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visceravalentines · 2 years

Note

I wish you would write a fic where...

poly sinclair

or good ol' s/o almost dies

or sinclair almost dies and s/o saves them

feel free to ask for more details, once i start thinking i can come up with quite a lot of stuff

- 🔪

Alright, prepare to suffer. I combined all of these into one angst-filled rollercoaster, but it does end with one big family cuddle, so it's probably okay.

Never Again

Poly!Sinclairs x Hinge!GN!Reader

Wow so much blood and violence, murder, lots of profanity, reader does not die but is seriously injured and loses consciousness, so does a Sinclair, hurt/comfort, ANGST!!

Bo and Vincent had both instructed you to stay in the house, as per usual. You knew the drill, you kept the doors locked, kept the lights off. They couldn’t keep you away from the windows no matter how much each one of them pleaded or scolded. You’d be damned if you didn’t at least try to keep an eye on them.

This group was a pretty standard one. A mix of two male and three female victims, they had been easily separated. You stayed upstairs while Lester drove two of the women to the house where they were promptly seized upon by Vincent. Bo was keeping the others busy down at the station.

“Everything’s going okay?” you ask Lester before he hops back into his truck.

“Yeah, sweet pea, everythin’s fine.” He smiles at you. “I’m gonna tell ‘em those girls wanted to head up to the House of Wax so I dropped ‘em off, then Bo’ll bring the rest of ‘em over there and he and Vince will wrap things up. I’m gonna go post up on the road outta town just in case, you wanna come wait with me?”

“No, I think I’ll stay here. I want to be close in case I need to help or something.”

“Well, now I don’t know about that. You can stay here, probably safer that way. But don’t you go runnin’ out doin’ anything stupid.”

“I won’t.”

He kisses your cheek. “It’ll be over soon, sweet pea.”

You stand on the porch and watch Lester’s headlights disappear down the hill. The sun was just barely visible on the horizon. It would be over soon, just not soon enough for your taste. Rather than returning inside, you sit on the porch with Jonesy for something like half an hour, trying not to count the minutes, waiting for all three of them to come home.

Gunshots cut through the evening haze.

Your blood turns to ice. Jonesy’s ears prick and she growls deep in her throat. You know the sound of Bo’s shotgun. That wasn’t a shotgun.

You scramble to your feet and throw open the front door, coax the dog inside with you. Your limbs feel weightless with adrenaline. The thoughts whipping through your head aren’t conscious, simply a string of decisions. You take Vincent’s Bowie knife off a peg by the door, hooked it to your belt, and grab Bo’s keys. He’ll have to forgive you for taking his truck later.

The engine roars to life and you speed down the hill toward the lights of the station and the crack of three more gunshots.

As you screech around the corner onto Main Street, the headlights illuminate a figure standing alone in the middle of the road, a gun in her hand, and two men locked in a desperate struggle fifteen feet away. Almost of its own volition, your foot slams on the gas pedal, and the victim barely has time to turn around before you plow into her with the truck, sending her flying.

Before the truck has even fully come to a halt, you are out of the cab and rushing towards Bo and the victim he is tussling with. The shotgun lies on the ground between them and the victim has a second handgun clutched in his right hand, which Bo is valiantly attempting to wrest from him. You make it three steps before someone seizes your arm.

You whirl to face them, hand on the knife, and recognize Vincent. “Vincent, what the hell is happening?!”

He doesn’t even bother signing. The way he hauls you back towards the truck is unmistakable.”

“Vincent, stop – we have to help Bo – I can help – ”

A gun goes off so close to you it rattles your skull, once, twice, three times. You watch, stunned, as a hole appears in Vincent’s thigh and then, as he sinks to the ground still gripping your arms, another blossoms in his shoulder, and blood spurts from his neck.

You scream, look over your shoulder and see the woman you hit with the truck, still sprawled on the road, wearing an expression of grim satisfaction. As gently as possible, you lower Vincent all the way down and extricate yourself from his desperate grasp, fumble for the knife, and charge the unlucky bitch who used up her last shot.

You’ve never killed before, but it isn’t hard. Even in your rage, you waste no effort, going directly for the throat. She is dead within seconds, but you continue stabbing until her head is nearly disconnected from her shoulders.

“Cindy!” you hear someone cry. You look up, see that the last remaining victim has managed to squirm away from Bo, whose expression of naked rage is fast draining into horror as he pieces together what is happening.

You start to stagger to your feet, bloodsoaked, vibrating with anger. You aren’t thinking straight. You only just register that you have made yourself a target before time stops and several things happen at once.

The last victim takes aim at you. You begin to drop back into a crouch. Bo breaks into a dead sprint. The victim pulls the trigger two times before Bo is on him. You don’t hear the gun go off. You feel a sudden scalding fire in your side, a flash in your ribs, then nothing.

For what may be seconds or may be hours, you cannot see. You cannot feel. But you can hear Bo roaring profanities and the progressively wetter sound of the last victim’s head being slammed into the pavement again and again.

You do feel something, then – the whisper of fingers spidering across your wrist.

“Vincent,” you think you say. You clasp his hand. His fingers are cold. So are yours.

You become aware again of your vision, of Bo splattered with gore and crouching in front of you. His eyes flick frantically back and forth between you and his twin.

“No no no no no.” He touches your cheek, grips Vincent’s arm. “Goddammit, y/n, what were you…no, Vincent, keep your fucking eyes open.” He slaps his twin across the face. “Don’t you fucking do that.” He lets go of you for a moment, props Vincent up against the truck. “Stay awake, y’hear me?”

He comes back to you, hands hovering, not sure what to do. He looks so distraught. You wave his hands away. “I’m fine, Bo…I’m…it’s not my blood.”

He looks at you in disbelief. “No, darlin’…it is. It is. Vincent, goddammit!” He shakes his twin, grabs your hand, tries desperately to keep a hold of two-thirds of his world as it slips steadily away from him.

Your vision starts to fade again. “Bo….”

“No don’t you fucking do this to me, y/n!” His voice is hoarse, bordering on shrill. “Don’t do this to me!”

You reach for his face, want so badly to comfort him, but your arm won’t move, your vision is swimming….

“Jesus fucking Christ, what happened?!” A new voice cuts through the darkness.

“Lester!” Bo yells.

You are dimly aware of someone hoisting you up off the ground, carrying you through space, setting you down on cold metal. “Don’t worry, sweet pea, you’re gonna be fine, I promise.”

“…Lester?”

“That’s right, honey, we’re gonna get you fixed up.”

Your head falls back against the side of the truck bed. The stars look like they’re racing down towards you and you flinch, waiting for the impact. You hear Lester shouting again.

“Bo, you gotta help me, I can’t lift him by myself!”

Time dilates and contracts in the minutes it takes them to shuffle around the back of the truck and haul Vincent into the bed. He’s no longer conscious.

“Where are the keys?” Bo asks.

“You’re not fuckin’ drivin’, climb up there with ‘em.” Lester does not wait for a response, climbing into the cab of Bo’s truck without waiting to see if he listens.

He does, for once, leaping up and pulling the tailgate closed behind him.

The last thing you see before the vehicle lurches forward and you too drop into oblivion is Bo, defeated, sagging to the floor of the truck bed beside his twin.

When you come to, you are in your bed, and you are not alone. You look to your left and see Vincent asleep on the other pillow, hair fanned out beside his face. Sandwiched between you is Bo, also sleeping, his head tucked against Vinny’s shoulder, his hand in yours. The pain doesn’t come until you try to move. You groan, give up on sitting up.

Bo jolts awake, immediately alert. “Are you okay, darlin’?”

“I think so….” You groan. “I don’t…what happened?”

He touches your neck, your face. “You scared the holy hell outta me, that’s what.” You meet his gaze, find a heartwrenching mixture of exhaustion, fear, and love in his baby blue eyes. “I thought I was gonna lose you.” His voice breaks.

You shake your head, feel the tears welling up, grab onto him for dear life. He wraps you in his arms, buries you in his chest, murmurs your name over and over. The pounding of his heart grounds you, comforts you, and despite how close it came, you cannot imagine an end to your life with these wonderful, fragile men.

“I’m sorry, Bo.”

“Shut up.”

“I’m sorry I scared you.”

“Shut up. It’s over. You ain’t ever leavin’ me.” He presses his lips to your temple, fighting tears.

“You’re right. You’re right, I’m not.” You let out a long, shaky breath. “Is Vincent okay?”

“Yeah.” Bo’s voice is thick. “Yeah, he’s gonna be alright. Les…Les saved him. Saved you too.”

“Where is he?”

“’M right here.” Yawning and rubbing his eyes, Lester sits up and stretches, previously slumped in an armchair hauled upstairs from the living room. “You’re all very welcome.”

“Come here, you.” With a tired smile, he drags the chair across the floor so he’s close enough for you to reach out and touch him. He kisses your fingers. “Where would we be without you, Les?”

“Fucked.”

You laugh and even Bo manages a chuckle.

“You ain’t never leavin’ me either, y/n,” Lester says, and a shadow crosses his visage. For a moment, you see how afraid he was, how hard he fought for you and for his brothers.

“Never.” You squeeze his hand.

Vincent stirs, moans. Bo is instantly attentive, but Vincent sleeps on. His twin gingerly drapes an arm over his chest, curls up against him, shatters your heart with the expression on his face.

“I have a request,” Lester says. “With all due respect, can we never do this again?”

“Absolutely,” you reply.

You stroke Bo’s hair, your other hand clasped firmly in Lester’s, and you pass the afternoon this way, connected together, safe and alive.

#house of wax fanfiction #poly sinclairs #bo sinclair x reader #lester sinclair x reader #vincent sinclair x reader #bo sinclair #vincent sinclair #lester sinclair #asks #anon asks #knifey

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standfucker · 1 year

Text

Sunrises; part 2: Days Three and Four

Read Part 1 Here!

@rogerpirateswk

Word Count: 6,357

CW: Depiction of a panic attack during Day Four

Ao3 Link

Day Three.

Some of the crewmates talk to you here and there, and you decide you preferred it when they ignored you. It’s not quite disdain they speak with, but it’s certainly not respect. You don’t have the guts to stand up for yourself, but you end up not having to. Every time you get talked down to, Scopper appears over your shoulder, telling the offending crewmate to get bent. You don’t know how he always seems to know when it’s happening, or how he finds you wherever you are on the ship. All you know is that Scopper’s way of ‘making it up to you’ seems to be by assigning himself as your bodyguard.

It’s a bit embarrassing, but does wonders for your sanity. His once-nerve-wracking presence rapidly becomes comforting, although there’s still a skip in your heartbeat when he’s close by that you can’t chalk up to anxiety alone. He’s attractive, not just in the physical sense, but in the way he grins at you, and in the sound of his voice when he tells you not to fret over something (a sweet, if not pointless, reassurance.) He probably mistakes your apprehension around him for fear, which is fine; you really don’t need him to know how he makes you feel. That would be another layer of stress on this trip you’d rather not have.

A sizable group of men are hanging out in the mess room late in the afternoon, some playing cards. The captain, first mate, and Scopper are all present, so you don’t feel nearly as antsy, though you still politely decline to join the game. It turns out to be a wise decision: A crewmate named Doringo is caught cheating, and the one sitting next to him, Erio, becomes so enraged that he pulls a knife, attempting to stab Doringo’s hand to the table. Thankfully, he misses, but that plus the ensuing shouting match has your blood pressure soaring. You shrink back in your chair, hands shaking as more men join the argument.

Scopper, sitting next to you, nudges your arm. “Hey, it’s okay. They won’t hurt you.”

You shove your hands under your thighs to still them and acknowledge Scopper with a curt nod. Verbal consolation has never done much against the staggering intensity that is your nerves, so all you can do is wait it out. Leaving the room is an option, but you feel safer around the captain and Rayleigh and Scopper, even with the conflict currently taking place.

It reminds you of an incident on the Marine ship, the day before the pirate attack. Two young Marines got into a fistfight, and you had been similarly alarmed. Except those two had been separated by the crew and then disciplined by their superiors. Roger just lets the crew duke it out, not even looking up from his conversation with Rayleigh.

“Fuck this!” Spencer slams his fists on the table and stands abruptly. “I’m going to start dinner. You dumbass bastards can keep fighting, for all I care.”

Spencer heads for the galley, his path taking him past your seat, and he pauses before you. “Y/n, right?”

You look at him owlishly. This is the first time he’s spoken to you. “Yeah…?”

“What’s your favorite food?”

Around you, the crew gets suspiciously quiet.

There’s a gleam in Spencer’s eye you can’t figure out. Your thoughts start racing: Why does he care? Is he offering to make it? What are the odds he’ll even have the right ingredients on hand? What was with this change of heart?

“Oh, don’t–it’s fine,” you say. “You don’t need to–”

“Just tell me,” he presses. “Your favorite food is…?”

You scramble to think of an answer, social anxiety somehow bad enough that you instantly forget what your own favorite is due to the stress of expectation. You pick something random. “Sesame chicken?”

Spencer smiles impishly. “Well, you’re getting grilled cheese.”

The room erupts into laughter, leaving you confused and self-conscious. Did you miss something? When you can’t figure it out after a minute, you realize it must be an inside joke. It doesn’t stop you from feeling embarrassed, though.

“It's an inside joke,” Scopper helps.

"Yeah, I figured that out," you say dryly.

It’s a really stupid one. Your unimpressed expression must make that thought clear. A crewmate–Bankuro, you think his name was–takes one look at you and laughs harder. "Come on! They don't got jokes in the Marines?"

"They do," you grumble. And they actually make sense.

“Good ones?”

“Doubtful,” another crewmate interjects. You haven’t been formally introduced to everyone, so you’ve had to pick up names as you overhear them, and you’ve had yet to learn them all.

You shrug. "Marine jokes are usually related to command efficiency. How long it takes for an order to go through. Dad says that they call it ‘Justice, Eventually.’ There’s some others, though."

“Like what?”

“Like…” You think for a moment. “Did you hear about the Marine who enlisted out of spite? He wanted to become a Petty Officer.”

Silence. Just total silence from the entire room, complete with blank stares.

“It’s a rank,” you add.

“I know that. It’s just not funny.”

“Yes, it is!” You’re a little insulted. That was your favorite Marine joke.

“What do you expect from the Marines? Wit?” Taro chimes in from his spot a few seats over. You assume it’s Taro, anyway–he’s wearing a shirt with his name on it, so it’s either him or a big fan of his. “That’s why ‘Marine’ stands for ‘Muscles Are Required; Intelligence Not Essential.’”

The crew bursts into laughter. Harsh, but not surprising. They were natural enemies, after all. That doesn’t bother you. Neither does someone saying, “Ain’t that the truth! It’s a miracle they get anything done.”

What comes next, however.

What comes next crosses the line.

“It’s no wonder they died.”

You don’t know the name of the crewmate who said it–don’t care, either. The effect is immediate; a chill, at first, that runs through your body. Then the temperature spikes in the opposite direction. You’re not really the type to get explosively angry. But the crew’s laughter strikes against your memories of hearing the Marines die like a match. The resulting flame billows through your being, dwarfing any sense of nervousness. A rage like you’ve never felt before, burning up your heart.

“Shut up!” You roar, jumping to your feet. “Shut the fuck up!”

The room falls quiet, all eyes on you now. You’re trembling, fists balled up. “They were good men. They didn’t deserve to die like that. Thirty men, slaughtered like animals. Thirty families, broken forever! Thirty!”

Those two young Marines who quarreled that day were dead, never to grow up. And the pirates before you lived on. They had no right to speak ill of them, enemies or not. You glare at the speechless crew.

“Maybe they weren’t all shining examples of humanity,” you yelled, “but they were nice to me! They greeted me every morning. They made sure I was comfortable. They complimented my music!” Angry tears prick the corners of your eyes. “So don’t speak badly about them! Not in front of me and not behind my back! Keep it to yourself!”

You’re panting by the time you’re done with the outburst. The crew is astonished, varied expressions of surprise that you were even capable of such fury. You’re so livid that you’re not even scared of them at that moment. And then…

“Alright,” says the pirate who made the initial comment, “I’m sorry.”

The sincerity of his tone cuts through the haze of anger and straight into your chest. Entirely caught off guard, you can only stare. An apology was the very last thing you expected. “...What?”

“I said I’m sorry,” he says. “I went too far.”

You blink, the tears running down your cheeks. You take a deep, shuddering breath. And then you sink back into your chair. The anger fizzles out at his genuine acknowledgment, and with its recession, anxiety sets in. You’ve just shouted at a bunch of pirates. And instead of killing you, you got an apology.

No one back home will ever believe you.

You glance around the table, but none of them seem particularly upset. When your gaze lands on Roger, you see that he’s watching you back. He’s wearing a small smile, and you can see approval shining in his eyes.

You wipe your face on your scarf–that is, Scopper’s sash–and rest against folded arms, now tired from the surge of emotion.

A few minutes later, a crewmate you’ve never talked to slides into the empty seat next to you, making you tense. Tall and lanky, he has a sort of eccentric look, even for the crew. Lots of pink hair beneath a strange cap, wearing a striped short-sleeved shirt over a solid-colored long-sleeved one. You remember his name–the others called him Mr. Momora (and the ‘Mr’ seemed to be required.) He’s looking at you like he wants something.

Unsure if he’s about to get mad, you lean back to the other side a little, toward Scopper. “C-Can I help you?”

“You play music?” Mr. Momora asks.

The question startles you for a moment–how did he know?–until you remember that you mentioned it during your fit of rage. “...Yeah.”

“What do you play?” His gaze is piercing and expectant.

“Ukulele,” you say, and sigh wistfully. “I had this beautiful tenor ukulele… A real fancy one, deep red wood with gold trim. Like the colors of the Oro Jackson. It was a gift...” A friend had brought it back with them from their trip to the North Blue. Your face falls as you recall its fate. “It was looted off the Marine ship by those pirates. I guess they could tell it was worth something.”

“Ukulele,” Mr. Momora repeats. You’re not sure that he heard anything else you said. “Okay. Okay. That works. Yes!”

You flinch when he pumps his fist in the air, and then he tears out of the room so fast his chair is knocked over. You stare after him, bewildered.

“He wants to play the song he wrote,” Taro explains, sounding irked.

“He writes music?” You can’t help the marvel in your voice. It wasn’t unheard of for pirates–sailors from all walks of life played or at least enjoyed music to pass the long days at sea. You had even heard of a whole pirate crew composed solely of musicians. But it still felt strange. What kind of music did pirates like?

“Yeah, and he’s really annoying about it,” Taro says, “gets a big head because he can play more than one kind of instrument. Complains that we can’t. ‘I can’t bring my vision to life like this,’ he says.”

“How many of you can play?”

“Three of us. Mr. Momora plays string instruments, mainly. I play drums. Moony plays bass. That’s as far as musical talent goes on this crew.”

For three people, that was a good balance of instruments. “I don’t see the problem?”

“The problem is that he’ll go and write songs with multiple string parts, for example, and then get mad when no one else can play them. Like it’s our fault he won’t just write for what we already know.”

“Oh…” It seemed that Mr. Momora was as odd in mannerisms as he was in appearance.

Mr. Momora returns a little later, each hand full with a large instrument case (guitars, it looks like, but you’re not sure) and a stack of papers in his teeth. He sets the cases down carefully, then takes the papers and smacks them onto the table in front of you.

“Can you read this?” he asks.

You look at the paper. It’s sheet music, clearly hand-drawn, though the staff lines are straight. He must have used a ruler. “Yeah, I can.”

That makes him excited, bouncing up and down for a moment before going to open one of the cases. As you thought, it’s a guitar, the rich, dark wood reminding you of chocolate. He places it into your arms without another word.

You look at the guitar, then up at him. “This is a guitar.”

“Yes,” Mr. Momora says, “her name is Shirley.”

That’s kind of cute, but he’s not understanding the problem. A ukulele has four strings, while a guitar has six. The change in string numbers changes the chord shapes and scale lengths, not to mention the tuning between the two instruments is different. You pluck a few strings and frown. The guitar strings are positioned for tuning from low to high–the ukulele is the opposite, with the highest string on the bottom.

“I know how to play the ukulele,” you say, “this is different.”

“You can’t do it?” Mr. Momora’s disappointment is a full-body thing, his posture slumping while his face is downcast.

Something about the way he says it tugs at your pride. "Hold on, now. I never said that.”

A few of the pirates chuckle.

Mr. Momora lights up. “Then you’ll play?”

“You’ll have to give me some time, first. I need to figure this out before I can sight-read anything.”

You start by tuning the guitar before testing the strings. They’re stiffer than what you’re used to, made of steel rather than the ukulele’s nylon, with a far tighter string tension. The size difference also takes some adjusting to. Even a tenor ukulele was much smaller than a guitar. The instrument feels gigantic in your arms, bulky and unyielding.

“They’re not so different,” Mr. Momora says. “I don’t currently own a ukulele, but I’ve played one before. Place your fingers on the four highest strings, and you’ll find it sounds similar. A G chord on a ukulele is a D chord on the guitar. Try it out!”

You do so, nodding to yourself when the sound comes out as he explained. Mr. Momora coaches you through the differences, taking out the second guitar to demonstrate (“her name is Rosanne,” he says) and you get the sense that he’s played a variety of instruments to be able to understand them so well. Spurred on by his enthusiasm, you keep going, eventually working up to practicing scales and chords.

Eventually you’re comfortable enough to try tackling the sheet music. Mr. Momora brings in a stand to hold it up, and you start out slow, not following the tempo but just getting the notes down first.

“I wrote this song as a two-guitar duet,” Mr. Momora says, “but no one else plays guitar–” he shoots a look at Taro, who flips him off–“so I’ve never gotten to play this with anyone.”

The way Mr. Momora watches you play is a little unnerving. He’s looking intensely between you and the sheet music, but you recognize it as elation rather than scorn. This is the first time he’s heard someone else play these notes.

“Alright. I think I’m ready,” you finally say, feeling a bit excited yourself. Even played slowly, it sounds like it’s going to be good, and that was with just one guitar.

“Yes? Yes! Okay, let’s do it, Marineling!” Mr. Momora exclaims, and you make a face at the peculiar nickname. “Hey, everyone! Shut up for a minute!”

A few crewmates tell Mr. Momora, in various ways, to go fuck himself. But they also listen, the whole room getting quiet. You’re not sure if it’s the pirates being strange again, or sweet, in their own way. Regardless, you would have preferred the background noise, discomforted by the attention now focused on the two of you. But it’s too late to back out now. And, to be honest, you find you don’t want to disappoint Mr. Momora.

He taps his foot in rhythm. “Five, six, seven, and…”

You begin the song. The first four measures of the intro are played by you alone, a momentary solo before Mr. Momora jumps in on the fifth. The verse is a string of six notes at a time, rising for four before settling for the last two.

You didn’t know what to expect from a pirate, but it wasn’t anything like this. You like the song immediately. Simple in structure, but effective, its tempo is slow and gentle, calling your own heart to relax. It feels like drifting. It feels nostalgic. Almost like a lullaby. If you weren’t glancing between the sheet music and your finger placement on the frets, you would have looked at Mr. Momora with awe.

By the time you get to the chorus, you can’t stop smiling. It’s such a peaceful, melodic tune. Uplifting the way sitting next to a loved one is. And maybe it’s just the harmony of the two guitars, but you feel linked with Mr. Momora as you play, the two of you working together to create something beautiful. A minute in, Mr. Momora starts whistling, accompanying the main melody with a slightly higher pitch.

You’re not confident enough with the guitar yet to look away from your playing for very long. Just enough for a quick glance up. You’re sure most of the crew is watching you, but there’s only one person whose opinion you’re really interested in. Your gaze flicks to Scopper. His head is tilted down, so you can see his eyes–he’s closed them, soaking in the music.

You look back down, cheeks growing warm as giddy satisfaction washes through you.

The song is short, only lasting another minute before you and Mr. Momora wind it down to a swift but gratifying close, playing the last notes at the same time. The final notes echo together, resonating for a few seconds.

Suddenly Mr. Momora is bent over you, his guitar discarded in order to grab your shoulders and start shaking you vigorously back and forth. “Yes! Yes! That was almost perfect!”

A few crewmates shout at him to stop. Your terrified yelp warbles from the strength of his actions, but it only lasts another second before Scopper intervenes, forcing Mr. Momora to stop and prying his hands off of you. The world spins, your disorientation growing with the booming clap of scattered applause. You cover your ears, dazed and overstimulated, until it passes.

“You okay?” Scopper asks, touching your shoulder, his grip far gentler than Mr. Momora’s was. “He rattled you around pretty good.”

“Um… Yeah. I think so.” You blink a few times to straighten out your vision, then return the guitar to its case. Your fingertips are sore from the tougher guitar strings.

“See, Taro?” Mr. Momora says, gesturing energetically. “See what you and Moony could do if you branched out?”

Taro rolls his eyes. “Just because it was a good song doesn’t mean I feel like learning a new instrument.”

“Why are you so agonizingly dull?”

“Man, fuck you. Crawl in a hole and die, Momo.”

“That’s MISTER Momo to you, chestnut-head! It’s not my fault you’re too stupid to play anything but drums!”

“Drums aren’t easy, asshole! You use all four limbs!”

You cover your mouth, caught between amusement and concern that another fight would break out. Just in case, you scoot your chair a little closer to Scopper’s, not thinking much of it until he rests his forearm on the back of your chair, grazing your shoulder.

“Don’t worry about them,” Scopper grins, “they’re loud, but they never go beyond shouting. And even if they did, I’m right here.”

Your heart thumps a little harder. His grin doesn’t subside for a second, and despite the shades, you get the sense that he’s focused on you.

“What? What is it?” you ask.

“Look at you,” Scopper inclines his head toward the guitar case. “An artist and a musician… Multi-talented, aren’t ya?”

You bury your face into the folds of the sash, the heat beneath your skin spreading. “Stop…”

“Hah, alright.”

Earlier in the day, you had thought that maybe the roller coaster of emotions you had been strapped to was dying down now that the trip to the Marine outpost was underway. How vastly wrong you had been proven so far. How foolish of you to think otherwise. But when you looked past the moments of fright and tension, what remained… Maybe it wasn’t so bad.

You sneak another glance at Scopper. He’s still grinning. You look back down, smiling.

Not so bad at all.

The crew’s attitude toward you changes after that evening. Gone are the steely looks and stiff posture. Many of them start openly conversing with you at times, being as friendly, if not more so, than the Marine crew was. Standing up for yourself must have earned their respect. They’re still rough around the edges, and you’re still nervous around them, but the lack of hostility is a huge weight off your shoulders, and you sleep better that night than you have in weeks.

Day Four.

You should have seen it coming.

Afterwards, you feel like an idiot. Because it happened on the Marine ship, you didn’t think it could possibly happen again so soon. But of course it would, of course the fear and stress these past few days would come to a head. You should have seen it coming, but you didn’t, and it catches you unawares.

You’re showing Shanks and Buggy how to mix paint when it begins. The dulling of sounds like someone’s put earmuffs on you, until you only hear the blood rushing in your ears. You trail off in the middle of your explanation of basic color theory, staring at the palette, the smears of colors blurring together.

“Y/n?” You hear someone say, but you don’t know which boy it is.

The air in the room is stiflingly hot, your body prickling with sweat. You peel off Scopper’s sash with trembling hands, but it doesn’t help. You need fresh air, you need to get on deck before you pass out. You try to get up but find the rest of your body is shaking, too, including your legs, and you stagger.

“Hey, what’s wrong?!”

Shanks and Buggy both jump to their feet, holding you up.

There’s an instant, deep-seated sense that something terrible is going to happen. You don’t know what, but the fear is instinctive, a gut feeling like you’re being hunted. Suddenly your chest gets so tight it feels like you’re choking, like you’re being held underwater with no way up for air.

“Can’t breathe,” you gasp.

“I’ll get help!” Shanks dashes out of the cabin.

Buggy supports you, helping you step and stumble toward the door. Even though your head is spinning, he keeps you from falling, strong for his age thanks to the rigors of pirate life. You make it outside, but the change doesn’t help. Chest heaving, panting like you’ve run for hours, and flooded with terror, you sink to your knees. Your heart is beating way, way too fast.

I’m going to die here.

Men are gathering around you now, looming presences and eyes that compound the panic. Your hand comes to your chest. None of the air you gulp down is getting to your lungs, and yet your heart is pounding so hard you’re certain you’re having a heart attack. Either that or the suffocation will kill you.

I’m going to die here and mom and dad will never know what happened to me.

“Get back! Give us space. Go back to what you were doing! You too, Buggy, Shanks.”

Roger’s voice. He crouches in front of you, pressing two large fingers to your pulse, and focuses.

“What–?” you breathe out, unable to verbalize the whole thought. What is happening to me? Why am I dying?

“It’s going to be okay, Y/n,” Roger says, “you’re having a panic attack.”

Of course. A panic attack. None of this is a new experience, is it? But the knowledge helps like a knife in a gunfight. Recognizing it for what it is almost makes it worse, in a way, because you can’t stop it. Can’t use rational thought to convince yourself you’re okay, can’t tell your body that there’s no real danger. And you’re not sure that’s even true, because there’s no way you’re not about to have a heart attack. Your heart is beating a dent inside your ribs, like it’s going to burst out of your chest.

You teeter, about to collapse. Roger guides you down until you’re laying on your back.

“Gonna die,” you choke, barely able to get the words out.

“You’re not gonna die. I’m getting you back to your parents, remember?” Roger says. “I know it doesn’t seem like it, but you’re breathing.”

Roger sits down next to you. If any of the crew is watching, they’re doing it from far away enough that it doesn’t crowd you.

“Can I talk to you? Is that okay?” Roger asks.

You nod shallowly, gasping.

“Have you had a panic attack before?”

Another weak nod.

“Then you know that this is temporary,” Roger says. “This feels awful, but it will pass, like it always has.”

You grab onto the words, repeating them in your head. But your chest hurts so much, and your lungs are on fire, and you’re so sure you’re going to die.

“My chest,” you heave between breaths, “Dying… Alone.”

“You’re not,” Roger says, and then, realizing it’s not helping, switches tactics. “Besides, even if you were dying–you’re not alone. I’m right here. I know I’m not your ideal company. But I’m here, and I’m not leaving.”

Not alone. Head swimming, heart pounding, whole body in the grip of terror–but you’re not alone.

“Is there anything I can do? Does touch help?” Roger asks.

You can’t form a proper sentence anymore, so you hold out your hand in confirmation. Roger takes it, large hand wrapping around yours, not squeezing, not rubbing the back, but just holding it.

“Remember what I told you about the Oro Jackson? About the wood from the Jewel Tree, Adam?” Roger says. “Look at the hull. See the patterns in the wood grain?”

You turn your head. Beneath the gold-trimmed railing, the hull’s rich, syrup-brown wood has little waves and whorls.

“Tom said that type of hardwood is called ‘open-grain.’ Try and see how many stripes you can count in ten seconds.”

You try and focus, until your floating vision stills enough to count individual stripes in the wood. You aren’t able to keep track of the number, just look from one line to the next. A while later, Roger says, “Do it again, if you can. Ten more seconds.”

Unable to process time right in your current state, each interval seems to drag on for hours. Roger waits patiently, prompting you to count now and again. The external focus, plus the touch of his hand, is grounding. Slowly but surely, the symptoms start to fade, the cloud of panic thinning until it’s no longer clogging your lungs.

Gradually, existence becomes bearable again. Your breathing slows, though you can’t stop shaking.

“How’re you feeling?” Roger asks, his voice no longer sounding like it’s coming through a wall.

You blink at the sky. The salty ocean air is cool in your lungs. “...Tired.”

Tired is an understatement. You’re exhausted, in every sense of the word. All you want is to rest, but your muscles won’t stop twitching.

Roger takes you to bed. The height difference between you is too great for him to comfortably support you while walking, so he opts to pick you up instead, holding you against his chest like a child. You’re too drained to be embarrassed, only closing your eyes and leaning into him.

In the crew’s quarters, Roger helps you into a hammock. Even though your body feels like it weighs three times as much as usual, you don’t think you can fall asleep with how much you’re shaking. But your eyelids flutter closed, and the next thing you know, someone’s nudging you awake, the room now dark and your body now still.

You squint. A familiar pair of alluring eyes are watching you, their owner crouched down to your level.

“Scopper?” you mumble.

“Yeah, it’s me. Sorry to wake you, but Roger said you should eat,” he says. “Are you hungry?”

You sit up with a groan, a mild headache pulsing at your temples. “Yes… Head hurts, too.”

“Probably dehydrated. You were sweating pretty bad. Let’s get that taken care of, yeah?” Scopper stands up and offers his hand.

You can’t help but smile wryly, even though you take his hand. “Do you think I’m gonna fall?”

“I’m not taking any chances this time,” Scopper grins, helping you stand. He squeezes your hand before letting go, and you feel as if his fingers were gripping your heart itself in that moment, a brief ache in your chest from the action. “Oh, wait a second.”

Scopper picks something up off the floor–his sash. Someone must have brought it while you were asleep. This time, you don’t tense when Scopper wraps it around your neck.

“There you go, all set. Shall we?”

It’s past dinnertime. The night watch is out now, the rest of the crew lounging in various places on the ship. Scopper takes you to the galley, where a portion of that evening’s dinner has been set aside for you.

You elect to eat right there in the galley rather than in the mess room, not wanting to be around the rest of the crew for the time being. Scopper sits across from you. You’re not sure why, as there’s no one else around to bother you, but you appreciate his company nonetheless.

Your panic attack immediately comes to mind, and with it, the inevitable shame. You hate the loss of control more than anything, but even worse was having witnesses, people seeing for themselves that you couldn’t keep it together. These pirates already knew you were a wimp, but now they saw how far it went. Your eating slows until you stop entirely, staring through your plate, vision shifting as you start to detach from yourself.

“Don’t like it?” Scopper asks.

Your vision snaps back to normal and you’re back in your body once more. “What? Oh, no. No, it’s good. That’s not it…”

Scopper tilts his head. “You’re thinking about earlier.”

“Yeah,” you sigh.

He watches you, thoughtful. “Does that happen a lot? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“It’s fine,” you say. “Um… It varies, but I usually get them once a month or so. I had a really bad one after the Marines were killed, naturally. So I didn’t think I’d get another so soon. I should have known better…”

Scopper frowns. “You mean back before we found you?”

“Yes, two days before.”

“So you went through it by yourself.”

You bite your lip. Just like your most recent panic attack, during the one on the Marine ship, you had been certain you would die alone. Unlike the recent one, though, there had been no audience. “It wasn’t so bad,” you lie. “There was no one to see it, at least.”

“Does that make it better?” Scopper asks.

“It does. I hate when people see me like that. I just feel…” You try and think of the most fitting word. “...Pathetic.”

“Hm… I’ve heard that sentiment before.”

You give him a puzzled look. “What do you mean?”

“Well…” Scopper says slowly, like he’s not sure if he should be sharing it, “I heard a crewmate say the same thing after his panic attack.”

You drop your fork. “Wait, wait. Someone on this crew gets panic attacks? A pirate? Who?”

“If I told you, he’d beat my ass,” Scopper grins sheepishly. “It’s not as frequent as yours, but yeah, it happens every once in a while. Surprised?” Your open-mouthed stare is confirmation enough, making Scopper chuckle. “You don’t have to worry about what the crew saw earlier today. They’ve seen it before. Pirates come in all shapes, sizes, and conditions. Did you think there was some sort of criteria to become one?”

“I guess so… From my parents’ stories, I always figured pirates were all nasty, heartless types.”

“And what do you think now?” Scopper’s gaze is intense.

“I think… they’re just people,” you say. “Maybe some are mindless killers. But it can’t be all of them. I mean, you guys are different... I’d have never imagined anything like this week could take place. Not in a million years. Pirates, going out of their way for someone like me? It wouldn’t happen in my wildest dreams.”

“If there’s anything I've learned from sailing with Roger,” Scopper says, “it’s that reality is often far stranger than anything we can dream of. It’s a wild world out there. One only needs to take to the seas to see it for themselves.”

You smile wistfully. “I probably won’t get to see anything like that, then. Since I’m not a Marine…”

“Why?” Scopper asks. “Why didn’t you become one? Seems like the logical conclusion, given your parents.”

“Why do you think?” you give him a look. “I mean, you’ve seen how I am. You saw me earlier. Even if I wanted to, Scopper, I… I don’t have what it takes.”

“Trust me–we’ve had our fair share of clashes with the Navy, and it doesn’t take much to enlist.”

“Well, I don’t even have that,” you say bitterly.

Scopper falls silent.

“I’m sorry,” you sigh. “It’s kind of a sore subject… I’ve always been anxious, for as long as I can remember. Nothing happened to make me this way. I’m just not cut out for the challenges of a life at sea.” Your voice lowers. “I’m barely cut out for life on land…”

For a while, Scopper doesn’t respond. He gets up, taking your cup as he goes, and your first thought is that he’s disgusted with you, that he’s had enough and is leaving. But all he does is refill your cup with fresh water before returning to his seat.

“Be that as it may,” Scopper says, sliding the cup to you, “it’s not so bad. There are plenty of hardships to this life that I’m glad you’ll never face.”

“Hm…” You take a sip, contemplating. “Why did you become a pirate?”

“Freedom,” Scopper says without hesitation. “Complete and total freedom, before anything else.”

You think of the pressure your parents lay on you to find a job they approve of, and how much you just want to make art and music and nothing else.

“It sounds nice,” you admit, before your thoughts turn to the fallen Marines. “But the fighting… The death… Is it worth it? I’ll never forget the sight of the bodies. The sounds of their screams. I never want to experience anything like that again. I can’t do it…”

Scopper nods. “It’s okay, you know? That you can’t.”

You stare at him, a little awestruck. No one’s ever told you that before. What a concept–you, acceptable the way you were…

“You saw it for yourself. Life can be wickedly cruel. A world like ours will never be wanting for gentle people.” Scopper reaches across the table, taking your hands in his. “These hands of yours create, rather than destroy. That’s worth something! Pirates like us are common. People like you–kind people, creative people–those are the ones who make the world a better place, if you ask me.”

At first, you’re too stunned to reply. Scopper’s thumbs idly rub the backs of your hands. Your face gets warm, and you tuck your chin into the sash to hide, but it only fills your nose with his scent. Then you smile, bashfully meeting his eye.

“There is nothing common about you.”

Scopper grins. “Oh? There isn't?”

“No. Not you, not your Captain, and not your crew.” You glance away, heartbeat picking up. “I may never forget what I saw on the Marine ship. But I won’t forget about my time here, either. I won’t forget about the strange, frightening, yet oddly-considerate pirates who took me home. I won’t forget Roger or Rayleigh or… or you.”

When he doesn’t respond, you chance a look and see that the intensity has returned to his eyes. He glances at your hands, still grasped within his, and you follow his gaze. After a beat, you curl your fingers so you’re holding his hands back. The action sends butterflies flitting through your stomach, but you find that you don’t mind it so much. This type of anxiousness–it’s not all that bad.

What am I doing?

You look back up, and Scopper meets your eye. For a while–you don’t know how long, but it feels endless–no one speaks. His hands lightly squeeze yours, and you return the pressure. There’s a faint blush on his cheeks that spikes your heart rate once you notice.

“Um…” you giggle nervously. “If I told anyone back home about this week, no one would believe me.”

“Bah, who needs their belief?” Scopper tosses his head dismissively. “We’ll know that it happened. That’s good enough.”

“Yeah… You’re right.”

Another period of silence hangs between you, until Scopper clears his throat. “You should finish your meal. Keep your energy up. Also, Spencer’s a real bitch about food waste.”

You laugh. “Okay. I need my hands back, first.”

“Ah, I suppose you do…” Scopper lets go, but with reluctance. You’re not sure you can still eat with the little flips your stomach is doing, but you manage anyway. The rest of the conversation is light, mostly coming from him while you finish your food.

Scopper walks you back to the crew’s quarters. There are other crewmates getting ready to turn in, but you no longer feel self-conscious around them, now armed with the knowledge that your panic attack is old news.

“You’re not going to bed?” You ask as you settle into the hammock.

“I will, in a bit.” Scopper pushes your hammock so it’s gently swaying. “Sleep well, Y/n.”

“Thank you.” You say it softly, but the gratitude rings sincere. You aren’t just thanking him for his well-wishing, but for the entire conversation, for the compassionate words spoken when you needed them most.

The smile he flashes tells you that he understands.

[Part 3]

#one piece #one piece x reader #one piece x you #one piece x y/n #scopper gaban x reader #gaban x reader #scopper gaban #gol d. roger #zen writes

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koalaray · 2 years

Text

Quiet As A Mouse

Loathsome Leonard x mouse!yokai!reader

The circumstances under which Leonard met you were less than ideal. The Mud Dogs were running from the Hidden City Police and at one point decided to split up.

Leonard made a regretful decision next. He slipped inside a small bakery, being lucky enough to find the door was unlocked.

Normally he would never do such a thing, but the lights were out, the shutters were closed, the shop couldn’t have been open to the public.

The problem was, Leonard didn’t stop to think that perhaps since the door was unlocked that meant that the owner was inside.

Slamming the door behind him, Leonard let out a sigh. Finally he was safe. But suddenly he was pulled from his thoughts by the sound of someone clearing their throat.

Leonard took a moment to glance around before turning his gaze downward. And there you were. A short, albeit adorable, mouse yokai.

You did not look happy. You were glaring up at Leonard with your arms crossed over your chest, your large ears twitching in irritation.

“Can I help you,” you asked.

Your tone was dripping with sarcasm, but Leonard couldn’t help but think how beautiful your voice was.

Leonard knew his chances were low, but he may as well try. So he collected himself and cleared his throat.

“Yeah, um, listen little mouse, I just need a place to lay low for a bit. I swear I’ll be out of your fur as soon as possible, just-“

“Ok,” you said.

“Wait seriously? Just ‘ok’?”

“Ok and some of the loot,” you smirked.

Leonard scoffed.

“Listen here you little rodent. I am not giving you any of our loot so-“

He was interrupted by a knock on your door. Your smirk grew.

“Oh my, that must be the police. It sure would be a shame if someone were to let them in-“

“Okokok, you have a deal, you can have some of the loot, just please hide me, I can’t go back to jail,” he begged.

Leonard was glad Danny and Mickey weren’t here to see this. They would never let him live this down.

You nodded in satisfaction before gesturing to the counter. Without hesitation, Leonard ran and leaped over to hide behind it. He listened closely to your conversation with the police.

“Oh yea, he came in here earlier.”

You traitor!

“I kicked him out though. He ran off that way.”

Ok, so you’re not a traitor.

“Yeah, I hope you find him. He was really annoying. So full of himself too.”

But you are still one mean mouse.

Leonard stayed hidden behind the counter, even after he heard the door close. Just to be extra careful. He closed his eyes for a moment and sighed. But when his eyes opened, he was met with your face right in front of him.

“EEEP!”

“You scream like a girl!” You laughed.

Holy shit, your laugh was adorable! Leonard hated being laughed at, but for some reason he decided he wouldn’t mind if it was you. Hell, you could laugh at him all you want, so long as he got to hear it. Leonard smiled just a bit and laughed softly.

“Alright alright, so when do I get my cut of the loot?”

Oh yeah. That. Leonard had hoped you would forget. What was he going to tell the guys?

“Yeah yeah, I’ll bring it by tomorrow night.”

You gave him a hard stare.

“Ok I know I’m a criminal, but you did me a solid. I’ll keep my promise, I swear.”

Leonard would never mean those words if he had said them to anyone else. But when you smiled in satisfaction he decided that he didn’t care what Danny and Mickey would say.

Besides, this was a perfect excuse to come back and see you. He would have to start brainstorming some more excuses for later. Leonard was definitely going to come see you as much as he could.

—————

Sure enough, Leonard returned the following night. This time however, you let him in through the back door. It was safer that way.

“Did you bring me my share of the loot?” You asked.

“Yeah yeah, I got it right here,” Leonard said with a sigh.

He tossed a bag on the floor in front of you. You began rummaging through it, a grin growing on your face. This were have you set for at least a month.

“This is great! I can make my bakery so much better with all of this,” you spoke with excitement. “I can fix that one leaky ceiling, buy a new window, and maybe even get some cool decorations!”

Leonard couldn’t help but smile fondly as he listened to you. He found you excitement quite endearing. And your smile? Oh, your beautiful smile. He was glad he kept his promise to you.

Suddenly, Leonard was pulled out of his thoughts when he felt something crash against him. He slowly looked down, only to see you. You were hugging him.

Shit shit shit, what was he supposed to do? No one had ever hugged him before. What did he do with his hands? Should he try and hug you back?

Much to his dismay, you pulled away before he could make up his mind. But when he looked at you again, Leonard felt a tug on his heart. The way you were looking up at him with such adoration.

“Thank you so much Lee! Can I call you Lee? That’s ok right?”

Without any thought, Leonard responded. Much quicker than he meant to as well.

“Sure. You can call me Lee,” he said with a smile.

Wait. A smile? Was he really smiling? Why was he smiling? What is happening to him?

Leonard quickly looked away, breaking eye contact with you. He cleared his throat.

“So uh, I guess that’s it then. You got your share.”

You looked down at the floor in deep thought. When you looked up again, Leonard saw your soft smile.

“Well, if you want,” you began softly. “You could always come visit.”

“Seriously? You’re inviting a criminal to come visit you in your home?”

Leonard couldn’t help but laugh at this. You were absolutely crazy. But he found that he enjoyed it.

“So that’s a no then,” you spoke, sounding almost disappointed.

“Hey,” Leonard said. “I never said no.”

“So you will come back and visit!”

“Yeah. I’ll come back.”

Leonard reveled in your excitement. He couldn’t understand how you could be so excited to have a criminal visit you in your own home. Leonard would never argue against though. He was started to like you. You seemed fun. And you were so kind to him.

Sure, Danny and Mickey would start to get suspicious eventually. But Leonard could care less when he was there standing before you.

Leonard couldn’t wait for his next visit.

#rottmnt #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #rise of the tmnt #rottmnt x reader #the mud dogs #the mud dogs x reader #mud dogs #loathsome leonard #loathsome leonard x reader

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the-flaming-nightmare · 4 months

Text

WIP Wednesday

Thank you very much for the tag, @anewkindofme! 💙

It was a bit of a tough decision to make on which of my thousands of WIPs to choose from lmao, but here's a sneak peek of the next installment of A Bright Life:

A worried frown marred Gil's face as he watched Malcolm from his office window.

The consultant sat at his desk, working on the last of his paperwork from the Tatiana case, and looking far more exhausted than what was normal for Malcolm. If Gil were being honest with himself, the kid looked terrible. His usually lively, shimmering blue eyes were dull and glazed over, and if the pink flush on his cheeks and the light sheen of sweat that clung to his forehead was anything to go by, he was likely suffering from a fever. It also didn't escape Gil's notice how Malcolm would grimace in obvious pain whenever he put too much pressure on the palm of his bandaged hand. When Gil had asked him about it, Malcolm just said he accidentally cut himself on some broken glass and (like always) had refused to elaborate any further than that. It was unfortunately becoming abundantly clear to Gil that Malcolm may have not been caring for the wound in the way he should have been.

Gil peered down at his watch to check the time. They still had two hours of their shift left to go, but Gil had already gotten done with his paperwork, and he highly doubted Malcolm was even going to have enough energy or strength to finish his own. There wouldn't be any harm in leaving a couple of hours early.

With his mind made up, Gil gathered his paperwork into a neat stack before pushing himself away from his desk and standing. He grabbed his long, grey coat from where it hung on the back of his chair and slid it on. The lieutenant then picked up the stack of papers before snagging his son's own coat off the couch on his way towards the door. However, when he opened it, he was met by one of his detectives–who wore a worried expression similar to his own.

"Hey, Dani," he greeted. "I was just going to go drag Malcolm away from his desk and head out a bit early for the night. Did you need something, though?"

"Well, he's actually what I came to talk to you about. JT was going to go on a coffee run, so I went to go ask Bright if he wanted anything, but before I could even get close enough to ask, he bolted towards the bathrooms."

Gil turned his head to look through the blinds of the window once more. Sure enough, Malcolm was nowhere in sight.

"He really didn't look well, Gil. He hasn't all evening." Dani sighed. "I'm worried. He looked fine this morning, but it's like a switch flipped once the sun went down, and he suddenly looked like death rolled over."

Gil looked back at her and said, "Yeah, I noticed that, too. I'm pretty sure he's had a fever since the nightclub."

The kid may have been able to act like everything was fine during Joey and Axel's arrest–like he wasn't overheating in his coat and swaying on his feet after the fact–but Gil knew better. There was almost nothing his son could hide from him, especially when it came to his health.

"He did look pretty sweaty after we got back. And the temp outside isn't exactly scorching."

"I have a feeling he hasn't been taking proper care of that cut on his hand and now might have an infection. It would definitely explain the fever and what I'm not assuming the nausea." Gil exhaled a deep, heavy sigh. "I thought about just taking him back home with me and cleaning his cut myself and giving him some ibuprofen, but I'm starting to think a trip to Urgent Care would be a safer bet."

"Here, let me take those for you–" Dani gestured for him to hand over the stack of papers in the crook of his arm, which he gladly did–"Go take care of Bright."

"Thank you." Gil gave her a small but grateful smile. "I promise I'll keep you posted on his condition," he added, already knowing the answer to the question she didn't voice out loud.

"I would appreciate that. Thanks," she replied, returning his smile before turning and walking away to turn his reports in.

Gil quickly made his way in the opposite direction of the men's room, trying not let his mind conjure up worse case scenarios of what he might find when he got there. No matter what condition or state of mind he found his kid in, Gil had to keep a level head and not allow his worries to pull him from the here and now.

Without a second of hesitation, the lieutenant pushed the bathroom door in once he finally arrived. He looked over at the stalls, gaze immediately zoning in on the only stall door that was partially closed. Setting his son's coat down on a dry section of the sink's counter, Gil walked over to the stall.

"Malcolm?" Gil softly called out as he drew closer, not wanting to startle the younger man or make him think he was someone else.

The only response he received was a groan from inside the stall.

Tagging (if ya wanna): @angelique-of-the-volturi-guard, @thegoeticcleric and @snarkythewoecrow

#tag game #prodigal son #gil arroyo #malcolm bright #dani powell #agere fanfiction #agere fandom #age regression #fanfiction #sneak peek #my fanfiction

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system753 · 1 year

Text

Adomania- The sense that the future is coming too quickly

I watch as the tar covers me, the sins of me as just a child.

A child exposed to early to exposure itself but when is too early for the unforgivable creatures of the earth.

Inflicting on others what was inflicted on you, seeing your memories and wondering how they began as they follow you in a single file line.

Hello, how are you this fine morning, monster?

—

Chapter 1 (toxic, abusive, and manipulative relationships-extreme paranoia-quick emotional state changes-please mention any additions)

The romanticization of death is ridiculous, escape is already romantic.

At least if he kills me, I’ll still escape.

I climb out of bed as silently as I can once he’s finally turned over in his sleep. My stomach aches to my back in stress, but I get up quickly to keep the bed from creaking for too long. My feet have made it too the floorboards, and immediately I am sprint walking with my hand hovering near the wall.

One, two, three, four, five, skip, seven, eight. I count the floorboards to the window in the small room. It would be harder for him to climb down the window with me than to go all the way across the house, I figured. The window was always open, heat made him uncomfortable, then angry. I climbed out as quickly as I could, as quietly as I could. I had watched right above him the whole time, he couldn’t feel eyes on him but I could still make sure his were closed. I was climbing down, cutting my fingers on thorns, anticipating the later itch of poison ivy, two different vines forming their own invasive patch on his outer wall, providing a questionably sturdy area to climb down.

Another cut, this one bleeding, before I dropped down. Leaves crunched under my bare, wounded feet, and I almost looked up to see if he had heard and would be staring out at me through the window.

I breathed, then I ran.

—

“Hello, how can I help you today?”

I stared at Derek. My customer service persona unfaltering, him looking back determined.

“You can agree to the job interview my work offered you.”

“I’m sorry sir, FBI job offers aren’t on the menu. May I suggest a simple black coffee? You seem like the type to appreciate good caffeine.”

I had leaned in and checked that no one would hear my mention of the FBI. My brother leaned in right with me.

“Amahle, this job is perfect for you, you’re perfect for it, in fact. You get better benefits, better pay, you can put your genius to work helping others. You can work with me even, you’ll be safer there than out here with nobody you know and no one you know will help you if you’re in trouble.”

I paused, him trying to see what I was thinking, once again failing miserably.

“So one black coffee then?”

He sighed.

“A muffin too.”

I let out a smirk.

“And one strawberry muffin.”

—

“I’ll go to the interview, but I’m wearing what I want and you’re driving me to it.”

I walked in holding a bag and coffee cup, handing them over to Derek as he stared up in shock.

“Stop making that face Morgan your breath will attract flies.”

He closed his mouth and took a sip of coffee at my side eye.

“ What prompted this decision?”

Impulsivity of course, and I was surrounded by micro aggressions in that Starbucks wannabe I currently work in.

I said so. He snorted.

“So you’ll do it as long as I agree to be late waiting for you and let you cosplay as black Elle Woods?”

“Look I’m sorry you’re bald but don’t comment on my hair care, also it’s not cosplay, I am black Elle Woods. Otherwise though, yes.”

He excused the quip at his hairlessness and looked at the ceiling.

“Alright, I’ll accept those terms”

—

“Ms. Woods, we’re gonna be late!”

Derek yelled at the door. I’d nearly finished, applying hot pink eyeliner after my outfit was finished. A matching pink cropped suit jacket and short pencil skirt with a white turtleneck and small purse. Once finished, I walked out and through the door past him.

“Well, let’s get going then.”

—

3rd Person POV

As Derek Morgan walked in that morning, five minutes late, he was followed by a woman, about the same height as him in all pink, including black braids with pink underneath them.

This of course peaked some interest.

They went their separate ways halfway in, him walking to his workspace and her to the head office.

“Who’s that?”

Asked Emily Prentiss, eyes still on the door that had just closed.

“My sister, Amahle Morgan, theyl’ll be joining this department once that’s over.”

“She’s signing her contract already?”

“No this is an interview, they’ve been getting offers for months though. She’s gonna get the job.”

“That’s a bold claim, what makes them such an asset they’ve been getting scouted?”

He looked up from the papers. Prentiss already leaning on the wall that surrounded each office. Deeply invested in his siblings appearance.

“She’s a genius, logically gifted sure but more than anyone I’ve ever met apart from her they’ve emotionally intelligent. They’ve got this thing where if you tell ‘em the first three fictional characters and they can tell you things about your life story you never consciously considered.”

Emily thought in interest for a minute, nodding before stepping away and walking off, thinking about what characters she thinks of.

—

“So why should I take this job?”

Amahle sat in a flat cushioned chair, taking off her jacket and making eye contact with an older, brown haired white man.

“Wouldn’t that question normally be reversed?”

“You guys are the ones that offered me the job, I decide whether I want to take it.”

Amahle said, a small grin present on her face, as one always had to be now.

“That’s bold. Fair, though. My name is Aaron Hotchner, if you accept the job you can call me Hotch.”

Amahle’s grin widened.

“Tempting.”

—

About 30 minutes later, all but two members of the unit were fully interested in what could be happening behind that door, and whether they’d have another Morgan in the BAU soon.

Another 30 minutes and the woman that had been eavesdropping by the door heard footsteps. Signaling to the others and hurrying back to her desk, followed quickly by the others who had huddled around poor Derek Morgan’s space.

The door opened, Amahle walking out before Hodge.

An empty ID card waiting to be set up on a pink lanyard (likely brought herself just in case).

They looked around, reading faces. Somehow everyone who had just scattered knew they’d been found out. She held up her card.

“As of tomorrow afternoon, I’m the BAU’s newest doctor.”

One of the people who had still been working before looked up.

“Excuse me, did you say you’re a doctor?”

She nodded, her eyes smiling with her lips.

“Yes, and you must be Dr. Spencer Reid them?”

#Spotify #spencer reid #criminal minds #spencer reid x oc #black oc #bimbosinSTEM

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4015benson · 1 year

Text

We’ll Figure It Out

Continued from here. @6313stabler

Olivia didn’t want to believe that the OCCB would actually close. They had a good team, they’ve brought several criminals to justice and in doing so, brought down some of the most dangerous criminal organizations. So, for anyone to think that disbanding this team was a good thing was absolutely baffling to the Captain.

Though, Olivia Benson did understand needing to take care of oneself and one’s family, but this didn’t seem like the right way to do it, so admittedly, Ayanna’s decision had shocked her, troubled her even, but she was doing it for her family, so it was a very complicated situation all around.

But it didn’t need to be. They could find someone else to run the OCCB if Ayanna took the promotion, someone to keep the task force alive and running. Even if there had been some faults and mistakes made within the group, but what task force or Precinct didn’t have those? Even the SVU had their own fair share of mistakes, but they continued to protect those in need just as the OCCB was doing.

When Elliot explains the reasoning why he wasn’t allowed to run it, Olivia sighs. Yes, her first thought was Elliot taking charge, especially with Kathy’s case being closed, but she figures given all the discourse and uncertainty surrounding Elliot, they wouldn’t allow him to do so, which he found to be incredibly unfair and wrong. He was a big reason as to why two of the most dangerous criminal organizations were no longer a thing, he was the reason as to why so many dirty cops have been taken down, though not many people saw that as a good thing and that angered the Captain. Cops shouldn’t be dirty, cops shouldn’t be working for the other side unless undercover as Elliot did, but only with the sole purpose of taking them down. The way Elliot has been treated didn’t sit right with the Captain and she made sure that was known. 1PP allowed him to go UC, they wanted dirty cops to be flushed out, and yet, they were barely having his back with the fallout.

“Yes, but her case has been closed for months now. They can’t use that as an excuse anymore.” But she knew they were using other excuses as to why they wouldn’t appointment Elliot in charge. The UC assignment with the Brotherhood being one, his anger, his need to rebel at times but he’d come a long way - he’s changed. He thinks with his head and heart, he strategizes, he puts others before himself. He would make a good leader, Olivia believes, but given their relationship, they’d find her to be biased. But she wouldn’t say that if she didn’t believe it. She may be in a relationship with him, but she was also Captain when necessary.

“Brass allowed this UC, El. They’re only pissed about it now because it’s more public than they wanted.” But what in the hell did they expect? Elliot puts his life, and career on the line, and they only back him if it benefits them? But now that they’re being looked at in the negative light, they’re allowing Elliot to take the brunt of it all? No way in hell would Olivia allow that.

Frowning, she approaches him from behind as sets down the watch he’d just taken off of his wrist, her arms moving around his waist from behind and her lips pressing a kiss to this shoulder. “We’ll figure this out, El.” We because they were a team. Just because she wasn’t part of the OCCB didn’t mean she wouldn’t help them. She saw each and every one of them as family and part of the SVU team, so she’d have their backs, whether professionally or personally. “This city is safer because of what everyone there has done. It’d be the biggest mistake shutting you down.”

#went with them at home #hopefully this is okay #i feel like my writing sucks ughhh #( Daybreak. | Main )#6313benson

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timetakeover · 2 years

Text

[Also, just thinking about how much the Master hates the Doctor, especially by the time he's in his Dhawan!Master regeneration.

Dhawan!Master hates him more than any previous incarnation. He tried to spend a life not hating him, and it hurt. Love makes you vulnerable to so much hurt. The only thing strong enough to mask the love he has for the Doctor is to hate him instead. He hates himself and he twists that into hating the Doctor because it feels so much better to have someone to blame.

When he looks back on the horrible things he's done and feels overwhelming guilt, it's too painful to be introspective. He starts thinking about things he could've done differently, other choices he could've made, and then he stops. He doesn't want all this pain to be his own fault. He searches for someone else to blame.

As Simm!Master, it was easier to skip the guilt altogether. The drums were so loud. He was so busy, so manic, constantly moving, constantly distracted. There were moments where he'd sit, and think, and seethe, but then the drums, and the agonizing headaches they brought with them, would pull his attention away. He'd take the opportunity to jump to the next distraction. He'd push it away and push it away and never let himself think about what might happen when it finally caught up with him. His jealousy and resentment towards the Doctor is there, somewhere in the back of his mind, but it doesn't grow and fester the way it does in silence.

Missy tried so hard. She didn't have any other choice. The drums were silent for her, 75% of her distraction gone. In the years leading up to her imprisonment in the vault she tried desperately to keep distracting herself the way she always had before, but it wasn't working, and then in the vault, in silence and solitude, it was no longer even an option. So, she tried. She did everything the Doctor suggested. She sat with her feelings instead of running from them and let them tear her apart. She spent so much time crying, and regretting, and feeling all of it. Only for nothing to ever get any better. She spends this life suffering. She still dies. The Doctor still dies. Facing her problems didn't fix her. So, what was the point?

And then she's Dhawan!Master, and he knows there's no running, and he knows distractions won't work anymore, but he can't take it all on his own shoulders the way he did as Missy. He's exhausted. So, he deflects. Who stood next to him during all of those bad decisions? Who was in the perfect position to stop him, to help him, before it all got so bad? Who failed him? Betrayed him? He lets it fester. All the hate he felt towards him as Simm!Master and earlier, amplified.

He's like this because of the Doctor. The Doctor who's always been so condescendingly positive, who forced him into all that suffering as Missy, who keeps telling him he can choose to be different, to be good, but doesn't seem to have any answers as to how. The Doctor who abandoned him on Gallifrey way back in their first lives, who ran when all of the Master's red flags became too big to ignore. The Doctor's support feels so mocking when he looks back on it, so smug. He convinces himself that the Doctor's always liked their dynamic; the Master as the villain and himself looking so good and kind and heroic in comparison.

He's angry at himself. But, he convinces himself to be angry at the Doctor instead. And maybe it wouldn't be so bad if he really did feel hate and nothing else towards him. But, he loves the Doctor, more than he's ever loved anyone. That only adds to his anger; how weak and pathetic he must be to still love someone who thinks he's a monster, who knows hes a monster and has fully given up on him by this regeneration. All these centuries of pain and heartbreak and suffering become the Doctor's fault instead. A safer choice than sitting with his feelings again like Missy did. He can't get close again. He has to keep pushing the Doctor away. He can't bear to leave himself vulnerable like Missy was.]

#headcanons;

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aromanticbuck · 2 years

Note

While I must inform you that I am your new biggest fan and would like to know and everything at any time, I'd love hear a little blurb or something about my boy Jay if possible???

You can have so much about Jay at all times. I think I have the Core Four™ characters (Mouse, Jay, Erin, and Knox) fleshed out, for the most part. I wrote up whole backstories and created timelines for them way back in November, and I didn't lose any of those notes (go me) so I just have that information to reference whenever I need it.

And Jay has been a very fun character to play with in this universe.

Because he was so young when the prince (Justin) was taken and the kingdom kind of erupted into a panic, so he doesn't remember what anything was like before that. He only knows the fear that everyone lives in, now, and that feeds into how he makes his decisions and what he wants out of his life. The fear that he sees around him is what leads to him enlisting in the royal guard, and putting all of his energy and focus into that, and climbing the ranks, and that's the reason he's so close to King Hank, and how he gets into this position where he's engaged to Erin and unofficially in line for the throne.

His life has had this very kind of steady upward slope to it? There's been small changes, but always in a predictable direction. He enlisted, he climbed rank, he got rewarded for good work. That all makes sense to him. It's when he gets taken by pirates that everything gets really turned upside down, because it's the first time he's actually been faced with this huge change to his life that he hasn't been able to see coming. So his main internal conflict that he's working through over the course of the story I've kind of planned out (I'm still working on details, but I have the gist of it plotted out) is this stability versus change struggle, and here's the little blurb in his character notes that I wrote on that:

he grew up in fear, constantly looking for something more stable than his home, both in terms of his family and the town. Everyone was always so scared to do anything different, keeping to curfews and following routines that have kept them safe for so long. Jay worked from a young age, working to keep a roof over his family’s heads while his brother took on an unpaid apprenticeship. He enlisted to strengthen the protection everyone he knew was so desperate for. He took promotions and worked far away from his family so that he could send more money back home, providing stability from afar. His life kind of got planned out for him after he joined the royal guard, and it was easier and safer to just follow this path being laid out in front of him. It’s not until he gets dragged to Mouse’s ship that things start changing and he realizes there’s more options for him than just following the path, that he can choose his own path. But that means giving up the ease and stability he’d been relying on for his entire life.

Personally, I think it's very funny that Jay goes his entire life leaning on stability and the comfort of that and then he meets the pretty pirate man and has this "wait a minute..." epiphany about what that stability actually is

#answered #meeplanguage #alex says things #pirate's life*

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what-is-even-going-on-blog · 2 years

Text

Entry #1:

thank you? (i think)

Can anyone tell me what's going on with straight college boys? No really, what is going on in their heads? They pretend like they know what they want in a girl, and tell you what they seemingly want, but in reality, I'm not sure they know at all. I think I've got it figured out though. If you ask me (which nobody did) they want sex, they want freedom, and they want a girl to be at their back and call whenever they're bored. I'm 20 something now and a Junior at University and I'm just beginning to understand why I hear so many women say they’re done with men. Though if I'm being completely honest, I haven't really dealt with "men". I've only dealt with boys; selfish, immature, unreliable, and frankly quite disgusting boys. And the crazy thing is, I'm still attracted to them, it's the worst! I tell myself not to get close and that I'm better off alone, which is true, but I still get caught in the trap.

Of course, I want love, sex, marriage, and romance, but I've been alone my whole life and it just feels safer in my quiet little bubble. Why further complicate my life with an immature college boy when my solitude is so easy to reside in?

Most girls in college have dated throughout high school and university. They’ve had hookups or at least slept with one significant other but me, haha! Nope! I'm as virgin as they come. Some girls might feel ashamed or embarrassed but honestly, I'm okay with it. I don't see it as anything to be ashamed of because…girl all you have to do is look at the options of men who could potentially “deflower” me at this point in my life, and you would understand why keeping my body to myself feels like the best decision.

I work as a part-time cashier to pay for this apartment and rent is unfortunately due in a few hours as I write this. Not to mention I work in possibly the most common place in any town or city; the grocery store. As you can imagine, the job isn't glamorous in the slightest. Customers are rude, the managers only see employees as a number, and you meet some pretty interesting characters. Old ladies who look down on the “poor black girl” having no choice but to check out their groceries is one thing, but the creepy men who check me out are the worst of it. I won't lie, at times when some unfulfilled man decides to share his opinion on my looks, I do enjoy the small bit of entertainment to distract me from the dreadfully dull workday ahead. But their comments make me think; how am I supposed to respond to some of the strange things these men feel so entitled to say to me?

Just the other day, a college guy about my age, early 20s, came up to me after I helped his friend at the register. He stared at me but my first thought was that he was just giving me a friendly look or maybe he thought I was pretty. But nothing could have prepared me for what he was about to say. He looked at me with a very perplexed look in his eyes and hastily approached where I stood only to tell me one thing. He stared at me just a bit longer before he said “you look just like a black version of my ex!”. He then proceeded to explain how I was confusing him because I looked like her but I was black and my cheekbones were just a biiit higher. I had no idea what to say so I responded with the first thing that came out of my mouth; a quiet and reluctant “thank you?”.

Now I’ve had other men tell me that I was gorgeous or pretty, one guy I work with even told me I was a black queen (who I’ll explain more about in another blog post), but A black version of someone's ex is one thing I never thought I'd be called. I mean sure, those are words you can keep in your head all you want, maybe even tell your friends while they help you process how you're obviously not over your ex-girlfriend. But why on God's dear earth did you think that was something that needed to be shared with me? All I'm saying is college boys are weird, men are weird, and I have no idea what's going on. But neither do they, or any of us, but at least I got a good laugh out of it.

Love,

-a boring, single, black girl

#single girl problems #what is even going on #black girl problems #young dumb and broke #lifestyle blog #awkward black girl #black girl blogger #college blog #college struggles #20 something #why do men #why do men?

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wata-gyal · 1 year

Text

Noble:

This story takes place after the events of Bernie's comic called Frankenstein Alive, Alive. For those who are unfamiliar with this story The Creature gains the trust of a young lady, named Rachel who has been kept hostage by yet another mad scientist. The scientist intends to make his wife immortal through Rachel's baby. The Creature saves her, and the scientist and his wife end up passing away. Rachel has the baby before The Creature can take her to the nearest village. Ultimately he was left to take the baby on his own.

Other than that this is simply a one-shot sort of story. Venti has a heavy accent so her words are often chopped.

_____________________________

"Do you truly believe we did the right thing?"

She knew the answer despite the emotions behind it. It was loaded, aiming to get her to doubt her reasoning and succumb to the raging river of emotions behind her.

"Promet' eus, ya know da gyal would be safer wit'a own kind."

Her traveling partner was not convinced. Large hands clenched the tattered scarf about his neck as he continued forward.

"...But… what if they cast her out like they did me? I could not bear the thought. "

With her face towards the sky Venti

sighed for seemingly the umpteenth time today. This was not the first time she had heard this question nor would it ever be the last.

Rachel had passed away weeks ago and had left her daughter behind in the capable hands of "monsters". Prometheus had delivered the child himself and had no prior knowledge of the whole process. In fact, he had been trying to avoid playing nursemaid all together. Rachel's death haunted him and thinking of her mewling child only served to heap another mound of self hatred on his already broken heart. In any case though human younglings were small, helpless, and loud little things… They would make noise no matter how many times you told them to stop. As outcasts to the general populous they had to travel unseen and unheard. How would the child aid their endeavor? Surely, he understood why they couldn't go back to the town they dropped her off in.

"Dey won't do dat Promet'eus."

He placed himself before her, setting his stony gaze on her dark face.

"You don't know that!" He thundered

"To them she may very well be an outcast as well! They may shun her for her lack of family ties and would be called all sorts of names. They could abuse her, beat her...hurt the child as opposed to keeping her a-alive."

By this point Prometheus was shaking. Wave upon wave of sorrow crashed upon his back. He feared for the child and her safety….And rightly so! The world could be cruel and ultimately crush whatever fighting chance the child had. Venti stayed silent and guarded, not wishing to share these thoughts.

"...However, I understand that we cannot take her with us. I...p-perhaps we could stay close by, to see if they will do right by her."

Prometheus gave her an expectant look as his sentence trailed off. He wished to warrant a response from her.

"... An' for 'ow long woul' dis be happenin'?" She said after about a minute of pure silence and angry stares in his direction.

"A couple months."

She was silent once more.

"But, we could leave right after, and never return to this area."

She was still contemplating. It would be risky to stay anywhere for an extended period of time. Thankfully, they had the cold weather on their side and they happened to be almost completely illusive. Venti primarily took to the streams, rivers, and Prometheus traveled the rugged terrain under the cloak of night.

Another sideways glance in his direction her decision.

"*sigh* ….. Fine, but we are only stayin' for ONE mon't!" She hissed. This did nothing to scare her travel partner. He practically scooped the small merwoman in his oversized mitts and pressed her close to his chest in gratitude.

Once he set her down he took off in the direction of the town. After the shock wore off she soon followed after.

#my ficlet #Noble #the modern prometheus #original character #merfolk #adam frankenstein #or Prometheus

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itsapeterthing · 3 years

Text

Green || Bucky Barnes

pairing: bucky barnes x avenger!reader

summary: three times bucky realized you were more than a friend and the one time he finally admitted it (based on events from tfatws)

a/n: finishing this in time for the season finale tomorrow! reblogs and/or replies are super appreciated!!

word count: 3.1k

warnings: mentions of reader wearing a short dress, jealous bucky

masterlist || request || taglist

“Nice of you guys to call me.”

Your hands in your jacket pockets, you announced your presence as you strolled up to the group of four men standing outside of the police station. You could basically feel the tension in the air as each man had a resolute expression written on all over their faces.

“What’s going on here?” You asked, slipping your hands out of your pockets and gesturing towards the group.

“What are you doing here?” Sam asked.

You might have been nicer about the situation if you weren’t utterly pissed that the two men hadn’t informed you about the mission that they had gone on.

“Incase you forgot, Sam, you’re not the only one who’s had to pick up where someone else left off. It’s my job to keep track of you guys.” You said. “... Also I’m Bucky’s emergency contact.”

“Well,” The blonde man leaning against the police cruiser said. “You’re a little late. I handled it.”

Looking up at the man in front of you, you gave him no inclination of defeat.

“You must be John Walker.” You said.

“So you’ve heard of me?” He smirked.

You crossed your arms, stepping away from the man who you had seen on television playing the role of Captain America. You had heard about the decision moments before the government had first displayed the impersonator on screen, but it had been too late for you to do anything about it or to inform Sam or Bucky in time for his appearance.

“I’ve heard of everyone.” You deadpanned.

“Yeah?” He asked, standing up straighter. “And who are you?”

Just as you were about to open your mouth, you felt Bucky’s hand land on your shoulder. Turning to glance at him, you watched as he shook his head, giving you a serious look. Despite the fact that you were now tasked with keeping track of the former members of the group of Avengers and were one yourself, you had been able to keep your identity a secret. Although to the world you were “Sorceress”- the Avenger with magical powers similar to those of Wanda Maximoff- to members of the team such as Bucky you were Y/n Y/l/n.

He didn’t trust John Walker and he didn’t want to bring you into their own mess. Although Bucky had been avoiding Sam’s text messages, Bucky had kept in constant touch with you since you first met him after he had come back from the Blip six months ago- even going as far as spending time together multiple times a week in person- not because you had to keep track of him, but because the two of you genuinely enjoyed spending time together.

You were the closest thing he had to normalcy and he didn’t want the knockoff version of his best friend messing it up not only for himself, but for you too.

However, you didn’t see much of a way out of it. You weren’t going to just leave Bucky and Sam to handle the situation on their own, but you also didn’t see a way that you could work alongside them and not have John and Lemar figure out your identity sooner or later.

Gently taking Bucky’s hand off of your shoulder, squeezing it lightly before dropping it, you reached out your hand to John Walker.

“Y/n Y/l/n.” You told him. “Sorceress... and I guess the current caretaker of the Falcon and the Winter Soldier.”

Later, after the group had dispersed and you followed Sam and Bucky as they walked in the opposite direction, you were surprised when you heard Bucky’s tone of voice when he finally spoke up again.

“You shouldn’t have given him your name, Y/n.” He said.

You shrugged, hands tucked into your pockets once again. “It’s fine, Buck.” You assured him. “There wasn’t much else I could do. He was going to find out eventually-”

“Don’t act so casual about it. This is your identity- your life- and you’re just going to share it with some asshole like John Walker?”

“Woah!” You exclaimed, stopping in your spot. “What’s your problem, Buck? Why do you care so much?”

Noticing how both you and Sam were staring at him with furrowed eyebrows, trying to comprehend why he was making such a “big deal” about it, Bucky grew embarrassed, not understanding himself why he cared so much. Rather than admitting defeat however, Bucky threw up his hands, scoffing.

“Forget it, Y/n. I don’t care. Do what you want.”

And with that he picked up the pace, walking in the opposite direction of where you and Sam stood confused in your spots.

“I couldn’t have worn something- I don’t know- a bit longer?” You called to the three men ahead of you, following them into the club as you tugged on the hem of your short dress.

“This a club in Madripoor, Y/n.” You heard Zemo say. “If you wore anything else you would be giving us away.”

Groaning you steadied yourself in your heels following behind Zemo and Sam. You slowed your pace to walk besides Bucky who had insisted on being at the back of the line behind you- telling everyone that it would be safer for everyone if he kept their backs covered.

“How are you feeling?” You asked as quietly as you could in the loud club.

“What?” He asked.

“How are you feeling? With the while Winter Soldier thing? If you don’t think you can handle it we can find another way-”

“It’s fine, Y/n.” He said. “Don’t worry about me.”

Instead of letting it go, you gently placed your hand on his exposed, vibranium arm, causing him to stop in his spot, looking at you.

“Bucky, I’m serious.” You said. “You matter too. If you can’t handle it, I’ll find a way to get the information without all of this, okay? I care about you, Buck. Just say the word.”

He almost couldn't focus on the words coming out of your mouth as he tried to keep his eyes focused on your face, rather than trailing down your body, finally noticing just how short the dress that was adorning your body was. As good as you looked in green, he swore he would kill Zemo once he got what he needed from him for dressing you in that.

As gorgeous as you were, however, your words meant everything to him and he hung on to every single one- no matter what you were saying. Hearing the sentiment that you had for him and that you would stick your neck out for him of all people made him speechless.

Just as he was about to open his mouth however, the two of you began to feel the eyes of other partygoers staring the two of you down. As soon as you noticed, you quickly snatched your hand away from his arm and continued your pace in front of him, Bucky quickly following behind.

“Distracted?” Zemo asked as Bucky stopped beside him at the bar.

Rather than answering, Bucky remained silent, falling into character with the thought of your shared interaction still playing over and over in his mind.

Coughing on his hands and knees, trying to process what had just happened, all Bucky could hear was the obnoxious sound of the alarm blaring. When he opened his eyes again he saw the shipping container now consumed with flames and illuminated with a daunting red light. Recalling what had just occurred, he scrambled to his feet, calling out for you.

“Y/n?” He called. “Y/n!”

When he didn't immediately hear your voice, he began to feel his heart race in his chest. What if something happened to you? What if you were too close to the explosion? He wouldn’t know what to do with himself if something had happened to you. Just as he was beginning to start hyperventilating, the smoke catching in his chest causing him to double over and heave, he felt your hands wrap around either of his biceps.

“Buck?” You asked. “I’m- I’m so sorry. It happened so fast I couldn’t get a forcefield around everyone. Thank God you’re okay. I was so afraid something happened-”

Cutting you off, Bucky shook your hands off of his arms, instead pulling you into his arms. Although you and the super soldier had spent more quality time than you could count together prior to starting this mission, you had never hugged before, but being in his arms you couldn’t find a single complaint, instead silently wrapping your arms tightly around his torso, running your hands up and down his back.

“Hey it’s okay, Buck. I’m okay.” You said. “Let’s go, okay? Before this thing collapses on us.”

After that the two of you had followed Sam and Sharon into the area of shipping containers, taking out hitman by hitman along the way, when you had finally gotten through all of them, you watched as Zemo pulled up in a car besides the four of you.

“Nice ride.” You said as Bucky slipped into the front seat of the vehicle, yourself sliding into one of the seats in the back row.

“Thank you, Y/n.” Zemo replied, patting Bucky on the chest. “She’s a woman of taste.”

Bucky swore to himself for the second time within the past 12 hours that when given the chance he was going to kill the man beside him- with or without his therapist’s approval.

“You’re not going to move your seat up are you?” Sam asked.

“Nope.” Bucky said.

“That’s fine.” Sam conceded. “I guess I’ll just chill back here with Y/n.”

You laughed as Sam laid his arm against headrest of the backseats of the car.

“I’m fine with that.” You said. “Just me and my favorite person.”

Now Bucky knew that you were kidding, only teasing him to get a rise out of him, but glancing at the backseat and seeing Sam’s arm practically around your shoulders and you calling him your favorite person... just didn’t sit right with Bucky. Just as Zemo’s foot was about to hit the gas, Bucky shifted the car into park, swinging the door open and stepping out of the vehicle.

“What-”

“You can have the front.” Bucky said, swinging Sam’s door open.

“It’s really okay, Buck-”

“You said you wanted more space so you can have the front.” He said. “Go sit in the front.”

You watched as Sam turned to you, quirking his eyebrows before shrugging and stepping out of the car, switching to the passenger seat. You almost wanted to laugh as you watched Bucky squeeze into the backseat behind the passenger seat, his knees practically up against his chest.

“You good?” You asked.

Despite the groan that had involuntarily escaped his mouth from the discomfort of the front seat digging into his knees, Bucky nodded, stretching his arm out across the backseat, behind your shoulders.

“I’m great.” He assured you. “Now drive, Zemo.”

Although you didn’t catch it, the two men sitting in the front seat- despite their differences- couldn’t help but throw each other a knowing look before the car took off for their next destination.

“Hey!” Torres called. “I see you got your sleeve back!”

You chuckled as you turned to glance at the man stood beside you. Despite it being a joke, not a single hint of a smile cracked the man’s hard exterior. The only reason he didn’t walk out of the room on the spot was because you were standing beside him.

“He’s just in a bad mood today.” You said, reaching your hand out to shake Torres’. “I’m Y/n.”

Taking your hand and shaking it in his, he furrowed his eyebrows. “What are you doing hanging around these guys?” He asked. “...Not that you can’t handle yourself! Sam just won’t even invite me on these things.”

Pulling your hand away from his, you smiled. “Think you can keep a secret?”

As soon as you asked the question you watched as the confusion written all over his face grew even more and you could hear Sam chuckling in the background.

“I’m Sorceress.” You said. “Like the Avenger? I just try to keep my identity pretty secret, you know?”

As soon as you revealed your identity to him, you watched as the man’s face dropped and he turned to look at Sam who was standing behind him.

“Wait- she’s-” Torres stuttered.

Sam nodded, laughing.

“Yep.” Sam said. “She’s the one you’ve been hounding me about setting you up with.”

Although you weren’t paying attention to him, Bucky had already disliked how the conversation was going- finding Torres to be a little too friendly for his liking and not loving that you exposed your identity to him immediately- but when he heard Sam’s confession, he stiffened in his spot, hands balling into fists at his side.

“What? Dude!” Torres exclaimed, glancing back and forth between you and Sam before finally turning back to you, chuckling nervously. “He's just kidding! I would never have a crush on you- wait! That came out wrong! Not that you’re not pretty because you are- I just think you’re cool-”

You continued laughing as the man stumbling over his words in front of you, finding it endearing until you heard the super soldier scoff beside you. You glanced at him only to see him cross his arms while rolling his eyes before making his way out of the room.

Turning back to Torres you gave him a quick smile, pulling a card out of your pocket. “I have to go, but it was nice to meet you Torres. If these boys get in trouble again, make sure to call me first thing, okay?”

He took the card from your hand, nodding. “Uh yeah- yeah! Of course!”

With that you waved to both him and Sam before following the path Bucky had taken out of the room seconds before.

Seeing his figure pacing across the room, you threw your arms up in the air.

“What’s your problem?” You asked.

Stopping in his spot he turned to face you.

“What?” He said. “I don’t have a problem.”

You couldn’t help but scoff, crossing your arms.

“Uh yeah. You do.” You said. “Did I do something to piss you off or something? Are you mad at me for coming on the mission? Because I’m sorry if I wanted to help save the world and make sure you guys didn’t get killed in the process.”

Bucky just stopped and stared at you standing across from him with your arms crossed. He hated to admit it, but you look pissed at him. It hurt knowing that you were upset with him, but it hurt a little more knowing that you felt as though he was mad at you when in actuality that couldn’t be farther from the truth.

“Y/n.” He said, stepping closer to you. “I’m not mad at you.”

“Then why did you just storm out of the room?” You asked.

He couldn’t think of a reason besides the truth. He could lie and say that he was mad at you, but that wouldn’t solve the situation for anyone and could possibly strain your relationship farther- and that was the last thing he could possibly want.

The two of you stood there in silence, staring at one another as Bucky attempted to find the words in his head to ease your concern without exposing himself in the process.

But you were never one to back down with him.

“Bucky,” You said. “What’s the problem? What did I do? Why are you so angry-”

“Because I don’t like the way that guy was talking to you!” He exclaimed, throwing his arms in the air.

“What?” You asked. “What are you talking about?”

Bucky realized he was in it now. He couldn’t see a way out of it.

For the past week, Bucky couldn’t help but notice that he cared for you a bit more than friends should. Maybe he always did. He thought back to the times he would eagerly await your weekly lunches or the comfort he felt when you took him furniture shopping after seeing his empty apartment for the first time. He thought back to the times you would show up outside of his door when he was upset because you were the only person he trusted there with him in those intimate moments- he knew that you were more than just his colleague, but he realized now that you were more than his friend.

Recently it became more obvious, the burning in his chest he felt when others became a little too comfortable with you- he attempted to mask it with just wanting to protect you, but he knew you could handle yourself. He was protective over you so he wouldn’t lose you.

Just when you opened your mouth to speak again, he cupped your face in his hands. He watched as your eyes widened, but didn’t make any move to stop him. When he caught your eyes trailing from his eyes to his lips, he pulled you towards him, meeting your lips in the middle.

Maybe it was because he hadn’t kissed anyone in eighty years, but he had never felt the way he had in that moment before. He was so utterly consumed in you- the feeling of your hands reaching for his jacket, tugging him closer as you deepened the kiss, your soft lips against his, your warm breath against his face- he was lost in it.

When you finally pulled away, he didn’t want to let go, but leaned back anyway, staring at his world- you- that he now held in his hands.

“Buck...”

“I think I like you more than a friend.” He confessed.

You couldn’t help the smile that spread across your face at his words. You had always cared for Bucky as more than just your former fellow Avenger, but knowing that he felt the same as you was something you could hardly believe.

“I think I do too.” You laughed, then recalled what you had come in there for in the first place. “James, were you... were you jealous?”

Thinking back over the past week the two of you had spent together on the mission, he could almost laugh at the question you had just asked.

“You’re joking, right?” He chuckled. “Yeah. You could say I was a little bit jealous.”

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