#no anesthetic uses his nails as a scalpel

[dmitriyuriev]

Beast's Womb

Based off a scene from pixiv user Tono Ratel's fanfic 獣の胎.

[anryuuepic]

Whumptober Short: "It's not my blood."

Though Mars is plenty used to fights, what’s happening to him now is jarringly different. He’s woken up bruised and aching from a brutal loss the night before more times than he can count, and found dried blood under his nails or matted into his hair just as often— but even those violent, hazy memories don’t compare to the muddled voids he finds now. 

Whatever that crazy bitch of a scientist did to him, it works. It works perhaps a little too well. 

On the days when he’s the unfortunate, unlucky victim of study, they strap him down to the now-familiar cold steel of a surgical table. Then, with no anesthetic, not even a booze-soaked rag between his teeth, the faceless mob of lower-ranked lab techs pick a method of making him hurt. 

Blades are common— or at least that’s what it feels like is slicing into his skin. Scalpels have the same bright, cold chill going in as the shitty blades that get smuggled into a low-life ring; he knows it even when the leather bands pinning him by the forehead and jugular prevent him from actually looking down at the gory mess of his torso to check. And sure, they heal him afterward— in the moment, it still fucking hurts. 

When the hurt gets bad enough, his head starts getting fuzzy. Dizzy. Disoriented like when a blow to the ear leaves the world turning circles. He can feel himself slipping, but he can’t do shit to stop it. 

After that, there’s nothing. 

He wakes up sometime later in the sterile, frigid prison of a white-walled holding room, still disorientingly dizzy, and covered in tacky, half-dried blood.

This time, as usual, Mars sits huddled up against the far wall of the awful little room, staring dazedly at his own blood-coated palms, until someone comes for him. After a hazy span of minutes (or hours, who knows?), the lock on the other side of the reinforced door clicks open, and today’s kind-hearted savior arrives.

The sight of Venus’s worried-sick expression pulls a rough, snorting laugh up Mars’s throat. His fellow test subject’s screwed-up look of sickly sweet concern shifts to dull, disgusted horror, then— something closer to honest.

“That’s... an awful lot of blood,” she says. 

“Eh, it ain’t mine,” Mars replies, trying (and failing) to stifle the nonsensical laughter still bubbling up between his words. “Not most of it, anyway.” 

He’s smiling like he’s high, he can feel it— grin so wide it’s stretched tight at the edges—, but Venus just dutifully peels off her rosy-pink suit jacket, rolls ivory sleeve cuffs up her skinny arms, and crouches next to him with an antiseptic-soaked rag at the ready. His hands are shaking, he realizes distantly. Tremoring like he’s scared shitless, even though all he feels is floaty and hazy-calm.

After poking around at his abdomen for a bit, Venus informs him that the blood is in fact his own. “You’re going to need stitches,” she hisses, voice strained. “The cuts are deep, how the fuck do you not feel it—?”

The same way he never feels what happens during the rampages once he’s out, Mars thinks— not until he comes crashing back down from his pain-fueled high and remembers that all of the mangled flesh is attached to him. The thought sends him laughing again; and this time, he feels the tug of open wounds.

[wkemeup]

The Only Kindness

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Go to hell.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He didn’t know much at all, really.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Zola merely smiled.

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

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

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

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

Bucky slumped in the guards’ arms.

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

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

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

But he could scream.

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

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

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

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

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

Let them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She held her ground.

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

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

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

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

“Maybe not today, but it will be.”

Then, he was gone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I wouldn’t do that, ma’am.”

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

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

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

He shook his head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah, might as well.

He offered her his hand.

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

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

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

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

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

She smiled at that.

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

***

It wasn’t the last time he saw Y/n.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Still with me Sergeant Barnes?"

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

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

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

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

“Nah, this is perfect.”

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

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

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

“What are they doing to you...”

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You will, Bucky.”

He hoped that were true.

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

She was a prisoner of Hydra, too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And he was.

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

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

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

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

Then – darkness.

***

“We need to be more careful.”

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

“I can’t lose you, Bucky.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hers was steady. Even. He nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Get away from her.”

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

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

But the Soldier did not move.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bucky! Bucky, stop!”

He froze. There was that name again...

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

“Bucky, look at me.”

He did.

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

When he met her eyes again, he understood why.

“Y/n?”

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

“Y/n... I—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wipe him,” Zola ordered.

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How are you feeling?”

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

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

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

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

Regardless, the Soldier nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bucky?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He nodded. It pleased the scientist.

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

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

---

Thank you so much for reading! ❤️ If you enjoyed this fic, please consider supporting me at my ko-fi account ✨

[moss-sauce]

fifth part of the coop fic with @canadiangold. it’s been done for a while, i’ve just been slacking on posting, whoops

[AO3 link]

The absence of Hush at her side is terrifying. Hush, who had been her first frame upon awakening cryosleep. Hush, who had guarded her life tooth and nail the entire time they were together. Hush, who carried her gently out of the Reservoir back to the Orbiter. Hush, who was so relieved to have her back after the War Within. 

Hush, who is gone.

Trouvaille senses her distress. He persists at nudging her hand tenderly until she acknowledges him, absently rubbing his head. Gray sits uneasily, fidgeting at the palpable emotion in the air. 

Tinleah vies for her attention. “Listen. I’m going as soon as possible after Hush. I know where she is, I know the facility she’s in.”

Solise butts in. “I have the layout of the facility in my databases. Tinleah has been studying it religiously the past few days. You’re already adept at breaking and entering, this should be no different.”

Maxis stays silent, picking at a thread in the gown.

“Hush probably is kicking their asses as we speak, Maxis,” Tinleah soothes. “She wouldn’t think you’d give up on her like that. She knows you’re hurt, that you can’t retaliate right away. She knows we’re coming for her.” Tin rubs her free hand gently, something that usually settled both of them down.

Max, however, doesn’t. “What if they’ve already started in on her?” she frets. “What if they’re opening her up right now? Looking at her as some freak experiment instead of a living thing?” Her hands tremble.

Trouvaille whines, jumping up to lay between Max’s legs with his head on her stomach. Tinleah clasps her hand around the other Operator’s. “As morbid as it sounds, I think you’d know if they had. You two are linked pretty intricately. Have you…?”

“Felt anyone poking at my insides?” Max finishes. “No. Not that I could feel much of anything until now anyway.” She pauses, heaving a shuddering breath. “It’s just…”

“Hm?”

“I want her back. Plain and simple. Hush being gone felt like an entire chunk of her being is missing. 

“We’re getting her back,” Tinleah answers definitively. She leaves no room for argument in her tone. “We’ll get you back to battle-readiness, at least enough to hold a perimeter, and then we’re going for her, come hell or high water.”

Max looks unsure. “What if--”

“Shut your damn nay-saying mouth. We’re getting her back.”

Gray nods firmly. “Trust her on this, friend. She is one determined little soldier.”

Tinleah puffs out her chest and holds her head high at the praise. “He’s right.”

Max scoffs, then winces. “I know he’s right.”

“Then believe him.”

⁂

Tinleah is absent, readying herself for the infiltration of the Corpus facility to reacquire Hush, intact. Gray keeps Max quiet company, surprisingly soft-spoken for a Grineer heavy unit.

“Gray, make sure she tries to stand and walk once in a while,” Tin had commanded. “She’s at the point where movement won’t undo any healing done.”

“Isn’t it...rather soon?” Gray had said warily.

“Helminth, remember?” Tinleah had flicked the side of her head with a grin.

Sitting in silence was nice, but Max itched to speak or move or listen. 

“So, tell me, as I can feel how fidgety you’re getting from all the way over here,” Gray starts. “What’s this beast you’ve got with you? Tinleah forewarned me of him, but I know nothing about him.”

Oh, Gray didn’t expect the surge of energy that coursed through her at the chance to brag about Trouvaille. “That’s my good boy, Trouvaille.” Trouvaille’s ears fly up at the mention of his name, raising his head off her stomach with his tail wagging already.

“What strain--er, breed?”

“Sahasa.”

“Forgive me for being unfamiliar, but...what…?”

“They’re the digging strain. Trained to find things.”

“Ah, I see! Quite the useful companion in combat, no?”

“Oh, definitely.” Max scuffles Trou’s ears. “Smartest boy you ever did meet.”

Gray hums. “The bar is not too high, for me, at least. Drahks are single-minded when in Grineer Masters’ hands.”

Max giggles. 

“What about these Hounds you speak of?”

“The Hounds? Special operations unit I got assigned, or adopted, into.” She smirks.

“Forgive me, but--adopted?”

“The leader has a surprisingly soft heart.” Max stares down at the bed. “I have him to thank for everything. I would have died alone in a Derelict without his intervention.”

“Tell me about them. I would love to hear of my brothers having some semblance of humanity left within them.”

Max rolls her eyes with a lopsided grin. “There’s Zus, the one behind it all. Typical commander, minus the stupid helmet. He claimed it ‘threw him off-balance’, so he ditched it.” Both her and Gray chuckle. “There’s Dodge, our medic. Stern guy, but caring. There’s Buffy, who’s...our version of you, minus a few missiles. Troublemaker to no end. Then there’s--” she cuts off, eyes widening in shock and fear and pain as she clutches her side.

“Maxis?” Gray prompts. “Speak to me. What’s wrong? Is your wound aggravated?”

“They’re--” she grits her teeth on a whimper as the pain slices further along. Trouvaille jackknifes up off the bed, hovering over her worriedly. 

“Tinleah, something’s wrong,” Gray mutters over a comm link hurriedly. “She’s in pain, but not in the afflicted area.”

“Th--” she tries again, but is cut off by another wave of slashing agony. “They’re cutting into her.”

Gray falters. “I know what it’s like to be on the receiving end of a scalpel, Maxis. I know that pain. Tinleah is going as fast as she can.” He rubs his hands together absently as he thinks. “Solise?”

“Yes?” the motherly voice responds.

“Do you have any sort of...anesthetic, to give her?”

“Of course.”

Solise’s Trinity rushes in, easing Maxis back to laying down on the bed. Gray steps back respectfully, though Trouvaille shows no such manners, clambering up onto the bed with his master.

“This anesthetic will work for a few hours, enough to dull the pain,” Solise explains. “If it lasts longer, I’ll consider administering more. I doubt it’ll last long enough to warrant a second dose.” She inserts the needle gingerly into a vein, smirking inwardly at how Max makes a point to look away. Even elite soldiers can be squeamish, it would seem.

“What is it?” Tinleah finally cuts in. “Is she okay? What happened?”

“It appears the Corpus have begun their...dissection,” Solise says uneasily. “The strength of Max and Hush’s Transference link is causing her to feel the incisions, unfortunately.”

Tinleah goes deafeningly silent. “Those bastards will pay,” she seethes, “for what they’ve done. For what they’re doing.”

[neverknewgrey2016]

Getting Closer: Jihoon- Stop

Characters: Jihoon x You/reader, random oc victim

Genre/warnings: yandere!au, yandere!Jihoon, mentions of murder, kidnapping, mentions of torture, Stockholm Syndrome, held captive, mentions of being drugged, manipulation, if I missed any please let me know!!

Words: 578

Summary: You know what Stockholm Syndrome is, and you also know you have it

“My heart continues to grow. Come into my mind.” “Only for you am I quick, quick automatic.” “With whatever words, you make me stop.”

You don’t know why out of everyone he chose you. He spared you. There was no difference in your abduction. He even had you prepped and ready to be dissected, yet before even touching a scalpel to you, he stopped. Almost as though a switch was flipped. He had then and there decided that you were his, and his alone. He released you from your restraints and cleaned you up. You remembered him clothing you and tucking you into a bed, where you stayed until the anesthetics wore off. He shortly after began treating you as though you were a couple. Even called you “baby”, and “jagiya”. He would kiss your head and cuddle you close as silent tears escaped and rolled down your face. It took a few months before you found out his name, Jihoon, since you were to address him with cutesy nicknames only, prior.

That was a year ago. You’d been trapped in this house since then. Sometimes he would go out on the balcony with you, or walk around outside the backyard with him, but that was as much as he would allow. He said he wanted to keep you all to himself, and the outside world would destroy you.

There were times he would come to you and cry. He’d promise that he would stop killing, but the promises never lasted long. It’s how you ended up walking down the stairs to the basement for the third time that month alone. You knew he was… entertaining someone due to him not greeting you. The only time his diet priority wasn’t you was when the itch to feel blood on his hands and under his nails became too much for him to ignore.

“Help! Someone help me!” You bite your lip, this guy was only making things worse for himself.

“No one can hear you. And if you disturb my Jagi, let just say you’ll wish you hadn’t.” You knew his process, you’d been through the beginning of it yourself, and you honestly didn’t want the guy laying there to go through the entire play of it.

“Hoon…” you trail off, knowing using your nickname for him would draw his attention away from his current victim. You notice him pause, and the guy on the table begins to yell for you to help him. A mistake on his part. Jihoons hand landed a smack on the guys face and then shoved a piece of cloth into his mouth.

“Did he disturb you? Because I swear…” you immediately shook your head no. You you knew the male on the table wasn’t making it out of here alive, but at least you could help make it quick.

“I miss you, and wanna cuddle.”

“Baby, I’m in the middle of something.” He gestures behind himself as if you couldn’t tell what he meant. Knowing you had to kick it up a notch, you release a light whine and make a grab by hand at him. You see his demeanor noticeably change as his eyes soften. His motions for you to go upstairs, a promise he would meet you there soon.

A few minutes pass before you feel two arms wrap around your middle, and Jihoon whisper, “you’re the only one who can make me stop.” A sad smile crosses your face. You knew what Stockholm Syndrome was, and you knew you had it, but you also had him, and that had to count for something. Right?

[hitachi-grill420]

a month of poems

disorder/chaos/mess

 organization is overrated,

in my opinion.

a necessary evil at best.

 perhaps my need

for clutter to burrow in

is an indirect method of self-harm,

by means of

 managing the Sisyphean task

of prying loose the memories

and forming the treasure map

leading me

to where the hell

I left my glasses cloth.

   $19.99/month

 do not doubt

for a single, solitary second

that if they commodify the sky

they would do so.

 black it out,

darken it,

allow us starlight

as a subscription service.

  Forgetful

 sometimes my brain

functions like a cell phone

with only two bars.

 constantly dropping thoughts,

buffering memories,

and whatever does make it through

is choppy, blurry, and

distorted.

  chewed up tin foil

 run me through the gears

like a penny

in one of those

souvenir shop

flattening machines.

 render me a

useless novelty

destined to be forgotten

in a sock drawer,

or at best

slowly succumbing to the

entropy of a souvenir box,

alive and dead

like Schrödinger’s cat.

  extremely gay

 i am

a (barely) animate

heart-eyes emoji,

staring forever

at the tough,

beautiful,

creative,

powerful,

inspirational,

incredible

women and non-binary people

and trans people

in my life.

 this is

less a poem

and more a declarative statement.

 my heart is not a fireplace,

but a signal fire.

  holler

 you ever just wanna scream?

not particularly out of anger,

or fear.

 just out of a desire

to be heard

and acknowledged

for once.

 it’s why I admire birds:

they let us know

they exist

and are entirely

unashamed.

 Finger

 in a very literal sense,

I saw inside myself today.

as it turns out,

introspection becomes easier

(and less productive)

when you put a fine point to it.

 it’s funny—

getting bloodwork done,

seeing that plastic tubing filling up

crimson

made my stomach turn.

 but there, in the kitchen?

seeing the blood paint the paper towel?

 I felt fine.

  probability

 assuming an infinite number of universes

there has to be

at least one

where

I didn’t just

roll over and let

you pull everything good from me.

 in that universe,

I wonder what I’m like,

not having had to rebuild

my heart with scrawled recipes

and gummy multivitamins.

 would they recognize me?

recognize this

patchwork Frankenstein?

 is the act of rebuilding

transformative enough

to exceed them?

 do you think they’d help me

gouge out

these final traces you left behind

on me?

  artistry

 while cleaning my room,

 I found a number of

coffee mug stains.

 a series of interconnected,

concentric rings.

 i do not think

there is any sort of lesson here

(besides that I need to learn

how to drink coffee)

but i thought it was

neat.

 a brief pause

to appreciate

happy little accidents

can’t ever be a bad thing.

 an anthem of sorts

 sometimes,

I psych myself up

in the bathroom

at work.

 only when I know

there’s nobody to hear me

(because, I suppose,

some part of me still thinks

any praise or encouragement

directed towards me

is shameful).

 the noises of the building,

only really audible when things

are quiet and calm,

become the melody to

my self-made self-help mix tape.

 I have grown to love

the soundboard of modernity,

of planes landing,

the hum of pipes

and of distant radios.

  Decade/decaid

 ten years

is a lot of time.

 I thought I would be

in my career by now

maybe married

(probably not, though).

 time

makes fools of us all,

though.

 I hope that

if I make it

to 2029,

it hurts a whole lot less

to look back.

 I would like rose-colored glasses

with the thorns trimmed off.

  a shorter poem

 I’m bad at

letting things end

when they need to.

 I grip on with

white knuckles,

dig my fingernails into

every single thing

 because loss

and being forgotten

scare me more than

anything else in the world.

  Dichotomy

 a friend once told me,

“Jay,

you’re awful smart

to be such a clueless bitch.”

 I have a hard time

focusing,

not tripping over my own feet,

saying things properly,

holding on

and/or

letting go as needed.

 The real world

is hard to concentrate on

sometimes.

The mental tinnitus

of my neuroses

and my thoughts

occupy my

mind’s bandwidth

like trying to torrent

on dial-up.

 I suppose it’s for the best, though.

 Imagine what I could do

with fiber optics.

  ghosts are real

 I believe in ghosts.

 Not for any particular reason.

I just think the idea of

leaving some sort of trace

(even a solely metaphysical one)

is nice.

 but today,

I do feel like a ghost.

Translucent and hollow

leaving nothing but echoes

and messes

as I glide around.

 I do believe in ghosts

just not all of them.

  creatures of habit

 every morning,

I make coffee,

feed my dog,

take my Buspirone.

 it’s simple

 but it’s a good way to start my day.

 i like these small

islands of order

in oceans of chaos.

 yet,

even within these islands,

lurk that great huntress

probability.

 sometimes, my dog has already been fed

or we see a new bird outside

or I’m out of coffee

or I take time

to prepare a pot of pour-over.

 one time,

a small family

of deer pranced through our yard.

 sometimes,

these little compromises in our routines

can make the routines

a little less dusty.

  Oceanic

 beaches are nice.

 (except for that one time

a bunch of mostly eaten fish and

manatee corpses washed up

on a beach

when I was little)

 they are

a liminal space—

the boundary between

the quantifiable, land

and the infinitely, unknowably massive

seas.

 crossing that boundary,

we are swallowed

more and more

by the mystery,

by the unknown,

and if we are not careful

it will eventually fill us,

consume us,

recycle us.

 at the bottom,

no light reaches

(save for the bioluminescence

of the quasi-xenobiological

fish(?))

and the weight of every drop of water

above you pushes downwards.

 i always wonder—

assuming one could survive—

what would that feel like?

would it crush you?

would you sink further down?

 one day, I’ll meet you

there among the coral,

the vents,

 and we will face the pressure

and we will either

drag Atlantis from the muck

or we will die.

  poem for the lines in our palms

 some people say they can

read your personality

or your future

by looking at the lines on your palm.

 when I trace my own,

I see the curves of

a bull’s head,

of the biohazard symbol,

of the calloused pinky

from holding my phone so often.

 and the lines in yours?

long and never ending,

curving at the edge like the horizon,

patient and soft like

cotton candy plucked out of time.

 there are worlds between us,

separated by dermal layers.

yet, our lines compliment the other’s.

 I can’t say I’ve ever

put much stock in palm reading,

but, hell

 I’ll give it a try.

  well, alright

 my grandpa

was a greyhound bus driver

and a very good one at that.

 his customers loved him

his bosses varied.

 they bugged him to wear his hat,

and he, in turn, refused

until the day

he got a speeding ticket.

 his dispatcher was furious.

Dispatch tore into him,

screaming for minutes into the phone.

 my grandpa just says,

“I don’t know what happened.

I was wearing my hat and everything.”

 I tell every boss I have this story,

to illustrate two important points:

One, I have an excellent work ethic.

And two,

 I have the stubborn orneriness

of hillfolk

chicken-fried into my DNA.

  streamed live from Kentucky, 11/12/2019

 a human body strides forward,

each step heavy with

purpose, leaving blackened,

foot-shaped scars in the cement.

 the heat radiates outward,

melting snow,

soft hissing joining the ambient sounds

of traffic on 238,

the wind,

the sounds of night.

 the body is covered in thorns,

wreathed in crackling fire.

 yet still it walks.

 in front of it stand armed men,

a judge’s bench,

walls and laws and

every other obstacle.

 behind it frolics other bodies,

some bright and rosy

others grey, dirt stuck to their faces

and under their nails.

 yet still it walks.

  poem for cold pizza

 there are things to be said

for small comforts.

 people assuming

I am incompetent

ignorant

or otherwise irrelevant

 is a little less

painful

with the weak anesthetic

of cold pizza

and my antidepressants

and a brief forgetting

of shame.

  poem for a morning run

 “there is no such thing

as a free lunch.”

 I repeat that in my mind as

i stumble into a stop sign,

hanging onto it

as the cul-de-sac warped beneath me.

 my legs wobble,

reverberating upwards into

my stomach, empty

save for coffee

and acid

and a piece of leftover Halloween candy.

 a neighbor,

in a wifebeater and boxers,

puffs on his cigarette while his dog

stares at me as it shits in the grass.

 the earliest steps of any journey

are embarrassing

painful

and subject

to strange and critical audiences.

 but today, I ran.

 not far,

not for long,

and not without watching eyes, but

 I ran.

 poem for a day I didn’t feel like writing a poem

 sometimes, poetry is easy.

 it’s like riding a bike after you’ve learned:

muscle memory,

your innate familiarity,

your own balance,

all coming together.

 today,

it was like I

Eternal Sunshine’d

bike riding out of my head

drug a scalpel through that part of my brain

and hopped on to do the

Tour de France.

 maybe the bike

is also on fire?

  reciprocity

 it’s a lot easier

to give other people

good advice,

 to give them

kind words, pieces of yourself

wrapped in love,

with care.

 unfortunately,

i am a one-way road.

I spew forth care

but receiving it?

 unthinkable.

far too busy.

 after all,

I have gifts to deliver;

 things to spew

  anticipating

 breathless, I sat at the bottom

of the waterfall, staring up

to its source, waiting patiently.

 my chest felt like a rope pulled taut.

i feared you’d fallen on your climb to the top

(i had sat out, since I’d hurt my back

falling drunk off the porch

a few nights prior).

 damn,

if I don’t wish that tension

hadn’t been in vain now.

  quarantine

 I am, essentially, the sum total

of a billion viruses.

poxes of sadness,

the belligerent fever of mania,

this infectious anger that bubbles

in my guts like stomach acid.

 A splash of cool girl bacteria,

a shattered Petri dish of septic anxiety.

 Inoculate yourselves against me.

I am a pestilence,

a plague,

an outbreak of rebellion

and sadness

and anger

and the radical desire

for the freedom of solitude.

  victory

 celebrating small wins

(even if, ultimately, their impact is limited)

keeps your spirit ignited.

 we may have only taken

one mile out of a hundred,

but damn

if this mile ain’t a pretty one.

  poem for colloidal silver

 colloidal silver,

in excess,

turns you blue.

 this is a more direct

cause-and-effect

than a lot of us can ask for.

 hucksters passed it off

as a cure-all, the

hypothetical snake oil,

a panacea.

 exploiting suffering for profit,

under false pretenses,

earns you a special place in hell

and I hope that place is a vivid cyan.

  poem for a scab

 I’ve never been sure how scabs work.

 i know what they do

 and that platelets are involved, I think

but beyond that, I’m stumped.

 I assume it’s something like patching a hole

or sewing a button on.

 with or without our knowledge,

our understanding,

our bodies repair themselves as needed.

our skin knits itself together,

diseases are fought off.

 we fight off a lot without knowing.

 perhaps it is better that way.

  an impulse

 don’t ever assume I know anything.

first mistake: I am a reaction.

vinegar and baking soda,

pouring up and over the rim,

spilling on the porch

on a hot April day.

 First mistake: i was prepared.

the ant stored up food all spring.

the grasshopper laid around.

in winter, the ground froze

and both of them died.

 first mistake: we cling too hard.

do you remember?

when you drank my savings,

slept with your space heater,

couldn’t spare a blanket?

i had six arms then, could lift

anything set in front of me,

but you left me outside and

now the frostbite’s set in.

 first mistake: we hold on.

I feel the phantom pains of

those six strong arms, of

the space left when I dug you out of

me, of

the cold morning air

and the lingering taste of

Kentucky Gentleman

and the smell of vinegar.

 first mistake:

not expecting you to jump

the day the cold blew in.

  poem for the embers

 anger is a good way to fuel yourself

especially when you don’t have

anything else

 to run on.

 but now I’m tired.

now all my insides feel burnt up,

the undergrowth in my guts

black and withered and smoking,

devoured by gluttonous rage

and my acid reflux.

 there are two wolves inside of us

and mine are both picked clean,

their bones bleaching in the dazzling light

of the thorium reactor that’s taking up

the scar tissue where I used to mine for joy.

 if I keep this bonfire going,

until I reach where I need to be,

will there be anything left inside me?

 is the fuel to move worth it

if only wreckage arrives?