#he would tell them it's better than cigarettes and not harmful for your lungs in the same way and they would say okay 💛 yay 💛

[darcyolsson]

unfortunately do i think kit herondale would vape if he were a teenager in 2025. but thankfully his story is a period piece set in 2015 so we don't have to worry about any of that

[captainsimagines]

the albatross || B.B || One-Shot

Summary: "Locked me up in towers, but I'd visit in your dreams. And they tried to warn you about me..."

Pairing(s): Winter Soldier x Vampire Fem! Reader

Trope(s): Unlikely friendship; Forbidden vibes; Awkward tension

Based on the Song: The Albatross by Taylor Swift

Total Word Count: 17,000+

Warnings: This one-shot contains explicit language, an identity crisis, graphic depictions of violence and blood loss, trust issues, cigarette smoking, and depressive thoughts/ideas. You are responsible for your own media consumption. This is purely fanfiction.

If you would rather read this fanfic on AO3, here is the link.

Author's Note: I really liked this idea and surprisingly, it just spilled out of me. The ending is pretty open-ended because I do imagine a part 2, but I won't write it unless there's demand for it. Either way, I love this one-shot. I hope you guys do, too. ---xxMoni

~

The Soldier enjoys watching the stars.

The Captain likes to tell him these stories about Bucky Barnes, about how he also liked watching the stars when they made camp in war-torn France. Bucky Barnes would pretend to know the math behind it all, and though the Captain said the math was a load of bullshit, he swore up and down that Barnes did know how to read palms, however.

The Soldier doesn’t know how to read palms, but he does know how to calculate the stars now.

Hearing about his past self always put him on edge. He has another man’s name, another man’s face, another man’s life story. The Soldier was expected to relearn this, to find that lost part of himself that is “deep down, Buck, I know it.” Sometimes he’d remember that he liked strawberry jam, but only if he tried it out of pure coincidence. Sometimes he’d remember the voice of a man called Gabe Jones, or of Dum-Dum—Dugan—and it reminded him that he was two people at once. Those memories were no longer his—they were—but not really. 

He was not—is not—Bucky Barnes anymore. In his head, at least. 

He knew two things with absolute certainty though, two things the old Bucky Barnes would be happy the Soldier is keeping alive: Steve Rogers is his friend and it is the Soldier’s job to protect him, and that a thousand conversations are said in comfortable silence if you simply listen. 

He passes the cigarette to the woman beside him, blowing the smoke out slowly into the frigid air. He hates the cold, but it’s better than a freezer. Freer up here on the roof of Avengers Tower. A chosen solitary. She takes the cigarette carefully, her grip extra tight since they’re hanging over the ledge. Legs swinging, hair rustling in the wind. Dropping the cigarette would cause no harm, only annoyance. They only bring four of them to their nightly meetings. 

She inhales deeply, her decaying lungs inflating just the bit, her mouth doing most of the work. She doesn’t need to breathe, he’s found. On the rare occasions he is in her presence during the day, she never does. Not even to comfort those around her who watch her warily. He likes that. Placating others was tiresome, and the Soldier had refused to do it for anyone besides the Captain until he asked. For some reason, the crease between his brow makes his stomach turn and he knows Bucky Barnes would hate him for not smoothing it over. 

The Soldier studies the woman at his right. He detects hints of dust—old cardboard, maybe—in the smoke she exhales. Her skin hadn’t paled in the way popular media suspected, nor did her hair turn white. Her skin looks ashy, her cheeks a little gaunt. The only proof she’s undead are the red eyes—he’s never seen her smile to verify the fangs. 

They never exchange words out here. No one knows they’re out here at all. He had come out for fresh air after a particularly nasty fight with Stark a year ago and found her leaning upside down on the ledge. If she had jumped, he doesn’t think he would have leapt after her. He didn’t know her and would not miss her. Let her fall and his world was unmoved. 

A year of nightly cigarettes and no more than a hundred words between them. They had built a sort of camaraderie—after a long day of pretending to be alive, they would sulk in peace together. 

He knows her name, and she his. They have never called each other those names, but he suspects she would call him James before anything else. She doesn’t seem to want to be called anything. She’s content to sit in mutual silence and bask in her invisibility. 

But the Soldier has seen her every night for a year, and everytime she is still solid. Everytime she is still dead. 

The team has forbidden anyone from being alone with her. The Captain has forbidden him from being alone with her. Stark and Banner have a fear of the unknown, and what is unknown is uncontrollable. The Soldier wonders why she was invited to the team in the first place if she was going to be locked away and hidden from the world. He wonders why the Captain even rescued him if he was going to be a red stain as well. She refuses to answer their questions, refuses to show them how she feeds, and refuses to put a single limb in the sun for experimental purposes. The team is not sadistic enough—Stark isn’t sadistic enough—to force her to burn so he can scribble the results in a notepad. So unless she’s willing to be a science experiment, she cannot be trusted. 

Unless the Soldier suddenly remembers the memories of a man lost to time, he cannot be trusted. 

So he watches as her painted lips delicately wrap around the cigarette, their last one, and allows the strange delight to roll over him at the sound of her soft sigh. 

“Goodnight,” she mumbles, her voice resembling the rustling of leaves in the dead of night. She has the same unsettling demeanor as he, perhaps more loose but still as real. The Soldier is meant to unnerve people. If they are terrified of him, they understand the depth of the mission. They will fall in line. As she rises, she grows in stature and dwarfs him. He finds he likes being the second most frightening creature in the room. He likes having a twin, finally, one that is not screaming inside his own head. 

“Goodnight,” he replies, his gaze on the twinkling city lights. Brooklyn winks at him, refusing to fade. 

The Soldier hears the roof door slam shut, and he is suddenly alone.

—————

The team is arguing. 

Stark and the Captain crowd the large room they use for briefings while everyone else sits patiently at the long table. The Soldier occupies the single seat at the far end, the closest person to him being the Widow. She is watching the scene unfold with a stoicism that could rival his own, but she is more susceptible to that twitch in her upper lip. When Stark takes a dig at the Captain’s two-timing morality, she speaks up. 

“You’re both idiots. I don’t see why we have to go empty-handed here, guys.���

Stark does his best to not roll his eyes, opting instead to squint at the Widow. “The mission is childsplay. I just think we’d have a lot more fun and a ton more juicy stories to tell if we bring all of us—”

“The answer is no, Tony. I will not bring—”

“Say it, Cap. I’m sure our cheeky little assassin here would love to hear your reasoning.”

The Captain sighs, his large hands resting atop his slender hips. The Soldier has a vague memory of a group of men around a campfire, all singing a tune in French and sour-tasting liquor spilling from their tongues, and the Captain watching with the same stance but with a grin instead. He realizes fast that this memory is attached to Bucky Barnes, and it is better off dead. 

“Buck, you know I don’t like sending you out when there is no need.”

The Soldier hates team missions. He has no issues with killing—he’s rather good at it. The issue at hand is the lack of privacy, the dependence on one another, and the trust oozing from the Captain. The Soldier isn’t the best friend he so desperately wants, and he doesn’t know how to tell him that. Staying at the Tower is the best course of action in any situation. He frightens more people than he helps, and he would only get in the way. 

He doesn’t respond to the Captain. He remains quiet, his brow furrowed as he looks between the two angry men. 

“It’s a routine inspection, Cap. This would be the perfect opportunity to bring him and the vampire.”

His stomach clenches on itself, though he gives nothing away outwardly. He’s as still as ever, hands softly gripping the handles of the chair. He reminds himself to blink more than five times a minute, and that he needs to move more muscles than just his eyes. He’s too accustomed to being frozen for long periods of time. He is no stranger to perching for hours, to hiding in the shadows. The Captain had told him his lack of movement was uncanny. 

But the mere mention of the vampire—

She had not gone on any missions yet. Her recruitment was more of a trial-run, on the basis that her input about vampires proved to be worthwhile. But it had been a year and Stark and Banner were no closer to studying the intricacies of such creatures. All they knew, or all they assumed, was what they saw from her. And since she was not allowed out of the Tower or on missions yet, they had seen little. 

“What if she goes insane and feeds on a civilian?” the Colonel chimes in, shaking his head as the Captain scoffs at the accusation, “What? You don’t think she’d run given the first opportunity? I’ve told all of you that what you’re doing here is inhumane. Just because she hasn’t seen the sun in who knows how long doesn’t mean she doesn’t want to see a damn bakery or a night-time play. And keeping her locked up will trigger her to hurt someone sooner rather than later.”

The Soldier had never wondered about that. She and him were so alike that he just assumed she was content with her situation. He’d much rather be here than under the tentacles of Hydra. He believed she would much rather be here than in the sewers. 

And it hit him—

How did she feed now?

“JARVIS doesn’t necessarily divulge details, but she’s clean with her victims. Ah, you see that on my scrumptious arms? Goosebumps. I’ve caught her eyeing these veins.”

The Soldier tilts his head, interested. The Widow marks it. 

“She’s well-fed, then,” the Captain says, though the Soldier hears that subtle shake in his voice, “How do we know she won’t escape—”

“You’re acting like she’s our hostage,” the Widow snaps. She immediately casts an apology across the table. “If she escapes, she escapes. The sun will slow her down, and she knows it. You’re all debating this as if she’s tried. She hasn’t. She has caused no trouble so far. You’re all just too scared to send her out into the wild because you haven’t gotten to know her.”

The room silences. The man at the other far end of the table, the one he usually sees with metal wings across his broad shoulders, nods in agreement. At every briefing the Soldier has sat through, Wilson was the only one to ever bring her up in conversation. Small mentions that asked where she was at that very moment, if she had shared her family history yet, if she had fed and if not, was there anything he could do. The Soldier suspects Wilson would offer his own neck if the others agreed to it. 

He doesn’t like talking about her at these meetings. Everyone acts like they have the perfect read on her. They don’t—even he doesn’t. But he does have first-hand knowledge on what the strain of her lungs sounds like, and the exact timbre of her voice. The Soldier knew more than them, and it spoiled him rotten. 

“This is a controlled mission, Cap,” Wilson adds, shrugging. “I think this can be good for her. For Barnes. For you.”

The Soldier loosens a shoulder—the tiresome act of placating—and studies Wilson in the few seconds he’s afforded since the Captain is debating inside his head. Wilson is around his age, give or take a year or two, and he has never spoken ill about him before. He’s heard the Widow and Barton murmuring their distrust about the Soldier in the beginning, but he believes the Captain shut it down. Stark’s jokes were endless, but he finds them humorous sometimes. He is the only person to ever pull a smirk from him. Wilson never spoke bad about anyone. He doesn’t know if he likes that or not. He’s grateful in an odd way, but confused mostly. There are countless things to hate him for. Tender hearts are so easily breakable, and the Soldier finds he does not want to bruise Wilson’s. 

“I’ll talk to her tomorrow,” the Captain concedes. “Buck, you up for it?”

A choice. He’s not used to having choices. 

“Okay.”

—————

Clouds block the majority of the stars tonight. 

On nights like these, he focuses on the multi-colored lives of the occupants in surrounding apartments. There are some setting up Autumn colors, others keeping their sleek, modern aesthetic. The Soldier thinks he enjoys a splash of color. He has a habit of draining it all, but he likes it while it lasts. 

The apartments are sporadically lit. Many have retired to bed. There’s a family of four returning and passing around boxes of takeout. A woman sits up in bed and reads a large fantasy novel, her cat resting lazily at the edge of her silk sheets. A teenager adjusts his computer monitor and readies a new level on the game he’s playing, an empty pizza box on his desk. So many lives happening at once—it overwhelms the Soldier. He does nothing all day besides lay in bed and eat and bathe when he has to. He has been wanting to take up knitting—something to do with his hands. Loading and taking apart guns isn’t as enjoyable as it used to be.

“They are going to take you on a mission,” he says, passing the cigarette. Her expression remains impassive. She inhales deeper than usual, his only indication that his statement affected her.

“Oh.”

She’s quick to brush him off. Good. She’s not so easily rattled. “I am going, too,” he adds.

A shrug. She passes the cigarette back. He inhales, an odd flutter in his chest as he wraps his lips around the lipstick-stained stick. 

There’s a bruise on her jawline. Tilting his head, he follows the length of it. It takes him a moment, but he finally recognizes the shape. Five purpling indents, one palm-sized. 

He didn’t even know she could bruise. 

A sudden wave of rage nearly has him marching back into the Tower, ready to interrogate every team member at gunpoint. Their distrust shouldn’t warrant violence. Then the Soldier inhales the toxic smoke again, realizing that his emotions are pointless. The Soldier does not feel, nor does he feel sympathy for others. 

The Soldier questions the validity of that statement.

Still, he ponders who could have possibly injured her. The only ones able to inflict such pressure and not kill are him, the Captain, Stark while suited-up, and the God. But they had no evidence of what strength she could or could not handle—it was entirely plausible that a regular man hurt her. And since she does not leave the Tower, the man could have been one of her meals. 

Her meal fought back.

“How do you eat?” he asks before he can swallow it. He used to be punished for asking questions. 

She turns her head slowly. It’s unsettling to the Soldier, so much so that he averts his eyes. “You know what I eat.”

“I asked how. Not who.”  She blinks at him. “You don’t leave the Tower.”

This is the most they’ve spoken in one sitting. He always assumed she’d be the one to speak first. It seems she assumed the same.

“They bring me my meals.” A quick jump of his brow indicates his surprise. “You didn’t know that.”

He shakes his head. Does the Captain know? The Soldier had heard about interrogations happening at the Tower… Were these the same victims? 

“The bad ones they keep alive. Captives. I get my pick of the litter,” she explains, though her solemn expression betrays the joy in her tone.

“Does it bother you?” he asks. The Soldier doesn’t care—shouldn’t care—and yet, he asks.

“I don’t care.” It seems she’ll not care for the both of them.

He wonders how often she needs to feed. If blood is the only thing she needs to survive. His knowledge of vampire lore comes from a few, mediocre clicks around the internet. Most articles or opinions claim that blood is their life source, but the exact time-stamp vampires can go without it is still a mystery. If she were to go without, willingly or not, would she wither away? Would she simply cease to exist?—How peaceful that sounds, actually. Would it be painless or would she feel every second? The Soldier did not feel time pass when frozen, nor did he comprehend it when allowed to breathe on his own.

“Are you skilled with weapons?” he asks. Invasions of privacy, like the Captain said, were not always welcome naturally. The truth was so much easier to obtain with a gun in hand, harder to earn with a fake smile. What really mattered was having the mission go smoothly. Maybe then the rest of the team will leave him alone and stop trying to make him assimilate. Maybe if the mission went smoothly for her, she’d steal their attention. He would be free. Free to just be.

“I don’t need them, but I have them.”

Irritation is an emotion that encases him fully nowadays. Irritation, agitation, resignation. Her bluntness rivals his, and it's itching at his skin. He liked it before—what is different today? “I am going on this mission, too. I need to know what you are skilled at to ensure the mission is a success.”

She flicks the dead cigarette bud over the ledge, watching as it gradually shrinks from sight. It was their last one. He will bring an extra one tomorrow. 

“There are no stars tonight,” she laments. Her lips twist into a small pout, nearly invisible. She has pretty lips. “Goodnight.”

He waits until she’s gone to frown. The Soldier is confused. 

—————

The team likes to get together Friday nights and watch movies in the common room. Usually the film is chosen to satisfy the Captain’s ignorance. His too, he has found. Though no one but Wilson includes him in that conversation. 

The Captain, Stark, Banner, Wilson, and the Widow are the only ones present tonight. The younger agents are suspiciously absent, but he somewhat remembers Stark mentioning a Friday night outing. Figures, considering the ones in this room are easily recognizable. 

If he were to walk around Times Square, would he cause a panic? The Soldier has been photographed a few times since returning from the shadows and each time the news outlets treat him like an enemy of state. He is, in a sense. There are plenty of things he knows that can crumble governments, but there’s no point in sharing them now. He’s not at war. He’s not under control. But he wonders what it would be like to walk around and enjoy life. To go out with friends, to dance, to go feed some pigeons. He could try—the Captain will definitely go with him—but he doesn’t know how. After so many years of feeling the sour depths of his soul, how is he expected to break through the surface in one day? The urge to be normal gnaws at him, twisting and peeling flesh and muscle, but it is so much easier to just lie in bed. If enough time passes, maybe it will just happen. 

Time was going on, speeding past his memories and lungs. Too fast, so fast he couldn’t grab time’s dangling string to slow it down. He wanted to yank it back, scream at it that he’s trying to remember, and that his new memories are preventing him from finding the ones from before. There’s so much new information that he wanted to, needed to, slow time down. How was he ever able to be Bucky Barnes again if time prevented him?

He likes when the younger ones are around. They’re less judgmental. They actually try to speak with him. Granted, it’s stupid things like: “What was the Great Depression like?” or “Straight up, who was the harder kill? Kennedy or Stalin?” The Captain usually shuts them down, but he can’t help but chuckle from the absurdity of it once he’s alone. 

“Feels weird watching this outside of a seventh grade classroom, but I promise you Steve, it’s a classic,” Wilson says, clapping the Captain on a shoulder. “The Outsiders is a rite of passage, and you my friend have not truly assimilated until you watch it.”

Sitting on a stool rather than the giant couch, the Soldier takes immediate interest in what Wilson claims. If he wants to be normal again, shouldn’t he try with the basics? Watching a movie didn’t seem all that bad. 

He’s distracted by the repetitive popping in the microwave to feel the presence at the doorway. Everyone quiets, and the Soldier straightens. He marks the distance between him and the Widow, and though he’s positive she can protect herself, he debates how he would shield her with his body. 

But there is no weapon pointed at them or enemy breaching the premises—it’s her. 

She burrows deeper into her oversized sweater, the hood covering most of her forehead. She ducks cautiously, eyes squinted as she peeks at the overhead beams. She looks ashier in the artificial light, but no less beautiful. He’s seen her during the day before, but always when she was protected by shadows. 

“Fangs!” Stark cheers, the half-drunk beer bottle in his hand sloshing violently, “We’ve already chosen the movie so don’t bitch about it like Banner always does. Popcorn’s almost finished, and we’ve got wine in the fridge. You like reds or are you like Cap here? Can’t tear a moscato from his cold, dead paws even if you were the strongest person in the world.”

The Soldier gives Stark an incredulous glare, as does the Captain. Offering her food, mentioning cold, dead hands. It gladdens him, however, that though he is the most unpredictable person in the room, he isn’t the stupidest. 

“I personally like reds,” Wilson interjects, casually strolling forward to hit the light switch. She visibly relaxes. “Want me to pour you a glass? We can talk shit about Stark together as he learns how to play the movie.”

Stark mumbles something about how the cheapest technology is often the hardest to understand. Wilson leads her into the kitchen, innocently rambling about wine tours and tasting. The Soldier meets her eyes as she passes. There is simple acknowledgement, but no words. It’s as if they don’t know each other at all. 

He has no claim to that anyway. He shares as much as she does. 

She takes a glass of moscato, curiously. He would have assumed—and that’s just it, isn’t it? He assumed.

The others settle into their spots. She looks around, a peculiar look on her delicate face. Vampires were supposedly ageless, but he sees the age in her eyes, in how she holds up her head. He’s been told that while he wears the mask, his eyes look tortured. Like they’ve seen too much.  

Her eyes held an ancient power, tainted with misery, and yet all he finds himself wondering is what color they were before she changed.

She sits on the lone recliner closest to Wilson, tucking her knees in and leaning her upper body on a pillow. She balances her wine as she adjusts, ignoring the interested stares from the others. 

“I watched this movie when it first came out,” she shares, her voice an elegant whisper. The Captain watches her warily, as does Banner. 

“So did I. You’re not special,” Stark responds, clicking the play button. The Soldier stands, but he doesn’t know what for. To defend her? To add to the harassment? To walk out of the room? 

Her small chuckle surprises him. Surprises all of them. He takes one step forward, then another, until he too is a part of the group. He chooses to sit on the cushion just beside her recliner. If he had a cigarette, it wouldn’t be so different from all the other nights. 

The Captain attempts to ignore him, but ultimately fails. The Soldier senses his relief, his hope.

They watch the movie in comfortable silence, interrupted only by Stark’s or Wilson’s personal additions. He doesn’t mind, though. He likes the movie enough to quell that poisonous irritation. It’s toward the end when he looks at her, when his curiosity gets the best of him. 

There is a sunset on the screen. 

Silver glistens across her waterline. 

Then it’s gone, because nothing gold can stay. 

The Soldier resonates most with a simpler quote. He longs for normalcy, no matter how much he prefers solitude. The voice screaming in his head won’t let him forget it. He repeats the quote several times before the end credits: "I lie to myself all the time. But I never believe me."

He used to tell himself that pain was temporary and that being put under would limit it—he always believed that one.

He’s angry that Johnny dies and that Dally kills himself. He’s angry because the Soldier cares about the Captain more than anything and would do the same. He’s angry that he, with his contaminated past and bloodied hands, can still watch the sunset. He’s angry because since she’s dead, she cannot.

—————

“I’m guessing there’s an angle here, Cap. Why else would she make nice now?”

Sometimes Stark made him question the team’s so-called heart. He assumes the Captain had to plead his case, and has continued to do so when the Soldier showed no signs of improvement. She hadn’t put up a fight when they informed her of the mission, nor did she ask any questions. The barest of nods and she was given her orders. He would have liked to be in the room when they discussed this, but he received the automatic manila folder outside his room door. 

Target: Male, 56, Hydra scientist maintaining one of eight remaining Hydra bases in North America. Assumed to be armed and dangerous. No history of super strength, night vision, or combat training. 

And in each folder the Soldier is given his team and his task. Sometimes he’d argue with the logistics considering he knew more than he let on, but this seemed simple enough. He sneers at the use of their code names. 

Soldier Objective: Joined by “Widow” and “Fangs”, retrieve the data on the main computer. Data pertaining to Hydra, Project Insight, Project Paperclip, and NASA is to be handled with care. The Soldier and Widow are cleared for hand-to-hand combat. 

He should have received everyone’s objective. To function as a team, as the Captain so desperately wants, he needs to know each detail. Knowing in advance saves lives, and omitting this now is going to get someone killed. 

As long as that someone isn’t the Captain or Wilson, the Soldier did not care as much as he should. 

Now, while walking through the dimly lit hallway with two women watching his six, he understands why the team made this her first mission. The base was mostly abandoned, there was a limited paper trail that was easy to follow, and it wasn’t too far from New York. A night-time mission usually meant difficult entryways or an ambush. He finds he enjoys the quiet walk and flickering lights, and the small conversation the Widow and the Vampire make. He’s still vigilant and hyper-focused on finding the computer lab, but he allows his mind to knock over one wall. 

The sound of women gossiping and giggling sounded a lot better than the complaints and curses of men. 

“Come on, there’s got to be someone on the team you think is hot.”

The Soldier rolls his eyes at the Widow’s comment. He doesn’t bother looking back. It’s the same thing every single time: the Widow asks the question, the Vampire answers. Neither of them include him, but he doesn’t mind. Though he sits with her every night, he doesn’t actually know much about her. And the short replies the Widow also offers make him feel… appreciative. He’s learning, he’s retaining, he’s—

He shakes his head when he compares this lesson to a filing system, as if the women guarding his back are mere test subjects, or targets. As if the information he’s learning could be used against them. 

It’s hard to rewire your brain, your thoughts. Once something has burrowed deep into each crevice, it’s hard to pull it out. Change is hard, rare, and celebrated once successful. The Soldier’s wiring needs to change if he is to ever learn anything new for the innocent purpose of being human. 

“I think the Captain is good looking,” she answers, huffing a laugh when the Widow hums in agreement. 

“He’s a tough one to crack.”

“But you’ve cracked him.”

The Widow waits for the Soldier to secure the corner before walking forward and punching in a code. He sees her narrow her eyes, a small smirk gracing her pale lips. 

“I am cracking him.”

The Soldier has seen the Captain blush around the Widow, has seen him shield her before others, and has always walked beside her in support. He didn’t think it meant anything—the Captain was kind to everyone. But there is a… tenderness shared between them. Perhaps cultivated over the long months they were searching for him. She and Wilson were the only ones who believed there was a chance they'd even find him.

“He likes you. His heart pumps quicker when you’re around.”

It should bother him that she’s exposing the Captain’s feelings. But the Captain deserves an intimate form of companionship, something to take his mind off the fact that the Soldier has no problem drowning in solitude.

“You can hear our blood?”

“Only when I concentrate.”

The Soldier lifts a hand to stop them. There’s a soft rustling behind the door they are meant to enter. Drawers being opened. If it is indeed their target, then Wilson and the Captain are running around for nothing. His unit wasn’t supposed to engage in any arrests—he has half a mind to just bring the Widow along. 

He splits them up. The Widow remains with him. He’ll confront the target as she works the computers. He turns to give the last order, but is softly interrupted. 

“There’s a back door just around the corner. I can pick it and blend into the shadows.”

The Soldier thinks about it, then nods. “Do not engage unless I order it.”

A misty rogue. Stark is insane—she could be useful on more daunting missions.

Armed with two shortswords, one gold and one ruby, she pulls on the hood of her cloak and gives them a small smile. A smile that said she’d follow his directions and remain hidden forever, if needed.

He and the Widow work in tandem, noiselessly picking the lock and creeping into the room. With her red hair pulled up, she shimmies along the wall quickly, heading for the largest of the six monitors. The only light comes from the handheld flashlight their target uses to read loose papers. His frantic eyes search for something along the black, redacted text. The Soldier simply struts forward, his mask doing most of the intimidation, his boots announcing his arrival. Their target clutches a file close to his chest as he retreats. Off to the side, the Soldier vaguely sees the back door open and close. 

“I’m unarmed,” their target squeals, squeezing his eyes shut. “I’m not here to cause trouble.”

What ridiculous lies, he thinks. Hydra did not apologize, nor did they beg for ceasefires. They trained him to ignore such pleas, such excuses. And by the way the Soldier grips him by the neck to lift him, he was trained well. 

“When I let you go,” the Soldier says, his voice a deadly timbre, “give me the weapon you have at your back.”

The target struggles, his gurgling embarrassingly loud. A monitor brightens, and the Widow waves as she gets to work. The target, once recognizing her, loses most of his hope. He is dropped and the weapon clatters to the floor. The Soldier does not retrieve it—it is yanked into the shadows. 

“We thought you were dead,” he says, panicked eyes never leaving the mask. No one ever wanted to look him in the eyes. No one ever wanted to hear him speak. 

“I’m going to reach into your coat and grab that file. Make a move and I will break the first bone I come into contact with.”

“Mm,” the Widow hums, her downloads beeping one-by-one as they finish, “Steve frowns on that if they surrender willingly.”

“Complete the download,” he orders. He doesn’t like when the Widow rambles during these missions. The more he grows to enjoy her company, the more distracted he’s destined to get. The more he avoids interaction, the more efficient he’ll be. 

And lonely—

“It’s done,” she says, rolling her eyes. She stands at his side, arms crossed. “Just sedate him already so we can get out of this rusty hellhole—”

He turns to look at her. One quick glance at the red menace. That’s all it takes. 

The target draws a knife and whips it wildly, slashing the Widow across her neck. It’s unlike her to be so ill-prepared. The Soldier doesn’t know whether to press his palm across her neck or kill the target. This has never happened before. The team is going to question his capabilities, his true alliances, his reflexes, his empathy—

The target yelps in agony. The decision is made for the Soldier. 

He has no choice but to bend his neck to the hunter behind him, holding him close and ripping through his carotid. The Widow curses and holds her wound, her steady voice settling the awful worry in the pit of his stomach. 

Worry… For his team. He would smile if the situation wasn’t so chaotic.

The spray of blood is mostly contained. Her fangs dig so deep that blood seeping from the puncture is caught by her lips. Her lipstick stains his pale neck, paler now as she consumes him whole. Barely concealed by the shadows, she hungrily drinks without remorse. Payback. Her red eyes glow brighter than he’s ever seen them, black veins crawl and stretch from the corners, and he swears there’s smoke surrounding her strong body. Like a bad omen, a demon emerging from the depths of gloom itself.

He falls limp in her arms, his dead eyes blindly watching the Soldier as she drops him to the floor. His eyes were once blue. They’re white now.

“Are you okay?” she asks the Widow, standing somehow taller, solid. 

The Widow looks at her drenched hand and nods slowly. “I’m not opposed to one of you carrying me back.” The wound is superficial, but no less alarming. He picks her up and holds her close, signaling to his newly nourished partner. She gets the hint. Hauling the dead man over a shoulder, she waits for him to lead the way. 

Barton takes the Widow from his arms, his laughs overlapping her own. The Captain checks on her before marching over to him and the woman with dried blood on her neck, who then drops the target at the Captain’s feet.

“What the hell happened?” Anger. It’s an emotion so rare for the Captain. At least, it’s rare to the Soldier. 

“Concealed knife. I didn’t check him thoroughly,” he answers, his explanation true enough. He should have known even Hydra scientists kept an extra weapon on their person at all times, especially small ones. He just didn’t think the Widow would get nicked so easily—that she didn’t see that coming at all. 

“But why is he dead?”

She raises her reddened chin at him to boldly say, “He attacked. The downloads were complete. We weren’t even supposed to run into him. That was your job.”

It’s obvious the Captain wasn’t expecting her response. Immediately his face loosens and his shoulders do that guilty-drop the Soldier sees often. “You’re right. Your team wasn’t supposed to encounter him at all. It’s a mistake on my end.”

“Not that we didn’t have muscle to defend ourselves,” she lightly jokes, then kicks the pale body on the floor. 

“We’re going to have to report this.”

“Do what you must.”

“And—” the Captain strains, looking to the Soldier for assistance. But he knows what he’s about to say, and gears up to fight it. “And because this is an on-duty death, you need to go to psych.”

“Don’t send her there,” the Soldier cuts in, his stomach dropping. “Say I killed him. Just don’t send her there.”

“That’s not how this works, Buck.”

“Psych is a glorified therapy session that fails to help even the lowest of street cops. It’s judgment, not help.”

“I can’t override it.”

The Soldier sighs, argument after argument swirling in the mess of his mind. The times he went to psych were all the same. Constructed in a way that made him feel like killing was always the wrong choice. Neglecting that now, he has the choice. Sometimes he’ll claim a stray bullet, but the majority of his kills are necessary. They are strategic. They are his own. 

“It’s fine,” she says, tilting her head at her kill. “Not the first time I’ve been evaluated.”

“Psych can be bypassed if the kill was a team-effort. I’ll see if I can get Fury to sign off on it.”

She shakes her head at the Captain. “You wanted to know more about my life, yes? I’m assuming these things aren’t confidential to you or Stark… But when you do go talking about me to the others, make sure to mention that I drained him dry.”

—————

"Do you hate me for it?"

The Soldier offers an unimpressed look. He hands her the cigarette and blows out the smoke burning his throat. “Funny.”

There’s a quirk at her lip. She takes a longer drag than usual, trying to mask it.

“They all hated me for it back then.”

“Who?”

“Family. Friends. Enemies. Lovers.”

“And you cared what they thought?”

She shrugs, stealing a second drag. “At the time.”

Her lipstick is a brownish-maroon today, and he finds himself studying the tint before bringing the cigarette back to his mouth. He doesn’t share anything nowadays besides cigarettes and a living room. The Captain offers him food, money, advice—the Soldier takes but never gives. 

Her face contorts slightly, her jaw ticking. Such extravagant movements for the simple outcome of showing her four canines. The points extend maybe half a centimeter longer than the rest of her teeth. Because of her minimal overbite, the teeth slide perfectly against one another. She runs her tongue over the top two.

He wonders how his victims would have reacted if they got to see the lower half of his face. There would have been no smile accompanying the kills. He had growled from frustration, to incite fear. Teeth weren’t necessarily frightening. They’re a barrier to words, the shield for tongues, the blades against intruders. Her teeth were her life-force, the blades needed to let those intruders in. 

“How was your evaluation?”

A small snort. He looks at her—her ancient grace, the absence of grays at her roots, her glaring red eyes. 

“They kept asking if the smell of Natasha’s blood affected me.”

“Judging by your nonchalance, I’d say you went completely feral over it.”

Another quirk at her lip. He likes the movement. 

“You believe that I wouldn’t attack any one of you. Thanks.”

He does. She hasn’t attacked him up here, hasn’t attacked anyone on the team, and has never tried to escape to wreak havoc on the city. He doesn’t tell her he does, but she feels it somehow. Her shoulders loosen.

The tension slowly dissipates from his body as well—a revelation both amazing and concerning. The Soldier should never have his guard down. He should always be prepared for a fight.

“The ones they bring me are always so happy to be led to their deaths,” she says, a small frown quickly forming then disappearing. “Sometimes I wait until they’re asleep. Or when they’re facing the other way. Sometimes I drain them when they’re inside of me.”

He blinks. “You have sex with them?”

“I never leave the Tower. I can’t leave. I’ve been living alone for so long that I don’t even think I can go into the real world and bring someone home. Would you know how?”

He doesn’t need to think about such a ridiculous possibility. He can’t even find it within himself to give Wilson a matching pat-on-the-back. “No.”

She gives a small nod. Absent of pity, filled with strange empathy. “I tell them they’re going to die. I ask them how they would like to go. They choose that most of the time.” She chuckles, “I only offer it to the cute ones.”

“They’re bad people, though.”

“They’re dying anyway. Might as well die feeding me.”

He doesn’t remember it, but the Soldier considers sex—or pleasure, really—to be too much of a gift. The people they capture and keep to interrogate are scum of the Earth, his tormentors. She’s rewarding his villains. 

Anger floods his chest, violent and nasty. She snatches the cigarette from his rigid fingers. 

He could push her off the ledge. No one will miss her. He will. She’ll probably survive the tremendous fall. She’ll continue the cycle. She can’t leave the Tower. He can’t leave the Tower. 

“I don’t have to sleep with them,” she says, her voice so quiet he wouldn’t be able to hear without his advancements. “But when I do, they taste a little sweeter. I haven’t had sweets in so long… Not since my birthday. Did you know I died on my birthday? My mom bought me chocolate instead of donating those five cents to the war effort. I wasn’t a child anymore but she never forgot my birthday… So, I can make it through ten minutes of boring sex. And when it’s done, for a blessed moment, I remember the taste of sugar and my mom’s smile when I broke the bar in two so we could share.”

For the first time in a long time, the Soldier is speechless. Because he sympathizes… A once frozen emotion thawed by the mention of chocolate and a mother. He tries and fails to remember his own mother’s face. After so many years of only being able to see his eyes, he prays they matched hers. After so many years of being force-fed genetically-modified trash, he has forgotten the taste of chocolate.

His anger is replaced by a solemn peculiarity that itches along his insides. He is aware of his loss, her loss, the logic in her kills. She feeds blindly in the hopes of feeling whole again. Has he done anything to feel whole again besides bury the screams lower and lower? 

“I was feral today because we were never supposed to come into contact with the target and he almost hurt you. He managed to hurt Natasha. I did what I had to do.”

And she was being punished for it. 

“He tasted disgusting, by the way.”

The Soldier, honest to God, laughs. Not expecting it, her shoulders tense and she jumps a little. He shoots his flesh hand out to hold her still, gripping her thigh as she pulls her gaze back up. Instinct—he does not want her to fall after all. 

“Sorry,” he says, surprising himself. Then, as he allows a tendril of Bucky Barnes to escape through the walls he had forged from steel, he jokes, “I’m still stuck on the fact that when you fuck, you think of your mother’s face.”

His ill-timed vulgarity is rewarded with a sudden cackle of her own, a vicious and underutilized sound that pulls her lips back and showcases all four sharp canines in their primal glory. Crinkles by her eyes, she sits with the aftershocks of it.

He gives her the first drag of their last cigarette.

—————

He had been exiting the Tower with Wilson when it started.

Three large booms above had them ducking for cover. Debris slammed into the concrete and damaged parked cars while burnt furniture landed in odd angles after barely missing pedestrians. Smoke clouded their aerial view—there was no way Wilson was going to be able to fly through the black cloud blind. It was up to Stark and the Colonel to fly directly from the roof. 

“Cap, what the hell was that?” Wilson yelled into his phone. He directed the floor staff away from the building and into the cafe next door. The Soldier analyzed each person, their expressions, the things in their hands. The smoke blocked his view of the lower rooftops. No one tried storming the bottom floor. There were no planes or helicopters around, and the glass had shattered outwards. 

The threat was internal. 

“It seems one of our captives managed to plant explosives before—” The Captain stops, his voice heavy with exertion. “JARVIS doesn’t think we’ve been compromised or that there are any intruders. Just good ol’ fashion bombs.”

“We’ll get everyone down here to safety. You guys handle the top,” Wilson says, wiping a nervous hand over his head. 

“Ask him which type of captive it was,” the Soldier tells him, failing to keep his rising panic leveled. Wilson’s bewilderment is marked in his brow, but he asks anyway. 

“He doesn’t understand the question—”

“Was it one of the captives we sent back to the police or was it one we sent to be fed on?”

Wilson waits for the Captain to clarify, still not understanding the danger of the situation. “Fed on.”

The Soldier sprints back into the Tower and clicks the elevator button, cursing when the lights flicker out. Stark and the Colonel were busy flying people out, the Widow and the Captain were securing the floor, Banner was putting out the fire with the young ones, and the God was probably doing all three things. Though all honorable, they were also clueless. Because if the explosion had happened on her floor, there was no floor left. No walls. No tinted glass. And though there was black smoke clogging everyone’s nostrils and burning everyone’s vision, the sun was still shining. 

“Come outside again and bend your knees,” someone orders from behind him. The Witch tilts her red head at him, a regal seriousness twinkling in her eyes. He does as she says. She contorts her glowing hands, and he is lifted through the thick cloud and past several dozen floors before landing on the seventy-seventh.  

Flames nip at his exposed arms, but the burn is nothing compared to the strain on his lungs. He limits his deep gulps and barrels through turned furniture and glass. Screams come from further down the collapsed hall, but he hears Banner amongst them.

“Rogers!” he yells, swiping at exposed wires hanging in his way. Electricity shoots up his metal arm, momentarily paralyzing it. He holds his breath and waits for the upgraded vibranium to reboot. 

“Bucky! Over here!”

“Did you find her?” he asks when he reaches the Captain, dodging Tower employees on their way to the Colonel a few feet away. The Colonel flies three down at once, his return time averaging ten seconds. At this rate, ten more trips and the entire floor should be evacuated. 

“I can’t see anything past this damn smoke!” the Captain explains, coughing loudly as he brushes stray ash off the Soldier’s singed shoulder. He allows the touch, feeling gratitude rather than his usual discomfort. “She’d be knocked out by now. This smoke is killing me.”

He shakes his head. “She doesn’t have to breathe. The smoke isn’t the issue. If I was her, I would hop from shadow to shadow, but she can’t even see those. One wrong move and she could step directly into the sunlight.”

“She doesn’t have to breathe?” he asks. Fascination paints the Captain’s face before he switches again. “What do you suggest?”

“Don’t ask why I know, but I know you and I can hold our breaths for at least three minutes before we need air.”

Hydra loved their experiments. The Soldier is grateful he doesn’t have to do this underwater. 

“Then I’m right behind you, Barnes.”

They stalk through the heavy smoke carefully, using the collars of their t-shirts to wipe the burn at their eyes and to inhale deeply after the first three minutes. There is no sign of their resident vampire, only debris and some of Stark’s failed experiments. The floor above had also fallen, but the steel beams were still intact. No one lived above or below her, but that didn’t mean Stark hadn’t splurged on unnecessary furniture and decorations. Each step they took was a cautious one. Only the Soldier could push and pull burning wood and fabric out of their path without risk of burns, and the shield covered their heads as glass fell through the floor above. It would take Stark approximately a week to repair this, but for now the Soldier thanks whatever entity listening that the damage wasn’t catastrophic. 

He had just started to call this place a home. The only place where he was afforded solitude. Choice. 

Having it burned to the ground should have sent him on a spiral, a thought that irritated him more than scared him. He doesn’t like starting over from scratch. It was hard enough to do the first time without a base. But all the thoughts occupying his head right now are about her, how this is her home too, and that she needed his help.

“Buck! Over here!” 

The Captain tries lifting the large stone of concrete blocking the small sanctuary she’s hidden in, but it’s no use. The surrounding glass and heated metal are pinching and burning his palms. She does not scream for help, nor does she alert them of her location. She’s eerily quiet. 

He looks around, then down at his own body. He’s wearing black, and the Captain is wearing white. They have to be quick.

“Move!” he tells him. In sync, the Soldier slides his metal arm beneath the concrete and lifts—the Captain reads his mind verbatim, stripping himself of his shirt and preparing to wrap her upper half. She screams in agony, the sound scraping along the walls of his matted skull. The Captain barrels into the small crevice, shielding her with his body. 

“We’ve got you,” the Captain says gently, coughing off to the side. The Soldier can’t see her, but he trusts the Captain’s calm reaction. 

“Go!” he yells, the concrete slab pulling at his shoulder. Ten more seconds and he’s going down with it. 

The Captain picks her up and runs in the direction they came from, the Soldier following. He can’t see her face, but he can see her arms. What looks like silver rashes blister and boil as they hang in full view of the sunlight. 

He catches up to them, adds to their shield, and dares to hold her limp hand in his.

—————

She doesn’t go to the roof the next four nights. He does not smoke without her, but he brings a pack just in case.

The Soldier sits on the ledge, scarily desperate to be spoken to, alone with his own damning thoughts.

—————

He sneaks into the Captain’s snack cupboard in the middle of the night. There are chips of all sorts and flavors, packaged noodles, and packets of sauces from various restaurants. The chocolate is in a box of its own, three or four bars already missing. It’s one of those famous brands, popular during his time and still. With a final glance down the quiet hall, he steals a bar and closes the cupboard.

The silky wrapping is familiar to both his metal and flesh hand. He has eaten this candy before. A lifetime ago. Another person ago.

He peels the wrapping and breaks off a single rectangular piece. Crisp and clean. He slides his flesh fingertips together, smoothing the chocolate into his skin. The smell is overwhelmingly intriguing, so much so that his mouth waters. 

He bites the warmed chocolate, swishing it around his tongue. Vanilla, caramelized sugar—the creamy texture suits the sweetness, the aroma of cocoa soothing the tension at the base of his neck. He takes another small bite, and this time he has a vision of a woman’s face, older by maybe a year or two. The same eyes, hair color, and top lip as him.

Bucky Barnes had a sister. He had a sister. She liked chocolate. He bought her a bar with his first paycheck. He remembers something other than bloodshed and angry voices. He remembers his sister’s eyes and the fact he was a working man when it counted the most. He wipes at his wet eyes with the back of his metal hand, wincing from the scratch. 

“I had the same reaction when I tried chocolate again after I woke up.”

The Soldier doesn’t move a muscle. He watches the Captain approach the counter with a good-natured smirk. He holds his hand out, waiting. The Soldier hesitates—and it hits him then that he wouldn’t be able to share the chocolate with her anyways—but he breaks a piece for the Captain. Whether it’s because his whole opinion on the Captain has changed after he protected her with his own body, or because the Soldier wants to take one cautious step forward on the path to healing, so be it. He doesn’t make a fuss about the sharing, just brings the chocolate to his mouth and enjoys the piece just as the Soldier did. 

“Dernier used to rant about how French chocolate was elite,” the Captain chuckles. He lifts himself onto the counter. His sleep attire consists of gray sweatpants and those tight, white t-shirts the Widow buys him. As he rakes his eyes further, the Soldier nearly cackles from the sight of the Captain’s black and yellow socks depicting small, alien-like cartoons with goggles and overalls. 

Steve Rogers used to sleep in socks all the time. The Captain does the same. 

“Did we ever eat chocolate during our time on the front line?” he asks. The Soldier uses the roof of his mouth to somehow spread the flavors. 

“They sent us some packaged kits but it wasn’t the same. This chocolate is made from cooked milk, not powdered. We didn’t complain, though. It was nice to taste something from home, even if it didn’t exactly match Ma’s baking. But Falsworth found some real chocolate in a bombed bakery right outside of Poznań—”

“It was Morita.”

The Captain blinks. “What?”

“Falsworth pointed out the bakery, but Morita was the only one with big enough balls to actually go in there and bring us back the sweets. He grabbed some flour and sugar bags, too.”

The Captain chews his piece slowly, his gaze never leaving the Soldier’s. Fascination, sorrow, elation—all of it fighting to overtake one face. He doesn’t like that he can’t pinpoint the exact emotion attacking the Captain, or that they don’t match the four primary ones. 

“Yeah, Buck. You’re right. It was Morita.”

That screaming voice in his head quiets now, opting for a more subtle cheering. Pride, he realizes. 

The Soldier shares the rest of the chocolate bar with the Captain, and then another, all while they reminisce about the Howling Commandos. It’s equal parts warped memories and clear ones. But that doesn’t matter, because what he doesn’t remember the Captain clarifies, and vice versa.  

—————

A week after the attack, the Soldier is the first one to arrive on the roof, cigarette box in hand. He has gone every night, and every night he has sat alone. The absence of the undead shadow he’s come to expect is odd, almost as if his presence alone unsettled the unnatural balance of things. Death was natural, but she defied it.

This felt too normal. 

The roof door opens. He hasn’t opened the new pack yet. She takes small steps to the ledge, wincing slightly as she swings her right leg over. He watches her and says nothing—the team doesn’t speak about their injuries unless they’re serious, and she doesn’t speak to anyone at all. 

He’s never asked her about her relationship with the others. He only knows how she is with him. It feels unbalanced somehow. She knows more about his character now than anyone else, besides the Captain, because he doesn’t speak with anyone else. He doesn’t know what she does with the other twenty-one hours of her day. He feels he’s allowed to ask considering just how vulnerable he’s seen her. A small part of him feels like that’s taking advantage. 

“You could have started without me,” she says, the low timbre of her voice still strong enough to raise the hair on his arms. Not even the upcoming seasonal chill has succeeded in that. He doesn’t get cold often. Unless he’s dreaming. 

“They don’t taste the same if I do.”

It’s bold, what he says. She’ll think he means a cigarette is best shared with a friend and conversation. He won’t tell her the two reasons he smokes at all: It elicits a soothing, guttural response that sends him back to midnight campfires serenaded by distant stories of home, and because he’s come to enjoy the taste of red, of brown, of pink, inked at the white base. 

She hums lightly and finally swings her left leg over. Again the movement seems to hurt her. He notices her skin is ashier, cracking where her laugh lines would be, and her red eyes emit a soft glow. Her lips are nearly white and her hair refuses to hold in any natural moisture. She’s drying up, and yet she takes the cigarette he offers and inhales until decayed lungs inflate. 

“You look terrible.” The trapped voice within him curses at him relentlessly, probably begging to be sent to the front lines to take over this battle for him. Flirting was Bucky Barnes’ thing, not the Soldier's. Then again, the Soldier doesn’t think he’s trying to flirt. But he doesn’t want to dismiss her either. 

“Yeah, that happens when I go a few days without eating.”

“They’re not bringing you food?”

“They’re repairing my floor. Their minds are elsewhere.”

“But… You look terrible.”

He shuts himself up by taking a long puff, avoiding her amused gaze. He’s not trying to be funny, but it does make him feel a little better to know she isn’t taking his careless words seriously. 

“I haven’t left the guest room. The windows on your floor aren’t made for my condition.”

How could the team, how could he, be so clueless? He should have checked on her when she didn’t come the first night. Should have knocked on her door and checked if she had enough damn pillows. Banner should have visited and taken the opportunity to ask those subtle but obvious questions. 

“How long can you go without?”

“Forever. I won't die from it.”

“But how long before it hurts?”

The question surprises her. She takes the cigarette from his fingers cautiously, as if the question was tied to a physical one. He’s aware that she’s physically weak, vulnerable, open to prodding—completely exposed. 

She thinks for a moment before saying, her shoulders hunched and eyes glowing softly, “It hurts right now.”

He does not think before saying, as he snatches the smoke back and gets a little lost in the brown lip stain he can now taste wholly, “What would happen if you drank from me?”

Her eyes widen ever so slightly. Both curiosity and outright distaste floods her once calm expression. He should be offended by that, but instead he waits. Strangely… excited for her answer. 

“I’ve never had a true, willing victim before.”

“Don’t call me a victim.”

“I’ve never had a true, willing supper-plate before.”

“Better.”

 She huffs a short laugh. “As hungry as I am, drinking from you would be a poor decision.”

Because of the serum, because of the bite marks, because they barely know one another—the reasons are endless, really. But the Soldier wants to help, and wanting is rare. 

“Do you have to kill?”

“No.”

“Will it leave a mark?”

“A little one.”

“How much do you need?”

“As much as the typical person would donate.”

“Have you ever gotten sick from someone’s blood?”

She takes a long drag, contemplative. “Once.”

He realizes that for the first time in a long time he knows more about the science portion of things, rather than the brutal aspects, before Banner and Stark. Not even psych got these specifics. He is truly two steps ahead, and something like… greed, envelops him. A peculiar type of greed—a fanatical smugness at the fact that he of all people has taken the time to learn something the others have given up prying for. 

The Soldier, for once, is being considerate. Elation pools in his empty stomach because of her hesitation—because she is considering his well-being. 

He nods, his decision final. “Drink from me.”

“Quite possibly the stupidest thing you’ve ever said.”

“You’re killing yourself because you won’t ask for help.”

“Asking for help,” she drawls sarcastically, frowning. She flicks the dud into the aerial abyss and reaches for their second cigarette of the night. “Have you asked for it?”

He lights the end for her. “I don’t need help.”

“You’re just as isolated as I am. According to Natasha, we’re unhealthy.”

“My seams aren’t unraveling as we speak.” Even as he says it, he knows she’ll counter it.

“That’s the difference. You can see mine. Your seams are in here,” she explains, pointing at her own temple. “I’ve accepted my death a long time ago.”

His brow draws together. “If that were true, you would stay here until the sun came up.”

Shaking her head, she blows the smoke out in two short spurts. “Mostly everything about being human is dead to me. My heart no longer beats. If I don’t mask it with perfume, you’ll start smelling rotting meat. I sleep, maybe, ten days of the year. Wine is the only human thing I can consume without vomiting. I am a dying paradox, forced to pretend. But my mind is my own, and though my heart is frozen, it’s still there. I may be dead, but I don’t want to die.”

The Soldier wakes each morning, his mind finally his own, his heart somehow intact. He has a team who tries to support him, a friend who would destroy the world for the memory of him, and a vampire companion he has never thanked for simply being there. His heart beats the same as it did in 1945, he sleeps a full night through one-hundred days of the year, and he hasn’t drank wine since moving into the Tower. He is living, and yet he has no life. He is forced to pretend to be Bucky Barnes, forced to automate the husk of a living paradox. They tried to kill the human part of him, and when they partially succeeded, he wanted to die along with it. His memory is dead, slowly reviving, and he doesn’t want to die now. 

He makes an apathetic noise, unwilling to reveal just how much her vulnerability burrowed into his own. “The offer is still on the table.”

The cigarette is halved. 

“It’ll hurt a little bit.”

“As long as you don’t kill me.”

She considers once more, even studying his neck as she does. The Soldier has been at the will of others before, but this is different. He chose this.

“Then get comfortable. I don’t want you falling over.”

Their feet hit the roof at the same time. It’s the first time he notices how much taller he is. The second cigarette is flicked away, the third—for now—stays in the pack. She dusts the back of her sweatpants off, cleaning her arms next. She’s nervous, he realizes. That funny smugness comes back, stronger than before. 

“Take as much as you need,” he offers, his smirk widening when she rolls her eyes. She crosses her arms and inspects him head to toe, a smirk of her own to match his. It’s suddenly intimate. Her eyes glimmer and shine so bright he no longer wants to lift his head to see the natural wonders—the two brilliant rubies taking him apart piece by piece are the most unnatural wonders in the world. What does he look like to her? Is there a scarlet glow outlining his body? Can she see the way his index and thumb tap together, the only physical sign of nerves he’ll show anyone. Can she hear his steady heartbeat, trained to combat adrenaline, and through the ruse can she see how desperately Bucky Barnes is banging on the walls to escape? Not to oppose the incoming bite, but to be the one to feel a woman’s mouth on him again. The Soldier apologizes to him, promises that it isn’t anything sexual, and whispers that he’ll break him out soon. Little by little, he’ll help pull the dead man inside of him to the surface. 

“Tilt your head for me,” she gently instructs. She swallows hard. He does as he’s told. 

Slowly, she creeps forward. Close enough that he should feel her hot breath, but there’s nothing at all. Her cold palms rest on his cheeks, scratching against his stubble, the pads of her thumbs near the corners of his parted mouth. Boldly, she traces a hand down his angled neck—pauses—then hooks his hair behind his ear. The Soldier involuntarily shivers, but he does not reprimand himself. 

“Ready,” she murmurs, excitement glimmering in the swirl of crimson. Are his gray ones just as potent?

“As I’ll ever be.”

Just as they did back at the Hydra base, the skin around her eyes deepens in color, black veins extending far down her cheeks. Her fangs, once hidden by her tempting lips, nudge his neck. Four needle points, though the two on top are the first to puncture him. He hisses softly but quickly relaxes into her strong hold, their chests pressed together. Before he can encourage her, she bites down. 

It’s… 

Otherworldly. Bizarre. Erotic. 

She moans as she drinks, and he—matches it. 

One hand delicately holds the other side of his neck, the other trailing to his waist. He can’t trust that she knows exactly what she’s doing, lost in her bloodlust, so he tries to ignore it. Tries to ignore the serum rushing to heal his wound and the once dormant, primal reaction of his blood rushing south. But she drinks plenty, greedily, and he’ll offer her more still. 

She detaches herself, licking at the injury. He shuts his eyes and suppresses a groan. She takes this reaction as pain, however. 

“Did I hurt you?”

He shakes his head. “Was that enough?”

“Can you handle a little more?” He nods, and she punctures him again. 

He gets lightheaded the longer she drinks, but it’s worth it. Her skin is returning to its natural shade, her eyes are dimming, her lips are moistening. Even her grip feels stronger. Unlike the last time, there is no smoke circling them. She is simply feeding, visible to the elements. Visible to him. 

And apparently, visible to their first ever trespassers. 

“Three seconds, Fangs! One, two—”

The Soldier throws a knife backward just as she removes her bloodied teeth, landing a perfect stab in one of the crevices in Stark’s suit. The Colonel sneaks up behind her and hauls her up into the air. Stark flies behind him, holding his arms to his sides. 

“I always knew you were into some kinky shit, Sergeant. But unsupervised? BDSM one-oh-one, make sure your partner can be trusted.”

“Let me go,” he warns. Then, deeper and more brutal, “Let her go.”

Stark scoffs, but lets him go anyway. “She was just eating you. I think your sympathies are leaning toward the Axis—”

“She wasn’t hurting me! I let her feed because you bastards haven’t fed her in days!”

Stark and the Colonel pause, their eyes meeting. The latter seems more surprised. “Shit, Tony. Is that true?”

“Hold on, hold on, back up. Let me think about this.”

The Colonel interjects, his brow rising. “What’s there to think about? Did you feed her or not? Did you let her starve?”

“I’m not in charge of it!” Stark makes a small hand motion to tell the Colonel to let her down. The second her feet hit the roof, she’s wiping his blood from her jaw. He wants to tell her not to. It was her claim, her right. She need not be ashamed for simply surviving. “But I can see where our wires have gotten crossed,” Stark concedes.

The Soldier leaves his neck as is. Blood slowly trickles to his collarbones and into his t-shirt. Stark follows it, the slightest twinge of curiosity flashing across his bearded face. 

The Soldier steps closer to him, his gaze enough to unravel even the strongest of men. “How can you forget one of your own?”

Still, Stark persists, his self-assurance unrelenting. “If you haven’t noticed, Barnes—You two are the most reclusive, secretive, stone-faced people on this team. I avert my eyes whenever one of you even enters the room.”

“I didn’t hurt him.”

They all turn to her. He hates how small her voice sounds, how modest she makes herself. To defend herself. 

“Yeah, we see that,” Stark says, rubbing his temples. “Don’t know why we bothered. If he wanted you dead, I’d suspect you’d be… deader.” 

“Then leave,” the Soldier grinds out.

“Barnes—” the Colonel sighs. He extracts himself from his suit, the silver absorbing the moonlight. “We just caught her feeding from you.”

“With permission.”

Stark mumbles, “Glad to know the Winter Soldier is all about consent—”

“We need to report this. She’s never… She’s never done that before,” the Colonel decides, though his expression tells him he’s in battle with his own words. “And if it’s because we’ve made her recruitment mirror captivity, then we need to re-evaluate the ethics, Tony.”

“For now, no one is allowed on the roof.”

“Are you serious?”

“It’s fine,” she says, straightening her shoulders. “I put you in danger and they saw what they saw. If I want to be a part of the team, they need to know everything, right?”

The Colonel steps back into his suit, the closure of his mask unsettling something within the Soldier. Masks function as detachment, as a lie. He knows the man underneath, but he is forced to make peace with the myth. 

“Meet us bright and early in the lab,” Stark orders her, masking himself as well. He motions for her to follow.

Before the door shuts, she looks over her shoulder. No mask in sight. 

“Smells like cigarettes up here,” Stark mutters, coughing dramatically.

—————

She is restricted to the lab for the next two days and ordered to complete another round of psych. No matter how often he threatens to put a knife in Stark’s neck, he doesn’t budge. The Captain swears that no invasive procedures are taking place, that he is present for any and all questions Stark and Banner are throwing at her. He says she is cooperating, even telling them how and how often she needs to feed in order to be effective in battle. They find that the serum did not affect her at all.

But when he sees her at the end of her imprisonment, her red irises no longer hold an excited or even tame glow. They are void. 

They remind him of his own. 

And he is terrified.

—————

He awakens with a jolt, immediately pulling the gun from underneath his pillow and aiming at the intruder with sleepy eyes but steady hands. The shadows do little to conceal her, especially with the slight glow from her eyes and the fact that the moon shines upon her. She’s forgone her usual black clothing tonight, and instead dons pink—a cotton two-piece night set. Slight collar on the shirt, shorts for bottoms. Pockets. If he didn’t recognize her shadow like his very own, he’d wonder who exactly was standing at the edge of his bed, watching him sleep. 

“Shoot me. I want to see what happens.”

He lowers the weapon, glaring at her playfully. “Funny.”

“Never been shot before. Curiosity kills me daily.”

“Can you bleed out?”

“I can bleed. But no, I can’t bleed out.”

“Is it your blood?”

“No. It’s the blood I consume. I use it for energy.”

“What are you doing in my room?”

She smirks, shrugging her shoulders as if her unannounced presence is normal. “I knew they were going to bar you from the rooftop and were going to send me my dinner around this time, so I took the opportunity.”

He draws himself further up the bed, his naked chest on display. Wiping the sleep from his eyes, he pats the space beside him at the same time. He hears her snicker, the accidental innuendo making him blush. It’s a weird feeling—to be thought of in that way. To think in that way. 

She hops in beside him but stays above the blanket. He raises a brow. 

“I would only make your bed colder.”

It truly is like lying beside a cadaver. She produces little heat when she feeds, but this… This is her natural state. He feels it all, distinguishable from the natural chill of night and three feet of distance. 

“Do you like being cold?”

“It makes summers easier.”

“You’re inside all the time.”

“In general.”

He hums and brings a pillow up to clutch against his stomach. 

“What are you really doing here?”

She shrugs. “I’m public enemy number one right now. The Captain and Wanda may still like me, but I don’t talk to them. Not like how I talk to you.”

“I’m not the friend you want to talk to about your feelings, or have braid your hair.”

“Damn, and I was really looking forward to that.”

He rolls his eyes. The moonlight slices through the curtains of his bare bedroom, cutting right through them. They are separated by the light, and in a peculiar turn of events, he envies the moon for it. The one constant that brought them together, now splitting them in half. 

“When do you think they’ll calm down?”

“Depends on how willing they are to listen to me.”

“Well, you’re hardly ever wrong.”

“I’m never wrong.”

“Hardly. So, I guess what you say is good news.”

He chuckles, the barest of brushes with their shoulders igniting an ache in his stomach. He wonders if she is similarly affected. If she, too, feels the odd connection between them blossoming into something stranger. He is used to feeling nothing at all—conditioned—and yet, skin-to-skin is like learning a whole new language. Fluent in many, the Soldier believes this language of silence is exclusively their own.

“I’m sorry Stark and Banner kept you in the lab for so long.”

“They let me wander.”

His lip quirks. “Did you give them what they wanted?”

“Do you mean, did I break?”

“Were they trying to break you?”

She opens her mouth to say something, something witty he assumes, but she chooses not to. Instead, she shakes her head and bares honest eyes. “No. But I told them what they needed to know. Over time, they’ll start feeling like teammates. And I, a part of the team. They need to know about my condition, and when I’m ready, they’ll know me.” 

He realizes why her impassiveness used to irk him so—she is him, he is her. They are carbon-copies. He is speaking to himself, and he sees and feels what the Captain does. Sadness. Emitting from her, growing within him.

“Do you enjoy being excluded?”

“Do I enjoy being alone?”

“Same thing.”

She rearranges her legs, crossing the right one over the left. “It’s not the same thing. Being alone is for peace of mind. Exclusion is… forced.”

“Isolation, then. Like what Stark said. Basking in our reclusiveness.”

“I’ve been alone a long time. I find comfort in it, but I don’t like being lonely.”

“I’m not following.”

She smiles, turning to look at him. He meets her eyes—there’s a shimmer of gold in them. “I came here tonight because I don’t like being alone at this hour anymore. I like our silence. Our proximity. I’m not lonely when I’m with you, but we can be alone together.”

“Ah,” he sighs. Nervously, he holds her stare and says, “I like our time together, too.”

It’s refreshing, being open. Usually he delivers truths bluntly, honesty with a punch, and information without remorse. With her, it’s easier to be the Soldier. It’s easier to try and reach deep into the pit of what’s left of his soul, and pull out Bucky Barnes.

“Natasha’s nice. We can invite her to smoke with us.”

“No.”

She laughs. “Noted.”

“What about Wilson?”

“He wouldn’t smoke, but he’d be fun in conversation.”

“You speak to him often?”

She hums, considering. “He always speaks to me if I’m in the room. The Captain, too.”

He likes that—people he considers friends treating her kindly.

“What do you talk about?”

“The weather, mostly.”

He snorts, the sound completely unflattering. She doesn’t seem to mind. “Idiots. Do they describe the sun to you, too?”

She laughs again, the original melody caressing his skin. “I don’t blame them. I’m pretty closed off during the day.”

“You should come train with me sometime. The windows can be covered.”

“I forget you’re the expert with knives around here.”

“Knives, yes. Daggers, no.”

She moves to sit criss-crossed, facing him. “It’s not all that different. Plus, what I use are more like shortswords anyway.”

“How old are you again?”

She grins, fangs and all. Beckoning him, his blood. He sits up higher. 

“Never ask a lady her age.”

“I see times haven’t changed.”

“What else do you remember from those times?”

A little, he wants to say. Barely anything at all, he wants to scream.

“I remember ladies wore more than this to bed,” he teases, pinching a loose thread at her shorts. 

She raises a brow. “What nuns were you dating?”

“Don’t tell me I’ve been lied to my whole life.”

“Sometimes,” she breathes, the air she expels completely artificial, “they wore nothing at all.”

“Liar.”

She bounces as she gets off his bed. Her smile remains, and he finds that he’s been sporting one of his own the entire time. 

“Liar. One of my top five pet names.”

He watches her walk away, and before he can stop himself—

“What do you like being called? By your first name? A nickname?”

“I quite like being called Fangs.”

Damn Stark to all the Hells. He gives a playful scoff, “Your first name will do.”

“Call me Fangs.”

“No.”

“Please?”

“Get out of my room.”

She rolls her eyes, and checks the hallway before squeezing through the slight gap of the door. “Goodnight, Barnes.”

“Call me James.”

“Your last name will do.”

—————

The Soldier grips the handles of his chair and limits his air consumption to a whopping ten breaths a minute. Any more oxygen and his adrenaline will spike. He does not want to cause a scene, no, not when the Colonel and Banner are doing that for him. 

“I think we all need to calm down and look at this situation from all sides,” the Captain reasons, the strong timbre of his voice carrying over Stark’s. 

“Cap, your bleeding heart is showing.”

The Colonel sighs, “See reason, Tony. She was starving because of our carelessness. And because we never initiate conversation with her, we didn’t ask!”

“Nuh-uh, don’t group me in that shit. I talk to her whenever I see her. I was with my sister all week so I’m excluded from your witch-hunt,” Wilson declares, leaning back in his chair, his expression one of extreme disappointment.

“Buck, we believe her when she says she wasn’t hurting you. But what in the world made you think that it was safe for her to feed from you—not even considering the serum—at all?”

“There you go, treating him like a kid again,” Stark grumbles with a heavy roll of his eyes. The Soldier turns his head slowly, his glare half-hidden behind his hair but deadly enough to make Stark clear his throat. 

“Oh, shut it, Tony. Which is it then? He let her because he’s such a kid, or he shouldn’t have let her because he’s such a kid?” the Colonel argues.

The Widow leans her head back and brings her feet up to rest on the table. “And there you guys go again, acting like he’s not in the room.”

Banner interjects, massaging his hands together as he stutters, “Drinking his blood could have made her even more super than she is. We had no way of knowing for sure because she had rejected every test before this week.”

“And did you find anything different with her blood?” Wilson asks.

“Ah! That’s one thing we discovered. She doesn’t have any,” Stark shares, clapping his hands together.

“Considering the lack thereof, there was no blood to intermingle with his, so to say. She can’t absorb it permanently,” Banner explains further. 

“Something we should have known when she first joined the team!”

“Tony, are you afraid that she’s going to be addicted to his blood now? Or any of ours?” the Widow asks, raising a trimmed brow. She looks around the table, her gaze softening slightly as it lands on the Captain. Still, she moans, “God, you guys are stupid.”

Stark makes a rattling scene as he pulls a chair out and sits down. He intertwines his fingers, mimicking a student. “Elaborate, then.”

The Widow stares at him for longer than the Soldier ever has. Her silence is as deadly as his, but more cutthroat. Where Stark would pinch until the Soldier either swung or bolted, he submits for the Widow. Be it that he’s known her longer and has more respect, he doesn’t know. 

“Did any of you read my report about the mission a few weeks ago? Or did you just send your own to Fury and call it a day?” No one answers her. “Of course. If you did read mine, you would have read where I elaborated on the capability of her self-control. I bled first. It was my blood out in the air. The target hadn’t seen her. Barnes would have dealt with him first and given me the second look. She had the opportunity to go toward my open neck and have a feast. But instead, she tore into the man who hurt me.”

The Soldier can’t help the smirk that forms when it clicks. “You let him cut you on purpose.”

“Glad to know my work is being appreciated.”

Stark leans forward, actual shock painting his face. “You jump started the experiments? That was your idea?”

“Well, you and Banner were getting nowhere.”

He turns to the rest of the table, his smirk replaced by a frown. “She wasn’t going to hurt me because I trust her. And she trusts me. We’ve met every night for the past few months to share cigarettes and conversation up on that roof. Not once before did she even look at my neck.”

“Makes sense for those two to be close,” Banner mumbles, somewhat apologetic. “Remember when you wouldn’t let me or Tony operate on your arm after T’Challa gifted you it?”

“Look, if she’s angry at us then we will all apologize and try to understand where she’s coming from—” 

He abruptly stands, cutting Stark off. He marks the Colonel and the Widow reaching for the guns at their hip. Stark looks offended for a second—

He’s had weeks to learn how to show… empathy. Weeks to learn how to look at someone and have his eyes speak for him. Stark closes his mouth, his brow relaxing, his gaze intense. Decent. Human.

“It’s not some competition between her and I. She’s not trying to be angry, or angrier than me. She’s sad. She didn’t let you into her world because you never asked! Never got to know her. You’re terrified of her not because she looks like she can kill you, but because she looks three seconds away from killing herself. You see nothing in her face—the same nothing like in mine. It’s a hazy type of nothing, and soon you will realize you shouldn’t have been afraid of her, you should have been trying to help her.”

“Buck…” the Captain breathes, restless. 

“I’m not about to kill myself, Rogers. Don’t worry. But everything would be a lot easier if you all just… asked what you wanted to ask. The more you tip-toe around what you think is happening, the longer you build up this scenario that ends in flames. I like my silence, and sometimes I like when it’s interrupted. If you listen to my advice, you’ll know when to bother me and when to leave me the fuck alone.”

The Widow snickers, but there’s pride in her look. Praise he never asked for, and never will. Though, he’s glad his argument is supported. He’s glad the red-haired menace of a woman was creative enough to seek answers herself. The only one with a spine, it seems. 

“I trust her,” he repeats. He really needs them to know that. “You’ve asked questions about her condition and you got your answers. Now, ask about her next time.”

—————

They get the call late into the night. Rousing them from sleep, the Captain tells the team to suit up and board the quinjet in under fifteen minutes. The flight to Moscow will be a long one, and the chilly descent won’t make anyone happier. They are expected to land when the moon hangs high again.

The Widow cannot return to Russia. The Soldier can’t either, but he’s better at evading. He knows how to navigate the icy forests. Wilson, Stark, and the Colonel are grounded for risk of being shot down. The only ones cleared for this mission are himself, the Captain, Barton, Maximoff, and their vampire companion. 

They split into two teams. The Captain and Maximoff head east. Barton accompanies him, and though he does not explicitly say it, he is watching just how close the Soldier walks near the woman who drank his blood three nights ago. 

The mission is to infiltrate and leave no hostages. Killing on a team-effort. They succeed. On record, the Avengers weren’t in Russia at all.

The Captain calls an all-clear and the Soldier corroborates. Sunrise is nearing. They need to return to the quinjet immediately. 

He doesn’t hear the high-tech drones flying at ground-level. But he does hear the rustling behind the trees, the regular breathing from trained lungs. He orders Barton back but it’s too late. He steps on an explosive and is sent into the air. Stark’s expertise extends to their suits as well so it’s a miracle Barton doesn’t lose a limb, but their position is known. He calls for assistance over the comms. Smoke billows at his side, then disappears altogether. As he deals with the men sprouting from hiding, she deals with the ones still crouching. Blood sprays and his legs tire fast without Barton there to help. He doesn’t even know where he landed. 

He tries calling for the Captain again with no luck. It’s an ambush with their best combat agents, and they are sorely outnumbered. If it was just guns and knives, even arrows, he could beat them all. The weapons they have are electricity-based, some fire. He’s battling his own men while also checking at the corner of his eye that sparks and heat aren’t one of her weaknesses. Because if she’s downed, he can’t go for Barton. She is a priority. 

If no one helps her, she’ll burn. 

“Go find Rogers!” he screams to her as he smashes his metal fist into the stomach of a man much larger than him. 

“I’ll go for Clint! He couldn’t have landed far—”

He’s struck by a bullet before she finishes her sentence. Her terrified gasp is perhaps the saddest part about this whole ordeal. She doesn't need to breathe, she doesn't need to gasp. He lands on his back, his stomach branded by lead, directly in this morning’s first ray of light.   

“James!”

The Captain confirms Barton’s safety, then his panicked questioning bombards the comms as he is informed of the Soldier’s condition. Her voice sounds different over the earpiece. Somehow lighter. Frightened, but lighter. Shadows attempt to cover him from afar, but they can’t reach. She’s not close enough. She digs into necks and plunges her gold shortsword into the other available meat she can find. The Soldier has been shot at many times, but shot? Once when he was Bucky Barnes, twice during his seventy year prison sentence, and once more since arriving at the Tower. Only the wound during the war had been in the stomach, and he had miraculously healed in three days then. He hadn’t thought twice about why that was. 

These are the worst injuries—get shot in the middle and suddenly every part of your body hurts. He can’t think, can barely breathe. If he isn’t helped soon, the serum will battle his natural adrenaline to the point he could die from shock. 

There are hands on his shoulders, then under them, lifting poorly. She screams and screams and screams. He smells burning flesh. He is dropped momentarily and sees the flash of a gold dagger, then the crimson of the enemy. Again, he is lifted, dragged. Again, she is screaming.

They take cover in every shadow she can fit in. She waits, whimpering under her breath, then does it all over again. He can’t fully open his eyes. 

She does this twelve more times until they are far enough from the enemy. She shoves them into an empty cave and immediately begins removing his leathers. 

He doesn’t remember much after that.

—————

The unmistakable scent of cooking rabbit hits him before the stabbing pain in his abdomen.

“You owe me,” he hears a cranky voice mutter, the voice he’s come to expect whenever the sun disappears and the moon kisses the stars. He’s on his back, his metal fist practically fused to his stomach. When he opens his eyes fully there are branches blocking his view of the night sky. There’s a campfire to his left, flames growing higher as it cooks the animal hovering over it. He moans in discomfort when he turns his neck a little more, but it’s worth it. 

There she is—skinning a second rabbit and skewering it a second later, frown on her beautiful face, cloak torn from the bullets that grazed her. Without the hood, the injuries from the sun are on full display. Scattered, silver patches mark her natural tint, slowly healing but obviously causing discomfort. She pauses her cooking to scratch at herself relentlessly, cheeks and neck bearing her lashes. 

“What do I owe you?” he croaks, coughing automatically. She abandons the dead animal to grab their emergency water containers. She holds the back of his head as she gently pours water on his lips first. Once moistened, he takes the container from her with his flesh hand. 

“I don’t like killing animals,” she says, helping him sit up. He winces and lets her move him to the base of a wide tree. 

“Sorry,” he replies absentmindedly. “You should eat, too.”

“I already did. You’re getting my leftovers.”

He eyes the fire, then the surrounding forest. “Is it safe to have one burning so high?”

She steadies the second rabbit over the wooden grill and turns the other one. She gives an unimpressed hum and remains facing away. “I dragged you for miles. I doubt they will catch up soon.”

“Miles?”

“The Captain was ambushed, too. Going to him would have put your life at risk.” A pause, then a twinge of distress. “And I wasn’t strong enough to protect you and fight anymore.”

“This had nothing to do with your strength or competence. The sun—”

“The fucking sun,” she grinds out, her usual low tone rising, “Because of the fucking sun, it made me incompetent. I am a hazard in the field when I have to cower in the shadows while my teammates are getting their asses handed to them.”

The Soldier pinches an eye closed, fixing his position slightly. “I can handle my own ass, thank you—”

“I was a nurse in the war.”

He pauses, his heart clenching. “Our war?”

Our war, he says. Like he and the Captain owned all the pain, the consequences, the deaths, the aftermath. 

“I didn’t even know I had… died. I woke up in the middle of the night surrounded by the corpses of my men. I walked for miles until I found the gods-awful British army.”

He chuckles at that, even if his stomach begs him not to. 

“I guess the enemy had a predator on the field. Makes sense… There were a lot of bodies to feed from. I stayed in the tents and worked well into the morning. And when my refuge was attacked, I left the tent so I could help.”

She doesn’t see the pitiful look he gives her. 

“I burned so badly. And while I burned, I couldn’t reach the downed soldiers. When it was all done, instinct won… I fed for the first time that night. They all tasted like bile. When I finally found my own base again, I had a birthday card and chocolate waiting for me. I ate the entire bar even though it made me sick, even though it tasted like dirt. I was questioned about how I survived when so many died, why I kept giving my rations away, why I refused to work during the day. So because of the fucking sun, I let good men die. I could not have that happen today.”

Silence hums between them, the gentle crackle of the fire speaking for them. It occurs to him that she does not need the warmth it provides, but that she built it for him. For the sole purpose of feeding and comforting him. Something liquid figuratively drips into his stomach, swirling chaotically.  

She removes the darkened rabbit from the fire and hands it to him. He thanks her with a nod of his head, and bites into its thigh. The meat is dry, but he has half a mind to thank her for removing its head so he doesn’t have to stare into dead eyes. 

“Clint’s alive, by the way. Idiot landed in a gods-honest haystack a mile from the rest of the team.” 

He laughs as he chews. She nods her head at his stomach. 

“I’m fine,” he assures her, lifting his metal hand to showcase the dried blood. The bullet went right through him. “I’m just sore.”

A few minutes pass before he speaks again, his meal half-eaten. She’s handed him the second rabbit already. 

“Thank you,” he says honestly. “I’m not used to being saved. I find it odd that so many people want to save me. It was a calculated sacrifice, and I owe you my life.”

“Calculated,” she drawls. “I didn’t think much about it. You give me too much credit.”

“Well, if you didn’t think about it, then you’re just as much of an idiot as Rogers.”

The first smile of the night graces her face, now mostly healed from the silver patches. 

“It wasn’t your fault. Someone took advantage of—” he pauses, the words too familiar. “Someone took advantage of you when you were helpless. When you were left for dead. And when you tried to help, you got the short end of the stick.”

“Some dull stick.”

He steadies his breathing, then takes another bite. The ache in his stomach feels less burdensome as he eats. 

“You’re a veteran.”

“Do nurses count as veterans?”

“Fuck yeah they do.” They share a laugh, a moment. It’s as intimate as can be, the most intimate they’ve ever been. Even more so than when she had her teeth in his neck. 

“Thank you,” he repeats, though the sentiment means more now. “For being a friend.”

“Thank you for not dying on me. And for trusting me,” she says, her red eyes glowing faintly. “Do I surpass the Captain?”

He chuckles. “He’s my closest friend. I think you’re my best friend.”

“Whatever that means,” she mutters, her quip a balm over the entire night. 

They speak for the next few hours. It’s the most he’s spoken since coming home. Where his tongue would dry out and his head would turn hazy, he finds peace and urgency instead. Peace in her voice, in his mind. Urgency to tell her everything and nothing, all at once. 

The Captain finds them before sunrise, and the Soldier—for the first time since reclaiming pieces of Bucky Barnes—hugs his closest friend because he simply wants to.

—————

Three weeks later, they are allowed back onto the roof. She brings the cigarettes this time. A different brand, one he vaguely remembers Dum-Dum complaining about. Said they were lady-smokes. He considers their taste, a memory for Bucky Barnes and a new experience for the Soldier. Those truths can coexist. 

He quite likes their flavor. 

“If you could take a bite out of anyone on the team, who would it be?”

He chokes on the smoke, fanning it away as he tries to control his laughter. “It’s actually insane of you to ask that question—”

Her mouth splits into a wide smile, her fangs showing. “Aw, c’mon! Indulge me! Who would it be?”

“Who would you want to taste?”

“Well, I’ve already tasted you.”

His chest tightens, suggestive of a lot more than he is ready to admit. She’s transitioned to blood bags instead of the vein, and some archaic part of himself is glad for it. He doesn’t necessarily want her mouth on anyone’s neck, besides his own, ever again. 

“Yeah, you have,” he says quietly, cheeks reddening. “I don’t want to say who I’m thinking.”

She takes a short drag, smiling around the cigarette. “You’ve thought about it?”

“You want to hear it or not?”

She passes him the stick, her eyes glowing momentarily. “Yes, yes. Sorry, sorry.”

He waits a moment, savoring the taste of her on their smoke. He wonders if one day they’ll upgrade to joints—if it would affect either of them at all. He clears his throat before admitting, “Thor.”

Silence. He takes another drag. 

“I’ve thought about him, too.”

He doesn’t choke on his laugh this time. It’s loud, flowing down into the crowded streets and mixing with reality. For so long his silence has placated his mind and unnerved others—he’s becoming human again, resurrecting.   

She matches his volume, taking the cigarette from his steady fingers. “Seriously! If I were to bring up the question of whether I need human blood or humanoid blood to sustain me to Tony and Bruce, oh! They would call him down to earth to find out immediately.”

Is it possible to bring someone who’s undead back to life, too? Were they living all along? Were they just suspended in an unmoving abyss and once something sparked, they chose to climb again? Is it ever that simple? It took him years, then months, weeks, and suddenly, days. He hasn’t broken through the skyline just yet, and neither has she, but that sliver of solace, that sliver of knowledge that it’s possible… That’s what makes him want to continue on. To hold hands with time itself.  

“I have no doubt they would,” he adds, running a hand through his hair. He breathes in the crisp night air, and feels absolutely no remorse as he asks, “What did mine taste like?”

She considers, eyes crinkling. “Sweet. Like toffee, or more what I remember toffee tastes like. When people are happy, they taste like sugar to me, remember?”

“I was happy?” he says doubtingly, but his mind doesn’t believe his own uncertainty. It’s been a long time since he’s been happy, since he was his old self. Maybe the moment her teeth met his skin, he was Bucky Barnes. Maybe he was a new rendition of his old form—with one new emotion. Learning, retaining, earning this new life. “I’m happy,” he repeats because it’s true.

“I think I’m happy, too.”

God, she’s magnificent. 

“You know what makes me even happier, though?”

“What’s that?”

“Thai food,” he says honestly, ignoring her playful scoff. “I’m serious. Let me take you out tomorrow night. And… when we return… you can taste it for yourself.”

She tries not to smile, but it splits gracefully. “That sounds so weird—”

“Hey, I’m trying here!”

She passes him the cigarette, only their second of the night, and scoots closer on the ledge. “Fine. You can take me out. But there better be wine or else I’ll complain the whole time—”

He grabs her hand, flesh on flesh, warm and cold. Intertwining their fingers, they both study the connection. Again, silence breezes through them. There is no longer a gap, no longer just smoke being shared. 

She does not pull away, but instead leans her head down and rests it on his shoulder. He savors the weight, high on the prospect of time itself, and rests his own head over hers.

xx

A/N: Let me know if you guys want a part 2, if not then this is a perfect one-shot for me! --Moni

[soup-is-here]

Mouthwashing Spoilers

TW: Addiction and Self Harm

I wanna go on about Swansea's final monologue but it's hard to put into words, but I'm gonna try anyways cause it's a short, but strong story about autonomy again. This post ended up significantly longer than I wanted though

It's the autonomy to choose the "less healthy" option because it's appealing to you. It's the moral assignment to normality and stability. An alcoholic is an alcoholic by choice, technically, but do they owe us otherwise? Is it morally reprehensible to enjoy taking LSD at a party? Should we see someone as less than because they relax with a xanax instead of a hot shower? It's not healthy. We know that. We've seen anti-drug ad after ad after ad. But is that the part that's morally wrong, in and of itself? Does enjoying the drugs and chaos make Swansea a worse person?

Like him talking about his entire life and ending it by saying between the "stable" "normal" life and him waking up every morning with a new hangover, he preferred the latter. People always talk about getting clean and fixing their lives and Swansea did it! He did the thing "good men" do! A wife and kids and a trade job and sobriety! He was doing it! He was finally "worth" something!

And he hated it! I mean I don't know if he actually hated/despised it, but he misses his previous life. He misses drugs and partying and living like you might not wake up the next day. He said the thing that changed him was seeing himself dead in a ditch under the bright beam of a streetlight. Now he's looking down the barrel of a gun. And as he looks down it, he looks back. That was his preference. It felt good to be like that. And he wouldn't be here if he stayed there

We always have a narrative about drugs or gambling or sleeping around where a person suddenly realizes that they aren't "doing anything" with their life and becomes stable and it's always played like addiction is a false pleasure. Swansea got to the stability people said would be the real pleasure of life and that just wasn't true for him. One bad paycheck could've been the difference between his stable life and falling apart anyways. His lifestyle was going to kill him someday apparently, yet he's staring down the barrel of a gun at his steady trade job to feed his wife and kids.

I don't know quite how to word it but Swansea is the poster child for rehabilitation. There's this weight to him saying his alcoholic period was the best time of his life. Like it just hits at that pang that makes people wear DARE shirts while smoking weed and post those videos of smoking 100 cigarettes at once. Anti-vaping ads tell you about the damage they do to your body but everyone knows that already. Everyone knows "this is what your brain looks like on drugs." I smoke medical marijuana and it isn't good for my lungs but it's good for my pain. Doing drugs isn't good for me and I know that and that's sorta the point sometimes.

I don't know it's just this weird pang where I know what Swansea means, just not to nearly the same extent. I don't have an addiction so I don't think I could fully understand it. Maybe a better thing I could relate it to for myself is self harm. It's not healthy sure, but who do I owe health? Myself? Other people? And what is healthy? Is it feeling better now? Is it resisting now and feeling worse for it until it stops? What if the coping skills I learn make it worse? What if they make it better? Do I want it to get better? Does Swansea want to get better? What would better feel like to either of us?

Who knows until you try. Swansea got a collared shirt, a mortgage, and a credit card. He got a job and a wife and kids. He got sober. He got healthier, depending on your definition.

But did he feel better? He's looking down a barrel of a gun and he has to decide if he feels better. It doesn't seem like he regrets his new life. He says he wants his kids to be better than him. He wants good things to happen for them. He saw himself as one bad slip away from falling again. I don't think he felt better though. I think he got healthier. He likely would've ended up in the ditch he dreamt about, but we don't know that. We also don't know if that's what he'd prefer. But, we do know he got healthier, depending on your definition.

[anythingwriter]

Vipers

Tommy Shelby x reader

Warnings: language, men being sexest, brief mention of death, a little bit of a slow burn

Word Count: 3,900 of pure trash:)

Requested by: @imthebadguyyy

Summary: Thomas Shelby has been expanding his business for years, making deals with other gangs all the time. But the Vipers, they were a different story. They’re crazy and dangerous, and they are not willing to share their land, so Tommy sets up a meeting with their leader. It was not who he expected.

a/n: Dudley is a city in England kind of close to Birmingham, just so y’all know.

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

Polly was minding her business, walking around the shop straightening up here and there. It was just her and Esme at the moment, the betting shop had not yet opened. There was supposed to be a family meeting in about ten minutes, but by the looks of it Tommy was going to be late as perusal.

Ada had just walked in, shortly followed by John and Arthur. Finn stayed with Isaiah, Tommy had told him not to come because it was an “adult” meeting. They all sat around, conversing and just having small talk and after twenty minutes of waiting for Tommy, Polly was fed up.

“Where the bloody hell is that brother of yours?”

John and Arthur looked at eachother wearily, should they tell her?

Their looks didn’t go unnoticed by any of the women. Ada was getting frustrated too, Tommy called the damn meeting so where the hell was he?

“C’mon boys, Polly and I want to know.”

Arthur sighed, rubbing a hand down his face and itching his mustache, “so you see ladies, he-”

Arthur was interrupted by the door to the shop slamming open and banging against the wall, Tommy coming in with literal blood on his hands.

“What the fuck Thomas? Where in the bloody hell have you been? An- and is that blood?! Christ Tommy!” Polly was so confused, her nephew came into his own meeting late, with blood on his hands?

Tommy ignored his aunts questions and walked around the table, lit a cigarette and poured himself a glass of whiskey, Irish of course. He grabbed a cloth and began to wipe the blood off of his hands, all while being silent. Everyone else had grown quiet too, waiting for Tommy to speak, or at least acknowledge them.

He drank his whiskey in one gulp and poured another. He then finally looked up at his family, now clean from the blood on his hands. Well, at least the blood that you could see.

“I’ve been trying to make new...acquaintances you could say,” he took a long drag of his cig, “and people were not happy about it.”

The three women looked at Tommy, waiting for him to explain more. John and Arthur already knew everything, they were just sitting there, waiting for their aunt's reaction to what Tommys was about to say. He quickly drank his second glass. Polly copied his actions, bringing her drink to her lips as well.

“As you all know, our business is expanding everyday. We’ve already reached London, and now, now I’m trying to get to Dudley.”

Ada's eyes widened and Esme immediately got up to leave. Polly began to ferociously cough on her drink, not expecting to hear such news. Arthur leaned over in his seat and aggressively started to smack his aunt’s back, trying to help ease her drink down. Tommy sat there just watching everything with a stoic face.

Polly began to swat at Arthurs hands, and he pulled them back raised in the air defensively, not wanting to get hit by his aunt.

She rose from her seat, a look of disbelief on her face and pointed her manicured finger in Tommy's face, “Are you MAD Thomas?! You have no business being on their land! Now you've done dragged us all into this! Thomas, what in the blo-”

“Hear me out Pol, I’ve al-” Polly cut him off like he did her, she was furious. He was going to get them all killed!

“No Thomas, you listen to me. You go on their land and expect to make a peace treaty with them? They’re so good at what they do no one’s ever seen their faces Tom! Just you wait, this is all going to come back and bite you in your ass!” Polly stormed out of the shop and into their house, slamming the doors behind her.

They all sat in silence for a few seconds before John decided to break it, “well, that went better than I thought it would.” Arthur snorted at that, raising his drink to cover the sound.

“Whose blood was on your hands, Tommy?” For the first time the whole meeting, Ada had finally spoken.

“Some man came up to me and told me to leave, saying they didn’t want the devil to walk among their streets. He pulled a knife on me, so I shot him. Simple as that.”

“Simple as that? Simple as that Tommy? You’ve shot one of her men! This is war now Tommy.”

Arthur looked up from his drink and made eye contact with Ada, “Her? Who in the bloody hell said anything about it being a woman, Ada? You really think the leader of The Vipers is a woman?”

“Haven’t you lot heard? There's been rumors for months about the WHOLE gang being run by women.”

John and Arthur both barked out laughter, women? Why would women be running a gang, let alone one as dangerous as The Vipers.

Ada’s face turned red, cursing her sexest brothers. Stupid men and their cocks.

Tommy sat there reclined in his seat, lost in his own thought. It couldn’t be women, could it?

His sister stood up from her seat, yelling at her brothers before leaving the room in the same fashion Polly had, even slamming the door a little harder.

Arthur smacked his hand against the table, breaking Tommy out of his trance. Him and John were still laughing their asses off.

“Women? Can you bloody believe that Tom? A bloody woman!” John doubled back over in laughter again at Arthurs words. Tommy still just sat there, watching his brothers laugh. He got up to leave the shop, heading to London to see a certain Solomons.

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

“Tommy, what can I do for you mate?” Alfie was loud, as usual.

Tommy sat in front of Alfie, preparing himself for the conversation ahead of him. “There’s word going around, Alfie, that you are the only ally of The Vipers, is that true?”

Alfie stared blankly ahead of himself before letting out a loud boisterous laugh that had Ollie wincing in the corner. He looked at Tommy and immediately stopped when he saw Tommy was serious.

“Oh, oh you’re serious?” What business could you possibly want with The Vipers Tommy?”

“Is that a yes or no, Alfie? Are you allies with them?”

Alfie eyeballed Tommy before sighing and nodding his head. Tommy smirked at his small victory. “I’m wanting to do business with him, Alfie. I want to expand and put some of my men in Dudley. But, I need help. I’ve heard they’re unpredictable, especially their leader. Would you care to tell me his name, Alf?”

Again, Alfie laughed. He stood up with the help of his cane and leaned on his large desk closer to Tommy, “right, there's two things you need to know Tom. First of all, they are unpredictable and they wouldn’t hesitate to bite your head off if you backstabbed them, yeah.” He paused for a second, debating if he should tell Tommy the second part.

Tommy nodded, waiting for Alfie to continue, but he didn’t.

“What’s the second thing?”

Alfie just smirked down at the brummie, “That's for me to know and for you to find out.”

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

Three days later it was Friday evening and Tommy had invited everyone for a family dinner, it was all Polly’s idea. They were all gathered around the unnecessary large dining table at Arrow house. Charlie sat next to Tommy, Esme and John were next to each other, their hundreds of kids all at home with a sitter, along with Karl. Polly and Ada were sat side by side and Arthur was in the corner of the room pouring himself a drink. It was getting late, everyone had already ate their dinner and dessert.

“Mary, could you take Charlie up to bed? It’s getting late.”

She quickly walked around the table nodding her head, “Yes, Mr.Shelby.”

Everyone had migrated to the living room now, for once not talking about business. Their laughing was interrupted when there was a knock on the door, they all stood up.

“Who could that possibly be this late at night?” The loud knock had put all of them on edge.

The men all drew their guns, walking to the door, telling the woman to stay put. Naturally none of them listened and they all followed behind the boys.

Tommy swung the door open with his gun pointed out, ready to shoot whoever was there. They were all confused when they didn’t see anybody, but they were even more confused when they looked down to see a box with Tommy’s name on it.

Polly smacked Tommy on the back of his head, “Don't just stand there you idiot, bring the box in!” She reached down and grabbed the box, bringing it in and sitting it on the living room table.

John was a little hesitant, why was there a box? Who had dropped it off?

Tommy inspected the box, it didn’t seem harmful, but that didn’t stop his nerves. He wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but he was a little freaked out at the package too. He slowly reached for the box and ever so slowly opened it.

“BLOODY HELL!”

“WHAT THE FUCK?!”

“TOMMY I-”

“WHAT IN THE HELL IS THAT?!”

Everyone was screaming and panicking, Tommy had jumped back and almost tripped over his feet, the women had all run to the next room and the men had drawn their guns once again.

Lunging out of the box was a bright green fluorescent Viper, hungry for blood. It striked again, almost catching Esme by the arm as she ran by it. It slithered out the box, its fangs out waiting to catch someone. Arthur began shooting at the floor, steadily putting holes in it. Tommy had finally stood back up, and John reached for Esme to check her for injuries. Arthur kept shooting, still putting bullet holes in Tommy's wooden floors.

A loud bang echoed through the house, and it wasn’t Arthur because he had run out of ammo. There stood Ada with a small revolver in her had, and a bullet lodged in the snakes head. Everyone stopped to stare at her, eyes wide in shock.

“Guess chasing rats finally paid off, huh?”

Polly had walked back in the room and bent down to inspect the green snake before standing up to look Tommy in the eyes.

John hugged Esme to his chest and turned towards his brother, “What in the bloody hell is this Tom?”

Tommy looked at John blankly, he himself didn’t even know. He went to make something up but Pol had beaten him to it.

“This, John,” she reached down and picked up the dead but still squirming snake, “is what you call a Viper.” And with that she flung the snake at Tommy who jumped back in disgust.

Adas head perked up at that, “A viper? But how, they're not native.”

Everyone thought about it a moment, before they put the pieces together. Polly began to laugh maniacally and everyone averted their gaze to her, had she gone mad?

“I told you Thomas! I told you this was going to come back and bite you in your ass!”

Tommy sighed and ran a hand down his sweating face before peering in the box again. Inside was a note and he reached in to grab it and he read it aloud, “Stay off our land Shelby.”

Everyone began to fret again. They were running around like a chicken that got its head cut off, screaming about how Tommy never should have stepped foot in Dudley.

Tommy sat down on his couch, thinking about what to do. What if Charlie had been downstairs? The snake surely would have gotten to him, after all he is just a child. He needed a smoke and a drink as soon as possible, he stood up and marched up to his office to make a phone call, completely ignoring his family's calls of his name

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

Two weeks after the snake incident, Tommy had managed to get a meeting with you, thanks to the one and only Alfie Solomons. When Tommy had told him what had happened that night he shook his head and chucked, telling Tommy you had done the same thing to him all those years ago. But Tommy still didn’t know who you were.

The three eldest Shelby’s stepped out of Tommy's car and landed on the Dudely turf, they all felt a little uneasy about the situation. They began to follow the directions Alfie had given them, the area getting more and more sketchier as they went.

Dudley was very dull, the sky was always grey and the streets were always muddy. The air was foggy like Birmingham, maybe even worse. They were getting looks everywhere they turned, none of them being used to it considering their name.

A loud clang of metal caught their attention and they all turned to look. All three of them pulled their guns when they saw a scruffy man charging them with a knife. Right when Arthur was about to pull the trigger, they all four stopped when someone yell.

Another man came running towards them, screaming at the man that was attacking them.

“Stop Marc! They’re here because Yilan has agreed to meet with them!”

The man stopped what he was doing immediately, turning as pale as a ghost and dropped his weapon to the ground. He turned back around to the Shleby’s and apologized profusely before running off.

The three brothers looked at each other in confusion.

“What the fuck was that about? Who the hell is Yilan?” John was asking too many questions and Tommy didn’t have the answers to them.

“I don’t fucking know John, now shut the hell up!”

(a/n: Yilan means snake in Turkish [which is my family’s native language])

The man who had stopped the other walked up to the brothers.

“I am sorry, sirs. Yilan is what we call the leader of the Vipers.”

Tommy nodded a thanks to the man, asking him if he could take them to their headquarters. The man reluctantly agreed, not wanting to get on anyones bad side.

After around twenty more minutes of walking they stopped in front of a worn down brick building. It had vines growing up the whole thing and two very, very large men were guarding the door. Their escort had scurried off as soon as they got there, Tommy not even being able to thank the man.

The brothers began to walk towards the door and Arthur leaned down to whisper, “Ha, and Ada said they were run by women!”

John chuckled, he couldn’t wait to tell Ada she was wrong. Tommy hushed the two before speaking to the men guarding the door.

They both stared at the brothers, almost as if they were staring into their souls. They didn’t speak, waiting for one of the others to.

Tommy cleared his throat, “We’re here to see your boss. We have a meeting, Thomas Shelby.”

The larger out of the two opened the door, “Third floor straight down the hallway.” Tommy nodded his head before heading in, the two brothers following his lead.

The inside of the building was loud with music and the walls were all painted bright green. Tommy guessed for a viper. They all walked in a little further and stopped in their tracks, shock registering through their veins.

There was not one man inside. The room was full of women from every race you could imagine. Some had a tattoo here and there, some were covered in them. There was women with red curly hair, others with black straight. Any type of woman you could imagine, from short to tall and thin to curvy, was there. And they were all staring at them.

Arthur gulped and John smirked but then quickly frowned when he realised that his sister was right, this whole gang was women. He did have to admit though, it was a little sexy, even though he knew half of them could probably kick his ass.

Tommy cleared his throat before walking ahead, not making eye contact with any of the women. He walked towards the stairs and climbed them until he got to the third floor and walked straight down the hallway. When they reached the door Tommy hesitated for a moment before knocking. A faint “come in” was heard, and they all walked in.

Sitting behind a large oak desk was you, relaxing in your chair with a wicked smile on your face. You were so ready to finally meet the man who wanted your land.

Not making any effort to sit up in a more presentable position, you gestured to the three chairs in front of you, telling them to take a seat.

Tommy and John did but Arthur was still hesitant. What had they walked into?

“No offense ma’am, I think I would rather stand,” he was fidgeting the whole time and you could smell his nervousness. Tommy looked up and glared at his older brother.

You leaned forward in your chair and rested your arms on your desk and sat your chin on your hands. “Please, Arthur, take a seat before I shoot both your knee caps and make you sit.” You pulled a gun and sat it on your desk, smiling up at Arthur.

John was a nervous wreck and Arthur visibly gulped and sat down with shaky legs. Tommy kept staring at you though, he thought you were beautiful, but psycho. You intrigued him.

You leaned back in your chair again, leaving the gun on the desk. “Mr.Shelby, I do really hope you enjoyed my gift the other day. Alfie told me it brought… excitement to your family.”

God you were definitely psycho.

Tommy cleared his throat, “Ms.Yilan I-”

You sat back up again, “No no no, Mr.Shelby, that is not my name. Please, call me y/n.”

For a brief moment there, you almost seemed normal. It scared the brothers how easily your emotions changed.

“Right, okay. Let's not even talk about that, okay? Let's just get straight to business. And please, call me Tommy”

“I like the way you think, Tommy.”

And boy did you like the way he looked too.

“First of all Tommy, I do NOT like you coming on to MY land and shooting MY people.” You were getting angry, your eyes were ablaze and your jaw was clenched.

“That man you shot, Tommy, had a family. He had a wife and two daughters, and now I have to spend MY money on them because YOU shot their caretaker. I could be doing so much more with that money.”

Tommy was taken aback with your forwardness, those were not the words he was expecting to hear.

“He charged me with a knife, it was self de-”

“Nonsense Tommy! You could have simply knocked him out, anything but shoot him! He was an innocent man Thomas!”

Tommy sighed, he knew there was no winning this. “You’re right, and I apologize for my mistake.”

John and Arthur looked at each other with wide eyes, Tommy apologized?

“Thank you, but your apology is not accepted, but I do believe we're even.”

Tommy’s brows furrowed, even? How were you even?

This caught Johns interest too, “Even? How do you mean?”

You smirked at all of them and they became concerned, what had you done?

“On your way here, hope you all had a nice trip by the way, I sent two of my women to your town. I told them to do exactly as you did, but add some Viper charm to it. They took my beloved snake Ebony with them, and they allowed her to pick an innocent man, like you had.”

Tommy was definitely confused now, where was this going?

“She did amazing, really. She struck an innocent man in the streets. And I would say that right about now,” you checked your watch, “her venom is kicking in, and he is dying a slow and painful death.” You looked up at the three, flashing them an innocent smile.

“You fucking crazy bitch! What the bloody hell is wrong with you?!” Arthur lunged for you across your desk, Tommy and John trying to stop him.

He grabbed your gun that you left on the table and pointed it straight to your face. All you did was smirk at him.

Tommy pleadingly begged Arthur to put the gun down, but you held up your hand to stop him. He looked at you like you were crazy. Which to be fair, you were.

“Go on Arthur,” you pressed your head closer to the barrel, “I know you want to. Why don’t you pull it, huh? Do the world a favor and get rid of a crazy bitch like me.”

Arthur stared in your eyes, looking for any sign of fear. He found none. He thought about it for a moment, should he do it? After all, the world would be a better place.

He smiled, and pulled the trigger.

But nothing happened, his smile fell when he heard you laughing. He opened the barrel to the gun and found that there were no bullets, you had played him. He backed away and fell back in his chair when you got up. You pulled a gun from the waistband of your trousers and pointed it towards him, shooting a shot that whizzed by his head so he knew this one was full. John flinched, and Tommy reached for his own gun.

You pointed your gun at John and then back at Arthur, “You two, get out. I want to speak to Thomas. Alone.”

They both got up and scurried out the door like a dog with its tail tucked between its legs. You put your gun away which was a sign for Tommy too as well, and you both sat down.

“Now Thomas, lets talk about business, yeah?”

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

Almost an hour later you and Tommy had finally come to terms and made a small business deal. It wasn’t anything big, but it was a start. Tommy still sat in front of you, drinking his whiskey that you had poured him. Oddly enough he had grown to like you.

Strangely, so had you.

Tommy put out his cigarette and pointed his drink in your direction, “What’re you doing this Friday y/n?”

You pretended to check your agenda, and smiled at Tommy. “Well, hopefully I’ll being going on a date with a very handsome man.”

He smiled up at you “He must be quite handsome for you to agree.”

“That he is Tommy. How about you?”

He smirked at you through the rim of his drink, “Oh you know, I’m going on a date with one crazy bitch.”

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

I hope you like it @imthebadguyyy !! Although, I low key hated it😂😂

Have a great day darlings!!❤️❤️❤️

Let me know if y’all want to be added to the taglist!!

@nothingleftthaticando @shadowfoxey

[yesimwriting]

Falling Angels

A/n this literally poureddd from me, might be bad bc recently i’ve hated everything i’ve written (my drafts are full lol)

--

Series Summary: Y/n is a rising star in the most famous circus in Ketterdam because of her ability to see the future. Unfortunately for her, Kaz Brekker knows more of her backstory than he should, and he’s willing to use that to his advantage. The one thing he’s not betting on? That he doesn’t know her entire story

Chapter summary: Y/n gets a visitor before getting tricked into the most dangerous show of her life. 

Pairing: SOC x reader, Kaz Brekker x psychic! sunshine-y! reader

Warning: mentions of sexual harassment, slight cursing, near death experience 

--

Enjoy it, because it doesn’t last. That’s what the older girls whisper, mock casualness attempting to disguise bitter undertones as I walk past them. They say this, sharp nails ready to be covered in blood as red as their lipstick, because the pile of gifts from my ‘admirers’ keep coming. Circus hands keep approaching the long vanity in the dressing room tent, tapping me on the shoulder politely to shove cards and bouquets of flowers in my lap. They don’t understand that the praise isn’t because the patrons of our performances find me more beautiful--they’re desperate for my favor. They’re desperate to know their future.

Looking at myself in the mirror, the pageantry of it all has not yet grown old to me. My hair is still in the process of being styled, my stage makeup is half done, and I am not yet coated in that golden shimmer Senia always dusts across my cheeks and shoulders. But I am more enhanced than I normally am, eyes made bright by thick coats of mascara, cupid's bow made prominent by ruby lipstick. The lip look is more daring than I’ve been before, but there can’t be much harm in change. Not when half the women here keep looking at me like I’m the saint of virginity. 

It’s not my fault that the Ringmaster thought an angelic aesthetic would work best for the fortune teller who walks around before the show, reading palms so that people can have their pockets picked. It’s not my fault people want an angel to take the stage and call people down from the audience to get a detailed reading around the crowded circus tent. I don’t pick the costumes, and while I acknowledge that mine shows the least amount of skin, the Ringmaster found a way to dress me as suggestively as possible without ruining the illusion of innocence. 

At least the flowing tulle wings that are stitched into the back of my costume are beautiful. It’s easier when I enjoy the good. 

“Y/n!” The familiar call of Senia. I turn my head, beaming. “You’re a vision, and all of those jealous girls--you can tell them to take their wrinkling faces and--” 

“Seria.” For someone so much like a mother, she often needs to be reminded that not everything needs an aggressive rebuttal. “Think about it from their perspectives--their entire existence is dependent on how sellable they are, how attractive they are to men who only want to use them. If that makes them mad at me because they feel like my youth and novelty is taking from them, then that’s okay.” She raises a fine eyebrow. “I can take a few mean words.” 

Seria purses her lips. “Okay, but I’m just as old and tired and you don’t see me trying to poison you.” 

I roll my eyes. 

“Look, it's our very own saint.” I roll my eyes, Via’s shrill voice piercing through me like an annoying papercut. “And in such a scandalous lip color--has the Ringmaster finally taken you to the ivory tent?” 

Ivory tent. It’s been mentioned to me before and always in jest. “Where he takes me is none of your business, if not being the favorite hurts you so badly ju--” 

She laughs, the sound is pure vile. “Being the favorite is the worst thing you could be in a place like this. You’re shiny and new and soon you’ll be as used as the rest of us--Seria’s use is waning, what happened to her today is proof of that. Soon you’ll have no one to protect you.” 

When she looks at me I see more pain than hatred. “I think we’d get along better if I had it in me to hate you.” 

She raises an eyebrow before shaking a cigarette from a small box into her palm. “You’ll get there, princess.” 

The nickname leaves me burning. There’s nothing more consuming than fire. “You better pray to the real Saints I don’t.” 

via laughs, lifting the cigarette to her lips and lighting it with her abilities. She walks away, turning my threat into that of a child’s. 

“She’s right on two accounts.” Seria hums, “The Ringmaster will kill you if you wear that lipstick and Ketterdam turns people like you into people like me. We could save up, pay off your indenture--get you out.” 

Seria doesn’t need to make sacrifices like that. Not for me. Besides, there’s no leaving Ketterdam for me. Not anymore. “Being like you wouldn’t be a bad thing.” I scratch my arm, see through material wrinkling as a result. “And I can’t--I can’t just leave. I’m a psychic, no Grisha can see the future. I need the facelessness of Ketterdam.” Her lips thin in protest. “And don’t think I didn’t hear what she said about you--what happened to your foot, and what’s in the ivory tent? People keep saying it, whispering it like there’s--” 

“That tent is nothing that will ever concern you. I’ve given you my guidance, and the one thing I ask is that you never ask or go to the ivory tent.” 

I swallow once, the intensity in her eyes leaving me raw. “What if he tells me to?” 

“He won’t.” Seria breathes. “He doesn’t like that for you.” 

This isn’t an argument I can have now, not with two minutes until the show starts. “And your foot?” 

She shrugs, holding up a bandaged ankle. “You get older, your ligaments like the tightrope walk less and less. I’ll be fine.” 

“You’re not tightrope walking like that--” 

“Yes, I am. The Ringmaster doesn’t know and he can’t--if I start giving him performance trouble--you don’t know what happens to the girls who can’t pay off their indenture by performing.” 

I swallow once. “You’ll be careful?” 

“Always,” she grins, “Besides--one day you’ll know enough about tightrope walking to help me on days like this.” 

The last time I trained on the mini-tightrope had proven me to be a disappointment. Still, I smile at her softly. I open my mouth to respond, but a quick tap to my shoulder silences me. 

“Miss,” a circus hand I recognize begins.

I smile politely. “Please leave any gifts on my vanity--” 

“It’s not a gift,” he mumbles, voice taut, “You have visitors.” 

Something solid pushes itself into my chest, wedging itself between my lungs. Have they found me? “I-I don’t take visitors. Not before shows, if someone wants a private reading they’re to go to my tent at the front--” 

“We’re not here for readings or any of the other lies you sell.” 

...Surprising. I let my gaze move from the face of the circus hand and towards the individuals behind him. A man, tall and dressed in business attire--hat and all. His face is all sharp angles and his eyes are emotionless. His leather-gloved hands grip the head of an intricate cane. Next to him is another tall man, dressed a little more casually, with dark curls. Lastly, there’s a girl, with oil-black hair pulled into a sleek ponytail. 

“Then what are you here for?” 

Seria, never one to leave me unattended around strange men, takes a step in front of me. “I know who you are, Dirtyhands, and I know there’s no business you could find with her.” 

What? Dirtyhands? Can people in Ketterdam ever just be normal? 

“I wouldn’t speak so certainly.” I don’t like the way his eyes narrow at Seria or the way his grip on the cane tightens. 

Thoughtlessly, I stick a hand between them, forcing Seria back slightly. “I apologize, she’s protective--always assuming the worst in people. Though considering she called you ‘Dirtyhands’, maybe that’s what you want.” 

Ugh. All I do is ramble when I most definitely shouldn’t. “Want what?” 

Eyebrows drawing together, I force myself to hold his gaze. “For people to assume the worst.” 

The response seems to confuse him. That’s okay--I’ll take anything over aggressive. “The only people I want to assume the worst are those I want to be right.” 

Okay. Dramatic was a fair assumption. 

“Seria.” Oh no. I know that voice. I know that voice too well. “They tell me you're injured.”

Seria stiffens, as does every performer when he addresses them. “Not too injured to perform, sir.” 

The Ringmaster sneers. “I can’t risk you falling and embarrassing me. Perhaps tonight you’ll make your money by spending the entire show in the ivory tent.” 

The way she hardens wrenches my gut. I press my hands to avoid reaching out for her. “I can do the tightrope.” The Ringmaster’s gaze shifts towards me. “I can do it--and I can do it well and I’ll give the profit to Seria.”

He tilts his chin, regarding me in a way a woman should never be regarded. He’s a predator and I’m a lamb that’s lost its way. Still, I hold his gaze. I don’t flinch, even when he moves to brush his knuckles along my cheek. His touch is acid. Pure, burning acid. “The wings I placed on your back are decorative.”

“I don’t need them.” Total bullshit. 

“Hm,” he breathes, letting the smell of alcohol fill the space between us, “I’ll allow it.” The Ringmaster drops his hand to his side. “Wipe that lipstick off your face before someone mistakes you for one of these common whores.” 

How I don’t throw up at the sight of him is a miracle in itself. By some small mercy, he turns and walks away before I have to respond. 

“You’re an idiot--you know you’re not ready for the tightrope.” 

“There’s a net,” I try to keep my voice light, dismissive. She remains tense. “Seria, I had to.” 

“No, you could have--” 

“It’s not fair that you’re always a shield for me. When the opportunity to shield you for once comes, I’ll take it.” Turning before she can protest, I try to walk forward. The stranger places his cane where I intend to walk, intentionally warning me that he decides when our conversation is over. Unfortunately, I used up all my patience with the Ringmaster. “130 kruge.” He raises an eyebrow. “That’s the estimated amount I’ll make tonight, unless I’m late and excluded from the show. Either make up the deficit you’ll be costing me or let me go.” 

His eyebrows draw together, shifting his expression from neutrally calloused to something much darker. “Kaz.” This comes from the girl. She takes a step forward. “Look one step ahead.”

“Excuse me?” 

“Everyone thinks you’re not supposed to look down, but looking up is just as impractical.” She pauses, expression strangely mesmerized, “Look one step ahead--not at your feet.” 

My genuine smile shocks me. “Thank you.” 

“I should be thanking you, Sankta y/n.” Her head bows, hands held together as if in prayer. 

Oh. She’s one of the religious that believes me an actual Saint. “I appreciate the sentiment, but if I was a Saint I’d be able to help people.” No matter what I do, no matter how much blood I offer, I can never help people. “And as you’ve seen--I can’t.” 

--

The crowd’s roaring is a different world to me. On the platform, feet away from the other wooden structure acting as solid ground, everything is different. I am now in a world where the only thing to believe in is a taut rope. The net is beneath me. I’ve seen it--I’ve checked it. 

“And for our grand finale!” The Ringmaster calls, voice billowing over an excited crowd. “Our very own angel defies death!” 

An odd way to phrase the tightrope walk. It’s never called ‘defying death’.  I had been surprised when I was told that tonight the tightrope walk would be the grand finale--I assumed it was because it featured me. I’m always the finale now. I try to move my foot off the platform but it’s planted firmly. No. I need to see Seria--I need to see who I’m doing this for. I force my gaze to the ground, panic rising in my chest. 

Instead of Seria, I see Via--her smirk apparent even from here. Spite’s a decent motivator. My foot descends off the platform, touching the tightrope cautiously. And then I move my other foot. All of me is now on this damn rope. I hadn’t been unforgivably horrible during practice, but I hadn’t been graceful either. 

Don’t look down, don’t look up--only look one step ahead. One step ahead--one step at a time. Balance. I take another step. The room is so silent there’s no doubt in my mind the sound of my bones cracking would be heard from the back row. But there’s the net. There’s always the net. I take a second step. And then a third--eyes focused on only one step ahead. 

And then the phantom of flame comes to claim me. Fire. The world around me is burning. Damning the consequences, I let my gaze fall to the world beneath me. The net--the Ringmaster had an Inferni light the net on fire. Via--that explains the look. 

I can’t fall--the guilt would kill Seria. 

Panic twists my stomach as I continue forward. One step ahead. One step ahead--the flames lick upwards, promising pain and grief all over again. One step ahead. One step--that’s all there is to it. The warmth of the fire calls to me. Burning. Burning--and one more step. This isn’t forever. This isn’t permanent--either way this will soon be over. 

There’s no miracle for me. No good grace, no wings that would let me save myself. There is only balance. 

One step ahead. And then another step. And then I see the other wooden platform. Thank the Saints. I grip the ladder of the platform as quickly as possible. The cheers mean nothing to me as I scurry down the ladder. 

I feel a sharp breeze, a Grisha putting out the flames. Anger pools in my chest as I move towards the exit of the tent. 

“Y/n.” No. Not him again. That man--Kaz, Dirtyhands, whoever he is--needs to go away. “Y/n.” I turn sharply, anger pulsing through me. My expression must be feral, because he stalls. “They didn’t tell you that they were going to burn the net.” 

The fact that he can tell--that he can see my panic and how close I came to death twists my anger into something more fragile. “No.” My posture straightens. “I need to go now, I do--I do readings after shows.”

“Y/n.” He repeats, firmer. 

My nails dig into my palms. “I’m going--” 

“I know what you are.” 

Tensing, my breathing stalls. “What?”

[connorwhumpaddict]

Deserving Of Pain (Part 5)

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Epilogue

Summary: Reed is finally found out, but not before he manages to cause more damage to Connor.

---

Chapter 5: Caught blue handed

Reed entered the transparent office space belonging to Captain Fowler. The burly man glanced up from his notes briefly before activating the opaque function of the glass around them, giving them some privacy. Fowler put aside his papers and silently gestured for Reed to take a seat opposite his desk, eyeing the detective as he did with an unreadable expression. Reed held his gaze firmly on the bronze plate with Fowler’s name and rank at the front of the desk, purposefully avoiding his commanding officer’s eyes. The captain crossed his arms and leaned heavily forward on his desk and took a deep breath, like he was steeling himself for the conversation that was surely going to follow.

“Look at me detective Reed.” Fowler demanded, his voice even, but still holding a firm authority.

Reed obeyed the request even though he would have preferred not to. However, he held up his usually scowling look of bored indifference. He didn’t want to give Fowler the satisfaction of seeing how small he really felt at this moment.

“I want you to tell me exactly what went wrong with you yesterday. You mismanaged a crucial assignment, by missing a child in the bomb threatened building, as leader of the evacuation team.” Fowler said, his voice calm but his eyes hard.

Reed swallowed hard. “I.. I was certain I’d cleared all areas, sir. I don’t have an explanation..” But he knew why. The thought of the Tin Can once again thinking it was special just because it had its fancy scanner and gadgets, thinking it was better than anyone else had pissed him off and occupied his thoughts and focus during the evac. A glorified computer shouldn’t even have been put in charge of such an important assignment! So.. Yeah, of course he’d been worried about its ability to administer such a task without blowing him up prematurely in the process! As he’d tried to make clear to his coworkers so many times before, an android with so little emotional and real-life experience is not able to make prober calculated, experienced decisions and is not suitable to have ones back in the field! So really it was the fucking Tin Can’s fault!

Fowler nodded solemnly. “I know you didn’t mean to cause any harm Reed, but this is a serious matter and there will be an investigation. Now I want you to know I’ll have your back and I don’t want you to worry, it’s mostly a formality. Thankfully Connor managed to rescue that girl, it avoids a lot of the complications that could have followed.”

Reed’s teeth clenched hard, he was never going to be grateful to that fucking android. “Am I dismissed sir?” He simply asked before his anger would show for real.

Fowler waved him off with a quick gesture while leaning back in his flexible office chair. “Of course, dismissed.”

Reed stood quickly from his seat and made his way out of the office and marched through the bullpen, ignoring the many looks he received on his way. He marched all the way out to a sealed off terrace to grab a smoke. He cursed fiercely as he struggled to get his lighter working against the wind. When he finally succeeded in lighting his cigarette he inhaled the smoke deeply into his lungs on his first drag, before exhaling slowly. He was hoping to calm the rage boiling inside him by numbing it with nicotine, but it was barely working. An investigation! And he was supposed to be grateful that fucking machine had saved the day! It was that fucking Tin Can’s fault to begin with!! It was probably even its intention all along to make him look like a fucking fool just to receive all glory and praise itself! And he was sure as hell not gonna stand by and let himself be made a fool of!

---

“Almost there just keep leaning on me, I got you.” John encouraged as he guided Connor through the front door of his and Hank’s home. The tech had one arm wrapped firmly around Connor’s torso, mindful of the still healing damage on the android’s lower back, while the other held Connor’s arm that in turn was draped across his own broad shoulders.

Connor had been admitted, treated and had one nights’ observations at the tech facility, but it had been clear he’d been very uncomfortable and unable to rest probably in the bare, sterile surroundings. Hank suspected it reminded the kid of the cold and harsh environment he’d had to endure when he’d still been in the service of Cyberlife, when his maintenance checks or repairs would mean a detached, emotionless, objectifying procedure with no regard for the kid’s comfort or security.

John had been fast to catch on to Connor’s discomfort as well. Without the kid having to even utter a single complaint John had been made arrangement with the tech staff, by showing his certification as an authorized technician and explaining his more than capable ability to take over Connor’s care from the comfort of his own home. So, with the promise to uphold a continued monitor for the next couple of days Connor had been released into the care of John, much to the android’s silent relief.

Which brought them to this moment as John carefully helped Connor to lay down on the couch in the living room. Hank had gone ahead of them to collect Sumo and lock him into the laundry room. The big oaf insisted on showing his love by basically tackling his targets to the ground and there were few people the giant dog loved more than his android master, but since Connor was still on the mend that was not a wanted scenario right now. Still recovering from a major procedure and his own self-healing programs working overtime on several of his inner and outer components meant that Connor’s energy and thirium levels depleted very fast and even the relatively short journey from the facility and walk from the car had already weakened and tired him out completely. This was the reason for his current need for the heavy support John was luckily happy to offer. Hank and his back felt very grateful too, that the DPD tech had the physic to basically carry the lethargic android with no difficulty.

Once John was satisfied his arrangement of the pillows offered Connor’s back and neck enough support and comfort the tech placed a warm blanket draped on the back cushions over the brunet’s legs, letting his hands rest there gently afterwards and looking at Connor with his soft caring eyes.

“There, now just rest here for a bit and don’t resist going into stasis if you need it. I’m just going on a quick errand to my lab and fetch some equipment to help me keep an eye on your vitals. Then I’m gonna swing by my own place to pack a bit of clothes and necessities and on the way back here I’ll be sure to pick some extra thirium packs, juts to be sure.”

“I can go pick up some thirium John, spare you a trip.” Hank offered.

The blonde shook his head gently. “No, I don’t want Connor to be alone. It’s no problem at all and don’t worry..” John turned his head back to look at Connor with a cheeky smirk. “I know what flavors you like.”

Connor offered a sleepy, but still warm smile at the tech. “Thank you, John. I really appreciate your help.”  

“Always Con, I’ll be back in about an hour, okay?” John said, squeezing Connor’s legs once with reassurance.

Connor nodded in understanding. John offered him one last smile then aimed a smile and a nod in Hank’s direction before heading back out the door. Hank listened as John started the ignition on his truck, hearing the wheels graveling on the driveway as he backed out and drove away. Once the sound of the car engine had disappeared the lieutenant turned back to his incapacitated son, his arms planted in his sides.

“How you doing, kid?”

Connor let out a long sigh, his LED spinning a slow yellow.

“Physically.. Sore, tired, my back’s hurting a little, but I feel much better just being back home.. Emotionally.. I’m not so sure..”

Hank took a perch on the arm of the couch. “Well, you know the drill, talk it out.”

Conner looked at his father, looking conflicted. “Dad I.. I think I might.. Like John..”

Hank lowered his head but his eyes staying locked on his son. “Okay, you like John.. Now when you say like..” Hank trailed off.

Connor closed his eyes and let out another sigh, this time sounding slightly frustrated as he tried to explain, his LED spinning a faster yellow. “I mean I.. I think I..” Connor lifted his hands, as if he was physically trying to frame his thoughts. “I think I like him as.. More than a friend.. In a.. I guess.. Romantic.. Kind of way.. Maybe..”

Hank lifted his hand to cover his mouth in thought, but also to hide the smile growing on his face. Not that he found the situation funny, he knew Connor was struggling to figure out these new complex feelings and needed his support, but he couldn’t help feeling glad for all the exciting new experiences and joys this realization could bring along for him. And he couldn’t imagine anyone better or more suitable for his son than the kindhearted technician. From day one since John had been employed at the precinct, the tech had treated everyone with respect and kindness and taken especially care and consideration for his android colleagues/ patients. Hank was a seasoned detective and he prided himself with being an excellent judge of character, especially after he got sober again thanks to Connor, and John had made it straight to the lieutenant’s good graces right away as he watched how kind he was and how easily he’d connected with people. To be honest, he’d suspected John to have had an eye out for Connor for quite some time as well, but it was obvious the tech had been trying to stay professional since he’s also Connor’s technical caretaker. But Hank had also seen the positive chance in his son the last few months and he’d seen the signs of his attraction to the blonde tech, but it was good that the kid finally seemed to have arrived at the same conclusion on his own.

“Well sure son, I knew that already.” Hank answered casually with a smile.

Connor’s eyes widened at that. “You knew, how? I didn’t even know! I’m not even sure if I know now!!” The android exclaimed sitting up a bit further before hissing in discomfort as the action pulled in his back.

“Alright calm down! Don’t hurt yourself more.” Hank shushed as he moved to settle at the edge of the couch cushion closer to Connor, patting his chest to make him settle back down and eyeing him with a pointed look. “Now, it might have been many years since I was in the game, but I sure as hell remember the feeling. So answer me this..” Hank started counting on his fingers. “When you see John walk into the room, do you feel a rush of joy?”

Connor seemed to ponder the question for a moment before nodding slightly. “Yes.”

“When you’re with John, how do you feel?”

“I feel like.. It’s very easy to be with him. I feel like I can be myself around him. I enjoy and appreciate his company very much.”

Hank continued. “John has seen you at some of your worst and most vulnerable moments, how did he make you feel in those moments?”

Once again Connor took some time to ponder his father’s question. “I’ve.. always felt very safe and cared for whenever he’s aided me. Whenever I have suffered damage, no matter how big or small the injury has been he’s offered me not only great physically care but always been very focused on my emotional and mental wellbeing. He’s always gone to great lengths to make sure I’m comfortable in every way possible..” Connor paused as he recalled his and John’s conversation yesterday, when Connor had claimed to be a burden on the both the DPD and the tech himself for being incapacitated by his multiple malfunctions and how John had stopped his negative thoughts, then promised he’d make sure to make Connor see and believe his own worth with time. The memory brought a soft smile to the android’s face. “He’s.. Very patient, kind and understanding towards me.. Even when I feel at my lowest.. And very caring, beyond what should be excepted of him.. I feel lucky that he’s a part of my life and I feel like something would be missing without him in it.” Connor concluded looking back up at the smiling face of Hank.

The lieutenant placed a hand on his son’s shoulder and shook him gently. “Yep, you got it bad son.”

Connor groaned dramatically and buried his head in his hands. “I don’t know what to do..”

“How about telling John how you feel?” Hank suggested.

“I can’t do that!!” The android cried out in slight alarm, lifting his head back up.

“Why not?”

“What if he doesn’t feel the same? I don’t want to put him in an awkward situation.. We work together.. He’s my primary technician! I probably shouldn’t even be thinking of him like this, it’s unethical I..”

“Easy kid, slow down!” Hank interrupted. “Love isn’t rational or logic. Sometimes you just gotta throw yourself out there and hope for the best.” Hank leaned a little closer. “But I wouldn’t worry that much if I were you.” He nudged Connor’s chin gently with his fist. “You’re a catch after all.”

Connor rolled his eyes slightly, leaning back fully on the softly arranged pillows below him. “You’re my dad, you have to say that.”

Hank clapped his hands on his thighs as he stood from his perch on the couch. “Maybe, but I mean it as well. Now, try not to worry too much about this because I promise you, there’s nothing to worry about. So, get some rest kid, I’m sure everything will work out, just wait and see.”

“Alright..” The android agreed. He could feel his eyes growing heavy as his body started to prepare for stasis. Sumo’s whines picked up and echoed down the hall. Connor tiredly turned his eyes to his father before he could go too far. “Could you let Sumo out, please? He won’t jump up when I’m laying down. I’d like to have him next to me while I sleep for a bit.”

Hank turned and smiled softly. “Of course.” And went down to let the big furball out of confinement. Sumo proceeded to sprint past his human master right to the couch where he could smell Connor was located. Hank huffed out in mock offense. “What am I? Hot air?”

But Sumo was already gone, making his way to the other side of the couch. As he neared the dog calmed down his eagerness to greet the bedridden android. It was as if the animal could sense Connor wasn’t well enough for their usual fervent petting sessions. Instead, the gentle giant slowed down and simply pressed his head into Connor’s awaiting right hand and licked his master’s other hand resting on his chest. Connor smiled and scratched behind Sumo’s ears, making his fluffy tail wag quickly back and forth.

“Good dog, Sumo. You know, I met a new friend yesterday who’d love to meet you. I hope you’ll get the chance soon, I know you’ll love her.”

Sumo let out a soft grunt before turning on the spot a few times to then settle on the carpet between the couch and coffee table. The giant dog settled in the middle, so that Connor could keep his hand buried and resting on the dog’s wide back. It wasn’t long before Connor followed by example as he could no longer keep his stasis at bay, closing his eyes, making his blue LED slow down into a calm, steady rhythm. Hank tiptoed near and pulled the blanket up higher on the kid to keep him warm and comfortable.

“Sleep well kid.” He whispered before turning to his dog. “You help keep an eye out for him boy.” The lieutenant asked the Bernard. Sumo let out another soft grunt, as if he wanted to communicate that he understood his assignment.

“Good boy.”

When John returned some time later, his arms stacked with equipment, supplies and luggage it was to the sight of Connor laying in a deep stasis with Sumo keeping close vigil over the resting brunette. The dog only spared John with a quick look with his drooping eyes as the tech arrived through the front door, knowing he was no threat. A basketball game on mute was playing on the tv and in the armchair besides the couch lay the sleeping form of lieutenant Anderson, snoring slightly.

John smiled at the heartwarming sight. He quickly put everything away to its rightful place. Then he went to gently pull a warm blanket over the sleeping lieutenant before taking a seat on the couch armrest next to the resting android’s head. Even though he knew he shouldn’t, the tech ran one hand gently through the soft brown locks, chuckling as the ever rough lock of hair fell right back down front. Beneath his hand Connor shifted unconsciously closer to the touch, making the tech draw back his hand swiftly. It wasn’t alright to touch Connor so familiarly when he wasn’t even conscious to refuse or set his own boundaries. John knew he was already taking more liberties with Connor than he should as a professional technician.. But it was getting harder and harder to suppress his ever growing affection towards the kind, brave and breathtakingly handsome detective. He had to admit Cyberlife knew what they were doing when they designed the RK800 model. But it was a pointless endeavor and the last thing Connor needed right now was dealing with his pining and unwanted attentions on top of all the other hardships the poor brunette was already suffering through lately. He needed to keep as professional and efficient as possible and make Connor’s healing and health his only priorities. Afterwards his focus must be fully devoted to finally figuring out the cause of Connor’s many painful and recurring malfunctions. Only after will he allow himself to consider his options to deal with his growing sentiments towards the android.  

---

It'd been two long weeks for Connor, but each day he’d felt himself getting better and growing stronger. The incident and resulting injury had left him with a permanent scar on his back from the manual and slightly crude emergency welding on his framing, but otherwise he was fully mended. Much of the credit for his relatively speedy recovery was thanks to John’s intensive and attentive care, and the excessive time they’d spend together only further assured Connor of his growing feelings towards the kind technician. But despite his best efforts, and strong encouragements from Hank, he’d not been able to make himself admit to the blond how he felt. Connor was not convinced even admitting his crush was a good idea at all.. It didn’t seem fair to John, for him to unload his confused thoughts and feelings, if the tech did not return the sentiment and then would be trapped being his caretaker for the duration of his recovery and it was not something Connor was willing to risk either..

But he pushed the thoughts of the tech into the back of his mind for now since this morning was the first day since the explosion he was allowed back to work, and he was excited to finally return. John had gone ahead of them and hour earlier, saying he wanted extra time to do inventory on his lab stock since it had been used by a tempt while he’d aided Connor fulltime for the last two weeks.

As Hank and he walked through the reception area he noticed how empty it looked, not even Susan or Michael their android receptionist personal who always greeted him with his first smiles and good mornings each day, were at their usual desk which was odd. But the thought only had time to cross his mind briefly as he walked through the entrance to the bullpen and was immediately greeted with an outright roaring chorus..

“WELCOME BACK CONNOR!” The whole office erupted in a loud cheer.

Connor startled, though it only showed through his widening eyes and his LED making two spins of yellow. “W-What?” He looked around confused at the large gathering, finding Susan and Michael among the crowd, explaining their unoccupied post at the front desk, their faces each bearing big smiles. Connor’s heart skipped a beat as he quickly found John among the crowd as well, smiling bigger and brighter.

“We all just wanted to give you a proper welcome back Con, to show you how much we missed you and how happy we are you’re healed and feeling better.” Pearson offered followed by loud agreement from across the room.

Reed, sitting at his own desk, kept quiet. No one was paying enough attention to him to notice the daggers he stared at the android detective. His fist clenched so hard his nails were threatening to break the skin of his palms.

Hank who was right behind his as he followed through the doors clasped his hand heavily on his Connor’s shoulder. “Sorry kid, I know you don’t like a fuss, but I couldn’t persuade them not to do it.”

“Thank you, but you didn’t have to arrange all of this..” The android gestured to the arrangement of drinks, food and colorful decorations set out across the room. “I received all your thoughtful ‘get well’ cards, care packages and flowers while I recovered at home.” It was true, the living room at home was brimming with various cards and get-well gifts he’d received steadily throughout his recovery from both his colleagues and several members from New Jerico, including Marcus among others.

“I never doubted your well wishes for my recovery..” Connor’s LED shifted back to yellow, he was moved his coworkers had been so worried about him (once again) but he didn’t feel like he deserved or warranted all this attention offered.

“You did something extraordinary at that scene detective.” Captain Fowler stepped forward between the crowd, his hands resting at his belt and eyeing Connor with a serious look. “Not only did you manage a chaotic scene and assist our bomb squad in diffusing three bombs, but you willingly risked your life to save an innocent girl and kept her save and alive against all odds and at great cost to yourself. Welcoming you back properly is the least we could do, besides..” A small smile bloomed on the older man’s face. “It wasn’t completely our idea.”

The big man stepped aside along with most of the crowd revealing Olivia, jumping on the spot in excitement. The sweet girl was holding her plush dog Muffin in one hand and the other holding the hand of a tall, brown haired woman with gold rimmed glasses who smiled warmly at him.

“Connor!!” Olivia yelled in a happy squeal taking off in a run towards him.

Connor acted without thinking and kneeled with open arms to accept the flying hug as Olivia threw herself into his arms. He slowly stood back up and wrapped his arms tightly around the small girl, placing one hand on the back of her head as she burrowed her face into his neck, much in the same way he’d done when he’d tried to get her out of the building that day.

“I missed you..” Olivia stated first, her voice sounding emotional, the words coming out muffled in his neck.

Connor tightened his hold around her even more. His LED cycled yellow, and he felt his eyes growing damp as his own emotions were welling up inside him. “I missed you too Olivia, I’m happy you’re here.” He answered honestly.

The small girl pulled slightly back so she was able to look into the androids’ eyes, Connor let up his tight grip around her slightly to allow the motion as she pulled up the dog teddy in front of his face. “Muffin missed you too.. You made her very worried when you didn’t come up with us from the dark hole..” She said, her eyes big and bottom lip set in a small pout.

Connor kept his eyes locked with Olivia. “I’m very sorry I made her worry, I missed Muffin as well.”

Olivia locked her hands behind Connor’s neck, making Muffin dangle from one of her hands behind Connor’s back. “I wanted to come see you sooner, but mommy said you needed to get better before I was allowed.. So I asked your police friends if I could see you when you got back to work.. Does that mean the owie on your back is all better now?”

Connor smiled gently to reassure the young girl, she still sounded worried and unsure. “Yes, I’m all better. I promise.” He sent a quick look towards John’s direction. “I was taken very good care of.” He added, his eyes locked with the tech. John rewarded his subtle praise with a soft smile.

“I was a bit worried about you too..” She admitted gently.

Connor’s attention returned fully to Olivia as he reached up and stroked her thick, curly blonde hair back in a comforting gesture. “I’m sorry I made you worry. But I’m very happy you’re safe and sound. You’re a very brave and kind girl Olivia, when we were trapped, I could stay strong thanks to your high spirits and support. You were very heroic.”

Olivia hugged him tightly again. “You’re my hero Connor.”

All around the room the surrounding officers and coworkers witnessing the heartwarming scene turned to try and discreetly wipe their misty eyes and mute the soft sniffles.

“Olivia honey, do you think Connor could be persuaded to put you down for a moment so mommy can say thank you as well?” The tall woman, Olivia’s mom, came over to ask.

Connor had only just managed to put Olivia down before he was pulled into another tight embrace by her mom. He returned the embrace, a bit more apprehensively, he was still unused to other people offering him such big acts of affection.

“I don’t know how to thank you enough! Just.. Thank you for saving my little girl! You’re a godsend guardian angel! Thank you so, so much..” The woman babbled her voice wet with tears of gratitude as she thanked her daughter’s savior.

Unable to stand the wretched sight before him Reed slammed his hands into his desk and stood up in a fury. He aimed one last furious look in Connor’s direction before stomping out of the room.

The whole room had paused in surprise at the loud interruption and watched silently as the angry detective made his dramatic exit.

Connor felt very confused at his colleague’s apparent resurrected anger towards him. Lately he’d felt like Reed had been so amendable towards him, why now the sudden change back?

“Don’t mind him Connor, Reed’s just pissed he’s been benched while they’re doing the investigation detailing his actions and decision making on the day of the bombing.” Chris said.

“Enough Miller, that’s not a discussion suitable for now.” Fowler interjected, then looked to Connor. “I’ll fill you in on the details later Connor, but don’t worry about it now.”

Connor nodded, he’d had no idea an investigation had been ordered, but it made detective Reed’s anger if not justified, then at least a bit understandable. Connor had no doubt the detective had in no way willingly missed Olivia when he’d been leading the evac operation and no doubt the investigation would draw the same conclusion. Reed was probably mentally punishing himself enough as it was and if he needed someone to be angry with to get through this though time then Connor could understand and accept he’d have to bear the brunt of it.

“I understand why detective Reed might be affected and stressed out by the current situation, but I’m sure he’ll not be found at fault. I’m just happy Olivia is safe.”

“Thanks to you. Olivia haven’t stopped talking about you.” Olivia’s mom said, then added. “And a dog named Sumo she keeps insisting she wants to meet.”

Hank let out a joyful laugh at the mention of Sumo. “Tell you what Olivia, Sumo would just love to meet you as well. Anytime you want you can come visit us. I’m sure he’d like to say thanks to you for taking such good care of Connor as well. Connor is his favorite you see..” Hank said, making Olivia let out a cute giggle.

The older lieutenant knelt to be eyelevel with the blond girl and gave her a warm smile. “And I want to thank you as well, for helping my son. You’re a very special, kind girl.”

Olivia smiled a shy smile at the praise and grasped Connor’s hand tightly.

“That you are.” Connor agreed, also eyeing the girl with a soft smile and squeezed her small hand gently in his.

More sniffles and eye wiping were done throughout the room before Fowler clapped his hands loudly. “Alright enough, this is a happy occasion. Let’s grab a drink and make a toast..” Everyone did as their captain said and passed out drinks around the room. Fowler raised his glass, quickly joined by everyone else. “To Connor! You are an honor to the DPD and the city! I know I speak for all of us when we say we’re proud to call us your friends and colleagues. Cheers!”

“CHEERS!!” The whole room erupted.

Connor stood in the middle, starting to feel overwhelmed again by all the attention, when he felt a soft hand placed on his shoulder that brought him quickly back to earth. He turned to find the soft welcoming sight of John standing at his side, once again grounding him, holding up his own drink.

“I’ll drink to that.” The handsome tech added softly and clinked his glass with Connor’s thirium based drink.

Connor returned the smile and raised his own drink. After his sip he turned to the rest of the room, his eyes big and emotion filled. “Thank you..” He said simply. It wasn’t enough to truly express how much gratitude he was feeling at the moment, but it was the truest and only thing he could think of presently and he hoped that was enough for now.

---

“Fucking.Shit.Fuck!!” Reed cursed loudly as he slammed his fist repeatedly into the one way mirror in a the  unused interrogation room furthest away from the open office where everyone were still busy attending the Tin Can’s welcome back reception. The glass began to crack, and his knuckles started bleeding from the repeating pounding, but he didn’t stop. Red hot anger was boiling in his veins! This was all wrong! This was not how things were supposed to go! How could people not see how fucked up this shit was?! Treating that plastic like it was a fucking hero? After he’d made sure everyone had seen it fail again and again without any form of consequence or reprimands? And when he failed just one fucking time he was placed under investigation and being questioned about his ability to do his job?! All the while he’s expected to just sit back and watch that piece of garbage receive a hero’s welcome? This was some kind of backwards world kind of bullshit and Reed was at his breaking point.

He continued to batter his hand against the glass, feeling like it was his best alternative to bashing in the Tin Can’s face. His knuckles bleed more and more, smearing the blood on the mirrored surface but he hardly felt the pain of it. All he felt was the white-hot anger burning. He was so lost in his own rage filled world that the detective didn’t hear the door to the room slide open behind him followed by a worry filled outburst;

“Detective Reed! Stop that, you’re hurting yourself!” Connor exclaimed as he rushed towards Reed and caught his arm in a firm hold as Reed pulled it back to land another punch. Even though the reception was still going on and Connor had been told not to fret, he’d still felt worried about Reed’s sudden departure and had made his was to find the other detective. Now he was glad he did.

It took a few moments to exit his angry haze, but once Reed registered who had interrupted his fit he could no longer contain his fake demeanor and allowed himself to fully unload on the cause of his anger and resentment. With little to no hesitation Reed pulled back his other fist that Connor wasn’t holding and aimed to land a hard punch to the android’s face. Connor however seemed to have anticipated his move and frustratingly easily caught his other fist with the hand not holding Reed’s arm.

“I understand that you’re angry Gavin, but I’m trying to be your friend. So please stop harming yourself and let me help you.” Connor offered in that fucking calming tenor voice.

“FUCK YOU!” Reed roared and twisted himself free from the android’s hold. His eyes were wild, almost feral as he pointed accusingly at Connor with his bloodied hand.

“Fuck you and all of those fuckers out there!” He pointed at the door. “You’re not my fucking friend or colleague or anything! You’re a MACHINE!!” He shouted the word with all the contempt he could muster, spit flying from his mouth. “A computer.. A tool.. A THING! You’re not a real cop or even human! And somehow, I’m the only sane person who can see how fucked up this shit is!!” He laughed in scorn.

Connor had taken a few steps back as he watched Reed become more and more deranged before his eyes and took steps to make himself as non-threatening as possible, treating the situation as he would a negotiating with a dangerous criminal.

“Okay.. I hear what you’re saying.. But hurting yourself isn’t the answer.”

“I know that!! That’s why I’ve been hurting you!!” Reed roared without thought.

“You’ve.. What?” Despite his professionalism Connor couldn’t hide his shock at the confession, making his LED circle in a fast yellow pace.

Reed yanked the white remote from his pocket and pointed it towards Connor as was it a gun.

“I’ve been showing all these idiots what a useless piece of junk you are! But they’re all so fucking blind! Even after seeing you fail again and again, they still treat you like you’re worth the time and attention and sympathy, it’s pathetic!!”

Despite not knowing for sure what the device pointing at him was Connor felt a tight knot of dread settle in his stomach as he slowly began to piece together what might have caused his multiple malfunctions the last couple of months.

 “Gavin.. Calm down, lets just talk this through.” Connor tried to reason, his LED turning red, desperate to diffuse the situation. “I might be a machine, but I’m not your enemy.”

Reed kept his remote pointed towards the android, finding a great satisfaction in seeing it so nervous as it no doubt figured out what Reed was capable of.

“Wanna see how much of a tool you are?” Reed snickered as he placed his thumb on the display. “I can play you like a fucking violin on this thing by now.”

Connor reached out his hand slowly in a nervous, pacifying manner.

“No.. Please.. Gavin..”

But his plea fell on deaf ears as Reed expertly manipulated Connor’s visual components.

[R and L eye components deactivated]

Connor’s irises turned black, leaving the android completely blind. He stumbled a bit on the spot as his vison was completely robbed from him in one second. Connor felt his breath hitch and his stress levels increasing. The android reached out blindly towards Reed’s direction. “Please Reed, I know what you think of me and my kind, but even you have to understand that this.. Hurting me won’t accomplish anything.”

Reed sneered. “You can’t ‘hurt’ a machine. You can malfunction, be damaged.. Broken even.” He added with a menacing tone.

Connor took a tentative step forward in his blinded state, his own tone turning hard. “Reed this is madness! Snap out of this and let’s handle what differences we have in a civilized manner!”

“Oh, hell no, you do not get to speak to me like that you piece of junk!” Reed spat and turned the remote back up.

Connor tried to argue, sensing the other detective was about to manipulate his body again. “No Reed what are yo..!”

[Voice modulator deactivated]

Connor’s voice was cut off midsentence. The android lifted his hand and placed it on his throat where his voice modulator was placed inside. The LED in his temple started to spin red as Connor felt his stress levels rise even further. His vision and voice had now been efficiently stolen from him as easy as nothing. He was basically helpless, with a man who openly despised and hated him, who he now knew had put him through agony and torment in a deliberate effort to dehumanize him in front of their peers and who had utterly complete control over his whole body and being. Despite his still limited skill with understanding and identifying his own emotions Connor was sure of one thing.. In this moment.. He was scared..

“Now for the fun bit.” Reed grinned.

The words had hardly been spoken, filling Connor with a fresh weave of dread before Reed with a few quick flicks and taps unleashed hell on the deviant.

[Right leg component // Adjust tension setting // Current tension 5%]

A single swipe of a thumb.

[Current tension 85%]

The first thing that hit was an excruciating pain as the synthetic muscles along the entire of Connor’s right leg seized up much like the first time Reed had used the remote on him, making the android drop heavily onto the floor, knocking an office chair down with him in his fall. Connor’s eyes might be lifeless, but his expression still portrayed his agony clearly. The android tried to scream but all that came out were a strangled static as his decommissioned voice modulator were being stimulated but not able to let out clear sound.  

The mangled static only worsened as only seconds later Connor felt the joint connecting his right arm to his shoulder were manipulated backwards by an invisible force until he both heard and felt a sickening pop as it snapped forcefully. In the background he vaguely registered Reed’s tormenting snicker.

“It made me sick you know. Giving you that fake apology, having to act like you were a real fucking person! I only did it to get close enough to make sure everybody got to see what a pathetic, useless machine you are! But everyone here are so fucking stupid! A year and a half ago everyone out there were just like me, seeing you like the equipment and tools you were designed to be! Your bloody brainwashing doesn’t’ work on me though..”

Pausing in his rant only to make the knee joint in the android’s left leg bend and snap as well, making it spasm violently followed by the pained muffled static because it’d now buried its head into the crook of its right elbow.

“And I’m done pretending and I’m not just gonna sit back and let you corrupt us all! I know I’m right!!” Reed pointed his remote ready to make his next move when the door to the integration room hissed open in front of him.

In walked Hank Anderson eyes locked at his phone screen as he entered “Hey kid, got your text but what is up with all those freaking typos? That’s not like yo..” Hank looked up at stopped abruptly taking in the scene in front of him.

Reed immediately realized his mistake. He’d forgotten to disconnect the Tincan’s cybernetic connection allowing it to reach out for help. Fuck!

It took an uncomfortable long time for Hank to process what he was seeing, the tense silence only broken by the painfilled static breathing coming from Connor on the floor. The lieutenant first eyed the white remote Reed had pointed as a weapon towards his son, then noticed the horrifyingly painful and unnatural angles of Connor’s arm and leg and his black, blinded irises, before returning to look directly at Reed. You could see the moment it clicked for the ageing detective what he was seeing. All Connor’s sudden and unexplainable malfunctions suddenly made perfect sense.

“You.Little.Shit..” Hank whispered before he jumped forward in blind rage.

Reed dropped the remote as he and Hank collided in an all-out fist fight that had been long coming. Despite his agony and lack of sight Connor managed to half crawl half drag himself to the edge of the room to avoid getting stomped on in the chaos and tried to cybernetically reach out to more officers to assist. It turned out he didn’t need to as the sudden ruckus had already alarmed the gathered crowd out in the offices.

In stormed Captain Fowler, Miller, Lewis and Pearson all quickly scanning the scene and situation and automatically sprang into action. Fowler and Miller immediately jumped forward to separate their brawling colleagues. It took several tries and immense effort, earning both numerous misplaced hits, kicks and bruises.

While the men struggled go get the fight under control Pearson’s attention was immediately turned to Connor lying in a heap on the floor. Her eyes widening and a horrified gasp escaping her at the sight of his twisted limbs where thirium had started to leak through the cracks in his frame, staining his clothes and the floor.

“Oh my God, Connor!” She dropped to his knees and rested a hand on his back. “Wha.. What happened to you?!”

Connor tried to answer, but the only sound he could make was the distorted static. He gestured weakly with his uninjured arm to his throat, trying to communicate his inability to reply.

“Okay, okay I understand you can’t talk, it’s okay don’t move anymore.. You’re.. Shit.. This is so.. How could this happen?” Pearson was trying to stay calm. She’d seen some horrible things in her career, but Connor was her friend, so it was impossible for her to react unaffected to the way his arm and leg were curled in such a painful and gruesome way, it was making her slightly nauseous.

Finally Miller, Lewis and Fowler succeeded in breaking up Reed and Anderson. Fowler had managed to get both his arms under Reed’s armpits and had his hands clasped tightly together behind his neck, holding the still cursing and kicking detective back, but just barely. Lewis and Miller were holding one of Anderson’s arms each and still had to dig in their heels to stop the raging lieutenant from advancing and jump Reed again. Both men already had large bruises starting to bloom across their faces, Reed had a split lip and Anderson a busted eyebrow.

“Let me go dammit!! It’s been that bastard all along!! He’s the one who has been messing Connor up all along and I’m gonna return the fucking favor right now!!” Hank roared, fighting in his hold.

“What the hell Hank? How would Reed even be able to cause all those malfunctions? There’ve been witnesses every time Connor has had an episode, we would have noticed.” Lewis argued with a grunt from the effort of holding Hank back.

“Because he’s a fucking devious, underhanded little coward and have been using some kind of remote to control and hurt the kid unnoticed!!” Hank spat angrily.

“Is this true Reed?!!” Fowler asked in a hard voice, tightening his hold on the detective further as he continued to trash in his grip.

Reed grunted once in discomfort at the manhandling but retaining his aggressiveness. “Fucking Tincan deserved it!! You were all so fucking blinded by its false looks and attempt to act human! It’s a fucking machine and all I did was open your eyes to the fact!! It’s unreliable and shame to the force!!”

“The only shameful motherfucker on this force is you, you vile sack of shit!!” Hank growled.

“Where is the remote Reed?!” Fowler barked harshly, trying to keep his priorities straight in the heated moment.

Reed answered only with defying silence, still shooting dagger with his eyes at Hank and Connor.

“It’s here!!” Pearson exclaimed as she spotted the white remote lying by the knocked over chair and reached for it. She fiddled with it slightly, but quickly figured out how to navigate the display. “Okay.. I think I got it..”

[Voice modulator activated]

The first clear sound to escape Connor’s mouth as he were finally given back his voice was a painfilled cry as his broken limbs pulsed and continued to leak thirium, and the synthetic muscles in his right leg were still cramping.

“M.. My.. Leg.. Turn it off.. P-Please..” He begged through gritted teeth.

“Your leg? Your.. Oh shit!!” She cursed as she realized he meant his cramping nonbroken leg and quickly adjusted the setting back down to a normal level.

[Current tension 5%]

Connor forced himself to take some deep breaths to try and keep his core temperature down. He felt relieved the pain in his right leg had decreased, but still in agony from his two other mangled limbs.

[R and L eye components activated]

He winched as his vision was returned abruptly as well as even the slightly dimmed lighting in the room still pierced his eyes, although they thankfully recalibrated quickly. He took the opportunity to look up and took in the scene before him. His gaze quickly shifted to Reed who still eyed him with a burning hatred in his eyes.

Suddenly an innocent voice was echoing down the hallway. “Connor? Where did you go?” Olivia called out. They could all hear her small footsteps approaching the door.

Connor turned his eyes quickly to Pearson who was still kneeling in front of him, his gaze a mixture of pained and alarmed. “D-Don’t let get in here. I don’t want her s-seeing me like this!”

“And find Ben and John and send them down here immediately!” Fowler added.

Pearson nodded quickly and jumped up and out the door instantly. Her exaggerated soothing voice resonated back into the room.

“Hey sweetie, you shouldn’t be down here all alone. Let’s get back to your mom.”

“I forgot to give Connor a drawing I made for him. I think he went this way.”

“Uh, you know what. I think he’s on a phone call right now, but come with me and we’ll put your drawing on his desk so he’ll find it later and it’ll be a nice surprise, ok?”

“Ok.” Olivia was heard agreeing reluctantly. Her and Pearson’s footsteps echoing back down the hallway.

Fowler was the one to break the silence once they were sure Olivia as out of earshot. “Fucking hell Reed! I knew you had issues. Countless times I’ve put my ass on the line to defend you and keep you on the force. You’ve always been a good detective, but I was gullible enough to believe that deep down you’d also turn out to be a good man. Never have I been this angry and disappointed in someone as I am in you this moment!!”  

“I’M THE DISSAPOINTMENT?!” Reed shouted affronted.

“You shut your damn mouth!! I am DONE detective. Actually, that’s incorrect. Effective immediately you���re no longer a member of the DPD. You are now under arrest for the repeating assault and abuse of a police officer and obstruction of police investigation! Officer Miller and Lewis handcuff Reed and take him to a holding cell for now. I’ll personally deal with him later.” Fowler expertly changed his grip on Reed, allowing Miller to quickly snap his own handcuffs on his former colleague before he could resist further.

“WHAT?! You can’t be fucking serious?!” Reed bellowed.

Lewis was quick to join as both took a firm grip on either side of a thrashing Reed. Freed from his own hold Hank decided not to waste any more energy on the crude ex-detective, trusting Jeffery to make sure justice would be served. Instead, he turned his attention to Connor who was still laying on the floor, clearly trying to suppress his agony, but with little luck.

“Hey son.. It’s okay, help is coming! Just.. Stay still.. We’ll get you fixed up, don’t worry” Hank babbled, but feeling helpless to do anything else but offer what reassurance he could.

“You fucking morons! You’ll realize I’m right soon enough! Just you wait!! That machine will be the death of you all!!” Reed roared. John, Ben and Pearson just managed to storm through the doorway just as he was forcefully removed from the room.  

“What the hell is going on?!” Ben asked confused. “Why is Gavin in handc- OH, Holy shit what happened to Connor?!!”

Barely a second passed before John had thrown himself to his knees in front of Connor, his eyes filled with worry. “Connor, listen don’t move to much it’ll destabilize your broken joints too much! Can you give me any status on your condition?”

“M.. My thirium levels are.. Nearing… C-Critical levels..” Connor offered weakly.

John eyed the still blooming pool of blue thirium spreading on the floor beneath Connor’s body from the two fractures on his frame. He looked into Connor’s painfilled brown irises with an apologetic look. He touched his face gently in what he hoped to be a comforting manner. “Con, I’m sorry but I need to slow your bleedings as fast as possible before you lose any more thirium. The only way I can do that is to reset your breaks.”

“Fuck, are you sure there’s no other way?” Hank cursed.

John shook his head sadly. “I’m afraid not. As long as the breaks are open, he’ll lose more blue blood than he’ll be able to reabsorb into his system.”

Connor nodded in understanding. “D-Do it!”

John took a firm hold on Connor’s leg. One hand on his thigh and one on his calve, ready to reset the fractured knee joint. His eyes never left Connor’s. “On three.” He said. Connor visibly steeled himself, but his eyes also stayed firmly on John.

“One.. Two..” With a quick jerk and a sickening crunch the knee was mostly back in place.

Connor let out the start of a scream, but quickly bit it off. Afraid Olivia might still be able to hear him somewhere in the station. He clenched his eyes tightly and reached out with his undamaged arm and squeezed Hanks hand that was offered him so hard that the bones grinded together. Hank however didn’t utter a complaint, even if Connor would end up snapping a finger or two he’d endure it if it offered his son just the smallest kind of relief.

“Anything we can do?” Ben asked, standing stiffly with his arms crossed, desperate to be helpful.

“Yes, once his shoulder is set I need you and Fowler to carry him to my lab so I can get him stabilized.” John offered without his eyes ever leaving Connor. “You’re doing great Connor, I know it hurts.. I’ll be quick I promise.”

“I know..” Connor hissed.

“Try to relax, it’ll help.”

“Y-You’re really bad at.. C-Counting by the way..”

In a flash John held down Connor’s collarbone and pushed his arm back, popping the shoulder back with another loud crunch to its original position. The motion was followed by another barely bitten off cry as Connor’s head dropped forward and landed on John’s own shoulder.

“I know, I’m sorry..” John offered weakly.

“Come on lad, we got you.” Fowler said as he and Ben immediately bent down to carry their injured friend as carefully as possible upstairs.

“I’ll go do some damage control in the office then I’ll be right up.” Hank offered. He had no idea how he was going to apologize to Olivia and her mom for Connor’s sudden disappearance without a goodbye, but he’d figure something out. And it was probably for the best not to reveal Reed’s arrest to the rest of the squad right away. They needed to clear up this mess a bit for it to make sense.

It was fucking heartbreaking to witness Connor in such an agonizing state when he’d barely had time to recover from his previous injury. His only comfort right now was finally knowing what and who was behind all the horrors and pain his son had to suffer through. And Hank had a feeling once the news got out, he wouldn’t be the only DPD member being eager for justice to be served!!

[arthurflecksgirl]

Hey, how is your day going so far? I hope it's splendid! Can I request an Arthur x reader where the reader is recovering from self harm and he is proud of them? You can choose it to be sfw or nsfw. Thanks in advance! :)

Hey Anon, Thank you for your ask. I 'm okay and I hope you are doing well,too?! I am soooo sorry this took me so long but I finally sat down today and wrote your request. I was thinking about that request since you first send it to me. It was a beautiful one but also a tough one. Itˋs a sensitive subject and I was struggeling with how I wanted to write it. I was afraid to write it in a way you wouldnt approve so I am a bit nervous posting this and I hope with all my heart that you will like the result. This request was close to my heart but a bit of a struggle until I finally sat down. I am sending love to anyone. Especially everyone who had to go through this or still does go through it.

Words: 1900

Trigger warning: Mentions of self harm

Arthur nervously chewed on his pencil ,while the blank page of his journal was staring at him like it expected something good to happen. More than one good thing happened in his life recently and he absolutely hated how difficult it was for him to put his emotions into words. Words worthy of how he truly felt about not being alone anymore. He felt like the emotion of it was a seed he didnt knew how to water properly ,to make it the flower that was a written page in his diary. One he would like to show to you , randomly in the middle of the night. To proof how he felt inside. Blooming.

He always felt like he wasnˋt good with words but so much better with showing his feelings off in a different way. A movement of his body when you were slow dancing across the bedroom, a piece of music hummed into your ear while he was pulling you closer, the touch of his thumb brushing your cheek before he leaned in to kiss you. Body language was his way to express what was growing deep inside of him. A love so immessurable, he was becoming a new man. And you were his garden he wanted to spent the rest of his life in. He wanted to build a cabin right in the middle of the gardens heart and plant roses and violets. Once he figured out how to water them and which flowers demend more sunlight or which ones prefered the shadows. He wanted to learn every aspect of your soul. Flower by flower. Petal by petal. To let his roots grow towards yours. Arthur touched the artificial flowers on his desk. They reminded him of who he used to be. Unreal and far from what he desired to be. No sunlight could have touched him  enough to let him grow.

Until there was you. His garden. He finally became what he was supposed to be. A sunflower. The flower of joy and happiness. But also the flower of the man who once drank yellow painting to commit suicide by putting happiness inside himself. At least that was the rumor Arthur heard on tv when he watched a documentary about Vincent Van Gogh. And he was quiet fascinated by it. Somehow the though was relateable to him. In a very abstact, sad, beautiful way.

„Last week“ he wrote , trying to draw a sunflower but it just didnt turned out the way he intented to. „She  finally felt comfortable enough to wear a short sleeve in front of me. I guess that means she really does feel save around me. Ah, it means the world!“  Arthur smiled to himself when he drew a tiney heart and filled it in. His heart was so full of you. Just thinking about the way you took off your comfort sweater for the first time to show him the scars of the past ,created a feeling in his heart he couldnˋt name. 

It has been a while since you let him know about your struggles with self harm. And Arthur could tell that it wasnˋt an easy thing to do. He would always remember the moment he first saw your naked arms. The pattern of hurt on your fragile skin. This moment of vulnerability and strengh. He wanted to kiss it. Arthur wanted to kiss along every single scar to show you how beautiful you were to him and how much he belived in the power of a gentle lip kissing where it hurts the most. But he didnˋt. Arthur wasnˋt sure if it was the right moment yet. He didnt wanted to do anything wrong. So he just sat there, thinking about placing kisses all over, while he picked his own eyebrow with his fingers.

„One day“ he wrote underneath the heart „I will kiss  her scars and she will feel what I felt when she was taking care of me“. Arthur put the pencil down and took a deep drag of his cigarette. Smoke filled his lungs but he wished it was your breath instead.

A familiar noise interrupted his daydream as he put the remains of the cig in his pink ashtray. „Hey darling, Iˋm home“. Your voice made him feel all warm and fuzzy inside. The way you called him darling was music in his ears. His favourite song he repeated in his head when he was at work or taking the bus. He sometimes hummed the words „Hey darling“ , as if it was a prayer. „Hey darling Iˋm home“. Home. That was never the word he would have used to  discribe the place he was living in. Never what he thought of when he felt the worn fabric of his couch underneath his naked skin or was lying in the bathtube, checking for how long he could handle to keep his head under water. This place with all itˋs heavyness wasnˋt home. But it transformed into a home eveytime you opened the door to wrap your arms around him. A genlte kiss upon his forehead. His noticlable frown  underneath your lips. Hey darling, Iˋm home. You are home, finally. We are. A home.

Arthur shifted his position ,so your lips immediately found their way to his forehead. „Forehead kisses“ he thought „Are her way to tell me how much she cares“. He closed his eyes for a moment. His dark lashes covering his piercing eyes like a curtain, to feel the moment with all itˋs gentleness. When Arthur opened his eyelids again he noticed something wrapped around your wrist. His heart stopped for a moment. The thought of you harming yorself again hit him so hard he forgot how to breathe. „Y/N…are you….okay? Oh my god…“ Arthurs index finger reached out for your wrist. He barely dared touching it. His tear filled eyes blurring his sight.

„Yeah, I am. How was your day, Arthur?“ you replied as you sat down on his lap to kiss the corner of his mouth. You noticed his lips trembling underneath your own. A tiney earthquake emerging from within. His day was okay while he was sittin on his desk thinking of all the beautiful things he could write to you. Until you came home with a hurt wrist. Now nothing remained okay. Seeing you hurt was worse than his own pain. Your wound was his wound. Arthur held your face between his hands, unable to responde with a kiss.

„Are you…. Are you hurt?“ he whispered, pointing at your bandage. He wanted to be here for you. Now more than ever. His mind was travelling back to the day you found him with a bleeding forehead after he hit his head against the wall. He recalled your hand resting on the spot that hurt so much and how it lead to the first forehead kiss he received in his life. Thatsˋs when he knew he wasnˋt all alone in this anymore. Thats when he knew that, yes there will be bad days , even together but he didnt had to face them on his own anymore. There was someone looking after him. Someone willing to ease the pain. To heal his wounds. Old or recent. He remembered how gently you held his hurting head, fingers brushing  back his hair to clean the wound. Heˋll never forget the first act of kindness and love from a loved one.

And now it was his turn to tell you itˋs going to be okay. His turn to take care of your wounds.

„No baby, Iˋm not hurt. Iˋve got a little suprise for you…“ Arthurˋs eyes glanced deeply into yours „A…. surprise? What do you mean?“

You lifted your arm smiling at him. Thats when he noticed your wrist wasnˋt bandaged but wrapped in some kinda foil. You slowly started to unwrap it, a big smile lingering on your face. „Darling, I hope you like it“.

Arthur couldnt belive his eyes. Were once was a scar six letters showed. Written on your wrist. Six letters so familar, he started sobbing.

„Oh Arthur….“ You touched his cheek „You like it?“

He covered his mouth with his right hand, mumbling.

„I thought about this  for a while now. Getting your name tattooed to cover my oldest scar“.

A single tear ran down his happy face „Thats…. Just…. Wow. I…. donˋt know what to say. Thatˋs my name. You got a tattoo of my name. „ Arthur couldnt stop staring at the letters. „Can I….touch it?“.

 You smiled „Not yet, itˋs still fresh and I need to put some cream on it.“

„Oh! Yeah…. Of course.“

Arthur tried to understand what was happpening right now. A minute ago he was afraid you hurt yourself again and now  he found himself looking at a tattoo that was his very own name. Part of you.

He felt your other hand touching his blushing cheek „I really wanted this to remind me of how beautiful things can happen after experiencing so much pain. There is this scar and itˋs still there but somehow it belongs to my past and it doesn´t define me. It never did. And now there is you. The light that came after the dark. The one who understands my scars and eases the pain by loving me for who I am. I love you, Arthur, I love you so much itˋs so demanding and beautiful and …..now youˋre always on my mind, in my heart and under my skin.“

Arthur gently lifted your hand, careful enough to not touch the tattoo. „I love you“ he whispered „Can I…. can I kiss your…“ goosebumps covered your skin as his upper lip found itˋs way to travel across your arm. Soft kisses, thoughtful and warm, scar after scar. You couldnt help but cry a little. Arthur froze „My god, Iˋm sorry I only wanted to…“

„Donˋt stop“ you whispered through the tears „Please….“

The light in Arthurs eyes came back when he realized it was happy tears running down your cheeks. Tears of relief and inner peace.

„Remember when you found me after….“

„I do, Arthur.“

„That was the first time I felt truly loved“ he breathed, while he continued kissing your skin.

„You found me at my worst. And loved me. Especially where it hurt the most“

You closed your eyes, concentrating on the softness of his lips. His presence was medicine. Calming and warm like a favourite sweater.

You remembered  very well. It was the day you knew that you would give the world to protect this man. The beautiful soul that Arthur was. You couldnt change his past but write his future. You and him together. Sitting in front of a blank page, where anything was possible.  Every yet unborn poem was demanding to be written. Every small moement of happiness. And when the pages get torn and some parts get blacked out, you would be here to put a sticker on it. Heart shaped. One thatˋs glowing in the dark. So when he openes his journal at night he couldnt see the scribbles and blacked out parts. Only the bandage that was love.

Just like the words written on your wrist.

Arthur.

 

„I wanna do the same for you“ he mumbled between the kisses „Loving you where it hurts the most…so...“ he lifted his face, looking at you „…where does it hurt?“

„Every inch untouched  by your loving hands“.

Only a heartbeat later Arthurs thumb gently brushed over your bottom lip as he whispered „Let me take care of that“.

[dean-coded-john-girl]

thinking about a version of john who maybe sought out relaxation and/or an escape in weed during vietnam, and never really had to drop it completely bc mary’s hippie van wanting ass definitely didn’t care. after mary’s death, john smoked less frequently because it brought up thoughts of her, and alcohol had his full attention for the time being. but when dean is 17, and back from his first solo hunt, and is clearly having an anxiety attack, john has some on him. and he thinks that maybe the kid could use the help coming down from this. or at least a distraction.

dean is sort of just anxiously rambling to him about the hunt at this point, so he just cuts him off. “hey i’ll be right back. stay here.” so he walks off to ruffle through his bag to get it. dean’s eyes widen a bit when he sees what john has, but john just sighs. “c’mon.” he leads the way out onto the balcony of the slightly nicer hotel room they’re staying in (he figured the hunt would affect dean at least a little bit, so there was no harm in splurging on the extra comfort and security) and takes the only seat at the tiny ass table that’s out there to roll them a joint. dean is standing in the doorway awkwardly, beneath the motion activated light that illuminates the balcony in the night. still breathing a little hard and his eyes flicking around nervously. but his gaze eventually focuses on the motion of john’s hands. anyone else would think that maybe he was trying to remember this for future reference. but between dean and god, he was really just interested in the familiar sight of his dad’s steady fingers.

john brings the joint up to his mouth, and inhales as he lights up with a black bic. he holds for a moment, then exhales, and reaches to hand it to dean. “have you ever smoked before? cigarettes, anything i don’t know about?”

the poor boy is still shaking as he takes it from john. “no, sir.”

“good. god, i’m glad to hear it. now, wrap your lips around it. not too tight, leave a little room for air to pass through. and breathe in. then hold it for a minute.”

dean thinks he does what he was told. he even tries for a second hit. but john can tell just from looking that he’s not really inhaling, he’s just holding it in his throat. “you feelin’ anything?”

“uh. not really.” dean flushes, seemingly embarrassed about it.

john chuckles. “that’s what i thought. try again. and, uh, suck on it, dean.” he takes what john said a bit too literally, and he sucks on the damn joint. he immediately pulls off, coughing a lung up in the process. john jerks it from his hand. “god damn it dean. look, just—” he lightheartedly sighs, “come here.” dean looks at him like he’s off his rocker, and john snorts. (well, at least one of them is feeling it.) “would you quit that? get over here. closer.”

so dean hesitantly shuffles up closer to john. “this is called shotgunning. i’m gonna take a hit, and then i’m gonna blow it into your mouth.” dean somehow manages to pale even further, despite already being white as a sheet from the anxiety attack. then his face goes red again. “it should make this easier. and all you have to do is breathe. i would hope you can at least do that. okay?”

“…. yes, sir.” so john takes a hit, and holds it in until he gestures for dean to lean down to him. his right hand holds the joint, resting on his leg, and his left comes up to cup the side of dean’s face. when john gently blows the smoke to dean’s mouth, the personal space is nonexistent. their noses are nearly touching, and the eye contact is tense enough to kill him. he’s more than thankful that as dean inhales, his eyes flutter shut. he can feel dean’s jaw relax in his grip.

john smiles softly, full of unspoken affection. “any better?”

dean opens his eyes, and that fear that was buzzing behind them earlier is gone. his voice is almost a whisper. “yeah.”

and they repeat the process. with dean looking like this, getting more and more pliant and giggly each second, john himself is feeling loose. like the substance, or maybe the kid in front of him, has temporarily taken that drill sergeant attitude out of him. he’s feeling like a person, like just some regular dude, for the first time in a long while. so if dean slips down to straddle john’s lap for the next hit, who is he to complain? somewhere in between one exhale and the next inhale, his left hand has slinked around to sit at the small of dean’s back. but he doesn’t think to move it. he’s too absorbed by his son sitting on his thighs, with his hands on his shoulders. he goes to blow out again, and maybe dean’s arm has slipped or something, because the next thing he knows, dean’s lips are on his. after years of doing this with mary, he kisses back on instinct. john thinks that’s why he does it. but either way, dean is kissing him between sucking in the smoke in little breaths. and they both groan into it. and maybe john’s brain is more than a little foggy, because he doesn’t stop. he just pauses for one more inhale, and reaches past dean to put it out in the ash tray. but he comes right back to him, maybe even a little more involved than before. dean gasps when john goes to deepen the kiss. he licks into dean’s mouth, and marvels at the feeling of his boy’s tongue against his own. this is just to make sure dean is really getting the smoke in him, right? just to make it easier? that’s what it was at one point, anyways. but dean is moving into that calmer, sleepier side of being high. so john eventually pulls away. and dean just looks at him. just lazily stares. until john pulls him to rest against his shoulder. and dean lets him.

and maybe they just stay like that for a bit. john holds dean until he dozes off. and for the first time in years, he carries dean to bed. his own bed, so as not to wake sammy, who has been out for a few hours now. yeah, that’s why he does it.

[popatochisssp]

Hello Poppy! I hope you slept well! Here is the reminder you requested to create a mob au hc post like the cowboy post. Have a wonderful day!

Thank you, it’s finally time! I’m gonna put it under a cut immediately because having twenty skeletons makes every post with all of them automatically a long one!

Full disclaimer-- none of the boys are bosses, that falls on the monarch(s) of their universes... but that doesn’t mean they don’t have their own roles to play~

(Warnings: mentions of crime, drugs, violence, sex, brief sexism [probably not the way you’d think] and ableism, plus all the usual mob-tropes I may have forgotten to mention)

Sans (Undertale): He’s a...humble purveyor of items, quality goods produced economically in order to pass those savings on to the crafty consumer who might not want to pay full, exorbitant price for ‘name-brand’ luxuries... Yeah, he’s the ‘you wanna buy a watch?’ guy and he spends most of his days (strategically) wandering around the city looking for customers to hock knockoff, lookalike watches, wallets and bags to. The fuzz know him by name but can never seem to find anything to hold him on, so he’s mostly just a harmless nuisance to be shooed along elsewhere if there’s been any complaints. (He’s real good at making friendly conversation with the law enforcement and keeping all eyes on him, and frankly, if there were any real shady business going on somewhere nearby... well, the cops certainly wouldn’t know about it, too busy hustling him along down the street, now would they?)

Papyrus (Undertale): An upstanding citizen, unlike his brother who’s always in some little trouble with the law or other. He is gainfully employed at a fitness center, and he commutes there by car, because paid for his license to operate one and practiced his driving skills and saved up until he could afford a very beautiful, shiny car of his own! It’s a very nice vehicle...so nice, even, that he doesn’t like to drive it for...recreational outings with friends, in case the paint might get scuffed. That’s why his friends let him borrow their cars when they go out, and let him drive very fast (but safely!) all over the city, even at strange hours or by ‘suspicious’ locations. He’s certainly never seen anything suspicious going on, he just waits outside, and if he happens to keep a First Aid kit in his glove-box, that’s just taking precautions, isn’t it? Accidents happen, you know! (He’s the best getaway driver in town and he knows it, but plausible deniability--the less he ‘knows,’ the better.)

Sky (Underswap Sans): Just your average, ordinary businessman, running a nice little bar for average, ordinary folks of all kinds. Well... he co-owns the place with a buddy of his, Grillby, but Grillbz is a free spirit and a real man about town, so really most of the ‘running’  is down to him. And he loves it! So many people (monsters and humans) to meet and chat with and serve... human food and alcohol, of course. Monster food and alcohol isn’t legalized yet to serve to humans, and a black mark like that against his little establishment would be just awful. He adheres fully to the rules and regulations set forth by human governmental agencies, no magic in anything he passes across the counter, skeleton’s honor! ...Total bullshit, obviously-- he’s running a speakeasy for humans who want to partake in a little monster food or booze, because it’s not harmful to humans and that makes it an even stupider regulation than prohibition was. Grillby taught him most of the menu and cooks on the rare occasions he’s in, while Sky handles the liquid menu and keeps an eye-socket out for snitches and inspectors trying to catch him in the act. He’s never missed a rat yet.

Paps (Underswap Papyrus): He works at his brother’s place. In the back. Only part-time, though, Sky’s got it mostly buttoned up there, so Paps has a lot of leisure time to wander around the city, hit up his favorite joints, chat with friends--and strangers that can become friends, he’s a friendly sorta guy. And if he’s ever seen sharing a cigarette or two with one of those friends, of course it’ll be a totally normal tobacco cigarette, and no exchange of money or anything else incriminating about the interaction. ...Doggo is the one that does the deals, he’s got the Dog Treat supply and a client base that’s steadily starting to include humans--but since Dog Treats are classed as Monster Consumables and illegal to distribute to humans, in spite of being non-addictive, only mildly affective, and non-irritant to lungs, things get a little more convoluted. Paps hits up Doggo at Muffet’s (a wholly monster establishment) for the Dog Treats and a client list, ‘refurbishes’ the Treats to resemble cigarettes, and then meets up with anybody who prepaid for their order real casual-like to fence ‘em. He gets a little cut of the profits, and a discount when he’s picking up for pleasure instead of business--like a (slightly) more illegal girl scout cookie racket.

Jasper (Underfell Sans): Him? He’s just an average joe in all respects. He’s got a little auto shop, spends his days tuning up cars and bikes and such as the like, and most evenings out having fun with anybody else who’s out looking to have a good time--food and drink and maybe a little gambling, but small games, low stakes, for charity, yanno? Nothing illegal, he’d freely assure anyone concerned about the law. Yep, he’s a perfectly normal, law-abiding citizen...as far as anyone can tell. If he does a little work on the side, when specifically requested to, by perhaps one of his monarchs or one of the parties they’d approved to ask for his...services... Well, he’s certainly too quick and clean about it to leave any hard evidence behind, and he’s always far away from...whatever may have happened...with too many witnesses all in agreement that he was there and couldn’t have been anywhere else, unless he could somehow make it across town in the blink of an eye. (His side-gig is as a hitman. He keeps his shortcut ability very tightly under wraps to make for perfect alibis, and takes his targets out with magic bullets which he can disappear afterwards. If he’s ever somehow implicated in anything, he’s happy to point out to the nice officers that he doesn’t even own a weapon. They’re free to look, but all they’ll find is a set of knuckledusters he keeps on his person, purely for protection--and look how shiny the brass is, never even been used, officers! Guess they’ve got nothing on him, after all...)

Pyre (Underfell Papyrus): A law-abiding citizen. He must be--surely one can’t get more law-abiding than a lawyer...right? He actually does keep his (lack of) nose clean, but studying the convoluted mess that is human law doesn’t leave time for much else--even when your studies are funded by royalty and you’re given everything you need to open up your own practice as soon as you’ve passed the bar. Still, his skill and knowledge in arguing the law is very valuable and his services are in high demand, so he’s well-compensated for his chosen career and lives his life outside of it both comfortably and legally. His clients...are innocent until proven guilty and it would be an extreme failing of his duty to give any of them anything less than his best in the courtroom, regardless of their character, their associations, and what they happen to have been accused of. (Yeah, he’s a mob lawyer, used almost exclusively by Asgore and Toriel to protect them and anyone they send to him and all of their collective...interests. He respects the law, but values justice above it, so in spite of having a lot of clients who are definitely criminals in one way or another, he has no trouble sleeping at night.)

Mal (Swapfell Sans): He’s an accountant, nothing more, nothing less. ...For Toriel, of course, so he’s paid well for his services. And he has quite a head for numbers and figures, so he plays the stock market and does quite well there, too, smart investments and reading the writing on the wall, and all that. It’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for his very healthy finances and his lavish lifestyle--fur coats, fine suits, fancy cars, shiny gold pocket-watches-- it’s all expensive and almost over the top, but hey, he is the money-man and all the numbers check out. It seems that he’s just very good at handling and investing his capital, it’s no wonder the monster-queen herself hired him on... (He is, of course, running several money laundering schemes at any given time, taking all the less-than-legally-obtained money earned by constituents of the [former] Empire and layering it through official channels to make it look legal in such a convoluted, complex web that it doesn’t raise any significant red flags. He’s got his claws in a lot of pies, and he takes what he needs off the top to live a little luxuriously, with Toriel’s knowledge and permission-- a perk for the necessary service he provides.) Whatever else may be true, it’s a simple fact that he’s very, very good at his job.

Rus (Swapfell Papyrus): With the lucrative career his brother has, the lucky SOB doesn’t have to work a day in his life if he doesn’t want to, but he’s using the safety net to pursue his passion in art. Subjective as it is, it’s hard to say if he’s really any good, but people seem to like what he produces well-enough--not a household name, but people passionate about the subject might recognize his work and his pieces sell with at least moderate success. For all that it’s probably not going to make him famous or rich(er than his brother), he’s dedicated to his craft and regularly makes bulk purchases of his supplies, canvas and reams of paper and paint and ink and the like, to keep up his steady work and art sales. He seems like an altogether normal and down-to-earth sort of guy, nothing suspicious about him at all. (He’s a counterfeiter and works in tandem with his brother--they even hit a Bureau together to lift a set of plates for the one and only active crime he was involved in--and his art is just a really good cover for why he needs so much ink and paper and other supplies on a regular basis. He does love and care about his art career, that part’s not fake, but he’s also got a good eye-socket for detail and steady hands to replicate it, and if fake human money that looks really real can help monsters, he doesn’t really see why he shouldn’t.)

Slate (Horrortale Sans): He’s...been through a lot. All monsters have, really, but he was hit kind of especially hard and... Whatever Gerson, or Undyne, or whoever’s running things now up on the Surface are getting involved in...he doesn’t really want any part of it. He gets regular stipends for some unspecified ‘service’ he performed for the Queen, Underground, and while no human (alive) knows what that was, it’s apparently enough to live off of relatively comfortably without being employed himself. He has a nice little place with his brother on the outskirts of the city and he lives there quietly, peacefully. He rarely goes into town, just the occasional walkabout, stopping at restaurants or scoping out the architecture. (Part of his one concession to being left out of whatever illegal, mob-type business may or may not be going on: he needs a good mental map of the city and at least a few landmarks that he’ll definitely remember, because he’s the emergency evac should...anything...go especially south. The house phone doesn’t ring too often in the middle of the night, but when it does, he needs to know where he needs to be, and quick.)

Papy (Horrortale Papyrus): He’s, ah... not involved in any ‘business’ either, but he does spend a little more time out of the house, at the local hospital. He was allowed to make a study of human medicine and become a nurse by Very Special Exception--mostly due to some friends (or at least one) in high places, and some very backwards human attitudes about parts that constitute a ‘man’ and how a skeleton without any parts could perhaps be allowed into nursing--and he’s proven himself a valuable member of staff and even made friends with all of his coworkers. He’s happy at his job, and with his life, and returns home to his quiet, peaceful house every night with a smile. (He has a go-bag ready by the phone for those late night calls, though, full of healing items and medical equipment he may have subtly nicked from the hospital, just so he has everything he needs to treat a monster or a friendly human that may have gotten hurt...somehow...and for reasons they have no need to specify, can’t risk going to a doctor.)

Ash (Undergloom Sans): Just a poor street musician...or at least, that’s what most people figure, ‘cause he doesn’t dress too well and the trombone he plays while sitting out on the sidewalk looks like it’s probably the nicest thing he owns. He gets a couple bucks from time to time, but rarely any second glances, and that... That works in his favor. You’d be surprised how much people talk about when they think nobody’s listening (or at least...nobody important) and he can pick up a lot of interesting information of what’s going on in the city just by setting up in the right spot and waiting for folks to talk business. He’s pretty quiet when he’s not tooting the ol’ horn and great at blending into the background, and that’s made him the guy to go to when you want to know something--like how much somebody else knows, or if there are any plans in place for say, a raid or a sting or some kind. (Law enforcement is the worst about keeping proprietary information ‘proprietary’ when they think their only audience is some nobody monster bum sleeping on a bench...) He’s also got something of a whole information network going on with the actual homeless people in the city, since he gives great tips about places who are hiring or somewhere to get a meal or a bed for the night and he always gives his earnings from busking to those who need it more than him. He’s paid for the service he provides and he’s got a home to go back to, it just seems right that the music-money goes to help somebody else.

Yrus (Undergloom Papyrus): He works as a nanny for the Queen! Not too long ago, she might’ve opted to just stay home and look after her newly adopted child herself, while Asgore handled business with the humans, but... They’re freshly split now, and Toriel wants to be just as involved in things as Asgore as much as she wants to s l o w l y ease into being a full-time mother again. Yrus is the solution, already fond of little Frisk and a very warm and trustworthy soul who stayed bright even in the gloom of the Underground. He happily takes the job when asked and splits his time between supervising and caring for Frisk, and tutoring them in all the important subjects (math, history, magic, et cetera). He finds he has a passion for teaching and thinks he might go into that someday, when Frisk is older and Toriel has a little more time and confidence to no longer need him as a buffer. (Whatever it is, specifically, that takes up so much of Toriel’s time and keeps her out so late that he sometimes has to wait around well past Frisk’s bedtime for her to come back and ask after them... Yrus couldn’t fathom a guess and isn’t going to ask any questions. That would definitely be out of his scope as a simple child-minder and even if he knew anything, it would be an extreme violation of the family’s privacy for him to tell tales, which he’s happy to point out to anyone with a lot of questions for somebody so close to two of the Dreemurrs.)

Brick (Horrorfell Sans): He’s on his brother’s payroll. It seemed like the best way to kill two birds with one stone: he’s a big, scary-looking wall of bone who isn’t well suited to a regular-joe sorta job, and his bro’s a very high-profile guy who needs somebody big and scary-looking to stand next to him and be a deterrent. Nepotism, maybe, but they’ve been looking after each other their whole lives already and it’s something Brick knows he can do--he’d do it for free, but if King thinks it’s better (and safer) to have it as his job description, he’s probably right, so Brick’ll take the paycheck for it. King’s also very likely the only one who could stop him if he...lost control...somewhere out and about, so sticking close to him makes Brick feel better and hey, maybe they’re actually killing three birds with this stone of an arrangement. Still, he mostly just goes about town with King, standing around and watching his back and staring people down when he needs to while his brother carries on with his conversations and business. He hardly ever has to do anymore than that...almost never. (One of his favorite places to go is a little hole-in-the-wall craft shop, where King always pretends to take longer than he needs so Brick can peruse the yarn and try to pick up a little sign language from the nice old deaf lady who owns the place.)

King (Horrorfell Papyrus): Yes, yes, he’s very high profile--he did lead monsterkind for a time, getting everyone up to the Surface and settled there--but he’s since stepped down. He’s retired, and anything his successor may be involved in... surely, he couldn’t say. He and Toriel are barely in contact and the money he receives from her on the regular is a gift of goodwill, mostly for medical expenses (his leg, and his brother’s...well). All he does these days is collect for a charity, a pet project of his, Monster Reparations. Lots of people give such generous donations when he goes around to ask for them, maybe impressed a little by his fame, but he can’t feel too terribly about using it for such a worthy cause... (It’s a thinly veiled protection racket and the people and businesses who buy into it tend not to fall victim to ‘mysterious’ criminal activity. Toriel may be officially calling the shots now, but King, as the monster who put her back there, is in a very unique position of power in having her ear, an unofficial underboss totally off the books. Some ‘donate’ more than necessary when he comes collecting, hoping to earn preferential treatment, and sometimes they get it and sometimes they don’t--it’s entirely down to King’s opinion of them personally. ...The old woman who runs the craft store pays about half the going rate, and the immigrant who imports the miniature trees he likes gets a heavy discount, too. The deli-owner he overheard hurling discriminatory epithets at a customer, however, pays triple. You get the idea.)

Merc (Horrorswap Sans): He’s a researcher. Highly confidential, he’s sworn to secrecy and even mentioning that he’s being funded by Elder King Shroomba is pushing the boundaries of what he’s allowed to talk about. Still, he has his own facility, and several assistants, monster volunteers and sometimes human ones--but they have to sign papers swearing not to talk about what goes on in the lab, too. From what they are allowed to say, the gist is just that it didn’t seem like anything sinister was going on; not even a blood-draw... Merc seems pretty happy to leave at the end of every day, though, and whenever it comes up, he talks very fondly about being able to finish the project. (He’s researching DT, specifically how it can be used to enhance monster physiology and make them more resistant to damage from intent. Merc’s misadventure with DT destabilized him, but from 1HP he’s now more durable than ever, and his second attempt with his brother had less dramatic but still noticeable and successful results. The king wants that safety net for more monsters, especially ones who are on the front lines of...potentially less than legal dealings...who could really be at risk. Merc is reluctant, but with the stipulation of informed, willing volunteers for DT extraction and infusion, he can’t bring himself to turn down the resources and funding to research his own condition and bring the possibility of being normal again ever closer. He still has a hard time with the idea of ‘enhancing’ monsters, but the fact that it’s at least being done safely, willingly, and with a whole team behind it this time helps a lot.)

Ell (Horrorswap Papyrus): He’s in a wheelchair but not letting it keep him down, and he’s running a modest little newspaper stand on the corner--papers and magazines and cheap books--nothing all that special but boy, what an inspiration, good for him that he’s got a job and can run the place by himself! All kinds come and go from his stand, and sometimes he closes it up for a little bit in the middle of the day to take a...er...roll, with some people who must be friends of his, but he’s never gone too long, so nobody says anything to the poor guy about the inconvenience. He’s a dedicated businessman, or trying to be; won’t even let people help him with those heavy-looking boxes of deliveries he gets, and for a fella with no legs, he seems to be doing his best! (...The whole thing is a low-key smuggling operation and he is making bank off it. There’s a system of code-words in place related to the publications he sells for a ‘customer’ to indicate whether they’re buying or selling, and what--magic consumables, stolen/hot items, imported goods, the works--and where and when they want things to go down. There’s even hidden compartments in his custom-built wheelchair for some of the riskier stuff, because he knows no cop in their right mind would force a guy with no legs out of his chair just to search it with witnesses around. And that’s presuming any law enforcement were to even catch wise to his set-up, which he kind of doubts: he’s sly and subtle and even if he weren’t, he knows people see the chair before they see him. Why not take advantage of that?)

Pitch (Horrorswapfell Sans): He makes his living as a boxer, and a subsequent minor celebrity. Pretty much any match he’s in is an exhibition match--not just a monster, not just a little guy (...relatively), but a short skeleton monster who’s blind, wow! You don’t see that every day, that’s a spectacle! Plenty of ‘ooh’s and ‘ahh’s in the packed stands every night the sightless skeleton scrapper is in the ring and nobody can figure out how he bobs and weaves so well that he hardly ever gets hit. He loses some matches, that’s to be expected, even for a ‘normal’ fighter, but hey, people love an underdog story, so when he wins, it’s an uproar every time. (For his part, Pitch hates most of his ‘fans’ who think of him the same way they probably think of a silly little dog who learned a funny trick, but the fame in general, and the thrill of the fight... Those are enough to keep him in the ring. Just... maybe not quite enough to keep him fighting clean. He’s as dirty as sportsmen come and he and a few other monsters regularly play his own odds with the bookies: he’ll subtly use magic to cheat and stay in longer, or go down when he could easily keep fighting, whatever’s more profitable with the over/under from match to match. If he’s going to be a circus act doing what he loves, he may as well get hazard pay for his dignity... and y’know, a couple of idiots who think being able to fight is a ‘trick’ because you’re blind aren’t nearly so annoying when you’re being driven away from them in a luxury car, to your expensive house in the hills decked out with all the amenities.)

Nemo (Horrorswapfell Papyrus): He’s got a place he looks after, keeps things running. Just a small joint, nothing fancy, a little cabaret variety show type place--singing, dancing, drinks on tap, that kinda thing. After dark, some of the...performances... might get a little more risqué, stuff that titillates like burlesque and striptease, but rest assured, his permits are all in order and everything’s on the up and up. Nothing illegal whatsoever going on here, just a bit of singing and dancing and everybody having a good time. (Most of the performers are sex workers--monsters, but some humans too--and patrons can negotiate private shows or off-the-clock ‘meetings’ at their discretion. Nemo opts to not know too much of the details of what his dancers do when he’s not looking, for legal reasons, but he makes sure they have a safe place to do it, are paid for their services, and don’t have repeat problem-patrons if any slip through. Being one of the gentlemen running such an establishment in the city that doesn’t happen to touch or steal from or mistreat the performers, his place is the place to get hired if that’s your line of work. He’s mostly just happy to be able to provide the job security and the job safety for a group that really seems to catch a lot of hell up here on the Surface just for how they make their money.)

Sunny (Gastertale Sans): He’s a busy guy, bouncing around from place to place, job to job... Being so scattered, you might think he’d be having money troubles by now, but while he may not be the type to stick with one thing and stay there for a good few years, nobody who knows him would say he’s unreliable--he’s the type of guy that you can give him a call anytime and if you need help, he’ll be right over, and he’ll get the job done well, too! Of course he lives with his fancypants brother, and the King and Queen probably spot him a loan or two now and then, since they’re friendly, so all in all, no one really wonders how he makes enough money to live so comfortably. The answer’s right there in their face...isn’t it? (Yes and no. He is the kind of guy you can call anytime to get a job done, and he will do it well, but the money he gets from Asgore and Toriel is less of a ‘loan’ and more of a ‘payment for services rendered.’ He’s a cleaner, the guy you call to make things go away, things that aren’t supposed to be there: stains, papers, weapons, evidence... He’ll get rid of it for you, and if you need a convincing coverup or an alibi for...whatever it is that you weren’t there doing, he’ll take care of that, too. If somebody’s calling him up for his special brand of help, they probably just want to put it all behind them and forget all about that nasty business. He’s happy to facilitate--after all, what are friends for?)

Aster (Gastertale Papyrus): Like his brother, he gets on well with the King and Queen. (They both feel like they’ve known the monarchs much longer than they actually have...somehow...) But in any case, unlike his brother, Aster is very well-organized and thoughtful, so he’s a natural choice as an...advisor, of sorts, when monsters surfaced and it was...decided that perhaps there would be some...activities and...ways of doing things that...should remain unknown to the humans. Not unknown to Aster: he keeps track of everything, reminding the monarchs of little details they may have forgotten, pointing out things they may not have noticed, making educated suggestions for courses of action with likely positive outcomes based on past experiences... He’s the linchpin between Asgore and Toriel that makes them terrifyingly more efficient than they would be without him, a consigliere-equivalent who certainly isn’t a boss himself, but he has the bosses’ trust and their ears and that makes him a person of great interest. But...no one can get anything useful out of him: he’s loyal, above all, and much as he values truth, he also realizes that perhaps not everyone deserves to know the full truth of everything, especially not those who might use that truth to bring some sort of harm or misfortune to his friends...or to monsterkind at large. ...And trying to directly seize his extensive notes on the private and personal business-doings of the Dreemurrs is an even more doomed endeavor--he writes them all in a strange jumble of symbols that no one’s ever seen, and the code-breakers never have it long enough to decipher anything useful before its back in his hands, reclaimed quite speedily after unlawful seizure of private property containing confidential information. Lots of well-meaning law enforcement have their sights set on him as some sort of criminal white whale, but the simile is all too accurate-- they’ll never catch him, and even if they do, there’ll be nothing to hold him on. He simply has too many friends (and family members) in very high, very useful places.

[eldrai]

My Whumptober 2021

Find everything on my personal tag / ao3 collection or navigate through the individual fics!

#1: Hands Tied (Reid) 

Prompt: bound

Warnings: mention of past bullying

Summary: As it turns out, the darkness isn’t the worst part of the basement.

Find on tumblr or ao3

#2: Like Father, Like Son (Hotch)

Prompt: garrotte

Warnings: implied/referenced child abuse & domestic violence

Words: 1.5k

Summary: Vincent Perotta is violent. He is dedicated. He is brutal and efficient. His potential pool of victims includes a handful of asphyxiation deaths.

He has nothing to lose.

tumblr & ao3

#3: Not Worth It (Reid)

Prompt: insults

Warnings: ableism, r-slur, homophobia

Words: 2.2k

Summary: Spencer isn’t naïve. He is young and he looks young but he isn’t stupid. He hadn’t graduated with the expectation that because he was older, had qualifications to back him up, the world would collectively mature in kind. After all, he’d gained his relative immunity to insults because it hurt less to let them taunt him than it had to confront them and end up shoved in a locker or tied up on the football field.

He had hoped things might be different. Not expected. Not assumed.

Just hoped.

tumblr & ao3

#4: Skeleton Crew (Garcia)

Prompt: taken hostage

Warnings: guns, gun violence, brief description of dead body (not major character)

Words: 4.3k

Summary: A late night in the office, the team in California and an unwelcome visitor.

tumblr & ao3

#5: Pretty Boy (Morgan & Reid)

Prompt: misunderstanding

Warnings: past bullying, past homophobia, implied/referenced ableism

Words: 995

Summary: He’s a nice kid.

So Derek isn’t sure why Reid is avoiding him.

tumblr & ao3

#6: I’m All Yours (If You’re All Mine) (Teenage!Hotch & Haley)

Prompt: touch-starved

Warnings: none

Summary: Haley wishes that times like now, with few people around and a quiet moment, he’d ever seem to want to reach out.

“What?” he asks, when she breathes out in an unintentional sigh.

She laces their fingers together, her shoulder just brushing his. “Nothing.”

tumblr & ao3

#7: Cold (Hotch)

Prompt: numbness

Warnings: canon-typical violence, post-Foyet arc and what that entails, funerals, grief

Words: 2k

Summary: He misses Haley so much it breaks through the hollowness and hurts.

tumblr & ao3

#8 Seventy Two Hours (1/3) (Hotch)*

Prompt: definitely just a cold

Warnings: canon-typical discussions of violence, vomiting

Words: 2.5k

Summary: Four victims. A fifth suspected missing. There is no time for self-pity - the world doesn’t stop just because he’s a little sick.

tumblr & ao3

#9: Decisions (Reid)

Prompt: tears

Warnings: internalized ableism

Words: 200

Summary: It doesn’t tell him why he never feels he belongs.

(He knows what does.)

tumblr & ao3

#10: hear them saying it gets better every day (Hotch)

Prompt: flare-up

Warnings: chronic pain, intrusive thoughts, graphic intrusive thoughts, thoughts of self-harm, disordered eating, self-induced vomiting (No actual vomiting but description of idea/attempt), medical ableism, internalized ableism

Words: 4.6k

Summary:The ironic thing is of all the marks Foyet leaves on him, the ones he doesn’t hurt the most.

or: Hotch struggles with chronic pain

tumblr & ao3

#11: Shock (Hotch)

Prompt: drowning

Warnings: canon-typical violence & references to murder, attempted drowning

Words: 2.2k

Summary: They go over.

Icy water slams the air out of his lungs as the rest of his muscles seize up.

tumblr & ao3

#12: Burning Questions (Reid & Morgan)

Prompt: made to watch

Warnings: abduction, implied/referenced child & domestic abuse, minor burns, cigarettes

Words: 972

Summary: The man pays him no heed, tilting his head and scrutinizing him with a sharp gaze. Spencer commits his idiosyncrasies to memory, imagines his features bulleted on a warrant. Perhaps an Interpol red notice.

tumblr & ao3

#13: Fault Lines (Morgan & Reid)

Prompt: this is gonna suck

Warnings: earthquakes, building collapse, broken bones, description of broken bones, field medicine

Words: 3.5k

Summary: And Reid’s in front of him, hands on his shoulders pulling him to his feet, all jerky movements and frantic eyes and through it all, Derek makes out a single word: earthquake.

He stumbles outside. He’s nearly off the porch before the house tears apart.

tumblr & ao3

#14: Leave This All Behind (Young Reid)

Prompt: beaten

Warnings: bullying, ableism, minor violence

Words: 1.5k

Summary: Spencer doesn’t have a good day at school.

tumblr & ao3

#15: Seventy Two Hours (2/3) (Hotch)*

Prompt: delirium

Warnings: vomiting, fever, medical (IVs, etc.), seizure

Words: 3.0k

A/N: n a shocking turn of events no-one could have predicted… it might not just be a cold

tumblr & ao3

#16: Seventy Two Hours (3/3) (Hotch)*

Prompt: scars/recovery/aftermath

Warnings: hospitals, medical procedures, needles, implied/referenced child abuse

Words: 1.7k

tumblr & ao3

#17: Headache (Reid)

Prompt: haemorrhage

Warnings: mild blood, mild injury

Words: 1.3k

Summary: “Woah, woah, woah,” she says. “Sit. Now.”

“Oh, I’m fine here,” Spencer says. “My knee is almost fully healed.” 

“I’m not worried about your knee,” Garcia says.

tumblr & ao3

#18: Spontaneous (Hotch)

Prompt: CPR

Warnings: mild needles, poisoning

Words: 2.8k

Summary: “Sudden cardiac arrest,” Spencer breathes. “No history of heart problems. Public place. I don’t think it’s coincidental.”

tumblr & ao3

#19: Once Bitten, Twice Shy (JJ)

Prompt: bitten

Warnings: fear of dogs, dog attack/bite, animal neglect, panic attacks, graphic description of wounds

Words: 983

Summary: The man shouts a guttural command and the dog runs at her.

tumblr & ao3

#20: Stress-Diathesis Model (Reid)

Prompt: solitary confinement

Warnings: hallucinations & psychosis (implied), paranoia, insects

Words: 1.0k

Summary: Stress-diathesis model

noun.

a psychological theory that attempts to explain a disorder, or its trajectory, as the result of an interaction between a predispositional vulnerability, the diathesis, and a stress caused by life experiences.

tumblr & ao3

#21: Rust (Morgan & Hotch)

Prompt: pressure

Warnings: gunshot wounds, blood

Words: 1.4k

Summary: For all the training they receive, Derek expects a gunshot to hurt.

Because the split second after he hits the ground, some invisible force tackling him, knocking the wind right out of him, and a dark warmth soaks through his shirt, the moment just before his synapses snap back to life and he recognises it for what it is—there is nothing.

tumblr & ao3

#22: Letter (JJ)

Prompt: obsession

Warnings: stalking, misogyny, misogynistic language, mentioned rape threats, death threats

Words: 2k

Summary: Being the unit’s liason has its downsides

tumblr & ao3

#23: Motion Sick (Reid)

Prompt: pursuit

Warnings: brief vomit mention

Words: 952

**Summary: **Spencer hadn’t minded the swaying, jolting movements of the bus: it was the people that bothered him, the sour, warm bodies pressing near him, a suffocating heat in the summer and a symphony of awful rustling jackets in winter. School trips were better, the class spread out in a coach, and unlike some of his unluckier classmates he was never struck by carsickness.

Which leaves the conclusion that it’s Morgan’s driving.

tumblr & ao3

#24: Detox (Reid)

Prompt: flashback

Warnings: drug addiction, drug withdrawal, vomiting

Words: 814

Summary: Dilaudid withdrawal peaks in intensity between twenty-four and forty-eight hours. He’s made the first twelve. Just twelve more and it’s going to be easier.

tumblr & ao3

#25: Static (Hotch)

Prompt: escape

Warnings: sensory overload

Words: 1.3k

Summary: It builds over time but it becomes overwhelming in an instant, the air growing hot and stuffy. Noises blend together like static crashing in harsh waves. Too much.

Get a grip, he thinks, turning the glass in his hands. His skin feels too tight. Get a fucking grip.

tumblr & ao3

(A/N: self-indulgent headcanon time? self-indulgent headcanon time.)

#26: Keep Your Feet On The Ground (Hotch)

Prompt: fallen

Warnings: implied/referenced child abuse, mild blood & injury

Words: 1k

tumblr & ao3

#27: Five A Day? No? Three? One? (Morgan)

Prompt: passing out

Warnings: mentions of unsub stuff, non-disordered skipped meals

Words: 544

Summary: Derek passes out, Hotch shouldn’t be surprised, and an unsub gets tackled.

tumblr & ao3

#28: Nightmares (Morgan)

Prompt: nightmares

Warnings: canon-typical references to murder/violence, mentions of Buford but no specific reference to CSA.

Words: 268

Summary: The dream warps and their faces blur. Just Buford’s remains clear.

tumblr & ao3

#29: Late Nights (Hotch & Garcia)

Prompt: overworked

Warnings: None

Words: 1.7k

Summary: They’d called it an early night – early in the sense that they weren’t going to stay late for once – because they had reached the stage where they were starting to drive each other crazy just by existing together.

tumblr & ao3

#30: Frostbite (Morgan)

Prompt: left for dead

Warnings: blood and injury, mildly graphic description of injury, hypothermia

Words: 1.5k

Summary: Derek uses the corner to heave himself up to his feet, a pained cry slipping through gritted teeth as his knee takes weight. He tests his left leg. His ankle throbs in protest but it can take him walking on it - and his right is all right for short, light steps. It has to be.

tumblr & ao3

#31: Touch (Morgan)

Prompt: trauma

Warnings: sexual harassment/sexual assault, groping, past CSA

Words: 608

Summary: The touch is so brief he brushes it off as an accident. It’s just a crowded club.

tumblr & ao3

[murderousginger]

Faded Away

Angel on Fire Chapter 1

John Shelby x reader

Word count: 2.3k

Warnings: They're criminals guys, they do bad things.

(gif by @bonniebirddoesgifs)

You giggled as your best friend swung you around on the empty street. Isaiah, Finn and Michael walked behind you both and laughed in various degrees at your foolishness. 

"The girls are already mad," Isaiah said as he stepped forward and took your hand. He pulled you close before twirling you away from him. "We're in for a night, lads."

You laughed and spun with your hands outstretched as he did the same to your friend. 

"They're always mad," Michael scoffed as he rolled his eyes. "They're fuckin' winding up for the snow."

You stopped spinning and raced toward Finn, a mischievous grin on your face as you crashed into his arms. 

"There's no way you're a Shelby, Michael," you laughed as you pressed yourself into Finn. "You're far too dusty. You're a wet blanket."

Finn barked a laugh as he took your wrist and spun you back toward Isaiah. 

"You make no sense, (Y/N)," Michael scowled as he lit a cigarette. "Am I dry or am I wet? You can't make up your mind."

Your friend trilled a laugh. You rolled your eyes as she left Isaiah's grasp to cling to Michael. 

"You know our girl," she joked as her hand found his chest. "Always too busy with her own thoughts to make much sense. I don't think you're dry at all, Michael."

"That's because you'll wet him right up, won't you?" You said exasperated. 

Finn and Isaiah laughed as Michael coughed on his cigarette. Isaiah winked at you and lifted his arm. You ran into his side to claim his warmth as he pulled you close. 

"Be nice to little boss," he chastised before his tone lowered as if to tell you a scary story. "Too much longer and he'll be just like Tommy, and you wouldn't dare say such a thing to him."

The night was like most nights. You and your friend went with the Peaky boys to the Garrison under the promise of drinks and snow. You'd been doing it for years, long before Michael joined the little crew, and it was old hat by now. The boys liked the entertainment and needed you to parade their product and make a scene to attract customers. You got your drinks and snow free as long as you attracted attention. Sometimes Isaiah or Finn would give you a cut of their cash on an especially good night. There were worse things to do to get extra coin. 

"I don't take anything the bait says to heart," Michael said. "They're not much more than pretty wrapping to attract the men and put the girls at ease."

"But we are pretty," you pouted mockingly as you cocked your head back to see Michael. "You might not have a use for smart girls, but you have use for pretty."

Michael inhaled his cigarette, taking his time, making you wait for his response. Hang on it. He loved to make everyone wait on him like it was a sign that he was in charge of things. If everyone hung on his word, you'd all forget to breathe until he did. He'd become in charge of everything, including the air in your lungs. 

The smoke lifted from his mouth and into his nostrils before he exhaled it all away. 

"And your mouth is good reason to find better bait," Michael said evenly. His eyes were always so cold. You shuddered involuntarily as you lost eye contact with him and turned back around.

"Oh now, little boss," Isaiah pish-poshed. "You know (Y/N), she means no harm. Besides, these two fillies are the bread and butter of our nights."

Isaiah tucked you into his side with a squeeze, smiling down at you. You wrapped an arm around him inside his coat and squeezed back.

"You watch your hands, now," he joked. "I'm a respectable young man."

You threw your head back against his arm with a loud laugh and met his gaze nose to nose.

"Isaiah Jesus, your name might be holy but you are sinful as they come," you taunted, ghosting your lips across his. 

Isaiah mocked shock, good mouth agape as he shot a look to Finn who had sped up to walk beside you two. 

"Finn, did you hear what she said?" Isaiah said as his free hand clutched his heart. "She called me sinful. She's yours now, mate. My heart's done broke for the night."

He dropped his arm from your shoulder and playfully pushed you into Finn who caught your arm as you stumbled his way. 

"Striking out with everyone already, are ye?" Finn chuckled. "Not a good omen for the night."

"You know why Isaiah calls him 'little boss,' right?" You taunted, loudly whispering so everyone could hear. 

"Yeah, why's that, then?" Michael said, mouth tight as your friend hung on him.

"Shhhh," your scowled at him before turning your full attention to Finn. "I'm talking to a real Shelby." 

Michael scoffed behind you. 

"Yeah, Finn's a real asset to the company," Michael deadpanned. 

Finn's face grew tight. You quickly grabbed his chin and made him look at you. 

"Hey now, boss," you said lightly. "You pay no attention to Mr. Fancypants over there. You're more man than he'll ever be. He's just acting tough to make up for all those years in his perfect little village."

Finn's lip twitched and his face relaxed into a small smile. You playfully knuckled his chin and kissed his cheek.

"Enough now," Isaiah called as he took the lead of the group. "We're almost to the pub, just stop bickering and have a good time, yeah?"

You all toned in agreement. 

You felt a weight in your stomach as you reached the Garrison and saw the people pushing to fit in the pub. You had been going most nights every week for ages, on top of your day job at a desk, and honestly the booze and the drugs had started to lose its appeal. 

"Come on," your friend squealed as she dragged you through the doors.

The pub was packed, but the sight of the boys behind you cleared a path to a table. It's occupants stared at your group wide eyed before quickly tipping their hats and leaving their seats. Finn pulled a chair back for you and you playfully patted his cheek as you sat, your friend sitting across the table next to Michael. Finn and Isaiah sat with you in the middle, your back to the busiest part of the pub. The seat made you uneasy, vulnerable. 

You jumped as you felt a hand brush your shoulder. 

"Here ya'ar," Harry said briskly as he sat whiskey down for everyone and gave the boys beers as well. 

The table mumbled their thanks and the boys started a conversation you quickly tuned out. You looked around you to the other patrons, scoping out who could be reeled in for snow or smoke or even the bit of opium in Isaiah's pocket. 

Most were men tired from the long day of work, but there were pockets of young people with girls your own age that were out for a raucous night. You always focused on them. They usually had the money and the nights to lose. Asking the working men always felt like taking food out of their family's mouths, and the extra layer of scum from the thought sickened you.

"You don't have to go to scoping right away," Finn yelled down your ear to overcome the boon of voices surrounding you. "Relax. Have your drink. We're all friends here, are we not? No need to rush off right away."

You smiled thinly and nodded, looking back to the table. Michael had his arm swung around your friend's shoulders and she had taken his cigarette to smoke while he continued on some sort about the office. You only heard every other word from the roar of the pub, but he leaned forward to slap the table and the boys erupted with laughter, so you chuckled weakly along. 

Isaiah wrapped an arm around you absentmindedly as he went on with his story and you ran your middle finger around the rim of your whiskey glass.

"So Arthur sent me to collect from…"

You toned him out, thoughts swirling your head as you circled your glass. Did you want to drink? Should you? It would surely help with your nerves from the noise. But oh, being drunk had become so dull. 

"... And I said 'well we either take your eyes out your coin, you choose!'" Isaiah said as he rocked back in his chair and put his hands behind his head, his smile smug. 

"Give 'em protection and they don't even wanna pay for it," Finn scoffed. "Bloody ungrateful."

You gritted your teeth together before you gripped your glass and drank it down in one go. The whiskey coated your throat and burned down your throat to the brick in your stomach. It eased your muscles as you rolled your tongue against your teeth. I guess we're doing this again.

It might have eased your body, but the crowd felt louder, more invasive. Having your back to the door felt like wearing a target. You itched to move. You looked around the pub again, your hand idly on your glass as you skimmed the crowd. A set of eyes locked with yours. 

You smiled slowly, raising a brow in challenge. The young man smiled back. He wasn't ugly, nor was he entirely attractive. Just a random face in the pub to pull to the table to sell some tokyo. A little flirting might get you a drink from the deal. You tilted your head slightly, looking over to the bar and back to the man before you twisted back around to the table. You stood up with your glass, bent slightly to Isaiah's ear. 

"Got a bite," you said. "I'll be at the bar."

Isaiah nodded. 

"Feel him out and bring him 'round then, yeah?"

You stood up and made your way for two seats near the end of the bar, near the private Shelby room. You sat down on the one farther in, giving the man a clean exit if he was uninterested in what you were willing to offer. 

You held your breath until you felt someone stand beside you.

"(Y/N)," He nodded as he pulled out the chair and sat. 

"John," you replied, mimicking his tone but you couldn't help but lift a brow in surprise of the older Shelby boy joining you at the bar top.

You both were around each other enough to know of each other, but you rarely spoke. You stayed around the younger group and away from Tommy and Arthur. The oldest two were nice enough, but you knew their business and had seen when they decided not to be nice. Better to keep your head down and stick to the younger men who were still enamored with snow and tits. 

John lit a cigarette and watched as you ran a finger around the rim of your empty glass, not daring to turn to look him in the eye.

"You're not yourself lately," he said with an easy smile before he inhaled his cigarette. 

He pulled it from his lips and let out an exhale as he nudged you with his shoulder and offered it to you. 

"How do you know what I'm like?" Your finger froze on the glass before your hand fell to the side. 

You picked up your glass to drink, but at it down as you realized it was still empty. You slowly turned your head to look back at him.

"You're grinning gunpowder most nights, ready to blow at a moment's notice," John chuckled as his eyes roamed your face and down your body. "Lately you've been different. Not all checked in."

"That so?" You smirked as you took his cigarette from his hand and took a puff. You sized him up as your hand rested the cigarette on the counter. "Do you usually watch your little brother's pals this closely?"

John gave a short laugh. 

"You should see Tommy," he said. "He knows every dirty secret of anyone who so much as spends a night around a Blinder."

"Smokes and mirrors," you said before you brought the cigarette back to your lips and inhaled. "You didn't answer my question."

"No."

"So why'd you sit by me, then?" You exhaled with a curl of smoke. "Tommy making sure one of his brother's bait girls isn't stepping out of line?"

"Is that it?" John said as he took his cigarette back. "You like a boy that's not a Blinder and rather be with him most nights?"

You snorted. 

"There's no boy," you said incredulously. "Think me that foolish? Or that shallow?"

"Well if it's not a boy you aren't knocked up," John said as he smoked. 

"Not everything is sex and drugs, Shelby," you scoffed. "I know none of you believe that, but it's true."

"Who says we don't believe in more than that?" John said. "Sometimes we believe in guns."

You rolled your eyes but couldn't help but crack a smile. 

"Ehhh, see?" John said as he nudged your shoulder. "There's still a bit of the old girl in there."

"The old girl is just getting sick of the same old thing," you mumbled. 

"What's that?" John frowned. 

Harry appeared, hastily wiping the bar as he set out a glass for John and refilled yours. 

"Sorry, sir," Harry rasped. "Night's a bit crazy. Makes me think we should hire another as help."

"It'sfine," John nodded at Harry as he wrapped his hand around his drink and turned toward you. "Now what're you on about?"

"I asked what you were after," you said louder. "You older ones don't bless us with your presence much."

"Not that much older," John grinned. "You're Isaiah's age, right? Six year age gap is nothin'."

"You know I'm not myself and my age," you said amused as you squeezed your glass, "but you won't tell me what you're after. Mr. Shelby, are you chasing after bait?"

John smiled, a mischievous glint in his eye. 

"Love," he said as smoke poured through his teeth. "I don't chase no one."

Masterlist

[writing-on-standby]

time of dreaming (part three)

Summary: Soulmates meet in their dreams from the age of 16 until they meet for the first time. Once they meet, they share their physical and emotional feelings with one another until they die. Tom Holland was just starting to learn how to take over the family business and ignore the urge to find his soulmate when everything changes and he’s found face to face with you. You’ve always wanted to meet your soulmate and spend the rest of your life with them until you actually meet yours and life changes forever.

Warnings: Drug use, swearing, alcohol, angst, mentions of scars/injury (not self harm) 

                                 part three: coping mechanisms

A few days after your last interaction with Tom and Harrison, you were discharged from the hospital. Jazmin had taken you home and spent the week after at your house, helping you. She didn’t ask for details about what happened, but word was quickly spreading that you were assaulted in a drug deal gone wrong. Wrong place, wrong time. And you didn’t have the heart to say otherwise.

After a week of time off, however, Jazmin had to go back to work, leaving you alone to take care of the hundreds of stitches you had that kept your chest closed. Your arm was still in a sling and wandering around the house was difficult. There was a constant dull ache in your stomach where Luke O’Malley had stabbed you. You didn’t know what happened to him and you had no idea what happened to Tom and Harrison, but you didn’t care. At least that’s what you told yourself.

Nothing was more heartbreaking, however, than to feel the hands of another woman on Tom, exploring his body and getting to know him. You’d wake up in the middle of the night, tasting cigarettes and whiskey while feeling the lips of someone on your skin. You’d try to block out the sensation of Tom sleeping with another girl, but nothing worked, not even you drinking.

Eventually, one night that Tom was getting frisky with another woman, you looked at the medication you were given to help ease the pain you were in. You took a deep, calming breath, determined to get this feeling out of your head. Without another thought, you popped two painkillers and laid down on your bed. A small smile lifted your cheeks as you could only focus on the comfort of the bed.

Maybe it wasn’t the healthiest coping mechanism, but in that moment, you were desperate to feel anything other than Tom fucking another woman. You nestled deeper into your bed while your body felt light and airy. You slowly closed your eyes and smiled. This was working. For once, you had a way to numb Tom’s feelings and the sensations he felt and for the next six hours, you’d finally pretend he wasn’t your soulmate.

*

Two weeks and some bad decisions later, you were out of pain killers and your body was screaming in pain. You groaned and crawled out of bed. The stitches  had come out of your chest, but the mark was still there; angry and harsh against your soft skin. You had been kicked out of the internship program due to your incident and while the director denied it was because if that, you couldn’t hide the nagging reminder of the scar that somehow showed through any article of clothing you tried.

Tom’s feelings and sensations weren’t making things any better, either. If he wasn’t hooking up with random women, he was drinking whiskey at the worst time of day and smoking cigarettes like he would die without them. On days you tried to be productive, Tom would get into fights. His knuckles constantly ached as did his throat. Having him as your soulmate was insufferable and when you got a particularly bad cramp during your period, you couldn’t help the petty joy you felt, knowing he was also suffering.

You dragged yourself out of the house. The shirt you wore showed off the jagged edge of of the scar you had. The worst part of having the injuries you had wasn’t the pain, but the combination of a massive scar on your chest and the need to wear specific shirts to accommodate to the sling you had to wear. You sighed, trying to ignore the sense of dread seeing the injuries filled you with, but nothing worked.

You walked out of your dingy apartment and onto the streets of London. You were trying to find a way to get more pain killers, but the doctors had already refused your request. As much as you hated yourself for even entertaining the idea of illegally obtaining drugs, you couldn’t go another day with the feelings you had. Luckily for you, you lived in a sketchy part of town and happened to know where the drug deals went down.

Not even caring that your soulmate was a glorified drug dealer or that what you were about to do was definitely illegal, you approached the dealer who stood in the alley by your flat.

“Hey pretty thing,” the dealer spoke, gruffly. His face was ragged and covered with stubble. His blue eyes weren’t menacing like you always pictured a drug dealer to be. “Need something to help with that?” The dealer gestured to your injuries with a cigarette dancing between his finger tips. “Since you’re so pretty, I’ll give you a discount.”

How kind of him, you thought to yourself, sarcastically. You sighed and nodded, slowly. You ignored the spade shaped pin on his chest even though you knew it indicated who he belonged to - the Hollands. “How much?”

The dealer chuckled and told you his price. It wasn’t bad and you handed him the cash. With a sickeningly sweet smile, he handed you a bottle full of painkillers. “Don’t take them all at once, sweetheart.”

You ignored the smirk on his face as you turned and started walking away. Your heart was racing and your body was warm. You ignored every part of your instincts telling you to drop the painkillers and run, but you needed it. You tried to slow your breathing, knowing that Tom would be able to sense your anxiety. What did you care, though? He didn’t give two shits about you. He had made that perfectly clear.

*

Tom stood in his office talking with Harrison. It was the end of the day and they were waiting for the report on the sales his drug dealers had. It was a typical routine that happened almost every day. Tom filled two glasses with whiskey and grinned as he handed it to his best friend. Things were starting to look up.

Over the last three weeks since he had met his soulmate, he’d only felt the soreness in your shoulder along with a dull ache in his stomach. He shrugged off the pain, easily having worse injuries in his life. However, when your period came around, Tom struggled. While your cramps weren’t awful, Tom never had to get used to dealing with them and he simply found it way too uncomfortable.

As the days went on, Tom noticed you feeling more lightheaded and less pain came from your shoulder and stomach. Tom ignored it, assuming that you had finally healed up the wounds. He had tried to ignore any thoughts or emotions about you. It was too hard to think about the look on your face when he last saw you. Your eyes were wide with pain and a frown sat firmly on your lips. It was hard to process the fact that his soul was forever connected to another person and now he had a face to match with the sensation.

A swift knock sounded on Tom’s office door. Tom called for the person to enter and turned to see who it was. Jason, the drug dealer who was in charge of the southern part of the city, walked in. His blue eyes beamed and the stubble on his face added an extra disheveled look to the man. Tom greeted him and he nodded.

“How was the day? Did you make any sales?” Harrison asked, arms crossed. Harrison kept track of the finances in the mob. He knew that Tom was shit with numbers.

Jason chuckled and leaned back. “There was this one bird who came today. Poor thing,” he muttered with his thick cockney accent. He shook his head and lit up a cigarette. “Had her arm in a sling and a nasty scar.”

Harrison and Tom looked at each other. Without saying a word, they both were on the same page. “What arm was in a sling?”

“Where was the scar?” Harrison added, looking at Jason, intently.

Jason looked at the two of them for a brief second. Tom knew this sounded insane, but he didn’t care. Why would you be buying drugs? Jason took a deep drag off his cigarette and sighed, letting all the smoke blow out of him. “Her right arm was in the sling and the scar was right on her sternum. Looked like it went further, but the shirt covered it. What’s the big deal with her?”

Tom shook his head. “Jesus fuck,” he groaned. “Jason, if that woman buys from you ever again, call me as soon as she leaves. Got it?”

Jason furrowed his brows. “Can I ask why?”

Tom chuckled, but there was no humor in his laugh. He shook his head and threw his empty whiskey glass at the wall. It shattered right behind Jason, causing the drug dealer to jump to his feet. Most people had grown to fear Tom and despite his distaste for that power, he used it to his advantage more often than not. “No you fucking can’t,” Tom shouted. “Get the fuck out of my office.”

Jason walked out of the office without another word, leaving Tom and Harrison alone. Harrison looked at Tom in disbelief. Despite the two of them being best friends, Tom had grown distant from Harrison. “Tom,” he whispered. “What’s going on in your head?”

Tom shook his head, trying to ignore the massive amounts of guilt he was feeling. Most nights, before he went to sleep, he’d feel fear and anxiety build up in your bones. He felt you shake awake from nightmares in a cold terror. Tom could feel the ache still present in your body and worst of all, he could feel every time you took drugs. It just took you buying them illegally from one of his drug dealers to finally face the truth. Tom knew that this was a new behavior. In fact, he felt your anxiety earlier today, but assumed it was something normal, not a drug deal. The guilt was crawling into Tom’s lungs and nestling itself firmly on his chest. It was his fault that you were now breaking the law and abusing drugs. “It’s my fault,” he sighed.

“No, it’s not, Tom,” Harrison spoke, confidently. He took a step closer to Tom, but Tom shook his head.

“Don’t fucking lie to me, Harrison.” Tom looked at the open office doors and took a deep breath. He closed his eyes and tried to think of his father. In moments like this, Tom could always count on his father to help him get his thoughts in order.

*

“I know you’re excited that you met your soulmate, Tom, but you cannot meet her. You know that you can’t, right?”

Tom took a bite of his cereal and nodded. Tom was getting better at focusing on the future of his mob rather than the vague-faced woman he saw in his dreams. “I know, dad.”

“Good,” he sighed. Tom’s father was always loving and encouraging to the boys, but when it came to soulmates, he wouldn’t budge. Tom knew that the distaste for soulmates was because of what happened with his mother, but Tom never dared to mention such a thing to his dad.

“Dad, what if I accidentally meet her?”

Tom avoided his dad’s cold stare from the other side of the table. It was a genuine question, on Tom’s part. He knew that meeting his soulmate wasn’t allowed, but what if she happened to be in the same store one day? Or what if she was a cop that he ran into one day? Tom’s dad finally sighed and shook his head. “Tom, you won’t meet her. And if you do, then you’ll start feeling her every thought, feeling, and emotion. That makes you weak, Tom. You can’t let yourself be weak. Not when you belong to this family and you have this job.”

Tom nodded at the bowl of cereal in front of him. His dad had been preparing him for the lifestyle that he was expected to continue, but Tom was still not ready to shut out normal emotions in the way that his father expected him to. Tom tried to ignore the nagging feeling he had in the back of his throat that meeting you in your dreams as frequently as he did was worse than actually meeting you. Tom had already grown attached to the way you laughed at his serious tone or the way you’d be able to tell when he didn’t want to talk about meaningless things. He was attached to the way you were so easily there for him, even when he was being a relentless asshole. Tom couldn’t help but feel like he was already breaking your heart despite only knowing each other for a few weeks. And even then, you didn’t even know what the other one looked like. Tom looked up at his dad who raised his eyebrows. Tom knew that his dad was expecting him to agree and to show submission to his father’s request. Tom sighed, ignoring the soul crushing guilt he felt when he slowly nodded at his father. “Okay, dad.”

*

You walked back to your flat and shut the door with a sigh. Your hands were shaking as you popped open the pill vile and took two pills. At this point, your body was so used to taking the pills that two weren’t enough for you, but you weren’t sure if there was a difference in illegal pain killers and legal pain killers. You took a deep breath, trying to ignore the overwhelming sense of guilt that you could feel coming from Tom. Your first instinct was to find him, hold him, and comfort him. After a few seconds you shook your head in disgust. If Tom gave a single shit about you, he’d come over every time you woke up with tears streaming down your face because of nightmares. If Tom cared about you, he would check up on you every time he felt you get high. If Tom cared, he wouldn’t sleep with random women nearly every day. If Tom didn’t care, why did you?

You ignored the ache in your heart that was now because of your own thoughts. Instead, you focused on the way your body felt lighter with each step you took. You focused on the soft fabric of your shirt and the way the rug under your feet felt. You sighed, drowsily, as the pain killers slowly took effect on your body. You flopped onto the couch and felt your body sink into the plush cushions. You turned on the TV, planning to watch some trashy reality while you enjoyed your high, but your phone ringing caught you off guard. The phone number wasn’t recognized, but you didn’t care enough to worry if it was something serious. You silenced the call without another thought.

The phone started ringing, again, however. You groaned and silenced it again, not wanting to talk to anyone. If it was that important, they could leave a message, you reasoned with yourself. The phone rang for a third time, and you felt anger prick at your cheeks and burn into your chest. You suddenly put the sensation with the incessant calling and realized that it was Tom calling you. Tom was calling you and you ignoring him was pissing him off. You smirked at this realization and chuckled. Before you could think of any reason why Tom would be calling you, you shut your phone off and turned the volume of the TV louder. You popped open the pill container you were given and took a third. With the smile still lazily spreading across your cheeks, you walked over to the kitchen and poured yourself a glass of wine. Without thinking, you guzzled the whole glass and poured another. “Fuck you, Tom Holland,” you muttered to yourself, as if toasting to this statement. You raised the glass to your lips and took another drink, already feeling sick.

Your stomach was flipping and lurching, but you didn’t care. All you could focus on was the fact that you were feeling a cigarette burning your throat and the warmth of Tom’s anger. You were pleased with yourself for dragging these feelings out of Tom. It was high fucking time that he was suffering because of you just as much as you were because of him. You finished the second glass, forcing the alcohol to burn every inch of your throat and stomach. You knew you were going to be sick, but the thought of making Tom feel your suffering and pain was too glorifying for you. You filled a third glass and took a drink as you stumbled into the living room with drunken giggles. Maybe you didn’t care so much about the scar you now held forever, or the fact that your future was put on hold because of Tom. Maybe you could pretend for a small minute that everything was okay.

You flopped on the couch, spilling the wine on your shirt, but all you could do was giggle. You were growing more tired and sick, but you couldn’t let yourself be bothered. All you could do was chuckle, lazily. You forced your eyes to stay as open as they could, but the alcohol mixing with the pain killers was making you so incredibly drowsy. It didn’t matter, though. You could never sleep, lately.

The last few weeks, you would wake up in a cold sweat, thinking of the man who held you against him and slashed your chest open. You hadn’t slept a full night since the assault, but the drugs were helping. You smiled at the thought of being able to sleep for a few hours without seeing or hearing that man. Maybe one day, you’d sleep through the night without the help of drugs, but for now, you were medicating yourself. What else was there to do?

Before you could stand up to fill a fourth glass of wine, your apartment door busted open. Your reflexes were slowed and your logic was out the window. You stood up and wobbled back and forth, trying to balance yourself. Ignoring the smallest rational voice in the back of your brain telling you that it was Tom, you still walked towards the door. You stumbled and peered your head around the corner to see Tom and Harrison both standing there. Anger filled your bones as you looked at their dumb faces. You could see Tom wobbling slightly, but he wasn’t nearly as affected by you. You stumbled into their view and threw the wine glass at Tom as best as you could. It missed his head, narrowly, and shattered at his feet.

Tom whipped his head to glare at you. “What the fuck are you doing?”

You chuckled. “Fuck you, Tom Holland,” you slurred. A laugh erupted out of your diaphragm, even though you knew this situation was far from funny, but this was all you could bring yourself to do in this moment. You shrugged at the boy. His brown eyes were concerned and his eyebrows were knitted, but the drugs in your system blocked his feelings from you. Tom took a step closer to you and you flinched backwards, causing you to trip over the rug behind you. Your ass hit the ground with a pathetic thud and Tom walked over to you. He knelt beside you and helped you up. “Get the fuck off me,” you whimpered as tears slipped out of your eyes. An uncontrollable sadness was washing through your veins and you knew it was yours. It was the sadness over your lost career, your lost soulmate, and the weight of the trauma that you’d experienced in your life.

Tom helped you sit on the couch as he pursed his lips. You could see the fear and the guilt dancing along his eyebrows. He shook his head as he wiped a tear from your cheek. He pushed the hair off of your face and slowly rubbed your back. The last thing you wanted right now was to be comforted by Tom, but you couldn’t ignore the ache in your soul to just be with Tom. “Why are you doing this?”

You sniffled as the world kept shifting around you. The alcohol was fully hitting you and all you could do was accept it. “I can’t sleep; I can’t eat. I have nothing. All I can think of is…is…him,” you sputtered. “All I can think of is the fear and the smell of him. I can’t sleep without seeing him and I can’t eat without feeling the knife against my chest. I can’t function with you sleeping around with other women. I can’t escape this-this anger and sadness.” You wiped your eyes, roughly and shook your head. “You’re not here because you care. You’re here to make sure I don’t fuck with your mob or the cops.” Your lips curled in a sneer as you spit on the ground. The more you talked, the more saliva filled your mouth. Or maybe it was the tears that were now uncontrollably falling from your eyes that were filling your mouth. It didn’t matter to you, not right now. “I won’t fuck with anything. I’m just trying to keep my head above water.”

Tom’s heart was breaking at the sight of you. The scar was clearly visible and tears were freely falling down your cheeks, but you were still speaking your mind. He knew that the universe made you his soulmate because you weren’t afraid to speak your mind to him. “Love, let’s get you into some pj’s and get some rest, okay?”

“What’s the point,” you spat. “I don’t sleep anyway.”

“C’mon,” he ushered, softly. He helped you stand and walked you towards the bedroom. You didn’t fight him as he wrapped his arms around you waist and you certainly didn’t fight him when he held you close to his side. He helped you with every stumble and wobble, but his grip never wavered.

Once in your bedroom, Tom held you up as you grabbed some sweatpants and a loose t-shirt. He covered his eyes as you changed, but his hand was still softly at your side. Maybe it was the drugs or the alcohol that was lowering your ability to think clearly. Two hours ago, you would’ve punched Tom so hard in his face, but in this moment, as he took care of you, you couldn’t feel the anger anymore. You could feel his guilt and his sadness, but you didn’t feel angry anymore. His brown eyes were so concerned as he helped you lay on your bed. Without asking, he took off his heavy knit sweater and climbed into bed, next to you.

“I’m so mad at you,” you whimpered as tears fell out of your eyes. “I can’t fucking stand you.”

Tom could hear the weakness in your tone and knew that you were trying so hard to come off menacing. He couldn’t help but let out a soft chuckle as he heard Harrison sweep up the broken glass and tidy up the flat. “I know, princess,” he whispered. “Let me try to help you sleep, okay? You need to sleep, love.” Your eyelids slipped shut as he pressed a soft kiss to your forehead. “I’ll be right here. I promise.”

You couldn’t fight it anymore. You let the wave of sleep wash over your exhausted body. Tom’s arms were tightly wrapped around you, filling you with a sense of security. You listened to his steady heartbeat and felt your soul rest, finally.

And for the first time in weeks, you finally slept through the night without any nightmares.

                                                  part four

[appleflavoredkitkats]

stagnant;

author’s note: been a while! this isn't as long as my other fics, but i wanted to write this because i just like the concept of fundy in las nevadas, okay? and smoke breaks. i love writing smoke breaks. and of course, i will be writing about fundy because i am biased and he deserves better lmao. this is all written before the las nevadas arc ever occurs, so if there are any discrepancies by the time las nevadas finishes, that ain't my fault.

also! all of this is platonic! i view schlatt as fundy's other father figure. for quackity, i don't necessarily view him as 100% manipulative towards fundy and schlatt, but you're free to interpret him in any way you want. and yes, i know the situation about schlatt, and i don't support the actions of the cc, but i do enjoy his dsmp character nonetheless.

DO NOT SEND THIS FIC TO ANY CONTENT CREATOR!! be nice!!

laslty, special thanks to my good friend dany from the dsmpanalysis discord server for beta-ing my fic!

relationships: platonic fundy & schlatt (father-son relationship)

warnings: trauma, smoking, gambling, drinking, alcoholism, substance abuse, self-harm (accidentally burning oneself), slight mentions of fire, parental neglect (from wilbur), unhealthy coping mechanisms, implied depression or mental illness, mental health struggles, addiction, references to past violence, death idealization, underaged gambling, arguments (in the background), and general angst!

word count: 1878

summary: fundy closes his eyes, taps on the quartz again, and leans forward on the metal bars of his balcony. he lets out another puff of smoke as he sinks into the lax atmosphere. he gives into the fantasy, the delusion.

a second pair of footsteps are then heard behind fundy, but even then, fundy doesn’t move from his position. he knows who it is anyway— there are only two or three people who had access to the five-star suites on the last floor, and only one of them frequents his room often.

“you know, smoking’s bad for your health,” schlatt tells him with a half-smirk.

or, it's midnight in las nevadas, and fundy has a smoke break with schlatt. he reflects on the state of the server, and he reflects on himself.

( ao3 link )

a click of a lighter, the tapping of dress shoes against chiseled quartz, the rummaging of pockets to fetch another fresh pack of cigs. his paws work automatically: slicing the plastic cover with his claws, fumbling the top open, and finally selecting a cigarette from the batch, twirling it between his fingers to the sound of muffled, jazzy tunes in the background.

with the smoke in between his sharp fangs, he guides the lighter to the end of the stick. there’s a deep inhale, letting the smoke fizzle into his lungs, latching onto every feeling of remorse, regret, guilt, sadness, pain, hurt, trauma, everything— 

and fundy exhales, all of those icky sensations evaporating into misty smoke.

this cycle of mindless smoking continues as fundy stands idly on his hotel room’s balcony. up ten stories high, fundy looms over almost everything in las nevadas. despite it being midnight, las nevadas’ visitors never relent. from above, staring with droopy eyes, fundy sees all four casinos lit up brighter than a neighbourhood during the holidays. no bulbs malfunction, thankfully; all of them flicker and twinkle as if there was something to celebrate about in this place full of deceit and temporary bliss. the bars, while more mellow, have the calmest of tunes blasting from their jukeboxes. when fundy first started working here, he remembers being fond of upbeat tunes like these, but they’ve quickly grown stale, or maybe fundy’s just grown tone deaf overtime. who knows?

everything about this place grows on fundy like a terrible rash. sometimes, he does enjoy the outgoing crowds and customers, but sometimes, the noise overwhelms him— ear-piercing, annoying, inharmonious. so, he ends up in places like his dishevelled room, unkempt from all the alcohol and exhaustion and the fact that he just doesn’t  want to give a fuck anymore. but as much as his room is reminiscent of the rubble he left in his original base, he at least feels at ease with the sounds he hears from above. there is the same jazz music, the same victorious yelling at jackpots, the same rolling from the slot machines, but it’s in diminuendo. 

it’s a symphony fundy will willingly listen to because he feels like he can separate himself from the chaos present downstairs. when he is with the others, when he serves tequila shots and shuffled decks, he feels like he is at the center of his own friends’ descent but from his own bedroom, he can pretend that he is fine, that everything is fine. he can live in the delusion that his friends are shouting from a well-deserved victory when deep in the back of his head, he knows that they’ve gotten inexplicably attached to machinery that he knows is programmed to bring about their demise.

fundy closes his eyes, taps on the quartz again, and leans forward on the metal bars of his balcony. he lets out another puff of smoke as he sinks into the lax atmosphere. he gives into the fantasy, the delusion.

a second pair of footsteps is then heard behind fundy, but even then, he doesn’t move from his position. he knows who it is anyway— there are only two or three people who had access to the five-star suites on the last floor, and only one of them frequents his room often.

the guy who enters pats his back twice gently as a greeting, settling himself next to fundy. fundy averts his gaze from the saturated lights to look at the goat hybrid. with a newly tailored suit and freshly manicured horns, schlatt has never looked more dapper, but his skin was still heavily scarred and immensely graying. 

“you know, smoking’s bad for your health,” schlatt tells him with a half-smirk. fundy lowers the smoke, coughing a little before raising an incredulous eyebrow at schlatt.

“i learned from the worst,” fundy replies as his free hand shuffles through his pockets, holding out the box of smokes for schlatt to get one for himself. fundy doesn’t need to ask schlatt if he has his own lighter; he somehow always does. he’s been used to his mannerisms ever since a darkened flag with glowing, orange lace loomed over a dying country.

schlatt easily raises the smoke to his chapped lips and lights it easily. he falls into the rhythm of the scenery, slouching against the metal railings as he watches the same fluorescent bulbs fundy had been watching. 

moments like these, no matter how incredibly fucked they are, are the closest fundy can get to tasting peace. his father once described peace as a taste of freedom. it is the image of bright-eyed soldiers under swathes of redwood trees, free from the shackles of tyranny and violence their oppressors have imposed on them.

but fundy knows, as always, that his father is a liar, because at this very moment, fundy connects the concept of peace with the disgusting taste of smoke.

it is a habit he’s picked up from a man he’d once considered perfect. back when the server first hit its grayest of days, sometimes fundy’s claws had itched to strike a match, to spark stones. the scorching blaze igniting was the most colorful thing  he’d had in that wasteland of grey. he’d kept doing it more and more and more, until his own fur and skin burned and he realized that he too is graying like the place he called home. when schlatt had first discovered it, fundy remembers a lot of talking—all kind, kind words that have tarnished his perception on what a caring guardian, or a father, may be—and then, out of the blue, fundy asks for a smoke. while a confused eyebrow quirks, schlatt gives him one to try out, saying that there is a first time for everything, especially since their lives have been as mundane as they possibly can be.

and here fundy is now, able to finish an entire pack in the span of a few days as if it is a part of his diet. 

but if all this substance abuse and addiction and self-sabotage and self-deprecation have become so widespread in the server, so normalized, would one even consider it awful? if everyone is traumatized or hurt, does the concept of trauma even exist in the first place?

“you know, i— don’t take this the wrong way, but i thought that you would be much happier to see all your friends reunited,” schlatt speaks, fingers gesturing to tiny specks on the ground that move in sync with the jazz. fundy hums non-committedly as a reply, not really knowing what to say. 

“well, sucks to be you, i guess. mopey ass,” schlatt jokes with the same half-smirk he uses whenever fundy is notably graying like he did in the past. fundy chuckles at it, at least, but his shoulders droop immediately after. the smallest bouts of happiness and joy make him unbelievably tired nowadays.

fundy attempts to lift his smoke again to his lips, but surprisingly, schlatt interrupts, forcing fundy to lower his arm. fundy stares at him acutely with furrowed brows. “fundy, i—” schlatt begins, and his lighthearted expression dwindles into something much more anxious and apprehensive. schlatt clears his throat and continues, “fundy, kid, i know i’m not the type to get all grossly emotional and whatnot—that’s more of tubbo’s thing—but you have to listen to me when i say that you need to leave.” schlatt grips fundy’s forearm now, firm yet slightly shaking. “kid, you’re not healthy here. it’s— you— this—” schlatt gestures towards the buildings, the lights, the entire shithole that they are stuck in, “this is not somewhere you need to be. you need to leave when you can.”

fundy blinks, and then he blinks once more before his free hand shrugs off schlatt’s grip. he returns to his original position of leaning against the railing, and through the reflection of the cold metal, fundy can see the unpleasant surprise on schlatt’s face transform into something more defeated. a pregnant silence precedes a long, exasperated sigh from schlatt. the edges of fundy’s lips slightly curve downwards.

“well, it would be easier if it weren’t for the fact that i literally have nowhere else to go,” fundy replies monotonously, as if this statement is something he’s rehearsed several times before. “i’ve hit rock bottom, schlatt. i have nothing else to lose,” fundy continues, huffing out a melancholic chuckle. he doesn’t think this situation he’s stuck in is anything comedic, but it sure is amusing how his life has continuously spiralled further and further for the past five years. he’s amused by the fact that he is still very much alive and breathing by this point despite the—fundy looks at his half-finished cigarette, the livid circles under his eyes, his furrowing ears as being exposed to multiple explosions has caused a permanent, high-pitched sound to ring in them sporadically—small, little missteps. 

it’s quiet again as schlatt stares at fundy uncomfortably. “you’re really out here wishing for god to strike you dead in front of a dead man— how very respectful of you,” schlatt replies sarcastically. fundy knows schlatt only wants to lighten up the mood. schlatt has been very persistent in helping fundy find the brighter side of things for a while, but lately, they’ve fallen flat. is schlatt’s eloquence gradually deteriorating, or is it fundy who’s only gotten more numb towards schlatt?

fundy doesn’t know, and both possibilities are undesirable, really, so fundy decides to speak. “i’m sorry,” fundy says, and he doesn’t know if it is for himself or for schlatt. maybe it’s for the both of them.

schlatt’s look softens, and he raises his free palm to grip fundy’s shoulder, thumbing it for comfort. a part of fundy wants to sob, to cry, but he chokes all his tears back with an inhale of smoke. “i’m sorry too,” schlatt murmurs, his voice the softest and the most caring it has ever been. when fundy exhales, he can feel tears prick the corners of his eyes as schlatt continues, “you deserve better.”

fundy hums and his eyes trail downwards to gaze at las nevadas’ visitors once more. he spots ranboo, possibly exhausted judging by his sloppy movements, forcefully pulling a crazed tubbo from a slot machine. fundy remembers that inside, he has seen purpled, foolish, and puffy shout over a simple card, a two of clubs, arguing on whether they should split the fifteen stacks of diamonds or not. he remembers finding sam outside the bar next to the trash bins downing his own personal bottles of alcohol, gripping tightly on a withered rose as he sobs uncontrollably. at the side, he can now see a distressed bad and ant incessantly begging the blackjack booths to accept their territory offers as they’ve lost all their possessions to far too many rounds of roulette wheels and texas hold’ems. he also spots a jovial yet sly quackity skipping through the streets energetically as a stern techno and phil trail behind him, ready to smite anyone who dares terrorize the place. 

and lastly, he stares away from the crowds and returns to gaze at schlatt—tired eyes, frayed hair, drying skin—with a bittersweet smile. fundy replies, “i think we all do.”

[yandere-mha-blog]

Chapter 8: Handy

words: 2218

There was only one more thing hawks wanted to do at the moment, get your talon back, he was smart to keep one of his feathers on the guy he smacked against the door. Hearing the conversation on how he keeps his little “trophies” in front of the people he “interrogated”.

“I was so worried when I heard the news that Nighthawks somehow found a way to break in.” His wife said, “And to hear you were actually hurt.”

“I'm fine, nothing to worry about.” He said

“But dad, you have a large bump on your head.” His kid said

“Nothing time and some ice won’t heal.” he said “thanks for dinner honey.”

He gave his wife a quick kiss on the cheek before heading into his workroom and taking out your talon from a glass box before putting it back in and then going to the other trophies this man had collected, what a sicko. Three days had passed and it was about time Hawks got it back for you, then man was getting too comfy thinking that he was in the clear, sure Hawks moved quickly but he also knew when to wait for the right time to strike.

Hawks waited and waited till he saw all the lights go off in the house, all except for the office, Hawks feather finally floated out from under the guy's coat as he were none the wise and he didn’t even notice it undoing the window lock and slowly lifting it up, the man was so immersed in whatever he was writing down he didn't even notice hawks climbing in through the window with one of his primary feathers shaped out, hawks ave him a second and nope, man this guy instincts were awful, or Hawks was just that good at hiding his presents.

So it was really easy for hawks to over his mouth with his gloved hands and have his primary feather against the man throat only then did he notice

“Hi, guys.” Hawks said “How are you doing this fine night? Well, I guess you can't really talk, right now, now you are probably wondering why I am here, the answer is very very simple, even the score.”

Hawks had two of his feather an inch away from the guy's eyes

“Now look unless you want to go blind you will stay quiet and answer my questions okay.”

The guy just nodded and hawks uncovered his mouth

“Please, don't kill me, I was just doing my job.” He said

“Is that how you justify your actions, there is a lot to unpack there, now where did you put her talon?”

“On the second-highest shelf, third to the left.” He said as hawks used his feathers to lift it off and put it in his coat pocket “That's all you wanted right.”

“Hmm well, one more question, which hand did you hold to pilers to pull it out.” Hawks said, “And I don't know isn’t an answer.”

“I used, my left hand to hold them,” he said

“Good now place your left hand on your desk.” Hawks said

“Why are you planning to do it?”

“Just a taste of your own medicine.” Hawks said, “Look if you won’t put it down, maybe your wife would offer hers up.”

“What?” The man said

“Tell you what I'll let you decide, your wife's left hand, or yours.” Hawks said and the man was now sweating buckets

“I need my hands to provide for my family.” He said, “I can't lose them.”

“You know that was a rhetorical question, at least I don't feel as bad doing this.” Hawks said slicing the man's hand clean off, it took him a moment to process it seeing the numb he now had for a left hand and started screaming out in pain, Hawks saw him topple over to the floor before picking up the hand and leaving, he tossed it over his shoulder over who knows where, he sure was glad he locked the office door before he went, wouldn't want that kid of his seeing the blood sprayed all over the place.

Still, now he had one more place to go for the night, meeting up with his broker, someone who would do anything for you as long as you had the money w. Giran, the man who was not interested in anyone's plans, Hawks respected that part about him, not being tied down by just one person, the same man where he got his current gear. Hawks landed on the fire escape and walked down and into Girans' place.

“Well well if it isn't my favorite feathered friend.” He said taking in a long inhale of smoke “You got blood on your cheek.”

“Ah, it's not mine.” Hawks said, “Anyway I have a request for you.”

“Haha why else would you come and see me.” he said, taking out a pack of cigarettes “Want one.”

“I'm good.” Hawks said

“You're loose.” He said, “now you said you needed something different than usual, and I'm assuming it has to do with that woman you got from HPSC?”

“It does, they took out one of her talons, so I need a proteic so she will be able to wear it and use it again.” Hawks said removing the talon and placing it on the table

“Well, well, what do we have here?” Giran asked, “The root of the tail is intact so no way is she growing that back, also interesting this isn't regular Keratin.”

“I asked you to make it usable again, not analyze it.” Hawks said

“I know a guy, What will probably happen is he will put it in a fingerless glove that wraps around her wrist, a few never receptors and when she flexes her finger then this one will pop out.” Giran explained, “Still I'm surprised you went to him for help, whatever happened to you being a lone bird.”

“Can't just leave someone out to dry.” Hawks said taking out a wad of cash “And I only went to them on a one-time deal, they have their plan I have mine.”

“Hey, it lets me make money.” He said “Come back tomorrow ill have it ready for you. One more thing, they are planning something big tomorrow so watch the news.”

“I will.” Hawks said, “Oh one more thing, do you have any medical books laying around.”

“I'm sure I can come up with something, but why do you ask?”

“A housewarming gift.” Hawks said, “make sure they are interesting, none of that fluffy shit the gritter the better.”

“...noted,” Giran said, looking a bit perplexed at his request. With that said hawks left attaching his wings and head out back to his hideout to see you lunging in his twin-sized mattress reading a magazine he had laying around

“Hey I'm back.” he said as you put your hand up and waved at him “So, how are you doing?’

“Still healing, did you finish those errands?”

“Sure did.” Hawks said “I still need to grab some grub. Do you want anything?’

“Anything will do.” you said flipping the page “Also when I saw you had a magazine that said chick weekly I wasn't expecting it to have a bunch of baby bird photos.”

“Hey, we all have our hobbies.” Hawks said take the magazine out of your hand  "And be careful this is my only copy.”

“Why do they even make magazines like this?” you asked

“Same reason there are millions of magazines for heroes, money.” Hawks said

“Do you have some weird bird fetish?” you deadpanned

“NO!” HAwks said, “where would you even get that idea!”

“That was a joke.” you said “Got pretty defensive there.”

“Find something else to read here.” Hawks said tossing you a flyer about the HPSC “You are smart enough to know that having information on your enemy is key to defeating them.”

“I already read this.” you said,” Still the fact it says we strive for a healthy relationship between the public and heros' makes me wanna barf.”

“Tell me about it.” Hawks said scratching his head “You are only allowed to your quirk for good, and the only way to use your quirk to work under them in some way, so they must be good like they haven't been brainwashing kids.”

“My dad never let me watch those PSAs about them or any advertisements that had heroes,” you said

“Well, your dad is a smart man.” Hawks said, “I mean that as soon as a kid turns 15 they can go through life-threatening training so they can work under them, and that's what they expect of them.”

“Then there is the fact that your worth is based on how powerful your quirk is.” you said getting up and walking over “and if you don't have a strong quirk you are seen as worthless.”

“Haha, we could go all night saying how horrible they are.” HAwks said giving you two quick taps on the head before stepping out “I’ll be back with some grub.”

“Okay I'll stay here,” you said and waved him off, maybe there was a more personal reason why Hawks hated them, still if he wasn't going to tell you then that was his right, still you thought at least now you wouldn't be bored, but being cooped up in a small room, wasn't exactly who you thought life on the run with a dangerous villain would be.

When Hawks came back with the food you happily indulge in as he smacked the top of an old tv, to get a signal.

“There has been an attempted break-in at U.A, the alarm system went off but there no report of suspense activity-” The reporter was saying before a scruffy looking teacher pushed the camera out of the way

“Go home.”

“Hey you can't just touch property like that, hey what are-” and it was cut off

“Gross.” Hawks said, “You know I can’t Believe they have schools for this.”

“Seems a bit excessive.” you said “you know before heroes came into view it was just the cops, can you imagine if people viewed cops and law enforcement the way they view heroes now,” you said

“I can.” Hawks said spreading his wings out “I don't like them having kids fresh out of MIddle school do training.”

“Well technically they choose this school, but on the other hand it has been installed in them to be a hero from a young age, you have seen all the toys marketed towards them, HPSC is more like a moneymaker, is that why you hate them?”

“Part of the reason, yeah.” Hawks said stealing a bite from your plate “Another part is personal, and I'm assuming it's personal for you as well.”

You looked down at your thumb and sighed “It is now, however, there is another part but it's long been forgotten to me.”

“Aww come on you can tell me.” Hawks said

“Hmmm.” you tapped your chin “well I guess there is no harm in telling you, but my mother was actually a hero but died soon after I was born.”

“Huh like during birth?” Hawks asked, you shook your head

“No, you see she had been out of commission for a while, with the whole baby thing, they were against her having me in the first place, but my mom wanted a family, so they had me and they wanted my mom to make this big come back, but she was hasn't been active for so long she died in the long of duty.”

“I can't begin to imagine the pain of knowing that.” Hawks said

“Well I never knew her, and my dad did everything he could to make me happy growing up, he explained it to me in middle school.”

“Well, you know anything about her?” Hawks asked

“My dad showed me a photo and said I'm the spitting image of her, and i got her quirk but mixed with my dads,” you said

“What's your dads' quirk?”

“Oh he is able to eject a tungsten-like material from his wrist.” you said, “my moms' talons couldn't retreat back in like mine and could chip easier.”

“Wait a second...you are the daughter of the clawed hero?” Hawks said

“That was her code name, why do you ask?” you said

“Oh, I've done research on all the past heroes who died in the line of duty.” Hawks said, “Most of the time it's, they died for the greater good, or they gave their lives for others.”

“That's adding insult to injury to their families.” You said, “Hawks, have you ever killed a hero?”

“I wouldn’t exactly call them heroes, have I killed people who got their hero listens, yes.” Hawks said, “Caught them doing something illegal, when I brought it up they said I was the villain and they were going to capture me.”

“So what exactly is your end goal here?” you asked as you finished up your meal

“To end the HPSC and their crooked practices, like abducting people and ripping their nails off.” Hawks said, “They have a firm grip on the narrative of everything, I'll get it done.” “Well can't wait to see it, it should be interesting,” you said

[earthlostgirl]

here I am again, writing fics. Inspiration comes and goes as it pleases

Date

Faye wrapped herself in the blanket and settled into the sofa with the book in her hands, a steaming tea on the table and a packet of chocolate cookies. She smiled indulgently at the quiet afternoon ahead and focused on reading.

She didn't need lifting her head from the book to know that Spike had just entered the room, walked over to her and leaned against the back of the couch. He grinned from ear to ear and looked at her cheekily with those wonderful dark eyes, and she managed not to lose her composure.

Even if he'd just come from working out and his skin was covered in sweat and all she felt like doing was licking him up and down. Spike raised his eyebrows smiling even wider, as if he had read her mind and she felt her cheeks catch fire.

“Today you and I are going out,” he said with all the confidence he has, picking up the cup and taking a sip of her tea.

“I beg your pardon?” Faye blinked in disbelief, watching as he reached out for a cookie.

“In an hour. Let's have some fun,” Spike set the cup down on the table and cracked his knuckles.

“What do you think, that I don't have plans?” She snapped, slapping Spike's hand as he lunged for another cookie.

“It's Saturday, and you're wrapped in a blanket with tea, no, you don't have plans,” he muttered, chewing exaggeratedly.

“And you think hanging out with you is more interesting than finding out what happens to Edmund Tully on his wedding day?” Faye asked pointing to the book.

“You know he never got around to publishing the last two?” Spike said smiling tapping the cover of the book with a finger. “One hour, Valentine, don't keep me waiting.”

And just as he had appeared he left, hands in his pockets and slightly arched over. Faye didn't plan to move from the spot. Spike was an arrogant and cheeky prick, if he thought that with his charming smile and a walk he was going to convince her he had lost his mind.

Faye went back to focus on her reading, trying to erase from her mind how good that guy always smelled.

After forty minutes she closed the book in outrage; there was enough death in her life already, to also have to suffer it in a novel. She hurled the book on the table and repressed a cry of frustration covering herself with the blanket.

...

An hour had already gone by, Spike was waiting in the hangar for Faye to show up, still not quite sure if she had forgiven him. But things between them had smoothed out and at least she was talking to him again. He was nervous and even though he'd used all the audacity he had to ask her out. Faye was capable of ignoring him completely, dropping him like a cigarette butt and deflating his ego without so much as batting an eyelash. Spike wasn't keeping track of the number of cigarettes he had smoked in the twenty minutes he had been waiting when heard heels approaching him, turned around trying to transform his stupid smile of happiness into a superb expression of triumph.

Faye zipped up a red leather jacket, which he had never seen before and looked at him with the hands on her hips. She was wearing black boots with a ridiculously high heel that made her endless legs look even longer.

“I'm merely doing this because the book is in a critical situation and I need to forget it,” Faye muttered looking at a remote point behind him.

“Whatever you tell Valentine,” Spike smiled, and she walked in front of him without answering.

Faye was wearing jeans so tight he was convinced that in some cultures were considered illegal. Spike had to restrain himself from pinning her against the wall of the Bebop and undressing her right there.

Spike had been asking favors and collecting debts to find the perfect place. In the end he'd gotten tickets to a place called Baghdad, which from what he had been told was the best place on Venus. It was virtually impossible to go there without a connection or waiting 6 months on a list.

They sat down in a booth, and Faye took off her jacket, revealing a black chiffon shirt so sheer he could guess even the most delicate lace line of her bra. He was incapable to hide a smirk at the thought that she had made herself so beautiful for him. Faye rolled her eyes, resting her cheek on the hand as she realized how he was looking at her.

“What would you like drinking?”

"Rum.”

They started an irrelevant chat about how hard it was to find good bounties since they cancelled the Big Shot. But the only thing he was able to concentrate on was the red of her lips, which was the same shade as her jacket and how the lights of the club reflected in her eyes as she looked at him.

So he kept talking not quite knowing what to say but delighted because she was watching him attentively with a smile on her lips.

Suddenly Faye cut her attention away from him, focusing on what was going on behind him. Her eyes widened in surprise, and she blinked in disbelief. Faye set her hands to her mouth to cover a smile that her eyes couldn't hide. He had lost her attention completely and turned around to picture what she was seeing.

On a small stage a naked couple was having sex in front of everyone. He was a huge guy, full of muscles, and she was an oxygenated blonde with fake breasts who moaned and screamed at every thrust.

Spike couldn't believe it, where the hell had he brought her? He looked around, half-naked dancers were scattered all over the room. Perfect, now Faye would think he was a pervert. That he had brought her there with some hidden agenda. All he wanted to do was take her dancing or have some fun.

“Where did you bring me Spiegel?” she asked with a laugh.

Spike didn't dare look her in the face. He was going to kill Stuart, was going to strangle him with his own guts and forsake him hanging in one of the gardens of Venus. In whose head could that place be perfect to surprise a girl?

Faye kept an eye on the couple as a third participant with more muscle than the first one joined them.

“That position must be tremendously uncomfortable for the poor girl,” she commented distractedly and placed her eyes on him, demanding an explanation.

What the hell was he going to say? That his friend told him that this was the most famous place on Venus? That everyone wanted to be here? That he hadn't asked anything else because he was an idiot? He move his hands to his forehead sniffling and leaned his elbows on the table trying to relax, his head was aching. Faye was going to tell him to fuck off. He didn't even want to look at her.

“We're leaving, aren't we?” she asked, and he couldn't tell if she was annoyed or if she was laughing at him.

Suddenly he felt stupid and furious. He got up from his chair without saying a word, gulped down what was left in his glass, grabbed his jacket and headed for the exit without waiting for her. Spike opened the door and heard the doorman say goodbye to Faye without missing the opportunity to flirt with her, and that made him even angrier.

...

They left that club, initially Faye wanted to make him believe she was angry, that it had bothered her that he had taken her to that place of vice and depravity. But just seeing how embarrassed he was, she was moved and decided not to joke with him. Spike was walking in front of her talking or rather yelling at someone on the phone.

Whitney had faked a fairy tale, introducing himself as the knight in shining armor who was there to save her. Big words, movie-worthy gestures and the whole love story. She had been so lost, so scared that she had believed him completely. She thought he was going to take care of her and love her, but he left her with a broken heart and an unpayable debt.

And now there she was, walking behind Spike Spiegel, who had few words and not many gestures.

Spike was a hopeless romantic. His whole history with Julia was proof of that, he wanted to leave everything for her. He risked his life for her, and without her, he found no sense in living. Julia had broken his heart, and yet he loved her to the point of no care to stay alive. Even if Spike denied it... if Julia were alive, he would have disappeared from her side without looking back. She was so sure of that it made her anxious, wanting to run away from him to avoid worse harm. Avoid thinking that Spike would rather be with Julia or that he thought of her when he closed his eyes and kissed her.

She was heartbroken, but Julia was dead, and she didn't want a ghost to take away the only good thing in her life. So she needed to believe that she was more than a replacement and that she meant something to him.

“Aren't you hungry?” Faye asked as he hung up his communicator and stopped in the middle of the street.

“No,” Spike replied grumpily, turning around to look at her. “But we can stop somewhere if you feel like it.”

She nodded not quite sure what to say, she didn't understand why Spike was so upset. Although she knew he was hurt in his pride, and she tried hard not laughing.

He walked beside her in silence, with his hands in his pockets and slowing his pace to match her pace.

“I know a place where serve wonderful pizza,” Spike finally said, stopping in front of her.

“Do they cook nakedly or dressed?” Faye asked laughing, trying to get him to smile again.

Spike winced in disgust and blushed up to his ears. She smiled, walked over and patted him on the back.

They enjoyed a leisurely dinner sitting at the pizzeria bar, not talking too much and watching video clips on an old TV screen.

“Shall we go home?” Spike asked, he was sulking, and it looked like his sole intention was to disappear and lock up somewhere to curse.

“No,”

Spike looked at her in surprise and remained silent crumpling the paper napkin in his hands.

“We'd better seek a quiet place to spend the night, do you want to?” Faye asked getting up and running a hand through his tangled hair.

Spike slipped an arm around her hip and pulled her to him, sighing he rested his head on her shoulder and mumbled something against her neck.

They arrived at a lovely hotel. The receptionist handed them the key, and they quietly made their way up to the third floor. The heater was on, and it was pleasantly warm inside the room.

She sat on the bed, so she could take off the heels that were killing her and Spike leaned against the small table in front of her, took off his jacket, placed it on the chair carefully and rolled up his shirt sleeves.

Looking sad and disappointed, he rested his hands on the table and looked at her as she massaged her aching feet. She got up from the bed and stood in front of him caressing his face carefully.

“You're in a bad mood, huh?” she asked in a whisper with her fingers in his hair.

“No,” Spike replied sharply.

He was incapable of allowing things go. When something didn't go his way, it affected his mood and the way he treated others. She caressed his cheek and gave him a small kiss. She ran her hands down his neck and gently began to unbutton his shirt.

Faye sighed as she saw the scar across his chest and carefully ran her hand over it. Spike crossed his arms behind her back pulling her close to him.

“Does it hurt?” she whispered.

“No,”

Faye could feel Spike's eyes on her, but she still didn't look up from his chest.

“I wasn't able to stitch you up,” Faye slid her hands down his back and wrapped her arms around him. “My hands were shaking so badly that Jet pushed me away, and he did.”

She heard him sigh deeply and felt how he closed his arms around her and kissed her hair. He whispered her name and cooed her in his arms tenderly.

“Will you tell me someday what happened with the syndicate?” she asked very softly, wondering if he could have heard her.

“No,” he replied using that sharp tone of voice that bothered her so much, she broke away from him and he sighed again. “You wouldn't like to know the kind of man I am.”

“I know the kind of man you are Spike,” she replied clutching his face with both hands and kissing his forehead. "The kind of guy who takes you to a club with live porn on the first date.”

He frowned and grumbled closing his legs to trap her between them, pulling her close to him again. He grabbed her firmly by the waist and looked at her with a serious gesture.

“It wasn't our first date anyway,” he whispered unbuttoning the button of her jeans and pulling down the zipper.

“Ah, wasn't it?” Faye asked curiously.

“We went out for dinner and drinks the night before we confronted Decker. The one who stole the trucks,” Spike slid the pants down her hips and she let them fall to the floor.

“We were working, we need dinner Spiegel, that wasn't a date,” she replied crossing her arms as he tangled with her hair.

“We ended up in bed,” he lowered the pitch of his voice a couple of octaves and a shiver ran down her back just from the way he was looking at her.

“It was never my intention. We were too drunk,” she stammered nervously, feeling small electric shocks where he placed his hands.

“It was mine. I used all my seduction tricks,” Spike gave her one of his charming smiles while he grabbed her arms and slid his hands up and down them.

“You're lucky I don't recall anything,” she caressed Spike's palms, trying to hold back the urge to jump on him and devour every inch of his skin.

“In fact it was my intention since I saw you behind that table in the casino, with your thin pink jacket,” he said, touching the buttons of her shirt one by one.

“Yes, huh?” Faye whispered in his ear while she caressed the back of his neck and felt his skin crawl. “What did you want to do to me?”

Spike chuckled, grabbed her ass with both hands and pressed her body against him, caressing her back gently.

“I wanted to bite you, lick you, touch you,” Spike grabbed her hair and looked down at her biting his lips. "I wanted to hear you scream my name.”

She took a breath and shivered as she felt Spike's fingers drawing small circles where her shirt ended.

“So what are you waiting for?” she whispered, almost brushing his lips, feeling the tightness of Spike's grip around her waist.

He gazed down at her with a smile laden with desire and without a second's thought, kissed her until they were breathless. Spike pulled away from her to catch his breath holding her face, still looking into her eyes, challenging her, asking for more, demanding more. Faye kissed him again as she finished removing his shirt and pinning him against the table. But Spike was stronger so without any effort on his part lifted her by the waist with one arm and carried her to the bed.

[min-chery]

Whiskey and smoke | KTH & PJM

Pairing: Taehyung / Named OC / Jimin

Rating: 16+

Warnings: Bartender Taehyung!au / Rich Jimin!au / vague mentions of sexual assault / drinking / smoking / Written in OC's POV

Summary: She has been bound to follow orders all through her life. Living a life of restraint, Taehyung had become her only source of relief. And one day, he and a very handsome stranger from the bar take a decision that rocks her damned world.

Word count: 2.9k

I swirl the amber liquid in the glass. Pegs after pegs of whiskey already In my system. It does me more good than harm. Has been doing it for the past 4 years.

It has become my companion over the years. I don't lose myself it. Never will. I find myself when have it by my side. I find the confidence I crave for. The world becomes brighter than it ever possibly could.

The bartender keeps a close eye on me, his lips forming a pout. He's sometimes the only one who cares about me. And I'll gladly indulge myself knowing I'm not unwanted.

"I'm alright Tae. It's not my first time drinking." I wave him off.

"That's why I'm worried, noona. Another family gathering?" He inquires.

"Hmm. And a few important clients from his company."

"You should tell them this isn't the life you want, Val. You're drinking yourself to death at this rate."

"It's not that easy." I sigh.

"It is that easy. You've never tried to know that." He whispers harshly.

"Don't act as if you care." I sneer. He talks as if it's that easy to confront them. Them. My manipulative parents.

"I do care, okay! You think I asked you out thrice because I don't care? All you've done those times was throw the same shitty excuse at my face. You won't understand how much I care, Valeria. You're too drunk to even try and understand how hard I'm trying to see you as just a bestfriend when we know we both are not just that." He looks disappointed in me for the first time and it breaks my heart. I look straight into his eyes without letting myself waver and he stares with the same intensity. He finally gives up, slamming the shaker on the counter before heading to the other side of the bar.

To hear him call me by name and not 'noona' or 'Val' makes me almost tear up. I sniffle, pulling my hair towards my face. The world blurs and the scenes from my first time meeting him take over.

It was in high school I first saw him. My bestfriend introduced me to this club. Back then this building had been used as a hangout spot for people interested in motorsports. Jungkook and I sneaked out from school on multiple occasions to meet with the people here. It was everything I had ever wished for. I had nothing to hide about among those people. Didn't have to pretend who I was. There was always free alcohol here. And the first time Jungkook brought me here, a guy had draped his arm over my bestfriend's shoulder and said "Who have you brought here with you, Jungkookie?"

He had smiled so wide at me, I wondered for a second if I was in heaven. How could someone have been so beautiful and been a human?

Jungkook had introduced us to each other and left us alone to get along. And we did. We got along so well and so fast, we were surprised. He talked my ear off about a girl he loved. Narrated so many stories about their happy life together. They sounded so happy and in love, that it struck me like a flash of lightning when he said she cheated on him multiple times. His eyes that had been scrunched up in a smile all afternoon and had suddenly taken a glossy sheen to them.

It had been the first time I had seen a man cry. I remember wondering if I could ever soothe him. If I could see him smile once again that day. But he recovered pretty quick. He had found something else to hold onto and love. Motor racing.

The sound of a throat clearing rings beside me and I lift up my face to look at the person. A man about my age peers at me from above his glass of scotch. There's a slight hint of a smile on his lips as if he's watched the previous conversation with Tae and finds our little fight amusing.

I sniffle and glare at him, which only makes him smile more openly. He sets down the glass on the counter and wipes the liquid off his plump lips with the back of his palm.

"Don't worry about him. He'll come around soon." He says, voice gentle and laced with a teasing smile.

"And I don't need a stranger telling me that about my bestfriend." I snicker. It makes a foul emotion crawl through my skin. To see an outsider talk about Tae, my Tae, as if he knows him better than I do.

"My my I should've probably introduced myself first. I'm Park Jimin. Taehyung's roommate." The smirk that's settled on the man's lips is so frustrating, it makes me want to punch him square in the nose.

"Do you smoke?" He asks. For once it feels like he's not mocking me. I nod, placing my hand in his when he extends it.

It's then I realize that I'm following a man that I've met for the first time outside. Beneath the arrogance, he seems like a gentleman by the way he's curled his fingers around mine. A fragility in the way he handles me.

We walk a few blocks away from the club. Music from the place we just left still faintly following us. Jimin then sits on the clean sidewalk, looking at me to sit down too. And I do. Sitting so close to him, I take to opportunity to really absorb his features into my brain. 'He's beautiful' is the conclusion my mind comes to.

He holds out a cigarette, waiting for me to put it between my lips. I part my lips open for him to do so. He gulps before doing so and then proceeds to take out his lighter. The orange light the flame produces shines on his face making him look handsome in a different way.

His eyes lift up from the cancer stick in my mouth to my eyes and fall back on my lips. He's quickly moving away from me as if he's scared of the effect I would have on him.

I take in puffs of the smoke, let it fill my lungs with the toxins. I still don't understand why it relieves me, but I'd be lying if I said it didn't. It's just as good of a friend of mine as is the alcohol.

"So you're the one who's been hooking up with Tae for so long." He says, pushing away the silence that had engulfed us. I nod, letting out the smoke I'd held in my mouth.

"I've known Tae my whole life. And I've seen him cry only a handful of times. The first time was back in high school. When he cut his ex-girlfriend out of his life. For good." He grits out the final part, eyes unfocused as he recollects his memories.

"And then a couple of years later. When you told him about your family. He didn't tell me anything other than how he thinks they're the shittiest people in your life. Didn't go into much detail about it. Just cried in my arms all night until he fell asleep." He's now looking at me with a soft look in his eyes.

"He told me he loved you that night. I always teased him about this Valeria who had his heart. Still has it. The last time I saw him cry was when you rejected him. The first time." I remember that day, I considered it the worst moment of my life. And Jimin wasn't the only one that saw him cry that day.

I woefully smile, feeling a lump in my throat grow bigger. Taking another long drag of the cigarette, I flick it onto the road. It doesn't fall far from me though. Jimin is stretching towards it and tossing it into a waste bin close by without lifting his ass up. He's smirking once again, winking at me. I laugh at his attempt to impress me with his aiming skills.

"They are shitty people. My family. I'm only something they use for their publicity stunts. Attending their business parties, walking around in rich gowns for the men to see. They never for once asked me what I wanted. All they've done is throw things at me and demand at me to be what they wanted me to be." I laugh, but it's anything but with happiness.

"I've abandoned my dreams to be a living doll for those people. I've had strangers my father's age run their filthy hands over my body. And he watched, that man. Watched his friends make his daughter feel like dirt. Can still feel the fingers of the guy my dad wants me to marry on my bare back from just hours ago." My voice cracks, tears no longer being able to be held within the confines of the waterline. As they tumble down my cold cheeks, I wrap my arms around myself. Feeling naked in my backless dress.

Jimin rustles beside me, shrugging his blazer down his shoulders and wraps it over me. He giving me an apologetic look which I wave off. I'm too tired to deal with the problems in my life.

"Why won't you agree to be Tae's girlfriend when you love him? The guy your dad chose is obviously a pathetic excuse of a man."

"I'm not the kind who stand up for themselves. I kept telling him that I'll never be able to turn down my father's order if he asks me to marry a rich businessman. I'd have to cut Taehyung out of my life and I can't do that to him. He deserves someone way better than that." I sniffle, wiping my face free of the moisture. Jimin's letting my words sink in, thinking of a response.

"Look, I've not had a great family either. Left them behind when I was really young. I let them know how forcing their decisions on me was not worth losing me. So, I understand how you must feel. But it's always nice to have someone fight for you, fight the whole world with you. And with Taehyung in your life, I don't know if there is anyone who'll be as careful with your heart as he is."

"Stop trying to set me up with him." I laugh.

"Just saying." He replies, his eyes closed into crescents as he joins in my laughter.

"Got another cigarette?" I ask as I move in closer to him. He worriedly looks at me and then nods. Once again lighting it up, he places it between my lips.

I take in a long drag and hold the smoke in my mouth. I watch Jimin gulp as I move in even closer to him. I blow it to his face, his eyes growing hooded as he looks at me through the toxic air. I pass the stick to him, asking him to do the same. He follows along, hollowing out his cheeks and blowing it to my face.

It makes my core thrum from the intensity of the scene. A hand with the number '13' tatted on the wrist holding a cigarette and the puff of smoke encasing the two of us. We've come incredibly close to each other, faces just centimeters away. He's slowly leaning in, eyes locked on my lips as mine on his. Our noses brush, a spark going straight to my brain.

I shift my head to the side, eyeing his soft ears. I lift up a finger to gently tug at the earring, toying with it as I breathe in his cologne. The soft flesh of his earlobe tend me irresistible and pull me in to press a kiss there.

Jimin's arms have wound themselves around me, his nose buried in my hair as I kiss his ear. Somehow, my mind has deemed him a safe place. Him being Taehyung's roommate playing a large role in my trust in the man I've met for the first time today.

"Val! Jimin-ah! Is that you two?!" Taehyung calls out, rushing towards us. I jump up from the sidewalk, walking towards him with Jimin trailing behind. As Taehyung nears us, he opens his arms. My eyes blur with unfallen tears and I smash into his chest.

He wraps himself around me, forming a protective embrace. I fist his black shirt at his chest, cuddling and making myself smaller in his arms. His hands run through the length of my hair, his cheek smushed at the top of my head. He's my warmth on a cold night and without him, I'd fall into a pit of eternal winter.

"I'm sorry, Val." He says, not letting go of me and I'm glad he didn't. I wasn't ready to leave his embrace yet.

"You had a tough time and came to the club for some relief and me being a dumbass lectured you." He says against my hair.

"Don't call yourself a dumbass." I pout, weakly hitting at his chest. His laughter fills my ears, along with Jimin's quiet chuckle. I look up at Jimin from where I'm buried in Tae's torso. He looking at us with newfound adoration.

"I'm sorry though." He mumbles.

" 's okay."

I'm being moved away from Taehyung's chest after a minute, but still held towards him by my waist. Taehyung looks at Jimin, a quiet conversation between them. And Jimin walks closer to the two of us, his hands going around Taehyung's shoulder.

"Hi baby." Jimin coos, making a faint red dust across Taehyung's cheeks. Jimin then places a kiss on his lips, a quick peck before they're both looking at me.

"I've been wanting to tell you something noona." Taehyung starts, his hands tightening around me.

"I and Jiminie have been roommates since high school. And we've decided to move to The States."

It hits me like a flash of lightning when he says so. He's moving away. Far away from me. And somehow it invokes a deep fear in me. Jungkook also moved to the US after college. I feel dizzy realizing I'd be left alone in the hands of my family. And I'd rather die than let that happen.

"Tae..." I whisper, the tears running down my cheeks almost instantly. His eyebrows pinch in worry, hands holding my face. His thumb brushes my cheekbones, catching the tears as they fall.

"I found an amazing photography program at one of the colleges and it fit right in my budget. I won't even have to get a student loan for it. It was our dream remember? Me taking photography while you took business courses." I nod. I remember talking about it right after we hooked up for the first time. I had laid on his chest, his arms holding me as close to him as possible.

"We're both being stagnant in our lives, Val. How long do you think we can keep hooking up? You're going to leave me behind the second you get engaged to a stranger." His eyes are filling up in pain.

"I'm coming with you, Tae. I'll suffocate here without you. Don't leave me, Tae. Don't leave me." I'm sobbing hard in his arms, clutching hard at his waist as if it would stop him from going away.

Jimin moves in, taking both me and Tae into his arms. He places a gentle kiss on both of our foreheads.

"We'll take you with us if you want, moonlet. You've got a week to yourself before we move. You can take some time and think about this decision, alright? We need you to be sure you want to come with us." he speaks benignly.

"I don't need more time. I want to come with you." I say with determination.

"That's good, Val. Jiminie will take good care of us. He's got a huge apartment in New York. Got a shit ton of money. He's really kind too. And god the things his dick makes you feel." Taehyung groans, throwing his head back and then breaking into laughter. Jimin and I join in, basking in the warmth his smile provides. We both love this adorable boy with a boxy smile and I'm sure it is seen in our eyes.

"You're making me sound like a sugar daddy, you idiot." Jimin says, hitting him softly at the back of his head.

"It is true though." Tae laughs. "Looks like lover boy's starting to feel things for you, noona."

Jimin blushes, trying to stand tall and not shying from our collective gaze. In the end, he gives up, stuffing his face in the crook Taehyung's neck.

"He doesn't have a problem with polyamory too. He's the full package, this guy." he smiles, ruffling Jimin's hair.

We don't stay there for long after our conversation. We head to Jimin and Taehyung's apartment and I stay the night. We all spend time getting to know each other better. Me and Jimin bond very fast, learning we're both similar in a lot of ways. I and Tae let Jimin in on our stories from years ago. I and Jimin even kiss for the first time that night, leaving us warm and blushing.

As the night progresses and we lay in each other's arms on the living room floor, I realize I'm being given another chance at life. Maybe running away from the people who birthed you isn't the best way to start your life again. But it feels good. To finally leave behind the toxicity. In a week's time, I'll be free. And I intend on making the most out of my life after.