotta get your hands on me.”

You rub the back of your neck, grin, and move to sit at the edge of the mattress.

“Bucky,” you say, reaching for the hollows of his cheek. His face is puffy and raw, and he must look like shit run over twice and suddenly wants to hide because up close, you’re gorgeous. You’ve always been—he’s got two fucking eyes, regardless of how swollen they are right now—but here, tender and waiting for him, letting him know that you see him, that you’ll care for him, it takes everything for Bucky not to promptly curl up like a lost child in your lap.

“It must have hurt, huh? I’m sorry about that.”

Bucky whimpers, feels himself quivery from pain or anticipation or embarrassment. But in the good way, like receiving attention on your birthday, like knowing the whole world might congratulate you for simply being born. And he’s never once felt like that before. And it’s making him light all the way up.

Your rub up and down his arms, his waist, his chest, then rest loosely at his hips and he shuffles to prop himself against the headboard, waiting for direction. He’d do anything you wanted him to.

“Can I kiss you, Bucky?”

He parts his lips by way of reply and you’re on him before he has the chance to do anything else. The bed dips with your weight, Bucky leaned back against the headboard, recoiling as you take charge and lead.

Your mouth is sweet and coppery with blood from an earlier split lip, he estimates. It doesn’t bother him whatsoever. He only wants more of it, more of that flavor that’s pulling him in, holding him down and safe. You kiss him slow, but firmly, his face in your hands, reconfiguring until your thighs are spread over his and caging him.

You’re bowed like a cat, forehead against his for a second, tips of your noses touching. Your pupils are so big and dark, teeth coming together in a faint click.

“Tell me you’ve changed your mind and I’ll go. Nothing’s gonna be different between us.”

The oddity of being asked—the very option to say no—makes him shake his head, “I want you. Do you want me?”

The way you move next astonishes him. It’s a barely noticeable tremor that starts at the base of your spine, rustling itself up until you crane yourself toward the ceiling, lids closing in pleasure, a puff of hot, heady air slipping from between your teeth.

“Jesus, do I want you?”

And then you’re maneuvering him like he’s not over 200 pounds of assassin. You grab him by his waist and hoist him up higher on the bed, make him arch his chest into yours, settle atop his thighs and lick into his mouth like both of you might die without it.

“Do I want you,” you huff, hunger breaking the surface, “on a regular day I want you. Right now, I could— what I don’t want is to scare you.”

It softens something inside him, making his breath hitch. You keep advancing, kissing his top and then bottom lip, sliding your tongue in, tasting every corner of him, murmuring all the ways you’ve wanted him since you met him, all the ways you want him happy and safe and fucked out.

“I didn’t know,” he gets out between breaths.

“Yeah, we have jobs; I have to behave.”

Another astonishment. Bucky snorts loudly in disbelief. “Putting Steve in a chokehold your idea of behaving?”

You laugh, nipping at his ear and neck, “It was a friendly chokehold, to help him with his afternoon naptime. I can put you in one too if you’re jealous about it.”

The softness in him is spreading everywhere. The stupid banter, the kindness of the entire gesture, the ease of finally being able to let go and not have to worry about being lost to a traumatic heat either alone or with someone who doesn’t care about him—someone he doesn’t trust—someone who’ll hurt him.

He’d forgotten about his oversensitive body until now, but the rubbing of your suit against his groin pulls out a sharp gasp. You begin moving again, taking the sheet off him until he’s exposed, naked and stretched out beneath you, flecked by his own nails.

You mouth at him, tracing each scratch and bruise like rubbing in a salve. Further and further down until he’s squirming, hips rolling in erratic circles, his cock heavy and slapping against his lower abs. Bucky curses incoherently when you wrap your fingers around him, begging his body to manage itself, but it feels so fucking good.

Each stroke ends with your thumb grazing the sensitive spot beneath his cockhead, flicking upward to make him spasm. Your hot kisses are at his inner thigh, lapping up the excessive precum he keeps leaking out. You breathe in his scent, growling faintly on impulse.

When you swallow him down and he hits the back of your throat, Bucky’s gone for it.

“Oh, fuck,” he rasps out, thrusting automatically, “Oh fuck, I’m s-sorry,” but you only lace your fingers through his and let him keep on. He’s dizzy again, breaking down and coming right then and there, shooting into your throat, almost howling.

He can’t believe there’s so much of it, is the craziest thing about heat. The human body utterly goes haywire and temporarily reprograms itself to fuck for about a week without any care for the rest of its natural processes.

He lets out a hysterical noise, unsure if he’s completely on Earth or what. The timeline of his life abruptly feels condensed to two phases: before you and after you. There were orgasms alone and orgasms with other people, and then there was this—this otherworldly tow of desire and pleasure that feels like the hand of God wrenching him out of his body. Wringing him bone-dry and it’d only been a matter of minutes.

You’re grinning at him, drawing circles at the sensitive dip of skin between his thigh and groin, lips lazy and doting. “I’ll take care of you, Bucky Barnes. You’re mine now. I’m gonna mark you—mark you all over.”

It’s a miracle he doesn’t catch fire at that, the idea of your teeth on the nape of his neck, biting down and branding him another catalyst in his imminent combustion. He says, “Yeah?” stupidly, like it’s the only word he’s been taught to remember.

You take off your suit with ease, peeling it away and sit naked on top of him, the dirtied gear flung off into a corner of the room. You’re wet, slicked up and gushing in preparation to take him, and this is what thoroughly losing your fucking mind feels like. When the urgency of heat builds up and up and up and jerking off is only a hint at the beginning of true pleasure.

The mere sight of you— the scent of hot, exposed skin, pheromones filling up his nose and lungs and blood. His sore cock fattens up immediately, erect and at the ready—the greedy fucking thing—and you’re stroking up the underside, licking your lips and panting like he’s doing something to you.

It’s embarrassing how he doesn’t last whatsoever. No chance in fucking hell it was going to happen, but he’s horrifically depressed that it’s this bad. You’re still sitting on top of him, gorgeous and naked, with his cock between your legs , one thumb brushing at his nipple, then tugging, then twisting until it’s just this side of painful— pink and sore and you slide your cunt right along his shaft and that’s it.

He’s covered in his own come again, hardly able to cobble his mind back into one piece before you’re rolling him over, arm reaching around his waist to grip him. You’re on his neck, fangs scraping with intent, and Bucky’s trying to plead that he needs to be inside you but he can’t get anything out.

“You’ll do what I say,” you growl, still on his neck, “You’re my mate now, and I’m your Alpha, you got that?” He thrusts weakly into your fist. “Say it, Bucky.”

“You’re my Alpha. I’m yours.” It’s a miracle he’s making any sense.

“I own you, got it? Nobody’s ever gonna touch you again but me. I’m gonna make this so good for you, Buck. Make it so you’ll forget the rest.”

He comes in long, heavy lines, crying out in amazement, wrecked with pleasure and overstimulation as you proceed to jerk him off again. His mind is freewheeling, unfastened by pleasure, aching beautifully like he never thought possible. He hardly registers it when you bite down, let his blood flow in your mouth, seal it off, and his heartbeat trips up, feels like it’s re-writing itself, falling into a new pulse that howls like your name.

It’s all instinct now. He’s yours now and yours tomorrow and yours forever. And yes, yes, yes. Fuck yes. Nobody will ever touch him again except you.

Bucky’s had over a century long lifespan of shame and suffering and the type of contact that’s left scars all over. He’s been hidden and captured and buried—taken to pieces until he was little more than scattered fragments of a mangled body. Called a weapon and a slave and then absolutely nothing.

And now he’s being called someone’s lover—someone’s mate.

“You’re mine,” you repeat, gently like sensing the emotion welling up in his chest, “don’t you forget.”

He only nods when joy drips out of his eyes. You roll him back over, smiling and kissing them away, lick at his cheeks and lips and makes him taste copper and salt and then what strangely feels like freedom.

“I’m here, baby,” you assure, lining yourself up with him, taking him deep like he was made exclusively to fit your body. “I’ll take care of you, alright? It’s only for a few more days but I’m here now. Are you ready?”

For once, he’s given a choice.

For once, he knows he is.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #marvel #mcu #alpha beta omega #reader insert #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes angst

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aoitrinity · 4 years

Text

Why Do I Have to Feel Like a Fucking Conspiracy Theorist -- OR -- How I Find a Semblance of Peace on Sunday Night

I’m also going to start this out with a GIANT DISCLAIMER.

I am about to theorize about what may have happened to the SPN finale. I have absolutely no insider knowledge. I am merely speculating here based on the panels and a bunch of Twitter and Tumblr posts that I have been reading over the last few days. If you are not in a good place to read such things, TURN BACK PLEASE. Go take care of yourself and your mental health. You and your feelings are valid and deserve to be handled gently right now.

Additionally, if you are here to give me shit for being unhappy with the ending, please walk away as well. I am here to reach out and share my feelings with people who might be struggling to make sense of something that upset some of us in very deep-seated ways. I am not here to bother you or critique you or tell you that you’re lesser because you liked the ending. If you felt it was good, then go enjoy it.

Long-ass post beneath the cut, everyone.

Alrighty folks...I debated whether or not to do this because I have been spiraling down the hell that is the SPN finale since Thursday. The travesty of what happened to our show--to this beloved show that seemed to have been so perfectly and precisely written for at least four years that it had basically already paved its own tarmac on which to land its plane and we all thought we knew exactly what we were going to get. And then we didn’t. We had a nigh Cas-less and entirely Eileen-less ending. We had no goodbye between Cas and Jack. We had Dean dying young after finally finding his freedom, only to ascend to heaven with no one but Bobby. We had the weird, weird, weird incest-y death scene. We had the bridge crane shot thing because...sure. You do you, Robert Singer.

It was so terrible, so truly awful, and I couldn’t seem to square any of it with anything we had known going in. I tossed and turned and cried and didn’t eat or sleep all weekend. I spent hours just reloading tumblr and twitter, going to the Misha panel, reading and reading and listening and trying to figure out what the fucking hell is going on because I needed to know exactly where to direct my anger. And after a fuckton of talking with @winchester-reload, I think we have at least a very plausible theory about what happened here--I’m laying it out below as much for my own peace of mind as anything else, because otherwise all of these thoughts are going to continue to spin around in my head for weeks and I won’t be able to do jack shit.

Now to start off, unfortunately I do think Dean was slated to die from the beginning of this season. I don’t know WHY they thought that was the best way to go, and I wish they had listened to Jensen on this one. Part of me wonders if it was an order from on high based on the discussion between Becky and Chuck earlier this season--the writers knew it wasn’t a great choice, but they were trying to signal to us that we should feel free to write our own endings to the story because they’d be better (I can wax poetic on the signs of why many of the writers probably wanted Dean to live, but that’s another post). I’m not defending that choice by any means, just laying it out there that I think they didn’t necessarily all want to kill Dean like they did.

However, what I THINK I can explain now is what happened with Misha and why we got so jerked around with Cas’s story. Consider what we know (I can’t immediately source all of it, but I did my best):

At the end of episode 15x19, Lucifer has been returned to the Empty after being killed AGAIN. He talks with Cas. Maybe harasses him a bit about Dean, idk. But then...Jack shows up. New God Jack. And he picks up Cas and pulls him out of the Empty, leaving Lucifer behind, because seriously. Fuck that guy (also leaving behind his abusive father is character growth for Jack, so yay for that).

-Misha was contracted to film 15 episodes this season. He was only in 14.

-Misha told Michael Sheen he had to go back to film 1.5 episodes after the shutdown in March. (Starts at 6:13)

-Misha was in Vancouver during filming of the finale.

-Mark P said at Darklight Con that the last scene he filmed was with Alex and Misha (and Mark P was only in episode 19).

-Misha implied that he was present for various filming moments, including Dean’s death (start at 35:15), and said that it felt like a “mini-reunion.”

-Various sources have mentioned that Jimmy Novak was supposed to be in the finale.

-After episode 18, Stands tweeted a fan who was angered and hurt by Cas's death that they could talk about the “bury the gays” issue after the finale aired.

-In episode 19 we know there were takes of the parking lot scene where the only thing fans observing could hear was Dean yelling “CAS” at Chuck (fuck I can’t find this one right now, but it’s definitely out there)

-Also in episode 19, we had a very strange, awkward montage at the end of the episode.

-In episode 20, we know there were a FUCKTON of missing scenes

-We also had no opening montage, but three other separate montages.

-Carry on My Wayward Son was played TWICE, back-to-back at the end of the episode.

-Episode 20 was shorter than normal and had surprisingly little dialogue. The pacing was VERY strange.

-The cast and crew has been almost completely silent about the finale since it came out. When they have spoken, it has been with an awkward excuse of “Uh...COVID?”

-Samantha Ferris has specifically noted that, despite the Harvelle’s being back in play and a big heaven reunion having been planned pre-COVID, neither she nor Chad Lindberg received any such invitation to return.

-Cas and Dean POP Funko figures were pictured together in a replica of Harvelle’s in 15x04.

NOW with all of this in mind (and I’m probably missing some stuff too because there is so much--feel free to add on to that list), please bear with me because here is what I think we were SUPPOSED to get POST-COVID (after it was determined that the reunion couldn’t happen because of the virus):

In episode 20, we start with our NORMAL OPENING MONTAGE, like always. It traces everything that happened during the season. We are reminded of Cas. The confession. Rowena. Eileen. Jack. Billie, God, the Empty, all of it.

Things then follow along in the episode where they did up until Dean dies and wakes up in heaven. After his conversation with Bobby, he drives off to find Cas (who, in the script, was listed as “Jimmy Novak” in order to protect against script leaks--who wouldn’t want to do their best to avoid spoilers about the finale with the wrapping of a fifteen-year show?). He does indeed find Cas. We get Dean’s end of the confession. Hell, maybe we even get a kiss. And then Dean sets up his new heaven home in the recreated Harvelle’s. Maybe Cas even fucking moves in.

Years pass. We get Sam having his life on Earth (still can’t explain why they cut Eileen and couldn’t even have Sam signing vaguely to the blurry brunette in the background; if anyone wants to take that on, go for it). Eventually, Cas tells Dean that it’s almost Sam’s time. Dean takes Baby and goes to meet Sam at the bridge. The cover of Carry on My Wayward Son plays during this much shorter sequence. End of episode.

But that’s not what we got. Instead, much of what I just wrote about was excised from the episode. The remnants were stitched together after shooting had been wrapped. Filler was added in the form of montages and long, unnecessary extra shots to get the episode to something approaching a reasonable length.

But why? Why would they spend all that time and money and quarantining on Misha, only to almost completely cut him out of the finale? I struggled with why the fuck the CW would want this mammoth show to go down as the greatest queerbait in TV history when they had the chance to do something truly beautiful and monumental with it? It couldn’t just be sheer homophobia, right? Well, I think that factored into it, my friends, but here is where my head is at right now.

It was about cold, hard cash.

Now I could be wrong, but this is what I’m thinking at the moment: Supernatural is going off of the air. Supernatural, the CW’s cash cow for fifteen years. Sure there is still money to be made on blu-rays and merchandise and cons...but they need people watching their shows. They need that sweet advertising revenue. And you know what show they have about to premiere? A show that could, potentially, bring with it a chunk of that SPN revenue?

Walker.

And if any of you know anything about the original Walker Texas Ranger, you know that the show was predominantly a show about a very heterosexual white man being very excessively heterosexual. And for SOME REASON over the years, many of the execs at the CW still seem to think that this show, Supernatural, is really attractive to a lot of middle-American white men...whom they desperately want to watch this new show with this guy from Supernatural that they already know.

Now here’s where COVID fucked us. I think Destiel was greenlit by TPTB, at least in SOME form, before COVID. But then the pandemic happened, and they panicked. They got the cut of the last two episodes and watched them in their original, probably queer form. And then, the execs at CW looked at the economy. They looked at their cash cow, about to make its journey to the great beyond. And they looked at this new little calf Walker that they were so desperately worried about. And they made a choice.

They decided that it would be too risky to take the step with Destiel. They were worried about frightening off their ever-so-valuable hetero male demographic with the possibility that a traditionally masculine man in his 40s could be in love with another man in an overt way. It was homophobia mixed with greed, spun up by fear for their revenues because of COVID.

So they called in Singer, possibly Dabb, although I wouldn’t be surprised if they went straight to Singer. They told them that Destiel had to go: executive orders. And the only way to make it go in a way that removed any trace of what had been there was to rewrite what happened to Cas and cut him out from the last two episodes entirely. It was too late to reshoot anything. They had to just cut and stitch and fill with bullshit montages.

They removed the scene at the end of 19, probably because Cas and Lucifer discussed Dean. All that was left of Misha there was his voice on that fake phone call. They may have cut other things too, but I would bet my life that they cut a scene from the end of the episode and replaced it with that very strange montage. Then they moved onto 20. They cut out every scene with Cas. And left in only two platonic mentions of him, neither made by Dean. They tried to imply that Cas might show up in Dean’s heaven at some point, but that was as far as the editors could go in the time they had. They filled in with montages, awkwardly long shots, anything they could do to fill all of those missing scenes.

And they even had to take the opening montage, because literally everything in it pointed to Cas being there at the end of it all. They wouldn’t be able to leave out his scenes, they were too critical to the season. They couldn’t cut his confession without raising eyebrows. So they cut the whole thing and moved “Carry On My Wayward Son” to one of the newly-added driving montages at the end. Which is why we awkwardly had both songs play back-to-back--again, such a strange choice unless they were out of options and couldn’t exactly buy rights to a new track or compose anything else.

And so we were left with the shadow of the finale that we deserved, that Cas and Dean deserved. We were left without resolution or happiness or words. Bobo told us the most important thing about happiness is just “saying it” and our characters were silenced without anyone ever knowing the truth.

I think the writers might have known and been given the new party line that “Misha never filmed, he couldn’t, sorry, it was COVID, no one’s fault!” But I don’t think most of the cast even knew it had happened until they watched the finale on Thursday with us (though they might have been confused why the bit from 15x19 was sliced, they could reasonably have assumed it was a time thing and also BL episodes don’t make sense anyway). Why do I say that?

Well, first of all, Misha started sending out a bunch of excited texts to fans with some old BTS pictures about an hour before the show started airing on EST. He also wanted his children to see the episode, his YOUNG children. Why would he show them such a traumatic episode if their Dad wasn’t in it? What if it was because he wanted them to witness what was going to be a monumental moment in queer television history that their DAD got to be a part of? And then that was all dashed.

Which is why I think the cast and crew went almost completely radio silent the next day. I don’t think they knew. And based on how they have been acting on social media since then, I think many of them are absolutely furious, but they have been silenced because of NDAs, because they want to find work again in a cutthroat industry, because they don’t want to bring down the hellfire of Warner Brothers Entertainment upon themselves. So the most we have gotten is a little acknowledgement from the MERCHANDISING COMPANY trying to validate our pain (god bless Shirts, she is a LIFESAVER) and a response to my salty tweet about keeping good stuff in the closet from Adam Williams (the VFX coordinator) that seemed to acknowledge the validity of my complaint.

Then there was a scramble behind the scenes, I would bet my life. Talking points were fed to the boys who had panels today, to CE, to all the cast and crew:

Toe the party line. Misha never filmed. This was always about COVID. Do not mention Destiel. Do not mention Dean’s feelings for Cas. Do not promote the Castiel Project or anything that validates the idea that this was anything less than a superb ending.

And that is why we have heard so little from the cast on this front, and what we have heard has been muddled and contradictory. That is why the writers are saying nothing. That is why we have been left adrift.

Now before I close this out, I do want to say that I really, genuinely do not think this was on the writers at all. I feel like they tried to give us the best ending that they could, in a writers room that we know is notorious for splitting along party lines about the overall story (BL and Singer, who have always been about the brothers and their man-pain vs. Dabb and the rest who always seemed to want more for them and for Cas). I think they did everything in their power to at least end with Dean and Cas happy together. If they could give us nothing else, they wanted to give us that. And then the network took it from them. From us. From everyone.

For the sake of fucking money.

And the WORST PART OF IT ALL, for me, is that in the wake of this disaster, the fans have been left to try and figure out what happened. We have had to wade through a mire of conflicting information in the midst of all of our collective anger and grief over this garbage ending of a show many of us have loved and even relied on for YEARS, all the while wondering if we’re just fucking crazy, if we have all fallen collectively into the hole of conspiracy theories. That hurts ESPECIALLY badly because we have taken so many hits over the years from other groups on social media saying we were crazy for seeing things that weren’t there (especially Destiel), for writing meta and analyzing tropes and believing the evidence of our eyes and ears. The network has made us relive that entire nightmare WHILE processing our grief for a show we wanted so badly to celebrate and which instead we now have to mourn.

So again guys, I cannot prove that this is exactly what happened at all; this is simply my idea of what may have happened. But right now, it’s the most sense I can make from this mess, and to be honest, the act of typing it out has helped me enormously in my processing of it all. I feel like I can see more clearly, like I know where to target my outrage and where to direct empathy. I feel like just fucking maybe, I might be able to do my job tomorrow without bursting into tears at random moments.

I really hope that this post has helped some of you to, in some small way, process this too. We get through this the way that Misha told us at his panel this morning, the way the writers have told us to do all season long...we throw out the story God gave us and we make it better. We write our characters the happy endings they deserve.

We save them.

One last thing--if you have not already, please consider channeling your rage into a donation to one of the five causes our fandom has put together to pay tribute to our beloved show and to mourn the ending it should have had:

-The Castiel Project

-Dean Winchester is Love

-Sam Winchester Project

-The National Association of the Deaf

-The Jack Kline Project

#supernatural season 15 #spn finale #speculation #destiel #destielgate #the ending was not the ending #fuck the cw #trust the story #we were robbed

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the-bau-quinjet · 3 years

Text

Plum Cobbler

Steve x Barnes!reader, Bucky x platonic!reader

Summary: What happens when Steve confronts the woman who's been sitting outside the compound every Saturday for a month?

Warnings: mentions parental death, some cursing

Word Count: 6315

a/n: This really took on a mind of its own. I was going to make it a series, but I feel like this is the whole story.

Masterlist

Nervous didn't even begin to describe how you were feeling. Sitting in your car, just outside of the entrance gate to the Avenger's compound was never somewhere you thought you'd be. Not until two months ago, when you found your grandmas old scrapbooks.

Of course, you don't know how to get inside. Honestly, you should have seen this coming. Why would just anyone be able to walk up to their door?

"Who are you?" The sudden question startled you, causing you to jump and hit your head on the roof of your car. You turned to look at the source of the voice, shrinking under her watchful gaze.

The one and only Natasha Romanoff was standing outside your car, glaring at you as if she was ready to drop everything to take you out.

"Oh, um. My name is Y/N L/N. I just wanted to talk to Bucky..." Her glare only grew stronger as you revealed why you were there.

"Barnes doesn't talk to strangers." Before you could explain why, she was gone. You watched her walk into the compound until she wasn't in your view anymore.

"Well, that went horribly." You mumbled to yourself. Now what? Should you just sit there until someone else comes out? Will anyone come out?

"So who is she?" Clint asked as soon as Nat got back inside.

"Why is she here?" Sam added on.

"Said her name is Y/N L/N, and she wants to talk to Bucky." Nat rolled her eyes.

"Friday, run a background check on F/N L/N." Tony asked of the AI. "What? You can never be too careful, and people shouldn't know how to get here." He explained given the questioning looks from the rest of the group.

"Y/N L/N, 27, daughter of the deceased Kathleen and Grant L/N. She owns a bookstore in Brooklyn, passed down through her family. No criminal record." Friday responded quickly.

"Sounds normal enough, probably a fan?" Tony suggested, looking around the room.

"A persistent one. She's been here for hours." Steve looked out the window, still seeing your car just outside the gate. "How did she find the entrance?"

Everyone shared similar looks, unsure how a seemingly normal civilian found the gate.

"Excellent question, Capsicle. Friday, got any ideas?" Tony, as usual, turned to the AI for answers.

"Based on GPS data from her car, she drove around upstate New York for eight hours every Saturday for the last 6 weeks until she came across the side road leading to the compound."

"Either she's really good at looking normal, or she's just normal." Nat added on, still slightly suspicious.

"Well, she just left. I guess we're not getting any answers today." Steve said from his position still looking out the window.

You came back every Saturday for a month. You didn't know if anything would come of it, but you'd be damned if you didn't try. After your parent's deaths, you thought you had no family left. Finding out you were related to Bucky gave you a lifeline. Something to cling to when you felt alone.

So far, nobody else had come to talk to you. You didn't even know if Bucky knew you were there for him.

The fifth Saturday, you pulled your car up to the gate at 9 am, sticking to your makeshift schedule of waiting outside for the entire day. They had to at least be curious as to why you kept coming back.

Unfortunately for you, the weather upstate today was not the same as the weather in Brooklyn.

Around 10:30, it started to rain. Just a sprinkling, nothing you couldn't handle.

You listened to music, read, ate the lunch you packed, played games on your phone, anything to pass the time. You weren't going to force your way inside, but you were definitely going to show that you were interested.

Typically, you would leave at 5:30. It gave you enough time to drive home and heat up dinner, plus you had to check in on your cat.

Today, however, was a different story. Around 5:15, it started pouring. Sheets of water were coming down around you, completely cutting off any visibility through the windshield.

You figured you'd just wait out the rain, but when it didn't let up by 6, you were getting nervous.

"She's still here." Steve walked into the kitchen, announcing his news to the room.

"I'm not surprised. It's not exactly peak driving conditions out there." Sam easily responded, glancing out the window.

"Aren't you the least bit curious as to why?" Steve asked again, pushing the same conversation as always.

Nearly everyone in the room rolled their eyes, sick of repeating the same things.

"Look, we figured if we ignored her, she'd eventually stop. Clearly, that might not be working. If you're so curious, feel free to go ask her." Tony gave in, eager to move on from the discussion of you.

Steve contemplated his choices for all of 2 seconds before grabbing an umbrella and walking down the driveway.

You had your head leaned back against the headrest, eyes closed, listening to the rain. Of course you would get stuck here. Why didn't you ever check the weather?

You shrieked when a knock sounded on your passenger side window, not having expected anyone, especially in the rain.

Mr. America himself pointed to the door, gesturing for you to unlock it. You sat up quickly, rushing to hit the unlock button.

He quickly opened the door, shutting his umbrella and lowering himself into the small car.

You were utterly speechless. After your brief encounter with Natasha, you didn't really expect anyone to come talk to you.

Sure, you came back every week, but it was more so to fill the lonely hours you would have normally spent with your parents at the bookstore.

You had other employees to run the shop on Saturdays, allowing you to come here instead.

"Why are you here?" He sounded more curious than anything. Clearly he didn't perceive you as a threat, which was good because you had zero fighting experience.

"To talk to Bucky." Your voice was quiet, unsure how much you should share.

"I know that. Why?" He had fully turned in his seat to look at you, his large frame filling nearly the entire car.

"Well, I found something a few months ago that I thought he should know." You stuttered through your response, mildly intimidated by the man in front of you.

"And that something is?" He questioned further, genuinely curious as to what you want to tell his best friend.

You hesitated, eyes flitting around the car, looking at anything but him. He sighed and ran his hand through his hair before speaking again.

"Look, if you ever want to actually talk to him, you should tell me. Buck's been through hell, he won't just talk to anyone. Especially if he has no reason to."

During your conversation, the rain finally let up. You decided to take that as a sign.

"Can I show you something?" You finally looked him in the eye, nearly forgetting why you were even here at the sight of his bright blue eyes.

"Is it the reason you've been out here every Saturday for over a month?" He joked with you, helping to calm your nerves.

You nodded in response, unsure if you could even speak while still looking into his eyes.

"Then please."

You tore your eyes from his face, throwing the car into reverse and backing out of the spot you've claimed as your own. You turned around, heading back to your apartment in Brooklyn.

"Wha- where are we going?" He's clearly surprised by your actions, but he doesn't seem worried.

"I'm going to show you what I found, and hopefully you'll let me talk to Bucky." You paused for a minute, thinking. "Although, really I guess it should be his choice. Maybe you can just give him a message for me, and if he doesn't want to talk I'll leave you all alone."

The idea of never getting to know Bucky, you're only remaining family, hurts, but it's got to be his decision.

Steve just nods in response, still slightly wary of your reasons for wanting to talk to Bucky.

When you're a few minutes away from your apartment, you decide to give him some context.

"You probably already know a lot about me, but let me explain a few things." He silently nods, encouraging you to continue.

"My parents died three and a half months ago." You immediately felt like crying, but did your best to hold it in. Of course, Steve didn't miss the break in your voice. "It was a car accident. The weather was bad. They lost control of the car. They were both pronounced dead on the scene." You parked the car, turning slightly to look at him.

"They were the only family I've ever had, and the were both just gone." You turned and opened the car door, taking a moment to wipe the tears from your eyes. You gestured for him to follow you, locking the car and heading inside your apartment building.

"We were really close. I spent every Saturday at the bookstore with them." You wiped the tears again as the elevator doors closed.

You didn't chance looking at Steve, knowing you would break down at the look of pity.

"I had to go through the stuff at their house. You know, decide what to bring here, what to put in storage, what to get rid of. I found some old scrapbooks, I think from my great grandma."

You lead him into your apartment, locking the door and immediately heading to the kitchen to feed your cat. After you set down the food, you moved to the couch. You had the scrapbooks on the coffee table, having taken every opportunity to look through them.

"I never knew her. My parents didn't talk about her either, I'm not sure if they knew who she was. Her name was Rebecca." You waited a beat, to see if he would understand. When he remained quiet, you handed him one of the books, open to a page with a picture of Steve, Bucky, and Rebecca. "Rebecca Barnes."

You waited again, letting the information sink in for him. After a few minutes he smiled.

"I remember this day." He looked at you, a wide smile on his face. "It was a few days before Bucky was enrolled. We had a picnic." He continued to reminisce, looking through the other pictures in the scrapbook.

"Maybe it's selfish, maybe he won't want to know me, but when I found out I had more family, I wanted to find him." Again, tears pooled in your eyes. "I, I just don't want to be alone."

Steve's smile faltered as he realized what you've been going through, and how you've been doing it alone.

"Hey, I'm sure he'll want to talk to you." He reached out to place a hand on your arm, trying to comfort you.

"Really?" Your eyes were still watery, but a small smile grew on your face.

"I think so. Bucky was really close with his sister when we were young." This time, Steve's eyes grew watery, memories of his youth playing through his mind.

You couldn't take the sight of him being sad, so you pulled him into a hug. He came willingly, letting you bury your face in his chest. He lowered his head so it was overtop of yours, relishing in the comfort of your hug.

You pulled away a few minutes later, not wanting to overstep, but the feeling of his arms around your waist didn't let you go far.

"Thank you for coming out to my car." You laughed, trying to lighten the mood. His face was so close to yours, you could make out the individual shades of blue in his eyes.

"Thank you for sharing your story with me." He whispered back, not wanting to break the moment.

You're not sure how long you would've stayed like that, but a loud crack of thunder jolted you apart.

"What the-" You mumbled, walking over to the window to look outside. Steve followed close behind you, also curious about the weather.

It was now pouring, lightning and thunder cracking overhead.

"I guess the storm followed us to Brooklyn." He joked, rubbing the back of his neck.

"I guess so." You looked at the clock, taking in the late hour.

Steve must've followed your line of sight, because he spoke up. "It's getting late, I should probably go."

You immediately shook your head, your fear of travelling in bad weather shining through. "I can't let you leave when it's like this. It's not safe. You, um, you can stay here tonight. You can sleep in my room. I'll sleep on the couch." You grew more confident as you kept talking.

"I couldn't impose like that." Steve shook his head, not wanting to make you uncomfortable.

"Steve, it's not safe to travel when it's raining like that. I would never forgive myself if something happened to you." Your voice grew tighter, trying not to flashback to the day your parents died.

Steve seemed to realize why you were so worried about the weather, ultimately deciding to agree to stay so you wouldn't worry about him.

"Okay, okay. I'll stay here, but you sleep in your bed. I'll be fine on the couch." He refused your offer, not wanting to force you to spend a night on the couch.

"First of all, thank you. Second of all, you are sleeping in the bed. You're like two feet taller than me." You exaggerated your height difference, but you were trying to make a point. "You won't even be able to lay down on the couch. I take naps here all the time, it's super comfortable." You argued back, unwilling to allow Captain America himself sleep on your tiny ass couch.

"You know, I should've expected you to be this stubborn. You spent five weeks waiting outside the compound with no contact. Plus you're related to Bucky" He laughed to himself, slightly shaking his head. "Fine, I'll sleep in the bed."

You smiled victoriously, jumping up from the couch. "Yay! Do you need anything? I have spare toothbrushes under the sink, and I can probably find you some clothes to sleep in. There's some snacks in the kitchen if you get hungry. Oh! And Carrot might try to lay in the bed with you, but I'll try to keep her out here." You rambled, trying to make sure he was comfortable.

"Carrot?" He smiled at your rambling, finding it adorable.

"Yes! Carrot is my cat. She's a cuddler, so consider yourself warned." You paused, eyes growing wide. "You're not allergic to cats are you? I think there's probably cat fur all over my room."

He laughed again. "No, I don't think the super soldier serum left any room for allergies." He quipped.

You smacked a hand to your forehead. "Duh! Anyway, do you need anything?" You asked again, trying to calm your beating heart.

"Some clothes would be great, thank you." The way he smiled at you did nothing to soothe your nerves.

"Okay." You breathed out, finally taking a deep breath. "I'll go grab some, the bathroom is right here if you need it." You pointed it out on your way to your room. "I'm just gonna get changed real quick, and then I'll be back with your clothes."

He nodded again, watching as you turned and walked into what must be your room.

You quickly changed into a t-shirt and sleep shorts. It took a few minutes of searching through boxes, but eventually you found an old pair of pajama pants and a t-shirt for Steve to sleep in.

You made your way out of the bedroom, handing him the clothes.

"Here ya go. Like I said, there are extra toothbrushes under the sink in the bathroom, and don't hesitate to grab anything you need from the kitchen."

He eyed the clothes in his hands, wondering where they came from, but not wanting to ask.

Luckily for him, you could tell what he was wondering. "They were my dad's." A sad smile graced your face. "I- I sleep in them sometimes when I really wish I could talk to him."

"Thank you." Steve turned to go to bed, but changed his mind last minute. He set the clothes down on the couch, pulling you into another hug. "You know, I can tell your related to Buck. He always looks out for people too."

You blushed at the compliment, grateful he couldn't see your face. "Thank you, that really means a lot." You stayed like that until Steve pulled back to talk to you again.

"I can take you back to the compound tomorrow, if you want. Maybe introduce you to Bucky."

"Really?! You don't want to talk to him first? Or double check anything I told you?" You were shocked at how willing he was to introduce you to Bucky.

"I trust you. Plus, I think you should be the one to tell him." Steve didn't say it out loud, but he also thought you and Bucky would be good for each other.

Bucky had Steve to connect his past and present, but another person for him to rely on wouldn't hurt. And you clearly were looking for a family connection.

"I would love to. Thank you!" You hugged him again, although quicker this time. You jumped back, excited to collect everything you wanted to show him. "I have to find all the scrapbooks to show him!"

When you turned to start collecting things, Steve put a hand on your shoulder, essentially preventing you from moving.

"Why don't we get everything together in the morning? It's getting late and you should get some sleep." He understood how emotionally and physically draining it could be to relive a loss like yours.

"You're right. I should sleep." You tried to slow your mind down, but the prospect of meeting Bucky tomorrow filled you with a mix of excitement and nerves. You gathered your extra blankets and pillows, setting up a bed for yourself on the couch while he went into the bathroom.

You were snuggled in bed, ready to sleep when he came back out.

"Goodnight, Steve."

His heart contracted at how adorable you looked buried in blankets on the couch, but he did his best to ignore it. He'd only just met you after all.

"Goodnight, Y/N."

The next morning Steve woke up at 5, per usual. He didn't want to wake you up though, so, despite his natural tendencies to run 10 miles every Sunday morning, he stayed in bed.

That is, until he heard you shuffling around the apartment.

He poked his head out of the room first, trying to verify that you were indeed awake. When he saw you in the kitchen, he fully emerged intent on helping you with whatever you were doing.

"Good morning, you're an early riser?" His question was completely ignored. Granted you couldn't see him yet, but he didn't know why you would be ignoring him.

He made his way closer to you, tapping you on the shoulder to try and get you to interact with him.

You, in a mixture of surprise and fear, turned and threw an egg at him.

He looked at you in shock, while you stared in horror at what you had just done.

You took headphones out of your ears, explaining why you hadn't heard his question.

"Oh my god! I'm so sorry!" You reached toward him with a dish towel, trying to wipe the egg off his (your dad's) shirt. "You just surprised me! I can get you another shirt!"

"It's fine, don't worry-" You ran out of the room anyway, grabbing another shirt of your dad's from the box in your room.

He couldn't help but laugh, oddly relieved that you weren't ignoring him.

When you reentered the kitchen, a shirtless Steve Rogers was washing your dad's shirt in the sink. You froze, taking in the sight of the man before you.

When he turned back around, your eyes took on a mind of their own, soaking in his toned chest and arms. You cleared your throat, shaking yourself out of your stupor to hand him the other shirt.

"Thanks." He smirked, but still blushed slightly before he put it on, ringing out the other shirt before handing it to you. "I didn't want the egg to stick to it since it was your dads, so i rinsed it off..." he trailed off, unsure if it was the right thing to say.

"That's really sweet, thank you. Especially because it was my fault there was even egg on it in the first place." You laughed, trying not to blush with embarrassment.

"Don't worry about it, really. I shouldn't have snuck up on you." He laughed as well, clearing any lingering tension. He took a look around the kitchen, taking in just how much stuff you had out.

"What are you making?" He smiled when you blushed again.

"Oh, I was making plum cobbler... I just, I read online that Bucky likes plums, so I thought I would bring him a cobbler." You blushed again, embarrassed by the admission.

"He does." Steve smiled, completely enamoured with your personality. "Did you want some help?"

"Actually, the cobblers are in the oven already. I was going to make breakfast next, though, so you can help with that." You smiled, noting how easy it was to spend time with him.

"Cobblers? I know Bucky's a super soldier, but one would have been plenty." He joked with you, moving to help scramble some eggs.

"Well, yeah. One is for him, but then I thought the other Avengers might be there and I didn't want to not have enough so I made three."

"You're too cute." The words slipped out before he could even think about what he was saying.

You blushed again, a frequent occurrence it seems when you're with Steve.

You uttered a quick thanks, trying to change the subject. "Do you always get up this early?"

He chuckled again. "Yeah, typically I don't need much sleep. I usually run in the mornings, try to clear my head."

The two of you fell into easy conversation, moving around each other effortlessly to make eggs, sausage, toast, and smoothies for breakfast.

When you finished eating, you collected the scrapbooks Bucky might want to see. You added his mom's wedding ring, the one your mom wore as well, to the box.

"What's that?" Steve pointed to the box, unsure if his assumption was correct.

You pulled out two scrapbooks, pointing to the near identical pictures of Bucky's mom and your mom after having been proposed to.

"My mom always told me her engagement ring was a family heirloom. I think it was his mom's ring too. I thought he might like to have it. As something to remember her by, ya know?"

You got teary eyed again. Thinking about how much he must miss his family combined with how much you miss your own parents was too much to handle.

You finished gathering everything, putting it all in a box to make for easier transportation. You took the cobblers out of the oven, packing them as well.

With a deep breath, you followed Steve back out to your car, ready to talk to Bucky.

"Where the hell is Steve?" Bucky nearly stormed into the kitchen.

"Whoa, calm down tinman. What's up?" Sam replied casually, pouring cereal into a bowl.

"Where is Steve? I was supposed to run with him this morning, but he wasn't in his room when I went to find him. I don't even like running this early. I literally only do it because it's what he prefers."

Sam laughed, enjoying anything that annoys Bucky. "Dude, chill. He probably just forgot you were going with him."

Tony walked into the kitchen as well, trying to tune out the whines coming from Bucky, but failing.

"That's what I though, but he's always back by now." Bucky huffed, annoyed with Sam for laughing.

"Who?" Tony asked, now slightly intrigued.

"Steve. I haven't seen him since yesterday." Bucky replied as he angrily ate an apple.

"Really?" Tony sounded mildly concerned, immediately alerting Sam and confusing Bucky.

"You don't think?" Sam asked, ignoring Bucky for the time being.

"I don't know!" Tony looked bewildered. "Friday, where is Capsicle?"

"Captain Rogers left yesterday evening with Y/N L/N." The AI easily replied.

"Who?" Bucky questioned the room, never having learned your name.

"You know the woman who's been sitting outside every Saturday?" Bucky nodded to Sam, unsure why he was bringing it up. "Well, Steve went to ask her why she was here last night."

"Nat told me she was just some fan, wanted to see you all." Bucky furrowed his brow, thinking over the new information on Steve's wearabouts.

"Well, yeah that's what we thought. Look, she said she wanted to talk to you specifically." Sam explained, ignoring the pointed glare from Tony.

"What? Why didn't you tell me?" Bucky rose from his chair, annoyed at everyone now. "Now she's got Steve?"

"Relax, Steve can handle himself. She cleared her background check. We really don't have any reason to believe he's in danger." Tony's words were more to convince himself than anyone else. He's the one who said Cap should go check it out if he was so curious.

"Steve's too trusting. What if it was a trap?" Bucky questioned, glaring daggers at the other two men.

Before they could respond, Friday chimed in with more information.

"Captain Rogers just entered the elevator from the parking garage."

"See, he's fine." Tony glared back at Bucky, secretly relieved that Steve was fine.

Bucky just rolled his eyes before leaving, heading for the elevators to yell at Steve for ditching him this morning.

When the elevator doors opened, however, Steve was not alone.

"Hey, punk, why'd you ditch me- Oh. Who are you?" Bucky eyed you suspiciously, looking between you and Steve.

Before Bucky interrupted, Steve was trying to reassure you that everything would work out. He had a hand on your back, rubbing up and down to soothe your nerves.

His other arm was occupied by the box of scrapbooks, or else he probably would have hugged you again.

You were holding a large sheet pan, three pie dishes sitting on top.

Steve was blushing, a surefire sign Bucky had seen something he wasn't supposed to.

"Oh, um. Hi. My name is Y/N L/N." You froze, not thinking you would have to see him so soon. You could see the family resemblance between him, your great grandma, and your mom.

"The car girl." He nodded, trying to piece together the events of last night.

"Yep, that's me." You laughed nervously, unsure of what he already knew.

"Buck, do me a favor? Let us out of the elevator." Steve eyed him, mildly annoyed with the ambush.

Bucky moved to the side, allowing you and Steve to exit the elevator. You followed Steve down the hall to the kitchen, where you put the cobblers on the counter.

Sam and Tony were still there, eating various foods.

"Well, hello there." Tony greeted when he spotted you, intrigued by the development. He looked at Steve for an explanation.

"Y/N made plum cobbler." Steve said instead, moving his hand back to the small of your back.

Bucky's eyes lit up at the mention of plums, enough to momentarily distract him from Steve's actions.

"Oh, right!" You took a cobbler out of the dish, moving toward Bucky. "This one's for you, because I read that you liked plums." You handed him the dish, quickly moving back to the others. "I also made a peach and an apple for everyone else." You smiled at Tony and Sam, unknowingly leaning slightly into Steve.

"Why does he get a special cobbler?" Sam whined, eagerly reaching for the other dishes.

Suddenly, all eyes were on you. Well, except Sam's who were on the peach cobbler.

"Oh, um, well, I was hoping I could talk to you." You looked at Bucky nervously, unsure of how he would respond.

"Anyone who bakes me a plum cobbler can talk to me, Doll." Natasha chose that exact moment to enter the room.

"Who made plum cobbler?" She looked around the room, eyes narrowing in your direction. "How did you get in here?"

"I brought her." Steve smiled at you before walking over to Natasha. He whispered in her ear, just loud enough for her to hear, but nobody else. "She's not a threat to your relationship, trust me."

Nat nodded her head, trusting Steve, although not for the reasons he thought. She could clearly see the blonde's affinity for you.

"So, what did you want to talk about?" Bucky asked between bites of cobbler.

"It's really a private conversation." Steve answered for you, seeing how unsure of yourself you were.

"Then why do you know, punk?" Bucky countered.

"Well, I had to tell someone so I could finally talk to you. Steve's the one who asked." You smiled at Steve again, trying to convey how grateful you were with just a look.

Steve smiled back at you, while everyone in else just shared a knowing look.

Eventually, Steve cleared his throat. "Buck, can you just come with us?"

Bucky nodded, moving to follow Steve while still eating the cobbler. You followed the two of them as well, growing more nervous with each step.

Steve lead you to his room, placing the box of scrapbooks on the bed.

"Do you want me to stay?" Steve looked to you for an answer.

You took a deep breath, in all honestly you would love for him to stay, but you think you should probably just talk to Bucky first.

"No, that's okay. Come back in like, 30 minutes?" You scrunched up your face, unsure if 30 minutes was long enough, but knowing you would need the deadline if you were ever going to explain it all to Bucky.

Steve nodded, squeezing your shoulder as he passed you to leave the room.

"Um," you turned to Bucky, trying to think of where to start. "I don't know what you already know about me, but-"

"Nothing really. Except that you make a delicious plum cobbler." He smiled, helping to ease your nerves. Food really was the way to this man's heart.

"Oh, I guess I'll start where I started when I told Steve." You smiled at the mention of his name, unaware of your own actions. But Bucky noticed.

"My parents died a few months ago." Bucky's eyes went wide, trying to think of what this could have to do with him. "Um, it was a car accident. They both died on the scene." You took a deep breath, trying to push through the sad parts.

"I had to clean out their house, and I found some scrapbooks that lead me to you." You shifted closer to the bed, looking through the scrapbooks you brought.

You pulled out the one with the first picture you showed Steve, opening it and gesturing for Bucky to take it.

He set the cobbler on Steve's nightstand, cautiously reaching for the book. He looked at the picture for a long time before saying anything. And when he did talk, it was a whispered "Becca..."

He ran his fingers over the picture slowly, just staring. A few minutes later, he eagerly flipped the page. He spent a good 10 minutes just looking through all the books you handed him.

"Where did you get these?" He questioned, although not accusingly.

"I found them in my parents house. They were with a bunch of my grandma's stuff that she had from her mom." You wanted to ease him into it.

"So your great grandma..." He trailed off, disbelief clear across his face.

"Was Rebecca Barnes." You finished the sentence for him, nerves clear in your voice.

You weren't sure what to say next, so you waited for him to make the next move.

"So you're my... great-grand niece?" You nodded at his question, still unsure if he was happy with the news. "God, that makes me feel old."

You nearly cackled, surprised by the joke. He smiled when you laughed, glad to have cleared some of the tension.

"Why did you want to find me?" He questioned, the mood turning more serious again.

"Well, I was really close to my parents. They were the only family I had. When I found out you are family too, I just... I knew I needed to at least tell you." You shrugged at the end, unsure if you really answered his question.

"You wanted to tell me so badly that you sat outside the compound every Saturday for five weeks even after being ignored?" He was in shock that anyone would spend that much time and effort just to talk to him. You started panicking immediately.

"I'm so sorry if you didn't want to know! It was selfish of me to force this on you. I can go, if you want. You don't have to talk to me." You started questioning everything. You moved to put the books back in the box when he stopped you.

"Oh, um. I'm sorry, you can keep those. If you want!" Tears were threatening to fall down your cheeks when you remembered the ring. You froze with your hand in the box, not knowing if you'd want to part with it knowing you'd never see Bucky again.

"Y/N..." Something in the way he said your name made you look at him. "I- I'm glad you told me. Really glad. I, uh, I never thought I would have family, well besides Steve. You know what I mean." He ran a hand through his hair, and you noticed the tears in his eyes.

"I don't want you to go. It's just hard for me..." he paused, trying to figure out his emotions. "It's hard to believe that someone would care about me that much."

"Bucky, I don't know you." He frowned at your statement. "But, I would love to get to know you." You smiled at him, trying to be reassuring.

"I'm not so sure you would." His face was hard, staring at the ground.

"Bucky, you aren't a bad person. I mean, sure you've done bad things, but it wasn't your choice. You were forced to do those things. You can't let yourself be defined by them. You're here aren't you?"

"Here?" He questioned.

"Working with the Avengers, I mean. You go on missions to help save people. That's your choice. That's who you are. I would be honored to get to know that person."

You smiled, waiting for him to say something.

"Are you sure?" He still looked unsure.

"God, maybe I get my stubbornness from you." You both laughed at that. "I am 100% sure."

"Wow." He shook his head, still in shock.

A knock sounded on the door before Steve came back in. "Is now a good time?" He asked, still standing in the doorway.

You nodded appreciatively. "Thank you." You pulled him into a hug, needing the emotional support.

"Of course. I'm happy I could help." He rubbed your back, reciprocating the hug. "Did you give him the ring yet?" He asked when you took a step back.

You shook your head, reaching into the box for the last item. "I, um, I thought you might want this." You handed him the box, nerves peaking through again.

He opened it, a soft smile on his face when he recognized it. "My mom's engagement ring."

You smiled, happy that he recognized it. "It was my mom's as well."

The two of you stared a the ring for awhile, reminiscing on time spent with your parents.

Eventually, Bucky picked the cobbler back up, not wanting to let it go to waste.

Steve couldn't help but roll his eyes at his friend. "Wow, jerk. You're just gonna go back to eating."

"Yes, punk. My great-grand niece made me a plum cobbler, and I tend to fully enjoy it."

"Great-grand niece. Ha, that makes you sound so old."

It was fun for you to see the two interacting like this, especially after the emotional hurdles you just ran.

"It's fine, Stevie. Let him enjoy the cobbler." Your face went red, not having meant to use the nickname.

"Yeah Stevie, let me enjoy the cobbler." Bucky couldn't help but poke fun, knowing there was an unspoken attraction between the two of you.

Somehow your face got even redder. Steve just rolled his eyes.

"Fine, eat your cobbler. Only because I had some of the apple one and it was delicious. It would be a shame to waste any."

You smiled at the compliment, embarrassment subsiding a bit. Steve sat down on the bed between you and Bucky, eager to ask his friend about some of the pictures. Steve put his arm around you, squeezing your shoulder as he spoke to Bucky.

You felt your eyes growing heavy, exhausted since your nerves kept you up most of the night. You rested your head on Steve's shoulder, soaking in his warmth as you cuddled closer.

Steve just rubbed your arm like it was the most natural thing in the world. Bucky narrowed his eyes at the interaction, realization dawning on his face.

"Oh my god. My best friend likes my great-grand niece. And she likes him." He said it so matter of fact, the two of you didn't bother denying it. You just smiled, and cuddled closer together.

#steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x y/n #steve rogers x you #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky x natasha #bucky barnes x natasha romanoff #tony stark #sam wilson #steve rogers #bucky barnes #marvel fic #clint barton #Bucky Barnes x platonic!reader

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redrobin-detective · 3 years

Text

The late Daniel Fenton

It was shaping up to be a beautiful if chilly December day and Casper High, as always, was bustling. It was 7:49 and class was about to start. The teacher watched the last few kids stumbling in at various levels of wakefulness. He already knew who would be the ones to rush in after the bell but that was alright. Life was too short to stress about being a few minutes late to class, especially in Amity Park of all places.

He looked up to see Madison, one of his shyer students walk in before making a beeline for his desk. She was biting her lip and nervously rubbing her hand down her skirt. “Hey,” she began quietly.

“Good morning. What’s up, Mads?” He asked casually. She looked upset, he could probably put on a video for the class if she needed to talk. They really needed a permanent counselor but the constant ghost attacks ran off most of them so he’d taken up the unofficial mantle. It felt good to help his students like that, make up for past wrongs.

“Are we um, expecting any new students?” She asked, her eyes darting over to the door she’d just come through. “Any transfers, exchange students or anything like that?”

“No,” the teacher frowned. “Amity isn’t the kind of place people transfer into. Why?”

“There’s a kid in the hallway,” she mumbled. “I don’t recognize him, he’s got a backpack and everything but he’s... I don’t know he doesn’t feel right.”

“Oh you’re talking about that weird dark haired kid,” Kyle said as he entered and sat down with a slouch. But even the class slacker looked unusually tense. “Dude’s creepy, can’t put my finger on why but he definitely doesn’t belong.”

“Oh,” was all the teacher had to say. Suddenly he realized how cold the classroom had become, the uncomfortable feeling that was pressing ever so slightly down on them. “I suppose it makes sense, the ghosts have been quiet lately with the Truce and all. He probably got bored.”

“Sir?” Madison said.

“Shannon,” he said instead, looking over at the frizzy haired girl hunched over her sketchbook furiously at work. “Would you do me a favor and move to the vacant seat in the second row? Just for today.”

“What? Why?” the girl whined even as she gathered up her various arts supplies and got ready to move.

“That’s Mr. Fenton’s seat,” he said taking in a deep breath and closing his eyes in preparation for what he was about to see. Danny would come here, of course he would. This was Lancer’s old classroom and Danny had him for first period English Lit. He and Dash both did.

“Mr. Baxter? What’s going on, is it a ghost?” Malik asked from the back row while Shannon shuffled to her new temporary seat.

“Yes but you don’t need to be scared,” he said softly, evenly. “He won’t hurt you.” The bell rang but Dash didn’t start the lesson. Instead, he waited. Danny had never been on time to class the entire time Dash had known him, of course death wouldn’t change that.

“Sorry, I’m late Mr. Lancer,” Dash gripped his desk so he didn’t jump when Danny Fenton simply appeared in front of his desk instead of walking through the door like any other student. “My folks couldn’t drive me, they’re still working on their stupid ghost portal.” A quick glance over at this class showed varying levels of fear, shock and curiosity but they were Amity kids through and through. The cold, powerful energy radiating off Fenton told them it was best to play along with whatever the ghost wanted.

“Perfectly alright Mr. Fenton,” Dash said softly, searching the 14 year old’s perpetually young face. He hadn’t changed a bit since Dash last saw him their second week of freshman year. It seemed unreal seeing how the years had taken their toll on Casper’s favorite son, Dash Baxter. God had they really been that young once? “Take a seat and we’ll get started.”

Danny shrugged and walked over to the seat Shannon had just vacated. He sat just the same, one leg stretched out and the other propped up against the leg of the desk. As soon as he took off the backpack and put it around the chair, it disappeared. He didn’t say anything else, just sat as stared at Dash with piercing blue eyes like he could see right through him.

“We had been talking about the lead up to the Civil War but let’s table that for today,” Dash said, proud his voice only wavered a little. He knew other people had seen Fenton around town. Lina saw him standing outside the Nasty Burger maybe five or so years ago. Dale, who used to live near Fenton Works swore he sometimes saw someone moving through the windows of the long abandoned house. He’d always secretly dreaded the thought of seeing Danny Fenton again, afraid he’d finally get was coming to him.

“Instead, we’re going to talk about local history,” he continued, not daring to take his eyes off the undead teen. Every other living student was tense, afraid. He wished he could assure them that the ghost wouldn’t lay a hand on them. In the event Fenton decided to ditch the hero schtick, it would be Dash and Dash alone he’d come after. “Amity Park has long had rumors of being haunted dating all the way back to the 1600s. It wasn’t until the last century that scientists determined that Amity Park is located on top of a thin spot between our world and the ghost realm. Natural portals form here all the time allowing spirits to pass through.”

No one spoke and barely anyone breathed except for Danny would wasn’t breathing at all. He just sat and stared at Dash with steady, unblinking eyes.

“Jack and Maddie Fenton were the scientists who discovered the weak point in reality in Amity. They devoted their entire life to the study of ghosts and made remarkable advancements in our knowledge of ectobiology and culture, the first being,” he paused as Danny cocked his head in confusion, squinting his eyes suspiciously at Dash. “The first being their manmade portal to the ghost zone. The portal remained active for almost two decades for research purposes but was shut down following their deaths.”

“You’re not Mr. Lancer,” Danny said suddenly, his eyes shifting from baby blue to an ectoplasmic green. Marty, who was sitting to the left of Danny, swallowed a squeak of fear and squeezed his eyes shut.

“No,” Dash sighed, “Lancer died almost thirty years ago now. Best teacher I ever had, he gave me his blessing when he passed on the job to me.”

“I,” the ghost ran his hand through his hair which was starting to lose its color. Seeing Fenton looking so scared and confused made him ache. It reminded him of old times. Dash had spent most of his life making sure he helped hurt kids if only to make up for the one he’d never been able to make it up to. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s okay, Danny,” he soothed. “I know it’s a lot to take in.”

“The portal, it wasn’t working at first,” Danny justified, his aura glowing a little more. “Sam and Tuck, they were curious. They wanted to look but I told them it wasn’t allowed, Sam, Sam she dared me to go in. I put on the hazmat suit and went inside and found the on button inside. I accidentally hit it and-” he paused midsentence and looked down at his hands. They weren’t pale flesh anymore but covered in white gloves. The black was completely bleached from his hair. A few of the students gasped as they saw the strange would be student melt into Phantom, the ghostly hero who’d been protecting their town since their parents were young. “I died.”

So much time had gone by. People were born and people were buried and the truth became distorted until it was just a legend passed jokingly around cafeteria lunch tables. Amity’s youth had forgotten their town’s history until it was sitting in a desk, trying once more to be one of them.

“You did,” Dash said sadly. He remembered hearing the news of Fenton's death. An assembly had been called the morning after the accident. Lancer had cried at the podium, Manson and Foley hadn’t returned to school for a week and had never been the same again. Dash hadn’t known what to think at the time, only that the kid he’d beat up for the crime of being different would never show up to school again. Or so he’d thought. “It was a tragedy, you were mourned by a lot of people.”

“I know you, don’t I?” Danny said quietly before he sat up straighter. “Dash?”

“In the flesh,” Dash grinned shakily.

“But you’re so old,” Danny said, once more distressed. “Your hair is grey and there’s wrinkles on your face and-and you’re a teacher now?” The last line was said with incredulity, his eyes flaring again. “You used to push me down the stone steps of the school and shove me into my locker and call me names.”

“Yeah, I did,” he sighed, feeling every one of his years. He was pushing 70 but he didn’t think he’d ever stop feeling like a stupid 14 year old who took out his frustrations on the ones who didn’t deserve it. “But you were the last; I never touched another kid again. I’m married now, four kids. I’m vice principal now, teach History and coach the school’s football team. It’s,” his voice caught again, still unable to process how young and stupid Fenton looked sitting there like no time had passed at all. It made Dash feel like all his accomplishments and attempts to be better would never amount to anything so long as his last victim roamed the earth unable to find peace. “It doesn’t fix what I did back then but I make damn sure that there won’t be any bullying at Casper so long as I’m here.”

“Huh,” Danny said, slouching once more in his seat but it looked less like his earlier teenage laziness and more weary. He and Dash were the same age after all, just because only one of them got old doesn’t mean time didn’t still affect them. “You did change, a lot of things did.” Danny looked down at the desk, “how long has it been?”

“Almost 50 years,” Dash sighed. “My wife wants me to retire but I guess I always find more things to do.” He paused then decided it was now or never. “I’m sorry Danny, for hurting you back then. I wish I'd gotten to know you better.”

For just a moment, Danny was perfectly clear. Even half floating out of his chair and looking like the local celebrity, his eyes were so painfully human. A boy killed before he ever got a chance to get started. Who’s will to protect was so strong it lasted half a century. It haunted him late at night to think of the glory and power of Phantom overshadowing just how incredible Danny Fenton had been. Not that anyone had seen it at the time. Soon there wouldn’t be anyone left to remember that quiet, kind teenager and then Danny Fenton really would be dead. Kill him just as thoroughly as that portal had.

The moment was broken by a breath of cold leaking out of the ghost’s lips and, just like that, his highschool classmate was gone and Phantom was left in his stead. He looked curiously around the classroom as if he didn’t know how he’d gotten there.

“There’s a ghost, stay here and don’t leave unless the fighting gets too close. I’ll get it though, don’t worry. No kids are dying today.” Maybe it was Dash’s imagination but he thought he saw Phantom’s eyes linger on him for an extra moment, trying to place where he knew the teacher from. Dash just smiled.

“Our lives are in your hands. Good luck, Phantom,” the ghost teen saluted before fading away entirely. Dash let out the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, suddenly exhausted but also lighter at the same time. It wasn’t every day you got to look your mistakes in the face and apologize. “Shannon, you can move back now.”

“No, I’m okay here,” Shannon said as she flipped to a new page in her sketchbook and looked intently at the spot where Fenton had once sat. “It’s like you said, that’s Danny’s seat.”

“I had no idea, Phantom’s been around for like, ever,” Freddie mumbled, pushing up his glasses. “But he used to be just like us.” And still was, Dash thought sadly. Danny would never grow old, never go to space like he’d always dreamed or marry Manson like he’d probably intended to. He was stuck, in more ways than one for who knows how long.

“Yes, that’s why it’s important to know your history. The Civil War and my other lessons are important but we can’t forget these smaller, more intimate histories. If we lose these lessons to time then we risk repeating the same mistakes over again.” He looked his students in the eyes, holding their attention.

“So we’ll continue today with the local history. Before he was ghost butt kicking superhero, Phantom was Danny Fenton, son of the local ghost hunters and a bit of an outcast in town. The Daniel Fenton Foundation was founded about a year after his death and was-”

#danny phantom #dead danny au #if bitch fartman won't redeem dash then I guess it up to me #god can you imagine growing up and growing old only to look at your past victim in the eye and see nothing has changed for him?#i could go on and on about what other characters got up to #but this is about the tragedy of the loss of Danny Fenton #not only his life but his memory #time moves on and Fenton got lost in the mix #once Dash's generation dies then Fenton will just be a cautionary tale #a ghost story #No one will remember that their hero was one long before he got his powers #god Im fuckign sad now #eat up and enjoy your angst

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seabass17 · 3 years

Text

All that’s left | Pt. 2

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem! Reader

A/n: So, this is... a different reader in comparison from the one in the first part but I kinda like it? Anyway, Im considering making a third part and im thinking it'll contain some smut. I used google translator so please don't judge me. Tell me what you think. Happy reading.

All that's left pt. 1

Warnings: angst, mentions of scars, swearing, implied smut?

Word count: 3.263

Summary: After moving from her life in New York, away from the Avengers and him, she finds happiness and a life that she actually enjoys, but that seems to last little when she spots the familiar jet on the roof of the building she lives in. Is she ready to face them? To face him?

*Three months later*

The warm air surrounding my body made me take a deep breath and unconsciously smile. I was happy, I was free, I was whole. I was with my neighbor drinking coffee in our usual spot, which was a cafe near the main street of the place that I decided was going to become my new home.

“Продолжай рассказывать мне о своем боссе, который сводит тебя с ума” (Keep on telling me about your boss who drives you crazy) Andrei said making me laugh and shake my head.

“Не о чем говорить, он просто засранец, который дает мне слишком много работы и заставляет меня плакать” (Nothing to talk about, he's just an asshole who gives me too much work and makes me want to cry) I laughed. I had met Andrei a week after I moved in and there was an immediate connection. No, it wasn’t in a romantic one, god no, we were just really good friends that had a lot in common.

“Now now, that was not what i saw the other day when i went to pick you up from work” He said with a playful smirk plastered on his light brown face. I gasped, a fake indignant expression on my face while my hand went to my chest. He laughed loudly. “Don’t play that card, I saw you!” he added

“I don’t know what you are talking about” I said, trying to fight the smile that tried to come out but failing miserably, we both laughed.

He and I had become quite close in the little time that we had known each other. He was an American with a Russian name. He explained that his mother was from the states while his father was a russian spy, they fell in love against all odds and eventually, Andrei was brought to this world. When he was fifteen his father died and he and his mom went to America, where he finished high school and surprisingly, entered the military. He did two tours before he decided that he had enough and returned to Russia. Hence why he could speak both Russian and English fluently. As for me, I told him that I was in some sort of organization that worked for the government, and that’s why I knew russian. He believed me, thank God, I didn’t want to talk about how I was part of the Avengers and why I left. Obviously I will tell him when the time is right and I know that he can be fully trusted.

“Oh, come on Ames, are you going to tell me that you don’t like him one bit? Not in the slightest?” he asked, smiling and I shook my head. He stayed silent for a second and stared at me, like he was considering whether he should ask me something or keep quiet. “Is it because of him?” he finally asked, watching me closely to see my reaction. I felt my stomach twist at the mention of him. Of course it was because of him, because of them, I couldn’t afford getting hurt and betrayed one more time. Andrei didn’t know his name, or theirs for that matter, so I smiled weakly and nodded.

“Yeah, I know it sounds stupid but… I just can’t afford getting hurt, not again, not anymore” I said looking at my hands.

“I understand, believe me I do” he said, his hand reaching out to hold mine. I looked up to find his brown eyes looking for mine, I saw nothing but genuine love -the friendly kind- in them. I smiled and squeezed his hand. He was going to say something but his phone rang; a notification. He withdrew his hand to look at his phone and the moment he did, people around us started getting up and running in the same direction. I looked at him confused to find him frowning at his phone.

“What is it?” i asked.

“The Avengers are here…” He said and my heart skipped a beat and my body went rigid. Andrei noticed. “What 's wrong?”. Well, there’s no use keeping him from the truth anymore.

“So, remember when I told you that I worked for an organization for the government? Okay don’t freak out and hate me but, here it goes” I took a deep breath. “That organization was called The Red Room were they trained me from a very young age to be a perfect cold-blooded killer, years later i escaped and was on the run until i got a new identification, name, address, new everything and then joined the avengers to amend the wrongs I made in the past. To my luck, it didn’t go great because it ended up breaking me the same way The Red Room did, so I left to find a fresh start and came here where I met you. Please don’t hate me” I concluded in one breath. Andrei was silent with a straight face, which was hard to read, and eventually after a few seconds that felt like an eternity and shrugged his shoulders. WHAT THE HELL DOES THAT MEAN.

“Believe it or not, I've heard worse” he simply said

“Worse than finding out that your best friend is a train killer and former avenger?” i asked incredulously and he tilted his head and smirked

“US Agent mother and Russian spy father” He said. I laughed and he followed right after. “So, I'm guessing we are running away?” he asked. Say what now?

“We?” I asked, almost in shock to which he simply nodded, “You don’t think im just gonna let you go like that, please, is not that easy to get rid of me” he snorted. “And I'm supposing Amelia is not your real name either, given the fact that you ran off,” he added. Damn, he is good.

“Y/n, y/n y/l/n” I said and he slowly smiled

“Well y/n, nice to meet you, my name is Andrei Petrova” he said, extending his hand, i repeated his action with the same smile. “I’ve got to say, I like the name y/n more than Amelia '' he added and laughed. We were brought back to the matter at hand when the screaming of the people were getting louder. I snapped my head up and saw the familiar jet on the roof of the building where I was living.

“Here’s what we are going to do, I’m going to my apartment and buy us some time while you go get a car and,” i handed him my card “you are going to get all the money from my bank account. I will meet you in front of the cafe that’s two blocks away from my place”

“Are you going to be okay?” He asked with clear worry in his eyes. I smiled and nodded

“Yes, I promised. Now go” I said before he got up and ran. I sighed and went to my apartment. Was I really going to do this? After months, was I ready to face them, already knowing the truth? Well, guess I'm going to find out.

Once in the building I decided to programmed the lights to go out in 50 minutes and then I went to the elevator, wanting to appear as normal as possible even though I felt like my heart was going to explode from how fast it was beating inside my rib cage. When the elevator stopped at my floor I walked until I was standing in front of my door. I didn’t need to wait and confirm, I knew they knew I was here, now there’s only one thing left to do. But before I did anything, the door creaked open.

*10 hours earlier*

Bucky paced from one side to the other, finding himself incapable of staying put. Natasha sat silently on her chair, Tony was in the front with his head in between his hands, Steve was resting on the side of the wall looking at the floor, Bruce was just standing there holding his chin analyzing everyone in the room. Sam sat on the couch looking through his phone, Vision was sitting next to Wanda on the other couch, while Clint and Thor were sitting on the other chairs. Peter had some school stuff to deal with like the teenager that he was. They’ve been looking for her for the past three months, and about a week ago, a picture was found of someone that looked exactly like her, all except her hair that was a bit shorter and the color was different, but other than that, it was practically her.

Not wanting to get their hopes -or rather enthusiasm- up, they decided to look deeper and found out that the picture was taken a month ago in the city of Magadan located in Russia. They found out that before three months, the name Amelia Agapov, didn’t exist. The more they looked into it, the more they were convinced that it was her.

“The mission report from Agent Carter arrived, should i put it on the screen?” the voice of the AI filled the room. The team had been waiting for that report for days, the nerves of the question that lingered in the air ‘was it her?’ being present for that time only grew stronger as Stark asked FRIDAY to project the report on the screen.

Pictures were shown, most of them were about this woman buying in the market, having coffee with a guy, but there was one, where her face was looking straight into the lens of the camera, and it was that picture that left the people in the room absolutely rigid. It was her.

“We found her…” Tony said in a whisper. Everybody kept their gaze on the picture on the big screen. After months looking for her, they finally had found her. To everyone, it was like someone just discovered something new, a kind of relief and anxiety all at the same time.

“Suit up, we’re going to get her” Steve said to the group, but see, it was the choice of words from Cap that Bucky found unsettling.

“Get her? Like she is some kind of criminal?” he said, looking at his best friend dead in the eye. Steve opened his mouth to say something but Tony beat him to it.

“She was trained by The Red Room to be an assassin, we can expect nothing more from her '' He said, trying to calm Bucky down, but instead it only caused him to get angrier, and not only him.

“So was I” Natasha said, her voice low that could scare anyone to the bone if they weren’t so used to her.

"It's different" Tony said

“How is it different?” Wanda said this time, “It wasn’t when you practically recluded me after I helped Ultron and tried to kill you all” she added.

Tony sighed and looked down, realizing that he might be overreacting.

“Let’s just get suit up and get on with it” Steve said, cutting the rather awkward silence that filled the room.

The avengers were suit up and on the quinjet in less that forty-five minutes, and they were in Madagan in nine hours, it took them an hour to find her building, and once they found it, Clint landed the jet on the roof and they all got out and looked for her apartment. Funny enough, it was the same number as the one she used to live in New York; 108. They waited for what seemed an eternity until they heard footsteps just outside the door. Suddenly, the air felt thick with anticipation, but Bucky couldn’t wait any longer so he crossed the living room in two steps and opened the door. She was standing there. Silence took over the entire apartment until she broke it.

“Well, are you going to move so that I can get inside my goddamn apartment Barnes?” she said expectantly. Bucky realized that he had been staring at her since he opened the door. Her hair was different, more wavy and a shade or two lighter. He moved to the side and she was able to see the rest of the team. This was going to be one hell of an evening.

Breathe. In… and out…

It was hard. Fuck. Okay i can do this.

“Well isn’t this nice. All the team back together again!” I said with sarcasm dripping from every letter.

“What the hell did we ever do to you?” Steve said firmly.

“Damn, getting straight into it. That’s okay” i shrugged as I went to my room but the sound of the blasters of Tony's suit stopped me.

“Stop, don’t take another step” He said, lifting his hands and I smiled.

“Really? Well unfortunately i have to change, so i’ll leave the door open if it makes you comfortable” i said as i continued to walk to my room, and like I said, i left the door open.

“Y-you don’t have to do that, you can…” Wanda said but trailed off. I had taken my shirt off; my scars were shown.

“So, Steve” I broke the silence as I put on a black shirt, “the thing that you did wasn’t as bad as tin man over there, but you still let Hydra take me the day we took out the helicaries” i added. His face got pale and started shaking his head.

“What? No, you made it out safe, you-” He started saying but i interrupted him

“You sure? Who do you think stopped Rumlow when he tried to interfere with the exchange of the chip when you were in the helicarrier with Bucky?” He started thinking for a moment until he realized what I said fell into place. “Yeah, I took one hell of a beating, and if that wasn’t enough, I fell to the water. I fell thirty floors down, and I alone got myself out, because I didn't have anyone to cover me or have my back” i concluded.

“Your scars…” Tony said this time and i turned to him

“Yeah, thanks to you Mr. Stark” i said and he looked at me. “Doctor said that 74% of my body is covered with scars, along with one or two burns”

“You were that girl in The Red Room” Natasha said, causing me to turn my head to look at her and I smiled cynically, “You are Eliza” she finished.

“Давно не виделись с Натальей” (Long time no see Natalia) i said and she looked at me in pure surprise in her faced. That’s something coming from the famous Black Widow.

“What about the rest of us y/n?” Sam said this time, redirecting my attention from Natasha to the rest of the group. Thor was standing there holding his hammer, Bruce was next to the fridge, Clint was by the sink, Wanda was with Vision beside the kitchen table and Bucky was by the door. They were all looking at me. I took a look at the clock, I have to leave in less than thirty minutes.

“Long story short, Clint, Bruce, Sam, Wanda and Vision are the ones that didn’t do anything, so just chill out, you are still on my good side” I smiled and waved my hand.

“Hold on, but what did I do?” Thor asked and I looked at him.

“God it really is unfair how such a little thing can cause such a big problem. The first time you came down to earth, met Jane, bla bla bla… when her stuff was under custody of shield, and you took that notebook; they blamed me. I know it may seem weird because, how? Thing is, I was undercover at that time inside Shield, so when the notebook disappeared, guess who was the one that got beaten for it. I couldn’t move from the pain.”

Thor was standing completely still.

“Lady y/n…”

“How is it possible? I was there and never saw you” Clint interrupted Thor.

“It was before the avengers, i was on the run and a girl's gotta eat. Don’t worry, I never gave them anything. Got the money and then killed them, they were nobodies” I shrugged off.

“So, that’s all you needed to know, so if you please leave my…” I said but then he interrupted me.

“No” I would be lying if I said it didn’t send shivers down my spine at his tone, and I hate even more that he noticed it. “You’re missing one doll” Well fuck me

I turned to see him and he was walking painfully slow towards me and I was praying for my legs to not give out.

“Barnes” I simply said, thanking God and all the saints that it didn’t come out as a whimper. I took a look at the clock once more. I have to leave. Now. “Such a shame, wish you had fought for us, I would have gone through hell and back for you, Buck” his eyes were looking straight to my own and I felt like he was staring at my bare soul. In a way, he was. I smiled and I saw behind my back that the team was looking at us, we’ve never been this close, not in public anyway. I standed on my tiptoes and reached for his right ear, he instinctively reached down so it was a bit easier for me.

“If you want to know, you’ll have to find me first дорогой” (Sweetheart) I whisper. Next thing, the light went out just like I programmed it to and I slid beside Bucky to reach out to the door and to the hall. I could hear the team screaming ‘what the hell just happened’. I ran to the emergency stairs, and once out I could still feel him behind me, getting close. I went into an alley, having to detour, knowing that he eventually was going to catch up to me and I couldn't have him follow where I was really going. A few seconds later, I felt him caging me to the wall on the alley, both of us breathing heavily. His flesh hand went to my throat and his metal one rested on the wall.

“Given a different occasion, I would have loved this, don’t get me wrong, I still love how you…”

“What the hell are you doing?” he asked huskily and I smiled.

“I told you, you’ll have to wait until you find me again. Alone.” i said

“Come on Barnes, do you really think that the charade of being your personal fuck toy would last forever?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

“It wasn’t like that, i…” he said but trailed off. The pain in my chest starting and clenching my heart.

“There it is…” i said lowly, the hurt in my voice evident, “listen, i’d love to keep talking about how you used me, but like i said,” i got close to his face, my nose touching his, “find me to found out” after that, I raised my knee kicking him right in between his legs.

He let out a pained groan and fell to the floor, causing his grip in my neck to give out. I took advantage and ran. Two blocks away, I saw Andrei. When he saw me running to him, he immediately got in the car and turned the engine on, then I got in.

“Drive, fast” it was the first thing i said

“Where?” he asked while we took off. I smiled and looked at him

“You’ll see”

Taglist

@silentkiller2374 @vikingqueenlove @girlfriday007 @supraveng

#avengers #bucky x reader #steve x bucky #bucky barnes #bucky barnes angst #steve rogers #natasha romonova #tony stark #the red room #wanda maximoff #marvel #imagines #hydra

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markosmate · 3 years

Text

lady

Pairing; Marko x Emerson!Reader

Summary; Moving to a different state with your younger brothers and mother just to live with your grandfather was hard enough, but falling in love with a vampire and then watching your brother do the same thing? Much different story.

Warnings; strong language

au:// Welp lovelies I had promised you a Marko series in February that I started writing while I was manic, then after writing a good five/six chapters I fell into a deep dark hole of depression and didn’t write anything but sad, worthless poetry about a boy I’m in love with who doesn’t love me back :) But now it’s May, a spark of inspiration and happiness has suddenly hit me and I’ve come back to this series to finally deliver it to you!! I hope y’all like it cause I literally stress cried over finishing it three different times :,)

I’d also like to point out that any kind of feedback at all is so so appreciated. Most of my inspiration comes from feeding off of people’s reactions to what I write. So if you enjoy it or have any recommendations or comments at all please please don’t be shy to send me an ask or DM or even comment to let me know :( Thank you and enjoy!!

Part 2

I wasn’t exactly mad about moving, there was nothing holding me in Phoenix that I would be particularly sad about leaving behind. The only thing that struck a nerve was that it was dumped out of nowhere on me. Suddenly Mom had divorced Dad, let him keep everything, and made plans with Grandpa for us to move into his place with him. A little prior warning would have been appreciated, but regardless when we were told it didn’t change the fact that everything we knew was changing. Sam wasn’t happy about it at all, leaving his friends, leaving Dad. Michael... well Michael didn’t really have an opinion. In my view, he was just indifferent. He didn’t really care where the hell we were as long as he had a motorcycle, a job, and some hot chicks to swoon over.

But here we were, packed into Mom’s truck and driving through a town that I’d most likely have memorized like the back of my hand in a good few days. As the three in the car argued over which station to keep on, I turned my head and leaned my forehead on the window of the car. I watched the beach as we drove along the road, and admired the waves hitting against the sand.

I was ready to drift off until we got to Grandpa’s house when a short, exited yell left Mom’s lips. “Oh!” She grinned happily as Sam landed on a station familiar to her. “Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait! Oh, that’s from my era! Grooving on a Sunday afternoon!” She sung along with the song as Sam threw his head back and groaned in protest. I laughed at her antics, enjoying seeing my Mom acting so carefree and happy.

“Alright, keep going, keep going.” Mom and Sam agreed with each other at the same time, Mom leaning over to continue skipping through the stations. Finally, the next station was agreed on and my pounding head thanked the universe for the quiet that I hadn’t been able to achieve the entire drive here. “Hey we’re almost there!”

“Ugh,” Sam scrunched his nose up in disgust after taking a deep breath. I leaned forward to wrap my arms around his head-rest and pull my face closer to the open window. The pungent smell hit me, and I recognized it immediately, low tide, but it wasn’t bad - anything to do with the beach was calming to me regardless. “What’s that smell?”

“Ah!” Mom breathed in deeply and turned to share a knowing grin with me, “That’s the ocean air!”

I turned to look at the welcoming sign, taking in the colors and faded lettering. “Smells like someone died.” Sam muttered as Mom tutted at him softly.

“That’s likely.” I muttered to Michael, nudging his head in the direction of the back of the sign, where in big red spray-painted letters sat the phrase “Murder Capitol of the World.”

“Aw guys, I know the last year hasn’t been easy. But I do think you’re really going to enjoy living in Santa Carla.” Mom tried to remain happy about the situation, but a shared glance with Michael after we both read over the sign revealed there wasn’t much he was excited for.

The rest of the drive only increased my excitement. Hippies galore filled the streets, a large amusement park covered most of the boardwalk, and the rest was filled with small shops and food stands. We stopped for awhile so Mom could give some teenagers rummaging through garbage some money to eat and so Michael could unhinge his bike and ask around for job openings, but before I could even think to step out of the car and get a look around we were already heading into the backroads to get to Grandpa’s house.

Grandpa’s house was farther into the plains than expected, but still only a good fifteen to twenty minute drive away from town. Before Mom could ever fully park the car, I had already jumped out and was looking around the property. Michael pulled his bike up next to Mom’s car, and they all took a good few seconds to look around at all the wood carvings and chimes before turning their vehicles off. I took note of the horses grazing in one of the back fields before walking around the front of the truck and seeing a man laying on his back across the front porch steps.

Sam lead the way towards him before Mom cut in front and marched up the steps to squat beside him. “Dad?” She questioned gently. “Dad?” The three of us leaned closer to get a better look.

“Looks like he’s dead.” Michael remarked.

“Like... really dead.” I quipped in, raising an eyebrow at Mom.

“No, no. He’s just a deep sleeper.” She brushed our comments off.

“If he’s dead can we go back to Phoenix?” Sam remarked, earning a snort from me and a sharp look from Mom.

Suddenly Grandpa sat up, a cocky smirk apparent on his face. “Playing dead. And from what I hear, doing a damn good job of it.”

Sam rolled his eyes in exasperation before Mom laughed faintly. “Oh, Dad!”

That night, Mom decided that it would be good for the four of us to leave the house after a night of unpacking and explore the boardwalk when it’s at its liveliest. I could admit it looked much more enjoyable now that it was dark and a little chilly, the sweaty people that had been occupying it earlier were now less sweaty and more stoned.

Almost as soon as Mom’s car and Michael’s bike were parked, Mom sent us off on our own so she could spend some time staking out a job in one of the family-owned shops. “Do you think she’ll be able to find one?” Sam questioned as the three of us weaved through crowds, trying to find our way to the beach concert. We could certainly hear it, we were just having a bit of trouble actually getting to it.

“One what? A job?” Michael scoffed as if it was hard to believe, still bitter over the fact there was no legal jobs for him to get hired in.

I laughed, elbowing him softly in the side, knowing that this place was exactly his vibe and in time he would most likely come to love living here. Sam was the only one I was actually worried about. “She’ll probably be able to find one. What, with all these missing people, there’s bound to be tons of job openings.”

“You’re telling me. It’s like there’s hundreds of bullet-boards around every corner with dozens of people missing. This place really is the Murder Capital.” Michael remarked as the concert finally came into our line of sight.

“Don’t say that!” Sam pleaded, shoving Michael’s shoulder with his eyebrows knitted tightly.

Michael just held his hand up in surrender and with one last shrug of his shoulders he turned to me. “You checking out the shops? We’ll find you once we get bored.”

“Sounds like a plan.” I agreed, turning sharply on my heel and blindly making my way back into the crowd. The concert was loud, sweaty, and crowded, and it wasn’t even my style of music - the last thing I wanted to do was spend my first night there. I figured it would be much more productive if I were to check out all the shops and stands running up and down the entire area, maybe find some new pieces of jewelry, or even a possible summer job opportunity.

Many places caught my eye, and I made a mental note to check them out the next time I had free money to spend, as it wouldn’t be wise for me to make an impulse-buy when I’m so close to being completely broke. Instead a small stand in the middle of the walkway drew me to it. A piercing stand. One person working on someone already sitting on the chair. There was a large wall selection of different studs, and many different kinds of disinfectants lined along the counter.

I walked closer to the wall, admiring all the different designs they had. I’d absolutely love to get a helix or orbital piercing, but I knew it wasn’t the wisest to spend money doing something like that at a small stand on a boardwalk in Santa Carla of all places. I was suddenly broken out of my thoughts when a voice spoke up directly behind me.

“It’s a scam, you know.” I jumped, hand flying to my chest, and whipping around to look at the owner. A teenage boy, my age, maybe a little older, with long curly blond hair and a grin that could have probably wooed me into his bed by the end of the night had he not literally just scared the shit out of me.

I laughed breathlessly, shaking my head. “What is?”

“The piercings. If you need one done, I could do it for you. But they use the guns instead of a needle which will definitely infect if you’re planning on doing a cartilage one.” He explained with a tilt of his head as he turned and began making his way towards the restaurants. I took that as an invite to follow, jogging to catch up and walking next to him.

“You know a lot about piercings?” I tried to make small talk, not wanting him to get away just yet.

He nodded with a confident smirk. “I did my own, and my friends. Someone had to learn.” I laughed a little at his mock-annoyed tone and shoved my hands into my pockets to appear to be doing something. He suddenly stopped and turned to me, holding out his hand. “Marko, by the way.”

“Ivory.” I accepted his hand and we both shook, hard and firm.

“You’re new.” He nodded as if finally understanding something that had been going on inside his own head. “I would’ve noticed you before if you’d been here all along.”

We dropped each other’s hand and I gave him a quizzical look. “What do you mean by that?”

He barked out a laugh and shook his head. “Nothing rude, you’re just too gorgeous to go unnoticed around here.” Before I could reply, another voice cut in from a few yards away.

“Marko! Marko, man, we’re supposed to meet David in ten!” I looked over to see another punk-looking dude calling out to Marko with his hands cupped around his mouth.

I laughed and look back towards the curly blond. “See you around?”

He nodded in confirmation, sending me one last crooked smile before turning to jog over to his other friend. I turned as well, making my way back into the crowd and away from the middle lane stands. I didn’t make it very far before the body of my youngest brother crashed into my side. I glanced down at him in bewilderment as we used each other to steady ourselves.

“Sam? Aren’t you supposed to be with Michael?” I laughed as he looked as though he’d just had the weirdest conversation of his life.

“Well, I was. Then he saw some girl at the concert and wandered after her so I went to check out the comic store.” He explained, shrugging before letting his eyes wander around once more in search of Michael. I rolled my eyes, of course Michael left Sam behind to go chase after some girl. It didn’t take long to find him, he was only a little further down the stretch of restaurants. He was more towards the end, walking out of the crowd near where the last building - a bar - sat in place.

We walked up behind him, and as soon as I was at his side I followed his eyes to a girl who was walking behind a small child, hand on his shoulder, and steering him in a certain direction. She was pretty - with big, curly hair and a beautiful smile that curled her lips up as her eyes grazed over all the lights of the carousel one last time for the night. I followed her line of sight, trying to place why Michael was following her instead of just walking up and introducing himself, but I immediately realized what the problem was.

She hoisted herself up onto the back of a motorcycle, accepting the help of the blond driver. He had a spiked mullet, dressed in all black, and when he realized Michael was staring at his girl, a cocky kind of smirk crossed his face. His friends parked next him all revved their engines to a start, and I tore my eyes from the platinum blond to see the others. I didn’t manage to catch a good look at two of them, because my eyes immediately looked onto those of the punk from earlier who’d started a conversation with me over pierced ears.

He was already looking at me, and when he realized my attention immediately locked onto him, a predatory look filled the black circles of his eyes and his lips formed into a boyish smirk directed exactly at me. He lifted his hand in a short wave, laughing along with the friend who called him away from me earlier as he shoved Marko’s shoulder in a teasing way. I lifted my hand in a small acknowledging wave back, but was knocked out of my small trance by Sam, who began teasing Michael.

“Come on, she stiffed ya!” Sam laughed harmlessly, gently punching Michael’s shoulder and turning to probably go and find Mom. I broke my gaze away from Marko immediately, turning to follow after Sam and not bothering to look back at all as I heard the bikes pull out and speed off down the road.

“Too bad she left with Mr. Mullet, she was pretty.” I tried to break the tension with Michael, I really didn’t want him to be upset over the lose of the girl, he still had all of Santa Carla’s teenage population of girls to meet.

He cracked a smile and nudged his shoulder into mine. “She really was.”

Once we made it home for the night, I separated from both my brothers and made my way into my own room. It was the smallest of all of ours, but that’s the main reason why I had chose it. It was cozy, and cute. I liked the way it came out once I had finished decorating it.

I couldn’t help but let my mind wander to those boys on the motorcycles from earlier that night. Marko seemed nice enough, even if I didn’t know whether or not I was brave enough to try to pursue a friendship with his more than intimidating friends. Just as I came to the conclusion that I should just get over myself and approach them, a sharp sting of anxiety wedged itself into my gut and nauseous filled my stomach and rose up in my throat. No. I didn’t need to become friends with those boys, there was something off, something I didn’t need to meddle in.

If I saw them again, I’d avoid eye contact and conversation completely. I was never able to understand my anxiety, but I always listened to it when it struck me.

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bisamwilson · 3 years

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uno reverse star trek aos bc im curious

i love aos with my whole entire heart (to the point that i’ve unfollowed otherwise good trek blogs bc i got tired of seeing so many posts ragging on aos rip). aos got me into trek and i’ll be thankful for it for that forever

like first off the casting is fucking perfect. you can tell all of them love star trek so much. like pegg wrote beyond (which was the most “trek like” of the aos movies imo) and put so many cute little nudges towards the originals in there that i loved. quinto and nimoy were good friends and it was obvious quinto just wanted to do right by nimoy’s legacy. any time i see karl urban as bones i think about that story of how nimoy got teary eyed watching him bc of how much he acted like de. john cho is a badass sulu, anton was a major part of the heart and soul in those movies, and i love just how dedicated zoe saldana is to showing off uhura’s incredible competency.

i haven’t mentioned pine yet, for good reason, and that is because, despite how a lot of trekkies i know feel, i love aos kirk. i love just about everything about who he is as a character. i’d even venture to say i love him more than tos kirk (though i love tos kirk more than life too). pine pours so much life into him as a character. here’s a kirk that’s every bit of the genius he is in tos, but he’s at his youngest, most reckless, most cocky. he’s a twenty something who’s spent his entire life being left behind (by his hero father who follows him everywhere he goes, by his mother who is reminded of her lost love every time she sees him, by his piece of shit uncle, and perhaps most importantly, by sam. we’ll come back to sam later.) he decides it’s easier to throw up a facade, a cocky devil may care attitude supplemented by his pretty blue eyes and his frankly ridiculous aptitude scores, and spends his life pissing people off from the get go so he never has to feel the hurt when they leave.

which brings me back to sam kirk. (this bit gets negative @ jj specifically despite the ask prompt, fair warning.) as both a trekkie and a star wars fan, there are many things i will never forgive jj abrams for, but at the top of that list is deleting the scene where sam leaves jim behind. because that, in my i’ve-spent-way-too-much-time-thinking-about-jim-kirk opinion, is what defines jim, even more so than the dead dad who died on his birthday. that’s the final straw. his big brother, the one who was supposed to be with him no matter what, tells him he’s leaving bc jim’ll be fine. he’s a goody two shoes with perfect grades who always follows orders, but sam’s a kirk. so he can’t stay where his uncle is. up until this point, jim’s done what he’s supposed to do. he listens, he does his chores, he minds, he does well in school. he keeps quiet as much as he can. until his brother leaves and so he decides to steal a car and drive it off a cliff. he decides to become what sam says is a kirk, and fuck the consequences. being good and mindful got him a family who didn’t want him, so he’s gonna be a delinquent instead, bc then at least he doesn’t have to worry about getting left behind again.

and despite whatever womanizer image jj was going for, chris pine got /this/. you can see it written all over his face: the wonder at looking up at the enterprise in the iowa shipyard, the dedication to beat a test to prove people didn’t always have to die, the way he looks so shocked when spock prime treats him with such kindness, tells him how much of a great man he is and will be, that he was such a fantastic captain. even in stid (which isn’t my favorite by a long shot) you can see kirk struggling with his own self worth, see how much he feels like he was just living up to everyone else’s shoddy expectations when he lost his captaincy. see how much he feels like martyring himself is the only way even though he doesn’t want to die, bc if he doesn’t someone else would have to. and his crew means more to him than he does.

most importantly though, we get to see kirk work through it. he relies on bones, to the point that uhura is basically holding him up when it looks like he might die via missile explosion in stid and to the point he trusts bones to just be there on his birthday in beyond. he openly admits to spock in beyond that he wouldn’t know what to do without him (despite never letting himself need anyone at all since sam). he jokes around with uhura, saves sulu. trusts chekov to take care of things when scotty quits. assures scotty he’ll take the blame if things go wrong in beyond. he is close and in sync enough with his crew by beyond that his security on the bridge know exactly when to hand him a phaser when he rushes off. he’s dropped his cocksure attitude and grown into the captain he was always born to be, that spock prime told him he was. for the first time since he was like nine years old, he’s let people in.

and that, more than anything, is why i love aos so much. the cast is wonderful and the storylines are (mostly) entertaining to watch, but more than anything, aos jim’s journey is just so relatable to watch. it’s heartbreaking in its infancy and so incredibly satisfying by its end. tos kirk seemed louder than life to me always, which is maybe why i gravitate to aos jim more. he’s got so much in him that he has to find a way to let out. and he does

#i am so sorry i did not mean for this to just be a ridiculously long meta around jim kirk #i promise i love aos for other reasons i just. kirk.#thanks for the ask teddy!!!!#ask #star trek #alternate original series #jim kirk #long post #aos #star trek aos #mak rants

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monstermoviedean · 3 years

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in response to that spn crossover post going around, here's my sunnynatural pitch:

vital background info: dean and mac hooked up in 2005. in sunny 01x04, mac meets carmen, which i would argue is the beginning of his on-screen journey with his sexuality. in spn 01x04, dean is in philly hunting a demon. this is the plane episode so he's very on edge. i propose that once the hunt is done, he goes to a shitty bar that won't ask questions (paddy's) to blow off some steam and. well. mac's having a crisis, dean needs something to distract him. they have a lot in common and see in each other the man they think they should be. so 2+2=4.

(this got long. like. Really Long. be ready)

my other piece of evidence is that in the next sunny episode (01x05 gun fever), mac has a gun and no explanation of how he got it. i propose that dean and mac had a Moment, used the gun sale as an excuse to get themselves alone, and, at minimum, made out on the trunk of the impala. dean did actually give him a gun. to remember him by. they part ways and get a little wistful every once in a while, but don't stay in touch.

the next time dean is in philly is 02x06 no exit, which is a certified dean issues episode. jo and dean are bonding over daddy issues and he's having some conflicting feelings about her hunting and how he feels about her. after jo leaves town dean is feeling too much and looking for a distraction again. sunny 02x07 is the gang exploits a miracle, so i propose that dean sees the headline, recognizes paddy's, and invents a case out of nothing as an excuse to head over there. sam knows he's full of shit but goes along with it because otherwise he has to drive back to nebraska with a dean that's acting like this.

they get to the bar after the stain is gone so mac is all crisisy about his faith and so happy to see dean again. and since it's early season 2, dean is an absolute fucking mess and needs something to distract him from the fact that he almost died but then his dad died but not before he told dean to kill sam. they're both extra broken this time, so they pretend they've never met and instantly sneak off somewhere. no one else notices because the rest of the gang immediately becomes obsessed with sam.

dennis, fresh off being humiliated by cricket, is trying to show how brilliant and educated he is. in making small talk, he learns sam went to stanford and decides to bond with sam over their educational pedigree. he starts showing off his knowledge of the law but sam gets uncomfortable because all of dennis' talk about crimes makes him think dennis might be an undercover fed. so sam excuses himself from that conversation to try to find dean (who is of course nowhere to be found).

he instead bumps into dee, who is obsessed with sam because he's tall enough to make her look average height. she aggressively flirts with him until he manages to escape her only to run directly into the gruesome twosome, who are immediately hostile because sam is so much taller than them. they come up with some other excuses for hating him but it's really because they're petty and short. sam escapes again but he can't find dean or the car, so he just bitchily walks back to the motel.

frank and charlie start trying to research sam to prove he's secretly evil. despite being technologically useless, they somehow manage to stumble across the fact that someone who looks like dean winchester was accused of murder and then killed (01x06 skin). instead of freaking out, they decide to test whether or not dean's a zombie. except they accidentally uncover an actual zombie hunt in the process of researching zombies.

they start looking for mac to try and warn him (and see if dean turned him into a zombie), but they can't find either of them. instead they find dennis and dee, who have been running all over town trying to find sam and win back his attention. they finally find him at the motel and even though he thinks these people are astoundingly awful, he does recognize that there is a legitimate zombie problem and finishes the hunt by himself. the gang is none the wiser.

this entire time dean and mac have just been having sex and/or crying in various locations around the city. they have not been subtle AT ALL and have nearly been caught in compromising positions (ahem) multiple times. you know the episode where dennis and charlie starfish on the bed to "hide"? they're less subtle than that and still manage to avoid detection.

at one point charlie and frank are at dennis and mac's apartment looking for mac and hear two very distinctive sets of very deep-voiced sex noises coming from dennis' room. they ask if "dennis" has seen mac and mac does a terrible dennis impression that they accept. while dee is wandering the city looking for sam she walks past an alleyway and in the background we can see dean on his knees. dennis nearly hits a very fogged-up impala while he's range rover road-raging. sam is the only one with enough awareness to possibly notice but he doesn't because he's busy hunting a zombie.

in the final shot of the episode the gang gets back to paddy's, moping about sam and fighting about zombies. they find dean and mac sitting at the bar having a casual and heterosexual beer like bros do. their cover story is airtight (dean came up with it) until dean gets up to leave and mac tries to kiss him. everyone sees. dean gives him a manly shoulder clap and bails. the final shot is mac and the gang staring each other down as the silence grows longer and more awkward. the gang's expressions are a mix of devilish glee, revulsion, and smugness. mac opens his mouth to speak and inhales. and scene.

#i know i'm insane for this but it was SO fun #sunnynatural friends i welcome and cherish your feedback <3 #spn #iasip #sunnynatural

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systematicmasspoisoning · 4 years

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Who is Sam's prison for?

If you're not up to date in DreamSMP lore, Awesamdude, resident Redstone expert, was paid stacks of diamonds by Dream to make an inescapable prison. It is located in the ocean next to Bad and Skeppy's mansion and is VERY large. Supposedly it will be using Elder Guardians to keep a prisoner from mining out due to Mining Fatigue. Even if the prisoner dies of hunger, they will respawn inside. This brings up the question of how

1. they force the prisoner to click a bed inside the prison

2. how they keep the prisoner from breaking the bed.

Regardless of the mechanics of the second one, I think the first is a clue as to who Dream will trap inside the prison. Consider the 3 canon deaths lore. He has used the threat of permanently killing Tommy to get the boy to comply and click on a bed in Logstedshire. So a 'permanent death if you don't comply' is definitely an effective tactic but ONLY for people with one life left.

The main two options are Tommy and Tubbo (or Philza). Or, Dream is planning on knocking another one of his potential opponents, such as Quackity, Fundy or Techno, down to one life in the time it takes to build the actual prison.

Quackity and Fundy aren't big enough threats yet, although Quackity certainly has the potential to be a threat, in this season of the SMP, El Rapids isn't big enough of a threat yet.

Most people would assume Dream's biggest enemies on the server are Tommy and Techno. Techno's role in the grand scheme of things is, as of now, undetermined. However, as Techno is one of the authors of this SMP season, he likely has something up his sleeve. He is currently 'retired' alongside Phil in their Antarctic Empire skins in a snowy biome, but he has made appearances in Tommy's streams to mock the boy for getting exiled (just like Techno predicted with the Theseus analogy.) An alliance between the sleepbois is possibly in the works, but right now, both Tommy and Techno have made it clear there is still a lot of animosity between them. So I don't see Techno, and by extension, Phil becoming much of a problem for Dream (for now.)

Tommy, on the other hand, has been visited by Dream almost every stream while Tommy is exiled; Tommy has been manipulated by him, gaslighted and threatened. Despite making the very real threat of giving Tommy his final death, Dream has stopped Tommy from any, um, self-harming actions. Dream told him "I need you alive." Narratively, that means that Dream has plans for Tommy (they are, after all, each other's main antagonist). But Dream has also said that Tommy will remain on exile for a long time and he told Bad and Sam as they were building the prison that he doesn't intend on using the prison on Tommy (unless he begins to act up was implied.)

Because Bad and Sam (and Eret) are working with Dream, I would assume imprisoning anyone from the Badlands is out of the question. But I think it's interesting how Sam is the primary leader of the building project.

Dream said that Sam is the only one who will totally know the ins and outs of the prison. So that possibly means Sam is the only one who would know how to escape the inescapable prison. The interesting thing about Sam being included in this storyline is his connections. He and Tubbo are very close, and Sam is also friends with Tommy. Its not long of a stretch to assume that Sam's storyline might eventually lead to HIM breaking out whoever Dream imprisons. Tommy, for now, is out of the equation, so who does that leave?

Tubbo. Someone who many people are now considering Dream's puppet. Dream has been laying on the manipulation lately, playing chess with him, complimenting him and trying to increase the wedge between Tubbo and Tommy. You would think Tubbo is safe, so long as he remains pacifistic and continues to make decisions that are to Dream's benefit. But there are things going beyond the scenes that we, the audience, need to consider. The script.

Symbolism and chekov's guns have been sprinkled into the story line for a long time, and it feels as though the roleplayers have upped the ante. It's hard to think about Ghostbur' compasses without crying, but I literally can't stop thinking about what they mean. When it comes to the duo, despite their estrangement, Tommy still considers Tubbo one of the most important things in his life. He placed the "Your Tubbo" compass right beside his discs in his enderchest. Meanwhile, Tubbo held his "Your Tommy" compass in his offhand nearly all stream today. They still care for each other, obviously, but think about one of the reasons Tubbo exiled Tommy in the first place.

He felt like Tommy was choosing the discs over everything else. He felt as though the discs were the only thing Tommy cared about. There has to be a resolution to this. It's been shown by the story that the discs and Tommy's other obligations (L'manberg, his friendships) cannot coexist together for long without it driving a wedge between them.

Tubbo has been streaming more Among Us lobbies and modded Minecraft lately. When he comes onto the server, he nearly has nothing to do. He loves big project and building houses, but as of now, Tubbo has so little materials to even bother making a home and his largest project, the ocean monument, has been placed on the backburner while Sam builds the prison. Its almost....its almost like Tubbo is preparing his audience and for a period of time where he has no reason to be on the SMP. If he's imprisoned, that's not very good content to watch, is it? I also noticed that Dream pointedly did NOT tell Tubbo about the prison today, instead referred to it merely as a 'project.'

My biggest theory is that the prison is for Tubbo. Tubbo is complacent to Dream now, sure, but Tubbo is very, very smart, and- most importantly to Dream - he still has one of Tommy's discs. And Dream wants it.

When talking sweet to Tubbo no longer works, I think the prison will be the next best option. Its possible Dream will frame Tubbo for some crime (foreshadowed by how Quackity and George tried to frame Eret for Karl's murder), or someone will threaten to overthrow Tubbo and Dream will bring him to a 'secure location' to protect him. Tubbo is very nervous about losing his one life, as exhibited by the safe room under the L'mamberg podium, and other comments about his fear of becoming the next Ghostbur. Dream said that he would protect Tubbo if someone tried to overthrow him. The only threats to Tubbo's current presidency is El Rapids. Ranboo is willing to wait until the next election to become president, but Quackity has shown a strong willingness to do terrible things in order to get power. In Quackity's war against Eret and Dream, Dream made many, many references to Tubbo being a better leader, possibly sowing jealousy in Quackity's mind. Sapnap, George and Karl, as apart of El Rapids also have a bone to pick with L'manberg and may also play a part in further separating Quackity from L'manberg and fueling his desire to be the most powerful nation on the server. Absorbing New L'manberg could be the next step.

Dream could pretend to protect Tubbo by bringing him to a 'safe location', the prison, and getting Tubbo to willingly set his spawn inside. Once it comes to light that it's a prison, with Dream his captor, Tubbo will have to make a decision. Give Dream the disc in his enderchest, or stay imprisoned. Freedom, or the disc, a compromise that has been made time and time again on this server.

I think that Tubbo will hold out and allow himself to be imprisoned, while Tommy returns from exile to make a prison break, with the help of Sam. I doubt that will end well, knowing Dream.

I also think at some point, one of the boys will need to bend. Either Tubbo choses to give up his disc to Dream for freedom, or he decides to take the disc with him to his grave. Its basically the Exile decision all over again. Life/freedom, or the discs/war. Selfishness vs. selflessness.

The two boys are learning throughout this current arc to be more like the other. Throughout his Exile, Tommy will learn to be self sufficient and has had to make big sacrifices consistently as Dream blows up the progress he's made. He's learning to chose his own life over property. Meanwhile, Tubbo (although he's only streamed on the SMP once so far this week) has already shown regret for exiling Tommy, and inherently by choosing to launch a war campaign against Techno, he is learning to chose war and bravery over peace and cowardice. He will gain an appreciation for the disks and/or recognize with greater understanding what they mean to Tommy. Maybe he will learn to care deeply for his compass and learns how willing he is to wage war if the compass gets stolen. It's about the symbolism - its what the object means that is worth protecting.

I think Tubbo will die protecting the discs. Or, Tommy will tell Tubbo to give it up. This is a better ending, in which Tommy will learn that the discs represent is his friendships. And, according to Ranboo, they also represent power, according to Ranboo. But on the server, according to Wilbur (when he asks Tubbo to spy for him) people have always represented power.

To Tommy, in this arc, I hope he will learn that keeping the discs is not worth losing his best friend.

#dream team #dreamteam #dreamwastaken #mcyt #president tubbo #tubbolive #tubbo #tommyinnit #clingy duo #sleepy bois inc #wilbur soot #ghostbur #awesamdude #quackity #fundy #fundylive

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thirstyforcharacters · 3 years

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Tequila (Bucky Barnes x Reader)

Summary: Every person has a soulmate. When your soulmate experiences pain, so do you, and any bruises, scars, or other markings that they get appear on your skin. Or, the story of how aliens attacking Las Vegas was the best thing to ever happen to you.

Notes: Hello! I already did a very similar soulmate AU for Sam Wilson (which you can read here), but I love soulmate AU’s so much that I decided to do one for Bucky, too! Hopefully, I made them different enough that they don’t seem too repetitive. Did I write this while I was supposed to be watching a documentary on Bach for music history? Maybe. But I think this was a much better use of my time. Hope you enjoy! (no y/n, no pronouns)

Warnings: canon typical violence, alien invasion, blood (not too much tho), car crash

WC: 1.9 k

For all of your life, you couldn’t feel your left arm.

When you started to crawl, your parents noticed you only used your right arm to pull yourself forward while your left would hang limply at your side. Your parents brought you to the doctor, deeply concerned, but when she examined your arm, she found nothing wrong. No x-rays showed broken or deformed bones, and no MRI’s showed any problems in the brain. By all medical standards, you should be able to move your left arm. You just couldn’t. Everyone hoped that it would go away, but to their chagrin, it remained unmoving throughout your childhood. You obviously knew your arm was there since you could clearly see it, but you couldn’t feel the nerve endings inside it. When you poked your arm with your other finger, you felt absolutely nothing. And weirdly enough, your family said it was always cold to the touch, no matter how warm the rest of your body was.

You had a feeling that it had something to do with your soulmate, and when you reached adulthood (specifically around 24), you were almost positive that was the reason. You often woke up with random injuries that you knew you didn’t give yourself. Gunshot wounds, deep slashes, broken bones, and large bruises were commonly branded on your skin. You were positive that if your soulmate was getting shot at every other night, then they almost definitely had some sort of damage done to their arm that affected your own. But if they had had this condition since you were born, how old were they? That was always a question that kind of weirded you out. You didn’t particularly want to be “meant to be” with some wrinkly, old person! Especially if they were somehow getting themselves into this much trouble. And now that you thought about it, none of these injuries were on your (or their) left arm. How could that be if they’ve literally been hurt everywhere else on their body?

When you weren’t in and out of the hospital with randomly serious injuries, you were quite busy cooking up a storm in Turkey, Tacos, and Tequila, your restaurant in Las Vegas. You and your best friend, Nicolás, had opened it three years ago; you were the head chef and he ran the business side of things. The two of you had talked about opening a restaurant together since you were teenagers, so both of you had moved to Vegas together after college/culinary school. Together, you found that you were an unstoppable team, and within a year of opening, you were one of the most popular restaurants throughout all of Vegas! Most times, because you were so busy, your soulmate problem stayed in the back of your mind. But every once in a while, a bruise would appear on your eye or a large cut down the length of your leg, and you would be reminded again.

Nic, as you called him, already found his soulmate. Oliver had moved in with you a year ago, and joined you side by side in the kitchen. You became almost as close with him as you had with Nic. They were adorable together, and never made you feel like the third wheel. There were some times, though, where you found yourself a little bit jealous that they had found each other so quickly, and that neither of them had ever suddenly started bleeding all over a nearly complete order of mango fish tacos.

Whenever you got a little down about it, Nic would always clap you on the shoulder and say, “You’ll find them someday. And when you do, break their nose. They deserve it for the hell they’re accidentally putting you through.”

It never failed to make you laugh. You had half a mind to do just that when you met the love of your life. You just didn’t know when that would be.

On yet another hot and dry Nevada night, you were closing up at the restaurant (or morning, you supposed, since it was nearly 1 am). Nic, Oliver, and your other employees had gone home already, so it was only you that remained. You turned off the lights and locked the door. You pushed your way through the drunken crowds and tourists on the street and made your way to your car. As you were opening the door, you could hear gasps of shock coming from the crowd of people roaming the streets. You looked up and saw an eerie flash of green across the sky, and a strange-looking, portal appeared in the sky! Shrieks of fear permeated the air as grotesque, reptilian creatures began spilling from the portal.

Frantically, you flung yourself into your car and turned over the engine, hoping to escape the clutches of these aliens. Though your apartment was in the opposite direction of the portal, as per usual, there was a decent amount of traffic, so you weren’t sure how good your chances were. But you figured you’d at least be safer in your car than exposed outside of it.

You were able to pull into traffic and weave through it fairly well, making good use of the side streets that only the locals knew about. But the creatures were overtaking the city faster than you could drive. You knew you didn’t have long before they caught up with you.

Just when that thought popped into your head, a blinding flash of light appeared in your rearview mirror. A loud bang, almost like a cannon, sounded, and through your mirror, you saw a truck hurtling toward you at breakneck speed! You attempted to swerve out of the way, but the truck crashed into your car, shoving it against a street light! The driver’s side of your car crumpled against the lamppost, and the glass in your window shattered at the contact. You attempted to cover your face with your hands, but a piece of glass still managed to make a pretty deep cut above your left eye, as well as a few pieces of shrapnel sinking into your legs. The whiplash from the contact damaged your neck as well; pain spread throughout your neck and back. All you could do was sob in agony. You had never felt this much pain in your life.

Your hand was trembling as you unbuckled your seatbelt, but you found yourself unable to leave your car! The driver’s side door was crushed, the truck was smushed against your passenger door, and there was no way you would be able to climb out of the backseat, nor lift yourself out of the broken window with the injuries you sustained. You were trapped. You waited for a little bit, until some of the chaos surrounding you died down; even in your damaged state, you knew that no one would be able to hear you even if you screamed for help as loudly as you could.

You strained your ears, and were able to hear gunfire, commands being shouted, and the hissing of these reptilian creatures. Eventually, instead of the noise of a battle, you could hear voices trying to dig people out of the rubble. Somehow, they sounded familiar, but you couldn’t place how. Well, if they were rescuing people, you figured they were your only chance.

“Help,” you screamed, “I’m trapped in my car! Please help me!”

You heard footsteps sprinting in your direction and a voice call, “Don’t worry, we’ll get you out of there!”

You watched in amazement as the truck on your passenger’s side was surrounded by a glowing, red presence, and moved out of the way! It had to be the Avengers! Who else would be able to do something that crazy? You were brought out of your thoughts by your car being dragged away from the pole, making you jump. A face popped up in your shattered window. He was gorgeous; bright, blue eyes, short, chestnut hair, and a warm smile. He took hold of the broken door and wrenched it from its fastenings.

“Hi. My name is Bucky Barnes. This is Wanda Maximoff,” the man said, gesturing back to a woman wearing scarlet, “we’re going to get you out of here, okay?”

“Okay,” you replied, relieved, “thank you so much!”

He smiled again, “Oh, it’s no problem. You should probably stay there until the EMT’s get here. Moving might make your injuries even worse.”

You nodded slightly in reply, but the pull in your neck made you groan in pain.

He winced, “Try not to move that, either. You may not be bleeding there, but I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

“Okay.”

“Here, let me help you with that. I can at least stop the bleeding,” he offered, gesturing to your forehead and leg.

“Oh, thank you!” you answered.

He nodded and reached for some bandages he had in his jacket with his metal arm. His left arm. Suddenly, you noticed things you didn’t notice before. He also had a large cut above his left eye, in the same spot as your injury. It wasn’t bleeding, though, perhaps because of his enhancements. You noticed him moving his neck in a circular motion, seemingly to stretch it out. He had holes in his pants and small puncture wounds on his legs, in the same spots where glass was sticking out of you. Again, though, they were already healing. Could that be why you had never felt your arm before? Because your soulmate’s was metal? It would make complete sense.

“Are you okay?”

You didn’t even realize you had zoned out until Bucky addressed you. He was gently cleaning the wound on your forehead.

“Yes,” you whispered, fixated on the wound on his forehead.

His eyebrow raised, “Are you sure? You seem a little out of it.”

“I-I’m fine. I just noticed something kind of strange. I think the cut on your forehead matches mine.”

He touched his forehead, “Oh, yeah, I forgot about that with the adrenaline and everything. Only got it maybe 20 minutes ago.”

“That’s when my car crashed. And you’re having neck pain, like me,” you murmured, “and your arm is metal. I’ve never been able to feel my arm.”

His eyes widened, “Really? You think we’re meant to be?”

“Maybe,” you replied.

He nodded, “It seems likely. What’s your name?”

You gave him your name and he smiled again.

“I’ve been waiting for this for a century.”

You giggled softly, “I guess that explains why I’ve been experiencing this since I was born. I was afraid you’d be gross and wrinkly.”

He chuckled, “Well, hopefully you don’t think I’m either of those things.”

“Definitely not.”

The EMT’s arrived then. Bucky stepped aside and the medics removed you from your car.

As you were being loaded into the ambulance, Bucky approached you.

“How can I get in contact with you after this?”

“Just come by Turkey, Tacos, and Tequila. It’s my restaurant, I’m almost always there,” you told him.

“Okay. I’ll drop by sometime soon, when you’re better of course.”

“Looking forward to it.”

“Me too.”

As he was walking away, you couldn’t stop the grin forming on your lips. Sure, what had happened to you today was terrible. But you knew you would heal, and now, you had also finally met your soulmate. No wonder why you were randomly injured all of the time! If today was any indicator of what the rest of your relationship would look like, though, you’d probably need all of that tequila you were selling for yourself.

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