#lay you out on a surgery table and cut into you to find where you store your worst bits..

[sepia-stained-sunset]

Dick Grayson is a scalpel. He's tempered steel, methodical and precise. And he can hone in on the parts of you that hurt the most and the cuts he makes are never kind. When they're deep, they almost never heal, and when they're shallow, they just keep bleeding through every bandage anyways.

Dick Grayson is a scalpel. There are no hooks to him, on a lineup he doesn't look terrifying. But he has the sharpest point and he's only ever used by the steadiest hands and that's when you realise that the damage he creates never gets undone.

[whispersinthedawn]

Concealed in the Coriolis Chapter 17

“It irks me,” Apollo murmured, “that I am merely one of several to mark you. But I suppose one boon more would not harm the fragile fabric of your soul.”

Percy released a shaky laugh. “Blessings harm?”

He felt a fool the moment he said it. Few were the blessings that didn’t leave your life a ravaged husk.

Apollo smiled but something about the crinkle to his eyes, the way light flashed off the golden sheen of his irises like sunlight off the windows of a vacant house, reminded Percy of a play staged by puppets animated by strings, incapable of expressing emotion by any means other than bending their bodies.

“A true blessing marks you for eternity,” Apollo said lowly. “Even the Lethe only wipes your memory of it. It would take a dip in the Styx itself to destroy the marks left by a god.”

Percy swallowed. “And a curse?” he asked tremulously. “Can you detect curses too?”

Apollo’s smile widened. “Curse. Blessing. Who can tell the difference?”

“And who put it there?” Percy insisted.

The god chuckled. “If I recognise their sign. You don’t think I go around demanding every god out there show me what a mark of their attention looks like, do you?”

Percy trembled, some inkling of a plan coalescing in the foggy marshes of the past. Some part of him still lay convinced that this was a mere illusion, just something concocted by his mind. If Apollo named gods Percy knew, naturally, that part of him would be validated.

But if Percy believed this was reality, that he and Coronis were truly suffering underneath a curse – Coronis, blessed Coronis chosen by the Fates themselves to birth Asclepius and die, whose very name was reminiscent of the crows blackened merely by witnessing her infidelity, would Coronis not carry her own blessings?

Just as Percy carried his own curse.

Would Apollo not be able to feel the markers in the soul flitting about outside her body and the soul stuffed in another’s shell and find the common denominator?

If you could detect a curse – was that not the first step to cutting it off?

“Wipe them off me!” Percy breathed out. “Whoever marked me, in blessing or curse, I don’t want it. Cut it out of my soul if needed. No one … I do not wish the marks of any other god on me.”

He’d tolerate Apollo’s blessing long enough to survive what was bound to be an excruciating soul surgery – but afterwards …

Afterwards, Percy would be free to be Percy Jackson.

Apollo’s throat bobbed as he drank in Percy’s features with a unquenchable thirst. After a moment, the god seemed to recover his composure. “You … do not understand just what you ask for,” he said huskily. “I will take it in the vein it was meant and not … not what you said,” he finished feebly.

“I know what I said,” Percy stated firmly. “And I meant it. No one but you. I don’t want it.”

Apollo flushed – a slow suffusion of gold across cheekbones glowing bright as the Sun. “We will see,” he said weakly. “For now … you should rest. You will have to arise before sunrise tomorrow if you wish to be the first to see the Pythia.”

In desperation, Percy reached up and wrapped his fingers around Apollo’s wrist.

The vein running through the god’s wrist jumped.

“Does that mean you’re leaving?” he asked, panicked. The god couldn’t leave just when Percy had found his first hint at an end to this misery.

Apollo blinked furiously. “That … do not worry. I will watch over you.”

“Watching over me is not what I want from you at all,” Percy said fervently. Where was the archetype of the mad scientist willing to dig into living tissue in search of a tumour regardless of the patient bleeding out on the table? Why couldn’t Apollo be more experimental?

Apollo licked his lip, his gaze falling towards Percy mouth.

Was that where the curse lay? Percy had swallowed the cold air of Tartarus, been almost sucked in by the vacuum of the it – it made complete sense that Chronos’s curse had flown in through Percy’s nose and mouth and now lingered in his lungs.

Apollo’s fingers tightened around Percy’s cheek, tilted it to the side, and tipped it up. Percy watched in consternation, almost going cross-eyed, as Apollo’s face grew closer and closer.

Was he going to cut out the curse with his teeth? Was that what lay in Percy’s future? A god’s teeth digging through his flesh and soul until it ripped away a part of him?

Closer.

Closer.

Soft lips brushed against his mouth and Percy froze.

Apollo sucked at his lower lip, flicked a wet tongue across the crease of Percy’s lips.

Apollo kissed Percy.

This was not what he’d meant at all.

***

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[catierambles]

Alternate Instincts Ch.18

Pairing: The Rogue’s Gallery (Geralt, Syverson, Mike, August Walker, Walter Marshall) x Stephanie Daniels (OFC)

Warnings: talks of past severe injury involving surgery and near-death

August sighed as he looked over the information that had been sent to his phone, scrolling through the hospital and accident reports.

“Fuck.” He said, pulling up his contacts and calling Geralt. He felt like they should know, but he didn't feel like repeating himself.

“Hey.” Geralt said when he picked up, “Stephanie and Mike are in the house and I don't feel like seeing Mike's ass.”

“Didn't need to talk to her anyway. I'm putting you on speaker.” He said, backing into a somewhat quiet corner. “Sy, Walter, come here.” They headed over to him, leaning on their pool cues. “I have Geralt.”

“What's up?” Sy asked.

“I had someone look into Stephanie's accident when she was a teen.” August said, “He just sent me the hospital and police reports about it.”

“Why would you do that?” Walter asked and he shrugged.

“Old habits.” August said.

“What did he find?” Geralt asked.

“It was a lot worse than she said. A lot worse.”

“She said she got banged up, lotsa internal bleedin'.” Sy reminded him.

“Markus, her chest was crushed, both lungs collapsed, as well as the lacerated liver that she told you and Geralt about.” August said.

“Shit.” Sy said.

“There was a fault with the passenger airbags, they never deployed.” He said, “Her friend that was driving got off with cuts and scrapes, comparatively.”

“How many times?” Geralt asked, “How many times did she code?”

“Three.” August said, “She coded three times on the operating table. She didn't get one transfusion, she got several, she kept bleeding it out.”

“Fuck.” Geralt said.

“They were going to call it after the third time, but then her heart just started beating on it's own again and her vitals stabilized.” August said and there was a pause.

“The last transfusion.” Walter said and he nodded. “I bet you all a tenner it was wolf blood.”

“It didn't just make it so our wolves recognized her, it saved her life.” He said, “She recovered in record time, the doctors that worked on her called it a miracle in their reports. Hospitals have to track and keep records of where they get blood from, especially if they're used during procedures, just in case the recipient has an adverse reaction. My contact tracked down the last transfusion bag number, got the name of the donor and I cross referenced it with Council records.”

“Wolf?” Sy asked and he nodded.

“An Alpha, runs territory and a pack up in Spokane.” August said, “Donated during a high school blood drive.”

“Well now we know for certain.” Sy said, “Shit, though. We almost lost her before we had her.”

“Let's settle the tab and go home. I need to see her.” Walter said and Sy nodded, heading for the bar to pay the bill.

Stephanie and Mike were in the living room when they got home, their hair wet from a recent shower. Geralt was sitting on the other side of her on the couch, his hand wrapped around her knee, thumb moving back and forth over her skin bared by the shorts.

“Hey.” She said, smiling as she saw them, “Did you guys have fun?” Her smile fell, though, at their serious expressions. “What happened after I left?”

“Nothin', babe.” Sy said, “You're fine.” He pulled her to standing with his hands wrapped around hers, pulling her against his chest. “You're fine.”

“Sy?” She asked, pulling away to look up at him. “Geralt was broody, more than usual, when he came inside, now you guys are looking like someone died. What happened?”

“Nothing, love.” Walter said, coming over to lay his hand on her back. “Just...happy to see you.”

“Coulda fooled me.” Stephanie said.

"You almost died." August said and she looked at him.

"We talking about Jordan?" She asked but he shook his head.

"Your accident." He said, "You almost died. Getting wolf blood saved you, Steph, got your heart beating again. They were going to call it, stop resuscitation efforts, but you came back."

"They told me it had been rough." She said, "But didn't give me details besides what I told you."

"You almost died." He said again.

"It don't matter." Sy said, "It was twenty some years ago, it don't matter. You're here, you're alive, you're safe."

"The past doesn't matter." Mike said, "Just the present."

“Using my own words against me?” She asked, trying to push down the panic rising in her throat.

“Worked for me.” Mike said with a shrug. Geralt pushed up from the couch, pulling her from Sy's arms and into his own, holding her against his chest.

"You're alive." He whispered, tucking his face into her neck.

"You all didn't know me back then." She said, "Mike was in kindergarten."

"Doesn't matter." Geralt said, "I could have lost my Mate before I found her."

"Our Mate." Walter said and Geralt wove his fingers in her hair, tilting her face up to him and kissing her, his eyes closed.

“Your guys' reaction is freaking me out more than anything else.” She said when he pulled away.

“Sorry, doll, it's just...” Sy stopped with a sigh, “We almost lost you. I told you, if you hadn't survived, we wouldn't have a Mate. Our Mate would have been dead before we knew she existed."

“But you did survive.” Mike said, “And we do have a Mate, and I have my Alpha. So the fact that you almost didn't doesn't count.”

“Post-nut clarity?” Sy asked.

“I have transcended.” Mike said and her snort turned into a laugh despite herself. She suddenly gave a squeak of surprise as Geralt ducked quickly, throwing her over his shoulder and heading for the stairs.

“It's bedtime, I guess.” She said.

“Not even gonna fight it?” Sy called after them.

“Nope! Lesson in futility! Goodnight!” They heard his room door close a moment later and Sy snorted, shaking his head.

He smelled like wood smoke still from the fire he had built, his skin warm, his chest hair slightly coarse as he held her. He had kept his boxer briefs on when he got undressed, wanting closeness more than intimacy.

“It really rattled you, didn't it.” She said, looking up at him from her spot on his chest.

“Yes.” He said simply.

“The others, too.”

“Wolves are usually Mike's age when they find their Mate.” He explained, “I came to terms with the idea that I didn't have one a long time ago. I think the others did, too.”

“Then I showed up.” She said and he hummed.

“The fact that I do have one, but she almost died long before I found her. It...” He sighed.

“Almost only counts for horseshoes and hand grenades.” He cracked an eye open, looking down at her with an arched brow. “Something my dad used to say.” She shrugged.

“Used to?” He asked, “When did he...”

“Oh, he's still alive.” Stephanie said, “As far as I know. He and mom got divorced when I was sixteen and Jack was in college. Haven't seen him since.” He just hummed again, his brow furrowed in a scowl. “What?”

“He abandoned his child a year after he almost lost her.”

“I guess he hated mom so much that he didn't like us, either.” She said, “We weren't kids. Jack was almost Mike's age, so it's not like mom could stop him from contacting us. He just never did.” His scowl just deepened. “Geralt, it was almost twenty years ago. The man hasn't been in my life longer than he was, even before they got divorced. He was in the Navy, so he was deployed a lot. Mom didn't feel like following him from base to base, so we always stayed put. I saw him maybe a few months out of the year, got calls on Christmases and birthdays if I was lucky and he remembered.”

“You're his child.”

“He didn't care.” She said and he sighed. “What about you?”

“Me?”

“Where's your parents?”

“I don't have any. No Tracker does.” He said it so simply that it made her sit up a little. “Council takes in orphan or unwanted pups and trains them to hunt Ferals.”

“That's—”

“Hunting Ferals is dangerous. Best if there's no one to go home to, or question if they go missing.” He said and looked at her when she held the side of his face, her thumb moving over the high of his cheek.

“You have me.” His hand slid over hers, holding it to his jaw.

“I know.”

[vikingstoner69]

hey everyone! i know its been a super long time since i posted anything but I'm back and posting again. my ask box is open and i am taking requests. it may take some time as i am recovering from two major surgeries. So here is a loki fic as usel its smut lol

Fandom: Loki

Pairing: Loki/Reader

Summry: a hex is placed on you both you loved loki since you were a child but did he feel the same or was it the Hex?

You sigh as you open the door to your apartment, your body screaming for you to shower and sleep for a whole week. You kick your shoes off and toss the keys on the table and start to strip as you make your way to your bedroom and bathroom where you turn on the hot water. You bite your lip and look around the bathroom feeling like you were being watched but found no one there.

You step inside the shower and start to wash the day away when you feel lips on your neck and you freeze. You rush out of the shower and grab your towel as you scan the room to find it empty. You head to your bedroom and freeze as you see someone standing at the window.

"You gave me an actual challenge finding you" Lok'si says, coming into clear view and your stomach twists into knots and your heart speeds up. You cling to the towel as his eyes trall from your eyes down to your towel covered body.

"obviously it wasn't good enough since you found me" you snap, folding your arms over your chest. You felt even more naked with the look he gave you than because of your lack of clothes.

"You know there is nowhere you can go I can't find you" he says with a chuckle and you feel your rage come rushing back. You close your eyes for a moment and take a deep breath.

"I know you, Loki! We grew up together! We learned magic together! And I may have been In love with you long before this mate thing happened. But you didn't feel the same until then so excuse me for needing some time!" You yell and he gives you a look as if you had slapped him. Before you know it Loki is standing in front of you hurt and rage clear on his face.

"You have no idea how I feel (y/n)! You were my best friend and I was in love with you but you wanted Thor like everyone else" he snarls venomously and you feel your blood freeze and his words replayed in your head.

"You think I want Thor? By the gods Loki I have loved you since I knew how to! This mate hex that got placed on us didn't have anything to do with my feelings!" You yell, his eyes flash red and you feel your undies dampen. You sigh and turn to walk out the door more than ready to end this fight but the hand on your upper arm stops and spins you to face Loki.

"Do not walk away from me, this is far from over. You think you can just say something like that and then walk away? Oh no dove we are far from done here" his says his voice raised just a bit as he lost more and more control of his feelings. You look up at Loki and bite your lip, feeling the fight leave you.

"Loki-" your words are cut off as his lips crash into yours and your body freezes. Your hands push at his chest at first but you soon give in kissing him back, your hands tangle in his jet black hair. You moan when he nips your lip before shoving his tongue in your mouth. His lips leave your mouth and travel down your neck to your ear.

"You are mine dove" he says, nipping the ear lobe and you moan. You pull his head away and look him In the eyes before pulling him in for a deep rough kiss and then pull back.

"Did you want me before the hex? or is this the hex?" You ask looking up into his eyes. Loki lays his forehead on yours.

"I have loved you for so long" he whispers and your heart starts to race. You lean up and kiss him deeply and push your body into his making him groan as your fingers tangled in his hair.

"Take me" you say against his lips and he growls his hands undoing the towel and you moan as his hands roam your body. Loki groans as your naked body rubs his clothed one. He kisses you deeply, his tongue fighting yours and you moan when he grabs your ass and lifts you up making you wrap your legs around him and he pulls back locking eyes with you as you both try to catch your breath.

“I’m going to make sure you never forget who you belong to” he says never breaking eye contact with you and you felt your body heat with arousal at his clam on you. Without a word you lean down and kiss him deeply as he sits at the side of the bed making you straddle him.

“Loki you have too much on. Clothes off. Now!” you growl with annoyance as you tug on his jacket and he chuckles. Loki stands and turns, laying you on your back in the middle of the bed and you watch as his clothes disappear. You take In his long slender body down to his long hard cock and you feel your mouth water. You move to your knees and reach out for him. Without a second thought you kiss him deeply, nipping his bottom lip making him growl softly. Loki's fingers tangle in your hair as he kisses you back, his lips traveling down your neck.

"You have no idea how long I have wanted to do this" he growls softly in your neck you moan softly as your hands run down his body to his hard cock and you slowly stroke him making him shiver.

"I want to taste you Loki" you say as you stroke him and he groans as he watches you move closer to his cock and look up at him before you wrap your lips around the head and you both moan. Loki's hands tangle in your hair as his head drops back at the feeling of your hot wet mouth on his throbbing cock. Inch by inch you take him deeper till he is almost down your throat and you suck hard and run your tounge up his length and he groans.

“Gods love, you have a wicked mouth” he pants as you suck him stroking what you couldn't fit in your mouth. Loki holds your head still and starts to fuck your throat making you gag a bit and he groans. You look up, locking eyes with him as he uses your mouth and throat how he wants. You moan as his salty cum fills your mouth and throat. He groans and slowly pulls out of your mouth as you swallow everything he gave you.

"You taste so good Loki" you smirk from your spot on the bed and he chuckled breathlessly. Loki reaches out his long slender fingers wrap around your throat lightly and he pulls you to him. He softly strokes your lips with his thumb before leaning down and kissing you deeply, nipping your lip and you open your mouth letting his tongue play with yours. You take that time to run your hands over his lean toned body, your nails leaving little marks down his chest.

"Tell me dove, what do you want?" He asks lowly his free hand running down your body, his body temperature making you shiver as he reaches your soaked cunt where he runs his fingers through your folds.

"Loki" you gasp at the feeling that washed over your body. Loki kisses down your neck leaving little bit marks behind.

"Tell me" he grins in your neck as he rubs your clit making you whine and your hips to grind down.

"Fuck me Loki, make me yours. Mark me so everyone knows who I belong to" you beg for him and he bites your neck before he pulls his fingers away and you whine at the loss. Loki leans over you, he fits perfectly between your speed legs.

"Your mine, now and always" he whispers in your ear before he slowly enters you making you both moan. You cling to Loki feeling so full as his cock stretches you out. Once he bottoms out he stills gives you time to adjust to him. Loki kisses your shoulder and neck up to your lips.

"Loki please" you beg, your hands roam up his shoulders and cling to his back as he starts to thrust deeply into you, the force of his thrusts rock the bed making the headboard hit the wall.

"You're so right and wet for me" he groans as he picks up speed your nails leaving marks down his back. Loki pulls out and flips you on your hands and knees smacking your ass before he enters you.

"Oh fuck Loki!" You cry out as he drills in you from behind his hand tangled in your hair and his hand holding your hip tightly.

"Scream my name" he says his voice taken on a darker edge making your body tingle at the tone. Without warning he smacks your ass making you cry out in pleasure.

"LOKI!" You scream as you cum hard, your vision going blurry Loki grunts and breathes your name as he fills you with his hot cum. Loki kisses up your spine to your shoulder and up to your ear and he bites the lobe.

"We are far from done my love" he says huskily in your making you moan.

"I'm all yours Loki"

[forasecondtherewedwon]

Bodies in the Theatre

Fandom: The Artful Dodger Pairing: Jack x Belle Rating: E Word Count: 1021

For today's @dodgerfoxweek prompt: post-series

Summary: Jack and Belle make a new memory on the operating table where she almost died.

She lives, and he’s afraid to be near her. She probably sees it before he does, feels it before he does, frowning because he’s always maintaining a distance, clasping his hands behind his back. He thinks, for a while, that it’s a reversion to propriety; she’s been recast, a finished vase back into raw clay on a spinning wheel, made over again, and he doesn’t realize it’s him setting her up on a high shelf, out of his reach.

It’s her who shows him, of course. It can only be her. One day, when the hospital is quiet and the theatre floor is clean, she insists on closeness. One step closer and he feels the thick slickness of blood on his hands. Two steps and she’s cut open beneath him and Jack’s demanding, “Stop. Stop,” holding out a hand to prevent her coming any nearer.

“Jack.” Her eyes are pleading, but tears wobble across his vision. “Look at me.”

“I am looking at you,” he spits, crying freely. “I’m always looking at you. You’re always right there, in front of my eyes. I see you… I see you when I try to sleep…”

His hand is shaking when he lifts it to his face, covers his mouth but can’t muffle the ragged sob. He crumples and she sweeps towards him and it doesn’t matter now because his mind has already gone there, seeing the worse. Her hand is just a weight on his back.

“It’s this room,” he gasps.

She rubs.

“It’s only a room.”

“No.” His breathing hitches, but he forces himself to stand. Her hand is on him still. “You looked… I thought you were…”

“Dead,” she finishes. And it’s the worst thing, but it comes from her living lips. “You couldn’t feel me breathing. You couldn’t find my pulse.”

Hetty will have told her, after he could not. She will have asked, naturally curious about the procedure, probably put out that she couldn’t study the surgery performed on her own body. She knows, and it’s such a relief that his lungs fill properly, his panic beginning to subside.

“It’s over now,” is her promise.

“Not in my head.”

She stands squarely in front of him.

“What’s the worst thing you can imagine?”

“You on that table,” he tells her honestly, immediately.

Taking her hand from his back, she strides to the table. Eyes locked on his, she plants her hands and pushes herself up to sit on its surface.

“Belle…” he says, voice rough, gutted from his throat.

“What next?”

He walks to her slowly, face working through all of it: her fearlessness, her determination to see him through this, her strength in sitting where only weeks ago she lay while Hetty sponged the blood that coursed from her body. He takes her face in his hands. It’s been so long. His hands healed her, but he’s been too afraid that the next time they touched her skin, it would all be taken back. Her body would remember, would recoil. She lifts her face and he brings his mouth down to hers.

“Lie down,” he whispers.

This is harder yet, and easier. She lies back without shifting away from him, so her legs hang off the table. She keeps her eyes open. She doesn’t appear uneasy. He’s trembling as he braces his hands and leans over her. Not checking is impossible; he watches her chest rise and fall, pinches her leg through her loose trousers.

“Ouch.”

“Sorry.”

After a minute, she sighs. He folds over her, ear pressed to the thump of her strong heart.

“I remember this ceiling,” she says, so quiet. “I didn’t think… but I do. I remember your face. I couldn’t feel you kiss me—the pain was too much. That didn’t seem fair. But I was never afraid. If you couldn’t fix it, it meant that it couldn’t be fixed, and all the time I’d had was all I would get. I was relieved, when you put the mask over my face and I breathed in the ether. I was relieved if I’d spent the last of my time with you.”

He releases a pained gasp and turns his face into her blouse. He’s kissing the linen, and then Belle draws it up, and then he’s kissing her skin, her scar, the very line she teetered upon between life and death, his the hand she held as she walked it.

He sighs, hot, and her abdomen quivers. His name moans from her mouth like it doesn’t want to leave. Like the rest of him. That’s right, he doesn’t want to leave her.

They fumble her naked from the scar down, and he never thought he’d be here like this, and his exhausted mind has sketched too many scenes where she isn’t here at all. Because he still doesn’t trust his hands, they’re light, stroking her hips, but his mouth is brave though uncertain, his face between her warm thighs. His tongue licks generously and her hips roll with him. He can hear her breathing, because she does it loudly. On the table, she is alive as he has known her to be, knows her to be, and something in Jack is released.

“I can do it,” he exhales. “I have you, Belle. I can do it.”

Her hands rake through his hair, clutch, and guide his mouth back to her. The wetness on his face, winding trails of sorrow and lingering dread, disappears into the wetness of her. It’s joy now, joy, joy, her knees in the air because she can’t keep them down. He shuts his eyes, just a test, and there’s nothing waiting for him there. Her living presence is too commanding.

This is a theatre and the role she’s played in his life is once-in-a-lifetime. He tells her that he loves her, and he tells her that he loves her, and because she loves him, he knows that he can be loved. He knows that she loves him, and she says it, and he hears her. He hears the breath leaving her body. And he hears it surging back in.

[wittymanatee]

Baby your love shot me in the Head (Literally) [Ghoap] Part 1 of ?

Setting- Task force are doctors and nurses, all of them are close and some are pinning,

Ghost- Dermatologist/Surgeon

Soap-Pediatrician

Gaz-Neurologist

Price And Laswell-Head Chief's

Alejandro-Gastroenterologist

Rudy-Endocrinologist

The rest, they work there but I haven't decided what-

TW-Maybe Main Character Death, Blood, Gun wound, Panic attack

(First writing this long) Don't know how people be writing such amazing story's, so i want to say i envy all you writers out there. <3

"He might not make it from what we were told" Gaz said solemnly by the doors.

~~~~~~~~~♤~~~~~~~~

The ambulance was getting closer, Ghost and Gaz were already waiting by the sliding doors for the patient, who was a male, late 20s, was shot in the head out at a stoplight, but the man still had a pulse when paramedics came.

"A shot to the head surely should have killed on the spot, but the idiots still breathing." Ghost said mutely, voice straight. Ghost would have felt a little bad if the guy died on the table, but people die every day, so he wasn't going to have his hopes up.

Right when both of the men by the sliding doors heard the ambulance, and got into stance, Price, their Chief came running over with a hand towel.

"Price?" Gaz said, both him and Ghost watching Price catch his breath before straightening up and looking at the both of them with a scared face, brows pinched, face pale.

"This patient that's coming in has to go straight to surgery and by no means does his face get revealed, do I make myself clear." Price said strictly. Ghost and Gaz looked at each other in confusion.

"But if the wound is on his face, how are we going to-" Ghost began but was cut off by the ambulance getting there.

Price started to run out and yelled behind him, "I got that covered, just try your best!" Price ran out right when the back of the ambulance back doors open, hopping in. A second later, medics were wheeling the patient out, a towel on his face but a hole where the wound was. Price helped pushed the man into the building where Gaz and Ghost where waiting.

Once in the teams, Price, Gaz, and Ghost brought the man into OR room 141. A nurse there had the place set up for them to begin as quickly as possible. The man was hooked up with tubes, wires and stickers. Another nurses and doctors came to assist.

(Im sorry but i don't know how to describe a surgery well enough so time skip 4 hours later)

Ghost was tired but he wasn't giving up, the man on the table flat lined 2 times already but they were able to get him back each time, but they knew that if he flat lined one more time, there was a chance he wouldn't come back that time. Ghost finally was able to locate the last bullet piece and oh so slowly started to pull it out.

Everyone in the OR held their breath as they watch Ghost oh so slowly pull the last piece of the bullet out the man's head. Everyone was about to let out a breath of relief before the man's heart stop, making the flat line noise. Ghost got to work but pumping his chest again, while Gaz started to close the head wound.

Pushed down once wait a second, push down again repeat, pushed down once wait a second, push down again repeat, pushed down once wait a second, push down again repeat, Ghost repeated in his head waiting for the flat line to beep. He didn't know how long he was at it before Price layed a hand on Ghost shoulder stopping him.

'Ghost, enough...time it" Price said looking down, eyes covered by his bucket hat.

Ghost sighed, feeling pity for the man, before checking his watch. "6:32 Pm". Gaz walked up to Ghost and patted him on the shoulder, both of them tired.

"We did everything we could, the wound was just to fatal." Gaz said.

"By the way-"Ghost began while everyone started to file out the OR, "who was he? we got to call someone or run a test to see what family he's got?" Ghost said turning to looked at Price but finding Price facing the patient on the bed.

Ghost and Gaz looked at each other in worry wondering if Price knew the man, but before they would say anything, Price's hand slowly went up to the towel and slowly removed it...

Revealing-

"...Johnny?"

!!This was inspired by a scene from a doctor show but i dont remember the name! If anyone knows, PLZ tell me the name of the show to give some credit!!

[thatdamnmutt-exe]

Stitches - Trevor Philips

AN:

Haha haven't posted a smut in a hot minute. I have 6 drafts saved but I need the motivation to finish them.

Pairing:

Trevor Philips x Male!OC (Name: Jynx)

Plot:

Trevor shows up at Jynx's house, needing a place to lay low. Jynx allows it cuz they've been friends since Jynx was like 19. One day, his ex decides to peep through the windows and Trevor sees it so he takes him inside and makes the man watch as he gives Jynx the best sex of his life. (idea based from @stat1cstarz - go read it! it's really fuckin good)

Warnings:

Sex, NSFW Shit, Age Gap, Voyeurism, Choking, Squirting, Hair Pulling, Hickeys, Possessive Trevor if you squint, FtM Pre Bottom Surgery, and It's a Trevor smut so it's gonna be a lil weird.

Song:

Stitches - Orgy

"Someday soon you'll find that someone, waiting for the chance to beat you." ______________________________________________________________

“Get the fuck out of my house! God, everyone was right about you, and right that I was an idiot to let you stay here!” Jynx yelled at the naked man on his couch that was now his ex boyfriend.

“Woah, woah, slow down! You can’t just kick me out. I have nowhere to go!” He pleaded. Jynx didn’t care though, he grabbed the man’s clothes before yanking him off the couch and pulling him to the door.

Opening it and throwing the bigger man out along with his clothes, he yelled, “Go stay with the skank that you just had your dick inside of on my couch!”

Jynx slammed the door, vibrating the room as it did. He moved back to his living room, deciding how he wanted to deep clean the juices off his expensive couch.

Two hours had gone by since Jynx threw his ex boyfriend out of the house. He had decided to throw out the couch and order a new one, not even wanting to attempt to clean the stains out.

Two hours go by as Jynx searched through furniture stores to find a better couch when he was interrupted by his door bell.

He sighed and got up from the kitchen table to go see who it was. “Jake, I swear to god if it’s you-“ He opened the door to be met with his long time friend, Trevor.

“Heyyyy! Jynx! My main man- my compadre!” He walked in past Jynx who still was collecting himself from Trevor’s sudden appearance.

“What do you want Trevor?” His voice came out annoyed and irritated on accident. He followed Trevor who ended up in the living room and sitting on the couch before Jynx could warn him.

“Why is this couch wet? Did you and what’s-his-face do something?” He asked while standing back up.

Jynx grimaced and rolled his eyes. “No, he and another chick did. Since you’re here, come help me throw this couch outside.”

“Oh shit. I was waiting for this day, and I mean I told you he would that-“ Trevor started but was cut off by Jynx snapping.

“Trevor, test my patience, I dare you.” He glared at the older male who only put his hands up in surrender while chuckling.

“Calm yourself sugar, I didn’t mean to step on your toes. I only need to lay low for awhile.” He moved to the other side of the couch to help move it outside.

“Always using me for something, huh Trevor.” He muttered while also moving the couch. “Fine. You can stay here, but you’re showering everyday and putting on clean clothes. You smell like ass.”

The two moved the couch out of the house, setting it on the curb before going back inside. Jynx sent Trevor to the bathroom to take a shower before going to grab some other clothes from the guest room for Trevor.

Trevor had stayed with Jynx enough so where the guest room basically became his room with some clean clothes in it. Jynx had come to know Trevor when he turned 19 and was hanging out with Tracey. The two connected in a weird way and it started out as Jynx looking up to Trevor.

Jynx was 27 now and now considered Trevor to be a close friend. There was also something about the older man that Jynx couldn’t help but be attracted to. He ignored this feeling though, feeling ashamed of it.

He moved to sit at the other couch that sat in the living room, silently thanking his parents for giving him a house where it was big enough to have two couches in the living room. He turned on his current show, letting himself get lost in show, wanting to forget the previous moments from today.

He was brought out of his trace by Trevor stomping down the stairs, wearing only gym shorts. "Should we order some take out, kid? I'll pay." He said while moving to sit on the couch next to Jynx who was trying to avoid looking at Trevor's chest.

“Chinese?” He asked, little happiness coming through in his tone.

“Yes! You’re placing the order though! I don’t know how to fully work that app.” Trevor stated, pointing at Jynx as he did. He noticed that he was avoiding looking at him, he chuckled at it.

“You haven’t looked my way since I got back. Usually you hit me with a ‘you finally look like a human’ line.” He teased, scooting closer to Jynx who was trying to order the Chinese food. Jynx ignored Trevor’s comment and movement towards him, not wanting to give himself away.

He was forced to look at Trevor when the older man grasped his chin and faced Jynx towards him. “I’m talking to you, boy.” Trevor’s tone had gotten low and sort of sensual.

Jynx audible gulped, looking at Trevor who was only inches away from him. His other arm moved to wrap around Jynx's waist, holding him close. "Trevor... We can't- I just-" He tried to form words but his mind couldn't.

His heart was speeding, his breath ragged as he tried to push Trevor away but the older man kept his grip. The two stayed like that, their breath hitting each other as their gazes held lust for the other. Trevor ended up pulling away, not wishing to make Jynx upset or uncomfortable.

"I'll finish ordering the Chinese food." Jynx said, composing himself and trying to ignore the wetness that had built up between his thighs.

"Chinese food, right, you do that." Trevor shifted away from Jynx, grabbing a blanket to hide his lower half before going back to watching the show mindlessly.

- Time Skip -

It had been three months and Trevor was still hanging around, insisting that he keep Jynx company now that he didn't have his ex around. Jynx allowed him to stay of course, finding the most comfort in the crazy man.

Jynx was busy cleaning the house, wearing nothing but one of Trevor's oversized shirts and a pair of his own boxers. Jynx always liked to steal Trevor's clothes while he was around, saying the reason was that he liked how big they were on him.

Trevor didn’t mind of course, the younger was letting him live there, plus he found the boy cute in them.

The two had grown closer in that time frame, sharing secrets that haven’t shared before. They weren’t exactly dating but they acted like a couple and did coupley things.

Jynx wanted to get an official label on their relationship and find out Trevor’s real feelings for him, but he didn’t know how. He hoped to talk to Trevor later tonight about it.

It had grown late into the night with the time now reading 12:30 am and Trevor still wasn’t home. It wasn’t uncommon for Trevor to be out late, but tonight was different.

Jynx sat on the new couch, playing a video game that he had recently bought. He was in the middle of an intense scene when the door opened to Trevor and a man with a bag over his head.

“Trevor what the fuck?! I told you no hostages here!” Jynx hissed, pausing his game and standing up.

“Calm down sweetheart, it’s not a hostage. It’s your ex boyfriend!” He ripped the bag off of the man, leaving Jynx in shock.

“Why the hell is he here?!” Jynx’s face was angry and confused as he was trying to figure out why Trevor would bring him back into his house.

Trevor began tying the scared looking man to a kitchen chair. “Found him looking through the windows watching you while i was coming home! Figured we better show this rat a show he’d never forget.”

Jynx’s eyes widened at the information of his ex watching him. He felt icky and like his privacy was threatened. “What kind of show?” He asked confused.

Once Trevor finished tying the man up he turned to Jynx. A devilish smile graced his face as he moved towards Jynx, his arms going around the younger’s waist. “I think you know… I’ve seen how you around me and I know you like wearing my clothes for other reasons than them just being big on you.” He whispered in the younger’s ear.

Jynx felt a shiver go through him, his legs closed to try and calm the excitement that had filled him. “Guess I’m not good at hiding it as I thought I was.” He chuckled slightly. His arms moved to wrap around Trevor's neck, holding the man close to him. "You have no idea how long I've wanted you, Trevor." He whispered.

Trevor licked his lips before grasping a hand full of Jynx's hair and pulling their lips together roughly. He tasted of cigarettes and alcohol along with a breath mint trying to hide it.

"Oh baby, I've been thinking about you for awhile. I'm gonna fuck you better than you've ever been fucked." He purred to Jynx before lifting the smaller and pinning him down on the couch.

Trevor's grasp on Jynx's hair became tighter as he moved the boy's head to the side so he could attack his neck with hickeys and bites. Jynx looked over at his ex who wanted to look away but couldn't. He watched Jynx's body and his facial expressions, his own filling with rage as he watched.

Jynx's legs moved up to wrap around Trevor's waist, thrusting his hips up against Trevor's, savoring the groan that had left the older's lips. "Mmm, fuck, Trevor." He moaned more. One of Trevor's hands slid between Jynx's thighs and into his boxers. "I've barely done anything but you're already soaked for me? Damn baby." He chuckled as his fingers began to move against the boy's soaked cunt.

Jynx's head fell as his back arched up against Trevor, a loud moan leaving his lips. Trevor's fingers felt so much better than he had been imagining. "Why don't we give our audience a better show? Show him what he lost when he decided to be a dick and cheat on you." Trevor chuckled and pulled his fingers away, earning a loud whine from Jynx.

Before the younger could protest, Trevor moved them so he was sitting up against the couch and moving Jynx on his lap, the boy's back against his chest. Jynx's boxers were removed from his body and his legs were spred open by Trevor's own legs. One of his hands moved to wrap around Jynx's throat, gripping it tightly.

"Come on sweetheart, don't be shy now. Show this cocksucker who you belong to now. Let him hear those pretty moans of yours." Trevor praised and he moved his other hand to rub Jynx's sensitive cunt again.

Jynx felt his head go dizzy as the lack of air flow hit him. He squirmed a bit as he moaned desperately against Trevor's fingers. He felt his climax building up within him. "Trev- mmm-" He whispered out, being so lost in pleasure he completely forgot about the man who was watching.

"Bet you never made him feel this good with just your fingers, huh buddy?" Trevor chuckled, biting down on Jynx's shoulder, drawing blood as he did.

Jynx moaned louder and more frequent as he was brought to the edge. The pleasure of Trevor’s fingers, the dizziness of being choked, along with the pain on his shoulder made him close control as he squirted on Trevor’s fingers.

“That’s it baby, that’s a good boy.” Trevor continued moving his fingers until Jynx’s high was rode out. Trevor released his grip from Jynx’s neck, allowing the boy to fall back against him and catch his breath.

“I’m guessing from the way you’re reacting, that was the first time you came so hard you squirted?” Trevor teased Jynx as he moved his hands down to his own pants to free his aching cock.

Jynx shook his head, biting his bottom lip he savored the high he was still coming down from. "Trev, where have you been all these years? No one has ever gotten me off that good." He turned his head and gripped Trevor's chin, forcing the older to face him into a deep, rough kiss.

"Jynx is lying to make me mad! There's no fucking way this fucking creepy old man is that good!" Jynx's ex spat, anger clear in his face as he tried to undo the bindings. It made him frustred to see someone else touching what he still claimed as his.

Trevor only laughed at the pathetic man, he pulled away from Jynx to look at the man bound to the chair. One hair gripped Jynx's hair tightly while his free hand moved to slap Jynx's dripping pussy, making the younger jolt up and moan. "I don't know kid, from the mess between his legs and on the floor, I would have to disagree." Trevor moved his cock between Jynx's folds, moving himself slowly to tease Jynx.

"What's that pretty boy? I can't hear ya, tell Uncle T how badly you want this." He sped up his pace a bit more, chuckling at how much Jynx was coming undone in his hold.

The younger tried to close his legs as the overstimulation hit him but Trevor's stronger ones kept them open. Tears fell from his cheeks as he just could only whimper and whine, his brain too desperate and clouded to form proper words.

"Come on boy, use your words otherwise I'll stop." Trevor instructed, slapping Jynx's thigh hard in the process. Jynx jolted up again before trying his best to form a sentence.

"N-no... mm... Don't stop! Trevor- please I need you." He moved his own hips against Trevor's cock, gaining more friction as he felt the older's tip rubbing against his clit.

"Need me where? Come on boy, don't half ass your words here." Trevor growled in Jynx's ear, slapping his thigh again.

"Inside! Please! Trevor!" Jynx cried, his own patience running out as all he wanted was to be stretched out by Trevor. The older man chuckled once more before giving into what Jynx was begging for.

He moved to push his cock inside Jynx, bottoming out as he pushed himself fully in. It didn't talk long for Jynx to adjust due to how wet he had become, allowing Trevor to start thrusting up into the younger boy. He released his hand that was in Jynx's hair to move under Jynx's thighs, holding him up a bit to allow him to thrust more into him.

The only sounds that could be heard in the room was the sounds of squelching, Jynx's moans, Trevor's grunting, and Jynx's ex yelling angrily while trying to get out of the ropes. Neither Jynx or Trevor paid much attention to the other male, too lost in pleasure to really care.

"More... please..." Jynx begged, his head now falling back against Trevor's shoulder as his hands gripped Trevor's forearms, his nails digging into the skin.

Trevor gave into Jynx, absolutely loving how he was able to give the younger so much pleasure. "Such a needy little thing." He teased, thrusting as hard and as fast as he could go.

Jynx felt his second orgasm building up in his stomach, his walls tightened around Trevor, signaling to him that Jynx was about to burst any moment. "Come on baby, show Uncle T and that pathetic excuse for a man just how good I made you feel." Trevor instructed, his own thrusts becoming sloppier.

Trevor's words made Jynx spill over the edge for the second time, coming hard around Trevor's cock while moaning the older's man name loudly. His walls squeezed Trevor harder, making him grunt against Jynx's shoulder. He thrusted one last time hard and deep inside of Jynx, allowing him to empty deep inside of Jynx.

Light thrusts went in and out of Jynx as the two rode out their high together. Trevor let go of Jynx's thighs and moved to wrap around the smaller's waist. He grabbed his face and kiss him deeply as he moved the younger to lay down on the couch. "Such a good boy you were. Rest a moment while I deal with this peeping tom."

Trevor turned his attention back to Jynx's ex, puting his pants back on before moving to undo the bindings. "Come on big man, you've had a good enough last show, time to get your real punishment." Trevor dragged the other male outside, blowing a kiss to Jynx as he did.

Jynx only laughed lightly, accepting the air kiss before moving to sit up and attempting to get up and clean himself up, only to fail and land on the floor. "I'll wait until he comes back." He thought out loud.

______________________________________________________________

"Drooling on the set to feel you, blessing you with every kiss."

[hiatusdeity]

hannibal who kills a person, not noticing a witness watching him idly.

tw(s) for: gore, death, violence, transphobia

reader/inserted character is a trans man.

hannibal is meticulously carving the body apart, putting it on a crimson display, which was white before the blood splattered on it. he decides to castrate the body, piling the genitals into the corpse’s mouth. he picks the flowers he bought earlier, placing the black dahlias and black roses on where his genitals used to be. he’s mocking him, angels have no genitals, but angels aren’t covered in bad omens and a sliced penis in their mouth.

when he’s done, he wipes his hands on a hankerchief, despite being in his plastic sheet. it takes him a second to notice the figure sitting on a chair in the next room, they almost seem complacent. “i knew he’d get himself killed one day, what a relief” they said with lips slowly upturning, “i was actually days away from doing it myself.”

hannibal turns, unknowingly circling his prey, it’s a form of habit now. “ah, what a surprise. i didn’t notice you.” he almost lets a frown slip, he’s never this inconsiderate of the environment as he ends another’s life. the silence is loud, but hannibal is used to all sorts of noise. the unidentified stranger is still quite unfazed, even by the wafting stench of blood floating through the house. “i’m afraid i’m unfamiliar with you who are.” hannibal settled with, he was curious after all, he loved being curious.

“that’s alright, most people are unaware of my existence, im the estranged son of that, fuck.” they pointed to the presented corpse, who even displayed, looked ugly.

“estranged?” hannibal pressed, you couldn’t leave dr lecter on a cliffhanger.

“i came out as trans years ago, he kicked me out and disowned me. i came back for my stuff through the window, he never let me come back here. imagine my surprise when i find the very man i hate to be killed as i climb through, it was, a gift.” the other man spoke, he was calm and collected even with the knowledge hannibal was most likely to murder him too.

“i’ve never been a fan of politicians, he was very distasteful.” hannibal said absentmindedly, pulling out a chair to sit opposite the younger man, the table was cleared, apart from a cream table cloth and candles adorning each end. “you know what i have to do now don’t you?“

the younger man leant forward, “i have a favour to ask of you, chesapeake ripper.” he wasn’t afraid, he seemed more at peace than anything.

“oh? do enlighten me.” hannibal tilted his head in questioning, his lips lifting in interest, he was finally having a conversation with someone intriguing, someone morally grey

“do my top surgery before killing me. slice open this god awful chest and let me see who i really am” he started removing his shirt, unfastening the buttons with nimble fingers, and then came the binder, which had freed him but reminded him he was trapped too. when his bare chest laid before hannibal, he sighed.

hannibal was stunned, truly stunned. that he debated on not killing the man before him with scared breasts from when he tried to possibly cut them off himself. “of course.” he reached into the box he brought with him, previously filled with flowers, and pulled out a sedative. “can you lay on the table for me?”

wordlessly the other male did so, closing his eyes gently. hannibal thought it to be quite beautiful that he was willing for his life to be taken, by the man who’d set him free from dysphoria.

“you’ll feel a sharp sting, and then you’ll feel nothing, feel free to sleep while i perform the surgery.”

the other man smiled.

follow and like for a part 2 :)

[whump-cravings]

The Harem - Snap

Masterlist

1.5k words | The Harem - AU of The Royal Three (original work) - this is pretty far into Hakon's imprisonment at the Vusen palace as a member of the royal harem. He was recently subject to a vicious gang-rape and has gone mute and compliant.

Content: public self genital mutilation, heavily referenced noncon, long-term captivity, forced surgery

taglist: @nabanna @emcscared-whumps @suspicious-whumping-egg @i-can-even-burn-salad @mylifeisonthebookshelf @thecyrulik @honey-is-mesi @spookyceph @melennui

Hakon was thinner.

Out the corner of his eye, Sevae watched the man docilely refill empty cups, drifting around the table. He never sought out Sevae's eyes anymore. The bruises, previously a constant, had all but faded, which Sevae supposed was... good.

Except it meant he wasn't fighting back anymore.

"I humbly ask again for custody of the foreign prince," Sevae had said, kneeling before his queen.

"We settled this matter months ago, lieutenant general," Queen Hemuh said. "Why now? Naetehu's finally reformed him into a model citizen."

"Forgive me for impertinence, my queen, but his altered behavior is the cause of my concern. A prisoner subject to extreme stress over a prolonged period is—"

The queen gave a dismissive scoff. "An outlet for manly urges and moderate correction is hardly 'extreme stress.'"

Sevae bit his cheek to keep anger contained, eyes trained on the steps to the throne. What callous words, what casual cruelty. Had he truly once admired these people?

"Be as that may, your majesty," he tried once more, for Hakon, "I expect that this is but a precursor to far more worrisome behavior."

"Perhaps," she said dubiously. "But for now, you may bring your concerns to my son. It is not befitting for a man of your station to subvert the proper channels of authority."

Bitter frustration on his tongue, Sevae bowed his head further at the chastising dismissal.

Sevae stabbed at a cut of boar, hand tightening at the memory. Prince Naetehu would not so much as grant him an audience since that first time Sevae had approached him with 'concerns.' It was hard enough to secure time with Hakon, who didn't have the power to turn him away.

"Your mind seems elsewhere today," Ebaeru commented.

Realizing the woman had been speaking for the last minute or so, Sevae grimaced. "Apologies. You were saying?" This was hardly the time to allow alliances to dwindle from inattention.

"No worries, friend," his dinner companion said. "Could your distraction have something to do with your recent audience with the queen?"

Sevae shifted with a tilting acknowledgment of his head and a tight smile. "You read my mind, madam. It is not a subject for polite conversation, I'm afraid."

"Ah, I see," she said. "Perhaps you can—"

A scream set Sevae's blood pumping, his shield bumping up against others as the war mages in attendance instinctively threw up protection. Already on his feet, Sevae looked towards the source. Nobles were backing up from a scene, which Sevae was only able to glimpse.

Hakon laid on the ground in a fetal position, blood pooling out below him.

Sevae's heart bottomed out in his stomach. Taking up a silver knife, he used his chair as step a to leap onto and over the table. As he encountered resistance from another's shield, he slashed through it with his knife, driving a wedge of magic into the opening to allow him passage.

He fell to his knees while running, sliding the remaining distance to Hakon's side. "What happened?!" He directed this question upward at the table of pale-faced nobles as he grabbed Hakon's shoulder to lay him flat.

"He just—he cut it off," Lord Rethu exclaimed.

Hakon gave a weak laugh as his body unfolded, a knife slipping from his hand. The blood was concentrated about his groin. Sevae severed the waistband of the soaked harem skirt, finding only gore where Hakon's manhood ought to be.

"Put your shields down," Doctor Cecel called. "Let me through!"

Horror rose up and Sevae shoved it aside, forcing himself into a clinical mindset as he spread a barrier across the gaping wound. Contouring to the body slowed him down, but he swiftly ensured the entire injury was covered, keeping the blood contained much like skin.

"Where is it?" Naetehu's voice rose above everything else. "Find it!"

Sevae wanted to shake Hakon, to ask what on earth he was thinking, but that was obvious, wasn't it? He shrugged out of his jacket to lay it upon Hakon, both for the man's dignity—whatever was left of it—and to keep him warm in light of the blood loss and shock.

"Prince Hakon," Sevae said, grasping the man's shoulder.

The foreign prince looked at him, mouth twisted in some mockery of a smile. "Hurts more than I expected," he remarked deliriously.

Words of comfort settled on the front of Sevae's tongue, but what could he say that would truly bring hope? I am working towards your freedom, I swear. Hang on.

But his efforts could never have come to fruition soon enough to spare Hakon from hell.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered as the doctor finally made it to Hakon's side. The woman knelt as well, flipping back the now-bloodied jacket to examine the injury, stone-faced.

"Good work," she said to Sevae. "You may have saved his life."

For what good that does him.

"There it is," someone cried, and Sevae lifted his head to see Naetehu marching to retrieve the severed part.

Rage surged through him, heat burning in his chest and pressure constricting his head. Hakon had wounded himself, had almost bled out, and Naetehu's greatest concern was having him in one piece.

Seldom did Sevae find himself so overcome, but he found himself shaking from the force of his fury, jaw creaking. What he wouldn't give to switch which prince laid on the ground, to take Hakon from this place, to tear down this corrupt nation.

"Friend," Ebaeru's voice commented, hand settling cautiously on Sevae's shoulder. "You've done what you can." Her tone conveyed an unsaid message: it's not the time.

The much-needed anchor to reality let Sevae breathe and loosen his fists, nodding as he stood and stepped back. Two people arrived with a stretcher, perhaps having been sent by the doctor as soon as she saw the commotion. With minimal resistance, Hakon was loaded onto it, along with his manhood wrapped in a napkin.

As Hakon was carried away, Sevae mustered strength to go before his monarchs. He sank to his blood-soaked knees, raising his eyes to meet the king's. He needed not speak his request again; they knew his desire well enough.

Gazing with displeasure at the scene and his son, King Aeret gave a sigh as he met Sevae's gaze. He glanced to his wife, whose expression was similarly displeased. She dropped her napkin across her plate before standing.

"Your petition is granted, Sir Sevae," she said. "You are entrusted with the custody and well-being of Prince Hakon of Ironda."

"What?" Naetehu said. "He's mine! You can't—" The prince flinched as Aeret pierced him with a look. Frustration flashed on his face, mouth twisting, before he stormed out the doors.

"What a mess," the queen muttered as she turned away from the table.

King Aeret picked up his utensils. Glancing at Sevae, his voice spoke to the lieutenant general's mind before he went on to finish his meal. - See to it that this does not happen again.

Sevae bowed his head before taking his leave.

***

"How is he?" Sevae asked, standing as Doctor Cecel stepped into the waiting room.

"It's reattached," Doctor Cecel said, wiping her hands on a cloth, smock spattered with blood. "We'll know with certainty within a few days whether the stitching took, though who knows about functionality. He's still sedated."

Relief rushed through Sevae. "May I see him?"

"Elme and Cudul are about to trundle him back to the harem, so—"

"Not the harem," Sevae said. Never again. "My quarters. I've been granted custody."

"Oh?" Doctor Cecel gave him an appraising look. "Good." She sighed, tucking the rag into the pocket of her smock. "That's good." She folded her arms as she looked at the floor, lips pressed thin, and silence hung in the air.

"It's too little too late, isn't it?" Sevae said softly.

She nodded. "I've seen this sort of thing in veterans before, and it usually isn't a one-time occurrence. You'll need to monitor him closely."

Her two assistants appeared then with a sleeping Hakon on a stretcher, and Cecel said, "Right. Well, the boys will let you know how to tend to him for the next few days, and of course I'll be by daily to check on him. Off you go."

After Sevae and the assistants got Hakon set up in Sevae's bed and Elme and Cudul delivered care instructions, Sevae thanked them and sent them on their way. Finally, quiet descended.

He took the chair from his desk, carrying it to the bedside. Hakon looked... so peaceful in his sleep. Sevae reached out, intending to brush a lock of hair from his face, but hesitated before he could make contact. Hakon had been touched so much against his will.

Sevae dropped his hand. "I'm so sorry," he whispered into the silence. "Had I known it would turn out this way, I would have..." Leaning forward, he cradled his head in his hands.

I would have never taken you alive.

You were right. I regret it.

[twsupernaturalimagine]

Hold On

Author: stressed-zoe

Summary: A hunt with the boys had gone terribly wrong, and you blamed yourself. Based loosely on the song “Hold On” by Chord Overstreet

Word Count: 1,028

Warnings: death, depression, self harm, suicide, swearing

Fic:

your fault.

its all your fault.

she died. because of you.

its your fault.

You went on a hunt with Sam and Dean. It was simple, a ghost in someone’s house. But when you got there, it turned out it wasn’t any old ghost, it was a nasty demon. Everything had gone wrong. So so wrong. And it was your fault. You got distracted, and someone innocent had died because of it. The brothers were hurt. Dean had nearly broken his shoulder and a couple ribs. Sam got shot in the leg and has a dislocated elbow.

You barely had a scratch.

The car ride home from the hospital was unbearable. You could barely hold in the sobs. Sam and Dean told you numerous times it wasn’t your fault, it’s all part of the life. But you wouldn’t listen, you couldn’t. If you were just a few seconds quicker, just a little more attentive, you could’ve saved that poor girl’s life. But she had to suffer, because you were too slow.

You should be dead. Not her.

When you got back to the bunker you immediately ran to your room, not bothering to hold in your cries. it didn’t matter if they heard you, you’d be done soon, and it would be over.

You got to your room and slammed the door, locking it behind you. You could hear the brothers calling your name. But you didn’t care. You sank to the floor, letting the tears flow. You couldn’t handle it. You heard Sam and Dean approaching your room, so you ran into your bathroom and locked he door. By this point, you had no more tears to shed, all that as left was the dry, choking sobs.

Taped behind the toilet was a small envelope, it was where you kept your razors. It was the best place you could hide them so the brothers couldn’t find out. You grabbed the envelope and took out the sharpest razor. Marveling at how shiny and cold it felt. You heard the brothers break into your room, calling your name. You were running out of the time.

You had already thrown on some shorts, so with one deep breath, you made one long horizontal cut on your thigh. That was just the beginning. You kept cutting, and the tears started again. Soon you were full on sobbing, not paying attention to were you were cutting. If it wasn’t red, you cut it. Soon you felt dizzy, and noticed you had stopped crying, stopped cutting, and you were laying on the floor. 

Then you heard a crash.

“NO!!”

[Dean’s P.O.V.]

No, no,no, no, no. 

You’re lying on the floor, in a pool of your own blood. You’re barely conscious.

He picked you up and felt for a heartbeat, anything. After a few seconds he could feel it barely working.

“Oh god, (Y/N), hold on. Sam, get the car ready.”

Why her. Why did it have to be her.

“Come on (Y/N), come back to me, hold on.”

He grabbed some towels, trying to stop the blood as much as he could. He could see all of the old cuts. The ones that had healed, leaving nothing but scars now, the ones that had mostly healed but were still red and scabbed. Then there were the ones from the night before--now reopened from the aggressive cuts made tonight.

“Shit, (Y/N),” Dean muttered.

He picked you up, trying his best not to disturb anything, and carried you as quickly and carefully as he could with his shoulder injured how it was.

“It’s OK (Y/N), it’s all gonna be OK. Please don’t leave me. Just hold on.”

When you finally arrived at the hospital, Dean almost couldn’t let go of you, screaming as they took you away on a table. He paced back and forth the while they were operating. They had taken you into surgery. Sam was almost silent. Dean didn’t know if he was trying to be strong, or if he was so broken he couldn’t do anything.

The doctor finally let them visit you. When they saw you, Sam finally started crying, Dean was sobbing. You looked so broken and frail. The heart monitor beeped slowly, barely steady.

Dean didn’t sleep that night, all he could think about was why you would do this. You must not have realized how much you meant to the brothers. He felt guilty, he should’ve been there to help you. 

“Please….(Y/N)….don’t go. I just want to take you home. Come back, I need you.” 

Out of no where, your body seized, and the heart monitor started beeping rapidly.

“NURSE!!”

There was nothing he could do. You were dying.

“NURSES!! HURRY!!”

Sam was awake now. He ran off to find someone.

When he came back moments later, a group of about a dozen doctors and nurses followed him. They had the boys stand by the door while the doctors tried anything to save you. 

“(Y/N)!” Dean choked out. He couldn’t bear to watch this, but he did anyway. Just in case you would miraculously wake up, and everything would be OK.

The heart monitor was going even faster now. 

Then it stopped.

A flat line.

Dean broke down. He fell to his knees. 

He  would never get to hear you laugh at one of Sam’s dumb nerd jokes. 

He would never get to hear you sing some old rock song while driving in the Impala. 

He would never walk into the kitchen and see you dancing and singing while making breakfast for everybody.

He would never see you freaking out at some dog on the street or some picture of a guinea pig Cas had shown you.

He would never get to see you again. 

He would never get to enjoy the things he loved about you.

He would never get to tell you how much he had loved you.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

Dean looked up, amazed. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. You were alive. The doctors started yelling again, he and Sam stood up, jaws dropped, awe in there eyes.

You had decided to fight. 

You had decided to live.

[wikifido]

Prolouge (One Year Ago)

The Curse is over.

The Curse that starved towns, prompted wars, and took her father is over.

A layer of sweat and ash clings to Duvanith’s face and hair as she stumbles away from the chamber featuring the now-destroyed source of the Wasting Curse. Screams, clattering steel, and loud eruptions of arcane spells echo through the hallway she limps down. The curse was over, but the necromantic Magus that was its progenitor wasn’t, and he cut swaths through the makeshift Adventuring Company that had ended his wicked scheme. 

The hallway eventually gives way to a familiar chamber, the one where not but an hour ago. The withered remains of the fairytale-like crones that had nurtured the Magus’s Curse in his absence were still where she had helped cut them down. She leans against the chamber wall, digs around in her satchel bag, and retrieves a squat chalice with encrusted gems along its stem topped with an unbleached but heavily lacquered human skull.

The Skull Chalice Mwaxanare’s symbol of office as Queen of Choilt

Duvaniths pointed ears perked up; the sounds of fighting in the other chamber had stopped. Duvanith frantically darts her eyes around the room over the crone's body, a table covered in alchemical and spellcasting materials, a cage in the corner, and the barricaded door on the balcony. Her eyes linger on the door momentarily before she pushes herself off the wall and limps towards one of the crone's bodies. 

She draws her dagger, kneels next to the rank corpse, and uses the flat of her blade to lift one of the crone’s cloaks from the floor. She places the Chalice beneath it and lets the cloak resettle to the floor. 

Approaching footsteps echo from the hallway behind her. 

Duvanith quickly fishes her hand into the interior pocket of her red cropped jacket; from it, she pulls a pressed, well-loved, white, and purple orchid. She lays it on the crone’s body, rises to her feet, and turns to face the approaching figure.

Two pinpricks of light shine out from the Magus’s eye sockets; his skin was dehydrated, rotted tight across his skull. 

“It’s just us now, elf.” He says with a raspy edge. 

Duvanith looks him over, finding blood on the edges of his long purple robe, which likely belonged to her Adventuring Companions. 

She was fast, but this magus’s lair had locked them in hours ago, and she only knew of one way out. 

Her eyes darted to the barricaded door again, and she didn’t have time for major surgery with the magus here. 

“Saved the best for the last rot-mouth?” She says as she erupts into a sprint and switches the grip on her knife; a bright, magical flame leaps from the blade as it carves through the air.

As fast as she is, the Magus is faster; in the blink of an eye, he brings his staff across his body and deflects the blow away with a strength Duvanith hadn’t expected, sending her tumbling to the floor. 

“Pathetic.” the Magus mutters as he swings the staff down hard as Duvanith clambers to get back up.

The swing strikes hard down on Duvaniths collarbone; a crunching noise accompanies a momentary burst of sudden pain. She screams in pain before her adrenaline pushes her through the pain and cries in return. 

“Foiled the plans of a Magus, and all I am is a fucking archer, and you call me pathetic?” 

She swung her dagger again, her now decimated collar bone doing her no favors in placing force behind the strike, but she didn’t need to; she knew his speed now. Once she saw his staff begin to move, she tossed the dagger, shot her other hand forward, grabbed the blade out of the air, and plunged it directly into the side of the Magus just as it began alight with magical flame.      

The Magus screams out in agony, writhing backward. He recovers just as fast as Duvanith had, his eyes narrow. Black tar-like blood now permeated the robe near the stab site. He then swings his staff at Duvanith, landing a brutal strike on her chin, causing her to get splayed out on her back. 

She swallows a mouthful of blood and looks at the Magus as he draws his staff back for another heavy swing. 

“Fuck you.” She utters as she watches the staff start to come down, and then the world goes black.

[irrfahrer]

“WHAT?!?!” (from Siri because she totally has 100090th weapons at all times with her)

A Scene: Our Muses are eagerly stripping each other and are clearly about to bone, but they keep getting interrupted by finding carefully concealed weapons in each others clothing. They keep unholstering, revealing and unstrapping increasingly ridiculous amounts of hidden guns | knives and other weapons as the clothes come off- It starts killing the mood.

Send “ANOTHER?!?!” for your Muse (Sended the Ask) to find another weapon on my Muse (Reciever) !

Send “WHAT?!?!” for my Muse (Reciever) to find another weapon on your Muse (Sended the Ask) !

Bonus: Add which kind of Weapon they find! The more ridiculous and impossible to hide under ones clothes, the better!

The noises of quiet chuckling, surpressed laughter and rustled of clothes was suddenly disturbed by a alerted cheep from the tynnan. Lacing on her back on the sleepingmat Zivs small paws grasped for Siris thin shoulders and gently pushed her off a little to look at the heavy knife that had fallen out of the other womans tunic on Zivs furred chest where it lay shimmering in the low eveninglight falling into the small chamber. The Tynnan blinked and gawked at the knife on her chest like one would look at every ugly, very big insect. "-okay listen, I am all for things poking me when its about making out, but usually those things are claws, teeth, feathers, wirey hair and some bodyparts that you do not have, but you know, I have nothing against claws and sharp teeth that can be some kriffing fun, but the fun really stops if its a krififng knife the lenght of my kriffing arm.", Still with her small paws on the other womans shoulders she stretched her neck to look into Siris face with her ears jolted up against the sleepingmat as if she was an startled animal. The small chamber around them lay quietly in the eveninglight, long shadows drew black like cole dark lines on the grey walls, the sleepingmat, the desk and bags on the floor.

"Like, seriously, how the Kriff did you hid that?! Love, Flower, Pumpkin, Darling, Baby, Nebula-Orchid, Pup, Light of my kriffing kriffed up life, Mate- I did worked as a surgeon and had to pluck out knifes this size out of peoples guts, but you are nether laying on my krififng surgery table, nor are you having your guts cut open, so where the Kriff-", she looked back at her stomach at the knife laying on her fur and then back at Siris face and the open cleavage of her tunic, suddenly with a pained grimace twisting her face as if she was a kicked loth-cat when she chirped: "...do I even want to know...? Kriff praise yourself and be proud, you made the kriffing Healer who knows everything about the kriffed up anatomy of every alien in the Galaxy, kriffing scared about knowing things about your body."

[ @stillfocvsed ]

[real-jane]

drifting (13) *end*

[cw!bucky barnes x female!reader]

summary: bucky saves the life of a woman when she’s buried in an avalanche. faced with the possibility that his cover might be blown, bucky must keep the woman alive, and try to keep her from finding out who he is… or what he’s done.

how long can he hide?

warnings: emotions. lots of 'em. fluff abounding. nick fury goes soft. author entirely ignores consequences.

word count: 6.7k+

a/n: this is the end, my loves! thank you so much for your patience as i finish this last installment. there will be an epilogue, but here's where the main story leaves us.

series masterlist

***

Arnim Zola has always been an unimposing man, but something about seeing him stretched out on a cold metal table makes him seem unimportant. His face is slack; the beaded glue at the corners of his eyes indicates they’ve already been sealed shut by the coroner, as have his lips (which pull at the center because of gravity, giving him a thin grimace). Though he was killed because Soldat snapped his neck, there is evidence this wasn’t the only injury to his person. But Bucky can’t say, or won’t—something she doesn’t begrudge him for considering the amount of trauma Arnim Zola put them both through—so the visible blood is set dressing.

Her father, head of HYDRA, blooms a ruddy brown stain beneath his solar plexus.

She isn’t sure why she asked to see him, except his death isn’t real until she has. After everything she and Bucky went through, the man responsible for it all is… a sack of bones and skin. A shell. A hollow victory. Whatever being lived in that body had at one time been quite caring to her, and that’s why it rankles. But she didn’t know, when he read to her of hobbits and wizards, just how evil he was.

Helmut Zemo was not to be trusted, but why would he have lied about something so horrible? “He wanted to discern if the Asset could still feel.”

Who in their right mind would ever accuse James Barnes of being unfeeling? Surely not the man who held her face in his hands before the nurse took him back into surgery and said “I’ll be fine. I promise. I’m okay, doll, I won’t be long,” before kissing her forehead like he had just told her he was going off to war, and he’d be home once the whole thing had blown over. In reality, even when he was the Asset, he was emotional. It wasn’t apparent at first, but once she cracked his shell, he was intense. Now, he is careful with her, but he still feels his emotions on a full spectrum.

She hopes Bucky isn’t panicked, being alone in the OR with a strange doctor and beeping machines. Dr. Banner won’t have to cut into him, or draw any blood to remove his arm, based on what Nat said. Still. Imagining him going catatonic given his current post-triggered state has her pacing in the morgue.

The fact that her father lays on the table before her hasn’t sunken in. The last time she saw him, she was his Mark. No longer. Y/n braces her hands on the cold metal beside her father as a red memory flashes.

Nothing is sacred. His final words to her before forcing Soldat to dig his knife into her belly.

“Some things are sacred, Папа. Despite everything you did?” She clicks her tongue. “You never could touch Bucky’s goodness. I bet that killed you. Knowing your experiment backfired. Not only did your ultimate soldier fall in love with your little girl–it didn’t end in Belarus. 

“I remember how you talked about him, when you thought I was asleep. I would sneak out of bed, and sit outside your office door and listen. You worshiped Soldat like a god. One time–” Y/n is caught off guard by the wave of clarity in the memories unlocked. She scrubs a hand over her face. 

“One time he came through the door and I wasn’t expecting it. He scooped me up and put me back to bed. I turned nineteen days prior. You forgot. He didn’t. He had been standing behind you, while you lorded over some peon agent, folding me a rabbit out of paper.”

With hair shorter than it is now, falling into his eyes, Bucky had knelt beside her cot (which was once again located in solitary confinement after an outburst had led to isolating punishment) and handed over his gift. She hadn’t known his name back then. He hadn’t been able to recall it himself. But he knew hers, and he whispered С днем рождения, and tucked the paper rabbit between her fingers. 

“He hadn’t even kissed me yet,” Y/n sighs. “But he was so gentle. He knew you’d be furious if you found me listening at the keyhole, but I was so desperate for any attention from you, I didn’t care. I was finally an adult… waiting for you to remember me. Well. You did. When I was part of your quest to make sure your soldier was unbreakable. 

“I don’t hate you for it, I wish I did–but maybe in your fucked up way, that was the last way you knew how to show me you loved me. That man has given me more reason to live than you ever did, for all your idioms about love being honest and kind. You were right. If only you could’ve been my doting parent instead of this ugly person. My Папа. You were everything to me until I was old enough to manipulate–mother and father. Now you’re a corpse.

“That’s–that isn’t true. I had Nat. Thank god she got out. You know what’s really sad?” She shrugs. “Nobody’s left to bury you. They asked me what I’d like done with your body, as if I even get a say. You’re gonna go to a body farm in upstate New York so students can study you. Because, see–I don’t think you earned a peaceful rest, and forgiveness wasn’t a value you instilled in me.”

As angry as she feels, it’s grief which wrings her ribcage. Despite everything, it is desperately sad to know that he’s well and truly gone. “Я тебя люблю, Папа.” Because she does love him. The line between such affection and hatred is fuzzy.  

She covers the face of the man who shares half her DNA with the sheet. When she turns on her heel and meets Natasha at the door, she leaves behind the lion’s share of resentment. In its place, she only has one remaining emotion for Arnim Zola. Sadness.

***

Bruce Banner is a deft hand with a laser pointer. It doesn’t require sedation for the titanium cybernetic weapon to be removed from the housing fused with Bucky’s shoulder; an hour of Banner’s diligence with a tool of his own invention, carving away wires and severing connections, and the implant is no longer attached to his body. The doctor takes extra care to be sure that his socket bears no exposed wires, and a nurse plops a set of clean sweats into Bucky’s lap.

A warm bundle of nervous energy collides with his chest as the nurse escorts him back to the med bay waiting room, once he’s given the chance to bathe. She wraps her arms around his waist, and he can’t help but chuckle. Y/n isn’t alone, but Natasha busies herself answering messages to give them the illusion of privacy. Steve is nowhere to be seen.

“How are you?” Y/n asks his sweatshirt. 

Bucky taps her cheek so she’ll look at him. Her eyes are wide, until she reads the look on his face. He can’t quite make the words come to describe how he feels to be permanently separated from the bionic limb, because most of the ones which spring to mind are fragments of the sensation currently coursing through him. The sting in his eyes betrays some kind of relief, or grief perhaps. His posture is unbalanced, and almost weak… and free. But still on a precipice between always belonging to HYDRA, so. Bucky attempts to make anything come out of his mouth.

“Конец эры,” she suggests. The end of an era, the most painful road. Her hand hovers over the empty sleeve at his side, and she puts herself to work cuffing it up. He studies her face as whatever thoughts she’s having flicker across her expression. She doesn’t hide her concern, nor does she hide the smile which pulls at her mouth when she clocks his damp hair. 

“They let you clean up. Good,” she huffs. “I hope you got better than the god-awful locker room showers.”

Bucky rubs her arm. “Doesn’t hold a candle to the cabin’s water pressure, does it?”

“Suppose HYDRA did one thing right, in all this.” She tries to laugh it off, but she can’t keep eye contact. 

“So it’s confirmed.”

“Nat got the full report. There were cameras,” she says softly. “They must have planted the coordinates in your mind at some point. Maybe gave you the idea during the altercation in St. Louis.”

“Shit.” He looks at the red-head. Natasha nods once when she notices his attention has shifted. She stands, holding out her phone.

“The tech is pedestrian. The cameras took still photographs every thirty seconds. Three cameras in each room, five outside.” Natasha folds her arms.

The photograph on the screen was snapped from above, depicting the living room of the cabin. The quality is grainy. The two of them are seated on the couch, and Y/n’s head is laid against his shoulder. Bucky holds a book in hand, but he’s not looking at it. He’s watching her in curiosity. Bucky glances at her now, and she worries her lip between her teeth. 

“How did you get this?” he asks Natasha.

“There was a thumb drive amongst Zemo’s things. He likely intended to use it as leverage for a lighter punishment, were he to be captured alive.”

“Must be thousands of images,” Bucky says. “How far back do they date?”

“A few days prior to your arrival. Tech estimates there are some forty-thousand just of you two.”

“They saw it all.” 

Bucky hands Natasha her phone back, and squeezes Y/n’s shoulder. “How much have you looked through?”

“None,” she says. “I don’t want to watch us through their eyes.”

“There is one you should see. If nothing else.” Natasha flicks her finger until she finds what she’s referring to. “Maria sent me a few highlights, but this made me proud, Пчёлка.” 

She waits until Y/n gives her consent, and turns the phone to display the photo in question: her, kneeling on Rumlow’s chest with only socks on her feet, pressing a knife to his throat. Her mouth is poised mid-sentence, and Bucky looks on from behind her. 

“You’re probably mouthing off,” Natasha says lovingly.

“Can’t help it,” Y/n laughs. “He brought out the worst in me!” Curiosity gets the best of her and she swipes across the screen. The image prior depicts something else, which Bucky would rather nobody else have access to, especially the suits and egos of SHIELD.

It’s him… clutching her against his chest for dear life, demanding she explain why she had a phone all that time. The camera angle doesn’t allow for his face to be seen, but it does capture her stricken expression. He remembers the way the quilt felt stifling, but not how her legs were twisted up in the sheet. Just his own panic, how his anger rose into a fever pitch even as he held her so tightly her joints might have groaned. 

“How could I know you? Why do I know you–”

“There is only one possible way, but I don’t know. My memory is like Swiss cheese, even after my treatments–”

“How?”

No… The intrusive vision fades back into the past where it belongs. Bucky grasps her wrist and eases the phone out of her hold, which has turned desperate. Natasha takes her device back with a regretful grimace. Y/n’s fingers are frozen open until he slots his in, cradling her palm… she squeezes back in thanks. 

“Definitely don’t want to see more,” she breathes. 

Natasha brushes her arm. “Okay. No need.”

Y/n clears thick emotion from her throat. Bucky hugs her against his chest, his arm draped across her sternum. He kisses the crown of her head the way he wanted to do when he found out she wasn’t who he thought… it was mere days ago, but it might as well be decades. Time never has meant much where she is concerned. Two weeks in isolation together established a lifetime of familiarity, and–

“What now?” she murmurs. Her free hand grips his wrist for purchase. 

“Well–” Natasha’s phone buzzes. She answers promptly. “Yeah? Okay–no, we’ll meet you there. None. Actually…” She trails off, glancing around the med bay, which… the ward is strangely empty. There are no nurses puttering around, no more agents waiting on the fringe with guns trained. In the time it took for Bucky to be released, the medical bay was vacated, and in all the excitement of looking through the footage, she hadn’t noticed. The Black Widow bows her head, a smile pulling at her cheeks, which belies either exasperation or amazement. Maybe both. 

“Nat?” No mistaking the deep voice which calls out into the silence. 

“Steven,” she sighs. “Are you sure?”

He’s practically yelling, like he’s running. His voice is clear as day. “Mind’s made up, sweetheart. Fury said there’s nothing he can do, so. It’s in our hands. The all-assemble alert went out ninety seconds ago, so you have about five minutes to meet me in hangar C before anyone realizes what’s happening.”

“You’re not off the hook.” Nat waves for her two companions to hasten towards the stairwell. 

“I’ll think of more ways to make it up to you.” 

“Still top of my shit list.”

“At least I’m at the top.” His tone is mischievous, like he’s grinning on the other end of the line. Natasha hangs up on him while rolling her eyes dramatically, but her face is pink.

She shoulders the door open and leads them at a bracing pace, down four flights of stairs to the bottom floor. Bucky allows himself an instant of amusement over the fact that he and Y/n are in matching sweats. It’s almost precious (if such a word can describe Bucky Barnes). Dueling blues with SHIELD printed on their arms and legs, looking like they’re about to lead some kind of aerobics class. She peeks back at him for the millionth time to make sure he’s at her heels, and catches him with his eyes glazed over, and Bucky’s suddenly aware they’re being led down a dark corridor in the basement of the compound. 

“Nat–clue us in?” Y/n asks, when her sister-in-arms wrenches open yet another gray door with no window and ushers them through. The red head smirks.

“Fury can’t–won't help. So. We’ve progressed to Plan B.”

“Steve’s just gotten a pardon. He’s really willing to risk it?”

“Yes. He’s trying.”

“Natasha. Бабочка–”

“Stop. We only have about two minutes.” 

They tumble out of a heavier door (which requires Bucky’s kick to force open, between rust and painted-over hinges) into a small hangar. Natasha breaks into a sprint, heading for a quinjet, one of only three aircraft being housed in the veritable warehouse. Overhead, a loud alarm starts to blare.

Natasha winces. “Shit–pick up the pace!” 

The engines of the jet roar to life. Natasha slams her fist into a button beside the belly hatch of the jet, but she’s not quick enough for the rush of agents, pouring through the door which had allowed them into the hangar and another one at the opposite end. The grand door rises slowly, while Natasha puts herself between Bucky, Y/n, and the agents. A heavy hand lands on Bucky’s shoulder.

“Get in, you two.” Steve. With his arm bandaged, wearing a flight suit. 

“Do what he says,” Natasha barks over her shoulder.

Y/n shakes her head in disbelief. “This is crazy–”

“Bee, I love you, get on the fucking airplane.” Natasha brandishes her guns as if she personally can take on a passel of SHIELD agents. Bucky doesn’t need to be told twice, so he hops inside the aircraft and tugs Y/n up behind him. Steve gives him a salute. 

“Natasha?” Cap calls expectantly.

“Go, Rogers!” 

“I’m infirm, sweets. I was recently on morphine. Should I really be flying this thing?”

“Swear to god,” she grumbles. She looks back at Steve with a hard stare. He points to the empty bucket seat beside him with an innocent, pleading smile. It takes her a split-second of exasperation to decide. Then she slams the closing mechanism for the plane at the same moment Steve begins driving forward. Nat grabs his face and kisses him. Hard. She sits, buckles herself in, and flicks the switches Steve can’t reach, given his bandaged arm. 

“Why aren’t they shooting?” Bucky breathes. 

Steve gestures to the open hangar door. Standing in the doorway, with his arms crossed… in equally casual sweats, with sunglasses on (and a bandage taped from temple to nape), stands Nick Fury. He raises a hand to his ear. Nat’s phone rings.

She lets out a long sigh. Steve extends his hand to accept the responsibility, but she answers on speakerphone, for the benefit of the whole cabin.

“Nick.”

“What are you doing?”

“He needs help.”

“Do you know how many conventions you’re breaking–he’s an international fugitive.”

“He was a prisoner of war, Nick,” Natasha scoffs. 

“You couldn’t wait an hour for me?” He throws his hands up in annoyance. “I’m reasonable. I’m worried about Senator Payne, I had to make sure word hadn’t reached him yet. And that T’challa was prepared to accept a fugitive into his protection. Again.”

Steve’s mouth drops open. “Sir–you told me you couldn’t help him.”

“What can I do, Rogers? I’m a pencil pusher. I’m not a doctor. What use is Nicholas Fury to a man who needs real medical help?” Fury scoffs. “But our allies in Wakanda have a pretty clear idea how to treat him. If you had been patient… waited for me to finish making arrangements, you would be aware that the King has accepted my request to give Barnes asylum.”

Bucky’s heartbeat roars in his ears, and he can’t make out anything else but the thrum of his blood. But there are fingers in his, clasped, keeping him grounded. The trade of Steve and Natasha’s voices bounce around in his brain. 

“So he’s free–” Steve sounds ready to cry.

“As long as he surrenders himself into Wakanda’s care, he’s not my biggest concern. Seems I’ve had a rat in my ranks, and who knows how long it will take to suss out if Rumlow had devotees.”

“So.”

“Email me your flight plan, so this is slightly above board? I hate doing anything under the table.”

Natasha snorts. “Says the man who faked his own death.”

“Don’t give me a reason to turn that jet around,” Fury chuckled. “Go. I’ll speak to you once you land.”

Y/n’s head falls against Bucky’s shoulder in relief. Steve turns, best as he can given his bandages, and he smiles at his dearest friend. 

“Ready, Buck? It’s gonna be about… two hours in the air.”

“And then…?”

“First,” Y/n says, drawing his attention, “they’ll probably put you into cryostasis for a few days to calm your nervous system. That’s what they did for me. Your body is probably in crisis mode. It’s not safe to start treatment until your cortisol levels are low…” 

She continues explaining what’s supposedly going to happen to him once they reach their final destination, but all Bucky can do is lay his head back and study her. She leans towards him, absently finding the highs and valleys of his knuckles with the finely-filed points of her nails. There is something about her expression–sad, determined to comfort him, panicked… Bucky pulls her hand, tugging, tugging, until she stumbles forward and catches herself on his knee. Y/n’s glassy eyes stare up at him. He winds his arm around her waist to steady her.

“Jamie,” she whimpers. He noses her cheek.

“You’re sad.”

“No, I–no.” She plays with the strings on his hood so she doesn’t have to look him in the eye. “They let me see him.” Her voice is pained. “I’m… I know he is better off dead. But I just–”

“Zola?”

“Yeah. I feel awful. And all I want–all I really need in this world is for you to be okay. I shouldn’t think about him.”

“He’s still your father,” Bucky finished. 

She nodded. “Is it terrible? That I’m heartbroken.”

He adjusts her so she’s seated on his lap. “I don’t think it has to be bad. Or good. It can just… be. Right?” 

Her eyes flicker from side to side as she studies him. She keeps looking at his mouth, but their proximity to their companions on the small jet keeps him from kissing the sad expression off her face. She tucks his hair behind his ears. 

“Mm. I miss being off the grid,” she says lowly. “When this is all over, let’s go away.”

“Wherever you want.” Bucky graces her bottom lip with his thumb. “You could teach me more recipes.”

That entices a smile from her. “What do you want to learn?”

“Anything.”

“Prepare for departure.” Natasha’s voice startles Y/n from his lap, but she already seems less dour. They buckle themselves in.

What else could they have, if they go someplace far away? In a house that belongs to her, what would she want–what else could he give her? Is this possible? Bucky has never imagined having a future in order to plan for it, but. What if?

“Bookshelves?” he breathes.

She laughs. “What?”

“Do you want bookshelves?” Bucky repeats. The jet rumbles along the runway unimpeded, but the force of the movement makes all four of them lean back.

“Hmm. Yeah,” she smiles. “For your four books.”

“It’s aspirational. If I have to build them with one arm, so be it. Besides, you can put stuff on them, too.”

She shakes her head. “I don’t have anything of my own. I left it all in Belarus, and I haven’t had a chance to accumulate anything since.”

“Oh. I—nothing? Then, um. We will find you things. What do you want?”

“I want it all, Jamie,” she whispers. “If you wanna live in an apartment in Brooklyn, let’s go. Cave in Iceland? I’m there. Books, burnt pasta, six feet of snow. Doesn’t matter. As long as you’re there, and you’re okay.”

Her sweet words hit him square in the chest. He can’t help but smile. “This Shuri… she’s gonna help.”

“Mhm.”

“And you’re going to stay–”

“Barnes,” Natasha interrupts, “if you think anybody could keep her from your side, you’ve got another thing coming.”

Y/n winces from embarrassment. Bucky leans over to feel the heat of her cheek against his lips. “I’m persistent,” she admits.

“Stubborn, more like.” Nat winks over her shoulder. 

“Cleared for takeoff, Cap.” The voice over the comm speaks curtly. 

“Ready?” Steve asks. 

Bucky looks to Y/n, and she smiles in encouragement. “Guess so.”

And though Bucky is entirely unprepared for whatever is supposed to be waiting for him in Wakanda, he closes his eyes. He fixates on the shelves he’s going to build for her, and mostly the fact that he’s never picked up a hammer in his life but that he can learn. Apparently he’s going to have a life of his own, where his major concerns might be learning to cook from a beautiful woman (who is even lovelier in his jeans), and finding things to do which don’t include dirty work for major terrorist organizations. Imagine that.

***

Whatever he expects out of Wakanda, his expectations are blown out of the water. Not the least because the moment they land on the grand rotunda, they are met by the King, himself… and a young woman who launches herself at Y/n for a hug which nearly has them both toppling over. The laughter is joyous. The other woman says something in her ear, which makes Y/n peek back at Bucky and extend her hand to him. 

They’re led through a palace, and he isn’t one hundred percent certain his feet are on the ground. At one point, Steve pats his back to make sure he’s alright. Everything is too much. His muscles tug on his bones as his adrenaline finally wears off, for the first time since the safety of the mountain haven–he’s sore. His eyelids strain, he’s sure his eyeballs are bloodshot. Things are too loud. Lights are violently bright. He’s pushed to sit on something with light padding. His breathing is clipped. 

In a second, the room is empty of all other occupants. Her hands are on his cheeks, easing him to lean forward until his forehead is pressed to her shoulder.

She rubs circles at his nape.

“We’re okay,” she soothes. He turns his nose against her neck as if to say I don’t believe you. “Breathe.”

His chest catches on a ragged breath as he tries to match the rise and fall with her body.

“Mmm. Good. They’re gonna help you. You’re safe.”

“Can’t trust my own mind,” he manages, which only summarized a fraction of the paralyzing exhaustion which chips away at his mental walls. 

“Yes you can. James, look at me.” When he does, her eyes are tearful. “You have always fought through the fog. You’re gonna come out of this strong, sweet man.”

“Think so?”

“I know it.”

“And I’m worth… all this–” Bucky gestures broadly to the room he has only begun to take in, what could only be called a hospital room in the most pedestrian of terms because it has windows at least three stories tall. 

“Yes,” she says. 

That’s the beginning and the end of it. He’s heard the finality in that tone before. The shorter her answer, the more certain she is. Bucky is so overwhelmed between the lights and sounds, and the woman, and the possibilities of what’s to come (even though she told him in great detail–he cannot remember one word of the procedure she outlined)... he tucks his hand into her pants pocket and tugs her in between his knees, which makes her laugh and hold him closer. 

“Could use a cigarette,” he says, as evenly as possible given how panic still courses through his veins.

She rolls her eyes. “There he is. You should quit.

“Hm?”

“I’m sure it can’t touch those infallible lungs of yours, but it’s not especially good for your breath. Which I do care about, if you’re curious.” She runs a knuckle over his lips, and he perses them to meet her touch.

“How did we get here?” he mutters.

“Hmm?” 

“Here, doll.” 

“Would you like to be kissed, Jamie? Seems like it.” Her smile curls up at both corners.

“Hmm. My head is killing me, trying to make room for all these new memories–”

“So, yes?”

He narrows his eyes at her lips specifically, which makes them split into a full-on grin. “I could’ve hurt you back there. And you’re concerned about my smoking habit–”

She steals his speech with the softest brush of her mouth against his. “No. You wouldn’t.”

“I stabbed you, once.”

“No… that isn’t what happened.” She levels her face with his so he has to look her in the eye.  “Didn’t matter what orders Zemo gave. You were frozen with your knife digging into my shirt too lightly to ever draw blood. For all the lousy things they put in your head, you wouldn’t hurt me. So. I… forced you. God–you panicked after I lunged forward, you pressed your hand so hard over the wound that I could feel my heart beating against your palm. You got me to Bucharest. I don’t know how. It’s, what–a full day’s drive, if you speed? You must have. On the back of a bike, too.” 

Bucky frowns. But for the life of him, even with the string of new memories, he can’t remember such a thing. All he recalls is holding the knife… and her bleeding. The fact that she made that choice for him stings. Y/n brushes his cheek with her thumb. 

“I knew it wouldn’t end, and I wanted you to be free of me. Because he’d stop lashing out at you, and you’d survive long enough to escape. And–sorry.” She stares up at the ceiling as a wave of emotion hits her. 

“Why are you sorry?”

“I don’t know,” she hiccoughs. “What’s fresh in my head right now is the look you had on your face, knowing you had to leave me in Bucharest so you could protect my cover.”

“You screamed for me,” he realizes. The echo of her call comes to him. 

She swipes at her tears. “Until I was hoarse.”

“Are you…” Bucky scratches his jaw. “I don’t know how to ask this.”

“Ask, Jamie. Please.”

“Are you upset to remember everything?” He braces himself.

“Are you?”

“I haven’t had the luxury of remembering anything for seven decades, doll. Painful as it is. Makes it easier, I think.”

“No more mystery, there. When Zemo was trying to set me off, I was sorting through some precious times we had. Things we got away with,” she says, biting her lip.

“Yeah?”

“I don’t know how we managed it. You spent the night with me! In a girl’s school–more than once!”

“Yes I did,” he says sheepishly, but he can’t help but laugh. He hasn’t had the same amount of clarity about the return of their shared memories–just that they’re still there, in his head, and that they’re accessible. But he does innately know how much he used to risk to be with her. The duality of two separate lives together, both so precious… It's heady. 

Sensing another rush of overwhelm, she kisses his forehead, giving him permission not to rush a walk down memory lane.

Y/n worries the pad of her pointer finger into the crease between his eyebrows until his scowl relents. “I can’t go in there with you,” she murmurs as a nurse comes around the corner with a data tablet in hand, most of her attention focused on an upright bed, which stands at an incline on a silvery base. A glass tube hovers above the bed, ready to slide down over the occupant. “But I’ll be here. Right next to you when they let me, even if you don’t know I’m here.”

“Doll,” Bucky sighs, “I appreciate everything you’re doing to help me relax but… I think it wouldn’t be such a bad idea for you to get looked at, too. Please–please don’t take that the wrong way–”

“Hush, дорогая. I will.”

“Good.” 

“I gotta take care of me if I wanna take care of you.”

“And… that’s something you want?”

“James Barnes,” she laughs, “I’m starting to think you don’t know me at all!”

He growls, wraps his feet behind her knees to keep her close. “I will know you if I lose all my faculties and can only relate by sense. I know your heart, doll–любимая. Oh–Do you like that?” The grin on her face says that she greatly enjoys the idea of being beloved. “I’m scared shitless. I like hearing you say it. Please tell me again.”

Her kiss this time lingers on his plea. “Hear me out: I want you. I like everything about you, even though you snore–see if Shuri can fix your deviated septum while she’s up there, will ya?” Bucky pokes her in the side in retaliation and she squirms in his grasp, but she persists with glee written all over her face. “I’ve always known that I’m complete because of you. How could that change? No–Jamie, ignore the memories of Belarus for a second. Do you realize how much our two weeks in that cabin meant to me? I’ve never had something so intimate as that time. That was you at your most raw, and I wanted two more weeks. It’s not the prospect of you being stable which makes me want you at my side. Okay? I want to look after you because if I don’t, my heart is gonna stop beating. I need you. In every version that may exist, and if there’s a new iteration of James Barnes on the horizon, I will happily greet him with open arms. But you’ll always be my Jamie, yeah? Forever. You’re Steve’s Bucky, but you’re my Jamie. Моя любовь.”

He doesn’t realize that his eyes are wet, too, until she’s cupping his jaw. “Jesus. What are you doing to me?” he chuckles.

She wrinkles her nose. “You’re a sap.”

“Yes, I am.”

“I like it.” 

“Best thing I ever did was dig you outta that snow,” Bucky says, pressing a lingering kiss to her palm.

“You’re loopy.” She nods to the approaching nurse. “Hi.”

“Hello, Ms. Y/L/n. It is good to see you again.” The nurse smiles warmly. “You are looking well. Mr. Barnes–are you amenable to an intravenous drip line? To rehydrate your body before entering cryostasis.”

“How are you with needles?” Y/n asks. 

“Rather not go near ‘em, I–if given the choice.”

“Not a problem,” the nurse says. “We can hydrate you the old fashioned way. Takes longer.”

“He has time.” Y/n clasps his shoulder. 

“Very well.” The nurse takes his vital stats (noting that his blood pressure is a little high), and gives a more thorough explanation about what he’s in for once he steps into that cryo-tube. It makes him flinch away from Y/n’s sympathetic touch. Thinking about being on ice again reminds him what usually comes after. It does help to sip on the water he’s handed, if for no other reason than shifting his focus.

When it’s time to proceed, the nurse invites Bucky to step forward. There’s nobody holding him at gunpoint, or threatening a zap to the temple; in fact, all of the nurses who float in and out of the room are pleasant, and they all seem to know his companion enough for a personal greeting. He may not trust anyone, but he trusts her. So.

She takes his hand and walks backwards, leading him to the chamber. “They’ll put you out before you ever feel the least bit cold,” she tells him, when he involuntarily shivers.

“Remind me how long,” he asks.

“Two days.”

“I can do that.”

“Yeah.” He steps up toe-to-toe with her so she has to crane her head back to look up at him. Those beautiful eyes crinkle. “A kiss for the road?” she asks. Bucky can’t bring himself to care about the nurses preparing the room. Just the sweet request.

They’ve shared many soft moments together. This is different. There is nothing to hide. Nobody is after them, neither of them are under any kind of despicable influence… They both are nearly delirious with exhaustion, and letting down from the trauma of nearly being separated again, and maybe that’s why kissing her feels new. With raw nerve endings exposed, and no walls up between them, it’s just sweet. A little needy when she teases the seam of his lips with her tongue, just enough to send a jolt of even more intimate moments through his mind and straight to the part of his body pressed against her hip. But he isn’t embarrassed. She’s everything. He takes little drags from her perfect mouth, and smiles at the involuntary whine at the back of her throat when he reluctantly pulls away.

“Two days,” he reminds her. She presses up on her toes and hugs him around the neck. Bucky lifts her off her feet with his arm around her waist. “Я тебя люблю,” he tells the smooth skin below her ear.

“Я тебя люблю.” 

***

“How’d he do?” Steve paces just outside the door to Bucky’s room, while Natasha sits crouched against the wall. They both smile at Y/n as she exits, but Steve still looks worried. 

Y/n reaches for his elbow. “He’s okay. Sent him off to sleep thinking about bookshelves.”

Cap chuckles. “What?”

“He’s set on the idea of building shelves, apparently that’s comforting,” she giggles. “You could’ve come in.”

“Nah. I’ll see him on the other side.” Steve says it flippantly for how serious his expression is. She squeezes his arm. They’re all nervous, especially Steve, but there’s no better place for Bucky to be. The fact that Cap didn’t ask to see Bucky before they put him under was a surprise. Her heart clenches for the sad look on his face.

“You okay, bee?” 

Y/n sighs. “I will be. I’m gonna sit with him for a while, but my stomach growled so loud in there–”

“I’m your man,” Steve says firmly. “Got any allergies I should be aware of?” He’s already backing away, ready to run his errand.

“No,” she says. “Bring whatever you can carry. Oh! Steve–coffee. Forget food. I want the good stuff.”

He pauses. “...what is that?”

“Biggest cup you can find, Steven.” Natasha hooks her arm through her friend’s and winks at the man. 

“Got it.” He practically skips off down the hallway to find the best coffee in Wakanda, looking very determined despite having a bandaged shoulder.

“You convince him to rest, yet? He’s gonna tear his stitches.”

Nat snorts. “I thought I did. Then I made the mistake of telling him that I love him, and he got a second wind.”

“Oh?” Y/n beams.

“Don’t. I can feel my coolness fleeing my body already.”

“No… still pretty badass, even if you are in love with a Boy Scout.”

The Black Widow groans. “Don’t remind me.” She lays her head on Y/n’s shoulder all the same. “They’re ready when you are.”

“Hmm. I need a little bit, first. Just to sit with him.”

“You didn’t tell him?”

Y/n shakes her head. “He would’ve worried. But. I need it. Get back to me, you know?”

“I put a bug in Ramonda’s ear about something, in case thinking about bookshelves isn’t comforting enough for your cryo-sleep.” 

“Yeah?”

“Once Bucky’s been through the deprogramming and officially cleared, of course. I may have suggested you just stay in Wakanda. Ramonda thinks that is a ‘fine idea’ and she’s making inquiries.”

Y/n blinks. “You’re talking… like. Living here.”

“In lieu of letting you two disappear. Seemed more stable. What do you think?”

Y/n turns in Natasha’s arms and hugs her tight. The ‘thanks’ is stuck in her throat, but Nat hums. “Thought you’d be happy about that.”

“I am. I’m…”

“You’re not meant to be a SHIELD pawn, bee. I know that the happiest you’ve ever been in your life was when you were in that cabin, with that man. I hope that this will help him feel strong, but it may take a while. You both enjoy solitude. You have friends here. And I’ll visit as often as I can.”

“Nat–I love you. I can’t believe you’d do this for us–”

“Oh please, I was a goner for you the second I saw your innocent face. I do love you, though.”

***

She sits for hours in a hospital room with only one other occupant, listening to the slow but steady beep of the machine monitoring his heart. Sipping coffee from a mug which could only be qualified as a vat, she stares out over the incredible capitol city, which thrums with the hum of vibranium tech. It is so strange. For so long it seemed like she couldn’t have anything which belonged to her. Now… there’s a yellow pack at her feet. Inside, three very good books and one which Bucky Barnes loathes. A wallet with a photograph of a young soldier who holds her heart. Clean, folded clothes which belong to the soldier in question. A knife from WWII. A journal… She sets the mug on the table, and pulls the red book from the pack. The pages are squished around a pen, marking the next fresh page–what?

I love her. If something happens to me, I need her to know.

The phrase is only written out once, but his scratchy handwriting is unmistakable. It’s steady. It’s a lucid thought, written sometime between when she found it and when they were found. Her eyes well up. She glances at the chamber, which is so iced over she can’t even make out his form, but… god, she thinks. I know, Jamie. 

She finishes the rest of her coffee so quickly that it burns her throat a bit, but she taps out Shuri’s code on the comm tablet.

“Hey,” her friend answers on the first ring.

“I need you to make something for Bucky. Something he can have once he’s healed.”

“Ooh. Tell me.”

“How much do you know about bionic limbs?”

The End.

Epilogue

***

Thank you so much for reading! :)

tag list: @peterhollandkait @abitgryffindorky @hogwartsahist0ry @idgafiamallthefandoms @mysticatto @im-just-star-dust @light-through-stained-glass @ginger-swag-rapunzel @sanguineterrain @honeywithemoney @nahthanks @lalalalokii @themorningsunshine @mumbles411 @slutforsexyseabass

kate’s masterlist - my bucky barnes masterlist

[whump-a-la-mode]

I have just read your latest Supervillian whumpee piece. It was amazing! Will you continue it, please?

Sure thing! I really liked this one, and I hope you enjoy this continuation. First part can be found here, enjoy!

CW//Past torture, emetophobia (mentioned), wounds, surgery, medical torture, medical setting

Supervillain had been lucky.

The calculated probability for their survival had dwindled, over and over again, the more wounds and lacerations were discovered upon their body. Skin torn away in places not immediately apparent, flesh wounds that had healed on the outside, but remained ravaged beneath the surface.

The majority of their wounds had been on their upper body, along their neck and chest. At first, their rotation of endlessly changing doctors had made an attempt to identify each wound individually, to find what kind of implement could have caused it. Yet, the efforts soon grew fruitless.

Perhaps the worst of it was upon their face. From forehead to chin, their skin had been rendered a deep purple, bruises intertwining into one big blob. Atop the layer of tender flesh, tiny, surgical lacerations had been made. Along their brows, their lips, their cheeks. Not enough to cause any true harm, but just enough to draw blood.

Both of their eyes had been blackened and swollen closed, nose stuffed with dried blood, lips puffy and swelling with infection.

Some of the nurses had compared them to a zombie.

After being found in the woods by Hero-- who had been alerted to their presence by a good Samaritan, out on a long-distance hike-- Supervillain had been brought to the hero organization’s own medical center, barely surviving the ambulance ride there.

Dozens of surgeries, and far more night-shifts from the nurses. Machines had fed them, watered them, and at points, even breathed for them.

The first thing Supervillain noticed when they awoke was the odd feeling upon their face. A tightness, not a pain, just a tightness, as though something were stretching their skin, or a sheet had been pulled taut over top of them.

As they opened their eyes, whatever was causing the odd feeling shifted, twisting and pulling differently, now. The same occurred as they parted their parched lips.

Why were they so dizzy? And where...?

Supervillain closed their eyes again, furrowing their brow against the agony of remembering, the straining of veins in their forehead. Every scrap of recollection they managed to recover felt as though it were cutting them, all over again.

Whumper. The table. The array of surgical tools; sutures and scalpels and forceps and drills, mirrors showing them the insides of their own flesh. The very thought of it threatened to make them retch.

That was exactly what they tried to do. Jerking upwards into a sitting position, they struggled to roll over, so as to lose their lunch over the side of whatever they were laying on. Yet, after a few moments of heaving, they realized that they weren’t actually going to bring anything up.

Supervillain gasped, rolling onto their back and allowing themself to lay back down. Their eyelids fluttered open as they tried to scan the room, looking for anything that could indicate what in the world was going on.

It didn’t take long. In fact, they found what they were looking for the very instant that they opened their eyes.

A trio of strangers in lab coats stood at the end of Supervillain’s hospital bed, looking as though they had just seen the second coming of some deity, their mouths dropped all the way open.

Wait a second, no, not all three of them were strangers. Two were, certainly, yet, if Supervillain really squinted...

Medic. No, that couldn’t be Medic, that would be ridiculous, it just had to be a lookalike. And yet, the closer they looked...

Medic. The medic on the hero’s team, the one always standing on the sidelines, ready to aid whichever of their stupid team members had been reckless and gotten hurt this time.

Yet, if Medic was here, then that meant... Supervillain squinted, looking closer, examining the badges that the three wore, pinned to their breast pockets.

The logo.

They would know that logo anywhere.

Supervillain heard the beeping of a heart monitor as their cardiac rhythm picked up speed.

“You’re awake.” Medic at last commented, rounding the bed to stand at their side. They reached out a hand to shake. “We weren’t sure if you’d ever wake up.”

They felt a frog form in their throat as they shakily reached out to accept the offered handshake.

If Medic was greeting them so warmly, then...

“You’re in the Hero HQ Medical Wing. My name is Medic, I’m here to help you. Can you tell me your name?”

Fuck.

[quillsareswords]

hi <3 so this is weirdly specific but could you do a scenario with vamp reader where one of the batfam gets kinds critically injured while on patrol in outer Gotham and they can't get back to the manor so Damian is like i know a place and then takes them to secret vamp gf's apartment???? ik it's really specific but i'd really love it :)

Darling you've read my mind. There are few things I live writing more than vampire reader fics

Damian Wayne x f!Reader

WARNINGS: blood, mild gore, impromptu surgery, utter lack of medical knowledge

PROMPT LIST and MASTER LIST in bio

Tim's bleeding out.

He's bleeding out in Jason's arms, and Robin isn't taking them to the Cave.

Red Hood's been growling and barking questions and curses and orders at the youngest man's back for seven minutes. He'll admit, reluctantly, that he's beginning to panic. Red Robin's got a bullet lodged between a rib and an organ, and a bullet hole shot clean through his side. There's a graze across one shoulder, but a stitch and an ace bandage could fix that easy.

They should be halfway to the Cave by now. They should've made a break for the abandoned Bat Mobile at the first opportunity they had. Unfortunately, they'd been boxed in. The only way out was to lose the crowd of pissed off dog-fighting assholes through a winding maze of alleyways that lead them away from the only mode of transportation within two miles.

Robin has some sense of direction. He knows something Hood doesn't. That much is obvious. He hasn't stopped to look around for three turns, despite knowing they've likely already lost the crowd. Still, he's not saying anything.

The most he gave Jason to go on was a winded, "pick up Drake, I know a place," and then he took off.

Red keeps mumbling. It's getting incoherent. It's strained, and he's trying not to let on how much it really hurts, even though everybody knows. They all know first hand.

Robin takes a sharp turn and skids to a stop at a door around the back of an apartment building. He's rushing with his keyring, the jingling of all the metal clinking splitting through the shadows left cast by the broken light above the door.

"Damian," Hood snarls. "Where are you taking us? He needs a doctor."

"We don't have time for a doctor," Robin bites back. The lock finally clicks and has to use his full weight to shove the steel slab open.

Hood doesn't have another choice, so he follows Robin up three flights of cement stairs, minding the distance between Red Robin's head and the half-rusted steel railing.

Robin stop abruptly and shoves through another door. He leads them down a hallway, with faded, flattened red carpet and doors with chipped wood. He stops again at the last door on the left, keys chiming in his hands again.

The moment it swings open, Robin grabs Redhood by his arm and pushes him inside first.

A stranger peers around the corner from the kitchen, one eyebrow raised.

Hood stares back. An apartment. This must be the wrong place. There's a civilian right there–

"What's–? Who's this? Is he bleeding? Is that your brother?" Your voice raises a little higher each question. Your half full glass teeters when you all but throw it back onto the counter to lunge around the wall. "Damian?"

The door slams behind Hood. He barely registers it, brain overloading with such a tower of information being dropped into his lap.

Robin steers around Hood, mask pulled clean from his face. "He's been shot twice, I need you to help me stitch the first one and remove the second bullet."

The shock is still gleaming in your eyes, but you spin around and sweep everything from the kitchen island. It all crashes to the floor, but you hardly seem to care as you turn to another cabinet and start pulling out first aid packs.

"Put him there," Damian instructs, pulling the green glove from his left hand first.

"What happened?" You demand, ripping the zipper across the first canvas bag.

"It was–" Damian's breath catches with his right glove halfway off, "We broke up a dogfight, they were not pleased."

Your gaze jumps from Tim as Hood lays him down to Damian. His hand is blooded, knuckles blooming dark purples and blues and ugly yellows around split skin.. "That looks nasty."

He stops for a spare moment, staring down at the throbbing appendage. "It is," he hums.

You sigh, digging through the red canvas pouch. "I'll start on him, you go get the ice pack." You take a carpet needle and a spool of stitches from the bag. You glance Hood up and down. "What about the other one? He hurt?"

"Todd's fine," Damian dismisses, waving his good hand in the same manner as he ducks behind you to get to the refrigerator.

"Hey, demon? You wanna, ya know? Explain?"

Damian glances over his shoulder as he reaches into the freezer drawer. "This is Y/N. Y/N, this is Jason Todd and Tim Drake."

You're already bent over Tim's left side with a pair of scissors. He's losing the most blood from the exit wound, so you're starting there. You glance up, just in time to watch Jason pull the helmet from his head. He looks angry. "I assumed. Anyway, the good news is, he doesn't smell like death and I'll be honest, I'm really wishing I hadn't skipped breakfast."

Damian still behind you, staring down at your hands as you cut away at Tim's uniform.

It's an odd comment to make. What does breakfast have to do with any of this? And what did you mean? Smell like death?

He finally has the time to get a good look at you. He doesn't know what he expects. The exhaustion of a nurse? The collectedness of an ex-medic? The focus of a doctor?

Whatever he expected, it wasn't the borderline glowing yellow he finds in your eyes or the restraint in your stare.

A vampire. Damian brought his bleeding brother to a vampire.

"Damian–"

Damian's already staring him down. "Do not. We'll discuss later."

He refocuses on you. You've got the bloodied alcohol wipe discarded beside Tim, and your hooking the needle through skin for the second time.

You're surprisingly quick about the stitches and the bandages, but Jason nearly faints when you round the island to his other wound, where the bullet is still lodged, and plunge your fingers straight into the weeping wound. Tim, on the other hand, does pass out.

It doesn't take more than an hour for you to get him all patched up. Then you help Jason get him into a guest bedroom and set him up in there after you've had Damian dose him with morphine.

Then you boss Damian into the living room to sit and doctor his hand. You'd tried to talk him into letting you do it, but you relented and settled for at least making him sit down.

You're fixing ramen noodles in the kitchen, Damian's sitting on the edge of your couch bent over his hand, and Jason is sitting stiffly in your armchair across the the coffee table.

He's been quiet for a long time. Damian obviously wasn't going to tell him anything until he decide it was a good time to pipe up, so Jason had done what he could given the situation; observe.

Your apartment was decently put together. Humble, lived it, unprepared for company. It's dim, with only a few lamps speckled through the rooms for light and the bulbs removed from the overheads.

He's most interested in Damian, though. Despite having a likely broken hand, he's more relaxed here than he is in some parts of the Manor. His body language reads comfort. He's not looking around every few minutes for any sign of danger, even though they'd all barely escaped a small angry mob ninety minutes ago.

"So," he huffs, leaning back into your chair. He spares you a glance. Your back is to them while you stir a pot. "You wanna clue me in or are we gonna keep loitering in this poor woman's home?"

You peer over your shoulder.

Damian sighs heavily.

"Your call," you chip in, digging around in a lower cabinet.

He throws a dirty look your way. "Thanks for the help."

He draws a deep breath, reclining against the back of the couch. "Firstly, all if this stays between us," he starts, gesturing to the whole apartment with his good hand. "Second, Y/N is a vampire, and if you so much as breathe disrespectfully–"

"Damian," you warn."

"–we'll have issues."

Jason blinks slowly. Clearly unimpressed. "Why do you care do much? And how'd you know she wouldn't eat Timmy alive?"

"She's my girlfriend."

He damn near falls out of the chair. "Your what?"

[jadelynlace]

Ink Drinker / Modern Vikings AU [Ivar x F!Reader], Chapter 6

catch up here!

synopsis: Ivar was only meant to be a friend with benefits, but he caught feelings for his older brother’s best friend, and co-worker: you.

pairing: Ivar x F!Reader

***content warning [PLEASE READ]: this chapter has the after effect of the trauma call, and too many emotions. surgical mentions and medical terminology are in this chapter as well. anything in italics indicates a flash back.

author’s note: I’m so sorry.

 ~

“Floki, why can I be left alone?” Ivar asked.

“Because the last time you were left alone you ended up with fifty thousand milligrams of pain killers in your stomach. Now, come here—do you know this?” Floki replied with his fingers taping the photo copied image.

“I drew that.” Ivar said back.

“Yes, you did. Where do you want it?”

“What do you mean?” 

“You hate your body so much why don’t you cover it in something you like?” 

*

It is sixteen hours that Ivar is in surgery. His world is dark, nothing but, with pierces of noises that he can recall. But trying to decipher them only makes the surroundings dull, caked in black and muffled with a buzz of an unruly bee hive. There are pokes of pain, he remembers the green light, and he remembers the pot hole he swerved to miss. He doesn’t remember how fast he was driving and the second he was over the yellow line made no difference for the sudden beast of a truck to find him. 

Everything below Ivar’s powdered knee caps are reattached. Grueling hours on the table while he’s sewed back together like a monster. Enough time for Hvitserk to get clothes, to get you clothes, to pack a bag for his brother per your request. Even in the presence of clean laundry you can’t take your blues off yet—they’re holding you proper because you just saw Ivar that morning. You two made love in the low morning light, filled with ecstasy, his seed and then he made you eggs with extra hot sauce and hugged you tightly you were sure you stopped breathing. He told you to be safe, baby, like he did at the dawn of each shift and that he would call you when his last appointment was finished, and on his way back from shopping for supplies for the parlor and that you two would make lunch plans. In his speed, his haste to make sure he didn’t miss you before the two tone song of death would sing in the radios, he instead, became the reason it did.  

Your chief shows up when you tell him the nature of the emergency. Pulling additional personnel on for overtime and they take the rig out of service and from your hands. Words don’t spare any differences and although he offers you a hug, when you take it he slips you a piece of paper. 

“Remember the job you’re doing. And the change you’re making.” He whispers in your ear and you look at the folded sheet. It’s a photocopy of a poorly drawn fire truck with an even worse sketched stick figure, and you had scribbled it when you were five. Back when you met chief for the first time because now you hold the same badge number your father once did. 

“If I give you your Dad’s old badge number, are you going to act like a jack ass like him?”

“I can’t make any promises chief.”

“I have a partner in mind for you, you’ll like him. He’s a good kid. A good medic.”

“This good kid got a name?”

“Yeah, Hvitserk. I’ll introduce the two of you.”

This is the call that shapes you as a medic, as a provider, and changes how you see things. This is the call that sends a new person out into the street, whether Ivar lives or not. This is the call that forever holds terror in your heart because he was laying in the back of your ambulance, and that was the one spot you never wanted him to occupy. 

Aslaug walks through the doors and she’s already two tissues deep into a soggy mess. Hugging Hvitserk and hugging you and you wish you were meeting this woman for the first time under any other circumstance. Floki thanks you and you don’t quite know why, even though the words fall heavily and un-calming, he still thanks you. And when the surgeon returns before the four of you, you’re the only one that doesn’t stand. But he calls your name because you know him, he was lab staff that tested you for your certifications and he told you that you’ll make a damn good medic one day. 

“Remember what I said on the day of your exam?” He asks and you nod, puzzled and impatient looks on the other faces. “You are a damn good medic—you both are.” He adds, eyes jumping from yours to your partners. “And it shows on this call, of all of them.” Hvitserk’s shoulder nudges you and you only nudge him back, perhaps little too hard in your delirious state. “Essentially what we did, was replant the lower portion of each leg. Now, given the extent of his injuries and how his body handles such, I don’t have a clear cut answer for you on his overall mobility. He may need to have screws implanted, he may need prosthetics. He’s going to be in the ICU for the next 48 hours for constant monitoring. We’ll have him sedated so his body can focus on what’s at stake. He’ll need physical therapy for a long time, and he’ll likely be disabled for the rest of his life, given again, how his body handles this. It’ll be a long road. But, like I said—you two are damn good medics and that is the one reason his legs were able to be saved. I will let you know when he’s moved to the ICU.”

You look back at your partner and his face is as blank as yours; influx of emotions just ready to dive from the void but your minds are still churning, still processing all of what boomed from the doctor’s mouth. Ivar’s chance at returning to a normal life was resting in your hands and you two gave the best damn efforts and they worked. The countless hours of dissection, wondering if you’re cut out for this career, these responsibilities, hours of trauma and blood and vomit all fizzle away because you now know that you are. And it just took Ivar to prove it.

When your eyes open again there’s a sharp pierce in your temple, scrunching eyes together and slowly moving, your head rises from Floki’s shoulder and the lights in the ICU have dimmed in the late hour. Impressions stood between his nostrils, falling like petals over his cheekbones, bleeding through split brows and pink flowers through the depths of his neck. His chest sinking and fainting with time, there was a moment of deafening silence when you are looking at his body; seemingly so small under the contraptions. The depths of earth, and the worst hell was seeing him lay on this cot. He’s only sedated now, even though Ivar looked of death, he was still alive under the harvest of wires. The words of how “we’re doing all that we can” do not bring any more comfort, they just take Ivar like a wave rapidly back out to sea. And now you understand how your patients, and their families feel when you speak the same phrases to them. The clinical assessments do not stop a rigorous schedule, motoring for the possible failure. The room is kept warm, and every so often when you will yourself to peek in, you can see the sheen of sweat that’s over Ivar’s forehead, dancing across his chest under the stickers, the monitors. The capillary refill on his toes show promise, and when the nurse says that to her doctor, you find yourself attempting the same motions on your thumb nail. Pressing the pink away and making room for the white, and then in a quick release, the pink swarms back. The ultra sound machines reminds you of the new equipment in your rig as it assess arterial blood flow every hour.

IV bags drip, slow and agonize and the change of wrappings, dressings and cleaning of both the limbs and Ivar himself collect. You spend hours watching the fluid levels sink, his eyes flutter, his fingers in his hand dance and you grow cold because you just want to hold him. To lock him in a steel tower and to constantly remind him how strong he is, because you know the longest road will not come from learning to walk. It will come from Ivar trying to find that he is worthy to live on.

Blackness had retired across your cheeks, wrapping a veil of makeup that melted into battle scars and you could not move if your body depended on it. Aslaug sits next to you; she takes her time wiping the makeup off from under your eyes, the soiled mascara and she’s humming to you. She had been telling you how when Ivar was young, she would sing to him and it would calm him down. How she sang to him in the hospital after he tried to overdose, tubes pumping his stomach as she blamed herself for such wrong doing. How Hvitserk blamed himself because he gave no one a warning cry. And how she’s singing to Ivar now, even though he can’t hear it, because it comforts the three of you as a whole. 

When your eyes follow the nurse into the room, you can hear her say something to Ivar and you watch his head turn in confusion. Grogginess and a fog on his brain as she talks to him like it’s a normal conversation; wishing him a good morning, how the weather looks promising for a beautiful day and you wish you had that level of bed side manner. You never get the promising parts of the journey; you get the patients that are coding and in a rush to the life saving team in the hospital. You love the ones who tell you their entire live’s story in the back of the rig on the way to the emergency room, sharing details and calming your mind with how simple, and yet how different every walk of life is. The nurse says something about you, about Hvitserk and Aslaug and Floki, out and waiting and ready to see him when he’s fit. You wave through the glass and there’s the tease of a smirk on Ivar’s face, even in his slightly sedated state. A dastardly, bastard smirk and his hand lifts off the bed slightly, wiggling his fingers back to you. The tears start up again, pounding a sledge hammer through your skull after all of the unruly pressure and messes of crying as your body tries to go numb.

“Where’s my mom?” You hear Ivar say in a voice that muted slightly as the nurse stands in the door way to exit. “Can I see my mom?” And the nurse nods. Aslaug stands and kisses your hair line as she walks into the vicinity, Ivar watching her and you need to back up, you need to walk away from the room, this hall way and this battle. A faint wheeze goes through your chest and Floki catches it first before Hvitserk has a chance to lift his head and open his eyes.

“Let’s walk, dear,” Floki says and his voice is not authoritative but it still demands you to comply as he loops an arm around your shoulder. “Walking can help to clear the mind.” It’s your first time outside in almost three days, and the sunlight burns you like you had been its victim on a sand covered shoreline for one too many hours. The hospital grounds are manicured, they’re neat and arranged with an abundance of flowers and colors in the open air but everything to you still feels so dull and lifeless, pointless and hopeless and walking only churns your thoughts to double, triple in size like a snow ball rolling down a hill. 

You’re finally allowed in to see Ivar and you approach slowly, like touching him will seer you suddenly, stain you with a unremovable pattern and you’ll forever be reminded. His blue eyes are dull and groggy when they open, the nasal cannula wrapping his face and your eyes dance over the scurf collecting on his jaw, and the faint bruising, cuts and scrapes on his skin.

“Hey baby,” His voice rasps and you kneel by the bed, tears already on their journeys to streak your tried skin and Ivar’s needle poked, IV covered arm comes to wipe what he can reach. “You were there, weren’t you?” And you can only nod, eyes still damp and you relish in the touch he gives you only if it’s for a second. “You saved my life, baby,” Ivar finally adds and that makes the whimper start again, the choke of a sob in your throat and he tries to quiet you, slithering a quick noise from his lips and you rest your head against the bed, his hand still on your hair. 

“I drove the ambulance over a hundred miles an hour,” You finally say and they’re the first words you can use to process the trauma you two had lived through together.

“That’s my girl,” Ivar smiles, speaking with a voice that sounds like sandpaper.

“I love you Ivar—no matter what happens, I love you so much,”

“I love you too, Y/N,” Ivar says and his voice is weaker now and he needs rest. “Kiss me before you go?” He says with eyes scanning your face, and you can’t deny that now. Pressing your lips softly against his, your hands cupping his cheek and you hope it’s not the last kiss you’ll ever get from him. “I’m not going anywhere, baby,” Ivar tells you. “I’m afraid. But I’m not going anywhere,” You nod as he speaks, a forehead against his for a second and his hand is still trying to reach on you where he can. This is the man that would pull the tubes and the wires from his chest if he could, if that would make him get closer to you. “You’re stuck with me,” And there’s a faint snicker after his words, weak and drowned out from the normal tone but you’ll take it after not hearing his voice for three days.

“I’m stuck with you,” You say back with a small smile. But it still doesn’t bring enough hope.

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