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reidslibrarybook · 3 years

Text

Very Own Tooth Fairy

Pairing - Spencer and Daughter, Dad!Spencer x Mom!Fem!reader

Warnings - Language, mentions of blood

Summary - The loss of her first tooth leaves Spencer’s daughter in a state of despair.

Category - fluff

Word Count - 1.8k

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He closed his book, his ears perking up as he tried his hardest to detect a sound, any sound at all. Spencer instinctively got up and headed straight for his little girl’s room. It was quiet.

Too quiet.

The house hadn’t been completely silent since before your daughter was born. She had always been a noisy little girl. At first, it was sleepless nights filled with the booming cries of your restless newborn. You and Spencer knew that she would grow out of it, a phase that would come to pass. And the two of you were right, but what you weren’t expecting was for the high-pitched whines to be replaced with the running, jumping, and stomping of little toddler feet.

It wasn’t anything the two of you couldn’t handle, considering you both used to catch serial killers for a living, but it was quite bothersome to be deprived of the quiet that you had endlessly before your little monstrous pumpkin was born. Spencer always enjoyed her noisy nature, she was much like you. Aside from her curly hair and hazel eyes, she was a copy of you— stubborn, curious, and strong-willed.

Your daughter was never timid like Spencer was in his youth, she always dove in headfirst— which drove Spencer mad. The careless spontaneity that manifested after meeting you was long gone and substituted with an overly cautious, helicopter-dad. It was warranted, especially since your daughter was known to get herself into trouble that she could rarely get herself out of.

“Liv?” He opened the door to find what looked like a sleeping lump on her bed. He approached slowly, moving to make sure it was her.

It wasn’t.

Panic immediately set in as he opened the closet, looked under the bed, and checked the bathroom. She was absolutely nowhere to be found. Spencer ran down the stairs to see if his little girl was just messing around with him, hiding in a random nook or squeezed into a crevice. He was stopped by a soft summer breeze that came from the back door that was wide open.

His eyes widened. He had seen so many cases of child abductions in his time at the BAU, he just never thought it would happen to him. He ran out into the backyard screaming her name, probably catching the attention of all the neighbors.

He stopped yelling when the sound of a soft whimper reached him. He followed the noise, turning the corner and walking behind a little rose bush towards the side of your backyard. He found her, crouching down and crying into her hands.

He was flooded with relief. “Liv, I was so worried I lost you.” Spencer reached down to pick her up as she cuddled into his touch, crying softly into his shoulder.

“What’s wrong, hm?”

She hiccupped, “I- I’m mouring.”

“I- I don’t know what you mean, sweetheart?”

She huffed, annoyed at her father’s lack of intelligence. She wiggled out of his grip and landed on the ground with her arms crossed. “I’m mouring, Daddy. Just like we did at Grandma’s funeral.”

She was referring to his mother’s funeral, the one she attended when she was two. It was a rough time for Spencer, especially since he lost the one person that connected him to his childhood. It was also a heartbreaking sight for Liv, she was so young. Too young to face the cruelty of losing her grandmother.

“Mourning, sweetheart. The word is mourning.”

“Th- that’s what I said.”

He crouched down so he was at her height. “Who are you mourning, Liv?”

“Tommy. He died five minutes ago.”

A look of horror dawned on his face. “Wh- who. Liv, who’s Tommy. H- how did you know h- he…” Spencer didn’t know how to continue his sentence without sending his daughter spiraling into another fit of sobs.

She used her long sleeves to wipe away the tears that wouldn’t stop falling from her face. “He died right in front of me, Daddy. He was all bloody and s- so scared. I- I love Tommy so much, Daddy.” She ran into Spencer’s arms.

What. The. Actual. Fuck.

She was tucked deep into his chest, bawling her eyes out as stifled cries were muffled by his shirt. “Liv, I need you to tell me what’s going on. Who’s Tommy?”

She sniffled, “Look.” She pointed towards a small, poorly made, black paper box. It was half-buried in the dirt and surrounded by red roses. She picked it up and opened the lid to reveal a bloody tooth.

“He came out earlier with b- blood all over him. H- he died. I had to make a basket for him like the one we put Grandma Diana in. I w- was having a funeral, Daddy.”

He started to chuckle in between words, promptly soliciting a horrified reaction from his mourning daughter. “Sw- sweetheart. Your tooth is an inanimate object, it can’t feel anything. And I believe the word you’re looking for is casket.”

“But Tommy was all bloody.”

“I know, but you’re going to lose all of your teeth eventually.”

She began crying again. “ALL OF THEM ARE GOING TO DIE?”

“They’re not dying, Liv. They need to leave so your new adult teeth can grow in.”

“I don’t want to replace them, Daddy. They’re all so important to me.”

He pulled her into a tight hug. “I know, I know. It’s the way the world works. Buttttt, did you know that when someone loses their baby teeth, they get a visit from the tooth fairy?”

“But I don’t want the tooth fairy, I want Tommy!” Liv’s eyes shut as an ongoing stream of tears fell from her eyes.

Spencer continued to hold his daughter, sitting on the grass of their backyard while she continued to cry into his arms about the inevitable death of the rest of her baby teeth. He looked down at her five minutes afterwards to see her sound asleep with her chest rising and falling evenly. He smiled fondly and tucked a strand of her hair behind her ears.

Making that black box must’ve taken a lot out of her.

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Liv eventually woke up with her eyes all swollen from the excess tears she had shed hours ago. She walked into the kitchen in a solemn mood, begging and pleading for ice cream so her grieving pain could be consoled.

All she did was mope around for every second of the whole day. He hated seeing her stuck in such a state in despair, even over something as trivial as losing a tooth. The smallest things meant everything to a young child, he knew that from experience.

His mother would always find ways to cheer him up even when it seemed like he could never get over his feelings. Whether it was board games, playing chess and letting him win while he was still mediocre at best, reading obscure books, or letting him ramble on about the silliest of things, he always felt better after she attempted to make him happy again.

Despite his genius intelligence, he was nowhere near creative— not like you or his own mother. But he didn’t have either of you to rely on, so he had to figure something out by himself.

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The two of you were sound asleep when Liv came rushing into your room, screaming and shouting both your names as she jumped onto the bed and tackled you both. “Mommy! Daddy! Wake up!” She continued to use her tiny, yet surprisingly strong, hands to shake you until all your attention was on her.

“Liv?”

“Mommy! Look what was in my room last night!” She lifted up a little basket full of flowers whose stems were connected to a little plastic tube at the bottom filled with water so they could stay fresh. Scattered throughout them were her favorite snacks and candies. In the center was a large toy that you and Spencer had agreed to give her on her birthday.

You looked at Spencer suspiciously while gently caressing your daughter to calm her down. “What’s this, Liv?”

“I woke up last night and I saw the tooth fairy!”

“You did, huh?” Your mind wandered back to when you came home the night before.

Spencer clicked the door closed softly, making sure that the creaking wasn’t loud enough to wake your sleeping child.

“What are you doing?” Spencer turned around immediately by the sound of your voice, startled by your presence.

“When did you get home?”

“Don’t change the subject. What are you doing? Most importantly, what are you wearing?” You looked him up and down, laughing at his outfit— one you’d never thought he’d wear.

“I- It’s complicated.” He used his hand to scratch the back of his neck.

“What’s more complicated than you wearing a tutu and fairy wings?”

The two of you laughed together quietly as he gave you a quick peck on your lips. “I’ll explain tomorrow, let’s just go to bed.” You nodded, thoroughly amused by his clothing choices.

“Mhm. The tooth fairy had wings with sparkles flying around and a pretty tutu and a wand and left the basket for me.”

Spencer chimed in from the back, laughing at the fact that there were absolutely nothing of the sorts. “Sparkles?”

“Yeah, Daddy. It was magical,” she said in complete awe.

“Wow, this toy is great. It looks exactly like the one Daddy and I were going to give you for your birthday.” You gave Spencer a knowing look as he shyly looked away from you.

“I can’t wait to lose all my teeth!”

“Hold on, hold on. I thought you said you wanted Tommy, not the tooth fairy.”

“I’d take the tooth fairy over Tommy or any tooth on any day if I keep getting gifts!”

An ‘oh shit’ look magically appeared on Spencer’s godforsaken face. A death glare was sent his way knowing that your precious girl would expect an overpriced toy every single time a tooth popped off.

“Why don’t you go put the basket in your room and we can open the toy with you later. You need to go brush your teeth and prepare for the next time you see the tooth fairy.” She nodded eagerly, hopping off the bed and running straight to her bathroom.

You turned around to look at Spencer, fully expecting to face your wrath. You were always the disciplinarian since your daughter had Spencer wrapped around her pretty little finger.

“She’s gonna want something like that every time she loses a tooth now.”

“I- I know, Y/N. I just- she was so sad yesterday. I just wanted to make her feel better.”

You leaned over to give him a kiss. “I’m not mad, Spencer. It’s- it’s really sweet and cute that you did that for her.” He smiled into your lips. “But when she starts to act spoiled it’s going to be you who sets her straight.”

“B- but I-”

“No buts.”

“I-” he looked at you, met with stern eyes that refused to budge, “Okay.”

“Good. Now, she has her very own tooth fairy.”

He smiled and pulled you into him, your head resting on his chest. “I guess so.”

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luthienne · 2 years

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hi dear heart 💗 i wonder if you have any poems (or other texts - perhaps memoirs, or essays?) about the particular shame of a public heartbreak or betrayal. a few months ago, i found out through friends that my bf/fiance had been cheating on me, and i was the lowest little bud on the grapevine when the news finally reached me. it's a bizarre feeling to be entwined with grief. it's been such a uniquely public failure, i guess, while also being a source of joy for people who loved my ex-partner more than they knew me. i've had that sontag quote about not wanting "to learn anything from the failure of this love" echoing around, but i wish i could find more. like a grief that carries shame. i'm not sure. i just want a hand to hold, and sometimes language will do that for me, as i'm sure you know. thank you. 🌙💙

hi beloved <3 i'm so, so sorry you're going through this. i hope you know that it's not a public failure to have loved someone and not had it turn out the way you'd hoped. you loved someone and it didn't work out. they violated your trust. they hurt you. so you were the last to know? you believed in them. you weren't looking to find something like that in someone you loved. i wish you all the healing moving forward from this. <3 some excerpts that resonated w me:

"To vow yourself to someone else is to open a wound. From it blood flows freely, life of you to them. [...] The vow of me to you and you to me is a red vulnerability on grey shuttered world. We risk ourselves for each other, take the impossible step. Here is the knife that kills me in your hand. To prove it I let the blood myself. Monstrous, primitive, grand, divine, the one true extravagant gesture. The only thing I can claim to own is myself, and look, I shall give it to you, a ceremony of innocence made knowing in blood."

Jeanette Winterson, Gut Symmetries

"I have lived in a dream of innocence, she whispered to herself, as she watched the wrinkled moon-spattered ocean night after night...

My innocence makes me weep."

Susan Sontag, from Reborn: Journals & Notebooks 1947-1963

"...it's as if I had to go back home on foot, alone, barefoot not knowing where far away, everybody else went long ago..."

Hélène Cixous, Hyperdream (tr. Beverly bie Brahic)

"We carry the lives we've imagined as we carry the lives we have, and sometimes a reckoning comes of all the lives we have lost."

Helen Macdonald, H is for Hawk

Ingeborg Bachmann, In the Storm of Roses; "A Kind of Loss" (tr. Mark Anderson)

"Inside you, something stumbles to the edge of a precipice, falls off."

Carmen Maria Machado, In the Dream House: A Memoir

"I fell down a bottomless well of shame. I'm still falling. How tiring. Oblivion."

Susan Sontag, Alice in Bed

"I wake with my hand held over the place of grief in my body. / 'Depend on nothing,' the voice advises, but even that is useless. / My ears are useless, my familiar and intimate tongue. / My protecting hand is useless, that wants to hold a single leaf to the tree / and say, Not this one, this one will be saved."

Jane Hirshfield, After; "One Sand Grain Among the Others in Winter Wind"

Jane Hirshfield, Of Gravity & Angels

"My heart says, what you thought you have you do not have. My body says, will this pounding never stop?"

Mary Oliver, from A Thousand Mornings

Czesław Miłosz, New and Collected Poems: 1931-2001

"I don't know how to speak anymore. I can't speak anymore. I have taken apart what they never gave me, which was all I had."

Alejandra Pizarnik, Extracting the Stone of Madness (tr. Yvette Siegert)

"You stand red-handed. You want to wash yourself in earth, in rocks and grass.

What are you supposed to do with all this loss?"

Margaret Atwood, Morning in the Burned House; "Down"

"Sometimes your tongue is removed, sometimes you still it of your own accord. Sometimes you live, sometimes you die. Sometimes you have a name, sometimes you are named for what—not who—you are. The story always looks a little different, depending on who is telling it."

Carmen Maria Machado, from In the Dream House: A Memoir

"There are different sorts of treachery, but betrayal is betrayal wherever you find it."

Jeanette Winterson, Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit

"We know that the pain your own people inflict on you cannot be quieted unless you make strangers of them or yourself;"

Christa Wolf, Cassandra: A Novel and Four Essays (tr. Jan van Heurck)

"Because shame and loneliness are almost one. / Shame at existing in the first place. Shame at being / visible, taking up space, breathing some of the sky, / sleeping in a whole bed, asking for a share.

Loneliness feels so much like shame, it always seems / to a need a little more time on its own."

Fanny Howe, Second Childhood: Poems; "Loneliness"

Nikki Giovanni, "Sometimes"

"Language crumbled into dust under the weight of her speechlessness."

Angela Carter, from Burning Your Boats; "Peter and the Wolf"

Denise Levertov, Life in the Forest; "Epilogue"

#ask #anon #sending you sm love truly <3 #compilation #the great wound #the dark's his bone #moving this to the tags:#i know exactly the kind of grief you're talking about. i was also the last to know. i can still remember the feeling of cold heartbreak that #came over me in that moment and the shame of (still) loving someone capable of that and more. the different factions that form when the #catastrophic end of a relationship becomes public. the way you feel a loss of trust in your immediate circle in the aftermath as much as a #loss of trust in yourself—on top the loss of your imagined future together

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bookish-mind · 4 years

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The real question is what is s&b gonna be rated bc I know it’s YA so probably TV-14 but like I’m kinda rooting for TV-MA bc I need blood and death and gang fights and jurda parem and eyeballs being ripped out of sockets and that ketterdam grittiness. I need the crows backstories, each of them full of their own trauma, each of them living with the weight of their scars. I need a ruthless cutthroat drowning in the pain of his past, a girl forced out of innocence by slavers, a boy cast out and sent to die by his own father, a gambling addiction fueled by a need to fill a guilt driven void, a grisha captured, chained and misplaced, a witch hunter fighting a hate that was stoked inside of him his whole life only to be betrayed and left to suffer in an unimaginable prison by the very person he was growing to love.

I need a country divided in fear, starved and ravaged by war. I need terrifying volcra ripping throats out and the disillusionment that comes from realizing that the darkling, a charismatic mentor and all powerful leader is capable of monstrous things. I need the raw, heartbreaking and sickening reactions as the darklings horrors are discovered, such as when Alina finds the aftermath of the killings at keramzin. The crushing weight of this broken kingdom placed on the shoulders of a prince prematurely turned king after the death of his family, a prince who is transformed into something of a monster himself. I need the struggles of a girl coping with the fact that the very thing that makes her whole, beautiful, unique, special and wanted is a power that wrecks her body and mind, a power that she is used for and taken advantage for, a power she is enslaved to. I need a boy sacrificing his life for a girl, a cause, a country.

I need all of these things because the grishaverse is full of pain, grey morals, desperate decisions, unhealthy power dynamics, loss of innocence and loss of youth, friends and family ripped apart, sacrifices made in blood, and most importantly heroes born out of a necessity to change it all for the better.

#s&b netflix #shadow and bone #six of crows #ruin and rising #seige and storm #crooked kingdom #kaz brekker #alina starkov #the darkling #malyen oretsev #nikolai lantsov #inej ghafa #wylan van eck #jesper fahey #nina zenik #matthias helvar

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whumpbby · 4 years

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P1 Saw your Wolves of Gotham and raise you Treasured Omega of Crime Alley, everyone including low ranked criminals love and protect the sole omega who lost everything but continues to give his all for everyone else, sharing food he's stolen or dubiously obtained, giving extra cash to the criminals who are just working with what the got and trying to feed their own families. The Omega is the first to step into confrontations if it means saving the pups and younglings of the alley. All adore him.

P2 The Omega who will offer clothes for alphas whose rut is painful without the scent of an omega to ease it. Who with sit with the sick that are dying in the street, just so they know they’re not alone. People want to claim him, the police want to bring him in for questioning as he’s often seen on the arms of suspicious persons, Batfam wants the Omega to have a home and pack but. Crime Alley will not let them take away the brightest soul of their hell hole and they will fight to protect Jason.

***************************

This is, Jay didn’t start out strongly, he started out as a terrified child that was suddenly motherless, with the landlord knocking on the doors and debt collectors closing in. He was taken in by the social services at first - but social services, when it came to omegas, were gunning for getting him an alpha asap to get him out of the system - the orphanages in the bad parts of the city were called omega mills for a reason, the foster families that got kids form them weren’t there to help poor kids… Jason escaped as soon as a foster parent tried to scruff him for the first time. Fuck that.

But that landed him on the streets, with no support and no idea how to survive. He made do. He stole and lied and pretended to be an alpha when necessary, because that was what worked - omegas on the streets didn’t live long. So, he crushed all of his budding soft instincts and carried on.

And then, when he was fourteen, he saw a group of punks picking on a homeless kid, and stepped in - and that was the end. He was beaten to death and there was no Robin with a finny quip, there was no Batman to stop it from happening, there was only freezing pavement underneath and trash heaping all around, and the darkness slowly closing in…

He comes back, though. He wakes up with a gasp, cold and pained, and he’s breathing again, he drags himself to his hideout and… It’s been two days an no one found his body - not surprising in Gotham. He doesn’t know hat to make of it. He could swear that he died… he knows what survivable pain feels like and this was way above it…

And there’s this thing inside of him now, this burning feeling warming him… this anger… this rage, unbidden, raising with every moment of remembering how he got there, with every memory of his crap life and this crap city ad he’s so angry!

He’s so done. Gotham killed him, so he has no more qualms about letting it get away with anything.

He finds the punks that killed him - a pack of young bucks, alphas and betas that want to be alphas, juvie material that hunted poorest corners for omegas to use. And they seem - fine. They seem normal, acting like nothing, like they didn’t just beat a kid to death a few days ago in a dingy alleyway… If he saw regret in them, he might have reconsidered, the good parts of him might have stopped, but there is no regret.

He gets his revenge - he’s not stronger than them, but if he catches them one on one, his rage wins. The old gas-pipe is the only thing he could find to use as a weapon and it turns out to be a fairly effective, so he keeps it. Killing doesn’t make him feel good, quite on the contrary, but it makes that burning inside of him settle somewhat, the knowledge that no one else will be hurt by these lowlifes gives him peace for a time.

But it doesn’t last long before he’s faced with another atrocity - a kid omega, barely older than seven, and two adult alphas carrying it away, firmly scruffed, towards a nearby car.And maybe back in the day Jason would have turned his face away, knowing that he won;t be able to stop two adults, that he is too weak - but not now. He knows that he isn’t weak enough to let it happen, that burning inside roars into flames, he picks up his pipe and starts running. The first alpha doesn’t have a chance to turn around before Jason boosts himself on the fallen trashcan and the pipe swings, hits the man in the side of the head, the bent part on the end crushing his temple. He drops down like a wet rag. The other alpha shouts, turns, he drops the kid and his hand goes to his pocket to reach for a knife, but Jay is already standing on the top of the car swings. Headshot. Blood sprays into the air - he knows that head wounds bleed like hell, he knows…

The baby (he’s just a baby, he’s so small, so thin, so bruised and smells of blood and terror) comes back to himself and, seeing the situation - the boy doesn’t run, doesn’t wail, he scrambles for the dropped knife and plunges it into the fallen alpha’s abdomen. And then again. And again. Whining and crying, frantic, he does what every omega in his place would do (that he presented this young makes disgust curl in Jay’s belly).

But the street is not safe, he knows that, soon enough someone will smell blood. He jumps down from the car and wrestles the knife from the kid’s hands, coaxes him to b quiet and get up, the little shaky legs barely hold him up. They need to run. Blood is blooming around, the two alphas will never be a danger to them, but the cops that arrive soon will. They need to go, they need to hide.

Jay leads them into the tangle of streets, into the heart of abandonment, instincts pushing at him to go lower, to the ground, lower, out of the freezing air, dig, bunker down, nest where they won;t be able to find them.

They end up going down - into the ruins of Old Gotham, a spiderweb of corridors and passages half crumbled and dark, but dry, safe from prying eyes, safe from the cops. They hunker down and nest, just the two of them. Jason patches the kid up as best as he can, washes him down with what little water he had, gives him his threadbare clothes that are dirty, but at least don’t smell like alpha spunk.

He has no idea what to do now - the fired has died down, the power it gave him is dropping, he feels sick and scared, he’s just a kid, the kid is just a baby, they both have blood on their hands now, no one will take them in… they can’t hide in the tunnels forever, can they?

Can they?

Two days later Jason emerges from the tunnels into a snowy landscape of Gotham proper. His gas-pipe on the back, half hidden by his ratty backpack. He goes back to the streets he knows and put his ear to the ground, and there are whispers about two alphas snuffed out like nothing, left a bloody mess on the frozen pavement. Fingers point to Batman, but Batman doesn’t kill, does he? There’s no other vigilante in Gotham who would… and the alphas were traffickers, no great loss, is it? Cops wouldn’t touch them, and they were too small of fries for Batman, so really, it’s almost community service at this point.

Sometime settles in Jay’s belly that day, the burning and the rage, the knowledge that if he didn’t do anything, the baby would be dead - that no one else was going to do anything to protect the kids on the streets… if he doesn’t do it, no one will. Who were they going to rely on, Robin? The little useless alpha running behind the Bat and throwing jokes as if it wasn’t serious, as if the lives the overlooked weren’t important, as if the victims were nothing!

If he doesn’t do anything, they will keep dying, being trafficked, being hurt…

He has o do something.

Two years later, Batman is at the end of his rope. He can’t be more than sixteen, that kid, can he? He’s tall for his age, but malnutrition made his body awkward, all of it is lean muscle, poised and tense to strike at any moment, all of the energy stored for fighting, for running, for the gas-pipe seemingly welded to his hand. All of it poised to strike without warning at the barest provocation.

It’s heartbreaking, to see what the city did to that child, what Gotham turned him into. For an omega to be - this. This coiled snake, this wild dog hungry for flesh of whoever crossed him - it’s unsettling, it’s wrong. His scent makes Batman’s stomach curl, harsh and heavy, and unfriendly. The kid makes no attempt at hiding it, it hangs heavy over the Old Gotham, a widening circle of LEAVE, GET OUT OR DIE. A scent of a monstrous omega underlined with a chorus of others, not as acute, but just as determined, just as dangerous - a hidden city of omegas circling like ants around their queen, a nest of hornets ready to swarm any perceived threat until it stops moving.

He tried to crack it, he tried to - he tried to help them. Early on and even now, he will never stop trying to help them - but they made it clear that they don’t want his help. That Batman isn’t their savior.

(“A sign of hope, my fuckin’ ass!” The girl couldn’t be more than fourteen and Bruce’s ears burn from hearing her casually swearing. She was scruffy and thin, smelled to be close to her cycle, she should be in a cosy family nest with her mother, not on the street with a bat in her hands, sneering at Robin with open contempt over a moaning man that used to be a prominent john at her feet and a group of more kids behind her back… “You appear and we do headcount, means enough people were murdered for the freaks to come out!“

It hurts to understand her point of view, but it’s not less true only because he wishes it wasn’t.

They tried to take her in, take them all in, help them, put them somewhere where they could be taken care of… and learned the hard way that usual ways of dealing with omegas won’t work - Dick tried to come close, hoping that his own youth will be enough, that his calming alpha scent will be enough, that his friendly and open attitude will break the ice - he returned home with a broken wrist and a bruise on his face, taunts and sneers ringing in both of their ears.)

He tried many times since then, they both tried to crack the wall surrounding Old Gotham, but with no success. Every time they managed to get one child out, it wasn’t a week before it was taken back - until social services stopped accepting them, the damage caused by the rescuers too acute to be worth it. Ma Gunn’s school burning down was a loud and clear message.

(He saw the boy for the first time then, framed by a wall of flames, and somehow still the brightest part of that image were his eyes - green and haunting. The wind and fire howled to the sky and the boy had to be waiting for them to show up, it was no coincidence.

“Why?” Batman asked. It was an escalation of violence he didn’t expect, he didn’t think they’d move outside of the Old City…

“You ever check up on the kids you put here?” the boy asked, voice rougher than expected. “Or are you a part pimping them out, rich boy?”

The last stopped him for a second, fear griping him for a moment that he was found out, that… and the boy disappeared, washed out into the night like he was never there.)

No, he never followed up on the orphans he left with the Ma, did he? He should, but he trusted the old omega. Later, he learned that he shouldn’t. That the kids that disappeared out of her ‘school’ were traded out. The guilt settled hard on his shoulders, one more error made in good stupidly faith that innocents paid for. One more reason for the children to resist his attempts at help - after that, how could they trust his help?

Gotham learns quickly that the Old City is out of bounds for the criminal element - there were attempts to control it, of course, different mobs trying their hands at wrestling the power for themselves, gangs determined enough to ignore the blood-curling scent of danger hanging over the place. There was a time when bodies hung from the lamp-posts in the warehouse district, a message more than clear.

Gordon stops sending out people to the Old City - too costly, no one wants to go, there’s no point. “May as well try to catch wind.” But Bruce feels that in truth, the Commissioner may be silently agreeing with the idea…

(“As long as no one interferes, they’re self-contained,” he says. “These kids are safer there then anywhere else, right now.”

“It won’t last,” Batman says. “These things never do. It will end badly.” And he can’t allow that.

“Well, then, better make sure no kids end up on the streets, right? They didn’t come form nothing, kid, there is a reason the Old City exists.” Gordon’s eyes are pained and harsh as they look at him, straight into Bruce’s ones, as if the mas wasn’t there at all. “This isn’t an issue you solve by stuffing them back into a broken system that is the reason they’re there in the first place.”)

Leslie was even harder, her eyes pitiless as she stared Batman down one night in her office, after she came back form a house-visit, the harsh scent of the Old City still clinic to her clothes.

(“They need help, Leslie.”

“They needed that help years ago, and that’s when we failed them.” Her voice is harsh, but hushed, her hands tremble as she unpacks her bag. There’s not much left in it. “Not every kid gets a manor and a butler to help them get through a tragedy, some get a flea-bitten mattress and a pimp that maybe won’t beat them too much!”

Se rears back, the words hitting him like a fist, the lack of remorse on her face startling, the child inside of him flinching at the remembered pain. How dare she.

“How dare you try and barge your way in there to ‘save them’!” She rounds on him, five feet five and harder than stone. “How dare you when it’s that ‘saving’ that got them there! They don’t need Batman, Bruce, they need an alpha that gives a damn about more than his own morals. An alpha to show them that the world outside won’t try to tear them to pieces!”

“I tried!” It was a weak defense to his own ears, but he had nothing else.

“Yes, you tried, and I had to preform six abortions on kids younger than Dick!”)

That silenced him. The reason for her anger, for her unflinching disregard for his own pain. He stepped back, left, mind grinding overtime to come up with a solution, with a way to fix this - because that’s what he always did, he fixed things. hat’s what he always wanted to do - to save people, to… to use his means to help others. So no more kids would be standing on a bloodied pavement, staring blankly into the night.

“We have to leave them alone.” These words form Dick were the least he expected. His partner, his Robin, wings clipped by the realization that there were people beyond his reach. “We have to stop trying to catch him. If we take him away, the place will crumble, the gangs will move in and the children will become easy pickings for any two-penny thug before we can even round them up. We can’t… I can’t let that happen. I can’t be a part of that, Bruce.” His son, bright eyes shaded with regret. “No matter how many people we can punch in the face, this isn’t what they need. We aren’t what they need.”

“I can’t let it go, Dick.” He was so tired. “They barely scrape by, I can’t…” A city of children - omega children - living off scraps, held together by a boy younger than his son, every winter grips his heart with terror for their lives.

“Then-then let’s help them. Let’s help them like that, make sure they have food and clothes, that someone out there cares enough…”

That’s how he comes to the moment.

Standing on the border of the Old City opposite the young wolf guarding its gates, a filthy street between them, dozens of eyes pinning him in place from windows and doors of the crumbling buildings. He can’t see them, but he knows they’re there, a small army ready to tear him apart if he as much as breathes wrong at their pack leader. He never knew that ninjas would be easier to fight than enraged omegas barely taller than his waist.

“What do you want?” the boy’s voice carries well, he sounds like an alpha.

He grew since Bruce last saw him, a couple inches, maybe he’s even Dick’s height now. His face is sharp and jaw square, the only pretence of an omega being the barely noticeable width of the hips. The coiled strength is still there, but the violent light in his eyes is subdued, they’re filled with cold calculation instead. Nothing about him tells Bruce he considers Batman to be a threat – but everything speaks of wariness and willingness to do what needs to be done.

He’s an omega, but Bruce has never stood opposite a pack leader as evenly matched in will to him as that. Ra’s al Ghul was close, but he had an advantage of age and experience, while this was…

There were rumours The Omega couldn’t die thrown around. That The Omega got up every time. Rival gang threw him into the harbour. Three days later they were all gone and he was back. He was shot by a hitman hired by the Black Mask. Three days later the hitman was found dead and 3 of Roman’s warehouses were set aflame. Bullets and beatings, men and women trying to get a hit. Five years of violence and he was still standing, and they were not. Three days. Always three days.

Bruce doesn’t know if it’s truth or fabrication, but there is something to it, must be, because the last time he saw him, the boy’s eyes weren’t this bright.

“What do you want, rich boy?” The Omega repeats and this time Bruce can feel his voice in the soles of his feet.

A meta? Mystical? Something else? How has he never noticed before?

The tension in the air rises, the anticipation from the unseen observers grows.

God, if Ra’s ever hears about this, he will take the boy – rumour about immortality will be enough for him to chase. The League will ransack this place, leaving nothing behind.

“For the last time, what do you want?”

Bruce has only one card to play here and it’s not as strong as he’d like it to be. One chance to get a foot in and hope they’ll accept his help. To show them that the world wasn’t going to tear them apart if they dare to trust it. It might be too late, but he has to hope it isn’t.

“What do you need?”

The questions barely stops the Omega from leaving. Angled away, distrust clear as day on his face and in the set of his body, he eyes the Batman with naked suspicion.

Bruce takes it as a chance it is. “What do you need? Food? Clothes? I can get you a steady supply of both.” Bargaining isn’t his forte, he grew so used to demanding.

A hiss sounds across the street, dozen small throats growling in warning. It’s humbling – he’s not a saviour here, he’s a potential threat and needs to step carefully.

“What for?” The Omega asks. “What do you want back, rich boy?”

Nothing -pushes at his lips, but he stops it. It will only ever be a lie to them, after so many alphas promised help and… He rethinks, recalibrates. Frankly, he didn’t expect to get that far.

“I want you to give Leslie health reports,” he says instead. “Monthly. Injuries, pregnancies, births. Deaths. She will keep it in confidentiality, as she did until now, I have no insight into them.” And he barely greed to that, but Leslie was unbent. “She will get the funds to help you more. Medication and vaccines, and pre-natal care…”

He wants to say more, he wants to tell them about the schooling he has planned, about possible stipends to get the kids out of the grip of poverty if they want to leave, of wanting to help this place become liveable and safe for them if they want to stay. But he’s aware this is already too much, that these are the most important things they lack (that an omega in charge of pups will instinctively respond to), that he has to move slow, that this all has a chance to blow up in his face.

The Omega is considering him now, aggression tuned down into barely distrust, but there’s a spark of interest there, a shade of the youth that should have been had the life not tried to squash it.

Bruce would give everything in that moment to know the boy’s name.

“That’s all?” It’s almost mocking, but not entirely.

“I want you to stop killing.” The next part is hard to voice, he has to force it, because Leslie was right, not everyone got a chance to cultivate unshaken morality after their life went up in flames. “Or don’t let them kill… if you have to.” He will work on it. He will try to help them overcome that, teach them how to keep their hands clean – hopefully, in time.

“And you will keep us safe from the lowlifes?” This time it’s a mockery. “We will shine a light in the sky and the Bat and his birdie will swoop down conveniently too late to save anyone, but the villain and the pretty, clean omega crying nicely for the reporters?”

He was right, this was too far, too much and too early. He has to backtrack. Fast.

“No, you have to defend yourself.” God, it’s hard to admit. “But the little ones…”

“Are always in danger.”

The Omega turns, fists clenched, steps off the sidewalk and crosses the street, and Bruce almost backs away, because the alleyway fills with growls and hisses, with danger, and he doesn’t want to set them off.

“We don’t go out to kill,” the Omega hisses, “they keep coming here to be killed. I made it clear, where the borders are, I made it simple.” He barely reaches Bruce’s chin, but it’s not important. “They come here armed, to murder children, to take them away to be sold, not one of them deserves to leave.”

The situation deteriorated, but at least now Bruce can scent him, can feel him up close, and underneath the tension and rage, there’s weariness and hunger, and underneath that there’s… something strange. Acrid and bitter, and alien, and hurt.

“How old were you?” He asks, maybe stupidly, but the alpha in him tears at the walls of restrain.

“When Gotham killed me for the first time?”

He wasn’t asking about that, he thought… he hoped it was a metaphor, just rumours. The deadly shine in the green eyes told him otherwise.

“Fourteen. On the corner of Park Row. Went to bust some rims and got my head busted instead.”

Impossible. It was too much of a coincidence…

“I will think about your offer, Batman. Leslie will pass on the decision and I don’t want to see you here anymore.”

He turns away and leaves, washes out into the shadows and with him the presence of the pack watching Bruce try to gather himself back together.

It was a small victory, but still one.

#headcanon #okay this is long #sorry #but i just couldn;t stop writing #XD

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amycuscarrcw · 3 years

Photo

╰ °✧ that’s AMYCUS CARROW and HE seems to look a lot like JASON RALPH. according to ministry files, the PUREBLOOD used to attend HOGWARTS and be in SLYTHERIN. now, they’re 25 and is an UNSPEAKABLE. A childlike rage and a childlike loneliness, the hushed quiet of hospital wards, a fine line between madness and genius, the sickly sweet smell of rot , a slowly unravelling thread, the endless ticking of a clock, are the best way to describe them. it doesn’t say in their file, but word around the street is that they’re a DEATH EATER. @mmprophet

introduction.

basics.

NAME: Amycus Cyrus Carrow AGE: 25 BIRTHDAY: January 13th. (Capricorn.) PRONOUNS: he/his BLOOD STATUS: Pureblood. CAREER: Unspeakable. Employed by the Department of Mysteries, on the surface Amycus largely concerns himself with the studies of Thought, Space and Time. Considering the black mark on his schooling records and unsociable demeanour, it’s almost a miracle that the Ministry had ever hired him - in this matter it’s highly likely that strings were pulled to ease his way in and nobody really knows what they do down there in the Department of Mysteries. Most of the ministry employees are just grateful they don’t have to encounter him very often. EDUCATION: Hogwarts WAND: Pine, 11 3/4″, Dragon Heartstring. PATRONUS: Amycus cannot, and is unlikely to ever, form a corporeal patronus. If he could it would be a Raven. Frequently associated with loss and ill omens, Ravens surface throughout many mythologies spreading prophecy and insight, carrying the messages of gods. There’s a mysterious quality to the raven, they can be charismatic when they require something of you and excellent at hiding themselves when they don’t want to be seen. Greedy and vain. Curious and yearning for freedom. They are observers who only step into the light when it is to their advantage. BOGGART: It’s the smell that comes first — damp earth, rotting leaves, the slimy new growth of those old woods, milky earthworms writing through freshly turned soil. It’s thick and cloying, suffocating in the dark. Then the weight of it, soft at first, spilling across his skin. Each shovel full growing heavier and heavier as he sinks in, deeper and deeper into the earth, in amidst the roots of the trees that gleam white like bone. It’s hard to see in the dark but he knows who it is who holds the shovel, who takes his time to slowly fill the grave that Amycus’s own clawing fingers can’t seem to catch a grip on, to climb out of. His father still cuts the imposing figure he had when Amycus was just a child. This is what happens to blood traitors. Even after all this time, their father’s shadow looms large over him. more ABOUT.

summary.

+ The Carrows were sickly children, forever in and out of St. Mungo’s with some mysterious illness or the other for most of their childhood. Whilst their father had seemed largely indifferent to their suffering, their mother had been utterly enamoured with it (too enamoured, some might think.) Attention had always been scarce for Peony after her marriage, one almost couldn’t blame her for enjoying the sympathy that her poorly children brought to her. (Though they couldn’t certainly blame her for the poison she slipped into their cups.) + The twins were mismatching bookends; Alecto overflowing with every kind of feeling and Amycus devoid of any of it, but they were all the company each other had growing up. They relied on each other, in their own way, an understanding born through a tumultuous childhood. + They were expelled from Hogwarts in a scandalous fashion in their Sixth year after a long string of unproven accidents culminated in the pair being caught red-handed (literally) in one of their games. Their wands were broken, they were expelled, and it cost a great deal of social capital on the family name to get the decision overturned and to allow them to be packed off to Durmstrang for the rest of their education. + Amycus had loathed Durmstrang. Sometimes he thinks he can still feel the cold of that place in his bones. Never mistaken as an overly sociable person, his isolation there had only served to further entrench him in his sour dislike of social situations.

+ He now works in the Department of Mysteries and when spotted out and about he frequently seems distracted and out of sorts. + There are very few people in the world that Amycus will willingly spend time with, which is why it had been so odd when he’d gone and picked up a friend, seemingly out of nowhere. One day he had been her brother, the person he’d always been, and the next he had been her brother - someone who befriended women named Lucy in the breakroom. Alecto had been deeply suspicious of the woman who wanted to be her brother’s ‘friend’ from the get-go, intent on discovering the agenda behind it, a suspicion that had only grown further the more that Amycus grew attached. When his friend had abruptly disappeared, in the manner that a great many people were disappearing these days, only to be found dead some weeks later and half her family with her, it had seemed a little too coincidental for Amycus to believe that Alecto had nothing to do with it. He hasn’t confirmed his suspicions, but there’s definitely an edge to his interactions with his sister lately.

personality traits.

+ Intelligent - Amycus has always lived in a world of his own. What he lacks in emotional awareness and a distinct inability to decipher what other people want or expect from him, he has always equalled in cleverness. He absorbs information like a sponge and retains it with an almost eerie degree of accuracy. Books were his solace growing up and he seems to always have one on hand. + Innovative - An adaptive thinker with a particular talent for problem solving, Amycus’s booksmarts transfer into practical application. He is good at coming up with new ways of applying what he has learnt and adapting his knowledge to fit the situation. + Focused - There is a laser precision to Amycus’s focus when he becomes interested in something. Dissuading him from a task once he has set his mind to it is nigh on impossible, to the point where most people who have come to know him understand that it is better to just let him get on with it. + Meticulous - A perfectionist at heart, Amycus is fastidious when it comes to attention to detail. He is clinical in his approach to life, sharp and incisive and never willing to let the smallest of details go. + Composed - For such an agitated mind, filled with nervous tics and idiosyncrasies, Amycus has a rarely disturbed composure. While the world rages around him he remains calm and measured. It had once been his greatest asset, the ability to remain steady in his path when the rest of the world unhinged itself, but these days his composure seems to fail him more and more often and in a world that requires restraint, he wonders where his own continues to disappear to. - Shy - Amycus always struggled with socialisation. He tries, of course, with the same uneasy yearning he’s never been able to shake that demands people acknowledge his gifts, but he has always been odd, unsettling to the people around him. He might blame it on his mother, for his isolated childhood, or his sister who he had learned quickly would not be an easy companion, or his father’s cowering temper, or perhaps on his peers at Hogwarts and later Durmstrang who had been unnerved by him and his strange mannerisms, but the truth of it all is that there is no one to blame except for himself. Amycus does not socialise well and has learned, by and large, to keep to himself to avoid the censure that often follows his attempts to reach out to others. - Impressionable - People have always been fond of considering him weak-willed, but Amycus has simply always been easily influenced. He’d wondered once if it was the apathy that fills him that makes it so, that he simply didn’t feel enough to be decisive, but Lucy had disproven that theory. She had filled his head with thoughts that were so entirely incompatible with the Death Eater agenda that he sometimes still hears echoes of them, ghosts of a person he might have been if she’d survived to make it so. Luckily he’s always had his sister to give him a solid shove back into line when his thoughts veer into dangerous territory. - Apathetic - He has always wondered if perhaps there is simply something wrong with him, in the pathways of his brain or in it’s chemistry. Over the years he has observed the highest highs and lowest lows of emotion, he has seen it in his fellow Death Eaters and his peers at school, in his own family, and yet he feels so rarely that sometimes he wonders if he might be imagining it. At least, that was the case before Lucy - he still can’t comprehend the ruin she’d wrought on his emotional landscape but he does know it’s infinitely more unstable than it had once been. He refuses to acknowledge the feelings she’d made him aware of, or the way in which the heartbreak she’d introduced into his life by rejection and then her death had tipped him over the edge, but he clings to the old comfort of apathy like pretending might just return him back to what he’d been before she’d come into his life. - Ruthless - Capable of monstrous things if they are put into his path or demanded of him, Amycus is largely a passive creature. He has never had a problem with what society considers distasteful or abhorrent and has little in the way of self-restraint to keep him from simply slicing through the obstacles that present themselves in his path. He struggles with the idleness of life after the war was won, of the return of rigid social norms and the pressures of living up to pureblood societal rules. - Explosive - The rarely sighted and often questioned presence of Amycus Carrow’s temper is something that people don’t give much consideration. He has always been considered a cold person, apathetic and even, not given to strong emotions, if any at all. But every so often if the motivation is presented Amycus’s detachment gives way to something else entirely: blinding and overwhelming and violent, his temper has been known to explode with ugly consequences. It happened once at school and the repercussions were something that have stained their family name and reputation to this day. It is fortunate, perhaps, that the Carrows have never cared much for an untainted image.

bio.

(trigger warning: inexplicit mentions of abuse, violence, death.)

Amycus Carrow had been born with the taste of decay in his mouth.

His family tree rotted long before his birth, a once grand family besieged by the gossip of their peers and the ever-mounting debt that crept in like the shadow of the old woods that had overrun their family estate. It swas no surprise that he had turned out so twisted and wrong, given his circumstances. Amycus was a symptom of a much greater disease.

Weaned on poison instead of mother’s milk, shepherded in and out of hospital wings since his infancy, it was easy to believe such a bony little creature would not last the harsh winters of the moors, but survive he did. Amycus was clever, or so they’d soon learn, behind his solemn, eerie stares and an unceasing discomfort within his own skin lay a mind riddled with black holes and infinite constellations. His father’s library was his most trusted companion inside the walls of their quiet home, tucked into corners where his sister’s rages couldn’t rattle him with only books and the contents of his own journals to entertain him.

From those books he discovered the threat the Muggle and their more insidious cousin, the Mudblood, presented to wizarding kind; he learned of the sanctity of the blood that flowed through his veins and how to recognise the taste of Belladonna and Angel’s Trumpet and Baneberry on his tongue disguised by his morning pumpkin juice. (‘You must drink every last drop, my darlings.’) The Carrow home was full of secrets, but the woods at their door buried the darkest.

People didn’t like him very much - he’d been an offputting child and at Hogwarts that proved doubly so. Away from his mother’s care he grew stronger and taller but no less odd, no less curious. They didn’t like the way his speech stumbled and faltered and how frustrated his inability to communicate with others made him, they didn’t like the steady, unblinking malevolence in his stare. It bothered him: his teacher’s wariness and his peers mockery, their inability to see the multitude of worlds trapped in his head.

But he was clever and his experiments (suggestions whispered into his ear from his wrathful sister) never left tangible evidence behind. The girl who fell down the stairs of the Astronomy tower, or the boy whose skin had bubbled and burned for days after he’d dropped the wrong potions ingredient into his cauldron. He never meant to get caught; after hours in the midst of a snowstorm the feeling had blindsided him and her blood had been so vivid against the snow — as it turned out, she would be one more stain upon their family name.

There was no evidence it hadn’t been an accident, his parents had insisted, but Dumbledore had not agreed. The board of governors had been called, but not even an old name like Carrow could budge that decision.

The day that Amycus and Alecto were expelled from Hogwarts, the broken halves of his wand clutched in his hand and his father’s fingers digging into the bones of his shoulder, was the day that Amycus understood just how deep the threat of muggleborns and their sympathisers ran. An appeal had given him a new wand and a new school, but even cold and remote Durmstrang could not smother the burning grudge that had arisen within him.

What Dumbledore stole from him, the Dark Lord would return three-fold in the years to come. Amycus would allow himself to be branded just like his father, a mark of his allegiance, in exchange for opportunity, for the influence to get him inside the door of the Department of Mysteries, and in those mysteries he has found purpose. Oversight is unheard of behind that door: there is nobody to dissuade his interests or curb his tastes and so long as he is careful - well, it’s almost as if you could get away with murder down there.

#mm.intro #still under construction because i can't help myself but #abuse tw #violence tw

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pocketfulofrogers · 5 years

Text

Forever May Be Enough

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: 5 Years after the snap and losing everyone, including the love of your life, you take Scott’s semi crazy sounding plan straight to Tony. Basically bits and pieces of Endgame.

Notes: Endgame spoilers, but in this house we ignore canon. This is my final contribution to @teamcap4bucky summer sun and fun games! I got inspired while reading part 15 of @marvelgirl7 series The Protector. She writes lovely, but heartbreaking stories so in this we have a lot of angst, some Bucky, and a sweet ending.

“It’s not possible.” Tony says simply. “I’m sorry.” He adds quieter. You feel Steve tense, Natasha’ s shoulders fall. You’re almost certain Scott is vibrating.

You however, are frozen. Stuck leaning against the rough grain of a wooden pillar, eyes trained on the lake at the edge of the property. The clear blue burns your throat, turns your stomach inside out. His words swirl around your head and lap at the edges of the last wall of sanity you have left.

It’s the same ones that have haunted you for years. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. They weave their way through your body until you hear them fall from different lips.

Broken consonants and wide blue eyes looking up to you, filled for the first time with true fear. Crumbling fingertips leave ash in the sweat of your cheek as they desperately try to grasp something. Anything. Shaking fingers trail through long hair in an effort to keep him with you and you beg him to hold on just a little longer. You scream for Steve to do something, but you can see in his eyes defeat has already carved its home within him.

“I’m sorry.” Bucky whispers below you.

“Please. Bucky, please.” You beg with a sob, but he disappears anyways. You fold into yourself, howl your grief as you grapple at the empty space before you. Pain sears in your chest and you can taste rust on your tongue. Heaving gasps catch in your throat making you fear you may actually be suffocating. “Make it stop.” You beg.

Steve has to drag you away.

Natasha nudges you and you break from your trance only to see Tony walking away.

“Please.” The word breaks through louder than you intended and wince. “Tony, please.” You add quieter.

“I’m sorry, kiddo.” There are those stupid words again.

He grabs your hand, presses the pad of his thumb into your knuckles, and moves to meet your gaze. When he clocks the cracked skin of your lips, the dark skin seeping beneath your eyes, worry builds in the pit of his stomach.

“Why don’t you stay for a while? Get some fresh air and Pepper can teach you about composting. Would be a great time. Morgan would love it.” Tony offers. When you don’t respond, only look off into the distance past his shoulder seemingly caught in a memory, he looks to Steve. He shrugs a response and slightly shakes his head. They all know you’re not well. You haven’t been for a while, but he’s forgotten how to help you. “We still have a room for you if you change your mind.”

His hand slips from yours and with it, your last piece of hope.

Steve walks to the car with you, his hand on your back. When he opens the door and helps you in, you want to scream at him that you are not fragile, you have not broken, but you can’t form the words.

Bruce turns Scott into a baby, among other things, and you excuse yourself to get some air. You were clinging so desperately to this second chance, but the harder you grasped, the quicker it seemed to slip away. Steve recognizes the look of you teetering on the edge and follows you.

“We’ll figure it out.” He says behind you.

Raking your hands down your face, you turn to him. “I know, I know.” You huff out. “This is just bringing everything back up. I guess you could say I’m not handling that well or whatever.”

“I know it’s hard, Y/N.”

“I just miss him so much.” You whisper.

It’s times like these he wishes Tony came around more often, or that you’d accept the countless offers to stay at the cabin. Time had allowed for apologies, but Steve still carried the guilt from Siberia and your relationship with Tony had forever been tainted after the accords.

Tony doesn’t know if he hates that he made you choose sides or the fact you didn’t choose him more.

Still, he knew you in ways the others couldn’t. Two souls born of similar circumstances; he was always able to read you. He had taken you under his wing after stumbling onto you what felt like almost a lifetime ago. He considered it his job to look after you, never failing to protect you in battle. Despite you arguing you can hold your own.

When Tony pulls up, seemingly answering Steve’s unspoken wishes, his relief is palpable. But when he pulls the shield out of his trunk to return it, your relief sends you flying into his arms.

He stumbles back, slightly caught off guard. “Oh, thank god.” You mumble into his neck.

You travel back in time to New York, get a kick out of seeing a younger Tony again and remind him you are well versed with old man jokes. Steve comments that you sound more like yourself, Tony agrees.

“Hope is a powerful thing, boys.” You smile.

Somehow you manage to hold onto it when Tony tells you they have to try 70s New Jersey for the Tesseract. You try to convince him you should go in his place, beg him to let you do this for him. He smiles softly, shakes his head, and disappears.

You mourn the loss of Natasha. It settles deep in your bones and you wonder if this will be the thing that breaks you. Steve, ever stoic, reminds you of what you’re all fighting for and he sounds so much like her.

Bruce snaps his fingers. There’re several explosions, you’re drowning on the lower level, and then you’re thrown into the next battle for the fate of the world before you’re even able to catch your breath. It’s a scene from your nightmares and so reminiscent of the worst day of your life.

Smoke thick in the air, an outrider pins you down. Its monstrous face snaps at you with rancid breath and you push back as hard as you can. The moment you think this is it, a bullet rips through it spraying blood into the open air.

“Perfect timing.” You mumble as you push the body off you. There’s a chuckle from behind you.

Oh, you know that voice. It whispers to you light as air on your worst days, sings lullabies when you can’t sleep, ghosts its lips down your neck.

“I’m getting pretty good at saving you.” Bucky quips behind you. You don’t want to look, you can’t. Fears that he will only disappear again will not leave you be. He kneels before you, concern creasing his brow. “This isn’t the best place for a break, doll.”

You finally meet his eyes and the air leaves your body. He reaches for you, a ghost manifested, and you flinch away. It couldn’t be, could it? You hover a hand beside his face, graze tentative fingers down his temple and you ache.

“Bucky?” You whisper, broken. You repeat his name again with more weight.

“Unless you know another handsome guy with a metal arm.”

He catches the tears as they fall from your waterline and you lunge for him. Wrap your body around his, bury your head in his chest, breathe him in. It’s sweat and dirt, but it’s him. Truly him. This moment had taunted your dreams for the last five years.

You pull away to take a moment to look at him. Not a day aged, the same soldier you’ve always loved. He gives you a crooked smile and you trace his lip with your thumb.

“We should really get back to it, darlin’.”

You smile at his voice, let his low timber soothe the scars time has left. “Just a moment, please.” He nods. You lean forward, replace your finger with your lips and revel in the taste of home.

“Alright, let’s finish this.”

Pepper clings to you when the doctors say Tony will survive. You hold her and whisper soothing words to hide your own tears. Rhodey takes over for you, ignoring your protests when you tell him you’re fine. The bags beneath your eyes and your bitten down nail beds tell him a different story.

Bucky finds you outside on a nearby bench pulling at the loose strings of your sweater.

“I hear Stark is going to pull through.”

You smile up at him and pull his hand into your lap when he sits beside you. “He’s too stubborn to let death win.” You chuckle.

“Seems that’s something else you learned from him.”

You’re quiet for a beat and he hopes you’ll take this moment to open up to him. You were different, that much was blatantly obvious. You carried yourself stiffer, your tone had become colder. He tried to ask the others, but it had been subtle changes over the years, things they never noticed. Clint even suggests there may have been no change at all.

But he knew better. For you it was five years, but to him it was five hours. He just wanted to help you.

You tilt your head towards him, turn up the corners of your lips. “Good thing, too.” You joke instead.

Steve returns with Natasha. You don’t ask him how, they don’t offer.

Bucky awakens to you grunting in your sleep. Your fists have the sheets gripped in a vice; your knuckles are white. You mumble something he can’t quite make out before screaming yourself awake. He pulls you to him quickly. Slips his hand in your hair while he whispers affirmations that he is okay and you are safe.

He waits until your sobs slow to just a hiccup.

“Talk to me.” He pleads softly.

You push out of his lap. “I’m fine, really. Just a standard superhero nightmare. Run of the mill. Go back to bed, Buck.” You flash him a smile, all tear-stained rosy cheeks and bloodshot eyes, and his heart still flutters.

He watches you get up for water and finds himself about to lay back down. You had gotten so good at disarming him, he almost didn’t catch what you had done.

“No.” He says before you’ve crossed the threshold of your room.

You turn back to him and raise a brow. “Well, I supposed you could stay up? I’m not your mother.”

“You know that’s not what I meant.” He counters.

You advert your eyes and cross your arms before your chest. Bruce had taught him cues to look for when he asked the others for tips. He knew your arms were meant to act as a barrier, which meant he was encroaching on something you didn’t want him near.

He reaches a hand out to you. “Come here.” You don’t budge. “Please.” He adds.

You huff, but walk to take it. He guides you to sit before him, but you’re still unable to meet his eyes.

“You don’t have to tell me everything, or even anything, I just want to help you. Five years is a long time, doll. It couldn’t have been easy to go through.”

You’re quiet, only tracing the metal lines of his hand. He lets you turn his arm over and wordlessly gives you his other when you reach for it. Tony said it was how you grounded yourself. Feeling something on your fingertips allowed you to anchor yourself to something real.

“I’d never tell the others, but I think I gave up for a long time.” You start quietly, keeping your eyes down. “After we killed Thanos and found out the stones were gone. Steve tried so hard, he did, but I think it’s hard to hold someone else together when you yourself are falling apart.” You gnaw on your bottom lip to stop its quivering. “Losing you was the hardest thing I think I’ve ever had to survive.” You barely whisper.

He squeezes your hand in support. “I’m here.”

You clear your throat and swallow down your emotions. “You are.” You marvel. “The whole world said it would never happen, that we needed to just rebuild what we still had.”

“I’m s-“

“Don’t, please. You came back to me and that is all I could have ever asked for. It’s just going to take a minute for me to make peace with the time we lost, but I’m getting there.” You place a hand on his cheek and he leans into your touch. “You just simply being here is more than enough.”

He makes you pancakes in the morning. The smell is what wakes you and you follow it all the way to one of the kitchens of the compound. You find him standing before the stove, back facing you. He’s still in what he wore to bed. Sweats, no shirt. The muscles of his back tightening with his movements distracts you enough that you have to shake your head to clear the number of less than innocent thoughts that come to mind.

“Well isn’t this a treat.” You say from behind him.

He laughs and bows before motioning for you to take a seat. He puts a plate before you, topped exactly how you like it.

“Who went out and got all of this?” You ask.

Bucky licks some whipped cream from his thumb. “Guess Natasha had a sweet tooth.” He shrugs.

You plop a bite into your mouth. “What’s the occasion?”

“It’s been a while, Tony’s on the mend, Steve’s still set on retiring for now, and the others are laying low. We have to decide what we’re going to do.”

You hum and raise a brow. “Awful big decision for first thing in the morning, my love.”

He nods in agreement. “Still a decision to be made, though.” He takes advantage of you full mouth. “We could stay here, run some trainings, monitor some missions with the new head of SHIELD. I think we’ve earned a break from saving the world for a bit.”

“Or?” You prompt, sensing the word on the tip of his tongue.

“We trade this life for one of our own. A house, a yard,” He lists. “Kids.” He adds quieter.

Your eyes widen. An awfully big discussion for first thing in the morning indeed, but clearly something that’s been on his mind.

“It’s just something to think about, but there is a question that needs answering. What do we do now?” He asks you.

You swallow the last of your breakfast and smile, commit the image of him hopeful and buzzing before you to memory. “Well, we have forever, don’t we? Let’s figure it out tomorrow.”

#teamcap4bucky summer sun and fun #bucky barnes #bucky barns imagine #bucky barns x reader #marvel #Avengers

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bobasheebaby · 5 years

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One More Day- Learning to Breathe chapter 2

Pairing: Widow Riley (Drake x MC), no pairing yet

Word count: 2,057

Warnings: bone crushing angst, mention of character death, grief, depression

Summary: Flashes of Riley’s coping strategies.

Song inspiration: One More Day by Diamond Rio

A/N: I have no heart because I have crushed it, my chest is now an empty pit that aches from this. That’s my way of telling you this is gonna hurt go grab your comfort drink, a blanket and tissues, you will need it.

Series warnings: This series will follow Riley, Liam and Bastien after Drake’s death. It will deal with the grief and pain of losing a loved one. Possible NSFW content to come. Possibly dark. If you click read more you acknowledge you are at least 18 years of age.

Let me know if you want to be added or removed from the taglist.

Disclaimer: I don’t own the characters, I’m simply borrowing from PB for a bit.

Riley moved through her room in a trance. Her body still felt numb, she wasn’t sure she’d ever get over the loss of him and what returning to the manor alone truly meant. What was to be their shared home would always simply be hers.

Riley stared out the limousine window, everything moving past in a blur of shapes and colors as she saw straight past the scenery. She felt like she was moving in slow motion as she returned to the duchy. Her head was fuzzy, leaving her feeling completely dazed. She still couldn’t come to terms with the fact that she had to bury the man that she loved. No she did bury him. He was gone, he was in the ground. Her body felt numb from the second she heard the shot go off. A piece of her soul had broken off and left her when he did.

Their love was such a whirlwind, she didn’t have nearly enough time with him. Time. The concept that it went on without him made her want the earth open up and swallow her whole. She didn’t know how to move forward now that she was once again alone.

She looked up at the looming building as it appeared in her view. The once welcoming duchy where they dreamed up their future seemed monstrous, casting a daunting shadow upon her, reminding her what they would never have.

Why did he have to die? It didn’t seem fair, for her to live and mourn him and everything they had dreamed up with wide smiles. Her future without him was more terrifying than the thought of never taking another breath.

She squeezed her eyes shut as the limousine pulled to a stop, she was home. Home. Once it was to be their home, now it simply felt like a reminder of everything she lost. How could she enter the building without seeing ghosts of what would never be? Every corner once held possibility, now it just held deep crushing sadness.

She exited the car, breezing into the manor, blocking out all questions from her friends. As much as she hated the thought all she wanted was to be alone. Alone with her grief and misery, not afraid of hurting someone’s feelings when she tuned them completely out. She knew they were there for her out of kindness, but it all felt like a weak substitute for what she was meant to have.

She slammed the door to her master bedroom shut flicking the lock, she wanted to be allowed to cry without the looks of sadness and pity on her well meaning friends faces. She shed her fitted black dress, leaving it discarded on the ground. Her entire life changed in an instant. It went from fairytale ending to living nightmare in a blink of an eye and a blinding flash of a muzzle.

She dropped her gaze down, she could still see remnants of his blood coating her arms and chest. She closed her eyes, but was only met with the scene replaying in her head. She could still hear the loud pop the gun made and the ear piercing shriek that left her lips. Her life felt foreign, she wasn’t sure she would ever get over the heartbreak of losing the man she loved the same day she became his wife.

Riley looked up into the mirror, knuckles going white as she gripped the vanity edge tighter as she frowned at the pale face staring back at her. She barely recognized the woman she’d become since he died. Her chestnut brown hair brushed the first time in a week, missing its usual shine. Her hazel eyes were bloodshot and red rimmed, deep purple circles proving though she barely left her bed that she barely got any sleep. Any sleep manage was not a reprieve from the pain she felt, instead it was simply a reminder of all she lost.

Riley smiled, her eyelids slowly fluttered open as she felt his calloused hand brush against her cheek. “Morning.” She breathed as hazel locked on warm chestnut brown.

“Morning.” His lips quirked into a lopsided smile as he leaned in for a kiss.

“You have morning breath.” She pulled away half seriously teasing her husband, her heart.

“So do you.”

Their lips met, a spark lighting through her. She brought her hand up, fingers tangling in his hair as she pulled him closer. She felt complete, at peace. She never wanted this feeling to end.

She rolled, reaching for him in the bed. Her hand hit cold sheets, forcing her back to reality. It was all a dream, a beautiful, wonderful, horrible dream. Tears streaked down her pale cheeks soaking the pillowcase in fresh tears. She rolled to her side, staring out at the balcony. She had once found the view so serene and beautiful, now it was just another reminder of all they dreamed of and would never have.

She felt completely lost without him. She didn’t want to move, she barely ate, let alone showered. How can I move on like he was never here? They said ‘time heals all wounds’ but how much time is needed to mend a broken heart?

I shouldn’t be here, he shouldn’t be the one who is gone. On the outside she wept, deep inside she didn’t simply feel bone crushing grief, she felt pain but also guilt. She knew Liam said his name because he loved her. If I had said no to Maxwell he never would have died and I wouldn’t feel so terribly alone surrounded by friends. She didn’t want to be here, she didn’t want to live, but her faith ingrained her with a fear of taking her own life. Instead it was easier to just sit in her bed, refusing every tray Hana brought to her with a sad smile. She just was waiting to fall asleep and never wake.

Why did I agree to weekly get togethers that are really check ups on the grieving widow? I don’t want to see people, I don’t want to talk. I just want to be left alone. She frowned as her phone lit up with the doctor’s name that Olivia had all but forced her to see. Why can’t they just let me go? I don’t want reminders of him. I want to be on my own or with him. Why couldn’t they just leave me be. She so badly wanted to push decline, but she wanted to prove to them that their concern had been over nothing. Hopefully now they’ll let me leave.

Riley rushed around her room stuffing clothes in her open suitcase. Only what she brought, she wanted to forget all her time spent in Cordonia all her frilly gowns were to stay behind. She couldn’t stay, not here, she couldn’t take the memories that were etched into every corner of the country she’d come to think of as home.

She wasn’t sure where to go. New York would be just as bad, she’d be drawn to the bar they met at. She couldn’t go back to Montana, she’d be reminded of all the times he talked to her about Walker ranch and the simple life he wanted to show their kids. She placed her hand on her flat stomach, they’d never have children. She’d never see him beam as he held their newborn in his arms. She’d never get to argue over who the baby resembled more, him of course, not that she’d mind. She shook her head sniffling back fresh tears. It’s time to forget every dream.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

She closed her eyes as Olivia’s voice broke through the still room. She had hoped to avoid this. She didn’t want to have to try to explain why she was running away. “I’m leaving Cordonia, I can’t live here anymore. It’s too hard, I see him everywhere. I’m sorry but I need to leave.”

“Like hell I’m letting you leave.”

She sighed. “I wasn’t asking for your permission Liv.” Oh god. Her hand flew to her mouth as her stomach turned. She rushed to the en-suite, emptying the meager contents of her stomach into the toilet.

“The only place you’re going is the doctors. You are making yourself sick from not eating. Maybe you even need—”

She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “I swear if you say I need antidepressants I will stab you with your own damn dagger!”

“There is the fight. Now let’s get you to the doctor.”

“Liv I don’t want to.” She paused as she met Olivia’s murderous gaze. “Fine but when the doctor says everything is normal for someone grieving you have to let me leave Cordonia.”

Olivia sighed. “I hate it, but fine.”

Riley stared at the opposite wall, her feet rooted to the ground as her heart hammered in her chest. “I’m sorry I think I misheard you, could you please repeat that?” No it has to be a mistake. This can’t be happening.

“Of course.” Her voice cheerful and chipper. “I said congratulations, you’re pregnant. By the levels and your last known period we would estimate about three months but we would need you to come in for an ultrasound to confirm.”

Pregnant? Her heart stopped in her chest. Three months? Tears sprung to her red rimmed hazel eyes. He’s almost been gone that long. Her legs gave way, her body crumbling to the ground, phone slipping from her hand, tumbling to the floor. I—I can’t be. This can’t be happening. Please let me wake up from this endless nightmare.

She didn’t know what was worse, knowing he was gone and she’d never see him again, or doing this all on her own. It felt like some cruel joke the universe was playing on her, giving her a piece of him, a reminder of what could have been. Would she be able to watch a miniature version of him grow without her heart completely shattering?

All the stress she was under after losing Drake she barely even noticed that she was late. It wasn’t until she had been getting increasingly nauseous that she’d noticed anything was amiss. Even so, she wasn’t eating as much, sullen and depressed, it wasn’t until Olivia had all but threatened her that she even went to see what was wrong. She was convinced it was due to stress and lack of care, she never even suspected that she may be pregnant.

Pregnant. The word brought her fear and sadness instead of filling her with joy and love. She sat on the floor, her body a broken heap like when she’d held Drake in her arms, all the pain she felt that night rushing back to her tenfold. A baby, his baby. She’d been struggling to find a reason to hold on, to move forward, can I do this? How can I watch our child grow without completely falling apart?

“Riley?” His baritone voice tinged with concern as it filtered through the halls.

She opened her mouth to call out to him, no words coming. He’ll find me. With the news she’d forgotten he was stopping by to check on her, usually she’d be waiting for him in the kitchen. She looked up as she saw his shadow before his tall frame filled the doorway.

His face briefly flitted with relief at finding her. “Riley, what’s wrong?” He rushed to her side.

Her silent tears turned to a loud broken sob. How many times would today mirror the one where she lost her husband? “The-the doctor called.” She stammered, barely getting the words out. “I’m—I’m pregnant.” The last word lodged itself in her throat. Her heart ached as she spoke, she shouldn’t be crying, Drake should be by her side, both of them feeling overjoyed at the news. “How can I possibly do this on my own?”

His heart broke for her, he knew this couldn’t be making things any easier for her. “You aren’t alone.”

She wiped at her cheeks with the backs of her hands. “I know I will have help and support, the gang has been, you have been kind enough to check up on me, but he should be here.” He would be here if it weren’t for me.

How can he just be gone?

Feedback fuels me, please like, comment reblog or send an ask. Feel free to scream, I promise I can take it.

Masterlist can be found in my bio.

Taglist will be reblogged.

#past drake x mc #olivia nevrakis #bastien lykel #riley brooks #trr au #the royal romance #the royal romance au #choices the royal romance #one more day #learning to breathe #one more day: learning to breathe #chapter 2 #angst #tw depression #tw grief #this hurts so much!#long post #read more

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msbluebell · 5 years

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I wonder what would be Byleth's role in the (Blue Lion Route of) Shared!Sibling. Let's say that it's F!Byleth. The kid knows them, of course, from before the timeskip. And Edelgard couldn't shut up about her. They are less rude but ask "why have you betrayed my sister? she loved you!! she wanted you on her side!!" "why have you side with this monster (Dimitri)?" "Why do you love someone like him?". F!Byleth is a angel of patience, really.

Right, so, going with F!Byelth.

Byleth probably does have the patience of a saint in this AU. They’re not used to children, haven’t grown up around them, haven’t really interacted with them, the youngest they’re probably really had much contact with is Cyril and a few orphans at the chruch, and none of them were like this. Still, they wouldn’t be Byleth if they didn’t take this with stone-faced calm. Besides, Dimitri is really determined to raise them, and he’s been through enough already. And she also understands that the kid was fed biased information about Dimitri and Faerghus, and they just lost their sister.

(Also, privately, and it’s just a small spark of an idea, but if she can survive helping raise this child than maybe any future children she may have with Dimitri will seem less terrifying)

That all said, the kid is testing even her patience.

Byleth knows that Dimitri hasn’t been at his best the last few years, he’s done and said some horrendous things. But he’s also an ill man with no access to herbalist help (medication provided by the church in game, which is actually pretty interesting and something I need to explore later) and was betrayed, framed, isolated, and hunted for five years with no company but his ghost. She knows the child can’t know that, but it’s hard to listen to them oversimplify the issue. And what’s more, she has a very hard time convincing Dimitri he’s not a monster as it is, and the child keeps throwing his mistakes back in his face while being willfully ignorant of Edelgard’s own monstrous actions. Dimitri also refuses to defend himself properly.

She asks the child to stop calling Dimitri a monster, but that just makes them more confused and upset. She’s at a loss for what to do at that point. She usually brings in Annette and Mercedes to help her, but the child only wants to be with her, so she has to take advice from them and try to apply it.

The child does ask why she betrayed their sister, to which Byleth can only share the truth. She was never on Edelgard’s side in the first place, and barely even knew her before the war started. This…upsets the child more. They demand to know why she sided with “the monster” over their sister.

“Dimitri is not a monster.” Is all she can really say, because how does she explain to a child that she was barely human before Garreg Mach? That he helped her learn to feel things? That a classroom of broken and hurt children that needed her gave her purpose? How does she explain crests and revolutions and reformations without upsetting the child? She simply has to settle, “He is a hurt man, and your brother.”

But that doesn’t answer the child, so it’s up to her to explain why she sided with him. She doesn’t know how to say it’s because she loves her students, and the Blue Lions, and she found something worth living for in them, and that she found a broken, hurt, man beaten by the world slumped over in shadows, blood on his face and weapon in hand because he’s so used to needing it. She can’t explain hurt, and loss, and helping him recover, or falling in love over the span of five years that take the form of one for her. So she tries, bluntly and honestly as she can, to explain the war objectively. The side of each army, and the wrongs committed by all, and betrayal, and surprise, and goals.

The child doesn’t like hearing it. They don’t like the stories about the Flame Emperor, or Remire Village, or her father, or the invasion of Garreg Mach, or Rhea in the dungeons, or war. They don’t believe her, accuse her of lying, of being on the monster’s side because he tricked her somehow.

But she isn’t lying and she tells him so. She sided with Dimitri out of love, and out of fondness, and because she disagreed with Edelgard’s goal. She tells them so.

The child doesn’t like it, doesn’t understand it, and is willfully blind to the morally ambiguous nature of the war. They don’t seem to understand that good people can be wrong, or do terrible things, and it’s seemly something she doesn’t know how to explain.

“Why do you love someone like him? Why couldn’t you love my sister?” Is both the hardest and easiest question in the world for her. She didn’t love Edelgard because she didn’t know Edelgard well enough to feel anything for her, and Edelgard’s personality was hard as steel and sharp as a blade, and she’s not sure if she’d have fallen in love with her even if she knew Edelgard more, and even if she did she wouldn’t have sided with her in the war, she doesn’t think, so it would have only ended in heartbreak for both. She’s honest about that, because this child deserves better than a lie.

Why she loves Dimitri is harder simply because she doesn’t have the words for it. It’s hard to explain being numb, and she can’t explain Sothis or how her emotions only started to wake when the goddess (herself, she, they’re one now) awoke, or how Dimtri was there, and he was the one to unkowingly help her through it. She can’t explain slow exposure to feelings for the first time, or how he reached out his hand to her, included her even when he was unsure or weary of her, or how he was the first one to see her smile, to say she looked memorizing, or how he was the first one to comfort her when her father died, or his loyalty to her (thought the promise that he would fight anyone for her, kill anyone she needed haunts her now like it hadn’t then), or how he was the first to support her mad quest for revenge (sometimes she wonders if maybe she hadn’t gone after that woman if he would have been less inclined to vengeance himself), she can’t mention the goddess tower and wishes and promises. And she especially can’t explain hurt and recovery and comfort and redemption and apologies and outreached hands in the rain. And Dimitri begged her not to explain his desperate attempts to forgive Edelgard, or a man who was responsible for this very child’s mother’s death sitting in a dungeon.

Instead she settles, “I love him because he’s a good man, better than you or anyone else knows.”

If it’s not good enough for the child, then she doesn’t know what else to say. But she’s patient enough to try and teach them to either love their brother again, or at least survive his presence until they’re old enough to leave. She hopes for a happy ending but makes plans for the worst just in case.

#fe3h #Shared Sibling AU #Dimileth #byleth eisner #Byleth #dimitri alexandre blaiddyd #Blue Lion Route #asks

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truthwithacapitalt-blog · 4 years

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Only Love Can Defeat Hate

The recent murder of George Floyd has ignited protests across the country, and rightly so. What happened to this man was just disgusting. It happens much too often, and really needs a lasting solution. If that happened to a family member of mine, I would be broken beyond repair. The senselessness of it just drives me crazy. A life was taken for no good reason whatsoever, and nothing could be as heartbreaking as that.

While this tragedy is enough to make your heart sink, and blood boil, the reaction to it has been just as sad. In a time when we should all be coming together to unite under a common belief and conviction, the political extremes have found a way to divide the nation even further. While the majority of people are coming together in harmony, uniting behind a common goal, no matter what color, or party affiliation, the extremes have managed to find a way to make this man's death a political talking point for their cause. The Family of George are at this moment trying to grieve the loss of someone that was everything to them. They want peace, not chaos, like we all would want. Our love for them, and the memory of George, should stir in us a sense of respect for a time of grievance. They want peace, and we gave them riots and looting. We all should be outraged at this horrific tragedy, of course, and we should protest, but if we don’t work through this together with love, we will get nowhere, again. History has shown and proven time and again, it is real love that changes the world for the good, not hate. Martin Luther King Jr, a registered Republican defeated the Democrat party who opposed the civil rights movement by refusing to hate, and was only willing to fight for change through peace and love. He understood the puzzle of how to enact real change, and how to fight so as to win. But not just win, he knew how to win in a way that would be irreversible. If we are sincere in our goal of ending racism, and if we continue forward in real love and peace, never giving up the good fight, not only for the sake of the goal, but also because it is the right thing to do, there can be a real and lasting change. But if we continue down the path of hate, it will end as hate always ends, in darkness and despair for everyone.

After the riots, I saw a video the next morning of an the entire community of all people and races, come out to clean up the mess that was made. THIS IS AMERICA. This is the America that should be making headline news. People have a right to protest, and they did. And while there is disagreement regarding the chaos, destruction and looting, there is also understanding. But it is the simple act of a community coming out, cleaning up after the protests, that is a testament to the spirit of the American people as a whole, and as a Country.

The mind and heart of an individual person is who that person is, and that heart and mind has no race. No one man is a group of people. Our actions flow out from the mind and heart of who we each are individually. I believe this is what Martin Luther King Jr, meant by, ‘Do not judge a man by the color of his skin, but rather by the content of his character’. It was not the color of the police officer's skin that led to his actions, it was the intent of his own mind and heart. All people regardless of color are their own unique individual persons, with their own intents. Judging the heart and mind of a person based on their skin color, is rationally incoherent, and highly offensive, not just to them personally, but to everyone. I don’t know a single person who does not think this murder was disgraceful and horrific, yet the extremes on the political left, have somehow managed to accuse all the white people on the political right of being for the Officer, and against George. This just sickened me to the core if I’m honest. Does anyone even count the cost of such callous and unfounded accusations? I have not heard one person anywhere, regardless of color, or party affiliation, defend the actions of the police officer. There is universal condemnation that should have united everyone. And it could have. Everyone on all sides of the political spectrum agrees that this is a monstrous act, and that something needs to be done to address racism. The political right in America does not consist of only white people. And people need to stop accusing them of being racist just because they are white. Being white does not make you a racist. And being a republican does not make you a racist. Anyone that thinks otherwise are racist themselves. While half of the republican party is white, the other half is made up of every other race. Yet for some reason, it's always and only the ‘white’ republicans that the extreme political left attacks and has an issue with. They always leave out the half of the Republican party that are not white when complaining about the Political right. How is this not racism? How are the political left, who only target ‘white’ Republicans, not racist for singling out white people based on the color of their skin? The amount of people revealing themselves to be racist against white people is astounding to me. And this is not an attempt to say, oh poor white people. I’m not saying that at all. I’m just stating a fact of reality, I'm just shocked. People out there truly hate ‘white’ Republicans based solely on their skin color. They don’t hate the black or Mexican Republicans, so it’s not their political views that are the issue, it’s their skin color. Racism is racism, it's all ugly, and it all needs to stop.

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electricea-a · 4 years

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BEST PICTURE NOMINEES (2018) AESTHETICS. repost, don’t reblog. bold whatever applies. tag whoever you want and feel free to add to the categories.

THE SHAPE OF WATER : early mornings. art on an easel. being trapped. flashy cars. self-righteous intolerance. speaking volumes without a word. being submerged. learning and adapting. raindrops on windows. bubbles rising in water. cats. taboo desires. tanks of water. kitschy nostalgia. kissing underwater. silence. isolation. golden age hollywood. sign language. scales. egg shells. jell-o. the smell of cleaning supplies. creature features. the space race. red coats. monstrous fairy tales. lab coats. lunches in brown bags. the click of shoes. smog. dance routines. slices of pie. toxic masculinity. chains. government secrets. seeing past flaws. floating aimlessly. needles. greens and blues. deep, inexorable scars. gills. music from the 30′s. retro-futurism. bloody handprints. routines. record players. old movies. love in unexpected places.

PHANTOM THREAD : a doll in a gilded birdcage. butter to bread. the death of a mother . cycles .hidden messages. a disruptive presence. longing. wedding gowns. posh control. post-war. brightly colored socks. inner turmoil. poison. an air of quiet death. hallucinations. family dysfunction. rich fabrics. curses. soft piano music. restrained anger. spinning out of control. artist and muse. dark love. pastels. peace in the countryside. clockwork dynamics. perfection. wild mushrooms. giving up every piece of yourself. rags to riches. ghosts. new year’s. lingering gazes. needle and thread. fine dining. hearing every sound. being ambushed. ego. flowing dresses. a person out of place. defiance. ink to paper. an artist tortured by their art. obsessive personalities. peepholes. soothing elegance. silk. spiral staircases. driving at high speeds. high society.

THE POST : typewriters. newspapers. tense climates. distrust of authority. internal battles. a legacy at stake. secrets. cover-ups. defending what you believe. peering through windows. melodrama. political corruption. behind closed doors. sniffing a scoop. ringing phones. lying for over a decade. cramming and crowding. cold grays. war. fluorescent lights. treason. shuffled papers. the jungle. a weight on your shoulders. fresh coffee. thousands of deaths. burglary. finding your voice. risking everything. propaganda.tough choices. exposure. type being set by hand. workplace rivalries. abuses of power. security breaches. hierarchy. a bed strewn with papers and books. paranoia. orders. clicking keys. redacted files. desk clutter. cigarette smoke. precious cargo. vanished technologies. suspenseful conversations. facing charges. courtroom battles. suits and ties.

DARKEST HOUR : never surrendering. duty. countless negotiations. the flash of cameras. beaches. historic buildings. guzzling booze. resignation. utter catastrophe. bunkers. radio broadcasts. going against the odds. bathed in red light. a sense of humor. allies. shouting matches. small square windows.selfishness. walking with a cane. war rooms. chandeliers. dust floating in air. righteousness. a poor reputation. an elevator surrounded by darkness. a world at war. needing a miracle. interruptions. a last hope. cigar smoke. quoting poetry. photos of a loved one. a single sunbeam. monarchy. vanity. rescue missions. refusing peace. pallid chambers. military uniforms. taking a stand. common folk. suicide missions. drums of war. tears down sullen cheeks. reluctance. complete collapse. evacuations. enveloped by fog. changing history. blood, toil, tears and sweat.

THREE BILLBOARDS OUTSIDE EBBING, MISSOURI : severe burns. police uniforms. sirens. the calmness of a deer. strumming guitars. grieving. horrifying memories. sucker punches. a lack of respect. facing threats. skin under fingernails. flicking cigarettes. awkward dates. nasty rumors. claustrophobia. lush green pastures. molotov cocktails. the fire of anger and revenge. strangers. no remorse. bashing in windows. the midwest. provoking a fight. pointing fingers. being pressed for time. rundown old houses. grey morality. dark undercurrents. insurmountable losses. cruel laughs. the american flag. dive bars.guilty no matter what. buildings in flames. ambulances. coughing up blood. spitting. chewing on fingernails. one versus many. black and red. not understanding another’s feelings. a mother and child. the pain of others. a quest of justice. abandoned billboards. a hardened gaze. driving to nowhere. small towns. last letters. absurd violence.

CALL ME BY YOUR NAME : heartbreak. unbuttoned shirts. fields of flowers. having to say goodbye. cobblestone streets. rendezvous at midnight. battling temptation. academic paperwork. peeling an orange. 80’s nostalgia. classical music. long walks. ancient artifacts. abundant orchards. shoulder massages. expressive sexuality. remembering everything. staring into a fireplace. dipping your feet in cool water. uncertainty. villa vacations. curly hair. longing gazes. riding a bicycle around. mystery of love. balconies. swimming naked. first times. bathing suits. roman statues. secret sensuality. peaches. piano music. sun-soaked summer. having your nose in a book. just rooms apart. crystal blue water. growing attractions. changing your name. intimacy beyond physical. love affairs. rich wines. finding pleasure in grief. daring to desire. european lyricism. loving father figures. dancing to disco. laying in green grass. awkward adolescence. hands interlinked. sentimental jewelry. connection through identity. the magen david.

DUNKIRK : burying a body. warm cider. narrow escapes. a race against time. a small boat. all hope lost. being unable to come home. taken prisoner. shipwrecks. assuming the identity of someone else. setting fire to it all. smoke rising from a crash. sea foam. seaports. rendered blind. dropping to take cover. land, sea, and air. entangled in chain. toast with jam. suspense. waiting for escape. wounded men. lying in the sand. trauma. blank spaces. sinking ships. commended a hero. cocking a gun. swallowed by darkness. bullet holes. obstacles and delays. a hero’s welcome. planes overhead. the sounds of a ticking clock. bullets ricocheting off metal. people by the thousands. shell-shocked. the explosions of shells on shores. the sound of destruction. rising tides. head injuries. target practice. compressed time and space. the perennial threat of death. oil ignited into flames. lying for the greater good. blocking out the noise. primal dangers. taking command. sole survivor.

GET OUT : deer antlers. suburbs. hypnosis. strange behavior. familial tension. chopping wood. uneasy stares. tears and a smile. deception. fight or flight. blindness. survival. sinking into the floor. watching but powerless. strapped to a chair. plugged ears. a failed handshake. car accidents. sunken places. something out of a nightmare. going hysterical. bingo cards. smoking cigarettes. static on a television set. doing more harm than good. a hint of a smile. a stranger in any environment that is foreign to them. waiting for someone to come when they never will. overturned candles. wealthy garden parties. constantly looking over your shoulder.silence no matter how hard you scream. trances. catharsis. a battle of wills. layers being peeled back. a cup of tea. nosebleeds. addiction. last bits of life leaving a body. black and white photography. sprinting at high speeds. conspiracies. surgery. blankly polite speech. noise of a spoon scraping across a teacup. a deer in headlights. staring at your own reflection. unable to sleep. loyal friends.

LADY BIRD : california landscapes. budding romance. uniforms. consolation. plain and luscious colors. apologizing. boorish sex. prom dresses. secondhand dresses. strong personalities. the theatre. being simultaneously warm and scary. battling depression. 90’s fashion. dreaming of elsewhere. partying. signatures on a cast. living on the wrong side of the tracks. not being bound by any era. rejection. sparklers. thrift stores. high school. identity crisis. a place that looks like a memory. going behind backs. disappointed parents. catholicism. poverty. busy new york city streets. monotonous hometowns. shitty bands. teenage anarchy. drifting in and out of friendships. menial jobs. red hair. self-given names. coming-of-age. a broken arm. excessive drinking. first kisses. cupcakes. smudged eye makeup. strained relationships. screaming in the middle of the street. thoughtful letters. standing out. decorated bedroom walls. having a change of heart. expressing individuality.

Tagged by: @nontale (Thanks!) Tagging: Anyone and everyone!

#headcanons

3 notes · View notes

angryteapot · 5 years

Note

aww tea I love the whole follower appreciation thing you’re too sweet

Chris, my lovely! One flangsty Bucky coming right up, hope I do the prompt some justice!

Okay shit, I just finished writing this, and lemme tell you that I LEGIT choked up with tears as I wrote this. THAT HAS NEVER HAPPENED TO ME BEFORE. I’m now reminded why I don’t typically write angst.*laughs maniacally through tears* I hope you’re proud of yourself and this damned prompt! Haha jk jk, love you babe!

“Alright Barnes, let’s see who ends up with the higher body count.” You smirk at him as you shove the mag into your SIG Sauer P226. The gun was a beauty, and you knew it made Bucky a little hot under the collar when you used it on missions.

“Oh honey, you know it’s gonna be me.” He sounded awfully confident - it would only make your victory that much sweeter. You’ll admit, he was a force to be reckoned with on the battlefield, but you were too.

Steve just rolled his eyes as he descended the jet ramp. “You guys are sickening. Just try to focus on Hydra, and not each other, yeah?”

You threw a lazy two-finger salute in his direction, winking as you drawled, “Yes sir, Captain.” It earned you a satisfying blush from Steve and a warning glare from Bucky.

“Okay people, listen up. Intel estimates 50 Hydra agents in the building, and 7 hostages - our job today is strictly find and rescue. We’re aiming to capture the Hydra agents, not exterminate this time, only go for the kill if it’s absolutely necessary.” Steve looked at each person, waiting for their nod of confirmation before continuing.

“As soon as we have the hostages, we send word to the S.H.I.E.L.D. team that’s waiting nearby. They take the hostages to safety, and we circle back to round up the Hydra agents and hand them over to Coulson’s team for questioning. Stay alert and watch each other’s backs, this is one of the higher-level Hydra factions, they won’t go down easy.”

A little put out at having to capture instead of just kill, you turned to Bucky with a pout. He ran his thumb over your protruding bottom lip, kissing you gently. “Don’t worry darlin’, you’ll still get to beat the shit outta them. Challenge still stands, rules are just a little different, that’s all.”

You smiled at him, leaning into the hand cradling your cheek. “You better be careful, Barnes. I’d tear the world apart with my rage if something happened to you.”

He kissed you again, a little more forceful this time. “I couldn’t live without ya darlin’, so back at’cha.”.

* * *

Chaos was all that you could register. The intel was wrong, so so wrong. There were more enemy agents than you could count, enough that the S.H.I.E.L.D. teams on standby were called in to assist. There were so many bodies, the ‘capture not kill’ plan had gone out the door from the minute you busted into the building.

They had been waiting for you, tipped off somehow of your arrival, and the team was between a rock and a hard place. It seemed an eternity that you were fighting, but the hordes of Hydra lackeys were finally thinning out.

Your two SIGs had been emptied and reloaded at least three times each, and were soon abandoned after you ran out of mags. You had an array of knives strapped to you, just as Bucky did, and you used those once the bullets had run out.

You sustained a few injuries, shallow cuts and bruises, but you were spattered in enemy blood. It was truly mesmerizing to watch you fight with your knives, the sheer grace and lethality you possessed were breathtaking. You fought alongside Bucky and his own knives, taking out countless agents as you kept a protective eye on your teammates.

Steve and Natasha had managed to knock out and restrain a few of the commanders, while Hulk, Thor and Tony took out a good majority of the other agents. Clint and Sam had found the hostages and were escorting them from the premises.

Thor sent a blast of lighting straight to the few remaining agents, shaking the building’s foundation with the force of it, as they disintegrated before your very eyes.

While the rest of the team was sussing out the damage, you were walking towards Bucky when a sudden movement caught your eye. A Hydra operative - half mangled on the ground, he was unmoving and so bloody you had thought him dead, raised his weapon and aimed.

Eyes following to where he was aiming, you saw it was at your Bucky, who had his back turned and didn’t see the threat. The gun went off. Your mind blanked and your body just reacted.

You blinked at the deafening bang of the gun, and all you knew in that instant was pain. You looked down to the burning sensation in your abdomen, seeing a vivid crimson rapidly stain your tac suit.

You heard the whizzing of a knife being thrown, the Hydra agent now with one of Bucky’s knives lodged between unseeing eyes, and then - “NO! No please, oh god, no no no no no!”

Your knees buckled, Bucky’s arms encircling you gently and breaking your fall. Steve and Thor were beside you in an instant, and you could distantly hear Tony shouting at someone through the comms.

You were warm, nearly on fire, and your head was pounding an awful cadence. Bucky’s face appeared in front of your eyes, but he was fuzzy, your vision wavering from the blood loss.

“No, darlin’ stay with me, stay awake, can you do that for me? Y/N, oh god, Y/N keep you eyes on me dammit! Why? Why would you do something so stupid?”

You could see tears filling his panicked eyes, and you sluggishly reached a hand up to cup his cheek. You were so tired, in so much pain, you barely managed to get the words out - “My love. Couldn’t let him… Didn’t react fast enou-”

You gasped in pain, your eyes rolling back into your head. You could hear voices, but it sounded as though you were hearing them far away under water. Your hand fell from Bucky’s face, and you could no longer feel his arms around you. You couldn’t feel much of anything anymore, not even the burning pain.

One panicked voice came through clearer than the rest, “No, please don’t leave me, I can’t live without you, doll. Please open your eyes and come back to me.”

You tried so hard to comply, you hated hearing Bucky’s voice sound so anguished. You felt a brush of lips to your forehead, and then… nothing.

* * *

Bucky could practically see the moment life left your body. You were still warm, but you felt empty in his arms. He couldn’t even scream, he just stared blankly at the floor, your blood soaking his suit.

Natasha was silently sobbing, hand over her mouth as she turned into Steve’s chest to hide herself from the heartbreaking scene. Thor was stoic before he shouted in anger and propelled himself through the wall and halfway across the world. Steve’s very soul was tearing in two at the sight of his two best friends - one dead and the other silently mourning the loss of his love.

Tony stood silently a ways away, feeling empty. Even though he wasn’t fond of Barnes, he cared a great deal for you, and he couldn’t imagine the grief Bucky was feeling as he clutched your lifeless body.

Sam and Clint rushed in through the busted wall, skidding to a halt as they saw what had transpired. Every one was silent, still as statues and unable to look away from the tragedy in front of them.

* * *

There was a sudden flurry of movement and noise as Coulson and his team came charging into the room. Everyone shot forward in disbelief and rage as Coulson himself pulled your body from Bucky’s arms as another agent stabbed Bucky in the next with a monstrous dose of tranquilizer.

As Steve shot forward to snatch your body back from Coulson, Tony was suddenly blocking his way - “No! Stand down, Rogers, he says he can save her.”

Steve heard the urgency in Tony’s voice and begrudgingly backed down, fuming with rage as he turned to help restrain Bucky, despite wanting to punch Tony in the face.

Bucky, meanwhile, was trying to break free from the iron grip of a giant of a man - Agent Mackenzie. Bucky’s eyes were wild as he yelled out in frustration, seconds away from breaking free from the agent’s grip.

“NO! Give her BACK to me! You can’t take her!” Despite the massive tranq dose he was shot up with, Bucky’s anger and despair fueled his strength, burning off the tranquilizer faster than it could take effect.

Steve jumped in to help restrain his best friend, wincing in sympathy as they tranq’ed Bucky again, this time with an even larger dosage that did the job. Steve was sorrowful as he caught Bucky’s limp body, face now a permanent mask of pain at your death.

Everyone was silent and tense as they followed Coulson’s team in the jet to the facility you had been taken to. Nobody would say a word to them, despite the amount of questions and threats hurled out of anger.

The team was finally admitted into the secret facility, and lead to a room where your body was laid out on a hospital bed, numerous IVs piercing your skin with a blue liquid.

The biggest surprise was Nick Fury sitting in the chair next to your body.

He held up a hand to silence the immediate demand for answers, “Questions can wait for later. She’ll be fine, I give you my word. The serum is already beginning to take effect - look.”

The team gave way to let Steve through, him half-carrying Bucky, who was just coming to from the tranquilizer. Bucky didn’t understand what was happening, but he let out an audible cry of relief as your chest began to move with breath and color returned to your ashen skin.

* * *

You slowly returned to consciousness, your mind hazy, body feeling… strange, not your own. You looked at your surroundings, panic dissipating as you saw Bucky asleep at your bedside, his hands lightly clutching your own IV-adorned arm.

You wiggled your fingers and he immediately snapped to attention, eyes quickly brimming with tears as he whispered your name.

After a tearful exchange and a heated but gentle kiss, Bucky filled you in on what had happened to you.

“So… I died?” Disbelief colored your voice.

A pained nod from Bucky.

“And… Coulson’s team brought me back. With a… serum? Called GH-325?”

Another nod, paired with a brief explanation of what the serum was.

“Wow. So I’m part alien now, huh?” You tried to lighten the tense atmosphere.

You sobered up at Bucky’s serious expression.

“Don’t you ever do that to me again. I wouldn’t be able to live without you, Y/N.”

You sigh, “I know, but I’m not sorry. It could have been you that died. I couldn’t let that happen. I know I should have just taken the Hydra agent out, but I didn’t think, I just reacted. I don’t regret it, I’d do it again if it meant you’d live.”

“I might’ve been breathing, but without you I’m just a shell of a man, darlin’.” You cupped his face, beckoning him closer.

You rested your forehead against his, both of you sighing at the reassuring contact. “Even in death I wouldn’t leave you.”

“Good, because I’d burn the world down just to feel your warmth again.”

You laugh, the sound bring joy to his heart, thinking he’d have never heard your laugh again if it wasn’t for Coulson.

“My sweet homicidal maniac, I will never leave you again if I can help it.”

“I love you to the ends of the universe, Y/N.”

“And I, you, my love.”

Bucky sighed contently as you pressed your lips to his. He’d let the team know you were awake in a little bit - for now, he needed the quiet time alone to just be with you.

#tea answers #tea loves her followers #sunflowers-and-bucky #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #angst #flangst

74 notes · View notes

bloodfcst-a · 4 years

Text

* ☆ BEST PICTURE NOMINEES (2018) AESTHETICS. repost, don’t reblog. BOLD whatever applies. tag whoever you want and feel free to add to the categories.

THE SHAPE OF WATER : early mornings. art on an easel. being trapped. flashy cars. speaking volumes without a word. being submerged. learning and adapting. raindrops on windows. bubbles rising in water. cats. taboo desires. tanks of water. kitschy nostalgia. kissing underwater. silence. isolation. golden age hollywood. sign language. scales. egg shells. jell-o. the smell of cleaning supplies. creature features. the space race. red coats. monstrous fairy tales. lab coats. lunches in brown bags. the click of shoes. smog. dance routines. slices of pie. toxic masculinity. chains. government secrets. seeing past flaws. floating aimlessly. needles. greens and blues. deep, inexorable scars. gills. music from the 30′s. retro-futurism. bloody handprints. routines. record players. old movies. love in unexpected places.

PHANTOM THREAD : a doll in a gilded birdcage. butter to bread. the death of a mother. cycles. hidden messages. a disruptive presence. longing. wedding gowns. posh control. post-war. brightly coloured socks. inner turmoil. poison. an air of quiet death. hallucinations. family dysfunction. rich fabrics. curses. soft piano music. restrained anger. spinning out of control. artist and muse. dark love. pastels. peace in the countryside. clockwork dynamics. perfection. wild mushrooms. giving up every piece of yourself. rags to riches. ghosts. new year’s. lingering gazes. needle and thread. fine dining. hearing every sound. being ambushed. ego. flowing dresses. a person out of place. defiance. ink to paper. an artist tortured by their art. obsessive personalities. peepholes. soothing elegance. silk. spiral staircases. driving at high speeds. high society.

THE POST : typewriters. newspapers. tense climates. distrust of authority. internal battles. a legacy at stake. secrets. cover-ups. defending what you believe. peering through windows. melodrama. political corruption. behind closed doors. sniffing a scoop. ringing phones. lying for over a decade. cramming and crowding. cold grays. war. fluorescent lights. treason. shuffled papers. the jungle. a weight on your shoulders. fresh coffee. thousands of deaths. burglary. finding your voice. risking everything. propaganda. tough choices. exposure. type being set by hand. workplace rivalries. abuses of power. security breaches. hierarchy. a bed strewn with papers and books. paranoia. orders. clicking keys. redacted files. desk clutter. cigarette smoke. precious cargo. vanished technologies. suspenseful conversations. facing charges. courtroom battles. suits and ties.

LADY BIRD : california landscapes. budding romance. uniforms. consolation. plain and luscious colours. apologising. prom dresses. secondhand dresses. strong personalities. the theatre. being simultaneously warm and scary. battling depression. 90’s fashion. dreaming of elsewhere. partying. signatures on a cast. living on the wrong side of the tracks. not being bound by any era. rejection. sparklers. thrift stores. high school. identity crisis. a place that looks like a memory. going behind backs. disappointed parents. catholicism. poverty. busy new york city streets. monotonous hometowns. shitty bands. teenage anarchy. drifting in and out of friendships. menial jobs. red hair. self-given names. coming-of-age. a broken arm. excessive drinking. first kisses. cupcakes. smudged eye makeup. strained relationships. screaming in the middle of the street. thoughtful letters. standing out. decorated bedroom walls. having a change of heart. expressing individuality.

GET OUT : deer antlers. suburbs. hypnosis. strange behaviour. familial tension. chopping wood. uneasy stares. tears and a smile. deception. fight or flight. blindness. survival. sinking into the floor. watching but powerless. strapped to a chair. plugged ears. a failed handshake. car accidents. sunken places. something out of a nightmare. going hysterical. bingo cards. smoking cigarettes. static on a television set. doing more harm than good. a hint of a smile. a stranger in any environment that is foreign to them. waiting for someone to come when they never will. overturned candles. wealthy garden parties. constantly looking over your shoulder. silence no matter how hard you scream. trances. catharsis. a battle of wills. layers being peeled back. a cup of tea. nosebleeds. addiction. last bits of life leaving a body. black and white photography. sprinting at high speeds. conspiracies. surgery. blankly polite speech. noise of a spoon scraping across a teacup. a deer in headlights. staring at your own reflection. unable to sleep. loyal friends.

DUNKIRK : burying a body. warm cider. narrow escapes. a race against time. a small boat. all hope lost. being unable to come home. taken prisoner. shipwrecks.assuming the identity of someone else. setting fire to it all. smoke rising from a crash. sea foam. seaports. rendered blind. dropping to take cover. land, sea, and air. entangled in chain. toast with jam. suspense. waiting for escape. wounded men. lying in the sand. trauma. blank spaces. sinking ships. commended a hero. cocking a gun. swallowed by darkness. bullet holes. obstacles and delays. a hero’s welcome. planes overhead. the sounds of a ticking clock. bullets ricocheting off metal. people by the thousands. shell-shocked. the explosions of shells on shores. the sound of destruction. rising tides. head injuries. target practice. compressed time and space. the perennial threat of death. oil ignited into flames. lying for the greater good. blocking out the noise. primal dangers. taking command. sole survivor.

CALL ME BY YOUR NAME : heartbreak. unbuttoned shirts. fields of flowers. having to say goodbye. cobblestone streets. rendezvous at midnight. battling temptation. academic paperwork. peeling an orange. 80’s nostalgia. classical music. long walks. ancient artefacts. abundant orchards. shoulder massages. expressive sexuality. remembering everything. staring into a fireplace. dipping your feet in cool water. uncertainty. villa vacations. curly hair. longing gazes. riding a bicycle around. mystery of love. balconies. swimming naked. first times. bathing suits. roman statues. secret sensuality. peaches. piano music. sun-soaked summer. having your nose in a book. just rooms apart. crystal blue water. growing attractions. changing your name. intimacy beyond physical. love affairs. rich wines. finding pleasure in grief. daring to desire. european lyricism. loving father figures. dancing to disco. laying in green grass. awkward adolescence. hands interlinked. sentimental jewellry. connection through identity. the magen david.

THREE BILLBOARDS OUTSIDE EBBING, MISSOURI : severe burns. police uniforms. sirens. the calmness of a deer. strumming guitars. grieving. horrifying memories. sucker punches. a lack of respect. facing threats.. skin under fingernails. flicking cigarettes. awkward dates. nasty rumours. claustrophobia. lush green pastures. molotov cocktails. the fire of anger and revenge. strangers. no remorse. bashing in windows. the midwest. provoking a fight. pointing fingers. being pressed for time. rundown old houses. grey morality. dark undercurrents. insurmountable losses. cruel laughs. the american flag. dive bars. guilty no matter what. buildings in flames. ambulances. coughing up blood. spitting. chewing on fingernails. one versus many. black and red. not understanding another’s feelings. a mother and child. the pain of others. a quest of justice. abandoned billboards. a hardened gaze. driving to nowhere. small towns. last letters. absurd violence.

DARKEST HOUR : never surrendering. duty. countless negotiations. the flash of cameras. beaches. historic buildings. guzzling booze. resignation. utter catastrophe. bunkers. radio broadcasts. going against the odds. bathed in red light. a sense of humor. allies. shouting matches. small square windows. selfishness. walking with a cane. war rooms. chandeliers. dust floating in air. righteousness. a poor reputation. an elevator surrounded by darkness. a world at war. needing a miracle. interruptions. a last hope. cigar smoke. quoting poetry. photos of a loved one. a single sunbeam. monarchy. vanity. rescue missions. refusing peace. pallid chambers. military uniforms. taking a stand. common folk. suicide missions. drums of war. tears down sullen cheeks. reluctance. complete collapse. evacuations. enveloped by fog. changing history. blood, toil, tears and sweat.

* ☆ i was tagged by @enshijou ( ily! ) * ☆ tagging @shimmerseas @garrotejima @dojiryu @extremepath (ur pick!) @evercharmed @patricid @bialwilk @greatinu + if you feel inclined!

#♘ kisaragi .

2 notes · View notes

eldestchild · 4 years

Text

BEST PICTURE NOMINEES (2018) AESTHETICS. repost, don’t reblog. bold whatever applies. tag whoever you want and feel free to add to the categories.

THE SHAPE OF WATER : early mornings. art on an easel. being trapped. flashy cars. self-righteous intolerance. speaking volumes without a word. being submerged. learning and adapting. raindrops on windows. bubbles rising in water. cats. taboo desires. tanks of water. kitschy nostalgia. kissing underwater.silence. isolation. golden age hollywood. sign language. scales. egg shells. jell-o. the smell of cleaning supplies. creature features. the space race. red coats. monstrous fairy tales. lab coats. lunches in brown bags. the click of shoes. smog. dance routines. slices of pie. toxic masculinity. chains. government secrets. seeing past flaws. floating aimlessly. needles. greens and blues. deep, inexorable scars. gills. music from the 30′s. retro-futurism. bloody handprints. routines. record players. old movies. love in unexpected places.

PHANTOM THREAD : a doll in a gilded birdcage. butter to bread. the death of a mother. cycles. hidden messages. a disruptive presence. longing. wedding gowns. posh control. post-war. brightly colored socks. inner turmoil. poison. an air of quiet death. hallucinations. family dysfunction. rich fabrics. curses. soft piano music. restrained anger. spinning out of control. artist and muse. dark love. pastels. peace in the countryside. clockwork dynamics. perfection. wild mushrooms. giving up every piece of yourself. rags to riches. ghosts. new year’s. lingering gazes. needle and thread. fine dining. hearing every sound. being ambushed. ego. flowing dresses. a person out of place. defiance. ink to paper. an artist tortured by their art. obsessive personalities. peepholes. soothing elegance. silk. spiral staircases. driving at high speeds. high society.

THE POST : typewriters. newspapers. tense climates. distrust of authority. internal battles. a legacy at stake. secrets. cover-ups. defending what you believe. peering through windows. melodrama. political corruption. behind closed doors. sniffing a scoop. ringing phones. lying for over a decade. cramming and crowding. cold grays. war. fluorescent lights. treason. shuffled papers. the jungle. a weight on your shoulders. fresh coffee. thousands of deaths. burglary. finding your voice. risking everything. propaganda. tough choices. exposure. type being set by hand. workplace rivalries. abuses of power. security breaches. hierarchy. a bed strewn with papers and books. paranoia. orders. clicking keys. redacted files. desk clutter. cigarette smoke. precious cargo. vanished technologies. suspenseful conversations. facing charges. courtroom battles. suits and ties.

DARKEST HOUR : never surrendering. duty. countless negotiations. the flash of cameras. beaches. historic buildings. guzzling booze. resignation. utter catastrophe. bunkers. radio broadcasts. going against the odds. bathed in red light. a sense of humor. allies. shouting matches. small square windows. selfishness. walking with a cane. war rooms. chandeliers. dust floating in air. righteousness. a poor reputation. an elevator surrounded by darkness. a world at war. needing a miracle. interruptions. a last hope. cigar smoke. quoting poetry. photos of a loved one. a single sunbeam. monarchy. vanity. rescue missions. refusing peace. pallid chambers. military uniforms. taking a stand. common folk. suicide missions. drums of war. tears down sullen cheeks. reluctance. complete collapse. evacuations. enveloped by fog. changing history. blood, toil, tears and sweat.

THREE BILLBOARDS OUTSIDE EBBING, MISSOURI : severe burns. police uniforms. sirens. the calmness of a deer. strumming guitars. grieving. horrifying memories. sucker punches. a lack of respect. facing threats. skin under fingernails. flicking cigarettes. awkward dates. nasty rumors. claustrophobia. lush green pastures. molotov cocktails. the fire of anger and revenge. strangers. no remorse. bashing in windows. the midwest. provoking a fight. pointing fingers. being pressed for time. rundown old houses. grey morality. dark undercurrents. insurmountable losses. cruel laughs. the american flag. dive bars. guilty no matter what. buildings in flames. ambulances. coughing up blood. spitting. chewing on fingernails. one versus many. black and red. not understanding another’s feelings. a mother and child. the pain of others. a quest of justice. abandoned billboards. a hardened gaze. driving to nowhere. small towns. last letters. absurd violence.

GET OUT : deer antlers. suburbs. hypnosis. strange behavior. familial tension. chopping wood. uneasy stares. tears and a smile. deception. fight or flight. blindness. survival. sinking into the floor. watching but powerless. strapped to a chair. plugged ears. a failed handshake. car accidents. sunken places. something out of a nightmare. going hysterical. bingo cards. smoking cigarettes. static on a television set. doing more harm than good. a hint of a smile. a stranger in any environment that is foreign to them. waiting for someone to come when they never will. overturned candles. wealthy garden parties. constantly looking over your shoulder. silence no matter how hard you scream. trances. catharsis. a battle of wills. layers being peeled back. a cup of tea. nosebleeds. addiction. last bits of life leaving a body. black and white photography. sprinting at high speeds. conspiracies. surgery. blankly polite speech. noise of a spoon scraping across a teacup. a deer in headlights. staring at your own reflection. unable to sleep. loyal friends.

tagged: @decepteur tagging: @zankouu @consacravi @inferveo @ whoever else hasn’t been tagged yet!

#meme tag tbd

2 notes · View notes

crystallized-shadow · 5 years

Link

Chapter: 2/? Rating: M Pairing: Madara/Tobirama Word Count: 1712 Warnings: Canon-typical violence

Summary: Forced to become a jinchuriki against his will, Madara is the only one keeping Konoha safe from certain destruction. But can anyone save him?

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Hashirama nearly misses the branch he’s leaping for when Tobirama’s scream echoes through the forest; he couldn’t think of a time he’d ever heard that sound from his younger brother. The Hokage didn’t even know what was going on, he’d gotten only a vague direction to head in before Tobirama had bolted to save Madara, leaving him behind like an idiot. The only thing Hashirama knew was Tobirama had sensed pain in Madara’s chakra but he was running away from the village, which didn’t make sense; if the Uchiha was hurt he shouldn’t be avoiding the one place he could get treatment. Hashirama prayed he would make it in time to save his last brother and his best friend, because he knew someone must have ambushed them, someone ungodly strong to overpower them both.

Nothing in his life could have prepared Hashirama for the horror of finding his best friend crouched over Tobirama’s still body, unhealthy amounts of blood staining the ground redder than the cruel eyes Madara fixes on him. “Get away from him!!” Hashirama roars, the trees springing to life around him and ripping the Uchiha away from Tobirama. “Tobi!!” He is by his brother’s side in an instant, eyes drawn to the two bloody holes through Tobirama’s back, one through his right lung and the other partially puncturing his stomach.

“Didn’t want him to die too quickly,” Madara chuckles, but Hashirama doesn’t even spare him a second glance as he focuses on healing the gaping holes in Tobirama. Hashirama barely notices when the Uchiha tears free of the tree roots holding him. “Forget about him, he’s as good as dead; come dance with me.”

“I’m going to kill you,” Hashirama mutters, his tone dark even as he forces his chakra to remain calm so he doesn’t worsen Tobirama’s condition. “How could you do this Madara!? Tobirama loves you!!”

“He’s a fool.” Madara lunges at Hashirama, claws aimed at his back, only to collide with a wooden dome. “Stop hiding!”

Hashirama ignores his former best friend as he focuses solely on healing Tobirama. He knew he needed to push past the betrayal he was feeling, Tobirama needed his attention right now, not Madara. Thankfully the wounds, while fatal, aren’t as difficult to heal as he feared they’d be. Despite everything, Hashirama doesn’t want to kill Madara if he can help it, but he couldn’t see any other choice, not when the Uchiha had done the unforgivable and tried to murder his last brother.

The banging and angry snarls finally reach Hashirama’s ears, but he tunes them out; Madara could wait. “Get out here you fucking coward before I go after your precious village!!” That makes the Hokage stiffen in anger, how dare Madara threaten everything they had worked for! He ignores the trees whispered warnings as he parts his jutsu just enough to step out. Sealing the dome behind him, Hashirama faces Madara with a heavy heart. He may not want to hurt the Uchiha, but Tobirama badly needed a hospital and he came first.

“Finally decided to fight?” Madara growls, three tails lashing behind him.

“This isn’t a fight,” Hashirama states, his eyes colder than his words, “this is an execution.”

“I’d like to see you try,” Madara chuckles, claws swiping at Hashirama’s face an instant later.

The Hokage seems startled by the drastic change in Madara’s fighting style, but barely a thought has tree roots swatting the Uchiha across the clearing. “What’s gotten into you Madara?” Hashirama demands as he advances toward his old friend, “you’re not usually this uncontrolled.” His words are met with another a snarl and he jumps back to avoid another swing.

“Fight dammit!” Madara all but roars, his tail catching Hashirama around the ankle and flinging him through a few trees.

Hashirama slowly stands up, wincing at the burn where the chakra had touched him. Madara’s chakra had never had that effect on him before. That thought makes Hashirama pause and really look at the Uchiha. He takes in the volatile chakra surging around Madara, the slitted pupil where tomoe should be, the slashes that almost resemble whisker marks, and the fangs the force Madara’s mouth into a permanent snarl. Suddenly all the whispers of demon and evil from the trees make sense. “You’re not Madara,” the Senju states, his tone accusatory as his eyes drop to the glowing seal on Madara’s stomach. He might not be a seal master like his brother or his wife, but even Hashirama knew that seal work was barely passable at best. “Who are you?”

“How clever,” the demon chuckles, his smirk a darker, more feral, version of Madara’s own, “and I thought the rabbit was the smart one.”

“Who are you?” Hashirama repeats, calmly making a hand sign that sends wooden columns twining around all the demon’s limbs.

“Madara Uchiha.”

“Wrong,” Hashirama mutters with a smile, another hand sign driving a branch into the demon’s side. “Who are you?” When the demon fails to respond, the Senju wills the branch to burrow deeper until it coils loosely around the demon’s spine. “Last chance before I rip your spine out.”

“You wouldn’t dare hurt Madara.” The sudden tightening around his spine has the demon reconsidering.

“You hurt my brother, there isn’t much I wouldn’t do to you.”

“I am the great Kyuubi no Kitsune.”

Hashirama wants to be impressed, really, he does, but he’d heard tales of Kyuubi’s monstrous strength; this short battle did not live up to it. “I expected more,” Hashirama admits as he releases the demon’s spine. Now that he knew it wasn’t Madara that had hurt his little brother he hardly wanted to rip the Uchiha’s spine out.

“You dare mock me?!” Kyuubi roars, a sudden wave of hatred nearly overwhelming Hashirama as a fourth tail appears and blasts away the restraining wood.

“That’s new,” Hashirama can’t help but chuckle as he hastily avoids the ball of pure demonic chakra. So maybe antagonizing the demon wasn’t his best idea, but he got the information he would need if saving Madara was possible once this was over. A quick wood dome protects him from the next chakra blast, but it cracks ever so slightly. Hashirama knew he needed to end this fight quickly if he wanted to save Tobirama and have any chance of helping Madara. As he drops the dome, Hashirama sends a wood clone one way while he darts the other way.

“That trick won’t work,” Kyuubi states, sending two tails at each Hashirama’s heart. The trees instantly protect the real Hashirama while the clone dissolves away. Kyuubi is on the real one instantly, tearing through branches and aiming for Hashirama’s jugular.

Hashirama ducks under the slash and thrusts a kunai into Kyuubi’s stomach, smirking a little when the demon jumps back with a short bark of pain. The smirk quickly morphs to a frown when the wound instantly heals. Despite all the blood on Madara’s body, the demon remains wound free.

“I really am going to have to kill you.” Hashirama states sadly; as mad as he was about Tobirama’s condition, Madara was still one of his precious people. The thought of putting him down like a rabid animal turned Hashirama’s stomach, but he would do it if that’s what it took to keep his last brother safe.

“You’re the one that’s going to die,” Kyuubi chuckles darkly as a fifth tail bursts into existence; the sudden, oppressive hatred making Hashirama stagger as it’s all focused on him. With surprising speed, Kyuubi lunges at the Senju, smirking when the other just barely dodges.

Hashirama barely has time to question the smirk before two chakra tails immobilize him. He’s not sure what hurts more, the burning pain when Kyuubi tightens his grip and breaks a rib, or the cruel glee reflected on the face of his best friend. Hashirama knew it wasn’t Madara in control, but to see such dark enjoyment on Madara’s face hurt his heart.

“After you Senju are dead, I’m going to level your pathetic village.” Kyuubi taunts as he sends the other three tails crashing through the dome protecting Tobirama.

“Leave my brother alone you monster!!” Hashirama snarls, struggling to get free so he could protect the only family he has left.

Kyuubi’s laughter is a terrifying thing, but all Hashirama can focus on is the sight of Tobirama hanging limply from the tail coiled around his neck, his pale skin made paler by blood loss. “Where should I stab him first?” Kyuubi murmurs, his two free tails caressing Tobirama’s body in a deceitfully gentle manner.

“Madara if you’re in there you need to fight!!” Hashirama yells, desperate to save his brother, “or I WILL kill you!!” The chakra binding him falters just enough that Hashirama can move his hands into a better position before Kyuubi regains total control and turns away from Tobirama to face Hashirama.

“You don’t have it in you human,” the demon declares with a smirk, “you’d never hurt one of your precious people.”

“You’re not one of my precious people.” Hashirama makes a single hand sign a split second before a root bursts through Kyuubi’s chest. Blood spews from the demon’s mouth as he just hangs there, demonic chakra slowly seeping away. Hashirama manages to break free and catch Tobirama, seconds before the younger Senju would have hit the ground.

“Hashi…” Madara mutters, struggling to speak as he chokes on his own blood, “...sorry…” When Hashirama turns to face him, Madara manages a small, bloody smile that will forever haunt the Senju.

“Oh Madara…” Tears fall from Hashirama’s eyes at the sound of Madara’s voice, torn between the joy he feels of having his friend back and the heartbreak of knowing he’d just killed him with the demon. “I hope you’ll be able to forgive me one day.” Knowing that the demon can heal, Hashirama steels his heart once more as the Uchiha slides off the root and drops face first to the ground. He binds the demon in the thickest, most chakra absorbing roots he can make and seals him in a dome of sturdy beams. “Sleep for now demon, I’ll deal with you later.” Leaving Madara’s body safely entombed in his Mokuton, Hashirama returns to Konoha, praying Tobirama will make it.

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