#cool scars that look like cracks/broken glass >>>>>>>

[featherlouise]

Uhh. Have a Hollow in a Pinterest outfit

This was supposed to be a quick sketch cuz mothfriend’s (who now has a name mueheheheh) design was frustrating me hrgrhrhr

[fear-is-truth]

† 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 — charlie mayhew x f!reader. | mdni

tags: mature content・mentions of religion・angst・flashbacks of smut・fem!reader・self-inflicted flagellation・blood・not proofread / wc: 1158

⟡ a/n: sorry if there are any grammatical errors or mistakes. english is not my first language

father charlie mayhew sat on the edge of his narrow bed, the white walls of his private chamber closing in around him. the small space was sparse, almost ascetic, with only a few religious artifacts cluttering the windowsill. the emptiness mirrored the discipline he tried to embody—from the polished metal sink in the corner to the stiff, neatly made bed beneath him. everything in his life was governed by order, by control—everything except you.

he glanced toward the tiny window where rain trickled down the glass, his chest tightening with a dull throb. leaning forward, he buried his face in his hands, fingers pressing into his temples as if he could will you away like a migraine.

but you were always there.

your fingers clawed at the buttons on his collar, desperate and needy—tugging him closer as he struggled to cling to any vestige of control he possessed. plushy lips brushed the edge of his neck, and he could hear the slight tremor in your breathing. “charlie,” you pleaded. not “father” this time. you had stripped him of that sacred title, and reduced him to a man in your arms—a sinner. your body pressed against him, warmth seeped through the fabric of his robes into his bones, hands traveling down the line of his chest, and it was at that point when he realised… he didn’t give a damn about sin or salvation.

rising to his feet, he stripped off his cassock, letting it slip past his shoulders before pooling on the floor. cool air bit against his skin, the bruises and scars on his back crisscrossed the pale skin in a web of guilt. charlie didn’t dare look in the mirror, couldn’t stand to see the evidence of his weakness. instead he knelt down and stared at the cat o’ nine tails resting on the bed before him, its nine strands splayed like serpents awaiting to strike. the handle was a rough wooden club, and as he gripped it tightly, his fingers brushed the frayed ends of the ropes, already darkened with blood and sweat from last night’s penance. he rearranged the nine strands carefully, spreading them out methodically before each lash.

he began to ease himself inside you, the tightness and warmth making him groan into the crook of your neck. he paused briefly, allowing you to place your hands on his shoulders, before fully sheathing himself, dragging out a broken moan from your lips. then he curled an arm around your waist, slowly withdrawing his hips, before thrusting inside you again.

he slammed the whip across his back, the sharp crack echoing through the small room. the nine strands bit into his skin like the nails that had once driven into his saviour’s flesh. pain was instantaneous, cutting through the haze of memory. he sucked in a breath as the second strike followed, then a third.

the heat of your skin burned under his fingertips, the sheets had tangled around your legs in a twisted mess of linen and heat, as you arched beneath him, crying out his name—charlie—over and over, like a prayer. his hand tightened on your waist, guiding your hips against his, guilt warring with the heady pleasure that coursed through him with every deep thrust. he pressed you into the mattress, lips tracing the column of your throat as your thighs clenched around his waist.

charlie’s grip faltered, his body hunching forward as he gasped for air. he could feel blood dripping down his back, onto the floor, but he didn’t care. he deserved this. he needed this.

the punishment was supposed to cleanse him. it was supposed to scourge away the sin. (it never worked, not really.)

he laid the whip down, trembling as he reached out to rearrange the strands, spreading them evenly across the bed before lifting it again. his hands shook as he braced himself for the next blow, muscles tensing as if to ward off the pain he knew was coming.

“don’t stop,” you begged, voice cracking as his body moved against yours, the sudden clench of your walls leaving him dizzy. the sheets were a tangled mess, your hands clutching at them. but it hadn’t been the sheets you clung to in the end—it had been him.

with a swift motion, he brought the whip down again. the impact sent a shockwave of agony through his body, his knees buckling slightly under the force. a guttural sob tore through his chest. fresh welts overlapped the scars from the previous nights, the pain melding together into one throbbing, pulsing reminder of his weakness.

(charlie mayhew was a weak, pathetic man.)

“you’re so beautiful,” you murmured as your nails scraped along his back, leaving faint red marks in their wake. his hips rutted into yours with a rhythm that had made him forget who he was. hand slid beneath the sheets, fingers digging into your flesh before he buried himself deep inside you. you let out a strangled moan, biting down on your lip as your eyes fluttered shut in pleasure, and it took everything in him not to cry out in response, to keep his own sinful need locked behind his clenched teeth.

the pain was nearly unbearable now, his skin raw and bleeding from the repeated lashes. but still, he struck again, his eyes squeezing shut against the images of you.

(the memory of you writhing beneath him, the sheets twisted around your bodies as his hips rolled into yours, was burned into his soul.)

agony built to a crescendo, the sharp sting of the rope tearing at his flesh, but it still wasn’t enough. it was never enough. chest heaving, he let the whip fall from his hands and clutched the edge of the bed for support. his back was a mess of blood, bruises and torn skin, but the pain in his back was a dull throb compared to the ache in his chest.

you had told him, in the quiet of your shared sin, that you loved him. he hadn’t responded. he couldn’t. because if he had said it back, it would have made everything worse. he couldn’t love you—not the way you wanted him to. not the way he already did.

charlie ran a hand through his hair, slick with sweat, staring blankly at the white walls that had seen too many nights like this one.

he didn’t know how many more nights like this he could endure. how many more times he could sit on the edge of his bed, flogging himself for the pleasure he found in your arms. how many more lashes it would take to absolve him of the sin of loving you.

you were worth every drop of blood, every sting of the rope. you were his temptation, his punishment, and his salvation all at once. he would willingly suffer for you, again and again.

masterlist

 fear-is-truth 2024 — all rights reserved. do not modify, repost, translate, or plagiarise my content.

[lethalchiralium]

prizefighter.

Hand covered in blood, the other held a butcher’s knife - Simon kept a straight face as it came down, chopping the chicken breast in half. The brunt of the winter had long faded, the flower pot near the register blooming with every breath of spring air. His coworker, Al, bustled in the back as the meat delivery had arrived ten minutes ago and he refused any help, telling Simon to man the counter. He could hear the older man grunt and groan as he hauled the large carcasses in, Simon only shook his head in annoyance - he could’ve had his cigarette break by now, looking at the mess of bones and broken teeth in the alleyway. His bored stare could be felt from miles away and he placed the now two pieced chicken breast onto the weight.

Five ounces, just as decent as it was going to get nowadays. He mindlessly grabbed a sheet of paper, placed the meat on it, and wrapped it quickly. The only issue now was the twine - the fingers on his right hand hadn’t worked too well since he broke his hand during the war in the European Theater. He let his knife rest on the wooden countertop, brown eyes gazing down and examining his scarred hand - littered with white lines, divots, and notches. Just a little squeeze and he could feel the cold steel of a pipe, the pipe that an enemy soldier swung down, cracking and crushing his knuckles with a sickening crunch–

Ding!

It was a reflex, his response. With his back to the shop door, he loudly called out, “Welcome to Manchester Butcher-”

Bump, bump, bump!

He turned but saw no one in the sunlit lobby. There were only three chairs squeezed against the wall, a table with a singular magazine, all framed in the box that the cream wallpaper made. Maybe the bell went off on its own? He glanced at the door, where the bronze bell was still slowly swaying. His shoulders relaxed before he looked down to the glass case, and noticed a little girl with curly pigtails and a yellow dress. The frown on his face turned to a smile and a light chuckle as she giggled, stomping her feet and hitting her little hands on the case. “Dada!’

“Hello, princess. Where’s your mummy?” Simon reached for a clean towel, wiping his hands off as the bell rang again, he looked up and his smile grew wider. In came his eldest in her green dress, her hands clung to his wife’s own baby blue dress as the stroller was pushed in, out of the cool breeze. “Girls! What’re you doin’ here? This is a nice surprise.”

The baby was in her pram, he was instantly around the counter and kissing his wife, you, on the cheek, peering under the black canopy to his dozing infant. “We were just running errands, and the girls were crying about how much they were missing you today. I figured, why not stop in and say hello before we head home. Isn’t that right, girls?”

His toddler was quick to grab his pant leg, she squealed, “Dada, up!”

“Not right now, Mel. Daddy’s dirty.” He gazed down at his daughter as she clung to her mother, then his eyes darted up at you. His hand ached as his other hand held his dirty towel, he tried not to let you notice the pain. “What’s her deal?”

You glanced down to your eldest, Winnie, your hand curled around her chestnut ringlets before you looked back at him. “Nothing. She knocked a display over at the grocery store. She was embarrassed, and the grocer yelled at her.”

His back straightened a little, warm ichor-like anger ignited deep in his chest. “He yelled at her?”

Your hand gently brushed over the crown of Winnie’s head, she only moved closer to you as if to melt into your dress. “Yeah, and shoved her a little. Said she was in the way. I already had it out with him, Simon.”

“He shoved her? The one up the street?”

Winnie’s face turned down, and Simon was quick to kneel in front of her - all while ignoring his now clearly angry toddler. “Winnie, did Jim push you?” The girl’s face then looked away, buried in the blue floral print of her mother’s dress. He yearned to stretch his hand out, to cup her cheek and tell her that it was going to be alright now. But his hands were covered in chicken blood, and the feeling of being beaten over and over again still simmered beneath them like hot tar. “Sweetheart, just answer me. You’re not in trouble. It was an accident, yeah?”

Her brown eyes peered around the fabric to him, it damn near broke his heart to see the tears that welled in her eyes as she looked at him. She glanced up to her mother, hesitating, before nodding. His chest began to roar with red hot rage as he looked up at you.

“Simon, it just happened. He reacted. It’s not a big deal.”

“What do you mean, ‘not a big deal’? He bloody touched her. My daughter is upset. It’s a very big deal.” He didn’t ignore the tears in his daughter’s eyes as they felt like daggers into his chest. “Let’s go, pet.” He held out his towel wrapped left hand and Winnie didn’t hesitate to take it, he stood again, nodding as his coworker and almost instantly darted out of the butcher shop and ignored your sharp demand to leave it alone - Winnie barely struggling to keep up in her scuffed Mary Janes.

He moved through the people walking through the street, his right hand twitching with pain as he clenched his jaw. They passed three shops, his eyes trained on the green canopy with people bustling in and out of the door beneath it. Hunched a little to keep a grip on his daughter, he threw open the front door, leading her in first and beside the door before peering down at her face, “Stay right here, look at the floor.” Winnie nodded, little pearls of tears running down her rosy cheeks and that made Simon’s roaring anger sound like a train horn in his ear.

Weaving around red wicker displays and lines of patrons, he does his best to suppress his anger from the war, since it was his motivation to keep going. To fight, to win - he’s killed men from sunrise to sunset, from the coast of Normandy to Okinawa, all because it was him or them. Him or them. Him or them. It felt… overwhelming, the urge to protect more than just him, now that he was home again. He had sworn off fighting since Winnie was born six years ago, but it didn’t matter now, not anymore. This bumbling idiot could have hurt his darling girl and he would have never known if you hadn’t told him, so like any good guard dog, he showed his ichor stained teeth and claws with his bloodied apron in hand.

The blond haired grocer spotted him instantly, his back straightened as Simon struggled through the line of customers, backing away from the till with a loud, “Simon-”

“You touched my daughter?”

“I’m…sorry, but she knocked all of my apples to the floor. What was I–”

And after the first punch that sent the grocer flying to the ground, Simon’s right hand no longer trembled. “She’s six.” He knelt then, leaning over him. “Bet you wouldn’t’ve done a thing if I’d been here, would ya?”

Another punch sent his head crashing backwards into the tile, wailing, “Bloody christ, I’m sorry!” His lip was split, nose starting to become a few shades darker. He almost screeched in terror when Simon grabbed him by his collar with his right hand. The damn grocer should’ve known by now that Simon is not the man to lend mercy, and now, not even in front of his daughter, as he destroyed the promise he made six years ago.

“Get up.” He stood, effortlessly lifting the man and dragging him through the now parted line of customers, straight to his darling girl; she was rubbing her eye with the back of her hand, keeping her gaze on her shoes, swaying from side to side softly. Simon raised the man a little, so he could look at Winnie as she sniffled towards the tiled floor. “Apologize.”

The man’s head bobbed a little, Simon jolted him and he winced then looked at her, “I-I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pushed you.”

“Better.” Without any grace, he unceremoniously tossed the man back on the ground, snarling, “And clear my wife’s tab.”

He didn’t even give the man the time to address him as he held out his wrapped hand for his daughter near her small field of vision, she took it after her eyes welled with tears due to his bloodied knuckles. He snatched a sweet from the shelf nearby, ushering her towards the door.

The grocer groaned out, “Y-Yeah, sure thing, Simon. Sure.”

The spring air felt like knives on his now split knuckle, walking her back to the butcher shop with a firm grip on her hand. He looked at the sweet he took, a Drumstick lolly. He huffed out a humorless chuckle before handing it to Winnie. “Here.”

She looked from the concrete up to him, her dress swishing with every step before quietly saying, “That’s stealing. That’s wrong.”

“Sweetheart, he owed you a candy for bein’ a right cunt. Take it.” She took it instantly, whispering her timid “Thank you.” before becoming silent again. The walk was longer than before, the adrenaline settling as quickly as it came. Simon could see you through the window of the butcher shop, gently rocking the small pram as the toddler’s hands and cheek were pressed against the cool glass. She began to squeal as she recognized them, pigtails and yellow dress bouncing with every step, Simon opened the door and led Winnie in like always. Have to teach manners young.

You cleared your throat, sitting on the only nice chair in the lobby. Simon shrugged and answered your cue. “Got it handled.” Your eyebrow raised, your eyes slowly blinked as your head tilted a bit to the side - some fraction of exasperation flowed from your glare into his chest. He chuckled to himself mentally, can always count on my wife to draw things out of me. “And the tab.”

“What did you do?”

A smug smirk tugged at his lips, Winnie let go of his hand to go run to her little sister and mother. “I defended my daughter.” He gazed at his little girls, Winnie showing the toddler the treat she had and the little one’s face grew a curious look. “Alright, I need to get back to work.”

Those were always the magic words for his toddler, as she instantly tumbled her way towards him, with a screeching, “Up!”

“Later, Mellie. Daddy’ll be home soon.”

“Say goodbye to him, girls.”

Your hand settled on his forearm, electricity ran through his body again. There would never be a time where he wouldn’t feel desperate for your touch, your voice, your presence. He gazed down at you, his smirk turned into a kiss to your cheek. He couldn’t see the pipe in his head now, his hand only trembled because such a creature was holding onto him - even if he knew he would be in trouble when he arrived home later that night.

“I’ll see you at home, sweethear’.”

[x-gabrielle-x]

Withered Cards | II

Pairings: Jason Todd x Reader.

Warnings: Blood, gore, violence, murder, swearing, major and minor injuries, death.

Summary: Despite the many different problems you overcome with Jason Todd, you always eventually make it back to each other. Even after his death, how could you still love a man who changed so much? Even when you made a turn for the worst.

Series Masterlist

The buzz of the flickering lamppost was almost tantalizing, the dimmed lights making all shadows look as though they were creeping closer from within the dark alleys of Gotham. Your feet were light and silent as you moved along the narrow path, wet from the rain that was beginning to sprinkle down. Broken glass crunched beneath your boots, and you cringed at the loud sound before taking a quick glimpse around. Nobody was here, besides the occasional drunk man stumbling across the street, too lost in his thoughts and large swigs to be paying attention.

The distant sound of sirens wailed throughout the night, and as the rain began to slightly pour down harder and soak your jacket, the cool breeze upon the wet fabric caused for you to shiver.

You almost wished that you could have been back at the lair.

Almost.

Your earpiece cackled to life, and a familiar voice spoke, "Well? Is he there yet!?" The joker groaned into your ear, and you resisted the urge to roll your eyes and give a snarky comment.

Glancing out the dark alley you were currently hidden within, the shadows covering your form almost completely, you leant against the wall impatiently.

"No, he's not."

"Oh, fucken shit face!" He let out a loud agitated laugh. "Can't people ever do anything right?"

You glanced down at the wristwatch the Joker had insisted that you wore for his own reasoning, poorly looked after, but still useable. The glass of the watch was scratched and cracked in most places, and the leather strapping on your wrist was barely still attached.

3:43am.

You had been waiting thirteen minutes too long.

Your patience was already beginning to thin; due to the cold weather or the agitating voice speaking in your ear, you weren't sure.

Movement from the corner of your eye quickly caught your attention, and a man emerged from behind the flickering lamp post, his face shadowed as he bowed his head. You recognized him to be the one Joker had sent for you to meet, Dr. Grinvield. A white lab coat draped around his thin frame, gray hair thinning and glasses propped on the bridge of his nose. You noticed a thin scar trailing down his brow almost like a strike of lighting

You frowned, noticing a second man at his side. Tall and buff, with a gun held steadily at his side. You felt unease, and you hesitated to move out from the shadows to reveal yourself.

"Don't be shy, my little clown, go ahead," the Joker giggled into your ear, and you realized that you must have spoken aloud. "A big man holding a gun has never stopped you before now, has it?"

A pause, and when his voice came back, it was free of any humor.

"Just get the job done."

Inhaling a breath, you brushed off the nerves and stepped out from the shadows of the dark alley, your hand resting against your belt that gleamed the blade of your knife.

Upon hearing the gravel crunch beneath your feet, the two men turned quickly to face you, gun cocked in your direction.

Dr. Grinvield slapped the man, eyes wide in horror at the gun pointed toward you. "You fool! You kill her, then were both dead," he hissed, yellow teeth flashing from under his thin, pale lips.

By the time you were now stood in front of them, you took your time in scanning the two. Nothing threatening, to you, at least. Just two silly men trapped within in the Joker's deeds.

"I'd prefer if you came on time, next time," you spoke, eyeing the two. "And alone. The Joker never agreed to you have a little bodyguard."

The Jokers clear instructions played on repeat in your head; Meet Dr. Grinvield. Get the vial. Get out. No distractions, and no plan changing.

With a gruff sigh, Grinvield dug into the small of his pocketed lab coat, fishing out a tiny vial with a thick, dark liquid. What it was, however, you weren't sure. Nor did you care enough to ask.

You were aware the Joker had been planning something deadly, but you knew better than to ask. Perhaps another laughing gas or toxin.

He held it carefully within his palm, almost afraid of any immediate movement he made. He dropped it into your palm, gaze trailed on the sloshing liquid. He paused.

"Now, kid, you must remind the boss that this is only a prototype. It shouldn't be used until I've completely figured out the biochemical formulations and timely affect, but so far, it's what he's asked for."

You nodded, examining the small vial before slipping it into your boot securely.

"Tampering with it will ruin the formula," he continued. "But by the next few weeks, everything should hopefully be running on schedule. Just let the boss know-"

He was abruptly cut off by a nearby clang of metal, the sound echoing off the nearby walls.

You felt the hairs at the back of your neck stand, and you were quick to look around the dark deserted street. Nobody was in sight, but you did feel the lingering gaze of eyes watching somewhere nearby.

You frowned, taking one last glance at the two men before taking off into a quick sprint. You weren't in the mood to put up with any more people, and you most definitely were not in the mood to bump into Batman.

The familiar bat signal glowed brightly in the dark sky, glaring down at you like a taunting reminder. You could only hope that it wasn't him who so happened to stumble upon you just two seconds ago. Yet, something told you that you had yet to be completely alone.

You could hear the faint shouts of Dr. Grinvield cursing out to you for leaving him there, a pathetic whine as he practically dragged his 'friend' along with him.

Rain started to trickle down more until you were almost completely drenched, but despite the sounds of the rain dripping down, you could hear the growing steps of somebody behind you, and you felt your heart rate increase.

They were running.

Running toward you. And fast.

Picking up your speed, you refused to look back. You were panting and squinting from the water blurring your vision under your mask, still conscious of the chaser behind you. You quickly turned a corner and stopped, reaching for your knife hoping that you were a few seconds ahead of them. You clasped your knife tightly within your grasp, adjusting your grip when both the water and the sweat from your palms made your grip falter. You waited, waited for the attacker to come sprinting around the corner, but it never came.

It was like anticipating a jump scare in a movie; waiting for the moment the killer jumps out and attacks within mere seconds...

Perhaps you had lost them.

“Unfortunately, you might need to try a little harder to rid me, Sweets,” a voice called, and you internally groaned once you had realized that you had not in fact lost them, but instead let your guard down for a moment too long.

You turned to see a boy who couldn’t be much older than you by the looks of it, despite the black domino mask hiding his identity. He was clad in a yellow cape, red tunic and green pants. You had to stifle down the smile creeping up onto your face. The evident ‘R’ printed on his chest told you exactly who this was.

“Robin,” you greeted with a mocking bow. Though you had never met before, you had seen and heard countless times of how the Batman had trained a new Robin to take over from Nightwing. So far, you knew nothing of his weaknesses.

“I didn’t know you were waiting to see me. I feel so rude for leaving early,” you faked a smile, though it didn’t reach your eyes.

Your heart was practically pounding in your chest. Surely if he was here, Batman would be lurking too, would he not?

Robin only shook his head, reaching for his bo-staff that was at his back. He twirled it in his grasp - experienced and practiced.

“Unfortunately, I'm not here to chat," Robin spoke, inching closer with a look that you couldn't quite place. Was it excitement? Nerves? Adrenaline?

You shrugged, readying your stance the longer the anticipation dragged. You just managed to catch the small smirk cornering on his lips.

It wouldn't be there for too long.

He was quick to move on his feet, swooping down and swinging his leg and knocking you off your balance. You grunted from the impact as your back clashed with the concrete floor, small pieces of smashed up glass, most likely from one of the drinkers, dug into your back and suit.

You raised your gun, kicking Robin off you and aimed, only for him to knock it out from your hand. You raised your other hand, clenched into a fist and punched. Hard. Kicking your knee up into the back of his knee, he doubled over off balance.

"Damn," you heard him groan, his hand moving away from his face to see the trail of blood trickling from his nose. "You know how to punch."

You went in for another one, only for his hand to stop yours mid swing, but you were quick to kick his stomach and push him down to the floor, his cheek pressed against the cold cement as you heard him groan in pain.

"Shouldn't you be in bed?" You shot, your voice dripping in sarcasm the longer you had him pinned beneath you.

You just managed to catch sight of his jaw clenching at the comment, but you were quickly distracted once he managed to wrestle his way out from under the weight of your body, tossing a small ball-like object at your feet. A thick fog clouded your vision in mere seconds. You coughed as the smoke entered your lungs, your hand waving around to try clear an airway, but you gasped once a leg swung beneath you, knocking you off your feet and to land on the wet cement floor with a grunt.

You winced when your tailbone landed on the floor, but you ignored the pain. You needed to get this boy away somehow.

You looked over, seeing your gun just a few feet away, but Robin's hand wrapped around your ankle and dragged you toward him, your chin smacking hard against the floor. He was quick to hover above you just as you had done before, your arms held down by his own.

You grunted in an attempt to kick him off, but he held firm and frowned down upon you. "What's this?" He questioned, a certain tease to his voice that made your blood boil. His hand went to the left side of your face, and you flinched back as his fingers effortlessly removed your earpiece.

He turned it over in his hand, before hovering it over your face with a cocky smirk.

What a prick.

"Did I disturb an important chat?"

Baring your teeth, you flung your head forward into his, using that as the upper hand to kick him off your body and stand shakily onto your feet. You watched as he stumbled to get up, but quickly regained himself.

You let out a tired breath.

“Just give up,” he said, nodding his head toward you. “Seems like somebody needs a break, I can tell.”

“Do I?” You glared, before lunging once again, your arms grabbing around his torso to try getting him on his back again, but he held his stance firm. He knew it was coming.

His own arms wrapped around you and spun you around so that your back was to his chest, his arms pinning yours down at your sides. You twisted in his grip, but it only caused for the both of you to drop to the floor.

Then he laughed.

He laughed.

Your head spun so fast you swore it could’ve flown off, and you glared behind you as you watched Robin try to stifle the evident smirk across his face.

“Your laughing?” You grunted. "Is this a joke to you?”

He quickly shook his head. “No, I’m laughing at the fact that I have had you distracted this whole time," he cracked a smile before releasing you, giving a small bow as he began to walk back.

You frowned, confused. “What?”

He shrugged. “Don’t worry about it, trouble! Nothing to worry your little head off, for now.” With a last glance, he grabbed his grappling hook and took off, leaving you confused and drenched.

Surely he couldn't have actually just taken off? There was absolutely no way he would have left you, a criminal, after a tiny fight? Surely, he would have tried to call the Bats, the police maybe, or even hold you hostage and torture questions out of you!

Your confusion only grew the longer you stood in your place, and it was once you had glanced down at the fallen earpiece on the ground that you remembered what you were here for.

You grabbed your gun and the dropped ear comm, taking one last glance over to the place you'd last seen him, and you ran.

@annabellelee

©x-gabrielle-x. Do not steal, copy or translate my works.

[shares-a-vest]

He's Gonna Save Me, Call Me 'Baby'

wc: 1.1k | Rated: T for alcohol consumption (not excessive) | cw: post-breakup, angst with a hopeful ending

Tags: Future Fic (mid-90s), Post Stancy Breakup, Steve Harrington Angst, Angst with a Hopeful Ending, Platonic Stobin, Jeff (Stranger Things), Eddie Munson, Corroded Coffin, Implied Future Steddie (only bc the end is a little vague)

Written for the @strangerthingswritersguild Hozier Project. I chose the song, 'Jackie and Wilson'. Thank you soooo much to @subbaculture for setting up this event and making the banner!

(Read on ao3)

“Look alive, Dingus.”

Robin turns around to Steve and pats him square in the chest. He perks up, even though his best friend turns straight back to the entryway of The Hideout to wave at Jeff. He thinks it would be easier if Robin’s head were on a literal swivel with the way she has been whipping back and forth for the past hour.

Steve grumbles into his beer, pushing through the burn in his throat that still lingers years later as he laments the lack of Eddie following behind his bandmate.

He knows they had arrived too early for Corroded Coffin’s show, but Robin’s summer break from teaching came just in time – sue him for needing to spend every possible moment with his best friend.

Though he’d decided as soon as Robin announced her return to Hawkins that he wouldn’t mention the flowers he ripped up in haste in the back garden last week.

He’d done so straight after arriving home from the real estate agent, head hung in shame as he fully accepted yet another hard thunk on the head courtesy of Nancy Wheeler.

Well, it wasn’t so much a thunk this time as it was what Steve might consider, ‘divine intervention’.

He was in the backyard, tending to his small and still very much intact flower garden when a piece of guttering fell clean from the house, smashing through the window of the spare bedroom Nancy was using as her office – a room they’d falsely promised each other would be used for an entirely different reason.

But, much like his childhood home (which endured a mighty crack right through that cursed goddamn pool during Spring Break of ‘86), Steve found himself existing in a not-so-perfect house. One that grew increasingly cold as years of Upside Down dust and fog and smoke cooled Hawkins’s atmosphere.

A house that, with a broken and rusted gutter pipe, decided to remind them that shouldn’t – couldn’t – be playing house.

That’s all it really was: a pretend white picket fence dream that isn’t what Steve had meant by his vision of vacationing with a brood of Harringtons, Nancy by his side.

A dream that Nancy never wanted and got dragged into until her office window smashed in.

A dream that Steve thought was dead and buried the day Nancy rightfully picked through shards of glass for her things and left.

Buried until Eddie called him, saying that he had been talking to Robin (because of course, they kept tabs on him). He said the band would be back in town and that Steve and Robin should meet them.

And so, with a few beers warming his belly, burning his throat and sending a prickling sensation up his scar-covered sides, Steve found that nagging hope bubble up again.

He shakes his head, scoffing at his hopeless self as the sound of rhythm and blues music over the bar’s jukebox almost drowns out Jeff’s and Robin’s chattering.

Maybe he should be talking himself out of it. Finally acknowledging that years-old fleeting something between him and Eddie.

But he wants it.

And Lord knows he acts on a mere fleeting feeling.

Maybe history won’t repeat itself this time. Maybe the rusted gutter was one last divine thunk.

Maybe it won’t just be a first date. Or meaningless sex. Or bullshit.

He should have known that love with Nancy – a love long sucked down his old pool drain along with Barb Holland’s life – couldn’t prosper in the aftermath of an almost apocalypse.

They thought they were supposed to try, is the thing.

Staying in Hawkins. Keeping things at bay. Watching. Perhaps waiting for it all to come back.

But then it didn’t.

It all just lingered.

And they were left to pick up the pieces.

Right mistakes.

Move on.

They just didn’t need to do it together.

Steve pivots on his barstool, leaning an elbow on the bar top to get a better (hopefully seemingly more casual) view of the entryway.

He has seen Eddie over the years. Every Christmas at the Hendersons, sporadic visits home, a phone call here and there. The band hadn’t exactly made it big – at all, really. But they made enough to move around. Tour. Always returning to The Hideout for a one-off Tuesday Night gig as if nothing changed.

Steve looks around, thinking there might be three more drunks than the last show –

And there he is.

Eddie enters the bar with Gareth and George in tow and Steve swears a summer breeze flows in with him.

He looks good. Leather-clad as always. Pants impossibly tight. Jacket chains jangling. His hair still a river of wild curls.

But Steve sinks back on his seat as the trio makes a beeline for the stage, Eddie’s bright eyes turning into a dark frown as he orders the boys about, barely carrying a thing himself.

He probably had some theatrical excuse about his outfit, punctuated by manic hand gestures and a pout or two.

Steve watches as they dump their equipment by the one-step platform, each maneuver creating cacophonous thuds that reverberate through the bar. Jeff grimaces at the sight before shooting an apologetic glance at the manager and barkeep. The boys always did saddle him with sweet-talking the staff.

“Someone’s eager,” Robin teases, catching Steve’s smirk.

Jeff quirks a brow and stifles a smile.

“Shut up,” Steve chuckles into his glass before he downs the last of his beer.

“Eddie is really excited to see you, man,” Jeff nods, offering a nonchalant shrug just as Eddie begins making his way towards them.

Steve’s heart quickens.

There’s that something.

A something that is reflected in the glint in Eddie’s eyes as he smiles wide and waves.

Steve wiggles his fingers in greeting, shaking his head at himself almost instantly causing a lock of his hair to flop out of place.

George not-at-all subtly drags Gareth in Jeff’s direction.

“Over here, Gare,” Robin commands loudly through gritted teeth.

“Hey, Steve,” Eddie says, his voice low as he steps forward to stand just close enough that yeah, Steve decides to roll with that hope again.

He reaches up to comb a hand through his hair but Eddie gets there first.

“Sucks about Wheeler, babydoll,” Eddie continues, allowing his fingers to scrape his scalp, carefully looking him over as he does so.

Eddie always is too much.

Everything.

A lot. All at once.

Seeing him.

Steve hums and Eddie soon stops, an embarrassed set of dimples dotting his cheeks as he likely thinks better of it given their current location.

“It was... all a mistake,” Steve admits, taking Eddie’s retreating hand.

He intertwines ring-adorned fingers with his own, refusing to let go of the hope tethering them, ready to start again.

[moiyume]

death is the only end for us — chapter ii. imaginary

pairing: yandere!satoru gojo x fem!reader

sumary: Discussions about the past bring out an important revelation, [Y/N] will not surrender, she is willing to destroy everyone in her path to prove her innocence, even Satoru.

warnings: angst, threats, mentions of death, humiliation, yandere thoughts, spoilers from the main story.

word count: 2265.

more information about the history: here.

⠀⠀⠀⠀───◌┈┈───♡⃝───┈┈◌───

AND BY PLANTING MISTRUST, LOVE WILL COOL DOWN, GIVE WAY TO HATRED AND RESENTMENT. There is no way to mend a broken glass, when you put the pieces together, the cracks and scars of the breakage will be there forever, the glass will break again if you fill it with water. There is no way to mend the heart of someone who has already been betrayed or abandoned.

After ten years forced to live in ostracism you have learned that curses are not as bad as the wizards say they are. Curses are predictable, they obey the primitive instinct to kill humans and devour each other for more power, they have no filters, they are direct in what they set out to do. But people are not, people are cunning, people deceive, people betray, people change, people are not what they appear or say they are, and above all, no person can be trusted. Father, mother, brother, friend or stranger, it is the nature of human beings not to be trusted.

You have learned the hard way that you cannot trust anyone. No matter how well you think you know someone, you really don't know how much someone can change in a day, maybe even in ten years. It was a long ten years living a miserable life, hunted like an animal for slaughter across three continents, you saw and experienced many things, but nothing surprised you more than the falseness of the human being.

However, there is a proverb that says that the prey will kill the predator. In the game Gō the winner is the one who has the most pieces on the board, however it is not as simple as it seems, you need to knock down the opponent's houses if you want to ensure victory, because as in the animal kingdom there is no draw, only the strongest will prevail, the one who is able to continue living. It is a game of survival, but it is also a mental game, you beat the enemy destroying what he worked hard to build, you take his place and eliminate him. Satoru and you are adversaries in this battle. He vehemently believes that victory is his, but the foundation of the houses he plays with are as fragile as a house made on the sand of the beach, and like Gō's board, you will knock down all the pieces that hold him up.

He approaches you with a smug smile, there is no escape, it is only you on this empty hill, there are no trees you can use to hide, yet there is no way and no reason to hide when the Six Eyes search for you. You stop walking away and accept that there is no other option but to stand still, he seems pleased with your decision, the smile on his face widens. However, you will never surrender.

"I don't..." Disappointment tries to swallow your words, but you swallow your tears and face Satoru with clenched fists. "I'm not willing to give up my freedom just yet."

He takes a wrong turn with your words, to his ears they are just childish statements, but you are a human being and it is your nature to insist even when things seem impossible. The man in front of you falls into laughter and wipes away a tear that has run down the corner of his eye, it is annoying to see him mocking you, but to Satoru Gojo all people were such idiots that they were worthy of pity, and you were no exception.

"You act like you're a heroine from a light novel, that's hilarious." Satoru teases you with a smug smile on his face, you struggle to keep your cool, but a vein pops out on your forehead. "Seriously! Look at that pose! A great actress." He measures you from top to bottom. "Of our old group, you're the only one who keeps acting like a pre-teen, always wanting to prove to others that you're a martyr, it's ridiculous, don't you see?" He shoves one of his hands into his pocket and takes out a black blindfold and puts it over his eyes. "You have become such a pathetic person that it is hard to believe that you were considered a threat. Man, you killed civilians for nothing, I never understood the motives behind it, but honestly? I don't understand how we came to have anything, for a moment I even thought of you as an equal, but even Suguru did better in the villain role than you."

You are startled by those hostile words, he had never been so mean to you before, you even thought he would have some mercy for your bestie dying, but as usual you are expecting too much from Satoru Gojo. You never wanted to be a martyr, but there is some truth behind such hostility, the way you have behaved all this time as if you were being wrongly accused. Your hands have been dripping blood since the moment you were accused and the lives you took will haunt you until the day you die, but the people who died that night were not innocent and they were not civilians either, and the person who killed them was not you. You have put up with it all quietly, but this time you are determined to make a mess of it, as in gō, you will surround your enemies and let them fall alone.

"You're not entirely wrong." You admit waving your index finger towards him, mimicking his smug smile, I straighten my posture and take a step forward. "But I'm not the same girl you knew."

"Really? You still look like an idiot to me."

"Eh." You mutter amidst his debauched laughter. "The difference between the 18-year-old [Y/N] and the 28-year-old [Y/N] is: she doesn't mind crushing every ant that crosses her path."

You raise your hand towards his face and abruptly close it, making him take a step back, you laugh dryly and dullly, it's comforting to know that you're still able to mess with his head.

"Get out of my way, Gojo, before I crush you too." You threaten him, your will like a sharp sword about to slash his throat, he frowns and you step forward. "Don't tell me you don't know why no one had the courage to come to me." You watch his hesitation to give you an answer, but before he can say anything, you hold up your index finger to get him to shut up and listen, "Looks like you're the idiot here."

You place your hands together behind your body and lean forward, he is very close at this point, so you stand face to face, you feel the hesitation in his posture, his right foot goes back a step and a half before he steadies himself. You make no point of hiding your evil intentions beneath an innocent smile, the intent to kill is obvious, but it only comes from one side. Satoru may be many things, but you doubt he would kill you before he could experience the torture of the court again, he likes to play with his fangs and that would be his downfall. The moment he realises something is wrong, his hand comes towards your neck like lightning, however she is unable to touch you. The sky blue eyes shine in fury and you can't contain your laughter, it's not a genuine laughter, you just couldn't miss the moment to debauch his innocence.

"What have you done?!"

The scenery around you begins to change. The once bright and colourful landscape of the hill turns into a hostile, cold and gloomy environment, the welcoming atmosphere has become inhospitable, the peace you provided was false, as you had said earlier it is just an imaginary space. Satoru knows it is too late, however you give him the chance to move, and he approaches to attack me, but to his despair the distance between you is still the same, as if he cannot reach you, he is stuck in your trap, and you are waiting for him to place the piece on the board that will make him fall into ruins.

"What kind of cheap trick is that?!" He shouts in exaltation, unable to touch you, his steady footsteps crunch the frozen grass making an annoying creaking noise, he seems in a hurry. "What have you done to me?"

"That's not the right question, darling, try again." You reply in a playful voice and make the distance between you disappear, you grab his cheeks and lower his head so you can pull the blindfold off. "That looks really ugly on you, it makes you look like you have no forehead." You throw the piece of cloth on the ground, it's hard to believe that someone as vain as him chose to wear an accessory that would devalue his beauty so much, is that kind of thing fashionable in Japan? You would like to know.

"DAMN. [Y/N]!"

"Hm?!"

"What the hell is that?" He insists.

"You must be wondering why the Six Eyes don't recognise what's happening now, right?" He nods for you to continue explaining. "It's because you're not seeing anything, really. You taught me that for the Six Eyes to work, you need to see things around you, and okay, I know you can perceive the world on an atomic level, but I'm inside your head and not in front of you, got it? Or do you want me to draw?"

You tap your index finger on his temple and watch his eyes grow larger, it is satisfying to see him like this, for years you have kept a vow to Master Tengen not to use his true cursed technique for your own benefit, but you no longer have any connection to him, let alone the school. You cannot allow yourself to be the person who is passed over. You feel sweat drip down your hand, but it's not yours, rambling made you forget that you were still holding Satoru pinned in your hands.

"My cursed technique is called ████, by the way." You whisper, it's the first time you hesitate to tell Satoru something, you slowly back away until your hands can no longer touch him. "You must know what it means."

Satoru's skin turns as pale as paper, nostrils dilated and hairs standing on end, like an animal on alert, you would like to laugh and mock him as unassumingly as he did you, but you would not be satisfied with scaring him even more, you are not like that. You gather up a snowflake and the landscape has started to change again, this time it has started to crack, as if you were inside an old television full of static, living through a film locked in a stormy day.

Melancholy suddenly takes over you, you let out the air trapped in your lungs and watch the smoke of hot air, he's right when he says you're still a dumb teenager with childish aspirations. You turn your back and walk towards the "exit door" of the illusion you created to trap him, but before you go, you look at him over your shoulder, Satoru is staring at you with a weird look, clenched fists are at the side of his body, one leg is in front of the other as if he wants to come to you, but there is something holding him, only this time it's not you who holds him.

"When I disappear you will regain consciousness, I recommend you look around and be careful." You give him a weak smile and nod. "We will see each other again."

Satoru watches you enter a doorway of light that disappeared as soon as you stepped through it. His hands are sweaty and burning, nails are digging into his palm, blood drips down the spans of his fingers, it wasn't the first time an opponent had played a trick on him, but it's been so many since it happened he's forgotten how bad it feels to be tricked. A vein popped on his forehead and he began to laugh nervously as the word 'tricked' came to his mind, not much can be expected of you, you are clever and slippery as jelly, if he is not careful you will slip like sand or blood between his fingers.

"Bitch!" He roars exhausted and slaps his own forehead.

The space in which Satoru was trapped crumbled in a magical pass as he surged, soon the sound of horns and car tyres singing on the tarmac pierced his ears, regaining consciousness he hurriedly climbed onto the pavement. You dumped him in the middle of a busy avenue, it's your nature to play tricks on people, no matter how serious, you're the kind of childish person who would put a bucket full of water on the door to wet the first inattentive person who walked by. Drivers drove past him cursing and grumbling, but he didn't give a shit, his thoughts focused elsewhere, someone else.

- "We will see each other again" Satoru repeated and looked up at the sky, it was daylight a few minutes ago, no? He wondered if you could mess with time too and laughed bitterly, then brought his hand up to his face and covered his eyes, maybe nothing was impossible for you and Satoru resented that. "I hope so, but..." He paused before admitting to himself. "You have to pay for leaving me."

⠀⠀⠀⠀───◌┈┈───♡⃝───┈┈◌───

━ to be continued; ﹢ ⌑ ﹒

[the-obiwan-for-me]

Scars of the Heart

Bo-Katan Week

Day 4: Scars

AO3 link here.

When a mission goes wrong, Bo-Katan worries she may lose the only person that matters to her.

“Get out of there now!” Bo-Katan shouted into her comm too late as the building crumbled with another deafening blast from the canon. She watched in helpless horror as the stone and glass shattered, feeling as if her soul was shattering along with it.

Korkie had been in that building, leading a dangerous rescue mission. 

If she lost him…..

She shook her head, fighting back against the rush of panic, swearing under her breath as she forced herself to focus. Be calm. Her first impulse- to fling herself at the crumbled building and dig out her nephew with her bare hands- was foolish. The Imps were still around, looking for signs of life, waiting to blitz even more Mandalorians into star dust. She would do no one any good if she got herself killed in her foolishness. 

Instead, she muttered icy calm instructions and commands into her commlink, forming a rescue mission for the rescue mission. When everything was put into place, she sat back on her heels to wait out the Imps. “Look after your boy,” she prayed to the sister who’s soul seemed still tied to hers. “I’m not ready to lose him.”

Bo-Katan sat in the med tent, exhaustion heavy on her bones, clutching Korkie’s hand. It was cool now, though the day before it had been hot to the touch as he spiked a fever, infection trying to spread as he fought his way back to the surface of consciousness. 

He was a fighter and the medics were good, considering the camp’s limited resources, and the fever and infection had been wrangled into submission. But still Bo fretted over her nephew. The medics swore to her he would be fine. They said his brain just needed time to heal and reset. They swore the bleeding was under control and the swelling was going down and he would wake in time. The other things, the minor things, the broken bones and dislocated knee, those wouldn’t even slow him down once he was awake.

Bo tried to believe them, but her exhaustion was making her pessimistic. He was a fighter, sure. Kryze pumped through his veins just like it pumped through hers, and his mother’s and his grandfather. His heart was forged from beskar.

But sometimes even beskar cracked, and she was terrified this would be the fight he would not win.

“Come on, ad’ika,” she whispered, squeezing his hand, reaching instinctually to brush an unruly lock of his burnished gold hair away from his eyes. But she pulled her hand back quickly. His hair was gone, shaved to accommodate the medics desperate attempts to relieve the pressure on his brain. Now, in place of his hair was a bandage. She sighed. “Please come back to me.”

She laid her head on his bed, still holding his hand. She would close her eyes for a few minutes. Just rest them for a moment.

The next thing she knew, she felt a hand in her hair and heard a raspy, whispering voice. “Auntie?”

She sat up quickly, sleep leaving her disoriented. And there he was, awake, his blue eyes blessedly like his mother’s and not the father he hadn’t known, open and searching. 

“Hi,” she said softly, squeezing the hand she still held. To her relief, he squeezed back, not as strong as he normally would be, but strong and alive and vital. 

“What the hell happened?” he asked, his eyes casting about the room. “Is there water?” he rasped before she could answer the first question.

Bo looked around and found a jug and cups left nearby. She pulled her hand from his and poured him some, then offered it to him, holding the straw to his lips. He drank greedily before she pulled it away. “Careful. You’ve been out for a week.”

He scowled and she sent a little prayer of gratitude to the stars. If he was well enough to be grumpy, he was going to be ok.

“What happened?” he asked again, his voice sounding more like his own this time, though still barely more than a whisper.

“You were too brave for your own good and your rescue attempt got blown up by Imps,” she told him, offering him another small sip of water.

He furrowed his brow in confusion for a moment, and then a dawning recollection crossed his face, then pain. “Oh no. No, no-”

“Hang on,” she cut off his spiral of grief and guilt. “You did good, ad’ika. Everyone got out.”

“Really?” 

She nodded, taking his hand again. “You had a feeling things were about to go bad, so you sent everyone down, to an old bomb shelter, instead of up, like I told you. We had to dig you all out, but you got them all out.”

He seemed to melt into the thin mattress with relief. Then another look of confusion crossed his face. “Then why am I here?”

She smiled a sad little smile. “Because you’re too much like your parents. They said you were behind the group, helping a couple of the kids. You got them through the door, shoved them through, but you were a second too late. You didn’t make it to the shelter.”

His face sagged a little. “Oh.”

She reached over and took his hand again, squeezing it. “Now that you’re awake, you’ll be ok. Your brain just got rattled around. Maybe it knocked some good sense into you.”

He laughed a tired little laugh. She pressed a call button- someone should probably look at him before he dozed back off. “Hopefully not too much. My total lack of sense got ten prisoners out.” He lifted his hand, touching the bandage, then smiled at her with a bit of the mischief she was not in any way ready to lose. “Is it going to scar?”

She laughed at their old, inside joke. When she’d met him, eight years earlier, the only scars he bore were the typical kid scars from scraped knees and elbows. He’d asked her that same question after Gar Saxon had hit him with a crushing fist in a moment Bo tried not to relive. These days, he carried the scars of a warrior, marks left from fighting an impossible enemy.

She squeezed his hand once more as a medic swept in. “Your hair will cover it,” she promised, and stepped aside.

She watched the medic tend to her nephew, asking him the types of questions you ask a head trauma patient. She took a deep steadying breath. He was going to be ok. “Thank you,” she whispered to his mother she felt still so near. 

She had plenty of her own physical scars. They hardly mattered to her. The scars that did matter, though, were the unseen ones on her heart, from what, who, she had lost. If she lost Korkie, the weight of that scar would be too much for her to bear. He infuriated her to no end, and she knew he felt the same for her, but she loved him. He was her last bit of family, the only physical reminder she had of the sister she abandoned then betrayed, save a few trinkets here and there. His loss would break her, and she prayed that that would be a scar she would never have to carry.

[ask-the-observatory-gang]

==> INTRODUCTION POST <==

Meet all the guys that you can ask questions, and who will be role-playing them in responses!

(All copy pasted from discord, everything under cut!)

Violet(Vi, V):

-Draws well (I had to)

-Adhd, maybe autism, CHEWS AND GNAWS ON EVERYTHING

-Actually wears her glasses

-Very silly, acts like normal V but sometimes actually genuinely happy and nice

-Totally isn’t the cause behind the bite marks on the landing pod chairs

-Aroace & lesbian flag

-Does the Dino arm thing

-Basically just a fucking cat (purrs, meows, and all that jazz)

-A broken headlight cause yummy yummy (same with crack in tail Vial and screen)

-Acts like a silly cat

-Most of the time unaware of surroundings

-She/her

==> @conniewoof

:!Stars intro!:

˚₊· ͟͟͞➳❥ -- half snow leopard (somehow)

˚₊· ͟͟͞➳❥ -- slightly talker than the average drone

˚₊· ͟͟͞➳❥ -- workaholic

˚₊· ͟͟͞➳❥ -- thinks her scars r cool

˚₊· ͟͟͞➳❥ -- their pawpads and ear stars r rlly squishy :3 and if u squish her ear stars they make a squeak sound GEHE

˚₊· ͟͟͞➳❥ -- she's practically a nightlight coz of how glowy they are.. but whenever she goes to sleep they stop glowing lolz

˚₊· ͟͟͞➳❥ -- rlly likes bugs and studys them nonstop

˚₊· ͟͟͞➳❥ -- loves analog horror n scary stuff in general,, they just find the concept of it all rlly interesting

˚₊· ͟͟͞➳❥ -- gets distracted by anything cats would💀

˚₊· ͟͟͞➳❥ -- rlly likes video games and can defo kick ass in them

˚₊· ͟͟͞➳❥ -- has a scary ass zombie drone/solver form

˚₊· ͟͟͞➳❥ -- her nose twitches when she cries shrug emoji

˚₊· ͟͟͞➳❥ -- her tail (elliot) is actually pretty sentient, meaning he can communicate with beeps and boops (even though star can only understand them clearly)

==> @strbrypancakesxd

《☆ Nathan ☆》

<-- ADHD -->

☆▪︎▪︎ Pansexual, Transmasc ▪︎▪︎☆

==> This little man PURRS. He is a dog at heart but he PURRS.(his favorite thing to do)

==> Hehe silly feathered wings(that could still kill a man)

==> Would unironically bark at someone if they annoyed him somehow

==> Is the sweetest guy but oh my goodness does he hold a grudge

==> "Haha oh biscuts that knife right by my heart really hurts- Do you want that back?"

==> PUZZLES. Do not give this man a puzzle he will try to solve it for the next week and no-one will see him

==> Took the nanite acid out of his tail at one point(it hurt like a bitch) and now has a empty stinger as a tail tip instead

==> OBSESSED with keeping his wings clean and nice looking, he literally will put aside any other responsibilities until they're perfect

Silly little Alaskan Malamute inspired guy :3

==> @staruzi002

❦ Revel ❦

❦ Pansexual lil guy

❦ Has a weird hyperfixation on ducks, specifically lil tiny yellow ones and really loves to make random duck comments to fill a conversation.

❦ Anything that might be yellow is going to be gone in approximately 5 seconds of him spotting it

❦ Outgoing with a passion for fashion (OUJI-) and design, has a bit of sass if you by chance try to question his fashion choices. He also uses "girl" and "sis" unironically

❦ Usually passes away at the slightest compliment and will ascend with his wings into the stratosphere to hide himself

❦ Ribbons. Ribbons are the best.

❦ Don't give him any bells or things that squeak, he will indefinitely be playing with them until they break somehow and he'll go into sad lil guy mode for a week on average

❦ “Autobots! Roll out!” *rolls down an ongoing avalanche*

❦ Deathly afraid of spiders but will disintegrate an entire colony

==> @bonkadonkss

☆▪︎▪︎☆

In a mysterious alternate version of Copper-9, this fun little group all met eachother! And now they're here to answer your questions!

So ask away folks!

☆▪︎▪︎☆

RULES --

- No NSFW. For the love of God please none.

- Be nice to the sillies(and the roleplayers) we're just here to have fun!

- These are characters that are from an active rp server, so things might change about them as we go!

- Expect text for most of the answers(unless whoevers answering feels up to doing a doodle), that'll be how they're put most of the time!

[the-slasher-files]

YOU DON'T BELONG HERE

Been a while I know. I've had this one sitting in my drafts for so long and I'm very happy to just have this out now. It's an honest look into Andrei when he gets the desire to go kill again and how a genuine interaction would go between the two... Hope you enjoy 🔪💕

MASTERLIST

Shades of midnight blue faded into black covering the skies as the clouds cascaded across the vastness, covering the twinkling stars and brilliant moon. There was a familiar dreariness here in his hidden land. Away from the people and tumult of towns and cities, although sometimes he wondered what his broken, abandoned town looked like as it was living; That thought only lasted for no longer than a few seconds as his mind wandered far. It was a town made for the destruction of his motherland's ruin of other countries and livelihoods, but he was too young for that when this town thrived, not even a thought as his father and uncle fought in wars, and he would end up doing the same just to be thrown out by the people that pushed his urges for blood, for the screams.

Now just a lone wolf. It was better this way.

However, he wasn't completely alone. There was shifting on the other side of the tangled sheets, barely lit in the shadows your outline could be seen from the contrast of the large farmhouse windows. He didn't know what to do without you. He had changed so much here. It was for you that he set aside malignant desires, but not all. It would be time again. Time to leave.

Sleepless and his thoughts everlasting, he swallowed the bitter taste on his sharp tongue and sat up. Throwing the powerful legs off an aged mattress with a sigh and broken groan. Nights like these were not out of the usual when he stayed up with the ghosts of the polar nights, it was a warmth to him tainted in sharp edges. Ill nights he knew well and could almost become friends with unlike his inner broken child that screamed, but he pushed it down with a thick swallow.

Raising his large, scarred body from the king-sized bed with a crack in his right knee, a hand reached out to the top of the dresser, feeling the smooth flats then the ridges along the cool metal. As a reflex, the ex-soldier put on his dog tags reading "ANDREI KULOVKOVA - THE WOLF" and they dangled just below the naked chest, at the end of his largest scar— from the top of his emerging collar bone it started, running the length of Andrei's thick hard muscles. Tearing across his right pectoral, almost 9 inches long, thick, raised up pink and shining on pale skin speaking of a destruction like none other, something he shouldn't have lived through and sometimes that scar was more psychological than physical. Her name was Amaria and that was the mark of her black machete— A name he should run from but the fugitive embraced.

The bedroom door hinges squeaked quietly in the silence as Andrei looked back over his shoulder, making sure your body laid still with soft breaths. A low pervasive yellow light lured the man downstairs, feeling the grain of the stained wooden railing beneath his thick fingers until Andrei reached the bottom, turning the corner and settling into the kitchen.

The dim light he started to leave on above the sink, now a habit for you to make the home feel more inviting and if you ever needed to come down for a glass of water in the night called him in. Smoothing his bare feet against the cool, worn white aged to soft yellow laminate with each easy step, Andrei placed both large devastating hands on the edge of the sink gazing outside to the desolate night. It was almost summer here, but the landscape held much like a mild winter this far north. Brown, amber and soft sage grasses raised up from the patches of thick ice and snow that seemed impossible to melt until mid-July. The new season brought a false hope Andrei had long but forgotten, almost mocking as the small blue flowers bloomed in the field surrounding his home, although he never noticed the flowers until he brought you here. The thought made him tense if you ever wanted to leave this place. Who would ever want to stay here? It was cold, dark, plagued by ghosts of the pasts and yet it reflected the soldier with a slow heartbeat and sense of home on lonely nights.

Closing the ice blue eyes for longer than a standard blink, he opened them again to see the glow of reflective eyes catching what light the battered home gave off from the window. Even the deer stared at Andrei like he didn't belong here now and his fingers twitched like they would if he held a gun. Dread filled him as he knew the desires wouldn't fade away, a kill needed to come soon and a good paycheque was never something the Russian would say no to, at least not now when he tried to spoil you, giving you what he could to make up for what things he took away from you. Like worms in a wolf's stomach, the hunger ate at Andrei from the inside as he began to hear a repulsive voice in the back of his head slowly getting louder.

'The hunt. Andrei, it's time to go find the disgusting little girls to break. Make them scream... Be grateful for the hunt, they owe it to you. Andrei. My perfect boy'

The hair was raised on the back of his neck and he stared down in the sink at the left behind dishes yet to be cleaned; Pieces of bread crumbs and traces of the rabbit stew painted the porcelain bowls you convinced your man to buy, trying to make a house you were locked away in a home. Now things were different, you didn't want to leave him and he didn't want to leave you either.

Running fingers through the ashy brown hair that stood like the coat of a wolf, Andrei sighed with a shake of his head, pushing the appetite for what he couldn't let you provide. He wouldn't. As much as he never said the words, he loved you. Something painful and eating away, Andrei could not explain how he wanted to wear you, drown in your love and be killed by it like an overdose on the pain pills he took - Self-medicating the pain and the memories was a long habit he was cursed with. A bottle of vodka and the pills in hand, before you Andrei needed to be numbed. Needed his overthinking to stop and soon needed his body to stop with it- A wolf was ready to surrender to something better that you gave him, but what was fed to him in his stolen youth rooted itself like massive oaks that couldn't be moved.

"Andrei?" A dull voice sounded from the doorway of the kitchen as you leaned against it. Dawned in one of his black t-shirts that seemed to overtake your frame, you could tell he was in his own head again, just another night that had become much less frequent in the years you lived here.

The frame that towered 6 foot 5 inches turned around suddenly, it was never often that you could sneak up on the wolf, especially with his perfect hearing despite all the explosions he has heard and the guns he has fired in strong hands.

Making your over to the man that tried to put on his classic smirk that was lop-sided, heavier on the right side than the left. "Hey, you should be 'sleep" Andrei's thick accent was strong with the lack of sleep and strong arms opened for your body to hold him close like an implanted instinct.

"Mmm, not without my wolfy"

He held quiet as your small body fit into his like a puzzle, resting his chin upon your crown and his arms snaked around you always in a safe keep. There were no words for a long moment as you closed your eyes, tilting your head to place your ear against Andrei's chest hearing his slow yet strong beat. He needed this just as much as you. A safe embrace with no ill intentions or twists within the flesh. However, in this sweet taste of love and comfort it always turned vile on his tongue, oozing off like acid. There were just some things Andrei would never get used to and safety was one of them.

Under your wandering hands you could feel it, the violent invisible chain pulled on the wolf's neck with prongs digging into scarred skin and Andrei went with the chain. Swallowing thickly, he cleared his throat. You wanted to stay so close to a warm body that moved back, arms still holding yet fighting against itself. Thick hands lowered themselves to rest on the small of your back and ice-blue eyes looked down, he did not need to speak for you to know the fight in the soldier's mind. His body didn't feel comfortable in the house any longer and you knew the chain would just keep choking.

A heavy sigh left you, letting your hands smooth up from his lean waist feeling the muscles roll and tense against you, "It's time"

Andrei beat you to saying the first words keeping the keen stare into your eyes, then down; Noticing the way your lips pursed in worry and your jaw hardened, neck muscles tensed as you kept the lump in your throat at bay, he knew it all, your every tell. Fluttering your eyes closed, you didn't want to see the way the wolf read you like his own personal book.

"... just a few days" Andrei hated the way he couldn't control himself, hated the fact that a maw of hungry wolves is all he would ever be and my god he tried to harness this, begged to find a home in you instead, it was a useless effort. "I will be back... Prom—"

"Don't," You interrupted and he knew just how much you hated when he promised coming back. He couldn't and Andrei was aware of that, his job was killing people for a living, it was a lie to promise that he'd be back well and fine. When Andrei said the word it was more a hope for himself to return to you in the end but each time it broke you more.

Blinking a couple times your gaze softened, feeling the large paw tangle with your hair "Sorry..." you whispered, reaching up to cup his sharp jaw, feeling the stuble and scars beneath soft fingers.

"Don't be," Andrei replied back, leaning down to rest his forehead on yours, searching within each other eyes. You saw a beaten, wild creature needing to be free and he saw the pain he's caused time and time again, but also saw his beacon in a stormy night. He'd always return to you, Andrei just wished he could return a different man.

"Go, my wolf... Be safe. I will be here waiting for your sorry ass" you smiled up at him, breaking the dark air.

Andrei huffed a silent laugh and raised his brow— scarred permanently from the shrapnel of the brutal wars he fought in —brushing his crooked nose up yours as a serious look in his eye gazed down "you like my ass just as much as I like yours" he joked, groaning at what he'd miss when he wasn't around you.

Shaking your head, you playfully licked his rosy lips tasting the remnants of cheap cigarettes and expensive vodka "mmm, not that much," you giggled knowing there was no contest "I enjoy it because I know you're safe with me when I see it"

Slowly a gentle smile crawled on his features, exposing those beautifully dangerous canines. He was always safe here with you, he was happy.

"Just a few days, baby" Andrei kissed you deeply. Lips making room between one another, eyes closed and hands gentle,

"Now go make them bleed, wolfy"

[boralogues]

Hello i have more two wuv headcannons :) this time it's how well the freaks can see (idk why i just thought of this) zubin- Because zube's hair is always covering his eyes he can't rlly see, so he relies on hearing a lot more. he can tell who's walking into/out of a room just by the sound their footsteps make. sometimes he parts his hair over one eye so he can look at ppl, especially meeting them for the first time (like seeing random ppl in the forest). sometimes his hair pokes his eyes so he has to brush it out the way before it inevitably falls back (i had a fringe that was exactly like this it sucked) joe- since half of joe's face is burned and he can't see out of one eye he uses glasses (those tiny oval ones in like, every photo ever) to help his normal eye work better. the normal eye is still a little bit fuzzy due to the burns, but the glasses cover that. rob- he's always crying so even when he isn't his eyes are all cloudy and wet. he wears his glasses but they don't do much due to how much he cries, and how cracked they are. andrew- andy lives in the forest like 99% of the time so he's gotten really used to the dark, to the point where he can see better when it's dark than light (basically semi-nightvision). he's developed a sensitivity to bright light so he wears a pair of stolen sunglasses if he's ever somewhere too bright (like if someone shone [is shone the right word? im in extended english i should know this] a flashlight near him) ross- since we still havent gotten any ross lore >:( (/j) i dont have much to work off of. im just gonna say he can see normally, just a little fuzzy due to injuries bora- also dont have much to work off. he has the best eyesight out of everyone. he pays reaaallly close attention to things. mostly his rats. (he can tell all of them apart by their fur, but he gives them little fabric bows or something so everyone knows which ones which) casey- i think in an older post (i think it was that fic someone wrote i forgor who) it mentioned casey falling and hitting his eye on a rock. so that eye is either completely or mostly blind. he wears an eyepatch over it bcs he finds it cool and practical. candi made him do a pirate voice while he was wearing it and that was one of few happy moments these freaky little guys have. its now a running joke between them steve- i think it was the first post/ask w him in it where the asker mentioned he could dilate his pupils like a cat so screw it. his eyes are exactly like cats. everyone thinks its cool and steve just nods cause he doesnt speak. candi- i think i already mentioned it but because of the scar over her eyes, everythings slightly blurry for her. she struggles with objects that are too far away, but it's nothing too severe. she's probably tried out the other's glasses/stolen ones from people in the forest and they might help a bit. but she doesnt want to take them when the others need them so she doesnt wear glasses (she probably put a pair of glasses on and was like. "wait why is everything in hd?")

AAAAAH YES ! need more headcanons about them that's just. Mundane stuff like this I adore it.

Zubins is. Scarily accurate this guy would be basing everything off of hearing shit that is too real

JOE W THE GLASSES YEEEEES OH MY GOD !!!!!!! AHGH I love that I must draw Joe w the glasses ... too real

Oh yeah Rob :(.. his glasses would be all cracked n broken and even rusty from the excess of tears ... sigh :(

Shone is the right word!! Andrew would absolutely be sensitive to light, he'd hiss like a cat if some random hiker flashed a flashlight in his direction, or even getting near a campfire hurts his eyes. I love the idea of him having some sunglasses so he can explore brighter areas with campfires/lights :>

I PROMISE ILL BE WRITING OUT SOME ROSS LORE SOON MY APOLOGIES.. I got that procrastination ADHD ... but yes I do think Ross would have the best vision out of all of them.

AWWW THE IDEA OF BORA PUTTING LITTLE BOWS N STUFF ON HIS RATS IS SOOOO Q_Q <3<3<3 LOVE THAT !! I think Bora would have pretty bad vision but he'd get Andrew to steal him some glasses... he'd definitely lose them and his rats would have to find them and bring them back to him 😭

CASEY. YES!!!!! CANDI AND CASEY JOKING ABT HIS EYEPATCH ... AND NOBODY ELSE GETTING THEIR INSIDE JOKE AUUGGJDHFHF <3

Steve eye dilation realness <3

HAHDHAHDHD YESS CANDI TRUTH !!! I love the idea of her stealing the others glasses / trying them on 😭 IMO I think the others wouldn't notice but Joe would definitely notice his glasses gone and he'd get frustrated...

I love these soo much I'm so sorry i replied so late... I read these a while back and smiled so big and these made me smile so big again :)) thank you <3 I promise Ross lore soon..

[fireonthatcruiser]

I wrote it a long while ago and I finally decided to post it... I hope that maybe somehow it'll help someone. I think everyone needs a talk with their younger self from time to time. It's pretty healing! Soooo I really recommend writing something like this! I hope you'll enjoy! Also feel free to tell me what you think and if you like content like this! >-<

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

'Why are you crying?' she asked.

'Wh-what?' I responded shocked.

'Did someone hurt you?'

'No, why?' I asked holding back my tears.

'I can see your scars. They're cool by the way.' she said smiling a little. 'Dont worry I'll always protect you.' she said with a spirit.

She looked like she was ready to fight.

'Why would you?'

'Cause I love you of course! Oh don't cry! Are you okay? You look really tired.'

'I'm fine.' I said and she looked at me like she didn't believe me. 'Actually I'm not okay. I'm far from being okay. I'm really exhausted and I don't know what to do anymore. I-I can't take it any longer.' I confessed.

She started crying.

'Don't cry... I didn't mean to make you cry... I'm sorry..' I said starting panicking.

'Don't worry, I just feel your pain. I will share it with you so it won't be too heavy. And don't apologize for everything that's not your fault.' little girl said.

'No, you can't carry this-' I didn't finished.

'You carried my baggage I left for so many years. Now it's my turn to finally take it from you.' she said. 'You're full of cracks! Like a shattered glass! But you're not a glass, you're a human, you shouldn't be broken.'

I looked at her and my heart actually felt seen. I finally felt like someone actually cared about me.

'Why are you looking at me like that?' she asked.

'Th-thank you.' I said with cracking voice.

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

[tyrian-musings]

Selfish Secrets

Salt. Sweat. The last reminders of terror dreams and the bite of bitterness. The fabric clings, sticky as he stumbles free of the sheets, his gaze blearily drifting across dark skin. The choking pressure at the back of his mouth is driving, beckoning him deeper into his quarters, fingers crooked. Fingers down his throat.

Slender, mangled hands brace against the counter, breath sharp and uneven. Seaside air is cool on bare flesh, drifting across nerves still alight from sleep. The mirror glitters glassy, his reflection dull against the memory of who he is to the world. Flecks of gold in green are nearly swallowed by the dilation of dark pupils, black twists dangle half out of their bindings like a tangle of ropey snakes. He looks thin bare before himself, where he can follow the jut of clavicle and high cheekbones press against skin, fighting to be free. Glass is cold beneath his touch as he traces his reflection, following bones and the slope of a long nose with the tips of too-thin digits. Dark ink seeped into his skin in careful replication shifts with the flex of his fingers, impressions slithering beneath his skin like corpse flies, sucking at the air. Hungry, threatening to break past the thin film of scar tissue bubbled up between sigil lines.

The caress trails from cupid’s bow to the part of his lips and pauses. The Cheshire smile is jagged and uneven, lopsided like always enjoying half a joke and extending beyond the way his wrist pivots to obscure. Too long, too curved, a cruel mockery of a jester’s grin.

It shouldn’t matter. Those who held the blade are long since gone, and were they not, likely to have forgotten him many years past. He wouldn’t know their faces. They were little more than remnants of his history, marks and marrings that chronicle a life.

Beautiful, he was told. With and without them. A talented hand could remove them entire, leave skin clean and smooth, but the idea frightens him as much as it draws. He has always been the sum of his history, unabashed and disgusted both. Even without them, the memory of their imprints would remain.

It’s breathtaking. You’re breathtaking.

When his lips split beneath his fingers in the mirror his laugh is low and broken, the curl of a thing full of disdain. They see the jagged scarring long healed, another thing conquered—

He can still feel the bite of stone into his back and shoulders, the dizzying crack of skull against rotted wood. The world smells of a sewer and the blood of his brothers slicks his fingers too slippery to offer him purchase on dirty fabric and bodies stronger than he would ever be. Teeth clacking, the frantic clip of words in a bite cut short by a hand in his mouth to stretch his jaw wide as steel slips sweetly against the inside of his cheek. They meant to take his tongue, but boots on the street bid them leave him and his brothers in their own mess.

Beneath his fingers he can see split flesh and thready meat not wholly severed, baring teeth too high and painting his jaw in scarlet. Ugly. Raw.

Breathtaking.

Adebayo’s fingers slip away as the smell of the sea returns, and he draws a deep breath. Air on bare skin is cool and sharp and pulling him further into his present. His tongue touches the backs of his teeth, wets his lips, stares at the jester’s grin.

This bitter, broken nation is full of wretched, ugly things. Turns them into something beautiful.

The vase beside his bed cradles a treasure that flourishes, and his fingers trail lightly over the edge of a petal. Delicate. Pretty. Dangerous and secretive. Perfect despite that it should not even be.

With resolution he pulls the mask on again, the magic tingling across his skin like the familiar slip of a lover’s touch. Settled beneath the fine attire he dons, the illusions pull close like armor. Beloved, to hide the monstrousness beneath as supple smiles and beckoning fingers obscure the rot set deep.They will not understand. They will not understand.

[faultierclock]

Liesandra After the War

WARNING! This story contains contains domestic abuse, alcoholism, slavery, and sexual themes. If this triggers you in any way, please don’t read.

Liesandra scoured the abandoned farm's fields. There were hardly any crops left, weeds taking over the soil and their thorns poking into her hardened bare feet. It had been too long since she last ate, so long that she had forgotten what food tasted like. It didn't matter if it was maggot ridden old portage or bread that was more mold than grain. She was starving, and the others wouldn't share their food, and so, the small girl scavenged.

With the sun's hot rays on her back, and the scent of bloody decay all around, she found some corn lying on the ground besides it's stock.

In a swift motion, the head of corn was in the calloused and dirty hands of the girl. Looking around, she tried to find more to no such luck.

With the rumble of her stomach, the small child took off, hopping over the corpses of her former comrades to get to her master's new home. Her footsteps echoed on the empty streets as Liesandra scurried past the looming buildings until she got to the mostly intact mansion and made her way for the servants entrance.

When she reached the kitchen she began to soak the corn in water and start a fire. When the flames were ready, she placed the movable grill over it and place the corn upon it. After some time, the corn was ready.

After letting it cool for not nearly enough time, the girl tore off the husk and sunk her teeth into the golden grain. Juice dribbled down her scarred cheeks and dripped off her chin. It was delicious.

With her belly full, the young Liesandra sat back to catch her breath. Only now did she realize that she had burnt her tongue and mouth by eating before the food had cooled down.

After a while, there was a tug on the tip of her pointed ears as the hoop earring was being pulled. Her master was summoning her to his chambers. She quickly got up from the dirty floors and dusted off her ragged dress before running out of the kitchen and up the stairs to his room. The longer she took the harder her ears were tugged, to the point where she thought her ears would bleed and the rings bould be tugged out of her skin.

When she arrived at the door, she gave it a gentle knock. “Here I am, Master.”

“Get your puny self in here!” A gruff voice slurred at an unbearably loud volume.

With the creak of the large door, the small girl entered the room. It was dark; ragged curtains covering the open windows and balcony. The scent of booze and herb over ran the girl’s senses as the sunburnt and ash laiden carpet crunched beneath her feet.

Liesandra looked at the bed that was covered in a mess of silken blankets and pillows carelessly thrown about. Upon it was a manor sixteen with messy blonde hair, striking red eyes, and robes lazily wrapped around his large and muscular frame. The empty bottle of liquor looking like a toy in his hand.

“What took you so long, Lielie?” He spat. The man was drunk. That much was clear from his flushed cheeks and ears. “And where’s my drink?”

“I-I was in the kitchen cleaning, a-and we’re all out.” She answered. He didn’t need to know of her meal, and was planning on cleaning up after herself so it wan’t a total lie.

“All out?” He growled, “What do you mean that we’re ‘all out’?”

She shrunk in her place by the door. “T-the last bottle is in your hand,” herr voice quivered no matter how hard she tried to stop it.

The master let out a tisk, “ I bet that you drank it all, didn’t you? I’m sure you did, filthy mud blood,” the blonde spat at the end.

Liesandra spoke up, “I didn’t-“

CRACK!

The next thing she knew, Liesandra was knocked to the floor, blood started to drip from her head and down her face, landing in her lap. The darkly stained glass from the former bottle of wine lay broken all around her.

The master of the house dropped his hand after throwing his fragile ammunition.

Lifting his hand, he moved it in a way that the rings on his pinky and thumb could be on display. He got off the bed and walked over to the edge of the glass mess. The blonde pulled his ringed hand up, forcing the earrings on the girl to pull her up. He grabbed a fist-full of the girl’s hair and lifted her over a foot in the hair so she was forced into eye contact with his crimson eyes.

“Did I tell you that you could speak?” He asked through drifted teeth; his hot and fruity breath hitting her in the face.

Throwing her hands over his in pain, she tried to heave her head. “No, sir,” she answered in a horse whisper.

After a short silence, he threw her down into the broken glass.

“Clean this up, then get me some more,” The red eyed brute muttered, going back to his bed to lie down.

The girl pushed herself up with a groan and began to remove the large pieces of glass from her flesh. After that she picked up the glass and cleaned up the mess. She carried the broken pieces out in her dress, receiving a “And make sure it’s strong,” from the man on the bed.

When she reached the kitchen, Liesandra threw out the garbage and began to clean herself. Her wounds didn’t feel deep, but you can never know for sure. She got a bucket of hot water, a sponge, and some soap that she had made the week prior. She planned on tearing apart some old rags that were too worn to use as anything but a bandage.

She pealed off her dress and began to wash the cuts. She winced when the warm water leaked out of the sponge and over her cuts. Taking the bar of soap, the child rubbed it with wet hands until she got enough suds so she could clean her wounds. Once that was finished, Liesandra took the sponge and rinsed out her sudsy cuts and gashes, the more she did so, the more and more blue the water got with her blood.

It was still something that she had not gotten over. Only up until eight months ago her blood was red. Red as anyone else’s. She didn’t understand at the time why the others had bothered to keep her alive. But now, she knew why, they needed a slave. They weren't used to manual labor and couldn't handle their anger nonviolently, to be bluntly. This however, did not change Lielie’s treatment. They even made sure that her blood would be the color of mud.

With her wounds ready for bandaging, the strips of cloth tore several times as it was tightly wound around her thin frame. Liesandra pulled her dress back on and dumped the bloody water onto some of the blood sucking bushes.

Liesandra began to slowly walk away from the mansion, limping and wincing with every step. She knew that it wouldn’t be long until she was fully healed, but that didn’t stop the desire to have the pain removed. Not to mention,the cuts and gashes on her sides would take at least a day to heal.

The other survivors would be back soon. She had to find some alcohol and get back to the manor to make them supper in just half an hour. That wasn’t nearly enough time. Her master had already raided the area and left it dry.

Luckily, she knew a spot. She went to an old boutique and ran to the back, past the workstations and mutilated bodies of the seamstresses. She pushed a bookshelf aside and revealed a shriveled up pannel. Reaching into her apron pocket and pulling out a screwdriver. She didn’t know what kind it was, just that it was in the shape of a cross on the pointed end.

She unscrewed the pannel and set it aside before crawling into the dark room. Hitting a switch, a single dim light turned on, revealing a small and cramped space filled with bottles of liquor and valuable fabric. This is where the business would store the spare fabrics and acted as a makeshift safe. Not to mention, great staff were alcoholics. Good people, but addicted to their drink.

Not that Liesandra minded. They did hide her in the safe when bombs were being thrown. It made her realize that there are people who don’t care about your class, weather you are a princess or a slave.

She grabbed a few bottles and sealed up the safe. The slave girl ran back to the mansion and set the bottles down down on a table with as clank. She then pulled out ingredients for her master and his friends’ dinner. With what she had on hand, it would be best to make some bread and soup.

Liesandra pulled out a giant pot and filled it with water. She set a fire and placed the pot upon it. She then walked back out to the garden to grab some of the tomatoes and herbs. She washed them off and began to cut up the fruit. She threw the produce in the pot when the water started to bubble.

While that was cooking, the slave girl began to make some bread. She threw some flour, salt, yeast, and baking powder into a bowl before stirring them all up. She them mixed up some eggs, butter, and milk from the cooler until she got dough. The small girl got a crate to stand on and climbed on it and cleaned the counter before sprinkling some flour on the surface and began to kneed the dough for a good ten minutes. When that was done, she placed the dough back inside the bowl and covered it with a cloth.

Liesandra placed the bowl outside in the sun to rise and went to check on the soup. She took a spoon and stirred, getting the present aroma of tomato soup. She threw in some spices and let it simmer. For half an hour the girl cleaned up ad got the oven ready while waiting for the dough to rise.

When that was all ready, she placed the ball of dough inside the brick oven to bake.

She then began to get the trolly ready with bowls, glasses, cutlery, and drink. She then placed the pot of soup on it with a ladle. The bread was pulled out and placed upon a wooden cutting board, then put on the cart. A serrated bread knife was wrapped up in a cloth and placed beside the loaf. Some cloth napkins were it down under the cutlery.

And just as Liesandra finished, she was called again to the master’s chambers. She quickly pushed the large cart up the steep slope to the second floor and knocked on the door.

This time a large woman of over 6 feet opened the door. She had dark black hair and soft green eyes. Her skin was pale and seemed to glow in the retreating light of the sun as it was setting, making the gold chain in her hair sparkle. He dress was made oof the finest silks and dyed to a deep lavender.

Behind her on the bed with the master of the house was another man with a husky build who stood a little above seven feet. His robes were made from fine lining in whites and browns. His hair, curly and a messy brown and his face covered in a beard. His eyes were turned toward the blonde, their blue giving his red all of his attention in their conversation.

The girl scoffed, “It’s about time!” And left to her seat back on the bed in between the two men.

Liesandra gave her a nod and rolled the cart in beside the bed and went to light the candles all around the room. As she did so, the other three began to dig in. She watched out of the corner of her eye. They had to like it. It had to be good if it wasn’t good, she’d get punished again. And Liesandra couldn’t afford to get punished again today.

The woman turned to the slave and said “Thanks for not messing this one up, Lielie,” before taking another bite.

“Well said, your highness.” The brunette spoke up with a nod.

The royal smiled and puffed up her chest. “But of course! A princess must always look after her people, no mater how small and worthless, dear Father.”

Wrapping his arm around her waist, the blonde leaned in and kissed the side of her head. “How generous of you, your majesty.”

The master’s lips moved to the princess’ as the noirette slid her hand to the thigh of the father, the brunette kissed her neck and looked at Liesandra.

The young girl quickly left the room and closed the door. She didn’t need to be in the same room as them when that did that. And she certainly didn’t like how the priest was looking at her. It made her chin crawl, she felt like that whenever he looked at her. It was why Liesandra always made sure to never be in a room alone with him.

She went down to the kitchen and began to clean up the mess she made while making dinner. There was extra bits of vegetables, a cracked pot and a couple of bowls. She could have dinner. And because there were guests over, she couldn’t eat here.

Liesandra picked up everything that she needed and ran out into the night until she arrived at the abandoned farm. Her dirty, bare feet went up the path and into the farmhouse.

The door opened with a loud creak and sent dust and dirt into the air. Walking over to the wood pile, the slave grabbed a few pieces and set them down in the hearth. She lit a fire and went to grab the wooden bucket in the corner. The girl then left to draw some water from the well a three minute walk away.

When approaching the well, she saw it. A woman with very long white and wavy hair and skin as pale as the dead. Her figure was thin but not unhealthy. She wore a knee length white dress with puffed sleeves, and a pair of nice leather boots and some white gloves. Around her neck a fine steel chain and a small locket on it. Her eyes looked to be made of silver as they turned to look at Liesandra. She looked to be eighteen but didn’t have the height for it, only being around five seven. And upon closer inspection, her ears did not have pointed tips, they were round as a baby’s.

“Oh, hello. I did not know that anyone is here.” The pale lady spoke, her voice high in pitch but soft in tone. “I am not intruding, am I?”

Liesandra shook her head. “No, I just came for some water.”

The woman nodded. “Ah yes, water. It is very wet and delicious. I like to eat it very often.”

The girl nodded. “Yeah… so could you please move? You’re blocking the well.”

“Oh! I am so sorry, I had forgotten where I was for a moment.” The pale woman hopped off the well’s edge and watched as the girl worked with giant equipment. “Everything is so big here, it is kind of incredible.”

“Mhm.” Liesandra acknowledged what the woman had said whitest puking up a now full pail of water.

She then began her walk back to the cabin with the strange lady following beside her. “Say, are we in the land of the giants?”

The girl looked to the pale woman in confusion as she opened the old farm house’s door. “You aren’t from around here, are you?” She asked as they entered.

“What makes you say that?” The woman asked while taking a seat by the fire.

Liesandra paused while pouring the water into the cracked to and stared at her. “Are you serious? You don’t look Blablurian, and I doubt that you’re a survivor, you’re too clean.”

“Survivor? Is that where we are at now?” The woman asked to herself, earning a puzzled look from the girl as the scraps were thrown into the pot.

Shaking her head, Liesandra turned her attention back to the pot. When it began to heat up, she pulled the screwdriver out of her pocket and used it to stir the pot.

As the food was finishing up, Lielie grabbed one of the bowls and filled it with the stew. And when she did so, the woman asked. “Can I have some?”

The girl looked at the woman, then the pot, and then to her own bowl. She had planned on having seconds, she didn’t know when the next time she could wat was; but she also couldn’t bring herself to let another person starve. That was a pain that she knew all too well.

Liesandra gave her bowl to the woman and grabbed the other one and filled it with what was left of the stew. She sat down to eat and set the screwdriver down on the floor.

After a few minutes of eating in silence, the lady grabbed the screwdriver and looked it over. “A Phillips, good choice,” she said and set it down.

“Phillips?” The slave asked with food still in her mouth.

“Do not speak with your mouth full, it is rude.” The woman nagged. “It is the same of that type of screwdriver.” She set down her empty bowl and stretched. “Well that was good, Phillips. Thank you for the meal.

“I-what? Who are you calling Phillips?” Lielie piped up.

“Why you of corse! You have been carrying around a screwdriver in your pocket. Cookie?” The lady stuck a hand in her hair and pulled out a cookie and placed it in the girl’s hands.

“Ah-thank you.” She began to eat the cookie and chewed slowly. It tasted like a painterly but there was something else. She looked down at the cookie in her hand and saw that there were brown chunks inside it, Lielie’s eyes widened. That was chocolate. Why did this lady give her some? This was strictly for those that were a much higher statis than a slave.

“It is good, right? Tell you what, I like your cooking. If you work for me, you can eat good food and have a warm bed every night.” The pale woman piped up.

It wasn’t that bad of a deal for Liesandra, but there as only one problem.

“I would love to, but I can’t.” The girl shook her head.

The woman frowned, “And why is that, Phillips?”

Liesandra motioned to the rings on her ears. “I’m a slave. I have a master, it’s not my decision to make. And don’t call me Phillips.”

“Then what if I become your master? I will never harm you, and give you a safe place to stay. You will even receive pay. And I will make sure that you will never go hungry again.” The stranger offered. “You would just have to give me your owner’s rings. What do you say?”

Liesandra stared at her and thought. After a few minutes she spoke. “Do you promise? Will you make an oath?”

The woman smiled, “I swear on the name of the Goddess of Time, Snowflake, that if I become your master, that I will never cause you any harm.”

The slave stared at her in shock. “I want you to be my master.”

The woman smiled. “Good! Now Phillips, I need you to get me those ownership rings.”

“Why can’t you get them? They’re going on your fingers.” Lielie asked. “And it’s Liesandra.”

“Because if I get them, it will be considered stealing and then I can not ever be your master.” The lady answered.

Lielie nodded and took a deep breath. This was going to be hard. Her current master was so big and strong, and she was so weak and small; not to mention that she was only a kid! She was just twelve! Still, it had to be done. To live a better life.

The child stood and walked to the door. She turned to the woman and said, “I will be right back,” and left to her master’s manor, taking the screwdriver and putting it back in her pocket.

She snuck in quietly and began to slowly walk up the stone steps and to the master suite. She put her ear to the door to listen and see if the other three were awake. It was quiet with the occasional snore and sigh. Perfect.

Liesandra cracked the door open and took a peek, and it looked like and easy mission. The blonde was on the far side of the bed with the princess in the middle and with the priest closest to the door.

She crept in and quietly made her way around to the other side of the bed, being sure to keep to the shadows. She reached over to grab the blonde’s right hand and began to slowly slide the rings off of his fingers. Thank the Gods that all three of these people reared of booze, sending them into a deep sleep.

The one on his thumb slid off with a twist, the problem was the pinky’s, he had a closed fist. Liesandra began to carefully unwind his hand just enough to slide the second ring off.

The priest made a loud snort in his sleep that made the slave girl jump. She stared at him as she finished with the second ring. Liesandra slowly pulled away from the triad and crept out of the room and down the stairs.

She got down the stairs when she heard her master say, “What? That bitch!”

The girl took off and ran for her life, holding the rings close to her chest as the sound of the blonde man quickly untangling himself from his sheets, waking the other two up in the process. She clamored out of the main door and down the moon lit road as her master jumped off the balcony and took off after her.

He soon caught up and tackled her to the ground. “What in Snowflake’s name do you think you’re doing you filthy little slut?” He growled and slapped her face before wailing on her.

She reached into her pocket and pulled out the screwdriver and plunged it into his side, earning a hotel from him. It bought her enough time to scurry away from the giant man as the other two approached.

Liesandra booked it for the farm house, loosing the others on the way.

By the time she arrived at the location, he rungs were on fire and her legs felt like gelatin. The woman stepped out of the cabin to greet her.

“Oh there you are Phillips! I see that you have made it back in one piece.” She said and wiped away some of the blood from the girl’ face. The woman then noticed that Liesandra was holding a bloody screwdriver.

The girl looked down at the bloody tool. “They followed and got what was coming to ‘em.”

“Ah, living up to your name, eh Phillips.” The woman put the slave maser rings on and stood, putting a key inside of the keyhole of the cabin door.

Lielie stood and watched the woman in anger. “For the last time, my name is Liesandra! Why can’t you get that? I shouldn’t have to be called that, especially when you haven’t given me your name?

The woman laughed and opened the door, on the other side was a completely different place than the farm house. “I guess that I forgot to say it. You may call me Snowflake. Come along now, we have much to do, Phillips.”

The girl’s eyes widened as they followed Snowflake through the door. If God says your name is Phillips, your name is Phillips.

[dilemmaontwolegs]

Deranged and Deceptive {1} || Dark!Sinister Strange

Summary: Takes place at the end of Spider-Man: No Way Home. You are pulled through the torn fabric of reality and into the multiverse to find a man who both is and isn't your husband. Warnings: 18+ only, nsfw, smut, dark themes, kidnapping, dub/con, unprotected sex. WC: 1.6k

Dr Strange Masterlist || Part One || Part Two

When the world had been splitting at the seams there was only one person you were thinking about. Ribbons of purple light broke through the walls surrounding you and you swore you saw Stephen’s face peering through the cracks. Fearing he was in trouble, you reached through and felt his scarred hand take yours, his wedding band cool to your touch.

“Come closer darling.” He called, the familiar timber of his voice coaxing you closer until he tightened his grip and pulled you through.

It felt as if you were being forced through a wall of elastic, the only force stopping you from springing back was Stephen’s steadfast hold on you. Just when you thought you would be crushed by the pressure you were facing it popped and you flew into his waiting arms.

“Stephen?” You trembled as you looked around the ruins of the New York Sanctum. “What happened?”

“We lost.” He muttered as he pulled you to his chest. “I lost.”

You looked up to see the features of your husband but his eyes held a darkness that you had never seen, there was an eerie haunted look behind them. “What do you mean?”

He pulled you to the shattered glass that used to serve as a lookout on the top floor of the Sanctum and you looked out at the desolation. Debris and ruins littered the land as far as you could see, you could hardly tell what city you were even in.

“This is all that is left.” He said quietly. “I couldn’t lose you too.”

“This isn’t happening.” You shook your head and stepped away from the cold wind blowing through the broken window. “I, I can’t believe it. Things were a bit crazy with the Electric guy making the lights go funky and the Doctor Octopus but…end of the world? I don’t understand.”

“You don’t have to. Just believe me.” He growled, gripping your arms tight as his eyes widened. “You do believe me right?”

Your head bobbed as your heart sped up; your husband didn’t have to ask - he should have known you would believe him, that you trusted him. A sickening pit of dread settled deep in your gut as you realised that although he had the face of Stephen, he most certainly was not yours. 

“Good.” He nodded, a small relieved smile looking so much like your husband’s that for a second you forgot it wasn’t him. “Are you hungry, darling?”

You shook your head and looked around the large room, your eyes falling on the grand piano in the corner. A small gasp caught in your throat as you remembered Stephen talk about how he used to play before his accident but you were certain he had sold the expensive piece. Walked over, you lifted the lid and ran your fingers along the keys, the notes deepening with each touch.

“It is beautiful.” You sighed as you reached the lowest note and felt his presence at your back. 

“It is.” 

He sat at the bench seat and patted the spot beside him, waiting until you were seated before beginning a melody you had heard once or twice but couldn’t name. Your eyebrows pinched together as you watched his lithe fingers dance across the keys without a single tremor to them, despite the identical scarring they held. 

The piece came to an end and as the last note echoed through the room you felt a tear rolling down your cheek, imagining he truly was your husband sitting at your side. Taking his hand in yours, your thumb traced the surgical lines along his fingers until you reached the wedding band you had placed on his finger. “Does it hurt?”

“Not anymore.” 

You were captivated by the depths in his grey eyes and stuck still as he leant closer, his lips brushing gently against yours, your body struggling to react as your heart waged a war with your mind. Stephen had talked about timelines and multiverses before but it wasn’t something you understood and you kicked yourself for not asking more questions. Your heart couldn’t tell the difference and you felt love for the man kissing you but your mind knew they were not the same.

“I’m so glad you are here.” Stephen smiled as he rested his forehead on yours. “I can’t live without you.”

“Me too.” You whispered, the exhaustion blatant in your voice. 

“Let’s get you to bed.” He said as he pulled you to your feet. “We can talk more in the morning.”

Most of the rooms you passed were dark and dusty, except for the room he led you to. The ornate iron bed was the only furniture in the room and a dozen candles placed around the room were the only source of light as Stephen began to undress himself. The glow of the candles cast shadows across his skin and you felt the familiar stirring in your body at the sight of his, a warmth spreading through your core. 

You quickly climbed under the thick blankets and closed your eyes before they betrayed your lust, feeling a warm arm curling around your waist and pulling your back to his chest. 

“Goodnight, my love.” He whispered low in your ear, the tease of his beard tickling your nape as he placed a kiss on the bare skin. “Sweet dreams.”

Pressing your legs together to ease the ache between them, you rested your hand over his and settled into his embrace. “Goodnight, Stephen.”

Your dreams had been turbulent as you imagined Stephen searching for you and losing his mind. He had been tormented with the thought of losing you that he broke the laws of nature to get you back, losing himself in the process. You had woken with a gasp but quickly relaxed as you found his arm safe and secure around you and his kiss to your neck chasing away the nightmare.

“Shhh, it’s alright my darling, I’m here.” He soothed as he hand teased the lace trim of your panties you had slept in. “You’re safe now.”

You sighed as his fingers slipped between your folds and felt your reaction to him, the inviting warmth begging him to bury his fingers within you. His chest hummed with satisfaction as he felt how wet you were before pulling back to glide over your clit, rolling his hips and pressing his erection against you in time to his fingers. Your head was spinning with need, the need to orgasm and the need to reassure yourself it was all a bad dream.

“Please, Stephen…” You begged as your core tightened around nothing. “I need you.”

You almost whimpered at the loss of his touch before he lifted your leg over his and pushed your panties aside. Your eyes fluttered shut at the feel of his cock pressing to your entrance and your lips parted with a moan when he filled you with a powerful thrust. Stephen mumbled nonsense between his kisses that snaked up your neck and you craned your head so that you could taste him, his tongue slipping past your lips.

“I love you.” He professed as he lifted your leg higher and deepened his thrusts, the angle driving him over your sweet spot. “I would do anything for you.”

“I love you too.” You smiled almost drunkenly, your mind and body teetering on the edge of bliss and unable to comprehend anything but loving promises.

His arm snaked over your waist and you reached over your shoulder to run your fingers through his hair, holding him close as the pleasure peaked and you cried out his name. Your pussy clenched around his cock, your fluttering walls tipping him over the edge as he moaned in your ear with his release. You lay with your fingers entwined and his heart hammering into your back as you both regained your breaths and rode the high of endorphins. All too soon his body betrayed him and he retreated from you, the warmth of his release and yours slipping from your folds to run down your thigh. 

Pulling the blankets back, you stretched up and found it odd that the lighting in the room didn’t come from the fixture above, the sleepy haze suddenly clearing. The nightmare came back to you and you clamped your hand over your mouth as you looked back at the man lying lazily across the bed. Bile rose in your throat as you realised the nightmare wasn’t a dream at all, this wasn’t your husband.

“This is wrong.” You rambled as you grabbed your clothes from the floor and tried to make your way to the door only for it to slam shut. “Let me go, I don’t belong here.”

“You belong with me, always.” Stephen said as he rose from the bed, his eyes wide with panic. “You are my wife, I love you.”

“You are not my husband.” You backed against the door as he closed the distance, your head shaking as you repeated the mantra in your head. “You brought me here, please, send me back.”

“I would do anything for you.” He said, chillingly void of emotion as he placed his hand on the base of your throat, the threat clear without exerting any force. “But I will never lose you again. You. Are. Mine.”

Your teeth clenched together and your lips curled back at the threat. “He’s going to come for me.”

His laugh was harsh and sharp, his smile sinister as he leant in as if to whisper an important secret in your ear, the words making you flinch. “And you will witness his death.”

Click here for part two.

[emperor-palpaminty]

May I request this prompt for Tech, please, though solely in a more tender, gentle and caring way? Not a smutty take on it, please, that's not really for me, sorry :(

"undressing your love interest, having to tend to their wounds, trying not to gawk their chest but failing to do so" (though more gawking at the wounds and previous scars Tech has?)

I am just a softie for the Batch being taken care of!

And on terms of Tech, Imperial or normal Tech, whichever you prefer! Thank you so much! And congratulations on finishing your semester!

Ah thank you love!! <3 I love your request. I suppose I did a lot of romance/smut, didn't I? I should have been more considerate anon! Apologies! However know that my inbox is open to prompts that do not need to be romantic/sexual in any way! i hope you like angst!

Warnings: There contains nudity, but it is in no way sexual! there are mentions of wars, wounds, and scars, and a lot of crying. If this fic is not your vibe then I will see you next time, and I do not take offense!

Tech, at this point in his life, lost count of how many times he had gotten into the bacta tank. He would allow it to swallow him, drown him in it but survive. The substance was sweet, sticky, with a stench of medicinal qualities.

Overall, Tech thought as his eyes remained closed and he floated in nothingness, there was not much he could do. 

Hunter was probably two tanks over- it always went in the order of their batch-age. Then Wrecker, himself, and Crosshair. Tech felt his eyes flutter open briefly, just so he could swivel his head and check.

As always Hunter was stiff- corpse like in a vat of blue, face upwards as he soaked. Probably put under again. Wrecker was curled up, as much as he could be at least, in somewhat of a crude fetal position, shuddering on occasion as the bacta ate away at his wounds. He didn’t have to even look at Crosshair to know that his brother was resigned to the tank. He had stopped fighting it a long time ago.

Tech blinked again. The bacta didn’t hurt his eyes, but they stung briefly.

A white coat stood in front of him, arms crossed over their convexed frame as they stared up at him. The details were blurry but Tech didn’t need to see to recognize the medic. Slowly, he pressed out a hand against the glass, smooth under his palms as the shape of their hand passed over the other side. He could not move far, given the breathing mask, but that barriered touch still made him exhale, softly, the bacta burning in his chest as he sat in the cold blue and waited. 

Again.

---

He awoke on a cool bed this time. Well, more like a cot. 

He tried to sit up but a hiss escaped him as his ribs groaned. “My glasses-”

“The Kaminoians are making you new ones. The last ones cracked really bad.” The medic stated, the voice soothing. Tech laid back and tried to stare at the ceiling, attempting to make out the shapes. The steps were harrowing and soft as the medic came back over, sitting down, and he smelled the backa gel. Tech flinched, but the medic shushed him quietly. “It’s okay. I’m going to do it.”

Tech licked his lips. They tasted sticky and artificially sweet. “The medical droid-”

“Tech.” The voice was weak. Broken. Splintered. “I want to. Please.”

Please.

Tech nodded, quietly, allowing the doctorly hands to allow him to sit up. Their gaze pressed on his chest as he sat up, and he leaned forward. The weight shifted to behind him and the medic began softly rubbing the bacta-gel into his back.

The silence was stretched between them.

“So,” Tech cleared his throat. “Like what you see?” He shifted on the sheets as a hoarse chuckle emerged. 

The medic didn’t speak, but the laugh was enough for him. He relaxed as much as the numbing and biting woulds would let him, feeling the medic’s eyes rove over his body as the balm soothed his wounds’ worries, even over the old scars.

There was a soft bump on Tech’s back, and the Medic’s arms wrapped around him. “Why?” The whisper was even more shattered, and ten times louder than a war cry.

Tech sat, hunched forward as the medic leaned into him, waiting for the bacta-gel to heal him. The process, the scars, the wounds would repeat themselves the next day, and the next mission, until the war was over.

At his point, he exhaled and his chest sagged hollowly, with the squeeze of the only loving arms present, he doubted the war ever would actually end for him.

[wkemeup]

The Only Kindness

summary: In the early days of Bucky’s captivity in Hydra, the only comfort he knows is the kindhearted doctor assigned to mend his wounds. At least when he's with her, he knows he isn’t alone. pairing: bucky x reader word count: 9.7k warnings: torture, canon level violence, unwanted sexual advances, hydra's attempts to brainwash bucky, hella angst, a/n: this is meant to sit in the world of canon and what we know eventually happens to Bucky at Hydra sooo do with that what you will. I am genuinely really proud of this one so I hope you can forgive me for the pain I cause

The first thing Bucky remembered every morning when the sting of florescent lights woke him in a cold sweat was that the arm attached to his shoulder was not his own. The realization of it hurt worse than the day before; with unforgiving metal seared into his skin, leaving behind bubbled scars and a revolting, oozing smell.

It weighed him down, slumped on his spine, pulled at his neck, and he struggled to even push himself upright. Sitting upon the thin mattress laid amongst an otherwise baron room, Bucky supposed he might have preferred the floor if not for the dark red stain at the center of the concrete.

Then, the familiar clicking of locks echoed against the walls and Bucky gritted his teeth as a stout man with rounded features and an arrogant grin strolled into the room – no, the cell – alongside two men strapped with rifles.

He clutched to the solid metal of his arm as if holding it might take the pressure off his shoulder, might subside the pain as it spread through his veins, or stop the twitching in his cheek as he tried to stifle the pain, but it was no use. He held on anyway in favor of wrapping a hand around the scientist’s throat.

“Ah, good morning, Sergeant Barnes,” Zola greeted, though there was something unpleasant in his tone. A threat, perhaps. A taunt. It was always something of the sort.

Bucky could barely muster the energy to look the man in the eye, but as he did, it was hidden under a dark, loathing glare. He spat on the floor by Zola’s feet.

“Go to hell.”

Zola jumped back and brushed at the toe of his shoe. It was amusing, at least, to see the rage boil in the man’s chest; all red faced and round and steaming from the ears. Though Bucky’s triumph was shorted lived as Zola waved a single hand at the armed guards beside him.

They lunged forward and with heavy hands, clawed Bucky into their grip by his biceps. He met concrete within seconds; the red stain laid beneath him. His knees barely had time to heal from the day before and they stung as he struggled under the guards’ grasp, raw skin and blistering burns shielded by paper thin fabric.

His face was pushed down into the stone and for a strange moment there was relief; it was cool to the touch, a break from the feverish heat on his brow.

But then, while a guard pinched at the nape of Bucky’s neck, nearly choking the air straight out of him and the other jabbed a knee to his spine, he remembered there was no relief within Hydra.

“You have a long day ahead of you,” Zola announced, a smirk growing upon his face as Bucky let out a hollowed whine. It slipped past his lips before he could smother it down. He knew then that he had lost whatever game they were playing; the win-lose of a man in chains to his captors with scalpels in their hands and venom on their tongues.

He didn’t know how long it had been since the fall; since icy waters and plummeting down to a ravine he wished most nights had swallowed him whole. He didn’t know how many times he was cut open in an unsterilized room, thrown onto a rusting metal table and operated on with cheap anesthetic. He didn’t know how many times he was strapped into a chair that set fire to his veins and left him feeling numb and empty, how many times he felt a lingering sense of dread he couldn’t quite place.

He didn’t��know much at all, really.

But he knew his name. He knew his serial number. He knew Steve would come for him like he did before. He knew he’d get through this. He had to. He didn’t have a choice.

“We have much to do,” Zola announced, admiring how Bucky’s face pressed down into the concrete, how the prickles in the stone scraped against his cheek and cut at his skin— pleased to see a man brought to his knees, bowing before the greatness of Hydra. It brought Zola a sense of pride whether the Sergeant resisted or not. He would give in soon enough.

The guards didn’t loosen their grip on Bucky’s arms as they yanked him back to his knees. They didn’t give him a chance to stand either before they started to drag him from the cell.

The grip on his right arm was sure to leave bruises behind, ones to accompany the mess of blue and purple coloring his skin, but it was the pain on his left that rendered him paralyzed. It felt like his arm was being ripped straight from his body, pulled at every nerve ending until they snapped. He could hardly move.

It wasn’t until Zola made a sharp left at the end of the hall that a familiar sense of dread dropped into Bucky’s stomach. Whether it was fear, panic, resilience, he wasn’t sure, but he started to fight back as they neared a dark red door with six locks running up the side.

“No,” he gaped, barely a whisper, but it caught Zola’s attention.

Bucky thrashed in the men’s grip, using his weight as leverage despite the searing pain in his shoulder and the blood trickling down his ribs from where metal fused to flesh. His heels dug into the concrete, trying to catch against the wall to slow them down, to stop what he knew was coming.

Zola merely smiled.

It was no use, and perhaps Bucky knew that from the start, but he couldn’t be strapped into that chair without a fight. He still didn’t know its purpose but he knew it brought him pain. It disoriented him, made him forget his own name and the monsters that chained him. It forced him to remember all over again that he was held prisoner, thousands of miles away from home, presumed dead, and he couldn’t -- he couldn’t do it anymore.

“Please,” Bucky gasped and it sounded foreign in his own voice – broken. He hated it. He despised how his voice cracked, how he fell to his knees in front of his captors and begged.

Zola grabbed a firm hold of Bucky's chin, stump fingers digging into his cheeks and demanding attention. As he pulled in closer, Bucky caught sight of something strange in the reflection of Zola’s glasses.

He didn’t recognize the man staring back at him; hair grown and wild, unkept beard on his face, dirt and blood covering most of his skin. Amongst the scratches in the glass and the clouds of dirt, the reflection of the man looked tired, with hallowed eyes and sunken cheeks. He wasn’t strong enough to fight back. He wouldn’t survive if he tired.

Bucky slumped in the guards’ arms.

“That’s what I thought,” Zola jeered, a lingering chuckle etched into the trail of his voice. He waved a hand at the guards and Bucky was placed into the chair, all dead weight and positioned like a doll.

Thick, metal bars strapped down around Bucky’s wrists, his biceps, his ankles to hold him in place. He did his best to let go of himself, to find somewhere far beyond the walls of this room, away from the men who ripped him to pieces and broke him to the bare bones. He imagined something better, safer, where he was clean shaven and in fresh clothes, where Steve was waving from the end of the street and the war long behind them, but the dream was torn from him as soon as the panels clamped against his temples.

Electricity jolted through his system and his whole body tensed. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.

But he could scream.

It ripped through his lungs and he was certain he’d break straight through the mouth guard and shatter his teeth if they didn’t turn off the machine soon. The sound echoing through the room was strained, broken, and Bucky might have mistaken it for nails to a chalkboard if he didn’t feel the burn in the back of his throat.

He started to lose time, unsure if it was on for seconds or hours. It was blinding. It was all-consuming. It was swallowing him whole.

“Enough!” a voice broke through. A woman’s. It wasn’t one Bucky recognized.

“No, keep it on! He can take more.” Zola.

“Are you insane!” the voice shouted again. “You’ll kill him!”

Let them.

The thought startled Bucky but it slipped from him in the seconds it took to arrive; searing pain, white hot fire washing through every muscle down to his bones. His eyes began to flutter closed, a strange sort of emptiness pulling him under, a darkness he couldn’t place, and he welcomed the escape.

There was yelling again, though this time it was coming was across the room. The machine began to power down, the whirring sounds of electricity in his ears leaving him with a numbing silence. The dizziness took hold, the hollowness, and he was surprised to find a woman staring back at him, her hands wrapped around the lever that pulled him from the fire.

“What the hell are you doing!” Zola roared, accent thick and slurring his words together. He bounded forward, attempted to push past the woman but she held her ground, hands planted on her hips.

“I’m saving his life,” she grunted back, unfazed by Zola’s finger pointing up into her face. She swatted it away, ignoring the shock upon his rounded features. “You brought me here for a reason, didn’t you? Let me do my damn job.” She glanced around the room, eyed the men with guns aimed at the ready, barrels trained in her direction. “Give me the room.”

“Not going to happen,” Zola snapped but quickly silenced as she shot him a glare that had him cower several steps in retreat. His cheeks were burned red.

The woman turned back to the man in the chair and he slumped limply in its clutches, her narrowed eyes centering on the rapid rise and fall of his chest. She held up two fingers, eyeing him carefully before she slowly moved to press them against his throat.

He winced before she could even touch him, flinching at the air itself, and she paused, bringing her hand back to her chest. She gave him a minute to watch as she demonstrated what she was trying to do by pressing the tips of her fingers to her own neck.

She tried again and this time she held his stare; calming aura nestled between the vibrant shades in her eyes, a gentle kind of patience he didn’t expect, and he hardly noticed her fingertips against his skin as she felt for his pulse, feather light and paper thin. They were cool to the touch, a comfort in the burning heat of metal surrounding him and he caught himself before he could lean into her palm.

“His heart rate is through the roof,” she said tensely, turning back to Zola and withdrawing her hand. “Unless you want your multi-million-dollar project to go to waste, clear out before he has a goddamn heart attack.”

Zola eyed her suspiciously in what appeared to be a competition of wills. She straightened her back, arms folding over her chest, and she towered over the scientist’s small frame. He glared up at her and the fury was palatable on his face; upper lip twitching, eyes narrowed, hands curling into fists.

She held her ground.

“Fine,” Zola grumbled, waving a hand to the line of men behind him until they bring their weapons down to their sides. “Give the doctor the room.”

As if she were waiting for the men to leave, she exhaled a breath like she had been holding it for quite some time. When she let her hands come back to her sides, puncture marks were left in her palms.

“I’m leaving a man behind for your safety,” Zola threw over his shoulder at he reached the door, almost like a threat.

She swallowed; jaw clenched. “That won’t be necessary.”

“Maybe not today, but it will be.”

Then, he was gone.

The door locked shut behind him and a single guard remained by the door, positioned with his finger on the trigger.

“Finally,” she exhaled, turning back with a gentle smile on her face that felt almost unsettling to be in such a cold and unforgiving place. “Can you tell me your name, soldier?”

“Uhh,” was all that left his lips and he hardly recognized his own voice. He searched in the back of his head for the answer, felt it on the tip of his tongue, and still… nothing. He glanced back up at her with clenched teeth because he knew what would happen next, what always happened next.

But instead of a harsh hand to the side of his face or the blunt edge of a weapon to his crown, she nodded, offered him a sad sort of smile, and simply said, “that’s alright.”

She glanced down at the clamps restraining him to the chair. His skin was raw underneath, bleeding a little, and she frowned. It crinkled up into her forehead, pursed out at her lips, and he decided he liked it much better when she smiled.

“Your name is Sergeant James Barnes,” she said fondly and it sounded familiar as she said it, but it still felt distant— wrong in some way. She seemed to notice the contemplation on his face. “It’ll come back to you soon. Might take longer than the last time, but it will. They haven’t perfected the science of the chair yet, it seems.”

There was a resentment laced into her words as she glared back at the armed man standing guard with disgust. She softened as she turned back to face the man she called James. It was within that moment the anger washed from her features, a kindness replacing the hatred, and she ran her fingers on the edge of the chair before she pulled away.

“I’m going to undo these, okay?” she told him and he was surprised that she waited for his nod before adjusting the mechanics on the machine until the metal snapped open and a rush of cold air swept against the blistering skin. He hissed at the sting of it.

“Come,” she requested, gesturing to the examination table in the corner of the room. “Let’s get you out of this thing, huh?”

He was thankful for that. He couldn’t stand the sharp edges anymore or the blistering heat of the arm rests. Her touch was so gentle he wondered if it could push right through him as she bent down to help tug his right arm over her shoulders.

Just as she nearly had him positioned well enough to get him to his feet, the guard standing in the corner of the room stepped forward, gun raised.

“I wouldn’t do that, ma’am.”

She clenched her jaw. “I’m fine. Let me work.”

“He’s dangerous,” the guard grunted back.

“He’s not going to hurt me,” she argued. There wasn’t a trace of hesitancy in her voice, even as she turned to the man hanging off her arms. “Are you, Sergeant Barnes?”

He shook his head.

“See?” she gestured. “Now leave us be.”

The guard stepped back, lowered his weapon, and she smiled.

“Alright then, James,” she started, “think you can help me get you to that table over there? I know you’ve lost some muscle mass but you’re still pretty heavy.”

A short ghost of a laugh escape as he let himself lean on her shoulder, allowing her to guide him towards the table. It surprised him as it left his chest, the feeling of laughter, because he hadn’t so much as smiled since the fall. It hurt, almost. But it was a nice kind of hurt.

She helped him sit on the table, just high enough to give her decent leverage, and he spotted a bag filled with what appear to be medical supplies. It contained with what he would expect; a stethoscope, bandages, depressors, but there were also needles, and shiny metal tools that made him clench his hands around the lip of the table.

“I’m a doctor,” she said, noticing his stare. “I won’t hurt you.”

“Zola’s a doctor,” he muttered back feebly, sharp images of lying awake on a cold, metal table much like the one he currently sat upon plagued his mind, memories of scalpels in his shoulder and needles in his arms.

She nodded, contemplating what he said before she frowned and countered, “Zola’s a mad scientist with a God complex.”

A smile tugged at his lips. It broke a little, but it remained.

“You can call me Y/n if you like,” she said as she began digging through her bag. She found the stethoscope and placed the ends in her ears. “I’m going to press this to your chest, alright? It might be a little cold.”

She exhaled a breath on the side of it for a moment to try and warm it, rubbing it with the palm of her hand. He was mesmerized by the small details; how she positioned herself strategically between him and the armed guard behind her, how she told him exactly what she was doing before she did it, how she gave him time to prepare, how she hadn’t once touched him without asking first.

He didn’t understand her or why she was here, but he was thankful.

He nodded at her and she leaned in closer, pressing the piece to his sternum. It had a slight chill to it but he could still feel the warmth left behind from her breath. He took a deep breath in as she instructed. She took her time, slowly moving to his ribs, and then his back. He took more deep breaths, felt the pulsing of his heart steady under her touch.

“Looks good all things considering,” she told him. Her eyes drifted to the burn marks on his right wrist, fingers ghosting over the reddened marks and her lips tug down into a frown. She masked it as she faced him again, pushing out a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Might as well attend to this, too, don’t you think?”

Yeah, might as well.

He offered her his hand.

He sat quietly while she worked, listening to her hum softly under her breath. She was impossibly gentle with him, so delicate he could hardly feel it until it was gone. Her hands were a little cold but he found them soothing against the burns. The alcohol she placed on the wound stung, made him grit his teeth and grip to the table’s edge, but she moved quickly, wincing at the way he sucked in a harsh breath as if his pain meant something to her.

When she was finished, she wrapped his wrist with a bandage from her bag and gently tapped on his knee.

“Not a lot my patients would have sat still through that without some kind of numbing agent,” she grinned, praise in her voice, smile on her lips, and it sent a flutter through his chest. “You did good, James.”

He didn’t want to tell her that he’d known worse, that the pain of alcohol to his wounds was nothing in comparison to the mutilation on his arm or the electricity of the chair. So, he focused on something else, a distant memory edging its way back to the surface, something that didn’t lie within the pages of Hydra’s files.

“Bucky,” he choked out, voice a little dry. She raised an eyebrow. “My name… it’s Bucky.”

She smiled at that.

“Bucky,” she repeated, testing it on her lips, “it’s nice to meet you.”

***

It wasn’t the last time he saw Y/n.

No, he found himself under her care more days than not. It was a simple system, it seemed. Hydra would do its best to break Bucky to pieces and they’d send in Y/n to stitch him back up; glue him together with needle and thread or scotch tape and paper mâché. She did her best to heal him and while she could not cure every wound on his body, she gave him something he didn’t have before – something to look forward to.

A kind smile. A gentle hand. A voice so soft it nestled deep into his chest and warmed the hollow ache that had made a home by his heart.

Even through the pain, through the chair, through the long hours he spent overworked in a boxing ring, he knew she’d be waiting on the other side. It didn’t hurt as much when he thought of her, he realized – the only kindness he knew within Hydra.

They hadn’t attempted to use the chair on him in a while and for that he was grateful. To save him from the pain of the electricity and the emptiness that followed, but lately, to allow him to hold onto her memory. He didn’t want to forget her name, her kindness, her light within the darkest corners of hell.

He only ever saw her in short glimpses, brief moments when the guards pushed the boundaries too far and cracked open a scar that wouldn’t stop bleeding or dislocated his arm again or fractured another bone. They’d drag her into his room, rough hands on her wrists that made a knot form deep into Bucky’s stomach, and give her minutes to work before they hulled her away.

He healed quickly, he came to find. Certainly faster than he should. Maybe in another world he would have been pleased with this. A perfect soldier. Always ready for battle.

In this world, it meant shorter recovery between trainings. It meant pushing him beyond his limits and testing the extent of his newfound abilities. It meant few and distant meetings with the kind doctor whose smile made it impossibly difficult to despise every last ounce within Hydra.

***

A few weeks since their first meeting, Bucky found himself dragged by his wrists on a familiar path into what looked like a room much like his own, only there were a few small comforts inside; a bed, a desk, a lamp, and a series of books piled on a small dresser.

Y/n jumped up from the desk, pen falling to the concrete as she stared back at the guards, agape. “What the hell did you do to him?!”

They dropped Bucky to the ground, his own arms too weak to hold himself up, and felt the harsh crack of concrete to his jawline. Blood dripped down into his eyes, clouding his vision with crimson pools of red, but he could hear the quick patter of your bare feet as you slid down to the floor beside him, shooing away the guards.

Hands ghosted over his shoulders before you paused, watching the way he sighed into the cool embrace of concrete. She glared back up at the guards, waiting on their answer.

“He’s weak,” one of the guards spat, thick accent spewing down to land on Bucky’s bare skin. “The fist of Hydra is an embarrassment. He crumbles under pressure. He needs to be pushed, to be taught what he is.”

Bucky couldn’t quite register the way her hands curled up into fists or how a harsh exhale burned deep in her chest, but she swallowed it the best she could as she muttered, “get out.”

A toe nudged at Bucky’s leg – one of the guards behind him – and he groaned as it dug into a dark purple bruise from the days before.

“You’ve done enough,” she pressed again, swatting away his leg as he tried to push Bucky over to his back to see his good work. "Now leave.”

“You don’t give us orders, princess,” the other guard smirked, yellowed teeth bared.

“We’ll be back for him soon,” the first one said, nudging his friend to stand down. “Make sure he’s ready to go again tomorrow.”

The door slammed shut and within the echo, Bucky felt the cool touch of a breeze nestle against his skin. It was a relief, as kind as the concrete, that sat in sharp contrast to the burning heat on his skin.

“Are you alright, Sergeant Barnes?” an angelic voice called. It sounded muffled, and a bit distant, but it was one he recognized.

He nodded slowly, though the concrete scratched at his skin.

“You don’t look alright,” she countered, a touch of lightness in her tone and it came as a welcomed relief.

“You kidding? I look great,” Bucky teased, half muffled by the ground. She laughed, pressing a hand over her lips, and Bucky swore for the smallest of moments that all the pain had washed from his body completely.

He could hear her riffling around the room, gathering supplies and laying a blanket down by his side, then a pillow. She was talking to herself, words he couldn’t quite hear or understand, but they were a comfort nonetheless.

"Still with me Sergeant Barnes?"

“Bucky,” he grumbled, just as she came down to kneel beside him again. “S’my name, remember? I’m supposed to be the one with the memory problems here.”

There came that laugh again, though she tried to suppress it. “That’s not very funny, Bucky.”

“Give me an ounce of humor here, doll,” Bucky smirked. It ached in his lips where the split tore through, burned in his cheeks from the swelling on his face, but he didn’t mind. It wasn’t often he had much reason to smile these days. She seemed to bring it out of him.

Y/n smiled, shaking her head. “Think you can turn onto your back? I’ve got some cushioning here for you. I’m sorry I can’t lift you to the bed.”

“Nah, this is perfect.”

Bucky summoned as much strength as his body could muster as he pushed down into the concrete with his right hand. He started to shake as pressure burned into his left shoulder and he gritted his teeth, face contorting in a wash of pain as his smirk faded away in an instant.

She must have noticed because her hands slipped gently onto his right bicep, gently easing him to turn over the metal shoulder and lay onto his back. Her touch was so feather light, he questioned for a moment if it was even there at all, but then he felt a soft squeeze, the cool press of her palms, and he sighed.

Her hands were the only ones who did not mean him harm. She healed. She nurtured. She cared.

“What are they doing to you...”

Her voice was hardly a whisper, the shock on her face evident enough of the damage on his own. He didn’t want to imagine what he looked like, but he knew it was bad. It hurt to speak, hurt to even part his lips, and his vision was tunneled and dark, cast over in shadows, and somehow, she was still clear as day.

“Dunno,” he responded, recognizing the slur in his voice. “Training me for something, I think.”

She stilled; muscles rigid as she reached into her bag for something to bandage his wounds. He could see the contemplation on her face, the worry, but she swallowed it back, pushed out that gentle, reassuring smile he’d come to rely on and began to work on the cut along his cheekbone.

“It can’t be anything good, Bucky,” she said quietly, eyes flickering to the door as if she were worried about what laid on the other side. He knew the feeling well.

***

He forgot her for the first time a few days later.

The scars were starting to heal; the gashes open on his face just days before nothing but a thin discoloration on his skin. He knew the look on Zola’s face as he emerged in his cell that morning - smug and grim, eager to wipe away the decorated prisoner of war and turn him into something empty and broken. The smirk that crept up his face was unsettling, jarring, as it crinkled lined into his forehead and a vile look in his eye.

They slammed him down into the chair, locked the restraints into place, and he only spotted her rush into the room as the machine powered on. The horror in her eyes as she met his, the quick transition to rage as she turned to Zola, and the pain took over until it consumed him whole.

He lost some time because the next thing he knew, he was sitting on a metal table and the room had emptied, save for a single guard standing in the corner over the shoulder of a beautiful woman who eased a soothing gel onto the burns on his wrist.

He studied her as she worked, quietly humming to herself, telling him what she was doing before she dared to touch him in a voice so gentle it startled him. It was familiar, he realized, the delicate intricacies of her tone, the warmth in his chest when she touched him. He wasn’t afraid of her like he was the others. He didn’t flinch under her touch.

“Your heart rate is still pretty high,” she noted, her fingers pressed to the inside of his right wrist. “Can you take some deep breaths for me?”

She embellished her own, chest rising high as she inhaled, air blowing out from her mouth in the exhale. She nodded for him, something encouraging and kind, until he followed suit. But even through the tender smile upon her lips there was a sadness there, a disappointment, and it hurt him deep into his chest.

“I know you, don’t I?” he finally said after he mimicked a few of the breaths as she requested.

She smiled at that and he felt an instant relief. Something warm and gentle. Kind.

He narrowed his eyes upon the slight curve of her lips, drawing up to her eyes where he was met with a linger sense of calm, of peace, of reprieve. “Why don’t I remember you?”

She sighed, a cautious glance back at the guard behind her who seemed to be watching with the intent to overhear. Her eyes were downcast, a nervous brush of her tongue over her lower lip, and she pushed out a smile for him.

“You will, Bucky.”

He hoped that were true.

***

Bucky was barely tied together with string and tape, broken and bleeding and covered in bruises, and yet, a smile etched onto his broken lips as he turned to find Y/n stumbling into his cell. She shrugged off the grip of a guard with an aggravated huff before he slammed the door closed behind her.

She was no longer shocked by the state in which she often saw him. His accelerated healing made the brutal look of his mutilation a bit easier to swallow he supposed or perhaps he was getting used to it. It was like a mask he’d come to wear, fading in and out depending on the day, but always present. It didn’t seem to lessen the pain in her eyes as she sat down beside him, extending a hand towards his face to touch gently at the markings.

“I hate that they keep doing this to you,” she said softly, though there was a rage nestled into the crook of her tone. She shook her head, a tense breath exhaled as she reached into her bag. She pulled out a few swabs of gauze and alcohol wipes.

“M’alright,” Bucky slurred and it didn’t seem to help his case.

“They’re monsters.” Y/n dabbed at the gash on his forehead as gingerly as she could manage. Bucky didn’t mind the sting of it, not when she was touching him so tenderly, like she was handling something precious.

He’d figured out a while ago that she was just as much a part of Hydra as he was. He never dared to ask, but he’d seen the way she looked at Zola, how she despised him as an enemy. He’d seen the clothes she wore and how they were tattered on the seams, how they discolored with use, how she'd wear them over and over again while the men in the room wore pristine lab coats and freshly laundered suits. He’d seen the dark circles under her eyes, the knots in her hair, the way her collarbone began to protrude the longer he knew her.

She was a prisoner of Hydra, too.

“They’re monsters,” Y/n repeated, tears burning in her eyes and it warped deep into Bucky’s gut. He wanted to reach out and wipe them away. He wanted to make her smile again because she’d been nothing but a light for him and now, she was flickering and fading and he was certain it would destroy him completely until she uttered, “and... and so am I,” and his whole world fell apart.

“No,” Bucky shot back almost instantly. “Don’t say that. You’re not one of them.”

“I might as well be,” she said, brushing at the tears as they spilled down her cheeks. “I’m still complicit in what they’re doing to you – whatever that is. I’m still helping them.”

“They’d kill you,” Bucky argued. “They’d kill you if you tried to resist.”

“They’re practically killing you now! How is that any better?” She pressed her palms to her face, shielding herself from him and Bucky slid down onto the floor, kneeling on the concrete in front of her, and gently rested his hands on her knees. She struggled to catch her breath between the sobs. “I keep fixing you up just to send you back out there and—and—Bucky, I feel like I’m handing you over to slaughter and I can’t-- I can’t--”

“Stop, please,” Bucky begged. He could feel the splinter nestle into his heart, cracking at the edges as it tore a sliver down the center. It burned and ached and threatened to rip him to pieces worse than the foreign metal on his arm, worse than the guards on the other side of the door, worse than the chair that stole his name and his memories, because the woman who saved his life over and over again was crying and he simply couldn’t take it.

“Look at me,” he eased, drawing his hands up her thighs, along her arms, until he met her hands resting against her face. Gently, he pried his fingers under her palms and when he was met without resistance, he pulled them away from her face. “You are the only shred of good within this place. You are the only kindness I’ve known since they threw me on that table and remade me. You are the only thing keeping me going when they’re beating me within an inch of my life, the only thing I want to remember when they try to take away everything I know. Please, don’t think for a second that you’re one of them. You’re saving me, Y/n.”

Bucky wondered for a moment if he said too much as her lips parted into shock, her eyes staring at him shocked and wide. Her breaths were coming in slow and steady as she watched him, almost as if she were waiting for him to recant, but he held his ground.

“You are good, Y/n,” Bucky continued. He squeezed her hand in his right, letting his left fall down to his side to shield her from the evil from which it was born. “You're the reason I keep coming back.”

“I’m scared, Bucky,” she exhaled, voice so low, so shaken, he could barely hear it. She squeezed his hand back. “I’m scared of what they're going to do to you.”

“I’ll have you, won’t I?” he smiled, because it was all he had left. There were no guarantees, no promises he could make to ease her fears. “As long as I’ve got you with me, I’m okay.”

He just wanted her to smile again, to be the woman who fought against Zola in a crowded room of armed Hydra agents and won, who was fearless in the face of evil, and gentle and kind in her touch.

Bucky realized that the more time he spent with her, the more she’d grown to care for him, the more he’d found himself missing her— the more dangerous they were to one another. If Hydra knew...

“You have me,” she said suddenly, a stroke of confidence returning to her voice, drawing Bucky’s attention away from the door and the men that laid beyond it. Bucky met her eye and she raised a palm to his cheek, slow and steady, always giving him the time to prepare before she touched him even when it wasn’t necessary, even after he’d grown to trust her above anyone else. She cupped the side of his face, smiling sweetly for him, sadly, as she said, “as long as they’ll let me, Bucky. You’re not alone. You’ll have me.”

Her thumb traced over old scars she’d mended, over raised edges and dried blood from the mess left behind by the dozen Hydra agents he’d met earlier that day. The tenderness within her touch was unlike anything he knew how to quantify. It sat in such contrast to the hands of men who battered and beat him within an inch of his life, to the torture of the chair, to the scalpel in the hands of mad scientists with god complexes.

There was something in her touch. Something that felt a lot like love.

Bucky found himself leaning in closer, wanting to close the space between them because any space at all was simply too much. He wanted to engulf her into his arms, protect her from the evils that waited for them outside these walls, take her away to somewhere warm and safe, somewhere she didn’t have to check over her shoulder when she smiled. It terrified him how badly he wanted it because he knew there were no fantasies in Hydra, no dreams, no happy endings. He knew it would be taken from him eventually, she would be taken from him, but it didn’t stop him from clinging on as tight as he could.

His lips touched hers, broken and splintered, and still, beautiful. He could taste the salty tang of her tears against her lips, her fingers curling around his long, unkempt hair and twisting along his scalp, breathing him in. There was a sanctuary within her arms, under her touch, that seemed impossible within these walls, and yet, here she was.

Tangible. Real. Kissing him as if he could be ripped from her at any second.

And he was.

The door swung open and Bucky jolted away from her. Y/n jumped back against the bed frame, her head hitting the cement wall.

In the frame of the door stood a guard Bucky had become familiar with; blonde, broad, reminded him a bit of Steve if it weren’t for the cold, dead look in his eyes. The burn mark across his jawline helped to obstructed the similarities.

The guard’s eyes lingered a little longer on Y/n, focusing on the quick rise and fall of her chest, the slight swell in her lips, the mess in her hair, before he gritted his teeth and turned to Bucky.

“Times up, Soldat,” he grunted, wasting no time as he pulled a wand from his belt, flipped a switch at the end, and burned the jolts of electricity into Bucky’s side. He barely registered the desperate crack in Y/n’s voice as she begged for the guard to stop.

Then – darkness.

***

“We need to be more careful.”

“They’ll find out how I feel for you and they'll hurt you.”

“I can’t lose you, Bucky.”

He couldn’t get the words out of his head. Familiar voices: a man’s and a woman’s. He’d heard them spoken aloud; of that he was certain. But they were distant, far away, as if he’d heard them uttered on a film screen in passing. They couldn’t be his own memories. He was a blank slate. He was empty.

A woman stood across from him, approaching him slowly as the machine powered down. It was loud in his ears, echoing enough to pulse tremors into the back of his head. He didn’t dare show an ounce of the pain he felt. He’d come to know the consequences of that, even if he couldn’t quite remember what they were.

“I’m going to help you to the table, alright?” the woman said, gesturing to the metal desk to her left. There it was again— that familiarity.

She smiled kindly at him, as if looking into the face of a man she knew, but he did not know her. She must have sensed his hesitancy because she held up her hands out for him to see.

“I just want to examine you. Make sure you’re okay. Can I do that?”

He narrowed his eyes on the woman, listening intently to her heartbeat. It was a strange sound, one he shouldn’t be privileged to hear, but he found the skill useful. He could listen for the inflections in the rhythm, pulse points and skips that told him when a person was lying.

Hers was steady. Even. He nodded.

He was surprised at how easily he allowed her to guide him to the table, how he didn’t question as he let her place a hand on his inner wrist to check his pulse, how he didn’t flinch when she approached the scars on his shoulder. It was like he knew the routine, understood the subtle intricacies in her gestures warning him of what she was about to do before she even laid a hand on him.

A relief was evident in his muscles. He felt a calmness wash over him the longer she stood at his side, recording his vitals, running a hand soothingly along his arm. It seemed personal, the way she touched him, like she was preserving something – or guiding something home.

He wanted to ask her name, why she was treating him so kindly when all he knew within these walls was the cruelty of violent men, when the guard who stood at the back corner of the room cleared his throat.

“You almost done, sweetheart?” The guard spat the pet name like an insult and the kind woman standing beside the Soldier flinched. She tensed quickly after that, mustering out a brave face as she turned back to the armed guard defiantly.

“I’ll be done when I’m done, Bronski.”

The Soldier wanted to smile, though he wasn’t sure why. A swell of pride beamed in his chest as Bronski’s smirk dissipated, replaced with something colder, darker; a bruise to his ego. The woman turned back to the Soldier, exhaled a heavy breath and offered him a short smile; calming, reassuring. The edges of his lips started to curve in response until –

Bronski crossed the room in four long strides, grabbed a tight hold of her arm and yanked her swiftly away from the Soldier. She collided against his chest, caged against him under the firm hold of his grip.

“You think you can mouth off to me, bitch?” Bronski sneered, shoving her against the desks at the far side of the room. Viles of serums and chemicals spilled over at the impact, glass shattering, and the Soldier began to stand from his position across the room, his hand curling into fists.

“Stop looking at him! He’s not going to help you,” Bronski taunted as her eyes flashed back at the Soldier, pleading at some unknown force he couldn’t quite understand, though he listened to its call. Bronski towered over her, easily overpowering her frame, and pinned her to the wall.

The Soldier took another step forward, another inch closer to what he was sure were near fatal consequences, but there was a voice screaming in the back of his head, an instinct he couldn’t drown out, a desperate need to protect a woman he didn’t know.

“You think we didn’t notice, huh?” Bronski growled, his hand sliding down her side, tracing over the curves at her waist and the Soldier felt a sudden twist in his stomach, a dead weight sinking him into the ground at the sight. “You think we can’t tell you got it hot for the asset? He’s weak. Pathetic. Why don’t you try being with a real man instead? I’ll show you a good time, princess...”

Her eyes were on the Soldier, holding his gaze though she was shaking; trembling and afraid. He didn’t like that.

“Get away from her.”

Bronski froze. He managed a slow glance over his shoulder to find the Soldier standing just a few feet away, hands clenched at his sides, fuming as his eyes flickered between the Hydra agent and the woman he held pinned to the wall.

“Don’t be a fucking hero, Soldat,” Bronski spat back.

But the Soldier did not move.

“Get away from her,” he repeated, his voice low, mechanical. He could feel the rush of adrenaline building in his veins, the chaos of the rapid thumping of his pulse. He wasn’t used to such reactions, such intensity, when all he’d come to know was a crippling emptiness. It was unpleasant.

“What are you going to do about it?” Bronski taunted, a sick smirk upon his face. He dismissed the Soldier, didn’t dare to think he’d disobey direct orders, and turned back to the woman.

She tried to slither out of his hold, but his grip on her wrists was so tight his nails had dug puncture marks into her skin. She was shaking, tears burning into reflective lenses over the gentle hue of her eyes; kind eyes that should not bare such a weight.

Bronski leaned in closer, his mouth pressing against her neck, her whole body stiffening at the touch, and the Soldier snapped.

He rushed at them, his left hand clamping down around Bronski’s neck until he started to gag. Bronski released her wrists, allowing her to sink to the floor in a fallen heap. Bronski scratched at the hand at his neck, gasping for air as his skin turned bright red, then blue, but he was only met with metal. It could not feel. It could only maim.

There was a rage storming inside the Soldier, a mission he’d assigned for himself, as he threw Bronski across the room. It didn’t take much effort. The Soldier was stronger than most men. They underestimated him, believed him to be feeble and weak because he was submissive. But not now. Not when they threatened her.

“Soldat!” Bronski choked out, his voice damaged. Broken windpipe. The Soldier smiled.

Slowly, he took a knee at Bronski’s side, grabbed a firm hold of his collar for leverage, and barreled the closed end of his fist into the man’s face until he could no longer see the smirk that had pressed upon his mouth as he dared to touch his girl. He didn’t stop until Bronski was no longer begging, until he was silent, and blood caked between the panels of metal in his fist, until he heard a voice calling behind him—

“Bucky! Bucky, stop!”

He froze. There was that name again...

He blinked a few times, a sharp piercing in the back of his head painful enough to obscure his vision and he dropped Bronski from his hold. A hand slid down over his shoulders, guiding him away from the body on the floor. It was that same familiar touch; one he knew well.

“Bucky, look at me.”

He did.

Her hand pressed sweetly to the side of his face, like she was trying to memorize him. He leaned into the touch, something he was sure he hadn’t done in years, and yet, within her arms it felt like the most natural thing in the world, like maybe he’d done it a dozen times before.

When he met her eyes again, he understood why.

“Y/n?”

She nodded, tears spilling over her cheeks as she threw herself into his arms. She molded so perfectly against him, his healer, his savior. Bucky knew they wouldn’t have much time before the Hydra infantry arrived and discovered what he’d done. He didn’t dare spare a glance back at the body on the ground.

“Y/n... I—”

The doors swung open, slamming in echoing shocks against the walls, and chaos ensued. Swarms of armed Hydra agents ascended into the room and tore Y/n from his arms, separating them as they restrained Bucky back into the chair. It was the only thing that could hold him.

“Leave her alone!” Bucky roared, that same rage returning to him in fire as two guards pinned Y/n’s arms behind her back, holding her steady as she desperately fought against their hold. “Get your hands off of her!”

Zola appeared at the frame of the door, eyes narrowing on Bucky. The room fell silent.

“Impossible.” He followed Bucky’s eyes to where the guards were restraining Y/n. “The programming should not have failed so soon after he was wiped. How?”

“He’s got a crush on the doc, sir,” one of the guards reported snidely. Bucky recognized him from the many trips he spent dragged along the hallways smearing blood into the concrete before he was dropped off at Y/n’s door.

“Interesting.” Zola crossed the room, hands grasped behind his back as he paced. His eyes fell on Y/n, studying her. “And is it... mutual?”

She didn’t respond, though when her tear-filled eyes flashed over to Bucky, he had his answer.

“Wipe him,” Zola ordered.

The machine started to power up and Bucky found himself fighting against the restraints though he knew it would do no use. Tears were openly streaming down Y/n’s face as she watched him, his name on her lips as she desperately tried to break the guard’s hold on her.

Zola seemed unbothered by the scene. If anything, he was amused, like he was watching lab rats in a cage. “Separate them. I don’t want her interfering with his programming again. We’ll make use of her when the time is right.”

Bucky tried to call her name, but the electricity had already taken hold, submerging him into the darkness.

***

The Soldier was used to his routine. Breakfast at dawn. Then training. Dinner at sundown. Sleep. It was reliable. Simple. The Soldier found a peace in that.

It had been months since he’d seen anyone outside of the two guards at his cell, the parade of uncontrollable human experiments, and the short, stout scientist. It was better this way, they told him. Less stimulation. He was important, meant for incredible things to better humanity. They needed him focused and alert.

He had little room for anything else. Focus on the mission at hand. Complete the task. Reward will follow.

Something as trivial as memories got in the way of that. The Soldier could not afford such a distraction. He was not tied down by a name or a family, by relationships or desires. He was a weapon. Made to be used. He was not capable of more.

“I want to have you looked over before we send you out for your mission today, Soldat,” the scientist said as he examined the Soldier from across the room. The man carried power within Hydra but he was small, cowardly, and he would not dare enter a room with the Soldier without a guard in place. He gestured to the door and the guard with a thick burn down his jaw moved towards it. Blonde hair, blue eyes, broad. He seemed vaguely familiar, though it felt distasteful in his mouth.

A woman was pushed through the doors and into the baron room. She shook off the grip of a Hydra agent with a grunt before she realized where she was. Her eyes fell on the Soldier and he expected her to cower in fear; they all did upon seeing him. Word traveled fast of what he was capable of. And yet –

There was relief in her shoulders, a sigh. She almost smiled before Zola turned in her direction and she pushed it away into a tight frown. The Soldier narrowed his eyes.

“Get to work, Doctor,” he ordered, though it sounded more like a warning.

She nodded, stepping in closer to the Soldier though she was hesitant in her movements. She wore dark circles under her eyes, a redness within the whites. Her clothes were old, torn a little at the edges, and dirty with use. But still, she offered a kind smile as she approached.

“How are you feeling?”

The Soldier didn’t know how to respond to that. No one had ever bothered with his answer. He stayed silent.

“You can talk freely,” she encouraged gently as she approached his bedside. He sat on the edge of the cot, tension burning through his body as it always did when he wasn’t alone. One word out of turn resulted in punishment. He knew well enough not to tempt it.

She seemed to understand he would not fall into the trap, and she nodded in acceptance.

“I’m going to take your vitals, alright? I’ll start with your heart rate.” She held up two fingers, gesturing as she pressed them against her own neck. Seemed harmless enough, though he suspected he didn’t have much of a choice anyway. It was strange she acted as if he did.

Regardless, the Soldier nodded.

As she touched him, something seemed to break. She clenched her jaw tightly, trying to focus on the rhythm of his heartbeat, but he could hear the distress in her own. Quick, pounding, uneven, and she pulled her fingers away before he questioned the slight tremble in her touch.

He wanted to ask if she were alright because something about seeing her upset was unpleasant for him. She wanted to say something, that much he could tell, but she bit her tongue.

“You’re here for a reason, Doctor,” Zola taunted from his position in the corner of the room. The woman flinched though she kept her back to him. Her eyes flickered to the Soldier as if he were an anchor. Zola smirked. “Go on. Test our programming. Why else do you think we kept you around?”

Then, he exited the room. The guard followed behind him until the Soldier was alone with the woman.

She swallowed; eyes cast down as if she were afraid to speak. For a while, she continued to take his vitals – checking his blood pressure, his eye movement, examining the mess of scars on his shoulder as they attempted to heal. All the while, so impossibly gentle, so kind in her touch, that he started to wonder if he’d felt it before.

When she was finished, she took a step back. It was only then that the Soldier noticed the reflective marks on her cheeks. Had she been crying? Why did the thought alone make his stomach twist into knots painful enough to nauseate him?

“Bucky?”

He narrowed his eyes, confused. She reached out for his hand, though she stopped herself before she could touch him. It seemed agonizing; the restraint visible on her features.

“Bucky, please tell me there’s still a of piece of you in there,” she begged. He found himself wanting to lie, to pretend to be this man she craved, just to make her happy. He didn’t know why he cared so much, why it bothered him to see her cry. She was a stranger.

“You don’t recognize me at all, do you?” Her voice was so small, so broken. She was never afraid of him, he realized. No – it seemed she was more afraid of his answer. He did not respond. He didn’t know how.

She nodded, clenching her jaw as tears spilled from the corners of her eyes and the Soldier managed to break the heart of a woman he didn’t know. Another casualty in his wake.

“Excellent,” Zola sneered, appearing back in the doorway. The doctor took a step back and it surprised the Soldier when the space between them felt like an assault. Zola grinned as he moved closer to the woman. “Hydra thanks you for your service.”

“Fuck you,” she spat, just before she landed a closed fist against the bridge of the scientist’s nose.

The Soldier flinched, stunned by the woman’s brazen as she stared into the face of the mad scientist. The tears hadn’t yet dried and still – she was fearless. Zola laughed as the blood dripped down into his mouth. A guard wrapped a vicious hold around her wrist, beginning to drag her out of the room, but she turned back to the Soldier.

“Don’t give into them, Bucky! You have to fight this! You’re good, do you hear me? You’re not one of them!”

Her voice echoed in the room even as she was shoved through the door and down the hall. He listened for the last remaining vibrations of her voice, of her struggling, until it was silent. He wondered about this man she referred to, why she thought he was worth fighting for. He thought about whether he was the man she spoke of.

“Distractions, Soldat.” Zola tsked. “You are magnificent. You are the fist of Hydra. Do you understand?”

He nodded. It pleased the scientist.

Zola explained the mission he was about to embark on at dawn. He listened to the instructions, the details, the purpose – all the while wondering about what became of the kind doctor who called him by a name he didn’t recognize.

Then, when he was finished, the scientist left and the Soldier was alone— just as he always had been.

---

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