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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 4 years

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When the Weight Comes Down - 1

Warnings: non-consent sex (series); nothing for this chapter

This is dark! (biker) Steve and explicit. 18+ only.

Series Synopsis: Your father’s a drunk, your mother a recluse, and you’re just another small town girl in Birch.

Sister series to Smalltown Bringdown

Note: This series features a very inexperienced and shy reader. Not so mouthy as my usual fare but I hope it’s still fun. I couldn’t resist a hot biker Steve spin-off. Most of this is already written and it’s looking like seven chapters total. Thanks to everyone for their patience and feedback. :)

I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 Let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply or an ask! Love ya!

Chapter One: She Didn’t Know

There's a lot you can see when there's nothing to do

💀

You stared out the window as you stood at the sink, your hands pruned in the lukewarm water as you scrubbed the last of the dishes. You could hear your mother in the hallway, wiping the walls. Again. Five, six times a day, she’d wipe down every inch of the place; gather up your father’s empties, and vacuum the old cigarette-scented carpets.

You didn’t remember a day in your life when your mother wasn’t manically tidying every inch of the place. Even when her lip was swollen or her eye was blackened. It was a religion to her. Cleanliness was next to godliness, after all. One of her many lessons.

She rarely left the house anymore. She had never been eager to go beyond the peeling walls but as you got older, she grew more reclusive. She got her check from the government, your father too, though his was often spent on beer and smokes. Some of hers too.

The old house was ramshackle but someone had to pay for it. You’d worked at the bakery since you were sixteen; more than a decade now, closer to two. An excuse to get out as much as a means to pay for the roof over your head. Babs was like a second mother to you and always let you bring home the stale muffins and cookies.

Your eight hours was a brief respite from the home which had been your childhood prison. The cell without a door. Birch itself was impenetrable. Those born there seemed destined to die there.

You’d dreamt of leaving for years; in that very spot, as you washed the dishes and stared out at the lush grass. You’d float away to a world where you had the strength to walk away; from your paranoid mother and your volatile father.

You belonged there though. You couldn’t leave knowing your father would beat your mother without a buffer between him. You knew one day the beer would push him over the edge. To leave would be to condemn her.

You pulled the plug and dried the plates one at the time, then the cups and the old bowls that belonged on a thrift shop shelf. Well, that’s where they came from. Your mother never bought nice things; your father would only break them.

Finished, you closed the cupboard and found your mother in the living room, sweeping the crumbs from your father’s old recliner into her hand. You straightened the pillows on the sagging couch and stood on the other side.

“Should I leave the leftovers in the stove for Pa?” You asked.

“It’s late,” She checked the old clock. It was broken. She stood and cupped the crumbs in her hand. “What time is it anyway?”

“Almost nine.” You yawned. You would have to wake up at five to get to work to do the opening bake. “I should probably lay down soon.”

“Would you grab some more vinegar tomorrow?” She asked. “And… a new mop.”

“What happened to the old one?” You blinked.

She looked down guiltily. Another casualty to your father’s temper.

“Ma,” You sighed. “Why do you let him break everything.”

“Better than him breaking me,” She muttered.

You hung your head and touched your forehead. You wanted to ask her why she stayed, but you had too. You were little better than her. You were both stuck.

“You didn’t give him any off your stipend, did you?”

She frowned. She had.

“The electricity is due,” You said. “Tell me you held onto at least something.”

“I’ll pawn another ring.” She mumbled.

“No,” You waved her away. “No. Don’t.”

“But--”

“I’ll figure it out,” You huffed. “Like I always do.”

You left her there and went to your room. You closed the door and turned on the small lamp beside your bed. You reached under your pillow and pulled out the cracked copy of Frankenstein.

You remembered when you were fourteen and your mother had found it there. A girl at the grocery store had told you she was reading it for class. You always wondered what they did at the school. Your mother schooled you herself. Times had changed and kids were rotten. She didn’t need you corrupted by the wilting branches of Birch.

Your mother had never read it herself so she confiscated it as filth. A monster! Well, you had sneaked into her room and stolen it right back. You were smarter after that; you hid all your good books as you kept the bland ones on your shelf.

Even when you were of age, well beyond truly, you wondered what other people did. Normal people. Working at the bakery, you made up a story for each customer who came in. And when you walked by the bar with Cleopatra over its door, you dreamt of the Egyptian queen and her many lovers. The world was behind a glass; passing you by as you stood still.

You sighed and opened the book as you laid back. A monster betrayed by his creator. So despised and reviled that his heart turned sour. A monster who was more human than his maker. A being who only wanted love. A soul destroyed by neglect.

You didn’t recall falling asleep but when you woke, the crickets chirped loudly outside your window. You yawned and sat up. The light from the living room streamed down the hall and under your door. You marked your page and tucked the book between your bedframe and mattress.

Your mother was in the living room. She sat on the couch as she held a framed cross-stitch and wove roses into the faded white cloth. You checked the time on the kitchen stove. 1:47 am.

“Why don’t you go to bed?” You asked.

“Your pa hasn’t come home.” She said. “You know I worry for him.”

“It’s not even last call,” You countered. “Go, get some sleep.”

“I’ll wait for him.”

You chewed your lip as you put your hands on your hips. You went to her and stilled her needle.

“He’ll be home in a couple hours.” You assured her. “Besides, you know how he is when he’s drunk.”

She looked down and pulled away from you. You shook your head and crossed the room. As you entered the hallway and headed for the front door, your mother rose from the couch and her soft footsteps followed you.

“Where are you going?” She asked.

“To get him, so you can sleep.” You shoved your feet into your shoes.

“Oh no, don’t do that, sweet pea,” She said as she clutched the wooden frame. “You’ll only make him mad and, oh, I don’t want you in that bar.” She lowered her voice as she came closer. “It’s full of those bikers.”

“So, go to bed,” You turned to her.

She scrunched her lips and you knew she wouldn’t.

“Fine,” She relented. “But don’t talk to anyone. There are dangerous men there.”

You stared at her for a moment before you turned and pulled open the door. Your heart beat furiously as the screen door clattered behind you and you tripped down the front steps. You’d only ever walked by The Asp but never went in. You’d seen the men who went in and out and mounted their big bikes, but you kept to the other side of the street.

The walk wasn’t very long, like any in Birch. The spotlights illuminated Cleopatra’s breast and the snake at her throat. You stood on the curb as you thought of crossing the street. Just do it. You’d just get your father and go. That was it.

You hesitated and nearly fell as you stepped down onto the road. As you came up on the other side, a shadow moved and you flinched. A man in leather stood beside the door with his thick arms crossed, a bandana over his thinning hair. You stared at him and then door as you stopped before it.

“Well,” He said. “You going in?”

“I, uh, yeah, I’m just… getting my father.” You explained.

“Right,” He scoffed. “I don’t give a fuck.”

You pursed your lips and pushed through the door. Inside it smelled of alcohol and sweat. There was a group of men at one of the round tables and a couple around the pool table. Your father sat along the bar, two other drunks not far from him. He sucked on a brown bottle as he grumbled to himself.

You swallowed and made yourself step away from the door. You neared the bar and a woman looked up. She didn’t look very happy as she asked you what you wanted. You shook your head. You’d seen her before. You were sure she worked at the diner but you must have been wrong.

“Pa,” You leaned on the stool next to your father.

“Huh? What’r’you doin’ here?” He slurred.

“I’m here to take you home.” You said.

“Sure,” He laughed. “Got ‘nother bottle then I’ll go when I feel like.”

“Ma’s waiting,” You insisted. “Come on.”

You tugged on him and he knocked over his half-finished beer. You stepped back at the splash and he staggered to his feet.

“You little brat, I tol’ya leave m’alone,” He snarled. “Fuck’s sakes.”

“You’re drunk. You’ll be lucky if you make it home,” You argued. “I’m trying to help… you got beer at home.”

“And you,” He sneered. “I dun’ wan’ drink there.”

He wobbled on his feet and caught the edge of the bar.

“Beer,” He ordered the bartender who looked over his shoulder. She didn’t move. “S’matter, I got money.”

A man with dark hair shifted in his seat as if to stand and another nudged his shoulder and rose instead. He was tall, a thick beard to match his light brown hair, and blue eyes which sparked as he rounded his table. His jacket was marked with the badge of the club. You grabbed your father’s elbow and he shook you off.

“Looks like you’re done for the night,” The man said as he stopped in front of your father.

“I don’--”

“Excuse me,” The man interrupted his argument. “It’s not a request.”

Your breath was caught in your chest. You’d never heard anyone speak to your father like that.

“I’ll… I’ll get him home,” You said meekly. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” The man looked at you. “You don’t need to apologize for him.”

“Come on,” You whispered and grabbed your father again.

He followed you. Barely. He stumbled halfway to the door and swore as he fell to his knees and nearly took you down with him. You bent and tried to pull him up and he batted you away as he rolled onto his back. His eyes were almost entirely closed as his hand fell to his stomach and he gave a loud snort.

Two boots came up on the other side of him. You looked up. It was that man again.

“I’m sorry. He fell. I’ll get him up.” You pulled on your father but he was too heavy. You could barely get his shoulders off the floor.

The man grabbed him and lifted him easily. He stretched his arm around your father and you stood.

“I’ll help ya, doll,” He smiled. You couldn’t.

“Really, it’s fine. He’ll wake up and--”

“Let me help you, doll,” He hushed you. “You’ll never get him home by yourself.”

“I can’t--I--” You gulped. Your mother had told you not to talk to anyone. You looked at your father. The man was right. You’d never get him home. “Okay. Thank you.”

He nodded you out the door and followed as you scurried ahead of him. Your father’s feet dragged heavily and you cringed. As you came out into the cool air, the man stepped up beside you, your father on the other side of him. You turned him in the direction of your house and he dragged your father along.

You were quiet. You didn’t know what to say. Perhaps it was better you said nothing. At the bakery, it was easy. You just had to ask people what they wanted. At home, neither of your parents said much; least of all, your father.

“So your Dorritt’s daughter?” He used your last name. “Old man ain’t very talkative.”

You nodded and kept your eyes on your feet.

“Your name?” He ventured. You cleared your throat before you found your voice to answer him. “I’m Steve.” He offered in return.

You were silent again.

“I don’t know you,” He said. “I know everyone in Birch.”

“Well, I… I don’t go out much, I guess.” You replied.

“Oh shit,” He scoffed. “You were the girl who was home schooled.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.

“We were always jealous of you,” He chuckled. “Hated going to school.”

“I still-- I still had class.” You said. “Just… my ma was my teacher.”

“Ha, wouldn’t expect him to be teaching grammar,” He gestured to your father. “You still live with them?”

You scratched your neck and nodded.

“Nothing wrong with that. Just curious.” He said. “Kinda… respectable. Helping them out and all.”

You were too ashamed to tell him that if you didn’t, no one would. That if you didn’t, your mother likely wouldn’t be able to keep up much longer.

“You’re like your pa,” He mused. “Not much on talking.”

“Sorry,” You said softly.

“But you’re a lot more considerate,” He said. “Apologizing for nothing.”

“So--”

“There you go again,” He laughed. “Look, doll, it’s fine. You don’t gotta talk. Don’t gotta apologize.”

You continued on and your house came into sight. Your father’s old mower rusting in the moonlight as the broken Ford loomed in the driveway. You helped Steve get your father up the front steps and opened the door for him. Your mother appeared in the hallway and gasped as she saw your father and the man who held him up.

“Ma, he’s just helping me get Pa home,” You assured her. “You know how he drinks and--”

She nodded frantically and backed up into the front room. You waved Steve through and directed him to drop your father on the couch. Steve looked around and his lip twitched. His eyes returned to you, clung to you, and he smirked.

“Well, you have a good night, Mrs. Dorritt,” He nodded to your mother then you, “And Miss Dorritt.”

“You too.” You breathed as your mother squeezed your arm.

He turned slowly and you both were still as you watched him go. The front door shut and your mother rushed down the hall. She locked the door quickly as you peeked around the door frame. She turned back and pushed herself against the door.

“I told you not to talk to anyone,” She said.

“I didn’t mean to. Pa, he just, keeled over, and Steve--”

“Steve!” She stormed towards you. “That man was one of those bikers. You better leave him alone. Pray he leaves you alone.”

“I didn’t--”

“Bad enough your pa goes down there,” She slipped past you and looked down at your father. “He’s better off drinking on the porch. No one to knock him one.”

“I wouldn’t blame them if they did,” You hissed. “It wasn’t me, ma. It was him.”

“I told you not to go,” She snapped.

“Yeah, I know,” You sighed as you turned to head back to your room. “You told me.”

#Steve Rogers #dark steve rogers #dark!steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #dark steve rogers x reader #dark!steve rogers x reader #biker!steve rogers #biker au #when the weight comes down #au #fic #series #limited series #dark fic #dark!fic #mcu #marvel #captain america

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iceshard1011 · 3 years

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Sanders Sides (Web Series) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders & Deceit | Janus Sanders Characters: Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders, Deceit | Janus Sanders, Morality | Patton Sanders, Anxiety | Virgil Sanders, Logic | Logan Sanders, Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders Additional Tags: Angst with a Hopeful Ending, Separation Anxiety, Misunderstandings, Sympathetic Sides (Sanders Sides), Non-Graphic Violence, Sides As Family (Sanders Sides), Conflict, Protective Logic | Logan Sanders, Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders Angst, Hurt Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders, Hurt Morality | Patton Sanders, Hurt/Comfort, Graphic Imagery, animalistic tendancies, Abandonment Issues, Self-Destruction, Self-Harm, all from Remus Summary:

This wasn’t what Janus had wanted. To be fair, it was nothing like he had expected, either.

3k word fic below :)

Remus was not a dog, thank you very much. At the least, he was a snarling werewolf with a snout of a crocodile, bulging eyes, an appetite for carrion and a constant erection, because how much cooler did that sound?

So, no. No matter how he acted, or what the others teased him for, or what the internet labelled him as, he was not a dog.

(“Remus, I swear to god, if this stain on the carpet is from you—”)

Most of the time.

(“What are you chewing? No, stop that. Come back. Remus! Spit it out! Don’t eat it faster—”)

Kind of.

(“Remus, please, it’s three in the morning. Stop screaming and go to sleep.”)

Alright, listen. Remus had… some animalistic traits. Besides being par for the course as his position as a side hidden from Thomas, for the most part, he loved it. It was fun tearing through rooms, deformed jaws salivating, hackles raised, and hearing responding screams (accompanied by Dee’s tired sighs, because not much Remus did ever ruffled his scales).

For the parts that he could control, Remus loved how much of an animal he was. Sharp teeth made Patton shudder, and the tentacles that could shoot from his back were great for latching on and making sure his target couldn’t free themselves.

It was the stupid, grating feeling that came with comparing him to mutts. He didn’t care for the excitement or over-energy or desire to chew interesting looking things on the ground. It was the— the restlessness and the pining and the fear—

He. Hated. It.

Remus could do with drooling but drooling from the sheer overwhelming anxiety pissed off. The way the silver streak in his hair grew, eating up the brown in a minor and selected performance of stress-aging could go fuck itself. The pacing, and the urge to destroy anything in sight, and the instinct to make unnecessary noise weren’t uncommon behaviours for Remus. The depression and anxiety and the damned abandonment issues could leave him alone forever, thanks, just like everyone else he didn’t care about.

That was that problem. He did care. He cared so much he felt like his goddamn chest was being carved out and cracked open and exposed for burning ice and frigid coals to be shovelled in. Ironically, in theory, it sounded a lot more enjoyable than it really was.

It had been a long day. A long, slow, painful day. Initially, Remus had passed time through tearing up the couch — the entire couch — and eating the stuffing. Then he’d replaced the couch he’d just demolished with an albeit far soggier, more stained version that Janus would definitely have replaced when he returned — if he returned — no, shut up, shut up, he is coming back, he always comes back—

Next, Remus had rummaged through his room, then Janus’. After stealing one of Janus’ favourite, fluffiest blankets (knowing full well he’d get a mouthful for it later, if— when Janus found out) he had curled up on the kitchen floor, because it always smelt like Janus and food in there and it calmed Remus’ dramatic heart whining like a newborn lion cub calling for its mother right before a rival male bit into its neck.

That had not helped.

Staying still had allowed for his mind to race too much, bring up too many scenarios, convince himself that it had already been days when in reality it couldn’t have been more than an hour at most.

He hadn’t felt like eating anything, even after a few experimental minutes gnawing at a leg of the table.

Eventually, he had settled for pacing continuously around the hallways and rooms. He had half hoped that he would grow too tired to stay awake, or his legs would become an aching distraction.

When Remus checked the time, he realised with a horrified jolt that the clock on the wall was reading six o’clock. Dee would be back by now. Dee would be back by three. Dee should be home making dinner and throwing the leftovers to Remus and telling him not to eat the dirty bowls.

He was three hours late. He wasn't coming back.

Remus lost the energy that had been bustling in his bones all day. He sunk to the ground against the couch and chewed subconsciously on the end of the stolen blanket. It tasted better than Dee’s boring cooking, but it somehow didn’t help comfort him in the least.

He buried his face into the blanket, wishing the soft bristles were harsh and spiked enough to scratch and gouge his eyes to the point of blindness.

A curse that hadn’t been spoken by Remus made his head shoot upwards. Janus was standing in the middle of the room, rubbing tired-looking eyes. “Those morons don’t stop talking.”

He was caught off-guard when Remus leapt from his spot at the base of the couch across the room in one clean jump to latch onto his shoulders and swing his legs around his waist. Janus staggered, because he wasn’t short, but certainly slightly below average, and Remus was Thomas’ tallest side, and between how much he ate and fought monsters, he weighed a ton.

Janus cleared his throat pointedly. Remus didn’t so much as look at him.

“Remus,” he said. “I need to make dinner. That will be so incredibly easy with you behaving like this.”

Remus shook his head, his face rubbing back and forth against Janus’ chest. “Not hungry.”

Janus frowned. That was both a lie and completely true. Odd.

Nevertheless, he allowed Remus to act the way he wished and awkwardly went about fixing himself something to eat.

Janus didn’t expect repetitions of scenarios like being clung to by Remus. He figured it was a one-off — he had returned late, and Remus had been panicking. Janus seldom strayed from his plans. Coming back at six rather than three o’clock had not been his intention, and if not for the light sides and the way they seemed to be far too eager to discuss seemingly random matters with him, he would have been back much sooner.

In fact, that was what continued to happen. He didn’t allow himself to get distracted and left the mindscape strictly when he was supposed to in order to return on time.

For some reason, this didn’t seem to be helping.

At first, it wasn’t much. Remus being a bit more affectionate, a bit clingier. Janus had never minded much of Remus’ shenanigans, partially because Remus actually listened to him when he told him to do things. He didn’t ask much of Remus, and he dealt with his chaotic nature far better than anyone else ever had, so perhaps Remus felt like that was worthy of being listened to.

It didn’t mean he always listened. It certainly didn’t mean he always did as Janus asked.

“Remus, let go of me. I need to work” and “Remus, don’t chew on my cape, that’s my good one” and “Don’t you even think about tearing up my pillow while I’m gone” all came to mind.

Janus suppressed a sigh. He knew Remus sensed his frustration, because he tensed, but he didn’t stop trying to eat Janus’ shoe. He was getting slobber all over the carpet, and it was soaking into the bottom of Janus’ pant leg. It had been easy to ignore at first, but Remus hadn’t stopped, and it was beginning to grate on Janus’ nerves.

Now, it had reached the point where Janus couldn’t concentrate on the book he was reading, and it was thinning his strong patience. He pulled his legs in from where they were stretched out and interlocked at the ankles — or at least he tried to.

He didn’t count on Remus to grip his ankle tighter and growl possessively. As if it was his leg.

“Stop it,” Janus snapped, yanking his foot away. Remus bared his teeth, growling quietly to himself. Janus tucked his ankles in close and continued to try and read, though his mood was soured, and he still couldn’t concentrate.

It wasn’t the only time Remus’ behaviour had both caught Janus off guard and made him bitterly uncomfortable.

Once, he had scurried back from the Imagination, a goddamn hydra-chimera on his tail. It had gotten as far as pouncing on an unsuspecting Janus exiting the kitchen before Remus had torn it to shreds with his own teeth.

Usually, Janus paid no mind to Remus’ aggressively gory tendencies.

This time, lying vulnerable below a dying creature, being splattered with its blood and guts, was enough to unsettle him. Just a tad.

Another time, Remus had walked into the kitchen where Janus was trying to get a cup of coffee, had looked him dead in the eye, and sprayed him with a foul-smelling grey goop that had both stained Janus’ comfy clothes and stuck in his hair for days after.

Janus let it slide, though he wasn’t impressed. That turned out to be a mistake.

The next time Remus threw an unknown substance on him, it burned. It stung like acid, and at first Janus figured merely cleaning it off would clear it away but it didn’t, and it was slicing through his arm and a part of his cheek and his scales were screaming and melting off his face and at this point he had started to scream because goddamn it hurt, why was it hurting so much? And Remus wasn’t much help and even he didn’t know what to do or how to fix any of it and the pair of them were stuck with each other panicking.

In the end, Janus had locked himself in the bathroom and soaked in the bathtub, ignoring Remus’ plaintive pleas to be let in. Janus had figured if he were desperate enough, he'd simply break the door down, but he hadn’t.

The pain had faded, over time, leaving Janus exhausted, pale and shaking, saturated with bathwater and sweat and tears. When he’d emerged from the bathroom, Remus had been curled on the ground by the door. He’d tried to speak, but Janus had practically fled before he could. He had avoided Remus for days after that.

Janus, for as much as he shared the one brain cell with Logan, should have realised after that that something was going on. Something far more serious.

He didn’t.

Initially, Janus hadn’t seen a problem with bringing Remus into the conversation. Thomas knew his other creativity existed, and the other sides had already been subjected to Janus’ presence several times over. Really, he hadn’t thought that bringing Remus with him into the mindscape would be so bad.

He was rarely wrong.

This time he was so, so terribly wrong.

He had expected Remus to rise and take a swipe at an unsuspecting Roman.

He hadn’t counted on Roman noticing Patton and Virgil’s tensed reactions and ducking to avoid the morning star swinging over his head.

Janus had been too busy being amused. Being amused over Remus’ pouting, and mildly disgusted at Patton’s excited gushing over Roman’s evasive manoeuvre. He’d been too busy catching Virgil and Logan’s shared eyerolls.

But then Patton had clung to Roman’s arm, and Remus’ grip on his morning star had tightened. Logan and Virgil shared an exasperatedly fond eyeroll and Remus’ lip started to curl. And maybe Janus was smiling too much because that was the last thing he remembered happening before everything went horribly, horribly wrong.

Janus did not often consider himself to be particularly clueless or unresourceful. He could adapt and flex to situations, and bend scenarios to his advantage. It was part of the way he presented himself. There was truly little that could ever take him off guard. He had lived with Hissing Teenage Angst and Chaos Incarnate.

Remus suddenly lunging forward, a snarl on his face and bloodlust in his eyes shouldn’t have been one of them.

Remus connecting his weapon with Patton’s chest certainly was.

In reality, Janus wasn’t entirely sure what had happened. He remembered his feet being frozen to the ground. There was shouting, and blurs of colour.

The only moment Janus remembered in full before he caught up with everything was when Virgil, face pale and practically drowning in eyeshadow, looked up at him with wide, petrified eyes and screamed something. Janus hadn’t heard what he’d said, but it shook him enough to jolt into action.

Remus threw Roman into the television and launched for Logan.

The sound of Janus’ snapping fingers cut through the ruckus.

Remus froze, and when Janus waved his hand, he disappeared soundlessly, tucked into the quietest corner of the Subconsciousness. Janus hadn’t been quick enough, though, and the room was still but in no way silent.

Patton’s breaths were loud and harsh, and he was trembling in Virgil’s hold even as the anxious side murmured reassurances and tried to get his panicking friend to calm down. Logan, on the other hand, looked furious. If Janus weren’t so stuck in place, he was certain he’d be shrinking under the cold-eyed glare. He opened and closed his mouth.

“I didn’t—” Janus started.

“You’re leaving,” Logan said, and Janus’ voice left him.

“It wasn’t Janus though,” Patton protested with a small cough, and was then quietened by Virgil. “And— and I want Remus back.”

“You cannot be serious,” Roman hissed, only a little nastily. Janus could see the frantic fear in his gaze; he wasn’t being harsh on purpose. He never was.

“He’s obviously hurting,” Patton said, and Janus got a sudden surge of anger flooding the apathy; what could have possibly possessed Remus to attack the moral side? Patton winced and shifted, pulling away from where Virgil was experimentally poking at his side. “Blocking him out isn’t going to help.”

“That is a stupid idea.” Janus jerked and looked over at Logan, startled. The logical side had turned his furious gaze to the light sides curled on the ground. “You want the crazy maniac back in here? What, so he can attack Virgil next?”

The anxious side flinched, looking wildly uncomfortable. Patton frowned disapprovingly which Janus found hysterically amusing.

“We wouldn’t leave you alone,” Patton pointed out to Logan.

“I wouldn’t be so barbaric,” Logan snapped back.

“He’s rambunctious but not cruel,” interjected Janus, stepping forward. He met the logical side’s furious gaze steadily and coldly. “He is not your concern.”

“He just attacked Patton,” Logan said, close to seething. “That is concerning enough for me.”

“I will take care of it,” Janus assured. He nodded Logan to his friends. “You worry about your own family. Patton's ribs could be broken.”

Logan’s clenched fists shook, and he shoved unnecessarily roughly past Janus, but he did drop the conversation, instead now focusing on what he could fix. Janus just had to do the same thing.

With a deep breath like he was preparing to plunge into frigid ocean depths, he sunk to the Subconscious. Remus wasn’t in the living room. In fact, even more worryingly, there was no sign he had been there in the first place. That was… slightly disconcerting.

There was evidence of Remus’ presence, however, the nearer Janus got to his bedroom. Dents in the walls, pools of questionable substances that Janus dutifully avoided, an abandoned summoned fish flopping uselessly on the carpet. Janus gave that a wide berth, too, not entirely trusting it not to snap and grow an unhinged jaw in an attempt to swallow him whole.

He didn’t bother to call through Remus’ bedroom door. Chances where he would be refused entry or attacked once revealing his presence.

Though, he figured when he walked in and found the creative side, neither outcomes would have been incredibly likely.

Remus was curled into the smallest ball he could make himself, so much so that a few of his limbs looked bent and snapped awkwardly to fit himself as tight as possible. He looked paler than usual. Janus couldn’t see any familiar glints of Remus in his gaze. He swallowed the sick feeling rising in his throat.

“That was exciting,” he remarked, moving to shut the door and sit on the unmade bed. Remus didn’t respond. “Patton is alright, by the way. The others will probably fuss over him far too much.”

Remus made an odd keening noise, sounding like a mix between a beached whale and a dying dog. When Janus sidled a sidelong look in his direction, he could see the creative side blinking over at him, something unreadable and alien in his eyes. He didn’t look like he was contemplating more murder.

He looked petrified.

Janus regarded his gloved fingers. “So.” He leaned his elbows to his knees and looked darkly at Remus. His voice was just as dangerous. “What was that?”

Remus opened his mouth, looking to respond, and only make another peculiar whining noise. Janus narrowed his eyes and Remus snarled at himself.

“I don’t— It wasn't—” Remus growled and shook his whole body without moving from his ball. His hip clicked and popped, and Janus arched an eyebrow. “I don’t remember… doing anything. Until— until I was… Until you silenced me.”

Janus bit back the guilt that met that statement. It was necessary, he wanted to defend. You deserved it, he wanted to lie. “I didn’t know what else to do,” he admitted.

Remus scoffed, but he was nodding like that made perfect sense. “I wouldn’t either,” he confessed brokenly, and Janus had to blink a few times to see clearly.

“Anything on your mind?”

Remus grated his teeth together so hard one creaked under the pressure. “You leave,” he started, slowly, after a long pause. “You leave all the time. And… you come back, but not every time, and you always look like you like them more, and…”

“You were jealous,” Janus said, with a hint of disgust in his words. Remus hissed through his teeth, glaring at the ground. He looked frustrated, but at himself. He shook his head, but Janus didn’t think he was disagreeing.

“You can’t leave,” Remus said, looking up. One eye was bloodshot to the point that the tears on the right side of his face were red-tinged. “You said you wouldn’t leave.”

“That was years ago,” Janus said, and Remus made a noise like he was trying to gnaw on a chainsaw. He buried his face into his arms. The vertebrae running up his neck strained at the pressure and popped out of place. Janus stood and moved to crouch beside the creative side. He prompted Remus’ head to tilt up and fixed him with a softer but no less serious look. “And I will continue to stand by it, for however long it’s relevant.” Remus whined at him. Janus opened his arms. “Come here.”

When Remus fell into Janus’ arms, the embrace was accompanied by a wet-sounding squelch, and Janus’ left sleeve grew dark and heavy. He chose not to look at it. Remus’ body shifted in his arms, fixing and mending itself. Remus didn’t make any noise throughout the horrifically painful sounding process. Janus supposed he was used to it, and then felt further disgusted at that idea.

When Remus stilled, his breath warm against the scales of Janus’ neck, the deceitful side rubbed his back and leaned away in order to meet his gaze.

“Patton is okay,” he reaffirmed, and Remus seemed to be decently comforted now. “But really, let’s try and not make this a habit, hmm?” Remus nodded, pushing his face back into Janus’ shoulder.

The pair would sit there for a little while longer, quiet and peaceful, as odd as that would be for the embodiment of chaos. Then Janus would leave Remus to clean up his room and himself and return to the light sides. They would already be mostly recovered, even if Logan were still slightly pissy. Patton would ask for Remus, and the next day, Janus would lead the dark creative side back into the mindscape, even if he would sulk behind Janus’ back like a stray puppy.

Patton, limping only slightly, would brighten immediately and slide them warm mugs of coffee. Remus would gnaw on the mug handle, and Janus would coax Roman into casual banter. Logan would separate himself from the conversation with a newspaper, and Virgil would be quieter than usual… but it was better than what Janus would have expected.

Remus would be more softly spoken for a few more days after that, but then the pair would be invited to a few more movie nights, a few more dinners. Patton wouldn’t be uncomfortable around Remus, and Roman would begin asking for help in storytelling. Remus would ask Logan to infodump, and he and Virgil would share music tastes.

Then, a few months down the track, when Janus finds a green door appearing next to the red one upstairs, Janus wouldn’t call himself proud, because that was too dramatic, but… he was always a liar, anyway.

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honeypiehotchner · 5 years

Text

Trust -- part eight

Mycroft is in town! This one is a bit of a shit show. But I enjoyed writing Mycroft and the reader’s banter haha

Sherlock groans loudly upon reaching Baker Street after John’s phone call. Sherlock’s brother is here. And he’s straightened the knocker. Again. With a roll of his eyes, Sherlock tilts the knocker back where it belongs and shoves the door open, practically flying up the stairs.

He doesn’t like that when John told him he needed to see something, that his mind immediately went to you. But he can’t help the sigh of relief that washes over him when he finds you’re still sleeping. He also has a sudden hope that Mycroft won’t start an argument loud enough to wake you up, but then again, an argument almost comes with Mycroft whenever he appears.

Sherlock doesn’t acknowledge his brother as he hangs his coat, clearly letting the older know that the younger would rather he isn’t here. “What is it, John?”

“These messages,” John shakes his head. “The same number that sent Y/N the address earlier has been texting her for three days now.”

Sherlock glances at them. “They’re in Latin.” A flash of when you mumbled Beata Virgo earlier echoes through his mind.

“We’ve established that,” Mycroft nearly rolls his eyes.

“Why are you here?”

“Because John phoned me,” the older brother smiles sweetly, mockingly. “And this seems to be a matter of importance.”

“Why, because she is your source of information about me?”

“Brother mine, she hasn’t given me any information.” Which is actually true. Nothing substantial, anyway. “I’m merely concerned for her well-being as she is living here now, and she is a Watson.”

“Okay, she’s not a Watson,” John interrupts, almost out of instinct, surprising himself – but he knows if you were in here, you’d do the same. “And can you two stop bloody arguing for five seconds? There are more pressing matters right now than your childish feud.”

“Yes, well, the words read wonderful sacrament and blessed virgin in Latin,” Sherlock rattles off through a breath. “Which could mean absolutely anything.”

“Okay,” John huffs, trying not to get irritated. “What about the last message?”

“No idea,” Sherlock frowns. “We know this is a man of religious background, so the last message could be referring to God.” He rolls his eyes. “How stupid.” Just at the mention of that ridiculously omnipotent being has Sherlock’s interest dropping significantly.

“We can talk about your beliefs later, Sherlock, but I don’t like that these messages are being sent to my sister’s phone when two of her good friends have just been murdered.”

And just like that, at the mention of you, his interest has returned.

“You haven’t solved those murders yet?” Mycroft asks in surprise. Everything is normally so transparent for Sherlock, especially a murder like these. It would take him minutes, maybe hours. But it’s been a month and a half since the first one.

Sherlock gives him a look. “I found traces of a drug in their systems. A depressant, maybe.”

“Traces?”

“Not enough to kill them outright. Just enough to slow them down. It was interesting to me from the start that a highly trained agent would be taken down by a hit to the back of the head, but there were no signs of drugging. Because it had been done days, maybe hours prior – and he had been watched leading up to his death.” Sherlock pauses, the excitement of this breakthrough nearly getting the best of him. “The same trace was found in Allen. Same time period. Same story.” He steeples his hands under his chin. “What doesn’t make sense is how it got into both of their systems? And where? And who?”

“Who?” Mycroft nearly laughs in hysteria. “These men were part of an undercover anti-terrorism agency and you’re wondering who would want to kill them?”

“Yes, because if we know that, then we know who we are up against,” Sherlock replies quickly, deadpanning, sending his brother a glare that might as well be lethal.

You stand in the doorway to the living room, going unnoticed until you open your mouth. “I already know who we’re dealing with, so stop arguing.”

All three heads snap to you.

Mycroft looks at Sherlock incredulously. “She was in your bed?”

“Shut up, Mycroft, his bed is uncomfortable as hell, so don’t expect this to be a regular occurrence,” you sigh, earning a shocked look from the man, but you’re too tired to care. You’re also too tired to notice Sherlock’s faint look of hurt after your comment. A look of hurt that he isn’t even aware of himself until he sees John giving him a strange look in response. “Look at the initials at the end of each message.”

John furrows his eyebrows. “G-O-D. God? We’re dealing with God?”

“No,” you shake your head with a loud sigh. You’re genuinely too exhausted, worn out, and every other adjective under the sun, to deal with these men. Your patience is going to wear thin. You plop down on the couch, stretching out, and your eyelids immediately threaten to close. “We’re dealing with a man who thinks he’s God.” You cover your eyes with your arm. “It didn’t hit me until I was sleeping. O magnum mysterium,” you begin, practically chuckling to yourself. It should’ve been obvious, in fact, it was, you were just too stupid to see. “et admirabile sacramentum, ut animalia viderent Dominum natum, iacentem in praesepio! Beata Virgo, cujus viscera meruerunt portare. Dominum Iesum Christum.”

John obviously doesn’t understand. “What does all that mean?”

“It’s a responsorial chant,” you explain to John. “A.k.a. the theme song for the exact cult I figured would pull this type of bullshit. You know them, Mycroft. They caused England a bit of trouble a few years ago.” You pause, muttering under your breath so no one can hear, “And he’s the one who shot me in the bloody shoulder.” You open your eyes to see Mycroft giving you a rather confused look. You give him an equally disappointed look in return. “Seriously?”

“Miss Watson—”

“L/N,” you correct him. “For Christ’s sake, I’m not a Watson. I’m a L/N.”

“Miss L/N,” Mycroft corrects himself through gritted teeth. “You of all people should understand the amount of threats I sort through on a typical day. You are going to have to be more specific.”

You glare at him. “Mr. Holmes, you of all people should remember the one cult big enough to cause the government of this country trouble. Don’t look shocked. Yes, I knew you were Sherlock’s brother from the moment I saw you.”

He nods. “Very good. Now, who are we dealing with?”

“Gidon. Gidon Dietrichson.”

Mycroft closes his eyes with a heavy sigh. “Gentlemen, would you mind giving us a moment?”

You heave yourself off the couch, yanking the door open. You gesture for Mycroft to step into the hallway, and thankfully he obeys. After making sure both doors are shut, you cross your arms and wait for him to begin.

“I thought you killed him.”

“Then you can imagine the surprise on my face when I put the pieces together, Michael,” you hiss.

Mycroft, however, looks more than amused. “Glad to see you’ve finally figured matters out.”

“Michael Holland, what the hell kind of pseudonym is that?”

“A very good one, apparently.” He’s too pleased with himself. “Why do you suspect I was more than willing to wipe your record? It wasn’t the first time I’ve given you a pardon.”

You glare at him. “Forgive me for thinking you were being generous. I should know better of you.”

He hums. “Yes, now, what do you suppose we do?”

“Well, for starters, we can stop pretending like they can’t hear us.”

That’s it for Mycroft as he shoves the door back open, seeing John and Sherlock standing fairly close, looking entirely guilty and obviously just having moved away from the door. You stroll in behind him, almost throwing yourself back down on the couch out of exhaustion, stretching out with a sigh.

“Now,” you lace your fingers together, placing your hands over your stomach. “Come at me with the questions. I know you have them.”

“Michael Holland?” Sherlock asks, rather incredulously. You smirk, knowing you’ve just given Sherlock something else to tease his older brother about. You know he’s silently thanking you.

“Yes, Michael, care to elaborate?” You smile sweetly.

“You’re still as childish as ever, Y/N,” he sighs. “I needed some undercover work to be done off the books, as you say. Y/N was willing.”

“I needed money,” you shrug. “He happened to have some, all I had to do was investigate a cult – which, in case you were wondering, is the same one going on this killing spree.”

“You worked…for Mycroft?” John asks slowly.

“Don’t look at me like that. I liked danger, and he was willing to pay me to stay in the middle of it. I wasn’t gonna ask questions about who he was, I needed money. Not his life story.”

“Yes, she needed funding for her…habits,” Mycroft practically sneers, tapping his umbrella on the ground. “I do hope you’ve left those behind you like I suggested.”

“I have, thank you very much.”

“Habits? What habits?” Now John is back to being furious, on top of his concern. Both of which you absolutely do not need to deal with right now.

“I swear I don’t know why I associate with you.” Mycroft continues smirking, knowing you’re addressing him. “You’re more annoying than Sherlock.”

“Y/N,” John takes a step closer to the couch. “What habits is he talking about?”

You force yourself into a sitting position, giving John a firm, but pleading, look. “Can we talk about it later? We should kind of be focused on the God we’re chasing.”

Realizing that that is, in fact, true, John nods. “I won’t forget,” he assures you, and you nod. He never does. “But okay. Who is he?”

“He thinks he’s God – right now, at least. The cult…It’s odd. They have women who they think are creators of Gods. Every time they bear a child, a living God dies. Because only six Gods can live at once.”

“They’re famously known as The Congregation. It’s a sex trafficking cult,” Mycroft explains further, the detail John absolutely did not want to hear.

“You sent her into a sex trafficking cult?”

“I was already there,” you clarify, holding your hand up to John in hopes of calming him. He still looks like he’s ready to punch Mycroft in the jaw, though.

“What do you mean you were already bloody there?”

“Nothing happened,” you assure him first. “They didn’t touch me, it didn’t get that far.”

“It didn’t get that far?!” John screams. “You’re telling me you willingly put yourself in there to toy with them? Do you have any idea how stupid and dangerous that was?”

“I’m not condoning my actions of the past, John, I’m just telling you what happened,” you snap, taking a deep breath. “Anyway, that was where I ran into Tony. He was sent in to shut it down, but obviously that didn’t go as planned. I shot at Gidon, but he got away.”

“Yes, but The Congregation was obliterated months ago – on my orders,” Mycroft informs you.

The glare you send him might as well have been lethal. “And why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“In case you’ve forgotten, you ran away.”

“Well, apparently all but one were obliterated because now he’s killed Tony and Allen.”

“You said…the Gods,” John shakes his head at the sound of it, “are recycled, basically, so maybe it’s not him. Maybe it’s someone else. Someone who took his name? Someone with the same initials?”

“No, I’m pretty sure it’s him.”

“What makes you so certain?” Mycroft asks.

“Can you possibly think of anyone more dramatic? Don’t answer that,” you breathe, rubbing your forehead. “I’m the one who shot him, Allen gave the order, Tony was on the ground with me. It makes sense they’d come after all of us.” And manage to kill two of us.

“The Congregation of Six Divines,” Sherlock speaks. Up until this moment, he had been sitting in his chair, hands steepled under his chin, thinking, no doubt visiting his mind palace. The name Gidon Dietrichson sounded familiar from the moment you said it. He knew he had heard it somewhere – somewhere coupled with The Congregation. The Congregation’s full, official name was The Congregation of Six Divines. “Six is significant. Six bullet holes in Allen’s body. Tony had been in London for six days. Six weeks since Tony’s death, Allen dies, too,” Sherlock pauses. “Six Gods live at one time.”

“‘O Magnum Mysterium’ is six minutes long,” you supply another piece of information, since you doubt Sherlock has ever listening to a religious chant in his life.

He snaps his fingers, giving you an excited look. “This is brilliant!”

John gives him a look because, really, it isn’t that brilliant. Two of your friends are dead. And it appears that you’re to be next in line.

“But why was Allen shot six times and not Tony?” John asks, almost absentmindedly.

You close your eyes. “Tony was religious. Allen was not. I’m assuming shooting the cross into his chest had something to do with that.”

“Ah,” John nods, studying your face. He doesn’t like the sound of any of this, so he knows you can’t be handling it much better. You were put through literal hell when Tony was murdered, and your behavior earlier after discovering Allen already made John worry if you were going down the same road, but…the contrast he sees right now is immense. You’re awake, talking – willingly talking about Tony and Allen and this cult whereas when Tony was killed, you hid in your room for three days. And John isn’t sure if he should be grateful that you appear to be as okay as you can be for the moment, or if he should worry more.

After Mycroft steps out to take a phone call, John moves to lift your legs on the couch, so he can sit next to you. Thankfully, he lets you stretch your legs across his so you can remain comfortably lying down.

“So…you used to work for Mycroft Holmes,” John scoffs, chuckling. “Wow.”

“No, I worked for Michael Holland,” you snicker. You think maybe you should call Mycroft Michael from now on. You know it’ll get a rise out of him, and that’s your goal. “The bastard. Got me shot for no good reason. He should’ve just obliterated all of them in the first place instead of trying to get me to do it. Now I’ve gotta worry about Gidon again.”

“No,” John replies, causing you to open your eyes. “Right now, you need to worry about getting some sleep.”

“I can do that,” you nod, giving a brief glance to the side to see Sherlock with his eyes closed, still thinking. You imagine he’ll be doing that all night.

Your sleep is interrupted, though, as soon as Mycroft – Mikey? Mike? This could be fun – steps back inside the flat.

“I’ve updated all of your surveillance levels, especially yours Y/N. Do you have any idea where this man might be now?”

“No clue,” you deadpan. “I suggest we wait.”

Even John doesn’t like your tone. “Wait?”

“Yes, wait,” you reply, like it’s all obvious. “Didn’t you notice a pattern?”

Sherlock is thinking, but he’s still listening to the conversation around him for once because he voices the pattern. “Six Divines. Six Gods. Six bullets. Six minutes. Six days. Six weeks…” He pauses, his eyes shooting open. “Surely he won’t wait six months before striking again.”

“But it does look that way, doesn’t it?” You rub your eyes. “I swear, he’s a pain in my ass, Gidon. I should’ve aimed better the first time.” The original idea was to injure him enough to bring him in for questioning, but obviously that didn’t happen, nor do you think it was ever going to happen.

Sherlock retreats back into his mind palace, and at the sight of this, you hear Mycroft mutter a goodbye before he exits the flat. He doesn’t feel much better from this information session, instead feeling more concerned. Not only for your safety because now Gidon Dietrichson is on the loose again and apparently heading for you next – but also concern for Sherlock.

Specifically, Sherlock’s relation to you.

You were asleep in his bed. Sherlock’s bed. Sherlock, the same boy who refuses to share clothes or socks, specifically, let you sleep in his bed – willingly. Albeit for a short amount of time before you walked into the living room, but you were still there. And while you said Sherlock’s bed was uncomfortable, and for them to not expect this, Mycroft could tell you didn’t entirely mean it. And the look that crossed his brother’s face at your comment only worried him more.

Sherlock doesn’t make connections. The closest he has ever been with anyone is John Watson, and that alone was hard for Mycroft to stomach – that Sherlock had a friend. But now you are here, in what Mycroft assumed was a semi-permanent destination that has now clearly become permanent. And you are quickly becoming friends – at least in Sherlock’s mind, even if he doesn’t realize, though Mycroft is starting to believe neither of you realize you are becoming friends – with the one man who you told Mycroft was an absolute ass when he wanted to be.

Not to mention, the obvious fact that you spend more time in 221B than you do in your own flat. While there was no ready evidence, it does leave Mycroft to wonder if you’ve even been conscious of not sleeping downstairs anymore.

Realizing he’s let his concern get the better of him, Mycroft shakes himself out of it. His brother is allowed to make connections. And if you are anything like the girl Mycroft remembers, then he knows you won’t let the connection go farther than it should.

#Trust #sherlock #sherlock holmes #bbc sherlock #sherlock x reader #sherlock holmes x reader #sibling!reader #half-sibling!reader #john watson #mycroft holmes #mycroft #oh the british sarcasm #this one was fun to write #it's also a bit of an information dump #so apologies about that

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ncmadsteve · 6 years

Text

some recs

this isnt The reclist, bc i never have the patience to compile it, but have some stuff that is somewhat recent:

The Night War: 60th Anniversary Edition - praximeter (Zimario) - 100k+

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: James “Bucky” Barnes & Steve Rogers, James “Bucky” Barnes/Original Female Character(s) (brief), James “Bucky” Barnes/Steve Rogers Characters: James “Bucky” Barnes, Rebecca Barnes Proctor, Winifred Barnes, Gabe Jones, Original Male Character(s), Howling Commandos, Steve Rogers, Peggy Carter Additional Tags: World War II, Historical Accuracy, Diary/Journal, Classic War Memoir, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Racism, Jewish Character, Bucky Barnes-centric, Bucky Barnes Feels, War, Canon-Typical Violence, Bucky Barnes’s Notebooks, Unreliable Narrator, Writer Bucky Barnes, Pre-Slash, Blink And You Miss It Slash, Slow Burn, Stucky endgame, Internalized Homophobia, Angst, Holocaust Summary:

In 1947, Master Sergeant James B. Barnes’s surviving field journals were posthumously published as the classic war memoir The Night War. Now a high school history classroom mainstay and required reading at West Point, this highly anticipated 60th Anniversary Edition presents the original, unedited text alongside detailed historical notes that provide important context to the extraordinary wartime heroics of Captain America and the Howling Commandos.

Barnes, James B. The Night War: The Wartime Memoirs of a Howling Commando. Ed. Harold Miller. 60th Anniversary ed. New York: HarperCollins, 2005. Print.

There Is No Shortage of Blood - Dira Sudis (dsudis), alby_mangroves - WIP 50k+

Rating: Explicit Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: James “Bucky” Barnes/Steve Rogers Characters: James “Bucky” Barnes, Steve Rogers, Original Characters Additional Tags: Rape Recovery, Rape Aftermath, Rape Fantasy, Flashbacks, Suicidal Thoughts, Self-Harm, unsafe bdsm practices, Bucky’s Broken Dick, Sexual Dysfunction, Established Relationship, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Winter Soldier Trial, Army, Therapy, Catholic Bucky Barnes, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Avengers Tower, Bucky Barnes’s Trigger Words, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Additional Warnings In Author’s Note Summary:

The long slow recovery of Bucky Barnes after his escape from HYDRA.

(And the longer, slower recovery of his sex life.)

despite the threatening sky and shuddering earth (they remained) - praximeter (Zimario) - WIP 25k+

Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: James “Bucky” Barnes/Steve Rogers, James “Bucky” Barnes & Steve Rogers Characters: James “Bucky” Barnes, Steve Rogers, Sam Wilson (Marvel), Tony Stark, Maria Hill, Natasha Romanov (Marvel), Bruce Banner Additional Tags: Winter Soldier Trauma Warnings, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Body Horror, Body Modification, Touch-Starved, Canon Divergence - Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Captain America: The Winter Soldier AU, The Mask Can’t Come Off, Hurt Bucky Barnes, Bucky Barnes Feels, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Drug Withdrawal, Identity Porn, Identity Reveal, Hurt/Comfort, Art, Embedded Images, art by quietnight, American Sign Language Summary:

“They really didn’t want the mask to come off.” Hill thumbed through the scans, and pulled out a film that she then handed over to Sam, face mostly expressionless but for the flat line of her pursed lips.

Sam accepted the film and held it up to the light, angling so both he and Steve could see it, squinting at the outline of the Winter Soldier’s skull, and the blips of unnatural white that showed up, God, in his brain, not to mention about half his teeth, plus the mask, with its thin protrusions—

“Those are pins,” Steve realized. He looked over at Hill. “The mask—it’s nailed to his face.”

Hill’s face was as unmoved as ever. “Like I said. They really didn’t want it coming off.”

Who Let You In? - birdbrains - SERIES 76k

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Steve Rogers & Sam Wilson, James "Bucky" Barnes & Sam Wilson, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers Characters: Steve Rogers, Sam Wilson (Marvel), James "Bucky" Barnes Additional Tags: Up all night to get Bucky, Mental Health Issues, Obedience, Trauma, Consent Issues, Triggers, Sneaky trauma, Food Series: Part 1 of Eat Rotten Fruit Summary:

“Is he here?” Sam asked. “I don’t know,” said Steve. “I’m—hey, Bucky, are you here? Can you hear me?” “Or whatever you prefer to be called,” Sam put in. “Yeah,” Steve said. “It’s me, that dumb guy with all the problems? Remember me?”

///

New and "improved."

Closed Book - AggressiveWhenStartled - 38k

Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers & Tony Stark, James "Bucky" Barnes & Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes & Tony Stark, Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanov Characters: James "Bucky" Barnes, Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanov (Marvel), Tony Stark Additional Tags: Natasha Is a Good Bro, Amnesia, How many times can Bucky get amnesia, At least one more, This fic is not compliant with anything, Tony Stark has a lot of feelings, Supersoldier sex can break things, A lot of things, Arguing, This was supposed to be stupid Stucky fluff, How did it become a Bucky&Tony comedy hour brofic, what the hell happened, Upside still a lot of Stucky fluff, So I guess it accomplishes both things Summary:

Bucky woke up with a headache, a mouth that tasted like something had died in it, and hands-down, swear-to-god, the most beautiful man he had ever seen asleep in his lap.

Bucky was also, he realized after a moment, strapped down to a hospital bed with about six different monitors making unsynced, equally piercing, beeps. Beyond that he couldn’t quite see—there was a hideous floral curtain pulled around the bed, and while he could just make out figures moving in the room beyond it, the pattern made his head pound even worse the longer he looked at it.

So. That was concerning.

three white horses - magdaliny - 16k

Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers Characters: Steve Rogers, Sam Wilson (Marvel), James "Bucky" Barnes, Sharon Carter (Marvel) Additional Tags: Grief/Mourning, Death, Suicide, Jewish Bucky Barnes, Queer Brooklyn, Unreliable Narrator Summary:

Steve, it's not your fault, Sam had tried to say, before Steve cut him off, and Steve doesn't think that's untrue so much as it's irrelevant; fault's got nothing to do with it. It's just—wrong. It's wrong. Steve couldn't wrap his head around it the first time, how wrong it was. Steve should have gone first. Was supposed to. Bucky could have carried on without Steve, he knows, but Steve without Bucky is a zero sum. There should never be a world that Steve is in and Bucky isn't.

#long post #fic #anyway this all is stucky as i warned.

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