#biting the bullet and tagging this as what ir is

[mipexch]

LESSER MACHINE

[morning-star-joy]

what a wicked thing (Javier Peña x F!Reader) part 1

Unfinished & Discontinued

Pairing: Javier Peña x F!Reader, Post-Season 3

Summary: Javier Peña isn't just an asshole—he's the asshole who broke your best friend's heart by leaving her at the altar. When he returns to Laredo, you're determined to never give him the time of day. But it seems that Javier enjoys getting under your skin a bit too much.

Series Warnings/Tags: 18+ MDNI Enemies/Rivals to Lovers, Language, Alcohol/Cigarette Use, Mentions of Anxiety/PTSD, Angst, Slow Burn (probably), Eventual Smut.

Wordcount: 3k

A/N: Biting the bullet and sharing the first part of the Javi series I'm working on, to set up the premise and build up the courage to step outside my Joel comfort zone. And THANK YOU @thetriumphantpanda for being my beta reader for this, my Javier Peña expert, ily!!

part 2

There were times where you hated still living in the town you grew up in.

One of those times was when you had returned after you had tried, and ultimately failed, to get away from the small, suffocating community that was your hometown. 

You had left with the naive hope that you could create your own life, live for yourself, and only yourself, somewhere else.

When that didn’t work out, you had run back to Laredo, moving back in with your parents and hating every moment you stepped outside of the house, your every step followed by whispers and rumors of why you had come back so soon after graduating college.

You brought your hard earned Master's degree in Library Science back with you, using it to get the one local library up to par, and taking over when the last librarian retired. It was a good way to keep your head down and focus on something, ignoring the murmurs of conversation about you that surrounded you from every angle until eventually the speculation faded away.

Even when you had fully moved back in with a steady job, there was a voice in the back of your head screaming at you not to settle down there. 

You didn’t want to be stuck in this backwater hole in the middle of nowhere Texas for the rest of your life, unable to avoid seeing people who had known you from the moment you were born. People who knew every irritating detail, every aggravating blip in your life like the back of their hand—but where else was there to go?

Another one of those times you hated being stuck in that town was before you left to pursue your Master’s, wanting to stay by your best friend’s side when she decided to marry her first love.

And it was by her side that you stayed when that motherfucker jilted her, leaving her heartbroken at the altar and never so much as looking back.

Good riddance, was all you had thought when her ex-fiancé ran off to play the goddamn hero far, far away from where he could ever hurt her again. Asshole.

Only when Lorraine had assured you that she was okay, that you could get the hell out of Dodge and live the life you had always dreamed of, did you leave.

And then you came back.

And so did Javier Peña.

So now you found yourself in the latest of the moments where you despised being trapped in your hometown, and maybe the one where your ire towards the place was the greatest.

Because now you had to share it with him.

It was odd, and a bit disturbing, how well you were able to fit back into your old skin when you returned to Laredo.

You had always been known to be quiet and respectful. A thoughtful straight-A student, a faithful girl that never missed a Sunday service.

When you finally escaped, you were able to shed all of that off your body, turning it into something new, something sexy, something powerful.

You could be sharp and shrewd, daring and sinful. Anything you wanted. You could be, you could do, anything you wanted.

Until you did the wrong things, and then you found yourself back in your childhood room.

Back to being the shy little thing. Back to being the good girl.

All the growth you had made, it was gone within a week, fitting back into the box of what everybody in Laredo wanted you to be.

Polite smiles and faking laughter filled your days. The only time you found real joy were those moments in the library when nobody was bothering you, and you could get lost in the aisles, sorting and reading to your heart’s content.

You remembered one such day, how you were in a more chipper mood as you carried a box of back copies of recent newspapers down to the basement archives. 

The room was an asthma attack waiting to happen, but you didn’t mind the layers of dust, dirt, or the fire hazard. Instead, you found something magical about being surrounded by piles of that much history, local and far-reaching, not knowing what events you would read about if you reached out and grabbed the first paper to graze your fingertips.

Reaching into the box you had brought with you, you began to pull out and sort the papers, falling into an automatic process of sorting until you paused, fingers brushing against the picture of a face you recognized in printed ink.

It was older, maybe even wiser, but still just as capable of pulling a surge of annoyance from you. It was the same irritation you felt whenever you heard his name around town, followed by the most recent news of his efforts to end the drug wars.

Seemed like he had actually succeeded, based off of the article you were now glancing over. You read his name, staring at it as your eyes narrowed slightly, skimming over his accolades before shaking your head and tossing it back to the top of the pile to pick up and place in their rightful spot.

Part of you was a bit surprised that you hadn’t yet heard that he had taken down Escobar, but then you figured you had finally managed to shut out news around town of what he was doing every time you heard his name.

Good for him, you had thought with no small amount of bitterness as you turned off the light in the room before leaving.

Your grudge was childish, yes, but it was your best friend he had not only snubbed, but hurt. Deeply. Lorraine had issues with allowing herself to be happy in another relationship for years, until she finally got married to a man who actually did deserve her.

Deciding it was worth no more of your time, you shut the door behind you, leaving all memories of him amongst the cobwebs.

Or, you tried.

It seemed that fate had other plans for your locked up thoughts of Javier Peña.

After seeing that newspaper in the library’s basement archives, you began to notice his name mentioned more around town, but you still tuned it out, more as a knee jerk reaction at that point than intentionally so.

You were almost mad at yourself for this mechanism to preserve yourself from unnecessary annoyance when you came face to face with him for the first time in nearly a decade, completely unprepared and fully taken aback.

Old habits were hard to shake, and you were sticking to Lorraine’s side for most of Danny’s wedding, sharing knowing smiles and old jokes whenever you could duck your heads together during the reception.

So of course the moment when you left to use the bathroom, Javier fucking Peña had taken your place by her side when you returned.

You froze at the edge of the room, heart in your throat as you watched them stand together, looking as handsome a couple as the day before he left her waiting at the altar.

Javier flashed her that heartstopping smile, and you stiffened, jaw ticking as you realized he was flirting.

Flirting.

With his ex-fiancée.

You scoffed, arms crossing over your chest as you watched, anger bubbling in your chest as he had the audacity to sit next to her, to lean in close and talk to her with those stupid big brown eyes that could melt the coldest of hearts.

Shaking your head, you quickly turned away, passing by Randy as he gave you a smile that you returned by reflex. When he paused to ask if you were okay, you murmured an affirmative, continuing on your way and only looking back to watch with a sick satisfaction as your best friend’s husband walked right up to where she sat with her ex and sent him packing.

Still, you didn’t pause in your steps until you were outside, far away from the constant commotion of these big town events as you pulled out a pack of cigarettes from your purse. You placed one between your lips and flicked your lighter until it was lit, finally finding relief as your lungs were filled with that sweet rush of nicotine.

That was one habit that you hadn’t managed to kick since returning to Laredo, even though you had managed to hide it well from those that it would concern.

So distracted by the relief the cigarette offered, you almost didn’t notice the moment where you were no longer alone.

But you had always been a bit more anxious than most, and you picked up on the sound of movement near you.

Turning with your cigarette pulled from your lips, you were ready to hastily stomp it out when you saw that the other person who had found your hiding spot was none other than the one whose presence had driven you out here.

Javier didn’t seem to notice you for a moment, spitting a wad of gum into the grass as he placed his hands on his hips and stared out into nothing. When he closed his eyes and rubbed a hand over his face, you were almost foolish enough to think you could sneak away without getting his attention.

But when you moved, a breeze shifted past you, carrying the smoke from the cigarette you had yet to snuff out right over to him.

Javier froze.

You froze.

His hand fell from his eyes, face lifting into the air as he sniffed once before turning his head right towards you.

Fuck.

You made eye contact with Javier Peña for the first time in—shit, you didn’t even know when you actually last had a conversation with the man, or even had his attention on you. Whenever you were around him before, you were with Lorraine, so his focus was most definitely not on you.

Even then, you were never Lorraine’s most bubbly friend, even though you were her closest. You preferred to stick to the edges of a crowd, Lorraine liked to be in the center, and Javier wanted to be with her.

Until he didn’t.

You couldn’t control the way your eyes narrowed slightly, even as Javier’s gaze flickered from your face to the cigarette in your hand, still blowing smoke from your fingers directly towards his face with the direction of the breeze.

His eyes moved back to you then, moving down your form, up again and—Jesus, was he checking you out?

Really?

You could almost laugh, but you were struck silent in that moment, too taken aback by the bizarre circumstance you found yourself in as Javier took a step closer towards you.

“Hey there,” Javier greeted almost hesitantly, looking at the cigarette again, and suddenly, you felt a surge of spite in that moment as his fingers twitched at his side. 

Clearly itching for a cigarette of his own, and probably hoping he could get one from you.

Bringing your cigarette back up to your lips, you took a long, slow drag of it, trying not to smirk at the way he licked his lips as he watched you hold the smoke in your mouth for as long as you could before blowing it out.

The puff of smoke carried right back towards him on the breeze, and Javier swallowed thickly, an autonomic reflex from the nicotine craving before he glanced from your mouth back up into your eyes, his own gaze darkening, lips pulling up into his own small smirk he clearly wasn’t even trying to hold back and—

No.

You reached back into your purse to grab the box of cigarettes, flicking your wrist to send it flying to him, not bothering to glance back to see if he caught it as you turned on your heel to walk away.

Still, you heard the sound of the small box being clasped between his large hands behind you, and you threw your cigarette to the ground, crushing it under your heels as you walked away.

“Can I—”

“Figure it out,” you said blandly, surprising yourself with the amount of venom in your tone as you left Javier standing there, with a half-full box of your cigarettes and no way to light them.

You hoped you’d never have to see him again.

Javier knew you.

He knew that he knew you.

But he couldn’t remember you.

And it was driving him fucking crazy.

That moment where he had run into you outside of Danny’s wedding, when you had blown the smoke directly into the breeze so it carried to his face, it hadn’t been an act of seduction.

He was used to flirting—lidded eyes with pupils blown wide, licking lips with batted eyelashes, chests with tempting cleavage pushed out to beckon him in—but you had been doing none of that.

Your arms had been crossed over your chest, eyes narrowed slightly in a show of what almost seemed to be defiance. A challenge.

And, fuck, that look was far more attractive than any way you could have intentionally seduced him.

Old habits die hard, and Javier couldn’t help but give in to both that craving for nicotine, and something a bit more satisfying in that moment as he looked over you, taking in your curves that were only slightly accentuated in the modest, pale pink sundress you wore. He wondered just what you were hiding underneath that thin fabric, what you would look like—

Javier had blinked himself out of the unabashedly horny thoughts that had begun to stir inside his mind, catching the box of cigarettes you had tossed towards him before it hit him right in the face.

Some part of him thought he kind of deserved that hit, wincing anyway with a small surge of guilt at how quickly his mind had turned towards the desire for sex—back in Laredo for only a day, and he was searching for the nearest pussy to wet his dick.

But then you had cut him off before he could even finish trying to ask you for a light—purely innocent, he lied to himself—telling him those three sharp words that had stuck with him even as he fled Laredo as quickly as he had returned.

Figure it out.

There was an undertone to those words that Javier couldn’t quite (ironically) figure out—a twinge of an emotion almost akin to bitterness, and he found himself staring at the back of your head as you disappeared back into the building, wondering to himself who the fuck you were and why he had never seen you before.

But the more he thought about it, replaying that infuriatingly short interaction in his head the whole trip right back into the world of fighting a losing war he had trapped himself into again, the more Javier got the strange sensation that he did know you.

But he couldn’t place you, couldn’t remember what he could have done to make somebody in Laredo treat him that way.

Maybe he was just a masochist, but something about the whole thing intrigued him. 

You couldn’t have been a one-night stand—he didn’t start having those until after he escaped his hometown, having spent most of his youth there with Lorraine or a few other girlfriends wrapped up in his arms.

So what did that make you?

Why did you speak to him so apathetically?

Why did you still give him your cigarettes?

Why couldn’t he stop thinking about you?

Javier sat on the edge of his bed one night, back in Colombia with a new woman asleep in his bed. He flicked the top of the cigarette box open with his thumb, holding the flickering lighter up with the other so he could read the four words scrawled in sharpie across the inside of the lid.

You can do this.

Obviously the words were not meant for him. You had probably been so eager to rid yourself of his presence, for whatever reason that he was driving himself crazy trying to figure it out, and forgotten you had written it there.

Still, Javier found himself looking at it a moment too long whenever he needed a cigarette, wondering who you were and why you needed that message written for yourself each time you itched for some nicotine.

Figure it out.

But it was that blunt phrase that stuck with Javier the most, ringing in the back of his head whenever he hit a roadblock or felt like he was forever moving backwards in trying to end the pain this godforsaken unwinnable war caused countless people. 

Innocent people. 

People he couldn't save.

People whose death he was responsible for.

There was no encouragement in your voice when you had spoken to him. No idolization for a hero that everybody else in Laredo treated him with—even Lorraine had shown it in a way, insinuating that he had ended up where he wanted to, where he needed to be.

In cruel, cold reality, Javier could hardly fucking sleep at night. Haunted by the things he had seen, the things that he had done because of what he had seen.

And on those nights, he’d open up that cigarette box, studying the curves of your lettering even when he had smoked through all the cigarettes in it, except for one.

Wondering.

Strangely enough, he found himself relying on the straightforward sentiment you had told him at the wedding more than the encouraging one on the inside of that lid, the indelicate way you spelled out exactly what he needed to do.

Figure it out.

Because that was what Javier had to do.

It was all he could do.

Figure out a way to end this fucking cesspool of corruption, once and for all.

Then maybe he could go back home and actually look his father in the eye.

Maybe he wouldn’t despise himself when people he had known all his life lauded him as a hero.

Maybe he could return that last cigarette with its original owner, figure out who the fuck you were, and why you seemed to be the only person who didn’t see him as something he wasn’t.

Figure it out.

He would.

He had to.

[sarahowritesostucky]

📖"Hydra Sanatorium"

Rated: Explicit

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Steve Rogers

Word count: 5112

Tags: a/b/o, medical institutionalization, cognitive disability, made up kinky medical things, diapers, catheters, non-con medical procedures, restraints, forced wetting, hurt/comfort, humiliation, kind!Careworker Steve, bratty!Patient Bucky, alpha Steve, omega bucky, dub con everything due to a/b/o biology, dry humping, forced orgasm, masturbation, implied self harm, orgasm therapy, age difference (19/30), omorashi

Summary: Bucky is a troubled teen coping with the traumatic transformation of late-onset omega puberty.

Steve's been developing too much of an attachment, he knows he has. But he might not have the self control to remain detached anymore.

A/N: This fic contains heavy medical kink, diapers/wetting, and a/b/o dub-con shenanigans. Consume Responsibly.

Wait! I think I missed a previous chapter! Series Masterlist

Chapter 5: Excited Catatonia with Aggression

It takes a while longer for Bucky to calm down, shuddering and shivering in Steve’s arms.

This session has been a big deal for the poor kid, since he’s been denied for so long. Omegas don’t do well when they don’t get release regularly. And Steve’s pretty sure that not only is Bucky sobbing because of that, but also because he’s likely been touch and sensory-starved at home as well. Who even knows the last time the boy was hugged, outside of a stay on-ward?

It is, unfortunately, going to be time to tell him about his family situation soon. Steve knows that if he doesn’t bite the bullet tonight, then his boss will do it for him tomorrow. And that won’t increase her confidence in Steve’s impartiality any. Steve could almost stomach her ire, but the part where Christina would be the one breaking the news to Bucky that his folks don’t want him is what sways Steve.

The kid deserves better than Doctor Raynor’s notoriously blunt demeanor. Christina doesn’t do it on purpose, but she’s ex-military and that’s very, very apparent in the way she approaches people. There’s a reason why she has a PhD and not an MD after her name. Raynor is much better suited to managing employees and administrative duties than she is dealing with patients … She tends to make them cry.

It’ll be much easier on Bucky if Steve is the one to tell him.

Still, after watching him come apart in his lap so beautifully, Steve has to pause a few times to steel himself for this conversation. “Well,” he says, trying to think of something else to help put the omega in a good mood. “You earned your reward. Been good all day. You want to take the cath out now?”

Bucky sits back with wide eyes. “Really?” he says, brightening. “Yeah! Can we?”

“We sure can, Sweetheart.” Steve kisses his cheek. “Good boys get nice things.” Bucky blushes, and Steve chuckles about it as he swaps out to a new pair of latex gloves. “Okay, bear with me here.”

It’s a simple process. All Steve has to do is use safety scissors to snip the inflation valve off the tubing, and a second later Bucky’s making a tiny noise of surprise, and the small amount of saline liquid that’d filled the balloon comes dribbling out. “Oohh,” he sighs, relieved. “Oh God. Thank you. Fuck, that was so annoying!”

Steve hums sympathetically. “I can imagine.” Having an object in one’s bladder giving the constant urge to pee doesn’t sound like a good time to him, either. But that’s why it’s one of the consequences that Hydra utilizes. It’s a way to help combative patients accept that they’re no longer in control of their bodies. “Bet you’re not gonna give me trouble on your diapering anymore, huh?”

Bucky grumbles and tucks his head down. “Mmn.”

Steve’s lips twitch fondly. “I’ll pull it out now,” he warns. The first few times that they’d had to cath Bucky, he’d been a crying, resisting mess, but after three years of coming in and out of the ward, he knows the drill. Steve gets enough lube to coat the head of his cock, being sure to slip some all around the tube and push it into his slit as much as possible. “Mmkay. Relax your muscles. Annnd deep breath.” Bucky inhales, and Steve slides the catheter out.

“Ugh.”

“All done.” He tosses it in the medical waste bin. “Good job.”

Bucky exhales hugely, eyelids fluttering. He looks down at himself, and flushes when he sees that his penis has dribbled a little more in Steve’s lap. “Sorry,” he mumbles, and Steve shushes him.

“S’okay. It happens.” They both know that Bucky’s bladder control won’t return to normal for a couple of days, which is to be expected. Bucky seems self-conscious of having wet on him though, no matter how miniscule the amount. So Steve reiterates how it doesn’t bother him, even taking Bucky’s hand in his and pressing their joined hands to the wet patch that’s right at the waistband of his scrub pants. Bucky blushes massively, but his scent radiates comfort, which is the goal. “You’re a good boy, Bucky,” Steve tells him in his best soothing rumble, then just keeps talking at him like that, because it clearly helps Bucky to calm down and be happy.

Steve’s dick is mighty happy, too, though he’s dead set on ignoring it. It’s not like it’s unusual for him to get aroused in-session with patients. It happens. … But it happens a lot more frequently with Bucky than with anybody else. Steve’s been aroused ever since he first got into the double-sit chair with Bucky, and half hard since he started fingering him. Things are a little more pronounced now, and he knows his erection is obvious. It’s approaching a full-on boner, though thankfully still angled down and towards the crease of his thigh. His compression underwear are doing an admirable job of keeping things contained, but it’s still a thick and obvious shape under the pale green of his scrubs. “Um,” he says stupidly, seeing their entwined fingers so close to it. He hastily releases Bucky’s hand.

Over the years at this job, Steve’s gotten used to not acting on his own arousal, but he isn’t surprised that Bucky gets distracted by it. The boy is a sexually frustrated omega teenager, after all, and Steve’s the only alpha who’s ever touched him intimately, probably the only one who’s been dominant to him in any sort of organized or respectful fashion, too. He can’t expect the kid to have the same control of his faculties that a regular person would. That’s just not how omega bodies work. And Steve is a healthy, thirty-year-old adult alpha male, so it’s simple fact that when he’s aroused like this he’s gonna wind up clogging the air a bit for Bucky. He can see it happening already, knocking the kid a little woozy. “You okay, bub?”

His nostrils keep flaring and he keeps sucking his bottom lip compulsively as he stares at Steve’s crotch. He stops using his words and switches to little grunts and hums, starts making this needy little sound in the base of his throat that both medical literature and video titles on PornHub would refer to as a ‘keen’. His eyes go glazed and he makes that noise repeatedly while his backside weeps and his nipples pebble up beneath his shirt.

This, right here. This is why people make fun of omegas as being empty headed cocksluts. Not that Steve sees it that way—God no, he doesn’t. It’s a beautiful thing to him, to see Bucky go all soft and wanting, a natural reaction that tells him the omega is feeling pleasured enough and protected enough to let go. It means his body and brain have actually decided that it’s safe enough for him to be vulnerable like that. If nothing else, it’s a huge fucking compliment to Steve as an alpha. “Oh, Honey,” he coos, petting up and down Bucky’s sides. “You gettin a little soft, mm? Sinking a little?” Bucky whimpers and Steve hushes him supportively. “That’s okay, Buck. I’m here. Alpha’s here. You can let go for a little while if you need to.”

“... ‘pha,” Bucky slurs, latching onto the word, and Steve nods.

“Yeah, Sweetheart, Alpha’s got you. You want to lay your head down for a—”

‘Going soft’ usually only means whining and slicking and, well, going soft. It’s something easily contained and soothed, encouraged into a nap or a bit of cuddling. But that’s in healthy and well-adjusted omegas. Bucky veers in another direction altogether when he slides his hand over and starts aggressively cupping Steve’s erection through his pants.

Steve’s eyes widen. “Hey, hey. Uh-uh.” He tries to grab Bucky’s wrist but the boy evades him and his scent sours at what his dumbed down mind perceives as rejection. “Buck, now listen: you can’t touch me there.”

Bucky’s too far down already, and hearing this just makes him get more aggressive. He shoves forward, hand moulding back to the shape of Steve’s dick and squeezing insistently. “Nnn.”

A guttural sound of pleasure escapes Steve before he can cut it off, and then he’s on course correction. “O-okay bub,” he chokes out, gathering Bucky’s hands and guiding them away. “You know I can’t let you.”

Bucky whines mightily at being denied, rocking in his lap like a tantrum and trying to tug his hands free. His hips are jerking in tiny movements, and the strap support that’s under his thighs is definitely the only reason he’s not grinding directly against Steve’s crotch right now. “Nnn!” he whines, when he tries to tug his hands free and can’t. “Nnn!” He starts to get violent. He gets his hands free for a split second and manages to whack Steve upside the head before Steve regains control.

“Bucky,” he Voices, quiet but stern, “Stop. Don’t hit. I can’t let you touch my dick. You know that. It’s against the rules. Now stop. Alpha’ll be real mad if you don’t listen, right?” After Bucky finally tapers off and goes lax in surrender, Steve cautiously releases his hands. The omega grumbles unintelligibly and puts them on his shoulders instead of trying to get them anyplace Steve’s employment contract says they can’t be. His fingers curl hard at the bend of Steve’s neck and his nails do dig in a little meanly, but the point is he’s trying. Steve relaxes and praises him with a gentle, “Good job, baby. That was good listening.”

Bucky grunts a little more, and he seems to get his brain back online after a few more minutes pass by and he’s relaxed into Steve’s lap better. He doesn’t look as buzzed, looks like maybe he remembers most of the English language.

“You back with me?” Steve asks, when he notices him starting to try and hide his face in shame again.

Bucky nods, scrubbing his cheek on Steve’s shoulder. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “Didn’t mean to.”

“I know, sweetheart. You’re okay. You pulled out of that one real good. I’m proud of you.”

One of the things Bucky struggles with is the tantruming that he tends to shoot off into during or after release. ‘Excited Catatonia with Aggression’—Present in every edition of the DSM since III came out in the eighties. It’s somewhat like a heat frenzy, only with behaviors that can turn self-injurious and emotionally harmful in the blink of an eye. Steve is relieved that they were able to avert an episode this time. “Real good,” he repeats. “Have you been practicing your calm down techniques at home?”

Bucky squirms. “Mmn.”

“Use your words, bub.”

Bucky grumbles some more, and he keeps hiding against Steve’s shoulder, but eventually he does admit, “I do ‘em sometimes. … Sometimes in my room. At night.”

Steve feels his heart ping in with another dent. ‘At night’, he knows, just means when Bucky’s family won’t catch him doing it. When he won’t be shamed for rocking or sucking or stimming in some other way. Steve’ll never forget the first time he’d tried to send Bucky home with a few helpful items. The father had gone red in the face and dragged Bucky out the doors, and Steve had been unable to do anything but watch from the building’s west entrance as everything they’d given Bucky to take home with him was dumped right there in the parking lot.

Deep down, even way back then, Steve had known in his heart that Bucky wasn’t going to be able to stay with his family. Not if he was going to make it.

(And Steve really needs him to make it.)

“... Steve?” Bucky sounds shy and fatigued, which can happen when he’s fought off the emotional stress of a tantrum. “Can we stay here for just a little bit? Please?” He shuffles on his knees with a sniffle, pressing close for comfort. “Just for a little bit? You smell so good, and I don’t wanna leave yet.”

“Of course, sweetheart, yeah. We can do that. We can stay for as long as you want.” Steve really means it, because he knows he’s got to figure out a way to tell Bucky the bad news tonight. And Steve hates to think the worst of any patient, but he’s got a bad feeling that it’s not going to go over well at all. “Buck?” he prods gently, waiting until he knows the omega is paying attention. “Honey, can we talk a little bit?”

Maybe if he can get Bucky to talk it out, he thinks, get him to conclude on his own that going home isn’t the best option for him, then maybe Steve can present the change in custody as a choice. It’s wishful thinking, but he has to try. He doesn’t want to crush Bucky’s sense of self worth more than it already has been. Bucky already feels dejected and unloved, and knowing that his family has legally washed their hands of him isn’t something Steve wants him to have to deal with. It’s better if Steve can talk him around to the other side, make him ‘decide’ that he doesn’t want to go home to his family.

Steve knows Christina wouldn’t approve of the deception. And he knows if she found out, he’d be taken off Bucky’s case at best, professionally reprimanded at worst. He’d be considered compromised. And hey, maybe he is. Doesn’t mean he’s going to do things any different until somebody makes him. Bucky’s still his patient right now, and Steve is going to take care of him the way he thinks he needs. “So … um, I wanted to ask you about how things’ve been at home, lately.” Bucky tenses and Steve hushes him, bringing a hand up to cradle the back of his head and encourage him to press his face closer. Bucky takes the cue and snuffles into Steve’s neck, mouthing over the pulse point. Steve pats his back. “Has anybody been close with you?” he asks, near-pained because he thinks he already knows the answer. “Your mom maybe, or your brothers?” Bucky shakes his head and Steve feels awful. “Are you sure? Snuggling? Or, even just a hug when you need it? Some scenting?”

The last time Bucky had been admitted on-ward, the social services team had roped his folks into a session to try and better educate them on their son’s new special needs. Steve hadn’t been present—had been on vacation, of all things, Christ—but he’s heard that the parents did not appreciate the instruction, and they didn’t take any of the information to heart. Obviously.

“Mm mn,” Bucky’s saying, rubbing his mouth over Steve’s skin as he speaks. “I never ask. Don’t want ‘em to know. They’d just make fun’a me if I asked.”

Steve inhales sadly. “You need regular touch Bucky. Hugs, skin contact, lap time, something.”

“No,” he mumbles, sounding like the surly teenager he is. “You don’t get it.”

“Well explain it to me, then.”

“They’re totally ashamed of me. My dad hates me.”

Steve tuts. “I’m sure that’s not true, Honey. They may be uncomfortable about certain things—uneducated, or ill-equipped to help you. The counselors here have talked to you about it, haven’t they? You know: about how people can have implicit biases that they—”

“No!” Bucky gets angry and pulls away, sitting back on his knees and giving Steve a sharp look. “I’m embarrassing to them. They don’t want the neighbors to know! My brothers’ friends aren’t allowed to come over to our house to hang out anymore, so they hate me too, and just … Ugh! You just don’t get it, Steve. Not everybody believes like you guys do here. Lots of people just think that omegas are … they just think that we’re …”

“Honey,”

“Mm mn,” he sniffles, stubborn. “They think we’re useless, dumb. A waste of space.”

“That’s not true and you know it Bucky,” Steve says sternly.

“I don’t know shit,” he growls. “That’s how it is in the real world, Steve. And how’re they wrong, huh? I’m never going to be able to have a job, never gonna be able to take care of myself.”

“Bucky,” Steve pleads, concerned at the vitriol in Bucky’s voice. He should not be talking like this, and the fact that he is means that things at his home have been more abusive than Steve realized.

“—Just a waste of tax dollars. A drain on society. Waste of hardworking people’s tax dollars,”

“Stop.” Steve’s pissed when he Voices it, and it comes through loud and clear. Bucky shuts up right away. He blinks wide eyes at him, and Steve takes the opportunity to shut him down. “I don’t ever want to hear you talk like that again, Bucky,” he says, easing off from his Voice when he can see he’s gotten the kid’s attention. He puts his hands on Bucky’s hips and looks at him sternly. “There are people who think like your parents do, yes. But it’s not nearly the majority. I think you’re under the impression that a lot of people share those ugly beliefs.” He waits, and when Bucky says nothing to deny it, Steve huffs. “It’s not many. I’d say … ten percent of folks? Maybe fifteen, when there’s a Republican in the white house.”

“What? Really? …You’re not just saying that?”

Bucky looks slightly swayed. Bolstered, Steve pets his hands up and down Bucky’s sides, rucking the soft material of his tee shirt as he does it. “No, I’m not just saying that. Most people don’t think the way your folks do. Only assholes who watch Fox News parrot out the sort of vile shit you just did.” He raises a knowing eyebrow, daring Bucky to deny it. He’s met George Barnes a few times. He knows what type the man is. “You are just as important as any other person, Hon,” he promises, and when Bucky starts to sneer again, he’s struck by the distinct urge to smack him.

He digs his fingers in warningly at the boy’s waist. “Hey, listen to me, now.” Bucky stops sneering, and Steve sighs, trying to think of something he can say that’ll make Bucky realize he’s actually worth something. “Do you … Do you believe in God, honey?” he asks—not at all professional, but Steve’s gone past professional with Bucky for a while now, whether he wants to admit it or not. He’s heard Bucky make a few flippant comments in the past, about ‘God’ or ‘heaven’ or ‘prayers’ (usually in relation to morbid comments about wanting to die or off himself), so he’s taking a chance and going out on a limb here. “Hm?”

“God?” Bucky’s brow furrows. “I guess so. I mean my family never really goes to church except for—”

“I didn’t ask if you go to church,” Steve interrupts. “I asked if you believe in God, in one form or another.” He waits patiently for Bucky to answer him. When he does, it’s with a tiny nod and a mumbled,

“Yeah. I think so. … I do.”

Steve softens. “Okay then. Me too, by the way.” Bucky makes a weird face like he’s still unsure why Steve is talking about this, So Steve explains, “Think about it: Do you really think there’s any God out there who’d create a whole class of people that didn’t have a purpose? Ten percent of humanity that’s just a ‘stupid waste’?” He waits until Bucky makes a face in consideration. “Right. I’m Catholic, you know? My ma dragged my butt to mass every Sunday growing up. And I just wish you could’a heard the things I did, the things they preached. It was never ugly like what your folks’ve been telling you. Omegas are different from other people, but so are Alphas. Doesn’t mean we’re not just as good and important as anybody else. We just have different needs, and that’s okay.” He offers Bucky a cautious smile. “I mean, maybe it’s not a coincidence that we’re five and five of the population, huh?” He reaches up and cradles the side of Bucky’s face, tracing his cheekbone with the pad of a thumb. “It’s like somebody had this idea we’d be complimentary, or something.”

Bucky’s lips have parted, and he even smiles reluctantly at the soft teasing in Steve’s tone there at the end. He reaches up and covers Steve’s hand with his own. “I guess so,” he murmurs. “I mean, it kinda makes sense.”

“Mm.” Steve smirks. “It does.” He kisses his cheek and gives another little squeeze on his waist. “C’mon. Let’s go get cleaned up.”

Bucky is sullen at first when they exit the massage room, but when Steve makes it clear that he won’t be leaving Bucky’s side now that their lap time is over, the omega trails along happily enough. They wash up in the bathroom and change into clean clothes. Bucky doesn’t fuss at all when Steve helps him into a fresh diaper, but he does mumble, “I hate ‘em.”

Steve has just pulled up the soft fleece pants for Bucky. “Do you really? Or d’you just hate how embarrassed it makes you feel?”

Bucky chews his lip and doesn’t answer for a long minute, his lashes lowering and his cheeks darkening. “... The second one, I guess. Embarrassing.”

If you were my omega, Steve wants to say so badly. You’d never have to feel embarrassed about anything. Not for the rest of his life, because Steve would take care of him, make him feel like the treasure he is. Like he deserves. He licks his lips, overly emotional and trying not to let it show. “Hey,” he says softly, putting his hand over Bucky’s fleece-covered knee. “You know it’s a common thing, the wetting, right bub?”

Bucky nods sullenly. “I guess.” He’s still sitting on the changing table with his legs thrown over the side, and Steve steps forward to give him a hug. “Who’s ever gonna want to put up with me?” he says, and Steve’s heart just about fractures.

Me, he wants to say so badly, but he can’t. He holds the words back like bile in his mouth, hugs him tighter and says into his hair, “Lotsa people, Buck. There’s whole agencies devoted to helping omegas find their mates.”

“There are?”

“Of course. Half my job is making sure patients are set up to succeed in the world, once they get outta here.” He steps back and takes Bucky’s hand, and together they walk out of the bathroom and down the ward’s hallway. “That’s actually something you and I need to talk about.”

It’s dinnertime, so Steve walks them to the room where all the patients on C Hall eat their meals. He makes himself a coffee while Bucky goes to load up a tray with food from the line, then they sit together away from the other patients. Steve works up the nerve to have the conversation he’s been avoiding all day. “So,” he says. “When you get out of here,”

Bucky makes a face down at his tray of food. “Ugh.”

“Ugh?”

He shrugs. “I dunno. I hate thinking about going home. They’ll come and pick me up, be jerks all over again, till next time.” He stabs vindictively at the little pile of peas he’s got. “I know it’s crazy to want, but … sometimes I wish they’d never come back, that they’d magically just forget about me and I could stay here forever.”

“Aw, you don’t want to stay here forever,” Steve coaxes. “In a mental hospital?”

Bucky shrugs. “I’d rather be here with you then back home with them.”

God, Honey. You’ve got no idea how much I want to keep you. Steve tries not to get overeager, but this is a good start to the conversation they need to have, so he goes with it. “Yeah?” he prods. “I’ve always been able to tell your dad’s a bit of a prick, but things are that bad at home?” He wants Bucky to talk about the abuse, then they can segue into discussing healthier options. “Buck?”

Bucky avoids looking at him, poking around his food and making patterns in the mashed sweet potatoes with his fork. “... Nobody makes fun of me here,” he says quietly. “I’m allowed to relax and … and do what feels good.”

Christ. Steve grits his teeth and imagines beating George Barnes’ face to a pulp. “Yeah Honey,” he eventually croaks. “Yeah that’s how it should be. Always. The fact that your folks make you feel that way, that they treat you the way they do … It’s wrong. It’s abusive. So is the way they’re always dumping you here and yanking you out, using it as a punishment. You do realize that?”

Bucky glances up at him, but he shrugs. “I guess so,” he mumbles.

“No, not ‘I guess so’, it is,” Steve insists. He nods at Bucky's tray. “Stop playing with your food. Put a bite of that in your mouth.” Bucky’s eyes get a little wide at the command, and then he flushes and responds positively, listening to Steve and eating a forkful of potatoes. Steve feels a warm thrill of satisfaction at being obeyed. “Good boy,” he praises. “Look, Buck. I want to talk about your options for when you leave here. You do realize that I’ll help you, right? If you put in a petition on grounds of abuse, I’ll sign it. You could choose where you live. You wouldn’t have to go back to your parents’ place. In fact I don’t think you should. It sounds to me like they make you pretty miserable.”

“What?” Bucky looks surprised. “But where else would I go? I don’t have a job or any money.”

“That’s okay. You know the state puts money aside for omegas, right? We can get you set up with what you need.”

Bucky looks wary, but he nods. “Yeah. They talked about it in life skills class. Welfare programs.”

Steve supposes that’s the sort of thing George Barnes talks trash about at home. “Yeah,” he says encouragingly. “You can apply for an apartment and an income. It won’t be a lot, but it’d be enough to live off of. You’ll get medical, housing, heat support.” Bucky’s face goes scarlet at the mention of his heats, but Steve presses on. “And there are jobs out there for omegas who want to work. You just have to know where to look. Like this girl I know from my church? She got a job working at a childcare center. Told me she loves it.” Bucky’s brow is furrowed as he takes in all that Steve’s saying, and Steve holds his hand out over the table, palm up. “C’mon, tell me what you're thinking.”

Bucky bites his lip but he does put his hand in Steve’s. “I don’t … I don’t know how to be on my own,” he admits. “I’m afraid. What if I mess up?”

“Oh, sweetheart.” Steve squeezes his hand. “You won’t mess anything up. You know, I have so many omega clients who do well. Almost everybody does, really, when they get out of here. And you wouldn’t be on your own. There’d be people helping you. You’d get a caretaker assigned from an agency. A good one.” He hates thinking of another alpha helping Bucky, scent marking his apartment and making him feel good. But that’s Steve’s problem, not Bucky’s. “Honey, I think your self esteem has taken such a huge hit from this when it didn’t really have to. Your folks have been saying nasty shit in your ears ever since you presented three years ago, and I’m sorry but that’s a damn shame. It’s fucked up.”

Bucky is looking at Steve like he can’t believe what he’s hearing, and Steve knows why. He’s never really cursed in front of Bucky before, and he’s certainly never verbally trashed the kid’s family. But Steve is fed up. He just spent the last hour helping the most beautiful, sweet omega through a release, and knowing that the poor thing is so mixed up about his gender because of his asshole family absolutely burns Steve up. He’s had enough. Bucky deserves to feel good about himself and have a good life. Steve gives his hand another supportive squeeze. “Hey, why don’t we sit down tomorrow and make a ‘what if’ plan, huh?”

“... What’s a ‘what if’ plan?”

Steve smiles gently. “It’s where we think up options for what you might do, where you might go, if you want something different when you get out of here.”

“Steve, I don’t … I don’t know.” Bucky looks down, face screwed up in worry. In a tiny voice, he admits, “I’m not sure I can really take care of myself. Not like this.” He says it so sadly, and Steve doesn’t know what ‘like this’ means, but he can make a few guesses. Across the table from him, Bucky is looking rather miserable. “My parents’ll probably be by any day now to pick me up, anyway.”

Steve cringes. He finally forces himself to say, “Well, that’s um, that’s not really going to happen, actually.”

“What?” Bucky’s wide, hurt eyes coming back up to lock on Steve don’t make this task any easier. “What do you mean?”

“Um, you see, your folks decided to sign a paper when they came by this last time, saying that they agree to relinquish custody.”

Bucky’s entire face falls in a way that absolutely breaks Steve’s heart. “Oh,” he says, voice tiny. “They got rid of me?”

“They signed over custody, baby. I think they finally realized that it was hurting you more than helping, so they agreed to let us take care of you from now on. They’re finally trying to do right by you.”

It’s a complete lie, Steve is pretty sure. He knows Bucky’s parents and he’s certain that nothing about the situation was done for Bucky’s benefit, only their own. The Barnes’ simply didn’t want to deal with their son’s needs anymore. But Steve is trying to put the best spin on this he can, for Bucky’s sake. “It’s going to be okay, Buck,” he promises. “I’m not going to let anything bad happen to you. You know that, right?”

Bucky’s already pulling into himself. He physically almost seems to shrink, shoulders hunching and arms tucking in. He nods at Steve’s question though, and he doesn’t rage or fit at the news that his family doesn’t want him anymore. “Yeah,” he says, voice dull. “I know.”

Series Masterlist

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[ne--0n]

I got tagged by @smilepal to share lil details about my favorite character, thing is I don't really have a favorite, so I'll give you all the thing nobody asked for ( •̀ .̫ •́ )✧

Finn Gerstatt

or Fingers if you're that intimate :)

1. He has around 230 kiss marks tattooed, yes I counted, and that's how many partners he had in his life.

2. We love a self confident person, he's very sexy and he knows it.

3. The drip my man, boy is very safe with his antiseptic gotta respect.

4. I don't know what is engraved on the little thingies but I like to imagine it's butt plugs.

5. Belly button piercing. I repeat. Belly button piercing.

6. Spray painted cyberware, shows resourcefulness, either that or my pc can't handle all his glory.

7. Colostomy bag but make it fashion.

8. Undeniably great fashion sense.

9. Hair line will never threaten yours so you can feel great about yourself for once.

10. Scars probably self inflicted when he got the nails and wasn't used to them yet.

11. Bite scar, a love mark left by Adam Smasher. (smager4life otp)

12. A true fashion statement that he's not bound by the rules of society.

13. Tattooed eyebrows.

14. A bullet that failed to kill him, now turned into an earring.

15. He makes this face right after being slapped by Judy and I think we can all relate.

16. Nipple Piercing. I repeat. Nipple Piercing.

17. Look at that cake.

18. Caution warning.

19. Stand Clear warning. Very thoughtful of your safety :) nice man.

20. Restricted to corporate law (Adam Smasher) and Hot Surface (the best way to describe him imo)

21. Undeniably great decoration taste.

22. 100% a top, you can quote me on that.

23. Makes Felix's smile :)))

24. Dirty. Dirty man. A plus if you're into that.

25. Big head = big brain.

26. Pube hair beard will not hurt your face.

27. Beautiful colonizer blue eyes, stare directly into your soul.

28. A lot of cute beauty marks.

Now after this, or before even I don't know your life, you feel this mysterious attraction to our dear ripperdoc and you have no idea where ir comes from, allow me to enlighten you:

Thanks for coming to my TED Talk :)

[collapse-and-comfort]

Blurb II

Continued from here. I’ll tag @redwingedwhump because she mentioned wanting more. 

M knew that W was an anomaly at their agency. His hair was the color of dust, though his face lacked any significant wrinkles. He could have passed for anywhere between twenty-five and forty-five. Whatever his age, she knew he was far removed from the newly turned pups that usually found themselves under her care. No, he shouldn’t be here, but that didn’t mean he didn’t need to be. She thought of Z’s suspicions about there being a traitor among them, but she turned her thoughts back to the matter at hand. M tapped the tip of her pen on her desk while reading through her notes, trying to arrange her thoughts and wondering how her hypotheses would be received by her mentor.

“M?”

She lifted her head to see R in the doorway. She recognized him as one of the nurses who consistently worked the night shift. She wondered how late it had gotten. R’s eyes were a little too wide and instead of stepping into her office, he leaned past the threshold as though he was worried about trespassing. As though he was worried about being the bearer of bad news.

“Mmm?” she asked as she straightened.

“It’s W,” he said. “He’s come around more. He’s agitated.”

M nodded and stood. She lamented that they had taken him from one clinical setting and put him in another. Add that to the effects the drug in his system were having on him, It was unfortunate but not surprising that W would be showing signs of distress and disorientation.  

R made room for M as she swept out the door, and followed her toward the ward where W was being kept.

“H is with him,” the nurse said.

M nodded again and felt a modicum of tension fade from her shoulders. H cut a hugely imposing figure, but he was also one of the kindest, most understanding people she knew. He was unparalleled at calming frightened or violent patients without being patronizing. M could not have been more grateful for his presence.

They got to the door to the ward and without even looking, M swept her access card over the sensor and opened the door. They slipped in the door. H had positioned himself between the door W, but he gave him at least ten feet of space. Whatever dialogue had developed between the two ceased when M and R entered the space.

M gave H a pat on the arm as she stood next to him and assessed her patient. It was good to see that W was no longer a huddled, shaking mess. Less positive was the blood that stained his right forearm from having pulled out his IV, and the deep, deep circles under his eyes. He was breathing hard too, but M could not have said for certain if that was a side effect of whatever was working his way out of his system, or a response to stress and exertion. Probably, it was both. His gaze flickered from M to H and back again. She thought to break the silence by introducing herself.

“I’m doctor-”

“I don’t care,” W said. His voice was low but the edge therein was unmistakable. “Let me go.”

M hated this part. They didn’t keep prisoners here, but they couldn’t always release their charges right away either.

Better to bite the bullet, she decided.

“I know this will be difficult to hear,” she said in a firm, clear voice. “But that is not possible right now.”

W glared and took a step forward. M was sure the movement was meant to provoke a response, but it was uncoordinated and he swayed on his feet.

“It’s okay,” H said. “You’re still healing-”

“I’m fine.”

Something changed in W’s eyes; it was as though he was looking right through all three of them. He slowly reached a hand up toward the wall, but the wall was farther away than he apparently thought. He fell against the wall and leaned heavily on it so as not to fall to the ground.

“Woah, woah, easy,” H said as both he and M started forward. They both stopped, though.

“Stay away from me,” W warned as his body went rigid. He Looked up at them with a flash of defiance in his eyes, but it quickly burned out. M could see the realization strike him that he was outnumbered and weakened. His voice cracked when he said, “Just stay away.”

“Should I bring a sedative?” R asked from behind M.

M shook her head from side to side without looking back. There was no need to shoot W full of more chemicals if they didn’t have to. As if to confirm that point, W slid the rest of the way to the blue and white tiled floor. He didn’t take his eyes off of them as he continued to support himself on the wall.

“Easy,” H said as he and M advanced again.

“Don’t,” W said as he flinched. “Don’t touch me.”

W crushed himself so close to the wall that it might have been his intention to merge with it. M and H halted again and spared each other a glance. They had to do this right If they were going to establish any sort of trust between themselves and W. They could not allow their first exchange with him while he was somewhat lucid to end in holding him down and doping him out of his mind.

Patience, she reminded herself the same way her mentor often did.

M stayed a few feet away, but she crouched down so she was eye-level with W.

“We’re not going to hurt you,” she said. “We just want to help.”

That earned her a derisive snort from W.

“We do,” she insisted. “We also need to find out what the people who had you were trying to accomplish.”

Something cold and fearful ghosted over W’s face. His gaze went far away again, but the ire and mistrust crowded his features so quickly it was as though they’d never left.

“I don’t know what they did to me,” he whispered. “I don’t know.”

“That’s okay,” H offered gently.

W’s face fell and M had to quash the urge to put a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“At least let us help you get off the floor,” M said.

W kept his eyes on her as he considered that option. M held her breath until finally, W nodded his head.

M asked R to bring some water as she and H helped W to his feet. They allowed W to get his balance for himself and they walked on either side of him back to his room. When they entered W paused as though he were uncertain of what to do.

“I’ll get your arm cleaned up,” H said as he guided W to the bed. “And then you can get some rest if you want. And if you need anything, just let me know.”

M went about gathering the discarded IV line and thanked her lucky stars the situation hadn’t taken a turn for the worse.

“I don’t want that,” W said.

“Okay,” M said when she noticed how intently W was watching the catheter in her hand. “As long as you can keep some fluids down.”

W looked as though he wanted to argue, but he fell silent and nodded. His shoulders slumped and M wondered if he was going to fall asleep sitting up.

“Was…” W trailed off and M could see the conflict on his face. She waited for him to continue. “Was there another werewolf where I was being kept?”

M shook her head.

“Not that I’m aware,” she said. “You were the only person they found there.”

W nodded as though he had expected that answer. M could not determine which emotion played across W’s face. Disappointment? Relief? Whatever it was, M cautioned herself against pressing for information W was unready to give.

[meaninglessblah-writes]

How about 90 + 33? #200528

Thank you for the prompt  ♥ Wasn’t sure which pairing you were after, so I’ve gone with some gen DamiJay. 

90 “I’m almost there, just hang on.” + 33 “Hey look at me, just breathe, okay?

Jason bites the tail end of the gauze between his teeth and pulls tight, watching the neat, fresh row of stitches disappear beneath the white cloth. He’s agitated, blood thumming from the last dregs of adrenaline and irritation that comes with a family friendly mission. 

He’s so sick of being Bruce’s bloodhound. Someone he can send to sniff out the scent, do all the legwork - only to drop in at the last minute and ‘handle it’. 

Jason’s completely fucking capable of handling an arms deal himself, thank you very fucking much. He’d been tailing Sionis’ men for months before Bruce had shown up with his ragtag team of vigilantes to ever-so-kindly take it off Jason’s plate. Thanks for the intel, the professionals will take it from here. 

And like goddamn amateur hour, it’d ended in a shitfight. They’d drawn knives, so the Bats had drawn knives, and then someone had cut the power. Jason had leapt back into the fray immediately. Taken a switchblade into his brachial artery for his trouble, and lost track of whatever other wounds the colourful band of siblings had weathered before they’d managed to cuff the majority of the small time dealers. 

Jason had forgone the afterparty in favour of skulking home to lick his wounds and down some whiskey in a blessedly Bat-free environment. Left the rounding up of the last of the thugs to Robin and Nightwing, who had taken to the rooftops in a way that reminded Jason far too much of pixie boots and an old man’s smile. 

Jason rubs a palm into his chest, flexing his bicep to test the constriction of the bandage, and downs another finger of whiskey from the bottle. He’s not usually big on drinking, but something about tonight called for something stronger to smooth down his edges. 

He’s barely started preparing to disinfect his needle and pack up his supplies before he hears the godawful crash of something falling through the window of his second bedroom, the unoccupied one where he keeps his training mats and dumbbells. Feels the reverberation through the timber floorboards up into his shins as he rises from his stool with a spiral of fury. 

“That better be one huge fucking rat,” Jason’s angry tone filters through from the kitchen, growing in volume as he rounds the corner into the hallway, “or someone’s about to get their ass-” 

He freezes when he catches sight of Damian, framed by the door frame, slumped back against the sill. Knees knocking and palm all but sewn to his stomach, holding back the tide of sickly red bubbling over his washed out fingers. 

He looks genuinely remorseful beneath Jason ire, which is leaching out of him in a tingling rush to be replaced by horror the longer he stands there. “Just the rat,” he murmurs, and goes down to one knee, uncoordinated. 

“Jesus fuck,” Jason gasps, and sprints the length of the hallway to meet the teen. 

Damian’s down to one hand by the time Jason reaches him, breaths sharp and shaky, heaving tight and neat around the swell of his ribs. Jason can tell he’s in pain, a lot of it, and maybe hasn’t managed to remove the intrusion, if he’s moving as stilted as he is. His hands flutter for a moment as he catalogs, and then years of training under Alfred’s steady hand kick in, and Jason tests the kid’s hold. 

He’s got enough pressure on the wound for now, but from the way he hisses, and how quickly his strength is fading, Jason can tell he needs a patch job and fast. He eases Damian onto his back, settling him on the timber as Robin hisses and bears teeth at the movement, brow washing into pain as soon as he’s still. 

“What was it?” Jason demands, categorising as he does a quick sweep of the kid’s body for any more punctures. “Knife? Bullet?” 

“Knife,” Damian confirms between gritted teeth, eyes clenched tight on the wash of agony as he’s jostled. 

“Hang on for me,” Jason instructs, pressing his palm down against Damian’s knuckles to encourage him to hold tight. “Gonna get you some stitches.” 

If Damian acknowledges it in the groan Jason hears as he bolts back down the hallway, he doesn’t discern it. He scrambles for the first aid kit sprawled across the counter top, pawing through until he can find a clean needle and a bottle of disinfectant. 

“Todd,” Damian’s voice filters through, distant and waning. 

“I’m almost there, just hang on,” Jason shouts back over one shoulder, snagging a length of wire and spinning back for his impromptu patient. 

Damian’s shucked his gloves by the time Jason staggers to his knees at the kid’s side. Jason does his best not to glance aside at the stained kevlar, focusing instead on squeezing his fingers into the gaping hole of his suit to tear it wider. It’s a hard task; the reinforced weave is designed to specifically resist this treatment, and Jason’s forearms are aching by the time he manages to make a seam big enough to work within. 

Damian looks pale, his lashes blinking slowly open and shut as Jason threads his needles and dips it. He realises belatedly that he should have put on gloves, should have disinfected the wound first. Then Damian groans, soft and fleeting, and Jason discards that in favour of keeping the damn Bat alive. 

“Hang in there, kiddo,” he soothes, and pinches the skin, pressing the gash closed to verbal disagreement. “I know it hurts. Gotta sew you up. Hold on just a bit longer for me.” 

Damian nods, slow and lethargic, and Jason shoots him glances between looping his thread through the kid’s skin. He’s not even halfway done before Damian’s eyes close and don’t reopen, and panic grips Jason by the throat. 

He lifts his free hand - smeared with drying blood now - to tap Damian firmly on the cheek. The little Robin stirs, lashes sweeping slow over his cheekbones and eyes roaming until he finally locates Jason above him. 

“Hey look at me, just breathe, okay? Nice and deep. All the way to your toes.” 

Damian’s brow pinches like he has something to say about Jason’s cloying tone, but he does it nonetheless, his rib cage swelling with his inhale. 

“That’s it,” Jason praises, the words an afterthought as he refocuses on the wound. “Doing great, kid. You hit your beacon yet?” 

When no answer comes, Jason glances up to find Damian’s lids have slid closed again. 

“Hey!” Jason demands, smacking him hard this time. Damian stirs, but even he can see the lethargy swimming behind those green lens. “Have you called for help yet, Robin?” 

Damian blinks at him, uncomprehending. “I…” 

Jason grunts and ties off his thread, knotting it tight. The lack of vocal disapproval makes his stomach twist as he reaches up to press two fingers to the comm in Robin’s ear. “Say something for them, kid. They need to hear you’re okay. They won’t listen to me.” 

“Robin,” Damian sighs, and his lips tremble around the syllables. 

Jason waits, but when no further words are forthcoming, he shifts to press his thumb against the newly stitched wound. 

Damian’s snarl hitches into a sharp shout of pain, features awash with agony until Jason hears the murmur of a concerned Bat in his ear. He lifts his thumb, ignoring the sigh of relief Damian gives him for the motion as he gathers his things and climbs to his knees. 

The Bats will locate him through any of the thousand trackers probably embedded in the kid's suit, Jason’s sure. They’re much more prompt about coming to their Robins’ aid after the first unfortunate incident, he can attest to that. It’s when he goes to swing up to his feet, supplies in arm, that a hand flashes out to snag his trousers. 

Jason glances down at the shaking fingers, pale and washed out with the lack of blood, and flicks his gaze up to Damian’s face. “Thank you,” the boy croaks, and Jason gives him a nod that eases some of the concern from the kid’s brow. That hand slumps back to the timber, grip weak as Jason steps over him. 

Seems like he should be expecting more company tonight. 

If you want to ask me more questions, check out my list of prompts and quote the 6-digit number in the tags :)

[theashofwkm]

Burning Ire

Summary: In which Abe is reborn to shed his lawful role and hunt for revenge instead of justice.

Prompt: Goretober, Rebirth

Warnings: cursing, anger, smoking, murder mention, jail mention, gunshot mention, blood mention, brief mention of Abe wishing to kill/torture William and Mark but no details, Abe trying to solve a case with little luck

Note: in regards to the prompt this kinda sucks, but, I tried. enjoy. day one of Goretober is a go, but how long will I be able to keep it up for? also I’m sorry for the lack of a read more, it’s not working and i don’t know how to fix it.

———

Abe is angry, burning.

His heart throbs and his hands shake and he bleeds betrayal. The bullet sits in his chest, crafted from false pretenses and forged in a tower of lies.

William had betrayed him, had betrayed them. He’d pulled the trigger, not one or twice, but thrice. Three shots, three bullets, three distinct bodies that didn’t simply fall dead.

Mark had died, but wasn’t dead. A docile threat for the moment, off licking his wounds. You— The DA, was gone. They had disappeared, vanished. Poof, a bullet to your gut and suddenly you live only in memory with no body and no corpse. And him — Abe. Alive, bleeding, angry.

Angry and starving for revenge, justice. None of this would have happened if William wasn’t so fucking goddamned trigger happy.

But it’s okay.

Abe was a detective, a policeman. This is what he did. Search for justice, carry it out, and return home to sleep soundly in his bed. This case was a little different, but still the same. Find William, pull his own trigger, and get a good nights rest.

He drags himself to his feet, groaning and stumbling as he clenches his hand to his chest. Blood slips between his fingers, soaking his shirt, dripping to the floor. He’d better get patched up first.

He stops by his office, not his home, or his workplace, but the small space he rents out to work in peace, away from noisy coworkers and pointless gossip. He stitches himself shut, fishes out the bullet himself and gets to work. Putting in a call to his coworkers, he orders them to come to him with any possible information on William.

Other then what he already has, of course. It turns out to be useful, that Mark had hired him to look over the attendance list before the party. He just needed to sort through it. The tower of files sits on his desk, off centered and messy.

Time to get started.

Hours drag, Abe peering at black words on white paper and marking down anything that comes to mind. He scribbles notes in the margins of the paper and scratches anything important onto the chalkboard, pinning essential bits onto the cork board and tying them together with string, framing the photo pinned to the center.

‘’

Fist slammed against the wall, Abe curses, “damn it.” The bricks don’t relent, standing tall and useless as he idles in an intersection of back streets. Turning on his heel, he slinks back to his office, pulling his vape from his pocket and huffing it in disappointment. He was so close to catching him.

Angrily, he crosses out a name on the board, ‘Waldorf Juniper’. He’d caught him, chased him and lost him. He’d get him next time.

‘’

He’s angry with himself. Furious.

Mark had hired him to do a lesser job, one beneath him in every way and because he was his friend, he’d done it. Part of him itches to find Mark, hunt him down like a rabid animal and get his fingers on his throat. Part of him wants Mark dead, for if he didn’t do that job, he wouldn’t be on a case he still hasn’t solved.

Hell, it wasn’t even a case. He was a detective, he was supposed to be ordered by his superiors, handed a file with a dead body and he was supposed to hunt its killer. That was his job and what he was doing now wasn’t.

It was just a stupid play for revenge.

If his superiors could see him now, he’d be fired. Disgraced. All because of William J. Barnum and his fucking trigger finger.

He has things he’d like to do to that finger, things that would land him in a jail cell. In that way, it’s good that he hasn’t found William yet. He was going to tear him apart, rip out his insides and torture the reasons out of him.

It was unethical, but he couldn’t care less about ethics and laws. He cared about finding William, making him pay, and then making him dead. Very, very dead.

He wonders when he became alright with murder — he puts people who think so away, he doesn’t become one of them. Then he remembers.

Uniformed photo of William on the wall, Abe remembers why. He’d killed their friends. He was alone now. A shut-in obsessed with work. William— hunting him was all he had now. He owed it to Mark and he owed it to Damien and Celine and you. Everyone at that damned party was innocent and if Abe has to break a few laws and become a criminal to enact his justice, then so be it.

‘’

He drives, car rumbling beneath him and cigarette dangling delicately from his fingers. The road stretches endlessly, passing beneath him and offering the same sights.

William is out there somewhere, giddily happy and partying. Enjoying his life, the music, the partygoers. Enjoying everything he shouldn’t have anymore.

He should be rotting. Dressed drably behind bars and paying for his sins. He was a murder and a liar and a heartless backstabber. He’d known Mark since they were children and that hadn’t stopped him from pulling the trigger.

If it was the last thing he did, he was going to make William pay.

‘’

“What?” Abe bites the word into the phone receiver harshly, teeth clenched and breath bated.

“Drop the investigation,” his boss says drolly, though with a measure of force. “We need you on more relevant cases.”

Abe stands, chair bashing against the wall. “More relevant cases? Barnum killed two people and shot me!”

“And where,” his boss’ voice comes out hard now, demanding respect, “has that gotten you?”

He flounders, gazing at the folders strewed across his desk, the filing cabinet stuffed with even more, the names and locations scrawled across the chalkboard. “I just ran into him,” he says, eyes pinched as he struggles for details. “He was hiding out in a cabin, I almost got him, but...” He trails off, brows together as he searches through his memory, cramming the phone into his ear via his shoulder to allow him to flip through a folder frantically.

“But what, Abraham?”

“He was in... Morocco,” he says, trailing over the word, photo of William perched in the corner, grinning stupidly, mockingly.

“There aren’t cabins in Morocco.”

“He was going under a new name. Uhh,” he scans the chalkboard. “Lord Waldo. No. Wally Jibbles? Butterfield? Wendy Jewel?” These names, he’s written them down, but when? In his handwriting, unfamiliar names are scrawled.

“Which was it?”

“I... I had him,” Abe says, “he was right there and I was close to actually catching him this time. I swear!”

His boss sighs. “Do you know how many times you’ve said that now?”

Abe ticks the fingers on his hands, mouthing them silently and struggling to remember each encounter before he’s cut off.

“Too damn many. Pick up another case or don’t bother coming in.” Abe closes his eyes, frustration bubbling to the surface.

A sigh, fabric ruffling. “Look, you’re a good detective, Abe, but we need you solving cases.”

The click and static prompts him to shove the phone back into the receiver. “Damn it,” he curses, fist slammed against his desk.

‘’

He was a weekend away from losing his job.

It’s unfair. He’d spent months, years, building up respect and getting the best solve rate in his department. Then Mark had asked for a favor — one that was far beneath his station, he’d stopped doing the grunt work of background checks after he was promoted. But Mark was his friend, and he was asking nicely, so he did it anyways and it ended horribly.

With bodies dropped and no killer behind bars or in the ground. A killer walking free, and him being ordered to stop chasing it’s fleeting scent. Like he was a dog chasing nothing more than a damn squirrel.

He was a detective, for crying out loud, the best one in the city. He wasn’t going to drop a case because of a few dead ends and false leads. William wouldn’t get away with this.

Even if he had to throw away years worth of work. William wasn’t special, he didn’t get a pardon just because he was a slippery bastard. No. He’d get caught and he’d be punished and then Abe will finally be able to get a night of sleep.

Until then, he just had to keep working. Researching and chasing and hunting. Eventually, he’d have to catch up. God have mercy when he did.

———

Masterlist

Well dang. This feels like a part one, where part two is just Wilford Motherlovin Warfstache, doesn’t it? Hope you liked it! I had literally no idea what to title it.

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