#i just can’t handle that level of concentration right now

[james-p-sullivan]

where’s the love for the writers out there writing your heart out for a fandom of three and a half people i love you

[daeniradraconis]

Banter Between the Lines - Hughes Brothers

Note: Hey, so here’s another quick chat-style piece! I haven’t had much time to sit down and write properly lately, so short and sweet it is for now. 😊 Feel free to send me some requests if you’d like! (You can check out the "rules" here: link). I can’t promise when I’ll get to them, but I’ll definitely find time soon.

Summary: A little fluff with a touch of smut (nothing too crazy, just some extra flirting). Quinn’s girlfriend roasts the boys while calling them out in their group chat.

Warnings: Nothing major, just some mention of 🍆.

It was one of those quiet Sunday nights where everything felt slow. You'd spent the evening catching up on your favorite shows, but it was hard to concentrate when all you could think about was Quinn. The constant distance between you two had become harder to ignore with each passing day, and as much as you loved how happy he was with his team, you missed him. And, truthfully, you missed the whole family.

You’d gotten close to Jack and Luke over the years, and now, with Quinn playing for the Vancouver Canucks and Jack and Luke together on the New Jersey Devils, the family dynamic felt a little more spread out than you liked. Sure, they’d all make time for you when they could, but it wasn’t the same as those days when you’d all hang out together.

Tonight, instead of a call or a quick text, you decided to turn to something a little more familiar. You opened up youtube and searched for their latest highlights.

All three of them were struggling on the ice, and it showed. It hurt to see them like this, especially when you couldn’t do much to help. So you did what you always did in times like these—opened the group chat and prepared to roast them into oblivion. If nothing else, it might make them laugh.

you: just finished your highlights. Quinn, congrats on being the saddest guy on the ice again 🥇. Jack, loved the mini tantrum energy 👏. Luke, did you forget which team you play for? because those turnovers were next-level.

Jack: wow, you really woke up and chose violence.

you: always. someone has to keep you humble.

Luke: humble? this feels more like a personal attack.

Quinn: what would you call it, then?

Luke: bullying.

you: oh, Lukey, don’t take it so hard. I tease because I care 💕

Jack: you literally plotted my ex’s demise last month. is that “caring” too?

you: first of all, it wasn’t a plot. it was more of a… fantasy.

Quinn: putting her in the ground “while she’s still breathing” doesn’t sound like a fantasy…

you: listen, if she hadn’t been such a manipulative little snake, I wouldn’t have had to consider it 🐍

Luke: terrifying. but honestly? fair.

Jack: I could’ve handled her myself, you know.

you: oh, really? because from where I was sitting, she had you wrapped around her finger like a puppet.

Quinn: she’s not wrong!

Jack: whose side are you on?

Quinn: hers. always.

you: damn right honey. and don’t worry, I’m not plotting her demise anymore… unless she tries to come back. then all bets are off.

Jack: remind me to never date again. you’re scarier than Quinn’s slap shot.

You grinned as the banter flew back and forth, but your focus shifted to Luke. His disastrous date still didn’t sit right with you.

you: okay, but seriously, Lukey. I've heard some gossip. how does a girl ditch you mid-dinner? you’re literally the sweetest human alive.

Luke: THANK YOU! finally, someone gets it.

Jack: don’t encourage him. he needs to toughen up.

you: excuse me? let him be sweet! not every guy needs to have your level of 'I’m too cool for feelings,' Jack.

Quinn: valid point.

Luke: thank you, Quinn.

you: honestly, Luke, I’ll never understand how she left. did you say something weird?

Luke: no!!! I was perfectly normal.

Quinn: “normal” is a stretch…

Jack: is this really the same guy who told a girl on a first date he’d make six different accounts just to sort himself into Hufflepuff six different times because he didn’t 'trust the algorithm'?

Luke: OKAY, THAT’S DIFFERENT. I was being honest!

you: oh, Lukey. you’re lucky you’re adorable because that is painful 😂

Luke: this is why I didn’t want to tell you guys.

Quinn: bro, it’s fine. just embrace the awkward puppy vibe. it’s clearly your brand.

Luke: I hate you.

Jack: ugh, why does he get the sympathy? roast him more guys!!! I can’t be the only one taking L’s here.

you: because Luke doesn’t put ketchup on his eggs like a serial killer, Jack.

Luke: yeah, what is WRONG with you? ketchup on eggs? really?

Jack: you people are so dramatic. it’s normal.

Quinn: nothing about that is normal.

you: thank you, Quinn. once again, the only rational person in this chat.

Jack: stop flirting with my brother. it’s disgusting.

Luke: seriously. I can feel the weird vibes through my phone.

You smirked, knowing exactly how to push their buttons.

you: you’re just mad because Quinn’s risotto is the best thing I’ve ever tasted.

Quinn: best risotto AND lasagna. don’t forget!

you: how could I? it’s the only reason I keep you around. And of course your magic 🍆

Quinn: oh, not my sparkling personality? btw you're objectifying my body...

you: hmm… maybe that too. but i have my priorities straight!

Jack: 🤢 STOP. this is disgusting.

Luke: seriously. this is TMI guys!!

you: just jealous, you two can’t even scramble eggs properly.

Quinn: cooking skills = key to a woman’s heart.

Luke: ugh. golden child strikes again.

Jack: some of us don’t need to cook because we have charisma, thank you very much.

Quinn: does your charisma excuse ketchup on eggs? because it shouldn’t.

Luke: still the biggest red flag in this chat.

Jack: Y’ALL ARE SO DRAMATIC.

You smiled at their bickering, your heart full, untouched by their chaos.

you: okay, but for real… I miss you guys 💔.

Luke: aww, finally some love.

Jack: are you feeling okay?!

you: don’t get used to it. but yeah, I miss you. Quinn, risotto night when you’re home! Jack and Luke, you can come eat it too.

Quinn: deal. but I’m ignoring them for the first hour I’m back. i need my time with you!

Luke: RUDE!

Jack: gross. is this the flirting portion of the chat? can we not?

you: love you too, boys. even if you’re disasters.

Jack: love you too. now stop flirting with Quinn before I puke.

Luke: seriously. save it for your own chat.

Quinn: jealousy doesn’t look good on you two.

Luke: jealous of what? your cooking? maybe. your 🍆? absolutely not.

you: you should be Lukey! your brother got some great 🍆

Jack: I’m OUT.

Luke: same.

Quinn: good job hon. guess it’s just us now. you: just how I like it 😘

[bekolxeram]

TW: traffic accident, injury

“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”

“I crashed, into a tree, now my wife can’t get out. Somebody please help us!”

------------------------------------------—

“Vehicle collision with obstacle, aka car crashed into tree,” Bobby informs his team while guiding them towards the scene of the accident. “One male driver, escaped the wreckage on his own, and one female passenger still trapped inside. Hen, Chimney, check her vitals. Buck, Eddie, go see if the driver needs any medical attention.”

“DUI?” Hen asks, clearly concerned by her past experience with councilwoman Ortiz.

“No, I don’t think so. Apparently the driver was alert and coherent enough to call 9-1-1 and explain their situation,” Bobby responses. “Now go help free the victim.”

Hen nods and takes off with Chimney.

“Hi, my name’s Hen. What’s yours?”

“Jessica…” the woman sobs, visibly in shock.

“Jessica, okay, we’re here to help you. I know it’s not easy, but please, try your best to relax,” Hen reassures her. “Hey, Chim, take her vitals while I check on her wounds.”

Chimney simply puts the clip onto her finger, watch the monitor and wait. She’s doing surprisingly well in her state.

Until a worried expression from Hen extinguishes his optimism.

“Femoral artery,” Hen whisper in Chimney’s ear.

He looks down to see a large mangled piece of metal protruding through Jessica’s left thigh. Ironically, the foreign object causing her so much pain might be the only thing keeping her from bleeding out right away.

“The driver is fine. The airbag saved him. He told me he was working long hours and fell asleep behind the wheel,” Eddie comes back with Buck. “I’d say let him stay with his wife. No law enforcement needed. He doesn’t seem under the influence to me.”

“Good. We need a saw and some running water to cool things down here,” Chimney yells at Buck and Eddie.

“Oh, god, are you amputating my leg?” Jessica panics. “I’ve watched it on TV. This is the setup when you want to amputate someone’s limb!”

“No, Jessica, don’t worry. TV shows aren’t real,” Hen directs her team to get the necessary tools. “We’re cutting the metal off and transporting you to a hospital with it. They’ll keep you comfortable with medicine before they take the metal out of you, okay?”

Jessica nods faintly, trying her best to keep her body still.

“We need to get her to a trauma center, stat,” Hen turns to her captain, “every second she spends on the ground, the risk of the piece of metal accidentally dislodging multiplies.”

Bobby ponders for a few moment before speaking into his radio, “this is the 118, at the scene of a traffic accident. Requesting air support for medevac.”

Buck’s entire body freezes once those dreaded words leave Bobby’s mouth.

He’s been fearful of this day since Tommy dumped him, almost 3 months ago. Just the two of them, meeting up for the first time since the breakup on a call, struggling to push the awkwardness aside and maintain a façade of professionalism, fighting against his urge to forget about the emergency and just yell at Tommy, to feel him, to devour him, to cling to him and never let go.

Still, there’s a severely injured person whose life is hanging by a thread. Buck decides to shake off his overly active mind and help carry the heavy machinery to the patient.

“Eddie, you handle the saw. Chim, you take the water. Hen, keep a close eye on her vitals,” Bobby instructs his team, intentionally leaving out one member.

“I — I can help, Cap,” Buck asserts.

“It’s not personal, but this requires the highest level of precision and concentration. You can take the next one, when the circumstances are a bit… different,” Bobby puts up a palm to stop his subordinate on his track, “now, I need you to stay on the side and stand by.”

Buck complies, reluctantly.

The soaring sound of a helicopter rotor inches in merely minutes later.

Buck debates internally whether to hide or take a good look at the helicopter, to see if the pilot is Tommy. It’ll likely rip his heart out if he sees Tommy all rugged, brokenhearted from the breakup, but it’ll kill him if Tommy looks normal, good even, seemingly moved on from his latest fling.

He decides to stand beside an engine when the helicopter lands on the freeway, in order to look without standing out.

“What’s the status of the patient?” A tall, blond Asian paramedic hops out of the helicopter, still putting on his gloves.

“We’re still trying to free her,” Bobby says, with sharp, mechanical noise in the background.

“I think it’d be best if we avoid moving her too much,” another paramedic, a giant, burly man who puts the best body builder to shame, chimes in.

George and Carl, Buck recognizes. They’re in Tommy’s flight crew.

“Uh, maybe we should bring the chopper closer?” Buck suggests.

“Donato, bring the bird closer,” George speaks into his radio.

“How close?” Lucy replies.

“So close you can smell my conditioner.”

“Copy that. Hey, why do I only get to do cool stuff when Tommy…”

“Ahem,” Carl interrupts Lucy’s communication, “we have company here, the 118.”

“Uh… wilco. I’m gonna bring her in, stay clear of the downwash.”

Carl directs all personnel on the ground to stand behind the 118 engine and make way for the aircraft. Buck catches George on his way to his destination.

“Hey — Hey, George. Where’s Tommy?” Buck asks, the fear of Tommy being in trouble enters his mind once again.

George sighs, then rolls his eyes, “you would’ve known if your so-called friends didn’t pretend he never existed after your two broke up.”

“What happened to him? Is he hurt? Come on, I just want to know if he’s okay,” Buck pleads.

“Oh, the patient’s out. We’d better get going,” George ignores Buck, choosing to focus on his task at hand instead.

Buck emerges from behind the firetruck. The LAFD helicopter is now parked steps away from the wreckage of the car, thanks to Lucy’s piloting skills.

This is the last chance for Buck to investigate, before they fly away.

“Carl,” Buck knows for a fact that this man is soft and easily persuadable, despite the tough exterior, “please tell me Tommy’s okay.”

“I guess you’ll just have to ask him yourself,” Carl says, carrying the patient into the chopper.

“But I thought he didn’t want to talk to me. I’ve been giving him space,” Buck chases after the aeromedic.

“Take the initiative. Brave the ice,” Carl shouts before closing the door and flying away with his team.

[paulyenvol6]

Against All Odds (Chapter 1)

Contains: no smut but mentions of hearing two people having sex and some fighting

Masterlist of this story

y/n’s POV

She hated him so much. His arrogant attitude and how he looked at everyone as if they were not half as good as he was. They just knew each other for a week and she was already so annoyed by this piece of shit.               

She had just stormed out of the rehearsel room after Harry wanted to explain to her how to play the riff at one point of Adore You. He was the singer, she was the guitarist! What the hell was he thinking? He always acted like he could do everything better and knew everything better.

She heared steps behind her. It was Sarah, she always wanted to make sure everything was fine and she really hated bad vibes. „Come on, y/n, he didn’t mean to hurt you.“ „I’m not hurt.“, y/n shouted, immediately feeling sorry. It was not Sarahs fault that Harry and her were not able to keep their private problems out of the band’s rehearsels.

She felt Sarah’s hand on her shoulder, turning her around. „Please, we need to practice now. I know Harry can be annoying but just ignore it. And maybe it really was meant in a nice way. Maybe he just wanted to help you.“ Y/n rolled her eyes. „C’mon.“, Sarah begged. She sighed. „Ok, I’m coming. But if he says one more disrespectful thing, I’mma-“ „Yes, it’s ok.“, Sarah said fastly and brought her back in the room.                                                                                                         

When y/n saw Harry standing at the microphone with this smugly look she could’ve gone mad again. „Hello ladies.“, he said overly friendly, but y/n just ignored him and went to her guitar. „Ok, guys.“, Harry chuckled. „After our little break, I guess we should start from the beginning again.“

The rest of the rehearsel went ok. There was still some negative tension between them and Harry couldn’t stop teasing her now and then, which made y/n extremely angry but she was able to not say something back.  Until the rehearsel was over. Y/n was just about to pass the door, when Harry, the last one in the room shouted: „Aw, are you better, sweetie?“ She froze on the move and turned around, only to find him with this arrogant smile.

„Fuck you.“, she whispered. It was loud enough for Harry to hear it but he just laughed and came closer to her. „Honestly, you behaved like a child today. As soon as someone critizises you on a factual level you freak out and just can’t handle it. God, how old are you again?“

Y/n pushed him away from her and hissed at him: „What happened to you, that made you feel so self confident and arrogant? You think that noone is as good as you, but wake up. Stop telling me what to do, stop treating everyone like they’re underneath.“ Harry laughed and put his hands in his pockets. „You’re pride really must be hurt. ME telling YOU how to play that riff. But it’s alright honey. I’m glad to help.“ „Stop calling me honey.“, y/n said and turned away. She didn’t want him to see how angry he had gotten her. She decided it was best to leave now and eventually walked out the door. The last thing she heard was him chuckling.

Y/n was very angry at herself. If she looked back at the conversation, or better the arguement they had, she had to admit that he was the one who stayed cool. She was just all angry and full of emotions. Now she was sitting in her room, trying to read a book but she was still too upset to concentrate.                                                                            

They were at a hotel in the Netherlands right now and tomorrow they’d play in Amsterdam. Y/n unfortunately had the room right next to Harry and the first thing she had seen that morning was his face. He had already been working out and when she stepped out of the door she almost ran into him.                                         The day had been pretty relaxing. Besides the rehearsals the band could rest from the concert night before.

Now, it was 9pm, the band had already had dinner and they just did what everyone wanted to do. While the others wanted to do something and have some fun, y/n told that she’d go to her room. They were suprised but wished her a good night. She closed her book. There was nothing she could do, there was just too much going on in her head. It was still early for her so she needed some time to get tired.

When she finally closed her eyes and felt that her thoughts started to fade away, she heared a noise. She opened her eyes and tried to identify it. Everything was quiet, until there it was again. It sounded like someone whimpering. She wondered what it could be until suddenly it made sense to her.

God, Harry’s room was next to her and he clearly had sex with someone at this moment. Y/n pressed the pillow onto her face and cried out. Why??? Why today, when she had decided to stay in her room?! She already had changed her clothes and really didn’t feel like going out of her room again this evening. But she also didn’t want to hear Harry’s hook up screaming his name through the wall. Y/n sighed and turned to her stomach. She reached out to grab her book again but it was even more difficult to concentrate now.

Harry’s date had seemed to just started. She heared her sigh, moan and eventually actually cry out Harry’s name. Not that y/n was really interested in his sex life, but he seemed to be quite good to make her making such noises. Or maybe she just faked them. That would make way more sense. He probably needed to hear his hook ups moan like that, so his ego felt better.

Y/n chuckled from the imagination. She really didn’t want it but couldn’t help but think about what he might do to his date. Was he just fucking her? Or was he eating her out? She didn’t know much about sex, in fact she was still a virgin, but she knew that women often need to feel stimulation on their clits and that most women don’t reach their orgasm just from vaginal penetration. God, what was she doing? She felt embarressed to have thought about it. It was Harry Styles she was thinking about. She was disgusted by herself.

Finally she heared the moaning stop and turned to the other side. She hoped she could now sleep and get some rest.

Harry’s POV

He yawned open mouthed and rubed his eyes. He had had a long night with Pauline and really needed some coffee. Pauline had left the hotel very early. After she had woken up she said something an important appointment, grabbed her stuff and left. It had been obvious, that it was a one – time – thing to her and he didn’t have a problem with it either.

Harry had met her at dinner in an italian restaurant, after y/n had left. They had talked to each other a while and flirted a bit when Harry asked her if she wanted to have a drink at his hotel room. She agreed and they landed in bed.

The sex had been good, not extraordinary awesome though. Maybe it was because they just met. He recently wasn’t that satisfied with his sex life and realized a while ago that the reason might be, that his dates and he don’t usually have an emotional bond. He honestly didn’t have a problem with having a one night stand now and then, but he missed something. Emotions, he thought. Yeah, that was it. He wanted to feel something about his partner. Not just sympathy.                                                                                                            

He opened the door and stepped outside. Right at this moment the door to y/n’s room opened and she entered the floor, a little smile on her face, that vanished as soon as she saw him. Harry felt the same way and rolled his eyes. That was a really bad start for the day. They didn’t say anything, when they both walked to the elevator and entered it. It became a bit awkward so Harry said exactly what he had thought when he saw her come out the door. „This day only can be terrible with a start like that.“

He wasn’t a mean or bad person, but he liked saying mean things to her. He hated her, her arrogance and her always being pissed about anything he did or said. It was just super annoying. But he liked provocating her though, and making her explode. He waited for an answer but didn’t get one, which suprised him. Usually she’d always fire back.

He turned around to see her and she looked kinda uncomfortable. Y/n didn’t look at him, but to her feet, which was very unusual. But then, when she realized he was staring at her, she looked up. „Just shut up, asshole.“ „Are you nervous because of the show, sweetheart? Don’t have to be, I can help you with the solo later, if you want.“ He knew he hit the right spot. It’ll drive her insane, him acting like she needed his help and calling her nicknames. She hated it and it made Harry love it.

He saw her breathe faster and her eyes got darker. „What’s your fucking problem? I’m not the one who always comes up with some shit and insults you.“ The elevator had already stopped but she didn’t care. „Just stop being a dick, it’s not funny, it’s not cool, it’s not attractive or whatsoever!“ She pushed him away but he grabed her wrists and kept her off of doing it a second time.

„I don’t know why you’re doing it, maybe you’re some sort of psychopath or…“ She didn’t know what else to say which Harry found hilarious. Still holding her wrists he whispered to her like she was a little kid: „I just enjoy making you angry. It’s so easy, because you are soooo easy to understand. I know exactly what buttons to push.“ Y/n pushed him away so he let go off her wrists. „Do not touch me.“, she complained, until he let go of her. „I wish you a lot of luck tonight. It’s just like 50000 people, I’m sure you got this.“ He smiled at her in a evil way and left the elevator.

[what-even-is-thiss]

Hi roman. I know this is very weird, but i've seen you give some life advice to other people, so i thought i could give it a try too. Don't answer if you don't want to. Anyway

Do you have any advice/tips for a 15 y/o who thinks they just have no control over their life? Like, my concentration is dog shit, i think my grades are slipping. My executive dysfunction so bad and i think i'm disappointing a lot of people. I have no idea how to handle anything in my life. I can't force myself to do the things i need to (not that that'd be any good, i'll immediately cry lol). I just, don't fucking know how i could make things better for myself. And i can't really talk to adults about it, they'll repeat the stuff i already know, and i am the worst person to put their feelings into words, so they'll prob never understand. Not in the edgy way.

Yeah so sorry for half venting into your ask box. Thank you in advance if you'll answer it, if it's too weird and you don't want to do that for whatever reason, that's ok. Peace and love <3

Dude, you’re unfortunately suffering from being 15. And possibly a learning disorder. Godspeed to you.

And I don’t say that to belittle your problems. In many ways as a teenager you don’t have control over a lot of things. You’re still under the control of your parents, you’re still learning how to deal with adult level emotions and ideas. A lot is expected of you and a lot of things are made to seem more important than they are. It’s hard to tell what’s actually important and what’s just adults blowing things out of proportion. It sucks and it’s frustrating!

If you can, you might want to talk to a counselor. If your parents or guardians are anti-counseling you might try to talk to someone at your school like a teacher or administrator or school nurse about the possibility of getting counseling without your parents knowing. Some schools have programs like that.

The adults closest to you might not understand but if you keep looking you’ll eventually find someone who remembers what it’s like to be in your shoes.

And I remember fully feeling like I’d never get control over anything. The end goal of life was graduation from high school and god only knows if I keep existing after that. But the thing is, you do! You keep existing and you figure a lot of stuff out. Wisdom does come with time, it turns out. And legally and practically you end up getting a lot more autonomy as time goes on.

And I know hearing things like this might not feel comforting. When you’re stuck, you’re stuck and no matter how much you logically know it’ll get better right now it sucks.

Just find ways to keep going. And try asking for help sometimes. If your family won’t listen, find someone who will. Take the time to write down your problems and how you feel if you can’t come up with explanations of what’s going on. Or find a friend to talk it out with so you can practice explaining yourself.

If there’s one thing I can promise you, when you’re a couple years into adulthood all of the problems from your teenage years start to feel small. At the time they were big and important though. And that’s what you’re going through right now. And a lot of adults forget about that. Hang in there, and when all of this is behind you, remember how hard it was and maybe someday you can help someone like you.

I’m sorry if all that wasn’t helpful. I don’t know too much about your individual situation. But ask for help when you can. Someone out there understands. You’ll find them.

[suzukiblu]

WIP excerpt for ducksandswans behind the cut; Jason gets knocked up and accidentally goes home about it. ( chrono || non-chrono )

Jason tightens his grip on Pup Brother and Quiet Sister tightens her grip on him. He can smell the whole pack's scents–smell the whole pack's packscent–and he feels . . . good about that. He likes that. 

He missed them. He shouldn't have stayed gone so long. Though now there's a pup, and maybe even more than one, so he supposes it was worth it. 

And either way, he's home now. 

Grandpa said. 

“ETA on B?” Big Brother asks. 

“Eighteen minutes, if they avoided the downtown traffic,” Big Brother’s mate says. Jason hums acknowledgment, then lets himself relax just a little more. More than he even thought he could, really. 

It's nice. 

It's really nice. 

And they're all safe, too. 

“Holy crap, is he purring?” New Brother mutters under his breath. 

“He is definitely purring,” Loud Sister confirms. “Like a big grumpy motorcycle.” 

“Pretty sure I've heard quieter motorcycles,” Big Brother's mate says wryly. “It's pretty cute, though.” 

“It is so cute, oh my god,” Big Brother says in despairing delight. “This is bad enough, how are we gonna handle him being like this with an actual baby?” 

“I think that's mostly a ‘you’ problem, Dick,” Little Brother says. 

“That is definitely a ‘you’ problem,” Loud Sister agrees. 

“For sure,” New Brother says. 

“Very cute,” Quiet Sister hums, nuzzling the back of Jason’s neck and patting his shoulder. “Baby brother.” 

“Thank you, Cass,” Big Brother says with a huff, folding his arms. “This is so adorable I can’t even stand it.” 

Jason huffs, rolling his eyes, then just settles in and closes his eyes. It’s safe to. And he has a nest to let his scent seep into and through, and “bred” pheromones to let settle into and fill up the den. He’s early enough in his pregnancy that it’ll probably take a little while, so it’s past time to concentrate on putting those off and scenting the room. The nest’s all made, and Pup Brother and Quiet Sister are in it, and Grandpa’s by the door and Big Brother and Little Brother are just outside the nest, and Loud Sister and New Brother and Big Brother’s mate are all here too, so . . . 

So once Alpha’s here, then everything will be perfect. 

“He’s purring again,” New Brother mutters. “I literally did not even know he was physically capable of making that sound.” 

“Capable of making it to motorcycle-shaming levels, apparently,” Loud Sister says with a laugh. “Damn, Jason.” 

Jason doesn’t know what she’s talking about, but he isn’t worried about it. If it’s important, someone will take care of it. 

Everyone’s here, so of course someone will. 

“Silence, all of you,” Pup Brother grumbles, sounding long-suffering but staying settled secure in Jason’s arms, which is good. Definitely. He should be there right now. 

Jason nuzzles him some more, for obvious reasons, and then just concentrates on letting his pheromones spread through the room. His nest already smells like the pack and so does the den, obviously, but it doesn’t smell like pup-is-coming.

It needs to, obviously. 

Someone’s purring. It’s not Pup Brother, but Jason’s not sure who else could be. 

Well, it doesn’t matter, really. 

Some of the others talk about some things, their voices soft and quiet. Jason doesn’t worry about it. It’s just little stuff, like patrol schedules and classes and appointments. Normal little things for a pack to talk about, and easy to settle into the background as white noise while he lets his pheromones fill up the room and makes sure Pup Brother’s eaten. 

He eats some of the apple slices and peanut butter, himself. The pup needs to eat too. 

It’s the same cheap, shitty store brand that he used to insist on as a pup himself. 

“ETA five minutes,” Big Brother’s mate says eventually after checking her phone. Jason’s not sure what she’s talking about, but isn’t worried about that either. If it’s important, someone will tell him. Or handle it. Or both. 

All he has to do right now is wait for Alpha to get here, and then everything will be fine. 

Everything will be perfect, actually, once Alpha gets here. 

The others talk a little more. Their voices are still soft and quiet, so Jason still doesn’t worry about it. He just stays curled up around Pup Brother and in Quiet Sister’s arms, and letting his pheromones fill up the den with bred and home-safe and all the usual things that are usually part of presenting a pup to the pack. 

It’s nice. The . . . being here. It’s nice. 

He missed it here. 

He wonders why he missed it so bad. Has it been that long, or . . . ? 

He just missed it. 

But now he’s here, so he doesn’t have to miss it anymore. 

Grandpa turns his head towards the door and pushes himself up out of his chair. Jason whines in disappointment. Is he leaving? Why’s he leaving? 

“I’ll just be a moment, my boy,” Grandpa assures him, and Jason settles, a little. If Grandpa says it’ll be just a moment, then he means it. 

Grandpa steps out into the foyer again and everyone else goes quiet all at once, and Jason realizes–oh. The front door just opened, didn’t it. He doesn’t hear footsteps, though. 

. . . does that mean . . . ? 

“Alfred?” Alpha says from the foyer, sounding just barely concerned, and something in Jason vibrates at the sound of his voice. “What’s going on?” 

“Is someone purring?” Alpha’s mate asks curiously. 

“Master Jason came home, Master Bruce,” Grandpa says. 

“. . . he what?” Alpha says, his voice sounding–strange, just a bit. Jason isn’t sure why it does, but feels . . . 

“Just–the living room, Master Bruce,” Grandpa says. “You should come and see for yourself.” 

Grandpa steps back into view of the doorway, and Jason still feels unsettled and just a little bit uncertain, and isn’t sure if–

Then Alpha steps into view too, and Jason forgets everything else

[misettemisette]

Chapter 3 ➺ Calmly panicking 

Starting over In Madrid

Summary : After moving to Madrid as Real Madrid's new photographer, Nicky can’t seem to take her eyes off the pretty face Misa Rodríguez. But how will she handle her growing desire for the Canarian goalkeeper when her contract strictly forbids dating players? WC: 3K words TW: None PS: French writer

Chapter 1 ➺ A harder job than I thought  Chapter 2 ➺ Clearly on a bad slope 

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"That one’s actually very good, Hayley!" The camera screen displayed the goalkeeper in the air, her body suspended as she caught the ball in her gloves, droplets of sweat glistening on her forehead and scattering around her. Her thick brows furrowed in the effort. In addition to her beauty, what made the photo stand out was the technical challenge of capturing Misa’s moving body. 

Things were surprisingly going well at the Ciudad. Nothing had changed between Misa and me and, as I grew fond of my job, I was determined to keep it that way. We were having photo lessons almost every day after training sessions, sometimes joined by the northern girls Sofie, Freja and Caroline. But most of the time, it was the three of us that sat in a corner of the pitch, talking for hours until we were frozen from cold or until the staff finally kicked us out of the stadium. 

"Thanks Nicky! I’m thinking about buying a camera, I love photography for real!." Hayley boasted. 

"You should! The teacher says you’re ready". 

Hayley had indeed proven herself an implicated student. She had applied my technical advice but she had also been willing to experiment on her own. As a result, she showed a taste for moving models and lights effects. Sometimes she would capture sharp action shots, sometimes she’d rather set the presets to create blurry scenes where the bodies outlines melted in the background. 

As to Misa… well Misa’s photos were uniquely hers. She had trouble concentrating and her taste level was highly questionnable. She often added too much grain or contrast and every shot was oddly framed. When I tried to guide her toward subtler artistic choices, she would said "Pero me gusta el efecto!" or "Vale, Nicky, but I’m the artist" with her now well-known over-the-top mannerisms. Misa was much: pretty, athletic, funny, goofy… and stubborn. She was doing everything at a hundred per cent, except listening.

So, I was rather irritated when she sat on the grass, ostentatiously sulking because I hadn’t complimented her own work. Hayley, of course, wasn’t helping. "Maria Isabel hasn’t done her homework but wants to be praised!" 

"I did but the teacher doesn’t like me !" She moaned. 

"Maria Isabel should be in detention," I said calmly. 

"Por qué!? No!" She shot me an offended look and grumpily crossed her arms on her chest. 

"Porque no escuchas nada and the teacher is fed up." I was clearly enjoying myself at teasing Misa with the most calm. 

"You don’t like my style, that’s all." She laid on her back, arms still crossed. Hayley walked over her, bent and angled the camera into her face and started taking pictures of the moody girl. 

"It’s because you don’t have one, Sweetie" She said. Misa opened her mouth wide, outraged. She rolled over on her belly, hiding her face from Hayley unceasing photoshoot. "Come on Misa! I’m sure you can do better, you’re not even trying!" 

"I may have one last idea to help Misa get it…"Both head turned to me." There is a photo exhibit at Matadero Art Center just now. Maybe we should give it a try. And Misa will find what she likes." 

"That would be great!" said Hayley. She had stopped taking pictures and was now sat besides the goalkeeper. 

Misa moved to the side. "I already know what I like" she said frowning. We stared at her, eyebrows raised. "All right, we’ll go to your museo…" She sat up still pouting. "But before…" She stood up and reached out to me with an incredible speed. She easily heaved me into her arms and had me laying on my back before I knew what was happening. 

"Misaaaa what the fuck?!" 

Misa, on all fours over me, smirked and pinned me to the ground with her strong hands. "Let’s switch roles! Hayley come over and take some silly photos of Nicky for a change!" I was laughing hard and… getting aroused by Misa topping me. Her firms grasp and her weight were burying my hands into the grass. A naughty smile appeared on her beautiful face. 

"Let me go!" I shouted. I was breathing hard from struggling against her and from growing increasingly excited. Hayley clicked madly on the camera trigger. She couldn’t see Misa’s penetrating gaze. Was it me, or was she breathing harder too while keeping me pinned down didn’t seem to cost her in the slightest? I closed my eyes, too aware of the lens focused on me to meet Misa’s gaze. Too turned on by everything that was going on… apart from the oppressing clicking noise and the presence of Hayley. 

"I think we’re good, and it will be ugly, I promise" I heard Hayley. I felt the pressure of Misa’s hands disappeared, opened my eyes to find she had straightened up. Her legs on each side of my waist, she was peering down at me intensely. "I think you deserved that" she said, satisfied. 

"I don’t think I deserved that much" I responded, catching my breath. 

"You two, go get a room it’s becoming embarrassing! Ciudad is closing, we have to leave". I had almost forgotten Hayley. Her voice was taking me back to reality and we both smiled nervously. 

Misa got up, held out her hands to help me standing. As I took them she pulled me a bit too strongly, I lost balance and landed against her. My mouth touched the base of her neck only a second - she smelled a mix of sweat and perfume - as she steadied me in her arms an instant. "I just saved the teacher, does it mean I’m no longer in detention ?" She released me. She hadn’t lost her smirk. 

I composed myself again and immediately adopted my authoritarian tone. 

"You are grounded for a month, both of you! And in detention at the museum without question!”

***

I called Angela on the evening. I felt the urge to talk. Not especially about me. I just wanted to feel the connection with my best mate again but surely the conversation topic went on my new footballer friends. 

"… and you’ve given them photo lessons almost every day ? Wow, Nicky I didn’t know you had that kind of patience !" 

"How you would you know Angela, Madrid is changing me. I am a much more sensible and patient person." 

"Still hard to believe… Anyway, I’m glad you hang with them. I like this Hayley… Fuck the clause! I would have seen you getting together. She has a sensitive side like you and seems fun !"

"Humm, no Hayley’s a friend." I was laying down in my bed, calling Angela for at least an hour and a half now. I pictured Hayley in my mind. In derry, she was the total package and the two of us were really getting along well. But as pretty as she was, I wasn’t attracted by her. Despite all my efforts, I kept getting caught up in my attraction to Misa. Her poor photographer skills and moody behavior were so endearing to me and I felt more and more charmed by the goalkeeper’s whole personality. 

"Nicky, are you there?" I hadn’t realized I had stopped listening. 

"Sorry? What?" 

"I was saying I admire you, just being friend with such hotties! I couldn’t!

"Yeah, incredible right?! I closed my eyes, I was sure Angela had heard the nervousness of my tone.  

"Oh no Nicky! Which one?!" I smiled. It felt good she knew me so well.

"You won’t believe it…" 

"Spit it out !"

"It’s Misa…" I was gazing at the ceilling, my absent smile widened as I spoke her name. 

"Misa?? But she seems… I mean you don’t seem to have a lot in common."

"I know, anyway I shouldn’t even think about it…"

"But you do… ?" 

I heavily sighed. Misa’s smirking face appeared in front of my eyes. "Yes… but I also think about the clause, the fact that I’m bound to it, that my working visa depends on this job that I love, and so is my lease…"

"Ok, ok! Nicky it’s alright, calm down. You’re finding a girl cute, what a big deal? You’re at least allowed that! You are not doing anything wrong, you’re not doing anything at all, relax!" 

"You’re right" As usual, Angela had found the words to reassure me. "But still, fucking clause!" I sweared. 

"Fucking clause…", Angela echoed. 

***

I received a message from Hayley the morning before the exhibition visit. 

"My family just paid me a surprise visit! They came from Sidney, I had no idea !!! This is crazy. Sorry about the museum, I really wanted to go but I’ll spend the day with them. I’m so happy" 

I replied that it was okay and told her to enjoy her family time. Then I texted Misa. 

"Hayley’s family just showed up and she can’t come. Do you still want to go?"

Misa’s text bubble appeared and disappeared a few times, leaving me wondering what answer I was wishing for. 

"Do I have a choice? I thought this was my punishment…" 

I grinned, loving her playful side. Or was she … flirting? 

"You’re right but the teacher would rather you go to detention willingly." 

"huh the teacher wants a lot. What else does the teacher want from me?" 

I gasped. She was flirting! My mind ran wild, imagining the countless things I craved from Misa. I exhaled deeply, tried to focus again as I pictured myself passionately kissing her. I had to regain control of my mind and bury the surging wave of desire I felt at the mere idea of Misa wanting to give me what I dreamt of. 

"Teacher wants you to have a good time", was the most diplomatic and sober answer I could come up with. I quickly added, "See you then", to put a stop to that dangerous conversation. 

"I’d say let’s see what happens. See you, Nicky"

Wow, she was really going! How the hell was I going to survive the afternoon?! 

***

I was gulping hard when I joined Misa at the entrance of the Matadero Arts Center of Madrid. I felt so tense when we hugged, but Misa appeared to be her usual self. Once again, she gave no sign that something was going on between us and once again I wondered if I had misjudged her intentions. 

We headed inside. The center consisted of many huge bricked buildings that used to be old slaughterhouses. None of the previous gloomy functions of the place remained, it was now very pleasant to walk through the large aisles between the red buildings. In the middle of the afternoon, the sun was beating down hard on our heads, giving me a glimpse of spring in Madrid. Misa was looking all around us, shielding her dazzled eyes with her hand. "It’s a shame I’ve never been there before, despite living all these years in Madrid" 

A few minutes later, we reached the exhibition hall. I bought the tickets. Misa followed me closely. She was clearly out of her element as we moved through the vast hall. The exhibition was called "Deportes: fotografía en movimiento" and showcased various approaches to photographing athletes. I was surprised to see Misa so focused. She looked at each photo, pausing for long time when something seemed to interest or intrigued her. 

"Misa, look at this one" The framed picture showed gymnasts performing incredible acrobatic tricks. "Look at the geometric composition, that's what I was trying to explain about framing."

Misa nodded enthusiastically. "I think I get it now, yes. But I’ve found what I want to do." 

She took my hand and led me to a quieter corner where another series of photos was displayed on the walls. 

"Wait, what ?" I blurted out. There were cats and dogs on every picture, and even a baby pig. 

"They are the athletes’ pets" She said happily. She hadn’t let go of my hand. "I think I want to photograph animals, or nature." 

She faced me with the cutest smile, and thought I had severe doubts this would help Misa progress technically, I replied "Yes! Okay! Let’s give naturalistic photography a try!". 

She smiled even wider, her hand still in mine, and her fingers softly stroked my palm as she loosened her grip. I started to panic. Her lips formed a more subtle smile as she watched me uncertainly. She took a step forward. I had to react quickly, but I didn’t want her to feel rejected. 

"Come on, I’m taking you to the park along the river. There is plenty of birds and plants for you to photograph." I grasped her hand again to lead us out of the hall and away from the prickly situation. 

However, as we arrived at the park, I realized I had put myself in an even more perilous situation. The sun was setting. A light breeze was blowing in the trees. Birds were melodiously tweeting nearby. An empty bench shielded from the view was waiting for us at the end of a very lovely flowered-lined path. I tried hard not to look at Misa. She was walking close to me, unusually quiet. I dared to take a look at her. She caught my sidelong glance, and a shy smile appeared on her lips. What did I do? She was probably getting all wrong, imagining I had chosen such a romantic place on purpose! 

We reached the oh-so-welcoming bench. None of us spoke as we sat. I stared into the distance, feeling my heart pounding hard in my chest. Misa was looking down at her laps, suddenly timid. I had to say something. 

"Maybe you could start by photographing those flowers," I suggested as a diversion. "The red and blue ones that look like the Barça kit. See, I’ve learned about football." I added wanting to diminish the growing tension. 

"Oh no Barça please…" She ran a hand across her face. I had clearly said the wrong thing. 

"Sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you" I said, putting my hand on her shoulder. Her long hair was partially hiding her face. "Do… do you want to talk about it ?" I asked hesitantly and she tensed. 

"You don’t know about the Clásico. We keep loosing against them every times, and honestly, I’m used to it. It’s okay even though I’m doing my best but…" her voice trailed down as she took a deep breath. "Next Clásico is one week away and that’s the finale of the Copa de la Reina." She lifted her head to look me in the eyes. "I don’t know if I can take the pressure this time..." She was talking so openly to me. The fierce and funny goalkeeper was allowing her vulnerable side to finally surface. 

That was when I realized I cared for her. 

I pulled Misa into a hug. She sighed deeply, resting her face against my neck. "You can do it Misa. I haven’t known you for very long but I’m certain that you can." She stayed there, her heavy breathing gently blowing my hair. 

"I really want to win!" She almost cried. "We keep improving but we haven’t won any Spanish championship! Quiero ganar, ostia! »

She lifted her head again and I stopped hugging her. I was glad to see a frustrated grin back on her face. "You can do it! Hala Madrid! I feel like part of the family now." I genuinely said to boost her up. She let out a soft laugh, running her fingers through her hair and took my hand again.

 "Gracias" she muttered. Her brown eyes found mine again. Her expression was so soft at this very moment. Her gaze went down to my mouth. Her slightly parted lips quivered. I wanted to kiss her so bad. My chest was about to explode as I slowly moved my face closer to hers.

At that precise moment, a loud buzzing sound came from Misa's pocket, making us both jump in fear. Misa straightened herself and took her phone out. I slid apart on the bench, exhaling a mix of relief and deep frustration. 

"Hola Jenni", Misa answered in a slightly irritated voice. "No, no conozco las noticias…" She rolled her eyes at me. I was too shaken to be amused by the situation. Misa and Jenni kept on talking on the phone. In fact, it was more like Misa was listening to an unstoppable Jenni. I wasn’t getting much of the quickly flowing Spanish of Misa. Besides, I was once again lost deep in my thoughts. My heart and reason were battling heavily against each other while Misa was getting seriously annoyed the call wouldn’t finish. She was finding hard to get a world between her best friend's endless sentences. She turned to me,  mouthing ‘Perdón!’ several times as I scrolled mechanically through my phone. 

As minutes passed, night started to fall when Misa finally hung up. "I’m so sorry! I should never have taken that call !" She sighed. 

I got up quickly "No problem. But it’s getting late, we should get going". Reason had won over heart for now. Or at least, chance had bought me time to really sort things out. Misa looked up at me, surprised. She hadn’t expected that. This time I didn’t dared to even glance at her. When I gave her no reaction, she let her head fall in her hands. I heard her taking a deep breath before she finally stood up and began following me.

Lulled by the gentle sway of the train, a part of me had calmed down. An other part of me was going crazy for real. Misa wanted me. A calm, almost pleasant panic filled me entirely on the way home. 

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[iaminfourthwing]

The Generals Daughter

A/N: Oh my god guys, I am so so so sorry for the long wait. I had so much things to do, was out of the city often and simply had no motivation to write :( I am really sorry for making you wait an eternity. I really hope I finally get more time and motivation to write again.

TW: descripted violence, murder and blood

Chapter XIV

I’ll rip you apart.

I know for sure that this fight will get bloody. The way his menacing glare is set on me makes me realize, that he’ll do anything to bond the midnight blue beauty behind him and that killing me is his mission now. Two can play the game.

„There is no need for you to be here because this dragon will be MINE!“ He growls. He behaves like a fucking animal.

‚Please do me the favor and kill him, he bores me almost to death.‘ The dragons voice echoes through my head. With pleasure.

„Sorry to disappoint you, Trevor, but she already chose me. And she wants me to kill you, which I can’t say no to. Not, when I want to get rid of you as well.“ With that I stalk forward into his direction, drawing my little sword and throwing my bow and arrows to the side, losing unnecessary weight to fight more freely. I don’t plan to kill him softly, I want to shred him apart into pieces.

He has his sword already firmly in his hand while he puts himself in a (pathetic) fighting stance. When I am near enough, a battle cry rips from Trevors throat and he charges at me. He swings his sword at my neck but I throw myself to the side, catching his stomach with a deep nasty slice through his leathers. He roars in pain and I use this moment to my advantage to knock the handle of my sword onto his nose, breaking it in the process. Rage contorts his feature, making him look like a maniac.

‚You are efficient and fast, I like that. Keep up and we can get out of here‘ the feminine voice runs through my head again.

On it.

Raising my sword, again, I manage to push the blade through his right shoulder. Trevor stumbles and I fall forward. Distracted, I don’t notice the dagger in his hand and while he slips from my sword, he slices his blade through my leathers, cutting through the skin over my left collarbone down to the top of my right breast. I hiss. Fuck, the pain is harsh.

‚CONCENTRATE!‘ I am fucking trying!

I step back and look at his face. His greedy eyes stare back at me.

„You’ll go down, and then I’ll take your body with me to show the General and everyone else how weak you truly are“ he spits.

I scoff. He is the one bleeding out from several deep wounds, not me.

„Really? As if you aren’t the one suffering heavily from the bloodless right now.“ Annoyance coats my words.

This is going to end now!

„This dragon is MINE“ I roar, rage radiating from me.

Throwing my sword to the side, I unsheathed my favorite dagger … and attack.

He is catched off guard and steps back in surprise. Then, I am on him.

I punch him in his throat, making him splutter an struggling to catch his breath. Swinging my dagger upward I slice precisely through his cheek bone and through the left eye, damaging it heavily. He screams in agony, clutching his eye while stumbling backward.

„What … the fuck?!“ He struggles to get the words out.

The midnight blue beauty grumbles in approval.

Not wasting any more time, I swing again but barely catching his throat and so I push the dagger directly into it. Warm blood splatters on my face, running down the sides of my neck, soaking into my leathers. The blood running down makes my own open wound sting but I ignore the pain. 

Trevors knees give out and he sinks down, hands trying to stop the thick blood from pouring out, but still running through his fingers. Leveling down to his height I look him dead and cold into his dying eyes.

„You’ll never be better than I am. You are just a pathetic excuse of a cadet and way to arrogant. This dragon is mine and you’ll die today … because of me. I am finally the one to get rid of you.“

Standing back up I don’t waste any time and push the dagger through his chin back up into his head. More blood splatters on my face, which I still ignore. 

His eyes lose the maniac glimmer and his body falls forward. He is dead, finally.

‚Good job, Little Flame.‘ I turn around, facing her. Due to her words, a thankful smile stretches over my face. A true, happy smile. 

‚Come on, we have to get back. We are one of the last pairs.‘

Only then I notice how much colder it got and that the sun is already going down. The fight must have been longer, than I thought. Shit, it’s getting late.

While I climb her leg up I let my thoughts wander. 

Father will be mad, or maybe annoyed that I’ll show up this late. Probably punishing me again.

Fuck, did Vi make it? Did Tairn kept her seated? Did Rihannon made it? Ridoc? Sawyer? Liam?

‚I can assure you, Little Flame, all your questions will be answered. And now, hold on tight.‘

And with that, we are up in the air.

Taglist: @puttyly @tinystudentmiracle

[ametrictonofaudacity]

Okay so consider!!!

Yandere platonic Geralt!! Generally very cool!! Very nice!! But if you fuck up you have to deal with (what you have dubbed) the get along cuff. Which is literally him just making you sleep next to him and tying your leg to his with a bit of leather cord. It’s thin so he can easily snap it if there’s a danger, but he’ll wake up if you move it.

Also Jaskier being completely fine and okay with this would be hilarious, I would love to see you write a scenerio!! (Idk why but I picture a modern reader, like one who got dropped in the Witcher from the modern world)

I love this ask!! I also love the trope of a modern character in a medieval setting, I think it was all the ‘Modern Girl IN Middle Earth’ fanfics I read (an actual tag on ao3) so I have a weakness for it!! Also Jaskier just going ‘eh’ is so funny to me.

Warnings: forced proximity, captivity, kidnapping, some level of being infantalized, being tied to another person as a form of being restrained, future Stockholm syndrome. Jaskier is complicit, up to you whether he is also a yandere or not. Also the fact Geralt can smell emotions

“You know this could be like, an actual danger?”

You try and reason your way out of your situation, like reason has ever worked on Geralt before. He ignores you, mostly, concentrating on tying the knot around your wrist in a manner that you cannot undo the knot but it also didn’t cut off your circulation. He slips a finger under the cord, testing the knot and the cords strength, and you hear him make a satisfied rumble. You were still getting used to that, to the various sounds the Witcher made to express emotion.

“No it’s not. The cord’s thin, and if I have to fight I can snap it easily. Plus this area doesn’t normally have monsters, not this time of year.”

He stands, towering over you from you spot on the ground, near the fire, and you tilt your face up. The yellow light throws his features into a harsh countenance, makes his face all angles and scars, golden eyes reflecting the light the way a predators would as he glared down at you, scowling. You tighten your fingers in the wool cloak he had given you, so long ago, the fibers catching in your nails.

He must see something in your gaze, or maybe it’s the way you know you probably reek of anxiety right now, but his stance softens, the scowl melting away into something softer, not a smile because you knew he was still very, very upset with you, but not a harsh frown that made you feel small and stupid and like all the things he thought about you were true.

He crouches, making himself smaller next to you, and you feel your shoulders start to unwind. It was strange, being around someone who was so perceptive to your emotions, but seemingly had no clue how to address or handle them, beyond his own instincts as a Witcher and his limited interpersonal skills. His very limited interpersonal skills.

Seriously. You were pretty sure the guy only had two friends.

“You’re going to try and run again. Maybe not tonight, but I clearly can’t trust you to behave without me keeping my eye on you at all times. Since I can’t do that while I’m asleep, this is the solution.”

He motions to the thin leather cord, and you scowl, face twisting into something you know is ugly but doing it anyways. He wouldn’t be intimidated, you knew, he seemed to view you as some helpless kid, even though you were a fully grown adult who had been attending college.

“You wouldn’t have to watch me if you just let me go, Geralt. You can’t… you can’t just not let someone go home, that’s not right.”

You snap, fingers burying further into the cloak to stave off the chill that was only getting colder, creeping up your arms and legs to your torso and making you shiver. It had just gotten dark, the little fire Geralt built crackling away and too small to provide much warmth but rapidly gaining strength, and you shiver, leaning toward the fire and away from the Witcher.

“We’re not having this conversation again. You can’t survive out there on your own.”

Your face flushes, angry, and you bury your face further into the cloak. He had a point, to some extent. You weren’t used to the world of the Witcher, with its monsters and it’s hardships, weren’t used to the roughness of medieval life and all of its struggles. You were used to the modern world, where distances could be travelled by car, not horse, and you didn’t have to endure biting cold in the winter and blazing heat in the summer.

“That doesn’t mean I can’t at least try, Geralt. What kinda person would I be if I didn’t at least try to get home?” You protest, and there’s the sound of rustling, a muttered curse. Looks like Jaskier was back with wood.

“Ah. Seems I walked into a horribly tense situation.”

Jaskier remarks, but his voice is light, not taking your predicament seriously, even as his eyes land on the tether around your wrist and Geralt’s as he feeds wood into the fire, which licks up the logs and sticks eagerly, hungry for fuel. You scowl, face buried in the cloak to hide your sour mood as much as possible. Geralt didn’t care if you were pisses off or not, he cared when you were afraid not when you were mad, but Jaskier would do everything in his power to pull you out of your bad mood. From telling stories to playing little tavern songs, he would be relentless in making sure you cracked a smile at least once, and you didn’t feel like having to endure the bards attempts to cheer you up right now.

“Is tying them to you really necessary though, Geralt? They look like a kicked pup, can’t you be a bit more lenient?”

Jaskier wheedles, and wow, he might actually be your favorite person right now. You peek up from the fold of the cloak, and he’s got a hand on a hip, shifting his weight with a concerned frown. He looks entirely disapproving of the whole thing, which makes your heart soar. Maybe he would actually be able to get Geralt to listen to him.

“They’re lucky I don’t tie them on Roach all day.” Geralt grumbles, setting up the bed rolls. You could feel every small movement he made, the motion tugging gently on the thin tether.

“Oh you grump. Stop being so rude.” Jaskier huffs, sitting next to you, and you quietly despair how easily he gave in, how quickly he yielded to what Geralt wanted to do. You tuck your face back into the cloak, dejected.

“Hey now, it isn’t all bad. There are worse places to sleep. I can recall a few of them myself.”

Jaskier’s hand lands on your shoulder, and you glare, annoyed. You didn’t want company, or comfort, or any of it. You wanted one thing, and it was something that the both of them were denying you.

Jaskier, because he was Jaskier, seemingly didn’t notice. Which wasn’t the greatest.

“Yeah, sure, I guess. Never slept tied to somebody, though.” You say pointedly, and the annoyed rumble Geralt gives is almost worth it. Sharp gold eyes narrow at you slightly, before Geralt huffs, turning back to his task.

“I have! Well, it was more I had been knocked unconscious, but it still applies, I think! And those ropes were rather coarse, my wrists were aching for days!” Jaskier recalls. “Geralt had to rescue me, it was quite the adventure. I wrote a song about it, at some point, although I never published it. I really should rework that song, actually, come to think of it.”

He rambles, his voice filling the tense silence between you and Geralt, and you feel your shoulders start to relax. He was good at that, chattering to fill the silence that would drag on for hours between the two of you if it wasn’t for him. You sigh quietly, leaning into the warm hand clasped on your shoulders as the fire grows in strength, the bedrolls almost fully prepared.

“Alright. Jaskier, you take first watch, and I’ll take over in an hour or so.” There must not be many monsters around, you think, for Geralt to be so comfortable letting Jaskier take watch. Jaskier nods, slipping away your side as Geralt approaches.

“Not a problem! I was feeling wired tonight anyways, a few more hours though and I should be able to sleep well enough.” Jaskier agrees amicably. “Although I am a bit surprised, you normally insist on first watch.”

“Wanna get (Y/N) down.” Geralt huffs, and Jaskier nods.

“Fair enough, I suppose. They are criminally lacking in the sleep department, they’re beginning to get bags, poor thing.”

You scowl at Jaskier, annoyed.

“I’ve had these since middle school, first of all, not my fault I have insomnia.” You scowl, and jerk when Geralt all but drags you to the bed roll, barely waiting for you to finish talking.

“Hey!” You protests, annoyed, but he’s too busy ‘getting you settled’ as he liked to call it. Fussing over the blankets and the best roll, making sure your body was protected from the harsh winds that even the fire couldn’t stave off.

“Jaskier, stop keeping them up.” Geralt grumbles, sounding more tired than annoyed. He drags you closer, and it must be a Witcher thing to radiate heat like a furnace, because he was chasing off the cold without even trying, the same arm that you were tied to securing you against his chest.

“Pretty sure I can sleep on my own.”

You snark, and Geralt rolls his eyes.

“Not for the next week you aren’t, if that. Now go to bed.”

You scowl, glaring up at him. With the blanket over you, the fire, and the heat radiating off his body, you were tired, sure. But not tired enough not to say something, not when you were being treated like an idiot who couldn’t do anything for themselves.

“You can’t just- Geralt this isn’t right, and you know it. You can’t just- keep me here!”

You protest. Arguing with Geralt was much like arguing with a wall, honestly. Stubborn and just as likely to listen to you as the bricks that made up the walls of your old college.

But walls could come down. You just had to get through to him, make him realize that what was doing wasn’t going to work. You weren’t strong enough or fast enough to escape him, not without some clever plan or tricks up your sleeve, and you were pretty sure that an Olympic level athlete would still have issues trying to outpace him. So your only hope was getting him to listen.

It was a fragile hope, but it was the only hope you had.

“We’re not talking about this right now. Go to sleep.”

Geralt grumbles, and you open your mouth again. The warning rumble in his chest cuts you off, and you swallow.

The sound was exactly that. A warning. Geralt had never hurt you before, not really, but whenever he got mad things were miserable. Jaskier would be irritated with you for ‘putting Geralt in a mood’ as he put it, and you would be without the bard’s chattering to fill the heavy silent between you and Geralt. Not to mention the awkwardness of being forced to ride atop Roach with Geralt, the silence thick with tension between the two of you, or the way you would hope desperately for the day to end so you could go to sleep.

No, it was better to keep the Witcher happy. For all parties.

“Alright. Good night.” You finally mutter, and he sighs, the tension leaving his body. You feel his torso loosen, relaxing behind you, and you feel your hand shaking, just slightly. Or a little more than slightly. Your stomach twists, and Geralt sighs.

“I know you don’t understand. But you’ll realize this is what’s best for you.” He says it like it’s supposed to be an assurance, smoothing a hand over your hair like you’re a particularly fussy child, and you consider, for a second, twisting and biting that hand. Driving your teeth deep enough to draw blood and make him listen to you, for once.

You don’t, mainly because you know he would just move it fast enough your teeth would just snap at empty air.

You close your eyes. With the almost stifling heat behind you, and the too-heavy weight of the cord on your wrist that logically shouldn’t feel as heavy as it did, sleep does not come easy. Eventually, though, you feel your consciousness slip away into oblivion.

[dr-spencer-reids-queen]

... And Back: Final Part

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~1.9k

Summary: Knowing the Turner Brothers killed nearly one hundred people, the FBI, Detroit police, and the Canadian police work hard to figure out three things: Where is Kelly, who has been murdered here, and what will happen when Lucas is caught? That’s not the only thing you have to worry about as a nightmare is about to come your way.

Warnings: canon violence, canon language, canon talk of death, methods of kill

Author’s Note: I do not own anything from Criminal Minds. All credit goes to their respective owners. If there are any warnings that exceed the normal death/kills from the show, I will list them. If you’ve seen the show, then it’s the same level of angst unless otherwise stated

x

Derek and Emily are working with the Bloodhounds and walking around the property trying to find Kelly and Lucas. It's weird to think you've been with the team for over four years, working nonstop, and these two brothers were out here killing eighty-nine people without you even knowing.

Well, you know now and it's going to stop. However, no matter what you do, how hard you work, or how good at your job you are, there will always be someone out there hurting people for fun. Your job is never going to end.

Some of the Bloodhounds found scent markings on some trees but lost them when they reach a small stream of water that runs in the back of the property. If the dogs lose the scent for good, it's going to be like searching for a needle in a stack of needles.

Meanwhile, Penelope is working hard inside the house trying to figure out what's really going on here. No one kills eighty-nine people and counting without some kind of reason. It doesn't take long to figure out what Mason is researching, and it's actually shocking considering what's going on here.

Mason has been looking for a cure for his paralyzed body. He needs stem cells from people in order to cure himself, but they've all been unsuccessful experiments. Mason deems it right because the people Lucas took were transients, prostitutes, and drug users. He wanted to give their lives purpose by being part of a revolutionary cure.

He claims it's science.

Lucas has drawn what their lives have been like for the past eight years. He's the reason why Mason is how he is. Lucas accidentally pushed Mason down something that paralyzed him, so Mason blames and faults him for something that was an accident, so he has his chunky younger brother kill to help cure something that was Lucas' fault.

You and Spencer leave the barn to tell the others what you've found.

"They were doing experiments for spinal regeneration. He was trying to fix himself," Rossi says.

"How?"

"Stem cell research."

"Wait, this equipment is far too unsophisticated. There's no way it would have ever worked," Spencer says.

"You were a prosecutor, Hotch. Could you convict this guy? A quadriplegic who clearly never touched any of the victims?" you ask.

"I don't know. We need to concentrate on Kelly. We can't worry about the other stuff right now."

"Son of a bitch. He might get away with this. Come on, Rossi. Let's talk to Mason again." You look to the right and see Will leaning against the pig pen just listening in. You hope he doesn't do anything stupid. You and Rossi walk back inside the house and over to Mason who has a slight smirk on his face. "Tell me about how you got hurt."

"Does it matter?"

"Humor me."

"My brother pushed me out of the loft. I wanted to sell the farm. I had just finished medical school. It would have given me a nice down payment on a practice in the city, but the farm was all he knew. He doesn't handle anger very well."

"Is that why you hate him?"

"Hate him? He's done nothing but take care of me every day since then."

"You said not to even try talking to him if we find him. That sounds like you want us to kill him, right Rossi?"

"Sounds right to me."

"That's not hate. That's a favor. My brother couldn't survive without me."

You and Rossi leave the room to join Penelope in the next.

"Did you find anything else?" you ask.

"Nothing that'll help find his brother. There's a cell phone he calls dozens of times a day, but that appears to be off. I tried to activate the GPS locator on it, but I think it's an old phone so that's not gonna work either."

"Will you know if it comes on?"

"I hope so."

"How's it going?" JJ asks when she walks in.

"Just waiting for--" The computer dings and Penelope gasps. "Oh, my God. The phone just turned back on. Oh, my God!"

"Answer it."

"Hello?" Penelope asks.

"Hello? My name is Kelly."

"Kelly? This is Penelope Garcia with the FBI."

"Oh, my God, you have to help me. I'm somewhere in the woods being held by a man named Lucas, and he--"

"Kelly?" Lucas stutters.

"Please help me!"

"Hey, that's mine!"

"Please--"

The call cuts off. Lucas has Kelly somewhere on the property, and you need to find her quickly.

"The phone's disconnected."

"Garcia, can you find the signal?" Rossi asks.

"Yes. I'm hooked on the system. I should be able to--Got it! It's west of here, less than half a mile."

"That's all you can tell?"

"It's the woods. There aren't any reference points."

"We don't need one. I can take it from there. Come on," you urge.

You, Hotch, Rossi, and Spencer meet up with Emily and Derek who are already out in the field. JJ and Penelope stay with Mason in hopes the phone turns back on and Kelly calls again. The Bloodhounds run alongside you to where the last known location of the phone is, but the scent dies off.

She's not here.

"She should be right here. This is where the signal came from," Hotch says. "There's nothing here. Y/N, anything?"

You close your eyes and allow Kelly's panic to reach you. The trail of energy isn't coming from the sides or above you. It's coming from down below. There is a hatch here somewhere that must lead down to a cave.

"They're in a cave. Follow me!"

You lead the group to where the energy trail leads off, and you allow Hotch and Derek to lift the heavy wooden board Lucas tried so hard to hide.

"Kelly!"

"Down here! Don't make any sudden moves when they come down, okay?" she begs Lucas.

"I'm bad," Lucas repeats and whimpers.

"Lucas Turner, this is the FBI."

"Just put your hands up, okay? Everything is going to be okay," Kelly says.

Hotch removes her from Lucas and passes her onto you and Emily. Emily gets her out of the cave but you can't help but look back at Lucas. He's scared and confused, and he doesn't know what is going on.

"Be gentle with him! He's scared!"

Jeff's team doesn't listen and perceives him as a threat. Lucas gets confused enough to where he starts lashing out. He gets up to attack, and that's when Jeff's team starts firing at him.

"Stand down!" you and Derek yell.

The deed is done. Lucas is dead. Will grabbed the nearest gun he could find and shot Mason knowing he was going to get arrested. But hey, at least he got his sister's killer. Both brothers are dead, just like you thought was going to happen.

All you want to do is go home. This case has drained the life out of you. The entire ride home, no one said a word. No words needed to be said. The killings will stop, but you'll have to deal with another murderer the next day.

It's never gonna stop.

"Ready to go home?" you ask Spencer once you two have packed everything away.

"More than you know."

"Can I hold your hand?"

"Listen, it's nothing you did but ever since I was poisoned, I have this fear of germs now. That's all I see everywhere I go. I don't want to get sick again."

"I understand. I'll never do anything that makes you uncomfortable. Can I give you a hug?"

"Yes," he smiles.

You wrap your arms around his waist and kiss the part where his heart is over his clothes. Spencer kisses the top of your head with a loving smile.

Everything is as it should be.

--

He is angry. No, pissed is more like it. He should have never let you go in the first place. You could still be with him safe and sound, and he would never have to worry if he's going to get that one phone call that's going to put him away for life. He's tried to be nice about it. He tried to offer you everything you could need and more.

But no, you'd rather go home to him. He's getting so sick and tired of hearing about Spencer Reid. He stole what was his to begin with.

The man takes inhales from the cigarette longer than he should have before letting out the smoke into the air. He looks down at the man he's just murdered. Blood spatters and pools all over the ground, but there is no one around to witness this. He made sure to pick a desolate road so that he wouldn't get caught.

He's been doing this for a long time, he knows how to evade the law.

He takes another puff of his cigarette before ripping it in two. He drops the untouched side of the cigarette onto the ground and throws the touched side into the trash can inside his car. He removes the latex gloves on his hands and throws them away in the same trash can. He grabs another pair of fresh gloves and slides them on.

There is no way he's going to leave behind any evidence that would incriminate himself.

There is a box on his passenger seat that has items he's stolen from your house. It's so easy to sneak inside when he knows where you keep the spare key. You're always forgetting where you put your keys. It's so like you to be so fucking stupid. Inside the box is a plastic baggie with a cup inside.

When he was snooping around your apartment, he made sure to take the cup you always use, a cup that would have half a dozen good fingerprints on it. With his clean thumb, he presses the latex over the fingerprint so that the print is transferred to the glove. With his left hand, he grabs the murder weapon and transfers the print onto the handle of the weapon.

Once finished, he tosses the weapon into a box in the backseat. There have to be at least seven different weapons with seven different kinds of blood used to kill seven different kinds of victims. All with your prints on them.

Seven victims scattered around where you work and where you live.

The man takes out another baggie filled with the hair he gathered from your hairbrush. You really need to clean that thing. It's like you're begging him to ruin your life. He removes some strands of hair and sprinkles it over the dead body at his feet.

This will ensure that you're linked to this murder along with the six other victims he's done this to. The man lights another cigarette but this time, he smokes it calmly. He leans against his car and takes his time enjoying the fresh air and the night sky. When he's done, he gives this cigarette the same treatment and gets back into his car.

He removes the gloves, throws them into the trash can, and leans back in his head. He thinks about you, the way you smell when you're near him, the feel of your body when he used to sneak into your room when he knew you were asleep, everything about you. You were his first, and no matter how far you move away from him, he's going to remind you that you'll never be able to leave.

If you refuse to listen to him, refuse to come back to him, then he's going to make sure no one will ever see you again as you rot in prison for the rest of your life.

"Sometimes there are no words, no clever quotes to neatly sum up what's happened that day. Sometimes you do everything right, everything exactly right, and still you feel like you've failed. Did it need to end that way? Could something have been done to prevent the tragedy in the first place? Eighty-nine murders at the pig farm. The deaths of Mason and Lucas Turner make ninety-one lives snuffed out. Kelly Shane will go home and try to recover and reconnect with her family, but she'll never be a child again. William Hightower, who gave his leg for his country, gave the rest of himself to avenge his sister's murder. That makes ninety-three lives forever altered, not counting family and friends in a small town in Sarnia, Ontario, who thought monsters didn't exist until they learned that they spent their lives with one. What about my team? How many more times will they be able to look into the abyss? How many more times before they won't ever recover the pieces of themselves that this job takes? As I said, sometimes there are no words, no clever quotes to neatly sum up what's happened that day. Sometimes the day just... ends." - Aaron Hotchner

x

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[fanfictionstuff]

The Forbidden Taste of You (28)

Amaimon x reader. AO3 friendorfoe22

“Anyway, nice talk. We have class soon.” You stand, grabbing the plastic plates. You toss them in a trash can nearby, reaching for Amaimon to pull him back to class.

Katashi bristles at your words. “What? You can’t just say that and walk away! Are you being literal or metaphorical?” There’s no way that man could be an angel in either sense. He attempts to grab you, but Amaimon is faster, grabbing his wrist. With a loud crack, Katashi winces in pain. 

“Never touch my mate.”

Katashi freezes at the threat, his eyes widening in shock, and he feels an intense fear of Amaimon. Even when he realized that Ambrosius was, in fact, Amaimon, he didn’t experience this level of fear. This profound fear is unfamiliar to him, and for the first time, he truly fears Amaimon. It’s the first time Amaimon has shown deadly intent towards him.

Amaimon releases the human’s wrist, and Katashi instinctively pulls it to his chest, careful to avoid any contact. “Mate?" he asks. Then, his eyes catch a mark on Amaimon’s throat, still visible even in his Ambrosius form. Over time, Katashi has come across less common lore, suggesting that some high-ranked demons might select a mate and leave a mark, though this seems quite rare. His attention shifts to your throat; despite your collar obscuring it, he notices a similar mark as he watches you closely. “_____,” he questions, his voice laced with despair. “What have you done?” 

“We’re really going to be late if we don’t get going.”

A nauseating sensation twists in his stomach as he observes Amaimon being pulled back to school by you.

“_____, why would you tell him?” Amaimon asks, intertwining his fingers with yours.

“I didn’t plan to,” you confess, staring at the cracks. “I didn’t expect to run into Katashi, and honestly, I was being spiteful towards my parents. I’m really frustrated with them, and I thought Mom would try to hide this from Katashi for as long as possible.” You lightly squeeze his hand. “So far, Katashi is the only person who hasn’t deceived me. Now that he knows, maybe he can ask Mom some questions, and I can learn more from him.”   

You feel exhausted and dislike school. Next to you, Amaimon is struggling too. He can't handle the work and constantly seeks your attention; if you refuse, he has no problem tossing your books into the trash. You thought staying after class would let you finish your homework peacefully, assuming Amaimon would quietly sulk beside you. But that wasn’t the case. He didn’t care about being discreet and loudly complained about your neglect. You tried to request he be quiet and sit next to you, even if he ended up draping himself over you. However, after eight hours, he had reached his limit, and when his complaints and tugging at you drew attention, you quickly stood up and shoved everything into your school bag.

“Um, what are you doing?” You sigh as Amaimon nestles his face against your neck, pulling you onto a nearby bench. “I’ve told you again and again that this isn’t appropriate.” You protest, running your fingers through his hair, trying to distance him from the mark. Ever since he claimed you as his mate, he’s become increasingly clingy, leaving you confused about his behavior. You never anticipated his attachment would intensify, yet here you find him—almost sitting in your lap now. “I have so much schoolwork to catch up on.” You exhale in frustration, attempting to gently push him away.

When you lock eyes with him, it’s clear your words are brushed aside; he’s completely tuned out. “Amaimon?” He places his right hand on the back of your head, gripping your hair firmly. “Ow, what—” You try to ask, but your question gets cut off as his lips press against yours, his warm tongue diving past your lips to explore. You bite down on his tongue, eliciting a groan as he pulls back, his expression showing displeasure. “Amaimon, I need to concentrate. I have to finish this year of high school. Finish high school, then attend a university far away from everyone and their bullshit, remember?” 

"We can use money from Big Brother.” He doesn’t want you to go to university. University is more education, but it's also more challenging. It will distance you from him even further. He has already looked into it. He won't be able to share classes with you, meaning you'll be apart for a significant time. "You won't need to work.”

“Amaimon, you can't be sure if Mephisto will give us the money to leave. Pretty sure he’d rather you stay nearby; he brought you to Assiah for a reason.” You try to convince him.

"I have a phone and the key of eternity. There's no need for me to remain here. After earning a degree, you're not going to find employment, so why spend time on it?”

"You know by now that living in Assiah requires money. And money comes from having a job."

“You’re my mate; you’ll stay with me.”

"Okay then," you respond. Continuing the argument feels futile; he probably won’t change his opinion, and you have a few months left to sort things out.

A text helps turn the conversation. "Shiemi wants to go out this weekend." You grin at the message, “You’re not third-wheeling this time. If you really want to come, I’ll have Shiemi invite Rin." You give the demon king a smug look. It’s finally girl time. Amaimon gives you an annoyed glance before burying his face in your neck again. 

Bright blue eyes meet yours as the energetic teen nearly bounces in his seat. "Thanks for the invite! It's great to see you again." 

You underestimated what Amaimon would deal with to be by your side. 

"It's great to see you too! I'm happy we could set up this double date." Both Rin and Shiemi blush a deep red at the comment. 

"D-date?" Poor Shiemi looks like she might burst with anxiety. "I need to use the bathroom!" she suddenly declares, springing up. "Hold on, Shiemi." You turn to Amaimon and lower your voice. "Do NOT harm Rin or reveal your true identity to him. If you do, I won’t talk to you for a week."

"You can't stay away from me that long." 

"Really? I think my dad would know a few ways." 

Amaimon huffs in annoyance, the sound escaping him like a low growl. He refocuses on his plate, eating his cake while ignoring Rin. 

"Hey, I think we got off on the wrong foot." Rin attempts to start a conversation. Even though he abandoned _____ after a demon attacked her. "Maybe we can be friends?"

"No." 

"What?" 

"I don't want to be friends with you. I don't like you." 

Rin stares at Ambrosius in disbelief; why wouldn't he like him? He hasn't done anything to him. If anything, Rin should be the one who doesn’t like Ambrosius! He’s still pissed that Ambrosius that left you in that state a few weeks ago. Still, he continues. "Come on, do you even have friends?" 

"I have ____," Amaimon answers bluntly.

A determined look crosses Rin's face. "Listen, I know how it is. Before I came to True Cross, I only had one person, too - my younger brother Yukio. Now my brother and I have a lot of friends." 

"I don't want friends," Amaimon replies bluntly.

"Everyone needs friends," Rin declares loudly, catching the attention of the few other patrons in the cafe. 

Amaimon clicks his tongue in annoyance as he glances at the bathroom. He promised not to harm Rin Okumura, but if his younger brother doesn’t shut up, Amaimon might just risk your anger.

You watch as Shiemi scrubbed her hands yet again with soap. "I think your hands are clean enough now," you tease, trying to lighten the mood. "Are you alright? I was just joking about it being a date." You gently guide her away from the sink before she can get more soap. "Let's go back to the others; I don't want Ambrosius left alone with Rin."

“Why not?”

“Ambrosius isn’t a social person; Rin is probably trying to have a conversation with him. I don’t want Ambrosius to get angry.”

Shiemi glances at you with a mixture of concern and confusion in her eyes.

"But Ambrosius seems nice. Maybe Rin can help him open up a bit," she suggests optimistically.

You frown at her optimism, knowing more about Amaimon's real character. "Trust me, it's better if Ambrosius keeps to himself. He can be... difficult at times."

You and Shiemi head back to the table, where Rin appears to be having a one-sided conversation with Amaimon. Rin's ongoing efforts to befriend him seem to fall on deaf ears.

As you approach, Rin spots your return and turns his attention to you, a relieved smile spreading across his face. "Hey, welcome back! I’ve been trying to get to know Ambrosius better. I thought it would be nice for the four of us to hang out more often.”

“No.” Amaimon tugs you onto the bench with him. 

“Come on, I really think this will be fun,” Rin urges, undeterred by Amaimon’s dismissive attitude. His determination to befriend Amaimon is surprisingly strong.

On the other hand, Amaimon remains stoic, his golden eyes narrowing slightly. “I have no interest in being your friend, Okumura.” 

Rin frowns yet remains determined. “I get it; you're not a people person. But we should at least attempt to get along. You might as well befriend ______’s other friends, right?” He gestures towards you, trying to appeal to Amaimon's gentler side.

It backfires. With a possessive grip around your waist, Amaimon leans in closer; his voice laced with a warning. "_______ is mine. Stay away from her, Okumura."

"I understand that you’re concerned about ___," Rin says thoughtfully, selecting his words to avoid upsetting the teenager across from him. "However, she is her own person. She has the right to choose who she spends her time."

Amaimon's expression darkens, a dangerous glint entering his golden eyes. "She has chosen me," he declares firmly, his possessiveness thick in the air.

You let out a sigh, choosing to ignore their petty argument. Instead, you turn your attention to Shiemi. "So, how have you been? How is your training going?" Her face brightens at the change of topic. "It's going well! I'm working hard, and I really enjoy the cram school. I wish you would join me!"

After hearing Shiemi mention your attendance at cram school, Amaimon tightens his grip on you. You refrain from rolling your eyes. “Eh, the idea of becoming an exorcist and chasing demons doesn't interest me, but I enjoy hearing about your progress in training."

As Shiemi expresses her excitement for the exorcist training, you notice Amaimon's grip around your waist tightening intermittently. It's evident he is growing more possessive and unsettled by the conversation. Sensing his unease, you opt to shift the topic in an attempt to diffuse the tension. 

"Shiemi, have you been to the new herbal tea shop downtown? I’ve heard they have really unique blends," you suggest, trying to steer the conversation away from exorcist training. 

Shiemi's eyes light up with interest. "Oh, I haven't! That sounds lovely. Maybe we could all go together sometime," she proposes, glancing at Rin and Amaimon. 

Amaimon's expression darkens at the idea of you spending more time around Rin. “No.” 

Shiemi blinks in surprise. “Oh, you don’t like tea? Then maybe just the three of us?” She glances between you and Rin, unknowingly infuriating the demon king across from her. 

Oblivious to Amaimon's simmering anger, Rin smiles warmly at Shiemi's suggestion. "That sounds great! I'd love to try some new tea blends with you guys. When should we go?” 

You're thankful that Amaimon hasn't lost control, but you have a sinking feeling that staying in this situation could lead to him hurting Rin and those nearby. "That sounds like a sweet date idea!" you say, smiling at them across the table. Meanwhile, you divert Amaimon's attention from Rin by feeding him cake. 

Pulling the fork from his mouth, you notice a smear of dark chocolate icing on his lower lip. Without thinking, you instinctively reach out to brush it away. His lips part slightly in response, surprising you as he takes your thumb into his warm, wet mouth. With gentle sweeps of his tongue, he removes the chocolate that you had so kindly removed from his lip. 

“Everyone can see us!” Your eyes widen, and your face flushes with embarrassment at his bold move. Rin and Shiemi share the same shocked expressions, stunned by his bold actions. 

Amaimon's gaze remains locked with yours, unyielding and intense, as if daring anyone to challenge his actions. Despite the shocked silence that has fallen over your group, Amaimon's expression remains unreadable, his golden eyes burning into yours. 

Rin clears his throat uncomfortably, attempting to ease the tense atmosphere. "Um, Ambrosius... maybe don’t do that in public," he suggests hesitantly, his discomfort evident in his voice. 

Amaimon finally releases your thumb from his mouth, “Why?” The possessive gleam in his golden eyes intensifies as he leans in even closer to you. “_____ is mine; I’ll do whatever I want.” 

Rin shifts uncomfortably in his seat, exchanging a nervous glance with Shiemi. The tension in the air is palpable, charged with an unspoken challenge between the two. Despite the group's unease, Amaimon seems unfazed by their reactions.

Irritated, you pinch his hip. “Stop it. I swear, you’re like a damn swan.” As you run your fingers through his hair, you playfully tug and shake his head. Amaimon lets you continue but gives you a curious look. “Swan?” 

Shiemi tilts her head in confusion. “Um, ______, what do you mean he’s like a swan?” 

“Swans can be aggressive, especially when it comes to their mates." Rin nods in understanding. “Oh, you’re right; a swan attacked me when I was a kid. They can be really nasty."

Amaimon simply shrugs, unaffected by your comparison. You let go of his head and place your arm around his shoulder. “Well, my swan mate," you say with sarcasm, "let's finish this cake, and then we can go.” The demon king leans into your embrace, his previous hostility fading as he allows you to give him orders. With the tension lifting, Rin and Shiemi share relieved glances at the de-escalation of the situation.

As he finishes the last bite of cake, Amaimon suddenly stands up, tugging you along. "Let's go," he says sharply, making it clear there’s no room for debate. “Damn it, Ambrosius.” Not in the mood to argue, you quickly turn to the other two. “Sorry, he’s exhausted from all the schoolwork he needs to catch up on. We’ve both got a ton to catch up.”

Rin quickly looks at Amaimon before leaning closer to you, “Are you okay?" 

His concerns are clear, and you quickly attempt to address them. “Rin, he’s just really antisocial and can be a pain in the ass to others when he’s in a bad mood." Rin’s voice lowers to a faint whisper. "If you need any help, just let me know." Amaimon definitely heard that. Without giving the demon king time to respond, you stand up straight and pull him by his jacket collar. "Thanks, Rin. Shiemi, text me later." You lean down to hug Shiemi goodbye before leading Amaimon out of the restaurant as Shiemi bids farewell to both of you. As you step in the doorway, you lift your arm and wave. “Bye, Katashi." Shiemi and Rin both look over to see a man sinking into his chair, pulling his cap down to avoid eye contact.

Rin scowls at the table, his fist clenched with frustration. “I don’t trust him,” he snaps, startling Shiemi. “What do you mean?” 

“Can’t you see how toxic he is? I don’t trust him with ______.” 

“He loves her a lot.” She responds with a gentle smile. “He may not be kind to us, but he is always kind and caring toward her. Who knows? Maybe one day Ambrosius will want to be friends with us too?”

Notes:

Googling animals that will attack for their mate. Swans were the first thing that popped in my mind, but I wanted to google anyway—decided to stay with the swans. Let's hope for more Amaimon fics with him being in this season 🤞

[syncopein3d]

Broken World II: Hurts

Part II: Bait

CW for this entire story: non-lethal but serious injuries, personal betrayal, angst, medical restraint, drugging. For this installment: implied past torture, weeping, more angst.

“I’m sorry.”

Somebody was talking. That was irritating. Its ears were ringing, and it felt like somewhere nearby somebody was going to be very sore soon. That didn’t sound like a place it wanted to be conscious in.

“C’mon, Thing, you gotta come back. Come on.” Now someone was scrubbing its breastbone with hard knuckles. It twitched away from this, flailing an arm weakly. It smacked into something that went OOF. “That’s right, hit me harder, wake up and tell me I’m an asshole.”

“You’re an asshole, Bloodless,” Ripper muttered.

“Thank God.” Oh, great, someone was hauling them into a lap now, their head flopping against a muscular shoulder.

“You better not be naked,” they said.

“I have shorts on. There was metal in my jumpsuit, too, I was in a hurry.” He grunted as they shifted position in a way that made them stop trying to move. Ripper squinted their eyes open. Being in jail obviously hadn’t stopped him from working out. Or maybe it was the regeneration that kept him from changing much physically.

From their vantage with their head on Robert’s left shoulder they could see the several scorched holes in his chest and stomach. He’d been hit more than the three times they remembered. They weren’t bullet holes. He would heal from those so fast there wouldn’t even be spatter. It was where his handle came from.

“You got shot,” they said stupidly.

“C-beams fuck up meta powers. The wounds don’t heal as fast. The drugs wore off quick, though, so you know. It hurts, if that makes you feel better. I’m sorry, Ripper. I took a plea deal and part of it was that I help them lure you in. They really want that carnite.”

The Ripper pushed at him and scooted away, then slumped back onto their elbows, head whirling. It would feel so good to just fall over and go back to sleep, but they glared at Robert over their mask instead.

“They’re coming here?”

“What, no. FUCK no, I wanted out, too,” Robert said. “They made me call you, but the lab would still find me at the minimum-security place they promised me.” He shrugged, then winced. “I figured it would work out.”

The Ripper forced itself into a sitting position, head drooping over its lap. “You bastard. You couldn’t know I wouldn’t get shot, too.”

“Hey, take it easy,” Robert said. “You’re just lucky you can’t OD on ceretol. You took like four darts.” There was a scuffing sound of flesh against carpet, and then an arm around its shoulders. It tried to push Robert off without success. A low-level strength meta like his still left him a lot stronger than Ripper even on a good day. He was wheezing as he breathed, which reminded it unpleasantly of the worse parts of last time.

“Fuck you. Is your lung punctured?”

“I dunno. It’s not important. Where are we?”

Where HAD it taken them? The Ripper turned its head slightly, squinting. They were on the floor of a bathroom with a dark red tile floor, sitting on a black rug next to a huge sunken tub. It could see the cubicle with the rain shower in the corner. The shower light was always on, soft and golden.

“My new place,” it said. “Old missile silo.”

“We’re underground?”

“Yeah. I had it renovated. Fake name. Nobody can… Can find us…” It was hard to concentrate. If it tried to stay mad at Bloodless it could stay awake, but now that it knew they were safe for now it was getting harder. They were leaning harder into Robert without meaning to. He was hurt. They shouldn’t lean on him at all, the stupid bastard. God, he was warm. Warm stupid bastard. He smelled a little like sweat and astringent soap.

“It’s okay,” he was saying. “I got you. I got you.” The earth moved. No, they were moving. Robert was carrying them, stifling a grunt of pain.

“Put me down,” they said. It sounded weaker than they intended.

“I’m gonna. Just a sec. Here we go, here.” They were dumped into something squishy – right, they’d made the bed with the big blue comforter a couple days ago, before they went to Doctor Hale. Robert was pulling their shoes off as they lay on their right side. Their field of vision right now included the new black lamp on the oak nightstand and the lighted bathroom doorway over past that. The bathroom looked fuzzy. Maybe they should try and get that fixed.

The comforter wasn’t as warm as Robert, but it was nice. They could feel themselves sinking into it even as their head tried to float off their shoulders.

“When I wake up, I’m gonna kick your ass,” they said, half-muffled by the pillow. A warm hand came to rest on the back of their neck. Robert was on the bed somewhere behind them.

“Anything you want, Thing. Just sleep it off, okay? Just go to sleep.” The big warm fingers, rough-skinned, kneaded carefully at the knot between their shoulders.

“Oh, c’mon…” Well, that wasn’t fair. They couldn’t possibly be expected to stay awake when it felt so good not to think at all. They sighed a big soft sigh and slept. At some point they must have transitioned from drugged and unconscious to actually sleeping, because when they woke up, it was from a dream. It had been running away from men with guns through a giant McDonald’s PlayPlace.

It shifted position very slightly and discovered there was an arm draped across its body from behind. Robert smelled slightly like toothpaste and teakwood body wash, so at some point he’d taken the time to freshen up while they were out. They were in their own queen-size bed in the big slice-shaped bedroom. The main support pillar of the command center stuck out of the new wall that divided the master bath from the bedroom. They’d hung some movie posters on it, mostly from old Full Moon releases. They had the full set of Puppet Master promotionals now. A set of soft display lights lit them from above, already warm and familiar after just a few months.

Everything ached, like they’d been running for hours. “Maybe I overdid it,” Ripper said into the pillow.

“Hm? Wassat?” The arm tightened around them almost spastically, squeezing hard for a second. Its protesting grunt must have gotten through to Robert eventually. He let go with an odd little wheeze. Ripper slid out and went to fumble around in the walk-in closet for a change of clothes, then limped off to shower. It locked the bathroom door pointedly. If Robert wanted to sneak off this time he’d have to pry open two sets of hydraulic doors past the outer junction, because they were currently secured with keyless entry and Ripper hadn’t told him the combinations.

It had debated building the main living space at the bottom of the missile shaft proper, where anyone who wanted to get to it had to climb down hundreds of rickety spiral stairs, but that meant it would also have to climb UP that way if Doctor Hale’s procedure hadn’t worked and it was having to avoid tearing all the time. In case it DID work, there was a half-finished space closed off down there that was technically livable if not exactly fancy.

They felt a little better when they had showered, brushed their teeth, and put on fresh sweats and a fresh mask. They did a few more little stretches in the bathroom, thinking about food. They were going on 600 calories’ worth of coffee drink over almost three days and a LOT of tearing, and that wasn’t helping their mood any, they decided.

“Hey, asshole.” They walked over in their socks to turn the bedside lamp on, then prodded him in the shoulder. “You hungry?”

“What?” He pushed up on one elbow, squinting at them in the dim light. There were still holes in his chest, black and scorched, and now red and angry-looking around the edges. He was wearing probably the biggest pair of sweat pants he’d been able to find. They were a little long, bagging up around his ankles, and they were dark blue.

“You haven’t healed,” the Ripper said.

“C-beams,” said Robert.

“I know. Don’t think that makes up for any of this.”

“I don’t,” Robert said. He raised his hands in surrender as he scooted to the edge of the bed, then almost tilted off it. Ripper had to grab at his back and chest to keep him from falling. They almost jerked their hands back. His skin was hot to the touch. He coughed into his own shoulder, face turned away from them.

“You’re burning up.” They didn’t try to sound nice about it. “Are you sick again?”

“Don’t be mad, Ripper,” Robert mumbled. “I’m not sick. I just get hot sometimes. Metabolism speeds up.”

“I’m not mad about that, idiot, I’m mad that you screwed me over! Why would I be mad about -”

“Look, you can just drop me off somewhere, you know,” Robert said. “I was fine before. I’ll be fine now.”

“No, you won’t, you got caught once already and now you’re hurt,” Ripper hissed. “Get back on the – no, I said get BACK on the fucking bed.” It dragged his legs back up, ignoring his weak protest, and then went to pile pillows behind him to prop him up. “How’d you get caught, anyway?”

“I did a job with Lupara and she rolled on me when they caught her. They shot me about fifty times and I woke up chained to a board.” He paused to breathe, watching them with his eyes half-shut. “Did you know they can legally use drugs to interrogate you when it’s over a billion dollars’ worth of carnite?”

“That’s why they knew about me,” Ripper said, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “You didn’t mean to tell. Is that what you’re claiming now?”

“It’s true,” he said, staring past them. The heat in Ripper’s belly died like fire under water. Robert was looking at something outside the room, breathing harder. They could hear the little hitch and wheeze again. “You don’t know.”

Ripper’s stomach sank. “Did they stop at drugs?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “They knew I regenerate. No marks.”

“You’re lying. You’re lying to make me feel sorry for you,” Ripper said.

“I don’t need you to feel sorry for me, dammit.” He grabbed at their shirt front, dragging them closer. For a second, they were nose to nose, his fist bunched in their tank top, their arm braced against his collarbones. Ripper could see its own reflection in his glassy half-focused eyes. His shoulders heaved. “Hit me. Drop me from the sky, cut my arm off with your damn portals. Do something - ”

They hit him in the face with the heel of their hand. Robert fell back into the pillows, wheezing, and Ripper shook their jarred wrist as they sat there glaring at him.

“That was out of line. You know it was,” Ripper said. They realized his shoulders were still twitching. “Are you – are you crying? Come on, Robert, I didn’t hit you that hard.”

He shut his eyes. Tears leaked out from under the lids. “My name.”

“What?”

“You said my name. Not Bloodless.”

“What’s wrong with you?” Ripper demanded. Robert turned his face away again. They swore softly under their breath as they scooted closer, hip to hip with him. They grabbed his chin to pull it back around. He let them. The red mark on his nose and cheek was already almost gone. “They really fucked with your head,” Ripper said quietly. “You’ve killed people for a living. You barely know me. Why d’you care if I’m angry?”

“I know a lot of people a little bit,” Robert said. “Nobody real well. Nobody who’d do what you did for me last year. You’re the very last person on earth I wanted to fuck over, Thing. But you were the only one who could get me out, too. The only one who would try.”

“Open your eyes,” Ripper said. “C’mon, Robert.”

“I can’t,” he whispered. Ripper exhaled slowly through their nostrils. Then it leaned forward to carefully slide its arms around him, trying to spare the half-healed burn wounds. It could feel his chest jerking as he tried not to sob.

“I believe you,” it said quietly into his ear.

“You can hurt me if it makes you feel better,” Robert said hoarsely, turning his cheek into their cheek. “I don’t mind.”

“I got that. But that doesn’t do anything for me. I only hit you because you scared me,” Ripper said.

“There has to be something I can do,” Robert said. “To make this right.”

“I’ll think about it. Right now, you can calm down and eat something with me. I’m starving. Just stay put, okay? Don’t try to leave.” It straightened up, hands on his shoulders. He slitted his eyes open. They were very dark, and the lashes were long, just like Ripper remembered them.

“I won’t try to leave,” he said.

“Promise.”

“Why should you believe me?” Robert asked.

“Give me a reason to. Promise.”

“I promise not to leave yet,” Robert said.

“Are you allergic to anything?” it asked.

“Nah.”

“I want to make eggs and toast,” Ripper said.

“That sounds great.”

It let him go and went to the stair down to the kitchen and living room level of the old command center. Like the bath, the kitchen was built into a big slice of one side, but there were no dividing walls, just a big island and the place where the hardwood became tile. It ate a protein bar while it was cooking, guiltily, avoiding its own reflection in the shiny avocado-colored toaster. He couldn’t go anywhere, it told itself. He would’ve had to pass through this room, and it would’ve seen him.

It wondered if its mother had a bigger kitchen now. It had sent money a lot even before the carnite, in various different ways, but it had never been able to risk checking. Robert was a risk, obviously. Everyone was. But Robert was also Bloodless. Nobody else in its family had turned up metahuman.

They came back with a loaded tray and sat down facing Robert on the edge of the bed so they could set it across his knees. He was sitting with his eyes closed, head back into the pillows, but he straightened slightly when he felt the weight land. The Ripper watched his eyes come back into focus.

“You made coffee,” he said.

“Yeah. I like coffee. You want tea?”

“Coffee’s fine, I’ll take anything.” The Ripper watched him with half its attention, but it was already eating. His hands were steady enough to eat and drink. He used the fork, even. With all his claims about being raised in a lab, they had half-expected him to eat with his hands. They piled scrambled eggs with ham into a piece of toast and folded it in half completely shamelessly, and after he’d watched this for a minute, he did, too. They ate together quietly for a while in the lamplight, little clinking and chewing noises.

“Anyway, it turned out okay,” the Ripper said grudgingly. “I got you, and they didn’t get me. So I guess you were right even if you were stupid.”

“I’m lucky like that,” Robert said.

“You don’t have some kind of surgically implanted tracking device or something, do you? They didn’t make some kind of plan for if it didn’t work?”

“I don’t think so,” Robert said. “I wasn’t all the way unconscious much while I was in custody. Takes a huge amount of drugs to make any impression at all. Liquor was a real disappointment back in the day.” He looked at the ceiling again as he chewed and swallowed. “And ah. I may have given them the wrong idea about exactly how your meta works.”

“You don’t know that anyway. Not in detail.”

“That’s right,” Robert said. “But I also told them you could only go short distances, and never through walls. Said you hacked a door code to get into the 99B base.”

“Oh.” That explained why they hadn’t taken more precautions to prevent it from getting out of the van after the darts. They’d thought they had it trapped inside a metal box. “Well, it won’t work again, but that was pretty smart for a guy high off his ass and chained to a board.”

Robert brightened slightly, grinning his lopsided grin. “Thanks. You want me to leave after breakfast?”

The Ripper poured them each another cup of coffee. It steamed faintly, little pale curls twisting lazily up toward the ceiling.

“No.”

[agentpeggycarterrogers]

Frozen Together

with @americansentinel

Steve

The plan was far from simple, but simply put, they were raining Hell down on HYDRA and Schmidt's head. For Steve he was doing it for Bucky, for the others, well they were doing it to end the war. There was only one small snag, Schmidt was getting away in a plane and if he took off then it would all be for nothing. Peggy was at his side and Philips was speeding down the runway trying to catch the plane before take off. Steve turned to Peggy.

Peggy

She was ready and she nodded. "Always ready," Peggy replied. They jumped together and dashed up the plane. Steve gave her a boost and then they were aboard the Valkyrie.

Peggy was here to support him, to help the cause, so she pulled out her pistol and fired on Schmidt's lackeys who approached them. "Go get him!" she called to Steve. "I've got this - I can handle it. I'll find you."

Steve

He knew he needed to stick with the plan. Peggy could handle herself just fine.

Still, Steve couldn't just run off to fight Schmidt without doing this first.

"In a second, there's something I need to do first." Summoning all his courage, Steve grabbed Peggy by the waist and kissed her.

"Okay. Now I can go get him."

Peggy

Peggy wrapped her arms around his neck, savoring the moment for longer than she should. She had wanted a kiss for so long. How was she supposed to concentrate on her fight now that Steve had kissed her like this? 

"Steve Rogers, that better not be a goodbye kiss!" she called. 

She watched him go and then continued to blast her way through Schmidt's henchman and neutralize the plane as best they could. One threat at a time, and then they could take out Red Skull, end the war, and save the world.

Steve

"Wouldn't dream of it!" Steve called back as he rushed off to find Schmidt.

Battling his way through HYDRA operatives, Steve finally made his way to the cockpit where the Red Skull was waiting for him.

Peggy

By the time Peggy found her way to the cockpit, Red Skull was gone, and there was a gaping hole in the floor. "STEVE!" she screamed, and held on to something. "Are you here? Are you alright?" The plane lurched and took a dive and she yelped.

Steve

Everything he'd just seen was too much for him to handle, but when he heard her scream his name he snapped out of it.

"Peggy!" Tearing himself away from the hole in the floor he grabbed the controls and pulled back to level out. The damn thing was on auto pilot so as long as he kept it level, they'd be alright.

"I'm here, Schmidt's dead!"

Peggy

"Steve!" she yelped again and pulled herself across the perimeter of the room, staying as far away from the hole as she could. "That hole...it goes all the way through." 

She reached the Captain's chair, her Captain's side, and held on. "He's dead, and now what? Can we turn this thing around...or?" Or were they going to crash? Were they losing fuel?  Did they have radio navigation? 

"Get Howard on the line, he'll know what to do."

Steve

"It's moving too fast, and it's headed for New York." Steve said, reaching for the radio.

"Can you fly this thing?" If she could keep the plane steady he could deal with Howard.

"Keep it steady."

Peggy

“Fly this *thing?”* Peggy gasped. “You want me to fly a plane?” She climbed into the copilot’s chair. “Steve, I…I can’t. I’ll try, but I can’t.” She reached for the controls, and the buttons indeed were all in German. 

Howard would know what to do; he’d find them a safe place to land. She nodded, and tried her best to keep the plane as steady as she could.

Steve

"Just keep it steady, Peg." Steve said grabbing the radio's handset and silently praying Howard would know what to do. It was Jim Morita on the line at first but after Steve explained that he was on the Valkyrie with Agent Carter and they needed to talk to Howard right now, there was a scramble on the other end of the line. It felt like forever before Howard's voice came through the speaker asking what was happening.

Peggy

Peggy nodded and did her best. After some trial and error, she managed to keep the  plane *steady * as Steve directed. She listened to Jim and Howard's conversation. 

"We'll find you a safe landing site," Howard said. 

Peggy yelped as the plane lost more altitude and dipped. There wasn't going to be a safe landing. 

"Howard, follow our path, you'll find us..." Peggy called. That's what radios were for, right? If there was anything left to find, that is. She turned to Steve.  "Steve, *help me*, please, my darling.  I can't..."

[yourburdens]

[PUBLIC]: jezebel and malito are making out in a secluded but public place

he  isn’t  made  for  quiet  afternoons  in  small  cafes  nor  bitter  tea  served  in  teacups  ,  porcelain  hook  handles  too  small  to  feed  his  index  finger  past  the  sharp  tip  of  his  black  polish  coated  nail  .  she  orders  for  him  ,  something  he’s  sure  he’ll  hate  ,  so  sure  that  it  comes  with  a  roll  of  his  eyes  .  he’s  proven  right  when  his  tea  arrives  in  a  comically  small  white  cup  with  pink  ribbon  trim  .  he  swears  he  hears  her  giggle  at  the  sight  of  his  large  hands  swallowing  the  small  cup  for  warmth  .  "  you  think  that’s  fucking  funny  ?  "  said  under  his  breath  ,  but  without  malice  .  instead  it  drips  with  curiosity  ,  it’s  topped  with  the  rise  of  an  eyebrow  and  pursed  lips  .

his  fingers  don’t  fit  in  the  porcelain  hook  of  the  teacup,  but  in  this  little  nook  that  they  find  themselves  in  ,  him  pushing  her  body  between  the  wall  and  his  own  ,  his  fingers  seem  to  press  past  her  lips  and  flat  against  her  tongue  just  fine  .  he  isn’t  made  for  the  soft  mood  lighting  accented  by  tea  kettles  steaming  off  ,  but  her  violet  eyes  ,  lidded  ,  glancing  up  into  the  warm  honey  of  his  own  —  he  likes  this  lighting  more  .  the  two  fingers  pressed  against  her  tongue  slowly  slide  themselves  out  ,  lingering  on  her  lip  .  that  look  she  gives  him  ,  it’s  enough  to  drive  a  man  insane  and  it  does  when  he  pictures  her  silently  giggling  once  more  .  "  you  think  that’s  fucking  funny  ?  "  this  time  it’s  filled  with  enough  lust  to  turn  those  warm  eyes  red  hot  .  

not  one  single  fuck  is  given  about  the  pastries  and  tea  growing  cold  at  their  table  as  he  holds  her  up  against  the  separation  ,  half  wall  ,  half  decorative  bars  .  fuck  sampling  an  obnoxious  amount  of  tarts  and  scones  ,  nothing  was  sweater  than  the  vein  along  the  side  of  jezebel’s  neck  that  he  slowly  runs  his  tongue  over  .  maybe  the  tea  will  be  less  bitter  when  cold  ,  but  nothing  could  be  sweeter  than  the  taste  of  her  soft  flesh  .  except  maybe  .  .  .

his  kiss  is  a  rough  pressing  of  pierced  lips  against  hers  .  hungry  ,  he  cuts  himself  on  his  outermost  row  of  teeth  and  on  hers  as  well  with  a  sigh  that  drops  his  shoulders  into  a  level  that  she  can  grab  .  the  kiss  is  nothing  pretty  ,  but  it’s  unique  to  them  .  a  kiss  that  he  can’t  get  from  anyone  else  and  ,  as  he  licks  his  own  blood  off  of  her  teeth  ,  he  thinks  of  how  it’s  a  kiss  that  he  can’t  get  enough  of  .  he  kisses  her  so  deep  that  he  loses  himself  in  it  .  his  tongue  dances  around  hers  ,  pricks  itself  on  the  cut  of  her  teeth  .  hands  go  from  trying  to  find  an  opening  through  her  clothes  full  of  frills  to  cupping  her  face  just  as  he  had  the  small  teacup  ,  hands  warmed  once  more  .  

the  feeling  of  a  pair  of  eyes  watching  him  ,  it  doesn’t  make  him  stop  ,  but  it  does  cause  his  eyes  to  open  and  narrow  at  the  waitress  watching  them  ,  her  hands  trembling  .  those  once  honey  eyes  were  a  marriage  of  red  and  black  ,  turned  by  the  drop  of  blood  that  trails  down  his  chin  .  he  kisses  jezebel  even  deeper  now  for  his  audience  until  the  taste  of  blood  brings  about  veins  at  the  corner  of  his  eyes  .  it’s  enough  to  make  her  drop  her  tray  and  break  his  concentration  with  an  agitated  growl.  he  thumbs  away  his  own  blood  from  his  chin  ,  pushing  the  digit  between  his  lips  to  kiss  it  away  .  a  shrug  .  "  i  fucking  hate  tea  .  "  monstrous  eyes  narrow  once  more  .  

[project1939]

Day 65- Film: Ikiru 

Release date: October 9th, 1952. 

Studio: Toho 

Genre: Drama/foreign 

Director: Akira Kurosawa 

Producer: Sojiro Motoki 

Actors: Takashi Shimura, Miki Odagiri 

Plot Summary: A middle-aged Japanese bureaucrat discovers he has stomach cancer and only has months to live. He confronts the fact that he hasn’t done anything meaningful with his life, and he uses the time he has left searching for ways to rectify it. He spends time with a hedonistic writer, tries to reconnect with his son, and forges a friendship with a bubbly co-worker. 

My Rating (out of five stars): ***** 

I remember seeing this in a film class when I was in school, and it was one of those movies that seeped into my bones and made it hard to concentrate on other things for the rest of the day. I was curious to see how I would react to it again, years later. I think it hit with an even heavier punch now! It’s still a movie you need to take some time to recover from.  (Spoilers)

The Good: 

The casting and the acting all across the board. The actors all looked like “normal” real people. No one was given the glamour treatment. They didn’t just look the part, though, they pretty much all gave convincing and moving performances. 

Takashi Shimura as Watanabe. He had a lot to convey in this movie, and much of it was in close-ups, but it was his face and his expressions that were most stirring. Try to even think about this movie without picturing a close-up of Shimura’s face! You can’t. 

Yunosuke Ito as the novelist. His face was so striking and interesting, you almost didn’t want to take your eyes off him.  

Miki Odagiri as Toyo Odagiri, Watanabe’s bubbly co-worker. She was also a gem who took well to close-ups. She had the perfect kind of youthful joie de vivre, innocent and unknowingly wise all at once. 

Kurosawa is a master of shot composition. Master! Especially with the framing of faces. 

This kind of follows the previous one, but Kurosawa is a genius of the close-up in and of itself. The movie would be very different without all the lingering shots of people’s faces. 

The unique plot structure. Not everyone likes that Watanabe dies with nearly an hour of running time left, but I found it really interesting. We see the final months of his life solely through the eyes of those he left behind. They all have different agendas, different levels of knowledge, and even different levels of interest.  

All the little visual details- the suit Watanabe wears being too loose because he has lost weight from being ill, the mounds of paperwork burying everyone at the office, the worn stockings of Toyo, the pachinko machines, the little wind-up toy rabbit, etc. 

The use of the song “Gondola no Uta,” with its “life is brief” lyric. Using a song like that could have easily become cheesy and maudlin, but instead it brought me to tears. Twice. 

The plot and its themes of finding meaning in life, handled in a less simplistic, more realistic and gritty way. You can’t help but examine your own life when you watch. 

It was largely unsentimental, and when it did get somewhat so, it was always tempered by a darker reality. This wasn’t It’s a Wonderful Life... yet it also has great heart at its center. The way his co-workers at first downplayed his achievements, then were moved by them, then promised to change their ways and live like him, and then just go right back to the way they always were... that is a perfect example. 

The initial despair in realizing that most people around us probably don’t notice or appreciate what we do... but the hope that comes from the fact that some do. There are always some. 

The Bad: 

Is there anything? I know some people might complain it’s too long, and some might complain about the last 50 minutes, but I don’t agree. 

[wkemeup]

Graveyard

summary: As the unofficial healer for the Avengers, you pride yourself on the ability to mend heroes with the touch of your hand. Only, your gift comes at a heavy price — one you keep secret from your friends —and when Bucky asks you to do the impossible, they’ll discover why your gift is called a sacrifice, too.  pairing: bucky x healer!reader word count: 10k warnings: canon level violence

As a child, you were told it was a gift; placed upon a pedestal above the quaint suffering of a rural town and removed of your innocence for the good of strangers. You’d been made to be revered – honored – for the touch that could mend the broken.  

It began with a cut upon your father’s finger – a slip of a kitchen knife that had left a small bead of blood in its wake. Curious eyes glanced up at your father as he hissed at the sting of it and you’d reach forward to place your infant hand upon the cut, a grip so mall it barely wrapped around his finger. He stilled as a soft glow began to emit from your palm. When you removed your hand and began to cry, your father was stunned to find his skin perfectly intact – no trace of a scar in its place.  

They told you it was a gift, celebrated you as if you were a blessing from Heaven itself. But they were cruel in their rejoice, selfish in their praise. They had not considered your gift was not a gift at all – but a sacrifice.  

Like energy, pain could not be destroyed— but it could be absorbed. It could be transferred. Your father’s cut had not simply disappeared, but instead manifested on the finger of an infant for a few short moments before it faded into your skin; laid to rest amongst a sea of foreign injuries that did not belong to you.  

“Look sharp, kid! We’ve got incoming,” Banner’s voice startled you from your thoughts as he stood at the doorway to your lab. Arms folded over his chest, an amused smirk upon his face, he must have caught sight of the quinjet landing in the hanger from the windows overlooking the loading dock.  

You nodded, setting down the drill beside the stun absorption pad you were engineering for Stark’s newest suit. You didn't have to wonder long who was on the latest mission and currently on their way to your office, because a familiar bickering began to carry down the hall and into the lab, forcing a smile onto your face.  

For a mechanical engineer, you saw more of the Avengers post-mission than the med wing did these days. You’d been hired for your multiple PhDs and borderline genius IQ, but once you’d rushed across the room to spare Stark from a rather unpleasant laceration on his palm from an experiment gone haywire, your lab had quickly become a rotating door of injured Avengers.  

Sure enough, Barnes and Wilson stumbled their way into the lab, Sam draped over Bucky’s shoulder, barely able to put any pressure on his left leg. While Sam tossed you his charismatic grin and those big, round, puppy dog eyes, Bucky favored to dispose of his partner on the lab table with an aggravated grunt.  

“What do we have today?” you smirked, rolling up the sleeves of your coat as Bruce shook his head in amusement.  

“Broken ankle, I think,” Sam replied, gesturing to the mess of bandages and improvised splint.  

You nodded as you stepped closer, examining the injury before you brushed a hand over the swollen joint. Sam whined at the contact, the pain clearly breaking through the lighthearted grin upon his face though he tried to suppress it. His hand curled into a fist.  

“You know I’m not a medical doctor, but I’d have to agree,” you nodded, planting your hands on your hips.  

“You could just get the x-rays and go through PT like a normal person,” Bucky grumbled off in his corner of the room, narrowing his eyes in warning upon his partner. “She’s not here as your personal healer, Wilson.”  

Bucky was always hesitant of your powers. He never said why, but you wondered most days if he was still seeking penance for the evils he’d committed under Hydra, if maybe he felt as though giving you his pain absolved him in a way he was not worthy of.  

Or perhaps it was a degradation of his pride. Men often found strength in their ability to withstand pain. Though, it seemed to bother him when the others would come to you for injuries like this, too, almost as if he worried they were taking advantage of you.  

He was a good man; certainly, more concerned with your consent in healing his friends than your parents and the town who spent your childhood exploiting you ever were.  

“I don’t mind, Bucky,” you told him, smiling encouragingly back at him until he started to relax his shoulders and uncrossed his arms, softening under your gaze. “If it means less time on the bench and more time out there saving lives and having your back, I don’t mind at all.”

“Yeah, Barnes, who’s going to watch your back if I’m held up in a cast?” Sam teased, chuckling under his breath until Bucky stepped forward and not so subtly bumped his hip to the side of the lab table. The sudden disruption of the table moved his ankle just enough to instantly wipe the grin from Sam’s face.  

“Try to relax for me, Sam,” you eased, stepping forward as you started to remove your gloves. You leaned over the edge of the table, slowly removing the splint and the bandage surrounding the swollen muscle. You handed it off to Bucky as you examined the dark purple and blue discoloration on his ankle.  

He hissed as you laid your palms on his leg, clenching down on his jaw.  

You closed your eyes, concentrating as you felt for the break beneath the surface. A crack splintered through the bone, the surrounding tissue swollen and aching.  

A gentle glow began to emit from your palms, a warmth that spread from your hands and directly onto Sam’s skin, through the muscle, and deep into the bone. You could feel the subtle fragments as they began to mend, the swell in his joint as it shrank, the slight movements as he regained feeling.  

Exhaling a tense breath, you shifted your stance onto your right leg as the pressure started to build in your ankle. It wouldn’t last long, just a few minutes in comparison to the weeks of treatment and months of physical therapy Sam would have endured – an easy trade for a man who spend his days so selflessly on the line in the service of strangers.  

You could sense Bucky watching you and you were careful not to let the pain show on your face. There was a privilege in healing the Avengers like this. It gave your life meaning beyond the injuries of your hometown; of careless teenagers falling off skateboards or angry men in bars who took an argument a drink too far. You’d happily take on a few moments of pain in service of heroes.  

Not that you’d let them know.  

“You should be good now.” You held your hands up, the soft glow fading away from your palms as you tucked your hands into your pockets. Careful of the momentary break in your ankle, you took a cautious step away from the table to lean on the chair at your desk. No one noticed the wince in your expression as you put the slightest pressure on the fresh injury.  

“I will never get tired of that.” Sam looked down at the foot in awe, rolling at the ankle and amazed to find the swelling and bruising disappeared completely. He jumped down from the table, bounding on his feet just to test out the freedom in his mobility.  

“Alright, Wilson. Enough,” Bucky rolled his eyes. “You’re going to hurt yourself again and Y/n’s not going to be so generous next time.”

Sam smirked, pausing for a moment as he contemplated. “Nah, my girl will always take care of me. Won’t ya, sugar?”  

It didn’t slip your notice when Bucky tensed up at the pet name. You started to laugh, the teasing smile dropping from his face as his hands curled into fists. Sam really knew how to press his buttons and it seemed, surprisingly enough, you were one of them.  

“Bucky’s got a point, you know. Fancy healing powers are reserved for field injuries these days.” You were only teasing, both of them knowing you’d have healed a papercut if they’d ask. Still, Bucky smirked, taunting Sam over your shoulder as if he’d won.  

You eased yourself off the chair as you started to regain feeling in your ankle, giving more pressure to the heel to find it barely noticeable. You rubbed at the joint with your right shoe to find the swelling had disappeared as well.  

A few moments to spare him weeks of pain. Easy trade.

“What about you, Sergeant?”  

Bucky paused, raising an eyebrow at you.  

You took a step forward, glancing over him in search of injuries. Nothing more than a few cuts that his own advanced healing would take care of overnight. Still, there was one injury you’d been trying to convince him to allow you to heal in the year since you’ve known him.  

“You going to let me work on your shoulder yet or are you still being a masochist?”  

Sam snickered under his breath as he crossed the room to watch what Banner was doing over his shoulder. Bucky gave you that knowing smile of his, the one that pushed up into his eyes and left behind beautiful creases and lines on his face; an exhale of a laugh on his breath.  

“It’s not necessary, doll. I’m fine.”

A frown tugged at your lips. “You always say that, and yet...”

“Nothing I can’t handle,” Bucky shrugged. He was watching you with those sweet eyes of his, creating a warmth that spread in your chest entirely independent of the powers in your hands.  

“You shouldn’t have to handle it in the first place,” you pressed, a pain in your voice as he placed a hand on your shoulder, letting it slide down your arm. It was an intimate gesture, more contact that he had with most people, and he offered it willingly. You tried not to let the shivers show in your spine as he pulled away.  

It looked as though he wanted to say more, but Steve suddenly appeared in the doorway, causing Bucky to take an abrupt step away from you. You hadn’t realized how close you’d been standing to one another.  

“Debrief in five,” Steve ordered, eyeing Sam and Bucky, though paused as he saw you, offering a short smile in acknowledgement before disappearing down the hall.  

“I’m not letting this go, just so you’re aware,” you teased, pointing at Bucky’s shoulder as he started to wave Sam towards the door. He smiled, keeping his back to you until Sam was clear of the room and he leaned into the open frame, one quick glance back at you.  

“Wouldn’t expect anything less, doll.”

***

The next month saw another broken leg, a fractured clavicle, two minor lacerations, a sprained wrist, and a number of superficial cuts – all from various members of the team. Though there was always the one exception who wouldn’t accept your offer no matter how badly he was favoring his right arm.  

The clavicle was certainly a challenge to get through, but the world needed Natasha Romanoff in the field, not strung up on a gurney and a brace for a handful of months. It took longer than some of the other injuries to heal, but you’d managed, even if you had to excuse yourself to the restroom as soon as you’d finished, even if you had to shove a towel into your mouth to keep from screaming as it mended itself together under your skin.  

The truth was you liked being useful. You liked the stunned smiles on their faces and the appreciation in their eyes. You liked seeing them run a hand over perfectly smooth skin where an open wound had just been. It gave you a purpose.  

And sure – your work on SHIELD tech was important and perhaps not all of the injuries in your hometown had been a waste of your abilities, but there was something exceptionally gratifying in mending someone who was untouchable, in healing the people who saved the world.

You’d take a dozen broken clavicles for them.  

It was late after your evening shift and you’d taken to running a few laps on the indoor track around the gym. Blow off some steam, use the state-of-the-art equipment Stark spent thousands of dollars on, give your mind something to think about beside how you were going to rewire Sam’s wings to expand in a more fluid motion.  

You’d just started to break into a sweat when you noticed Bucky setting up at the row of punching bags. The gym was otherwise empty as the sky favored the stars over the sun, and you started to smile as you watched Bucky shrug off his jacket and drop the bag at his feet. He rolled back his shoulders, concentrating on the bag as he readied his fists. But as the first punch hit the bag, the smile quickly fell from your face.  

It echoed up into the rafters, startling you enough to still your sprint abruptly. He let out a grunt as he pummeled at the bag; left jab, right hook, kick, until it broke at the seams and split open to spill sand in heaps upon the ground. He moved on to the next one.  

You clasped a hand to your mouth, looking around the gym to confirm you were in fact alone with him. He’d been on a mission as far as you were aware for the last week. You’d missed him hanging around the lab, asking questions as you worked on new advancements on the stun guns for field agents. He must have gotten back a few hours ago and something clearly went wrong.  

“Bucky?” you called, voice far too soft to be heard across the gym and above the thunderous clash of his knuckles to leather. You jogged a few paces closer, wincing as he threw the entirely of his momentum into a hit that would have broken an ordinary man’s hand. “Bucky? Are you alright?”

But he didn’t hear you. You took a cautious look back at the doors, wondering if you should go find Steve, or maybe even Sam – someone who might know what happened, someone who might be able to talk him down. But you were the only one around. You cleared your throat, stepping up just behind him.  

“Bucky?”

You hit the ground before you knew what had happened.  

A blinding pulsing in the back of your head, the wind momentarily knocked from your lungs, you opened your eyes to find Bucky hovering over you. He held a closed fist in the air, the other digging sharply into your shoulder between his grip, pupils blown wide and dark. It took a moment before he seemed to realize who was laying under him.

“Y/n?” He blinked, confused. His stare flickered to the fist held above your head, knuckles dripping red and bloody, and he pulled away instantly, a flash of horror written over his features. “Shit-- I didn’t... What are you doing here?”

You rubbed at the back of your head, brushing over a slight bump that would certainly mend itself within a few minutes. Slowly, you sat up, careful of the sudden darkness that swept over your eyes, though something cool grabbed onto you before you could fall back against the floor.  

“Hey, come lean against the wall, okay?” Bucky urged, carefully guiding you to adjust your position until you could press your back to the chill of the plastered walls. You sighed in contentment, the pain in your pain already dissipating. Bucky swallowed nervously. “Did I hurt you?”

“I don’t stay hurt for long, Buck,” you told him with a teasing smile, though he did not return it. You set a hand on his forearm, squeezing it lightly before returning it to your lap. “I’m alright. I promise. Are you?”

Bucky narrowed his eyes.

“You were beating that punching bag within an inch of its life,” you clarified, chuckling as you gestured to the exploded bag on the floor, and then to the one still hanging with sand streaming down the seams.  

“Rough mission,” was all he said, his eyes downcast.  

You nodded. “Do you want to talk about it?”

He shook his head.

The two of you sat in silence for a while, listening to the soft buzz of the air conditioner and the faint chirp of crickets outside the windows. You didn’t expect him to say anything. Bucky was a man of few words, but you hoped the company was enough. He didn’t make an effort to move away, not even when your thigh brushed against his.  

He was trying to close his fist when you heard him hiss in pain. His right hand was coated in dried blood and fresh, open wounds on his knuckles. They’d barely started to crust over and with every attempt to close his fist, they cracked open, drawing a painful sting in their place.  

“Will you let me heal your hand?”

Bucky paused, setting his hand down on his leg. “Y/n, it’s not necessary. I won’t ask you to do that.”

“You’re not asking. I’m offering,” you countered. “Besides, it is necessary, actually. How are you going to punch the bad guys if you can’t close your fist?”

“I’ve got another,” Bucky argued back, though a smile had etched its way onto his face. He raised his left hand, making a show of it as he curled his fingers into a fist one by one. “This one’s pretty indestructible so...”

“Please, Bucky.” You turned towards him, folding your legs as you held out your left hand for him to take. “Just this once. Let me do this.”

A stormy array of ocean blue and thunderous skies stared back at you, unsure. His eyes flickered down to your hand. Always so hesitant to ask for help, always so reluctant to accept the good things when they were offered. But as he watched you, searching for signs to run, to back out, something softened.  

He swallowed and slowly, placed his right hand into yours.  

You smiled, adjusting your grip gently on his hand. You placed it to lay on you knee as you hovered your left hand over his knuckles. The warm glow illuminated from your palm and Bucky’s breath hitched as he must have felt the sudden rush of energy it produced.  

The scars began to mend before his eyes and just as you felt the stinging prick on your own knuckles, you quickly pushed your right hand into the pocket of your jacket to hide the scars as they formed.  

“That’s incredible,” Bucky exhaled, withdrawing his hand as soon as you were finished. He held it out in front of him, examining the dried blood coated around perfectly intact skin. He shook his head in disbelief. “You’re incredible.”  

A rush of heat burned in your cheeks as you looked away, a smile breaking onto your lips. It was enough to distract you from the stinging in your hand tucked away in your pocket.  

“Do you want to watch a movie or something?” you asked, biting on your lip nervously. “Think you could do with the company and I’d like to keep you from breaking more of these expensive punching bags.”

Bucky laughed at that, nodding. “Yeah, that sounds nice.”

He stood and offered you his hand, thinking out loud about which one of the movies on his list he wanted to try out next. You pulled your hand from your pocket and took his as he offered it to you; the knuckles already clean and healed.  

***

“You should see it, Fitz! It’s a goddamn stroke of genius.” You held up the ventilator no bigger than the pad of your thumb up to the light, admiring your work.  

“I’m sure Stark will be thrilled,” a thick Scottish accent crackled through the speaker on the com beside you. “Send me the schematics, will you?”

You pursed your lips, a smile etching through. “Think you can one-up me?”

“No never,” Fitz laughed. You could hear him tinkering in his own lab on the quinjet, the small clicks of metal and the buzz of a drill humming over the speaker. “Just want to see if I’m still head of our class or not.”

“Pretty sure we both know that title belongs to Simmons.”

There was a slight pause, then, a dreamy, “yeah, you’re right.”

A sudden knocking at the edge of the lab startled you as you spun around in your chair, nearly dropping the ventilator for Stark’s suit. Bucky stood in the doorway, clutching at his left shoulder as fingers dug into the muscle. He wore a sort of guilty look upon his face though he pushed out a smile and waved.  

“Hey, Fitz, I’ll call you tomorrow, alright?” you said over your shoulder to the speaker, waited a moment for his response and ended the call. You turned back to Bucky as a smile grew upon your face. “What can I do for you, Sergeant? I didn’t miss movie night, did I?”

“No, you’re in the clear,” Bucky chuckled, though it was tense. He stepped further into the lab, relaxing a little as he noticed no one else was around. It was pretty late for you to be working, but you were so close to finishing the ventilator, and well, time easily got away from you with Fitz on the other end of the phone.  

“Coming to keep me company then?” you teased. “I’m actually about done anyway, so we could set up the next movie on your—”

“No, I— um...” Bucky started, losing his nerve rather quickly. He exhaled a tense breath, eyes casting down to the floor. “I was, um, wondering if you could work on my shoulder?”

You raised an eyebrow. Even after that night in the gym, Bucky was still hesitant to your offers to heal his various injuries from the field. He’d give you that sweet smile of his, a soft pink in his cheeks, and tell you that he’d be fine on his own. You never doubted that, but it didn’t mean you couldn't spare him just a few hours of that pain.  

“The, um,” Bucky winced, gritting his teeth as he pushed his hand deeper against the tissue, “the nerve endings are acting up. Shuri said it’s to be, uh, expected given how Hydra butchered my arm all those years ago, but...”

“Come here.” You were already removing the files and paperwork from the table, gesturing for him to take a seat.  

His whole left arm was slack at his side as if he could barely tolerate to move it. Shallow breaths hitched in his lungs as he leaned against the table, settling against the hard, metal surface.

“Can you take this off?” you asked, nodding to his shirt. Bucky’s cheeks flushed and you cleared your throat nervously, playing with the ends of your hair. “It’ll be more effective if I can touch the area directly.”

He removed his right hand from the muscle at his shoulder and gripped at the hem of his shirt. Slowly, he started to pull it over his head, though you could tell from the harsh exhale in his breath that it was causing him considerable pain.  

“Here, let me help you.” You stepped forward and helped ease the fabric up his torso and gently guided it off his right arm, over his head, and eased it down his left. He seemed more at ease with the shirt removed, but a chill swept up his spine in the cool air of the lab.  

You kept your eyes on his, determined not to let your gaze fall to the hardened muscles on his chest and stomach.  

“I won’t be able to heal the scars,” you told him as you moved around to stand behind the table. “Just try to relax for me, okay? I’ll do what I can for the pain.”

Bucky nodded, his hands clenched into the lip of the table, enough to warp the surface. He could barely muster out a response.  

“My hands are a little cold, so...” you muttered out nervously, rubbing your palms together in an effort to warm them.  

Then, you set your hands against the mess of scar tissue surrounding his shoulder, starting at his shoulder blades as the glow illuminated bright enough to light up the corner of your lab. Bucky gasped, the first breath in a long time completely filling his lungs as he felt the relief within your touch. You could practically feel the tension melting off his shoulders.  

It didn’t take long before the pain made its way to your body. Starting out slow, in numbing aches, until it was so sharp, it felt like a dozen edges of sharp blades puncturing into your shoulder. You clenched your jaw, held your breath, thankful that Bucky couldn’t see your face when you bit down on the inside of your cheek and tears sprung into your eyes.  

“God, that... shit...” Bucky sighed, his grip releasing on the table. You could hear the smile in his voice, the relief, and it helped to push aside the pain as it manifested in your body.  

You moved your hand up his back, sliding along the scars where his skin met metal, taking as much of his pain as you could. Bucky was exceptionally strong, able to withstand far more than you could without passing out completely. You couldn’t take it all, especially if you wanted to keep him from knowing how your gift truly worked, but you took enough.  

You swallowed back the lump in your throat, preparing yourself as you moved around to face him. There was more on his chest, by his clavicle, you couldn’t reach from behind him. You'd had years of practice, learning how to keep the pain from displaying on your face. You could get through this for him.  

As you stepped in front of him, keeping a steady hold on his shoulder, you could feel his eyes watching you. The glow under your palms was bright enough to illuminate the lab, but it was a gentle light, as soft as the burn of a candle or the golden rays of a sunset. Bucky watched you with a kind of awe that made your stomach twist into knots.  

You guided your hand along the scar tissue on his chest, doing your best to ignore the goosebumps as they rose in your wake. Your heart was stammering, louder than the pain radiating in your shoulder, though it lessened the more you worked. The pain had nearly left him entirely as he started to take in more even breaths, relaxing his muscles as you felt them soften under your touch.  

You exhaled a tense breath through your nose, concentrating on gathering as much of the pain as you could, on mending the broken nerve endings as they misfired and frayed under the torn appendage. You barely noticed as Bucky crossed his right hand over his chest and laid his hand palm against your hands.  

“Thank you,” he whispered, his fingers curling around the undersides of your hands until he gently tugged them away. The glow faded until the lab was only lit by the soft light of the lamp at your desk and the reflection of the moon peering in through the window.  

You met his eye, the pain still prominent in your shoulder though you forcibly softened the clench in your jaw as he looked over you. His eyes flickered down to your lips for only a second, but it was enough. Your heart skipped.  

Bucky slowly released your hands, letting them fall gently against his thighs, as he leaned forward to cup the sides of your face. Fingers tangling into your hair, you stepped closer, pressed against the table between the parting of his legs.  

You wondered if he could feel how fast your heart was racing, or if he could hear it, because you were certain it was going to beat straight out of your chest. The fading pain in your shoulder you’d taken for him was nothing but a forgotten memory as he pressed his forehead to yours, just waiting.  

The moment his lips touched yours, you lost your breath; fireworks and butterflies, twists in your stomach and clamoring in your heart. You could feel his smile as it spread into his cheeks, your hands seeking more of him as you slid them up the sides of his bare chest. He was beautiful and perfect and so incredibly wonderful, you’d take hours of his pain, years even, if you could keep kissing him like this.  

“Hey, Y/n, I thought you were already done for the—oh, sorry!”

You jolted away from Bucky, restless and a little disheveled, Bucky’s cheeks flamed red, as you turned to find Banner standing awkwardly in the doorway. His hand was shielded over his eyes, his back quickly turned to you as papers littered the floor at his feet. You started to laugh, hand clamping over your swollen lips as you looked over at Bucky.  

“It’s no worry, Bruce,” you giggled, quickly skating over to the door to help him pick up the files. Bucky meanwhile shrugged his shirt back on, fixing the flyaways in his hair.  

“So sorry,” he mumbled again, clearly embarrassed by his intrusion as he glanced over at Bucky apologetically. He gathered the papers into his arms. “I’ll be going now and, um, I won’t come back, okay?”

You couldn’t help but laugh as Bucky’s eyes blew wide in Banner’s quick escape.  

“Still want that company?” you offered with a smile, extending your hand to him. The pain was long gone from your shoulder as he shook himself from the flush in his cheeks and nodded. He took your hand and led you down the hall to the living room. There was another movie on the list to get through.  

***

You couldn’t remember the last time you were this happy. Your cheeks began to hurt from how often you were smiling, as if it were a permanent fixture on your features. You’d even caught yourself humming along to the radio as you dusted the surfaces in your lab the morning after Bucky had kissed you goodbye on the landing dock in front of at least a dozen agents.  

He’d been away on a mission for the last few days, but he called when he could. You’d spend whatever spare minutes he could get on the satellite phone with him, distracting him from whatever was going on in his end of the world with talk about your latest project with Stark or old stories from the academy with Fitz or what the next movie on the list was going to be.  

He wasn’t a man of many words, but you liked knowing he was on the other end of the line. You could picture his smile perfectly in your mind, the way he chewed on his lower lip, how his eyes fell downcast to the floor by your shoes, the flush of pink in his cheeks. It was enough.  

“So, things are really heating up with you and Barnes,” Natasha commented as she sipped the top of her steaming coffee before it could spill over the edge. You shrugged, though it was hard to contain your smile. Natasha grinned. “I think it’s good for him. You, too. Don’t know the last time I’ve seen him this happy. He seems more relaxed. Like maybe he’s not carrying the whole world on his shoulders anymore.”

“Helps when he’s not in excruciating pain on a daily basis,” you added, tapping at your left shoulder. He’d let you work on it a few times since that first night. It always took some convincing, but the pain was never as bad as it was that evening. You could take it. You’d do it a thousand times for him without question.  

Natasha nodded, a pleased look upon her face. She parted her lips to say more, but a sudden commotion at the end of the hall stole the words from her tongue. You set your coffee down on the counter, peering out around the tables to find agents jumping out of the way of an oncoming train.  

“Y/n!” Bucky shouted, voice breaking in the effort as he sprinted down the hall and slammed into an unsuspecting agent. Papers flew into the air as he sprinted towards your room. “Y/n!”

“Bucky?” you called stepping out into the hallway where he could see you.  

He skidded to an abrupt stop, his hair flying over his shoulder as he turned in your direction.  

“Y/n! Thank God.”  

It wasn't until Bucky stood in front of you that you realized he was covered in blood; soaking into his hair, caked under his finger nails, drenched into his suit, and stained to his skin. Your eyes widened, breath all but leaving your lungs, as your hands clutched against his jacket. He tried to pull you back towards the stairs, but you couldn’t budge, not with that much blood all over him.  

“What-- What happened? Are you hurt?” You started seeking out exposed skin an effort to draw away any pain you could, even if you couldn’t see any exposed wounds.  

Bucky's hand slid over yours, pulling it away. He softened, though you could still see the frantic rise and fall of his chest.  

“It’s not my blood. It’s Steve’s.”

Your stomach sank; relief mixed into an ugly shade of guilt and grief. Natasha was already sprinting down to the med bay, coffee mug cracked and spilled upon the tile floors. Her footsteps echoed through the hallway, the sudden clanging of the double doors startling you from your daze.  

“Please, I—I need you,” Bucky begged, his voice shaking. Tears were burning in his eyes. You’d never seen him this afraid; this shaken and helpless. “It’s not good, Y/n. He’s-- He’s--”

“Okay.” You pressed a hand to his cheek, brushing your thumb sweetly across his face and smeared the tears as they cleaned the dried blood away. You didn’t need to hear anymore. All you wanted was to take his pain, even if your gift couldn’t touch it as it nestled deep into his heart.  

By the time you reached the med bay, a storm of chaos had already barreled through. Lab equipment was knocked over on its side. Dozens of agents frantically running around, shouting orders at one other. Papers and schematics lined the floor with imprinted of boots damaging the print. But it was the trail of blood that drew your attention.  

Droplets trailing from the loading bay of the jet to down the med wing to the surgical room. Dark red and oozing. Taunting. Far too much for any ordinary man to have lost. You tried to stifle the gasp as it hitched in your breath the moment you saw him.  

Steve was strung up on a gurney, suit cut down the middle and flayed open, exposing his chest and the three bullet holes expelling pints of blood. The hands of several agents were pressing down onto him, trying to keep pressure on the wounds, deep red slipping out from between their fingers. The look on their faces said enough – he wasn’t going to make it.  

“Where’s Helen?” you gaped, staring at Steve.  

“Ten minutes out.” Tony stumbled into the room as he rounded the corner, holding a stat phone in his hand. “She’s in the chopper.”

“He can’t wait ten minutes.” Bucky gripped tight to you hand and you could feel the tension radiating in his muscles. You wanted to take it for him but he pulled his hand before you could, turning to face you. “You’re all we have. Y/n, please. I can’t lose him.”

Bucky had never once asked you to heal someone like this. He could barely muster the will to ask you to heal his own wounds, to ease the constant stream of pain in his shoulder, and the open wounds on his hand. But with Steve’s life in the balance, he didn’t have room to be hesitant anymore. He couldn’t risk his best friend’s life.

But he didn’t know it would risk yours in the process.  

You swallowed, glancing back nervously at Steve. “I’ve never healed anything this bad before, Buck. I don’t know if I can--” survive this.  

Could your body heal fast enough to take on his injuries? Could you do them one by one? Would he live long enough to even try? Would either of you?  

“Y/n, please. He’ll die without you,” Bucky begged, his voice wavering. Tears reflected in his eyes; gentle pale blue obstructed by a swarm of fear and guilt and desperation, a redness straining into the surrounding white until his cheeks were wet. The dried blood cleared in streaks as they traveled down to his jawline.  

You watched him as he bit down onto his lip, shielding his face from the others as he waited. The frantic beeping of the monitor strapped to Steve’s chest was growing frantic, irregular, and you knew there wasn’t much time left.  

The worst you’d ever attempted to heal before had been the stabbing of a stranger. You’d found her clutching stomach in an abandoned alleyway in Queens, contents of her purse spilled to the pavement, jewelry torn from her neck. You'd knelt down beside her and took her pain without so much as a second thought.  

As her wound began to close, your skin split open, blood soaked into your shirt, your vision grew dark and hazy, until it was nothing at all.  

The last thing you remembered of that night was the horror in the woman’s eye as she scrambled away from you and ran back to the safety of the open streets. You woke in a pool of your own blood hours later – longer than it had ever taken to heal before.  

A scar remained on your stomach from that night. The only one on your body. A warning.  

Test the limits of your gift again and learn why it’s called a sacrifice.

But as you looked back at Bucky, at a man who never dared to ask you for anything until it was unbearable, who wore his own scars and healed his own injuries in fear of exploiting your gift, who was impossibly gentle for the evil he was surrounded in for decades – you couldn’t find it in yourself to say no. You didn’t want to.

Bucky must have noticed the change in your expression because his shoulders softened immediately, a heavy sigh sinking through his body. He pushed forward and pressed a quick kiss to your lips; short, chaste, and still—filled with a world of emotion, of gratitude, of relief. It gave you the courage to do what needed to be done.  

Tony began to shout for the room to clear the moment you approached the table. You stared down at Steve, whose skin had grown nearly translucent, the monitor above displaying his heart beat as it evened out to a nearly thin line. He was fading fast. You wouldn’t have much time.  

Everything around you became muted, distorted, as you channeled your focus; the huddled whispers of the agents hovering over Steve with their hands pressed to open wounds sounded as if they were miles away.  

Bucky stood at your side, watching anxiously though he tried his best to remain stoic and unaffected, though you knew he was splintering apart at the seams. Natasha and Sam were huddled in the far corner, talking quietly amongst themselves as they tried to put the pieces together as to what happened out in the field. Tony was shooing away stay agents with the threat of force, while Banner did his best to remotely disengage the power on Tony’s glove.  

None of it registered. Not beyond the flow of blood coating Steve’s chest and dripping onto the floor, your shoes stepping into the pool below. It was a miracle he was still alive at all. The serum was the only thing tying him to this Earth.  

You stretched out your hands, hovering over his chest and the agents quickly dispersed. You didn’t dare steal a glance in Bucky’s direction as the glow began to emit under your palms, afraid he might see the goodbye in your eyes or the apology for what he was about to witness. There wasn’t time.  

The pain was sudden. Sharp. Like you’d felt the bullets rip straight through you as if you stood on the battlefield in Steve’s place. You cried out at the impact of it, nearly thrown from your stance as you clutched into Steve’s body.  

Bucky jolted beside you, startled as you cried out again, desperate to choke down the screams before they passed your lips. He stared at you, wide eyed, as you clenched your jaw.  

“Y/n? Are you—”

Another scream tore through you and Bucky visibly flinched. You didn’t have the energy to hide the pain from him, not with three bullets tearing through you. You had to save Steve; put the full force of your power into healing his wounds before they consumed him whole. Damn the consequences. Damn the sacrifice of your gift.  

Your body was always meant to be the host of broken bones and bullet wounds and bruises. Made to be broken and mended. A host to others. A graveyard of injuries that did not belong to you.  

It was what your parents had told you from the time you were a child; that you were a gift to others, that you were a vessel to better the world. But it came at a price; one, it seemed, you’d soon enough pay.  

Your legs began to shake as a wave of darkness cast over your vision, tunneling, consuming the space around you. You could only vaguely make out Bucky’s voice calling your name, his tone laced confusion and concern, but you blocked it out. Daring to look in his direction now would only hinder your resolve and you needed to save Steve’s life.  

Concentrating your power, a scream ripped through your lungs as the glow illuminated the entire room, enough that Bucky was forced to shield his eyes.  

The wounds were taking hold on your body. One at your stomach. Another along your ribs. The third, just above your chest. Exit wounds opening on your back. You could feel the drip of blood as it slid down your skin; thick and unrelenting.  

You were growing light headed as the pain started to dissipate. But the wounds were still fresh on your body, still open and bleeding; the pain shouldn’t have faded so quickly.  

The steady beep of the monitor indicated that Steve was stabilizing, the flesh had nearly closed, and you barely registered Helen’s voice as she rushed into the room, ordering her team to take over.  

“Hey, hey, you did it, sweetheart. You did good,” Bucky exhaled. He had the most beautiful smile on his face; filled with a sense of pride an awe, stunning and handsome beyond belief, even with traces of concern still evident in his eyes.  

But you were stone. A statue. You couldn’t move without fear of collapsing completely.  

“He’s stable now, Y/n,” Bucky eased, trying to pull you gently away from the table. “Come here, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

Bucky hand set against your stomach when you didn’t follow and he froze; the sticky wet residue of fresh blood on his hand. He stared down at his palm in horror as the blood began to seep through your shirt in three distinct spots, all perfectly aligning with the ones on Steve’s chest.  

Bucky darted forward, pushing up your shirt to find the wounds he’d seen healed on his best friend moments ago littered over your stomach. His mouth went dry, throat lined with sandpaper, rocks shoved down into his lungs. His hand trembled as it reached out and touched the bullet wound on your ribs. His breath hitched as he felt the warmth of blood and the tear of flesh in your skin.  

He couldn’t breathe.  

“Is Steve alive?” Your voice was barely a whisper and you wondered if Bucky could even hear you at all. His eyes were glossed over in fresh tears, lips parted in shock as he stared back at you. You could hardly keep your eyes open.

Before he could respond, your legs gave way and you stumbled back out of Bucky’s hold. Your vision was closing in, a dark cloud of black swarming around you as your foot caught on the edge of toppled lab equipment. You were in Bucky’s arms again before you made it to the floor.  

You didn’t hear him screaming for help, didn’t hear the shattering crack in his voice, or the crash of equipment behind you as Simmons raced into the room. You didn’t feel his hands as they desperately pressed onto the open wounds, or the heat of his breath as he begged you to ‘stay with me, sweetheart’. But you felt the warmth of his embrace.

It was comforting as the darkness pulled you under.  

***

A heaviness draped over you. Soothing. Pressing you into the soft cushion below. A repetitive chime rang above; even in tone, consistent. It drew you back from the kind embrace of shadows, calling you toward a flicker of light.  

Pressure squeezed at your hand. Cold and warm at once. Solid and soft.  

You listened for the chime; allowed it to guide you as the rest of your senses awakened.

The chatter of voices in the distant too muffled to distinguish. The distinct smell sterilizing alcohol that burned in your nose. The heat of a thick blanket tucked around your legs. The chill of a breeze streaming from the humming vent above. Scratchy bed sheets and laundry fresh clothes a few sizes too big for your frame.  

You groaned, trying to adjust to the influx of light as you opened your eyes. It was a room you recognized. White. Clean. Far too bright. You’d been within the walls dozens of times before, but never laid upon the bed. It was a strange view.  

Glancing down, you found yourself dressed in a dark grey t-shirt that didn’t belong to you. The logo was faded on the chest but it was still recognizable. Vintage. An eagle at the center of a circle, it’s wings remarkably similar to the symbol of the Howling Commandos. Around the edge: Strategic Scientific Reserve. You’d seen Bucky wear it until the hem frayed. Sure enough, as you reached for the bottom of the shirt, you found the split seams.  

A slight squeeze on your hand again drew your attention to your right. There, you found Bucky hunched over the side of the bed; both hands encasing yours, his forehead rested on the very edge of the mattress.  

A smile tugged at your lips until it started to ache. Unused muscles, must be. You wondered how long you’d been out this time. Must have been longer than a few hours. Bucky’s back would need your attention after the way he’s been sleeping.  

“Bucky,” you tried to call, but found your voice was nothing more than a breath of air. You winced, testing it again. “Bucky?”  

He only hummed in response. The sweet vibrations nestled against your arm. It took him a minute as he lifted his head, stretched out his upper back, matted hair fallen down into his face, before he caught your eye; glancing around the room, checking the door, the heart monitor above, like it had become routine, until he realized you were watching him.  

He froze, eyes wide. “Y/n?”

You nodded sleepily, pushing out a smile. “What’d I miss?”

Bucky didn’t laugh. His hands were still gripped tight to yours, squeezing at them as if he were checking to make sure you were real.  

Your smile began to fall the longer he stared at you. “How long was I out? Is Steve okay?”

Bucky cleared his throat, nodding, though it seemed strained. “Y-yeah, Steve’s fine. Doc said he’d make a full recovery thanks to you.”

“That’s good,” you replied, but Bucky couldn’t so much as force a smile. He couldn’t seem to look at you, his hands playing with the lines in your palms. It was then you started to notice the dark circles under his eyes, the wrinkles in days old clothing, the hallowed look upon his face. Your stomach sank. “How long was I out?”

Bucky’s paused for a moment, his movements stilling as he traced your lifeline. He sighed, resuming again. “Six days.”

“Oh.”

A silence swept over the room. You’d never been under that long before. Frankly, you were a little surprised you woke up at all given the extent of Steve’s injuries. Your fingers dipped under the hem of Bucky’s old t-shirt and grazed over the bullet wound on your ribs, feeling for the raised edges of a fresh scar. It didn’t heal, as you suspected the others hadn’t; laid to rest next to the knife wound from the woman in the alley. Injuries you were never meant to survive.  

“Were you ever going to tell us?”  

You looked up, startled by Bucky’s voice as it wavered. He brushed at his eyes; red and glossy.  

“Were you ever going to tell me?”  

“No,” you admitted and Bucky’s shoulders slumped. He sank back further into his chair and you could read the disappointment on his face. You gritted your teeth, preparing to deliver the same speech you’d been telling yourself for years. “My body could handle it, Buck. It was only a few minutes of pain to trade for weeks or months of your own. It kept you in the field and off the bench. The world needs you guys. It was worth it for me. I could handle it.”

“Until you couldn’t!” Bucky snapped, startling you as he tugged his hand from your grasp and began to pace around the room. His fingers raked into his hair, gripping at unwashed strands. “You almost died, Y/n! You almost died because I fucking begged you to use your powers to save Steve and I—Jesus, Y/n — if I had known what it does to you, I never would have asked you to do that!”

“That’s why I didn’t tell you,” you replied gently, wanting nothing more than to ease him. Bucky shook his head, unwilling to accept your answer. “Bucky, if you knew that healing a papercut hurt me, you wouldn’t let me do that either.”

He paused; arms folded over his chest though he wouldn’t look at you. “No, I wouldn’t.”

You softened, sitting up in the bed, though a dull pain rushed made it rather difficult, leaving you to clutch at your stomach. It ached as you moved, an unfamiliar feeling, and the tension quickly faded from Bucky’s shoulders when he heard you whine.

You pushed through the pain in your stomach, holding up a hand as Bucky started to step forward to help you. It would fade. It always does. You’d heal and move on, until the next injury came through. It was routine. It was your life.  

So, you told him as much.  

“I’d do it again.”

Bucky frowned. He looked like he wanted to just lay on the bed beside you, curl up against your chest and sleep. He was exhausted. And still—he couldn’t let it go.  

“You almost died—”

You shrugged nonchalantly. “It’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make.”

“A sacrifice?” Bucky’s face contorting in horror. “Are you insane? You're not a sacrifice, Y/n!”

You nodded, determined; the words of your parents, the village elders, ringing in your ears. “That what this gift is, Bucky! I can’t actually heal anyone other than myself, but I can transfer the injuries and the pain to my body. That I can heal. It’s what I was born for! It’s my purpose. I was made to be a sacrifice.”

“Not for me!” Bucky held his ground, voice firmer than you’d ever heard it. “Nothing is worth that to me! Do you understand that? I won’t trade your life for anyone’s, not even Steve’s, and I sure as hell don’t care how many bones I break or how bad the nerves in my shoulder misfire. I won’t put that on you again. The team won’t either.”

You clenched your jaw, heart starting race. No one had ever challenged you on this before. No one had ever questioned whether your gift should be used at all. No one ever seemed to care of the effect it had on your body, never thinking to look past the extraordinary abilities to the mutilation under the surface.  

No one until Bucky.  

You curled your hands into the thin sheets at your waist. “Bucky, don’t be ridiculous. I’m saving you all from weeks of unnecessary healing. I can handle the pain. It’s an easy trade for—”

Bucky’s fist met the wall. “You’re worth more than just a vessel for our pain, Y/n!”  

“What the hell is going on in here!?” Helen Cho rushed into the room, eyes darting between Bucky standing by the corner of the room, shaking out his hand, and you as you laid in the bed at the center, the heart monitor above pulsing far too quickly.  

Bucky seemed to notice the frantic beeping of the monitor and the anger quickly drained from his face.  

Helen glared at him as she stepped closer to you, beginning to check your vitals. “You should leave,” she shot over her shoulder. Your stomach twisted to knots as Bucky nodded defeatedly and walked to the door.  

“No, don’t--” you called, voice small, nervous. He paused in the frame, glancing back at you with a raised eyebrow. “Please, Bucky. Stay.”

Helen set a hand on your shoulder as if to ask if you were sure. You nodded.

“You may be able to heal yourself, but you’re still recovering,” Helen advised, tapping on the IV drip. “Take it easy, alright?”

Bucky remained stoic by the door after Helen left. He didn’t say anything for a while, his eyes focused on the tile floors at his feet, waiting until the heart monitor chimed in even, steady counts.  

“Will you sit down? You’re making me nervous,” you chuckled, trying to lighten the mood. It got him to look at you, at least. While he couldn’t muster a smile, it was clear he was drained of the anger that had quickly taken hold of his body; anger that was never once reserved for you, but for the voices in your head that deemed you unworthy of more than a body to be used by others.  

Bucky sank into the chair at your bedside.  

“When’s the last time you slept, Buck?”  

He stayed silent. It was enough of an answer. You didn’t dare ask the last time he left this room, not with the shiny reflection at his roots and the red strained in his eyes. Six days at your bedside, hunched over on a cold, unforgiving chair, clutching your hand. It ached deep into your bones.  

“I mean what I said,” Bucky mumbled, slowly brining himself to meet your eye. He reached out for your hand, letting the comforting chill of solid metal lay below as the warmth of flesh and muscle laid on top. He brought your fingertips to his lips and gently kissed at your knuckles.  

You sighed at the feeling. “Bucky, I...”

“You’re more important to us than your abilities,” he pressed, a sincerity behind his words and laced delicately into sweet shades of blue. “You do a lot of good to keep us safe with the tech you’ve been building and the adjustments to the suits. You’re incredible at what you do, Y/n. Your worth isn’t based on how many injuries you can heal or how much pain you can handle. We care about you. I care about you. Isn't that enough?”

You didn’t know.

You’d never known anyone to prioritize you over your gift. You parents had exploited it from the moment it was discovered your ability; showing you off, treating you as an idol to be worships and adorned. They put their child through broken bones and lacerations and asthma attacks. They sat back and watched as you healed strangers of arthritis and sprained ankles and migraines. Their child cried as they collected their winnings.  

Were you afraid it would happen again? Is that why you kept it from the team? From Bucky? You’d convinced yourself it was noble to silently suffer in their place, but you started to wonder if it amounted to little more than your parent's words whispered into your ear: your ability is a gift to the world, a sacrifice unto yourself.

“Would you ask any of us to suffer in your place?” Bucky questioned, drawing you from the mess inside your head with the gentle vibration in his voice.  

“I just want to help you...” you murmured, tears slipping past your cheeks.  

Bucky reached forward and brushed the tears as they fell, sliding his hand against your cheek and nestling against your hair. You leaned into the touch.

“So, we find a middle ground, okay?” Bucky offered, smiling enough to push into his cheeks, though his eyes were still heavy. “No trivial injuries. No life-threatening injuries. We take the stuff in-between case by case.”  

“Your shoulder,” you added, determined. Buck started to shake his head but you pressed harder. “Five minutes of pain to spare months of yours, Bucky. No lasting damage. Don’t argue with me on this one.”

It brought the smile back to Bucky’s eyes as he eventually nodded. You knew he had no real authority to decide what injuries you could and couldn’t heal, but you’d never had anyone who dared to put you first. You trusted him to do that; you trusted him more than yourself, anyway.

“We decide the rest together,” you told him. “I get the final say but... I need you to tell me if I’m pushing it too much, but I won’t be too cautious, either. No discriminating against Sam.”

“No promises,” Bucky chuckled, playing with the ends of your hair dreamily. “The other stuff I can deal with.”

“Okay,” you exhaled, relief sweeping through your body.  

“Okay.”

“Think I’ll be lucky if anyone on the team even lets me touch them for a few months after this ordeal, though, huh?” You laughed and though it ached in your stomach, it was considerably less than it was moments earlier. You didn’t mind the dull pain. It was familiar, almost a comfort. Steve was alive because of it.  

“Yeah, can’t say anyone was thrilled to find out how your powers actually worked,” Bucky chuckled. “But they’re happy you’re alright. I’m sure Steve will be, too. He was pissed when he woke up and learned what you did.”

You clenched your jaw. “Never good to be on Cap’s bad side...”

“No, it’s not,” Bucky agreed, wide smile pressed to the back of your hand, his lips touching over exposed skin. “He doesn’t like when anyone else pulls a self-sacrificial move. It’s kinda his thing. Diving into the Atlantic and all. We don’t really need two of you running around...”

“Alright, alright,” you laughed, swatting Bucky away. Your cheeks hurt from smiling, the pain in your stomach long forgotten, or maybe it had finally healed. You supposed it didn’t matter.  

They were scars that would never heal. Like the knife wound. Like mesh of hardened tissue around Bucky’s shoulder, stretching out onto his chest and back. Reminders of when you were too both close to the edge, to the brink of darkness. Reasons to push back towards the light.  

read the sequel here!

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