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going-dead · 3 years

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Lightning Scars and Listening Ears

Phic phight prompt by @datawyrms : Danny Phantom's jumpsuit is hiding a secret he'd rather not reveal to anyone. (feel free to be metaphorical if you want.) l

Team Human: @currentlylurking

Most citizens of Amity Park often forgot that Phantom wasn’t human. Sure he would fly through the skies, turn invisible, and shoot ectoplasm at the ghosts who would attack the city on a daily basis, but the way he acted when not saving the city always seemed so alive. That’s where the problem lied though. The ghost kid wasn’t alive, a fact that Amity Park never actually thought much about.

Phantom was playing around with some kids in the park when it all happened. It wasn’t an uncommon occurrence to see the boy play with the younger citizens of the city, under their parents supervision most of the time. Seeing him give them piggyback rides and playing tag was actually a common sight when there were no ghosts to fight. Phantom had six different kids hanging off of his arms and legs, apparently trying to tackle him and get him to fall down. The group of parents laughed at the sight as the teenage hero fell to the ground admitting his defeat in a dramatic flourish. “Ahh you got me! Foul villains, you will regret this!” He laughed as he lunged at the closest kid and launched a tickle attack. Childish squeels rang out as the uncaptured children ran trying to avoid being tickled. The little girl in his arms was finally released from her attacker when she turned on Phantom and started to tickle him back. His laughter attracted the other kids who scattered and they joined the counter attack.

“I yield I yield!” He flailed his arms as a dozen little hands tickled any spot they could reach. The kids slowly let up their assault leaving the teen gasping for breath.

One of the children, the girl who started the attack on Phantom, pulled on his arm. “Mr. Phantom? What’s that did you get a owie?” She asked pointing to his neck where part of his jumpsuit wrinkled down revealing a few red raised streaks maring his skin.

Phantom froze eyes jumping over to the adults just a few feet over who had stopped their conversation to try to see what the young girl was asking about. He quickly pulled the collar of his suit back into place. He gave the girl and the other kids surrounding him a pained smile. “Yeah I did get an owie. Don’t worry though I’m fine, doesn’t even hurt anymore.” Suddenly blue frost escaped his lips, the adults sitting nearby never saw him more relieved to have a ghost show up than in that moment. He gave quick goodbyes to the kids before shooting off to find the day's threat to the city.

All the adults gathered waved over their respective kids. While they trusted Phantom to get rid of the threat it was always smart to stay inside during a ghost attack. A loud boom sounded in the direction where Phantom flew off, shaking the ground. They all gave each other uncertain looks. “My house is closest we can take shelter there.” One of the men said leading everyone away.

After a block of running the group was almost to shelter when the ghost fight moved over their heads. The adults grabbed onto the children doing their best to shield them from the flying debris. They held the kids against their chests as they watched the sky in horror. They didn’t recognize the attacking ghost, but it was certainly doing a number on Phantom. The rest of the battle lasted at most a minute when Phantom managed to suck up the ghost into his thermos before he seemed to wobble in the sky and falling to the ground creating a small crater where he landed.

The man who was leading the group passed off the kid he was holding to the man next to him. “David what are you-?”

“Brian just hold her.” He ran over to the fallen teen and picked him up in a fireman's carry and rushed the rest of the way to his house.

Once he arrived he kicked open the door and placed the teen onto the couch in his living room. He looked down trying to assess the situation. Phantom’s jumpsuit was torn in numerous places exposing spots of his arms, neck, and chest that had splatterings of green ectoplasm across the exposed flesh. He started taking the rest of the jumpsuit off of the teen wanting to make sure there were no hidden injuries underneath. Behind him he could hear his husband and the other parents come through the door. “Get me a wet rag and some warm water!” He yelled behind him.

Once he was handed the items he started working on cleaning up the cuts and wiping off the ectoplasm. He silently thanked any higher being out there that he took a first aid class a few years back. The wounds actually seemed less severe than what David initially thought, that or the kid had some seriously advanced healing. One of the parents led the kids upstairs while the rest of them crowded around David and Phantom.

Once Phantom was as patched up as he could be David finally sat back and actually took a full look at the boy. His breath caught in his throat as he examined the body infront of him. In the end all he could get out was.“Oh my god. He’s- he’s dead.”

“What the hell do you mean? Of course he’s not, I can clearly see him breathing right now.” One of the parents protested.

David shook his head. “No.” He went to run his hands down his face before spotting the blood- no the ectoplasm covering them and settled for grabbing onto his husband for support. “No, I mean he’s a ghost.”

“Well yeah he’s a ghost it’s not like that’s news now is it?” Brian said running his hand up and down his husband's back.

“You guys don’t get it.” David pulled back. “Think! Look!” He ran his hand through his hair, staining it green. “Look at him.” He pointed at the teen’s unconscious body. There were lightning shaped scars running all over the boy’s body, from the base of his neck trailing all the way down to his ankles. Those weren’t the only scars marring his body though, small scars were scattered all over his body, there was a rather large one on his abdomen in the same spot where he was hit the other week fighting off a ghost who was attacking the high school. The gathered adults looked back at Phantom’s face. As he slept he almost looked like a normal teenager, there were small bags under his eyes, his closed eyes hid the toxic green color, and the glow surrounding him was almost nonexistent.

Three things seemed to dawn on the parents all at once.

1: Phantom at some point had died

2: He died young, at most he was just out of middle school when it happened.

3: From the looks of it he didn’t die in his sleep but painfully. They all silently hoped that at least it wasn’t drawn out.

As they all looked at each other they couldn’t help but think of their own children who were just upstairs. Did Phantom have a family? Did his parents miss their little boy? Do they know that Phantom was their son? Even worse, the boy had a jumpsuit on when he died, was his parents the cause of his premature death?

Of course if Phantom was conscious, didn’t have to worry about the whole identity thing, and could read their minds the boy would quickly put their minds to rest responding; yes, no he sees them daily, god no, and sorta it really was more of a case of teenage stupidity than his parents fault though.

Two of those issues though were quickly resolved as two white rings shocked the group out of their grief for a boy they hardly knew. The rings traveled across the boy’s body replacing bare skin with street clothes and white hair with black. Everyone looked at Phantom(?) confused, the boy in front of them was very unghost-like and the scratch on his face that was previously bleeding green now had a red where the scab was forming.

“What the fu- wait isn’t that the Fenton kid, Danny I think?” David asked looking back at the other parents who were in the same amount of shock that he was. Actually he was positive it was him, his older sister Jazz used to babysit their daughter and he would sometimes come along. If someone was going to respond they were cut off as the boy in front of them started to stir and open his eyes. He sat up almost falling off the couch in his panic, thankfully David was quick enough to catch him. “Woah there Danny, be careful you took a pretty bad beating out there. Hell I’m surprised you’re already awake to be honest kid.”

Danny gave him a thankful smile as he steadied himself. He froze once he caught a glimpse of his hair, his eyes shot down to his clothes. He looked back up and noticed the group of adults in front of him. “Now before you jump to any conclusions there’s a very reasonable explanation for this, or there will be just give me a few minutes.” “Wait so does this mean you’re not dead?” Brian asked.

“Brian you can’t just ask that! What if it’s a sensitive subject?” David scolded his husband then looked over at Danny. “Sorry about him.”

Danny looked over to the men who for some reason had hope in their eyes. “What? It’s fine. I mean I guess no- well yes- no- sorta- it’s complicated.”

As Danny looked at the numerous questioning eyes he sighed. It’s not like he could convince them that it was a trick of the light or something. And he did owe them since they patched him up better than he would have been able to at home in his bedroom. But before he could start he turned to David. “I’ll tell you guys everything but first um… is that my ectoplasm in your hair and on your hands? Because if so you probably should wash that off, prolonged exposure isn’t harmful per say but you could start to glow or something if you don’t wash it off soon.”

David looked down to his hands, apparently just now remembering he was still covered in the boy’s ectoplasm and rushed to the bathroom to wash it off. He’d worry about why the sight of his own blood- ectoplasm didn’t phase Danny at all later.

Once David returned, now free of ectoplasm, Danny sat down and started from the beginning. At one point in the story he must have started to cry because he was handed a tissue box, which he accepted with a thanks. By the end he wasn’t the only one with tears in his eyes, one of the adults had to go into the kitchen to compose themselves. Danny didn’t really understand why though, sure he sort of half died, but he didn’t see why it would affect any of them. “Hey! It’s fine, I’m fine it’s not a big deal! I mean it’s not like it only happened to me. Vlad went through it too like 20 years ago.” Danny seized up after he said that. “Don’t tell him you know about him though! Me not telling anyone about him is the only reason he’s not trying to fully kill me when we fight. That and he has a weird obsession with my mom and me.”

David paused at that. “So you’re telling us that not only did you go through a highly traumatic situation at a young age, but the only adult that even knows about it has tried to kill you multiple times?”

“I mean I guess but Jazz, my sister, knows about it too and she’s older than me and my friends.”

“Danny she’s also still a kid, an older one sure, but she is not an adult. Even if you didn’t go to your parents, was there no one else you could have talked to about it with? A therapist maybe?” David asked.

Danny laughed. “Ah no, Jazz tried having me go to the school therapist but she turned out to be a ghost who wanted to try to cause as much pain as possible. She even almost killed Jazz in front of the whole school.”

“Dear god.” David sighed. “All right, we will all keep your secret on one condition.” Danny cringed and looked down at his lap, of course there was a catch. He just hoped it wasn’t anything too bad like letting them run a bunch of experiments on him whenever they wanted to. His ghost injuries were bad enough to hide from others, he didn’t need to have to explain away needle marks or something. “You’ll see Brian once a week for therapy sessions. He’s a licensed psychiatrist.”

“Wait what?” Danny looked up confused.

“Oh don’t worry I won’t charge you of course since we are forcing you to do this, and obviously you can choose the day of the week. I usually don't work fridays or the weekends but if those are the only days that work I’m sure we can rearrange some of our family time to make room for you.” Brian smiled. “Now it’s getting pretty late isn’t it? I’m sure it’s about time everyone here starts to head home now hmm? Of course if you aren’t feeling well enough Danny I can call your parent’s up and just let them know you’ll be staying here. I’ll just tell them you were injured in a ghost fight, not exactly lying now is it?”

“Um no I’m fine enough to walk home thank you though.” Danny said. Everyone started saying their goodbyes and calling the children down to get them ready to leave. Danny was the last one left, he was almost out the door when he was stopped by David handing him a piece of paper.

“Here are our numbers, I also wrote down where Brian’s office is, you can set up your appointment over text. As well as our address, you can stop by or call us for any reason Danny and I mean it okay, any.”

Danny looked down at the paper and pocketed it with a nod. As he left he felt almost lighter for some reason. Maybe having adults who knew and didn’t want to kill him but actually wanted to help him wasn’t so bad after all.

#Danny phantom #phic phight 21 #Phic Phight #dead writes #My fic

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youbloodymadgenius · 3 years

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Scars and Trophies (Ivar x OC his and reader's daughter - Ivar x reader)

A/N: This is my contribution to @ofmanderley's 300 Celebration 🎉 Congrats again, darling 🌸

I won't lie, it's a sad one, including a major character death. Yet, it's a somehow logical and - I think - sweet death. I wouldn't go so far as to say it's fluff, but it's not angst either. Give it a chance 🙏🏽

Prompt in bold

Fa∂ir = Father / Mó∂ir = Mother / Min blóm = My flower

@geekandbooknerd, thank you for being a lovely and very supportive beta 💖

Let me know if you want to be tagged 😊

Divider by @firefly-graphics

Summary: Ivar was injured in battle. His daughter comes to his bedside.

Warnings: major character death; glimpse of an afterlife that does not seem very Viking.

Words: 1474

His eyes flutter open as she grabs a wooden stool and sits next to his bed. Wrapping her hand around his calloused one, she leans forward, gently kissing his clammy forehead.

"Min blóm..." He murmurs. She can tell he tries to smile, and it breaks her heart.

"Fa∂ir, are you in pain?" Her hand squeezing his, she feels how hot his skin is. Abnormally hot.

"Not much..." He manages to say, his shallow breathing betraying his discomfort. As a single tear runs down her cheek, he tries to release his hand. He wants to reach out, to wipe her tears. He's too weak, though. "Don't cry, min blóm. I don't." He stifles a wince but manages this time to give her a real smile.

"It won't be long before your mother and I are reunited."

He's right, she knows it. She's been warned, her father is dying. There's nothing more the healers can do. Her hand lingers on his bandaged chest as she silently curses the Saxon soldier who stabbed him.

"I know," she brushes his hair back, holding back her tears, "you've been waiting for this for so long." Nodding wearily, her father closes his eyes while releasing a weak sigh.

She closes her eyes too. A thought weighs heavily on her mind and she knows she's running out of time. If she doesn't ask him now, she may never get the chance again. It's been eating her up inside for so long... She wants to know; she needs to.

She takes a deep breath and then cups his cheek softly. "Fa∂ir, I meant to ask you... Did you resent me? Has there ever been a time in your life when you were angry at me for taking Mó∂ir's life? She died while giving birth to me, and she was the woman you were in love with. Wouldn't you have preferred her to survive instead of me? Don't get me wrong, Fa∂ir, I'm not blaming you, you've always been good to me. I just wonder, sometimes. Ultimately, I'm the one who killed her."

Her father remains silent for so long that she thinks he may have fallen asleep. But then he shakes his head and starts to speak. She has to listen very carefully, his whispered words hard to hear. "You didn't kill her. Your mother died because it was fate; because it was the will of the gods, min blóm. Do you remember what she always said about scars?"

She nods even if he can't see it. She does remember. "Scars are trophies."

Overwhelmed by mixed feelings, he looks at you with pursed lips as you lovingly stroke his calves while humming a song he doesn't know. "I love your legs, you know that?" You eventually say, a sweet smile crossing your face.

He doesn't know what to say, so he doesn't utter a word for a very long time. Frowning, he finally grabs your wrist. "You don't have to say that, my love, you really don't. I know how they look. They are hideous; full of scars."

You give him a disapproving look, shaking your head. "Well, I beg to differ. They're not hideous. They're something to be proud of. Scars are trophies, Ivar."

Eyeing you, Ivar forces a laugh, his lips curling with a bitter smile. "When they are earned on the battlefield, there's no disputing that. But those..." He gestures towards his scarred legs, spitting his next words, "... those are nothing to be proud of. If anything, my legs are proof that I am a failure."

"Ivar!" You nearly shout, upset. "You're not allowed to run yourself down like this!! Of course, your scars are trophies, it's not my fault you're just too stupid to realize it!"

He can't help but laugh at that. You're the only one on Midgard who dares to talk to him like that and he won't tell it aloud but he loves that. The next moment though, a scowl is back on his face.

Breathing out a sigh, you wrap your fingers around his hand. "Ivar, my stubborn husband, listen carefully. Life was – still is – your battlefield. When you were growing up, the people of Kattegat, and even your own brothers sometimes, were your opponents. Every broken bone, when you were just a boy, was one more fight for you to win and you won them all. As for the excruciating pain you're going through every single day, it is your endless war, Ivar, a war you fight with bravery. The cards you've been dealt weren't good ones, yet you survived. And the gods know you did more than just survive. You made a name for yourself. You led men into battle. You conquered. Don't you dare tell me I'm wrong. And therefore, of course, my beloved, your scars are trophies."

"Your mother was referring to my legs, obviously." Mustering the last of his strength and gritting his teeth, Ivar opens his eyes and slowly raises his hand, his thumb grazing her cheek. "Her death shattered my heart and caused my deepest scar, which is still bleeding at this very moment. But this scar, min blóm, is also my greatest trophy." Eyes full of tears, he lets out a groan of pain, placing instinctively his hand on his wounded torso.

Long seconds tick by, and after releasing a shuddering breath, he speaks again. "My greatest trophy because I survived. And I did more than just survive. I was lucky enough to see you grow up. On my watch, you became a beautiful, fierce, and caring woman. You made me proud, and happy. You have filled my heart with joy, min blóm."

His bloodshot, tired, faded gaze find hers as he slightly shakes his head. "No, min blóm, I didn't. I never resented you. I love you with all my heart and if I could go back, I wouldn't change a thing despite the tremendous sorrow I felt – and sometimes still feel – losing her. Your mother was undoubtedly the love of my life, you know that. But you, min blóm, were – still are – its light. And that's why," his grimace of pain rips her heart out, "if the gods give me strength, I'll stay with you a little longer..."

The tears. She feels them coming, salty little waves, tender little raindrops. Her bottom lip trembling, she just shakes her head. "No, Fa∂ir. I want you to stop fighting. Go to Mó∂ir. I had you to myself all these years. It's her turn now."

His features bathed in tears, her father hiccups, his eyes suddenly wide open, his hand squeezing hers with a strength he has not shown for days. "No, min blóm," even his voice is stronger but she knows it won't last, "I can't. I won't leave you. You need–"

"No." She interrupts, plastering on a smile, "I'll be fine, Fa∂ir. Trust me, I'm going to be all right." Her hand strokes his hair, lingers on his flushed face. "Close your eyes, Fa∂ir, close your eyes. You can go, I'll be fine. Stop fighting and close your eyes, Fa∂ir."

Tears running freely down her cheeks, she watches her father very closely, and sees the exact moment when he complies. Taking a surprisingly deep breath, he nods and flutters his eyes shut.

She doesn't stop talking, though, her fingers now once again entwined with his. "I'll be fine, Fa∂ir. Go to Mó∂ir, feel free, she's waiting for you... Go, Fa∂ir, go, I'll be fine... Soon, you will no longer be in pain and you will be with her, the love of your life, and I'll be fine, Fa∂ir... Go, Fa∂ir, go to Mó∂ir, go to her... go... go..."

Lulled by her soothing voice, his breathing slows down. "You can go, Fa∂ir, I'll be fine... Go to Mó∂ir, she's waiting for you... Go, Fa∂ir, go... You're free now... Go... Go..."

His pain is dulled, the voice of his blóm barely a whisper... "Go, Fa∂ir, go... I'll be fine..."

He feels like he's floating. There's nothing but her voice, distant and far away... "Go... Go to Mó∂ir... Go, Fa∂ir..."

And he lets go. He doesn't fight anymore. She's right, she'll be fine. He can go. He wants to; he needs to. "Y/N", he croaks, but he knows that no word escapes from his lips.

He feels free. He's free. There's no regret, no remorse. There's no more pain, neither in his stabbed chest nor in his crooked legs.

Surprisingly, there are no Valkyries either, no battle cries, no shouts, no music... Really, there's nothing... Nothing until...

...

"Come, Ivar, come to me, come, my beloved... Come..."

Love and gratefulness immediately flooding his mind, he doesn't have time to be surprised as he loosens his grip on his daughter's hand and exhales one last time.

"Y/N, my love, I missed you so much..."

🛡⚔️🛡

@ofmanderley @waiting4inspiration @honestsycrets @lisinfleur @saldelys @gearhead66 @inforapound @readsalot73 @milkkygirls @xbellaxcarolinax @shannygoatgruff @zuxiezendler @a-mess-of-fandoms @hecohansen31 @lonewolf471 @ivarthebloodyking @fuckindiva @tgrrose @didiintheblog @peachyboneless @pieces-by-me @funmadnessandbadassvikings @ethereallysimple @destynelseclipsa @cocovikings23 @xceafh @mrsalwayswrite @deans-ch-ch-cherrypie @pomegranates-and-blood @jadelynlace @grimeundglow

#ivar #ivar x reader #ivar the boneless #ivar ragnarsson #ivar the boneless x reader #ivar ragnarsson x reader #ivar fanfic #ivar fanfiction #ivar fic #ivar imagine #ivar vikings #vikings ivar #vikings imagine #ivar x oc #ofmanderley300

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peakyswritings · 3 years

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Black Widow

Luca Changretta x fem!reader

Requested by: @lilywinchesterlove

Summary: Luca thinks he has finally found the one, but what happens when finds out that she hides a deep, dark secret? Eventually, the truth always comes to light

Warnings: mentions of abuse, mentions of murder, mentions of death, drinking, swearing, angst

A/N: this took really long, but I made it! I changed the request a tiny bit, I hope you like it!❤️⭐️

The gif is not mine, credits to the owner

Long dresses, neatly pressed suits, bright jewellery, alcohol flowing. Luca had never liked big parties. Despite his luxurious lifestyle, those ostentatious displays of wealth weren’t exactly his cup of tea; not to mention the fact that all of those strangers wandering through his house made him extremely uncomfortable. He’d much rather spend time with his family, or his closest men, instead of taking part in those boring business talks with men who took a despicable pleasure in showing off both their richness and their trophy wives who, in turn, were engaged in an endless competition. But even his birthday was a way to expand his business and make new alliances.

Nevertheless, that night his mind was occupied by something else, way more important than the middle-aged man who was bragging about his new Bentley. He was on edge, absentmindedly taking frequent looks around the room, waiting for Matteo’s face to appear in the crowd. After almost two weeks of waiting, he was about to get the answers to his questions.

“I don’t like her, she’s hiding something”

“You don’t know her”

“Apparently, neither do you” Vicente argued, trying to talk some sense into his son. “I’m just telling you” he added “to keep an eye on her”

His father’s words ringed in his ears as he watched his mother hug you, thrilled to finally see you again. He wasn’t expecting her to like you so much when he introduced you to his family, the way she had welcomed you was a pleasant surprise. She was quite good at reading people, her sixth sense was seldom wrong. However, his father didn’t really agree with his wife and, as soon as he found himself alone with him, he didn’t hesitate to point out the fact that you didn’t seem like someone who could be trusted. You were suspiciously vague when they asked questions about you, or your past.

As much as he hated to admit it, Luca knew he was right. You never talked about your past or your family, you dismissed every question, changing the subject whenever he tried to find out something more about you. At first he thought that there was something that you weren’t ready to talk about - the scars on your body were the proof - and he was fine with that, but the more time passed, the more he realised that the secret you were keeping was deeper than he thought. So he followed his father’s advice, hiring his most trusted man to gather information about you. He felt guilty, like he was breaking your trust, but he had to be aware of the woman he wanted to marry.

Matteo glanced at him from the other side of the big room, nodding towards the door. He distractedly excused himself from the men he was talking to and headed towards his office, feeling his impatience grow second by second.

“Did you find anything?” he asked, closing the door behind him.

Matteo placed a folder on the desk. “Everything’s written here. I also found some documents that might interest you”

“Good”

Luca wavered for a moment before opening it. He could feel the agitation rise moment by moment. It was still perfectly sealed, as he had ordered. No one, except for him and the man in front of him, must know anything. He had no idea about what he would find out and he didn’t wanna risk to expose something that you didn’t want to be known.

His eyes meticulously scanned the pages, the more he read, the more he tensed up, not recognising the woman that they described. He looked up from the sheet, glancing at Matteo. Even though he knew what was in that envelope, he didn’t comment nor ask unwanted questions. His discretion was the reason why he had been chosen for the job, after all. He shook his head in disbelief, tossing the papers on his desk. You couldn’t have fooled him like that. No one fooled him like that.

“That’s all?”

“Yes, sir”

He nodded, trying to regain his composure. He cleared his throat, neatly stacking the sheets again. “Call Y/n, tell her to come here”

He didn’t need to say it twice, because Matteo immediately walked out the room.

Luca sat on his chair and waited, tapping his fingers on the wooden surface. Mixed feeling fought inside him, anger, disappointment, betrayal, confusion. One question kept on haunting him.

Why?

The creaking sound of the door opening made him lift up his eyes. “Did you want to see me?”

“Sit down” he said, gesturing towards the chair on the other side of the desk. You frowned as you did as he said, waiting for him to start talking. You guessed it must’ve been urgent, since he hadn’t even waited for the guests to go away.

He examined you, trying to find the smallest bit of evidence that could prove what he had read was true. But you sat in front of him, looking at him with your big eyes. If your intentions were malicious, you were way too good at hiding them behind your sweet voice and charming smile.

“Why don’t you tell me about your husband?”

You froze on the spot, feeling the colour drain from your face. “What?”

“I’m sorry, maybe I should say your first husband” he corrected himself, oddly calm. “He died on your wedding night, right? He hit his head, it was a bad accident”

As much as he tried to hide it, rage radiated from every cell in his body. You could see it in the way his back stiffened, in the way his hands gripped the arm of his chair until his knuckles turned white.

It couldn’t be happening. You had moved far away from home, changed your style and habits, you even changed your surname. There was no way he could have known. You put your initial shock aside, the realisation of what it all meant was enough to make you get suddenly defensive. “Did you look into my past behind my back?” you raised your voice, getting up from the chair.

“And how about your second husband?” he added, unfazed, completely ignoring your question. “The one who died in suspicious circumstances. It must’ve been a nightmare for you, becoming a widow twice”

Despite his straight face and apparent calmness, the sarcasm in his voice was clear.

“Stop it.”

“Good thing they were rich, the papers here say that you inherited all of their money” he noted, pointing to the documents. “They also say that you probably poisoned your second husband, hence the reason why you’re known in your hometown as a Black Widow”

Black Widow. That’s what everyone called you. You could almost hear their whispers, filled with ill-concealed inquisitiveness and detriment. It was easy to talk. Two words had so much power that they could turn someone’s world upside down in a matter of days. Hours, even.

“You don’t know anything about what I went through” you gritted your teeth.

He got up and poured himself a glass of whiskey, as his could feel his unmoved facade was starting to falter. “Now you’re going to tell me a fake heartbreaking story, trying to get me to pity you, aren’t you?” he mocked you, drinking it in one go. “You wanted to do the same to me, after all”

His harsh words were like punch in the gut. He was nowhere hear the truth, but the distance in his eyes made you feel like it didn’t matter what you’d tell him, he wouldn’t believe you anyway. He probably already had his own version of the truth. “So you’re going to judge me without even listening to what I have to say?”

“I want to hear what you have to say” he snapped, slamming his glass on the desk, avoiding your gaze for the first time. “I want a fucking explanation” he growled.

You nodded, looking away from him. As hard as it was to talk about it, there was no use in beating around the bush. Being straightforward was the best way of getting on with it. “It’s true” you stated. “I killed my first husband”

He shot his eyes towards you, not expecting you to actually admit it. If you had to be honest, you didn’t expect it either, your own voice seemed foreign as you said those words out loud for the first time. He opened his mouth to say something, but closed it right away, deciding to let you talk instead.

“My father needed an alliance with him to expand his business, so he arranged our marriage” you added, crossing your arms. “I didn’t even know him. On our first night, I refused to sleep with him. He beat me with a cane”

He clenched his jaws at your words. That explained the scars on your body, the way you hid them and the reason why you would never tell him how you’d get them. The feelings he felt for you overpowered the bitterness for a moment, the thought of someone hurting you made his blood boil.

“At some point, I managed to take it from him and I hit him on the head. My family covered it up and I wasn’t charged”

The more you talked, the more you realised that there was no going back. He was about to know the whole truth, he was about to decide whether to believe you or throw you away, because he couldn’t risk it.

“After his death, my father arranged another marriage. I didn’t like the man, but he was decent. He died from a disease, I didn’t kill him. Of course, word spread and everyone believed I had poisoned him or something like that. After that, I cut contact with my family, packed my bags, changed my surname and moved here. That’s all”

That’s all. Like it hadn’t been the hardest time of your life. Like it hadn’t been more then a simple change. But you couldn’t afford to let your feelings get the best of you, not after all you had done to come to terms with what happened to you.

Luca didn’t know what hit him the most, your story or the way you had told it. The emptiness in your eyes, the coldness in your voice. Or maybe your calmness. It seemed like you were telling someone else’s experience, not your own. But could he really trust you? Or it was just a trick to make him end up in a wooden box, just like the others?

“You’re telling me that as if it doesn’t touch you”

“What, did you expect me to cry?” you narrowed your eyes, turning to him again. “That would be the right reaction to what happened to me, wouldn’t it?” you rhetorically asked.

He blinked, taken aback by you question. He tried to say something, but you interrupted him. “You know, my reaction is exactly the reason why people started talking. You have to act like a victim, or else you’re the guilty one. But I’m not a victim and I don’t need anyone’s compassion. Not even yours” you added, taking a few steps towards him.

Your tone might have been calm, but the almost imperceptible tremble in your voice gave away the stream of feelings running inside of you.

“I’m independent, I run my own company” you paused, stopping just a few inches away from him. “I didn’t need their money, or yours. You can choose to believe me, or you can leave”

You steadied your voice, looking him straight in the eyes. You didn’t want him to leave, a small voice in the back of your mind was begging him to stay. You didn’t listen to it, though. You loved Luca, you truly loved him and the fact that he thought you could ever hurt him was killing you. But it was his choice. He was free to leave, if he wanted. It didn’t matter how much it hurt, you would find a way to go on, like you always did.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Something changed in him, his gaze softened, his voice dropped. It seemed like rage wasn’t blinding him anymore, leaving space for the tenderness he only reserved for you.

“I didn’t want my past to define me” you admitted. “I wanted to leave it behind me, I didn’t want you to look at me and see...” you stopped, not knowing how to express it with words. “I’m more than that”

Luca looked at you in silence. He still had the woman he loved in front of him. You were the same woman he had met the previous year. Everything you were slowly building together felt too genuine and spontaneous to be fake. No one could lie like that. Maybe it was risky, but something in him knew told him you were telling the truth. He knew you were telling the truth. You did what you needed to do to survive. He brought a hand on your cheek, gently stroking it.

“What I see” he said “is a strong, beautiful, independent woman who went through a lot, but who’s capable of making it on her own, without anyone’s help”

You leaned into his touch and placed you hand over his, relieved at his words. Luca was he only man you had ever loved and trusted and the prospect of a life without him terrified you. It would’ve been way too hard to pick up the pieces and find a reason to go on, it would’ve taken too much time for your heart to heal. You had finally found something you wanted to hold on to.

And he loved you too much to leave you.

“I would never hurt you” you whispered “I love you”

He leaned in and kissed you. At first it was soft, tender, until it became desperate, almost rough. He grabbed your waist and pulled you closer, as you brought your hand to the back of his neck.

He slightly moved away, placing two fingers under your chin to make you look at him. “No more secrets”

“No more secrets”

Tag list: @arwyn-the-cyrptic-bisexural @iamngoclinh08 @lilywinchesterlove @fandom-puff @capitanostella @caelys @lucillethings @peakyxtommy

#peaky blinders imagine #peaky blinder imagine #peaky blinders fics #luca changretta imagine #luca changretta x reader

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mrsfrecklesmarauders · 3 years

Text

The Wolfy Hero

Content Warning: PTSD

Lyall will never forget that image. Greyback, his son Remus, the terrible screams. Luckily Lyall was prepared and used to situations like this. To catch fast poltergeist and boggarts. A minute later and Remus would've died.

Little Remus cried and cried. Lyall wanted to comfort him. But he had to seal the wound with powdered silver and dittany, or Remus would've died.

Remus didn't speak the days after. His parents had to sleep with him because he had terrible nightmares. He had permanent scars on his little face now. Remus was about to turn 5. Just a boy. And from now on he would have to inevitably turn into a werewolf every month. For the rest of his life. "I don't understand" Hope had whispered between tears. They were lying on bed. Remus fast asleep between them. "Who would do this to a boy? What monster is capable to attack an innocent kid? And out of nowhere..."

Lyall looked to the ceiling. He knew perfectly well who it was and why. It was all his fault. "Soulless, evil, deserving nothing but death" is what he said.

Lyall still remembered how Greypack leaned towards him, his breath stang terribly. Lyall could see his shark-like teeth.

"You're gonna regret this" he had said "You're gonna see me again, very soon". Greyback licked his teeth. And now his son was one of them. It was that or death. And Lyall couldn't loose Remus. He loved him so much.

"Don't know darling" Lyall responded to his wife. Hope and Remus were all he had, he loved them with all his heart. Lyall didn't want to loose them. So he lied. He lied selfishly. Lyall looked at Remus sleeping peacefully and promised himself he was going to protect that boy. It was the least thing he could do. Nobody was going to touch, discriminate or reject his golden baby boy. Not like Lyall did with Greyback, although he deserved it. Remus didn't.

"How are we going to tell him, Lyall?" Hope cried "How do you tell your five year old, he is going to turn into a wolf every month for the rest of his life?" Lyall offered his hand to Hope. She took it. Lyall kissed his wife's hand. Tears on his eyes as he did. "We'll manage" he said. Hope broke down in tears. She cried silently not to wake up the little boy. "At least he is not dead Hope" Lyall was trying to convince mostly himself. Was it worth saving his son? "At least Remus is with us" Both Lyall and Hope cuddled little Remus that night silently crying for the terrible fate their son was going to face.

On Remus' 5th birthday, he was already a werewolf, though he didn't know it yet. Lyall and Hope took Remus to the themed park, to the movies, to the zoo. Remus had laughed and smiled. But he hadn't spoken yet. His parents wanted to make him have the time of his life. Later they decided to take him for an icecream.

Lyall bought a big chocolate cone for Remus. Lyall knew how much Remus liked chocolate. As the little boy took his icecream with glowing eyes, Lyall noticed the cashier eyeing Remus' scars. "He had a terrible fall, playing" he said. The man jumped in surprise. "You shouldn't look at him like that. He is my boy. And he is perfectly fine" The lad looked away embarrassed. Lyall placed the muggle money on the counter quite annoyed. He took Remus hand and they headed outside. Where Hope was waiting for them.

The three of them sat on a bench. Watching a little lake with ducks on it. Remus giggled amused. Lyall and Hope exchanged worried glances. How should they begin? "Do you like your icecream?" Lyall asked rubbing his son's hair. His hand shaking as he did so.

Remus simply nodded happily.

Lyall let out a gasp. He couldn't take it anymore. He stood up and lit a cigarette near by. Hope wiped her tears.

"Remus" she said "Remember when I read to you those stories about superheroes?" Hope smiled. Remus looked at her for a while and then he nodded. "You're not going to speak to mommy?" she said in a very notorious Welsh accent. "You know very well you can"

Remus shook his head looking down. "Well I'm gonna tell you a secret" she said as she stroke his hair "You're a superhero as well" Remus looked at his mother with puzzled eyes. "Yes" Hope nodded "I'm not lying. You are one. Just like your father does magic with his wand. And I prepare those delicious pancakes you like. You are a superhero just like us" Hope touched Remus nose smiling.

Lyall looked at his wife in admiration. She was so brave. The bravest person he'd met. She had taken all these very well, not like him.

"What are my powers?" Remus asked amused. Hearing the boy's voice warmed his parents' hearts. They haven't heard him speak since before the attack.

Hope giggled with tears in her eyes. "Well. You are going to transform into a wolfy. When the moon is round. Like cheese, remember?"

"A wolf?" Remus said "I want to be a tigger" Hope glanced at her husband for help. But he simply closed his eyes with pain. Hope tried to swallow her tears.

"No you can't choose" she said "This was already set up since before you were born" Lying to Remus wasn't easy. The kid was too clever.

"What am I gonna do as a wolf?" Remus asked innocently "Am..." Hope couldn't contain her tears. But Lyall turned off the cig and came to her rescue.

"With your super strength" Lyall sat down next to them "You're going to solve crimes"

"Really?"

"Yeah..." Lyall sniffed "But you're not gonna remember what you do"

Remus looked puzzled "Why not?"

"Amm..." Lyall began

"Cause is top secret" Hope said "Only your father and I will know"

"I don't get it" Remus said with icecream all over his face "Can I go to see the ducks closer?" Hope nodded smiling. And Remus ran towards the lake. He didn't understand. He was only five. But soon he will.

The first full moon was horrible. Remus got a fever days before. He cried and pleaded for his mommy and daddy. But Lyall had to lock him up on the basement, before it was too late. The couple cried all night and couldn't sleep at all.

The next day, after Remus was properly fixed and cured he lied in bed. His parents next to him. Lyall and Hope called sick. They just couldn't leave their son alone.

"I don't want to be a superhero anymore" Remus said with tears on his eyes "It hurts. I want it to stop!" Neither Lyall or Hope didn't know how to respond.

It wasn't until Remus was eight that he completely understood.

"I know I'm not a superhero" he said "I'm a werewolf, right? Mommy read me about them. They are mean monsters. Am I a monster?" Remus hugged himself with tears on his eyes.

"Remus, listen to me" Hope said looking into his eyes "You're not a monster. do you hear me? You will never be a monster. You're just a special boy. And we love you" Hope hugged her son. Remus looked at his father but he didn't look at him. Tears in his eyes. "You're not a monster Remus" Lyall sniffed "You're not"

But he didn't sound convinced.

#harry potter #marauders #maraudersera #marauders headcanon #remus lupin #moony #werewolf #lyall lupin #fenrir greyback #hope lupin

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marvel-and-mischief · 3 years

Text

Lavender

Part of my Floriography Series

Pairing: Frankie Morales x F!Reader Words: 1700 Warnings: reader is mother of Frankie's newborn, swearing, angst, talk of death Synopsis: Frankie is met with a sour welcome when he returns home from South America

Lavender: mistrust

💐

The blood red door hid the scars of your last encounter with Frankie. The wood had been a pure white but in your fury at what your husband was about to do, you let a gravy jug fly through the air where it landed with a smash in the middle of the open door, denting the surface and chipping the original paintwork. You repainted it a few days later with the only can of paint you’d found in the garden shed, the same paint Frankie had used to decorate your baby’s room halfway through your pregnancy.

It was that very door that you were stood next to now, staring at the man that had walked away from you a few weeks before. You had cried your tears of disbelief, heartbreak, frustration, you had cried them all out. All you had left was indifference at the sight of him returning home.

“Honey,” Frankie pleaded, shoulders slumped, eyes tired and tinged pink with emotions. He looked haggard, drained of everything that made him Frankie. He didn’t seem to even have the energy to look sorry, or hopeful that you wouldn’t slam the door in his face. He just looked defeated.

You didn’t say anything, what could you say? Part of you still loved him and that part refused to turn him away. You left the door open as you turned around and entered the living room. You took a stand in front of the TV on the other side of the room as you heard the door click softly shut and Frankie’s boots shuffled across the carpeted room. It was then you felt your heart rate spike.

Your husband had returned.

Frankie had survived his escapade to South America and was back looking worse for wear. He was back but you knew him well enough to know he had left a part of him somewhere else.

He paused in the doorway, unsure of himself despite the familiarity of home. He helped to pick this house; his pros had been the large driveway at the front to fit his truck and your family sized car, the quiet neighborhood with a park just down the road, the fenced in garden at the back for the puppies he’d always dreamed of having. He’d laid down the carpets himself, fitted the electrical appliances in the kitchen, paid half the mortgage. But as he nervously wrung the strap of his rucksack over his right shoulder and swallowed around the lump in his throat, he looked completely out of place.

“I thought you’d be gone longer.” Your voice was tight and came out frustratingly croaky as you tried to hold it together.

“I came back as soon as I could. Is she-?” Frankie pointed towards the stairs behind him, indicating his three month old daughter who was sleeping soundly in the cot he built.

“Asleep, just gone down.” Don’t go upstairs, don’t disturb her. But what you really wanted to say was you’re not going anywhere near her until we’ve sorted this out. Fortunately Frankie nodded in understanding.

You bit your lip and sighed. “D’you want a drink?”

“Water please.”

You hurried passed Frankie and into the kitchen before the first tear slid down your cheek. You bit your lip against the barrage of emotions threatening to overwhelm you, clutching onto the edge of the sink as you took deep, silent breaths.

You knew this day would come, if he hadn’t died on his little trip that is. In some ways you could have dealt with that a lot better. It was easier to prepare a funeral and carry on life as a single mother than it was to have to have a conversation with your husband about why he upped and left to go on a dangerous mission to steal millions of dollars from a drug lord, leaving his wife and newborn baby behind without any contact to say he was okay.

How do you explain to him that you wanted to kill him yourself when he left? That you felt betrayed that he would leave you in search of something neither of you needed and you certainly didn’t want? That you felt as though he was prioritising money over the importance of him in you and your baby’s life? You had begged him not to go, to tell Santi no, but he went anyway and that still pisses you off.

It pissed you off on day one and every day after. You’d nurse your daughter in front of the window, watching every car that drove by hoping it was Frankie’s truck but always being disappointed. Your ears perked up at every car horn, at the mail being pushed through the letterbox, at your phone ringing from a withheld number.

You let out a shaky breath, grab a glass and fill it with water. You would let him talk, let him grovel, it’s the least he deserves for what he put you through.

When you returned to the living room Frankie had taken a seat on the couch. You placed the glass of water on the coffee table and sat in the armchair across from him.

“I know you probably hate me right now,” Frankie began, eyes trained on his hands as he absentmindedly picked at a hangnail, “I should have listened to you. The whole thing was a bust.”

“So Santi was talking shit about the money?”

“There was money, too much of it. We all agreed to give it to Tom’s family.”

You felt your body go cold. “What happened to Tom?”

You heard Frankie’s muffled sob and you knew without needing to be told that he lost more than just money in South America.

“Fuck,” you deflated into the armchair and watched as Frankie threw his cap to the floor, running a hand through his unkempt hair.

“I should have listened to you,” Frankie repeated himself, quieter this time as he rubbed at his eyes in frustration.

“And the others?” You were close with Benny, regularly cheered him on at his MMA fights before you had the baby. Will was a good man, always asked after you and had your back when you and Frankie had gone through a rough patch a few years ago. And Santi, you’d never seen eye to eye with him, you knew if anyone was going to lead Frankie down the wrong path it would be him, but Frankie loved him like a brother.

“They’re alive,” he confirmed and you nodded in relief.

“That’s good,” you replied, because what else was there to say? The worst had happened but you were glad it wasn’t your husband coming back in a bodybag. As much as you hated him right now, the thought of never seeing Frankie again, of having to tell your daughter one day that her daddy was dead, tore you apart. You were glad he was in front of you to be angry at.

The two of you fell silent, the news of Tom’s death and the mission going wrong hanging heavy between you. You didn’t know what to say without sounding harsh. Fortunately it was Frankie that broke the silence.

“Have you both been okay?”

You wanted to laugh, remind him that you would have been a hell of a lot better at dealing with a newborn if her father was around to help but you bit your tongue and calmed your mind and remembered that what was done was done.

“Good. She’s still not sleeping through the night, but neither am I so it works out fine,” you shrugged. You wouldn’t go into detail why you weren’t able to sleep, you’d keep to yourself that you had nightmares of all the different reasons why Frankie wouldn’t make it back home. The way his eyes widened in guilt told you he probably knew anyway.

“I can take care of her tonight, if you want to try and get a good nights rest,” Frankie offered cautiously, his expression hopeful.

And how could you say no to that? He was a good dad, a natural, doting father and the reason why he’d left the two of you in the first place. And if you wanted to rebuild your relationship you would have to learn to trust him, even though you didn’t.

“That might be nice,” you halfheartedly agreed.

“I don’t want to step on your feet.”

“You’re not. You are but it’s fine. I think she missed you,” you admitted, meeting his eyes with a passive smile. You were trying, that was all he could expect of you.

You saw how tired he was, the pink in his eyes from exhaustion, the wrinkles in his brow from tension he couldn’t shake off, the downward turn of his lips and you suddenly felt the same. You couldn’t fight with him tonight, maybe tomorrow but Frankie needed sleep and peace and the feel of his baby in his arms and you didn’t have it in you anymore to deny him that.

“Go up to her,” you whispered and you think you saw the briefest flash of happiness in his eyes, “but if you wake her it’s your problem.”

Frankie wasted no time in jumping up from his seat. It looked for a second that he was going to step towards you but he thought better of it. He shucked off his boots and coat and padded up the stairs.

And that’s when you cried. All the pent up emotions of his return flooded out of you like a dam breaking. You let the tears fall but contained your sobs, not wanting Frankie to know just how much pain you were in. You were glad to see him home just as much as you were angry he had left in the first place. You had your husband back but you didn’t trust him like you once did, you didn’t trust that he wouldn’t drop you again when Santi called.

For now you’d let him hold his baby and you’d try and get some sleep for the first time since he stepped out the front door. Maybe tomorrow you could continue to repair the cracks in your home.

Permanent tag list: @autumnleaves1991-blog @phoenixhalliwell @anu-simps @computeringturtle @bts17army

#Floriography Series #Frankie Morales #Francisco Morales #Frankie Morales x Reader #Francisco Morales x Reader #Triple Frontier #Pedro Pascal

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smaidjor · 3 years

Text

i know they're losing (chapter 3)

Hello everyone! Welcome back to your favorite(/j) hot mess of a fic. Sorry this chapter took a little longer to post, I thought I'd give you all a bit of time to recover from that last one. Plus, I was working on Scott's POV of this (which will be posted soon, don't worry!) Anyways, enjoy the fic!

(Once again obligatory disclaimer this is characters not people, don't ship real people, etc.)

(Also a disclaimer that I am not a medical professional and any medicine portrayed in this fic is likely inaccurate. Do not follow any medical procedures used in this fic, as I did absolutely 0 research to confirm any of this.)

Chapter Title: I turn at last to paths that lead home

Chapter Wordcount: 3214

Content warnings: blood, canon-typical violence

AO3 Link

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Actual fic under the cut:

The next morning dawns bright, sunny, and with a looming sense of unease that Jimmy can’t seem to shake. Scott’s ring feels heavy on his finger despite the resolution they reached yesterday, and he shifts anxiously as he waits for his husband to wake up. The sun’s well over the horizon and Scott still isn’t up, which only makes him more anxious. Usually, Scott’s an early riser. Today, though, he’s sleeping like the dead, and the scar on his throat doesn’t help the effect. Something is wrong. Jimmy doesn’t know how or why he knows it, but something is wrong and why is Scott still sleeping?

Finally, Jimmy can’t take it any longer. “Scott? Scott, wake up,” he whispers.

Nothing.

“Scott! Wake up!”

His husband is still firmly unconscious, and Jimmy’s heart leaps into his throat as he begs one more time. “Scott? Please?”

Scott rolls over and blinks at him, thank god, his voice coming out thick with sleep. “Five more minutes, darling.”

“I think something’s wrong,” Jimmy urges. “It feels wrong. Really wrong.”

That gets his love to sit up, rubbing at his eyes. There are still dark circles visible under them, and Jimmy gets a rush of guilt for waking him. “What is it?”

“I don’t know. It’s alright, go back to sleep.”

“No, no, I trust your gut.” Scott gets out of bed with only a slight stumble, sliding on his cloak in one graceful movement. “Let’s go look, and if it’s nothing then I’ll sleep more, okay?”

Jimmy nods, hurrying after him. “I have a really terrible feeling, Scott. Be careful, please.”

“I should be telling that to you.”

“Hey, I’ve gotten more careful!”

Scott laughs, looking more alive than he has in months, but quickly sobers again as they reach the front door. “You’re right, Jimmy. Something isn’t right.”

“I know, it feels awful!”

“Mhm.” Scott snatches up a frankly ridiculous axe from nearby, a shimmering pink monstrosity that’s twice the size of Jimmy’s head. “Stay behind me, just in case.”

The door creaks as it swings open, and the source of Jimmy’s unease becomes immediately clear.

Across the valley is the demon, standing next to Scott’s enchanting tower.

“That’s the demon!” Jimmy hisses, once he gets his racing heart under control. “Right there by the tower!”

Scott looks like someone just killed a cat in front of him, an odd sort of heartbreak flashing across his face before it’s replaced with determination. “That?”

“Yes!”

“Right. Okay. Jimmy, I need you to listen to exactly what I say right now. If I say get down, you get down. If I say run, you run and don’t look back no matter what you hear. Can you do that?”

Jimmy looks at the elf who very nearly broke his heart, and chooses to put that heart right back in Scott’s hands. “I trust you. If you say run, I’ll run.”

“Alright. Give me your engagement ring.”

“Wh-”

“Trust me. Please.”

Jimmy hands it over.

Scott slides it onto his finger. His hands are a little smaller than Jimmy’s, and it only fits on his right middle finger. Which would normally be cute, but right now Jimmy is just terrified. “Okay, Jimmy. I’m about to go out the front door, and when I do, I need you to go out the side door over there and run for the stables. When you get there, roll in the mud and then run for the village. Speed over stealth, corrupted elves track by smell and sound rather than sight.”

Jimmy nods.

“From there,” Scott continues, “I need you to track down an elf called Gilnar and tell them to lock down the kingdom and warn everyone of the danger. I also need you to tell them that Lord Smajor orders them to protect you.”

“What about you? Will you be okay?”

“I will, I promise.”

Jimmy knows Scott’s lying because Scott could never properly lie, not when it’s to Jimmy. He always looks away, no matter how steady his voice stays. Jimmy says nothing about it, but he grabs a spare sword and prays he’ll be quick enough to save Scott if it all goes downhill.

Scott hefts the axe. “Ready?”

Jimmy isn’t, but he nods. “Ready.”

Scott steps out the door, calling out something in some elven language that sounds like a challenge. At the same time, Jimmy bolts out the side door, sprinting for a low building which he thinks is the barn.

Somehow, he gets there without incident, and he throws himself into the mud without hesitation. The farrier gives him a deeply weird look, which Jimmy ignores in favor of sprinting for the village. The altitude means he’s out of breath by the time he gets there, hurrying inside the walls. The elves give him strange looks, a few seeming rather judgemental. Jimmy tries not to flush, remembering Scott’s instructions.

“Excuse me?” He asks the nearest elf. “I’m looking for uh, Gilnar?”

They stare him down, raising a single eyebrow. “For what reason?”

“Scott- Lord Smajor sent me.”

In the background, there’s a cry of pain, which thankfully sounds demonic rather than elven.

“Gilnar should be that way.”

“Thank you, uh, gentleperson!” Jimmy hurries that way, stopping another villager. “Are you Gilnar?”

The look he gets is even stranger. “Do I look like a captain of the guard to you? No. What do you want Gilnar for anyways?”

“Scott told me to find them.”

“Then that’s them over there,” the elf tells him, pointing out an incredibly short elf with neatly plaited brown hair.

“Thank you!”

Gilnar looks up at his approach, seemingly unbothered by the mud. “Lord Codfather, right? Scott sent ya?”

“He said to tell you to lock down the kingdom,” Jimmy reports faithfully. “He also said you should protect me, or something like that, but I don’t really need- I’ll be fine is the point.”

“Riiiiight. Calros!”

A tall elf appears behind them.

“Protect the codfather, Lord Scott’d be a bit put out if he died, I think. Alqualoth!” Another elf appears. “I need you to help me get everythin’ locked down.” With that, Gilnar hurries away, a few elves falling into formation behind them.

“So….this is awkward,” Calros, the tall elf, offers.

Jimmy ignores them in favor of running to the edge of the cliff the village is built on, trying to catch a glimpse of Scott. He’s rewarded only with the sight of his husband dueling a demon, which isn’t exactly what anyone wants to see at 8 o’clock in the morning. At least Scott doesn’t seem to be entirely overwhelmed, but the demon has far too much of the upper hand for Jimmy’s comfort.

“Whoa, whoa, let a girl catch up,” Calros yelps. She doesn’t seem very dignified for an elf, but Jimmy’s not very dignified for a human, so he understands. “So, uh...how’s Codland?”

Unfortunately for Calros and her well-meaning questions, at that moment, Scott starts screaming. It takes a moment for Jimmy to even register the sound as Scott’s voice; he’s never heard Scott scream before. It’s a high, broken noise, pure pain in every note as the demon pins Scott to the mountainside. Jimmy doesn’t think there’s anything he wouldn’t give to never have to hear that noise again, which is why he jumps the wall at the edge of the village.

“No, wait!” Calros yells.

Jimmy’s already gone, landing awkwardly on the other side. He hardly feels the pain of what’s surely a twisted ankle, sprinting for the scene of the fight. The sword flies into his hand, the gleam of enchantment shimmering bright. He doesn’t have a single second to think about what he’s doing as he opens his mouth to shout. “Hey, demon thing! Yeah, you! You’re ugly! And you probably smell bad!”

The being turns its head in a way that’s far too human for Jimmy’s comfort, and thank god, Scott stops screaming. “What did you say to me?” It hisses.

Jimmy’s heart is beating in his throat, palms sweaty as he scrapes together the few remaining bits of his courage. “I said you’re ugly! And you suck! Leave my husband alone!”

The demon loosens their hold, rage twisting their smile into something even more terrifying, and Scott backhands them across the face, kicking his way free. Jimmy watches as he struggles to his feet, the ring gleaming on his hand.

Scott cries something in some elven tongue, and the demon hisses.

He calls out another word, a command, and the ring glows with a light of its own as the demon is forced back, inch by inch. Finally, it flies backwards and vanishes entirely.

Scott sinks to his knees, cradling the hand with the ring on it, and Jimmy breaks into a run again.

“Scott! Scott!”

His husband looks up at him with haunted eyes, face bruised and battered, a little blood trickling down his brow. His teeth are bared, just a little sharp, and there’s something desperate about the way he whispers Jimmy’s name, his voice hoarse from screaming.

Jimmy kneels by him quickly, looking for any major injuries. “What’s wrong? Where- what’s hurt? I’ll fix it, I promise, I-” he’s cut off by Scott yanking him into a desperate hug, burying his face in Jimmy’s shoulder.

“Oh,” Jimmy says weakly. He wraps his arms around Scott in return, running a soothing hand up and down Scott’s back as he feels the elf tremble. “It’s alright, Scott, we’re alright.”

“Jimmy,” Scott says again. “Jimmy, I can’t.”

“I-”

“I want it to be over. I don’t want elves or nations or politics. I just want you.”

“I know, I know,” Jimmy soothes.

‘Why does it have to be me? It wasn’t supposed to be! It wasn’t supposed to be me!” Scott sounds almost angry, but the words quickly dissolve into incoherent sobs and fragments of sentences. “I- please- shouldn’t have- Jimmy. Jimmy.” He repeats Jimmy’s name over and over, hands clutching the fabric of Jimmy’s shirt, and Jimmy has never felt so helpless. All he can do is whisper empty comforts, kissing the top of Scott’s head and holding him close.

Elves have begun to surround them, varying looks of concern or disgust on their faces. Jimmy glares up at all of them, daring them to say something.

“Uh, milord?” Gilnar starts, and that’s the final straw.

“Give him a goddamn minute!” Jimmy snaps, rage bubbling up under his skin. “He just fought a demon for all of you, let the man rest! I know you’re all elves and you’re all- all elegant and composed or whatever, but you can’t expect someone to be perfect! We’re all human, you know!”

One of the elves gives him a look of disdain. “You are human, Codfather. We are not. Lord Smajor knew the responsibilities and difficulties of ruling.”

“He’s too young for this,” Jimmy thinks he hears someone mutter, but he’s too angry to bother paying attention.

“I- well I don’t think anyone could have expected a demon! And probably even less people’d be willing to fight one! Scott’s one of the bravest, kindest, smartest people I know, so lay off him, will you?”

“You know nothing of the affairs of elves,” the same elf sniffs.

Jimmy’s about to open his mouth and inform them that he knows about the affairs of being a decent person, for goodness sake, but he’s cut off by Scott raising his head, his sobs subsiding into ragged breathing. “It’s fine, Jimmy. They are correct, I do have responsibilities.”

“They can’t expect you to be perfect,” Jimmy argues, but there’s no dissuading Scott as he staggers to his feet.

“Gilnar, get the village out of lockdown and make sure people are aware of the threat of Xornoth. Celebear, search the library for any books on corruption of elves, and Lauriel, translate any you find that are not Sindarin into it. Elder council, I need research done on any rings of power that are strong enough to counteract Vilya to that degree, that will narrow down what Xornoth has. Now, the Codfather and I need to negotiate wool and fish trades,” Scott adds, grabbing Jimmy’s hand. Jimmy yelps, startled, as Scott drags him off with inhuman strength.

They make it up the hill and into Scott’s house before Scott slumps, collapsing into one of the kitchen chairs. “Well, fuck me to the End and back,” he groans.

“Are they always like that?” Jimmy asks, worried.

“Pretty much. Gilnar’s okay, just tough as shit, and so are Celebear and Lauriel, but...I wasn’t- well, I wasn’t meant to inherit Rivendell, and the Council of Elders takes every opportunity to remind me of that fact.”

“Oh. Who’s Xornoth?”

Scott laughs, a bitter, exhausted sound. “My twin, also known as the demon that’s been terrorizing you.”

At first, Jimmy thinks he’s misheard. “What?”

“My twin. My older sibling. The person who was supposed to inherit the throne of the elves.”

“What?”

Scott sighs. “Let me start from the beginning. My parents were two elven monarchs, one of the Sindar, and one of the Noldor. With other bloodlines mixed in, but the Sindar and Noldor is the important bit since those two groups haven’t always gotten along. Somewhere around fifty-five years ago, they started trying for kids. What they didn’t expect was that Xornoth and I are identical twins, only the fifth set of elven twins ever recorded.”

“Whoa.”

“Mhm. Xornoth was- is- technically the older one, who was always set to inherit the throne of the elves and unite our divided people. They were compared to Elrond, wise and powerful leader of another land named Rivendell far in the past, and I was Elros, his twin. Impulsive, snarky, human.” Scott closes his eyes, looking as if it pains him to talk about this. “Our parents died when we were both quite young, and we were brought up expecting Xornoth to take the throne as soon as they came of age. I spent my time hanging out with mortals, instead, getting involved in things like mcc and 3rd life.”

“Ohhh,” Jimmy says intelligently.

Scott nods tensely. “When I was the elven equivalent of seventeen or so, Xornoth gave me a ring. This ring, specifically,” he says, tapping Jimmy’s engagement ring. “Vilya, an elven ring of power. They told me to leave Rivendell and not return.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t know at the time, but they were being corrupted by a ring of their own, not to mention their own desire for power.” Scott’s voice shakes a little, and Jimmy takes his hand in comfort. “I returned after coming of age while away to find that Xornoth had fled and I was now the heir of Rivendell. Which absolutely no one wanted.”

“Why not? You’re amazing!” Jimmy protests.

“Remember when I told you that I’m not a very elven elf? That. I’m too human for their tastes, spend too much of my time with humans.”

“Well, I think you’re wonderful.”

Scott squeezes his hand tight, a faint, fond smile creeping onto his face. “Thank you, Jimmy. I love you.”

“I love you too,” Jimmy replies, and then something Scott said catches up with him. “Wait. Scott?”

“Yes, darling?”

“Did you give me an elven ring of power for an engagement ring?”

“….Maybe.”

Jimmy’s torn between laughter and outrage. “Me! You gave me, little old Jimmy Solidarity, an elven ring of power?”

“You’re the most precious thing in my life. I gave you everything I could offer.”

Jimmy flushes immediately, feeling his cheeks heat with the compliment. It’s not fair that Scott can make him lose all his remaining braincells with just a simple sentence, it really isn’t! “Stop that!”

“Stop what?” Scott asks innocently.

“Saying that stuff and giving me that look, you know what I mean! That soft one that- that makes me all blushy and stuttery!”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He’s smirking. He definitely knows exactly what he’s doing, and Jimmy would hate him for it if he was even capable of hating Scott.

“I’m trying to scold you for giving me a ring of power that’s super important, stop- stop flirting, for goodness sake!”

“You’re hot when you’re flustered, though.” The charming words would be a lot more effective if Scott didn’t also choose that moment to try and wipe the blood off his forehead, only succeeding in smearing blood everywhere and reminding Jimmy to be worried about him.

“Let me get that,” Jimmy offers, looking around for a rag. Scott patiently lets him fuss, and Jimmy dabs at the cut with a wet rag and bandages it carefully. He moves on to cleaning out smaller cuts and scrapes, then the bruises, handing Scott some ice to put on the largest ones. Even then, he’s not fully satisfied until he makes Scott count backward from 100 to prove he hasn’t hit his head too hard.

“Ninety-two, ninety-one, I swear I’m fine, Jimmy, ninety, eighty-nine, eighty-eight, eighty-seven, I literally explained elven rings of power to you, eighty-six, eight-five, can I stop counting now?”

“No.”

“Jimmyyyyyyyy,” Scott whines.

“Just a bit more? For me?” It’s a dirty trick, but Jimmy gives him the puppy dog eyes that he knows Scott can’t say no to.

He’s rewarded with a long-suffering sigh and “Fine. Eighty-four, eighty-three, eighty-two…”

Jimmy makes him count all the way down to seventy and then multiply together thirteen and twelve before he’s satisfied, ignoring Scott’s complaining about having to do math so early in the morning.

“I can’t believe my own husband made me do math.”

Jimmy laughs and bops him on the nose. “I’ll make breakfast to make up for it?”

“You better!” Scott says, but he’s smiling too.

Jimmy makes them both pancakes, firmly ignoring the lingering fear from the demon attack, not to mention all the revelations from this morning. Those are problems for future Jimmy. Present Jimmy is going to scold his husband for sneaking bits of pancake batter (“It doesn’t even taste good, Scott!”) and drink hot chocolate in a beautiful little kitchen with the love of his life. None of that demon nonsense, no thank you. Just hot chocolate and pancakes and the sound of Scott’s laughter as he teases Jimmy about smelling like fish. Which is a perfectly fine smell, thank you very much, Scott, why are you laughing?

Every so often, he pauses and admires the bracelet that’s still on his wrist, running his fingers over the elegantly shaped flowers. This must have taken Scott so long to make, and he did it all for Jimmy. He gave Jimmy a ring of power, for goodness sake! Jimmy doesn’t think he’ll ever be over the thrill of how it feels to be so loved and to know it, too. To know Scott loved him back in 3rd life and loves him now and will love him for the rest of Jimmy’s mortal lifespan and beyond. He can’t quite wrap his head around it, honestly, but it’s not a bad thing, not at all. How could having Scott in his life ever be a bad thing? He thinks- knows, as well as he knows his own self- that whatever happens next, he and Scott can face it together.

#scott smajor #jimmy solidarity #empires smp #my writing

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joyfulsongbird · 3 years

Text

broken not shattered

in the year following Vecna's defeat, Percy starts to notice that Cassandra is displaying the same attributes that he had in himself in his darkest time. Percy helps pull her through her anger and darkness, knowing what it is like, and makes sure she doesn't spiral the same way he did.

the cassandra-centric self indulgent fic i was born to write <3

ao3 link!! (content warnings listed in the notes)

***

You learn things, when you get to a place where your mind is no longer your own, let alone your body. You learn how to survive, when there is nothing you can do but save yourself.

You learn more than how to hold a blade, more important skills than how to dress yourself in armor, or tie your hair back by yourself because mother was still doing it for you when she died. Vesper always said it was ridiculous how much her little sister depended on their mother. “I was braiding my own hair before I even got to the double digits!” she’d say indignantly, but Cassandra never listened. She refused to learn. Being the youngest didn’t mean as much as many think. She was not doted upon as much as the twins were, she was the smallest, the least interesting, and being left in the dust made her starve for attention. No one could blame her, she was a child. A child who would not regret the minutes in the early morning when Lady de Rolo would braid her youngest daughter's hair into a neat plait. She did not regret the fuss she had made, not when it gave her just a few more minutes with her mother. So she taught herself how to braid her hair.

When she got older, maybe 15 or so, she was braiding her hair every morning. She’d spent two years with the Briarwoods, growing more and more numb every day. She had doomed one rebellion already, and she did not know that she would doom another yet. There was very little she could do that would make any sort of lasting impression, besides string herself up on the Sun Tree in the same place they had hung her family's corpses. Despite herself, she could not bring herself to. There was still a self preservative spirit inside her that she could not quell. The only rebellions she got at that time were silent, not even rebellions. Lady Delilah did not know that the way she wore her hair was in honor of her mother. Honoring her deceased family was strictly forbidden and Cassandra was quite sure the De Rolo name had not been uttered in the Briarwoods presence, maybe at all, in well over a year. She still did it. She wore the stockings gifted to her by her father even though they had been meant for 12 year old feet and had been darned and patched many times over. She wore her mothers braid; and when her fingers wound her hair tightly into the simple braid, she could feel the ghost of her mothers hands in their place.

She honored the De Rolos. Her mind was broken, her body did not belong to her anymore. But she honored them by existing. In the mirror she looked into the eyes of the dead. That’s the thing about big families, they all look at least a tad bit similar. You could look up at the portrait that used to sit in the grand hall. The dark hair, the strong jaw, the striking eyes, even the freckles. On some they showed more than others, but they were there. She remembered how in the summer, when they vacationed South where the sun was so much brighter and stronger, they’d come back sunburned and freckled. She’d laugh at Percy, who hated how his skin got so dotted and peeling from lying in the sun. Cassandra rarely wandered outside the castle walls, her freckles were non-existent. Still, she was comforted by the fact that if she did wander the gardens more often, her nose would soon look just like her grandmothers. She, too, was long gone and Cass barely remembered her, but in the few memories she had, her freckles stood out.

Cassandra learned to brave the cold. Even when it meant giving up her honorances. Lord and Lady Briarwood were not dumb, they were quite the opposite. There was a reason they had made it this far, a reason they had managed to convince so many that the murder of her family was just an awful tragedy. Her socks were burned. Her mind picked apart until she confessed to every thought she had of her family, every death wish to those who hurt them, every inkling of rebellion. She learned to brave the cold even when it meant forsaking the ones she loved. They were not here to see her betrayal, the guilt persisted anyways. Her mind did not belong to her. She was never alone. She forgot what her family looked like. How was it possible, some might ask, that she forgot what they looked like when she saw them every time she looked in the mirror? Maybe it was that she did not recognize herself, either.

She was 13 when the Briarwoods came. She was 14 when she was tortured until she told Anna Ripley everything about the first rebellion. 15 when her mind started to wane. 16 when she wasn’t sure how to breathe anymore. How do you breathe when there is no air to consume inside of the castle? On the outside, she was perfect. Perfect, lovely brown curls. Bright, alive, attentive eyes that shone like sapphires. She grew into a beautiful young lady. That’s what they all said. The little girl who had run through the halls and caused a riot grew into a lady who would fetch a fine husband someday.

The years passed slowly, the second rebellion came and passed. She didn’t even try to resist the questions when they came. They asked “where are they planning to meet?” She told them everything. “What is their plan?” She told them everything. She bore the scars from the last one, the white in her hair was proof enough, how could she even attempt to put herself through that ordeal again? She could not bring herself to pray, she didn’t even think to ask for any kind of holy assistance until late one night and pushed the idea away quickly. If a god wanted to help her, they would’ve already. It was too late for her, she had supposed long ago, no god could destroy her when there was nothing she felt was worth destroying.

She learned there was nothing she could do, but go along with the plans placed in front of her. She was their puppet. She was their little doll they played dress up with, they stole not just blood from but her soul itself. It was not a quick realization, that she was without hope or future. It came slowly, when she was maybe 17 it entered her mind, fully formed.

She was a Briarwood now.

The De Rolos were no more.

Years and years later, she will lie awake in the late hours of the night, wondering how much of that realization was mind control and how much of it was sheer, unadulterated mental exhaustion on her part. She was so tired. Tired of getting flashes of her brother's bloodied body every time she glanced at the doorway leading down to the dungeon. Tired of seeing her parents mangled corpses’ every time she met Dr. Ripley’s eye. Tired of sharp slaps when she let the wrong thing slip off her tongue. Tired, tired, tired. Better to leave it all behind. Better to let it fade away. She was a Briarwood. That was the reality.

She learned much, in those five years in that dark, bloody castle. How could she not? Every day was a lesson, every day was a test. Failing meant dying. She would not fail.

Maybe if Percy had come any later than not too long after that realization, she would have been too far gone to be saved. He came months later, but what were months when she had spent years in the dark? He had failed to pull her from the snow once, this time he dragged her from the cold and she was almost warm again.

It was strange to have been stuck in the dark recesses of the castle, something more than lonely, something more than lost, and then to suddenly be shoved into the light. Be faced with a brightness that hurt her eyes and left her feeling blinded and stumbling for something to grab hold of. But she was strong, and she was resilient, and she was her mothers daughter. She would not succumb to this darkness inside of her, this persistent voice that sounded like some odd mix of her own and the whispered, sultry tone of Delilah Briarwood. It crooned, it cried, it begged for a bone to be thrown its way. If she paid it no mind, it would slowly wither and die. She held her head high, lifted her chin even when she faced her captors, refused to cry when the nightmares came after years of silent nights. There was nothing she could do about the pain that continued to rack through her body now that she was coming to.

She was essentially a child leader. She saw the looks from other council members, the sideways glances of even her own citizens. She was barely grown. It showed in her face. She’d always had full cheeks, but as a child that was normal. Now, when she’d gotten older and lost her baby fat, she’d held the youth of her face. She looked like a child, felt like a child especially when she was surrounded by so many politicians with years of experience, but she refused to let her intimidation show. She was firm, strong in a way that brought others comfort. Whitestone was in her hands and her knees were shaking under its weight. But she had yet to crumple, even through all of her pain, and this weight would not break her. She gained respect every day that passed by and when Percy returned for good, she had grown from a step below a child queen to a ruler who knew how to hold her shoulders just so, how to shake a hand the correct way, how to smile while appearing confident but not overbearing. She learned many things, after the Briarwoods.

You learn things, when you are trapped and have been trapped for a long, long time. You learn or you break. Cassandra was lost, and lonely, and yes, quite a bit broken, but Pelor help her, she refused to shatter.

He surprised her with a hug, when he arrived. She had been resting in her room after the ordeal with Vecna and being… well, you know, killed . She’d be lying if she said she wasn’t at least a little shook but surprisingly, she was very calm. Her body was tired but her mind was alert. The only reason she was in bed at all was because her maid, Margie, had taken one look at Cassandra upon her return and said she looked like absolute hell and needed to be taken care of at once. Cass relented and let herself be bathed and fed and dressed in her night clothes despite the early hour. She sat upright in her bed, flipping absently through some book about the history of taxation in Tal’dorei which had been recommended to her by a council member. It was incredibly boring and her eyes only took in every other word or so. It was a welcome intrusion, then, when there was a knock on the door and she could gratefully dogear the page.

“Come in!” she called, grabbing her blankets in preparation to cover herself if need be. But when her brother cracked the door open, she let the blanket fall and stood immediately. She hovered there for a moment, halfway between sitting and standing, as she stared at her brother. He looked more shaken than her, dirt caked and bone tired. He looked wrecked and like he had just arrived back home moments ago.

Nobody spoke for a moment. Then he made several long strides (he was quite tall, with long gangly legs that she remembered Julius had teased him about) to meet her at the edge of her bed. He did not speak, barely met her eye before tugging her into a messy but not unwelcome hug. A little shocked, for Percival was not one to veer on the side of physical affection, it took her a moment to reciprocate. But when she finally came to her senses, she wrapped her arms around his neck, placed a comforting hand on the back of his neck and felt him shaking just a little under her palm.

It did not last long, even when he was in a particularly touchy feely mood, it didn’t seem like it stayed around for very long. He pulled back, looking at her with eyes that mirrored hers to the point where it was uncanny. How she’d forgotten how similar the De Rolo children were. Beautiful children, all lined up prim and proper. Each ball they went to, they were praised. The seven of them were the bright stars of Whitestone, though some were brighter than others. Now, just two remaining, she found herself looking into his eyes and seeing herself reflected back. Pained. Afraid. Lonely, but learning to love again.

“I…” he licked his lips. “I’m glad you’re alright, sister.”

She nodded. “And I you.”

He let go of her shoulders which he had been holding tightly. “I have to go to Vex. I’ll be back to discuss. Have a well needed talk. Maybe over tea. I swear.”

She smiled and voiced her assent. Of course, they would. Of course, they needed to catch up. Wonderful idea, Percival. Looking forward to it, Percival.

The next day came. She saw him over breakfast and she put on her practiced smile for her overwhelmed brother and a grieving Vex’ahlia. She was good at this; putting on a facade, knowing what people wanted to see and adjusting based on their reactions. It was easy. She had done it for years, shoved down her fears so that she wouldn’t be questioned, disguised her thoughts and covered her emotions in layers of small talk and politeness.

They did not have that discussion over tea that day. Nor the next. Nor the next week.

They talked, of course they talked. But it was always in surface level ways. She knew that he wanted to see deeper, to look at her and be able to understand her. But she didn’t even understand herself. Days, then weeks passed and she was spending more and more time absorbed by her work. This was what she had to do. Spent hours in her office, locked away until she barely saw the sun anymore. Give her a project, she got it done in a day. Give her something to do, she finished it in record time. For the first time, she was good at something that didn’t hurt anybody.

The bliss of finally being of use lasted maybe two months into the year after the defeat of Vecna. Percy and Vex were busy as usual, but now more than ever because of the baby. Their child wasn’t due for many months but the couple was determined to get everything done as soon as possible, to prepare and plan every instance. The nursery was ready and waiting for the child not long after Vex began to show. Cass was one of the first to know, as the only other family member who lived with them. She was happy for them, she really was, but there was a twinge in her heart when they came to her with grins on their faces and brightness in their eyes. This child would continue the line of the De Rolos, this child would honor them. For years, Cassandra had lived out of the belief that she was the last of her kind. That she was the last of her family and therefore needed to survive. She was not the last. The line would continue without her.

The bliss of being constantly busy ended over breakfast. Vex was rambling about the gift that Pike had sent over, some baby rattle that Cassandra had yet to see, and Percival was nodding along, listening intently. Her brother’s wife was still obviously in mourning, there were bags under her eyes and more often than not, Cassandra saw her looking in the mirror and cringing away. She empathized; there is nothing more difficult than being unable to look at yourself without remembering all that you have lost. But she had Percival, and she had all of her family, that was enough to keep her going. She still smiled and laughed daily, that consoled them all.

The door to the dining hall opened with a creak, the three of them looked up from their food. Vex’s words were cut off immediately as a guard entered the room and left the door ajar before opening his mouth to speak.

“We've captured somebody on the outskirts of the forest, a man who we suspect assisted the Briarwoods in the coup against the De Rolos.” Cassandra's eyes immediately found Percival’s, they were wide and blue and determined. She and him stood at the same time, pushing their chairs back and starting towards the guard. Cassandra glanced over her shoulder and saw Vex, standing as well and grabbing Percy’s hand. He gave her a glance, pressed a kiss to their entwined fingers as they walked to meet Cassandra at the door. He did not reach for Cassandra, he had that expression on his face, one that she only saw every once in a while when a memory resurfaced. She couldn’t do anything to make it go away, the memory would still exist. They would always exist.

They followed the guard down the hall, silence filling their chests. It was pressing, suffocating but Cass was good at miming the act of breathing. She kept her eyes forward, ignoring the memories that appeared in her peripheral vision. The 13 year old with dark hair curling behind an old set of armor and sobbing into her skirts. The maid tried to clean up the blood that was smeared on the floor with a mop. It had stained the carpet. She’s pretty sure the Briarwoods burned it. This castle was filled with ghosts and in her day to day, she was usually able to ignore them or avoid them entirely. But this short walk to the dungeons was the worst it had been in years. Hearing the name “Briarwood” out loud had made it so the halls had awakened again, the memories that had faded somewhat into the background reappearing with a fervor.

They walked through the castle, making their way to the stairs that lead to the dungeons. As they descended the stairs, she heard Percy let out a tiny, almost imperceptible shaky breath. Yes, this was where he had spent most of his time between the attack and his escape. She tried not to remember in detail what she had found when she’d come to break them free. She wanted to turn around and comfort him but Percy was often not one to openly accept comfort, maybe just from Vex. Maybe he’d accept some from her but not when they were in front of a guard. It would feel too intimate to him, and to Cassandra as well if she was being honest.

The guard led them to the small series of cells until they were standing in front of a small, shadowed cell. Whoever was inside was shrouded in darkness and none of them (except perhaps Vex'ahlia, with her elven blood) could make out the prisoner. The guard lit a torch and suddenly they were all flooded in golden light. Cassandra blinked at it, leaning forward slightly to get a better look at the figure that was curled against the stone wall. He was stripped to his basic layers, ragged looking tunic and pants, bare socks riddled with holes. His hair was long, blonde, matted and unkempt. He looked like one of the poor civilians she used to see all over the place years ago, before Whitestone rose again. She almost let pity bloom in her chest before she remembered why he was in this cell. No pity would be born on this day.

Moments passed, and she was close to saying something to get his attention, before he lifted his head. His face appeared out of the shadows and was flooded with light.

And suddenly, she was a child again.

She was 8 years old and laughing because one of the guards was playing with her, holding her doll high above her head and she was jumping to try and get it back. He was tall and smiled at her.

You see, the De Rolos were a powerful family, yes, but they were a family nonetheless. They valued every member of their staff, they were as close as family with many of them. And most of them loved the family right back. Cassandra had a few vague memories of being held on a maid’s hip and walked around the castle, her thumb in her mouth. Of playing tag with the cook’s children. And of this. Of a relatively young guard teasing her.

There was more. As there always was.

She was 11 and the guard was still around. He worked for them for as long as she could remember. He helped her with her studies when she became frustrated. He pointed out her mistakes and worked through them with her. He was kind to the spaz of a girl that she was.

He gave her candy. Snuck them from the kitchens and slipped them to her when no one was looking.

She was 13. She was crying. Screaming. Begging for her father. And he was… looking at her. The man who had been kind to her since she was small. He was looking at her and she realized, probably for the first time, that there was nobody left to save her. His eyes were brown, and they were empty, and he stared at her for many moments. He opened his mouth, and for a second, for one beautiful second, Cassandra thought he was going to call for the people holding her down to let her go. Her friend. Almost a member of their family; he had been loyal to them for years . But when he spoke, it was nothing. He turned to Lord Briarwood and asked what his next order was. She could hear them clearly as anything.

“Dr. Ripley needs assistance. Go to the dungeons and see what she needs.” And he left without sparing her another glance.

He was there. For the first three of those five years, he was there. There were a few times, in the beginning, when she had tried to get him to help her. She learned quickly there was, and to her it seemed like there had never been, no affection for her or her family. He left, after a few years, and she can’t quite remember how, maybe from the snooping into Ripley’s journals she often did, or just from an overheard conversation, that he was the one who slaughtered Whitney. That he was the one who assisted Ripley in the torture of her siblings. She had no affection for him after that. The memories from her childhood tasted like bile, and to her chagrin, the faint flavor of lemon candies.

“Luther.”

She took a few steps forward, her hand coming to rest on one of the bars of the cage. She could look through them easier this way, see his face and every angle in it. Every line and wrinkle, every twist in his expression.

He tilted his head to the side, recognition flooding his eyes after a few moments of tense silence. His lips twitched like he was trying not to smile. “Cassandra.”

She stood there, clenching her hands around the bars to keep them from visibly shaking. She had never experienced anything like the pounding in her mind, the undeniable flood of feeling that coursed through her entire body. She did not like it; didn’t like the way she no longer had control over her limbs. She knew that her voice would shake if she tried to speak at this moment, so she kept her lips pressed together and body stiff.

Percy stepped forward next to her. The last of the De Rolos, side by side.

Luther did smile now. “Ah- Percival. I barely recognize you. Though I heard a few stories about you… thought they were false, of course. Why would that boy I knew be traveling with- what was it- Vox Machina ?”

His tone felt too casual, as if they were three acquaintances just getting caught up on each other's lives after years of separation. Percy was frowning, his eyebrows furrowed. “I remember you. I remember what you did.”

Luther’s smile falters. “Yes. The Briarwoods were quite the villains, weren’t they?”

Percy shifted his weight from foot to foot. “‘Villains’? That’s quite a perspective change, sir.”

He shook his head. “They had control of me. They had control of us all. I wish I could’ve done more, but alas, I-”

“Liar .” Cassandra found her voice without meaning to. The word came out strangled and snarling, like a wild animal fighting against its captor.

His eyes turned to hers again, he blinked slowly, so docile, so calm. It only made her rage even more. “I remember you so well. I desperately wish I could’ve saved you.”

“You’re a liar.” she breathed, her voice coming out a whisper but it felt like a shout. She took a step back from the bars and turned to the guard. “Let him out, keep him in chains but lead him out with us. I want to see him up close.”

“Cass-” Percy’s voice came from behind her, she held up a hand to stop him. It was enough to silence him, and he did not speak or protest as the guards fiddled with his keys and opened the door to the cell. Luther was unchained from the wall, but the cuffs keeping his wrists behind him stayed on. Cassandra pointed to the ground in front of her silently, and he was led there, standing before her.

“On your knees.” she ordered, using the same tone she’d use in a meeting with politicians. Luther looked at all the while, he stumbled a little as he dropped to his knees in front of her. She stared at him. He was older now, many years had passed since she had last seen him, but so many that she couldn’t take his face now and warp it into the expressions of the man she knew back then. He had broken his nose since leaving Whitestone, and his hair was thinner than it had been.

“Do you remember,” she began, her voice unshaken now. “The day you buried Whitney?”

He shook his head. She clenched her fist.

“No?” he shook his head again. “Let me paint you a picture.”

She took a step forward until she was just a few inches away from him. In the last moment before speaking, she reached forward and took a fistful of his hair, yanking it back so that he was looking right up at her. She might be small but from this angle, he needed to crane his neck to look directly at her. She made sure he was staring into her blue, De Rolo eyes. She wanted to make him see them all, make him see the children who once ran through the halls, the leaders who ruled so peacefully; see the people he helped to slaughter.

“There’s a reason you don’t remember.” she said a little too sharply and a little too loudly, so that when the words came out it sounded a little unhinged in her anger. “You took her down from the tree, I’m sure you remember this. You took them all down from the tree, you can say more than I can what you did with the rest of them, but Whit, she was still in one piece. Remember? Remember how you killed her? And what did you do with that little girl’s body, long after she was gone? Bury her respectfully? Burn her and spread her ashes in the garden? I know how the Briarwoods worked, Luther, they don’t control you all the time. I watched you do it.”

He swallowed under her gaze, trying to turn his eyes away from her eyes but she ripped hard at his hair so that he winced and his eyes watered. But he looked at her again.

“What did you do?” she asked, not really asking. She was ordering again.

“I-I don’t remember.”

“I know you do. I broke a lot of rules to try to reach you, to try and get your attention outside the castle, but instead I watched you. What did you do?”

His eyes were watering more now but it was something else besides the pain making him do it. His whole body shook. “Cut her hair. Took her clothes. Sold it.”

None of the others had salvageable clothes or hair, Cassandra had realized back then. They had been covered in blood, ripped apart, unclean and unprofitable. But Whitney, she had been killed the most cleanly. Not the most mercifully, of course not, none of them were capable of mercy. But Whit still looked most like herself and that was dainty, pretty, clean. They took even that away from her. Cut off her long curls until she had shorter hair than father’s. Took her clothes so that she had no dignity, even in death. And then, only then, could her sister be taken back to where the rest of her deceased family was. It had stuck with Cassandra, for the rest of her life. The way the men had talked and even laughed as they did this to a child. She couldn’t hear a lot from her hiding spot but she could see their faces and that was enough. It was mind control. And she still didn’t know why they were so horrible. She had more nightmares about that memory than any other.

“Why did you do it?” She knew her voice sounded more hysterical than she would like it to but the image of her sister’s white corse floated over her vision. “Why? Why us?”

He did not answer for a long time. “Gold lined our pockets for what we did.”

“No.” she bit out. “Why did you hate us?”

He looked at her with dull eyes, his eyes were still half full with tears but his eyes held hers with no emotion in them. “No ruler is well loved by all. We did what we wanted, for the first time in years. The children were just in the crossfire… we got carried away.”

She leaned back, letting go of his hair. Carried away. Carried away .

She didn’t even try to stop herself. Her punch was filled with a power she didn’t know she had. She swung hard and hit him square in the jaw, the momentum carrying his body to the ground as he was unprepared for the hit. When she saw the blood on his cheek she realized that she had hit him with the hand that she wore her ring with the Whitestone crest on it. Poetic in an odd way. She did not regret the gash that she had left on his face. She hoped it scarred, hoped it would stay there forever.

There was a ringing silence as she shook out her fingers that buzzed with the impact.

“Give me a reason not to slit your throat.” she let her left hand rest on the blade that hung on her belt. “Because there has not been a word out of your mouth that has convinced me you are deserving of another minute of life.”

“I wasn’t in control-”

She wrapped her hand around the hilt of the sword.

“I could’ve killed you, I could’ve-”

Pulling the blade out, she watched the torch light glint off the blade. Metal is oddly beautiful, especially when the promise of vengeance sits on its tip.

“I’ll do anything, I’ve become a better man!”

Cassandra placed the tip of the blade on his throat. Over the past few years she had gotten to be far more skilled with a blade. Thanks to Vex’s tutelage and her own determination to defend herself against any sort of danger, by now she could join Vox Machina and hold her own. But this was not a test of skill by any means, he was directly in front of her, chained and shaking out of fear. It felt good that he was so afraid that tears started rolling down his cheeks, that she held power over him. It felt good to be powerful. Never in her life had she been this strong in the face of somebody she used to fear.

“Cassandra!” Percy’s voice was the only barrier between her and slicing this man’s body in two.

“Brother, shut up.” she bit out. She felt a hand on her shoulder and tried to shrug it off but he stayed firm.

“I know what you are feeling. I truly do. And if I were myself at any other time in my life, I would be right next to you. But I can’t let you do this, Cass.” His voice was the most sincere she had heard him in a long time. The softest he had ever been in her direction since they had defeated Vecna.

“Yes, you can.” she said, pressing the blade in a little harder so that a dot of blood appeared right between his collarbones. “You can step back and be silent for once.”

“He can’t and neither will I.” Cassandra let out a half sigh, half laugh, as Vex’s voice joined alongside Percy’s. “Darling, you need to give me the sword.”

“You can’t take this away from me.” she snapped. “Just let me have this one thing.”

In her peripheral, Percy was standing there, hand on her shoulder and face dead serious. But on her other side, she could see his younger, crumpled, bloodied body. The body she had seen and thought he was gone like the rest of them until she saw his rising and falling chest.

“I can’t.” he said softly.

“You can. You can . He let them destroy us, Percy. He killed Whitney. He helped Ripley. He’s one of them. Why do you get to kill them all and I get nothing? Let me have something for once in my life!” she let her voice rise, finally, shouting at him even though he was right by her. She wanted to scream. To cry. To beg for her family even though her only family was right here.

“I wish I could.” His voice was so eerily calm, so sad in a way that made her want to shove him away even harder. “I need you to put the sword down, Cass. Or I’ll have to do something I don’t want to.”

“I hate you.” she said, staring directly at Luther but not sure who exactly she was saying it at. She knew that she sounded like a petulant child who wasn’t getting what they wanted and was throwing a fit but her whole body trembled with need . She needed to destroy this physical manifestation of everything the Briarwoods did to her. She needed to hurt him in a way she couldn’t hurt them. Killing Delilah wasn’t enough to quell this need in her soul. She needed more.

“He deserves it.” she argued, her hand that held the word trembling.

“He does.” Percy agreed. “But I will not let you become what I was on the path to. I swear to all the gods, I know what you’re feeling intimately. Killing this man will not make things better. Give Vex the sword.”

She felt tears sliding down her cheeks. “I can still see them.”

“I know.”

A hand that wasn’t Percy’s gently pried her fingers off of the hilt of the sword. She let it happen.

“I’m so tired, Percy.”

“I know.”

And then the sword was out of her grip, and she let out a strangled sob as she shoved Luther hard in the chest. It sent him tumbling back to the ground, onto his back, his hands still behind his back. Leaving him completely vulnerable. But her hands were empty, and the world wasn’t fair, and she could barely see him through the wall of tears obscuring her vision.

She placed a knee on his sternum, leaning into it enough to hurt. Tears dripped off her chin and landed on his face. She wanted to kill almost more than she had ever wanted anything.

“This world will be brighter when you are gone.” She spoke impressively clearly considering all that she was feeling. “And I will be that much happier.”

He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing. She did not let him speak, when he opened his mouth to say something, she pressed harder onto his chest and shortened his breath. He simply let out a pained squeak and she let herself smirk in satisfaction. She straightened back up, adjusting her blouse before turning back to the guard that had led them to the dungeons in the first place. Her cheeks were still soaked with tears, she didn’t bother to wipe them away. They would dry eventually.

“I want him chained, hands and legs, and gagged until his trial date. Thank you.” the guard nodded his head in confirmation, his eyes just a little wide. No doubt in shock at the display from his ruler he had just witnessed. She knew that she should care that he had just seen her at her weakest but she couldn’t be bothered to. All she could do was watch as she made sure he was bound correctly back in his cage before turning on her heel and climbing the steps back up into the corridors. Her body felt hollow, each movement felt like a ghost inhabiting her body.

She made it maybe fifteen paces before Percy caught up to her, grabbing her upper arm and turning her to look at him. She didn’t speak first, her face spoke enough for her. For the first time, Percy really saw her. It was like he hadn’t truly looked at her in months. She looked wrecked, cheeks splotched and wet. But more than that. There were dark bags under her eyes, a hollowness in those eyes and she looked exactly as she had said. Tired. Just exhausted to a point where anyone else would be dead on their feet.

“It’s alright.” it was all he could think to say. What was he supposed to console her with? There was nothing good about the situation they had found themselves in. He tugged her into a messy, awkward hug. “It’s alright, Cassie.”

She buried her face into his chest, breathing in the scent of her brother. Black powder and the hint of Vex’s perfume and smoke. He was so much taller than her, all legs and arms. Her body didn’t fit quite right into his like it felt like it should. In all books, when people were family or close to family, they fit together like puzzle pieces. Their hugs felt just right. This didn’t feel perfect, it wasn’t “just” right but it was definitely right. There would be an indent on her face from pressing her face into a button on his vest but she was caring less and less about dignity. It had been so long since she’d properly hugged Percy and he hadn’t had to rush away for whatever reason. He held her for a long, long time. She got the impression that he had decided in his mind that he would not be the first to pull away.

Eventually, one of them had to and Cassandra pushed off him with a sigh. She saw Vex hovering a little ways away, trying to look like she wasn’t watching but glancing over every once in a while. Percy was looking at her fondly but with worry in his eyes. She reached up and brushed hair off of his forehead, distracted by the hair that had almost fallen into his eyes. He needed a haircut.

“I’ll be alright, Percival.” she murmured. “I promise. You don’t need to worry.”

He shook his head. “Don’t. You have to let me help you now. Let us help you.”

“My darkness is not your darkness.” she told him. “We are not the same.”

“I know,” he said earnestly. “But you’re my sister. And I will not be able to go on if I don’t help you now.”

She pursed her lips, looking away. “I know.”

“Cassandra?” She lifted her eyes back up to his. “I care about you. Very much.”

“And I you.” she said, the response she always said in response to intimate speeches.

“What he’s trying to say is that he loves you dearly.” Vex had walked up to them now, standing beside Percy and looking at Cassandra with a knowing look in her eye. “Right, Percy?”

Percy tucked his chin against his chest for a second, smiling. “Right. Love you, sister.”

She hadn’t heard that in a long time either. “I-I love you too.”

It almost felt wrong on her tongue. And she hated that it felt wrong. Hated that she was so unpracticed in love that she didn’t know the correct way to say it. That the cadence of her words was all wrong. That her tone wasn’t sincere enough.

“You look a mess, dear.” Vex was the first to speak after a bit of a silence, she wrapped an arm around Cassandra’s shoulders and started walking them down the hall. “Come. Let’s go for a walk, hm?”

So Cassandra let herself be led through the halls and into the gardens. With her sister-in-law on one arm and her brother on the other, she felt fully secure. Each step forward brought her closer to herself and though she was still shaking with anger, her hands itching for the hilt of the sword Vex had left behind, her mind scrambling to cope with all that happened in the last twenty minutes. She let herself be led around by her loved ones, Vex at one point pressing a kiss to her cheek and smiling before turning forwards again and continuing on with some story about Trinket. She did feel loved and was surprised to find that after months of being holed up in her office, it was nice to step out into the sun and breathe.

That night, when she lay in her bed wide awake, she wondered what exactly the darkness in her chest was. Percy had Orthax in him whispering desires of vengeance into his ear, urging him to do horrible things. But she had no monster inside her. She had no odd dreams and no voice in her ear telling to cut that man’s head off. She had wanted that, herself, her mind. It had been her own desires and need to quell that need inside her, not some outside force. Did that make her worse than him? She did not think herself a terrible person for having the desire to hurt those who had hurt her worse. But even Percy had let his revenge empty from his body when Orthax had left.

She pulled herself out of bed, walked barefoot down the hall, down all the steps until she reached the door that led into Percy’s workshop. At this time of night, it was a toss up on where he would be. Sometimes Vex was able to drag him to bed at a decent time but still, even with the pressure from her and Cassandra, more often than not Percy could be found bent over some contraption he was spending far too many hours perfecting. She knocked on the door and when she didn’t hear an answer, gently turned the doorknob and peaked inside.

He was there, so absorbed in his work that he didn’t hear her knock. She stepped inside, and it was only when she closed the door that he lifted his head and turned around. Confusion immediately knitted his eyebrows together. Seeing her in her nightgown, hair completely down and loose around her face, no shoes on her feet, was probably the oddest thing he had seen in awhile. Cassandra almost never let her appearances slip on purpose, and the few times she did were either accidental or something forced her to. Her skirts always had no wrinkles in them, her sleeves always buttoned, her hair made just so. But she had come to him, vulnerable and looking so very not-Cassandra.

“Cassandra.” he said, meeting her gaze. “What can I do for you?”

“Might I just sit and watch for a bit?” she asked.

He blinked, taken aback before rushing to answer. “Uh- yes. Yes, of course.”

He grabbed a stool and placed it next to his work table, patting it awkwardly. “Come sit.”

She did. Lifted herself up and watched him work on some clock-like machinery. She was fascinated by his work, even if she didn’t completely understand. Sitting here with the heat of the furnace close and only Percy’s soft humming, she felt more calm than she had in a while. Especially not after how emotionally taxing the day had been. She wanted to ask about what he was doing but didn’t want to break the silence, and anyways, she was too caught up in her own thoughts to be able to follow any complicated explanation at the moment.

“Percy?” she said after a long time of just silent working. He hummed in response, a confirmation that he had heard and was listening. “Did you still… want to hurt people, after Orthax? Want to kill those who forced us to lose everyone?”

His hands stopped moving and he let them rest on the table, completely still. He stayed that way for an uncomfortably long amount of time, letting the silence stretch and stretch until she felt it was going to snap. Instead of breaking it with a word, he let out a heavy sigh. Leaning his head back so that he could look up at the ceiling.

“It’s a good question.” He finally said. “The thing about Orthax, about the darkness, is that it didn’t create the want in my mind. He didn’t make me want to murder those people, Cass, I wanted to. I want to. He gave me the tools and then it was just a matter of me saying yes. In the state I was in… of course, I said yes.”

She nodded along, listening intently. “But after. What about after he was gone?” He tapped his fingers on the table, chewing on his bottom lip. “I think… I think by that point I had gone so far for my revenge, I had experienced it to the point where I was both satisfied and hungry. I knew I had done what I set out to do, but part of me still wanted more. I knew then, and it was only thanks to my friends that I was able to, that revenge was not what would fix me. As much as they deserve it. As much as I wanted to make them hurt for what they did. It was not what would bring me joy.”

He looked over at her then, her pale skin golden from the small lamps that were littered around the room and the fiery furnace. He considered her for a few moments, taking in his baby sister who he had had no idea how to approach all of these months. He had been so afraid that she would realize that she hated him for leaving her behind, that she had grown so far away from him that there was no closing that gap. He looked at her, and the white streaks in her hair that would always remind them of what she had gone through, and saw himself reflected back. It was too hard to explain, even to himself. But in her eyes, if he looked deep enough he could see that hunger that had drawn him to Orthax in the first place. In the set of her frown, in the clench of her fist. His sister was strong, she had always been that way. Her darkness would not overcome her.

“I truly wish I could let you kill him,” he said with a humorless chuckle when she did not respond right away. “But this world doesn’t need another De Rolo on a destructive streak.”

She cracked a smile at that. “Yes, from what I hear, that would not be the brightest idea.”

She was breaking inside, a little. Cassandra De Rolo, strong, fearless, always held her head up high, had cracks spreading through her chest. She was afraid they would show on her face. She wanted nothing more than to burn and burn and burn until she felt happy or she was gone completely. She wanted so much. So much she couldn’t have. But one thing she could have, she wanted. So she did it.

She reached for Percy, placing her open palm on the table as an invitation. He reached and took it with both of his, holding it tightly. She whispered to him, even though there was no one else around, “I hate that it’s just us. I hate the quiet.”

He nodded. “I do too.”

“It was awful, when you were gone after the Briarwoods.” she told him, for the first time. Admitting something she knew he didn’t want to hear. “I was… lonely. So lonely, Percy. In this cursed castle, having to remember-”

He squeezed her hand tightly when her voice started to have an edge again. She had lived her entire life in this castle, she had known it in its prime, she had known it in its darkest hour, and she would know it for the rest of her life. It was the hardest thing, every morning, to get up and face the rooms where she faced horrors for five years. And when it was over, it was still as if she had to face them every day. She hated it, seeing their faces, seeing the bodies hanging from the Sun Tree. There was nothing from her to do but move through each day and ignore the painful chasm in her chest.

“I’m here now. Vex is here now. We’re not going away.” he told her. “You don’t have to be alone anymore.”

She wanted to cry again but instead she half smiled. Lovely to hear him say that, lovely to hear his voice at all. She needed to treasure that more often. For years, she had thought she was alone, the last of the De Rolos. And finally, her brother sat before her once again, he was at her disposal all of the time and yet she didn't hold him tightly everyday, she didn’t treasure his every word. But maybe that was a good thing. It meant they were healing. It meant that they had become a normal part of each other's routine again. She didn’t need to hold every moment with him dear because they had years to find happy moments with each other. It brought her some peace, to remember they had so much time. The clock did not feel as if it was ticking down every second anymore, and they could breathe in these minutes of silence.

“I’m very tired.” she told him finally. He slackened his grip on her hand, but still held it loosely with one of his.

“Let’s get you to bed, mother would be so unhappy with the hour.” Despite the pang of sadness the mention of their mother brought her, she laughed.

“She would, wouldn’t she?” she replied. She made him turn off the furnace and put all his things away before they walked out of the workshop, in the hopes that would force him into bed. They walked through the dark hallways, Cassandra’s arm looped through Percy’s. He brought her back to her room, opening the door and leading her inside. She hadn’t known Percy to ever be the most affectionate person but over the last few months it was like he was practicing for his child. Giving more hugs, giving more kind words, going out of his way to make his intent clear. It made her proud, made her happy, that her brother was healing alongside all of his friends. She felt left behind sometimes, that he was making strides in his journey to happiness and she had inherited his gloom. But it still made her happier, when he sat down on the bed next to her and pinched her cheek playfully, the way he used to when she was a child. He’d been only a few years older than her, but old enough to tease her and remind her he was the elder of the two.

“Goodnight, Cassandra.” he said as he got up. “Sleep well.”

“Sleep well.” she repeated as he left and closed the door softly. The room felt fuller now than it had when she had left to find Percy. Warmer.

After she blew out all her candles, she laid in the dark, staring up into the expanse of her ceiling. The darkness felt heavy after all the discussion from the day. It was closing in on her and she closed her eyes to fight against it, now looking at the back of eyelids instead of her pitch black room. Maybe it was her subconscious or maybe it was her tired mind beginning to descend into dreams or maybe those are the same things but regardless, moments passed and then, clear as day, she heard the woman who had ruined it all.

“You could’ve been my daughter.” Lady Briarwood crooned in a sing-song voice. That voice that had been used against Cassandra for so many years, that voice that had haunted her dreams, and her waking hours, and never seemed to leave even when she was alone.

She was a De Rolo. She tried to scream it but her throat wouldn’t work, her mouth wouldn’t work.

I am a De Rolo .

She would wake up tomorrow and she would still be a De Rolo. She had always been. Even when there was nothing to keep her chained to her family, she had this castle, she had their memories, and she would not let them go. She planned on living a long life, one that honored her family in every decision she made. She wanted to make them proud, make her living family proud, and make her home a home for the continuation of their line. There was so much to do and every day she had to remind herself she had time. Beautiful, sweet time. And when Delilah’s voice grew stronger in her head sometimes, she would turn her head and Percy would be there. If the ghosts got a little too strong, she’d turn her cheek. The visions didn’t go away, how could they, after all of these years of persisting and festering in her head? But she lived with them.

She hurt. She’d always hurt, she supposed.

She was broken but not shattered. She refused to shatter. That would have to be enough until she was whole again.

#hilariously. I wrote a fic very very few people care about and I LOVE IT SO MUCH PLS VALIDATE ME #calling all cassandra lovers/gay people!!#anyways #there's a lot more notes and sentiments on ao3 that's a much better place to read this!!#critical role #critical role c1 #critical role campaign 1 #briarwood arc #cassandra de rolo #percival de rolo #vex’ahlia de rolo #the de rolos #delilah briarwood #sylas briarwood #critical role fic #cr percy #cr cassandra #cr vex #AHHHHHHHHHHHH

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wkemeup · 4 years

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By Any Other Name (17)

series summary: When Special Agent Bucky Barnes is tasked with infiltrating the notorious gang Hydra and gathering evidence against its leader, Brock Rumlow, Bucky finds himself drawn to the woman who doesn’t seem to belong in this world of violence, the wife of the head of Hydra… you. pairing: bucky x reader chapter word count: 6k warnings: arson, cannon level violence, gun violence, the moment you’ve been waiting for 🌹series masterlist 🌹

"I said I’m fine, Steve,” Bucky groaned, swatting away the hand of the paramedic as he tried to disinfect his shoulder. Blood was bubbling at the surface over ripped and frayed edges, dripping down his arm and onto his ribs. He held his shirt balled up in his hands, clenching at the fabric as the sting of alcohol burned against the open wound.

“You were shot, Buck. Let the man work,” Steve warned, glaring at him until Bucky dropped his resolve long enough for the paramedic to begin stitching the mess on his shoulder. It was surrounded by hardened tissue; muscle that had been carved and mutilated in his time overseas and the time between. He’d lost some of his nerve endings amongst the scarring, so the needle twisting through his skin wasn’t so bad.

“She did a good job. Clean hit. Looks like it went right through,” Sam said, eyeing the gunshot wound in Bucky’s shoulder. He pursed his lips, impressed. “Y/n know about the vest?”

“No.” Bucky sighed, breath heavy like stones in his lungs. “There wasn't time to tell her.”

The vest he wore under his shirt was not bulletproof. No, it was a stage prop, a gimmick from the set of a television studio that actors wore when they were shot on screen, one that released balloons of fake blood. It was what was currently drying on the concrete on the office floor just a few feet away.

It was supposed to be used after he was arrested, to make it look like James Karpov died on his way to the station in a dramatic shootout with at least a dozen witnesses, giving Bucky Barnes the opportunity to walk as a free man again. It was a part of a plan that had long been thrown to the wasteland and it forced him to improvise. So, when he stared down the end of your barrel, he knew setting it off was the only way to get you out of this, to keep Rumlow from suspecting you.

Bucky managed to snag the release at the time of your shot, making it look like you’d hit a critical artery. He fell to the ground and played dead.

"Shit,” Sam cursed, hands on his hips. “Does she know you’re alive?”

“I don’t know,” Bucky sighed, clenching his jaw as the paramedic tugged on the rudimentary string keeping his skin together, “but she’s out there somewhere, alone with that fucking psychopath. I can't be wasting time on this. I need to be out there looking for her!”

“We’ve got dozens of our finest searching for them,” Steve said, trying to reassure him, but it was no use. “We’ll find her. You need to let us do our jobs.”

Bucky pushed himself from the back of the ambulance, shoving away the paramedic the moment he pressed on the bandage over the mess on his shoulder. He spotted his reflection in the side mirror of the ambulance, grunting at the stain of red against his cheek. He wiped at it with the sleeve of his shirt, trying to scrub it away, though it only seemed to make it worse. Dried blood crusted on his jawline.

Bucky slipped his shirt back over his head, wincing at the sharp pain in his shoulder as he tugged it down to his waist. He brushed out the wrinkles, ignoring the heavy patch of red on the left side of the fabric before he retrieved his weapon from Sam.

“I’m going after her,” Bucky reported flatly, heading towards the door.

“Come on, man!” Sam chased after him. “Don’t be an idiot, okay? We’ll come up with a plan.”

“You’re going to get yourself killed, Buck,” Steve warned, though he was following close behind. A hand landed on Bucky’s good shoulder and he froze, tension hardening like a rock through his spine and Steve quickly pulled away.

“Look,” Bucky growled, hands clenched, “you can either come with me, or get the hell out of my way.”

“How about a third option where you come with me?” Natasha appeared at the edge of the doorway, holding a tablet in her hand. Pursed lips, raised eyebrow staring back at him and Bucky shook his head, pushing past her.

“I don’t have time for—”

“I found her.”

He froze dead in his tracks, head whipping back around. “You what? How?”

“I’ll tell you on the way,” Natasha said as she gestured for the team to follow to the van out back. She turned and started walking before caring to see Bucky’s acknowledgement. Steve and Sam exchanged a quick look as they quickly jogged behind.

She jumped into the passenger seat, instructing Sam to drive as Bucky and Steve piled in the back. Sam didn’t ask questions as the engine turned to a low purr and Natasha gave him the first set of instructions. Left out the back gate. Continue to the fork in the road, then right.

“Nat,” Bucky urged impatiently, hands squeezing at his knees as he tried to look over her shoulder to get a glimpse of the tablet, but she held it secure to her chest, like there was something she didn’t want him to see.

“I’ve already alerted the NYPD,” Natasha told Sam, “so they know not to pull us over. Don’t stop for the reds.”

Bucky squeezed his hands to fists, nails digging into his palms. His jaw was clenched, wired shut, and his breaths were hot like fire on every exhale. He tried to focus on the feel of his jeans, the faint smell of the corn syrup soaked into his shirt, the cool breeze of the window cracked next to him, but nothing eased the boulder forming in his chest, pushing down on his lungs and suffocating his heart.

“Nat,” Bucky gritted out again, voice strained in the effort, “where is she?”

Natasha sighed, eyes flickering back at Steve, who slowly nodded in response to her silent question. She tapped on the screen of the tablet, twisting around in her seat until she could see Bucky over the shoulder.

“You said Rumlow’s pet scientist removed all of the bugs from the house?” Natasha started. Bucky narrowed his eyes, remembering the pieces of the small listening devices broken on the floor of the factory. Natasha bit on her lip, slowly extending the tablet to Bucky. “Seems he missed one.”

The tablet was heavier than he expected and it dipped a little as she released it to his hands. His heart was pounding, like thunder, bursting at the seams and aching to push past his ribs, break open skin, and plummet straight to the floor.

Bucky stared down at the screen, the image in its reflection of a room he knew well; shelves upon shelves filled with books, assorted mugs left around the room still steeping tea from hours earlier, the soft light of the pale blue lamp by the couch, the series of awards and degrees hanging on the walls.

Bucky’s hands were shaking, gripping so tightly to the edges of the tablet he thought he might crack the glass, because what drew his attention wasn’t the familiarity of the room, the memories of the time he spent there loving you from afar, loving you up close.

He couldn’t see the pile of books on the end table that you’d gathered for him for him to read. He couldn’t see the solid black mug with golden marbled cracks you’d designated as his mug sitting upon the coffee table. He couldn’t see the aisles where he’d loved you, rushed and rough, laughing as he pressed your back to the shelves and your legs wrapped at his waist, the heated flush of your breaths as you clung to him, the sweet whimpers he drew from your lips.

No—instead, he fixated on the novels laying haphazardly on the floor, books you cherished face down, pages bending, where you’d once kept them meticulously organized along the shelves. The plants thrown from their pots on the windowsill, ones you talked so kindly to every time you watered them, wondering how they were still alive because you’d killed just above every other plant before them. The faint discoloration of cigar smoke filtering to the top of the room, clouding over wooden engravings at the tops of the bookcases, staining the room with a smell of a man you worked so hard to escape from.

Then, though his heart was in his throat, he let his eyes drift to you – you tied at the center of the room to a chair as Rumlow sat on the edge of a couch, your couch, dragging in smoke from a cigar. There were ashes on the cushions, smeared into the fabric where Bucky had laid with you on late evenings when he couldn’t stand to leave you alone in that home.

“I didn’t--” Bucky started, finding his voice dry, like sandpaper, and he cleared his throat. He gripped tighter to the tablet, knuckles turning white. “I didn’t think we were surveilling this room.”

“We weren’t,” Nat replied gently, sensing the tension in Bucky’s voice. “I had the transmission cut off since last year. It’s probably why they didn’t find it when they swept for bugs. There was no signal coming from it until I turned it on a few minutes ago. We lost audio though.”

Bucky nodded, feeling an ounce of relief, knowing that your sanctuary wasn’t completely tainted until now. This room, the only room in the house you truly felt safe in, was still yours. Or, it was, before your husband laid waste to it.

“This is a good thing, Buck,” Steve added slowly, setting a light hand on Bucky’s leg. “We know where she is. You can keep an eye on her until we get there.”

Bucky watched as Rumlow knelt down in front of you, gripping tight to your jaw as you struggled to recoil from his touch. He could see the tears reflecting on your cheeks, the tremble of your chest as you tried to find your breath, even from the angle of the camera high in the corner of the room.

He couldn’t stand to see you like this; afraid.

He was supposed to be on his way to you from the back door of the police station, clean of the theatrics and the corn syrup dye on his clothes, free of the name binding him to a vile organization, ready to start his life again as the man he always wanted you to know him to be. He was supposed to protect you from this, from Rumlow, from the life you’d been chained to for years.

But instead, you were bound to a chair in the middle of your safe haven, a witness as your husband tore it to pieces, like pieces of your heart breaking off with every novel tossed to the ground; alone, as Bucky let his promise you to go unanswered.

His promise to save you from this, to take you away, to give you back the life you’d lost.

He might not get that chance.

“I’m going to kill him.”

The words were heavy on his tongue but there was a relief in it, a certainty. It was a fate he’d been slated to from the start.

The car was silent; the only response the low purr of the engine.

***

“What’s her status?”

Bucky shook his head, unable to respond to Natasha’s question without finding bile in his mouth. It was like watching a horror movie, knowing that at any second everything could go up in flames. Rumlow was shouting at you, his arms waving about, and though they had no audio, Bucky could tell by the way you were avoiding your husband's eyes, that you were afraid.

But it was when Rumlow bent to pick up a large container, one with liquid that sloshed up over the top and spilled to the floor by your feet, that Bucky stopped breathing entirely.

“Bucky?”

He couldn’t hear Steve’s voice, not as he watched Rumlow spill the thick, dark colored liquid around the room, onto the couch, onto your shelves lined with books, onto the hardwood floors. You were shouting at him, struggling against the wires binding you to the chair, blood trickling down your wrists. You winced at the smell of it, pushing your nose to your shoulder the closer he got.

“Jesus Christ,” Bucky muttered out, hands shaking violently against the tablet. His heart was lodged up into his throat, threatening to choke him.

“What is it?” Sam called from up front. “What’s going on?”

“Sam,” Steve warned, eyes glued to the screen as Bucky veins filled with fire, with rage, and the heat of his breath was that of a dragon’s. “How far are we?”

“Five minutes, boss.”

Steve stole a glance back at Bucky, watching as he gripped painfully at the tablet, gritting his teeth as Rumlow stalked around you, dumping what looked to be gasoline to a room quite literally filled to the brim with novels that would go up in flames in a matter of seconds. Bucky was shaking, whether it was with rage or fear, Steve couldn’t tell.

Steve caught Natasha’s eye, a silent conversation between them before he leaned forward and put a hand on Sam’s seat.

“Floor it.”

***

Bucky jumped from the car before Sam could even pull it into park. He shoved his way out the door, the pavement still moving under his feet as he rolled along the driveway, back skidding into the rocky surface that only worsened the pain in his shoulder. He scrambled back to his feet, sprinting towards the mansion, when a thunderous explosion to his froze him dead in his tracks.

An arm came up instinctively to shield his eyes as an influx of bright light punctured through the night sky.

Glass shattered out into the grass and from the window of your library rose angry, orange flames into the night sky, dancing and crackling in the wind. A large gust of a breeze swept by and the flames seemed to scream, pulling down pieces of the wooden architecture of the outside walls with deafening snaps.

He could vaguely hear Steve shouting behind him, warning him to wait until the firefighters arrived, to stop putting himself at the front lines of a beast he couldn’t hope to tame. They were only a few minutes out. It was too dangerous to go inside himself. He wasn’t trained for this.

But none of that mattered to Bucky, not in that moment. All he knew was you were trapped inside, alone, in a burning room and he’d be damned if he stood on the sidelines and watched.

Bucky sprinted to the front door, bounded over the cracks in the pavement and skipping the stairs leading to the door. The knob seared hot enough that it burned right through his palm and he hissed at the sting of it, staring down at pink and blistering skin in his grip.

He threw his shoulder to the door, shouting out in frustration when it refused to budge. His shoulder was aching, pulsing, from the impact. Again and again and still nothing. Black smoke spilled out from the library just a few windows down, taunting him as it tainted the night sky.

“Come on!” he screamed, voice hoarse as his eyes kept darting to the flames bursting from your sanctuary. He only had so much time before the heat was too much for your body, before the smoke infiltrated your lungs and you were burned by the consumption of fire to your most prized possessions.

“Stand back!”

Bucky turned abruptly at the voice to find Steve at his side, gun in hand as he fired three shots at the knob and slammed the sole of his boot to the vulnerable wood at the left of the door. The wood cracked, the hatch falling loose and it cracked open, pooling thick, grey smoke from the living room.

“I’m not letting you run into a burning building on your own, you jerk,” Steve grunted, shouldering the door until it swung open, slamming against the adjacent wall, and they were met with a wall of smoke. Steve pulled the edge of his shirt over his nose and nodded for Bucky to lead the way.

Bucky nodded at him, unable to find his own voice. He rushed into the living room, crook of his elbow pressed to his nose, coughing at the sudden gasp of smoke. It was still high amongst the ceilings, but in a short glance down the winding hall to your library, the smoke only became thicker, heavier, and it was so clouded he could hardly see the door.

“This way!” Bucky shouted, taking off towards the library.

It was a path he knew well, one he’d once walked slowly with a careful glance over his shoulder and one he’d raced to the moment he stepped foot in this home. He knew the dip in the floorboards at the edge of the foyer, the slight stain on the wood from where you’d dropped a mug filled to the brim with herbal tea, the paintings lining the walls that you’d slowly replaced over your years to the works and designs of local artists depicting mountain ranges and sunsets and gardens and all the places you’d rather be.

Small pieces of you were embedded in this home. It seemed they, too, were up in smoke.

Bucky slammed into the doors at the library, though they didn’t budge. He pressed his hands to the wood to find it scorching hot and he hissed, jumping away from it. Eyes trailed down to the knobs and he found the double doors shackled together with a thick, metal chain.

“Oh God. What do we—”

“I’ve got it!” Steve shouted over the roar of the fire behind the door. He pushed Bucky aside and fired one shot to the lock. It released with a slight kick of his foot to the chains and they fell to the floor. Steve quickly holstered his weapon with a single look in Bucky’s direction, a nod, and he pushed open the doors.

They were met with a heat that singed at their skin, flames that pulled towards them in the flood of oxygen sweeping into the room.

“Shit!” Steve cursed, shielding his face from the fires as he stumbled backwards, but Bucky was advancing forward, as if the heat wasn’t drying his lungs with every breath, as if the smoke wasn’t winding him, like he wasn’t about to walk through a wall of flames. “Bucky, wait!”

Bucky took a deep breath though his lungs filled with smoke and he sprinted inside. He could feel burning on his skin, the singe of the flames against his exposed forearms, but none of it compared to seeing you strapped to that chair at the center of the room. Your head was lulled to the side, cheek to your right shoulder, eyes closed, and your skin covered in dark soot, some patches of burn marks seared raw.

He rushed at you, skidding to his knees and trying to ignore the fact that his jeans were soaking in gasoline pooling under your feet that was sure to light up at any second.

“Y/n,” he called, voice too soft, as he gripped at the sides of your face. “Sweetheart, wake up. I’m here. I’ve got you.”

You didn’t respond and Bucky could hardly feel a touch of your breath under your nose.

“Please, I need you to come back to me,” he begged, shaking you, harder than he meant to, but God, he’d never been so scared in his life. A muffled groan pulled from your lips, a slight twitch in your nose, and that was enough for him.

“That’s my girl.” He exhaled, laughing through the adrenaline and panic in his veins.

He pulled a scalpel from his pocket, one he’d stolen from the ambulance back at the factory, and quickly began working at the wires binding your wrists. He tried to ignore the raw and bleeding skin underneath.

There was a loud crackling above and Bucky glanced up to find a large fracture in the ceiling, spreading rapidly to the window. Small pieces of the paint chipped off and fell down around him like snowfall.

“Bucky!” Steve shouted behind him, warning him.

Bucky gathered you into his arms, hulling you to his chest. You were like a rag doll, limp, though you curled into him, nose finding the crook of his neck as if you were only sleeping, seeking out his scent, his warmth, even amongst the flames.

“I’ve got you, honey,” he whispered, a gentle kiss at your forehead as he stared down the wall of fire ahead of him. “Steve!”

“I know! I’m working on it!”

Steve was prying the door from the hinges, the metal already warped and easily manipulated by the heat of the flames. It detached suddenly and Steve stumbled under the weight of it before he slammed down ahead of Bucky, acting like a bridge to suffocate the fire in his path if only for a minute.

Bucky didn’t waste a second, no hesitations, and he sprinted to the hallway with you safe in his arms, leaving your library up in flames.

“Can we get the hell out of here now?” Steve grunted, panting, hands on his knees though he was smiling. He straightened his back, looking down at you and Bucky was certain he saw relief in his friend’s face, to find the slight movement in your chest with every breath, even if it was shallow and rasping.

“Yeah,” Bucky nodded with a tired smile, “let’s—”

The words died on his tongue as he spotted a figure in the distance, waiting, watching. It paused, incredibly still, before it descended further into the shadows. Calling him. Beckoning him forth. A challenge he would not dare go unanswered.

“Take her,” Bucky ordered flatly, already pushing you to Steve’s arms before he had a chance to object. “Get her to the paramedics.”

“Buck, what are you—”

"There’s something I need to take care of.”

The flames were starting to follow them into the hallway and Bucky gently released you to Steve’s arms. He leaned closer to you, swept your hair away from your eyes and kissed your temple; eyes closed, lingering, because he needed to remember this. He pulled back to find Steve staring at him in disbelief, eyes flickering down to the end of the hallway.

“Don’t,” Steve said, though there was an aching there, a pleading.

“Get her somewhere safe,” Bucky replied, putting a hand to Steve’s shoulder, a slight squeeze, an appreciation for a debt he will never repay. “Steve, please.”

“You won’t have long,” he warned, eyeing the unstable foundation around them. Your library was starting to cave in on itself, pieces of the ceiling falling into the flames, until the shelves collapsed, and hundreds of novels lent themselves to the fire. Steve pulled back, shielding you as the heat of it carried out into the hall.

“I know,” Bucky said slowly, guiding Steve down the hall to the front door. He kept his eyes trained on the man in the shadows. “I’ll see you soon, brother.”

Steve paused, his eyes catching on the man lying in wait. He clenched his jaw, gritted his teeth, and then nodded. “You better.”

Steve rushed out the front door, carrying you safely in his arms away from the flames, and Bucky stood still in the living room, staring down into the dark corner where Brock Rumlow emerged from. Bucky’s hands curled to fists as he stepped forward, watching while Rumlow poured himself a glass of scotch amongst the thick fog covering the ceiling.

“I thought you were dead,” Rumlow said, a bit annoyed, as he took a swig of the amber liquid.

“Yeah, well,” Bucky shrugged, hand gripping around a vase to his left, “you’re used to underestimating my girl, aren’t you?”

Rumlow chuckled, though it was dark, humorless. He threw back the rest of the scotch, smacking his lips loudly. Then, he sharply pulled a handgun from the back of his waistband and aimed it at Bucky, quickly releasing the safety as a maniacal grin slithered along his lips.

“Guess I’ll have to finish the job myself.”

Before he could fire, Bucky threw the vase across the room with the full force of his strength. The crash of it against the wall to Rumlow’s right distracted him enough to give Bucky the advantage to propel himself over the couch, using the ottoman as leverage, and tackle Rumlow to the ground.

The gun was thrown a few feet away and Rumlow let out a grunt as he slammed to the hardwoods. With Bucky’s full weight on top of him, he fought like a feral animal, kneeing and kicking and shoving hands to Bucky’s face. The heel of his palm slammed straight to Bucky’s chin, causing him to hit his head on the end table beside them. It served its purpose as Bucky fell off of Rumlow and slumped to the floors, dizzying him enough for Rumlow to crawl out from underneath.

Rumlow smirked as he reached out for the gun, his fingers touching the warm metal of the handle for only a second, vengeance in the palm of his hand—

Bucky scrambled forward, grabbed a tight hold of Rumlow’s jacket and yanked him back, sliding down along the floors as the gun slipped out of reach again. Bucky threw a punch to the left corner of Rumlow’s jaw and a splatter of blood spewed from his lips and coated the white wall beside them and dripped down over his chin.

Within his rage, a vicious kind of roar released from deep in Rumlow’s chest as he bared his teeth, blood seeping through his gums and spilling from the edges of his lips. He slowly climbed his way back to his feet, legs wobbling underneath him as he stood from the exhaustion.

“You won’t survive this, Agent Barnes,” he spat, pacing to the edge of the room where the thick cloud of black smoke began to sink down from the ceiling.

Over Rumlow’s shoulder, Bucky caught sight of flames creeping in from the hallway making their way to the living room. He tried to catch his breath but it was hard to find, shallow in his chest, and he was losing energy quicker than he shoulder. Sweat beaded on his brow, dripped down his face, his neck, and he felt like his lungs were aflame. He hulled himself to his feet, feeling a little disoriented from the hit and the smoke in his lungs.

“You think you can just infiltrate the greatest underground empire this city’s ever known?!” Rumlow roared, diving forward and slammed a closed barreled fist to Bucky’s jawline. It nearly sent him spiraling to the floor as he clamped down on the inside of his cheek, blood pooling quickly in his mouth.

Rumlow’s lip twitched, a kind of chaos and recklessness lurking under his skin unfamiliar for a man who spent his life meticulously planning and strategizing, draped in Gucci and Armani.

“You think you stood a goddamn chance against Hydra, you fucking traitor?!”

A knee to Bucky’s stomach, then a fist to his nose, to his shoulder, until Bucky couldn’t shield himself anymore. The heat was singing on his skin, burning more than whatever Rumlow could dish out.

Bucky risked a glimpse a few feet away as Rumlow prepared for the next hit and the flicker of metallic caught his eye. He froze.

But so did Rumlow.

Bucky lunged for the gun, scrambling over the floors, nails digging into the exposed wood and diving splinters into his skin. He grasped it just long enough to spin the chamber of the revolver before Rumlow came up behind him and kicked him hard in the ribs, forcing him to curl in on himself as he let the gun slip through his fingers.

Rumlow bent down slowly and picked up the gun, admiring it in his hand as he backed away.

“You know, I thought you’d put up more of a fight,” Rumlow tsked, the spin of the chamber clear as Bucky forced himself to his feet. He was uneasy in his stance, blood dripping from his forehead, wet in his hair. Rumlow eyed him cautiously.

“It’s over, Rumlow,” Bucky warned. “You’re finished.”

“Finished?” he mocked, laughing, deep and boisterous over the roar of the flames behind them. “Wake up, asshole! You’re the one staring down the end of the gun. You’re not walking out of this house alive.”

“You’re not going to kill me,” Bucky replied defiantly, certain as he took a slow, calculated step towards the end table, pacing around Rumlow as he followed in opposite tracks.

Rumlow scoffed. “I’ve got six rounds here that say otherwise.”

“Do you?”

Bucky released his hand as six golden bullets fell from his grasp, chiming against the hardwoods in deafening clicks before they settled and rolled under the couch. Rumlow stared down at them in disbelief, slowly turning to the gun in his hand and spinning open the chamber to find it empty.

In the pause of his distraction, Bucky slipped his hand under the end table, grasped the handle of the gun he’d stored there on his first day patrolling the mansion and ripped it from the duct tape securing it to the underside. He aimed it at Rumlow, stone cold in his features as sweat beaded down his temple.

But Rumlow started to laugh.

“You can’t beat me, Agent Barnes,” he sneered. “Hydra will always win.”

“Not once we put you away,” Bucky hissed, hands gripping the gun impossibly tight, until his knuckles were ghost white. Above him, cracks were opening in the ceiling, the foundation slowly giving way to the heat.

“You think that’s going to stop me?!” Rumlow bellowed, advancing forward and causing Bucky to take a step back. “You think that putting me in jail is going to do anything?! Hydra may be burned to ash but I still know who’s responsible.”

Bucky swallowed, a slight give beyond the hardened mask he wore, and Rumlow saw straight through it.

He chuckled, low and demonic. “Yeah, I know she was a part of this. That conniving little bitch!”

Bucky clenched his jaw, knowing the panic was evident on his face but he held his stance, watching Rumlow as he started to pace, grinning like he knew he’d won.

“Here’s what you’re going to do, Barnes,” Rumlow smirked, folding his arms, “you’re going to hand over the gun and then, you’re going to let me go.”

The ceiling behind them gave way as wooden beams and scaffolding plummeted from above. Bucky turned back to Rumlow, holding the weapon steady.

“That’s not going to happen.”

“I beg to disagree,” Rumlow shrugged, unbothered by the heat of the flames as they inched closer. “You’re going to let me walk out the back door, away from your buddies waiting to put me in cuffs and you’re going to do it happily –”

“Fuck off.”

“—otherwise, I’ll use every last resource I have to slaughter your girl.”

Bucky’s heart stopped, like the full force of a freight train to the sternum. Muscles to stone, blood to ice. His stomach twisted and warped on itself.

“That’s what you called her right? ‘Your girl?’” Rumlow rolled his eyes, laughing to himself. “Pathetic. You would have sacrificed everything for her, wouldn’t you? Its fucking weak! And for it to be her? Are you kidding me, Barnes? You risked it all for my fucking leftovers!?”

Rumlow was laughing – no, cackling – and maybe it was the smoke or the flames but there was something unhinged about it, manic, and the look in that man’s eye was chilling, like ice straight to his core.

“Shut up,” Bucky warned, voice low, cracking. Heat boiled in his veins that had little to do with the flames surrounding him.

“You took everything from me,” Rumlow growled, features shifting abruptly into something much darker. “I’m going to destroy you.”

Bucky shook his head, tightening his grip on the gun. “You won’t have the chance, asshole. Now start walking.”

Bucky gestured the barrel towards the door, but Rumlow didn’t budge. Instead, that small maniacal smirk returned to his lips, cracking through dried skin and leaving slivers of blood in his wake.

“You think some prison bars and an orange jumpsuit are going to stop me? You think I won’t be able to ruin your whole fucking existence with the snap of my fingers!? You think I won’t rip your girl straight from under you?!”

Stone in his throat, blood on his tongue, Bucky couldn’t control the pounding in his chest.

“You’re fooling yourself if you think I don’t have connections in the FBI! I’ll find her, even if you hide her in the smallest no-where-shit-town in the country!” Rumlow goaded, shouting above the flames, almost deranged as his pupils blew wide. “I’ll find her and I’ll send the worst kind of man to finish the job. She’ll be begging, crying, wondering how you could have let this happen to her when you could have just let me walk away! She’ll know when she takes her final breaths, when she’s choking on her own fucking blood, that it was your fault!”

Bucky’s breaths were uneven, rasped and wheezing from the smoke and heavy from the painful thumping of his heart. He gripped the gun tighter in his hold, until the crevices pinched his skin and the heat of the metal seared into his grasp.

“You won’t see it coming,” Rumlow sneered, shaking his head, baring his teeth. Vile. Evil. Unhinged. He stepped forward, challenging Bucky to pull the trigger. “You could have months, years together and just when you think she’s safe from me… just when you think this is all over… when you’ve let your guard down just long enough… you’ll come home to find her IN PIECES!”

BANG!

BANG! BANG!

BANG!

Rumlow stumbled backwards, the impact leaving him clutching to the bar cart for support. Slowly, he glanced down at his chest in disbelief, shaking hands reaching out and touching the blood as it pooled against his white pressed button up. It seeped along the pristine fabric, soaking deep stains of crimson as it spread.

His mouth was agape, trying to form words as his legs gave out from under him and he collapsed to the ground. Lips parting, breaths shallower with every inhale, and hazel eyes fell on stormy skies of dark blue until they glossed over, faded away, and soon, there was nothing left.

Bucky lowered the gun, staring down at the body of the man he gave more than a year of his life to put behind bars; a man with no extraordinary ability, but a malice wretched into his soul and darkness in his veins. He bled like any other man. He died like one, too.

Bucky felt cold, empty, but a boulder was lifted from his shoulders and he set the gun down on the desk beside him, leaving it behind to the flames.

The mansion was caving in around him as he turned to the front door. Flames erupting from the hallway to your library now taking root to the staircase, traveling along the back wall to the kitchen. It consumed the furniture, the paintings, the tapestries, the priceless artifacts Rumlow had illegally acquired to gather dust on his shelves.

It was all ablaze.

A section of the ceiling collapsed by the front door, blocking his path, and Bucky started to feeling the effect of the smoke taking hold. His breaths were far too short, like he was gasping for air at the surface of an ocean’s tide before it swept him under again. A piercing pulse ached through his head, leaving him dizzy, and he struggled to remain on his feet.

The second story was starting to cave in. He didn’t have much time left.

There was only one way out. Through the flames. To you.

Bucky pulled the collar of his shirt up over his nose and ran.

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n

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dramaqueeenamby · 3 years

Text

Waves: Wild Hearts

A/N: This is sorta a follow up to Fighter that I’ve had on my computer for months. I have included the ending of that oneshot at the beginning of this one to help refresh memories, but if you want to read Fighter, you can do so here. Yes, there will be a part 2 to this one.

Warnings: Angst

Words: 2K

-GIF from Google-

TAGS: @babe-im-bi @notacamelthatsmywife @queenoftheworldisdead @tashawar @valkryienymph @letsshamelessqueen-m @lettytheletdown @hello-therree @toni9 @kpizzletrash @missdforever @missyperle @mani-lifes @koko-michelle @liquorlaughslove

-----

Previously on Waves

“Now back to the news that broke headlines just last night. Academy Award-Winning Actress Summer Hemsworth was allegedly attacked in her Georgia hotel room last night. Hemsworth suffered two gunshot wounds and reportedly collapsed in the lobby as horrified onlookers called 911 and attempted to stop the bleeding.”

“She was rushed to the local hospital where doctors performed emergency surgery, and as of now, we are hearing reports that she is in stable condition.”

“While details are still unclear, what we do know is that the attacker is now deceased, reportedly at the hands of Summer, who fought him off. In addition, the perpetrator has been identified as Myles Hampton, the same man who stalked and attacked Mrs. Hemsworth almost six years prior.”

“Hampton was sentenced and serving a 15-year sentence which has the world wondering. How did he get out? How was he able to re-traumatize his victim? How--”

“Mommy.”

His son’s voice ripped Christopher from his phone where he was watching the news for reasons even he couldn’t explain. Well, rather, didn’t want to explain.

Elysha glared at her brother, bringing her index finger to her mouth. “Shh. Papa said we gotta be quiet.”

Summer moaned, finally waking up from another nap. They had her on heavy painkillers that made her sleep, much to the chagrin of all four individuals occupying the private hospital room. For the twins, sleep meant she couldn’t talk to them. They needed to hear her voice to know that she was going to be okay.

For Christopher, well, even awake, he still worried.

And for Summer, she just hated to be unconscious as she recognized the concern that it caused her family.

“Did he now?” She whispered, blinking a couple times as she managed to lift her hand, bringing it to Emmett’s cheek. “Well, mama says you don’t have to.”

Both kids responded with a smile, quickly grabbing the sheets on either side of the bed, where they’d remained the entire time.

They wouldn’t leave her side.

“Look, mama,” Elysha chimed as they lifted the papers. “We drew you pictures. Mines is bestest.”

“Nu uh!”

“Uh huh!”

She smiled, ignoring the pain she was still experiencing. It mattered not though. She’d take the pain of survival over the finality of death any day.

“They’re both the bestest,” Summer shared, making both of them grin for a few seconds when she noticed Elysha drop her head. “What’s wrong, baby?”

Elysha took a few seconds, her voice barely above a whisper. “We’re glad you’re okay, mommy.”

“Yeah,” Emmett agreed. “Why’d that mean man try to hurt you, mama?”

Summer closed her eyes. Her pain was no longer a concern. Her priority was the hurt she saw and heard in her children, her beautiful babies prematurely forced to encounter the evils of this world.

“I-”

“Well, it’s about time you woke up, lil’ missy.” Helen spoke with a warm smile as she walked into the room.

Seeing their grandmother raised their spirits just enough to eat away some of Summer’s guilt. Helen walked over and gently felt her daughter’s head. “How you doing, baby?”

Summer, conscious of the watchful set of blue eyes on her, smartly replied. “I’m good, mama.”

Helen nodded. “I see you’re getting some of your color back. Good. You was getting a lil’ pale on me, lil girl.”

Elysha gasped. “Can I have some of mommy’s color, grandma!”

“Me too, grandma!”

The twin’s excitement and naivety made Summer smile. Their uplifted spirits nursed her soul.

“I don’t know about color, but how about you two come with grandma to the cafeteria, and we’ll see what kind of ice cream they have.”

The promise of their favorite dessert quickly dimmed when they realize it meant leaving their mom.

“But-”

“Ya’ll go. Mama has to talk to papa,” Summer referenced Christopher who’d sat silent while allowing the children time to bond with their mother. “Please?”

Emmett groaned but relented. “I’ll bring you ice cream back, mama.” He looked back at Christopher. “You too, papa!”

“I’ll bring you some too, papa!”

Careful kisses on either side of her cheeks preceded the kids finally walking out hand in hand with Helen.

The sound of tiny footsteps repeatedly diminished until they could be heard no more, replaced by heavy-footed strides and the creaking of a chair. Summer closed her eyes at his warm touch, his hand clasped over hers, the other going to her forehead.

He laid his head against her shoulder, Summer angling her own so that she could kiss the top of his head.

She gently tightened her grip on his head. “I’m fine, Christopher.”

“Don’t.” She licked her lips, concern shifting from her kids to her husband. “Don’t give me that shit, Summer. You are not fine.”

“I’m alive, Chris,” she croaked, wanting desperately to stress how grateful she was. “He shot me. Twice. And I’m alive.”

“This never should have fucking happened. If they’d been watching him, he would have never-”

“Hey,” she forced some bass into her voice. “We can’t do that. It happened, and it-it sucks, but-”

“How can you be so calm about this?” He forced out bitterly, finally lifting his head to reveal glazed eyes that burned with fear and rage. “After everything he did, what he tried-”

She attempted the comedic route, something that typically worked for them. “Well, it’s not like this is the first time I’ve almost died.” The dark joke fell through, possibly increasing his irritation. She swallowed. “I-I think-I still don’t know what to think, Chris. I-It’s a lot to process, but I can’t do that right now. Emmett and Elysha are watching us, watching me, and every time I look at them, look at you, I’m reminded of everything I stood to lose, and I’m just-I’m thankful. And the last thing that I want is to further worry the twins…or you.”

He lifted their conjoined hands and gently kissed her fingertips. Summer recognized the gesture as acknowledgment.

“I love you,” she breathed as he moved his mouth to kiss her inner forearm. “So much.”

He brought his hand to her cheek, their eyes meeting with a burning and moving meeting that conferred the ardent love between them but was now tinged with a new emotion.

Fear

Wild Hearts

“Just a few more seconds. Come on, Summer.”

Face scrunched up in discomfort, the actress swallowed her pain and scraped for every bit of resilience that she had left, successfully completing the set before relaxing as soon as her therapist gave her the okay.

Dropping onto the floor, Summer crossed her wrists and placed them over her head. Deep, relaxing breaths abated her nerves and aching muscles as Rene attempted to offer words of encouragement and praise that Summer was only halfheartedly listening to.

It wasn’t that Rene was bad at her job. No, far from it. She was a wonderful physical therapist who pushed Summer in ways that were both challenging while also welcoming. It was that Summer still hadn’t come to accept that she was back at square one. She felt like she was preparing to become Storm all over again. Relearning suddenly replaced years of maintenance. Her schedule had been disrupted, and it created cognitive dissonance.

Hand unconsciously falling onto her core, her fingers slid over the dark scar that still bled with remnants of trauma and regrets. One of two, it was the most prominent and noticeable. Folks rarely paid attention to feet, but the stomach, it was the area that generally garnered a decent amount attention based solely on the level of flatness.

Rene noticed the way Summer’s fingers stroked her slick skin and cleared her throat. “Why don’t we call it a day?”

“The day has been called, ma’am.”

The ginger grinned crookedly and complimented her client. “You did great today.”

Summer snorted, groaning quietly as she sat up and braced her palms against the mat. “Now you’re just kissing my ass.”

“While you do have quite the ass,” Summer rolled her eyes. “I’m not quite sure how my wife and your husband would feel about that.”

Summer rolled her eyes as Rene reached a hand to help her stand up. “Noted.” Rolling her shoulders, Summer walked over to grab her pink Blender Bottle, downing down the water mixed with lemons and limes. The typically acrid mixture was welcoming because of the addition of ice cubes that quenched her parched throat, assisting in the cooling down of her warm body.

“I think we could even maybe move down to twice a week instead of three.”

Swallowing a couple more ounces, Summer lowered her cup and wiped at her mouth. “Seriously?”

Rene nodded as she crossed her arms. “I meant it. You’re doing great.” A beat. “Physically.”

And just like that, Summer rolled her eyes and turned her body to start packing up her items. “Here we go again.”

Rene already knew that she was going to be met with apprehension, but that didn’t dissuade her. “I can only help you rehabilitate your body, Summer. But your mind—”

“—is fine.”

Rene stilled, her green eyes softening. “You can say that until you’re blue in the face, but it makes no difference if you don’t really believe it, and I don’t think you do.”

Summer stilled, her back toward the tall woman. A part of her, a very small part of her, wanted to switch things up. She wanted to entertain the conversation, just to see how it would play out, but another part of her knew exactly how it would play out, so she did as she’d done a lot lately.

“So, same time next week?” She spun around, swinging her bag over her shoulder. Before the other woman could offer a response, Summer shot her a wink and walked past her. “Thank, Rene.”

As if on cue, Phillip’s large frame appeared in the doorway, and Summer’s grin fell.

Arms clasped in front of him, he nodded in acknowledgment. “Ready, Mrs. Hemsworth?”

An elongated sigh escaped as she approached him and managed to reignite her previous smile. “I told you, Summer is fine, but yeah, I’m ready.”

A grunted response that she couldn’t really make out proceeded him opening the door for her only to quickly move back in front of her so that he was blocking her view. For a man his size, he was impressively quick on his feet.

A few more doors, elevator ride down, and Summer was met with the blistering Australian heat as a firm hand moved to her backside and escorted her out the building. Out the corner of her eye, she spotted the photographers who snapped away, a few inching close to the star but not enough where they were in arms reach of Phillip.

They weren’t stupid.

Phillip had served as a bodyguard for some of the most important figures across the world, celebrities and royals included. His resume was impeccable, and he was damn good at his job, a job that, while she respected, Summer felt suffocated by at times.

The fact that she even had a full-time bodyguard was something that she still hadn’t swallowed. She’d always been vocal and open about the fact that she loathed the whole “barrier” between celebrities and “regular degular” people. Her occupation, in her option, shouldn’t place her on a pedestal.

Plus, she was far from hopeless, and so a bodyguard was something could never get with unless they were provided by the event she was attending.

But a certain husband of hers was absolutely adamant about hiring the 24/7 protection following the attack, and while Summer understood his reasoning, she still wasn’t in agreement.

Not that it mattered…

The drive was short as the outpatient treatment center was only about twenty minutes away from the Hemsworth residence. Once they reached the mansion, Summer relieved Phillip from his duties. She had no plans on going out again. Christopher was picking up the kids from school. She’d maybe take Doggy out for a walk on the beachfront, but that didn’t require the 6”3 giant’s presence.

Not even three seconds into the door, Christopher was in front of his wife, hands on her hips as he pecked her lips.

“Hey, honey.”

Summer faltered only for a second before chewing on her bottom lip. “Damn, waiting for someone?”

“Always.” He winked and smacked her ass, prompting her to try to push him away.

“I need to shower,” she protested with a small pout as he brushed her comment off and slyly lowered his mouth down to her ear.

“I’ll join you.”

Summer grinned, momentarily contemplating his offer. “Doesn’t that defeat the purpose?”

“We are married, aren’t we?”

“I mean….” She laughed at his scowl and managed to pull away, walking past him to make her way up the steps. “Can you make us—”

Summer stopped and turned around on the second step only to see that was directly in front of her, on the first step.

She lifted a brow. “Sir?”

“What?”

She crossed her arms. “I’m pretty sure that I said n—Christopher!” She squealed as he silenced her by picking her up and throwing her over his shoulder. “Put me down!”

“I am going to put you down,” he responded while continuing their track up the stairs. “On my dick.”

“Christopher!”

————

Summer rolled over on her side and ran her hand over her face, eyes shut as she struggled to catch her breath. Holding onto the pillow, she pulled the blanket up to her neck, depriving her nude body of the chilly air that the AC caused to consume their room.

She smiled softly as her husband kissed her temple. Feeling the bed creak, he peaked and saw him moving out the way as he started to pull on his clothes. Leaning on her back, she grabbed her phone off the nightstand and saw that it was time for him to leave to pick up the twins.

How long were we?

“Phillip will be here in a few minutes—”

Summer frowned. “What?” She sat up, not caring that the sheet fell down, exposing her breast. “Baby, I told him he could go home for the day.”

Christopher stood up, pulling his pants on. “Why would you do that?”

She looked from side to side. “Because I don’t need him? I didn’t plan on going out today.”

“But you knew that I had to go pick up the kids, so you’d be alone.”

Summer closed her eyes. “Christopher….”

The chime of his phone interrupted her as he glanced at the screen to see that Phillip had arrived and entered the house using the key that Chris thought was a good idea to provide him with. “He’s here. I have to get going.”

Summer frowned and leaned back against the headboard. “Okay.”

Looking back over to see that she was still dissatisfied, he walked over and sat on the bed, reaching out to cup her cheek. “Why don’t you come with me?”

Her brows furrowed. “Seriously? Christopher, you’ve already called the man over here.”

“And?” Chris didn’t see a problem. “He’s staying the night—”

“Again?” Summer was no longer so disappointed. She was irritated. “That’s the third damn time this week.”

“Okay?”

Summer scoffed and moved away from him, crossing her arms. “You know, I would appreciate it if you would actually, maybe, communicate with me before you make these decisions.”

“What is there to talk about, Summer?” He watched her move to the other side of the bed as she kicked the blanket off and scurried around to gather her clothes. “You need pro—”

“No, Christopher, what I need is for you to stop treating me like a child!” A beat. “I can take care of myself!”

“Like you did with Myles?”

Summer clutched the shirt in her hand at the same moment Chris closed his eyes. “Fuck, Summer—“

“You can go to hell,” she whispered, yanking her shirt over her head and marching past him, snatching her arm away from him when he reached for her. “Don’t—“ she stopped, eyes closing as she fought the sob in the back of her throat. “—touch me.”

Christopher recognized that tone. It was rare, but when present, he recognized that nothing he could say or do could penetrate the impenetrable exterior that was Summer’s wall.

The slamming of the bathroom door indicated what he already knew. Walking over to the door and placing his ear against it, welcoming it to the quiet sobs of his wife confirmed it.

He’d fucked up.

-----

A/N: So....whose side ya’ll on?

#chris hemsworth fanfiction #chris hemsworth x reader #chris hemsworth fanfic #chris hemsworth #chris hemsworth x black!reader #fic: waves

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im-like-if-a-girl · 3 years

Text

*THE* mean-girl-dean-girl's Supernatural reboot MEGAPOST!

I'm gonna stick a little "keeping reading" here because hoooooo boy, this is a very long post.

Let's start with

Plot

Season 1

Dean kills John while they are out on a hunt in a crime of passion, but Dean doesn't remember because he blacked out. Cue Dean going to Stanford to get Sam and tell him "Dad's on a hunting trip... and he hasn't been home in a couple days."

The audience doesn't know what happened to John, but slowly figures it out with Dean and Sam as Dean slowly remembers what happened that night.

The entire first season, the boys are following the trail John left and fighting monsters as well. They find out Dean was with John, Sam realizes Dean has an unreliable memory, they have heart to hearts about their childhood and the fire, they find John's body, "how could you kill Dad?" but maybe Dean didn't kill dad, whooaaaaaa, misdirection.

It was actually good ole yeller eyes (Azazel) and he made it look like Dean killed John.

Okay, now let's move on to the first episode

Not sure how the opening would work, I would like the story of the fire to be revealed over the course of the first season, but maybe the opening scene could be a little bit of an establishing character relationships and backstory, idk, I haven't thought that far yet.

I'm thinking maybe it's like, Dean gets back to a motel room covered in blood and he listens to a voicemail on his phone from John saying he was on a hunt or something, I don't really know lol.

HOWEVER

I do know that after the intro rolls, we get a scene of Sam waking up to his alarm and "Nine to Five" by Dolly Parton starts playing.

Y'all know where this is going.

Cue a montage of Sam's normal Stanford college life (him sitting through lectures, walking through the campus with friends) spliced with scenes of Dean absolutely slaughtering a nest of vampires (or some other monsters, whatever works best.)

But

Now onto

Characters!!! (And descriptions)

Dean Winchester

Some lovely person on this site made edits of Dean with platinum blond hair and it made me feel some kind of way so we're doing that, homie's gonna have platinum blond hair

Side note about the hair, later when the brothers are running from the FBI he dyes it a dirty blond/light brown (insert jackles hair color controversy here) as a disguise.

He also gets tattoos because we were robbed.

Speaking of tattoos, concept: when Dean comes back from Hell, all of his tattoos are gone. His body is a clean slate, devoid of tattoos, scars, etc. So he gets his tattoos done all over again, which he doesn't mind because he made some bad, drunk tattoo decisions in his youth.

(And before you ask, yes, he does get one for Cas, either a bee or Cas's name in enochian, something cute.)

Dean goes to therapy after Sam gets sent to the Cage.

It's actually court mandated because he got in trouble, lol, he would never go to therapy on his own.

Along with the hair, Dean gets to be the grade A twunk we all know he is.

Sam Winchester

His hair gets longer in every scene he's in

No jk, but imagine

King of Microaggressions

Sam starts off like the sweetheart he is in season 1 but in later seasons he starts enjoying killing a little too much...

It's that demon blood, ba-by!!!

He brings up issues of morality to Dean, i.e. killing monsters who aren't hurting anyone. (Yes I know this is contradictory to my previous statement, but these two facets of Sam can and will coexist.)

Sam and Jess's relationship is explored further, meaning we'll need to start with a different inciting incident, but that's fine, I think everyone can agree fridgings are *(thumbs down)*

Sam doesn't truly know what happened the night of the fire until later, and then he understands why Dean is so protective of him.

Jess

She gets to live beyond the first episode

She is also trans

No, I don't feel like I have to explain myself and I won't 💜

She urges Sam to join Dean in a search for their brother, kind of gets pulled into the hunter lifestyle by association lol.

She dies on a rusty nail after fighting vampires on a routine hunt with Sam

No jk!!!

But imagine....

She's amazing and I love her and Lucifer also uses her as leverage against Sam and possesses her because I think that'd be cool.

She supports Sam 100% and also she and Dean are buddies, pals if you will.

She meets Cas Thee El and immediately she Knows, that is a homosexual.

She dies still so that we can have a Saileen Endgame but she's not dying the first episode or in a fridging. Not on my watch.

Castiel

He gets to keep his raw, light-fixture-exploding power.

I want more of that "I pulled you out of hell, I can throw you back in" energy except over dumb shit like Dean not cleaning up after himself.

He looks like a Dilf in every scene he's in, yeah, that's right, dilf with a capital D for *(GUNSHOTS)* *(gets sent to horny jail)*

Claire

She gets pink hair

And more time with Cas

And maybe a nose piercing

Feel like she should be able to kill a couple angels onscreen, punch a couple homophobes

She gets to meet Jack and teaches him swears and fun slang words.

She deserves it.

Jack

I says "that's my baby and I'm proud."

Jack starts off as a baby, but like Amara he grows up super quickly.

Like, baby to 11 year old in a couple days or less.

This is because Jack's emotional age on the show is on par with that of a 5th grader.

It's at this point when he's a young kid that he runs away from the Bunker and shenanigans ensue.

It's also at this point that Dean threatens to k*ll him.

(Still not sure if I want that in my Supernatural (threatened infanticide? In my Supernatural? It's more likely than you think) but we'll see. We'll see.)

Throughout a majority of season 13, Jack is like an 11 y.o. kid

Season 14 he's like a 16 y.o. teenager

Season 15 he's 21, you get the picture.

Listen, I love Alex Calvert a lot. He's great.

But Jack is a child and should be a child.

Kelly Kline

Kelly, baby, stay right where you are, you're perfect.

Eileen

SHE DOESN'T DIE

SHE GETS TO BE IN THE FINALE BECAUSE SHE'S AMAZING AND I LOVE HER.

BLURRY WIFE WHO? I ONLY KNOW SAILEEN ENDGAME!

She teaches Claire and Jack swears in sign-language. Castiel is not impressed.

John

J*hn W*nchester stans, DNI.

He's dead.

We only see him in flashbacks and only sometimes hear his voice in voice overs.

He's not "down the road" from Dean in Heaven, in fact he instead gets to wander around in some Purgatory like Hell for the rest of his time :)

People who get to say "fuck" on the show:

Cas (but only Once)

Jody

Bobby

Now onto other things

I want more of

Ghostfacers

(they need more screentime because I love them)

Dean/Benny

We know they had a thing.

They definitely had a thing.

Demon Dean

Again, I feel like more should've been done with this. All that build up for what, 2 episodes? was not utilized well at all.

Dean's Bisexuality

Straight Dean truthers DNI, my Supernatural is a show about love and being true to yourself

You think Supernatural is a show about 2 straight brothers fighting monsters?

Naw bitch, this is a show about the Gay Experience

He will get to have relations with men on this show.

Of course, only after John dies does he, y'know, display it. Maybe he kisses Cas on his dad's grave just to fuck John over, make him roll in grave.

We all agree John would be/is a homophobe piece of shit, right?

Okay, glad we're on the same page.

Dads

3 men and a baby with Jack is what I'm saying.

I love it when the Trio are father-figures to younger troubled characters they see themselves in, even better if it's like reluctant-but-loving father figure, oh, that trope gets me every time :'^)

Dadstiel and DadDean are my favorites, but I like it when Sam plays "Uncle Sam" to kids too lol.

"Fellas, is it gay to want a tight knit family with your husband, his son, his vessel's daughter, your brother, his wife, your cop mother figure and her wife and their adopted daughters? Asking for a friend."

Garth

Biggest flaw of Supernatural was underutilizing Garth.

I will never not be bitter that Garth was only in like, 7 episodes out of the whole 15 season series.

Every episode with Garth gets immediately 5 times better.

I love Garth.

Follow ups on characters who had entire episodes featured around them and then just... vanished???

This is mostly about Jesse, the magic kid whose imagination ruled an entire town like, his daddy was a demon and nothing came of that kid??? Only one episode about him?? No follow up???

KID CAN MANIPULATE REALITY AND WE'RE NOT GONNA GET A FOLLOW UP ON THAT?????

Uh, there was that one episode with Ennis the guy whose girlfriend was killed by a monster? I think?? Who we never see again, that was weird.

Tamara from season 3, episode 1.

And of course-

Cassie

She was so cool, and then we never saw her again :////

She gets to be a badass.

Religious imagery

As a former Catholic school student who has become for the most part, disillusioned with religion, religious imagery in TV shows like Supernatural make my brain go "brrrrrr."

Fun episodes!!!

Like, after season 6 or so, there's a drop in funny episodes

I'm talking Changing Channels, The French Mistake type stuff. (Scoobynatural is an outlier and should not be counted.)

So anyway

In my version we would have more fun episodes

I'm thinking

GENDER-SWAP EPISODE, BABY!!

(why they didn't do that in the original, we'll never know.)

An episode where Dean gets to wear eyeliner

That's it, end of post.

I want less

Racism

Yeah I feel like this is self explanatory, nearly every reoccurring character in SPN is white, and black side characters normally die in the episode they first appear in, or they'll be featured as a villain (Uriel, Raphael, Billie, etc)

Also there's a lot of... uh... asian fetishism featured in the show (what with "Busty Asian Beauties) that's really gross, also Kevin was a bit of a stereotype...

Also also it's super yucky how they kill the gods from other religions like???? Uh??? That's super disrespectful, let's not do that????

I know Supernatural is like, inherently racist because monsters are a separate race that are seen as some dangerous "other" that must be eradicated by hunters in a form of genocide-

Okay we won't get into that but

Still

Stop killing all your POC

Fridgings/Unecessary murders of female characters

I know Supernatural starts with a fridging, so this will be a hard thing to remedy, but

One death that really pissed me off was the death of Charlie

Yeah, that was pointless and we're not doing that. Charlie gets to live and be an awesome aunt to Jack.

And also Claire

Charlie Bradbury Superiority

Charlie and Garth get to meet because they're nerd/geek solidarity.

British Men of Letters

I fucking hate these guys

They're "litcherally" the worst.

The worst part is that the actors they have playing the British AREN'T. EVEN. BRITISH.

And you can tell

Uh, and that's all for now, I'll add more later.

tag list for people who liked my "if this post gets one like I'll post my SPN reboot masterpost" post.

@darianyunidi @sarasidlesaid @crazybananaalpaca @playfulpanthress @ultfreakme @fififeelsmellow @heller-char @luna8eaton @princessmeganfire @insanebot109 @queenofnightsnow @mongoose-underthehouse

Thank you for the support, hope the wait was worth it.

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