#How Much How To Remove Dead Skin From Feet With Razor Burn

[love-skincareroutine]

How To Remove Dead Skin From Feet With Razor

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How To Remove Dead Skin From Feet With Razor

A. How To Remove Dead Skin From Feet (5 Easy Prevention)

Our feet allow us to walk properly and support our legs. The total weight of our body results in less blood flow and less pressure on the foot. Inadequate blood supply causes dryness and damage to the skin. Does anyone know how to remove dead skin from their feet? The revealed answer: the dead skin on your feet needs to be removed regularly. Otherwise, your heels will crack.

1. How to remove dead skin from your feet (best ways ever!)

Dead callus can be removed with peeling, but first we need to get our feet wet to soothe them. Immersion helps to break the tough skin, making things easier for us. An ancient truth brush can be used to remove dead skin cells from the foot every day after bathing.

There would be less accumulation of dead cells in yours if you exfoliate and moisturize them. But tough skin will be a little difficult to deal with when it gets a lot harder. Instead of stacking dead skin, it is advisable.

The lemon shows a magical effect when removing unwanted skin from the foot. Its acidic properties destroy hard skin. The whitening property helps to remove dirt and loosen skin. Wash your foot after 15 minutes for best results. The following methods are used to remove thick dead skin.

2. Wet your foot to remove dead skin and calluses

Soaking is the standard way to exfoliate your skin. It softens dry areas of the skin and helps to relieve pain from cracked heels. Immersion in warm water is always preferable, as it gives quick results compared to pure water. Add three tablespoons of baking soda to the warm water and mix well.

Soak your feet for at least ten minutes and rinse them later. This immersion will help to heal cracked areas and restore original healthy feet.

3. Causes of dead feet

Although we get to the causes of dead skin, there are many. Our bodies lose millions and millions of skin cells every day. If we are unable to remove these dead skin cells, they will clump together and become the cause of lifeless skin. This can be clearly seen in the areas of our feet.

Obesity sometimes becomes the cause of the hardened heel when pressure is applied to the feet.

Lack of moisture is also one of the causes of skin death. The loss of water between the cells reduces its elasticity and causes damage to the skin.

The third cause may be inadequate blood flow. Sometimes the heart does not pump blood to certain areas and the cells die due to a lack of oxygen, resulting in damage to the skin.

Our feet must be properly taken care of, rubbing and moisturizing them regularly. Otherwise, it can become the cause of your bad feet.

4. How to remove dead skin from your feet with baking soda

Baking soda is the best way to make baby’s feet soft. If frequent use of moisturizer does not help to correct the problem, baking soda is a better option. It occupies a special place in personal care, as it provides beneficial results than other beauty products on the market.

Mix three parts of baking soda with one part of the water in a bowl. Apply this solution and rub gently on your feet to remove dead skin from your feet. Focus on your heels and hardened areas. After a few minutes, rinse and apply a lotion to moisturize your foot.

5. How to remove dead skin from your feet with a razor

The blade is hard on the skin and so it is better to go for natural scrubs. If you are a busy person, with little time and good at handling blades, this method may be your preferred method. Not all blades look the same on the skin; You should choose the razor designed primarily for this process. Pedi skin calluses removers are available on the market and will help you clear your skin in time.

However, extreme care must be taken when handling the razor on the skin. The knife angle must be horizontal and no pressure should be applied when dealing with the sensitive part.

6. How to remove dead skin from feet using home remedies

A gradual process is necessary when using home remedies to remove stiff skin. Here are some medications to help solve the problem with items available at home.

Take half the water from the bucket and add a little shampoo and a few drops of lemon. Let it sit for a good 15 minutes, then gently rub your feet with a pumice stone. Dry and treat with lotion. Mix half a cup of apple cider vinegar with half a bucket of warm water and soak for 20 minutes to apply callus therapy. It even relieves you of stress and tension. Afterwards, exfoliate the skin with a loofah followed by a lotion treatment.

7. How to get rid of dead skin without a pumice

There are many alternatives to pumice for the scrubbing process. They give the same results as a pumice stone. A foot file can help you deal with your rough skin. Unlike pumice, it can be used with light pressure. A foot file can help you remove dry spots and gently exfoliate your skin.

If you don’t prefer a file to scrub your feet, you can replace them with a loofah or an old toothbrush to scrub your feet. They may not produce such useful results when compared to pumice, but they do the job to some extent.

  B. 7 Ways to Remove Dead Skin from Your Feet

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1. What causes dead skin on your feet?

Dead or loose skin that forms on the feet is the natural exfoliation and elimination of dead skin cells. Dead skin can form due to the lack of moisture on your feet, constantly wearing closed shoes or socks, or due to friction from walking or running. It can also increase if you don’t care, exfoliate or scrub your feet regularly.

Dead skin on the soles of your feet may appear dry, cracked, loose or drooping. It is usually not painful unless it is the result of athlete’s foot, eczema or some other type of infection. If you suspect this is the case, contact your doctor for treatment. Otherwise, you may want to remove dead skin for cosmetic reasons or because it is more convenient. Here are some options for removing dead skin.

1. Methods to try

a. Pumice

A pumice stone is a natural lava stone that can help remove dead skin and calluses from your feet.

Dip the pumice in warm water. You can also dip your feet in warm water for 10 minutes to soften them.

Gently move the stone around your foot in a circular or lateral motion to remove any dead skin. Focus on removing the top layer of skin, rather than the entire dead area, to stimulate healthy cell renewal.

Then apply lotion or oil to soften your feet.

Never use a pumice stone on sore or painful areas.

b. Paraffin wax

Many beauty salons offer paraffin wax as an additive for pedicure treatment. Paraffin wax is a soft wax that has melted at an average temperature of 51 ° C. The wax should not be hot enough to burn or irritate the skin. You can also have a paraffin wax treatment at home with a wax bath at home, or melt the wax in a pot and then put it in a bowl to dip your feet in.

During a paraffin wax treatment, you will dip your feet in the wax several times. After applying several layers of wax, wrap the feet in plastic. After the wax hardens, you can remove it. The dead skin on the feet will be removed along with the wax. Your feet should be soft afterwards.

Do not use paraffin wax if:

You have poor blood circulation

You have a rash or an open wound on your feet

You lost the feeling at your feet. B. for diabetic neuropathy

If you are using paraffin wax at home, be very careful and monitor the temperature of the wax with a candy thermometer.

c. Foot peeling

Most pharmacies and drug stores sell various types of foot scrubs without a prescription. Look for one with granules that help remove dead skin.

Or you can even make yours by diluting two tablespoons of sea salt in equal amounts of baby oil and lemon juice.

To use a foot scrub, apply the scrub directly to the foot and rub gently with the palm of your hand. Or use a foot brush or sponge to remove dead skin.

Rinse the scrub thoroughly with warm water after use.

d. Oat scrub

You can use oatmeal to make a homemade scrub to remove dead skin. To prepare the scrub, mix equal parts of oatmeal with rose water or milk to make a paste. Use:

Apply the scrub to your feet and leave for up to 20 to 30 minutes.

Use a foot brush to exfoliate your feet.

Rinse with cold water and let your feet dry.

Apply a foot cream.

Do this treatment every other day to get the best results.

e. Dip or scrub Epsom salts

Epsom salt is a crystalline form of magnesium sulfate. Magnesium sulfate is a mineral compound. You can dip your feet in Epsom salt dissolved in water. It can help to exfoliate and smooth dry and cracked feet. This, in turn, can help remove dead skin.

Create an Epsom salt bath by pouring half a cup of salt into a foot bath or a full cup into a tub of warm water. Relax and soak for up to 20 minutes. You can use a pumice stone or a foot brush to remove dry skin.

To create an Epsom salt scrub for your feet in the shower or bath, mix a handful of Epsom salts with a spoon of bath or oil in your hand or a bath sponge.

Rub gently on damp skin to exfoliate, soften and remove dead skin before rinsing with water.

f. Soak the vinegar

Soaking vinegar can help to soften your feet and remove dead, dry or cracked skin.

You can use almost any type of vinegar. Apple cider vinegar or white vinegar are popular options that you may already have in your kitchen.

Use cold water to create the sauce, as hot water can dry out your skin more. As a general guide, use 1 part vinegar to 2 parts water. Soak your feet for 5 to 10 minutes to start.

If desired, soak with a pumice stone to remove dry or loose skin according to the guidelines above. Apply moisturizer, petroleum jelly or coconut oil before putting on your socks to lock in moisture after soaking in the vinegar.

Do this treatment only a few times a week, as it can dry out even more on the skin.

g. Exfoliating for baby feet

Baby Foot Peel is a popular 1-hour home treatment to remove dead skin and soften your feet. To use, wear the plastic boots included on the feet for up to an hour. They contain a gel solution of fruit acid and other moisturizers that can help to peel the dead skin off your feet.

Follow all instructions for use on the packaging:

After getting your feet wet, stick the plastic boots on your feet.

Leave the boots on for up to an hour.

Take off your boots and gently wash your feet with soap and water.

You need to get your feet wet every day for exfoliation to occur for the next three to seven days. Although there are no scientific studies to show the benefits or effectiveness of this treatment, it is popular with loyal Internet users.

3. Use with care

a. Soak baking soda

Baking soda is a popular home treatment to remove dead skin from your feet.

However, some dermatologists warn that baking soda can be irritating, cause redness and dry out the skin. This is because it can alter the skin’s natural pH.

If you have skin sensitivity or allergies, do not use baking soda on your feet. Always consult your doctor or podiatrist before attempting a new treatment.

If you choose to use baking soda, use only a small amount (2-3 tablespoons) in a foot bath complete with warm water for 10-20 minutes.

After immersion, gently use a pumice stone or a foot brush with the above method to remove any dead skin. Then apply plenty of moisturizer.

If you notice any redness or irritation when wetting your feet, remove it from the solution immediately.

b. Wet water with lemon

Lemon acid can help remove dead skin cells from your feet. Similar to baking soda, however, using lemon on your feet can affect your skin’s natural pH, causing more dryness and dead skin.

Avoid lemon if you:

You have open cuts or wounds on your feet

Have sensitive skin

Feels red and irritated

Consult a podiatrist or dermatologist before using lemon or if you have any questions or concerns.

If you choose this method:

Prepare a foot bath with warm water.

Squeeze the lemon juice out of a lemon. You can also leave pieces of lemon peel in the water.

Soak your feet for up to 15 minutes.

Use a foot brush to scrub the dead skin from your feet.

Wash and dry your feet thoroughly. If desired, apply a moisturizer or coconut oil.

c. Razor blades or scrapers

Only ask a podiatrist or other trained physician to remove callused or dead skin on your foot with a razor or scraper. Do not use razor blades or foot scrapers at home. This can damage your foot or cause another medical problem. For example, if you cut yourself accidentally, there is a risk of bacterial infection. If you have questions about how to remove dry or dead skin, consult your doctor for alternative medications or home treatments.

4. How to prevent dry skin on your feet

The best way to prevent dead skin from accumulating on your feet is to moisturize them regularly.

Ask a podiatrist to recommend therapeutic oils, ointments or creams to prevent skin dryness.

Avoid lotions that contain alcohol, which can make your feet drier. Baby oil or petroleum jelly are generally safe.

Soak your feet a few times a week and use a pumice stone or a foot brush to gently remove dead skin.

Avoid hot baths or showers and wash them with warm water to prevent the skin from drying out.

5. Summary

Dead skin is generally not a cause for concern. It can often be removed at home. Always consult your doctor or podiatrist if you have excess dead skin, calluses, cracked skin, wounds or rashes that do not go away on their own or with home remedies.

[clareguilty]

The Naked Thing

Hello! I was dying without air conditioning a few weeks ago and decided to make it Mando Smut Mandalorian/f!reader Rating: Explicit | No Warnings Word Count: ~2900

The Crest falls out of hyperspace too soon, and you go flying. Curling around Grogu in your arms, you twist in midair so that your back hits the console to avoid crushing him. A lever digs into your spine, and you curse loudly. That’s going to bruise. Oh well. What’s another?

“What the kriff, Mando?” you snarl. Grogu seems unbothered, blinking at you and probably learning way too many swear words for a child of his size.

Mando pulls himself off the control grid with a pained groan, helmet swiveling as he takes in the damage.

“The good news,” he begins after a moment, “is that we lost them.”

That is good news, you agree. You were lucky that the army of bounty hunters and ex-imps hadn’t kept track of you. If you had shaken them off your trail, then that would earn you a head start to a safer system.

“The bad news is that they shot out our hyperdrive.”

“Dank Farrik,” you curse again, then glance at Grogu. Maybe you should watch your mouth more?

“...And our temperature regulator and our heat shields.”

You decide that it is an appropriate time for as much foul language as you please.

“What does that mean?” you ask. You hadn’t grown up around ships -- spent the last dozen years on the same dead-end planet until Mando picked you up. The most you were good for was turning a knob or flipping a switch here and there. Usually you just kept an eye on Grogu while Mando did all the piloting and bounty hunting and whatnot.

“We’ll have to travel sublight, but we can’t land planet side because without the heat shields any atmosphere worth a damn would burn us up. Our only option is a New Republic Outpost. We’ll be able to land there, and we’ll be safe while they repair the Crest. I’ll chart us a course and let you know how long it should be.”

“You know,” you snap, “we wouldn’t be in this mess if you weren’t so scared of droids. If we had an astromech on board, then we could get the hyperdrive repaired without having to crawl our asses through deep space in the hopes that whoever picks us up doesn’t want us dead.”

Mando doesn’t say anything. You don’t know if your words meant anything at all to him because you can’t see shit behind his helmet. Huffing, you take Grogu down to the hold. Not long after, the engines fire up again.

It takes a few minutes to set in, but its quick enough to be noticeable. The ship is getting hotter. Like… unbearably warm.

You fill a canteen with water and make sure that you and Grogu are both hydrated. After a little bit of digging, you manage to find a portable air circulator. You and Grogu sit directly in front of the current, doing your best to keep cool.

Mando comes down after a little while, he cocks his helmet when he sees you.

“It’s hot,” you whine.

“The temperature regulator is shot too. We don’t have a way too cool the ship down or shield the heat of the engines.”

You sigh. “How long until we can get repairs?”

“34 hours. Will the kid be okay for that long?”

Grogu hasn’t outwardly complained about the heat, mostly just sitting in front of the circulator with his eyes closed and ears flapping, but you’ve been worried as well. “He’s kind of… amphibious,” you frown. “I’ll get him a basin of water to sit in and put him in the fresher with the circulator. That should keep him cooled off.”

Mando nods. “Thank you. Will you be okay?”

You shrug. There’s not much you can do. As long as you stay hydrated then you should be able to last 34 hours.

“Thank you,” he says again.

“For what?” All you’ve done is curse at him and berate him for not having an astromech droid.

“For looking out for him back there. You saved all of us with that droid popper. And the move with the cannon was impressive.”

You aren’t expecting genuine praise from Mando. It always felt as though you were dead weight to him. Through all the planets you’ve been on -- and been chased off of -- you’ve always felt useless.You can’t fly, you’re not the best shot, you can barely take care of his kid. It means a lot that he doesn’t actually hate you. 

“I’m starting to get the hang of this,” you grin. You had never considered yourself a hero or adventurer, but you had commandeered a cannon and shot down three imperial fighters.

“I’ll be up in the cockpit if you need anything. Just knock.” And he’s gone.

‘Knock’ means that Mando is probably going to take his helmet and armor off, which means you also get a few hours of total privacy. You set Grogu up in the fresher with a basin of water and the circulator -- though it pains you to give up the weak, artificial breeze.

It’s only gotten hotter, and your already filthy clothes are starting to became unbearable. You had gotten splashed with gore and grime and who knows what in your escape, and it wasn’t pairing well with the heat onboard.

Stripping out of your clothes, you sprawl naked on the metal floor. It’s dusty, but slightly cool, and you plaster as much of your skin to the durasteel as you can manage.

Time passes with you systematically rolling across the floor of the hold to try and keep from baking. It’s bearable only because you know there will be an end. As long as the ship keeps chugging along towards the space outpost, then you will be saved.

The hatch to the cockpit opens, and you leap to your feet. Mando clambers down, jumping when he sees you.

“You’re naked,” he raises his hands -- his bare hands -- and backs against the ladder.

“You’re naked.” you point.

“I have a helmet and pants on,” he says. But that’s all he has on. His chest and arms are bare, and it’s more skin than you’ve ever seen before on the man.

“I’ve never seen you out of your armor. That has got to be more scandalous than me being naked.”

You must have made a point, because Mando doesn’t respond. Instead, you both just kind of… stand there. You can’t tear your eyes away from his chest and from the angle his helmet is pointed it seems he’s having a similar issue.

“Did you, uh, need anything?” you finally manage to ask. Your mouth is dry, and you take another uncoordinated drink from the canteen, shivering as some of the water spills down your chest.

Mando coughs. “I just wanted to make sure the kid is okay.”

“Oh,” you turn to open the fresher door just a crack. You had checked on him just a few minutes ago, and he still seems fine. After a moment of pause, Mando comes up behind you and you can feel the heat of his skin against your back.

Grogu is asleep, curled up just in front of the circulator and the basin of water so that the cool air blows over him. The fresher is several degrees cooler than the rest of the ship, and while it feels amazing, you don’t want to let the heat in.

“I’m going to go back up now,” Mando says quickly, and then he’s gone through the hatch once again.

You resume your circuit of laying on the floor, but it feels like the ship is only getting hotter.

That’s when you take to banging on the hatch to the cockpit. “Mando, I’m going to kick your ass! You had better get us to that outpost or find a way too cool this ship down! I spent years on Tatooine, and this is the hottest I have ever been in my entire life!”

“I can cut the engines to stop generating any heat, but then we’ll just be coasting through empty space and we’ll never make it to the outpost.”

You huff. “At this point you should just freeze me in carbonite.”

Mando does not freeze you in carbonite, but you do eventually make it to the New Republic outpost. They give the three of you a small dorm and Mando arranges for the Razor Crest to be repaired. You don’t have any credits between you, so you wonder what he offers in exchange.

You toss your gear into the room and head out to get food for everyone. You always enjoy being in New Republic space. No one is out to murder you or imprison you. The officers are usually nicer. Everyone likes the Skywalkers.

A friendly droid loads you up with several plates of food, and you stop to check out the holonet broadcasts on your way back. Things in this corner of the galaxy are a little hectic -- something you just witnessed firsthand -- but its less gloomy than it used to be.

Mando is sitting on the lower bunk when you get back. He’s back in his full armor, but you can read his posture pretty well. Grogu is playing in the corner, levitating some rocks you had found for him a few planets back. You set the tray down, fully intending to take your portion and eat out in the hall or in one of the communal sitting rooms. Before you can even turn away, Mando has already grabbed a plate of food and tugged his helmet off.

“WOAH,” you raise your hands in front of your face, ducking your head before you can see too much. Curly hair. Tan skin. Moustache. If there is one thing you’ve learned, it’s that Mando doesn’t let anyone see him without his helmet. It’s a cultural thing, and you respect that. “What is with you being naked today?”

Your eyes are open, but very pointedly looking at a wall nowhere near him. He shifts for a moment, and you wait for some kind of explanation.

“Look,” he finally begins, “we’ve been through a lot together at this point. I’ve traveled with you longer than anyone since I was a foundling with the watch. You’ve saved my life as well as Grogu’s many times, and we just survived one hell of a fight. Not to mention, I saw, um, all of you today. I figure it’s only fair.”

You’re touched. It’s an honor that Mando trusts you enough to remove his helmet. For as long as you have been travelling together, you’ve assumed that you care for him far more than he cares for you. “You don’t have to,” you say. “I don’t want you to feel obligated.”

“I trust you,” he repeats.

You turn to face him. His eyes are so soft. Tired and kind and the warmest brown. He stares at you, taking you in for the first time with his own eyes and not the visor in his helmet. It’s unreasonably intimate considering he was staring at you naked with the helmet on just 16 hours before.

“Has anyone ever told you you’re kind of cute?” you laugh and look away, smoothing your hands over your pants. There’s food in front of you, and you use that as a welcome distraction.

“I’ve never trusted anyone enough before now to see me.”

How can he just say things like that? You try to drown the rapid beating of your heart behind some kind of bitter vegetable.

Mando begins to eat as well, slowly and unsurely. He picks at a few different dishes before finally speaking again. “You’ve, uh- I mean… you’re beautiful as well.”

You laugh loudly at that. It’s so shy. This man had seen you overheated and completely naked lying on the floor of his ship. You roll your eyes and shoot him a wink. “Something you like in particular?”

Mando chokes, coughing for a minute before chugging down half a glass of green jelly juice. He finally regains his composure, but his voice is rough when he speaks again. “I’d say the best view was from behind.”

It’s the last thing you expect from him. He’s so shy and reserved and has always backed down from your defensive teasing. It’s a moment before you can pull yourself together. Still, you aren’t sure what to say. Instead, you cram some shredded raw crustacean in your mouth and hope you aren’t too flushed.

Mando offers to take the trays back. The dorm bathroom has a shower with running water and you intend to take full advantage. Grogu rolls a rock at your feet as you head into the bathroom, and you lightly kick it back to him. “Are you tired of putting up with us yet? You’ve been a baby longer than I’ve been alive. I bet we seem like idiots to you.”

Grogu, predictably, says nothing. He makes a raspberry noise with his lips and plops down into a sit.

The shower is one of the greatest gifts you’ve ever enjoyed in life. Hot water, high pressure, steam and soap. You take your time washing up and letting the jets work out all of the kinks in your muscles.

When you slide the stall door aside, Mando is standing at the sink. Helmetless. Shirtless.

He jumps slightly, staring at the floor as you step out of the shower. 

“We have got to stop doing this naked thing,” you say. It doesn’t actually bother you. You like that Mando trusts you, and you’ve never been shy about being naked around others, but he’s too attractive and it drives you nuts.

“I rather enjoy it,” he manages to pull his gaze from the floor to shoot you a wink. Your pulse speeds up.

“Don’t start something you can’t finish, Mando,” you step forward. You’re still steaming from the shower and dripping wet. He’s never been this cheeky before, and you kind of enjoy it.

His gaze darkens, eyebrows rasing. He reaches out to grab your waist, pulling you in and pinning you against the sink. You gasp at the feeling of his skin on yours, leaning back as he crowds you against the basin.

“Grogu is napping,” he whispers.

“I think the shower will fit both of us,” you breathe.

He’s already working at the buckle of his pants, toeing out of his boots. You drag him back into the shower with you. The jets hit his back, and he melts a little. You wrap your hand around his cock, and he looks like he may collapse. His eyes flutter shut, one of his hands slamming against the wall by your head.

You lean in to brush your lips over his skin as you stroke his cock. You’d never even seen this man’s face before today, and now you’re kissing your way over his jaw and down his neck. His other hand grabs your ass, kneading the flesh and pulling you closer so your hips brush his.

Your thumb swipes over the tip of his cock, and he shudders. It happens so fast, you didn’t know he had spun you around until your cheek is against the shower wall. His hands are glue to your hips, digging into your ass and pulling you to him so he can grind his cock against your slick skin.

“Please,” you whine. You haven’t had sex with anyone since you began travelling with Mando, and opportunities to get yourself off come few and far between with three of you on the Crest. You’re desperately horny, and you’ve wanted to fuck this man since you found him in that godforsaken desert.

He lines himself up and drives his hips forward, sinking into you with one solid thrust. You bite your forearm to muffle your moans, panting as you try to get used to the sudden stretch.

“You good?” he asks, leaning forward to kiss your cheek. 

“Move,” you say, demanding but desperate.

It takes a moment to find leverage in the tiny -- smaller than you first assumed -- shower stall, but Mando begins to fuck you at a steady pace. You reach down to rub your clit, clenching around him. You’re going to finish quicker than you’re used to -- probably because you’ve been turned on since you saw Mando shirtless on the crest.

From the way Mando’s hips twitch and his rhythm falters, you guess that he’s close to coming as well.

His hands are everywhere. Your hips, your ass, trailing over your stomach and and reaching up to squeeze your breasts. His fingers brush your throat and you nearly come from the touch alone. He feels the way you tighten around his cock and places a hand on your neck, squeezing your jaw between his thumb and forefinger.

You come so hard your knees give out and your vision goes white. Mando keeps you from collapsing in a bruised heap on the shower floor by simply continuing to fuck you until he comes as well.

It’s not a lot of space, so you’re slumped together under the spray of the water. You manage to wipe yourself clean in a few swipes and stagger back out so Mando can actually wash up. He’s much quicker than you were, and he’s out of the shower by the time you’ve finished rubbing scented moisturizer over your skin. The New Republic sure knew how to treat their guests.

“I think we should definitely keep doing the naked thing,” he grins.

[prurientpuddlejumper]

A Lipless Face That I Want to Marry, Ch. 16

<- Part 15 | Part 17 ->

Summary: A flirtatious moment in the hospital garden turns sour. 

Warnings: Brief nsfw themes, injury-recovery angst, post-traumatic stress/flashbacks, graphic past injuries, KISSING, hurt/comfort. Love and fluff. 

3,700 words

After being gutted left him with a limp, a cane, and an overbearing sense of weakness, Frederick Chilton began copying Hannibal Lecter. His patterned suits, his clean-shaven face. The mimicry wasn’t deliberate exactly, but he looked to a man who radiated calm dignity and strength, and tried to capture some of it for his own.

It didn’t work. Frederick Chilton was still Frederick Chilton.

But shaving the beard did make him look younger. The razor glided over his smooth cheek as he cut through the facial hair that had grown unruly in the hospital. A new man stared back at him. One not traumatized by Gideon’s knife.

Only a few months later, he was shot in the face, and let the stubble grow back to distract from the scar. To obscure the hollowing where maxillary bone was missing. Like a chameleon, Frederick was always changing—hairstyles, wardrobes, colognes—always imitating someone, drawing the eye away from a flaw, never comfortable with himself. Ever improving. Refining. Hiding.

Every day, the burn ward’s physical therapists had him using one exercise machine or another. A pedaling machine lowered over his bed so he could build muscle while lying on his back before he was able to walk. The next step was a tall, rolling frame that he strapped into like a fighter pilot hanging from a parachute harness, which allowed him to take a few weightless steps. His legs shook. His feet did not know how to align themselves on the ground anymore. He hissed curses when you cheered him on just for shuffling one foot forward along the smooth grey linoleum.

One damned foot.

As if he couldn’t walk before. As if one shaking, machine-assisted step was an accomplishment. He was an overgrown baby in a Jumperoo.

While he could not walk on his own yet, he could get into and out of a wheelchair without screaming bloody murder. This allowed him a new level of freedom, if not autonomy. He still required two nurses to lower him into the chair. Still needed help getting to the bathroom. But he could at least use the bathroom instead of a bedpan and catheter.

Healing came at a cost.

Until now, he had caught flashes of his reflection in polished surfaces. Warped teeth in a metal IV pole. The fuzzy silhouette of a mask in the black of his computer screen.

He stood with his hands on the bathroom sink, staring. The nurse at his left elbow tugged him, told him it was time to sit back down in the chair. He needed support to stand, a babysitter to ensure he didn’t fall, and she was tired of waiting.

The thing staring back at him did not move.

When he took the compression mask off for the one hour per day he was allowed to remove it for cleaning, he somehow expected to find his own face beneath it. Skin. What he saw was a stranger. Gnarled scars made an uneven backdrop for one dead blue eye and a skeletal grimace. His own bones were buried somewhere underneath like bedrock, but the flesh was rearranged and distorted.

If he had met this man a year ago, Dr. Chilton would have felt inward pride at his ability not to sicken at the sight. He would have shaken his hand with a smug, professional detachment that said, “I am accustomed to horrific things in my line of work—abnormal psychiatry. This does not shock me as it would a layperson.”

He was a creature to be pitied.

Then a familiar reflection appeared out of the blind spot of his left side. Your image wrapped its hand behind the broken stranger, and he felt it land on his lower back. Warm. Comforting as your face, which was knit with worry. You told the nurse you could handle it from here, and she retreated out to his room.

When she was gone, Frederick began to laugh, dark and cruel, eyes never leaving the matching set staring cruelly back.

“What is it?” you asked, tightening your grip on his arm as he began to tremble.

“Do you think I look younger without a beard?”

The laugh cracked in his throat. His shoulders heaved as he finally looked away. It was too embarrassing to watch a grown man cry.

***

The heat of July was not easy on a body that could no longer sweat and was covered head to toe in a compression suit, but Frederick Chilton was thrilled to be outside. As the automatic sliding doors opened, he breathed in deeply through the nose and exhaled the spinning summer fragrances with a blissful sigh.

You resisted the urge to tease him. Of the pair, you were the more outdoorsy by far, and the last time you dragged him camping, he’d managed to complain the entire two days. He was not, generally, one to appreciate sunshine and birdsong. But this was different.

It was his first time away from the lifeless hospital air—the same smells day after day—in four months.

Now a breeze hit his face—a breeze! He had forgotten what that felt like—and brought with it the smell of cut grass and flowers, and exhaust fumes from the nearby roadways. The scent of gasoline urged his stomach to wring itself empty, but it was faint and easy enough to shake off as sparrows chirped and flitted about the hospital’s “meditation garden.”

Gently curving paths snaked through the landscaping of lush greenery and small trees. Few flowers were planted, out of respect for patients with allergies, but a fountain at the center babbled soothingly. The walkways were wide and smoothly paved, so the grey wheels of the hospital-issue wheelchair rolled over them easily, performing their function despite being over-worked and worn down, not unlike the staff. The black rubber handle grips had a dull patina from hundreds of hands, yours being the latest to circle around them as you pushed.

It was nice to have a private courtyard to enjoy the fresh air without the eyes of the general public watching.

Frederick was able to wear clothes from home now, but they had to be loose-fitting and short-sleeved to not interfere with his treatment. In a navy polo shirt and athletic shorts, he felt horrifically under-dressed, and did not want to be seen that way. The fashion crime was almost as bad as the face he could not bear looking at.

An elderly patient and what appeared to be her adult daughter sat on one of the benches between two daylily patches, blooming garishly cheerful red and gold. The daughter looked up, and Chilton looked away.

“You are certain you checked the bedroom closet? Left-hand side, second drawer to the bottom?” he asked again, agitation rising.

He was looking for the more fashionable Chino shorts he rarely wore, preferring to overheat in long pants than expose his pale, door-knob knees to imagined ridicule. You told him the housekeeper must have misplaced them.

He clenched his fist as tightly as the pink, shiny-scarred claw could manage and went on a gruff, impotent rant about the help growing careless without him to keep them in check. (If anything, the “help” were desperate to keep you in check without him there to manage your habit of leaving everything out—your clothes on a chair, the cereal box on the counter.)

“I know, I know. Awful,” you nodded along to the music of his words, if not the lyrics. You wished he would change the subject, but he pressed on with his investigation of the Case of the Missing Shorts.

“Mrs. Pérez brought a load of laundry down from the bedroom last Wednesday,” he noted. Frederick had taken to watching the security feeds remotely from his laptop. “Has she been using the cheap dry cleaner on Cherry Street instead of the good one so she can skim the difference? I have explicitly instructed the staff not to use them—they have lost or ruined several articles over the years. Inform Mrs. Pérez that I will not stand for lazy—what?”

Your tense smile began emanating a tenser whine.

It was rather suspicious.

Frederick watched you for a moment, puzzled, and then resumed, “The new security guard shares my pant size. Perhaps—”

“I DID IT. I brought them to Good Will.”

“You what?!”

Clicking the wheelchair brake, you doubled over the back of it, laughing at your childish ruse and how seriously Frederick had taken it. God, the man could never let anything go! “Over a year ago! You never wore them!”

“Come here.” His clipped tone did not invite argument.

You walked around to the front of his chair, the repentant pout on your face strongly undermined by rounded cheeks that were barely holding back a chuckle.

He growled with affectionate anger—the kind where he wanted to grab behind your knees and pull you into his lap, telling you with a low purr exactly how much trouble you were in. Except at the moment, your weight crashing onto his skinny, bony lap would have bruised a femur and torn five stitches. And if he was not confident enough for a kiss, he was in no condition to promise punishments of that nature.

So he gave your rump a sharp smack and tried to make his mouth smirk in that playfully disdainful way that said, “I love you, but I am going to kill you. You know that, right?” Sometimes wanting to kill someone can be such a personal, intimate love language.

“Doctor Chilton!” you gasped, feigning shock. “Such a naughty patient. I have told you time and again, this is simply unprofessional.”

The old woman and daughter had moved on, leaving you alone in the garden.

He let out a soft huff of amusement, catching on to the new game you were playing. Back when he was the administrator of the BSHCI, you would often saunter into his office playing the oversexed patient to his sleazy therapist. Now the roles were reversed.

“You protest,” he said in a low, lecherous tone, “and yet you continue to lavish extra attention on me. Do not think I have not noticed.”

“I don’t know what you could mean,” you deflected coyly. “Please keep your hands to yourself, sir.”

He grabbed your hand and spun you to face him, skeletal fingers interlocking with yours. Even through the compression glove, you could feel how skinny they had become, knobby knuckles protruding.

“Doctor,” he corrected.

You swallowed. “Doctor.”

“Why deny it? You guard all my treatments for yourself like a prize when other nurses could do it. You crawl into my bed to warm me with your body heat—hardly standard practice. I think you like the attention,” he said, giving your ass another lurid slap.

“D-Doctor! I’m not supposed to—we’re not supposed to…”

“If you worked at my hospital, I would fire you for such fraternization. Yet you call me unprofessional.” His hand still rested on your ass.

“You would fire me, doctor? Why fire me when there is so much I could offer?”

“And what is it you would offer me?” he asked, voice thick with meaning. His fingers kneaded the fat of your ass gently. It would have been harder, more possessive, if his hands were at full strength.

Not long ago, getting an erection had been painful, though he’d had several corrective surgeries since then, and the grafting had time to heal. Perhaps the sunlight was sparking him back to life. He was in a flirtatious mood—more excited than you’d seen him in a long time, and you were not about to tell him to slow down.

“Anything you want, doctor.” You lowered yourself in front of his chair, kneeling between his legs and looking up at him expectantly.

His Adam’s apple bobbed.

No one else was in the garden, and statues and shrubberies hid it from the road, but it was not entirely private. Anyone could walk in or see from a window of the tall buildings. You were just pretending. You weren’t going to slip his cock out right there and suck it for all the world to see. And yet… it had been so long. The thought of your moist lips closing over his lonely, aching hardness, your head bobbing in his lap…

“You… are fascinated with me, nurse,” he observed, licking his non-lips. His composure was holding, but barely. “You have seen many patients, but never one as badly burned, have you?”

“No.”

“Does it excite you?”

You took a moment before answering. Part of him resented you for still finding him attractive. At his lowest, he even blamed you for wanting these brutal injuries to happen. A bird sang a few metallic notes on a nearby branch before fluttering down to drink from the fountain. You stroked the top of his narrow thighs, careful not to push too far by going near his cock, but he showed no sign of hesitation today. The heat in his eyes as he watched you was not accusing, but hungry.

“Yes,” you panted. “You are striking. I’ve never met anyone so strong, so resilient.”

“Do you dream of kissing me? Your most striking patient?”

“Yes.”

The sun beat down hotter, but it was only your own internal temperature rising. The birds seemed to pause in their songs, and the leaves on the trees ceased to flutter.

You had waited so long—was he really asking?

His gloved hand reached down between his legs, and nailless pink fingertips stroked the side of your face thoughtfully a few times. Then he motioned you to get up off your knees, offering his hand as a symbolic gesture only. You put some of your weight on the padded rubber armrest as you stood.

“It will not be pleasant. For either party, I imagine,” he said, breaking character.

“It will be for me.” Your voice was soft.

“I do not know what to do like this. Mash my teeth against your face?”

You laughed a little. It was probably more nuanced than that, but that sounded basically accurate. “We’ll find out together.”

He looked off into the distance, toward the humming road weaving through the city. A warm breeze brought the smell of sea off the harbor: salty, humid, and stagnant with rotted fish and garbage. “The memory of your lips against mine is already fading,” he said. “That memory is all I have left of them. Whatever this will be, it will not feel the same.”

“I know.” You rested a hand on his shoulder. The dark blue polo was informal for his old life, but the woven cotton texture was rich compared to the thin hospital gowns you were used to him wearing. The last kiss you shared with Frederick was preserved behind a glass display case in your memory palace. A new kiss might break the hermetic seal. You could forget what it felt like to kiss him before. But it seemed worth the price to build new memories—a future just as full of love as the past.

He looked up at you like a broken ceramic being pieced back together with gold. His eyes shone with love, but his shoulders were slumped low.

“You may say I’m a slutty nurse for wanting to kiss my patient, but you’re to blame!” you said, playing the game again. “How could I resist your charm? I bet you seduce every nurse—I’m only your latest conquest!”

A smile tugged the corner of his mouth.

“No, my dear,” he purred, grabbing your arm and pulling you down to him until your face was inches from his. “Only you. I only want you.”

“Can I kiss you?”

He breathed in. He nodded.

You leaned the final inch down, and pressed your lips to his teeth.

The Red Dragon’s teeth sunk through flesh and tore deep. Coppery blood flooded his mouth, the taste so metallic and strong it drowned out almost everything else out—the pain, the unnatural tearing, little pops of veins, ligaments, and muscles stretching to their limits before giving up, his own screams. The truth of his face with all its illusions of grandeur was revealed before him: it was just meat. Nothing but raw, shredded meat.

“NO!” he screamed, and pushed you hard.

It was different than the peevish denials other times you’d tried to kiss. He pushed you away with so much force you staggered backward, and his wheelchair nearly tipped over. It reared on two wheels like a panicked horse and would have fallen except the worn brake gave way, and he shot backward several feet until the vacant bench stopped the chair’s momentum.

“No, no! Get away! No!” he begged no one, shaking and thrashing so violently he risked ripping his healing scars.

His back, legs, and arms were glued to the wheelchair, and he couldn’t escape. No—could have if he were desperate enough, strong enough. But he was terrified of ripping his skin off. The thought made him break out in a cold sweat and made it difficult to think straight. Dear god, he was afraid something happened to his back. Of being disfigured again.

He was afraid to die, but he dreaded even more the thought of surviving yet again to find another piece taken from him.

Not another. Not again.

If he cooperated, he had to be spared this time. He would cooperate. Do everything The Red Dragon said, and fate would be merciful. He had to go home. He had to go home. To see you again. It was not fair that he survived two attempts on his life only to die here. It was not fair! He was going to get married to the love of his life. Things were finally going right. The Dragon’s shadow fell over him. The acrid stench of his breath as he leaned down toward Frederick’s mouth—

“Frederick!”

You ran after him and tried to restrain him before he climbed out of the wheelchair and fell to the pavement, but it only made him struggle harder. Fuck. You weren’t sure if touching him again was a good idea, but you didn’t know what else to do. He was going to hurt himself.

“Shh, I’m here.”

Crouching next to him, you tried to keep him seated, murmuring soft, reassuring words. Eventually, he stopped thrashing to escape, his jerking limbs resigning themselves to passive trembling. His eyes were open, but they didn’t see you. They didn’t see anything but a dark room with a flickering projector.

You laid your head on his lap. “I’m right here. It’s OK. You’re safe, Frederick. You’re safe. Shh, shh...”

It took several minutes, but his breathing began to slow, and he began to calm down. His fingers found your hair and stroked it, mindlessly running over the contour of your scalp. Familiarity. Recognizing you, he grasped at your shirt to draw you closer, clutching you like a teddy bear to his chest. It was an awkward angle, but you shifted so your butt was partially supported by the bench he’d crashed into, and used the chair’s armrest to hold yourself in the bent position. Frankly, even if every muscle in your body cramped up, you weren’t going to leave him as long as he needed to hold onto you.

Finally, he whimpered your name and asked what happened.

“I… kissed you. I’m sorry.”

“Oh.”

He sniffed and wiped his face, which he discovered was soaked with tears, and looked off into the trees. You sat back onto the bench, straightening your crooked spine, but keeping a firm hold on his hand, staying close as he returned to reality. He would be embarrassed. Add this to the growing list of Ways Frederick Chilton is Broken and Useless. But for now, the humiliation was dulled by the fact that he was not in that room again, with the projector flickering. You stayed that way for a while, sitting in the dappled shade of the garden and the warm breeze, the fountain burbling a constant, relaxing, tuneless song.

“The last man to bring his lips to mine bit them off.”

“I’m so sorry, Frederick. I shouldn’t have been so stupid...”

He squeezed your hand. Straightened up in his chair. “I heard the FBI has the video. Have you watched it?”

You shook your head, then quickly added, “No,” aloud, knowing his vision was poor and still focused on the tree branches swaying and morphing in the wind. Jack Crawford had offered, but you didn’t want to see it. You couldn’t bear to.

It had been hard enough hearing him describe how Francis Dolarhyde glued him naked to his grandmother’s wheelchair and made him watch macabre home movies of the families he had slaughtered. His voice was too calm, too distant from the memory as he dictated graphic details for the Journal of Psychology, desperate to tell his story, grab his fame before he died.

You should have known how your mouth coming at his would make him feel. You were so caught up in your romantic imaginings, you forgot how kiss-like that moment of horror must have been, just before the pain.

The nightmare his life had been for months already, and would continue to be. The scar tissue that wouldn’t fully mature for two years. Two years wearing a compression suit to help them heal. Years of follow-up procedures so that he can continue to move. To breathe. To hear. Longer until he could get a new face. His entire life altered forever.

It started with a kiss.

“We don’t have to kiss. I should never have pushed you to,” you apologized, wincing preemptively.

You expected him to be angry. To sarcastically tell you, “Now you decide we don’t have to? Now that it is too late? What fine timing.”

“I am not weak,” he bristled instead, but his agitation only spanned the length of a breath. He squeezed your hand softly, and pulled you halfway into his chair to wrap his arms around your waist and back. “I did not think that would happen either,” he spoke comfortingly into your hair. “Attempting it for the first time in a wheelchair was a mistake. I should have been more aware of that, but I grow tired of not being able to show my affection. You are not the only one impatient for my recovery, darling. I want to try again.”

“Now?” You pulled back, widening your eyes at him.

“No,” he said plainly. “I think not.”

• ● • ━━━━━─ ••●•• ─━━━━━ • ● •

@beccabarba​ / @itsjustmyfantasyroom​ / @thatesqcrush​ / @dianilaws​ / @permanentlydizzy​ / @mrsrafaelbarba​ / @madamsnape921​ / @astrangegirlsmind​ / @neely1177​ / @onerestein​ / @dreamlover31​ / @isvvc-pvscvl​​  / @shroomiehomie / @storiesofsvu​ / @welcometothemxdhouse​​ / @feedthemadness-sweetie​ / @law-nerd105​ / @amelia-song-pond​ / @michael-rooker​ / @xecq / @madpanda75​ / @alwaysachorusgirl​ / @bananas-pajamas​ / @leanor-min​ / @mad-girl-without-a-box​ / @katierpblogg​ / @worldofvixen​ / @sassyada​ / @barbingchilton​ 

[princesscandijane]

Males Reasons to Shave with some tips

A quick guide for those wanting to shave, but cannot seem to find the reasons to.  As well as some tips on how to shave.

Groin

As a favor for someone going down on you. Think about how much you enjoy pulling pubes out of your teeth. I shave my groin every morning, as part of my morning routine. Takes me no less time to shave my face if you do it daily, and I could probably go every other day without notice.

Shaving Groin

From various blogs and articles

Trim—Bust out your trimmer and prep the area by trimming off a good chunk of the bush before you dive in with a razor. This helps ensure that you have total visibility and don’t miss any important areas. Take your time, trimming in small sections starting at the bottom and working your way up to the stomach.

Shave—Generously apply shave cream that you can see through, creating a layer of cream about a millimeter thick on top of the areas where you want to shave. Holding the skin taut with one hand and taking it extra-slow with the other, lightly shave IN THE DIRECTION that the hair grows. Avoid using too much pressure. Rinse the razor with every pass and, when completely done shaving, rinse the body with warm water.

Use a new/sharp razor– DON’T use a dull blade or disposable razor.

Shave Your Balls—The golden rule of ball-shaving is to always hold the skin taut so there are no wrinkles or curves that could catch skin or cause cuts. 

Rinse with Cool Water—Make sure you give your junk a good rinse in cool water after you’re done shaving to soothe the skin and close the pores. This will also help prevent any ingrown hairs or irritation.

Asshole

Dingleberries. If you have ever had to wipe away a dingleberry, that should inspire you to at least trim around the asshole. Full shave can be difficult, but again, how attractive do you find a hairy ass? So consider trimming. I don’t shave completely because I’m worried about nicking something, so I wear a butt plug and shave around it.

Guide to Asshole shaving

https://www.reddit.com/r/NoStupidQuestions/comments/27dh1x/how_do_i_shave_my_asshole/

Use a moustache/nose hair trimmer to trim off all the excess hair until it's short enough to feel like 2 day old stubble, and then apply good hair conditioner or shaving gel and exfoliate using a loofah or washcloth. The idea is to get all the hair up and on end and stimulate the skin while opening the pores; this avoids ingrown hair and razor burn, which you do not want on your butthole.

Now wash your butthole. Intensely. You do not want to leave any stone unturned, so to speak. Shove your soapy finger up there and really get your sphincters squeaky clean. Don't hurt yourself, just make sure you don't have any icky fecal matter or tiny sharp hair nuggets trapped in the mysterious crevices of your anal caverns.

Use a BRAND NEW 4-blade disposable razor/razor blade cartridge. Don't use a dull blade or you will regret it. Shave with the grain, first, not against it. Rinse after each and every stroke of the blade against your skin. Re-apply conditioner/gel and shave again, this time against the grain and again be sure to rinse after every stroke. Rinse completely and then give it a quick wash with some plain antibacterial soap (kills bacteria on the open skin so should avoid irritation from fecal matter etc that you may have missed during your butthole cleansing).

Now comes the rough part - preventative care. Grab a bottle of witch hazel and spritz it on a washcloth, and pat the fuck out of your butthole with that shit. IT WILL BURN LIKE HELL FOR A SECOND IF YOU DO IT RIGHT. It is not the end of the world. Your butthole is not on fire and you will live to poo another day. After witch hazel-ing the hell out of your ass, lay tummy-down on your bed or on a towel on the floor and either:

When your butthole has been sufficiently aired out and dried, apply non-scented women's roll-on deodorant. This sounds stupid and weird but trust me, it helps. Dove no-scent is the best I've found. This will avoid chafing while walking, irritation as the hair grows back, general stink, and will provide you with some cushioning.

Chest, Back, Arms, Armpits

Do you think any of them are naturally smooth? Once a week I take a nice hot bath, relax with a bowl and shave everything below my neck. Takes me an hour at most.

I think we can acknowledge that a smooth body is sexy regardless of gender.  How weird would it be for there to be hair

Vs. how is this for hair?

Once a week shaving. The more often you keep up with it the easier it is and the less time it takes.

Shaving Chest Tips

various blogs

Before beginning to shave, be sure to trim any long chest hairs to make the process easier.

Apply plenty of shaving gel over your chest and any other areas that you intend to shave.

Begin shaving, using short, gentle, and slow strokes for a clean shave without any nicks or cuts.

After each stroke, rinse the blade to avoid getting it clogged and causing a messy shave.

Once you’ve completed shaving and removed all unwanted hair, rinse your chest thoroughly and apply an aftershave product, such as the one that you use for your face.

Remember to also exfoliate the area twice a week with a quality body scrub to reduce the risk of ingrown hairs.

As the nipple is really sensitive and may not want to risk a nik, I recommend using a tweezer. Before you tweeze, take a hot shower—the heat will open up hair follicles, so it’s easier to grab the root—and pat the skin around your nipples dry. Pull each strand quickly and firmly in the direction your hair grows.

Shaving Armpit

from Men’s Health

Trim Your Armpit Hair First

If you’ve never shaved your underarms before, chances are you’ll need to trim those patches down for the easiest and most comfortable shave . It’ll make less of a mess in the shower as well (because nothing is worse than a clogged drain full of man-hair).

Exfoliate Your Under Arms Before Shaving

Sure, you don’t have to exfoliate, but you should to avoid pesky, painful ingrown hairs. A loofah or exfoliating body scrub will do the trick to remove dead skin cells and bacteria (along with any deodorant gunk) to help you achieve the smoothest shave without razor burn.

Shave Your Armpits Wet in the Shower

You can cut it dry, but Whitely recommends to do it in the shower. Hot water softens the hair and reduces the risk of pulled hair or nicks, he says. Shave towards the end of your time in the shower and use shaving gel for added moisture to prevent irritation.

Shave Slow and With a Good Razor

It's not a race, folks. To avoid razor burn and skin irritation, take it slow with your razor blade to make sure you get the closest shave. Unlike the hair on your face, underarm hair grows in all different directions, so make sure to shave sideways, as well top-to-bottom. Toss your old dull razor, and opt for one with a sharp blade and a pivoting head to move with the curves of your armpits for a more effective, easier shave.

Legs 

First shaved legs feel amazing.  Everyone deserves to know the feeling of freshly shaved legs. Second how are hairy legs, feet, and toes sexy?

Quick guide to shaving legs

Taken from Glamor and Cosmopolitan 

1. Trim

If it's the first time you're removing your leg hair, you might want to carefully trim the area with an electric razor. This will stop your razor clogging up, causing you to miss patches of hair.

2. Soak your skin before shaving

“Hydrating the hairs makes them up to 60 per cent easier to cut”, says Dr Anita Sturnham, Venus Ambassador. “Soak your skin for two to three minutes before shaving.”

Use warm water when you're bent over the bathtub in the middle of winter with goose bumps on your legs, it's tempting to have the shower on boiling hot. But hot water is not your friend when it comes to shaving because it closes your pores. Warm water opens your pores, allowing your hairs to soften (making the whole shaving process a lot smoother).

3. Do not lather your legs with shampoo

Dr Sturnham says using shampoo or body wash as shave prep can, “increase your risk of redness and irritation, and blunt your razor blades.”

4. Don't go ham on the shaving cream

You really only need a thin layer of shaving cream to do the job. Too much will clog up your blades, slowing down your shaving time and making it impossible to see where you already shaved. Of course you don't really need to buy shaving cream in the first place, hair conditioner works just as well (if not better).

5. Always shave against the direction hair growth

To get your closest shave possible, shave against the direction of your hair growth. For the legs, start at the ankle and work your way up towards the knee.If you’re using a good blade, this won’t cause any irritation and will cut the hair right at the root for a longer-lasting shave.

6. Don't apply too much pressure to your razor

Your razor shouldn’t make a dent in your skin in order to work.“ The razor should glide across the skin, not drag”, says Adam Boulding, Venus Scientific Communications. “Remember to use a light touch, exerting as little pressure as possible.”If you need to press your razor firmly to work, it can be a sign your blades need changing.

7. Short strokes

If you're shaving from your ankle to your knee in one long stroke, you are guaranteed to have missed hairs. It's just impossible for your razor to keep contact with every single hair for that long. That's why you need to shave with short strokes. Short strokes = less missed hairs.

8. Change your razor blades regularly

A blunt blade not only increases friction against the skin, but also the likelihood of missed hairs. There are many factors that can impact blade life, including your hair type, how much of your body you’re shaving and how you store your razor.  Roughly every ten shaves. If you shave daily then about every 1-2 weeks, if you shave 2-3 times a day then every 3-4 weeks. You should also change your blades whenever you start to feel tugging or pulling during your shave.

9. Don't use razors with less than four blades

The number of blades you use is actually super important. The less blades you have, the higher the chance of cuts and nicks.

“A razor with more blades means that the pressure is distributed across more evenly”, says Boulding. “Therefore less pressure is applied to any one spot of skin during the shave, reducing the probability of cuts.”

10. Use a manoeuvrable razor head

The second thing to look for in terms of razor quality is the manoeuvrability of the razor head. When it comes to the backs of knees and areas like ankles, where the bone is close to the skin surface, you need a razor that moves with the curves of your skin to glide over trickier areas. A stagnant blade will only increase the chance of missed hairs or cuts.

11. Always bend a knee

Knees are notoriously the most tricky spot to shave. The solution? Sarah says to slightly bend the knee.

“This will pull the skin tight before shaving, as folded skin is difficult to shave.”

Try propping your leg up on the side of the bath.

12. Don't forget your aftercare

If you suffer from red bumps after shaving, rinsing properly is a must post-shave. If you can bare cold water, this is even better to ensure the pores are closed.

Sarah also recommends leaving the skin to rest for at least 30 minutes before applying lotions or moisturisers, to avoid inflammation.

“If you must moisturise immediately following shaving, select a cream formula rather than a lotion, and avoid exfoliating moisturisers that may contain alpha hydroxy acids,” she adds. If not, it will sting!

[vercopaanir]

Chapter 28: Blood Running Cold

Masterlist

Pairing: The Mandalorian x Blind!(Fem)Reader

Summary: The bounty boards the Razor Crest while Din is hurt and the child is incapacitated.

Words: 5.1k

Rating/Warnings: T, for mentions of violence.

Notes: Whew, it’s been a spell! Thank you all so, so much for tagging me in things, sending sweet messages, and reblogging me in stuff! It’s been so nice to check back in every now and then and know I haven’t been forgotten while my body betrays me. This chapter has been written for a while, but I could not get myself together to actually edit it. I hope it still delivers and that you all enjoy reading. Special shout-out to mandhoelorian for guessing who/what Din’s special bounty is. Read more to find out!

AO3

There is nothing quite like hunger. When you were abandoned as a young child, eating unripened berries, questionable plants, and bugs with too many spindly legs to survive, you remember the pain in your belly, the cramps that seemed to strangle you so tightly they would lift you off your feet. Hunger, like any pain, is a constant throb, a dull ache, something that sinks its hooks into the mind and slows time until it suffocates. 

You should eat, you know. You have not put food in your mouth in nearly two days, but the very idea of anything that isn’t a prayer passing your lips makes you feel sick enough to struggle just to keep water down. Your fingers begin to shake as you mend shirts, closing up holes and tears like wounds. 

The child is still unconscious, unmoving like a stone, with a clammy perspiration on his wrinkled brow that soaks his blanket in the silently floating pram. You check on him until the inside of your shoes wear against the delicate skin of your ankles from walking back and forth. You have not been without him before, not since your freedom was bought, and the black hole of silence that fills the metal void of the Razor Crest makes your nerves feel raw and exposed.

Din is still unconscious and unmoving, too. You had been able to wrestle him to his feet, buckling beneath the near-dead weight of him before bullying him onto the medical cot. You remove all the beskar beforehand, of course, and still he is heavy enough to cause you to pull a muscle when you try lifting him. You strip him of his torn, burned clothing and bring down the blankets from the bed in the captain’s quarters, knowing to sweat a fever will help. You can’t be sure what the fever is from, though, be it his healed burns or having stayed in the elements for so long. He’d been conscious long enough for his eyes to blink open, his brow dripping sweat into his gaze before pressing his sticky forehead to your own in relief.

Then, he passed out again.

In the afternoon, when the sun is at its peak, you risk opening the hull and collecting snow in the beskar chest plate like an oversized bowl, packing it tightly in clean cloths and keeping it on Din’s back and a cold wet rag on his forehead when his fever waxes and wanes.

Even when he is at his most alert, his most talkative, he is a quiet man by nature, but his presence fills the emptiness with familiarity that you now miss. This silence that the child and his father leave behind in their sickness is like a well with no bottom, cold and deep and dark, and you do your damndest to distract yourself.

You try to clean a little, though it doesn’t hold your interest, still allowing your mind to wander back to those breathless moments when you were alone in the world without him. You wake from half sleep throughout the night, head throbbing and mad with grief that he might still be gone. But, you curl against the wall, tucked across from the small medical bay where he lay asleep, his back rising and falling with steadier breaths each time you look upon him.

It is not so much his dedication and loyalty to you, but the companionship you two have fostered over these long weeks. You had never had such a person to fill your day with, to listen to you and respect you. It occurs to you, looking down at the half mended shirt now splotched with your tears, that Din Djarin is your dearest friend. The quiet revelation leaves you hiccupping with loneliness, and you put away the needlework in frustration.

The burn salve takes away the last sting of heat and redness upon his back, and when you trace your hand over the lovely slope and dip of his shoulder, all you feel is cool, smooth skin. You cup both Din and the child’s face while they sleep, holding a cup to their cracked lips to slip water down their throat. It is met with no resistance, and you worry even more when they will wake up.

Using melted snow for water becomes a welcome distraction. You find it’s easier to melt and boil for clean water than wasting the reserves on the Crest, though you slip a few times, falling hard on the metal exit ramp from the slickness of your boots. Face flushed, you’re thankful no one is around to see, scowling at your own lack of balance and clumsiness. 

Day turns into night, and with it comes that awful, echoing wind that beats against the outside of the ship. You turn the engines on enough to recycle the warm air that chases the chill away, working to clean and organize the crates twice over until you’re damp with sweat and aching in your arms and legs. It is hard, fumbling with things in the dark with such poor sight, but you dedicate yourself to it. Creating distractions is more difficult than the chores you come up with, but it tires you out enough that your eyelids grow heavy. You take a turn around the cockpit, turning everything off now that the ship is warm enough to last through the night, and you close the doors. 

It is easier for you to navigate your surroundings if things are kept a certain way. Doors closed, cabinets shut, things put away in their place. You are lucky that Din is naturally an organized and overall neat individual, and you’ve found he prefers his own things-weapons, food, clothes-kept tidy and stored. You imagine you’d be at your wit’s end if you had to keep bumping or tripping into things, and for a moment, as you stare down at the sleeping man in question, you wonder if he’s always been that way. Was he a particular little boy who grew into a particular man?

Or did he become one? For the child? For you?

The pram is just beside you, and you find yourself smiling, grimacing over the notion that you are the one sleeping nearest the door now. You are sleeping on the floor, beside the medical cot, but you are still the one nearest any possible danger.

You wonder what Din would think about that if he was awake. You hope he would be proud.

Sleep comes easily, but rest remains elusive. You feel as if you sense everything around you as you doze, never fully slipping into the dark deep of dreams. Perhaps that is just as well, you will think later, when an eerie sound of metal scraping metal drags you back to consciousness. For a moment, you think it is the child, awake and dragging around some tool or getting into playful mischief once more, but as you listen, you realize the sound is coming from outside the hull.

A tinny, high pitched shriek of steel on steel, as if the very ice is sinking its teeth into the ship, and you fumble to sit up in the bulky tent of your cloak, blinking blindly in the near darkness. 

It stops suddenly, and you look towards the door before a terrible crash nearly shakes the hatch off its hinges. It rattles the very teeth in your head, and you struggle to suddenly stand, your heart thundering against your breast in terror. Another heavy crash, a heavy, metallic ramming that you feel in your chest and hurts. Something is being thrown against the hatch, and this time, they will get in.

The first thing that comes to mind is how your father had picked you up from playing with a worn, threadbare cloth doll when your family home had been stormed, and it is in your genetics, you think, to put your hands on Din’s shoulders as he lay sleeping. His eyes flutter, delicately long lashes kissing his cheeks. There are not many places to hide on the Razor Crest, built efficiently and with military power in mind. There is suddenly too much open space and not enough-

Crawl space.

You drop to your knees and feel along the corrugated metal flooring until your fingertips come into contact with the latch set flush into the floor. Din had once told you to mind your step in the hull, and often would call that he was working on panels and wires hidden beneath so you would not trip and fall in. You wrestle the latch open, sliding and pushing it up to open the small covering. You can feel with your arm it’s barely big enough for one person, and you make up your mind without a second thought, turning back to the sleeping warrior and throwing one of his arms over your shoulder.

His entire body is burning with fever again, and your knees buckle halfway across the floor beneath his weight. He wears no armor, but he’s still nearly too much for your spasming muscles to bear. You hold onto his shoulders, then his arms, bullying him into the crawl space until his legs fold beside him. Then, you let him drop softly against the metal wall. Every move you make is clumsy, rushed with panic and shaking with uncertainty from being unable to see.

You lift the baby out of his pram next, swaddled in his blue cotton blanket, and as an afterthought, you grab the beskar helmet that lays inside the medical cot. You affix the child until he is nestled in Din’s lap, folding yourself in half to reach beneath the floor so that you can let the helmet fit and slip over his head. If you are discovered, you think, his face will be protected, at least.

There is a sudden, shuddering movement that seems to rock the entire ship, and you catch yourself before shutting the crawl space again. It’s followed by a loud whirring sound, like an electric tool being dug into the side of the hull. With man and child stowed beneath your feet like cargo, you struggle to stand, planting your feet firmly over your racing heart. You can’t hide in the cockpit, the fresher, or the medical bay closure-it all seems too obvious.

There is a sickening shriek of the sound of metal bending, and your eyes settle on that darkened part of the ship Din had told you to never go near. Taking a quick breath, you grab the amban rifle and your staff, securing the latter to your side and the former over your shoulder, and you march into the darkened corner.

It only takes you three slippery steps to reach the carbonite freezer, the durasteel plated frame for the next bounty hanging like a cold slab for a dead body. You’re just the right size to slip behind it, the metal painfully pressing against every soft curve you have.

Just as you yank the rifle to your side, the hatch of the Razor Crest is wrenched open, falling open with a deafening thud.

You lift your free hand and cover your mouth, sweat pooling from your brow and dripping into your eyes as you try and catch your breath silently. Heavy boots hit the hull’s flooring, and you close your eyes tightly.

The pacing pauses, and you can hear noisy breathing through a helmet. There is a series of clicks, perhaps on a handheld device of some kind, or even on a weapon. You can’t be sure, but you focus on picturing the sounds in your head rather than your encroaching panic.

The heavy footfalls resume, moving away from the freezer. A slam shakes the entire ship, and you think whoever it is has opened the fresher. A few more footsteps precede another rattling crash, which you know is the medical cot being shoved back into the bay. 

Whoever the intruder is, he is searching for something.

You can hear his lumbering footfalls climbing the ladder, and you’re tempted to move. The sudden blast of icy air from outside hits the paneling of the carbonite freezer, and you feel it in your bones. Frost crackles and splinters, beginning to coat the metal of the inside of the ship.

Loud noises from the upper deck make you jump, cabinets being flung open, objects being thrown, walls being shaken. The ship itself is safe from being taken, the main controls linked to Din’s vambraces, and the rest of his armor is safely stowed in one of the crates beneath medical supplies.

You hear it when the intruder’s boots slam into the ground as he slides back down the ladder. He must be a well built warrior, or perhaps his armor is just heavy. His pace quickens with frustration as he walks the length of the hull, shoving aside boxes and supplies with an angry urgency. 

It’s when you can hear the pacing nearly directly across from the freezer that you can’t contain your need to know any longer. You press your head to the side, listening to the rousing sounds of crates being broken open and supplies being thrown around the hull. You peer between the gap of the steel plate and the inside of the freezer.

Even blind, you know the blinding white armor of a stormtrooper when you see one.

Though, this is a different set of armor, slashed with deep crimson along the joints and helmet, and the weapon he carries is nothing like you’ve ever seen before. It’s nearly as long as Venka is tall, wide of barrel and heavy with artillery. It connects to an odd, black pack on the soldier’s back, but you can’t make out any details. You slip your head back behind the metal plate, heart racing when you hear the trooper’s boot connect with the side of one of the crates, cracking it in fury.

He snarls curses that have you red to the tips of your hair, and you listen with slow encroaching joy as he storms towards the hatch. 

You drop your head forward against the steel plate in thankfulness, but the hinge holding it to the ceiling gives a quiet creak.

Immediately, the stormtrooper stops walking.

Blood running cold and your fingers gripping the body of the rifle, you move as slowly as you’re able, breathing silently through your nose as you gently lean your head backward. Bootsteps draw nearer, a slow, cautious tempo, and you hear the unmistakable click of a firearm being drawn from a holster. You take a deep breath and brace against the back of the carbonite freezer. 

For a moment, silence stretches out, save for the soft breathing through the modulated helmet, and you are just about to relax when a creaking, splintering shadow appears in your periphery. Like creeping spider's legs, long, black gloved fingers begin to wrap around the edges of the carbonite plate that shields you from view, and you know now he has found you. 

With a terrible wrench, the stormtrooper yanks the plating away, and...nothing.

The plate is secured firmly above and below, making it impossible to remove without a specialized tool or vambrace. You were only just slim enough to slide between, and the realization breaks over your blinding panic as the soldier continues to shake and yank on the plate uselessly. He slams his fist against it, the metallic reverberation making your ears ring before storming off.

This time, you wait until his footsteps retreat, past the metal ramp, and then you wait just a short while longer. You wait so long that the cold from the open hatch begins to make your teeth chatter, but you don't move a moment too soon.

The blast of icy wind pouring into the ship nearly takes you out at the knees when you push yourself out of your hiding spot, and you run to the control panel, feeling with your hand for the switch and the buttons you know releases the hatch back up into the ship. Sparks hiss from the top of the panel, and you flinch back, sucking in a breath when the ramp shudders before falling back into the snow. Whatever the stormtrooper had done to the door, it compromised the panel, and you are certainly no engineer.

It’s the night that won’t end, you think miserably, dropping your forehead against the cool metal wall.

A light scraping makes your temples prick with aggravation before you realize it’s coming from beneath the floor. Whirling about and dropping to your knees, you slide your hands along the corrugated metal until your fingers find the latch. When you draw it up, it’s too dark for you to see, but you can hear Din rumbling and sliding in the narrow crawl space, attempting to stand up.

His voice sounds about as smooth as a rusted used engine part. “Why am...I in the floor?” 

The wobbly smile that pulls at your lips holds back a near hysterical bubble of laughter, and you sniffle, wiping your eyes with the tips of your fingered gloves. “It’s a long story,” you say, voice choked and hoarse. You give him your hand, and the two of you work awkwardly to pull him up out of the hole. 

The baby is snuggled against his chest, still swaddled and sleeping, though his coloring is significantly better, you think. You silently lift the child from Din’s arms, letting him turn his helmet this way and that as he takes in the disarray of the hull. His hand rubs the back of his neck before he stops, and you think he must remember his injuries because he pulls his hand back to look at it as if he expects to see blood.

“What happened, Cyare?”

By the time you recount the whole of it, Din has managed to fix the compromised panel to get the hatch to close securely, cutting off the arctic winds bellowing into the ship. You tell him of the burns, his injured state, his fever (which he assures you has broken beneath his helmet), the child healing him, and the stormtrooper who overturned the entire ship. 

It didn’t seem like such a mess when you first looked around with your mottled sight, but now you can see crates overturned, supplies and food strewn about. The refresher is nearly torn apart, and upstairs the captain’s quarters is a disaster. All you want is to crawl into bed and sleep without thinking of a time to be up, but you can’t leave this all to Din.

After tucking the baby into his pram, forcing the worry down and away, you prioritize your thoughts, kneeling amidst the medical supplies and frowning in concentration. You’re in the middle of rolling up some gauze, listening to Din shuffle and tinker and try to hide his soreness. You can’t banish the memory of the stormtrooper’s glove, and you turn your face toward where he stands.

“Who are they?”

Din pauses from where he’s trying to reassemble the shower shelf, his helmet tilting toward you and catching the light. You shift to rest back on your heels, dropping the gauze in the crate and gently feeling for the other supplies strewn about. You scoop up several medkits, pulling yourself up by the side of the crate.

“The bounty. It was your bounty, who came aboard, wasn’t it? The stormtrooper?”

He turns back to his task, rehanging the shelf and collecting the few bars of soap and bottles the two of you keep in the shower. When it’s functional and put together once again, he shuts the door and walks carefully over to you, crouching down on the balls of his sock-clad feet.

“Yes.”

You focus on affixing the lid onto the crate, and the two of you are silent for a while, working side by side in companionable and shared space. When the hull is free of mess, you feel yourself sway on your feet. 

Din captures your elbow in a gentle cup of his hand, and you can hear the concern bleeding into his voice when he asks, “When was the last time you slept?”

“I don’t remember,” you puff out a laugh, though there’s no humor in it. You allow him to lead you to the ladder, and climbing up to the second deck feels like an effort fit for the Maker. Din rearranges the overturned mattress and sheets, and when he leaves to adjust the heating system, you check on the sleeping infant again. Rather than dozing like a stone, he turns his tiny face toward your fingers in sleep when you stroke his ear, and your heart feels lighter at the response.

A warm blast of air comes through the vents above, but it is nothing compared to being wrapped up in the arms of the Mandalorian who comes to stand behind you. 

“You’ve been so brave,” he whispers against your ear, his naked face pressing into your hair. You shiver, leaning back against him with nearly all your weight. “I’m so sorry I didn’t protect you, Cyare.” 

For a moment that hangs suspended in the cold darkness of the ship, you close your eyes and let every shadow and shape melt away. The secure, warm feeling of his arms, the rhythmic breathing of his chest against your back, the gentle scrape of facial hair against the side of your neck where he buries his face all merge into a kaleidoscope of sensations that make you dizzy. You want to tell him that he shouldn’t apologize for anything. You want to weep that he was right, that this is too much for you, too much responsibility to bear watching him leave and knowing he might not come back.

But you’re too tired for that conversation. In fact, you’re too tired to even express how tired you are, because the next thing you know, you’re waking up in bed, tucked up to your chin with blankets. Your limbs are stiff and sore, your throat and mouth dry as a bone. You can’t tell the time, nor can you decipher how long you’ve been asleep. All you know is that you feel like you’ve slept a millennium, and you’re in bed alone.

When you sit up, your orientation tilts, and you nearly fall forward, sucking in a breath and bracing yourself on the edge of the mattress. You use your hand to touch your stomach, feeling the soft fabric of your sleeping shift, and you wiggle your toes inside thicker woolen socks that are several sizes too big for you. You don’t even remember falling asleep, let alone being dressed for bed, but you know who will.

He’s piloting, fully encased within the cold beskar armor, which you see from the polished gleam that the silver glare of hyperspace reflects. He looks even better than he did before being injured, you think, peeking around the open doors of the cockpit. One ankle of his boot is tossed carelessly over his knee, his arms holding the sleeping child in his lap. His hands are covered in gloves, new ones that share identical orange leather fingers. It’s almost as if he hadn’t been scorched from nearly head to toe, and you blink, standing dumbly in the threshold, feeling out of place and more dreaming than waking.

When he turns his helmet towards you, the chair creaks from the base, and it makes you flinch, reminds you of the stiffness in your limbs. You sit in the copilot seat, perched on the very edge in case of something else terrible happening, but the longer Din seems to gaze at you, the more you come to hear the little one’s soft snores, strong and rhythmic. Your shoulders drop, and you sit back against the leather seat.

“You were talking in your sleep.”

You blink at that, tilting your head curiously at the shadow of your lover, drawing your legs up to curl beside you. Still half drowsy with dreams you don’t remember, you lean your temple against the cold metal siding of the wall and sigh. “Anything interesting?”

“My name.” He pauses, looking down at the child. “Venka, and Corde.”

You wonder, if the child had a name, if you would have said his, too.

“Who was it, Din?” you whisper, slowly wringing your hands together in your lap. Now that you are in hyperspace, you know you are safe, you can be whole. His wounds are, after all, more healed than before he was injured, even though there may be missing pieces of your solace of mind, now. “The bounty. He didn’t...he didn’t seem-”

“He was a member of an elite and specialized task force,” Din’s voice is rough, cold, and hoarse, and you wonder what he is imagining as he describes his bounty. A shiver runs along your back, the planes and curves he has touched, and you bite your lip. He draws one forefinger along the tiny wrinkles of the baby’s brow, more gentle and tender than you’ve ever seen. “A stormtrooper raised to burn whole clans and cities and villages to nothing.” 

You think of the oddly shaped object he was carrying, the sloshing of liquid you now know was some kind of fuel for incineration, and you shudder at what could have happened to you and the child. What did happen to Din.

“That’s why you were so hurt,” you whisper, and he nods once.

“Surprised me,” he mutters, dropping his hand away from the baby to flex his fingers over the armrest of the pilot’s chair. “Damn armor blends into the snow.” 

The two of you sit quietly, and you consider this new information with the foggy memory of the soldier who overturned the Crest. Still, something doesn’t make sense to you. Two slotted pieces that don’t quite match, that won’t fit, and you can’t sit still. “I don’t understand,” you finally heave a sigh, brow furrowing. “Why does...why does the Empire want one of their own?”

Din shrugs lightly beneath his gleaming pauldrons. “I don’t ask questions.” 

Of course not.

You breathe noisily through your nose. Bracing your hands upon your legs, you sit forward, narrowing your eyes. “It’s important to understand what we’re doing if this is to release us from underneath their thumb, don’t you think?” you ask quietly, your patience a living, wriggling thing.

“What I’m doing,” Din corrects, looking away from you then. “You will stay far away from it. That was the deal.”

You’re on your feet then, fast and striking, and you shove the heel of your hand into the back of his chair so it swings his helmet towards you.

“That deal was broken when I almost lost you,” you whisper, your voice wobbling on the painful knot choking your throat. You force any threat of tears back, steeling every soft part of your body into an unshakable fortress. Din’s shoulders draw up in defense, but you drop your other hand to the side of his cloth covered neck, loving and warm. You cannot see his face, but you know he’s holding your gaze. “This isn’t just about you, or the child, Din. Your actions have more consequences than just losing your own life, now.” 

His chest plate begins to rise and fall like a shining, silvery wave, churning in the midst of a storm, and you are ready for him to use his size, his presence to push back against you. You are surprised when he does not, when he lays one hand over the child asleep on his lap and presses the crown of his helmet back into the headrest, presenting. 

“What do you want from me?” he rasps, harsh and angry. Perhaps the anger once would have made you timid, but you recognize his fear for what it is. You grab his hand that threatens to choke the life out of the armrest, leaning over him until you can press your brow to his helmet.

“Teach me to fight.” You hear him suck in air, holding his breath, and you lean firmer to ground him. “To defend myself, properly. To defend our children,” your voice catches on the last word, blinking against your blind, stinging eyes. You squeeze his fingers as tightly as you can, dragging air into your lungs as if drowning. “I don’t want to hide like that. Ever again.”

Din drops his head forward, almost pushing you away in his attempt to press the visor of his helmet against the softness of your belly. You drape your arms around his neck, rubbing against the newly healed expanse of his back. You feel his words more than hear them, the modulator muffled against the fabric of your gown. “I should have protected you better.” 

Your hands are not gentle when you slide them beneath his chin, pulling his visor upward to look at you. “We have to do this together. It cannot be one-sided,” you murmur, feeling his hand resting on the slope of your waist. You slip your fingers beneath the lip of his helmet, feeling newly shaven skin on his cheek. “Who will protect you?”

He chuckles, dropping his visor again against your stomach, and you feel him sink against you this time when he sighs. You rest against him, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand while the other lays warm against the back of his shirt. The two of you enjoy the silence, companionable and soft until a little gurgle perks you up.

When Din sits back, the baby’s eyes blink open, bleary and heavy, and you drop to your knees with a soft coo, kissing his brow. Din’s hand caresses the back of your head as the two of you marvel over the waking baby on lap, an entire wave of gratefulness nearly drowning you both. The child holds out a shaking three fingered hand out until he can grasp the Mandalorian’s forefinger. 

“You can’t do this alone,” you whisper again, your heart in your throat as you look upon your little one. “Not now. Not anymore.” 

“I know,” Din whispers, and you think he must know the sacrifice of the child, the gift he has been given in being pulled back from that hollow darkness, because he sits a little taller now, tilting his visor toward you. “You’re right.”

Your hands take the baby when he passes him to you, and those familiar petal ears begin to lift in happiness, his mouth smacking hungrily as you shoulder him, standing on wobbly feet. Din turns from you to the controls, pulling his navigation up with the lazy knowledge of a pilot who has crossed thousands of parsecs. 

“So you will teach me?” you ask, leaning against the side of the pilot’s chair. The child begins tugging at your collar for attention, but your sight is trained on the sharpened silver of the beskar.

“No.” His voice is brusque enough to drop your heart like a stone, but you feel blindsided with excitement when he glances up at you and says, “But I know someone who does. Ever been to Sorgan?”

-

Mando’a Translations:

Cyare - Beloved

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[janekfan]

Saw you were looking for some Jon Tim prompts so here's a few! :D 1) Tim decides to stalk Jon to show him what it feels like. Jon is satisfyingly frazzled; then a fear shows up. 2) Jon protects Tim from the Distortion Michael. Tim's confused. 3) Jon get lost in the tunnels. Perhaps Tim can hear him from the trap door and ends up pulling him out. They're both in bad shape and Martin is ticked. 4) Tim finds Jon after he gets stabbed by Michael. Happy Prompt Hunting!

I went with number 4! :D All are very good though

https://archiveofourown.org/works/28436451

Jon was being shifty again.

Not like that was anything new, and Tim had caught wind of a bread knife rumor?

But whatever. It was no concern of his and he’d rather go the day withouth seeing him if he could. Avoid the hot spike of poisonous anger that followed after every infuriating interaction and seeped, staining, into all other aspects of his life. Better to leave him be. Let Basira and Daisy and Melanie and Martin deal with him and leave Tim to work on his high scores.

So of course it would just be the two of them in the office today. Martin dropped off Jon’s tea like clockwork and strode bitterly out of the Archives without so much as glancing at Tim. He’d delivered his warnings earlier when he’d been assigned this field research and Tim would follow the instructions to leave him be to the letter.

“He’s exhausted, Tim.”

“Don’t care.”

“I. I know. What I’m trying to say is don’t make things worse.” Tim scoffed at that. Yes, he would be the ones making it all worse. Because it wasn’t worse already. Sasha wasn’t gone, they weren’t trapped here because of Jon who definitely hadn’t turned into some paranoid stalker armed with evil powers.

But yeah. He wouldn’t make things worse.

The makeshift pad of gauze and bandaging was soaked through with his own bright blood and staring at it brought a wash of dizziness over him and flooded his mouth with salt. Before he could faint dead away he reached for his dwindling supplies and prepared to change the dressing. If it didn’t stop this time, he’d have no choice but to ask for help.

If they’d spare any.

Jon hissed through his teeth when removing the compress served only to break the clot, pouring a hot runnel over his skin that caught and welled and spilled over the ladder of his ribs. Blacked at the edges, his vision tunneled, and nausea coiled sour in his stomach. It hurt. It hurt to breathe, to think, to move, deep, deep, deep and aching in the very core of him. Graceless and bumbling, Jon struggled to cover the surprisingly small incision and wrap himself tight enough to please, please stop bleeding. Holding himself close and careful, Jon staggered to his feet only to knock his hip hard against the desk as he went woozy.

He’d stood for something. Risked toppling over for something but the pounding of his pulse in his temples made everything that much harder and the room was spinning around and around and he nearly joined it, teetering a half turn before lurching to a stop, pressing his arm against his throbbing side.

It hurt.

One of them must have painkillers of some sort. Sash--

She. He.

How could he’d have forgotten? A bolt of fresh sorrow struck him so hard in the chest it stole his breath away with it and he sagged beneath its gravity, gripping the cool metal of the door handle painfully for support, looking down and seeing it as though it were the first time.

Where…? He needed something. Needed...because it hurt. He hurt and he needed help.

“Jesus, Jon!” Tim’s whole body flinched violently when he realized Jon was hovering near his desk like a wraith, sallow and with shadows like bruises lining the sharp planes of his face. “What?” His silence was petrol on the fire of Tim’s always simmering anger and it flared brightly, blinding, such that Jon staggered a step back, lifting a trembling hand only to drop it back to his side.

“T’Tim.” He swallowed with a click, and Tim watched his throat work, lashes fluttering like moth’s wings, brows knit together in effort and confusion.

“Out with it!”

“D’you‘ave pa, para…?” Even with his tripped up tongue, the compulsion found a way to thread through the question and Tim saw the fear fill up Jon’s glassy eyes when he realized a beat later what he’d done. Resisting was painful, the static filled up his ears, his head, his blood with its continuous hiss, rising higher and higher as he tried his damndest not to answer what really was a simple question. It wasn’t about that though. It wasn’t alright for Jon to take like that, to use whatever the hell this was to pull what he wanted to know from the inside of them without a thought. To hurt them just to Know.

In the end, he had no choice and coughed up his elucidation like a mouthful of razors, slamming his fist against his desk and using the leverage to stand and confront him.

“S’sorry. Din’t...” slurred and barely intelligible, the empty apologies only made Tim angrier and for one awful moment, he wanted to hit him. Give back just a fraction of the pain he’d caused all of them with his selfish ignorance. He wrestled it down with difficulty, clenched his teeth against the residual ache of Jon’s power.

“What’d you do to yourself?” Because the man looked hungover, sweaty and sick, paler by the minute and he wouldn’t blame him for crawling into a bottle. Might even be inclined to join him if he ever extended an offer.

“H’hur’s.” Jon’s overture broke open in a sob, his clawing, grasping fingers twisted in his dark jumper over his stomach and it looked as though he was considering lurching for the bin.

“Are you pisse--whoa!” Instead, Jon stumbled into him and reflexively, Tim shoved him away, like he was something disgusting, watching him trip over clumsy feet and land hard on his side in a sprawl of uncoordinated limbs. Tim yanked him up roughly, ignoring the sharp intake of breath, and tugged him back to his office by a bony elbow, muttering unkindly, “just sober up or whatever.”

The door slammed behind Jon and reverberated into his aching bones. He’d forgotten what he needed and the pain was so bad now it had removed any remaining will he had to stay awake. After Tim pushed him and he hit the ground, (clumsy, stupid, can’t even walk on your own) it was like being stabbed by Michael all over again; a burst of bright white twisting, turning, contorting agony that wasn’t easing so much as it was spreading all the way to the tips of his fingers.

Maybe if he sat down, got off his feet, he’d not feel so ill. Yes...yes that would be good. It would be nice to rest for a moment, just close his burning eyes, just for a little while. Then he could get back to work, finish up those statements he was working on. He was working on statements? When he went to step forward a sharp pain rocked through him hard enough that he had to brace himself on the unforgiving hard wood of the desk.

What--

Suddenly weak in the knees, Jon all but collapsed into his chair, curling into himself, every harsh and hollow gasp of breath like the bite of a knife.

Half five and Jon still hadn't emerged a second time from his office. Tim was the only one left besides him and despite how adamantly he refused to care he does not want to draw Martin’s temper. This had nothing to do with his own concern and armed with the distance that afforded him, Tim knocked loudly, obnoxiously, rudely.

There was no response.

“Oi, Jon!” Shouldering open the door, he’s got a rant on the tip of his tongue and is looking forward to using it. “Drunk at work, whatever will Marto say? The scandal…” With no reaction forthcoming, no moaning or groaning or yelling Tim took a second to actually look at him, lying collapsed over his desk, cheek pillowed on one folded arm. He’s passed clean out, and Tim touched his forehead only to find it cold and clammy. Something was far from alright if Jon’s rapid, shallow breathing and nearly grey lips were anything to go by. “Boss?” He was slack and loose when Tim shook him none too gently, mouth falling open with an almost inaudible whine. Alarm bells were ringing, red flags cropping up the longer stayed in here with him and the weighty feeling of being watched made him shiver. Very suddenly he wanted out of there but when he pulled Jon upright his eyelids barely shifted and what little color remained drained from his face so quickly Tim barely got the bin in place for him to lose what little he had in his stomach, no more than a little tea really. If the moisture hadn’t glinted in the low light coming in from the other room, Tim wouldn’t have noticed the dark wet blotch blending with the fibers of Jon’s jumper or the red and rust staining his trousers halfway down his thigh.

“Jon!” He wasn’t awake, not really, body reacting with wretched whimpers and the sluggish shifting of his arms when Tim eased him out of the chair and onto the ground. “Shit. Shit!” 999. 999 and following their explicit instructions; elevate his legs, keep him warm, don’t let him aspirate on his own sick. He lifted the sopping and soaked fabric of his borrowed clothing and his hand flew to cover his mouth when he saw the damage and he thought back to Jon’s plea for paracetamol, the apparently accidental compulsion.

“H’hur’s.”

His whole flank was black with the blood pooled beneath his skin and smeared with crimson above and when Tim applied his own crumpled up button down over top of the drenched bundle of gauze Jon cried out, writhing weakly under his punishing hands, eyes rolling wildly under bruised lids.

God. What was the point of being angry with Jon for not being honest, for not reaching out, if this is what happened when he did? If Tim was going to be rough with him, accuse him of being soused when really--

When really he was bleeding to death behind the closed door Tim put him behind so he didn’t have to look at him.

“T…”

“Hey, hey buddy.

“Hur’hurting me…” Slicked with weals of blood, Jon’s thin fingers slipped against Tim’s wrists, no strength to shift him, to stop what was happening, to stop him from hurting him like everybody else had hurt him, even though he was trying to save him. Jon didn’t understand, couldn’t, and he sobbed helplessly, keening cry lancing through Tim like the sharpest spear as yet again he was at the mercy of someone with more power. Catching up his hands, holding both in just one of his own, the hot blood was a painful contrast with Jon’s icy skin.

“Hush, I’m sorry, you’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay. I’ve got you, Jon.”

“Nngh…ah!” Tim lifted his hands to his chest, cradled them there in all their scarred roughness and fragility, deadweight and limp.

“Soon now, just stay awake, bud. Stay with me.”

“T’T…” rapid breaths choked him off, left him gasping, fingers spasming in his hold.

Pulled gently away by unfamiliar hands.

Strangers’ voices muffled in his ears.

Jon’s half-lidded dull brown eyes filled with sharp fear.

All so slow Tim wasn’t sure any of it was happening at all until suddenly, a dawning of crystal clarity. Numbers and instructions and bodies, shouting, changing, moving.

Jon begging them to stop, stop--

“Stop hurting him!”

A firm grip pulled him to the side, forced him to look away from the red, red, red rising like a tide in his eyes until he couldn’t see anything else.

“We’re going to help him, but you need to let us.”

“...Y’yeah…”

“Are you coming?”

“Hm?”

“Sir?” Tim took in the sight of Jon’s blood still wet on the tile, the papers and folders in disarray and stained with drops like poppy petals plotting a course of ache and agony he didn’t want to travel.

And then Jon. Strapped down, held in place, fluids being forced into his collapsing veins. Face grey and lined with pain and streaked with red and--

“N’no. No.” The paramedics were already hurrying away. “I’ll. Someone will be there.”

It didn’t deserve to be him.

“Martin.”

“Tim, I swear to god--”

“Martin.”

“--get a hold of yourself for pity’s sake--”

“Martin!”

“What?!” An irritated huff passed over the line. “If this is just--”

“Jon’s in hospital, i’in surgery.” Stony silence run through with the vaguest hum of static fell between them.

“Tim--”

“I. I. I don’t think it was a bread knife.” Tim’s fingers were clenched around his phone so hard he thought it might crack as he kneeled beside the stain Jon left behind. Say nothing of Martin’s implication that this was his fault. That he’d done this to Jon.

But hadn’t he driven him to it?

Hadn’t he driven Jon to keep his pain and terror and sadness and secrets to himself when he turned on him? When he blamed him? When he came to him today, tried to reach for him, to reach for help, and was again denied?

“Tim!”

“M--”

“Where?”

“Wh’happen’...?”

“Jon?” This wasn’t the first time he’d been awake but it was the first time he’d done more than weep with confusion. Perfectly normal, Martin had been assured, between the anesthesia, the medication for pain, the massive internal hemorrhage they’d had to go in and repair, somehow saving his spleen of all things.

“Mmartin?” The effort to speak was dragging him back out to sea with exhaustion, heavy lashes struggling to part under the weight of it and only offering glimpses of glassy brown.

“Shh, go back to sleep.” Gently, Martin brushed back through his curls taking note of the too-cool temperature of his skin and the ink-dark bruises like kohl under his eyes. “It’s alright, I’m right here.”

“I, I…” Somewhere between his protest and a damp sob, Jon dropped off the edge of the precipice and Martin thumbed away the tears lining his cheeks before taking up his hand to resume his attempts at rubbing the warmth back into it.

“You should go home.” Tim was quieter than he’d ever heard him before, still likely cowed from their earlier conversation where the only thing Martin could look at was the copper embedded under his fingernails, smeared across his wrists and gone dark with oxidation. “He’s in good hands.”

“And how would you know that, Tim?” Bitter. Frustrated. Angry. Jon should have been in good hands before. Trusted hands. Hands that may well be spiteful, resentful, but hands that wouldn’t let Jon slip through the cracks regardless.

“I just meant.” Martin wasn’t able to look at him, afraid of what he might say next, afraid that he might physically throw the other man from the room for daring to deny Jon the slightest support.

“Last time I left you with him, he ended up here.”

“That’s--” Voice raised, shouting, and even down deep Jon flinched, arms shifting in an attempt to protect his face. Martin was livid, settling Jon with a few whispered words before turning to confront Tim.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be here.”

“I didn’t…” Tim was small, folding into himself and sharp at his corners, bristling and contrite.

“I’ll text you with an update if there is one.”

“I. I’m sorry, Martin.” But he neither needed nor wanted an apology. He wasn’t the one Tim wronged today.

A week later saw Martin helping Jon up the narrow steps to his flat, concerned by his pallor and the trembling in his limbs and when he finally dropped him onto the lumpy sofa, saw that he was sweating.

“I’ll make some tea.” He’d purchased a few essentials to go along with his prescriptions. It wouldn’t do if he made himself ill on an empty stomach. If he listened closely he could just hear Jon’s panting, making certain to bring water along with the mug and a few chocolate digestives to offset the loss of blood still exacerbating his fatigue.

“M’quite alright, Martin.” He had yet to sit up, still laying back among the cushions, one scarred forearm laid above his nose. “Don’have to coddle me.” Martin didn’t rise to his bait, instead ignoring him in favor of sitting beside where his greater weight tipped Jon gently into his side. He didn’t resist, instead embracing his vulnerability and sinking deeper into the warm wool of his jumper with a sullen hum.

“I’m not “coddling” you, Jon.” Steeped to his preferences, Martin pressed the tea into his hands, lingering to be certain he could hold it on his own before tucking a biscuit between his forefinger and the porcelain and then another when he polished it off, probably not thinking about it.

“Have you heard from Tim?” Barely audible over the rim of his mug, Jon kept his eyes downcast and Martin couldn’t see under his long lashes from the angle he was at. He’d asked a few times, understanding his disappointment was aimed at Tim and not at Jon, at least not this time. They’d discussed the incident and Martin got the sense that he wanted no part in a repeat performance though he’d explained his attempt at asking for help was the last time he was cognizant enough to think in a somewhat straight line. After that it was pain and cold and shadow and Tim crushing him into the floor and he didn’t understand.

“Yeah.” Martin sipped on his own tea, encouraged Jon to do the same, but he was a dog with a bone.

“Is he. Uh. Cross? With. With me?” He looked up, tired eyes wide and round. “I mean, more than, than the usual?”

“Jon.”

“I know! I.” Falling silent, Jon nibbled absentmindedly on the last biscuit and accepted the tablets to swallow with the dregs of his tea. He’d be out like a light soon with that painkiller and Martin tugged him up when he hissed through his teeth at the agony of trying to move and caught him when he listed on his feet. Rather than hovering, Martin decided instead to keep an ear out as he put away the groceries and filled a glass of water for his nightstand, meeting Jon back at the sofa where he held a stack of bedding topped with pillows.

“I know.” He swallowed, “you’re here out of, of obligation? Kindness? But. But I’ll be fine on my own--you don’t have to stay.” Martin shook his head, a sad smile spreading over his lips as he relieved Jon of his bundle, longing to pull him into an embrace and relieve him of the invisible burden he carried alone. Compromising, he settled for cupping a slim shoulder, not missing how he melted under the soft touch.

“I’m here because we’re friends, Jon.” Unexpected tears welled in his eyes, spilling over as his staid expression crumpled. “Oh, oh, Jon, come here. It’s alright.” Spent, Jon let his forehead collide with his chest, crying silently, and Martin abandoned the duvet in favor of folding him up. “It’s alright.”

“S’sorry...just.” But he couldn’t get any more words out and Martin ran a hand up and down his taut back, rubbing circles over the sharp blades of his shoulders.

“You don’t have to be.” In a few moments the energy began to ooze out of Jon’s bones, the meds kicking in full force and taking his strength with it. “Okay, time for bed.” With a bit of cautious manhandling, Martin was able to get him tucked in between the sheets, meeting eyes blinking slow like those of a cat. “Comfy?”

“Mmyeah…” slipping out on an exhale and it brought a grin back to Martin’s face to see him so relaxed and more than a little loopy. “Hey Martin?” Graceless, Jon’s clumsy fingers tangled with his. “Thank you.” Cross eyed with the effort of sincerely conveying his gratitude, he spoke earnestly, if marble-mouthed and Martin felt his own cheeks flush hot in the velvet dark. He allowed himself to tuck stray and greying flyaways behind Jon ear before sweeping a thumb over the bone of his cheek and watching him drift under. Martin slipped away, keeping the door open in case something happened, and made up his own bed, listening to Jon’s soft and sleepy sounds.

“Good night, Jon.”

[eatsleepandsupernatural]

Secret’s Out

Pairings: Dean Winchester x sister!reader, Sam Winchester x sister!reader

Warnings: Self-harm, self-doubt, angst, bit of fluff at the end

Word Count: 1500

Masterlist

   ‘Y/N! Watch out!’ 

   Dean’s voice draws your attention away from the dead werewolf now lying at your feet and you swing around just in time to be thrown back by one that is still very much alive. The attack catches you off guard and you land on the dirty ground of the barn, your head hitting the edge of some broken bricks. You see stars as the werewolf towers over you, claws out, dragging deep gashes into your thighs. Your scream rips through the barn and your eyesight becomes blurry. The last thing you see before losing consciousness is Sam dragging the werewolf off you just before it moves to kill. 

   The first things you notice when you come to in the motel room is that it’s dark and you’re completely alone. Your head aches worse than every hangover you’ve ever experienced and your thighs are burning with a vengeance. You recall the wolf hunt and how quickly things went wrong. You and your brothers went in thinking there were only two, you were hugely mistaken and very outnumbered, there were three more werewolves than you had expected. The three of you had gone in, following normal formation; one around back, two through the front door, and then it all went to hell. Sam and Dean took two wolves each, while you took on the fifth, but nothing ever goes to plan.  

   You groan remembering your mistake and move to sit up causing your head to spin. You glance around the room for any trace of the boys, surprised that they would leave you alone in such a state, but you can’t make out any note or trace of them in the darkness of the room. You prepare yourself to stand up but a movement outside the window makes you freeze. You lock your eyes on the shadow and two familiar figures come into focus, all the tension leaving your body. You lay back down keeping your eyes on your brothers, frowning when you realise that they were arguing. The tension bubbling up, you throw the blankets off your legs and sit up again, determined to resolve whatever they were fighting about. 

   You glance down at your bare legs and gape at the sight of them. Your upper thighs were covered in blood-soaked bandages, the only skin visible scarred by your own hand. The realisation hits you like a truck, and you momentarily forget how to breathe. Your eyes are glued to the red and silver lines that mark your skin and your heart has dropped to your stomach. You have been finding different things to use ever since they found you with your mother dead in your arms, most recently you have been using one of Dean’s razor blades. The pain distracts you from the harshness of hunting and you have come to rely on it. You love your brothers, but they aren’t the easiest people to talk to, and you already know that Dean is probably madder than when you ate his pie. 

   With your back to the front of the motel, you hadn’t realised the boys had made their way to the door and the sound of it opening brought out an uncharacteristic yelp. 

   ‘Woah, Woah! No Y/N, you shouldn’t be up.’ Sam remarks gently, coming around beside you and gently easing you back under the covers. Dean watches from behind him, leaning over to turn on the lamp furthest away from you. You blink against the light, taking a moment to adjust, 

   ‘Concussion?’ You ask meekly, not meeting either one of your brother’s eyes.

   ‘Yea, pretty bad we think. Sam wanted to take you to the hospital. Almost did.’ Dean let the sentence hang in the air and your stomach curls in knots. You know what he’s hinting at and shame rises up in your chest. 

   Sam sits down next to you making you feel caged, Dean still towering over you. ‘Look, no-ones angry at you.’

   ‘Speak for yourself.’ Dean grumbles.

   Sam shoots him a look before turning back to you, ‘Dean and I understand that life hasn’t been easy for you. I mean, we picked you up at 14 and your life was turned upside down, to find out you had two adult brothers and that your dad was dead. No ones blaming you for having trouble with your feelings. You are the bravest young women I’ve ever met.’ Sam pauses to rub his chin. Something you know he does when he is stressed. 

   Dean notices and jumps in for the save, ‘We figured that going to the hospital would overcomplicate things. We will take you if you start getting worse but for now, we stay here and you’re on bed rest. We’ll go home when you’re better.’ He meets your eyes with a stern ferocity you hadn’t seen since you tried to sneak out of the bunker for a party. ‘I’m going to ask you this once, and you need to answer me honestly. Because if I find out that you didn’t, I will remove your bedroom door. Where is it?’ You cringe at the thought of Dean going through your bag and start to sit up but Sam’s hand is on your shoulder immediately. 

   You lay back with a groan, ‘Can you at least bring my bag here?’  

   ‘I’m just going to go through it after anyway, so you may as well just tell me where it is.’ 

   You glare at your older brother with as much anger as you can conjure up. ‘You are completely violating my privacy.’ 

   ‘You earn your privacy when you stop hurting the most precious thing in the world. Do you understand me? Now, where is it?’ Dean’s words shock you and you sit frozen gawking at him. ‘There’s, a um. There’s a small rip in the side of my bag, it’s in there.’ Dean nods happy with your answer and picks up your bag. You watch as he goes through it on the second bed, pulling out one of his flannels in surprise. 

   ‘I’ve been looking for this.’ He moves away from your bag briefly to pass the flannel to you and you smile gratefully, pulling it on over the t-shirt you had been left in. Dean grunts in surprise and you turn to see the razor in his hand. ‘This is mine too, thought I lost it.’ 

   ‘Sorry.’ 

   Dean hummed in response, pocketing the blade and turning to meet Sam’s gaze, eyebrows raised. 

   You watch as Sam and Dean have a silent conversation about you. Normally this sort of behaviour would bother you, but your head is pounding and after Dean’s slip up you are feeling a tad overwhelmed. You have always been closer with Dean considering Sam was Soulless when you first met him and then he sort of pushed you aside for Amelia, she was nice but you missed Dean. It took a little more time, some heart to hearts and a common goal for the two of you to bond, you were both determined to save Dean from the Mark of Cain no matter the cost and Sam begrudgingly let you help, believing you were old enough at 18 to handle it. Now, five years later, the three of you are thick as thieves and the guilt comes rushing back for betraying their trust. 

‘Y/N, do you need a rest or are you okay to keep talking?’ Sam asks, turning his attention on you. 

   You look up from the blanket and see that both of them are watching you, concern evident on their faces. ‘Nah, I’m okay. My head hurts but I’m not dizzy or anything.’ 

   ‘Alright,’ Sam nods and clears his throat, throwing one more glance at Dean before speaking again. ‘Things are going to have to change because neither of us could stand to lose you. Every morning we all say how we are out of ten. We don’t have to talk about why, but we all need to be aware that not everyone’s okay.’ 

   You nod, understanding what he is asking you. You could manage that. 

   ‘I’m the bathroom police.’ Your eyes widen and Sam sighs in what seems almost like defeat. ‘You get ten minutes.’ You roll your eyes but don’t argue, you know Dean well enough that he’ll drop it five if you do. 

   ‘Okay, now that the new rules are in place, it’s time to sleep. Scoot over midget.’ Sam stood up from the bed beside you and Dean got in beside you once his three extra layers of clothing had been removed. 

   Although you never intended for your brothers to find out, you felt a little less anxious than usual when Sam turned the lamp off. With nothing to hide and the support of your older brothers, you fell asleep with a small smile on your face, despite the pain from your injuries.  

Tags: @akshi8278​

[alpineglowx]

I'll Do The Same {Din Djarin x OC} Chapter Eight: Illuminance

pairing: din djarin x female oc

warnings: none

* * * *

“What Clan is she from?”

“Kryze.”

“... Kryze.” Thell thumbed at her lip from her spot in the cockpit. “Clan Kryze. Duchess Satine was one of their leaders, right? The previous Duchess of Mandalore during the Clone Wars.”

The Mandalorian was still as always in his seat, his gaze focused on coming in to land on the ocean planet. Thell could only see so much past the steam and mist that perpetuated the surrounding area.

“Sure,” was his only response.

Thell cocked a brow, opening her mouth to say something else, but decided against it. Her mother had told her stories of the Mandalorian clans, and her former master had been obsessed with their culture. She wondered briefly if she knew more than the Mandalorian sitting only a few feet from her, if he only knew so much about his ery Clan.

But what had he been before Clan Mudhorn? Had he been part of another clan? And the obsession with his Creed, his strict rules regarding secrecy and removing his armor. They all boggled Thell’s mind. Maybe she could ask him after they left this planet.

It bothered her that he had barely said a word, like he usually did, while they had been flying from Tattooine. Why would he go out of his way to figure out this thing with her?

They landed a few moments later, and Thell pushed herself up from the seat, still feeling that stinging pain in her lower back. But the medicine she had taken early on was taking effect, and she desperately wanted to talk to the people they were meeting. She went to grab the child, to hold him like she usually would when they went off ship. But Mando beat her to it, carefully placing the child in a satchel he wore against his hips. Thell watched him with a cautious eye before asking, “Did I say something?”

The Mandalorian made his way to the ladder as he responded softly, “No.”

“Oh.” Thell bit at her lip, standing awkwardly in the cockpit.

Sensing her silence, Mando turned, and Thell could see Grogu’s eyes peeking at her from the bag.

“What’s wrong?”

Thell cleared her throat, readjusting her cloak. “Oh, I just usually held him. I still can, if you want.”

He stepped closer to her, and for a split second, fear overwhelmed her. But he was gentle as he grasped her shoulder, tilting his helmet down.

“The last time I came to this planet, the kid and I were nearly killed twice. If the wrong people see my face, or his, they would try to shoot us on sight.”

The grip on her shoulder was still loose, and Thell felt goosebumps along her arms.

“So... what you’re saying is... you don’t want me to get shot because of the kid.”

He shrugged, just tilting his helmet the tiniest bit. “You could say that.”

Thell rolled her eyes, giving him a playful smirk. “I didn’t know you cared so much.”

He had turned the other way, stepping just one foot down on the ladder.

“Where would I be without my babysitter?”

The comment had meant to be a joke, but Thell could only feel a hesitant blush creeping into her skin.

With her blaster tucked into the back of her waistband, and an old piece of Mando’s armor strapped chaotically to her chest, she made her way into the village with Mando and the kid.

It was a fishing village through and through; Mon Calamari and Quarren seemed to be the main residents beside the occasional human. They had seemed to land right in the middle of some sort of black market port; vendors lined the sides of the walkways, offering various trades and goods as Thell walked with Mando. Every part of the dock seemed to be drenched, even when multiple fishing boats and ships came in, spraying them with sea water.

They entered a shabby restaurant, lined to the brim with Trask’s natives, slurping away on seafood or bowls of chowder strung in pipes across the ceiling. With the crowd, and the added dim atmosphere of the place, Thell couldn’t help the trepidation that surged through her veins. Out of pure instinct, she kept her right hand concealed under her cloak, ready to draw her weapon if needed.

Thell nearly jumped when she felt his hand on her back, drawing her closer to his side.

“Stay close to me,” he said softly. “It doesn’t look like they’re here yet.”

They sat at a table far from the center, far from wandering eyes. The kid was holding a spoon, sloppily digging into a bowl of chowder. After a minute of struggle, Thell rolled her eyes and scooped into the soup, offering it to Grogu. He made a small humming noise, looking at her with a slightly amazed expression, to which she only shrugged and smiled back at him as he chewed contently on the food.

“Here they come,” she heard Mando say quietly, and watched him as he rose to greet them. Three warriors dressed in blue and white Mandalorian armor approached him before slowly removing their helmets.

“Mando,” a woman with red hair and bright green eyes said with a kind smile. “Good to see you again.”

The Mandalorian only dipped his head in greeting before acknowledging her two other companions.

“Are you taking my earlier offer?”

Thell’s ears pricked. What offer had she made him?

“No. I’ve come for something else.” His gaze drifted to Thell, and she stared back at him dumbfounded, and sat in silence for an awkward moment as they gathered around the table.

“Thell,” she said, extending a hand.

“Bo-Katan. Good to meet you. These are my colleagues, Koska Reeves and Axe Woves. How can we help?”

After greeting the other two, Thell fished her necklace out from under her cloak.

“This was my father’s. I never met him... My mother never spoke about him. But Mando, he knew the symbol, the symbol for Clan Eldar.” At the name, she watched Bo’s eyes light up, and hope stirred in her chest.

“There was someone on Tatooine that recognized my last name, Sai’Lya. He said that you could help me find out about my father.”

Bo raised her hand, motioning to Thell to pass the necklace. When she did, she inspected it carefully, rolling it between her fingers and allowing her colleagues to examine it as well.

“Is your mother Mandalorian?” she asked, her green eyes flickering back to Thell. “What’s her name?”

She shook her head. “She wasn’t... but her name was Seba.”

It seemed as though a shock wave passed through Bo, because she suddenly went rigid, blinking fast and passing looks between her colleagues. Thell felt the breath catch in her throat.

“What?” She asked, almost desperate. “What is it?”

“Eight years ago, I gathered together the Clans that were willing to become part of the Mandalorian resistance against the Empire. One of those Clans was Eldar. They were smaller than most, but fierce, and I remember their symbol.” She lifted the necklace, letting the metal gleam in the restaurant's soft light.

“There was a great warrior among them, I remember him well. His name was Theldar Avan. We worked closely together during the rebellion. At the time, he had no family with him, but he talked greatly of the woman he loved... A woman called Seba.”

Chills raced up her arms. “My mother.”

“Yes,” Bo affirmed, with a somewhat sad smile. “But from what I gathered, he had ruined things between them long ago, and she didn’t want to see him. But he often talked of his child, the one with big, sparkling brown eyes and wild copper hair. He always said she was the reason he kept on fighting.”

Her whole body was trembling now. “Is he... is he still alive?”

“No, unfortunately,” Bo said, and Thell’s heart sank. “At the height of the Rebellion, he sacrificed himself to rescue war prisoners on an Empire base. I... I don’t believe there was any way he could have survived the explosion.”

Suddenly her hand was reaching forward, clutching Thell’s closed fist.

“Your dad... he was a war hero, Thell. He died fighting for the light, for a galaxy where you would be safe.”

Thell couldn’t stop the tears that were escaping. She had never even known him, nothing but the necklace, and all the information was overwhelming and beautiful all at once. Here was someone who knew her father, who fought alongside him, and she was speaking of him with such honor and credit. So many of her burning questions had been answered, and even though he had been dead for a quarter of her life, she felt like she actually knew him now.

And it suddenly felt like all eyes were on her. And they were. All five of them, even little Grogu, were staring at her.

“Excuse me for a second,” she said before sweeping out from the table, gathering her cloak over her shoulders and heading straight for the entryway. To her relief, she couldn’t hear anyone get up and follow her, so she dashed down the first empty alleyway she saw. There was a tower of empty crates to her left, and a spot where she could sit and cry where no one could find her.

Growing up, she had become good at this. There was only so much space on the Razor Crest, only so many private areas, so she felt as if she was letting out two months worth of emotion as she curled up on the cold pavement, surrounded by distant sprays of water and the smells of ocean life.

Theldar Avan.

She had been named after him. He had known who she was. He had loved her.

Thell cried, head tucked between her knees, until her eyes felt raw from rubbing at them. It was only when she sensed a presence coming towards her, and loud stomping, that her senses came back to her.

Whipping out the blaster from under her cloak, Thell pointed it directly at the stranger, standing several feet above her.

“Careful there.”

When Thell raised her head, the Mandalorian was standing above her, the Beskar steel glinting like diamonds in the dim sunlight. He looked like he had the night they had met, the night he had stumbled in on her holding Grogu in that living room. Except now, she knew him, knew what color his hair was, knew how both protective and kind he could be. He was no longer a feared bounty hunter in her eyes, but something, someone, greater. In fact, it calmed her immensely to see him of all people.

His baritone voice nearly calmed her, and also made her realize how much of a mess she must have looked like. Thell wiped at her eyes again, but she knew he had seen her cry before, so she stood anyway. Pain nipped at her lower back, and Mando seemed to notice, because he bent down to help her before she collapsed.

“S... Sorry. I thought you were someone else.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time you’d shot at me,” he said, sounding sarcastic through the mask. He stepped back just a bit to allow her more space. Even in all her emotions, Thell threw him an amused sideways glance and smirked.

“You okay?”

Had she not just been sobbing, Thell might have beamed ear to ear.

“I... I just got a little overwhelmed, that’s all,” she explained. “I didn’t know anything about my father before today. I had no idea he was involved in all of this.”

“Your father sounded like a brave man.”

Thell wiped away a stray tear on her face. “Yeah. He was.”

“I would have been honored to fight alongside him,” he said suddenly, and that’s when Thell beamed. “I don’t like the Empire any more than they did.”

“Mando...” Thell began softly. “Thank you. And thank you for bringing me here. I feel more... complete.”

He straightened at her words, but quickly looked to the side, keeping his hands loose around his waist.

“We should get back.” Thell went to nod, just lightly, before he looked down at her again. Suddenly his hand was raised to her head, gently tucking away a wisp of wild hair that had flown in her face. The same thing her mother did so many times over. She briefly wondered if her father had done it too.

But Mando doing it, such a simple action, made Thell’s heart swell with thankfulness. In a galaxy where most everyone she knew was dead, she was glad to have at least one friend. Even if it was this gruff, quiet man behind a mask that was slowly starting to make her feel less alone.

“If you’re ready,” he said, lowering his hand.

Taking a deep breath, Thell looked towards the sun, the direction of the restaurant.

“Yeah. I’m ready.”

. . . .

“I do have some good news for you,” Bo said softly, leaning forward. “... Your father’s armor survived.”

“What?” Thell felt her heart pound in her sternum again, threatening to break free.

“He was on a stealth mission when he died, so he left his Mandalorian armor at our base.”

Thell let out a shaky breath. “Do... Do you have it?”

“I don’t. But your father had many friends in the Resistance. He had one good friend, his best one in fact. His name’s Bolie. If there's anyone who has your dad’s armor, it’s him. Last I heard, he was camping out somewhere pretty discrete.”

“Where?” Thell asked eagerly, almost jumping out of her skin. The man next to her snickered lightly.

“West region of Pasaana.”

“Pasanna?” Mando interjected, nearly scaring Thell and Grogu both and leaning forward. “That’s all the way in the Expansion Region. Do you have any idea how much fuel it takes to get there?”

Bo shrugged lightly. “I didn’t tell you you had to go there. Besides, what else have you been doing these past two months? Flying across the galaxy, I suppose?”

Her colleague leaned forward. “I would think a man of your reputation would have more than enough credits to get by, Mando.”

“Oh, shut it,” the other girl said, playfully elbowing him in the arm. Bo seemed to roll her eyes at the scene.

“We should be on our way,” the Mandalorian spoke, beginning to stand. He strung the satchel with the kid back around his shoulders, going to the main table to pay for their food as the others stood.

Thell felt a soft grip on her arm, stopping her from turning the other way. Bo was looking back at her with serious eyes.

“How long have you been with him?” She asked. Innocent question enough.

“Two months... But it feels like a lifetime.”

Her lip curled at one side. “I’m sure, after all you’ve been through. You know about him, don’t you?”

“Uh... Not too much. The guy barely speaks to me about his personal life... But, what do you mean?”

“You know he is a part of the Children of the Watch.” When Thell only looked at her blankly, she continued, tilting her head down so she could hear her better.

“The Watch broke off from Mandalore... They are a group of religious zealots that follow the Way of Mandalore, ancient Mandalore. That time has been long gone from us, from the other Clans. They have stuck to the ways of the past, and unlike us, do not believe in showing their faces. Secrecy is their faith, their bout at survival.”

Thell blinked, sending a quick sideways glance at Mando before returning her attention to Bo.

“What’s so bad about it?”

“I’m sure you’ve heard him speak of the Way, haven’t you?” Thell nodded. “Then you can see how important it is to him. It is the most important thing to the Watch. I respect him as a warrior, but I do not agree with his following. The Watch is more of a cult than anything, Thell, and he has allowed it to determine every decision he makes. It is a dangerous thing for him to be involved with... and to have been raised in.”

Bo hung her head, readjusting her hands on her waist. “The first time we met, I thought he would blast me through when I removed my helmet. He even told us we were not Mandalorians. His ways are twisted, Thell.”

“... But the kid. He cares about him. Wouldn’t you say that’s... unlike what the Watch teaches?”

“I suppose. Honor to family is about as Mandalorian as you can get, if you call them a family.”

Thell let her eyes wander back to Mando and Grogu, who sat at the opposite end of the restaurant.

“I would... How’d you guys connect, anyway?”

“He was told to look for more of his kind for what to do with the kid. I told him to bring the kid to Ahsoka Tano, one of the last Jedi. She would know what to do. Has he told you anything about that?”

Thell shrugged. “In passing... I guess. He mentioned that some woman told him that the kid has to choose his own path. She couldn’t train him.”

“Strange,” Bo said, her eyes drifting. “Do you know of his plans for the child?”

Thell sighed. “Not really. It feels like we’ve been going in circles trying to run from everyone that’s after us.”

“Well... whatever happens, I hope you three stay safe. He may be part of the Watch, but he’s no less honorable, and brave. He deserves a good life with that kid.”

Once they were aboard the ship, Thell kept Grogu close to her, cuddling him to her chest as she sat in her own seat. The kid had fallen asleep on their walk back to the ship, snoring softly. As not to wake him, Thell deigned to just keep him in the seat with her.

The Mandalorian was in his own pilot’s seat, gloved fingers flickering over controls and switches. His movements were normal to Thell now, after two months. They were in the air and flying through the clouds, Trask disappearing behind them like a lost memory. Mando set the coordinates for Pasaana, and leaned back in his seat, watching the blue and white streaks of hyperspace fly by. It was only when they were in space that Thell finally spoke.

“Mando?”

He cocked his head over the seat for just a moment to let her know he had heard her.

“Why are you doing this?” Thell asked, leaning forward. “All this stuff... with my family.”

He was silent for a long moment, his gaze fixed on the cockpit window. It had become so quiet in the ship that Thell could hear Grogu snoring beneath her cloak.

Finally, the Mandalorian spoke, and Thell could swear he had removed the mask, because he sounded more human than he ever had, his voice ricnnh and full of emotion.

“I wasn’t able to save my parents, and neither were you. But you deserve to know who they were.”

[foxofthedesert]

A brief RedQueen take on Hades/Persephone

For @loudestdork in response to this incredible post.  It’s your fault I’m still up at 6 am.  

Also, I haven’t even proofread this, so please blame any errors or general crappiness in quality on either mental fatigue or sleepless mania.  :)  

Slowly Regina rises from her chilly onyx throne.  The flickering embers stirring back to life within her breast had compelled her to rise, and as they burst once more into flame, the line of silver candelabras begin to glow with an intensity that hurts her eyes. Darkness recedes as light suffuses the chamber, bathing her in warmth that steals her breath away.

Equal measures of excitement and dread war within soul, for within the hour she will leave this place for the surface.  

Eyes slipping shut, she conjures up an image to quell her fears – it is one she often draws upon whenever the tenacious, insidious claws of despair dig into her psyche during the interminable, desolate months of spring and summer.  Rich chestnut hair cascades in waves and curls over shapely shoulders and down a finely arched back.  Pale skin lacking scar or blemish, smooth to the touch like the silk produced by Minerva's loom and sweet as honey to the taste, bared to her greedy hands and eyes.  Sea green irises merry with youth and vitality and unbridled curiosity that will burn a brilliant amber when angered or aroused and fade into sickly blue while in the throes of anguish.  A frame to rival Diana; a visage more comely than Venus; and a smile and laugh even brighter than those of Apollo and Laetitia that alone is capable of banishing the perpetual gloom that drapes the realm of the dead in a curtain of despair; all belonging to the only person in all of existence that truly matters to Regina anymore.  

Soon, so very soon, a voice more beautiful than any of the nine Muses will caress her longing ears.  She recalls in vivid detail how it sounded upon the first such reunion.

“Oh!  How dreary you have allowed our home to become in my absence,” Ruby (for that is the chosen name of Regina’s beloved) had trilled, an effective chastisement delivered in tones so affectionate and gentle that even the Goddess of the Dead cannot summon a word to speak in her own defense.  “I shall spend a week at the very least removing cobwebs and dust, no to mention relocating all of the industrious little creatures that have taken up residence in the shadows. Really, love, why must you continually refuse to utilize the resources at your disposal?  Sydney is a splendid caretaker, if not an incorrigible gossip, and Maleficent a wise and capable counselor.  How many times must I come back home to an unfit abode before you take my suggestions to heart?  Honestly, your continued stubbornness on this issue is most disappointing!”

“Bah!  Due caution would appear as stubbornness to your disgustingly naive notion that redemption is possible for those whose misdeeds are as numerous and grievous as mine,” Regina had replied, nose curling in rebellious distaste at any suggestion she be so lazy – or efficient depending upon perspectives not her own clearly superior one – delegate the tasks laid upon her by laws more ancient than her fellow deities or the beastly titans who birthed them.  

Oh how Ruby had bristled at that well-aimed dart. “Your sarcasm is not appreciated.  Nor is your conclusion.  I do not believe it is naive to hope for those who have made mistakes so long as they are capable of remorse.  I would not be here otherwise.”

“Perhaps that is your great error.  You have blinded yourself with optimism to the truth that I am indeed beyond hope and have doomed yourself to an eternity of sorrow by consequence.”

Regina knows how best to hurt with her words.  The skill is, according to her peers, the one most responsible for her being an outcast.  Her sister had offered an olive branch after their cataclysmic war, but she had refused it in a caustic speech that is recited in worshipful devotion by her Terran acolytes to this day.  

Words are a weapon to be used with precision, their mother had taught them as youths just blooming into their cosmic powers, for they are every bit as devastating as fire or lightning.

When she was banished from Olympos and cast into Dīs upon a searing bolt a lightning, Regina was robbed of her fire.  But they could not take her words, and she has used them ever since in both condemnation and reward to pass judgment upon those who arrive upon her shores.  That Ruby is too commonly a target for her verbal pila is a stain upon her conscience that irritates her far more than it should considering who she is and what she has done.  

Life would be much simpler the six months per annum they are together if she could learn to hold her barbed tongue in check, but Regina has never been one for simple.  And so they are often at odds over the banal.  They will quarrel over contentious adjudications. They will spend hours in mutually stubborn silence while offended or emotionally injured. They will disagree on meals, spar over Olympian philosophy and art and politics, and speak to one another in outbursts of raw angry passion wielding razor sharp phrases which leave wounds so deep as to be nearly visible.  

But there is also love between them.  Immeasurable love.  Love that time and distance cannot erase when they are forced apart for half the year.  Love that is blind to faults and annoyances, that weathers storms of rage and frustration and misunderstanding, and that forgives trespasses and inspires self-improvement however glacially incremental.  A love that twines their immortal essences together so tightly that they share a dreamscape while sleeping, and that they have no use for repose is of no consequence when the aching of loneliness or separation becomes unbearable. 

It is that boundless, magical, incomprehensible love which revived Regina’s moribund heart and made her start to care again.  For that reason she is grateful beyond description on most days and on her worst regretful she ever laid eyes upon the gorgeous creature who single-handedly turned her entire world upside down.

“If I am blind to love you, then may I never see again,” Ruby had said, those enchanting eyes glimmering so brightly in the faint light that the individual strands of her irises were visible. “And if this is to be my doom as you say, then I accept it with open arms, for it shall be one of bountiful joy. The only sorrow for me will come when we are again forced to part.  I spent the past six months yearning for you just as I shall the next six when our bell proclaims the arrival of spring.”

“Well, if not blind then you are certainly foolish,” Regina said, throat choked with so much feeling that she felt as though she might suffocate.

Ruby had merely smiled in that way only she could, playful and loving and sincere all at once.  “I am guilty as charged of being a fool, my Queen.  Your fool.”

Unable to help herself, Regina felt her lips curl up at the edges.  “Well, we cannot all be perfect.  Not even the celebrated daughter of Ceres Eugenia, it appears.” So as to change the reverse of their conversation back toward less emotionally distressful directions, she had cleared her throat and then returned to the original topic. “As for your so-called suggestion: it is, quite frankly, absurd. One of the two miserable wretches you mentioned earlier is a driveling sycophant while the other is a maudlin dragoness whose fits of fire-breathing mania lead me question my decision to retain her.  No doubt they both would abuse such positions to undermine my authority.  Prudence would dictate that I should cast them both into Tartarus and be done with their annoyances!”  

Ruby’s gasp of affront was so dramatic that it echoed through the cavernous chamber and caused the nearest candle flames to flicker.  

“Morta Plutonia Regina!  One of these days I will finally teach you how to be nice to those in your charge, especially those who would call you their friend.”

Regina winced as she always does at her given name and returned the favor in kind with as much snark as she possibly could.

“I need no friends, Proserpina Libera,” she said.  “I have the dead to keep me company.”

The story of their first meeting, and incidentally how Proserpina Libera became Ruby, then begins to play through Regina’s mind.  Before long, she becomes so lost in the memory that time ceases to have any meaning whatsoever.

Her musings last until a ghostly bell rings in the distance.  She emerges from wistful recollection to mournful chiming accompanied by plaintive voices singing an announcement that summer has ended and autumn has begun.  

Once, there was no bell to quarterly drone and chant in languid harmony with the turning of seasons.  Once, she was painfully alone amongst a swelling sea of souls thrust cruelly into her charge.  Once, she was content to nurse her hatred of her elder sibling and ruler of Olympos whose envious betrayal resulted in Regina’s current circumstance, and she had bent that hatred and bitterness toward piling ever-more layers of jagged ice upon the impenetrable fortress that was her irreparably damaged heart.  Once, there had been no evidence of life at all in this place that she called home save the frost of her breath and tortured moaning of the damned that plagued her every waking hour. Once, she had believed herself incapable of love and took great comfort in that belief.

But that was before her beloved rosa rubra strolled through the forest she was traversing in secret, and left upon every inch of earth those bare feet trod over a carpet of lush red roses.

The surface back then felt much further away, too far for Regina’s overtaxed attention to be concerned with happenings above yet too near to ever escape hope of being freed from her endless confinement.  The only reason she kept up with current events was to better evaluate the lives of those she was constrained by unbreakable law to judge.  One day she learned of a scandal detailing how her sister had become impregnated by a mortal man through spurious means and birthed a daughter who was a gifted huntress that won the heart of a princess. Knowing that her unforgivably wicked sibling Zelena would be unable to resist interfering, she arranged a brief excursion to terra firma. It had taken countless hours of planning and work, but she had managed to slip through an isolated section of the great Gates of Dīs while Cerberus was distracted (the brutish if not mildly adorable mongrel had still been hopelessly under the thrall of her sister, an enchantment that Ruby was blessedly able to break) and emerge in the land of the living for the first time in millennia.

At first Regina had been unable to do much more than marvel at the scenery.  For thousands of years she had been trapped in a world of darkness that smelled and sounded and felt like death.  But the world above was teeming with life, even the air smelled as though it were animate, and the overload of so much sensory input had nearly paralyzed her. Once she recovered, she began picking her way through the forest by foot as using her powers to travel would have alerted the Olympians that she was no longer present at her station.

About halfway through the journey, she was stopped cold by the sound of singing. That angelic verse was carried upon the wings of a gentle breeze straight through the mountainous walls of ice surrounding her heart. In moments so swift she was helpless to react, she physically felt her defenses shatter and her resolve to remain aloof from all emotion crumble.  A single verse of that song had accomplished what the assembled armies of Olympos could not upon the bloody plains of Thessaly, a verse that she would eventually decree be recited each year by siren spirits upon the autumnal equinox.  She was so mesmerized by the soft melodic quality of the singer’s voice that she would not know the rest of the song until Ruby performed it much later.

Recklessly, like a starving lion desperately trailing its only hope for survival, Regina followed the song to the edge of a tiny clearing.  And then Regina saw her.  In the midst, haloed by Apollo’s rays, she danced and sang as birds joined in with the melody and branches swayed hypnotically to the rhythm.  Clad in a flowing crimson-trimmed dress, draped by a lavish red cloak, crowned by a wreath of fresh flowers with roses crawling up her bare arms; her expression open in untold wonderment, cheeks ruddy with the exhilaration of living; she was – and still is – the very epitome of beauty, and grace, and charm, and hope, and joy.  Save for the wedding night, no sight before or since has ever rivaled that first glimpse of embodied perfection.

A deafening rumble shakes the cavernous hall as the earth above lazily yawns as if arising from a seasonal slumber, snatching Regina’s focus away from that first fateful meeting.  From above, rubble rains down as mote and stone, and the prevailing sunlight filtering through the haze casts a diluted shadow across the hall.

She turns her eyes up, squinting to mitigate the intense pain of photo-sensitivity, and watches impassively as the detritus begins to mold itself into a great spiral staircase.  One by one the steps arrange themselves, each uniform in shape and perfectly spaced out as she had commanded centuries ago via laborious incantation, until they have spanned from polished obsidian floors to vaulted granite ceiling.  

With measured steps she ascends the newly formed stairway, her raven-down cloak billowing behind her.  She holds her head high, proud and regale, as she ascends.  Eager anticipation has caused her heart to thunder and her limbs to buzz with energy, but she is still a Queen.  Always a Queen.

The afternoon sun hangs low on the horizon, her cousin having turned his attentions elsewhere in the world, and the air is crisp and clean.  Death has yet to arrive in earnest, the foliage of the forest remains mostly verdant, but Regina can feel it approaching from every angle, a stooping, skulking specter whose insatiable hunger is gnawing to the point of agony.  For a split second she falters, inundated by the cloying scent of nascent decay which beckons her to turn heel and descend into the realm where such monsters as herself belong.

And then she hears it, the introductory lines of a new song written solely for her:

My love, my love, to thee I call;

My love, the fairest of them all

With raven’s hair and silken skin.

I come at last to thee again!

As if an insect brushed away from one’s collar, death recedes into the back of her consciousness so that life can inhabit the space it has abandoned.  Life that reverently whispers her name into the crook of her neck and the flesh of her shoulder, that holds her hand and brushes away the tears that began to fall again after infusing her with vitality she had never before experienced, and that loves her beyond any logical explanation and refuses to ever give up on her. Life that has a name, Ruby, and is currently waiting for her in meadow they both hold so dear.

Squaring her shoulders, Regina strides forward with renewed strength.  She has a reunion to attend that she has been awaiting for six very long months.  Until Ruby points it out, she will not even realize she is smiling.  

[victimeyez]

An Exercise in Trust

A short fanfic of Somewhere In the Woods by @knivestothroats , I just recently discovered the series and immediately became obsessed. Will definitely be playing with these two more in the future. 

Here’s the link to the original work!

https://knivestothroats.tumblr.com/post/620647367171096576/in-the-woods-somewhere-masterlist

______________________________________________________________

“Do you have a pair of scissors I can use?”

Fletcher looked up from their book with a raised eyebrow. Buck felt small under their gaze, transported for a moment back to being a child asking for permission to go out and play.

“Why, so you can stab me to death?”

“What? No, I want to cut my hair.”

“Oh. Well let me do it, so you don’t fuck it up.”

Buck bit his lip, shifting on his feet. 

“Uh...I can do it, I just need to borrow some scissors.”

Fletcher looked unimpressed and met him with a level stare.

“No, I can’t trust you with scissors, you tried to shoot me, remember?”

Buck grimaced, rubbing his wrists instinctively against the memory of hanging from them for countless hours. 

“You could...supervise?...” Buck suggested lamely, but Fletcher held fast.

“No scissors, and no fucking up your hair. Kitchen, now.”

~

Buck hovered by the small kitchen table as Fletcher unlocked one of the secure drawers they had installed sometime after Buck moved in.

When they turned around, holding up long silver scissors and snipping the air with a devious smile, Buck’s stomach gave a little lurch - but Fletcher’s hands found his shoulders and firmly pressed him down into a chair.

“You can relax, you know I’m good with sharp things.”

Buck chuckled weakly, but Fletcher seemed genuinely in good humor. Their hands carded through his hair with surprising tenderness, catching a few snarls and combing them out with their fingers. He could feel nails in his scalp, but instead of hurting him, they teased along the crown of his head pleasantly. 

“So, what’ll it be - the usual?”

“Could you cut it short?”

Fletcher hummed behind him.

“How short?”

“Uh…,” Buck reached up, taking a handful of it and tugging lightly, straightening out the hair to a few inches from the scalp.

“...this short?”

Fletcher’s fingers caught his, pinching the hair where Buck wanted it cut.

“Why the drastic change?”

“Just...for comfort, you know.” 

Fletcher hummed again, placing a hand back on his shoulder.

“That’s a shame. I like the long look on you.”

Buck swallowed, surprised by the compliment. Sort of...compliment.

“And besides…” Buck could hear Fletcher lean in, until their lips were right beside his ear.

“If I can’t take you by the hair, I’ll just have to take you by the throat.”

Buck shivered at the idea, instinctively ducking his head as if to protect his neck, and Fletcher laughed.

“Maybe just - maybe a few inches off the ends, then.”

Fingers carded through his hair again, pulling the strands back away from his face, and he felt a section lifted.

Snip.

The soft snipping of the scissors fell into a fairly even pattern, and Buck closed his eyes. He used to like getting his hair cut, even if it was just to trim the dead ends. Back before, in his old life, when he could make his own decisions without having to beg. There was something very intimate but soothing about having your hair touched and toyed with and trimmed. 

It felt strange to have that done by the same person whose hands had inflicted so much pain. 

A sudden, forceful snip beside his ear startled him out of his reverie, and a hand cupped the other side of his head, holding him still.

“Does it make you nervous?”

A finger hooks the hair beside his face, tugging it a little harsher than necessary before tucking it behind his ear. Then something cold presses to the upper shell of his ear and pinches, a pinpoint of pain, and holds him there.

“If I cut off your ears, do you think you would listen better, or worse?”

Buck’s mouth goes dry, and he swallows with a strained click before his tongue nervously darts out to wet his lips. The scissors closed slightly more, and he couldn’t tell if it was cutting into his skin yet or not, but he couldn’t help the whimper that came unbidden at the pain.

“P-please, please don’t, I - I’m trying to-”

A low chuckle cuts him off. 

The pressure eases and his hair is tugged free from behind his ear. The sharp sound of each snip doesn’t sound so relaxing anymore. Buck doesn’t close his eyes again, but instead focuses them on tracing the grain in the finished wooden walls of the lodge.

“You could use a shave.” Fletcher murmured, seemingly to themselves.

Buck reached up, touching his face self-consciously. He could feel some shadow growing out, but hardly enough to bother removing before at least tomorrow morning.

“Wait here. Don’t move.” 

Fletcher’s presence behind him vanished, and he watched their long shadow depart across the floor. 

When they returned, they were holding a towel, a can of shaving cream, and a small black case, and they set it on the table beside Buck. With quick hands they unzipped the case and flipped it open, revealing an old fashioned personal grooming kit. Buck’s eyes were immediately drawn to the shine off of a folded metal knife.

“Head back.”

Fletcher’s hand covered his mouth, pulling his head back by it to expose his throat to them. Buck shivered at the cold drizzle of the shaving cream over his trachea, smoothed and spread a moment later with a soft, bristled brush. 

Fletcher seemed intent on focusing on his throat first, and they dropped the brush to the side, the newly freed hand reemerging into Buck’s sight brandishing a gleaming silver straight razor.

Buck immediately moaned in fear at the sight, his body tensing up and hands instinctively reaching for Fletcher’s unyielding grip on him. 

Fletcher pressed closer, and Buck could feel the warmth of their body pressed against his back through the slats of the chair. Their arm ensnared his head like a snake, restraining him in a headlock as if preparing to slit his throat. Buck tugged weakly at them and they did not budge.

“Consider this a little exercise in trust. Hands down.”

Buck whimpered, tears welling in his eyes as his blood rushed in his ears. With a flex of their arm, Fletcher pressed on his windpipe, restricting his air and blood flow. He spasmed in his seat as the blade drew lazy circles in the air before drawing out of view, close to his throat. 

“F-Fletch-”

“Hands down, Buck, or I’ll tie them down.”

Buck could feel the tip of the razor press right below his chin, playing there. He stiffened, swallowing down a frustrated sob before he dropped his hands, squeezing the sides of the chair seat anxiously instead. 

“Good, very good.”

The blade skimmed his skin, carving away the shaving cream with lazy, practiced strokes. Over the cigarette burn that had started to scar over on the side of his throat, more cuts Buck couldn’t even remember sustaining. His skin was pulled taut by his head forced over the back of the chair, throat offered up to them, and he felt unbearably vulnerable under Fletcher’s ministrations. Agonizingly slow, the razor blade was scraped along his trachea, too many times to pretend to still be just a shave. As the knife trailed down, just under his Adam’s apple, it turned, slicing shallowly into his skin. He choked in fear, digging his nails into the bottom of the chair’s seat until his fingertips throbbed urgently. 

“Oops.” Fletcher purred, and Buck could hear the indulgent smile in their voice.

The new wound stung fiercely, and he could feel the warm blood ooze out onto his soapy skin. Fletcher caught it with the towel before it dripped below his collar, and the coarse fabric felt like sandpaper against his freshly shaven skin. 

“Closest shave of your life, huh Buck?”

Buck made a vague sound of acknowledgment, but it sounded like a whimper even to his ears. 

He didn’t feel the razor’s bite again when they shaved his face, but any nerve he might have worked up had been long lost, and he was trembling beneath Fletcher by the time they pulled the blade away, wiping it off on the towel with finesse before returning it to it’s case. 

Once he was cleaned up, Fletcher patted his cheek with a warm hand, startling him.

“Good boy, Buck. Go take a look in the mirror.”

He stood from his chair a little shakily but made over to the bathroom, flicking on the light to see himself in the mirror. His hands strayed to his hair, pulling it in front of his shoulders to take a look. The length seemed uniform, with no stray uncut strands hanging below the rest, and his hair looked shinier and healthier with the dry ends clipped away. 

He leaned forwards, studying his face. He could barely recognize himself, when was the last time he really looked in a mirror? The scar curling to his cheek was an angry dark red, still painful, and he could see the faint dots of the stitches’ punctures lining both sides. His nose was still healing from it’s split at the bridge, but the swelling had started to go down, and Fletcher had dutifully set it every time they broke it. Yellow bruises still ringed his eyes, fading slowly into his pallid skin. Between the lack of sunlight he got while largely trapped in the lodge and the injuries he sustained, he looked pale and sickly. It seemed trivial after everything to be judging his looks, but he still struggled to swallow the shame that welled inside of him. 

To Fletcher’s credit, his face was smoother than it had been since he was a boy, seemingly without a single stray hair left by accident. Clean, methodical, and well executed - Fletcher’s signature, among the other more painful ones that littered his face and body.

When he reemerged, Fletcher had cleared everything away, and was standing with a broom they handed off to Buck when he approached. Without needing the command, he started sweeping up the last hairs Fletcher had cut up from off of the kitchen floor.

“What do you think?”

Buck didn’t look up at them.

“It’s fine.”

He didn’t hear them move, but Fletcher’s boot came down on the broom, halting his sweeping. Buck looked up and met their eyes then. Fletcher didn’t look angry, but was studying them with an expectant look.

Buck’s shoulders sagged. “It looks very nice, thank you.”

Fletcher gave a curt nod, an appeased look on their face, and they walked away, presumably to return to their book.

Buck touched his face absentmindedly, his cheek unexpectedly smooth, and wondered what kind of life Fletcher must have led to become the enigma that held him captive today. 

[fallencomrade]

𝐂 𝐎 𝐑 𝐎 𝐍 𝐀   𝐑 𝐀 𝐃 𝐈 𝐀 𝐓 𝐀  a  drabble  based  on  this  post  from  my  old  blog ( x ) PER REQUEST,  i will happily  turn this into a thread ! ◝(●˙꒳˙●)◜

     THEY HAUL HIS LIFELESS BODY INTO A DARK ROOM,  handling  him  the  same  way  a  proud  hunter  might  drag  in  his  latest  kill,  his  latest  TROPHY.  they  are  pleased  with  their  triumph,  but  the  muscle  required  to  take  down  such  a  beast  certainly  demanded  a  price.  TWELVE  MEN,  it  had  taken  twelve  men  and  a  locked  door  -  and  they  had  just  barely  managed  to  SUBDUE  him.  just  barely.  they  are  all  in  bad  shape,  the  majority  of  the  strike  team  absent  due  to  serious  injuries  that  required  immediate  attention.  rumlow,  disregarding  his  own  injuries,  the  tremendous  PAIN  livid  inside  his  own  body  ( ORDER  ONLY  COMES  THROUGH  PAIN  )  refuses  to  miss  this  though.  he  will  lick  his  wounds  later.  now,  it  is  time  to  bask.  

     ‘  heavy  fucker ,  ’  he  laments  as  he  dumps  the  body  into  the  reinforced  steel  chair  bolted  to  the  floor.  he  begins  the  arduous  process,  starting  with  the  leather  restraints.  he  wraps  them  around  each  arm  and  leg,  as  well  as  around  the  torso.  next  come  the  magnetized  cuffs  which  clamp  tightly  around  wrists  &&  ankles.  they  will  hold,  developed  and  proven  to  withstand  super  -  soldier  strength,  tested  on  some one thing  similar.  the  drugs  they  pump  into  his  body  have  been  tested  just  the  same,  and  if  his  serum  works  anything  like  theirs,  the  man  should  not  wake  until  they  are  ready  for  him  ;;  until  they  PERMIT  him  to  do  so.  rumlow  wraps  chains  around  each  limb,  just  to  be  safe. 

     once  finished,  he  glides  his  tongue  over  the  blood  pooling  from  his  split  lip,  and  spits  the  taste  of  it  out  at  his  prisoner’s  feet,  finally  stepping  away.  pulling  his  phone  free,  rumlow  dials  a  single  number.  ‘  connect  me  to  pierce ,  ’   he  orders,  heated  eyes  burning  as  he  glances  back  at  the  body  in  the  chair.  

      ‘  SIR.  we  have  him.  steve  rogers  has  been  CONTAINED.  ’

     rumlow  had  wanted  to  KILL  rogers.  (  for  personal  reasons  and  selfish  delights,  more  than  anything  else  )  but  he  also  understands  how  DANGEROUS  the  captain  is.  he  has  worked  alongside  him  now  for  a  while,  and  knows  the  RISK  keeping  him  alive  poses.  but  pierce  had  been  very  clear  with  his  orders.   he  wanted  the  captain  taken  in  ALIVE,  seemingly  confident  ‘guts  and  glory’  here  could  be  convinced  to  cooperate.  rumlow  is  doubtful,  but  questioning  pierce  is  not  in  his  best  interest.  whatever  the  secretary  has  up  his  sleeve,  it  is  time  to  start  putting  it  into  motion.   convincing  rogers  will  not  be  easy.  

            whatever  his  hand  is,  it  better  be  good. 

      THEY LEAD THEIR LIFELESS SOLDIER INTO A COLD ROOM,  handling  him  the  same  way  a  medical  professional  might  examine  a  CORPSE  -  with  cold,  clinical  hands.  they  remove  the  thermal  suit  clinging  to  his  trembling  body,  the  material  still  cold  with  the  lingering  breath  of  stasis.  they  hose  him  down  and  scrub  his  skin  raw.  the  technicians  spend  a  great  amount  of  time  washing  his  body,  which  is  different  -  but  if  the  soldier  notices,  he  does  not  say  anything.  the  asset  does  not  question.  they  order  him  to  sit  down  in  a  chair,  and  so  he  sits.  they  pull  out  a  blade.  no  -  it  is  a  razor.  the  soldier  expects  them  to  hand  it  to  him,  to  use  as  a  weapon  during  this  next  mission,  but  they  do  not  assign  it  to  him.  neither  do  they  use  it  for  testing  purposes  -  not  to  poke,  prod  or  slice  into  his  skin.  no,  instead  they  tell  him  to  lean  back.  he  complies.  they  tell  him  not  to  move.  he  complies.  then  they  rub  something  frothy  across  his  face.  they  glide  the  sharp  blade  across  his  skin,  scrapping.  it  doesn’t  hurt… and  that  is  surprising.  the  techs  put  away  the  blade  without  spilling  a  single  drop  of  blood. 

     they  cut  his  hair,  hacking  away  until  there  is  more  on  the  floor  around  them  than  on  his  head.  no  longer  can  he  HIDE  behind  dark,  oily  bangs.  they  are  sheered  away.  they  cut  until  his  hair  no  longer  lays  on  his  shoulders,  no  longer  covers  his  neck  -  and  it  leaves  the  soldier  feeling…  strangely  EXPOSED.  it  is  odd,  different  -  but  the  asset  does  not  question.  one  of  the  technicians  holds  out  a  piece  of  paper,  its  contents  unknown  to  him.  the  asset  does  not  question.  her  dark  eyes  flicker  back  and  forth  between  him  and  the  page  and  after  a  moment,  she  frowns  and  sighs,  shoulders  slumping  with  what  appears  to  be  DEFEAT.  ‘  his  eyes ,  ’   she  criticizes  and  for  a  brief  moment,  the  asset  wonders  what  it  is  in  his  eyes  that  DISAPPOINTS  her  so.  —  but  the  asset  does  not  question.  she  shrugs  soon  after  anyway,  with  a  dismissive,  ‘  it  will  have  to do.  ’ 

     finally,  they  strap  him  in  the  chair  and  REVIVE  his  mind.  the  ice  is  swept  away,  replaced  with  their  steadfast  CONDITIONING.  the  soldier  is  ACTIVATED,  once  again.  ready  to  comply.   —  &&  when  it  is  finished,  as  his  cerebrum  sparks  &&  flickers  with  electricity,  lightning  scorching  all  passageways  to  his  brain,  while  numbing  everything  else  -  they  prepare  him.  if  he  were  in  his  right  mind,  the  soldier  might  ask  why  they  decide  to  dress  him  in  the  attire  they  choose.  why  they  have  him  tug  on  a  pair  of  dark  jeans  instead  of  the  usual  cargo  pants.  why  they  have  him  in  a  soft,  navy  dark  cotton  shirt  instead  of  the  standard  kevlar  and  tactical  vests.  this  flimsy  long - sleeved  shirt  will  do  little  to  stop  bullets  and  blades.   

                        —  but  the  asset  does  not  question.    

     ONLY A SELECT FEW  are  allowed  inside.  secretary  pierce  certainly  is  not  intimidated  by  an  audience,  but  these  are  delicate  matters.  it  is  important  they  maintain  a  level  of  professionalism.  they  are  situated  in  a  sub – level  basement  located  in  the  underbelly  of  a  large  accounting  firm,  one  owned  &&  run  by  hydra.  it’s  a  well  respected,  legitimate  business.  perfect  record  of  excellence,  fortune  500  company  with  outstanding  company  morals  and  ideals…  and  growing  inside,  beneath  the  guise  -  a  hydra  head  breathes,  thriving.  

     when  pierce  arrives,  security  detail  in  tow,  the  captain  is  just  starting  to  stir.  ‘  his  serum  is  impressive,  ’  one  doctor  whispers  to  another,  glancing  down  at  his  watch  before  scribbling  notes  onto  his  clipboard.  they  are  eager  to  start  conducting  tests,  but  without  direct  authorization  from  pierce,  all  they  have  been  able  to  collect  thus  far  are  a  few  samples  of  blood.  they  are  also  afraid  to  get  too  close  to  rogers  without  him  being  properly  sedated  &&  restrained,  and  for  good  reason  too.  much  to  the  strike  team’s  chagrin,  the  scientists  were  privy  to  the  elevator  footage.  hydra  values  their  minds,  not  their  muscle  ;;  they  are  of  no  use  DEAD.  so  for  now,  they  will  maintain  their  distance,  jotting  down  what  little  details  they  can  obtain  based  on  observation  alone,  tucked  safely  behind  the  pointed  guns  of  what  remains  of  the  strike  team.  sectioned  off  in  the  middle  of  the  room  sits  a  makeshift  holding  cell,  the  space  completely  surrounded  by  sturdy  metal  bars.  at  its  center  sits  two  chairs  -  one  occupied  and  bolted  to  the  floor,  the  other  empty  and  unbounded.  it  is  an  accustomed  outlay,  especially  for  hydra.  still,  the  doom  and  gloom  of  it  all  still  makes  pierce  huff  and  shake  his  head  a  little.     

     POLISHED SHOES STEP FORWARD,  into  the  cage.  the  door  closes  behind  him.  he  removes  his  suit  jacket,  draping  the  expensive  material  over  the  back  of  the  unoccupied  chair.  a  single  light  hangs  over  the  cell,  illuminating  the  small  space  while  casting  the  surrounding  area  into  thick  darkness,  allowing  the  others  to  observe  without  being  seen.  but  not  pierce,  no.  alexander  pierce  wants  to  be  seen  ;;  wants  to  be  heard.  the  man  is  optimistic,  pleasant  even  when  steve  finally  wakes  up.  he  remains  patient,  reasonable  -  welcoming  the  captain’s  VITRIOL  with  calm  understanding.  ‘  i  would  like  us  to  become  business  partners,  captain.  i  was  not  lying  when  i  shook  your  hand  and  said  it  was  an  HONOR.  ’   but  steve  is  quick  to  spit  back,  ‘  you  killed  nick  fury  ’  and  that  has  pierce  amused,  knowing  smile  stretching  across  thin  lips.  ominously,  he  responds,  ‘  not  me.  ’ 

     but  pierce  should  know  swaying  the  captain  will  require  more  than  just  a  simple  invitation.  steven  rogers  is  STUBBORN  with  ferocious  tenacity  and  even  stronger  ideals.  no,  it  will  require  something  a  little  more  refined.  something  far  more  personal  than  the  promise  of  money  or  power.  hell,  even  the  prospect  of  saving  billions  from  an  out - of - control  overpopulation  will  not  appeal  to  the  captain.  he  is  too  HONORABLE,  and  when  pierce  points  out  how  they  are  both  fighting  for  the  same  thing  :  PEACE,  the  captain  scoffs  in  his  face.  the  captain  appears  to  be  INCORRUPTIBLE.  steve  rogers  however  is  just  a  man  underneath  all  that  righteousness  -  and  all  men  have  a  price,  a  breaking  point  -  a  weakness,  a  DARK SIDE.  hydra  needs  only  find  a  single  weak  point,  the  smallest  opening  to  burrow  beneath  -  and  then  it  could  grow,  consume,  overpower.  A  PARASITE.  lucky  for  them,  hydra  already  possesses  steve  rogers’  WEAKNESS.

     ‘  we  can  give  you  many  things,  captain.  but  you  don’t  TRUST  us.  i  understand.  maybe  i  could  offer  something  else…  in  exchange  for  your  cooperation ?  ’  

     the  secretary  stands  up  then  and  makes  a  gesture  over  his  shoulder.  the  cell  door  opens  behind  him  with  a  SINISTER  groan  and  in  walks  a  SHADOW.  the  older  man  steps  closer  and  turns,  perching  himself  at  steve’s  side.

            ‘  a  gift,  for  your  COMPLIANCE.  ’  

     A GHOST IS MEANT TO BE UNSEEN.  he  is  a  SHADOW,  meant  only  to  exist  in  the  dark,  chased  away  into  nothing  if  exposed  to  light.  his  presence  is  to  be  felt,  but  never  seen.  to  have  so  many  eyes  on  him  at  once,  it  makes  him  feel  exposed  in  the  worst  ways  possible.  his  skin  crawls  as  he  is  summoned  from  his  hiding  place,  the  heat  of  their  gazes  nearly  BURNING  through  his  composure.  focus,  soldier !  focus !  his  mind  berates,  shoving  him  forward.  his  orders  are  still  unclear,  but  he  has  been  trained  well.  he  knows  to  follow  directions  issued  by  his  handlers  ;;  knows  to  never  speak  unless  addressed  or  given  explicit  permission.  he  knows  to  always  do  as  COMMANDED  and  to  never  question.  they  want  him  inside  the  CAGE  and  so  he  enters  the  cage.  

     he  has  been  watching  this  whole  time,  a  SPECTATOR  and  he  is  ashamed  to  admit  his  mind  has  been  restless.  this  entire  time,  his  stomach  has  been  twisting  tighter  &&  tighter,  to  the  point  of  great  discomfort.  he  has  been  unable  to  identify  a  source,  a  culprit  to  explain  the  pain  -  but  it  hurts.  his  mind  wavers,  lulled  by…  the  voices  (  a  voice  )  in  the  room.  he  tries  to  chase  after  the  calm  DRONE  of  static,  but  he  finds  himself  getting  distracted,  which  is  concerning.  he  had  just  undergone  maintenance,  not  even  an  hour  ago.  it  shouldn’t  be  this  hard  to  concentrate  ;;  and  the  restlessness  in  his  blood  is  a  sign  of  stasis  deprivation.   —  but  he  had  just  come  out,  hadn’t  he?

     SOMETHING IS WRONG.  he  can  feel  it  in  his  bones.  there  is  a  heavy  weight  pressing  down  on  top  of  his  shoulders,  legs  dragging  as  if  chained  to  his  SHADOW.  he  wants  to  go  back.  the  soldier  realizes  with  muted  curiosity  that  he  doesn’t  want  to  step  into  this  cell.  he  wants  to  turn  back  around  and  BEG  to  be  put  back  into  stasis.  —  but  the  asset  does  not  want  and  the  asset  does  not  CHOOSE.  so  he  continues  forward,  despite  the  AGONY  cracking  his  chest  open.  each  step  PULSES  through  him.  he  feels  all  their  eyes  on  him,  but  when  the  captain’s  fall  on  him,  he  IGNITES,  insides  burning  away  into  ASH.          stop.  stop,  stop.  it  HURTS.         

     HE TASTES DEATH ON HIS TONGUE.   he  falters  -  mind  stuttering  into  WHITE  NOISE,  attempts  to  recover  quickly  -  but  he  can  tell  pierce  notices  and  he  is  displeased.  the  captain  is  forcing  a  REACTION  from  the  asset  and  he  doesn’t  know…  why?  for  a  half -  second,  their  eyes  lock  -  and  it  is  an  ONSLAUGHT  of  noise,  emotion,  and  PAIN.  gold  hair,  big  blue  eyes.  dumb  expression.  it  plucks  at  strings  in  the  back  of  his  mind,  a  melody  of  some  kind  whispering  across  his  subconscious  -  tugging  at  memory,  which  immediately  insights  sudden  PAIN.  in  order  to  SURVIVE  this  ordeal,  the  soldier  charges  forward  ;;  he  pulls  away.  eyes  retreat,  dimming  and  with  each  step  forward,  he  grows  more  and  more  distant,  DETACHED  -  until  he  is  empty,  ready  to  be  filled  with  orders.  ready  to  comply.  he  focuses  on  pierce  and  only  pierce.

     pierce  nods  towards  the  chair  and  the  asset  sits.  the  FEAR  is  slowly  draining  from  him,  like  pus  from  a  wound  -  leaving  him  feeling  cold  &&  tired,  but  he  notes  with  a  flare  of  perplexity  that  he  is  AFRAID  of  the  captain.  why  is  that?  he  avoids  both  their  eyes,  instead  choosing  to  look  down,  focus  coming  to  a  stop  on  pierce’s  hands.  they  dim  and  eventually  gloss  over  -  and  the  asset  awaits  orders. 

     pierce  smirks,  pleased.  his  hand  comes  up  to  rest  on  steve’s  shoulder  and  he  squeezes  the  muscle  tightly,  making  an  offer  steve  rogers  cannot  refuse.  ‘  hydra  can  give  you  many  things,  captain.  we  can  even  give  you  your  BEST  FRIEND  back.  ’  

                          ALL  YOU  HAVE  TO  DO  IS  COMPLY.  

[hillerskas]

No Longing for the Moonlight (2.6k)

Their fingers overlap as they both grip the edge of the bucket and maybe Eliott squeezes a bit harder than necessary. Maybe Lucas squeezes back, too.

(ao3)

It starts with a round of shots that taste like nail polish remover.

‘How do you even know what that tastes like?’ Idriss coughs, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. The toilet paper wrapped around it wilts and he curses to himself.

Eliott shrugs and downs his second vodka, wincing as the alcohol stings his chapped lips. A dribble escapes down his chin, taking a strip of makeup with it. ‘Educated guess.’

Idriss closes his eyes briefly, gearing up for the third attack. Another round of clinking shot glasses and burning throats.

‘You guys are idiots,’ Sofiane murmurs, scrolling through his specially curated Halloween playlist.

‘You say that now, but I know for a fact all of the strong stuff’s gonna be gone by the time we get there.’ He sends a pointed glare over to Eliott. ‘Maybe we wouldn’t have to drink like we’re first years if someone had got ready in time.’

Eliott- a little wobbly on his feet now- raises his hands in innocence, ‘Hey… worth it.’

‘He’s right; he does look dead,’ Sofiane comments with a grin as Monster Mash begins to blare tinnily from his phone speaker.

‘DJ, I have a request,’ Idriss says, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the phone.

‘Nope,’ Sofiane dismisses, stumbling towards Idriss with a pretty accurate zombie impression. The costume doesn’t hurt either. Eliott chuckles at Idriss’ comically unsettled expression and then decides to pour out more shots.

‘Eliott, please don’t be too wasted for your first kiss with Lucas,’ Sofiane warns, giving up on his pursuit of Idriss.

‘Sofiane, please don’t be so obsessed with mothering me that you miss your first kiss with Imane,’ he bats back. It has the desired effect; a bright blush and a loud, familiar laugh.

‘Seriously, though, man… the tension,’ Idriss leans over the kitchen island to poke at Eliott’s ribs. ‘I can feel it in your bones, he’s gonna kiss you tonight.’

‘What do you- oh,’ Eliott cuts himself off. He snickers and pinches the bridge of his nose. ‘How many skeleton jokes have you been saving up?’

‘You didn’t give me much time to prepare, but I’d say about thirty six.’

‘That’s weirdly specific, should I keep a tally to make sure?’ says Sofiane.

Idriss places a hand on his shoulder. ‘You’re gonna be the only one sober enough, so I vote yes.’

‘Speaking of sober.’ Eliott offers a final shot to the other boy who simply groans and grudgingly clinks his glass against Eliott’s before necking it.

***

The bitter autumn breeze turns out to be a lot more sobering than Eliott would have liked, but he’s still moderately tipsy by the time they reach Emma’s house.

Idriss- who’s already lost half of his costume to the wind and looks more ‘victim of an unfortunate bullying incident’ than ‘preserved Pharaoh’ at this point- taps the Enter at your own risk sign on the door in drunken amusement before twisting the handle and barreling inside.

Immediately, they’re consumed by the heat of the hallway and a too-loud Halloween mix, but it causes something like anticipation to sit in Eliott’s bones. He buzzes with it.

‘Boys, you’re just in time!’ Daphné calls, materialising in the living room doorway. They share a curious glance amongst themselves before making their way over to her.

‘In time for what?’

She grabs hold of Eliott’s wrist once he’s close enough and drags him over to a circle of familiar faces. The room’s a lot less crowded than he expected, but he can hear distant cheers from the other side of the house.

His friends immediately find their place next to Imane, Alexia and Arthur, leaving Eliott to bear the brunt of Daphné’s specific brand of excited energy.

‘We’re about to start an apple bobbing competition!’ she explains. And, yeah, now Eliott spots the makeshift cauldron in the middle of the room, filled with a mixture of apples toffee and otherwise.

And then there’s Lucas, slightly obscured and leaning against Yann on the outskirts of the circle. They find each other, though. They always find each other. Because they’ve been balancing on a possibility for a while now.

Eliott doesn’t miss the casual once-over Lucas gives to his costume and he repays the favour instantly.

He’s in all white, and it suits him, suits him so much Eliott aches to tell him. Even his hair’s dusted with glow-in-the-dark dye, blue eyes rimmed with smudged eyeliner, and they pop, beg Eliott to come over, to tap his fingertips gently across the stars on his cheeks.

Eliott swallows instead and accepts the beer Emma places in his hand.

Lucas pats Yann’s shoulder, tips his head and then properly joins the group. Half of his beer’s already gone.

‘Okay, so everyone just write down your names,’ Daphné says, beaming as she hands everyone in the circle a neon orange post-it note. Eliott eyes Sofiane and Idriss suspiciously as they whisper into a couple of the girls’ ears before focusing on writing his own name down, folding it up, and placing it in the plastic skull Daphné’s using as a bowl. She practically skips around the room collecting everyone else’s papers, narrowly avoiding getting trapped in conversation with an already drunk Basile. The other half of Eliott’s beer disappears around about the same time he gets lost in the glitter decorating Lucas’ hair.

‘Eliott and… Lucas!’

That snaps him out of it. ‘Huh?’

Daphné glances around the room awkwardly and then holds up the paper. His name sits boldly in the centre, looking strangely unfamiliar.

‘You’re up first.’

Lucas is already positioned opposite, slender fingers drumming against the side of the cauldron and lips pulled into a grin. Eliott gulps, darts his eyes over to a too content looking Idriss and Sofiane, places his empty bottle on the mantelpiece behind him, and inches forward.

‘First one to get an apple and drop it in here-’ she gestures to a pumpkin-shaped pot, ‘-wins! No hands, though.’

‘Sounds easy,’ Lucas says, staring right at Eliott.

‘It’s on, Lallemant,’ he manages to reply.

The water’s way too cold when they dip their faces in, and Eliott idly wonders if he went for the waterproof makeup in the end. He bets he didn’t.

Their fingers overlap as they both grip the edge of the bucket and maybe Eliott squeezes a bit harder than necessary. Maybe Lucas squeezes back, too.

Their gazes lock as their mouths search for purchase, apples and lips glistening, teeth grazing slick skin and watered down face paints. Eliott’s cheek skims against Lucas’ and it’s teasing, tender, then razor sharp as he sinks into an apple. He really wishes he could make this dance last longer but he’s gasping for breath.

Then again, he thinks maybe he really is drowning as Lucas brushes a kiss against his cheekbone just as he comes up for air.

Eliott’s on the verge of panting when he drops the apple in the pumpkin bowl, eyes feral as Lucas whips his hair back and smudges paint into his skin where he wipes at his mouth.

‘Ahh! You won!’ Daphné squeals, clapping her hands together before throwing a candy necklace over his head. Eliott shakes himself out of his Lucas-study, not failing to catch the smirk in the corner of the other boy’s mouth. He so knows what he’s doing.

‘Let’s see who’s next.’

It’s effortless when Lucas strolls over to him, stands beside him with a white hand hovering barely a millimeter away from his own. He feels like he’s burning at the mere suggestion of his touch.

‘Uh… Eliott... again… playing against- okay, Eliott, how many times did you put your name in the bowl?’

Eliott frowns and flicks his gaze instinctively towards Lucas. ‘Once, I swear.’

He’s biting his bottom lip to hold in a laugh. Eliott follows his eyeline and spots Idriss and Sofiane, arms slung over each others’ shoulders and grinning way too smugly.

Ah. There it is.

Daphné sighs and empties the contents of the skull directly onto the floor, a cascade of black and orange Eliott and Lucas scribbles. Eliott reaches into his back pocket for his tobacco and wiggles it in a silent question. Lucas squints at him for a moment before smiling softly and nodding. It’s somewhat of a tradition for them to sneak away at every party, but it never happens this early. Maybe he’s finally ready to stop toeing the line.

They weave their way through the house to the tune of Ghost Town and Daphné’s chagrined pleas for someone to just tell her where she put her damn post-it notes.

When they reach the kitchen, Eliott grabs them both another beer. They’re warm and dripping with long since melted ice, but Lucas accepts it like it’s the most romantic gift Eliott could have ever bestowed upon him.

The romance shatters as soon as Eliott opens the back door and practically jumps to another continent, the door having somehow gained the ability to speak in screams.

‘What the fuck?!’

Lucas barely keeps himself from falling to the ground howling as Eliott’s heart hammers in his chest.

‘Stop,’ Eliott groans, though his heart’s now switched from a reaction of terror to slightly love-struck levels of speeding.

When Lucas eventually recovers, he lifts a shoulder and then points at the motion sensor tucked neatly against the doorjamb. ‘Emma loves Halloween.’

‘Emma’s paying for my tombstone,’ he breathes.

Thankfully, they make it into the yard without further incident. It’s oddly calm considering the growing chaos inside, bathed in moonlight and orange from the bulbs spread among the trees.

Lucas’ fingertips flirt with the back of his hand as they walk through the rose bushes and weeds, finding a spot up against the garden wall. There it is again, the buzz under his skin just waiting to ripple outwards.

‘So…’ Lucas starts. Eliott smiles as he plants his beer bottle next to his feet and begins rolling a cigarette. ‘A mummy, a zombie, and a skeleton walk into a high school party…’

He’s not proud, but he lets out what could be considered a snort and half of the tobacco falls out of his paper to be lost in the grass.

‘What happens next?’

Lucas hums and fiddles with the hem of his shirt. ‘...It’s not funny.’

Eliott narrows his eyes and darts his tongue out to lick the paper, watching Lucas’ gaze drop to his mouth. ‘Why not?’

‘Because I didn’t think of a punchline.’

Eliott titters and lights his cigarette, drawing in smoke. ‘I’m disappointed, Lucas.’

‘Sorry. I can at least tell you what happens to the skeleton, though.’

‘Hm, what?’

‘He gets a boner.’

Suddenly, there’s no air in Eliott’s lungs until there’s too much and he’s hacking up half of his insides. Lucas, fucking Lucas, just casually leans back against the garden wall and observes Eliott’s slow and painful death with merely a quirk of an eyebrow and a satisfied smirk.

‘That was terrible,’ Eliott forces out once he’s recovered.

Lucas laughs and it’s beautiful. Eliott lets it settle in his ears and commits it to memory like every other one before it.

‘What are you dressed up as, anyway?’ Eliott asks as he fumbles to relight his cigarette. The white face paint could point to a ghost, but the scattering of stardust across his cheeks suggests otherwise.

Lucas rolls his bottom lip between his teeth and shrugs. ‘The moon.’

And Eliott thinks perfect, perfect, perfect, he’s perfect.

‘I once married the moon.’

‘What?’ Lucas asks through another laugh.

He beams and nods, sucking on his filter. ‘Why are you so shocked? Didn’t you ever have one of those fake weddings behind the bike shelters when you were little?’

Lucas’ brow wrinkles. ‘Well, yeah, but I…’

Eliott raises an eyebrow, waiting. He can feel the cheap face paint crack with the movement. Lucas shakes his head, blush peeking out from his own thin layer of paint.

‘Nope; I’d rather you stay looking like the weird kid, here. You married the fucking moon.’

Eliott almost chokes again on his cigarette smoke. ‘Yes, I married the fucking moon. C’mon, why were you weird?’

Lucas groans and covers his face with his hands. The visible patches of bare fingertips look red from the cold as he mumbles into them. Eliott grins and tips his head forward, squinting as if that would help his ears hear better.

‘Sorry, what was that?’

Lucas heaves a sigh and rests his head back against the wall. His eyes almost glow in the orange light from one of the pumpkin lanterns strung up in the trees above. It casts a beautiful hue across the white UV dye in his hair and Eliott’s mesmerised all over again.

‘I said I was the organ player.’

And Eliott fully chokes this time. ‘You were the what?’

Lucas chuckles and rolls his eyes before plucking the cigarette from Eliott’s fingers and placing it between his own lips. His voice comes out husky. ‘I didn’t want to marry any of the girls, so.’ He shrugs again with a huff of smoke. ‘I figured every wedding needed an organ player,’ he giggles, head tilted.

Eliott can’t quite believe he’s real. ‘Well, I would have loved for you to have played the air organ at my wedding.’

‘It could still happen,’ Lucas murmurs, irises glinting in the low-light. Eliott’s pretty sure he can physically feel his pupils dilate as Lucas lets the last of the vapor trail from his mouth. He barely has time to blink before Lucas is dropping the cigarette, pushing himself off the wall and crowding his space. A gentle tug at the candy chain around his neck and then Lucas is asking, ‘Can I have one?’

Eliott’s certain his soul leaves his body as Lucas places the necklace between his teeth and bites down. He flinches, eyes trained on Lucas’ lips, as the candy snaps and the string drops and thumps back against his chest. Inside the house, the song changes, a heavy bass fit to rattle the windowpanes but he’s barely aware of it. It’s only Lucas and the dim lights and the places where their costumes brush against each other.

‘Are you going to kiss me?’ Lucas throws into the air between them. Eliott lets it sit, watches tendrils of smoke and condensation and he leans forward. A caress of noses that creates a new crater on the surface of the moon and plasters over a skull fracture all at once.

Lucas threads his fingers through the hair at the nape of Eliott’s neck and pulls him ever closer until he can’t be sure whether their lips are touching or not. It’s the seek for warmth and an end to the teasing that finally does it, finally has Eliott closing the gap and cradling the stars stretching across Lucas’ skin in just the way he’s wanted to since he first saw them.

He tastes like the powdery sweets that still rest around his neck and a little noxious- a strange, heady mix that matches the lethal way they always look at each other, matches the way that the dried paint continues to crack as they move together.

Eliott wishes he could feel the softness of Lucas’ hair as he runs his hands through it, but it’s caked in paint too and they’re making a mess but it’s the most brilliant release after the weeks and weeks of waiting.

And, again, he thinks he’s perfect.

They fit so well together he already feels at home in the dip of Lucas’ upper lip, the gaps between his fingers and the trills of his muscles when he moves.

And even later, when they eventually break apart, all Eliott knows as he follows Lucas’ ridiculous luminous hair back into the party is that he’d marry the moon again in a heartbeat.

[mercurymetals]

“Say that one more time and I’ll make sure you can never walk again.” With Risotto maybe?

Fuck yeah goth husband content, let’s go.

Warnings: Blood, and descriptive mouth trauma. Seriously, if you might be triggered by anything related to mouth/teeth harm, give this one a skip.

Risotto & “Say that one more time and I’ll make sure you can never walk again.”

“What did you just say?”

You shouldn’t have said it, and you shouldn’t let yourself be baited into saying it a second time. But you’re far beyond caring about consequences. If there’s even a chance that your words affected Risotto, hurt him even, then that’s all that matters to you at this point.

You’re on your knees before him, still recovering from the aftershocks of his vicious Stand, that crawling sensation of metallic blades bursting from the inside of your skin. Blood pools beneath you, disturbingly pale and watery, but you don’t care about that either.

You force your head up, set on meeting his gaze. Those red pupils bore down into you without a hint of emotion, but you suspect something lies beyond the surface of his calm, and you intend to bring it out.

“I said…” you pant out through your uneven breathing. “You’re disgusting.” The only reaction you get is a small twitch of his eyebrows, but it’s enough to spur you to continue. “I’d rather… be shot dead in the face… than have your filthy hands touch me again.”

Risotto does more than just touch you. He grabs you by the throat and lifts you up until your feet are barely touching the ground. You choke and writhe instinctively, but as he brings you closer, you make sure to look into his eyes.

He looks angry. Furious, even, just for a moment. Good. That’s all you wanted. That’s all you can hope for any more. You’ve nothing left but empty taunts, but you’re going to cling onto them for as long as you can, and seeing his reaction is more rewarding than you could have asked for.

You feel it first as just a prick of pain, and you immediately know what’s coming. You can do nothing but brace yourself for it, and barely a second later you feel the searing burn of something forcing the flesh of your tongue apart. Slowly, it inches forward until it breaks to the surface, causing blood to spurt out where it emerges.

It feels like some kind of a razor blade, but instead of popping out of your tongue and leaving you to cough up the blood, it remains lodged in there, the sharp tip forcing you to keep your mouth open to avoid it piercing the roof of your mouth.

Risotto drops you, and you fall to your knees and elbows, breathing in rapidly through your mouth. You move your tongue experimentally, and the renewed pain of the razor inside of it spreads all the way to the back of your tongue, nauseating you.

Just as the feeling starts to settle, you feel another one of those needle-like prickles in your mouth. It starts in your lower jaw, and when it hits full force, you lose all your awareness of the outside world.

An indescribable pain floods your gums, like the worst toothache in the whole fucking world. You feel something forcing its way up, pushing right past those sensitive nerves in the depth of your gums. It’s as if you’re undergoing a dental procedure with absolutely no anaesthetic: the pain in the roots of your teeth is raw, and it is blinding. Even breathing makes it worse, the air you gulp in wheezing past your teeth and leaving you shaking in agony.

You’re certain you lose bits of your consciousness in those next few moments, the pain simultaneously knocking you out and bringing you back to wakefulness again. The next thing you’re aware of is the fact you’re lying flat on the ground with your mouth still open, and a mix of blood and drool pooling beneath your cheek.

When you try to move your jaw, a stabbing pain flashes through the lower half of your face, threatening you to keep still. You can feel three new razors now poking out from between the lower set of your teeth, each lightly scraping against your inner cheek.

You hear Risotto move towards you, and part of you is ready to break down into tears and beg him to never make you go through that again. But you keep quiet, both from the residue of your pride, and the worry that trying to speak right now would send you into another realm of hell altogether.

The tip of Risotto’s shoe finds its way under your arm, and he kicks you over so that you’re lying on your back. The movement knocks your head around, and you can’t help crying out, screwing your eyes shut.

Then you feel the weight of his shoe against your chest, and he presses and presses until you cough out your last bit of oxygen and force your eyes open.

Risotto looks like his composed self all over again, staring down at you with not an ounce of sympathy. He leans over you, making sure to look right into your eyes as he speaks.

“Did you enjoy that?” he asks, and the pitiful gaze you’ve been giving him turns into a glare. “That just now was me being kind. I’m being lenient with you, because I treasure you.”

The proof of how much he ‘treasures’ you is right there in your mouth, and somehow it does little to convince you. But this time, you don’t say anything in response to him.

“'Shot dead’, you say? Ragazzino, I can do so much worse than that.” He puts more of his weight on you, your ribs bending under the pressure of his heel digging into you. “Would you like to find out?”

Your eyebrows knitted together, you stare up at him. Nothing he does, nothing he’s done so far, nothing he might do in the future would ever change your mind - he’s disgusting. You’re disgusted by him. You don’t want anything to do with him.

But… Maybe, a part of you is willing to yield, if it means avoiding an ordeal like the one you just went through. You can hardly imagine anything worse in your current state, but somehow you don’t doubt he means it when he says he can, and would, do worse.

So, aware of how ridiculous you must look right now, lying there covered in your own blood, with your mouth stupidly hanging open and saliva dribbling down your chin, you shake your head in resignation.

Risotto lifts his foot off you, and you breathe in deeply. You’re still light-headed from the lack of iron, but at least you’ve been granted this one small relief.

He kneels down next to you, and you watch as the hand you had called filthy reaches out to pet your face. You expect it to hurt, but Risotto is surprisingly gentle, the touch like that of a ghost on your skin. He observes you for a while, and in that moment you find yourself grateful for that emotionless look in his eyes. You don’t think you could take it if he were to gloat his dominion over you right now.

Eventually, he stops petting you, and instead hooks his thumb against the inside of your mouth. “I’m going to remove the razors now,” he tells you, and you shudder at the thought. You can hardly wait for that pulsating ache in your jaw to finally be gone.

“Just remember…” The nail of Risotto’s thumb digs into your inner cheek, and you whine at the sharp sensation. “Say anything like that one more time, and I’ll make sure you can never walk again. I’ll carve so much metal out of your blood, you won’t be able to even lift a finger without my help. Understood?”

God. You hate him so much. You hate him, but you nod your head anyway, using all of your remaining willpower to fight back the tears rising behind your eyelids.

You think you see the trace of a smile cross Risotto’s features, but it’s gone as soon as it arrives, and then you’re much more concerned with the way he digs his large fingers into your mouth.

“This might hurt,” he says as his only warning to you, and the world fades into that searing, blinding white again.

Understatement of the century.

[agrinsosardonic]

Wicked Little Thing

A/U: CloudxReno 

Also on: A03 and Fanfiction.net

Reno wasn’t like the other boys. 

He solidified that when he showed up at Cloud’s window in the early morning hours on the first day of his 18th summer. He had something to show him. Of the utmost importance. Cloud, with half opened blue eyes stared at the boy smirking in the window. The heat of the sun already suffocating despite just breaking through the dark clouds of night. Cloud’s skin felt like rubber. Sticky wet. Like something was crawling through the little blonde hairs on his arms. 

But still, he dressed in shorts and a t-shirt, and snuck out of the sleeping house to join the other boy. Reno didn’t say much, but it’s rare for him to use any words. Follow me. Died in the humid air right as it grazed Cloud’s ears. And Reno already walking towards the forest. Cloud thought about arguing. Or bitchin’, as Reno called it. But arguing with Reno was as useful as fist fighting a brick wall. The brick wall always wins. Cloud laments this fact, silently of course, as he steps through mud and sticks towards an undisclosed location. 

The trees like statues as they provide minimal relief from the ball of flame in the sky. 

The air smelled stale and wet.

Like the mold that grows in the boys home, where Reno lives. 

The stench that sticks to their clothes; a tell-tale sign of the abandoned.

But Cloud noted, the one time Reno allowed him close enough he could take in his smell, the other boy reminded him of flames. 

They come upon a clearing. And Cloud gagged when death crept into the air. 

Rotting eggs and sulfur.  Cloud pulled his shirt over his nose to filter the smell, though even his mother’s soap proved to be a pathetic barrier. Nothing really prepared Cloud for the stench of a floating dead body baking in the hot sun. At the edge of the swamp, half of the blue flesh bobbed in the water. It’s clothes tattered and torn; button down and no pants. Bloated beyond recognition. Veins like a road map twisting along milky skin. 

Cloud darts blue eyes towards Reno. The other boy stared at the body; his face like stone never acknowledging the pungent stench. 

“Gotta get used to dead bodies if ya gonna be in SOLDIER,” he said in a thick accent that Cloud could never place, but was one more thing that separated him from the other boys. Reno’s lips tugged into a smirk. 

Cloud tried breathing through his mouth; but it tasted like spoiled meat. And he knew if he threw up, Reno would never let him live it down. He swallowed the bile that burned in his throat. And didn’t say another word. 

The sounds of summer embraced the scene. The animals that lurk in the swamp send ripples of waves crashing to the surface as they feed. Birds squawk overhead. Breaking twigs in the distance. Mosquitoes and flies buzzed too close. The hum pierced Cloud’s ear drum as he tried to swat them away. 

The heat had them both sweating through white shirts. Reno pulled his over his head, revealing the lean muscles and faded bruises. Like dying fireworks in a peach skyline. And Cloud couldn’t help but gaze along his body. Taking inventory every line and freckle until tattooed to his brain. Reno cast his two pearls of lake colored eyes upon the other boy, curious like a fox.

“Comeon,” he drawled, “we’re pullin’ it out.”

“Uuh,” Cloud stuttered, dropping his shirt from his mouth, “What?”

Reno walked closer to the body- Cloud impressed that the other boy could handle the smell- and grabbed a swollen ankle. “I wanna burn it.”

“W-what?” Cloud repeated.

“Fuckin’ what,” Reno snaps, “I ain’t speakin’ a different language.”

Reno hated speaking at all. This was the most string of words he’s spoken in a while. Cloud liked the sound of his voice. Rough like coal. Bitter like whiskey he pretended he didn’t drink when the sun went down. Not like the other boys with their clean grammar and smooth inflections uttered through pearly white teeth. Not like Clouds, who flumbles through words like he’s running through boulders. Getting caught up. Tongue too big for his mouth. Swollen. 

Cloud huffed. And followed the order. The smell only grew impossible to handle. The smaller of the two boys coughing and hacking as he tried fruitlessly to shield his nose with his shirt again. Reno watched him the whole time with hooded eyes that darkened under the mess of red hair. Cloud tried to focus on the task. And not how Reno scanned his body. Resting on the bit of skin exposed from pulling up his shirt. 

Cloud hesitated. The flesh that held together the foot to ankle looked diseased. Black. Putrid. He didn’t want to touch it, not at all. The amount of bacteria eating away at the stinking flesh was enough to make Cloud sick. But he could still feel Reno’s burning gaze. And he doesn’t want to look like a coward in front of him. He wrapped his fingers around the skin- and it feels like wet, slimy, clay. He pulled and the flesh peeled away from worn bone. Slipped from his hands like thick water. 

He yelled and jumped back, tripping over a rock. 

Reno’s laugh sounded like razor blades. He’s pacing around the clearing, holding his stomach. And if Cloud had an ounce of courage, he might swing at him. 

“Fuck you!” He shouted instead. 

“Poor lil bird.” Reno regained his composure. His toothy smile revealed two sharp canines.

Cloud scrambled back to his feet. “You’re sick, man.”

The red-head shrugs, wiping his hands on dirty blue jeans. He pulls out his crumbled pack of smokes and places a cigarette between his thin lips. 

“Can I bum one?” Cloud asked. 

Reno ignited the match, the flame orange and yellow casts haunting shadows across his face. “No.”

“Why?” 

He took a drag, “Waste.”

Cloud knew what he meant. “I heard everyone smokes in SOLDIER. I got to learn right?”

“Who told ya that? Zack?” Reno scrunched his face like the name tasted like poison on his tongue. Cloud nodded and Reno just shook his head. “Zack has half a brain and it ain’t in his head.”

Cloud doesn’t respond. Eyes wilted to the dirt ground; a large centipede crawled over his shoe and he kicked it into the lake where it can be a gators snack. 

“You can’t burn the body, by the way,” he said. “It’s too wet. It won’t catch.”

Reno grimaced in response. Cloud admired the scowl on the other boy’s face. How it compliments the rest of his rough edges. He watched him take slow drags of his cigarette. How the black smoke slowly escaped his lips, obstructing his features except for those two eyes that glow against smoke. Like the stars in the midnight sky. 

Reno was a house fire. 

And maybe Cloud felt that way because the first time he saw him Mrs. Fost house was engulfed. Glowing orange embers fell from the sky like rain. Hissed and singed when they landed on the cobble stoned street. Everyone watched. Some helped. The good  ol’ boys, like Zack, rallied each other and grabbed water from the well to put out the fire. 

Cloud stood hypnotized by the dancing reds that ate at the flimsy wood, which scorched the air. And he thought it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen up to that point. He wanted to feel as powerful as a fire. Eat away at the things weaker than him. But Cloud wasn’t a house fire. Cloud was the wood structure collapsing like a dying star. 

He heard the striking of a match. Turned towards the sound. 

Saw a boy, with hair the color of blood, bringing fire to the cigarette between his lips. 

He looked like danger. Cut from metal. Sharp like the switchblade in his pocket. 

And then, like now under the muted morning light, in a swamp that reeks of death, Cloud can’t stop staring at the boy. Who appeared a year ago like a phantom under the flames of destruction. Cloud gravitated to him like he was the sun. And found only darkness. A red dwarf. Two minutes from midnight and ready for armageddon. And that’s all he knew.

Reno’s past a mystery but everyone tried predicting his future.

Boys like that end up in the gutter.

The mothers whispered. 

Filthy monsters. Wicked little things. All end up dead before eighteen.

Zack and the rest of the boys warned him much the same.

You hang out with trash you start to smell.

But Reno smelled like burning wood, nicotine, and pomegranates. 

Reno was fire and Cloud wanted to burn.

Thunder cracked. Cloud looked into the darkening sky. “It’s going to rain.”

“So?” Reno grabbed a long stick and stomped back towards the body. “Afraid of gettin’ wet?” He winks, “Little birds can’t fly in rain?” 

He plunged the stick into the bloated stomach of cadaver. Black ooze pushed out. Cloud swore he heard a wheeze before another boom of thunder. He flinched as Reno dug the wood deeper until it stood on its own. 

“Wh-why did you do that?”

Reno snapped his eyes at Cloud. And shrugged, again. Cloud pursed his lips looking for words. But found vacant expressions. Reno didn’t need to explain himself; he’s red hot anger. And everything he does is a result of that. 

“You gotta learn to stab shit if you wanna be a SOLDIER.” Reno said and revealed a switchblade from his back pocket. “Comeon.”

Cloud hesitated. “W..Why?”

“I just said why, fuck.” 

The sky opened and cold rain cooled the hot earth. The drops slammed against the bloated body; singing through the dense forest and murky swamp. Tap tap tap. Rapid like bullets. 

“I won’t be stabbing something that’s already dead, right?” Cloud shifted. 

Reno removed the dead cigarette from his mouth, flicking it into the swamp and approached Cloud. His feet sunk into the mud with every step; but as if blessed, he doesn’t stumble. And the blonde can’t seem to move, even though Reno’s giving him this look; like an alligator lurking below the surface of the swamp, ready to bite his head off. He stopped too close. Cloud could see the gentle rise and fall of his chest. The bones of his rib cage that peek through the skin. The small cuts. The large black and blues. From one too many fights with those good boys. 

To Cloud’s surprise, they’re the same height. Blue green meets slate blue eyes. Reno always gave off the impression of being impossibly larger than life. Cloud crushed under his gaze. But in the pouring rain, in the morning light, with the smell of rotting flesh and still water, they were equals. 

Reno grabbed Cloud’s wrist, with a sudden movement that it stole the blonde’s heartbeat, and placed the hilt of the blade in his wet palm. 

“Stab me.”

“What!?” Cloud didn’t stutter this time. He blurted the words from his mouth with a frantic tone. He tried to move back but Reno held him firm. Rooted to the ground. “No w-way!”

“Gotta learn.” Reno grinned something vile. He closed Cloud’s fingers around the worn wood, and pressed the sharpened knife against his own side. Guiding the other boy. His skin tickling the blade like a dar. “Right here.”

“Y-y-you’re fucki-in nuts, Re.”

“You think this my first time bein’ stabbed?”

“No, bu-t-” Cloud could only shake his head, “I ain’t stabbing you. No w-way.”

Reno frowned, bringing Cloud and his wrist and the blade to his neck. “How ‘bout here?”

“That’s w-worse!” Cloud panted. “You’ll die.”

“You can’t kill me, lil bird.” And Reno laughed. A devastated laugh that sounded more like the lightning that flashed overhead. Blinding Cloud for a moment. But only a moment. And he saw electricity in the redhead eyes. And felt his skin rise towards the cement sky. And he didn’t know if the shock was from the angry god above or the boy before him, yanking him closer. Stumbling over feet. His collision with Reno- skin to skin- proceeded the thunder. 

“Hm,” Reno purrs, and Cloud felt his breath against his lips. “Ya never gonna make SOLDIER.”

Cloud growled, “F-Fuck you, Reno.”

Reno squeezed Cloud’s wrist. Tight. Until he was forced to drop the knife. “Ya finally gettin mad, huh?” 

But Cloud stared into Reno’s eyes- too busy to get mad. Trying to focus on anything else besides Reno. Not his lips and how they were slightly opened and just slightly inviting. And that he smells of smoldering flame that eats at an entire forest. And his hand feels rough around his wrist. And Cloud’s aware of the lack of blood traveling to his fingers that they are going numb. 

Reno relaxed his grip. Moving his hand up Cloud’s, over the scars that littered his calloused fingers. Burns. “I like it when ya mad,” he whispered, “ya more interestin’.”

And he’s giving Cloud the same look he flashed him at Mrs. Fost’s house fire. When the smoke around his face cleared. And Cloud saw the dramatic curves of his face. His slanted auburn eyebrows that clashed against the red hues of his hair. Mesmerized by the way his eyes glowed- literally glowed- brighter than the fire that consumed the wood house over the old women’s feverish cries. And Cloud was, himself, engulfed by Reno’s gaze that he didn’t acknowledge how the strange boy traveled from Cloud’s face, down his chest, to his bandaged right hand that blistered underneath the cloth. 

Not until the red-head curled his lips into a wicked little smirk. 

Under the rain, the hot rain that stuck to his body like grime, Reno had the same look, Curiosity mixed with bloodlust. 

Or…

Just regular lust. 

And Cloud couldn’t stand another minute not knowing if Reno tasted like he smelled-

Pressed his lips against the red-heads, snaking his fingers into his wet hair to pull him closer. Impossibly close.

He expected a fist in his face, rocking him from this earth. Instead, Reno returns the kiss twice as forceful and with more practice. Wrapping his lean arms around Cloud’s small frame. Gliding his nails through the white fabric. 

Cloud opened his mouth so their tongues can meet,

And he tasted like tar. And electricity. And sulfur. 

They managed to get off the shirt that clung to Cloud’s body like suction cups. And they were back to skin and mess of limbs and lips. 

And teeth that bit on Cloud’s lip; and he moaned from his throat a sound that rushed through Reno’s body like a shockwave. Then fall to the floor. Cushioned by the mud. 

They tarnished their bodies in dirt and filth. Rough hands digging into flesh. And Cloud couldn’t keep track of how many times Reno’s name left his bruised lips through harsh breathes. 

And he didn’t stutter. 

He memorized that name. Branded it in his brain. 

The only word he knew. 

The red-head sat up, straddling Cloud’s hips under him. Pressing his hand firm on his chest to keep him on the ground. And blue-green eyes stare at Reno. Flushed with pleading desire. But he’s preoccupied with the scars on Cloud’s chest. 

And if Reno was faded fireworks during the sun set.

Cloud was the scorched woods during sun rise.  

Old burns splashed over his pale skin. Some still pink and angry. Other’s that blended into his flesh.  

And Reno smiled.

His first real smile. 

And Cloud thought he looked like the devil. 

He dropped down, their torsos meeting. Lips just barely touching. “I knew it,” he whispers. 

And he figured it out the night they first met. That Cloud was a match that needed a spark. 

Their lips met again. Clothes torn off.

The rain and mud made their bodies slick. And Cloud dug his nails into Reno’s back while he hissed into the blonde's neck. Nipping and biting skin, adding crimson to muted colors. 

It was the tangled limbs- how Cloud didn’t know where he ended and Reno began- that had raw breathless gasps clawing at his throat. 

And they were gripped in euphoria that they forgot about the body decaying next to them. 

--------------------------

The rain stopped. The heat rose from the soil and the earth felt like an oven. Reno stood over the body; his jeans stained with mud and shirt over his shoulder. Cloud walked next to him, still trying to adjust his shorts, with his own shirt balled in his pocket- his mom will have a word with him when he gets home, for sure. But that would have to wait. Right now, he relished the tingles that touched every part of his body, while he watched the red-head. New scars painted his canvas. Long streaks of red that matched the ones on Cloud’s body. And the blonde felt the throb of the bite on his shoulder; and it burned like the fire that decorated his flesh. 

He didn’t even care that Reno had marked him-

Like the house fire, Reno was the most beautiful thing he had even seen in eighteen years on this dying planet. And Cloud wanted every bite, and burn, the red head could offer him. 

Reno grabbed his pack. Placed a cigarette in his mouth and lit it with his last match. 

He turned to Cloud, removed the stick and gently placed it between Cloud’s partial opened lips. The other boy blinked several times in confusion, as Reno replaced it with another one, and leaned into Cloud’s ember to light it. 

The sound of searing fire touched his ears.

His whole body twitched. 

Cloud smiled, couldn’t help it, and took a sharp inhale. Blowing the smoke right at Reno, who smirked. 

“Thought you said it would be a waste?” Cloud sing-songed.

“Heh, ya ain’t gettin’ into SOLDIER anymore. Don’t matter.”

“W-why do you say that?” Cloud cocked his head, and in mid-morning light, he looked like an innocent boy filled with naivety. 

But Reno knew better. “They don’t care for wicked little things like us.”

They shared a look under the heat of the sun that burned their skin. A look they shared against the warming flames. Where Cloud saw him for the first time and knew he needed to understand as much as he could about the mysterious boy who appeared from thin air. Who was filthy. Abandoned. A discarded trash.

But stunning. Like a god. 

He was right.

Reno wasn’t like the other boys.

And neither was Cloud. 

[august-wynter]

He couldn't concentrate on his work, his thoughts kept wandering to complicated spells and curses and away from the task at hand. Since said task was literally spread out across the table in front of him the distraction was an unwelcome one, August had plenty to do that day if he could have just forced his brain to stay on the track of current problems rather than roaming elsewhere. 

Already he'd made a mess of it, nearly dropped the metal pan set off to the side twice and just the thought of having to scrub the contents of it off the floor held no appeal. The body in front of him was not the usual chilly, stored one that often came from the hospital nameless and unknown until he took a moment to glance at the files that came with it holding everything from the identity of an empty corpse to the reasoning as to why the life had either faded or been stolen from it. It was one of those rare times when there had been no point to hospitals and attempts to save anything, only remains that bypassed the typical destination and were left at the mortuary.

It shouldn't have been his job, August knew that from the information he had gathered since he had begun working there. Old books were useful and whoever had held the position before him had left shelves of them behind that not only filled in gaps lacking in his own education of anatomy and biology but also in how things should have functioned. Sorting out the reason people died was meant to be the work of a proper coroner, not the guy who was there to make the dead look presentable before they were burned away. 

But, as with many things in the city, necessity held more weight than old rules and the way they used to be before the rest of the world crumbled; August wasn't bothered by some of the gristly conditions a fresher body arrived in now and then so the expectation was that he could make sense of it. Not that it took any real work to figure out why a person died when they were torn up or maimed; that was the ugly side to living in a bubble with creatures who craved flesh and blood. 

He understood that habit better than most, far better than his coworkers would have been comfortable with, a fact that would have cost him his job and his place in the city if anywhere knew too much. It did have some positives though, for exactly the same reason. 

There was just no focus left in him that day, feeling as if his skin were stretched too tight over sharp bones and his mind too restless, his stomach knotted rather than the response he was used to at the scent of fresh blood and torn flesh. 

There were far more important things than the gnawing ache of hunger, not the least of which was a different ache that translated to worry as he stared into space rather than worked on picking apart the reasons  why what had once been a person was then only a collection of remains on the steel table. 

He could not get the curse out of his thoughts, fighting that battle with himself over how to slow the progression of it, how to remove it; August had been educated in magic growing up more so than most familiars but he hardly knew everything. Researching was not the problem, the worrisome thought in the back of his mind of not knowing if there was a solution was what had him on edge. Could a person's own power poison them? Could it pull them apart nerve by nerve and breath by breath? So many months trying to save Ellery from himself and perhaps it was the very core of the man that was destroying him in slow degrees. 

To go that far and have it all be for nothing?

Not for nothing. There were months and memories now, things that could not be replaced and had made him a better person for it. Sank into his skin and pooled in the depths of his very being, because somehow those spider-web delicate moments were wrapped around spots he could not reach and barely understood. There were places August couldn't name, thoughts he could not speak and images that haunted his dreams that told him that it would never had been for nothing. 

That didn't mean he was willing to let those memories be all that was left, the dusty breeze painting his lungs and filling up the empty spaces; he simply couldn't lose the witch. 

August couldn't understand why it had to be so difficult though, why life had to make impossible demands. If there was anyone who deserved to find peace it was Ellery, if anyone was a good person it was him. If anyone in the half-ruined world stood as someone who still had enough of themselves to deserve more than what they had been dealt it was the witch. It was enough to make August bristle and his hands curl into fists over anger he had nowhere to direct. 

The spike of pain brought him back to himself, numb thoughts as his eyes dropped to the realization that his palm had closed on the table and the other one had fallen to rest amid the jagged flesh and splintered bone, snapping a thin rib with the force of the grip and embedding it deeply enough to cut a deep furrow over his skin. 

In a distant way he simply watched the well of blood spill from the gash and mix with what already stained his skin; for as long as he could recall he had been soaked to the very marrow of his bones with blood one way or another. 

How was he supposed to save anyone when he'd felt life stop under his fingers in the past, seen it grow dim? His sins were his own, they bled over into everything he was but his care in keeping those stains from marring the good in Ellery was one of the hardest battles August had ever fought. He would never be a good person, not deep down in the darkest parts of himself. 

But lately it felt like the breeze stirred more in those spots, brushing away some of the rust and destruction, filling his tired lungs with just a little more ease than he had ever felt. It wasn't magic, not really, it was simply the faith he saw when Ellery looked at him and made him feel like he was a different person because the witch himself believed it to be true. 

But the blood still ran the same dark color, the same thick splatter to the floor at his feet, more visceral, honest, and cruel than what faith could offer. Even then he felt his stomach shift and the want rise in that back of his mind, testing his resolve and urging him to abandon the thoughts of the witch in favor of temptation in rich, coppery red. 

It was always going to be one or the other; the addiction or the witch's gentle presence, because both could not exist within the same frame and there was no way to fit both into his life. The ugliness of it was his poison the same way the magic was Ellery's and the only difference was perhaps there was a way to save one of them from the slow destruction eager to bring them to their knees.

Though he would have resorted to that if he thought it might have helped, August didn’t even believe in such a thing as higher powers when it came right down to it but if prayer to some stronger force than himself would have given Ellery a chance he would have gladly sank to his knees in praise or pleading, whatever the universe demanded.  How it had burrowed so deep within him, the want to guard the man, still wasn’t something he fully understood but could no longer deny to himself. 

A step back and August found himself against the wall, sliding down and knees drawn up as he tipped his head back against the solid surface with his decline. Bare elbow resting on his knee, stark white sleeves shoved up clear of his forearms and the road map of scars hidden under the ink that decorated his skin greeted him with the drop of his forehead against his arm. In the silence only the soft dripping reached his ears with each slide of crimson that trickled off the tips of his outstretched fingers; he listened and felt the rhythm of his heartbeat within that sound. He couldn't afford to be this weak, not then, not when there was someone else who needed him to be stronger. The fear in Ellery's voice had burned so deeply, the lie had been an easy one; it would all be okay. 

Maybe it wouldn't, not really, but he would lie until his last breath if it did anything to ease that fear. He couldn't do it for himself, not when he knew the stakes, but he would for him. Carry the burden if it offered a chance.

Eventually it wore him down, drop by drop and the building scent in the air and August lifted his heavy head, tired eyes, staring at the weeping wound. Control was always necessity, knowing his limits, knowing how to keep it in check. He had to pick his battles and some terrible part of him wanted to argue that it was one he shouldn't have to fight. That what was wrong by the opinions of everyone else didn't mean it always was and he might have believed it if not for knowing how some truths would have wiped the faith right out of Ellery's eyes when he looked at him. 

It was the monster roaring in his ears and screaming in the pit of his stomach, razors clawing up his insides with stress-laced fixation. He couldn't do anything if he couldn't focus, if his thoughts were tainted red and he could see nothing but the color of life seeping out when he shut his eyes. 

Drawing his hand closer August exhaled with a rough sound and licked away the trailing fluid across his fingertips. Familiar, almost soothing in some twisted way, the taste lingered and it hardly mattered what part of it was himself and what part was decorating his skin from the corpse nearby when it all really have the same waxy, slick sensation across his tongue and the same welcoming, blissful metallic twinge. 

His insides ached, his head hurt and his veins were full of broken glass; no resolution was coming easily that day. He couldn't afford to waste his energy fighting battles for himself when he had more important reasons to fight them. Tightening his fist shut, nails driven into the wound to offer a distraction in the pain, his eyes drifted towards the ceiling before they wandered back to trace the lines of the steel table. 

He just wasn't there, a million miles away from that place and somewhere he needed to be to set his resolve back to iron. There were answers, he would find him. 

But first, damnable as it might have been, he was so hungry.

[fallencomrade-a]

𝐂 𝐎 𝐑 𝐎 𝐍 𝐀   𝐑 𝐀 𝐃 𝐈 𝐀 𝐓 𝐀  a  drabble  based  on  this  post  ( x ) can be turned into a thread by request.

     THEY HAUL HIS LIFELESS BODY INTO A DARK ROOM,  handling  him  the  same  way  a  proud  hunter  might  drag  in  his  latest  kill,  his  latest  TROPHY.  they  are  pleased  with  their  triumph,  but  the  muscle  required  to  take  down  such  a  beast  certainly  demanded  a  price.  TWELVE  MEN,  it  had  taken  twelve  men  and  a  locked  door  -  and  they  had  just  barely  managed  to  SUBDUE  him.  just  barely.  they  are  all  in  bad  shape,  the  majority  of  the  strike  team  absent  due  to  serious  injuries  that  required  immediate  attention.  rumlow,  disregarding  his  own  injuries,  the  tremendous  PAIN  livid  inside  his  own  body  ( ORDER  ONLY  COMES  THROUGH  PAIN  )  refuses  to  miss  this  though.  he  will  lick  his  wounds  later.  now,  it  is  time  to  bask.  

     ‘  heavy  fucker ,  ’  he  laments  as  he  dumps  the  body  into  the  reinforced  steel  chair  bolted  to  the  floor.  he  begins  the  arduous  process,  starting  with  the  leather  restraints.  he  wraps  them  around  each  arm  and  leg,  as  well  as  around  the  torso.  next  come  the  magnetized  cuffs  which  clamp  tightly  around  wrists  &&  ankles.  they  will  hold,  developed  and  proven  to  withstand  super  -  soldier  strength,  tested  on  some one thing  similar.  the  drugs  they  pump  into  his  body  have  been  tested  just  the  same,  and  if  his  serum  works  anything  like  theirs,  the  man  should  not  wake  until  they  are  ready  for  him  ;;  until  they  PERMIT  him  to  do  so.  rumlow  wraps  chains  around  each  limb,  just  to  be  safe.      

     once  finished,  he  glides  his  tongue  over  the  blood  pooling  from  his  split  lip,  and  spits  the  taste  of  it  out  at  his  prisoner’s  feet,  finally  stepping  away.  pulling  his  phone  free,  rumlow  dials  a  single  number.  ‘  connect  me  to  pierce ,  ’   he  orders,  heated  eyes  burning  as  he  glances  back  at  the  body  in  the  chair.  

      ‘  SIR.  we  have  him.  steve  rogers  has  been  CONTAINED.  ’

     rumlow  had  wanted  to  KILL  rogers.  (  for  personal  reasons  and  selfish  delights,  more  than  anything  else  )  but  he  also  understands  how  DANGEROUS  the  captain  is.  he  has  worked  alongside  him  now  for  a  while,  and  knows  the  RISK  keeping  him  alive  poses.  but  pierce  had  been  very  clear  with  his  orders.  he  wanted  the  captain  taken  in  ALIVE,  seemingly  confident  ‘ guts  and  glory ’  here  could  be  convinced  to  cooperate.  rumlow  is  doubtful,  but  questioning  pierce  is  not  in  his  best  interest.  whatever  the  secretary  has  up  his  sleeve,  it  is  time  to  start  putting  it  into  motion.   convincing  rogers  will  not  be  easy.  

            whatever  his  hand  is,  it  better  be  good. 

      THEY LEAD THEIR LIFELESS SOLDIER INTO A COLD ROOM,  handling  him  the  same  way  a  medical  professional  might  examine  a  CORPSE  -  with  cold,  clinical  hands.  they  remove  the  thermal  suit  clinging  to  his  trembling  body,  the  material  still  cold  with  the  lingering  breath  of  stasis.  they  hose  him  down  and  scrub  his  skin  raw.  the  technicians  spend  a  great  amount  of  time  washing  his  body,  which  is  different  -  but  if  the  soldier  notices,  he  does  not  say  anything.  the  asset  does  not  question.  they  order  him  to  sit  down  in  a  chair,  and  so  he  sits.  they  pull  out  a  blade.  no  -  it  is  a  razor.  the  soldier  expects  them  to  hand  it  to  him,  to  use  as  a  weapon  during  this  next  mission,  but  they  do  not  assign  it  to  him.  neither  do  they  use  it  for  testing  purposes  -  not  to  poke,  prod  or  slice  into  his  skin.  no,  instead  they  tell  him  to  lean  back.  he  complies.  they  tell  him  not  to  move.  he  complies.  then  they  rub  something  frothy  across  his  face.  they  glide  the  sharp  blade  across  his  skin,  scrapping.  it  doesn’t  hurt… and  that  is  surprising.  the  techs  put  away  the  blade  without  spilling  a  single  drop  of  blood.   

     they  cut  his  hair,  hacking  away  until  there  is  more  on  the  floor  around  them  than  on  his  head.  no  longer  can  he  HIDE  behind  dark,  oily  bangs.  they  are  sheered  away.  they  cut  until  his  hair  no  longer  lays  on  his  shoulders,  no  longer  covers  his  neck  -  and  it  leaves  the  soldier  feeling…  strangely  EXPOSED.  it  is  odd,  different  -  but  the  asset  does  not  question.  one  of  the  technicians  holds  out  a  piece  of  paper,  its  contents  unknown  to  him.  the  asset  does  not  question.  her  dark  eyes  flicker  back  and  forth  between  him  and  the  page  and  after  a  moment,  she  frowns  and  sighs,  shoulders  slumping  with  what  appears  to  be  DEFEAT.  ‘  his  eyes , ’   she  criticizes  and  for  a  brief  moment,  the  asset  wonders  what  it  is  in  his  eyes  that  DISAPPOINTS  her  so.  —  but  the  asset  does  not  question.  she  shrugs  soon  after  anyway,  with  a  dismissive,  ‘  it  will  have  to do.  ’ 

     finally,  they  strap  him  in  the  chair  and  REVIVE  his  mind.  the  ice  is  swept  away,  replaced  with  their  steadfast  CONDITIONING.  the  soldier  is  ACTIVATED,  once  again.  ready  to  comply.   —  &&  when  it  is  finished,  as  his  cerebrum  sparks  &&  flickers  with  electricity,  lightning  scorching  all  passageways  to  his  brain,  while  numbing  everything  else  -  they  prepare  him.  if  he  were  in  his  right  mind,  the  soldier  might  ask  why  they  decide  to  dress  him  in  the  attire  they  choose.  why  they  have  him  tug  on  a  pair  of  dark  jeans  instead  of  the  usual  cargo  pants.  why  they  have  him  in  a  soft,  navy  dark  cotton  shirt  instead  of  the  standard  kevlar  and  tactical  vests.  this  flimsy  long - sleeved  shirt  will  do  little  to  stop  bullets  and  blades.   

                        —  but  the  asset  does  not  question.         

     ONLY A SELECT FEW  are  allowed  inside.  secretary  pierce  certainly  is  not  intimidated  by  an  audience,  but  these  are  delicate  matters.  it  is  important  they  maintain  a  level  of  professionalism.  they  are  situated  in  a  sub – level  basement  located  in  the  underbelly  of  a  large  accounting  firm,  one  owned  &&  run  by  hydra.  it’s  a  well  respected,  legitimate  business.  perfect  record  of  excellence,  fortune  500  company  with  outstanding  company  morals  and  ideals…  and  growing  inside,  beneath  the  guise  -  a  hydra  head  breathes,  thriving.  

     when  pierce  arrives,  security  detail  in  tow,  the  captain  is  just  starting  to  stir.  ‘  his  serum  is  impressive ,  ’  one  doctor  whispers  to  another,  glancing  down  at  his  watch  before  scribbling  notes  onto  his  clipboard.  they  are  eager  to  start  conducting  tests,  but  without  direct  authorization  from  pierce,  all  they  have  been  able  to  collect  thus  far  are  a  few  samples  of  blood.  they  are  also  afraid  to  get  too  close  to  rogers  without  him  being  properly  sedated  &&  restrained,  and  for  good  reason  too.  much  to  the  strike  team’s  chagrin,  the  scientists  were  privy  to  the  elevator  footage.  hydra  values  their  minds,  not  their  muscle  ;;  they  are  of  no  use  DEAD.  so  for  now,  they  will  maintain  their  distance,  jotting  down  what  little  details  they  can  obtain  based  on  observation  alone,  tucked  safely  behind  the  pointed  guns  of  what  remains  of  the  strike  team.  sectioned  off  in  the  middle  of  the  room  sits  a  makeshift  holding  cell,  the  space  completely  surrounded  by  sturdy  metal  bars.  at  its  center  sits  two  chairs  -  one  occupied  and  bolted  to  the  floor,  the  other  empty  and  unbounded.  it  is  an  accustomed  outlay,  especially  for  hydra.  still,  the  doom  and  gloom  of  it  all  still  makes  pierce  huff  and  shake  his  head  a  little.     

     POLISHED SHOES STEP FORWARD,  into  the  cage.  the  door  closes  behind  him.  he  removes  his  suit  jacket,  draping  the  expensive  material  over  the  back  of  the  unoccupied  chair.  a  single  light  hangs  over  the  cell,  illuminating  the  small  space  while  casting  the  surrounding  area  into  thick  darkness,  allowing  the  others  to  observe  without  being  seen.  but  not  pierce,  no.  alexander  pierce  wants  to  be  seen  ;;  wants  to  be  heard.  the  man  is  optimistic,  pleasant  even  when  steve  finally  wakes  up.  he  remains  patient,  reasonable  -  welcoming  the  captain’s  VITRIOL  with  calm  understanding.  ‘  i  would  like  us  to  become  business  partners,  captain.  i  was  not  lying  when  i  shook  your  hand  and  said  it  was  an  HONOR.  ’   but  steve  is  quick  to  spit  back,  ‘  you  killed  nick  fury  ’  and  that  has  pierce  amused,  knowing  smile  stretching  across  thin  lips.  ominously,  he  responds,  ‘  not  me.  ’ 

     but  pierce  should  know  swaying  the  captain  will  require  more  than  just  a  simple  invitation.  steven  rogers  is  STUBBORN  with  ferocious  tenacity  and  even  stronger  ideals.  no,  it  will  require  something  a  little  more  refined.  something  far  more  personal  than  the  promise  of  money  or  power.  hell,  even  the  prospect  of  saving  billions  from  an  out - of - control  overpopulation  will  not  appeal  to  the  captain.  he  is  too  HONORABLE,  and  when  pierce  points  out  how  they  are  both  fighting  for  the  same  thing  :  PEACE,  the  captain  scoffs  in  his  face.  the  captain  appears  to  be  INCORRUPTIBLE.  steve  rogers  however  is  just  a  man  underneath  all  that  righteousness  -  and  all  men  have  a  price,  a  breaking  point  -  a  weakness,  a  DARK SIDE.  hydra  needs  only  find  a  single  weak  point,  the  smallest  opening  to  burrow  beneath  -  and  then  it  could  grow,  consume,  overpower.  A  PARASITE.  lucky  for  them,  hydra  already  possesses  steve  rogers’  WEAKNESS.

     ‘  we  can  give  you  many  things,  captain.  but  you  don’t  TRUST  us.  i  understand.  maybe  i  could  offer  something  else…  in  exchange  for  your  cooperation ?  ’  

     the  secretary  stands  up  then  and  makes  a  gesture  over  his  shoulder.  the  cell  door  opens  behind  him  with  a  SINISTER  groan  and  in  walks  a  SHADOW.  the  older  man  steps  closer  and  turns,  perching  himself  at  steve’s  side.

            ‘  a  gift,  for  your  COMPLIANCE.  ’  

     A GHOST IS MEANT TO BE UNSEEN.  he  is  a  SHADOW,  meant  only  to  exist  in  the  dark,  chased  away  into  nothing  if  exposed  to  light.  his  presence  is  to  be  felt,  but  never  seen.  to  have  so  many  eyes  on  him  at  once,  it  makes  him  feel  exposed  in  the  worst  ways  possible.  his  skin  crawls  as  he  is  summoned  from  his  hiding  place,  the  heat  of  their  gazes  nearly  BURNING  through  his  composure.  focus,  soldier !  focus !  his  mind  berates,  shoving  him  forward.  his  orders  are  still  unclear,  but  he  has  been  trained  well.  he  knows  to  follow  directions  issued  by  his  handlers  ;;  knows  to  never  speak  unless  addressed  or  given  explicit  permission.  he  knows  to  always  do  as  COMMANDED  and  to  never  question.  they  want  him  inside  the  CAGE  and  so  he  enters  the  cage.  

     he  has  been  watching  this  whole  time,  a  SPECTATOR  and  he  is  ashamed  to  admit  his  mind  has  been  restless.  this  entire  time,  his  stomach  has  been  twisting  tighter  &&  tighter,  to  the  point  of  great  discomfort.  he  has  been  unable  to  identify  a  source,  a  culprit  to  explain  the  pain  -  but  it  hurts.  his  mind  wavers,  lulled  by...  the  voices  (  a  voice  )  in  the  room.  he  tries  to  chase  after  the  calm  DRONE  of  static,  but  he  finds  himself  getting  distracted,  which  is  concerning.  he  had  just  undergone  maintenance,  not  even  an  hour  ago.  it  shouldn’t  be  this  hard  to  concentrate  ;;  and  the  restlessness  in  his  blood  is  a  sign  of  stasis  deprivation.   —  but  he  had  just  come  out,  hadn’t  he?

     SOMETHING IS WRONG.  he  can  feel  it  in  his  bones.  there  is  a  heavy  weight  pressing  down  on  top  of  his  shoulders,  legs  dragging  as  if  chained  to  his  SHADOW.  he  wants  to  go  back.  the  soldier  realizes  with  muted  curiosity  that  he  doesn’t  want  to  step  into  this  cell.  he  wants  to  turn  back  around  and  BEG  to  be  put  back  into  stasis.  —  but  the  asset  does  not  want  and  the  asset  does  not  CHOOSE.  so  he  continues  forward,  despite  the  AGONY  cracking  his  chest  open.  each  step  PULSES  through  him.  he  feels  all  their  eyes  on  him,  but  when  the  captain’s  fall  on  him,  he  IGNITES,  insides  burning  away  into  ASH.              stop.  stop,  stop.  it  HURTS.         

     HE TASTES DEATH ON HIS TONGUE.   he  falters  -  mind  stuttering  into  WHITE  NOISE,  attempts  to  recover  quickly  -  but  he  can  tell  pierce  notices  and  he  is  displeased.  the  captain  is  forcing  a  REACTION  from  the  asset  and  he  doesn’t  know...  why?  for  a  half -  second,  their  eyes  lock  -  and  it  is  an  ONSLAUGHT  of  noise,  emotion,  and  PAIN.  gold  hair,  big  blue  eyes.  dumb  expression.  it  plucks  at  strings  in  the  back  of  his  mind,  a  melody  of  some  kind  whispering  across  his  subconscious  -  tugging  at  memory,  which  immediately  insights  sudden  PAIN.  in  order  to  SURVIVE  this  ordeal,  the  soldier  charges  forward  ;;  he  pulls  away.  eyes  retreat,  dimming  and  with  each  step  forward,  he  grows  more  and  more  distant,  DETACHED  -  until  he  is  empty,  ready  to  be  filled  with  orders.  ready  to  comply.  he  focuses  on  pierce  and  only  pierce.

     pierce  nods  towards  the  chair  and  the  asset  sits.  the  FEAR  is  slowly  draining  from  him,  like  pus  from  a  wound  -  leaving  him  feeling  cold  &&  tired,  but  he  notes  with  a  flare  of  perplexity  that  he  is  AFRAID  of  the  captain.  why  is  that?  he  avoids  both  their  eyes,  instead  choosing  to  look  down,  focus  coming  to  a  stop  on  pierce’s  hands.  they  dim  and  eventually  gloss  over  -  and  the  asset  awaits  orders. 

     pierce  smirks,  pleased.  his  hand  comes  up  to  rest  on  steve’s  shoulder  and  he  squeezes  the  muscle  tightly,  making  an  offer  steve  rogers  cannot  refuse.  ‘  hydra  can  give  you  many  things,  captain.  we  can  even  give  you  your  BEST  FRIEND  back.  ’  

                          ALL  YOU  HAVE  TO  DO  IS  COMPLY.