#shes going to be nothing but scar tissue and broken bones by the end of this campaign | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

comfortbucky · 3 years

Note

I asked for the doctor!bucky andd you don't have to write but I forgot to ask... He is like a really busy doctor and it surprises the female reader that he is going to do her stitches... Wanda is his assistant. He has to give you a pain numbing shot in your cut and he comforts you when you scream and writh in pain... Thanks xxx

𝗻𝘂𝗺𝗯 ⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆ ｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚ ⋆ ⋆｡˚

pairing: doctor!bucky x fem!reader

warnings: descriptions of bloody injuries, medical settings, stitches, needles

A/N: omg i’ve never written for doctor!bucky before so i’m excited hehe :) thank u for ur request! // i changed around who was administering the numbing agent and doing the stitches btw i hope u don't mind, just made more sense in my head for bucky to be able to comfort her if his hands are free!

hope u enjoy! <3 sorry if this isn't that good asjdfhaldf

Y/L/N = your last name

also let me just indulge myself and sprinkle some of my own experiences in this bc a couple months ago i literally slammed my head into a wall and cut my eyelid😃nothing bad enough to get stitches but i do have a scar💗

word count: 2k

my masterlist!

completed requests!

“Y/N! Come quick!”

Y/N was digging through her dresser for a sweater when her roommate, Darcy, called out for her. She lifted her head up and spun it without thinking, completely forgetting that her dresser was situated in the corner of her room, slamming her head into the wall.

Her ears started to ring and she bent over in laughter, her natural response to pain, as tears threatened to fall down her face.

“Y/N?” Darcy was met by silence, Y/N struggling to respond, her body overcome with laughter so hard she was inaudible. Concerned that Y/N had knocked herself out cold, Darcy peeked her head around the corner of Y/N’s doorway, to find her hurled over, a hand over her left eye, drops of crimson blood on the ground.

“Holy shit, are you okay?” Y/N lifted her head, calming down from her fit of laughter, and nodded.

“Yeah, of course, this would happen to me,” she replied chuckling, taking a tissue from Darcy to put pressure on her cut.

Carefully making her way to a mirror, Y/N grabbed her phone on the way. She stared at her reflection and slowly removed the tissue from her face to examine the extent of her injury. It was steadily bleeding, most likely a bad sign. Y/N placed her tissue back over her cut and reached for her phone and Facetimed her friend Matt, an EMT.

“Hello- What the fuck happened to you?”

“Hi Matt,” she replied, shooting him a grin through the screen. “Slammed my head against the wall, by accident.”

“I would hope so,” he sighed. “Let me guess, you’re wondering whether you should go to the ER or not?”

“You know me so well, Matty.”

“Has it stopped bleeding?” Y/N removed the tissue and felt a warm liquid trail down the side of her face.

“No.”

“Go to the ER, please.” She groaned.

If there was one place in the world she despised, it was a hospital. But Y/N knew she wouldn’t be able to convince either of her friends otherwise, and dragged her feet as she reluctantly followed Darcy to her car.

It was a normal night in the ER, which meant a fury of organized chaos. Bucky found himself needed in 6 places, all at the same time. But this was an environment that he had become accustomed to, almost finding comfort in the madness of it all. Although the ER was bustling with patients, there weren’t any injuries that were very severe, mostly just broken bones and lacerations. Simple enough to the point where Bucky felt like he was operating on autopilot mode. Going through the motions of whatever task he needed to do, but not anything more than that. He felt numb. For the last several years of his life, the hospital was all that he knew. Bucky kept himself busy with work, leaving him with only a small social circle and his cat, Alpine. It was enough for him, but he never really felt complete. Which is why he threw himself into his work, drowning out his inner thoughts about a missing piece he never thought he’d find.

“Dr. Barnes, paging Dr. Barnes to bed 25.”

Bucky took a quick sip of his coffee and sighed before heading off to see his next patient. Wanda appeared from around the corner and started walking with him.

“This one’s a simple laceration, just might need stitches.” Bucky nodded in response to her, keeping his eyes straight ahead.

She was one of the select few who he considered a friend. Which was a little odd considering he was an attending and she was only a resident. But she was a good student, a fast learner, and one of the only residents he was ever willing to work with. He took her under his wing, fostering a friendship by spending time together in his office, reviewing various medical cases and files.

“Alright, you up to do them?”

Wanda came to a halt, Bucky taking a couple steps before looking back at her, tilting his head, waiting for a response.

“Y-Yeah, yes!” She stammered. “T-thank you, Dr. Barnes.” He nodded his head and turned back around to continue walking, Wanda close behind.

Y/N was sat on the edge of the bed, one hand holding a blood-soaked tissue over her left eye. Her leg was bouncing, a nervous tic she had developed from a young age. The adrenaline had worn off, forcing her to feel a throbbing pain, her eyes brimming with tears. She avoided crying in front of people whenever possible, so as soon as Darcy left to grab some coffee and snacks from the cafeteria, she let the floodgates open. The sound of footsteps approaching made her freeze and she used her sleeves to sloppily wipe away the tears that were streaming down her face.

“Ms. Y/L/N?”

A firm, but somehow also gentle, voice called out to her before the curtain was pulled open to reveal a tall man with dark brown hair, a stubbly beard, and stunningly blue eyes standing next to a woman with blazing red hair and contrasting green eyes. Y/N’s gaze was immediately fixated on the man’s eyes, unable to look away for a moment, before she realized she was staring. She quickly looked down and cleared her throat.

“Y/N, you can just call me Y/N.”

The man nodded and set down his clipboard at the end of the bed before speaking.

“I’m Dr. Barnes and this is Dr. Maximoff.” The woman gave a slight wave as she began charting on a computer. “Can I take a look at your eye?”

Y/N nodded, feeling her anxiety rise as the doctor pulled some gloves on and approached her.

He pulled over a stool to sit on and carefully removed the tissue that Y/N had been holding in place to assess the injury. While Bucky looked at her cut, he stole a glance to study the rest of her face. He couldn't help but take note of the pained look on her face, her eyes still watery and her button nose red from crying. It was the first time in a long time that he felt a twinge of pain while looking at someone's injury, that he felt practically anything at all during a shift. She felt his warm breaths on her face for a moment before he pulled away and replaced her bloody tissue with some gauze.

“Do you mind if she takes a look as well?” Y/N nodded again. Bucky got up from the stool, allowing Wanda to take his spot and assess her eye.

“So it looks like you just need 2 or 3 stitches, very simple procedure.”

Y/N felt her entire body tense up at Wanda's conclusion. She could barely stand sitting in a hospital bed alone and now she was about to get poked and prodded with needles. Bucky noticed and attempted to ease her worries.

"We'll administer a numbing agent, so you won't feel any pain, just pressure at the site."

She looked up at Bucky, who had a kind, tired expression on his face. It looked like he was having a long night and she didn't want to make his job any more difficult than it probably already was. Y/N gave him a small nod and Wanda started to gather the necessary supplies.

She laid back in bed with Wanda and Bucky sitting next to each other on her left. Her hands were folded on her stomach, eyes shut.

"You're gonna feel a slight pinch, okay?" She nodded and bit her lip to try and distract herself.

Wanda proceeded to administer the numbing shot and Y/N squeezed her hands tight, whimpering in pain. Bucky observed the pained expression on her face and placed a hand on her forearm, reflexively rubbing his thumb in small circles. When Wanda pulled the needle out, Y/N slowly fluttered her eyes open and was greeted by Bucky's warm smile. A blush crept to her cheeks and she turned her attention to the ceiling. Immediately, Bucky realized how unprofessional his action was and removed his hand. He had no idea what had come over him, but he'd never felt so drawn to someone like this before.

"Now I'm going to do the stitches, okay? You should just feel a slight pressure." Just as before, Y/N shut her eyes after Wanda spoke and gripped her hands tight. She felt the pressure that Wanda was talking about and couldn't help but squirm at the feeling. Another wave of anxiety rushed over her and she felt herself start to hyperventilate.

Wanda removed the needle and quickly turned to Bucky, a panicked look on her face. He gave her a reassuring look before speaking softly.

"Y/N? Do you think you could hold still for just a little longer?" She opened her eyes, brimming with tears.

"Sorry, I just, I hate needles." Y/N fiddled with her hands as she kept her gaze up, trying to avoid the tears from escaping. Bucky felt his heart sink in his chest at the sight.

"What do you think would help you relax?"

Thoughts ran through her head as she tried to find a solution to relieve her anxiety. Y/N thought back to when she was young and chuckled, remembering a stuffed whale that she got at an aquarium, that went everywhere with her.

"This is stupid but, when I was a kid, I would carry around this stuffed animal around and it helped to hold it whenever I had to get shots."

Bucky thought for a moment and ran a hand through his hair, wondering if he was going to regret the words about to leave his mouth.

"You could hold my hand."

Y/N and Wanda both looked at him with surprised expressions, regret instantly hitting him.

"If you're comfortable with it," he quickly clarified. Y/N felt the corner of her mouth curve into a smile as she nodded.

She laid back down and Bucky took her hand in his. The instant transfer of heat soothed Y/N and she shut her eyes to allow Wanda to get to work.

When she felt the pressure on her eye again, her hand automatically gripped Bucky's tighter, and he squeezed it back to help calm her. Y/N focused on the callousness of his hands, how his hand seemed to fit into hers perfectly. Suddenly, she was thinking about his eyes again, those glimmering blue eyes. Blue was always a calming color for her, reminiscent of her trip to the aquarium where she got her beloved stuffed whale. As she felt Bucky's thumb gently rub the top of her hand, she realized that her whale could never provide as much comfort as he did.

Bucky felt a sense of pride as he watched the tension in Y/N's face disappear. Suddenly, he found his eyes wandering, looking at the loose strands of hair on the right side of her face, the rosiness of her cheeks, how she glowed. His heart started to palpate and Bucky realized a flame had kindled inside him. He was feeling again.

"All done!" Wanda chirped, stepping aside to let Bucky check her work. He smiled at her patted her on the back with his free hand.

"You did good." Wanda beamed and thanked him, walking away to complete her charting.

Y/N's eyes fluttered open, still feeling the warmth of Bucky's hand in hers. He greeted her with a tender smile and slowly helped her up, placing his other hand on the small of her back.

"See? Wasn't that bad after all," he grinned, releasing her hand. Y/N's smile faltered, missing his touch, and nodded.

"Thank you, Dr. Barnes."

"Bucky," he stated. She raised an eyebrow. "Call me Bucky."

The pair stared at each other in silence, enjoying each other's presence before the PA system snapped them both out of their trance.

"Dr. Barnes, paging Dr. Barnes to bed 16."

Bucky sighed, slowly getting up from his seat.

"Well, it was a pleasure meeting you, Y/N."

"You too, Bucky."

He turned around and was about to pull the curtain open when he paused, turning back around to face Y/N, scratching the back of his head. It took one look at her face and Bucky knew he didn't want to let her go just yet.

"Would you like to get coffee sometime?" She beamed up at him and Bucky felt his knees go weak.

"I would like that very much." He chuckled in disbelief and smiled.

Bucky had finally found his missing piece.

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chilligyu · 3 years

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info: wen junhui/reader, teen+, soulmate au genre: angst, romance | word ct: 2k warnings: descriptions of injuries, scars, blood, hospitals summary: forever was a powerful word, and it was the only word he could think of when he imagined his soulmate. someone who was just as powerful as she was terrifying. because forever was a powerful word, and it scared him to no end. author's note: please read! this soulmate au deals with soulmarks in the form of injuries. once someone turns 18 their body will be marked with their soulmates scars and they will acquire all of their future injuries (i know it's a little confusing, story explains it better). if talks of scars and blood make you uncomfortable, respectfully, this fic will not be your cup of tea. thank you all!

Forever. Never, in all of Junhui’s life, had he heard a more terrifying word. He hated the permanency of it, the idea of being stuck doing one thing, being with one person. The thought of it alone made his skin itch. He loved being able to get on a train and go absolutely anywhere, loved never being tied down, loved being free. Sometimes he didn’t even know where home was, where he’d be sleeping, and that’s when he was most happy. He couldn’t explain it, nor did he want to.

What scared him most, was what he was destined for, what forever truly meant for him. For years he was told how his life would change, how it would never be the same once he became an adult. And he believed them. No matter how much he hated it, he’d have to be delusional not to. Because he’d been watching it play out on his skin since he turned 18. He’d been watching his body pucker with scars, little nicks here and there, for the better part of four years. A thin line across the back of his hand, a surgical scar on his stomach, it was so nerve-wracking. Because he hadn’t been injured.

His soulmate had, and he was a first-hand witness.

That was the sad existence he was left with, the one he’d been running from for years. He lived in a world where everyone was covered in the injuries and scars of their soulmate. Your body wasn’t a canvas of your own life, it was the story of someone else’s. And God Junhui hated that more than anything. That his life wasn’t his own anymore and there was nothing he could do about it.

It all became real for him when he came home from school on his 18th birthday. He shouldered off his bag and was getting ready to shower when he saw the bright pink mark on his stomach. A little thing, only two inches in length, half an inch wide, almost completely negligible. At first, he was confused, then scared, and finally—mortified.

No. He said to himself as he inspected the scar. Please tell me this is a lie.

For years he stared at his own body, repulsed and confused by the injuries that kept cropping up. His friends would laugh at the little marks, claiming that his soulmate was a complete klutz. Still, he refused to acknowledge it. He didn’t care what sort of scar showed up on his body, he refused to care. He refused to think about the one person who was tied to his entire existence. No matter what they were going through. He didn’t care when the eight inch gash appeared on his arm, nor did he care when he saw the surgical scar sprawled across his knee. It was just skin, scar tissue and skin. It didn’t mean anything.

Or that’s what he tried to convince himself.

Sometimes, if the injury was bad enough, he would even feel the pain from it. One day he was walking to work, and suddenly he was struck by an intense migraine. The throbbing alone was enough to make him want to puke. The world was spinning, he could barely feel the ground underneath his feet when he caught his reflection in a store window. His eyebrow had split open, a single trickle of blood streaking his face.

What happened? He found himself wondering despite himself. Are they—are they okay?

Before that moment, he had never actually bled from one of his soulmate’s wounds. And it terrified him. He had only seen the injuries once they’d healed, meaning that the danger, and pain, was over. That little bead of blood meant—meant that this was real. That on the other side of his scars was a real person. He hated forever, he hated the word, hated the meaning, hated what he was forced to endure because fate had better plans for him.

But still, he couldn’t help but wonder. And that was harmless, right?

Going to the doctor after that was interesting, because he had to get a full body X-Ray to see what sort of damage his new body had endured. Standard protocol when you turned 18, he’d just been putting it off for as long as he could. Injuries from his soulmate's childhood were clear against the backlight, several broken bones from when they were young, or reckless, or both. Without realizing it, Junhui found himself smiling at the sight. It was sort of comforting, knowing that he’ll always have this part of someone else. That it’ll never leave him.

He gingerly touched each wound and tried to imagine the story behind them. There was this one right up his shin, very old, very faded, it reminded him of the one time he fell off his bike as a kid. Maybe he had something in common with his soulmate. Maybe they had a similar past. He had no idea, but it was fun to wonder.

For periods of time, Junhui wouldn’t accumulate any new marks, and he felt lonely. He pretended like he didn’t, he continued on as he usually did. A string of flings and drunken escapades kept him busy, but they just—they weren’t as fun anymore. Car rides with no destination, late nights underneath the stars, the things he loved most no longer held the same weight. He felt stupid, selfish, wishing for some sign of his soulmate. Because that meant that they’d have to get hurt for it to happen.

And then, he thought he lost them.

He was getting set up for a gig, plugging in his mic and laughing with the stagehands, when he felt his life flash before his eyes. Like he’d been crushed by a car. The pain was so excruciating, he was finding it hard to breathe. Collapsing to the floor, he could’ve sworn that he saw a bright light above him. Tears streaked his face, his stomach churned like the red sea—he thought he was dying. He had no idea what was going on, until—until he realized that he was fine. That his soulmate—that his soulmate might’ve—

Pulling up his shirt, he watched a deep gash form on his stomach and a deep bruise color his whole abdomen. Propping himself up onto his elbows, he instantly fell back to the ground. Looking at his arm, he noticed the swelling. He was being covered in bruises, several of his bones were broken, and he only had one thought on his mind.

I have to find them.

He managed to get to his feet, finding his right leg weaker than he remembered, and he practically sprinted out of the bar. Pulling out his phone, he started searching every news site he could think of, looking for any news of any sort of car crash. Of any sort of accident.

Every few minutes or so, he’d check to make sure that his scars were still there. That his soulmate hadn’t left him. Because that’s what everyone truly fears, and the one thing Junhui has grown to fear more than forever. When you slowly see your soulmate's scars clear up, when your skin is your own once more, it means one of two things.

Either you’ve found your soulmate, or your soulmate is dead.

Please stay alive. He found himself begging, finally catching word of a couple car accidents in the past day. He scrolled through them, scrolled through the pictures of victims, desperately trying to find them. Dozens of faces blurred past his vision, and he finally stopped at a picture of a young woman. A woman with a small scar on her chin, just like the cut Junhui got when he was a kid and banged his chin on a coffee table.

After years of denying her existence, he had finally found his soulmate. For a brief moment, he was caught in some sort of trance, completely awestruck by the person who was a permanent part of his life. She was beautiful, perfect, everything he had ever dreamed of and feared all at once. It broke his heart, knowing that it took her getting hit by a car for him to find her.

When he figured out which hospital she was taken to, he hailed a cab and paid him extra to get him there as fast as he could. As he rode, he read the article more thoroughly, reading about how she was hit by a drunk driver, how she was in critical condition, and how she was in a medically induced coma. He had to fight back tears, knowing that she might not make it.

Arriving at the hospital, he showed the front desk her picture, desperate to find her any way that he could. They confirmed that she was there, that she had just got out of surgery. They kept telling him that only family could see her, that he’d have to wait until she was out of the ICU, and a million other things that he didn’t give a damn about. He had to see her.

“She’s my soulmate.” He whispered, trying not to lose it. “Please, please, let me see her.”

Even though the nurses were conflicted, they eventually let him in. Thanking them quickly, he sprinted down the hall to her room, tears stinging the corners of his eyes. He couldn’t lose her. Not before she was even a part of his life. Not before he could even tell her how important she was to him. He hadn’t even met her yet, and yet if she died – then his life would be over.

He slowed down as he got closer, his heart beating in his ears. She was just a few doors down, she was so close, he could feel it deep down inside. As he stood outside her door, he tried to calm himself down, he inhaled and exhaled, attempting to stabilize the raging storm inside of him.

Mentally preparing for the worst he reached for the door handle, his entire arm shaking. He was fully aware that she wouldn’t even realize he was there, that she’d be lying catatonic in a hospital bed with tubes and wires hooked up to her. He didn’t care. It was still an important moment in his life. He was about to meet his soulmate for the first time.

Turning the handle, he felt his heart stop when he saw her. Even though the actual sight of her broke his heart, something he couldn’t explain started to stir inside of him. Like—like his entire existence led him to this point. And while that thought alone would’ve terrified him not too long ago, it now gave him a purpose to strive towards. He wouldn’t run from this.

He approached her carefully, pulling up a chair and sitting beside her. As he sat there, he watched as the little scars across his knuckles started to disappear, and saw them reappear on her. Unconsciously, he started to check on every single scar on his body, finding himself frowning as they vanished from his skin. He would’ve preferred to bare them, knowing that they wouldn’t mar her beautiful body. And he’d miss the proof that she was meant to be with him. Fate determined that they were meant to be together, and for the first time—he accepted that. Because he finally learned that alone was a far more terrifying word than forever.

“I don’t care how long it takes.” He whispered, taking her hand in his. “I’m not going anywhere.”

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harveywritings92 · 4 years

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MHA/BNHA: They get severely injured and you heal them

You're recovery Girl's granddaughter you have a healing quirk called Angel's Glow, which requires skin on skin contact to work, small wounds, bruises and bone fractures are healed in seconds just by placing your hands on the injured area which will glow blue and repair damage, however wounds that are near fatal are different story. In that case, it’s kind of embarrassing, but you treat it how you would hypothermia, stripping down to your panties (or naked) and lay down holding that person close letting your healing aura cover them, of course you've never been in a situation where you've had to do that, pretty much keeping it reserved for your romantic partner, So when you got a call that your boyfriend was severely injured in a fight and his chances of survival aren't looking to good.

__________________

Fatgum/Taishiro:

Reader's age 26.

The last thing Taishiro remembered was fighting this crazy strong villain with an equally strong quirk! So, one can imagine his confusion when the last thing he remembered before blacking out; was fighting as Fatgum and then waking up after who knows how long as Fitgum and in a stranger's bedroom hooked up to a very annoying heart monitor that would not. stop. beeping! Taishiro slowly sat up; with a grimace expecting to feel pain shooting all throughout his body the second he moved, but to his astonishment nothing happened...

He was sure his left leg was broken during that fight! he cautiously wiggled his toes and jerk his left leg around, nothing no pain... in fact he felt great; giddy like he had just eaten an entire buffet of his favorite foods! But how did... His train thought was cut short when he felt an slender arm around his waist.

Taishiro suddenly became hyperaware of the other person, a woman. laying in the bed next to him! His heartrate spiked causing the monitor to start beeping rapidly!

The blond carefully reached over and gently pushed the woman's hair away from her face, the BMI hero felt a wave of relief wash over him upon seeing the calm sleeping face of his girlfriend Y/n starring back at him. But the relief quickly shifted to befuddlement, why was she here? he then noticed their apparent lack clothes, His yellow eyes widened and felt his face burn; Taishiro swallowed hard as he checked under blanket... why were they just wearing boxers and panties?

Spotting a some of his spare clothes in Y/n's closet, Taishiro quietly and carefully got out of the bed; unplugged the Heart monitor before taking it off, and got dressed in his track pants and T-shirt, then careful got Y/n dressed in one of his hoodies before tucking her into bed, Just as Recovery-Girl popped her head in to check on them as she couldn't hear the monitor beeping anymore, and got worried she smiled seeing her *hopefully* soon to-be Grandson-law alive and healthy.

"Oh thank goodness you're awake..."

"Yeah, I jus' woke up. Sorry for intruddin."

"It's nothing to be sorry for, though I'm sure you're confused how you aren't in a coma or dead."

"...What happened to me?"

Recovery-girl gave him the run down after he was put out of commission, Taishiro was in pretty bad shape, the out come was looking grim when Y/n ordered the ambulance be redirected to her private-practice which also doubled as her home, they got got one of her intern's to use their quirk which could burn off his fat, they cleaned his cuts and got him stitched up then the y/ht woman told everyone to go home; save for her grandmother and Kirishima who refused to leave his mentor until he was sure hew was going to be alright.

it was only when he saw Y/n taking her clothes off did the flustered teen ask about those guest rooms, she offered and recovery- Girl lead him out of the room, the y/ht woman slipped into bed next her her unconscious lover and activated her quirk, Tai's whole body was soon surrounded in veil of blue light that slowly started to repair and heal his broken body.

Taishiro smiled gently as he caressed Y/n's cheek making her wince in her sleep. "The poor thing must be exhausted over using her quirk for two days." the pride the tall man had felt to shifted into concern. "two days?!" he croaked he remembered Y/n telling him that her quirk can also transfer her patients pain onto her to the lessen their burdens, and if he was in really bad shape as recovery-girl described... "Is she gonna be okay?" he asked voice cracking, the old nurse frowned knowing that her granddaughter told him about her quirks pain absobtion. "Well, the next couple days won't be very pleasant for her, I may have to keep her sedated." the blond eyes started to burn as he watched Y/n sleeping soundly, vowing stay by her side and to take her on very nice vacation when this was all over, they could both use it.

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Shoto Todoroki:

Reader age 21, Shoto: 19

This poor touch-starved child was so confused and flustered when he woke up in a strange bed, wearing nothing but his boxers and y/n clinging to him very intimately, all while alarm-bells were going off in his head as part on his mind was still in fight or flight mode as he cautiously scanned his girlfriend expecting this to be a dream, and the villain that attacked him to pop-out at any moment...

After a few moments of waiting for the dream to end, Shoto cautiously used his fire to burn himself he winced feeling the pain burn his wrist, then the pain went numb the bi-colored haired man's brows furrowed before seeing the familiar blue aura from [y/wt] woman's quirk reverse the damage on his wrist, Shoto's stomach churred as realized what she had done, he carefully removed himself from the warm embrace of her bed and looked around the room for something to wear before spotting some a pair of sweat pants and a T-shirt left out for him, he changed then carefully got his girlfriend dressed into her PJs and her tucked in.

Shoto was the picture of calm as he kept a silent vigil over the [y/hc] woman carefully playing with her hair, but internally he was freaking out! Wondering how long had he been out for? and how long had Y/n been healing him? was she going to be okay?! he grimaced at he saw her wince in her sleep; even a blind man could see she was already suffering from the effects of over using her quirk! "Why would you do something so foolish?" he sighed using his cold half to keep Y/n's forehead cool he felt her temperature spike. "Love makes you do very rash decisions." Shoto jumped to see Recovery-Girl behind him and the dual quirked boy immediate bowed his head to her in forgiveness.

"Don't do that Todoroki, you don't need to apologize."

"But because me Y/n is..."

"It's not you're fault dear, Y/n knew the risks as soon as she heard you were in critical condition."

"How long were we like that?" he asked asked dreading the answer Recovery-Girl frowned as she checked her granddaughter's vitals over. "Four days, I won't lie the next couple days won't be kind to my Granddaughter." She saw Shoto wince knowing the guilt eating at him. "But knowing she has a handsome young man looking after her, should help her make a speedy recovery.~" the room's temperature suddenly spikes as a blush adorned Shoto's cheeks Recovery-Girl giggled jubilantly as she left the room leaving Y/n in Shoto's care.

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Touya/Dabi:

Reader age 25 (note you're quirk can't heal his scars (you've tried) you were childhood friends with him, he kidnapped you and keeps you in his safehouse!)

Dabi woke up that morning with a splitting headache, crap how much did he have to drink? he growled taking a sharp breath as his eyes adjusted to his dimly lit bedroom, trying to piece together what happened last night, when he caught something blue in the dim light at first he thought it was his quirk acting up, but then he noticed some of his staples were missing around his stomach...

The it all came flooding back to him one of the Nomus had gotten lose before it could be "trained" and went on a rampage the villains and a couple heroes on the league payroll stropped it, but not without consequences, the beast managed to take a bite out of Dabi's waist, the scarred man somehow managed to make it home... walking through the front door was the last thing he remembered before blacking out, then he felt his stomach drop when he realized that this blue glow wasn't his flames!

Dabi quickly turned the light on above his bed and found a sleeping Y/n hugging his waist her quirk overworking itself trying to fix his scars, which weren't healing because the tissue was to damaged to fix, "You idiot!" he barked getting out of bed, then paused when he felt a rush cold air on his everything, his teal eyes looked down... Yep, naked as the day he was born, he cussed and checked under the thin sheet Y/n had covered them in, same story.

He check her temperature she was freezing! "Tch" Dabi quickly readjusted the sheet around his girlfriend's shivering body then went and put on some black sweat pants, he quickly went to drawers and grabbed a pair of boxers and a t-shirt and put those on his y/ht girlfriend, then grabbed the discarded blanket from off the floor covering the couple.

Dabi used his quirk to boost up his body temp while rubbing Y/n’s arms trying warm her up. the last thing he needed was her getting sick, however he paused his ministrations and checked his burner phone... shit it been 2 days since the incident! He had a lot of messages from the league demanding to know where he was, He should probably get around to telling them he's alive... meh, maybe after Y/n recovered those f-ckers will live.

#boku no hero academia #bnha fanfiction #fatgum x reader #shoto todoroki x reader #dabi x reader #boku no hero x reader #my hero academy fanfiction #Healer! reader

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bosspigeon · 3 years

Text

if you're still bleeding

Pairing: Jax/M!Merc

Words: 2657

Summary: Jax should know better. He should know to mind his own damn business. But, unfortunately, he's well beyond "knowing better" now that he's gone and gotten tangled up with an unhinged mercenary with more knives than sense, and the scars that say the chances of him finding any sense are slim to none.

and if you're still bleeding, you're the lucky ones.

'cause most of our feelings, they are dead and they are gone.

we're setting fire to our insides for fun.

collecting pictures from a flood that wrecked our home,

it was a flood that wrecked this home.

- "Youth" by Daughter

CW for: implied/referenced sex, sexual humor/innuendos, references to blood, violence, and trauma, and implications of kink

Knox is a man with scars.

Jax has plenty of his own, of course, but Knox has a lot of scars. There's a story to most of them, too, and he's never shy about telling them. Hell, half the time he tells those stories completely unprompted, whether you want him to or not.

There's a scar on his chin from where Royal told him he couldn't knee slide the entire bar. There’s the ugly knot of scar tissue where his left arm used to be, where the port to his prosthetic is grafted on. There's the scar in his stomach from the mook Jax had to help him bury. There's a scar on his lip where he bit himself too hard with his freakishly sharp teeth trying to keep quiet while Jax bent him over the hood of his car outside Saints and Sinners in the wee hours of the morning.

He's particularly happy to blab the story about that one to anyone who'll listen.

But he doesn't talk about the scar across his throat.

As little clothing as he tends to wear on the day to day, ("As little as I can get away with," he says with a sleazy wink) his neck is always covered. High-collared shirts, a jauntily knotted scarf, decorative chokers and heavy leather collars always keep it covered. He'll flash his tits before he'll show his throat—but in all fairness, it's not really all that hard to get him to flash his tits.

Jax didn't even see the scar until the fourth or fifth inadvisable hate fuck, at which point he was beginning to think he didn't hate the merc quite as much as he thought, considering he kept letting the little bastard in when he showed up at the door out of nowhere—and didn't shoot him when he decided to forgo the door entirely and come in through the window. (Jax still can’t be sure how he even got to the window, seeing as Jax lives in an apartment well above ground level, but he figures he’s better off not asking.) He didn’t think to ask about it until he’d actually lost count of how many inadvisable hate-fucks there’d been, and when they’d progressed somehow from inadvisable hate-fucks to still pretty inadvisable but otherwise amicable casual fucks.

Knox was loose and relaxed, quiet in a way Jax didn't even think was possible when they first met. And, to think, all it took was shoving him face down into the pillows and thoroughly wearing him out. Usually, he rolled out of bed as soon as his legs could hold him again, commandeered Jax's shower, and used half a bottle of his expensive conditioner before he disappeared without so much as a thank you. This time, he stayed. He sprawled gracelessly across Jax's sweat-stained silk sheets, arms stretched over his head, eyes half-closed and his ever-smirking mouth curled into something softer... almost sweeter.

Jax doesn't know what possessed him to roll over, to reach out and touch, but he did. He started at the inner thigh, the bruises he'd left with teeth and then fingers, a rumbling of possessive pride stoking the banked coals of satisfaction in his belly. His knuckles skimmed the soft curve of the merc's belly, the angry red scar tissue of that knife wound, then higher still. Inked into his sternum is a coyote skull, surrounded by boldly outlined flowers that curve along the underside of his breasts. Jax was almost surprised by the softness of the design, especially in comparison to the rest of the merc's ink, like the crude stick-and-poke perforated line and little pair of scissors right above his prosthetic, or the dirty pinup of some generic muscled pretty boy on his bicep, or the peach on his inner thigh that bears an artful addition of a T-dick very much similar to Knox’s own.

He wondered vaguely if the flowers meant anything to Knox.

Before he could dwell on the uncomfortably tender direction his thoughts had taken, his fingers travelled upwards, flicking absently at one of the heavy, angular piercing through Knox's nipples. Knox huffed a rough laugh, watching the progress of Jax's hand through eyes narrowed to dozy, yellow slits.

He traced Knox's collarbone, and his body was all but melted into Jax's bed, soft and pliant. Like he belonged there.

And then Jax’s curiosity got the better of him. He saw the scar, a thin line, pale with age, but standing in stark relief against Knox's tanned skin. It sits at a bit of an angle, slicing across the middle of the merc's throat.

The second his fingers made contact, skimming that raised line of flesh, he knew he'd fucked up.

Knox's body went taut for a split second, and that was all the warning Jax got before Knox was twisting his wrist hard enough for the bones to grind together and snarling in his face like a wild animal. If his knives weren't two rooms away in his discarded pile of clothes, Jax knows he would have lost fingers.

For once, Knox didn't say anything. For once, he was dead silent, mouth a grim sneer, eyes flat and hard. He shoved Jax roughly off him and rolled out of bed. He didn't look back once, stalking out of Jax's bedroom naked, every inch of his compactly muscled body vibrating with tension. Jax heard the rustle of clothes, the jingle of buckles and zippers and a half dozen knives, and then the front door slamming shut.

He didn't see Knox again until Orla called them in for another job, and it was as if nothing had happened. He was his usual smug, annoying self, not a single break in his usual facade of irreverent humor and Napoleonic bravado.

And maybe some of Knox's reckless stupidity is rubbing off on him, because Jax can't shake the curiosity that grips him, even now. He shoves it down, naturally, because he doesn't want the batshit merc to get twitchy on him again when he's got enough knives on him at any given time to outfit a military squadron. Hell, for all Jax knows, that's the end of it. He's not going to go crawling back to Knox (even if the sex is really fucking good—it's always the crazy ones, isn’t it?) and he knows Knox won't come to him first.

Except he does, dragging Jax into one of the back rooms after a meeting with Orla, shoving him against the wall, and dropping to his knees. Things go right back to normal after that, or as normal as they ever are with Coyote Fucking Knox. And as normal as they can be once Orla oh-so-sweetly reminds him there are cameras in the back rooms, and if he doesn't want stills of his dick forwarded to the entire Mirage gang, he'll keep his and Knox's exhibitionism where she doesn't have to see it.

So Knox continues to invade Jax's privacy, steal petty shit from his apartment and/or pockets, and loudly demand that Jax fuck him hoarse (-er) if he wants him to shut up.

And he winds up tangled in Jax's sheets again, sprawled out on his belly with one leg tossed over Jax's thigh, his face smashed into a pillow, one smug yellow eye watching Jax try to catch his breath beside him.

He could let it be. It's not like this is anything but a convenience. Some fun between… well, they're definitely not friends. Coworkers, if anything, and even that's pushing it. For a while, Jax considered it a fair trade for dealing with Knox's bullshit constantly. Now, it's becoming a pattern, and when it comes to semi-regular sex with a stab-happy mercenary, patterns can be dangerous.

But he can't kill the curiosity.

He figures his best bet is being blunt. And maybe getting ready to dodge in the very likely event things go south. He doesn't touch this time, at least not where they aren't already, Knox’s knee between his legs, the skin feeling a bit feverish and clammy as the sweat cools. The urge to touch is still there—he left some nice bite marks on Knox's shoulders he'd like to reacquaint himself with—but he ignores it for now. He rolls onto his side, meets that one yellow eye with quiet consideration, and props his head up on his hand.

Knox must read the change in his face, because he goes from cat-got-the-cream contentment to a warily curious tension. Jax just goes right for the throat, so to speak. “Any chance of hearing the story behind that one?” he says, casual as anything, and nods in the vague direction of Knox’s neck.

There’s a growling noise building up behind Knox’s teeth, but he bites it back. He smiles, but it feels feral, like an animal baring its teeth looks like a smile, but it's really a threat. It looks brittle, like it'll shatter if he tightens his jaw any further.

Jax gives in to the urge, reaching out to touch, fingertips skimming down the mercenary's spine. A shiver ripples across the skin. He’s not sure if it’s the right move, but at this point, if you’re going to Hell...

“I don’t know,” Knox says flatly, and Jax is almost shocked he answered at all. There’s no inflection, no mirth. Just that broken-glass smile.

Jax snorts. Knox never fucking shuts up, that much is true, but Jax isn’t stupid. He knows when someone’s talking a lot and saying nothing of importance on purpose, and he also knows when Knox can’t deflect, he lies his ass off like he was born to do it. Even Orla barely knows anything about her least favorite favorite merc or where he came from, though the chances of her caring enough to even try to find out are slim to none. Still, he has no idea what the mercenary even has to gain from lying, especially here. "If you don't want to say anything, just tell me to fuck off."

The knife edge smile stretches wider. Tips closer to the breaking point. "Fuck off," he echoes like a parrot.

Something starts to uncurl in Jax's gut, something burbling and acidic, a nasty niggling feeling he can't quite name. "You're serious," he says, and he doesn't want to believe it, mostly because he can't imagine someone like Knox taking that sort of… personal unknown well. “Nothing?”

The smile cracks, and Knox lifts his head so Jax gets the full effect of it. His eyes are wide, wild, and suddenly that smile is too big for his face. Slowly, he sits up, and there's the scar. Old and faded, but splitting his throat neatly and boldly from east to west. He drags his thumb across it, digs it in hard enough the white scar tissue goes a bit pink. He laughs. He's never had a pleasant laugh, rough and raspy and mean. Somehow, this one is worse. “Not a lick,” he drawls, and the effort it takes him to sound so casual almost makes Jax cringe. “There’s a reason Orla found me in the fuckin’ bargain bin.” He taps his temple, his messily painted nail clicking against the chip in his head.

Jax’s eyes flick down to the scar, frowning deeply. It doesn’t make sense. Knox is deflecting again, he has to be, but there’s something in the way he’s holding himself, the tension radiating from him, the way he slumps against the headboard of Jax’s bed with his knees pulled up, not quite close enough to hug to his chest, but more like he’s thinking about it, resisting the urge to physically hold himself together and risk looking weak.

"I have nightmares, sometimes," he admits, so soft the syllables catch on the rough edges of his ragged voice. "They never make any fucking sense. I'm just… I'm choking. Something’s cutting into my neck, and there’s someone behind me, and I know them, but— But I'm guilty? I don't know for what." He laughs, bitterly brittle. "Could be fucking anything. Got a lot to be guilty for that I can remember, never mind what I can't."

He inhales, and it sounds like it hurts him, like his breath is made of shards of glass. He drags his hand down his face until he can curl his fingers around his throat so the scar doesn't show. "I just know there's this perfume Orla wears that makes me want to climb the fucking walls and I don't know why. I think I know how to play the piano, but I can’t even look at one without wanting to smash it to pieces. Sometimes I hear some… some fucking opera song, or some shit? And I know the words, and I want to sing along, but then my voice just—just cracks, and I feel like… like a broken fucking wind-up toy? It's like my head doesn't remember anything, but the rest of me does and it makes me so fucking angry. What am I missing? Why does it matter?” His voice hitches dangerously, and there’s a stab of panic in Jax’s belly, his hands twitching like they want to—to reach out? “Why can’t it just leave me the fuck alone?"

Knox squeezes his own throat so hard the skin dimples around his fingers and bleeds white where he’s cutting off bloodflow. His shoulders tremble. There's something in the furrow of his brow, the twist of his mouth, that says angry isn't the only thing it makes him, but he either doesn't have the words to say it, or he just won't, not even to himself.

The silence falls again. Jax always thought he preferred silence where Knox was concerned. Turns out he was wrong. This silence is brutal, heavy and choking and just… wrong. When Knox does see fit to break it, it's with a loud exhale that almost makes Jax start.

"Would you look at the time," the merc says loudly, shaking out his bare wrist and looking at it critically. Jax could almost laugh. Knox tosses his legs over the edge of the bed smiling crookedly over his shoulder. "I should really head out, huh? Don't wanna overstay my welcome."

Before he can think, Jax snaps a hand out and catches Knox’s hip, squeezing. Not enough to stop him if he really wants to go, but enough to give him pause. Once again, Jax counts himself lucky they rarely make it to the bedroom before one or both of them are naked, which means all those knives are somewhere by the door, or scattered across his coffee table, or in the leather jacket tossed over the back of his couch. Coyote turns slightly, just enough to eyeball him. Just one yellow eye.

There's a lot Jax could say, a lot he even wants to, but there's something raw in that one yellow eye, something wary and broken that just wants to hide somewhere quiet and lick its wounds. They've been at this for way too fucking long at this point, Jax should know what to do with that, shouldn't he?

Maybe he does.

He snorts. "When the fuck have you ever cared about overstaying your welcome?" He smacks Knox's hip just on the wrong side of gentle, and rolls over. "You're not leaving until you help me change these sheets. Hell, maybe if I'm feeling generous, I'll let you back in bed after we shower."

He pushes up to his feet and stretches out the kinks in his muscles, allowing himself to luxuriate in the pleasant soreness leftover from their romp. Knox is quiet behind him, and he can't really think of when he actually started to trust the crazy bastard enough to turn his back to him.

Knox makes a rough little sound, something not quite a laugh. "Is that an order, Sir?" he asks, low and raspy-sweet.

Jax glances back with a raised eyebrow. "Do I need to make it one?"

#remember you will die #rywd #vapolis #rywd jax #rywd fanfic #rywd merc #pidge writes #oc: coyote knox #idk take the warnings into account for ur own comfort #this is more about the vulnerability and the tenderness between two deeply emotionally stunted idiots #anyway i have been picking at this on my bus rides to/from work for the last week #and performing narrative surgery to fix a screwup (bc i cant read apparently gfhdjg) proved to be a solid warmup #for diving into those comms #so uh #here we go!#enjoy i guess!

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abizarreyodelingincident · 3 years

Text

Braaaaaaains...

Jason Todd is legally – and biologically – dead. His family noted his lack of pulse at three in the morning, inside the cave, his body laid out on a table with medical instruments.

No, really, tell him something he doesn't know.

What else crawls out of a grave moaning and groaning?

Or, Jason thought his family full of the world's greatest detectives was smarter than this. Apparently not.

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

It had been an ordinary night. Calm. The stage for very little costumed crime and barely more regular, non-insane crime as well. Half the menagerie that made up Dick's loving ragtag bunch of younger siblings had even taken the night off.

Nothing should have make him arrive to silence this thick, to this faint echo of sniffling.

He sprinted after the noise.

Damian's fine, left before me. Duke didn't go out, nor did Steph. Babs spent the evening with Cass in the cave, Tim swept the bowery and said he was going to stop by Jason's place to-

He collided with a shaking, tear stained Tim right outside the medbay.

There was a body on the closest table. Others around it, crying, pacing, muttering in denial.

Dick couldn't look.

No, no, please, please no. I can't do that again. I can't!

Scarred skin, too pale – to be Duke or Cass – by death. His breath hitched. No. He. Fuck.

He knew those scars. Those arms. That chest and that fucking Y from navel to shoulders.

“Dick! Jason... he was... I found him in his apartment. And I brought him to the cave... but... Jason doesn't have a pulse. He's... cold...”

Dick stumbled.

No.

No, no, no, that... that couldn't be real.

He caught himself on his little brother. Brought himself into a hug too tight, as painful as the arms gripping his ribs and back. A grip meant for a lifesaving light at sea. For a safeline over a ravine.

Twice. He'd lost the same brother twice. And this time, he didn't even have the excuse of inexperience and unstable situations. He... he patrolled the city whilst his brother was dead, completely oblivious to the fact. How could he? How dare he not know?!

“Shh, Tim, I'm here. I'm here.” But not for Jason, whispered a vicious part of him.

“What's all this?”

Dick's heart just about stopped.

Damian stood at the entrance to the lockers' room, uniform folded under one arm, hair slightly damp from a shower and Bat-themed pajamas worn without shame. His mild annoyance was proof he had no idea of the drama that had happened not twenty feet from him.

With reluctance, he let go of Tim, a gentle hand lingering on his shoulder, before he took a few steps toward his youngest, most vulnerable brother.

“D-Dami, I... ” Damn it, he had to be the one to tell Damian about this. Because otherwise, the person to break the news would be Bruce, and-

Shit.

Bruce.

Oh God. How could they possibly tell him- ? After all their fights, the goddamned shattering that had broken the man he had been, and their last conversations even being more admonishment about protocols that Jason had flippantly disregarded. Bruce would never recover. That was it. The end of Batman.

...But first, God he hated himself, wanted to just curl up in a corner and forget everything, first he had a young brother he needed to talk to. One... one little brother less than just this afternoon.

“Jason... ” He swallowed, his throat tight, his heart in denial, the words so damning, but needing to be said. “Jason did not make it. He... he's dead.”

Damian stayed thoughtfully silent.

Not... not the tearful reaction he had expected, but Damian had grown up surrounded by so much death and horror that he would obviously be guarded. And oh, Dick's heart went to his baby brother, and he truly wished he could

“I do not understand. Why such theatrics for the zombie?”

Dick gasped, knowledge warring with the flash of anger.

“Damian! He's our brother!”

“Did he lose his head?” Damian demanded, and Dick's mind buckled.

“Huh, no, but that doesn't have anything to d-”

“Then, why are you acting so weirdly emotional, Richard?”

Before Dick's temper could catch up to his mouth, the longest and most painful-sounding gasp erupted from the medbay, where, to the general shock of all, Jason's gray-ish body shot upward with both his arms raised.

Electroshocks didn't make you jolt like that.

Electroshocks, in fact, remained in their kit on the other side of the medbay, unused. Because Jason had seemingly been dead long before he had been brought to the cave.

That was roughly the moment when Dick's brain caught up with the first of many hints. Latched onto it with a fool's hope.

“... Damian... When you were calling Jason a 'zombie', what did you mean?”

Damian's brows scrunched up together, a look he meant to be intimidating, but had more in common with a disgruntled kitten. “Exactly that, Richard. Do we not have files on zombies in the computer? Dead bodies walking about animated by unholy powers?”

Jason's not- Dick forced the half formed thought to a halt. For once, he rather wanted to be very, very wrong in how he perceived his family.

“What's with all the noise? Can't someone try to sleep like the dead without screaming?” Jason groused. “Should have gotten myself buried ag-OOF!”

“JASON!” screamed the hysterical teenager that had launched himself at a very lively dead body.

“Huhh? Hi, Timmy?” Jason said blearily, ruffling Tim's hair, eyebags suspiciously prominent. “... Fear gas?”

The blinking slowed, the fog of sleep drifting away as he silently begged the rest of them for an answer.

Happily provided by a still crying Tim. “I thought you were gone!”

“What is dead may never die,” Jason quipped, his mouth twisting in that cocksure grin from his Robin days.

And Dick wanted nothing more than to stop right there, pass out from the relief and joy of his little brother being alive and kicking, but...

But...

That joke. One of many morbidly unfunny jokes and puns.

Bone-deep fatigue crushed his back. A bitter curse for whatever higher forces messing with them echoed strongly inside his skull, before he gave in to the inevitable and inhaled a few times for patience.

“Jason. We thought you were dead-dead.”

With prickly, hedgehog style affection, Jason pushed Tim back and stood up, stretching. “Come off it, Goldie. I wasn't even decapitated. I mean, if you were really worried, you could have just called a necromancer or something.” His expression hardened. “But if you ever call a necromancer on my ass, I'll shoot your perfect glutes.”

Yup, yup, yup, this is happening.

Tim finally wiped the rest of the tears away, helped by one of Stephanie's handkerchiefs, when he froze. “Wait. Your skin's still pale as a corpse.”

The flicker of amusement in Jason's eyes killed it for Dick.

God, how could they have all been this idiotic? If Wally ever learned about this – Shit, did Roy and Kory know before him?!

They were going to laugh their asses off at him.

Jason, unaware of the world recalibration happening in his poor big brother's mind, shrugged and rolled his shoulders – who creaked suspiciously loudly, more like rusty hinges than normal body parts. “Eh, I'm just a bit hungry. Nothing a meal or two won't fix and get some blood flowing back under my s-”

“You're a zombie.”

They turned toward him.

“Way to cross the finish line on time, Mister Rabbit,” Jason drawled.

Barbara, for once, looked completely unprepared. “A zombie,” she repeated, dazed.

Stephanie's nervous giggle died out when she noticed the lack of humor. “... No!”

Cassandra furiously looked down, muttering in her fist. Duke, by contrast, had the expression of a person stuck in a very awkward nightmare.

Even Jason's good-natured ribbing faded in when faced only with the distant screeched of bats. “... Hm, guys, bats, roostery, parasites and octopi? This is old news. What's with all the... ”

He vaguely gestured at their faces.

“Old news?” Tim rasped like he was being strangled.

“I came back from the dead years ago! Come on! Am I in a parallel universe? Hey, Demon Brat,” Jason called, baffled, “you knew, right? I didn't imagine that, right?!”

“Of course, Todd. Mother informed me of everything. Besides, Grandfather's interest in your state of being was of interest for a few weeks. How could I have been ignorant about your zombified state of being?”

In the corner of his eyes, Dick noticed Tim's, Barbara's and Cassandra's expressions all pinching in displeasure. In a way, Dick was reassured. He hadn't been the target of a family-wide hoax to discredit him as an attentive and loving eldest brother. No, he was just naturally blind, apparently.

“He knew?” Tim growled, like it was a personal failing of the fabric of time and space.

Damian's tone was the exact opposite. “And none of you realized...?”

Dick squirmed. “I... huh... you see...”

His baby brother eyed him, completely unimpressed, and for once after years of partnership, Dick felt he deserved every single ounce of it.

“I see... I shall reevaluate the value of this 'detective training' I've been given if this is the result then,” he said, the nearest thing to completely disavowing his older siblings without saying so.

In other circumstances, perhaps the others would have demanded that Damian stay and explain, but he suspected the quelling look it would have deserved prevented them. Not one of them spoke until Damian had disappeared upstairs and the elevator doors had closed.

“Jason, since when have you been a zombie?”

Jason blinked, jaw hanging. Juuuust enough for some of the scar tissue on his face to stretch past normal. Why did Dick only notice that now?

“Wait, you're all serious? How could you not know? I told you guys!”

And there was Dick's pride rearing its ugly head, because no, no he had not been told and maybe his deductive skills needed a very complete overhaul, but his memory was still excellent!

“You never said that. Heck, we weren't even talking until two years ago!”

“I literally told you all that I crawled out of my grave by myself, groaning the entire time. No experiment, no Lazarus Pit, just a body waking up in its own coffin and deciding to breathe fresh air. Does that not scream 'zombie' to you?”

They cringed.

“Not the only one that returned from beyond,” Babs mumbled. He could see her pull up the mental list right there.

“I greeted you all last meeting with a 'What's up, my bat folks? It's me, your favorite zombie!'. What did you think that meant?”

“That you're an asshole with a morbid sense of humor?” Stephanie quipped, and Jason momentarily paused his indignation to high five her. Fair's fair.

“Okay, but what about that time I got shot in the chest and I told you all not to worry about it?”

“I just figured you were going to get stitched up by Leslie or yourself, you know, regular bat neuroses,” Tim confessed.

Dick made a mental note to keep a much closer eye on Tim's patrols for the next few months.

“From a bullet chest wound?” Jason asked with an incredulousness that was not at all earned, because he was a freaking zombie!

“I thought your armor had blocked it! The hole wasn't bleeding!” Tim protested, cheeks red and tone defensive.

“Well, yeah,” Jason replied. “I don't bleed. It's like some fruit pulp or something. Ain't coming out if you don't press. My heart's not pumping.”

That's a 'nevermind' on the smoothie I saved for after patrol.

“Well, I know that now,” Tim said.

“I feel like I should write it down on the plaque or something,” Jason still sounded amazed, and might have pinched his arm just to be sure he hadn't been daydreaming, “Like, 'a good soldier AND A VERY DISCRETE ZOMBIE!' in big flaming letters. With a spotlight. And a dictionary opened on 'Zombie' or 'Undead'. You know, just in case the next batbrat to come along needs a few subtle hints about my true nature. What'd you think, Dick?”

He could not have been blushing harder than he currently was. “I think shut up.”

“Of course. What about when I shoved my deadly cold toes at Tim under a blanket?”

“Cold feet.”

“Never eating around you guys?”

“Daddy issues with Bruce,” Barbara deadpanned, and got a sock thrown at her for her honesty.

However, Duke, poor kid, turned green. “Wait, so when you offered me some jellied brain... was that not a death joke?”

Dick's stomach spontaneously shrivelled.

By the grimaces and sharp inhales all around, that was a common reaction.

Then the worst possible thing happened: Jason grinned.

He strutted, all confidence and brashness, and viper-quick, snatched an arm around Duke's shoulder. “Narrows, Nightlight, my tiny bitsy bro, everything I do is a death joke. My very existence laughs at death.”

Inside the batcave, the groaning was long-suffering and shameful.

“But that was actually brains,” Duke countered.

“Yeah. Calf brains. It's a delicacy.”

Tim massaged his forehead. What a mood.

Duke narrowed his eyes. “It was purely for the joke, wasn't it?”

Jason patted him on the back so hard Duke faltered. “One tragically wasted on your obtuse mind. I prefer me some Tête fromagée instead. Less like grainy jello.”

Stone-faced, Barbara wheeled herself toward the batcomputer. There, upon a series of quick clicks, she opened up the Bats's files. “Alright, you had your fun. Do you need to eat brains or are you just the world's least funny meathead?”

“I'm the world's most misunderstood vigilante!” Jason loudly protested, milking their pain for all it was worth. And then some. “But yeah, I do. No grey matter in there” -- he tapped his belly -- “no thinking up here.” -- his skull.

“Need some better quality brains then,” Tim stage-whispered to Stephanie.

Cass pointed the finger at Jason. “No killing for brains.”

Jason's good humor flickered with a flash of green. “Ain't ever done it, never will. It's a matter of morals, not hunger, Cass.”

Dick swooped in that minefield before it exploded.

“Great! Proud of you, Jay! You're the good kind of vegetarian zombie,” he said, putting an arm around his ginormous little brother's shoulders.

Wait a minute...

“Hey, you're older than when you died! Zombies don't age.”

“No, I was thrown into a Lazarus Pit, and the evil waters cured the malnutrition-induced delay on my growth. Haven't aged a day since.”

“I just thought you had a weird babyface thing going on,” Tim said.

Jason's grin turned sardonic. “Quite the opposite, Timber.”

Dick put his head in his hands in some vain attempt to prevent his brain from leaking through his ears. With his luck, his little brother would 'playfully' eat some of it. “There's no way you look this rugged at biologically sixteen! I refuse to believe that.”

“Can you imagine my power if I'd been allowed to reach my full potential?” Jason leered, eyebrows waggling like waves in a sea at storm. “So many heart attacks.”

Barbara and Cassandra exchanged a silent look, and, after a solemn nod, Cassandra reached up to slap Jason upside the head.

“Thank you, Cassandra,” Barbara told her. “Jason, never do such a thing again.”

The disgruntled groan that followed must have been on purpose, because Jay was indeed an asshole.

“Besides, it's not like the world will ever know,” Tim said, cutting, a smirk hiding by his hand.

Dick really thought his little brother was far too relaxed upon learning that Jason was one with the undead. Sure, they had all encountered various levels of zombies during their missions, from all sorts of oral traditions and cultures, alien viruses and hidden nanobots piloting meat puppets. It wasn't even classified as a nation-wide crisis to encounter free-roaming zombies. But since the chronically unalive individual in question was one of their own, Dick felt he was owed at least a whole evening of frazzled panic and incomprehension for once.

“Oh?” Stephanie instead asked, sensing blood.

Tim shrugged. “Well, you know, no pulse, no blood flow,” he said with an angled eyebrow nodding at Jason's crotch

Stunned silence followed, their expressions varying from disgust, horror, unholy glee and, from Jason himself, wide-eyed shock that his shrimp of a little brother had had the balls to assimilate the zombieness fast enough to mock him for him.

Dick prayed for patience. For fortitude. And for an alternate timeline where he was an only child.

Why, for all the love of cotton candy and professional uncriminal clowns, did Tim put THAT image of Jason inside their brains? What had he done, him, a loving model for all of society, to suffer like this?

Maybe if he asked nicely, Jason would eat the image out of his head. He owed Dick that much after this clusterfuck of a conversation.

“Ooooooooh,” Stephanie crooned, miming getting dunked on. With acrobatics.

Jason huffed. “Like I was ever interested in the first place. I ain't Dick.”

“Okay, no slut shaming or virgin shaming, in fact, no shaming at all, please. In this house, we accept all sexualities, but we don't give out raunchy details about any of it, I only have so much brain bleach.”

“Share?” Duke pleaded in a whisper.

Oh, I wish I could, you young innocent soul.

A few beeps turned their attention back to Barbara and the batcomputer. “Well, that's one long overdue update to Jason's files. Anyone else want to share their 'obvious' medical condition?”

“Excuse you, being dead is not a medical condition.”

“I will make you wish for the peace of the grave, Jason.”

Droplets dripped from nearby stalactites.

A few bats flew overhead.

Jason turned to them like nothing had been said.

“Right. That was fun. Best night of my month. Can't wait to tell the Outlaws.”

Dick resigned himself to a series of unflattering texts by the absolute dickheads that were his second family. He could already tell the messages would blow up his phone to the Moon. 'You didn't know your brother that came back from the dead is a zombie?!'

“Have mercy and wait tomorrow morning?”

That smile could have been great or terrible. “You're lucky I'm in a spectacularly good mood, Dick.”

He had lifted his leg over his bike's seat when Duke was struck by genuine worry.

“Wait. Does Bruce know?”

Jason barked out a laugh.

“Of course he does! God knows he's got some massive blind spots, but he's obsessive, paranoid and I find subcutaneous trackers on me every week. No way he didn't get the hint before now.”

But, as his gaze went over the rest of them, his good cheer dimmed, his grin slipping off his face as surely as a bit of decayed flesh.

“... Right?”

#fanfic #Jason Todd #Zombie Jason Todd #Dick Grayson #Batsiblings

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mia-ugly · 5 years

Text

Breakable Things

Martin is big.

Not in a strapping film-star kind of way. Not tall or broad-shouldered, not a ‘mountain of a man’ or a ‘tall drink of water’ or anything like that.

Just big (a dumb, blunt, smack of a word.)

He was big as a lad, he’s bigger now. He always had the kind of body that inspired too many teachers to push him toward wrestling, football, rugby even (apparently his dad had been involved with the clubs. Apparently he’d been a fair tighthead back in the day, before he left Martin’s mum, and left Martin to gather up the pieces, cutting his fingertips on every one.)

It didn’t take Martin’s teachers or schoolmates long to realize that Martin’s size did not equate to any sort of athletic skill. And once the - inevitable rumours started circulating around Year Seven, well. Any motivation he might have had to be ‘part of a team’ was drained out of him like a tire going flat (that metaphor needs work. Doesn’t really convey the violence, try again.) His motivation left him like the air being knocked from his lungs, shove after hard shove against the lockers.

Martin is strong.

Physically. He doesn’t know why - got it from his father, didn’t he - his wide back, his thick fingers, his solid legs. He took a cricket bat to the face once - ought to have broken his nose, blackened his eyes, but it didn’t. Got in a car accident when he was seventeen, didn’t even crack a rib. Flipped the whole thing into the ditch, and his mum screamed herself hoarse when she found out, but Martin walked away from it. Physically. He walked away.

He doesn’t bruise easily. If he cuts his hand chopping vegetables, it heals quickly. He doesn’t have any scars (he has stretch marks though, all over his stomach and thighs, and for all that he is strong, he’s soft. He’s soft and he knows it, all pudding and poetry and fear, oh, fear most of all. It's pathetic how easy he is, how quickly he caves, rolls over and does whatever's asked of him.

In most situations, anyway. With most people.)

“Why don’t you want me coming with you?”

Jon is in his office, seated in front of that bloody tape recorder as always. The sight of him there is so familiar, like the negatives from a film camera. Like even if Jon wasn’t there, the imprint of him would still linger, white as a ghost against the darkness.

He doesn’t seem surprised to hear Martin’s voice. Neither does he glance up from the desk where he’s shuffling papers, gathering up books. His hands move constantly, restless and bird-boned and Martin is always looking at them, even when he tries not to.

“I don’t want you getting hurt.” Jon’s voice is low, rough with exhaustion, and it makes Martin wince. Makes him want to fuss (when is the last time the man got a decent night's sleep? Someone should bring him a cup of tea, someone should rub his shoulders, someone should do something -

He knows he has a caretaking thing. He knows it’s not - good. And the sharp ones get to him like anything, he wants to win them over in a pathetic, salivating way. It’s a sickness, but -

- but there was a point when it suddenly stopped being about Martin’s Whole Thing, and just started being about Jon.

He’ll talk to someone about it, swear. A professional, even. If the world doesn’t end.)

“It’s fine if you get hurt, though, is it?”

Jon does look up now, and Martin forces himself not to take a step back under the dark-lashed scrutiny. The heavy eyebrows, the shimmer of scars. Sometimes Jon’s skin reminds Martin of the surface of a planet, a rough and distant moon. He wonders how it is that Jon can be so narrow, so small, and still take up so much room in the Archives, and in the world, and in Martin’s big (and soft and so so stupid ) heart.

“It is my job.”

“No. This - this is not your job.” Martin struggles to put the words together in the face of this vast, ridiculous injustice. “Going off to - what? Do battle with some sort of evil, circussy death-cult, that’s not your job . You don’t get paid for that.”

Jon snorts, derisive, and Martin wishes he could be angry. It’d be easier if he was angry with Jon.

But he isn’t.

“Melanie needs you here. And I can’t be - there, thinking about -“ Jon stops. He swallows and looks back down at the scattered papers on his desk. A snowfall of horror stories, laid out neatly on Hammermill Bright White. “Worrying about you.”

(“Leave it, Martin, I’m fine just - leave me alone -” Mum smacks him away with a vein-bruised hand.)

“Because I’ll make a mess of things - is that what you think? I can help you, I want to help you-”

“I will feel better knowing you’re here.”

“And how do you think I’ll feel? Knowing you - you and, um Tim and Daisy - are out risking your lives while I’m sat on my hands, drinking tea, being useless -”

“You aren’t.” Jon’s voice is suddenly loud, as if he’s in pain. He pinches the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut. “And I don’t - I can’t - you’ll be helpful here. The Institute needs you, and Melanie needs you, and I -”

-don’t, Martin hears.

Though Jon doesn’t say it, Martin hears it.

“Right,” he manages. “All right.”

He should go. He’s going to go. But he lingers for a moment more, committing as much of Jonathan Sims to memory as he can. The angles of him, compact and rigid with anxiety. The fall of hair across his forehead, ink black shot through with grey. Thin pink lines that a blade left below his jaw, a ripple of lacy scar tissue on his hand (and Martin mostly, mostly doesn’t wonder what those scars would feel like against his own skin. On his shoulder or - or sliding down the length of his throat. At the back of his neck, tugging him into a kiss.)

Come back, come back, come fucking back. Martin isn’t religious, never one for church, but it’s as much of a prayer as he’s ever said.

“Is there something else you want?” Jon asks, terse and tired and - for one thoughtless moment he is the Archivist and only the Archivist, and Martin can’t help but gasp out a shocked, “yes.”

Jon knocks a book off the desk. It slams to the floor loud as a gunshot, and Martin flinches.

“Sorry,” he says quickly, “I’m sorry, I -”

“No, I’m - I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking -”

“It’s fine - I know you didn’t -”

“I would never -”

“But you can.”

There’s a horrible silence, like the moment after the tape recorder shuts off, statement ends. Martin feels sick to his stomach and Jon looks like - like -

He doesn’t know what Jon looks like. Maybe that’s why he keeps talking.

“You can ask me. What I - what I want.” Heat is rushing to his face, a blush that feels like thorns. Jon just stares at him, and this was a bad, bad idea. It’s obvious, isn’t it? Jon doesn’t even need to ask the question, probably knows the whole awful story just by looking at him. “If you wanted.”

When Jon says nothing, just keeps staring, Martin tries desperately to double back.

“Never mind, that was -” He flaps his hands a bit, moving towards the door. His shoulders hunch, an old defense mechanism, useless body trying to make itself look as harmless as possible. Trying to make itself so small it’s beyond notice (it never works.) “I shouldn’t have. I can’t believe I - just - be safe. All right? That’s all I -”

“Martin -”

“That was - stupid, such a - I’m sorry, I only -”

“-what do you want?”

The words are spoken quietly. Barely above a whisper. But Martin doesn’t need to hear them - his whole body hears them, and suddenly every syllable feels golden in his mouth. Saying it out loud isn’t frightening or humiliating, it’s easy. Answering the Archivist is like falling asleep in a patch of sun-warmed grass, or gasping for air after holding your breath underwater.

“I want you to come back.” It’s honey dripping off his tongue. “I want you to come back for me. And I want the world not to end, and I want to know what your hair feels like, whether it’s soft or coarse and whether I can tell the difference between the black parts and the silvery parts just by touching them.”

Jon is absolutely frozen behind his desk. He might not even be breathing, but that’s okay; Martin can’t remember why anyone needs to breathe.

“And I want to help you. And the others. I want to matter. And I want Sasha to be okay, and I want Tim to be okay, and I want Elias to finally face some fucking consequences for once. I want to take you on holiday and - and watch you while you sleep so you know you don’t have to be afraid. I want to wake you up if you have nightmares and make you tea in the morning and bake things for you, and - and I want to kiss you, even if it’s just once. Only once, just so I know, and only if you want me to. That’s what I want.”

The sweetness ends the moment the last word leaves his mouth. Suddenly the honey is cloying and acrid, suddenly his heart is unsteady with embarrassment, skipping beats like he’s just had a shot of adrenaline. Martin chokes on a breath and slams his eyes shut against the spinning room.

“Fuck.” His voice cracks on the word, insult to injury, and he claps a hand over his mouth. “Oh God - I’m - oh God. That was -” He barely remembers what he said, which is the only thing keeping him upright at the moment. He just knows it was soft, pathetically soft. Even his fantasies are as weak as his jawline. “I’m going to - go, I’ll go. I shouldn’t have -”

“W-wait.”

Martin doesn’t want to open his eyes. But he does. Just in time to see Jonathan Sims stand up. Start to walk around the desk.

And Jon is not big. Or strong, physically. Martin knows a bit about anatomy, took a couple art classes, was always fascinated by the bones of things. As Jon steps closer, Martin can only see the breakable things about him. Collarbones, fingers, bridge of his nose. What’s that bone in the arm that everyone’s always breaking?

Humerus.

Ulna.

Jon is not strong, and he is scarred, and he is small and fragile and God he is the bravest person Martin’s ever met.

“Martin, you -” Jon stops in front of him and Martin looks down, gaze almost level with the top of Jon’s head. “You can ask me. What - what I want.”

He’s shaking, Martin can see it - and it makes him realize that he’s shaking too. He barely manages the “What -” before he forgets how to say the rest, forgets how words work (but Jon, Jon is brave.)

“I think - I would like -” Jon reaches for Martin’s hand, and lifts it to his mouth. Presses a dry kiss right in the centre of Martin’s palm.

It’s a ruining sort of softness, and Martin’s big (physically) and strong (physically) but somehow Jon knows where his weaknesses are - the loose dragonscale, the slipped disc.

(And of course, after this the world will almost end (but not quite.) After this, there will be Elias and Martin’s humiliating tears over a statement he knew damn well, a beholding that came as no surprise to anyone.

After this Jon will die.

Almost. Not quite.)

But now: Jon is murmuring, “I think -” as he leans up to kiss Martin (and his warm mouth is shocking and brief, a knife sliding home.)

But now: Jon is still shaking when their lips part, and Martin’s hands are on either side of his face, tips of his fingers settled lightly in Jon's hair (it’s softer than anything, as it turns out, and the silvery parts are softest of all.)

Their foreheads press together, both of them breathing harder than one kiss should warrant. And Martin doesn’t say any of those other things he wants, any of the white-hot words he’s scratched down on paper or typed into the notes app. He doesn’t say anything about the shape of Jon’s shoulder-blades through that thin grey t-shirt he wears, doesn’t bring up any metaphors about fading light or seaglass or breakable things that are also strangely beautiful.

Because what good is poetry at the end of the world?

“Be careful,” Martin says instead (and Jon won’t be.)

“Come back,” he says (and Jon isn’t going to. Not for a long, long time).

And hours later, standing in that empty office, Martin will see the lighter that Jon left on his desk. He will notice the black handful of ashes in the rubbish bin, and wonder what Jon was burning.

And Martin is soft. People-pleasing and pathetic and terribly, terribly in love.

But Jonathan Sims kissed him once (once) and for a moment, in that office, with a small blue flame leaping in his hand -

Martin is not afraid.

#the magnus archives #jonmartin #trying to remember how this writing thing goes #some consensual beholding between bros #Season 3 episode 117 #missing scene #homophobia cw #bullying cw

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silence-burns · 4 years

Text

Please Hate Me //part 44

Fandom: Marvel

Summary: Based on: “Imagine having a love/hate relationship with Loki.” by @thefandomimagine Who would have thought that babysitting a god could be so much fun?

Genre: slow-burn, enemies to lovers, banter

Power is a precious thing. Power commands others, it shapes lives and holds the upper hand over those who don't possess it.

Being hit with a flash of it, you had to admit it all held true.

There was no way for you to fight the magical hit that flung you backward. Nothing you could do to cushion the floor slamming the air out of your lungs and the blood spilling in your mouth as your teeth cut the soft tissue.

The sheer power of the hit sent you rolling across the floor and crushing into a pillar. Dry leaves twisted down onto your gasping body as you fought to stay conscious. The world tilted to the side, and you couldn't fix it. You were powerless, tossed to the side and forgotten as true power unleashed.

Red leaves whipped through the air like razors in the unnatural wind that tore them off the pillars and tossed the gathered lords alike. Bones broke, stone crumbled, and the screams echoed under the high ceiling. Pillars broke, and part of the galleries to the right hung low, the strained wood groaning.

The guards rushed chaotically throughout the hall, some pulling out fallen lords, some bracing their shields against the wind and the shards it tossed.

And in the center of it all rose the Queen, her pale gown bellowing like moth wings on the winds she gathered. Her skin was still dark, but the tiny speckles peppering it that used to remind you of stars over the night sky shone with light threatening to blind anyone foolish enough to look too closely. Strange power buzzed through the air, rising hair on your arms and neck, like lighting seconds from striking.

The Queen's arms were outstretched, her head tipped back, as if she was reveling in crowds singing praise to her. The horn-like crescent moon, the half broken and yellowing bone, melted off the jewelry she had adorned it with.

The Prince was nowhere to be seen. Given how close he had stood when the Queen showed her true self, he must've ended somewhere under the ruined gallery, or perhaps thrown into the river. Faroq and a few guards crawled over the place.

You bent in half, coughing up the dust swirling in the air. The Queen rose higher, held mid-air by powers she had hidden all these centuries. Cracks spread through the stone, rising high through the walls like a time-lapse of a spiders web.

You wondered how many beings she had killed to stall off her fading. How many she used to secure the Rifts instead of lending off her own essence.

There was no way you could've predicted this outcome.

And maybe that spoke poorly of you, but you had more important matters at hand than worrying about it. Crawling around the pillar, you hid from the Queen's eyes as you groped around in your pocket.

The sword indeed cut through all.

The cuffs fell from your wrists. You looked around, and found Loki behind a pillar under the opposite wall.

"Do we have a plan?"

You cursed violently. Your heart jumped into your throat as you looked up, to where Peter hung upside down on the pillar.

"Sorry!"

His suit was dusty, but the boy seemed to be fine and that was enough to make your shoulders sag with relief. But you were quickly brought back to reality as the remnants of the dais joined the debris flying through the air.

"So… What's the plan?"

You gestured vaguely toward it. "That was the plan."

"It clearly worked." Peter nodded. "What next?"

The ground shook under your feet as if the palace itself strained into movement. The wooden galleries cracked and rained splinters.

"Now we move," you said, wanting nothing less than to be crushed.

But before you managed a step, the last of the leaves joined the forming cyclone, picking up everything on its way. A body hit the floor in front of you. Silver blood streamed down the lord's face, his horns broken and his legs—

You reached out, hoping to pull him behind the still standing pillar, but your hand closed around his robe - and then he died. His body disintegrated into ash that spilled around, quickly getting picked up by the storm brewing inside the hall. Gusts of grey dust swirled once before they joined the wind, leaving you frozen to the spot.

A piece of almost forgotten memory resurfaced. Dwellers of the Edge did not die. Their essence joined the Edge, filling the Rifts and bringing back the balance. No bodies were left behind.

Wood tore from the galleries overhead, but you couldn't move as you watched the wild gusts of wind. Among the debris, wooden planks, shards and pieces of lost weaponry, you could pick up loose bundles of clothes.

Peter jumped off the pillar and shook you by the shoulder, but you couldn't stop looking. So many have died, so many were sacrificed to buy the years for-

You were hurled off the ground, the web stretching painfully as it fought against the wind. You kept forgetting how strong Peter had become after the accident that awakened his superpowers. The gallery you had hid under just moments ago finally gave in to the violence and fell down, toppling the pillar.

Loki assessed you when Peter let go of you. The boy watched the cracks in the walls spread. Nowhere was safe enough, but there was no way out. The debris had already blocked off the exit. The lords and guards—those still alive—hid at the far end of the hall, trying to reach the still standing galleries overhead and the backdoor.

"Are you okay?" Loki's voice cut through your hazy thoughts. He himself was bruised, but otherwise uninjured.

You nodded, swallowing with effort. "We have to stop her."

You didn't waste any time. Using the sword, you cut through Loki's cuffs, finally freeing his magic.

Loki took a deep breath, feeling it rushing back to him, distorted by the elemental cyclone raging deeper in the hall, but still his. Still powerful.

Peter noticed the expression on his face. He was glad the god was on their side.

"Peter, darling, do you think you could distract her a little?"

Peter, the darling, took a peek from behind the pillar. The guards fought with each other, the loyal protecting the queen gathering her powers, and the rational trying to stop them.

"...sure. Easy peasy."

Loki and you braced for the sprint. Peter rolled his shoulders, feeling the familiar tingling of the adrenaline spreading through his arms.

"Easy peasy," he repeated and shot his webs.

Peter flew toward the unbroken half of the galleries and kicked hard into the last pillar standing beneath them. The heavy marble, already cracked underneath all the weight, strained and gave up.

Peter jumped to the wall and watched the winds pick up the debris and hurl it straight toward the fighting crowd. Some managed to jump away in time. Some didn't.

Peter didn't wait to see the outcome, because even then he could clearly see how much the guards loyal to the Queen outnumbered the rest. They spilled blood and ash, separating the Queen from whoever might want to stop her.

The boy was new to this world, but even he lacked hesitation as he climbed higher, jumping over the momentarily growing cracks. But he didn't aim for the ceiling.

Peter braced himself, plastering his feet to the wall, and shot his webs to the heavy crystals growing from the highest peak of the hall's ceiling. Their light buzzed, as if even their essence was being pulled by the woman beneath. But it didn't matter. All that Peter was focused on was the damage already done by her. He pulled.

There was a second where the stone seemed unmoving, fighting against the boy's efforts. Then, so slowly that an eye could barely notice, the impossibly heavy slabs of stone and crystal fell.

Hidden deep in the eye of the storm, where the air was as still as if petrified, the Queen drank all the essence being spilled around her. Not once since the great wars ended had so many dwellers of the Edge gathered in one place. They were solitary beings to the core - always wandering, for to settle meant to define and lose themselves to the illusion of stability at the edge of the universe - the most unstable place of them all. Almost nothing could make them gather again, not like the war that had united them millenia ago.

So war it shall be, the Queen who would not sacrifice herself for anyone had decided. War and a life long and solitary. As it always was on Edge.

The crystals shone one last time as they fell.

But the Queen would not die like that.

Stone was ripped from the floor. Pillars picked up like sticks. Wood and steel gathered with them as they slammed into the crystals, forcing them to the side, flying over the woman in the center of the chaos. The guards standing vigil around her didn't have time to dodge.

Screams were cut-short in the rumbling wind. Lives died out one by one. The Queen's eyes fluttered when she caught their essence and took it.

"Why?"

One shout broke through the noise, sharp and hopeless.

"Why?" repeated the female guard with violent, deep scars over her face. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she crawled over the debris, over the splinters she didn't feel stained with blood.

The Queen frowned over the ruined, foolish woman. Shards aligned behind her.

"Long shall I live," the Queen said, but the words never reached the guard. Her head rolled down the steps.

From the other end of the hall, you couldn't see any of it, but it didn't mean you were free of problems. Peter had managed to pull the Queen's attention elsewhere, earning Loki and you time to brace through the chaos, but your advance was halted by the thing you liked the least in that world.

The sword indeed cut through anything, and you were madly glad about it as you braced through the oncoming waves of deformed, half-finished monsters the Queen's magic raised from the stone.

But you had to move through them. Someone had to stop her.

Even from so far away, you could see the people who made it through the debris. They tried to heave the stone away from the exit, and fell and faded away as their essence was pried off their bodies until nothing was left. For reasons beyond you, you and Loki seemed to hold up better. But even you started to feel the strain the closer you moved, the sort of heaviness settling deep in your bones that threatened to overwhelm you.

Loki was a steady force by your side, his magic sending flashes through the ruined hall. He turned stone after stone into shimmering vipers, their scales jade and their fangs merciless as they bore into the Queen's puppets.

You kicked a deformed stag out of the way, too tired to raise your sword. Loki rushed to the path you cleared, the air ripped from his lungs with the proximity of the dais' remains. You couldn't go any further. Your strength wore thinner with each step.

But he could do it, Loki forced himself to believe, as he dug his heels into the cracked floor, closer and closer to the center of the chaos. Splinters and debris hit the side of his face and back and he could barely see through the hair falling into his eyes, but Loki knew what he needed to do.

With a final jump, he dug his fingers deep into the dry, orange vines entwined around a fallen pillar. He felt his magic surge into them, forming a slithering mass of scales and fast, agile bodies. They rushed to fulfill the only command in their heads.

The Queen rose higher, propelled on the phantom winds, disgust and rage warped her features. She whipped her hands, sending bursts of debris to shatter the snakes, but more rose from behind the pillar. And then it turned to one too.

Loki quickly rolled to the side as the massive body uncoiled to its full fifteen feet of length. He felt his magic withering when it crashed through the air barrier around the woman, but the viper ripped through it with all its might, ignoring the debris thrown its way. The thick scales brushed it off like dust. The snake tensed.

And struck.

Mindless rage twisted the Queen's face as she made the final attempt to stop the beast and threw all her power against it.

Pain erupted deep in Loki's head, twisting and throwing him to his knees as it shattered through his every nerve. The snake vanished, its body crushed and broken as it turned back to stone. Warm blood trickled down Loki's chin as he coughed more of it up, the pain bending him to the ground. All magic, weak and strong, has a price - that was the first lesson in every magic wielder's education. And whenever one's magic was overpowered, they had to pay it.

Loki's lungs ripped into pieces as he struggled to take a breath, to even move a muscle. All he managed was to lift his head. The Queen heaved onto the ground, her breath ragged as well, but she was far from done.

The lords were either gone or barely alive. The guards injured or dead.

And Loki ran out of tricks as the pain hammered through his head.

He had never imagined that he'd die in such a foreign place, drifting out of consciousness to the distant rumbling of the river he once-

No. Not distant.

Nearing.

All thoughts scattered from Loki's head as he beheld the river rising high to the open balcony at the side of the palace, forming an impossible wave behind a person just crawling over the railing.

The Prince was dripping wet. And furious.

The tidal wave swarmed over the hall, and crashed right where the Queen stood. Loki managed to close his eyes as he was swept by the force of nature and thrown against the shattered mess the galleries had become.

But the wave parted right in front of the Queen, whose skin glowed through the star-like speckles as she forced the wind to part the water.

"I'm not going to die for anyone's sake," she spit as the wave stopped, the water covering the hall.

"It's an honor to save others."

"Not to me. Not to all those destined to die in their stead."

Winds tore at the water, the mist rising thick to obscure and hide.

But the Prince didn't let the Queen play whatever trick she devised. Water leaped to his hands as he rushed to close the distance. Thin, sharp whips cut and sliced through the mist, but the Queen dodged, fast and lithe as a shadow while all around, those scattered pieces of debris stirred back to life.

Loki's hand shook as he tore it from his mouth, bloody and cold. On the other side of the fight, he could see a familiar head peeking from behind a boulder. Something in his chest clenched tight. You were a reckless human, and whatever plan you were about to use, would likely end in a way Loki didn't want to imagine. Couldn't.

So he forced himself upward just a little bit, putting the hand into the water gathering in the cracked stone.

And then he turned it into ice.

Shards and needles rose from the ground, each sharper than the previous, and all aimed at the ground-bound Queen.

She kept on twisting and parrying, even as the air became heavier, harder to bring into lungs. The sweat on the Prince's face mixed with water. His night-black skin paled, his attacks became sloppier.

He didn't see the wind slamming into his side. He slid over the ice as the Queen picked one of the lost, forgotten daggers and aimed—

She stilled, her feet unmoving. Out of the corner of his eye, Loki saw Peter aiming more and more his webs at her, slowing her down just a bit. It wouldn't work, wouldn't hurt her.

But the sword you threw at her would.

It was a reckless, hasty idea.

But fear shadowed her face as the Queen struggled against the web, twisting in place and out of the path—

The sword missed, by a hair's width.

But the ice shard didn't.

The Prince looked his Queen in the eyes as he pushed it further into her chest, and twisted against the bone and flesh. Thick blood streamed down his hands. He didn't move as she clawed against his face, against his hands that held the translucent spike burrowed deep into her heart.

The Queen was silent as she faded, her essence at last leaving.

The crooked horn on her head faded first, turning into dark ash. The Edge was quiet and still as her night-kissed skin crumbled next, the star speckles falling with it.

Last was the gown, the moth wings swelling for the final time before they too fell, empty.

Something changed in the world, like something deep in its core had finally filled. But it didn't matter to the few survivors, not really.

The pain in Loki's head had finally lessened. He took a deep, filling breath, tasting the air that was at last coming into his lungs. And as much as it was a relief for this mess, this chaos, to be over, Loki's hammering heart only slowed when he finally found you, limping toward him, the boy trailing behind.

You noted the blood crusting Loki's face. "You okay?"

He nodded, trying and failing to find the right words.

You slumped to the floor next to him and embraced him tightly, the words failing you too. Loki sighed, his hands at last steady against your back. He reached out to Peter. Another warm, battered body tugged into his side in a flash.

"I thought alien abduction would be less exhausting," the boy admitted quietly into Loki's shoulder. "It's still better than calculus, though."

You barked a laugh.

Loki just held the two of you, still stunned by the miracle that let you all survive.

Many were not as lucky, Loki knew. Traces of countless lost lives filled the ruined hall, the sheer scale of what just happened hard to comprehend.

One man stood tall among the ruins of his world, blood still fresh on his hands.

Loki met the Prince's stare, empty eyes filled with weariness and betrayal that hurt deeper than any bruises or cuts. The fight was over, but its consequences would take a long time to heal. To stop hurting.

The Prince walked away, silent and unattended by any of the guards, pulling the last of the people out of the ruins.

#please hate me #loki x reader #loki x you #loki laufeyson x reader #loki laufeyson x you #loki #loki laufeyson #loki mcu #loki marvel #loki imagine #marvel loki #loki series #marvel imagine #loki fanfiction #I Love Loki

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cassiecasyl · 3 years

Text

to be or not to be hugged

prompts: whumpay day 2: touch starved/touch repulsed + day 11: don’t touch me/don’t leave me

tw: panic attacks, nightmares

credit for the title goes to @official-wayward-fairchild <3

read on ao3!

Peter knew something was wrong. He was reminded of it everytime someone hugged him, hell, he was reminded every night. It was in the way his mouth filled with this ashen taste that’s just a little too close to the rusty dust of Titan whenever someone hugged him. The touch infected him with dread and panic, with screams and battle sounds, with memories. His spider senses yelled at him in precaution and Peter tensed everytime, even though he knew that there wasn’t anything to be scared of. He was just overreacting.

The first time it happened, he’d almost pushed May into a wall, had almost hurt her. He’d apologized profusely, his hands shaking, guilt rushing through his veins, but May had laughed it off. Yet, the worried glance she’d sent haunted him.

Worst of all were the flashes—when a simple touch brought him back to Titan, more powerful than Dr. Strange’s portals could ever be, and he’s fading into dust, again and again, and Tony looked so broken and as scared as he was (though they’d both tried and failed to hide it), and he’s begging for his life, for Mr. Stark to fix this like he always did—I don’t wanna go—while at the same time, he’s in the supposedly safe arms of a loved one. It was twisted torture in its on way, and Peter couldn’t help but be reminded of one of the stories Loki had told about the time he had been under Thanos’s regime.

They’d promised him might like he deserved, promised him everything he ever dreamed off, and then mixed it with obedience. Suspected him to pain and fire, sometimes ouf of fun—Loki said he got that—and sometimes framed as a test. His already shattered mind had been broken once more. There was a sense of belonging there, with the false love they gave him and the chaos they promised. The mind stone deconstructed and built him up again. Chaos was his element more than ever.

Maybe, he was being tested too, Peter mused. He died, after all, and now he wasn’t sure whether he still belonged into this world, with everybody finding someone new and moving on. May had Happy, Tony had Morgan and Harley, even Ned and MJ felt aeons away. No. Peter chided himself for ever taking this analogy. His misery was nowhere close to Loki’s agony.

Yet, Peter was living a paradox.

He stopped hugging. It hurt too much and had the tendency to rip him from reality, so he just stopped. There’s a few raised eyebrows and concerned looks at first, but they eventually succumbed to normalcy.

“Would you like to notify Boss or try any of the 173 tactics of falling asleep I've collected, Peter?” Friday asked for what must’ve been the upteenth time, shocking him out of his thoughts. He shook his head in a sigh.

“No, Friday. I’m fine,” he answered, lamenting his dismissive tone. She just wanted to help, there was no need to be so rude to her. “Sorry,” he mumbled. The word got half-caught up in a yawn, and he wanted to kick himself for it.

It wasn’t that he wasn’t tired. Peter knew it was late, and even his bones felt heavy with exhaustion, but he just couldn’t sleep. Not while he was at the Tower. He’d been successful in hiding his nightmares from May, but there was no way he’d be able to do so with Tony. Least of all when he had a perceptive AI on his side. Scratch that, two perceptive AIs. He’d almost forgotten about Karen, but he knew if he asked her for company, she’d eventually report him to Tony. Sleepy Spider Baby Protocol, or however it was called.

Peter sighed. He was so tired. He just wanted to feel safe.

~~~

Red sand tickled his throat, and the wind began nibbling at his feet as he stumbled forward. Soon, he’d join the sand, dust to dust, like it had happened countless times before. At this point, he was more scared than confused. He knew what would happen. He just didn’t know why.

Peter looked up, his eyes scanning the battle field for his mentor. He had to be here somewhere. He always was. In panic, he turned around, ignoring how his toes disintegrated with the movement. Had he died? It happened before. Thanos’s stab always seemed worse in his dreams. But he couldn’t even find a body on the ground. He was all alone. Did he leave him? Did the wind already take them away, leaving him to die alone? He choked on a sob.

“Peter?” A voice asked behind him, scared and tentative. Tony. The teen spun around, and more fell than ran towards him. The man was perched on the ground, holding his guts together. He was crying.

“Mr. Stark,” Peter whispered in a plea. Tony looked up at him, but he was looking right through him, as if he was already mourning. His features aged momentarily, his hair turning grey and wrinkles closing in on pained eyes. A quiet, hopeful and sad smile adorned his face, the same one with which he sometimes watched Morgan. Peter could feel himself fading.

The boy crumbled before Tony, reaching out to him in a desperate cry for comfort. “I’m sorry,” he said, right before his vocal cords left him. At the last moment, Tony’s fingers grazed his, and in horror Peter watched as the dusting didn’t stop with him, but extended to Tony, moved up his right arm and eventually his face.

Peter lost his eyes before it was over.

He woke up with a start, eyes wide but unseeing. They were still gone, dusted, he’d be dead again, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. The air escaped him between sobs and panic. “Hey, hey, it’s alright, breathe, Peter, I’m here, it’s alright.” Suddenly, there was comfort. Peter blinked, and instead of complete darkness, shadows started to emerge.

“Tony?” he asked, hope tearing through his throat.

“I’m here, kid,” he promised. It was all the invitation Peter needed, and he shot forward, latching onto the older man. He breathed in the scent of motor oil and iron that never quite left Tony, and he was home. His heart beat faster than normal, but it beat, sometimes stumbling in a familiar way, and that was all that mattered. Tony was here. For the first time in a long while, his spider senses remained quiet. They were safe.

“Shh, it’s okay, kid,” Tony shushed him, gently rocking them as they sat on Peter’s bed. “I’m here,”—Peter tightened his grip at the words—”I’m alive, we’re both alive. We’re in your room at the Tower and it’s 4:14 am on a Saturday morning. It’s raining lightly outside, can you hear that, Pete?”

The spider stilled, focusing his senses on the weather outside. He panicked slightly as Tony’s heartbeat quietened, but his hand fisted around the hem of Tony’s shirt, and Tony’s constant assurances of it’s alright grounded him. Soon, his ears picked up the light pitter-pattern of rain. Peter nodded.

“Good!” Tony praised as if he’d just done the most amazing thing in the world. Without him noticing, his breathing had calmed. The air wasn’t evading him as it was before. Tony’s arms around him were warm and safe and Peter sighed in content. He missed this. God, how he’d missed this.

Tony’s hand found his, the one that was hanging onto the neck of his shirt, and covered it. Peter’s eyes widened as he remembered a flash from his dream. No. He couldn’t infect Tony. He couldn’t let him die, not again. Never. Peter coiled away from the touch suddenly and violently, ragged breaths returning. There was already dust in his lungs. No.

Tony followed him, but Peter fell to the ground as he hastily retreated, leaving his mentor standing there with raised hands signaling that it was alright. It wasn’t though. He’d infect him, and the dust would find him again, travel up his arm, take him away. It was in his name after all, wasn’t it? He petered out, faded gradually until there was nothing left, until his existence came to an end. He couldn’t spread that to Tony.

“Peter?” The man crouched down before him, slowly as if he was a scared animal. Peter shook his head. “What’s wrong, buddy?” he asked, hands reaching out.

“Don’t,” Peter pleaded, recoiling from his mentor’s safe hands. Oh, how he craved their warm embrace. But he couldn’t. He’d kill him. “Please don’t,” he cried, “I’ll infect you.”

“Okay,” Tony breathed, “okay. Infect me with what?”

“Dust,” Peter answered with a hiccup. At Tony’s puzzled expression, he elaborated: “I’m dust, and it’s gonna spread to you. It’s in my name.”

“Oh, kid.” Peter could practically see how a part broke away from Tony’s heart and fell down. That’s how it started, he thought, reminding himself of videos he’d seen of mountains eroding under water. “You’re not dust, not anymore,” he said, searching the room for something, “I brought you back, remember? I wouldn’t bring you back half-baked, Peter. All or nothing, that’s the deal.”

The kid nodded, still watching him with big eyes. He mustered the veins of scar tissue raking up his right cheek, and suddenly his dream made sense in a different way. Still, he wouldn’t wanna test it. He couldn’t kill Tony too. He wasn’t worth two of his father figures dying, let alone three.

Tony stood up and fear gripped Peter. He had enough of him. He’d realized the threat he was and would get himself to safety now. Only, that meant he’d leave Peter behind. “I’m not leaving, Pete,” Tony promised against his anxiety spouting lies, “I’m just getting something. See? I’m not even leaving the room.” He held up the water bottle Peter always kept on his bedside table to show him.

He came back. Peter almost wanted to smile, but his dust-infected body was way too numb to do anything but watch. “Now, could you stretch your arm out for me?” Tony asked. Peter sucked in a panicked breath. “I’m not gonna touch you, I promise.” Slowly, Peter nodded.

Cold water touched his skin as soon as he did what Tony asked of him, shocking him back into reality. “See?” the genius asked, “You’re solid. No dust here.” Peter nodded, blinking and staring at his hand, wet and still in one place. He looked up at Tony, who was smiling assuringly.

“Solid,” Peter repeated, the remains of the nightmare slowly leaving his body. “I’m solid,” he laughed.

“That’s right, Pete,” Tony praised, his hands switching towards him. He still slightly shied away from the possibility of touch though. His mentor fixed him with that concerned gaze, the one with which he could read him like no other, that implied that he was trying to figure out what bothered Peter.

“Can I hug you?” he asked. Peter shook his head. It was tempting, but he wasn’t sure whether he was ready for that yet.

“Rather not. Sorry.” Tony nodded, quickly hiding the sadness.

“That’s alright. Thank you for telling me.” He stood up, mindlessly extending his arm to help Peter up, but then taking it back with a scolding shake of his head. Peter chuckled. “Sorry, didn’t think. So, anything else you wanna do? Catch some sleep, watch a movie?”—he glanced at the time—”Oh, what about a hot chocolate? Rhodey should be up by now ‘cause he has an early meeting or something, and he makes the best hot chocolate in the Tower.”

Peter stood up with a laugh. “Hot chocolate sounds great.”

“Hot chocolate it is then,” Tony confirmed with a warm smile. “Friday, warn Rhodey if he’s awake, we’ve got a spider baby to pamper.” He left the room before Peter could object, and Peter quickly followed him.

tag list: (let me know if you wanna be added/removed!)

@starrynightdeancas @spookyscarykittycat @sherlock-who-mentalist @lost-lunar-wolf @aixabi

#irondad #hurt/comfort #hurt peter parker #tony stark #tony stark acting as peter parkers parental figure #hugs #Whumpay2021

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mischievoushearty · 3 years

Text

Shouto-kun

summary: It takes Shouto five times to realize why Midoriya calling him by his hero name is special. By the time he first reads his name on that letter, it's too late.

word count: 2548

tags: Tododeku, angst, open ending/no happy ending, one-shot, introspection, Todoroki realizes his feelings

warning: HEAVY SPOILERS UP TO CHAPTER 307/308

also on ao3 and ff.net

---

"Shouto-kun!"

The first time it happens, he's too stunned to say anything back. Shouto pauses, he stares at the teen he considers his first ever friend, now his best friend. Midoriya doesn't seem to realise as he babbles on about the quirk of the villain they just encountered, furiously scribbling into his notebook as he does so. His costume looks dirty, it's torn in multiple places. Not that Shouto’s looks any better. Midoriya looks a bit tired but is in high spirits, the smaller teen genuinely loves going on patrol.

"Shouto-kun?"

It's again the name that startles Shouto and brings back to reality. He lifts his chin. Midoriya looks at him questioningly.

"Shouto-kun, are you coming?"

Of course he calls him that. It's Shouto’s hero name after all, and they’re on patrol during the internship. Shaking his head, the dual quirk wielder catches up to his friend, a grumpy looking Bakugou and deeply focussed Endeavour.

"It's nothing," he quickly shrugs off Midoriya’s frown.

Only that he wished his friend would call him by that name more often, and not just because it's his hero name.

Shouto is confused.

---

"..doroki-kun? Todoroki-kun?"

He frowns at his soba noodles, not hearing his friend's calls.

"Shouto-kun."

It's lower than before, almost as if he's scared speaking the words, and yet Shouto almost jumps at hearing his first name out of Midoriya's mouth. The freckled teen eyes him with worry, a few wrinkles appearing between his brows.

"Todoroki-kun," he begins anew, as if not daring to use the other name once more, and it somehow disappoints Shouto, "are you okay? I mean, I'm sure there's a lot on your mind, we know Endeavour is stable and he'll be able to continue, whatever that means for your family’s future, but you didn't seem entirely comfortable with the others talking about it, which is understandable, of course! But if you don't like it, just tell-"

"Midoriya," he interrupts, "it's fine. It really is." He adds the last part after seeing the wrinkles grow deeper on Midoriya's face. The freckled boy studies him for another few seconds, then finally replaces the frown with a soft expression. A small smile that pierces Shouto’s chest like a knife. He doesn't understand, he doesn't know what it is, but he only dares to clutch his shirt once Midoriya has turned back to his lunch. Shouto stares at his soba, the cold one, his favourite, but he can't eat. All he sees is that warm smile.

---

The third time Midoriya uses his first name he replies, and it's a mistake. He's tired, it's been a long day. He lost - it was a draw, but it still counts as losing to him - the match against class B. His whole team did. They tried everything, but it wasn’t enough. They didn’t have a genius tactician like Yaoyorozu or Midoriya on their team, they had some heavy hitters like Iida and himself, but it still wasn’t enough. Once again Shouto realizes the value of teamwork and a good backup plan. Things they failed to apply correctly today.

"Shouto-kun!" Midoriya calls out to him. Shouto doesn't even see his friend blush and stammering an apology, he doesn't realize it was by accident, he is trapped in his own mind, the match playing on loop in his head. Some moments later his brain seems to catch up and his mouth moves on its own as the name rolls over his lips, "Izuku."

He doesn't realize his mistake at first. Casually withdrawing from his musings Shouto shifts into a better position, his back is starting to hurt, and looks over the backrest of the couch to the other teen.

Midoriya stares at him with wide eyes. There's just a tiny gap between his lips, like he wants to say something, but is too perplexed by whatever just occurred.

Shouto finally notices. His own eyes widen, and he feels his cheeks heat up, it's a miracle he doesn't accidentally set something on fire. "Sorry- I didn't," he starts.

Midoriya blinks a few times, seems to recover, and frantically starts waving his arms in front of his face. The freckles almost disappear in the redness of his blush.

Cute, it strikes Shouto. A word he's never used before, not unless being challenged to do so. He blinks.

"Oh, no, no, it's fine, Todoroki-kun! I called you first! Sorry if it made you feel uncomfortable, I didn't mean to, I just slipped!"

"It doesn't make me feel uncomfortable," Shouto informs him as if it's the most ordinary thing in the world. Midoriya's arms drop.

"Oh, okay. I'm still sorry." He averts his eyes. Shouto can't help but feel like he's done something wrong. After a quick consultation with himself, he decides, "It's fine, I don't mind. Use whatever you're more comfortable with."

Midoriya looks at him with a blank expression that's so unlike himself. Did Shouto overstep? Is there a boundary he isn’t aware of? He's still learning this whole friendship thing, and although he's gotten better, he can't catch up with ten years of experience in just a few months.

Whatever his friend wanted to say back, he doesn't get to say it. Uraraka appears and drags him away laughing, Iida closely on her heels. The class president waves his arms around, but Shouto pays no mind to his words. He turns around to stare at the muted TV, not really caring about whatever cartoon is playing. His mind is preoccupied with other things.

He doesn't see Ashido throw intrigued glances at him from the other couch.

---

The fourth time he doesn't know whether it's an accident, whether Midoriya intended to use his hero name or not. It's an unlucky incident during another heroes versus villains exercise. He and Midoriya are up against Aoyama and Yaoyorozu - he doesn't know how Aoyama will play into this, but the raven-haired girl is a force to be reckoned with. It won't be an easy win, but they do stand a good chance. Midoriya came up with no less than two backup plans, aware Yaoyorozu knows him well enough to prepare counter measurements. They head out, separate, first up is a deceptive manoeuvre. Everything goes according to plan, then the other team counters, it's time for plan B. Shouto takes a deep breath, uses his fire to distract while secretly sending ice across the floor.

Then he hears the yelp. He yanks his head to the left, just in time to see Midoriya to fall off a broken pipe. His teammate tries to latch onto something with the black ribbon-tentacle-tendril-thing he calls black whip, but it's one badly timed attack from Aoyama that reflects off a shiny surface and blinds the falling boy. Shouto hears an unhealthy cracking sound as Midoriya hits another pipe before crashing down.

Shouto blasts himself there in an instant, somehow he makes it in time to catch his friend before he hits the concrete. They still crash, but Shouto protectively holds the other boy in his arms.

Midoriya's head is bleeding. It must hurt judging by the way the green haired teen can barely keep his eyes open. They look a bit dull and unfocussed, it takes a moment for him to even realize it's Shouto who's holding him.

"Sho-Shouto-kun…"

The heterochromatic teen ignores the way his heart misses a beat. He turns around to look at the drone broadcasting the fight, a silent question lingering in his expression.

Aizawa stops the match (Shouto ignores the thought that All Might wouldn't have). It's nothing unusual for students to get injured, the boy in his arms has broken enough bones to prove that, but head injuries have to be taken seriously. Midoriya's fall looked especially terrible.

"Beautiful…"

At first, he thinks it's his imagination. Shouto looks back down at his injured friend who bestows him with a gaze he's never seen from the boy before. His eyes are almost closed and yet they seem full of wonder and… Admiration?

Shouto stares at his own reflection. The flaming red, distorted scar tissue covers a big part of his face. Sometimes he wonders why he can still see, or why he still has an eyebrow. (The thought that it's probably a frost burn and not from the hot water itself is too painful to accept, even after all these years.)

It's unsightly.

Beautiful

Shouto frowns. There is nothing beautiful in that. He doesn't understand why Ashido keeps calling him a snack or where the heart covered letters he sometimes finds in his locker come from. It's hideous. He must have misheard. There is no way Midoriya called him beautiful.

His mother laughs. It's still small and she hides it beneath her hand, but it's music to his ears. So foreign, so new, so nice. She takes his hand and squeezes it, reassures him that he is quite handsome, and she doesn't say that because she's his mother - who believes those words coming out of one's own mother's mouth - and that his scar doesn't change anything about that. If anything, it makes him more special.

Then she tells him to ask Midoriya if he truly meant it, since it's bothering Shouto that much.

His face flushes. Shouto didn't say anything about Midoriya.

---

The fifth and last time, it's during the war. Shigaraki is a monster, and they can't do anything against him, Gigantomachia is breaking free, Dabi - Touya - appears-

The blasts of the blows send Shouto flying like a dry leaf in the wind. His eyes can't keep up. Midoriya is… Midoriya is…

He doesn't seem human anymore. That strength is like nothing Shouto has ever seen before, and he has no doubt that one day his friend will genuinely surpass All Might…

But it's also scary. Terrifying, really. Midoriya keeps breaking his own body, again and again, more and more, he doesn't hear Shouto’s screams. Bakugou gets stabbed, Shouto barely catches his leg while blasting himself around with half his body, his father is already dangling from his other hand, then Midoriya falls and he can't catch him, but he flies in anyway, at least breaking his fall so the damage won't be too bad.

He applies first aid. But Midoriya is so broken, he doesn't know how to fix it. Bakugou is bleeding out. His father isn't moving, and the fight is far from over.

His memory gets blurry. He's suddenly fighting Touya, the brother he believed to be dead for most of his life. Touya is a villain now. He has killed people, and is proud of admitting so, he openly declares that he wants to kill Shouto just to hurt their father-

That's when Midoriya called him by his name again. No honorifics.

"SHOUTO!" His voice breaks, and yet Midoriya continues trying to defend Shouto and Endeavour. He wants to get back up and join the fight no matter how many times Shouto silently pleads him to stay down, he can't see him get any more hurt...

---

Shouto doesn't visit Midoriya. He can't bring himself to. It's something he will later regret more than he can put into words.

First of all, his family is in shambles, even after his mom arrives and they talk, he knows nothing is going to be like before.

Secondly, he feels useless. He couldn't do anything against Shigaraki. He saw his friends get torn apart, receiving life threatening injuries, while he himself only suffered a few burns and will be unable to talk for a while. He couldn't even do anything against Touya - Dabi - whoever the villain is now.

And he swears to himself that he won't be that useless in the future. He will do better, he has to. He has to be the one to stop Dabi. His father is too broken to do so. He can’t look Midoriya in the eyes until his voice is back and he can tell that directly to his best friend.

When suddenly everyone in class receives a personal letter from Midoriya, explaining his situation, Shouto thinks it's just a bad dream. A nightmare. There is no way his friend is stupid enough to leave on his own, even - especially - now that All for One is after him, personally, Midoriya had to know that he can't win on his own…

Shouto stares at the crumpled letter in his fingers. He has read it so many times he's scared it could fall apart the next time he touches it, but he can't keep himself from doing so.

Dear Shouto-kun

Midoriya is gone.

No, he's not gone gone, he's still alive, somewhere out there. Just a few days ago Shouto watched his best friend, the person closest to him, wipe the floor with Muscular as if the high-grade villain was some petty mugger on live TV. All the way back in summer camp, when the days were still warm and his heart was full, Midoriya once again broke every bone in his arms to keep that same villain from hurting a little boy. Two days ago he two-shotted this big villain with the same ease he'd pull out weed.

Shouto lets go of a shaky sigh. He ignores the burning of his eyes.

Please be okay, he thinks, he begs, he prays and he doesn't believe in any gods. Not since his father started beating his mother. But for Midoriya, he will pray.

… it's a power that was passed on to me by All Might…

Shouto doesn't care where it's from. Because Midoriya's power is his own, just like Shouto's fire isn't his father's. And that power, those quirks, it's not what makes Midoriya strong, what makes him a hero. No, Midoriya's strength lies in his character. His selflessness. His caring and soft nature, his kindness, the fierceness he protects those who can't fend for themselves. His bright smile that makes Shouto's heart flutter, his big eyes he can't help but get lost in, his rough hands that help him up whenever Shouto finds himself on the ground.

Shouto finally knows what he saw in Midoriya's eyes that day. It's the same look he's been giving the other teen for a while. The same fond expression he keeps hidden from his classmates whenever he watches the freckled teen do something amazing again.

It's not admiration, it's adoration.

Shouto's skin heats up and a tiny flame flickers on the back of his left hand.

Maybe he should have told him that. Maybe he should have told Midoriya how much he meant to Shouto, how his presence alone made the taller teen's heart speed up, how his mumbling brought a smile to Shouto's lips. Maybe he should have told Midoriya that he wasn't alone, that he didn't care where he got his quirk from, that even if he didn't have one, he would still be the most important person in Shouto's life.

But now it's too late. And deep inside, Shouto knows it won't change anything. Midoriya would have left anyway. He may have left even earlier knowing how much Shouto would give up to help him, how Shouto would sacrifice anything for the other boy.

But it's too late to say that now.

A single, hot tear drops onto his lap.

Shouto hasn't cried since he was five years old.

---

A/N: Thank you so much for reeding! This may get a second part once we're further into the arc, maybe even from Izuku's POV.

#fanfic #fanfiction #one shot #tododeku #kinda #todoroki shouto #midoriya izuku #boku no hero academia #my hero academia #hero aca #mha fanfic #bnha fanfic #tododeku fanfic #i wrote this in like 3 hours and english is a foreign language I'm sorry if there are mistakes #no beta #all hail online dictionaries

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justatiredpotato · 4 years

Text

Set Me Free | Chapter 6.5

Chapter List

Pairing: hybrid!Yoongi x human!reader

Genre: Angst, fluff, coffee shop AU, hybrid AU

Word Count: Chapter: 1,500~ Total: 40,000~

Updates daily at 10pm MST

Warnings: depression, physical and emotional abuse, implied past sexual abuse/exploitation, violence

Summary: Yoongi, a cat hybrid, has been hurt time and time again by a world that would have him believe he’s worthless. One day he finds himself in your protective care, and gets a new family to boot. But is it really that easy to escape the past and embrace a new beginning?

Author’s Note: This chapter is an additional section written from Yoongi’s POV. It contains quite a bit of triggering content (I kept it as PG as possible.) If this stuff is gonna upset you then PLEASE just skip this. You won’t miss any huge story points and I totally get it.

Yoongi didn’t really know where he was going when he ran out of the apartment, he just knew he couldn’t be there. Suddenly every inch of your shared home hurt to look at; the memory of every kind word or affectionate look had a gloomy cast over it. The realizations hit him like bullets to the chest. Every time you’d shared something with him had simply been charity. Every sweet bit of praise you’d given was an act of pity. Every time he touched you, you’d been uncomfortable.

How could he have been so stupid? He felt humiliated and ridiculous for reading too much into the situation. How could you ever want someone like him? He was just someone’s throw-away. Pathetic. Broken. Dirty. Worthless. The words played on repeat in his head and with each loop he sank further into himself, into the pit of self-loathing you’d barely managed to pull him out of. How could he ever face you again like this?

He sat on a bench and pulled out his phone. There were 12 missed calls and 19 messages from you already, and as he looked Jimin called. He set his phone face down on the bench next to him, leaned his head back, and looked up at the sky. How could he feel so awful on such a beautiful day? Just another reminder that the world didn’t care about him; no one did, really. And why would they?

“Kitty?” A man’s voice pulled him from his thoughts, the familiar voice making his blood run cold. “There you are! I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” Yoongi lifted his head to find Kwon Hyunjoong standing before him. His voice dripped with honey, but Yoongi knew all too well the venom that lay just beneath the surface. He didn’t say anything, just dropped his eyes to the feet of the man before him.

“Nothing to say? You’ve caused me a lot of trouble, kitty. Your clients miss you. And me, I’ve been lost without my favorite toy.” Hyunjoong stepped forward and placed a hand on Yoongi’s shoulder. Far from a friendly gesture, his fingers dug into Yoongi’s flesh so hard that if he didn’t have the protection of his jacket Hyunjoon’s nails would’ve broken the skin. Yoongi winced, but didn’t dare pull away.

“Did your latest whore get bored already? Women can be so fickle with their pets, you know.”

“She isn’t-” Yoongi started to protest but stopped himself when the hand gripping his shoulder moved to his neck, grabbing a handful of hair in the process.

“Look what she’s done to you,” Hyunjoong said, observing Yoongi’s hair. “I told you to keep your hair dark. Dying it like this is so… tacky.” He gestured with the hand full of hair, tugging it painfully. “But I guess you were always cheap by nature, huh?”

Yoongi’s muscles practically vibrated with the instinct to flee, but years of conditioning told him things would only be worse if he tried.

“I guess it’s time for you to come home, kitty. She doesn’t want you anymore. But I’m sure I can find some use for you.” Hyunjoong gripped the back of Yoongi’s collar and pulled him to his feet, dragging him toward the open car door. A voice in Yoongi’s head—a voice that sounded very much like you—screamed at him to run. But his whole body felt numb, as if he was watching this whole situation on a TV screen. So he didn’t fight. He didn’t fight when Hyunjoong pushed him into the back seat of the black sedan, or when Hyunjoong climbed in behind him. And he didn’t try to escape when the man behind the wheel drove away.

The Eclipse Club was on the south side of town, in a seedy area known by most for its bustling night-life. Those familiar with the area knew what really happened there. The neighborhood was a den of hybrid trafficking and exploitation. From the escort services, to the strip clubs, to the fight rings and illegal auctions, the hybrids that ended up there were at the end of the line. Few hybrids ever truly escaped the life the south side created for them.

As they pulled up under the familiar neon sign of the club, Yoongi doubted he’d ever leave again. He’d lucked his way into freedom and safety once, and it was unlikely he’d get another chance. The two men in the front of the car led him down the alley and to the side entrance, Hyunjoong followed at a leisurely pace. They shoved him through the door and Yoongi caught the twisted, almost childlike delight in Hyunjoong’s eyes as he planned what was to come. Even before they crossed the threshold Yoongi knew where they were headed. They wove between wait staff, bartenders, and hybrid dancers in their signature barely-there uniforms. Several familiar faces looked at him with wide eyes, recognizing him.

“Su-” a girl with rounded black ears barely stopped herself from calling out his name, or at least the name the club had given him. All his friends' eyes were full of pity even as they tried to avert their gaze. Finally, they arrived at a heavy metal door. Hyunjoong stepped forward, unlocking it to reveal a set of concrete stairs. He gestured for Yoongi and the guards to enter first. Yoongi’s feet refused to move, so the guards ended up half dragging, half carrying him down the steps.

At the bottom Hyunjoong unlocked another door, and stepped into a large, nearly empty, room. The walls were made of cinder block, bare fluorescent bulbs illuminated the space, and the concrete floor had drains in it so the room could be cleaned with the hose coiled in the far corner. Yoongi trembled as they pulled him to the center of the room. Hyunjoong gave the guards a nod, looking vaguely amused. They tugged at his jacket and Yoongi cooperated, knowing they’d just tear the garments away by force if he didn’t. His stomach lurched in revulsion as Hyunjoong watched. The chill of the room sank through to his bones as he stood in his boxers. There were chains bolted at various increments around the floor and one of the men shackled his ankle with them. The guards stepped away as Hyunjoong approached.

“Kitty, you’ve really let yourself go,” the man purred, running an appraising hand over Yoongi’s stomach. In his time with you he’d managed to gain back a decent amount of the weight he lacked. His ribs no longer showed so starkly through his skin, and he even had a little bit of extra fat over his tummy. Hyunjoong pinched at the flesh and tutted disapprovingly. One of the guards circled to Yoongi’s back and as Hyunjoong nodded at the guard Yoongi braced himself for the blow. The lash bit into his skin and tore at the scar tissue he’d built over years of abuse.

“Look how fat you’ve gotten. Did she like that? Really, kitty? Did she want a kitty or a pig?” Hyunjoong prodded at Yoongi’s stomach again before throwing a punch that knocked the wind out of him and brought him to his knees. Another nod, another blow. He already felt drops of blood springing from the lines the lash carved in his back and thighs. “Have you forgotten everything I taught you, kitty? You have to stay pretty for me so I can play nice. You know I can play nice when you earn it.” Hyunjoong cooed softly, as if he was offering some great mercy, not just another form of torture. The man raised a hand and the guard continued, delivering strike after strike until Yoongi was curled on the ground, breaths coming so painfully he heaved.

Hyunjoong crouched in front of him, grabbing his chin and yanking it up so their faces were less than an inch apart. “Why’d you do this to yourself? If you’d just been a good boy we wouldn’t be here. You know I don’t enjoy this any more than you do.” Even as he said it a smirk tugged at the corners of his lips. He looked Yoongi’s face over appraisingly, then glanced at the long scars and fresh wounds marring the pale skin of his back.

“You really are so pretty, kitty. I’ll enjoy having you back. That is of course, if you’re going to be good. You will be good now, won’t you, kitty?” Yoongi averted his eyes even as Hyunjoong’s hand forced him to remain face-to-face with him. Hyunjoong’s grip tightened when Yoongi didn’t respond. “You’ll be good, right?” His breath reeked of cigarette smoke and traces of alcohol and Yoongi nearly gagged. But he held it back and instead nodded obediently.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good boy,” Hyunjoong said with a laugh. He ran a hand through Yoongi’s hair as he stood, only to give it a vicious yank that knocked Yoongi back on his heels.

“Twenty more, then bring him to my office. We have some catching up to do,” he said, already walking away. Yoongi held his breath for the next couple of strokes until the soundproof door closed behind Hyunjoong. Only then did he allow himself to scream.

#yoongi fanfic #bts fanfic #suga fanfic #yoongi fluff #yoongi angst #hybrid!au #cafe!au #hybrid!yoongi #yoongi x reader #min yoongi #suga #bts #bts suga #bts yoongi

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sylvain-writes · 4 years

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Guarded Hearts and Safe Houses (Leonardo x Reader) Chapter 2/9

Rated: T Gender Neutral Reader, canon typical violence/injury, light angst, strangers to lovers, supportive family. -for @melodiousmelodrama

Your father stumbles over his words as he asks you to repeat yourself. He's caught whispers of a faction of vigilantes working in the shadows, but he could have never imagined mutants. Mutant turtles.

Your mother, of course, takes one look at the state they're in and any concerns she has about who and what they are are swept under the rug. She sees people who need help. People she is in the position to help. So she gets right to it.

The couches usually give ample seating as they wrap around the walls of the living room. Tonight, they make do as beds for the turtles with their firm, but plush cushions and their deep seats. Father covers the cushions with sheets to catch the worst of the blood and grime, but Mother is so caught up in the hustle and bustle of these strangers in need that she doesn’t seem to notice her white carpet is getting stained with it all.

“Grab me the big kit, sweetheart,” she says to you in a rush. “The one under the bed.”

You’re on it. You turn so quickly, you don’t notice the turtle standing behind you until you’re pressed against his armored chest. “Oh, sorry.”

You look up at him and he looks down at you, eyes narrowing. Their crystal blue color is mesmerizing, so much more human than you would have guessed possible given the rest of him - shell, tail, and all. But beyond the remarkable color of his eyes, you see a depth of pain.

“Excuse me,” he says. His voice is rough with exhaustion, and his gaze slowly turns to his injured companions. “I must see to my brothers.”

You nod as you pass and hurry down the hall to your parents’ bedroom. The first aid kit under the sink was one thing, full of adhesive bandages and a small roll of gauze. Some spray for bee stings and antiseptic wipes. The medical bag your mother stores under her bed is a whole other story. She’s used this kit to stitch your father’s finger after he sliced it making her anniversary breakfast in bed. And set your broken arm while you waited for a taxi to bring you to the hospital.

By the time you return to the living room, Mother has the turtles arranged along the couch. The one with the most pressing injuries lies in front of her. She’s removing his orange bandana and wiping his head with a damp towel. Mother gives you a small word of thanks for placing the bag beside her.

“Injuries need to be cleaned. Whomever is able is welcome to use the shower. If not, use bottled water to help flush out deeper wounds.” You could see the pinched expression on her face. None of this is ideal. But she has enough sense to keep these men far from the hospital.

The red-banded turtle shifts in his spot. His mouth twists and his shoulders roll as if anxious to get moving. Instead of asking if he’d like to go first, you tell him straight, “The bathroom is down the hallway. The first door on the right. Come on. I’ll get fresh towels from the closet.”

He looks to Leo and receives permission by way of a hum and a nod.

“Go on, Raph,” Donnie says as he cradles his injured knee. “I’m better off having the doc take a look at this first.”

The couch and Raph both groan as he stands. He follows you to the shower and the look of relief on his face when he finds the wheelchair accessible shower Father had installed for Gran is wide enough for him. The knobs of the shower are self-explanatory and since he doesn’t ask for help, you don’t offer.

You stack a few towels on top of the sink, place extra bars of soap beside them, and leave him to the rest.

Mother meets you in the hallway with her jacket and purse in hand. “I need to run out for more supplies. Your father is keeping Gran busy in her room so she doesn’t ask about the commotion. Those young men will be fine while I’m gone, but I want you to continue helping them clean up. Leonardo is wonderful, but he’s trying to do more than he should in his condition.”

She cups your face with her gentle touch and gives you a soft smile.

“Ma?” you ask, wondering why the tender look in her eyes.

“I’m so proud of you,” she says.

You smile back at her and let her go.

In the living room, Leo kneels at Michelangelo's side, taking up where your mother had left off. He's silent while Donnie bites back a hiss of pain.

You rush over to help him with his knee. As you watch the wound, no longer soaking the towel with blood, your brows knit together in curiosity. "Are you... healing already?"

"Our healing factor is quite remarkable... compared to humans. By my calculations the tissue damage done to my knee will take only a few days to heal, while the cartilage and bone may repair within the week. Based on my study and understanding of human biology, the same injury in a human would require reconstructive surgery."

You slowly nod as he speaks, in awe of him - his existence, his healing factor, his knowledge, his fearless confidence in his body's resilience.

Behind you, Leo huffs and a pair of tweezers clatters in the metal bowl beside him.

Your gaze darts between Donnie and Leo. Leo’s mouth is set in a hard line, his brow is furrowed with concern. Donnie flexes his leg and wraps clean bandage around his knee. Since it looks like Donnie has things under control, you shift your focus to Mikey and Leo.

You stand behind Leonardo, the sight of his swords sheathed across his back reminds you of his skill and leadership. But as you watch over his shoulder, you see the source of his frustration as he stares down at his hands. Broad, blunt fingers would be ill-fitted for the delicate work of picking shards of glass and metal from his brother’s wounds. Even if his hands weren’t shaking.

You gently clear your throat and pick up the tweezers from the pan. You kneel beside him, trying to ignore the way his gaze lifts to watch you settle down but finding it impossible to ignore the bulk of him at your side.

Your arms brush as you reach toward Mikey and he makes a small move to give you room, but the full mass of him is right there, hovering. He’s warm and solid. His breath on your shoulder comes and goes so steadily you think he must be counting each inhale, pause, and exhale.

Instinct tells you to talk to fill the silence between you. Talking with Donnie was easy. Heck, even getting Raphael into the shower wasn’t too hard.

But Leo is an imposing figure. He’s their leader. He’s all strength and seriousness. He’s in mourning. He looks over his youngest brother and you can see the weight of his failures in the stoop of his shoulders and the drawn down corners of his mouth.

“My mother will be back any minute,” you say as you pull shards of metal wire from Mikey’s palms. “She’ll have you all patched up and ready to go as soon as she can.”

“We’ll be out of here before her return.”

His confession halts your progress and you turn to get a good look at him. “I think you should stay.”

His eyes widen at your insistence, but you know that you’re right. You think Raph may back you up, if he were around, but he seems mighty comfortable spending his night in the shower. Donnie’s eyes are on the ceiling, pretending he has nothing to do with the conversation. So, you continue.

“Mikey, right?” Delicately taking hold of the unconscious turtle's limp hand, you bring Leo’s focus to his youngest brother. “He stays. If you go, fine. But he stays.”

“I’m not letting him out of my sight.”

“Well, neither am I.”

Raphael finally shows up with a towel over his shoulders. “Who’s doin’ what now?” He favors his left arm, but you wonder if that’s due to injury or handedness in general. Even the wounds to his side have started to heal, leaving light, smooth scars in the place where stab wounds and slashes were before.

“Mikey stays here," you say with conviction. "He hasn’t woken up yet and my mother would kill me if you all left in your condition.”

“Well, I’m not going yet,” Donnie replies lightly, “I didn’t get my shower. And Raph probably used up all the hot water, so we gotta wait for the boiler to fill.”

Donnie heads to the bathroom while Raph lies back on the couch. He folds back the sheet so he can lie on the couch. And you let him know there are throw blankets and extra pillows in the basket beneath the end table.

“Thanks. Dunno why you’re anxious to leave, Leo. This is real hospitality.” Raph’s jabs would have landed harder if his eyes didn’t flit to Mikey’s unconscious form while he spoke. Raph grabs a book from your father’s stack of crime thrillers and thumbs through it while he waits for Donnie’s return.

As you fish debris out of Mikey's wounds, Leo paces through the open layout of the apartment. From the kitchen counter to the electric fireplace, he stalks back and forth. Raphael grunts when his brother blocks the lamp light, but he stopped turning pages ten minutes ago.

Your work on Michelangelo is almost done. His wounds are clear and clean, free to heal without trapping debris under the skin. You can feel Leo’s eyes on you as you spread antibiotic lotions over his cuts and check under the rest of his bandages to see the healing progress of the rest of his wounds. It’s incredible how fast their bodies repair themselves. It makes the fact that Mikey hasn’t woken up yet even more unsettling.

Donatello returns and crashes on the couch next to Raph who’s trying desperately to look like he’s not ready to fall asleep. “Though we heal quickly," Donnie explains, "the process takes a lot out of us. To heal most efficiently, Mikey’s energy is being diverted to his deeper wounds, keeping him unconscious. Raph, on the other hand, is embarrassed by how bad he snores.”

“Hey.” Raphael smacks his brother's chest and Donatello crosses his arms, laughing to himself.

“I don’ care if ya hear me snore. I just don’ wanna fall asleep and then get woken up by our fearless leader over here, who’s gonna make me carry our little brother back home.”

A quiet voice speaks up from the kitchen. Leo sounds tired and beaten, “We’re staying here for the night. I won’t move Mikey in his condition.”

It’s as if the room itself breathes a sigh of relief.

Donnie and Raph quietly raid the basket for pillows and blankets, making themselves comfortable enough to sleep on the couch. They're making themselves at home, you think, and that settles some of the anxiety you’d been feeling at not having more room for them to rest. But Donnie and Leo are only half of the story. You tuck Mikey, giving him a whisper of hope and a caress on his cheek, then you join Leo in the kitchen.

Leo stands, hands braced against the counter top, as you approach.

“You’re doing the right thing.” You say, trying not to startle at the way his head snaps up at you. Trying not to shrink away from the raw emotion in his eyes.

It’s not your place to judge what’s best for his family, but you can’t help but follow the feeling in your gut. And that’s telling you that the brothers came into your life for a purpose. You try to reason with him. “My mother can monitor Mikey and check that everyone’s injuries are healing properly when she returns. And again in the morning.”

He turns his face away from you with a huff and grumbles through his teeth. “We’re not accepting charity.”

You take a step back, confused. They had just fought off an army shouting plans to take over the world. If anything, you were looking for ways to pay them back for their protection, for their sacrifice. “You needed help. We’re doing the best we can.”

Leo doesn’t respond right away, but when he does, his tone doesn’t have the same edge of frustration. “We shouldn’t have come here.”

Careful not to encroach on his space, you approach the table that stands between you. “Well you’re here now. And your brothers are healing. Why don’t you let me take a look at your shoulder?”

He looks at you once again and his icy resolve has been replaced by surprise. As if he thought no one had noticed the way he’s been stooping and favoring his right arm. You’d catalogued his injuries when standing over him as he kneeled tending to Mikey. The lacerations to his shoulder had looked thin but deep and the burns on his shell spanned most of the upper rim.

You pull out a chair. “Sit.” Your word is gentle but firm. There’s no room for argument.

He sits.

You take a deep breath as you assess the damage done to his trapezoid. It’s nasty stuff, clean lines but if he doesn’t take it easy and let himself heal, then the cut is going to separate. Your mother may be able to save him from a thick scar if you can convince him to let her stitch it up. For now, you’ll make do as you can with butterfly bandages and gauze.

Your work on him is delicate. He doesn’t say much, but neither do you. You pay close attention to his reactions as you move from his shoulder to his shell. Every hitch of his breath pierces your heart.

Though he tries to remain silent, it’s clear by his gasps and the way he holds his breath that the burns have made his shell and the skin behind his neck far more tender than his shoulder. After a few minutes, he’s no longer hiding his pain.

You console him with a smooth drag of your hand over his arm. His thick muscles twitch under your touch, but he doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t make any sound for you to stop.

“I think I got all of the gravel,” you say, giving his bicep and encouraging squeeze. “I’m going to apply some burn ointment. It stings before it soothes. Are you ready?”

Leo sits straighter and gives a short nod.

You squeeze the ointment onto the wound and spread it with your fingertips.

Leo grips his knees and pulls in a sharp breath between his teeth. His breaths come in quick, harsh puffs. You pet a wide patch of uninjured shell to ease him through the worst of the pain.

“Think I prefer Father’s poultice to this,” Leo says through clenched jaw. “Makes me want to gag but it doesn’t pack such a punch.”

“You have a father?” You feel like it’s a stupid question the second it comes out of your mouth. They’re brothers, they are a family, it makes sense that they’d have parents.

Leo looks over his shoulder at you. His eyes still wet from the pain of his shoulder. “Our sensei. He took us in when we were first mutated. He’s looked after us all these years. Taught us the way of the ninja.”

“Master Splinter,” you recall from the story he told your parents.

“He’s like a father to us,” Leo explains. “He’d never let us accept help from humans. We were never supposed to be seen.”

“So, now what?” You’re not afraid of Leo, but the way he speaks about his father with reverence and deference, has you worried for your family about what it means to be the only humans who have encountered these mutant vigilantes.

Leo places his hand on yours. “We’ll protect you.”

“From your father?”

“No. No, he’d never want any harm to come to you. Especially not after all that you’ve done for us. But you’ve placed yourself at great risk with the Krang. And the Krang isn’t the only danger out there.”

You look down at your joined hands. Leo’s thumb brushes your inner wrist as he speaks. You wonder if he realizes the movement at all.

“We’ll protect you,” he says again. He seems to notice his hand is still on yours and drops it quickly. He turns so you can no longer see his face. “As payment for your kindness and medical care. We are in your debt.”

Your stomach twists at the loss of his touch. You stare at the back of his head for a moment before turning to the table to pack away Mother’s supplies. “Thanks,” you say shortly, zipping up the bag. “Looks like the shower is free. And your brothers left you plenty of space on the floor to sleep.”

“I won’t sleep. Someone needs to keep watch.”

You nudge the burn ointment over the tabletop. “For after your shower,” you say. And, with your stomach still in knots, you bring the medical equipment back to the living room.

#tmnt x reader #gender neutral reader #leonardo x reader #leo x reader #tmnt leonardo x reader #my writing #guarded hearts and safe houses fic

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hughiecampbelle · 4 years

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Miserable Pt. One (Thomas Shelby Oneshot)

Character/s: Thomas, Grace mentioned

Word Count: 1, 184

Tag List: @dontdowhatisayandnobodygetshurt @myriadimagines @lilyswritings @encounterthepast @death-of-a-mermaid @lotsoffandomimagines @woahitslucyylu @obsessedunicorn24 @thedarkqueenofavalon @fangirlsarah16 @theshelbyclan @captivatedbycillianmurphy

A/N: I know I haven't written in a while, and it's so frustrating. Everytime I sit down with an idea I end up hating it. Tbh, I kinda hate this. I'm hesitant to post it, too. Even typing this, I question if I should delete it all and act like it never happened. I know it's just mental health getting in the way, making it hard to be confident or excited, even hard to write. It just has to be that way sometimes, y'know? But I can't let it get in the way :) so I've already planned a part two. Despite what I may think or feel, I know if only one person likes this, it'll feel worth it. Or it can make someone who's feeling the same way know it's not their writing, it's just their mind making them doubt themselves. 💜💖💜

Gif Credit: @nofckingfighting :)

FIC MASTERLIST PART ONE. / PART TWO.

WANNA BE ADDED TO THE TAG LIST?

There was no better love that followed than one with tragedy. Loss. Sorrow. Grief. There was death, an everlasting want for one last touch, a kiss, a desire to put into words these indescribable feelings. Poison lips and infinite wounds, the edge of the universe sliced apart. Too much red. Too much fear. There was a beauty to it all, a want, a romanticized story stitched together, putting it in the heads of children that this what they wanted: to know, at the end of it all, only one is left standing. This wasn't that, though. This wasn't a grave plot for two. This was murder. Homicide. And the knife was in his hands. He could plea all he wanted, try to convince the world he was an innocent man, that the blood on his hands was not yours, but the rest of the worlds, as if there were a difference. He could do all he wanted, but there was no denying it. It didn't matter if he meant to or not, the second you stepped down the aisle, he was leading you to the underworld. A shallow hole in the ground. Your final resting place.

The mother of his child. The love of his life. Time could heal wounds, but he was made of scar tissue. Hard, faint, scared of being ripped open again. Flinching at the sharpest of sounds. He didn't have to question if he'd ever get over her, the answer was clear. To him, to the family, to strangers simply passing on the street. By the grace of God, if he believed in such a thing. Grace. A name that made his gums bleed, his muscles tense, his head ache. His Grace, the woman he was going to spend the rest of his life with. If he'd known she was there, he would have said something. Made a deal with Death herself, someone he'd become an old friend with. Take a walk with her, laugh the way they used to, show her he wasn't scared of her anymore the way he had as a boy. Take him, not her. He was living on borrowed time, regardless. But she was always tricky. Kissing his cheek. Biting his lip. Killing his wife instead.

Like any deal he'd ever made, there were always consequences.

An eye for an eye. A life for a life. A loveless existence for a pretty paycheck.

That's what you were to them. Not flesh and bone, not a person with feelings, memories, you weren't a soul, but money. Paper bills and shiny eyes. An extension of business. A write off they could use later. You would take the Shelby name, binding the families til death would you part, sharing the wealth. Down the aisle, one step in front of the other. There was no one else, but him. A widower, a bachelor, both slept alone in a bed made for two. He refused. Blood boiling. White knuckled. Spine creaking, cracking, threatening to burst. They let him throw his tantrum, his office unrecognizable. Papers torn. Furniture overthrown. Broken glass, whiskey sticky on the floor. They let him brood, seep in his own anger, cook in his disbelief. Gave him space. No one had heard his voice for days, just the tap of his footsteps stalking past them, the smell of cigarettes sewed in his coat, the huff of his breath.

But when the time came, it was his turn to take one for the family.

Drunk because he could be, because it was the only way he could face the day. There was little you knew about him, the man who'd become your husband. A name, followed by gossip. Cheap talk, your mother scolded, whisking you away from the whispers. Nothing to believe, your father insisted. Naive, sheltered, unaware what they said was true. . . He wasn't what you pictured. The days leading up, you had dreams of who you'd find. Dimples? Freckled cheeks? Smile lines? He was none of that, the realization sinking in your gut, slapping you across the face with an open palm, as you made your way down the aisle. In front of you a family you didn't recognize, their eyes burning you alive. He stood before you, unsteady on his feet, the cold of his blood making your skin prickle. Behind his eyes, the storming skies you were sure, in another life, you could have loved, there was nothing. Disdain. Indifference. A hint of hatred.

You wanted to go back to sleep.

Find the man of your dreams and marry him instead.

You could never live up to her name. Finding your place, learning quickly you would never measure up to her. Pictures of her littered around his home, witnessing the slow corrosion of two people. Your wedding day was the last time you got a good look at him. Nights you spent alone, wasting, waiting up for him, knowing he would rather sleep at his desk than look you in the eyes and admit this was a mistake. His boy taken care of by nannies, maids, tutors, the very family that shared his blood. For a home so full, so well staffed, you saw so few faces. A haunted house, there to live, to breathe, but never to be seen, never spoken to, only about. Your name passed around during meetings, mistreated, turned into a fucking joke. Leaving behind your family, your friends, all your loved ones, for what? For this? The ring on your finger made empty promises. It laughed at those stories your mother read when you were a child, mocking you for ever believing in them. It cackled at the sight of an empty bed, of a full glass, at her smile, knowing whoever you were to him, your husband, you'd always be second best. You'd always thought you'd be married to your one true love, your soul mate. Your one chance to spend the rest of your life happily ever after.

Fuck. That.

You didn't want to be her, there was no need. The time alone, the way you hung from his arm at parties and events only to be shaken off the second onlookers were away, given the cold shoulder while he went out for a smoke. How you were hidden away from any business, the business your family was happily paying for, keeping the lights on and his pockets well lined. The snickers and whispers you received from your own family, from the rest of the world, when it was only you and the bottom of a wine bottle on your side to defend yourselves. You could hear them now. Poor thing, what a fool to marry Thomas Shelby. All of it, it made you jaded, jagged. The sweet, innocent, smiling face in those wedding pictures replaced by someone bitter, angrier, someone who was going to put this family in their place, show them you weren't some toy they could throw away after growing bored of.

He didn't love you, you didn't want him to, not anymore, but goddammit you were going to be heard.

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chickensarentcheap · 3 years

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I Found- Chapter 1

A/N: Hey folks! This is little visit to the past in honour of the one year anniversary of Extraction and this fic itself. As of tomorrow, I will post two to three chapters A DAY until all are up. I know they’re a mess on my blog right now and people who don’t want to go to Ao3 can’t find all the chapters. I was going to thoroughly edit, but I thought ‘why not leave it as is?’. It’s a little more than 365 days old now and a lot has changed for both the characters and my writing itself. As my long time readers and supporters can tell you :). So keep in mind, this was my first foray into writing Tyler and it’s rough and it’s a little...not the me I am now...but it’s a fun ride, IMO.

Fandom: Extraction

Pairing: Tyler Rake and Esme Rake (Original Female Character)

Face Claims: Chris Hemsworth (obviously) and Rachel Bilson

Premise: Broken and bleeding. Weathered and in tatters. Two damaged and weary souls find one another when they least expect it. Wrong place, wrong time. Yet both powerless to stop it.

Summary: Eleven months after the events in Dhaka and his near death experience, Tyler Rake is a new man. A different man. Struggling with the demons of his past while balancing being a husband and a father.

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23945782/chapters/57587218

It's been just shy of twelve months and his instincts are still keen; nerves rash and fresh, body and mind always on high alert. The proof to the old adage that old habits really do die hard.

A journey to the very brink of death. Weeks of lying in a hospital bed teetering on the threshold of this life and the next. Countless agonizing hours of rehab and physical therapy just to relearn the basics and get back onto his weary and battered feet. Once he was home nothing had been able to slow him down. He threw everything he had into healing. Every ounce of mind, body, and spirit. Pushing himself past the warnings and the limits that the doctors and specialists had set for him. Ignoring the advice on not to push himself too hard, too fast. He felt as if he didn't have a choice. He no longer just had himself to worry about; another human being with one on the way that was relying on him. Depending on him to take care of them. Provide for them. Protect them. So he had pushed himself to the brink of both exhaustion and physical and emotional collapse. Eventually finding himself back at at the gym and packing on the weight and muscle. Anxious for some semblance of the man he used to be.

He hears the soft rustle of blankets though the monitor on the nightstand and his eyes immediately snap open. Sleep was a strange beast for him these days. Nights where he could fall into a peaceful slumber and stay there until sunlight was streaming through the window, others where the pain was all encompassing and nauseating and he couldn't get comfortable, and those where he was haunted by the demons of his past. The latter didn't come nearly as often as they did before; managing to find some hint of internal peace with the things he had done and witnessed. Once in a while he'd find himself back on that bridge; assaulted by the smells of gun powder and lead. The acrid taste of blood on his lips. And he'd hear her voice and feel her hands; the way she cradled his face in them, the way she'd pulled his nearly lifeless body tight against her, felt those tears that fell on his skin. Thankfully he'd awaken and quickly discover that he was in the safety and comfort of his own home. His own bed. And he'd watch her as she slept; the way the moonlight painted her smooth skin in an ethereal glow and the slight smile that tugged at the corners of her mouth. He'd watch her and listen to her breathe and he'd remind himself of just how far he had come. Gratitude spreading through him like a slow burning fire. Thankful for the second chance that he'd been given. For the love that he'd found during one of the darkest and most difficult periods of his life. She'd given him a reason. A purpose. And he wasn't going to take that for granted.

He groans as he rolls over onto his back. The pain isn't as bad tonight. There were times he could barely even move. Where the agony made him dizzy and nauseous and even the simplest of tasks seemed impossible to preform. Tonight it's a dull ache; a nagging pain that has settled deep into his bones and his joints but he has learned to deal with. Placing his hands behind his head, he waits and listens. The lights from the monitor dancing across the ceiling as life stirs in the room across the hall. He's gotten used to it; the little noises, the soft sighs, the slight fussing before she settles herself back to sleep. It wasn't his first rodeo after all; not his first foray into fatherhood. But it is the first time he's been able to be more hands on. Put his be all and end all into the nurturing. And this time he knows he will get it right. He's determined to make amends for the mistakes of his past. Moving on didn't mean forgetting. It didn't mean that the love and regret and the guilt weren't still there, lingering just under the surface. Sometimes the greatest homage to the dead was how the living continued. How they made up for the bad decisions they made and how those decisions had...in the end...helped shape them into a better person.

The sounds through the monitor continue and he sits up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and giving his body and brain time to adjust to full consciousness. Running his hands through his hair and over his tired face, fingers brushing against the various scars that serve as a lasting memory of his former life. A pair of sweats sit in a discarded pile by the bed and he reaches for them; softly muttering profanities at the various cracks and pops that his body makes at the simple task of pulling on his pants. Scar tissue, arthritis, remnants of shrapnel and bullets that couldn't safely be removed. All working together to be a complete pain in his ass. His wife moves behind him. Sighing loudly and contently as she rolls over onto her side. Not waking as her hand instinctively reaching out for him; finger tips brushing against his back just as he stands up.

He is out the door and in the hall before the first shrill cry erupts. Yawning and stretching noisily as he steps into the nursery. A cheerful room with soft yellow walls, pink, white, and purple stripped curtains and natural wood furniture. Teddy bears and dolls staring down at him from the perches on the shelves on the wall, accompanied by framed photos of baby animals and Disney characters. He'd never pictured himself a 'girl dad'; frilly dresses and the tiny socks with the lace around the ankles, and the little headbands that served no other purpose than being cute. He was rough and tumble. Always had been, even from an early age. So when he'd found out he was having a daughter he'd been terrified. He didn't know the first thing about taking care of little girls and doing their hair and healing their broken hearts. And for the first time in his life was actually scared of something. Or someone. A being that hadn't even been born yet but was already making a huge impact on his life.

“You'll be fine,” his wife had assured him when he'd expressed his concern. Watching from the couch as she stood at the kitchen table folding laundry. Including a newly purchased outfit and those tiny teeny socks that she had purchased just hours ago. She was so beautiful. Standing there with that chestnut hair tumbling down to her waist, her belly swollen with their child. HIS child. A child that had been conceived in the midst of all the chaos and uncertainty. “You've ridden this particular bike before,” she'd reminded him. “This isn't your first time going through this.”

“That was different. That was a boy. This is a girl. This is dresses and pig tails and tea parties and make up and other boys.”

“Tyler, that's years down the road. You can't worry about that stuff. Make up and boys? You can't dwell on what she's going to be like when she's a teenager.”

“I sure bloody well can. Because knowing my luck she'll end up just like her mother. Full of piss and vinegar and all kinds of trouble.”

“You always did know how to get yourself into heaps of it,” she'd smirked, and tossed a pair of balled up socks in his direction, just missing his head. “But you always managed to get yourself out of it too.”

“I knew you were trouble from the very second I met you, you know,” he'd said, as he got off the couch and wandered over to where she was so diligently working. Liking the way that simple white gold wedding band looked on her finger. He still hadn't gotten used to; it had only been a few months and even with that life growing in her belly, they were still very much enjoying being newlyweds. He liked it. Being a husband. He liked the simplicity and the comforts that came with the little things that took up their new life. Household chores and preparing meals and sharing a bed with the same warm body and beautiful face each and every day. Mundane to some. A welcome change and relief to him.

“I wasn't the one with the reputation for being difficult,” she'd reminded him. “I wasn't the one who was like a bear with a sole asshole even on his best days.”

“Yet here you are. Playing house with me. A good little wife. Giving me babies. So I must have done something right, huh?” he'd playfully nudged her with his elbow. “You stuck around. Through thick or thin. I put you through a lot of shit and agony and here you are. Here WE are.”

“You can't get rid of me that easily, Tyler Rake. You think you would have realized that by now.”

“Getting rid of you is the last thing I ever want.”

They'd stood in companionable silence; working quickly and efficiently together. Little boring tasks that they almost never got to experience. He'd never take things like that for granted again. And he'd grabbed a pair of her underwear from the fresh pile and hooking them around his finger, grinned as he swung them around.

“How'd we ever graduate to these, huh? These are not what I remember you wearing. You weren't wearing any the first time we...well...you know...”

“You're such a pig,” she'd grumbled, and tried to snatch them away. Frowning when he held them high above his head. Not an easy reach for a woman that only stood five foot three. “What is wrong with you? Seriously.”

“I thought you were trouble the second I met you. The way you shook my hand. The way you smiled at me. But I knew it for sure when I had you pinned against that wall and I put my hand down your shorts and realized that you weren't any underwear. Remember that? That first time? I knew I was in trouble but I didn't want to stop. I couldn't stop. I was surprised you were such a kinky little thing.”

“You've got issues. What is your major malfunction?”

“Nothing wrong with a little visit to the past. Especially when it involves being naked.”

“Would you stop?” she'd perched herself on her tip toes and frantically tried to grab the offending piece of clothing from his grasp. “What's gotten into you?”

“It's what hasn't gotten into you in a while,” he'd retorted, laughing when she'd directed a slap to his gut, his arms circling her waist when she'd lost her balance and tumbled into him. And they'd stood like that; her head against his chest, his eyes closed and his chin resting on the top of her head. Loving all those things about her that had become so familiar and comforting to him. The lingering scent of coconut shampoo that clung to her hair, the feel of her heart beating against him, those small and soft hands stroking up and down his back. This woman...the one that had seen him at his most fragile...who he owed his life to.

Her hands were on the back of his shoulders when she'd pulled away and looked up at him. Her eyes sparkling as she smiled. A smile he had once thought he'd never see again.

“I love you,” he'd told her. Three words that he had always hesitated on uttering before but now couldn't say enough. If Gaspar was still around he'd call him soft. Tell him he was whipped and a pussy and needed to get his balls back. But he wasn't around anymore.

A lot of people weren't.

“I know,” she'd said. “But not nearly as much as I love you.”

“Hey, this isn't a competition. And if it was, I'd win. I always do.”

“You have a very overinflated sense of yourself,” she'd chided.

He was her rock. He knew that. Even when he was still recovering and he was nothing more than a mere fraction of the man he once was. Even when she had to help nurse him back to health and he'd had to trust her completely with even the mundane things like feeding himself and brushing his teeth. But she'd stuck by him. Even when he felt humiliated that he even needed help with such things. Embarrassed that she was seeing him so vulnerable. Allowing her to see his tears of anger, frustration, and pain. She'd always said that he was the only one that made her feel safe and secure. Protected. Even when he wasn't at his best.

“Shit...” She'd grimaced when the baby had kicked her especially hard. Eyes closing and her forehead falling onto his chest.

“Even I felt that one.” He’d e'd move one hand from her waist to her ever growing stomach. Marvelling at the way he could feel their baby...his baby...moving inside of her. It may not have been his first time. Not his first child. But he was determined to enjoy every second of it and not take a single moment for granted. “See what I mean? Trouble just like her mom. Feisty as all hell. A boy wouldn't cause this many issues.”

“Boys come with a whole shit load of issues. After all, it was a boy that got me into this situation in the first place.”

“Come on now, I wasn't the only one that was having all the fun. You seemed to be enjoying yourself too. I didn't make this baby all on my own, you know.”

“It was fun,” she'd admitted. “It always is.”

“Yeah. It most definitely is.”

One of her hands came down to rest on top of his and they stood there together, feeling their child moving inside of her. Marvelling at all the kicks and wriggles. At the miracle that they had created. All because two people fell in love during the entirely wrong time and in the entirely wrong place.

“You need to take it easy there, sweetheart,” he'd spoken to his daughter, his hand moving in slow, comforting circles. “Go easy on your mum, okay? Daddy's already put her through enough to last a lifetime.”

“She listens to you already. She likes your voice.”

“Already takes after her mother. Isn't that one of the first things you said you liked about me? My voice?”

“It does funny things to my insides. Even now.”

“I like doing funny things to your insides,” he'd dropped a kiss on the top of her head and she'd looked up at him once again.

“I think we should go to bed.”

“It's only eight thirty.”

“I don't mean to sleep. I mean to do other things. Fun things. Things that help you sleep better.”

A slow grin had spread across his face.

He didn't need to be told twice.

*******

“What's going on in here?” he asks as he steps alongside the crib, where his tiny baby girl has managed to to shed herself of her tight swaddling and was preparing to whip herself up into a frenzy. She has his temper already; slow to anger but almost impossible to control once the fuse was fully lit. “What kind of trouble are you getting up to in here? How'd you get yourself into such a mess? Clever little thing, aren't you.”

The crying dies down. Settling down to a mere whimper. She recognizes her daddy's voice. His face. And she knows she's in good hands. The wailing replaced by an impossibly dramatic pout on someone so young.

“You really are your mother's daughter,” he says. “I recognize that look anywhere. How does a little one like you get yourself into trouble? Look at you...” he untangles the receiving blanket from between her legs and scoops her up from the crib. Lifting her to the safe and warm confines of his chest. A forearm supporting her bum, his palm on the back of her head. “It's okay now,” he croons, and presses a kiss to the side of her head. She has his hair; same texture and colour. His eyes. Even his nose and lips. He can hear his wife now. Complaining about doing all the leg work and going through all the pain, only to have the baby coming out looking just like him. “Daddy's here now. Everything is fine. You're okay now.”

After a quick diaper change, he carries her through the apartment and into the kitchen. That tiny little body laying perfectly along his forearm as he warms a bottle from the fridge. She fits so perfect in the crook of his arm; head nestled into the valley on his elbow, feet by his wrist. She's long. Lanky. Just like he'd been as a kid. “You're probably wondering why I'm out here doing this,” he speaks as he waits for the bottle to warm. “You know this is usually your mummy's thing. Getting up in the middle of the night. And I know she doesn't exactly use these silly things to feed you. But I thought we'd be nice and let her sleep. She does a lot for us, you know. She deserves to sleep.”

He sits on the couch as he feeds her; both feet on the coffee table, knees bent with her lying along his thighs. One hand holding the bottle and the fingers of the other exploring every inch of her. She is wondrous; big blue eyes and impossibly long dark lashes and freckles across the bridge of her nose. And has he talks to her in a deep and soothing tone, her gaze is focused intently on him. Eyes never leaving his, one of her tiny hands reaching for the hand that holds the bottle, all fingers curling around just one of his. He had forgotten what this was like. The pure magic of being a father. Knowing that you had helped create something so incredible. That you had played a part in bringing another human being into this world.

As crazy and fucked up as the world could be, that is. It gave him a sense of peace. The knowledge that when the end came, he'd go knowing that he had done something truly good and valuable with his life.

He stands and carries her over to the balcony window. Once again holding her with a forearm under her bum and a firm hand on the back of his head. “You see that out there...” he nods towards the skyline; twinkling lights of skyscrapers and glowing street lights and blazing stars. “...that can be a real scary place. There's a lot of really bad people out there. But there's a lot of really good people too. People that would protect you, no questions asked. People that already love you without even really knowing you. And somewhere out there, is some guy that's going to come into your life and probably break your heart. And you know what? That's okay. It's okay to get your heart broken. Because it makes you a better person. It makes you stronger. Even if you think it's going to kill you at the time.”

She stares up at him with those huge blue eyes. With so much wonder and trust that it it causes a lump of emotion to gather in his throat and blur his vision.

“You know, there was almost a time where this might not have happened. Where I might not have been here. Where it might have just been you and your mom. And if it wasn't for your mom, I probably wouldn't be here. She's something else, you know. She's the bravest and strongest person I've ever met in my entire life. And there were so many times where this could have been too much for her...where I could have been too much for her...and she could have just walked away. But she never did. She never gave up on me. Even when I was ready to give up on myself. She's the one you need to worry about, you know. She jokes around that I'm going to be the one that scares all the boys away but I have a feeling it's going to be her. She doesn't let anyone mess with the people she loves. She's a momma bear. She's ferocious and she's loyal and she will f...” he bites his tongue “...mess someone up if she needs to. I was even kind of scared of her when I first meet her. Not because she's scary looking or I was afraid she'd hurt me. Mind you, she probably could if she got mad enough. Like how she gets when I leave the toilet seat up in the middle of the night. She scared me because I'd never felt that way about anyone. At least not that quickly. You can be the strongest person in the world, but when that one person comes along, you can't stop it. No matter if the timing isn't right. No matter how screwed up things are. Even if it is the wrong place, wrong time. You're powerless. Your heart just takes over. The important thing you have to remember is that you let your heart and your head work at the same time. That's the only way things will be okay. Or at least that's how it worked for your mom and I.”

He adjusts his hold on her, bringing her up to rest against his chest. Fingers combing through her thick, silky hair, his other hand softly stroking her back.

“Your mom came into my life when I'd pretty much given up on everything. When I didn't even feel human any more. Where nothing mattered. She came into my life and rescued me. In every way a person can rescue someone. And I know she'll probably deny that if you ask her. She'd say that I'm the brave one. That I'm the one that rescues people. But she had the toughest job out of them all. I'm not the easiest person to love. And she knew that. Yet here she is. A year later and she's still sticking around. Still putting up with my crap. So I must be doing something right, yeah? She hasn't smothered me with a pillow in my sleep or put poison in my food or put a hit out on me.”

“You just had to ruin the moment,” that soft voice says from behind, and he watches her reflection through the window as she journeys over to them. Chestnut hair messy from sleep and falling loose to the middle of her back. She is heavier now; softer and curvier in all the right places. Having a baby will do that to you. But she's still the most beautiful woman he has ever seen. Even more so decked out in one of his shirts; the fabric hanging to well below her knees, sleeves rolled and bunched just about her elbows. “What are you two doing? It's late. Or really early. Depending on how you look at it.”

“We're just having a little daddy daughter bonding time.”

She squints her eyes and peers at the clock on the nearby wall. “It's ten after three.”

“Time means nothing when you have a baby. She doesn't know what time it is. And I barely sleep, so...”

“So what does this bonding time consist of? Shit talking me?”

“I only said that last part because I knew you were behind me. I said all good things, I swear. And I was telling her all my best stories.”

“Lord I really hope not,” she rubs his shoulders and presses a kiss to his back before sidling up beside him. “All your best stories are gory.”

“I'm saving those ones for when she's old enough to be able to kick someone in the balls if they're bothering her. So she doesn't have to rely on a brother to do it.”

“Not even two months into this and you're already contemplating another? Good luck doing that yourself. Let me know how it works out for you.”

The subject had come up once or twice. About whether or not this was a one off or there were other children in their future. After he'd lost his son and given up on life, he hadn't thought there'd be any other kids. It wasn't as if he lived the kind of life he'd be proud to bring a child into it. She'd been a complete surprise. They thought they'd been careful. Apparently they hadn't been careful enough.. But she wasn't a mistake. Far from it. A happy accident was more like it. Now that he'd gotten his feet wet again in the parenting pool, he was open to having more kids. He craved it, actually. Another two or three. And a modest house on a good parcel of land. Somewhere close to the beach. With a window that looked into the backyard that he could watch his children through. Where he could grow old and gray with the love of his life.

But he still had a lot of shit to deal with before any of that could happen.

She yawns loudly and steps in front of him; both arms wrapping around his waist she lays her head against him. “Are you okay?”

“Best I can be, I guess. Little sore. But what else is new.”

She just nods. She knows it goes beyond being 'a little sore'. She had seen the extent of his injuries. She'd lived out the horror right alongside of him. It had been his blood that soaked her that day on the bridge. But she also knows he isn't the type you fawn over. He doesn't like the attention. Feeling as if he's weak. Or that he may be a burden. He was still trying to get that confidence back. The ego takes a serious beating when you're left unable to do even the smallest of tasks for yourself. “You're having trouble sleeping?”

“When haven't I had trouble sleeping?”

“But it's worse now, isn't it. I know how many times you get up in the middle of the night. It's worse now.”

“Just a stage,” he assures her. “I'll be fine. How many times have we been through this, huh? How many times do I have to tell you not to worry about me?”

“A million. But I still won't listen.”

“That's never going to change,” he teases. “You didn't listen to me a year ago and you don't listen to me now. And you wonder why I say your daughter is going to be trouble.”

She grins up at him. “Why does she become just my daughter when you talk about trouble?”

“Because we both know who the real trouble maker is in this relationship,” he retorts, and presses a kiss to her forehead.

In silence they watch their daughter; the way her eyes shift between the two of them before slowing beginning to close, a yawn escaping her mouth. A surprisingly large one that ends in a tiny squeak. He's in awe of her. Of how tiny and fragile she is. How he'd managed to make something so amazing.

“She's beautiful,” he speaks around a lump of emotion that sits square in his throat. His emotions have been raw since that day in Dhaka. And even more so since becoming a father for a second time. He can hear Gaspar in his head again. Talking about how soft he was becoming. That he didn't even recognize him any more. That growing a heart this late in the game was going to be his biggest downfall and his most relentless enemy. “Like her mother.”

“She looks just like you.”

“I honestly don't see it,” he hopes he sounds a least a tad sincere.

His wife gives a derisive snort. “You have some seriously strong genes, Tyler Rake. Imagine if we had a boy? Probably be your splitting image. By the way...” she rubs his stomach and smiles up at him. “...you do the really big, strong man with a tiny baby thing very well. It's kind of sexy.”

“Just kind of? I was going for totally sexy. Insanely sexy. You might as well said mediocre sexy.”

“Don't expect me to stroke your ego at three in the morning.”

“Why not? Not like you've been stroking anything else lately.”

“Shhhh...” she places a finger over her lips. “...there's innocent ears in this room.”

“She's asleep. And even if she wasn't, she wouldn't understand what I was saying anyway. Besides, she's going to end up learning where she come from sooner or later.”

“Well let's make that later. Much later. And mediocre sexy? Really? As if you could ever be anything other than out of the world sexy.”

“You're lucky. I was going to have to file for divorce if you called me 'average sexy'.”

“You're too much,” she giggles, and dropping one of her arms from around his waist, runs the palm of her hand along the baby's hair. “And you're right. She is beautiful. She is perfect.”

“It's hard to believe sometimes, isn't it? That we made her? During all that craziness and all that madness, we actually made a life together. Surreal, huh? That something so beautiful could come out of all of that?”

“A lot of beautiful things came out of that. We just have a hard time recognizing what they are sometimes.”

He nods in agreement. Sniffling noisily and swallowing heavily when the weight of emotion becomes almost too much to bear. He's never had to hide this side of himself when it came to her. After all, she was the one who'd successfully bulldozed all of his walls to the ground. So it comes as no surprise to either of them when the tears finally do come; blazing hot against his skin, the taste of salt stinging his lips.

“Baby...” she turns to face him, reaching up to take his face in her hands. “...what's wrong? What...?”

“Nothing's wrong. I just...” he struggles to find the words, inhaling deeply and releasing a shaky breath. “...thank you...” he says. “...for her. For you. For us.”

“I think you played a pretty big part in her being here,” she reminds him. “It's not like I did this alone.”

“I don't deserve all of this. I don't deserve her. I don't deserve you. This...this life...” he shakes his head. “...this was meant for someone else. A better man than me.”

She chews pensively on her bottom lip and regards him through her own tears. He knows she won't let them come. She's been the one holding back lately. When they'd met, she'd been the high strung and overly emotional one. Always on edge. Waiting for the other shoe to drop. He'd been that calm, cool, and collected one. The one that held shit together when it threatened to blow apart. Talking her down off the ledge while trying to keep both of them...and eventually Ovi...alive. Since the baby she'd changed. Her motherly instincts and her love for their child could never be matched by anyone else. But she had closed herself off in other ways. She became the strong and silent one. The one who always held her emotions in check. He figured it was all that time she spent helping him get back on his feet. What she'd seen and had to endure would harden anyone.

But he'd be lying if he didn't say he wasn't concerned. If he didn't find himself wishing for that emotional and broken girl she'd once been.

She was out there. And he knew where.

She was still back in Dhaka.

Still standing on that bridge.

#Tyler Rake #Tyler Rake fan fiction #Extraction fan fiction #Chris Hemsworth Tyler Rake #Tyler Rake x OFC #Tyler Rake fan fic #Extraction fan fic #I Found-Tyler Rake/Esme Rake

6 notes · View notes

kenzieam · 4 years

Text

Touch

Rating: M

Warnings: Major Angst, heartache, some language

Word Count: 3595

Tags: @jewels2876 @moonbeambucky @jeremyrennerfanxxxx123 @iammarylastar @captstefanbrandt @badassbaker @pinknerdpanda @oliviastan17 @mizzzpink

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As time runs out, Lev remembers her first encounters with Bucky, and how the touch-starved, damaged man became just as important to her as she is to him.

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HEADS UP..... MAJOR ANGST AHEAD, READ AT YOUR OWN RISK. i DON’T EVEN KNOW WHY I WRITE THIS SHIT, IT JUST MAKES ME CRY.

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Shit, I’m cold.

But at least it doesn’t hurt anymore.

I don’t know how long I’ve been trapped down here; things have gotten hazy.

It’s been a while though; I can’t hear half as many people screaming for help as before.

I’ve had time to figure out what happened at least, with nothing else to do but lay here, slowly suffocating.

My day, I think it’s fair to say, has gone spectacularly to shit.

I think it was an explosion that made the building collapse, but things were happening so goddamn fast I can’t say for sure.

Either way, I’m here, trapped, and I’m pretty sure I’m dying.

Figures, Bucky didn’t want me to go to this convention. If I live through this, I’ll never hear the end of it; Bucky hates being apart from me, because I’m not enhanced like he is, he thinks I’m fragile.

And to be honest, I’m feeling pretty goddamn fragile right now.

My back is arched, bowed backwards to where I could almost grab my ass with the arm that’s twisted back behind my head; my fingers are in the perfect place to scratch any itch I might have between my shoulder blades, but an itch is the least of my problems right now.

I can’t feel my legs.

I don’t know if it’s the fact that a large section of concrete wall is pinning me from the hips down, or if its something more sinister and permanent, a broken back perhaps. Either way, I can’t see my legs or feel them. Maybe they��re not even there anymore.

Would Bucky still love me if I were broken? No longer whole?

I think he would, he knows what it’s like to be incomplete. So many times, after we’ve made love, he’ll hold me and tell me how much he loves me, how I complete him, make him feel whole for the first time in nearly a century.

It’s a heady sensation, to know someone as powerful and legendary as James Barnes loves you.

I never expected to find someone like him, to feel the things he makes me feel.

It breaks my heart that it’s probably all going to end today, with me trapped, alone, in my proverbial coffin.

Was it only three and a half years ago I heard Tony Stark was hiring and me, fresh out of school with the ink on my doctorate of Physical Therapy not yet dry, decided on a whim to apply?

I never expected a call from the man himself, never expected to be given such a huge opportunity so early in my burgeoning career.

But Tony had a plan. People get hurt all the time, secretaries with carpel tunnel, agents with bruises and bumps, Avengers with broken bones earned on their newest mission, it only made sense to bring in a full time PT to the medical labs in the Avengers Complex, and Tony wanted someone fresh and new, someone without any bad habits to break as he put it, which is ironic when you consider all the bad habits Stark himself has.

I’m still working on refining his damn posture in front of the computer, but I think it’s a losing battle.

My job was soon revealed, to help after Bruce and Helen had worked their magic, regain range of motion, stretch and massage damaged muscles, ensure the team ran at their peak.

While my job originally was supposed to include the entire Complex, it soon became obvious that all my attention would need to be devoted to the team of superheroes themselves and, after a few months of commuting to and from my small studio in the city, I gave into Stark’s less than subtle hints and moved directly into the Complex myself, becoming a round-the-clock, on-call-all-the-time member of the team.

My first interactions with Bucky were minimal, a shadow lurking behind the much more gregarious Captain America himself. I didn’t take it personally because, from what I could see and had heard, the former assassin stayed as far away from everyone that he possibly could.

But he ended up being half dragged to me by Steve himself a few months into my job, due to a lingering pain in the juncture of his shoulder from a recent injury; or more accurately, from a recent injury on the training mats that merely brought back the pain Bucky had apparently been struggling with off and on ever since HYDRA attached his first bionic arm.

The big man didn’t want to be there, I could tell and only his loyalty and commitment to his oldest friend kept his ass on the table as I examined the puffy, angry red scar tissue, his body rigid beneath my exploratory touch.

I knew enough of his past to realize that Bucky’s aversion to me was part of, if not wholly, due to the rough and cruel way HYDRA had treated him, when every contact meant hurt and degradation, but it still affected me. What had he lived through that had taught him that even simple touch meant pain? And how, with the very nature of my work involving discomfort, did I help him?

“Can you rotate your arm?” I ask quietly. When he hesitates, I continue. “I need to feel the joint when you move it.”

He nods silently, accepting the fact that my hands need to stay on him, press in lightly while he rotates his shoulder and, most likely, increase the pain he already feels.

I fall silent, close me eyes to help concentrate as he complies. “Again, please.”

I finger a particular point, deep in the joint and Bucky flinches, swallowing a low groan. I instantly feel horrible, for surely, to make Bucky react at all the pain I just caused must have been extraordinary, but it gives me something to focus on.

I pull away, trying to ignore the way his skin makes my fingers tingle; must be related to his serum-enhancement, my mind studiously ignoring the fact that touching Steve doesn’t illicit the same sensation and offer him a smile.

“I think a lot of that discomfort can be managed with massage, relaxing and sorting out the muscles involved. I’d prefer to try that, rather than jumping into more invasive therapies right away.”

I wait for his response, glancing at Steve when it appears for a beat that Bucky hasn’t even heard me but then it hits me.

Massage.

Continuous touch, continuous pain while he will be forced to lay immobile, tolerating it soundlessly.

Pretty much Bucky’s worst nightmare.

Shit.

Steve shifts his weight, clears his throat. He’s obviously torn between answering for his friend and letting Bucky decide, although it’s clear he expects Barnes to reject the proposal, to push on grimly through the ache and potentially damage his body more.

“Okay.” His voice is so low I almost don’t hear him.

“I’m sorry?” I lean closer, frowning with concentration. Fuck, for so huge and imposing a man, the guy can make himself practically invisible, even right beside you.

“Okay,” he repeats, barely raising his voice. “We’ll try.”

“I’ll do my best,” I feel compelled to reassure him, barely stopping myself from resting my hand on his shoulder, pulling back at the last second when I remember that that would probably be the last thing to calm the man. “To make it as tolerable, as pain-free as possible.”

Bucky nods but doesn’t answer.

“Want to start now?” Steve asks carefully, glancing between me and Bucky. I don’t know what Bucky will say, but I’ve probably filled his quota of contact today.

A silent head shake, his lank brown hair swinging, a quick but interesting glance up at my face. Is he concerned about my reaction?

“Tomorrow?” I ask gently. At his nod I continue, running through my schedule in my head and I know these two usually go running in the morning, hitting the gym after and then grabbing something to eat. “How about after lunch?”

“Okay.” Christ, the man’s voice is so quiet and soft, it doesn’t fit with his appearance. He looks like a beast, huge and muscular, danger radiating out of every pore. Its so much easier to visualize him as the cruel assassin The Winter Soldier than as a traumatized prisoner of war. That is, until you look in his eyes; then the muscles, the bulk and silent intimidating air all fall apart.

The concrete around me creaks, the rubble threatening to shift, and I hold my breath. It’s getting harder to breathe but I don’t know if that’s because of the way my torso is twisted, or just a general lack of fresh oxygen. I can’t see any daylight anywhere, of feel any type of air movement, but I also can’t move any part of myself around to look. For all I know, there could be a way out of this mess directly behind me, but I’m pinned.

How long has it been? I think I greyed out for a minute there, remembering one of my first meaningful encounters with Bucky, the first time he answered me, agreed to try massage therapy for his shoulder. The trust he showed wasn’t lost on me.

The building groans, as if its in pain too and I fight a rising panic. The voices I could hear around me have gotten less and less, the faint screams for help devolving into wordless, animal cries of agony before cutting off altogether and I wonder if anyone is even still alive. Is there any type of rescue effort yet? Has there been some kind of terrorist act that’s holding up my salvation?

Have they told Bucky?

The convention was a couple of thousand miles away from the Compound, even with the quinjet Bucky and I were hours apart.

Is he out there right now? Digging for me?

My mind wanders again as a fresh stab of agony shoot through my torso, ending curiously at my hips.

I look up at the soft knock at my office door and smile.

“Hello, James.”

His eyes meet mine, just for the barest heartbeat before dropping. “Bucky,” he murmurs.

“Bucky.” I agree, my smile widening at his soft, endearing air. I want to just gather him up and give him a hug, show him that there is love and gentleness in the world and he deserves it too; although, to be honest, I’d just look like a koala hanging off him, God, he’s beefy.

He follows me soundlessly through the Physio department, to the room I’ve set up strictly for massage therapy. I put myself through school moonlighting as a masseuse, and that was one of Tony’s first requests, that I set up shop again. It seems some days that half of my job is just massage, but I’m not complaining; I enjoyed it in school and it’s just as amiable now.

I gesture to the table, draped with clean sheets. “I’m just going to work on your back and shoulders, so you just need to take your shirt off, if you want to remove your pants too, that’s fine. Lay face down and there’s a sheet to put over yourself when you’re ready. I’ll be right back.”

He nods again but there’s a tension in his body now. Is it because he’s going to be showing his arm, the angry scars that surround it? I’ve seen it before, but it seems to be an enduring shame with him, and I make a note not to draw attention to it.

“Are you ready?” I knock softly and ask through the door, hear his quiet confirmation. I turn the lights lower as I enter, explaining as I do. “I’m just turning the lights down a bit.” I busy myself at the small table covered in different types of massage oil. “I don’t know about you, but I can’t relax under full lighting.” He mumbles some sort of agreement, head lowered into the u-shaped cushion. He’s laying face down, like I requested, but he’s anything but relaxed. Fists clenched tight, breathing quickly, he’s not letting go, not yet. “I can play some music if you want?”

“Okay.”

I pause, then speak. “Bucky? We can hold off; you seem a little tense-”

“No.” He lifts his head to look at me. “I’ll lay still, I promise. Just go ahead…. I won’t react, I can take it.”

I shake my head, that’s not the point. “No, Bucky. That’s not how it works here.”

He lifts his head again after dropping it during his statement about laying still, frowning thoughtfully, if a little suspiciously.

“You don’t have to just lay here and ‘take it’. This is for you, if you get uncomfortable, if you want me to stop, you say so and we’ll take a break. I don’t want you to just lay here and endure the pain. If it hurts, tell me; if you start to get overwhelmed, tell me. The last thing I want is to make this another bad experience for you.”

He pauses then, forehead furrowing slightly. From what I’ve gathered regarding his past, free choice wasn’t something ever offered to him, HYDRA would just order him to lay stay and endure whatever torture or torment they were performing.

That shit doesn’t fly here.

“You are in charge.” I squat at the head of the table to meet his eyes, wanting him to really hear me. “I will not do anything to you that you don’t consent to. I can’t guarantee it won’t hurt, but I will only do want you allow me to, okay?”

Something flickers through his eyes, something soft and vulnerable and I get the feeling that he will lay here for me through the worst pain, if only because I gave him the control to, something he’s never been given before.

“Okay,” he replies quietly.

“I’m not going to lie, the harder I work, the more it hurts initially, the quicker the pain will be over.”

He nods and I think he’s relieved that someone is taking the time and consideration to include him in what’s going to be done to his own body.

“But we go at your speed, okay?”

“Okay.”

I stand again, reach over and turn on my playlist, a compilation of soft, bluesy swamp rock and acoustic melodies and begin.

I’m getting tired.

Is it dark outside too?

Will I ever see the sky again?

I can’t think that way, I can’t give up. Not on myself, not on Bucky.

He will come for me; I just have to hold on until then.

My mind continues to wander, trying to distract itself from the growing lassitude in my body. The weariness, the lethargy scares me, I wish I could still feel the pain, at least I’d know I’m still here, existing, even with the agony.

I remember the way our relationship progressed, slow and cautious, tentative.

Slowly his body would turn from iron to relaxed muscles beneath my touch, slowly there would be anticipation, maybe even eagerness in his eyes when he’d walk into the department, rather than grim resignation.

Once he fell asleep on me, facedown on the massage table and I let him nap, leaving the music and lights low, the door cracked, waiting for him to wake as I went about with other duties, finally seeing him emerge looked a little shamefaced, smiling tentatively in apology as I worked with Sam on a range of motion exercise for his recently injured knee.

That seemed to be the final barrier.

After that, I was one of the few people Bucky actually chose to seek out, a rare and exclusive club.

It was easy to love him.

For even as I seemed to be a source of comfort and contentment for him, he too was my bastion of strength, my rock.

If he could wake up each morning and push on, then anything I encountered in life was conquerable too.

“Baby.” He groans, lips brushing my ear.

His powerful body moves above me, inside me, bringing me to heights of pleasure I’ve never felt before.

It’s our first-time making love together, and in some ways, it’s like its truly the first time for both of us.

He’s so gentle and tender, careful with how he handles me, like I’m precious glass in his large, powerful hands.

He cradles me as he thrusts, holding me close to him, whimpers faintly and its that sound of pure vulnerable surrender that pushes me over the edge. He follows, groaning my name into my hair as his body shudders. I feel him pulse inside me, the most peaceful feeling of rightness suffusing my limbs.

Right here.

This is where I’m meant to be.

This is the point my entire life has been leading to.

He collapses beside me, breathing heavily and I roll to the side, resting my arm across his heaving chest. The faint flinch he always had, that he still has with most other people, is gone. He trusts me completely and it’s a gift I will never waste.

His eyes lock with mine, searching, somehow dark with desire and light with joy at the same time. His body is ready again, hard and straining, serum-enhanced and close to insatiable.

I roll to straddle him, his eyes following me. His hands reach up and I clasp them, twine our fingers together, press against them as I sink down onto his cock, watch his eyes roll back in his head with ecstasy. I roll my hips, encouraged by the sounds my movements draw from him, the low groans and grunts, moans and hums of pleasure.

“Fuck-” he curses and my heart dances.

My body is hungry, wanting more, and I increase my pace, chasing another release.

His eyes open, lock on mine once again and we stay connected like that, both in gaze and in body. I watch the emotions shine there, in his supernaturally blue depths, see the vulnerability there, something akin to awe, as if he has trouble believing he’d ever be this way again, open and honest and bare with someone else, trusting them in so many ways.

“Bucky-” my voice drops into a whine as my peak hits, my eyes closing.

“No.” He orders and my eyes snap open. “Let me see you, baby. Let me watch you.”

Our eyes lock again as I give in and then he’s coming too, thrusting up into me one last time, eyes burning into mine, the expression in them driving me into another, simultaneous orgasm, which infinity loops back into Bucky, his body shuddering as my walls milk him, drawing his seed hungrily, and I realize that there’s few things I’d rather be in this world right now, than joined so viscerally with him like this.

The only thing that would make this better would be if his seed takes root inside me and I’m able to give him a child, a second chance, an opportunity for unconditional love.

I cough, wince at the pain that flares in my chest, taste copper in my mouth.

It won’t be long now, I feel the truth in my bones and, while it breaks my heart, I still fight it.

I need to see Bucky, even if its for the last time.

I’ll miss our life together, the way he always sought me out, wherever I was.

Touch-starved as he was, for nearly a century, once Bucky learned he could trust me, began to touch me whenever he could.

An arm around me from behind, lips on my neck. Tight hugs for no reason, seeming to recharge at our connection. Waking tangled up with the huge cuddle-bug, barely knowing where I ended, and he began.

And the way he’d cling to me on the couch, even if others were there too, uncaring about what they thought. Curled against me like a child, head buried in my neck, almost purring under my touch as I ran my hands along his back and shoulders, like stroking and taming a large beast, soaking in the touch-love like parched earth and water.

After almost a century of starving, he was hungry for connection now, for my touch.

I hate that I’ll be taking that from him.

Slight sounds I’ve been hearing sporadically for a while now but not really able to make out become faint rustles nearby, a muffled call.

The rubble creaks, threatens to shift and, after a fraught pause, the rustling continues.

“Lev?!” I hear someone call, faint and blurry, but the way the word cuts tells me they’re screaming.

I try to answer but can only croak.

The weight on my body is almost too much now, the exhaustion pulling me further and further down. My belly feels heavy and a faint part of me muses that I’m probably bleeding internally, probably have been since I came to in this horrible, choking blackness.

Would Bucky still love me if I were broken? No longer whole?

I know the answer.

Yes.

I loved Bucky before he was whole, when he was broken.

A giant rat is nearby, scratching, then the cutting scream again, closer and cracking with strain. I recognize it finally, Bucky’s voice, breaking with anxiety, snapping under the stress. His throat will be sore for days.

I imagine him tunneling through the rubble by hand, shaking off other’s hands that try to stop him, tell him it’s too late and there’s no way I can still be alive.

But I know he won’t stop, not until he can touch me again.

#bucky #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes drama #bucky and lev #bucky and levi

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