#also. gauze? bandage? something in his hands that hes just rolling and unrolling as a fidget

[sclangelc]

wsw day 2 - infirmary

mans got a fanny pack first aid kit and hes not afraid to use it (yes he is) (please dont make this kid do first aid)

[drowningbydegrees]

This is my @thewitchersecretsanta gift for @kat-atomic, who mentioned liking modern AU’s with witcher powers etc. and humor. I hope this delivers! Thank you so much @goodheavensgwen for betaing this! <3 Note: This is largely fluffy and ridiculous, but there’s some canon typical mention of blood and injury.

Read on AO3

There are very few things Jaskier can genuinely say he enjoys about working the night shift at the diner. There’s the 3 a.m. rush of customers when all the bars close who usually tip pretty decently. There’s the fact that Triss, the night manager, doesn’t mind if he spends his downtime writing music when his sidework is done. And there’s the occasional regular Jaskier finds himself enamored with.

Like the one on the sidewalk just outside, for instance, who Jaskier privately suspects is some sort of cryptid. With good reason! He only ever seems to turn up in the quietest part of Jaskier’s shift. He doesn’t look old by any stretch of the imagination, and he doesn’t strike Jaskier as the sort to commit to any sort of high maintenance beauty regimen, all of which is at odds with the silvery white hair that falls just a touch past his shoulders. If the hair weren’t noteworthy enough, his unnaturally gold eyes are haunting, like nothing Jaskier has ever seen. Not that he means to look, mind you, but they’re the kind of thing that sticks with Jaskier long after the man is gone. Appearances aside, there’s something about this particular customer that discourages questions and he always pays with cash, so despite coming in on a somewhat regular basis over the last year and a half - not often enough that Jaskier can work out any sort of pattern, but enough that there’s a table Jaskier has more or less decided is his - Jaskier doesn’t even know his name.

The blood is new though.

“Holy mother of- Are you okay?” Jaskier asks when he looks up and sees the man trudging through the door. Is that a limp? It’s hard to tell if he’s hurt or just exhausted. It seems like maybe hurt because that’s definitely blood matting his hair. Probably. Jaskier vaguely remembers hitting his head on the slide when he was little and it looking a bit like that, anyway. And if that’s blood, it suggests that the substance making the guy’s shirt stick unnaturally to his body is also blood, which kinda tracks with the fact that one of the sleeves is ripped to shreds.

The guy freezes, leaving Jaskier with the distinct impression that he’d hoped to come in unnoticed. As much as Jaskier enjoys listening to his gravelly voice, there’s nothing comforting about the reply. “It’s not mine.”

“Right. Okay. That’s- That’s a completely normal and not concerning thing to say. Also, I’m going to go ahead and call bullshit because your arm is… umm. Oh fuck! Your arm. Just, uhh… hang on a sec, okay?” Jaskier rushes off to the kitchen for the diner’s first aid kit, a few bar towels, and, after a hurried explanation to Triss, one of the work uniform button down shirts. First aid isn’t something that was really covered in training, but leaving someone bleeding in the foyer is almost certainly some kind of health code violation. Whatever the case, not wanting his favorite customer to bleed to death in the middle of his shift wins out over entertaining the notion that said customer might possibly be dangerous.

The foyer is empty when Jaskier returns, which admittedly makes more sense than the guy having stayed put. He’s undeniably mysterious, but he doesn’t seem unhinged enough to just wander in here like that without some kind of reason. Jaskier pokes his head into the restroom, assuming the man has gone there and… isn’t wrong. It’s just that he’s also not in a state of dress Jaskier would expect in a public space. The tattered remains of his shirt sit in the sink, and without the fabric to hide it, the gashes at the back of his shoulder, just where it meets his arm, are rather prominent. Oddly, that quells any real concern Jaskier might have had about what events led him here because they look like claw marks rather than anything human. Equally prominent are a really quite alarming number of other scars that litter the man’s back and chest from what Jaskier can see in the mirror.

The man has never struck Jaskier as particularly polite. He speaks very little. He never smiles. He always looks vaguely put upon when Jaskier tries to be nice to him. So it’s strangely endearing to see that, despite Jaskier being pretty sure he communicated he’d be right back, the man still looks sort of surprised to see him. That surprise only grows more visible when he sees the supplies Jaskier is holding. “I thought you might want to get cleaned up.”

The look the man gives him, like he’s expecting some kind of catch, makes Jaskier’s chest ache. Honestly, who does he interact with that getting help when he’s clearly injured is… not the expectation? The guy offers a quiet thanks that is very, very at odds with the whole possible (but probably not) serial killer vibe he’s got going on at the moment when Jaskier sets the supplies on the counter and starts to head back for the door.

“Do you need me to call someone for you… uh, sorry, I don’t actually know your name,” Jaskier finds himself asking, not sure why he can’t bring himself to just leave.

In the mirror the man’s brows crinkle in confusion, or maybe exasperation and he shakes his head. “No.”

“Are you sure?” Jaskier asks, watching the man awkwardly try to balance a pad against his wounded shoulder and wrap gauze around it without nearly enough hands. “It kinda looks like those might need stitches.”

“I said no.” Definitely exasperation this time, probably at Jaskier, but maybe also at his current predicament. Tape would be better than the roll of gauze, but there isn’t any.

“Right. Okay…” The reasonable thing to do would be to go back to work and just leave the guy to it. It’s not his job. They don’t know each other. The guy’s insistence on not wanting him to call for assistance should probably be suspicious. But, Jaskier has never done the reasonable thing once in his entire life and he doesn’t intend to start now. If he can’t get the guy actual, maybe qualified assistance, he also can’t bring himself to walk away. “Can I help?”

The man shifts in obvious discomfort, but eventually he concedes with a terse nod. He silently holds the pad against his shoulder while Jaskier unrolls the gauze and tries very hard to keep his eyes mostly averted. It’s that or Jaskier is going to end up ogling the guy’s quite frankly gorgeous everything and this really doesn’t seem like the time for that.

“Geralt,” the man says sort of out of the blue as Jaskier winds the gauze around the injury. It startles Jaskier into looking up. “My name.”

“Oh!” Geralt. Jaskier repeats it in his head. It’s nice to finally have a name to go with Geralt’s unfairly pretty face. He’s being rude though, Jaskier realizes, and shakes his head and ties off the bandaging. “I’m Jaskier.”

“I know,” Geralt says softly, like it’s some sort of confession.

Right. Of course. He���s probably introduced himself a dozen times. But customers usually forget his name, so it makes Jaskier smile anyway.

“So… Geralt. I don’t want to pry or anything.” The way Geralt tenses, Jaskier is sorry for opening his mouth. But, contrary to what everyone else in his life seems to think, he is not entirely without a self-preservation instinct. He’s not blind to how weird this whole situation is, even though he’s pretty sure Geralt didn’t actually kill anyone. “Did something happen? You’re not in some kind of trouble, are you?”

“No.”

“Right.” It seems whatever strange set of circumstances made Geralt inclined to talk to him has passed. “Well, that’s illuminating.”

Geralt’s expression scrunches like he’s just bitten into a lemon. “It’s not important.”

Inexplicably, that hurts. Not for his own sake. Geralt has no reason to confide in Jaskier specifically. It’s just that it seems like Geralt’s default assumption that he won’t be trusted, coupled with literally everything else Jaskier has seen tonight, paints a sort of lonely, heartbreaking picture. Or, maybe that’s just Jaskier’s inner poet talking. He’s never entirely certain. All the same, he offers what he hopes is a friendly smile. “Suit yourself, but you should know if you don’t tell me, I’m going to make something up and it will be absolutely ridiculous.”

Geralt’s expression smoothes out into a careful sort of indifference. Jaskier is sort of tempted to linger, but there’s really no excuse, and the longer he stays, the more likely Jaskier is to say something that’s just going to embarrass them both. Reluctantly, he steps away. “Well, I’ll just, you know, leave you to it.”

***

By the time Jaskier comes back out into the dining room, Triss looks like she’d been about thirty seconds away from coming in to check on them herself. As he assures her that it’s not actually as bad as he’d first thought, and no she really doesn’t need to call an ambulance or anything, Jaskier finds himself very, very glad he had been in too much of a rush to share his initial concerns with her or he suspects this conversation would be going very differently.

But Triss lets things be, and Jaskier tries to get back to normal.

It’s very convenient, Jaskier thinks, that Geralt always orders the same thing. In retrospect, that might be because he’s some kind of world champion at avoiding conversation at all costs, but Jaskier assumes he’s just a creature of habit. Probably. Either way, Jaskier puts in an order and pours a cup of coffee, glad for something to busy himself with while he waits.

Much to Jaskier’s surprise, Geralt looks more or less himself when he emerges from the restroom. His hair is wet, probably from rinsing the mess out of it, but with long sleeves covering the gash Jaskier had patched up, only the slight unevenness in his step gives away that anything is wrong at all. That and the heavy sigh he breathes out when he finally sits down in the diner booth. Jaskier has heard that one before and wonders if Geralt makes a habit of coming in here when he’s hurting or if that sigh is just one born of exhaustion.

Geralt’s expression does a funny thing when he sees the coffee mug. It might be surprise, but Jaskier can’t think for the life of him why. “Thank you.”

It’s the same quiet, sort of reluctant tone Geralt had thanked him with earlier, and dear lord is no one ever just kind to him or something? Nevermind that this is literally Jaskier’s job. He wants to ask, but he can’t imagine the question going over well, so Jaskier leans against the side of the bench opposite Geralt and smiles, gesturing at the uniform shirt. “It’s a good look. You might have a real future here.”

By some miracle, that pulls what Jaskier thinks might be a smile from Geralt. It’s a small, subtle thing like Geralt isn’t quite certain how the expression fits on his face, and gone almost immediately, but it was there, if just for a second. “I’ll keep it in mind if I ever need a new line of work.”

“I mean, if my line of work tore up my wardrobe like that, I’d probably have noped out already,” Jaskier jokes.

“Hmm,” Geralt replies, staring resolutely into his coffee mug.

“So, I gotta ask,” Jaskier ventures when a few seconds pass and Geralt doesn’t glare at him for lingering. “Not that I mind, but there are like, a dozen places I’d be more apt to patch myself up than a diner bathroom.”

“Everything else is closed,” Geralt says from behind his mug, amber eyes briefly fluttering shut.

“Of course. That explains… Wait. That doesn’t explain anything. There’s literally a hospital two miles down the road. I’d probably-” Jaskier pauses when Geralt’s eyes crack open again, fixating on him. Something about it makes Jaskier far less certain of what he’s saying, and it comes out with a questioning sort of uptick at the end. “You know, try… there?”

“They don’t tend to be keen on my kind,” Geralt replies gruffly.

Jaskier has no idea what that means. “Uhh… uninsured?”

“A witcher.” Geralt glowers at Jaskier, but he says the word like it’s physically painful, a mouth full of broken glass.

Jaskier has never met a witcher, he’s pretty sure, but he’s heard the stories, same as everyone. Witchers are supposedly nearly as dangerous as the creatures they hunt, more monsters than men and never to be trusted. They’re not quiet and unobtrusive and startled by acts of kindness, surely. So, either Geralt is not what he seems or the stories are bullshit, and given the way this particular witcher looks like he’s braced for a blow, Jaskier is willing to bet it’s the latter.

Jaskier can’t help wanting to understand what kind of life Geralt must live that this is where he ends up in the small hours of the morning, injured and seemingly alone. It makes him privately furious, but somehow he doesn’t think the spectacle will be appreciated, even though it’s on Geralt’s behalf. Maybe especially because it’s on Geralt’s behalf, judging by the efforts the witcher goes to to be unobtrusive. So, Jaskier doesn’t say the first thing that comes to mind about how rotten humanity is. Instead, he says the second thing that comes to mind, which is equally unfortunate. “Well, that explains your eyes.”

Geralt’s expression goes stormy, and Jaskier only belatedly realizes he must have taken that as an insult. But about the time Jaskier opens his mouth to explain, Geralt seems to gather that he might have misunderstood. His brows crease as he looks at Jaskier, as if trying to puzzle something out. “What about them?”

“They’re beautiful,” Jaskier blurts out, which, oh that was not what he meant to say at all. Melting through the floor would be great about now. Or maybe disappearing entirely. Really, anything but standing here with Geralt staring at him like he’s grown a second head. Scrambling for an excuse to leave that won’t look like he’s running away - even though he definitely is - Jaskier forces a smile, taking a step backwards. “I’ll just… go get you some more coffee.”

Suddenly discovering his escaped sense of self-preservation, Jaskier doesn’t come back with coffee. His curiosity is tempered by embarrassment, so he stays away until Geralt’s order is up and he has an actual legitimate reason to drift back to the guy’s table. Jaskier does his best to straddle the line between friendly and professional as he sets down the plate. He has every intention of leaving Geralt to eat in peace, so Jaskier startles a little when Geralt speaks up before he can leave. “It was a basilisk.”

“A… like the ‘turn you into stone’ kind of basilisk?” Jaskier turns back and sort of wishes he hadn’t because Geralt looks rather sorry for having said anything.

“That’s just a myth. They don’t do that,” Geralt counters. Jaskier waits for him to expound on that further, but he doesn’t.

Jaskier has never seen a basilisk either, so it seems entirely natural to ask, “Then, what do they do?”

A funny thing happens. To Jaskier’s complete and utter surprise Geralt talks. Not in the teeth pulling miserable way he’s said most everything else, but like it’s a conversation he genuinely doesn’t mind having. Jaskier keeps half an eye on the door, but it’s Monday night, so it’s no great surprise that no one else comes in.

In the absence of other customers to tend to, Jaskier eventually just slides into the seat across from Geralt to listen. It’s not subject matter that Jaskier has ever considered, but it’s interesting if only for how it relates to Geralt. Huffing out a laugh, Jaskier cuts in. “To hear you tell it, people are as stupid and superstitious as they are… unkind. I suppose next thing you’ll be telling me is that vampires don’t actually burn up in the sunlight.”

Geralt pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs for definitely not the first time tonight. Honestly, Jaskier is coming to be just a bit fond of it. “They don’t.”

“Wait, really?”

Jaskier is thrilled to discover he doesn’t even have to press for details. Before he knows it, he’s learned more about vampires than he even thought there was to know. Along with fiends, leshens, and what might possibly be the entire list of contracts Geralt has taken in the last month. There’s a consistent thread through all of it that leaves Jaskier warm and maybe a bit embarrassed that he’d ever thought Geralt could be dangerous. “You don’t talk about them like they’re things you kill.”

“I don’t if I can help it. It’s not their fault humans sprawl out into the places they live.” Geralt thumbs at the handle of his coffee mug, staring at the contents that have long since gone cold.

Desperate to drive off the strange sense of melancholy creeping in, Jaskier grasps for some other direction he can steer the conversation. Hastily, he runs through what Geralt has talked about already, and gets a bit stuck on a concerning thought, given how often the witcher is here. “So, are there a lot of monsters around here?”

Crisis averted, Jaskier thinks. Geralt’s shoulders tense across the table, but at least he doesn’t seem sad anymore. “Not really.”

That really just brings more questions than it answers. “Oh, well that’s a relief, I guess. I’d hate to be out hiking and get eaten by a noonwraith or something.”

“Noonwraiths don’t live in forests. Don’t even live, really. They’re...” Geralt makes a face that Jaskier assumes means he’s caught on that it was a joke. That said, Jaskier admires his commitment to finishing anyway. “More like trapped spirits.”

“You’re the expert,” Jaskier says agreeably, not quite managing to stifle the urge to laugh. “So what is it that keeps bringing you here, then? Do witchers have territories or something? Do you live around here? Actually, no. That’s a stupid question. If you lived around here you wouldn’t have wound up here like that…”

He expects the look of annoyance he seems to have gotten very good at drawing from Geralt so far. What he doesn’t expect is the way Geralt’s gaze darts away, looking at pretty much anything but Jaskier. “No.”

“No what?”

“All of it. This is just on the way to a lot of the places I end up,” Geralt clarifies with a heavy sigh. It’s a lie, Jaskier is pretty sure, because this podunk down isn’t really on the way to anywhere, and the rest of Geralt’s answer confirms as much. “... ish.”

“The coffee isn’t that good,” Jaskier teases. He doesn’t get it, but he does like Geralt, no matter how taciturn the witcher might be.

“It’s not.” Geralt tenses where he sits, and Jaskier thinks maybe he ought not to have pressed. As strange as today has been for him, it’s probably been awful for Geralt. Only Geralt doesn’t look upset. If anything, he ducks his head, a bit sheepish, muttering something under his breath.

Jaskier doesn’t even realize he’s leaned in closer until Geralt’s eyes widen just a fraction. “Sorry. I didn’t catch that.”

The way Geralt scowls, not at Jaskier but just in general, he thinks he’s not going to get an answer. He especially doesn’t think he’s going to get this particular answer, and yet Geralt very abruptly surrenders. “I don’t come here for the coffee.”

Oh. Jaskier bows his head to hide the smile that tugs at his lips. Somehow, it’s comforting to think that Geralt, who faces down monsters and seems generally put together is as awkward as he is. So much so that it takes him a second to even realize Geralt is maybe flirting with him. Definitely trying to judging by the vaguely terrified, deer in the headlights expression on the witcher’s face.

“I’m much better off the clock.” Jaskier immediately slaps a hand over his mouth, but it’s far too late. This is the point where Geralt realizes he’s made a terrible mistake. This is the moment where he decides maybe not to come back.

Whatever Jaskier expects, it’s not Geralt’s laughter, a surprised huff that sprawls out into something more concrete. It’s the loveliest sound Jaskier thinks he’s ever heard, and he can’t even bring himself to mind that it’s a little bit at his expense. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Before Jaskier can say anything, flirtatious or otherwise, there’s the familiar chime of someone coming through the door. Not that he needs the door to alert him. The raucous laughter does a good job on its own. That’d be the 3 a.m. crowd.

“I should… get back to work,” Jaskier reluctantly concedes and he’s pretty sure he doesn’t imagine the faintly disappointed look on Geralt’s face.

“Jaskier,” Geralt murmurs just as Jaskier is about to leave, softly enough he almost misses it. When he turns to look, the witcher’s jaw works for a moment before he says, “Thank you. For all this.”

“Any time,” Jaskier replies, not entirely surprised to find he means it. Even if nothing comes of their newfound camaraderie, maybe he’ll get a song out of it or something.

The 3 a.m. rush keeps him busy after that, and Jaskier only really makes it back to Geralt’s table to refill his coffee and bring him the check. By the time things slow down, Geralt is out the door, which is a good thing, honestly. He’s gotta sleep some time, Jaskier supposes.

Jaskier watches Geralt’s car disappear before he goes to clean up the table. As always, Geralt has left everything neatly stacked (yet another reason he’s Jaskier’s favorite customer). There are a few bills, and it’s only as he’s pocketing them that he notices writing on the receipt Geralt left behind.

A phone number is scrawled across the slip of paper, but it’s the note underneath that makes Jaskier grin as he pockets it for later.

Just in case you run into any noonwraiths in the woods.

(Fic Masterpost)

[samthemarvelfan]

Goodbyes: Chapter Six

Summary: Ella Monroe is the Avengers newest recruit, handpicked by Steve Rogers himself. Indebted to him for reasons unknown, Cap pairs her up with Bucky Barnes. He is tasked with training her to relearn and hone the skills that have long since rusted. Bucky is cold and distant, and Ella can’t seem to break through the wall he’s built up for decades. He sees something in her though, and it scares him to death. Has the fate of these two strangers been sealed? …or will they always be longing…

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x OFC, feat Steve Rogers, Sam Wilson

Warnings: DARKER THEMES AHEAD. Angst, Bucky is a dick, mutual pining, self sabotage, male-on-female violence, description of injuries, PTSD, mentions of medical talk? Sloooooow burn ahead. Fluff!

A/N: guys guys GUYS! Get ready for a lil fluff! The balls gonna get rollin’ and its a non-stop ride now. I hope you all enjoy, any and all feedback is appreciated! <3 Happy Valentine’s Day!

Taglist: @iheartsebastianstan @jjlizz @stuckysbabe @sk493494 @lefoutoir @nickangel13 @marvelismysafezone @lilulo-12 (strikethrough means the tag didn’t work! I’m sorry!)

Ow. That’s the only thought going through your head. Your eyes open and judging by the IV’s in your arm, you’re in a hospital. The events that landed you here start flooding your mind. You remember the HYDRA base, the agents, and the pain, but where is everyone? Where’s Steve? Sam? Where’s Bucky?

You sigh, Bucky.

He’d been so mad at you for ignoring him...a commanding officer. You’re in a huge amount of trouble—no doubt about that. You decide now isn’t the time to think about that, after all you were just shot.

You wanted to know if you’d dreamt him carrying you into the jet. If it was all just delirium from blood loss when you thought he was caring for you, assuring you that you’d be okay. You wanted to see him. Hell you needed too.

“Shit...” you seethe. Your right arm is in a sling and your shoulder is bandaged tightly. You scoot attempting to shimmy your body up so you could sit up some more. The sound of the door opening caught your attention, and when you saw him walk in you almost fainted.

Sergeant Barnes entered your hospital room, two water bottles in hand, dressed in black sweats with a tight, black cotton shirt. He’s being quiet as to not wake you. When he realizes you’re up he freezes, though. Unsure if he should be there at all.

“Hey...” you practically whisper. He says nothing, but takes this as an approval of his presence. There’s a chair next to your bed... right next to your bed. So close that the arm of the chair is indenting the side of mattress. Bucky grips the chair and moves it out from the bed a foot or two, then sits in it.

“Where am I?” You ask him quietly. It is then you notice that his jacket had been hanging on the chair he moved from your bed. Had he been here while you were asleep?

He opens the top of one of the water bottles, and hands it to you. “You’re at the compound. This is the med unit.” He speaks softly.

You take a sip of the cold water, relishing the hydration it gives your body. “I didn’t even know we had a medical unit on-site.” You say in an attempt to make conversation.

He stops to lock his gaze on yours. “And you wouldn’t have, had you just listened to me last night.” He sounds annoyed with you already, but also worried.

“Sam was in trouble. Steve didn’t respond to his distress call and neither did you, I did what I thought needed to be done.” To you it was simple. Your friend was in trouble, and you helped him.

“You defied a direct order, Ella.” There he goes, using your name again. “There could be serious consequences to that. If I wanted to, I could have you dismissed from the Cadet program all together.” His tone was serious but he wasn’t threatening you, he was just stating a fact.

You cleared your throat, before looking at him and fiddling with the head of your shirt. “Is that what you want?” You ask.

Why wouldn’t that be what he wants? He makes it pretty clear you’re a huge thorn in his side, and he doesn’t enjoy your company. This is an easy out for him, get rid of you and ease his work load in the process.

He smiled softly to himself. Smiled? Was that a smile on those perfect lips?

“No,” he said softly. “I just—“ 

Bucky was cut off by a tap at the door, causing him to stand quickly and move away from you even more.

“Knock-Knock...” You knew that voice. “Hey Ella, how are you doing?” Steve asks, sitting at the edge of your hospital bed.

You smile at him, unsure of what you’ve done in your life to deserve such a good friend. “I’m okay I promise. I’m just so sorry for all the trouble I caused.” You glance to Bucky, who’s gaze seemed to be locked on your shoulder.

“Can we get you anything?” Steve asks sincerely.

You shake your head, “I’m okay. I swear, I’m not looking forward to the scar this is gonna leave, but at least Sam is okay.”

Sergeant Barnes’ demeanor changed suddenly. You felt the tension in the room build and you didn’t like it. Why does he do this when other people are around?

“Sergeant Barnes,” you call to him, when his eyes meet yours you feel you heart do back-flips. How can someone be so gentle one moment and so cruel the next?

“Thank you for staying with me, and for helping me last night. I don’t know what would have happened had it not been for—“

He interrupts you, “Get this straight, Cadet. Out there—that’s the real world. The threats were dealing with are real,”

His eyes shift between yourself and Steve, who is looking at his friend with disappointment.

“The consequences are too. You get hurt, or worse...” Bucky’s jaw clenched. “The shit storm comes down on me, and people wonder why I put up with a recruit who can’t follow a simple instruction in the first place.”

Your heart falls into your stomach. “All I can do is apologize, Sergeant.” What else can you say? He clearly doesn’t wanna hear excuses, so there’s no point in trying to defend yourself.

“Despite all that,” Steve starts, “You did great out there. I don’t know if Sam,” He looks to Bucky, “or any of us would be here if you didn’t take the initiative.”

A small smile creeps across your lips, “Thanks, Cap.” The wound in your shoulder starts to throb from your elevated blood pressure. You grit your teeth, adjusting yourself on the cot.

“You’re sure you don’t need anything?” Steve asked, guilt painting his word. He rested his hand on yours, earning a stern glare from Bucky. You watch him subtly out of you peripherals, his jaw was clenched as was his metal fist.

You close your eyes momentarily, wrestling with the pain you feel in your shoulder.

“I’m alright. I just need...time.”

Bucky scoffed. “Time? You need to learn to listen to orders.”

“Buck—“ Steve started, removing his hand from yours.

He continued, “You wouldn’t be in a hospital if you could follow a simple command. You risked everyone’s safety because you’re too stubborn to do as you’re told.”

My eyes narrowed at Sergeant Barnes. Why does he do this? He treats you so differently when Steve is around, and you’re about fed the-fuck up.

“Ya know what? You’re absolutely right.” You say firmly, attempting to stand from the bed.

“Ella, just relax. He didn’t mean—“ Steve interjected.

“No Cap, I know exactly what he means.” You got to your feet; pride being the only thing hiding the pain from your face.

“Sergeant Barnes has made it very clear from the beginning what he thinks of me. What was it you said a few weeks back? Oh right, that I’m incompetent, I’m lazy, and I’m spoiled. I’m a rookie who would run from a fight the minute it started.”

Steve’s thumb and forefinger pinched the bridge of his nose, before looking at his friend. He subtly shook is head at Bucky, who kept his eyes locked on you, jaw tightly clenched.

“Guess what Sarge,” you say with disdain, gesturing to your shoulder. “I didn’t run did I?”

Bucky doesn’t speak, and his gaze on you is unyielding. “From now, keep your two-faced ass away from me.” You felt that all too familiar sting prick your eyes as you rip the IV from your arm. “You don’t know a God damn thing about me, Barnes.”

You pushed by them both, finally allowing the hot tears to stain your face as you head for your room.

“Mother...fucker...” You groan. You’re attempting to change your bandages, but unable to get it wrapped fully around your shoulder. Even with a mirror, it was impossible to do using your opposite hand.

You almost had it when a knock at the door made you jump. “Shit! Yeah, what is it?” You call, looking to the door.

The door opened slowly, revealing a casually dressed Bucky on the other side of it. You turned your back immediately, tending to your bandages again.

“What do you want?” You sneer.

He was quiet for a few seconds. You almost didn’t think he was going to say anything, until that familiar, irritated sigh passed through his lips.

“Christ, let me help you.” He said taking a few steps into your room.

You groaned. “I do not need your help.”

He scoffed. “Fine. Wrap your bandages poorly and get that wound infected.” He knew you wouldn’t protest, and shut your bedroom door.

You sigh, rolling your eyes so hard you thought they’d get stuck. You stood from the seat you had taken at your desk, walking up to him with as much attitude as you could muster and shove the gauze into Bucky’s chest. The force doesn’t move him an inch. “Just hurry up.” You command.

He unrolls the gauze, ripping it with his teeth when he deems it long enough. Bucky looks at the half-assed job you did on yourself and let’s out a chuckle.

“What is so damn funny?” You ask, annoyed to your core.

“Nothing, I just think it’s ridiculous you’d risk losing an arm for the sake of your pride.” He jested.

“What, not something you’d recommend?” You joke, nodding to his metal appendage.

He lets out a breath of laughter, “Not exactly, no.”

Bucky undoes you’re bandages, watching the pain form on your face as he moves over the open wound.

“Shit...” you intake a sharp breath of air causing him to pause. He watches you grip the edge of the table so hard, your knuckles go white.

He softly grips the spot above your elbow. “Just...take a deep breath. I’ll move as fast as I can.“ Bucky’s voice coaxes the tension from your muscles, and you relax.

Doing as he says, you inhale deeply through your nose and out through your mouth. Bucky attempts works quickly, seeing the discomfort in your face. The rough tips of his fingers cause chills to go through your body. He notices, and you hear him swallow hard.

The skin he passes over is burning, calling out for him to touch you again. You feel his warm breath on your neck, as you shudder. His body heat keeping your muscles relaxed.

“Almost done. Keep breathing.” He whispers in your ear. The smoothness in his voice coats your eardrum like honey, sending your body into a hypnotic buzz.

When he finishes he places his right hand on your bicep. His thumb stroking the smooth skin of your arm a few times. “All set, Els.” He speaks, using his nickname for you again.

You spin around to see he’s mere inches from you. “That um, that’s perfect.” You whisper. Your eyes flicker over his lips, and his do the same to yours. 

He’s so handsome. You think, Ya know, when he’s not being a total dick.

He stands to his feet quickly, breaking the intimate trance you shared. He disposed of the used bandages, and you realize that you indeed needed more help than you were willing to admit.

“Thank you.” You mumble in his general direction. You hated this, how you wanted to forgive him for all the horrible things he said to you and about you.

“You’re welcome.” He says softly.

Another moment of silence passes between you two. This is the Bucky you wanted all the time. This Bucky was kind and gentle and actually cared about you, or at least he made it seem like he did.

“So why did you come here? To my room? The last time you were here, you made it clear you didn’t wanna see me again.” You ask.

“That’s not true.” He said quickly defending himself. “You left the med unit before you were suppose to, I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Well as you can see, I’m fine.” You retort.

He looks at the ground for a moment. “I’m glad.”

You nod, as a sigh escapes your lips. The way he affects you isn’t insignificant. It means something, at least to you.

“Bucky, what are we doing?” You ask softly.

He doesn’t protest as you use his name, but rather looks at you confused. “What do you mean?”

You stand with a scoff, “This! I mean here you are, in my room...again. We’re alone and it’s private and it’s intimate so you’re being,” he steps closer as you fumble over your words, “I don’t know, you’re being the guy I wish you were all the time. When we get around people and it’s like you can’t stand the sight of me.”

He takes a step towards you again.

“I wanna know where I stand with you.” You say shyly.

He swallows hard, “This is the second time you’ve been hurt on my watch.” His face was pained as he looked at your wound.

You reach out for his hand instinctively, trying to show him that it’s not his fault. When your hand grasps his, he gently pulls you into him, playing with your fingers for a moment.

“I don’t know how to stay away from you. I’m trying, Doll. Really I am. Every time you’re around me you’re in danger and this,” he gestured to you shoulder, “This just proves it.”

He’s holding your hand with both of his now, “I want to keep you safe.”

“I’m okay, Bucky. I promise.” Is all you can say.

A breath of laughter leaves his lips, “You’re always okay, aren’t you?”

You smile, and nod. “I am...but I’m better when you’re around. Like this,—this feels...”

Bucky held you closer, encroaching your small frame with his. He’s mere inches from you now.

“It feels right, Buck.” You say, look up at him through your lashes.

He drops your hands gently, and cups your cheek with his right, holding your waist with his cool left one.

He swallows hard as he presses his forehead to yours, “I know it does, Doll. I know.”

You’re gripping his arms as he holds you. His eyes closed, breathing deeply. 

“What are you doing to me, Ella?” He whispered so low, if he wasn’t holding you, you wouldn’t have heard it.

A small smile graced your lips, “I could ask you the same thing, Sarge.”

Bucky holds you like that for a moment or two, before he gently lets you go and takes a step backward. He ran his hands over his face and through his hair.

He sighed thoughtfully, “Don’t think because you’re injured it excuses you from training. You may not be able to do hand to hand combat, but we will train your non-dominant arm to do everything your dominant one can.”

Ah, there he is. Reminding you once again that he is your commanding officer and you are his...burden.

Despite his words, a smile graced your face. “Y-you’re training me?”

He nods, and you notice the corners of his mouth turn up. “Yes. At least that way I’ll be able to keep an eye on you, and try and get some of Sam’s sloppy habits outta your head.”

“What time?” You ask happily.

He looks at you. His cerulean eyes mapping your shoulder up to your face. He reaches out and strokes your cheek with a smile, “7 A.M. Not a minute later.”

You stand from the edge of your bed, “Sir yes Sir.”

“Goodnight, Els.” He whispered.

You smiled softly, “G’night, Buck.”

That night, you had the best sleep you’ve had since being here.

...and so did Bucky.

Chapter Seven: Left

[cmncisspnandmore]

Living Blood Bank

Pairing: Sam Winchester X Reader

Warnings: Blood, gore, sadness, fluff, Sam being a puppy. Dean being a little bit of a dick but only for a second.

“Dean!” A tall man with brown hair, a green flannel and a gun pointed directly at your face yelled. You shook violently in the corner of the small room you were confined to. Weeks maybe even months before you were walking home from your shift at the local 24 hour diner, when a man and woman in dark clothing grabbed you from the side alley by your house. When you regained consciousness they you had a chain around your wrist that tethered you to the wall. Over the course of the next few months they had periodically come in and bite you, sucking your blood. The woman had explained that something about to smelt sweet and pure, that you were the best one they’ve had yet. The first day, the vampires (as you concluded they were), had another girl held in the room with you but when she wouldn't stop screaming they killed her, and promised to do the same to you if didn't cooperate. 

“Sam?” The man who you assumed was Dean rounded the corner, gun also drawn. 

“She a vamp?” He moved closer, as the taller one lowered his gun, and took a small step towards you. You watched with wide eyes as he knelt down to your level, his arm reaching out and grabbing your left arm, he glanced down at the 30-40 bite wounds that littered the length of your arm. 

“No, she was their blood bag…” He reaches towards you and you shrink back against the wall. 

“P-Please.. Don't hurt me too, i’ll behave… I won't disobey.” You croak as a waterfall of tears slide down your cheeks. 

“We aren't going to hurt you,” the taller one in front of you replied softly, as the other lowered his gun and pulled a lock pick set from his jacket pocket. 

“Sammy, she’s chained to the wall like a damn animal.” He knelt down next to you and grabbed your right arm that was still tightly shackled to the wall. A few moments later the heavy chain fell to the ground with a loud thud, causing you to jump. 

“What's your name?” Dean asked as he held his hand out to you, his green eyes roaming over you tattered outfit, your nametag from the diner had been ripped from the blouse leaving a gaping hole over your left breast. Through the whole dried blood coated your skin, they hadn’t left very much of your body untouched. 

“Y/n… whats the date?” You ask as they help you to your feet, you had lost count of the days. For all you knew it had been a year since they took you. 

The men exchanged a look, “February 16th,” Sam replied and fresh tears poured. 

5 months. You had been there for 5 months. 

“C’mon let's go get you cleaned up.” Dean gruffly said as sam helped you walk out of the old house, and towards a shiny black car. 

“Who are you guys? Where are the vampires that took me?” 

“We’re Sam and Dean winchester. We’re hunters.” Sam guided you over to the back seat and you sat down, shivering against the cold weather. 

“Hunters? Like you hunt deer and stuff?” you cock your head to one side, as Dean lets out a small laugh. 

“No we hunt monsters, like those bastards who took you,” he glanced in the rearview as he cranked the heat for you. You ran your hands up and down your bloody and scarred arms, wincing as you hit a fairly new bite mark. 

“Oh.. okay.” You turn to look out the window as he pulls away from the old house and starts down the road. 

Sam turns in the passenger seat and glances at you, “Why did you ask what the date was?” 

“Because i needed to know how long I was gone for…” you down at your hands, and your stomach turns at the dried blood stuck to them. It was your blood, but you never thought you would see so much of it. 

“How long were you gone for?” Sams brown eyes study you.

“Five months, i was taken on my way home from work from the 24 hour diner.” You glance up, “Now im sure I don't have a job, or a place to go… I don't think anyone is looking for me anymore either. They probably all assume im dead.” Tears splash your chest stinging the open wounds. 

“They held a funeral for you last month.. An empty casket.. “ Sam looks down, remembering the article he read about you.

“If I go back, they’ll think im crazy.” You laugh shaking your head, and Sam looks over at Dean for a moment then back at you. 

“Sammy, we need to talk about what you're thinking before you say anything.” Dean mutters to his brother as he pulls into the motel parking lot. 

“C’mon lets get you cleaned up okay? Then we can talk.” Sam opens the door and helps you out of the car and into the Motel room. It was one of those pay by night places that was pretty sketchy if you do say so yourself.

“The shower is right in that room, let us know if you need any help, once you wash off the dirt and blood we can assess the wounds that need to be stitched and bandaged.” Sam gave you a soft smile and you tried to return it, but failed. 

You walk into the small bathroom and turn on the water, while the water heats up you carefully peel off the tattered uniform. As you chuck it into the trash, you glance in the mirror hanging on the wall, and gasp. Hundreds of bite marks litter your skin, some old and scarred other new and shiny as blood pools in them. Your hands fly to cover your mouth to try to contain the sobs that wracks your chest. 

“Y/n? Are you alright?” Sams deep voice calls from the other side of the flimsy door.

“Y-Yeah, just a second,” you call back as you step into the hot water, and yelp as the water hits the fresh wounds.

“Im gonna open the door and leave some clothes you can wear on the counter, change into those and when you’re done we’ll patch you up.” Sam's voice changes as he pushes the door open, and you use your hands to delicately scrub off the dirt and dried blood. The hot water felt good, but eventually it ran cold and you were forced to get out. With a sigh you turn off the water and dry off as gingerly as possible. Trying to avoid snagging the towel on any of the scabbed wounds. 

On the counter rests a pair of black sweatpants that look to be 4 sizes too big for you and a grey shirt. Slipping both of them on you roll the sweatpant so they will stay on your hips and tie up the shirt so you can walk without it hanging down past the middle of your thighs. With a nervous sigh you open the bathroom door, Dean is sitting at the table with a beer in his hand as Sam places a piece of gauze over a cut on his shoulder blade. On the table a bunch of medical supplies is strewn about, along with various bottles of alcohol. Sam glances at you as you step cautiously into the main area of the motel room. 

“Hey, how was your shower?” He smiles, Dean looks up and his gaze trails along your arms. You see him swallow thickly and pull out a chair next to him, “It was okay… it stung more than I'd like to admit.” You push some of your wet hair behind your ear.

“C’mere sweetheart we gotta start patching you up, are your arms and chest the only places they got it you?” Dean patted the chair he pulled out before standing and grabbing a roll of gauze and antibiotic ointment. 

With a shake of your head, you walk over and sit down in the chair, as Sam presses a glass of whiskey into your hand. 

“Drink this, its gonna hurt im not going to lie to you.” With a small nod you tip the glass back and the smooth liquid burns your throat as it goes down. Finishing it in one large swig, you place the cup down on the table. 

Sam leans over and refills the glass, “We’ll work on your arms first and then we’ll move on, just tell us if you need a break, okay?” 

You pick up the glass again and drink the contents, “Okay…” 

You brace yourself as dean picks up a bottle of rubbing alcohol and pours it onto one of the bite marks, it burns, worse than when they actually bite you. Sam and Dean go about pouring disinfectant in the open wounds, taking their time to make sure each one is thoroughly cleaned and bandaged. Every once in awhile when they would get to a particularly fresh one and you couldn't help but cry out at the pain, Sam would freeze momentarily. 

After the first 30 minutes of them working on cleaning and wrapping your arms the whiskey you had consumed at the beginning starts to dull the pain. Your arms throb and ache but it was tolerable now. 

“You’ve gotta remove your shirt darlin’” Sam reaches for the hem of your shirt, and your cheeks flush bright red. Sure you’d been naked in front of guys before, but not two men at once. With the way the whiskey was making your senses feel muddled you weren’t sure if you could keep all your thoughts to yourself. Especially since the last 15 minutes you have been having a very hard time not blurting out that you found Sam and his hazel eyes completely enticing. Though he was built like a freaking tree he moved with grace, and were completely infatuated with his movements. 

With a small nod you allow Sam to pull the shirt over your head, leaving you in your plain black bra, you watch as his face physically pales at the sight of your abdomen. Its littered with marks and not all of them were bite marks. You had been tortured the first few weeks they had you, they said it was to make sure you knew what would happen if you disobeyed. Cigarette burns, knife marks, scratches, stab wounds, oil burns, and much more scattered all across your flesh. 

“It’s okay Sam. Most of it doesn’t hurt anymore.” You reach out and grab his hand, he pulls his gaze from your chest. 

“ ‘m sorry we didn't find you sooner,” he shakes his head, his brown hair falling into his eyes. 

Dean clears his throat from beside you, “You’re gonna have to lay down for us to do the rest, im sure your legs are in the same condition.” 

With a small nod, you stand up from the chair, unrolling the sweat pants you let them fall to the ground, and move to the bed. You lay back against the pillows and watch and Sam and Dean share a look before Sam rubs his hand across his face, and comes to sit by your head.

“Some of these are infected. Deans gonna have to get everything out of them, its gonna hurt a lot, and you’ll probably pass out, but you won't be able to sit still, so i'm gonna hold you down so he can finish it as fast as possible, okay?” He sits you up slightly, placing himself behind your shoulders and rests his hands against them looking down at you. 

With teary eyes you look up at him, “Okay,” Sam brushes his fingers across your cheeks catching the tears. 

“You’ll be okay, i won't leave you.” He gives you a watery smile, as Dean situates himself at your hips.

“I trust you Sam, you saved me.” His rough palm cups your cheek and a faint blush creeps onto his cheeks. 

“Ready kid?” Deans gruff voice pulls you from the trance Sams hazel eyes put you in. 

“Ready.”

Sam pulls a washcloth from off the nightstand and presses it into your mouth, and then grabs your shoulders and holds them firmly. You glance at him and then at Dean and give a short nod. Taking a deep breath Dean pours rubbing alcohol onto a nasty bite wound and you scream into the rag, your voice muffled by it. Dean then uses his fingers to press against the wound pushing the infection out and you start to thrash around. You had never felt pain like this in your life. It was like someone had taken a hot poker and jabbed it into your stomach, and was pressing against it, driving it deeper into you. Sams grip tightens as hot tears pour down your cheeks. The pain continues for what feels like hours but it was probably only seconds, before it happens again. Black spots dance in your vision, and the last thing you remember before you pass out is Sams hazel eyes staring back at you. 

“Sammy, she’s not a hunter,”

“I know Dean, but we can’t just leave her on the side of the road somewhere. How will she survive? Everyone she’s ever loved thinks she’s dead, and you saw her body, what they did to her. She’s going to have those scars forever, shoving her back into the world where she has no one. No one who will believe her about those scars, they’re gonna think she's crazy. Throw her in a loony bin. That's no way for a girl to live. Not if I can do something to stop that from happening.” “Look, Sammy, i understand you’re attracted to her. And that you want to help her, but you can't take in every single person we save.”

“You’re acting like she's some stray dog we found on the side of the road. Dean. She's a human being with feelings and we could teach her about the things we do. So maybe she doesn’t hunt with us, but she can do research for us. She can be useful. Please. Dean there's something about this girl, something in the way she looks at me. The way she trusts me with her life, even though she has no reason to. Dean i can't. I can't let her go.” Sam puts his head in his hands and his brother sighs defeated.

“Okay, she can come with us.”

“Thank you.” Sam stands and hugs his brother.

“I’m gonna go get some food.” Dean hugs his brother back before grabbing his keys, and heading out the motel room door.

The bed dips next to you and you stir, blinking a few times before your eyes focus on Sam who is sitting on the edge of the bed. His hazel eyes search over your face, “Hey, you’re awake.” 

“Hey.. I am. I guess i passed out huh?” You move to sit up, but Sam stops you. 

“Don't, you’ll just hurt yourself. You lost a lot of blood and you need to rest.” He gently pushes your shoulder back down. The more you wake up the more the throbbing in your body becomes noticeable. 

“I guess that's to be expected.” You laugh softly and Sam frowns.

“I talked to Dean, he said you can come with us, help us out. If you want to that is.” Sam wings his hands together, and you bite your bottom lip. 

“That would be nice… I can't go home..” You glance at his hands and move one of yours and grab his. 

“Yeah,” Sam smiles slightly, “but we can be your home now. Your family.” 

“I would like that, besides no normal person would believe me if I told them I was used as a living blood bank.” 

Sam flinches at that, “I won't let anything like that happen to you ever again.” He runs his hand across your cheek and tangles his hand in your hair. The gesture makes you close your eyes, it was comforting. 

“I trust you, I know you won't.” You fight to open your eyes again, sleep was calling your name, your eyelids were impossibly heavy. 

“Go back to sleep, we’ll talk once you’re rested.” Sam smiles as your eyes slip closed. As you start to drift off you feel the slightest brush of lips against your head, Sam Winchester was soon going to worm his way into your heart, and you were perfectly okay with that.

[marlettwrites]

What’s this, you ask? An excerpt? Marlett actually writes things?

The answer to all those questions is: yes!

I’ve been debating sharing some of my writing on here for awhile now, and decided to just bite the bullet and go for it. This is the beginning of chapter 1, and, fair warning, it is pretty long.

TW: child abuse, mild descriptions of gore.

Any and all constructive criticism is welcome!

Jude focused on the image in his mind as layers of skin stretched over and over each other until a patch of unmarred flesh lay where the wound once sat. Ignoring the new pain in his shoulder, Jude pulled his hands away as the last of the blood vanished from his latest patient's arm. A relieved sigh rose from the woman’s throat. Jude looked up and nodded at his assistant, Braheem. The man stood and guided the blindfolded woman from the room.

Just before Braheem opened the door to let her out, the woman turned, a grateful smile on her face.

“Thank you,” she said.

Jude's heart swelled happily and he resisted the urge to tell her that she was very welcome.

Braheem closed the door and turned.

“Are there more outside?” Jude asked once she’d left the room, rubbing his arm just below the hole that had opened on his shoulder.

It looked startlingly similar to the one he just closed on his last patient. Fitting, considering it was her injury. A viscous red liquid seeped out of the small opening and the wound stung where Jude's fingers pressed against it. Braheem pulled his hand away and dabbed at the blood with a towel.

“Stop. You're only making it worse.”

“It itches,” Jude complained.

“That doesn't mean it's a good idea to touch it.” Braheem heaved out a frustrated sigh. “Just leave it alone for a minute so I can bandage it, alright?”

Braheem ran a hand through his unruly black hair, staring at the hole on Jude’s arm a moment. He nodded to himself and produced a roll of gauze from his pocket. Jude waited patiently while Braheem dressed the wound, flinching every time his fingers ventured near the opening in his shoulder.

Finally, the man stood and left the little room, leaving the misshapen wood door to smack against the rock walls behind him. The second Braheem left the room to check on the line outside, Jude resumed scratching at the bandages.

The door creaked open and Braheem re-emerged from what Jude assumed was a hallway. Jude forced his hand away from the bandages.

“Okay, it looks like Shadya was the last one in line. I think it's safe to say you can relax until tomorrow.”

Jude raised an eyebrow.

“You know her name?”

“I know a lot of people.” Braheem said. “I could introduce you sometime if you ever took a day off.” the man folded his arms across his chest and looked pointedly at the reddened bandages that nearly covered Jude from head to toe. Jude avoided his gaze.

“You know I can't do that. Besides, I healed a broken leg yesterday. It'll be at least another twelve hours before I can walk again.” Jude said, gesturing to the splint Braheem had made for him the previous day. This injury belonged to a little kid, about ten years of age if he remembered correctly.

A lot of people came and left through the frail wooden door that had been built into his cavern. His memory only held on to those that stood out against the crowd. Mostly, it was their injuries that made them stick. Sometimes, not often, a patient would talk about the world outside. Jude wasn’t allowed to answer them, of course, but he always listened intently to the tales of risky heists and daring escapes while he tried to imagine what a ‘city’ looked like.

Braheem stared down at him, his dark eyes boring holes in Jude's flesh.

“This is going to kill you one day. You know that, right?”

Jude looked down and dragged his good foot across the floor, back and forth, back and forth, before answering.

“Kasaika says I can't be selfish with my gift.”

Braheem scowled.

“Yes, well he also says that anyone foolish enough to leave their belongings unattended deserves to have them stolen. I wouldn’t put too much stock into that man’s words.”

Jude looked up sharply.

“So what, I should listen to you and leave my home to find some magical fairytale land?” he said.

A low blow, Jude knew. The island was something Braheem talked about a lot. When Jude was younger, Braheem used to tell him stories about the wonders of the island. How people there performed extraordinary feats, such as breathing underwater, speaking to animals, or even flying. Tales of people like him.

Braheem also told him that one day they would leave the kingdom and go home together. So far, none of Braheem’s tales had come true.

Braheem’s eyes narrowed.

“Punt is real. I’ve been there,” he said, pronouncing the word ‘Pwenet’.

When Jude was just learning how to read, he tried to say it as ‘Puhnt’ until Braheem informed him that was wrong. Jude turned away.

“I know,” he said. “I’m sorry. I’m just sick of hearing about impossible futures.”

“It’s not impossible. Just incredibly difficult.”

Jude looked at the ground and nodded.

“Did you bring any new scrolls with you?”

Braheem’s eyes widened in realization. He snapped his fingers.

“That’s what I forgot!” the man spun on his heel and dashed toward the small wooden table that leaned against the opposite wall.

Braheem plucked his shoulder bag off the table and began rifling through it. The sound of paper crinkling caught Jude’s attention, and he craned his neck to see what Braheem was doing. Unfortunately, the man’s back blocked his gaze. Triumphantly, Braheem lifted a roll of paper from the dirty sack.

“Aha! Here it is.” he held the scroll out to Jude. “Tale of the Shipwrecked Sailor,” Braheem informed him. “It’s about-”

“Punt?” Jude asked knowingly.

Braheem seemed to deflate a little.

“Well, yes, but- look, there’s a giant talking snake in it, and most of the stories don’t include Apep.” Braheem said quickly. “It’s a shame, really. The sea monsters aren’t at all interesting to talk to.” looking down at the scroll, Braheem barked out a short laugh. “And this ‘Ahmose’ person didn’t even get them right! Apep isn’t some wise prophet,” he scoffed, “just incredibly overdramatic. But, I digress.”

Jude looked up at him quizzically.

“What’s a snake?”

Braheem stared blankly at him for a moment, as if he hadn’t registered Jude’s words. His face fell.

“Right,” he said to himself slowly. “You’ve never seen one.” shaking himself out of his stupor, Braheem said, “Well, imagine a lizard without- no, wait, you don’t know what that is either. Um, well, it’s like a rope. Yes! A living rope! A living rope that hisses!”

Jude reached up and accepted the scroll, looking down at it curiously. Although he was loathe to entertain the idea of visiting Punt, reading about it still brought him happiness. Besides, the talking snake sounded interesting. Jude began to hastily unroll the scroll.

“Hey, kid.”

Jude looked up.

“Bed first,” Braheem said sternly. “You can read when I know you’re not in danger of killing yourself by trying to walk two feet with a broken leg.”

Jude gazed longingly down at the roll of papyrus.

“It’s almost healed,” he protested.

Folding his arms across his chest, the man raised an eyebrow at Jude. Braheem held his hand out in an expectant gesture. Frowning, Jude handed the scroll back to Braheem and grabbed his crutch. Jude limped over to the pile of assorted cloth sitting in the corner of the room. After lowering himself down, Jude reached again for the scroll.

“And here I thought you were done with Punt,” Braheem joked, but Jude could see the sadness behind his gaze.

Braheem never liked to talk about it, but Jude knew that once he’d lost someone important to him. He also knew that loss was somehow connected to Punt. Jude asked him about it once, but Braheem never said much on the subject. Several questions made their way to the tip of Jude’s tongue, but he bit them back.

Braheem seated himself beside Jude’s cloth nest and nodded at him. Turning his attention to the scroll, Jude began to read aloud. Occasionally, Braheem corrected his pronunciation, or interrupted to ask Jude if he knew what a certain word meant. Other than that, the only sounds were Jude’s voice and the crackling of the torches that lined the walls.

When Jude felt his eyelids drooping, Braheem gently pulled the scroll from his grip.

“Great job. Your reading comprehension is really improving,” Braheem told him. “We’ll continue this tomorrow.”

Jude nodded slowly and curled into the soft bedding. In the back of his mind, he registered the sound of slowly fading footsteps followed by the soft pshh pshh as Braheem doused the torches hanging on the wall with sand. Behind closed eyelids, Jude saw the light slowly dim and then fade away altogether. A familiar creak echoed over the stone walls as Braheem left the healing room.

Jude wished he had left the scroll. Mere seconds after the man left, his leg twinged painfully, and Jude yearned for the distraction. He grit his teeth. He couldn’t complain. He wouldn’t.

He deserved this.

Jude woke the next morning to the sound of muffled sobs and angry shouts. The rust-iron scent of blood weighed heavy in the air. Sitting up abruptly, Jude stared at the door with a sense of dread.

The raid Kasaika organized must not have gone well.

Taglist: @aly-writes-stuff @imaghostwriter @runningonrain @marvel-and-writing @writingnosefreak @planets-and-prose

[crowned-ladybug]

Spotless

Ding dang thing needed a title bc of how long it ended up being

I’ll work on the rest tomorrow and the days after, but this is all I could do today, sorry! My writing process for now is just dragging myself through it two paragraphs at a time, but I’m working on it

Oh, it ended up with some bonding alright! Two tall idiots alone in a big house bc they’re totally not friends

OC blog is @menagerie-of-morons

Prompt: “Walk it off.”

Characters: Anraí, Marvin

Setting: Rivals AU

Word count: 2.2k

Warnings: blood, minor injury (neither in detail)

It’s only by mere coincidence that one afternoon Marvin and Anraí wind up being the only two people home. Not like Marvin cares. He doesn’t! He’s not going to interact with this weird…demon…thing…whatever Anraí is as long as he doesn’t absolutely have to, and there’s that. He might not agree with keeping such a dangerous person just loose in their house, he might not like him at all personally, but he does have plenty of experience pretending a big problem is not there, and he can definitely apply that to Anraí.

As long as Anraí stays out of his business too, they’ll do just fine.

He does have to bite his tongue when he walks into the kitchen looking for a drink and finds Anraí already there, doing…something. He doesn’t particularly care to pay any attention to what exactly he’s doing. He just breathes in, breathes out, reminds himself that the kitchen is common territory and his friends would disown him if he acted hostile towards their new resident for no reason, and he makes his way to the fridge.

When he does spare Anraí a glance, emerging from the fridge with half a carton of apricot juice, he sees what he considers immediate proof that the demon should be banned from the kitchen indefinitely. He witnesses Anraí trying to figure out how to cut an apple with quite possibly the biggest knife in the whole house. Additionally, it seems like he knows fuck all about how to safely handle anything sharper than a cucumber.

And somehow the sight of a lanky, unfairly tall and positively demonic person apparently not knowing how knives work makes Marvin laugh. “What the fuck are you doing?” he asks, laughter in his voice, and maybe it comes out a little too loud, because Anraí startles and jumps and…

…he flails the knife…

…in such a way and with such speed no one, especially not him…

…ever should.

The knife clatters to the ground as the hand that had been holding it flies to hold Anraí’s other arm instead. Anraí hisses in some definitely not at all human way, his ears pinned back against his head. His tail lashes behind him wildly, and it’s a good thing there’s nothing for him to knock over.

His arm is bleeding.

It’s like Marvin has an angel and a devil sitting on his shoulders, because his two immediate thoughts are “help him” and “what the fuck, he’s gonna get blood all over the white floor!” Which is fair, because he personally has also gotten blood on a lot of white things before and knows how stupid hard it is to get out, but still. Mean.

But the tiny angel wins, because despite everything, Marvin isn’t heartless, thank you very much. So he puts the juice box on the counter and steps closer.

Anraí doesn’t pay attention to him until he gets close, but he also doesn’t seem like he’s going to bite his arm off any second, so that’s a plus. The lashing of his tail slows to a much more leisurely sway, and slowly his ears perk up. After his initial fright it seems like he doesn’t care much for the pain as much as he does for his mild curiosity over “huh, apparently I am bleeding.”

Finally, Marvin breaks the silence. “You okay?”

Anraí immediately turns to look at him, but instead of the snarl that Marvin had expected, there’s just a stupid grin on his face. “Nah, man, look! I made a hole in my arm!”

He seems awfully cheery about it.

“Walk it off,” Marvin snorts and turns on his heal, and there’s that. He picks up his drink on the way out and just fumes to himself. Why would he ever show compassion for this? There was clearly nothing wrong! He’s just as stupidly annoying as he’d always thought!

He ignores the smug voice in the back of his mind telling him that the last time he lived in the same house with someone and insisted on calling them annoying, that someone became his boyfriend.

Marvin shuts himself in his room with his apricot juice, a pokemon game and his completely silent headphones because he has a habit of forgetting to actually turn on the music for a solid hour. He tries to drown his unwanted guilt over leaving a bleeding dumbass demon in the kitchen by grinding his whole team up for the next gym, even though he’ll only use like three pokemon to beat it.

Even if he had music going, he’d probably hear the deafening crash from down the hall.

He kicks himself off the bed while rolling his eyes, because damn it, it hasn’t even been half an hour. But alas, he has to check what the fuck is going on this time, because if Anraí destroyed someone’s stuff he should probably help him fix it.

He opens half a dozen doors before he finds the right one, because the noise was a one-time thing and sound travels weird in this house anyway. Probably thanks to all the magical augmentation and extra rooms and all that. But he finally gets to the right door and finds himself standing in the bathroom, watching Anraí trying to pick up ten things at once from the floor with only one hand, unaware of Marvin’s presence.

“What the fuck did you do this time?”

He finds it absolutely hilarious how Anraí’s tail straightens in alarm like some sort of cartoon cat’s. “Nothing!” he claims, and if the giant mess around him (no doubt originating from the open cabinet behind him) didn’t make it obvious enough that that’s a lie, his tone and volume alone definitely would do the job. He straightens and most of the stuff falls from his hand, but he just looks at them with disappointment instead of trying to catch them.

“Yeah, sure,” Marvin grins, and he steps closer but does nothing to help. This is amusing for now, so he’ll wait it out. He won’t bend his back until he needs to.

“Shut up! You can just,” he vaguely waves the single toothbrush still in his hand in Marvin’s general direction. “Fuck off or something, I don’t know. I’ll clean this up, I know you don’t wanna help.” With that, he leans back down and picks up a box of q-tips by the edge of it, and it bounces dangerously in his hand as he lifts it. His other hand is still yet to join the action, and glancing at it Marvin sees it curled against his stomach, the cut on it scabbed over already despite its size. Weird.

“Stop being a big baby,” Marvin sighs, and without leaving room for protests leans down and picks up twice as many items as Anraí could ever hope to at once. “I should probably keep you from destroying the bathroom, so here. I doubt you even know where most of these go, anyway. Or what they are.”

“You being right about any of those things means literally nothing in this argument.”

Marvin grins, and he takes the box of q-tips from him after putting away all the items in his own hands with ease. “Sounds like something someone losing the argument would say.”

They keep up the surprisingly tame banter while they clean, and they make quick work of putting away everything that’s fallen off the shelf Anraí has managed to dislodge somehow. By some miracle nothing seems to be broken either. Marvin refuses to acknowledge how much their back-and-forth reminds him of the way him, Jackie and Chase would gently bicker with each other over literally anything.

Marvin glances over the once again organised shelf one last time, but he doesn’t close the door of the cabinet. His voice sounds light, almost cheerful when he speaks, like for a moment he’d managed to forget who he’s talking to, or how much he claims he doesn’t like him. “What the fuck were you trying to do anyway?”

“…bandages?”

Marvin’s eyes immediately jump to Anraí’s injured arm, still held against his stomach for safekeeping. “Oh,” and, without thinking, he asks: “Does it hurt?”

“A bit?” he shrugs, and he genuinely doesn’t seem bothered. His whole posture looks relaxed, ears twitching to follow sounds and his tail swaying languidly behind him. Marvin assesses that he sees no signs of pain before he even realises that he’s looking for them. “I mostly just don’t want it to open again. It’s messy.”

Marvin nods. “Understandable,” and turns back towards the cabinet, and closes it. The bandages (some of them, at least) are under the sink, and he makes sure Anraí sees that as he fishes out a roll of them and unrolls a bit of it to see if it’s the right size. “Stephen will be able to do some proper shit for you when he gets home, but I can wrap it up to keep it safe until then. I’d rather not bother with tape and gauze if it’s gonna be undone in an hour or two anyway, if that’s okay.”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s fine,” Anraí nods, a little confused. On the one hand, he doesn’t trust this sudden politeness of Marvin’s. On the other hand, he welcomes it. He obediently sits on the edge of the bath tub when he’s told to and tries not to kick his feet too much. For a little while he watches as Marvin slowly wraps the bandage around his arm in silence, but it doesn’t last long. “Why are you being nice to me now?”

“Because if I let you bleed out, it’s bad for the carpet,” Marvin deadpans without looking up from his work. “Also, Jackie will murder me if I’m not at least a little nice to you.”

Anraí snorts. “I’d love to see that happen, actually.”

“Well, I don’t. Wanting to murder your partner is such a straight people thing, so…yeah, no thanks.”

Now at that, Anraí properly laughs. “I wish I could relate to that, but alas…”

“Oh, be glad you can’t!” Marvin looks up at him and grimaces and wow, he looks ridiculous. But also like someone who doesn’t want to punt his ass through the window in the next ten minutes, which is actually quite the nice change. “Straight people can be insufferable sometimes!”

“So can you…”

“You think that because you’ve never met an insufferable straight person before. When you do, you’ll be missing me!”

Anraí laughs again, and maybe he’s more giggly than the situation would warrant, but fuck it. This is the first time he feels like Marvin doesn’t utterly hate him, and maybe he’s starting to see some of what the others see in him that’s worth all this fondness they have for him. He definitely seems to have a sense of humour that lines right up with Anraí’s own when he’s not using it to snark him out of the solar system.

Staying crouched next to the tub, Marvin waits until Anraí notices that his arm is done being bandaged now.

When he does notice, his face falls in surprise for a second, but then his ears flick upwards and he grins again. “Thanks!” He stands, and that pressures Marvin to stand too because wow, he’s not going to be out-heighted by that much!

“Yeah, yeah, you’re welcome,” he waves his hand through the air and heads for the door. Anraí can follow if he’d like, but he’s sure as hell not going to show any indication that maybe he wouldn’t super mind if he did. “Anyway, have you ever actually cleaned up the mess you made in the kitchen?”

“Uhh...” he trails off and doesn’t look at Marvin. His tail is suspiciously still behind his legs. “Somewhat?”

Marvin sighs. “Okay, what did you do?”

“Wiped it up? Listen, I don’t know how to handle this stuff!” he waves his hands around to emphasise whatever his point is, and his tail goes comically straight again. “It’s red and it’s dark and it’s sticky! It’s still just…smudged everywhere…”

“Okay, okay,” Marvin stands in the doorway, and now he’s clearly expecting Anraí to follow him. “Getting blood off the tiles isn’t hard, so come on, let’s do it. One day I’m gonna have to show you how to get it out of clothes though, and that’s a lot harder. I’ve gotten blood out of white underwear before, this is nothing.”

For a moment, Anraí doesn’t move to follow him. One of his ears flicks in confusion. “Were you…murdering people…in your underwear?”

“Sadly, no,” now that he thinks about it – do demons know what periods are?

“Oh, oh! Right, you humans have your…thingies,” he waves a hand in the air, and it’s clear he’s just forgetting the word. It’s also clear that apparently no, demons have very little idea of what periods are.

“Yeah, they’re bullshit,” he shrugs, and he doesn’t plan to hold up this tangent any longer. He pushes off against the doorframe and starts walking down the hallway. “Now come on!” he calls back. “Time to mop up some blood!”

“That sounds…awfully ominous.”

Marvin laughs. “Oh, it does, doesn’t it?”

[shattered-catalyst]

// Thank you so much for the request!!! I wrote several versions I may post later, Im always nervous writing Shatterstar. His character always surprises me so I dont have a good grasp on him just yet (and thats what I love about him he always surprises me somehow)hopefully i did him justice for your request!))

Shatterstar always kept his distance, something Cat respected. He almost preferred it, still adapting to the fact that Shatterstar was now more than a poster in his life.  Prior to running into Rictor and Shatterstar they had been influential but imaginary. Rictor had always been a faceless man;unknown and mysterious. Shatterstar had been a mirage; always in his peripheral.

Entering into that universe where Shatterstar and Rictor both existed was awkward. With Rictor it was simple. He hadn’t been accustomed to seeing Rictor’s teenage self killing in the arena. Nor had he been raised to be some weird successor for the seismic manipulator.

With Shatterstar, things were just...Different.  They could both be in the same room, and they spoke easily enough. They watched movies together and spoke frequently about a variety of topics. Particularly the weather, movies, books, chess, and musicals. Shatterstar seemed to enjoy the classics while Catalyst was more into the oddball youtube hits. There was still some distance, mostly on his own part.  Truthfully the teen just felt, stupid around Shatterstar. Like he had to constantly prove it was fine he was there. Reassert that YES he was worthy. Rahne called it anxiety. Catalyst called it irritating.

It should be easy. In theory it should be, but the heart had it’s ways of fucking things up. Shatterstar was always receptive and respecting of boundaries.

Except for right now.

" M' fine."  Catalyst protested pushing against Stars shoulder, but nope up he went. " Shatterstar, your jacket." Who the fuck wore white when they got bloody so much? It was Mojo world fabric true, so stains didn’t touch it. But the point still remained.

Cradling the teen bridal style he shook his head,moving up the steps to the bathroom. "It will be washed." He was only slightly scolding him, he understood completely. Weakness was not welcome on Mojo.

Shatterstar got the teen to the bathtub, setting him inside before taking a seat on the rim. Pulling the large first aid kit out from beside the sink, unrolling bandages and gauze. There was silence, mostly because Catalysts eyes were watching him wrap the wounds. First aid always intrigued him.

The bandages and gauze were just to slow the bleeding until his healing factor completed its work. It wasn’t a healing factor™, it was a healing factor. Neither of them could risk severing too many arteries or losing a limb. They weren't wolverine. Organs didn’t JUST regenerate,although he felt they had to at least grow back or something. He would ask later.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A scolding tsk stopping Cat as he went to move. " We are not finished." Firm hand gently pressing on his shoulder encouraging him to sit back down.

He let out an exasperated " truly!?!" While he knew Star knew that he was used to just bleeding until the healing factor kicked in, he still had to remind himself to hold his tongue. Last time he had pointed that out to Rictor  the man had looked so hurt. He didn’t want to even risk the very remote chance he hurt Star’s feelings.

Two more rolls of bandages later.

" Now we must wash your hair. " Standing he pulls Catalyst up with him, neither he nor Rictor approves of bloody hair.  " We will use the sink."

Cat scrambles to stand before motioning for Shatterstar to wait. " Hold on just, let me." He stepped out of the tub, hopping on the one good leg over to the sink. Shooting Star an evaluating stare, he trusted him. But also, this was going to be hard. Trusting anyone with his neck was difficult for him.

Taking a breath he slowly nods, bracing hands on either side of the sink he permits Shatterstar to duck his head under the faucet. Stiffening as water rushes down his neck and cheeks. It’s warm. That always surprises him, clean and warm and all his. Star’s hands are longer than Rictors. Thinner, more elegantly shaped but nonetheless powerful. They’re gentle and its hard to imagine today was the first time they had touched in the months he had been living there. Combat situations not withstanding.

Star's hand moved from the  teens back to the top of his head. Rubbing the bloodied mats between his fingers . Soft reassurances escaping as he shampoos away that days battle.  Watching as the massaging motions begin to wash away the anxiety, Cats fingers slowly easing from the sides.

He grabs a towel and turns off the water.

" Done?"

" Yes, here" fluff fluff fluff. The large green towel captures all that unruly hair and starts buffering him dry.

Muffled grumbles of ' I can do it myself' and ' are you finished?' Tried their best to escape the onslaught. A small laugh tumbling out. Once free the teen gives Shatterstar a teasing glare. " I have a good hand.."

" The sensation is more pleasing if you have use two hands." Shatterstar states  tossing the towel into the hamper.

" Hmmm I suppose that is true." He touches his hair experimentally before attempting to smooth down the gnarled waves. “Am I medically cleared?”

Shatterstar let out a hum, rubbing his chin.  “After you re-hydrate I will clear you. You did lose a lot of blood, little one.”

He starts to grumble that he’s lost more until the last part hits him and reduces him to a blushing mess.  Balancing on one foot he starts to hop out the door. “Yes, well with your first aid Im sure I will be fine.”

“Perhaps” ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sitting downstairs in front of the television. Cat on the floor in front of Shatterstar who sat on the couch. Boxes of Pizza, double black olives on one and tomato with garlic on the other, on the coffee table and a twelve pack of water bottles. ‘Star had insisted on icing and elevating Cats kneecap while it healed. Just in case.  

Fingers grazing to separate strands, silence fell between them. This was, well it was more than big. Star had brought him his favorite pizza and even let him try some of Stars own pizza.

Shatterstar was braiding his hair. Catalyst was letting Shatterstar near his neck. In two physical ways ' I trust you' and ' I care ' were being communicated. No words needed, thats how he liked it.

His uemeur bubbled threatening to over run his body with warmth and joy. A smile etching slowly a crossed his face. The real one, small and unsure.

No one had braided his hair before. He had done it himself in between matches, a way of putting on the warrior ethos he needed to survive. But this was different, a different style of braid and different fingers gently weaving.

" You fought well today, your performance was exemplary." Shatterstar complimented, tone softer than usual. Tying off one smaller braid with some cord and letting it fall to work on the other.

He felt his face start to redden still not used to compliments. " I could have done better...."

Another way he was so much like Julio. " Perfection is not obtainable, we may strive for it, but it is rarely achievable." He was too hard on himself.

Taking a sip of water he narrowed his gaze at the doorway to the hall. Thinking that over, was perfection attainable?" It's not achievable because we will always desire better, correct?"

" Correct, there is always more to learn."

He started to turn his head to look at Star before he stopped himself, remembering he was having his hair braided. "Oh. I......I think I like that." Chewing a bite of pizza he hums. " I like, yknow." He paused another beat" I uh, I like this..." drank some water. " this is nice."

Letting out another hum, Cat could almost picture his genetic donor nodding in agreement.

“It is interesting to hear you sound so much like Julio.”

“Mm? Truly?”

“Yes. You both have many commonalities.”  Silence “Hey, Shatterstar?” A bigger smile appearing that feels so right.”  Thank you for tending to me.”

“ We are on a team, you will not be facing such things alone anymore.”  Shatterstar ties off the last braid, putting a hand on the teens shoulder.  Signaling he was finished. Smile spreading as Cats hands gingerly touch the braids in his hair. Watching how reverently he ran his fingers a crossed the new texture. Vaguely remembering his first cadre style braids. 

His smile only grows, feeling a pattern he's seen on others but not on himself. “ Is this??” Turning his head to look up at Star eyes wide “ are these??”

“ Braids done in the Cadre warrior style? Yes.” ‘ Stars smile grew hands still on the teens shoulders to keep his torso still. “They suit you.”

Cats breath catches hearing those words, tear ducts leaking as pride overcomes him. “ Shatterstar, you have given me a great honor. Thank you.”  Turning he hugs onto the warriors leg, head burying into it to catch the tears.