#{ i am living at the center of a wound still fresh }

[fawnaura]

I am living at the center of a wound still fresh,

Octavio Paz: Poems, edited and tr. by Eliot Weinbergner, from 'Dawn'

[sickllylittleworld]

Even though I am the filthiest, and most pitied person in the room, even though I make mistakes like a dog in training, and can't memorize a thing for the life of me, even though I could never be loved by anyone (not even the woman who birthed me), you still want to take me in.

But you know what's best for me. You remind me everyday of your life, by the countless times you've bruised me, all my broken bones and fresh wounds. Shot out teeth and sore limbs. Being chained to the ground, beaten til I can't breathe for several moments, only to lift me up and hold me through it all. Your voice reassuring me, "You've been so good. I knew from the day i saw you, we'd be perfect for eachother." You'll press my body into yours, and whisper into my discolerd neck.. "I know your body is saying something else, but I can hear it in your voice, and see it in your eyes. You're begging me, i can feel it. You want me to continue, you want me to hurt you, you love it... just as much as i do. A dirty dog, so dirty, yet being the center of my attention. Be greatful, your able to be living through this."

And I will adore every moment of that softness, it's the only thing that holds me together while you break me again, and again, and again. I'm almost dead, but somehow you refrain from killing me. Somehow, it's not enough... and I'd have to wait for another day. And somehow I'd find hope in you, hope to be released from this hell, that I adore so dearly.

Maybe it's the only thing really keeping us together. Maybe my love is false, and your really just a psycho who can't help but beating something like me to get through their life. But, I wouldn't mind living a lie, I wouldn't mind pretending, as long as I'm pretending with you... for you.

I've grown so fond of you, I'm absolutely trapped. I'm helpless, but I have no intention of being saved, of being freed from you. Keep me trapped, in your sturdy and warm arms, your hands pressing into me... your warmth is all I desire... so I will survive countless moments of near death, just to feel it.

Every. Single. Time.

[theimperiumchronicles]

Happy WBW! In honor of the pain bestowed upon me by the Blood Goddess 🙃, what is your world like in relation to sicknesses, injuries, and other afflictions? Feel free to discuss the medical system or how jobs/institutions respond, or even how individual characters feel!

Hello, my lovely Tori!

I am going to hit on a few of my world in today's answer, so I hope you have some potions, a snack, even a nice warm blanket to cuddle up in if you're in the Northern Hemisphere...or are basking in the warmth if you're in the Southern. This is gonna be long, babes!

@theimperiumchronicles

On Earth, well...it's Earth, so look around...it fucking SUCKS ASS!! Nowhere is perfect and there is suffering everywhere. Some of the supernatural creatures try to help, but much like Star Trek has the Prime Directive, they try not to get too involved and fuck things up for them all. The more they meddle, the more chance that humans will figure out that the paranormal and supernatural are real...and well...you remember the witch trials right?!

In most other realms, injuries naturally heal on their own. The speed depends on the type of being that is injured, how bad the injury is, and how they were injured. There are some beings who are gifted with healing abilities that can help speed up this process. For instance Abriella is a skilled healer, as is Cruz, and Adriel. When there are battle injuries, they help those affected. Arch can concoct healing potions and poultices as well.

Regarding sickness, there is none like a virus. Bacteria is little. This is because of the self healing nature of the beings. If they were to get something like a cold, their self healing would defeat it before they were to feel it. Through evolution in the realms, what humans view ad disease has been defeated.

Now poisoning, that is another matter. There are many plants that are poisonous, as well as venomous animals. How those are treated depends on what plant/animal poisoned the being, the type of being, and the reaction of the being. Sometimes healers are able to counteract the poison/venom, sometimes a mage will have to step in with a concoction.

Most realms have some form of hospital, but they aren't like those on Earth. They are smaller because most beings can heal themselves, so only those in dire need of healing would go to one. If you think back to the Victorian times when they had the respite spas that were more like vacations, that is what they are like. They are plush, comfortable, and the patient is taken care of very well. The healers pay good attention to them, they are fed well, and they get lots of fresh air and sunshine because for most beings, that DOES help. Most of the healing centers have a ward that is always sunny and warm, cast by an elemental, so that the patients can get that even when winter outside.

Now, for the touchy subject - disabilities. It is up to the being. Some beings go to healers and deities to have them resolved. Some get prosthetics/aids/helpers to assist them. Others find ways to cope/deal/work with their disabilities so that they do not hinder their life. There are those in most realms that have some kind of disability. For instance there are those in the Imperium army who have lost eyes, ears, limbs, and fingers in battle. Some have had them regrown, others have prosthetics, others have learned to live with the missing body part and still are able to serve ins some capacity.

@devil-in-the-details-ay

Like in Imperium, the non human beings self heal. Because we are dealing with different belief pantheons of human religions, there really isn't an organized healthcare system as such. If there are confrontations or battles, they can heal each other if they are gravely wounded. There aren't diseases, but they can appear "sick" if they are badly wounded and are taking some time to heal. Most of the characters are gods (both greater and lesser), demi-gods, and beings that serve the gods. There will be some preternatural, supernatural, and paranormal beings thrown in for some spice, but again there isn't really an organized medical system for them. There are healers they go to if needed. Astaroth IS DEATH. He can kill (including totally obliterating the essence of the spirit so there is no afterlife at all), he can resurrect, he can heal anything. Yara is going to have some pretty nifty powers as well, and killing is one of them.

@battlegroundofdreams

Here things work a little differently. Most of what I'm going to be covering is in the legion of dream warriors and assassins. They do have a sick bay/hospital ward. They can sustain injuries in and out of the dreams. What they experience in the dream does affect them outside the dream, but not as extreme. The only exception is death, you die in the dream world, you are dead. There are pathogens similar to human diseases, and those are handled by the sick bay/hospital ward in the legion. There are vaccines for things. They do have healers as well who are more like our "doc in a box" type of urgent care centers who come to the warriors after they come out of the dreams to see if there are minor injuries that they haven't been able to mend on one another. The warriors are taught basic medic training, similar to EMT.

@bendingthelaws @behindthesemasks @the-andromeda-effect @magical-mistakes-vm Bayou Witches (which will have a page soon) - these are all based in our reality-ish in our world, so they are all what is in reality

@tapperhet-em and @princess-of-thieves-id are set in worlds not to unlike ours. While they are fantasy kingdoms, there are not the supernatural overtones of Imperium or the other WIPs where the main characters are not human. All the characters here are human. They are injured like humans, get sick like humans, etc. The medical realm is kind of like rural healthcare. There are private doctors for the wealthy, which they all are, so they wouldn't have much exposure to public health care. That will change a bit since they are on the run. However, with how the story is looking to go they are going to stick with private as much as possible to keep Meeri hidden. There is some magic, mages, and alchemy. However, medicine isn't much different than what we are used to, it's just supplemented with the mystical as well.

@whileyouwait-dm

Since this all takes place in Hell, you're pretty much SOL if you need help....UNLESS you're special to Djall. And, lucky for Miriana, she will be. Djall has the ONLY healer in the entirity of Hell. So, that is the healthcare. Of course beings there can get injured, but they better hope that they heal before something else decides to snack on them or abuse them more, because unless they have Djall's favor, they aren't getting any help. There is no real illness, but like Imperium, there are poisons and venomous creatures that reside there. Djall's healer is adept at taking care of that. Djall might have a few tricks up his sleeve as well. He is the Lord Of Hell after all.

@sehnsuchtrising

I'm still working on this one, I'll be honest. I've gotten one chapter written and the damn blorbos have made me rewrite it four times and none of them are remotely the same. Katerina is a Sorceress, so she can heal the members of the party...that's all I got right now. *holds up hands and shrugs*

Sooooooo.....there you go...I think...until someone decides to change it. LOL

@saltysupercomputer @blind-the-winds @aziz-reads @pheita @writingmaidenwarrior @thebejeweledwatercat @dreaminggoblin @korblez @toribookworm22 @spookyceph

[welcometololaland]

Hello Lola! (Almost called you Lol, and I don't know, that's kind of fun)

F for living at the centre of a wound still fresh, please <3

hello lovely!!! LOL! that actually is me. my discord username for a while was lol(a).

living at the centre of a wound still fresh does not have a spotify playlist or a song i'm so sorry to tell you. the title of that fic is actually from a poem, so i suppose that's kind of a nice substitute?

it's from a octavio paz poem called 'dawn':

Cold rapid hands draw back one by one the bandages of dark I open my eyes                          still I am living                 at the center of a wound still fresh

I think it's very haunting.

Fic Writer Ask Game

[enigmawriteswhump]

Whumptober 2023

Safety Net | Swooning | How Many Fingers Am I Holding Up

No: 1

Evanshi closed her eyes, even while she was the last of her tribe who should be trusted with meditation. And yet here she was. Curled legs, a simple, relaxed posture. But that thrumming energy couldn't sit still, her anxiety confined to to all but the flexing of her toes.

Why did Modar have ever believed she had potential in this area of study? To converse with the living and the life? To hear words of rippling bark, if one knew just right. Not heard, but to sit and know the yew tree behind her was whispering of fellow dangers, of orangisms trespassing against their roots, or leaping from arm to arm with little claw marks left behind. A remnant of the wood's passengers.

To be able to feel the sensitivity of the dark cylinders of bark, curled around the unscavenged center... To be able to feel the herbal remedies between each root, and know which fungus grew - just on the way the breeze flowed. To read the earth as if she were also a sapling, taking root and sampling what this earth had to offer.

Bogus. The lot of it.

Modar had never wanted her to succeed.

Evanshi let her hands slide from her lap, the bitter smile hard to keep away. This, these small strands of grass beneath her - all she could feel was the tickle against her soles. Not some hocus pocus druid magic. Still a fresh wound, knowing the truth; knowing she disappointed her mentor even now.

"Did you find it out here? What you were looking for?"

His voice caught her insidiously, and she startled, whipping her head around.

A low snarl ripped from her throat.

Evanshi felt the trill of fear, even as she rose lithely to her feet, light on her toes. Ready to pounce, or dart away.

"Catch you off guard?" Kazian's grin slipped through his nocholance. The long, beautiful wings curled outwards slightly, an expression of his proposed boredom.

She didn't believe it, not with the glint in his eyes.

"Why must you make me do all the talking? You sound like a rabid animal when you refuse to speak." he managed to step closer, while grimly inspecting his sharp, unbitten nails. Near talons, except for chipped nature of them.

A warrior clothed in littered, unspoken secrets.

She narrowed her eyes, unwilling to bite back. His baiting meant nothing, even if her pride prickled even so.

Evanshi knew the wise move was to kneel without flare, to snark back with a hint of sharp banter, wait for his hand to come and lift her head. To lean into the tenderness and pretend her feelings weren't flooded with his touch.

That she would be saved his game, if she bared her teeth threateningly, he would see a smile.

Her lips moved back, scowling.

Kazian huffed, rippling his wings in a flutter of irritation.

"If you are not being the elf I knew you were, we must treat you like the prey you've become." his lips retreated in that snarl, the look he gave her oppressive as he roamed down her body.

"Now run. Run," he took one more step, and his wings lifted, a bronze cloud blotting her light.

"Run, before they get you, little fox." his eyes darkened, and the playful spark dripped into ominous cruelty, "Run, for when I get you, you surely will not be able to reply."

***

Her attention snapped to the beat of her heart, like Isbasal's fastest fire-drumming, branches underfoot crushed as her passage erupted harmony.

Dipping between branch after branch, a silent fox as she could be, apart from the almost-humanoid howls which followed her. His favourite game - chase, hunt, kill.

She had naively assumed he wouldn't let his ire consume him. But with each wide wing-beat above the forest, the very real trickle of terror slipped down her legs. No, no, he couldn't - he was waiting for something. He had been for months!

She couldn't die like this, a head on a table, blood which dripped onto his curling nails as her eyes stared lifelessly above. She couldn't be the leg bone his heathens drank from. Not now. Not when she had been so brave. Had hidden her terror for so long.

"Oh Evanshi! Where have you hidden my little one?" his voice bellowed from above, a laugh crackling through the treetops. By Silas he'd suddenly sounded much closer!

Her mouth forced a wheeze of panic, her time confined unused to such a sprint. Each breath had too little air, each step sent a spiralling spike to her side.

Oh by Silas' crooked blessings, there was the tree!

With a last step, Evanshi pushed herself to the bark of the tree, inhaling moldering earth, and willow's green fingers ticking her neck.

Her fingers moved into the threads of hundreds leaves, her strings of fate as she tested their weight.

A stem of one snapped and she bit back a breathy curse, even as air trailed from her mouth and the appendage landed against her wrist.

These Willows were not the ones of home. She didn't have time to pinpoint the location of pain that sparked at the knowledge, but evaluated the hulking girth of the trunk.

Just maybe...

She was no acrobat, but even with her uneven gait, she gave her best leap into the tree branch's grasp. Using the extra strands she'd pulled down to loop around the other side, she used the multitude to haul the rest of her body onto the branch, large gasps echoing from her that she tried to stifle with a sweat-laved hand.

The eerie howls of creatures almost-human trickled to her ears, and she struggled to remain calm with her hands as sticky as they were.

Deep breaths, he can't smell you. He can't smell you.

The bark bit angrily into her thighs as she saddled the branch, waiting the howls to quiet, before she shuffled to the trunk.

Wrapping her arms around the tree, as best as she could manage with its width, she slowly rose to her feet. There was a moment where she froze, hearing that distinct snap of wings, a curling voice which had found her even in her most peaceful dreams, until it disappeared.

A sudden, treacherous weight lifted from her gut.

Tonight, tonight she would be safe nestled in the bowed nest of the tree trunk.

Even while she was proud to remember such a hiding place, she knew it was only a matter of time before they found her.

This was his safety net.

Kazian would have never let her into a real forest, after all.

[hinatastinygiant]

Chapter Forty Two

Melenargia Epideme

Pairing: Haikyuu!! x Fem!Reader

previous | next | 2099

"So what now?" you ask Oikawa as he closes the diner door behind you, locking it with a small locker like the ones you had back in high school. 

"Hell am I supposed to know," he shrugs as he turns around to face you. "Stay away from trouble, that's all, I guess."

"Well at least it's kinda warm out today," you smile as the two of you step toward the sidewalk. "We can stay outside without freezing to death."

"I think that woulda already happened to you yesterday, crazy ass sleeping in the cold," he shakes his head.

"Don't act like you wouldn't have done that either if you were in the same situation," you shake your head as you walk side by side down the street.

"Well, yeah, I probably would have, but you're the one who actually did it," he laughs, causing you to nudge him in the side and playfully roll your eyes at his comment.

The two of you continue talking as you casually stroll around with no destination. But when you happen to stumble upon the nearby park, you both decide to cut through. Then, when you get near the middle, you find a blue metal bench and sit down for a break.

"Well this is nice," Oikawa sighs as he gets comfortable in his seat.

"Have you ever been to this park before?" you ask him.

"Can't say that I have," he shrugs.

"Really?" you hum as you look over at him curiously. "Are you from around here or..."

"I am," he nods. "Only a few streets over, actually. But going to a park was always the furthest thing from my mind back then. I can't even remember the last time I walked into one."

"Then you've lived here all your life?" 

"For the most part, yeah. And you?" he asks back.

"I bounced around a little bit, but I've been here for quite a few years. I went to med school here," you explain.

"Huh, that's odd," he then thinks aloud quite a bit vaguely.

"What is?"

"I just thought... Do you think we would have ever met? You know, if something like this didn't happen?" he asks in a tone showing you his sincere thought behind the question.

"I don't know. Maybe if you were a patient of mine," you shrug.

"I don't think we would've," he shakes his head earnestly. "I'd probably have been too self-centered to even notice you, to be honest. I was so wrapped up living in my own fucking world."

"If you're as bad as you say, then why didn't you leave when you had the chance? Why'd you stick around here?" you question.

"Do you want the honest truth, or what I tell everybody else?" he says with a slight grin.

"The truth."

"I was arrested and put in jail for embezzlement. My fucking protégé turned me in," he scoffs, as though the wound is still fresh.

"Seriously?" you ask as you look up at him. That might've been the last thing you were expecting him to say. "You're one of those?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" he asks, narrowing his eyebrows at you.

"Nothing, nothing," you smile. "I'm just kinda surprised. Didn't think you had the balls for something like that."

"Oh fuck off," he scoffs. "What about you then? Why didn't you leave? A doctor like you should have enough money and connections."

"Not a doctor with fifty million yen loans to pay off. Besides, I wanted to stay... back then," you admit to him.

"Back then?" he repeats. "Do you no longer want to be here?"

"What do you think?" you shake your head. "This place isn't exactly a vacation on the islands. I wish I could just get on the next plane and leave."

"Too bad there aren't any around here," he nods in agreement. "I'd take the seat right next to you."

"Well according to Bo, he went to one of the airports and he said it was abandoned. Nothing around the whole place," you sigh.

"That's kinda strange, don't you think?" you then hum aloud.

"What is?" 

"Don't you think there'd be people camped out around the area? Or gangs waiting around?" he suggests.

"Maybe he was with one of the groups of gangs," you shrug. "I'm not sure, I didn't really ask him."

"Maybe we should find out for ourselves then," Oikawa smiles over at you.

You sit up in your seat to get a better look at him, wondering if he's actually being serious or not. "Really?"

"Yeah, why not?" he shrugs. "You got other plans this week?"

"Not really," you chuckle as you lean back against the bench again. "And going somewhere would be a good distraction from thinking about those jerks at camp." You then smile as you lean your head against his shoulder.

The next thing you know, you open your eyes to a setting sky in front of you. As you sit up, you look over at Oikawa beside you and see he's fast asleep. The two of you must've passed out together.  

Just as you're beginning to get your bearings, you hear something move a little ways in front of you. When you look toward where the sound came from, you see a stranger sitting on a chair with his arms crossed and his eyes closed. He must be asleep, too. Maybe you and Oikawa can use this opportunity to leave without him noticing.

"Oikawa!" you whisper as you grab his arm and shake him gently at first, only to become more frantic and desperate the longer it takes.

"Hm, what is it, baby?" he murmurs, not recognizing his surroundings.

"Don't give me that shit," you grumble. "Stop dreaming and get the fuck up. We've got to go now!"

Almost instantly, Oikawa opens his eyes and sits up straight. He looks around until he sees the strange man sitting way too close for comfort in a completely empty park.

"Come on, we gotta go!" you whisper anxiously at him.

"Shit," he responds softly.

"Oikawa!" you call a bit louder as you stand up and pull on his hand. "He could wake up and try to kill us! We need to get the fuck out of here!"

"It's alright, Y/N," Oikawa says calmly. "Just don't move."

"What? Why?!" you ask as you look over at the stranger. "Shit," you mutter. The stranger's already awake.

previous | next | 2099

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Taglist: @isentsworld

[graha-stan-account]

FFXIV Write Day 15: Row

Row: informal n. 1. a noisy acrimonious quarrel.

2. a serious dispute.

3. a loud noise or uproar.

Emet-Selch has been summoned - or dragged along - to assist Azem in one of her many schemes as a thrifty do-gooder. Why draw territorial lines when you have the means to multiply precious natural resources? Instead, Emet-Selch would rather fight about it.

---

Emet-Selch stood at Azem's elbow at the summit of a great cliff. The wind spun errant leaves into whorls at their feet. Emet-Selch looked up from the valley below to glimpse her expression, but he was distracted by the tempest which had become of her hair. It seemed to roil and crest with the breeze and gusts, and at its center, as she turned her head to meet his gaze, two nebulae which burned bright against the dark clouds.

"This is a fool's errand, a waste of time." He groaned.

"Now is the perfect time, Hades. The wind is in our favor, the skies are ready."

"You cannot hope to bring Amaurot's strength to bear each time some tribal quarrel reaches your ears."

"I don't. And I am yet listening for a better idea from Amaurot's finest. This, as far as I can tell, is the most expedient solution."

"Fertile soil is your big plan? Why did you need me again?"

"I want to channel the ambient aether to the ground. Having taken the calculations, they're roughly correct, what's required to rebalance the acidity here is a dose of Astral-aspected aether, and lightning should do the trick."

"Should?"

She cleared her throat. "Will."

"'Roughly correct'?"

"My calculations are correct, Emet-Selch. Now will you assist me with the conduit or are you here only as the Convocation's spy?"

"You wound me, Astrea."

"I know well you're expected to handle me. 'Civilize' me." A smile crept across her face. "As though you could. The Great Barbarian from Without."

"Well that is a fresh turn of phrase."

"Barbarism is what your lot practice each day. Preserve the star, to hell with those on it. Is that it?" A growl was boiling in Emet-Selch's throat. He would not tolerate another jab.

"Take heed of which you speak. Your own recklessness has not only put precious many lives at stake, but imperil the good of all Amauroti--"

"Amaroutines. There it is again. There is always space for Amaurotines in the Convocation's plans, nary else." She turned away, taking in the valley below. "Amaurotines may not take notice of those outside the city proper, apart from your facilities which blot out the sun and disturb the soil, but those small beings are the soul of this star. They don't scheme or plot to secure some great future scores alive now will never see. The powerful and the gifted live a long time, yes. We choose when our work is at its end. But it is not so for all and everywhere. Our long lives breed hubris. If we truly are so powerful, if it is within our purview to create and shape reality, should we not shape it to be kinder? Should we not do all we can not only to preserve the star, but all those lives on it? Lives and deaths we sterilize with words like 'unmake,' 'concepts,' and the like."

"You lecture endlessly. You talk of preserving culture and fauna and yet in our city you offend us. You face censure time and time again because your greatest skill is your inability to learn! Once more you demonstrate that you do not belong!"

"Perhaps I don't!" but the wrinkle in her brow betrayed how his words wounded her. "You are a tiresome fool, indolent, mired in a smoothed-over reality! Haughtiness and exceptionalism disguised as stewardship. I'll have none of it! Such beliefs I would offend a thousand times and more!"

"You speak like a child! You do not understand- you're unwilling to understand- the sacrifice needed to guide civilizations. To nurture the best of what the star has and can offer! You would instead invite chaos, a life ruled by folly and selfish desire!" Emet-Selch face blazed with the sigil of his office, with wild eyes still behind.

"Is this it?" Her voice was small, calm and tucked behind a wry smile. "Such words loose the fetters of restraint which bind the mighty Emet-Selch? You'll transform here, hm? To prove a point? That I am the affected, broken one?" She scoffed, a sound somehow thick with melancholy. "May you never know the pain of loss, Hades, for I fear you could not bear it."

The glow ebbed away.

They were silent a long while, seething long enough for the wind to build to a raucous howl. Finally, Emet-Selch drew his hand above his head, as though ready to away. Azem's shouting broke his focus, her eyes remaining on the tiny huts spread across the arid land.

"You were among the few who stood for me at my confirmation hearing. Why?"

"Why what?" Emet-Selch's fingers relaxed, surprise overtaking him.

"Why did you stand for me?"

"Venat was set on retiring. She was a thorn in my side. Why would I not be glad of it?"

"From the day I met you, you had taken your measure of me. So again: Why, Emet-Selch?"

"Because of all, you have a right to the mantle, Astrea. If this star requires its most capable hold these fourteen seats, for precious few could I get to my feet."

At last she turned to face him. "Then trust me when I say this will work."

He sighed. "Give me the conduit."

[sky-limits]

[twwm] absolution: an apology - polaris

I don’t remember leaving the last chamber of this empty gallery, but I am now somewhere else. Somewhere new, covered in small, glowing mushrooms. This room is engraved, like the last, but moss, small grasses, and daisies and Black-eyed Susans litter the floor, their centers and middles glowing orbs that led up to a large pedestal, casting the rest of the walls away into darkness. In the middle of this open area, there is a pool of water, rippling below the largest of the balls of light, thrumming like the deep strings of a bass guitar after being plucked. There is a high hum to the energy, an expectant breath, a waiting hand, excited to play the music hidden under the waving lazy heads of the flowers.

I don't want to look at the orb immediately, fearing it will show me another vision I do not wish to see. Instead, I pace around the room, peering in the rest of the small, shallow cups of water, seemingly scooped out of the marble floor like it was done with a giant's spoon. The floating light seems to glint in the corner of my vision every now and then, causing me to shake my head and keep walking forward. I don't know why this sense of foreboding fills me near the pedestal, but there are no exits to this room.

The glow flickers in my vision again, and I finally turn to face it - angrily spinning on my heels - as it forms a shape. It's me. I am standing facing my mirrored self, and she is wild and wily and untamed, fierce like summer storms that rocked our home from before.

The lantern swings from the branch on her back as the storm warning light of gales used to swing from the lighthouse on the peninsula, and she steps towards me. Currents flow through her fur and I am utterly terrified, watching the reflection of myself advance, with hate in her eyes and a whipping fury of rip currents pulling at the long tail we both share.

"You left me behind," she growls, and her words flow towards me like a wave of cordial, sickly sweet, sticky and thick and a trap. "You left me alone! You abandoned our purpose!" I suddenly realize what she's talking about - the quest that was doomed from the beginning, finding Skiá and healing ourselves with her help. But there is no Skiá, not anymore. "You are supposed to live on in memory of her! In search for her!" My mimicking double steps towards me, predatory, like an adder coiled to strike. I know she wants to destroy me, with the grief and hate and weary weight of loving someone I needed to let go.

I know she is reflecting the self destruction I have just saved myself from, during my change. Instead of letting her corner me, I lower my head, and lay down. Not in defeat, or surrender, but in peace. "Sit." I say it, and my voice rings. I am no longer discordant, unfounded like a boulder without its niche. I sound strong, and sure.

My mimic sits, by the sheer sureness of my tone.

"You are wrong. You are right," I start, and she seems to seethe righteously. "I did live to find Skiá once, only hoping to be with her again." I meet my match's eye, and hers are full of tears.

Mine stay dry as I continue. "That was all I had, the memory of what we had in the before. There is no life, laying in the grave of a love dead. It took me…too long to learn it. It took me until coming here, remembering the faded out name on the headstone, recalling everything I have always been."

"Just because Skiá is gone from being, and from both of us, does not mean we have to lay down in the coffin with her. I was strong before Skiá, in the bricks of my home. We were strong with her, and after her. We have not changed without her love - we are still us."

My double breathes out softly. Her head slowly lowers to the reflected glowing pool of water below her, and her tears stop. "Are you sure?"

I feel her pain as sharply as the fresh sting of a wound, as the pluck of the violin. "I'm sure. I'm sorry." And I lay my head beside her. "I'm so sorry we lost her. I'm sorry that we did not know how to be without her." She nods. I watch as she looks towards the orb hanging over our heads, and something leaves her.

Like the last notes of the chello fading from the arms of the player, my double faded away, with a murmured "I forgive us."

The light dims, and I am plunged into darkness again, this time alone.

[obsidiantheghostfaced]

The Mirror - Chapter 7

Kung Fu Panda

THE MIRROR

Chapter 7

“Oh, what’s this? You’re going to fight me panda? YOU THINK YOU CAN MATCH ME?!?!?” Tai-Lung bellowed. “LOOK AT ME! HOW CAN YOU HOPE TO DEFEAT ABSOLUTE PERFECTION!” “I did it once...I’ll do it again…” Po said with venom in his voice. Even though his body was broken and mangled beyond belief, he still found the strength to stand.

Although the massive elemental comprised of both Shifu and Mr. Ping was gone, the blackened storm they summoned was still raging around the arena. Tai-Lung leapt into the air a thousand feet, ignoring the hurricane that was building in intensity. Then he dropped at nearly full speed towards Po like an angry living meteor. “DIE!!!!!” But mere seconds from impact – KRAKOOM!!! A brilliant explosion of light and thunder met the ground first, blinding everyone.

When the light and smoke finally cleared, a hundred-foot deep crater was all that could be seen. Tai-Lung lay at the bottom – charred almost to a crisp. However, someone was missing. “Where...is...the panda?” he cried out weakly. Po was nowhere to be found. Where on earth could that wretch have gone?

SOMEWHERE BEYOND THE VALLEY OF PEACE…

Po...awaken my child…It was quiet – literally all too quiet. Worse still, everywhere you looked it was white as fresh snow. Everywhere. Like the whole world were closing in around you. Po couldn’t hear anything but the sound of his panicked breathing. Po...you are safe here… “AHHH!!!” he screamed suddenly. “WHAT, WHERE, WHO?!?!?!?” Po sat up, looking around anxiously. Just as he feared, there was literally nothing for what seemed like miles around. Except for a small blurry...something...off to his left. He decided to investigate.

Po stood slowly, not wanting to worsen his wounds. Yet, he began to realize that there was no more pain. He looked at his arms and legs – all of his injuries were healed. In fact Po felt alive again. Where on earth am I? he thought. Maybe someone can help me figure out where here is…

After a few moments he finally reached the structure he first saw. It was a massive fortress – covered in what looked statues of large ancient beings. Po recognized one in particular. I’ve seen this one before, but I can’t remember where. It had massive wings and piercing eyes. He came around to the front gates, entering past a pair of towers. Both were marked with symbols – one with the word “life”, the other with “death”. The gates had the symbol which meant “circle”. “Oookay, this is weird. Well, guess I’m not in China anymore” said Po. Going in further, he could hear the faint sound of people inside. People...here?

It was huge inside this strange fortress – yet eerily familiar. It’s impossible...a valley inside a fortress? Almost like...the Valley of Peace. Everything looked just like home. But here it was, as real as anything. Po eventually came to a tall overlook just under cloud level. There was even a bridge just like in the Valley, leading to what looked like a village. No, not a village – a massive city. That looks like Gongmen City – but it’s not?

The city was full of people – oddly enough people who looked familiar to Po. People he actually knew. The villagers from the Valley? Why are they here? That wasn’t the only familiar thing here. He could see what looked like the Jade Palace, except made of something much brighter and even more magnificent. Where am I? Yet something compelled him to approach. Come up to me my child…

Po climbed up to an area just outside the massive palace; it resembled a garden with a massive peach tree in the center. There were people seated on the ground around what looked like a massive bird-like creature. Huh, just like the depictions on the pillars at the gate...He could see a familiar face in the crowd though – a certain turtle master. “MASTER OOGWAY!!! MASTER!!!.” Po ran towards the center of the garden to reach Oogway.

“Ahh, hello my son. It’s wonderful to see you again.” The two shared a heartfelt embrace, Po wiping away tears. “Master what is this place?” “Well...think of it as a sort of...way-point...between worlds. This place is where fallen heroes arrive to meet their...final judgment...as it were.” Fallen heroes? “But master, I’m not dead...am I?” “Not yet Po, but you came very close.” “Okay, though...why are you here? Shouldn't you have...y’know passed on?” “Well…” He chose to stay with me my child, to provide clarity and comfort to those who have fallen honorably…

Suddenly a massive avian being landed next to them. She radiated with a warm, glowing fire that felt...almost like peace and comfort personified. Her feathers were dazzling like reddish gold, giving off an unearthly shine Po had never seen before. “Oh my gosh...YOU'RE THE CELESTIAL PHOENIX!!!” Po exclaimed, nearly jumping up and down excitedly. “You’re really tall too...oops, sorry.” The Phoenix smiled amusedly. “Wait a minute, where’s my dad and master Shifu?” “They have...already moved on my son.” Oogway explained. “But I...didn’t get to say goodbye.” Po said sadly. “I couldn’t even save them...”

But you can avenge them Po, you can honor their sacrifice… “How? How can I beat Tai-Lung when he’s almost a divine being now? I was almost dead…” You will receive my blessing my child, by having a touch of my power… The Phoenix rose into the air, her brilliance lighting up the whole area. Her eyes began to glow – fire erupting from her whole body. With a flash, ten feathers appeared in her hands. Each feather was charged with immense power. The Phoenix sighed deeply and returned to the ground. Take these feathers Po…They will heal you, and give you the means to defeat Tai-Lung…

Po opened his hands and took the feathers cautiously. “WHOA!!!” Po shouted. Suddenly his whole being was charged with an energy he had only felt once before – after achieving inner peace to defeat Lord Shen.With these, you have the power to perform miracles…I can assure you that you will not fail...But a warning – you must not abuse this gift...For in doing so, it will change you in unimaginable ways… “You have what you need my son. Now it is time to go, and restore peace to the valley. We believe in you Dragon Warrior” Oogway said, taking Po’s hand in his.

I’ve got this, I’ve got this…Po composed himself and said: “Okay, I’m ready master Phoenix”. Very well, but remember...beware falling prey to revenge...or it will consume you like quicksand… The Phoenix held out her hands toward Po – a small inferno gathering around him. The inferno became a fireball obscuring Po from view before rising into the air. With a flash it disappeared leaving behind a wisp of smoke. Oogway sighed: “Was it wise to give him that much power?” We must continue to believe in him Oogway...as he must believe in himself...but, heaven help him...

Author's Note: This is a short chapter to explain where Po gets his new power from. I wanted to create a plane of existence similar to Valhalla for this story - a kind of place like Limbo where fallen heroes can contemplate their existence and actions for a while. The Phoenix is one of the Celestial Beings who is the guardian of this realm. There were other Divine Beings planned, but the Phoenix is the one I wanted to focus on. Thanks y'all!

Please leave a like or a comment below!

[absynthc]

BASICS.

Full name: Sofi Sayid, but she hasn’t gone by that in almost two decades. Nicknames (if any): Ripley to most. Rip to a rare few. Gender / Pronouns: Cis female & she/her Classification: Human Abilities (if any): She wishes. Age: Thirty-six Occupation: Farmer. Dealer.

PERSONALITY.

Traits: Strategic, blunt, secretive, sarcastic, arrogant, obsessive, loyal. MBTI: INTJ – The Architect Zodiac: Capricorn. Character Inspiration: Theo Crain ( The Haunting of Hill House ), Lia Haddock ( Limetown ), Tommy Shelby ( Peaky Blinders ), James “Sawyer” Ford ( Lost )

Content warnings for suicidal ideation, drugs, addiction, grief, death, depression, implication of self-harm, allusions to police brutality.

AESTHETIC.

Sitting on your balcony alone, smoking a cigarette at one in the morning. Biting into a ripe peach, the juice dripping down your chin. Collecting old sci-fi movies from before the world burnt.  The smell of rose water and honey. Calling the voicemail of someone gone just to hear the sound of their voice. Hiding your profits in the walls of your apartment. Biting down on your knuckles to muffle a scream. The crispness of cold sheets. Flickering neon signs pointing to narrow back alleys. Always paying in cash. Always.

(BRIEF) HISTORY.

tl;dr everyone rip has ever loved has either died or gone missing, and she’s convinced she has the power to talk to the dead, she just needs to figure out how to “activate” it, so that’s why she’s trying to amass wealth via dealing synth (my fun lil punny drug idea for metropolis) because money = power baybeeeeeee

Ripley grew up as a part of the working class of District Two. She’d never met her father, who disappeared mere weeks before she was born. No one knows why. It was as if he vanished into thin air, and her mother, Nairi, never talked about him.

Nairi worked at the Farm, and she did so tirelessly, legitimately believing the old adage that if you work hard, it will lead to a better life. Ripley saw time and time again how Nairi tried so hard to do everything right, do everything honestly, and how she was rewarded for her sincerity with scraps, while the Chancellor and her Watchers paraded around the city like tyrants.

And the ultimate cherry on top came when Nairi died in an accident on the Farm, killed by a wound that festered, by an infection in her blood, something that never would have happened had they been in a different district. But Ripley wasn’t able to grieve. At fourteen, she was an orphan, with no means of supporting herself, and all she could do was take up her mother’s job at the Farm in the hopes that one day, she’d make it out of here. One day, she wouldn’t have to do this anymore.

She was twenty-three when she met Joy, a technician at the Farm. It was a short courtship that led to a long marriage, and for a while, things were better. Ripley started getting used to the idea of happiness, started believing it was possible for her... only to have it all ripped away. The Watchers came, ransacked their apartment, took Joy away, interrogated Ripley for hours, told her that her wife was a traitor to Metropolis. After that day, she never saw Joy again.

Until she did, one night at the Boneyard. After her mom died, she started coming here, convincing herself she could feel her mother’s presence. And then, she started feeling Joy’s presence too, and that was all the proof she needed to herself that the one person she’d truly loved, the only hope at happiness she ever thought she’d get, was dead.

She started using. More than just casually, as she’d done her whole life. Methodical, addictive, meant to numb every feeling she’d ever had. And she had every intention of wasting away the rest of her miserable life until – a rumor overheard at Bliss, the idea that you could trigger powers within you...now that captured her attention.

She was singleminded in her pursuit of her “power” – which, she believes, is necromancy, the capacity to speak to the dead – because all she wanted was to say one last goodbye to the people she’s lost. It’s selfish, really, but she convinced herself, maybe she can use it for the greater good. To understand the future is to understand the past, and secrets disappear from the world with the dead.

Ripley was fucking tired. Tired of being a cog in the wheel of a broken machine, tired of being stepped on by the boot of the world, and in order to get where she needed to go, she needed power, money, and influence. What better way to do that than to control the stream of drugs into Metropolis? It was a slippery slope from using to dealing, but she made the most of the fall, and now, she’s created a tiny little monopoly for herself, pocketing almost all of the profits and trying not to get too greedy. Because it’s all in service of a larger goal, even if she refuses to acknowledge that she threw off one set of chains just to put on another. New game, same rules, and the stakes are much, much higher.

FULL BIOGRAPHY HERE.

WANTED CONNECTIONS.

THE CLIENT’S ALWAYS RIGHT – This is one of Ripley’s regulars. Maybe it’s her favorite customer, someone she has an easy repartee with. Maybe it’s someone Ripley feels conflicted about selling to, for whatever reason. Maybe it’s someone she cannot fucking stand, but hell, they’re paying her, so what does it matter. Regardless, give Rip some clients and populate her business!! Walter White, who?

RUBBING ELBOWS WITH THE RIGHT PEOPLE – Ripley’s trying to advance her own agenda in terms of activating the power she believes she has. Maybe this person has information she needs, and she’s willing to pay to get it. Maybe she thinks she can manipulate this person to get to someone she actually wants to meet. At the end of the day, Ripley’s taking her first stab at “playing the game” of Metropolis, and boy is she vastly underprepared for what that means.

FELLOW FARMER – Ripley still works the fields as a cover for what she’s actually doing. This can be someone she’s known for years, maybe even her whole life, or it can be someone who just started working here last week. I’d imagine Ripley’s one of those people that’s become a staple of the Farm, someone everyone thinks will always be there and someone who tries to take the new kids under her wing a little bit, give them the advice she never got.

(WO)MAN OF GOD – While she isn’t inherently religious, Ripley has a strong affinity towards belief systems, and she believes with absolute certainty in her bones that she’s right about how she sees the world. Most specifically when it comes to the idea of her having powers. This is someone who believes the same thing as her or could be inclined to be swayed over to Ripley’s way of thinking. Maybe a new friend, a welcome reprieve from the cynicism Inkwell is always giving her. Someone who’ll go down this rabbit hole with her.

HEADCANONS.

Ripley named herself after Sigourney Weaver’s iconic Ellen Ripley of the Alien franchise. It was the only movie they had at home growing up, and Rip watched it again and again, can still recite it verbatim to this day.

Ripley’s got a fair amount of tattoos, all of them courtesy of Inkwell. No, she will not tell you why she got them. Sometimes a cow’s just a cow.

Since starting her little drug empire, Rip’s developed a gnarly caffeine addiction. It wasn’t something she could afford as a lowly farm worker, but now that she knows what a steaming cup of freshly brewed coffee tastes like, she’s absolutely done for.

Ripley’s hair is always up if she needs to focus or if she’s working. A tight, sleek ponytail, a low bun, but most commonly, a long braid down her spine, just like how Nairi would do it for her when she was a young girl. She rarely, if ever, wears her hair down, despite it being so long.

There’s stray cat in her apartment complex that Ripley stared feeding. Since he’s so orange and so massive, she started calling him Cheeto. Cheeto now has his own litter box in Ripley’s apartment... and yet, she still calls him a stray and refuses to admit she owns a fucking cat.

Ripley takes pretty good care of herself physically. Her favorite form of exercise is boxing, and she doesn’t get nearly enough practice with sparring partners, just punches a bag she set up behind her building, so if you’re trying to Fight, hit me up.

And last but... not... least.... can’t sit properly in a chair because she’s gay....

[necrosin]

hm.

[ptergwen]

If you do smut can you do like stark!reader x peter parker (spiderman) are dating 3-4 month and y/n and peter had their very fluff first time then next morning y/n has hickies all over her neck and her thights stomach... and tony/ her dad sees it and is confronting them with it😂 i love your stories 🤤

just saying hi

w/c: 2.5k

warnings: veryyyy suggestive, swearing, some pretty embarrassing moments

a/n: thank you babe! i didn’t write the actual smut but y’all can guess what happened 😭 also this is super long i couldn’t help myself

-

it was everything. it was everything you ever wanted your first time to be and more.

you’d brought up to peter during a make out session one night that you were ready to go farther than you two already have. there was one base you didn’t hit yet. the fourth, the final. you were thinking about it for a while before that, and peter would be lying if he said he didn’t.

your love has always been physical, whether it’s you kissing peter’s cuts after a mission or him tracing hearts on you with his fingers. there’s also the more sexual side of things. that part, you both enjoy just as much, maybe even a little more because you know exactly how to make each other feel good after all the trial and error.

what better way to combine the two than, well, making love?

last night was your sign from the universe, your go ahead to do it. you had the compound to yourselves because your dad had taken all the “big kids” out for the night. you’re both well into college, but he refuses to see you as adults. that meant no peter and no you. you two were a little offended until you realized you could make use of your alone time.

you started off searching for a movie. that turned into you wrestling peter for the remote because you didn’t feel like watching back to the furure yet again. wrestling turned into you on top of him, which turned into you kissing him, which turned into peter throwing the remote somewhere and carrying you up to your room with his lips still on yours.

neither of you had to say it. you were on the same page, same wavelength, two brains in one as peter layed you down and trailed his kisses lower and lower.

peter was so gentle with you, except for when you told him not to be. those were the times he didn’t hold back. he was attentive and sweet and showed you quite a few times how much he loves you. you showed him just the same. yeah, it was really everything.

“morning, baby. you awake yet?” peter hums against the shell of your ear, arms wound comfortably around you. “kinda,” you mumble back with a goofy smile. he presses his lips to your ear and nuzzles his face in the side of your neck. “kinda... how’d you sleep?” you can hear the grin in his voice. his nose nudges your bare skin where a fresh hickey lies and makes you scrunch your own up.

“good, really good. always love sleeping with you.” you’re both aware of the alternate meaning that has now. “funny,” peter lets out a breathy laugh against you and brushes his thumb over your stomach where your shirt got ridden up. you sigh, enjoying his soft touch and reaching behind you to play with his curls. they’re a lot messier than usual from you tugging on them all last night.

peter removes his face from your neck and carefully turns you onto your other side. you’re facing him now, eyes trained on his concerned expression. “hey, just wanna check. how are you feeling? still sore?” a tiny smile stretches your face. he really does care about you and how you feel after everything. you know for a fact most other guys wouldn’t.

“i mean, yeah. you were... it was a lot, but i’ll be fine in a few days i think.” the mention of peter being a lot makes color rush to his face. you laugh quietly at that, cupping one of his cheeks that’s turning pink. “oh. i, um, i didn’t know that. sorry.” he smiles shyly as you smooth your thumb over his warm skin. “don’t be. it wasn’t as bad after i... adjusted a little,” you reassure him, making him lean into your palm.

“i really am sorry, y/n/n. can i make it up to you?” peter checks with you, eyes going up from yours to down your body. he hooks a finger in the waistband of your pajama shorts. “make you feel better?” the way he finishes his question with a bite of his lip is definitely tempting. so is your stomach yelling at you to put some food in it. you’ll have to wait.

“later. right now, you can make me breakfast,” you beam at him and take his hand. peter pushes his palm against yours, letting you lace your fingers together as he puffs some air out of his cheeks. “yeah, that’s gonna go well.” “i’m supervising. it will.” you capture his lips in a kiss, one he instantly reciprocates, free hand resting on your hip. just as it’s heating up, you break it.

“i’m hungry for actual food,” you giggle and roll out of his embrace. “ok, ok, ok. let’s go see what we have,” peter gives in with a chuckle, grabbing the same hand he was just holding and following you down to the kitchen.

he ends up popping some frozen waffles into the toaster, you sitting up on the counter with your phone out while he struggles through the different settings. “should i put it on bake? no, that doesn’t sound right,” he talks to himself with eyes squinted in concentration. “your dad made this thing so... detailed.” it’s an old stark industries toaster, one with options you probably don’t even need.

“yeah because he loves his toast, so maybe don’t break it. he’ll kill you or something,” you half playfully half seriously suggest. peter is one clumsy guy. he tsks at you and crouches down to read the words on the dial. there’s conveniently a setting for waffles, so he hits that one. he’s not sure how he hadn’t noticed it before.

since he’s down there, he takes one of your ankles in both hands and starts to kiss up your leg. it tickles when he gets to your knee, drawing a giggle out of you, but your phone still blocks his face. you’re doing it on purpose. “baby,” peter tries to get your attention in a soft voice. he presses a couple more kisses to your knee. you have to hold your breath so you don’t laugh again.

“baby girllll,” peter drags out, lips moving up your thigh. he nudges your phone with his nose much like a puppy would. “aye, i’m talkin’ to you here,” he says in a fake new york accent. you finally put it down next to you. “i’m listening.” you’re giving him a satisfied smile as he goes back to kissing you.

“just saying hi,” he looks up at you and moves your shorts aside while he kisses further and further to where you want. you scoot closer to him on the counter.

that’s when he stops. not only stops, gasps in horror. “what?” you ask quickly, his eyes fixed on your inner thighs. “i kind of, uh, marked you up. like, a lot.” he runs a finger gently over the bruised skin. you’re suddenly very aware of it now. it doesn’t exactly hurt, just feels bumpy and weird. you peer down at yourself to see the damage, eyes going wide.

“shit... they’re on my neck, too,” you remember, murmuring to him. you’ll have to cover these up before everyone gets home. worry flashes across peter’s face. “oh my god, i didn’t even realize. it- it was dark and you told me-“ “pete, it’s okay. it’s pretty hot,” you stop his rambling, reaching down and putting a hand on his shoulder. he frowns up at you.

“really? are you sure i didn’t go too far? because you can tell me.” you’ve always appreciated how much peter genuienly values your thoughts on things, in the bedroom and in other parts of your relationship. it does lead to a lot of second guessing, though. you squeeze his shoulder and let out a breath. “i’m sure, okay? it’s really not that serious. i’ll just change so no one can see.”

peter winds an arm around one of your legs, body relaxing ever so slightly under your touch. “okay.” he gives your thigh one final kiss, then rests his chin on it. “what about your neck?” “uh...” you hadn’t considered that yet. “makeup? a scarf?” you’ve seen enough tv to know neither of those work, but they’re your only options.

“yup. mr. stark is really gonna kill me now,” peter says under his breath, tensing up all over again. you furrow your eyebrows at him. “what? we’re literally grown adults, we can do whatever we want-“

tony claps loudly as he steps into the kitchen, announcing his return home. peter jumps up from between your legs faster than fast. he moves so he’s next to you, and you hop down from the counter.

“hello, daughter of mine. spider of man,” your dad greets you two, you pulling down your shorts with a plastered on smile. “or would it be man of spider?” he plucks an apple from the bowl on the table as he ponders his question. steve and wanda file into the room next. “second one,” peter replies, grinning a little too much to be normal. tony takes note of that.

wanda comes over to the fridge for a snack, which is close to where you and peter are. “how was last night?” you ask her to take the attention off you two. wanda settles on a yogurt and turns to you. “it was good. we shared a few hotel rooms, had our own party.” she glances over at peter, a knowing smirk playing on her lips. “seems like you two had a fun night of your own.”

peter’s mouth drops open. “how did you-“ he forgot she could read his mind and now knows everything that happened. you slap a hand over your forehead. “you couldn’t think about anything else? for, like, a minute?” you whisper yell at him. he uses his eyes to plead with you. “i’m sorry! i was looking at the hickeys-“ he realizes what he’s saying. “crap.”

shooting you a wink, wanda shuts the fridge and goes to join the rest of the team in the living room. lucky for you and peter, steve started lecturing tony about washing his fruit before he eats it. he didn’t hear any of that. there’s still the problem of your visible hickeys that you have zero seconds to hide.

“how the fuck am i supposed to cover these? they’re right in the center, peter!” you panic, your heart starting to race as peter fumbles for a dish towel. that’s the best he could come up with? “no!” you toss it back at him. he throws it on the counter with a pained look. tony and steve make their way over to you.

“oh, hush. a couple of deadly pesticides won’t shake me, stevey boy,” tony insists and takes another big bite of his apple. steve huffs in disapproval and crosses his arms. “you’re a big baby, tony. if you’re not gonna do the right thing, at least buy organic-“ with the world’s longest sigh, tony chucks his apple into the open garbage can.

“there. no more apple discourse.” steve shakes his head at your dad’s behavior. “that was a waste. you could’ve finished it.” “not with your nagging into my literal ear.” steve raises his hands in surrender before making his way out of the kitchen. tony side steps past him and over to you. “enough of that now. let’s have a welcome home hug from my girl.”

you share a look with peter, a look of pure fear that’s in both of your eyes. he’ll definitely notice the hickeys if he gets that close to you. he holds out his arms expectantly while peter scratches the back of his own neck. “sure, dad. welcome home.” an awkward smile on your lips, you bury your face in your dad’s chest and wrap your arms around him in one motion. this way, he didn’t have time to see you from too close up.

peter exhales in relief at the narrowly avoided disaster. that’s until tony makes a request. “missed me that much, kiddo, huh? come out of there.” “but, i’m so comfortable. i wanna stay like this,” you insist, a niceness to your voice tony immediately sees through. he drops his arms from around you, eyeing peter suspiciously, who averts his gaze to the floor.

“nuh uh, you did something. both of you,” your dad states, taking a step to stand between you and peter. peter gulps down a breath before speaking. “mr. stark, it was-“ tony holds up a hand. “don’t worry, kid. i’ll figure it out.”

he gives peter a proper stare, searching him for clues of some sort. it’s a good thing he isn’t wanda because the details of your night would have been exposed. he couldn’t find anything, so now it’s your turn. he’s a little disappointed you’re the one hiding something.

“oh, y/n. not you,” tony sighs as he gives you a looking over. he starts with your face, your eyes following down as his do. it’s when he gets just past your chin that he sees them. the little hickeys littering your skin, some already deep shades of purple. he rips off his glasses in disbelief.

“absolutely not.” he closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose with the same hand his glasses are in. “i’m not seeing this. i’m not seeing this if i don’t look.” you scoff at his reaction. “dad, you know we’re together. you can’t expect us to not...” “don’t say it,” tony begs, getting the urge to hurl his half eaten apple. he turns and faces peter.

“parker, you really did all of that?” peter only blinks, nervously meeting the eyes of his mentor. “to my daughter?” tony adds on to scare him even more. “i- i-“ a burst of frustration comes out of peter. “you left two teenagers alone the whole night. what’d you think was gonna happen?” he’s shocked at his own words, his face showing it. tony raises his eyebrows. both your hands cover your mouth.

not wanting to deal with peter, tony addresses you instead. “i don’t care how you do it, cover those up. don’t let me see them ever again. understood?” you nod a good amount of times and reach for peter’s hand. he’s about to give it, then tony glares down at what’s happening. peter pulls back immediatelty. “understood. we’ll, um, do better next time,” you agree, tony winching at the idea of a next time.

“you, parker... treat a lady with a little more respect, eh?” tony clicks his tongue at him. he’s referring to all the hickeys. peter’s lips form a line, a sarcastic one that says oh well. “i tried, mr. stark, but y/n wanted me to-“ “christ, that’s enough.” tony furiously shakes his head and starts to walk away from you two. “never again!”

you’re thanking god when he sets off for the living room, you hiding your face in peter’s chest, his face in your hair. “that was terrible. that was the worst thing ever,” you say into him. “i’m sorry, baby. we gotta be more careful.”

it’s not over yet because then, the toaster dings. you’d completely forgotten about the waffles. you and peter both separate with your millionth shared look of terror. tony comes rushing back into the room, very familiar with that noise.

“first you destroy my daughter, now my toaster? pete... you’re in for it, kid.”

[wkemeup]

The Only Kindness

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Go to hell.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He didn’t know much at all, really.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Zola merely smiled.

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

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

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

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

Bucky slumped in the guards’ arms.

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

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

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

But he could scream.

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

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

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

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

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

Let them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She held her ground.

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

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

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

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

“Maybe not today, but it will be.”

Then, he was gone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I wouldn’t do that, ma’am.”

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

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

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

He shook his head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah, might as well.

He offered her his hand.

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

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

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

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

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

She smiled at that.

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

***

It wasn’t the last time he saw Y/n.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Still with me Sergeant Barnes?"

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

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

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

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

“Nah, this is perfect.”

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

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

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

“What are they doing to you...”

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You will, Bucky.”

He hoped that were true.

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

She was a prisoner of Hydra, too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And he was.

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

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

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

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

Then – darkness.

***

“We need to be more careful.”

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

“I can’t lose you, Bucky.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hers was steady. Even. He nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Get away from her.”

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

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

But the Soldier did not move.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bucky! Bucky, stop!”

He froze. There was that name again...

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

“Bucky, look at me.”

He did.

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

When he met her eyes again, he understood why.

“Y/n?”

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

“Y/n... I—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wipe him,” Zola ordered.

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How are you feeling?”

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

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

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

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

Regardless, the Soldier nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bucky?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He nodded. It pleased the scientist.

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

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

---

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

[ragingbookdragon]

A Heart That's Been Broken Is A Heart That's Been Loved

Bruce Wayne x Reader One-Shot

Word Count: 1.1K Warnings: Angst

Author's Note: I saw a video of a young man at his wedding listening to the heart of his deceased brother still beating in the woman's chest who received it. This idea sprung from it. -Thorne

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

She paced nervously on the front steps of Wayne Manor, heart leaping up and down her throat as she mentally repeated the conversation in her head. The documents in her purse felt like bricks and she hefted the bag higher onto her shoulder, swallowing her anxiety as the lock flicked and the door opened, revealing an older man, probably late fifties early sixties.

Smiling anxiously, she greeted, “Good morning, sir. How are you doing today?”

He returned her smile with a polite one of his own. “I am doing well this morning, thank you. And you?”

“I’ve seen birds more calm than I am,” she laughed, probably a little too hard, and stuck out her hand. “My name is (Y/N) (L/N). I was wondering if I could speak to Mister Wayne? If he’s in?”

The man frowned. “Master Bruce is in the breakfast room with his family at the moment. May I ask your business with him?”

(Y/N) reached into her bag and pulled out the documents, handing them to him. “It involves his mother, Martha Wayne. More importantly the organ transplant she gave some three and a half decades ago.”

He met her gaze and handed the documents back. “Please follow me.”

She nodded and entered the manor, the scent of cinnamon and fresh linen wafting up her nose. Shutting the door behind her, she let the man escort her through the foyer and through the hall into the kitchen where she was met with the sight of Bruce Wayne and all six of his children.

Their forks stopped when the man entered with her and he said, “Master Bruce, this young woman is here to speak with you. Her name is (Y/N) (L/N).”

Bruce wiped his mouth on his napkin and rose to his feet, shaking her hand. “Good morning, Miss (L/N).”

“Oh, please, call me (Y/N),” she smiled.

“(Y/N),” he corrected, matching her expression. “Alfred doesn’t usually let people into the manor, so I’m assuming you’ve something important to speak to me about?”

She nodded, clearing her throat when she felt the weight of the children’s stares. “Um, yes, Mister Wayne.” Reaching back into her purse, she pulled out the documents once more, but held them in her hands. “I don’t know how to say this lightly and I wish I did, but I felt like you should know.”

She handed them over, watching as he took them with a confused look and started reading. “Thirty-six years ago, your mother Martha Wayne donated her organs after she perished.” (Y/N) reached up, unbuttoning the first few buttons of her shirt, a healed scar peaking through the top of her bra. “Thirty-six years ago, I was severely wounded in a home robbery at nine. I received your mother’s heart.”

Bruce’s hands started to shake around the paper, and she murmured, “I’ve spent a long time trying to get the documentation, so I could come here and show you.” (Y/N) stuck her hand into her purse and pulled out a stethoscope. “Would you like to listen?”

He nodded, swallowing thickly, not trusting his words to accept for him and she handed it over, watching as he put it in his ears then lifted the chest-piece to the center of her chest; she didn’t dare make a sound as she breathed and his eyes suddenly went wide, filling with tears, then snapped shut and he brought a hand up to his face, covering his eyes.

(Y/N) felt tears of her own grow in her vision and she grasped his shoulders, squeezing them as tightly as she could, whispering, “I know your parents dying was traumatic, but your mother gave me life again. I’m alive because of Martha Wayne.”

“I never thought I’d hear mother’s heartbeat again,” he cried softly and wiped his eyes, though the tears kept coming; he sniffed harshly as he looked at her, a wobbly smile coming over his lips. “Thank you,” he breathed, a choked laugh escaping him, and he couldn’t help but shift the chest-piece, placing his palm right beside it.

She felt her heart rate pick up, thumping strongly against his hand and the two of them smiled at one another, tears running down their cheeks. “Of course,” she replied. “You have every right to hear her heart again.”

Bruce’s jaw clenched slightly as he tried to keep more tears at bay, and he shook his head. “It’s your heart. It’s both your hearts.” His thumb brushed tentatively over the scar. “I never knew mother’s organs had been donated…I’m glad they were. It’s what she would’ve wanted.”

“She and your father saved many lives with their donations,” (Y/N) replied. “I’m sure you could find out who, but I know they were the saviors of many.”

She watched Bruce remove his hand and the stethoscope, pulling out the earpieces; he wrapped it up and handed it back to her, along with the documents and she returned them to her purse, finally wiping her face.

“Thank you for letting me come here, Mister Wayne,” she said. “Thank you for giving me your time.”

He shook his head. “I’m the one who should be thanking you. You’ve given me a great gift.” When she looked at him curiously, he murmured, “My mother lives on. Her heart beats strongly in another woman just as beautiful and wonderful as she was.”

(Y/N) felt her cheeks warm and she replied, “I hope I do her justice like you’ve said.” She reached out, intent to shake his hand, but Bruce pulled her into a strong hug; a smile crossed her lips, and she wrapped her arms around his middle, squeezing him tightly, whispering, “If you ever want to listen again. You can find me at Gotham University English Department. You’re welcome anytime.”

Bruce pulled away, hands still on her shoulders. “I might take you up on that offer.”

She smiled, eyes still a bit damp, and glanced at his children, some of whom had shed tears, and some had unshed tears in their eyes; she nodded at them, waving at a particular one. “Good morning, Timothy.”

He weakly waved, cheeks tear-stained. “Morning Professor (L/N).”

Smiling at them, she hugged Bruce once more and turned, heading for the door, though she briefly paused and faced the family once more. “There is no love like that of a mother’s. Whose love is everlasting, even after she has long been reclaimed by the earth. She exists in all she created, in all she touched. We are never without her, for she is ever with us.”

(Y/N) tipped her head, “Have a wonderful day,” and left.

[nat-20s]

Part 3 of Wonderful! Au. it’s..very tonally different than the rest of the au, much more melancholy and also is only Martin speaking, but basically I just wanted to address that this IS still post canon and they’ll always be in the process of healing, you know? ANYWAY here goes:

~*~

Martin:

Hey everyone, I wanted to started this off by saying this isn’t going to be a typical episode. Jon’s been..under the weather for the past couple of days, so this is just going to be me monologing, inevitably for a much shorter time than we usually go. Most of the time, we try to discuss topics and experiences that, if not universal, could theoretically be enjoyed by anyone, such as fresh honey or the first time a friend comes to visit your home.

This episode will not be that. This episode is highly specific to me, and will only contain one wonderful thing, though in reality it is a thousand wonderful things wrapped into one. In order to be completely transparent, this episode isn’t even really for the general public, and while the whole show has on some level been for the two of us, this episode in particular exemplifies that. If that doesn’t sound like something you’d enjoy, feel free to skip this, and we’ll most likely be back to our regular format and hijinks next week.

If you’re still listening, and you find this grating or obnoxious or self indulgent in any way, well, I can only say that I warned you.

My first, and only, wonderful thing this week is Jonathan Blackwood-Sims; my husband, my best friend, and my love of this, and I suspect many other, lives.

My dearest Jon,

I think you are wonderful.

I hope that you think I am wonderful even half as much as I think you are wonderful, but as I think you are infinitely wonderful, and half of infinity is still infinity, I know that this is quite a lot to ask.

I think you are wonderful when you are talking to our cats, and singing during chores, and smiling against my shoulder. I think you are wonderful when a sunbeam hits your face and you sway into it and it’s the most at peace I’ve ever seen you, and I am so grateful every time to have gotten this. I think you are wonderful when you are not a morning person, but you rise at the same time I do, for at least a moment, to kiss my hand and wish me a good morning. I think you are wonderful when I am not a night person, but I stay up later than I should to wish you a good night. I think you are wonderful when you’re telling me about your Interest of the Day, when you are rambling to me about nothing at all, and when you don’t say a word but still speak volumes. I think you are wonderful when you exist near me. I think you are wonderful when you exist away from me as well, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t prefer having you close by, even in those times where one of us needs space. I think you’re wonderful when you exist anywhere at all.

I think you are wonderful when you are intelligent. I think you are wonderful when you are compassionate. I think you are wonderful when you are both at once, more than that, I think you’re dazzling. I think you are wonderful when you care so, so much, when others would’ve stopped.

I think you are wonderful when you are warm. I think you are wonderful when you are warm and loving and affectionate and playful and teasing and kind. I think you are wonderful when you are good, and you are so very good.

But make no mistake, my love. I do not only find you wonderful during times of joy. I do not only find you wonderful when you are good. I do not only find you wonderful when wonder comes easily, when scars seem faded and the triumphs seem common.

I think you are wonderful when nothing else is.

I think you are wonderful when, in many ways, you are not. I think you are wonderful when you’re bitter, you’re guilty, when you’re arrogant or self centered or dismissive or self sacrificing.

I think you are wonderful when, in many ways, I am not. I think you are wonderful when I’m cold, I’m distant, when I’m needy or jealous or spiteful or, admittedly, also self sacrificing.

I think you are wonderful when we’ve betrayed each other, when we’ve fought, when we’ve gone to sleep angry and we’ve woken up afraid. I think you are wonderful when I can’t wash off long removed bloodstains on my hands, and when you can’t tear away long removed violence from your throat.

I think you are wonderful when you are hurting and haunted. I think you are wonderful when I’m much the same. I think you are wonderful when I wish that neither of us had to be hurting and haunted again.

I know that there are wounds that won’t ever fully close, aches that will flare up on days such as these. But I also know that there are joys that can never be removed, certain laughs that will be irrepressible on days to come. Both will stay with us the rest of our lives.

I know we have regrets, but I can never regret staying the rest of my life with someone as wonderful as you.

[homoose]

Atlas

Summary: Three times that Spencer needed support, and one time he gave it. Lightly insp by the song Atlas by The Dip.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Category: heavy on the fluff, a lil bit of angst

Warnings/Includes: brief mentions of general anxiety/trauma/mild depression

Word count: 4.4k

———

Spencer pressed his fingers so far into the sockets of his eyes that Y/N thought he might actually jam one of his eyeballs into his brain. He was hunched over his desk, reading through the file of the case he was consulting on. Even on his mandatory 30-day leave, Spencer couldn’t fully tear himself away from hunting monsters.

Y/N moved from where she had been leaning against the doorframe, walking further into Spencer’s office. “Another headache?” She sighed, wrapping her arms around Spencer’s shoulders and pressing her warm cheek to his temple.

Spencer hummed. “Just need another cup of coffee.”

“Honey, you’ve been awake for almost three days,” Y/N sighed. “What you need is a gallon of water and 12 hours sleep.”

He leaned back further into the circle of Y/N’s arms and covered her hands with his own. “I can’t—the team needs this consult before they leave on Monday.”

“And just how long have you been reading this page?” Y/N questioned. When Spencer didn’t respond, she continued, “Mmhm, that’s what I thought. When it takes Dr. Reid two minutes to finish a page, something’s up.” She patted his chest. “Even the biggest brain needs a break.”

“Actually, there’s very little evidence that brain size has any correlation with measured levels of intell—” Spencer started.

“So you’ve mentioned,” Y/N chuckled. “My point still stands. I’m gonna make you a cup of tea and a snack, and then we’re gonna take a nap.” She kissed the top of his head before releasing her hold on him and moving to the kitchen.

Y/N filled the kettle and placed it on the stove before scrolling to find the playlist she had curated for days like this. The melancholic sounds of the Moonlight Sonata came through the bluetooth speaker as she pulled a wooden cutting board from the cupboard. Y/N dug through the bag from her earlier grocery run. She began placing the crackers, dried fruit, nuts, and cheeses on the board, taking time to arrange each piece just so. When she was satisfied with her work, Y/N turned to reach up on her tiptoes into the cupboard for her secret weapon. With a small smile, she placed it in the very center of the board. The kettle had barely begun its whistle when Y/N snatched it from the stove, cringing with a glance toward the door of Spencer’s office. She pulled his best-loved mug from the dish rack and dropped a fresh tea bag into it, covering it with the steaming water.

As the tea steeped, Y/N moved to the living room, crossing her arms as she contemplated the space. Although it was much darker than Y/N’s own living space, it was still far too bright to be comfortable for Spencer’s light sensitivity. Y/N made a mental note to find a suitable set of blackout curtains before retrieving a blanket from inside the trunk-style coffee table. She carried one of the kitchen chairs over to the window, quietly setting it underneath the curtain rod. Stepping up on the seat of the chair, she tossed the blanket up, trying to layer it up over the curtain. It took a few tries, but Y/N got it up and over the rod, adjusting it to block as much of the light as possible. She hopped off the chair, landing on the floor with a quiet thud.

“You didn’t have to do all this.” Spencer stood outside his office, hands in his pockets and honey colored eyes settled on Y/N’s face as she turned to him.

“I know.” Y/N padded across the hardwood. She grabbed Spencer’s hand and pressed a kiss to his shoulder. She shrugged, pulling him into the kitchen. “I don’t mind. I like taking care of you.” When they reached the table, she popped an almond into her mouth with a grin.

Spencer’s eyes moved over the cutting board, lips turning up in a small smile—the first one Y/N had seen in days—when they landed on the Jell-O cup. He picked it up and peeled back the lid. Y/N held up her mug of tea. Spencer let out a laugh and tapped it with his Jell-O. “Cheers.”

When the board held only crumbs and the mugs were empty, Y/N stood from the table and pulled Spencer to his feet. “Come on, nap time.”

“Y/N, I appreciate the thought, but I really have to finish—”

“Nope, sorry, that’s not part of the deal.” She gently pushed him toward the couch. At Spencer’s resistance, Y/N huffed out a breath. “Spence, you need a break. I’m not even asking you to go to bed. Just lay on the couch.” She lifted a hand to cradle Spencer’s face. “Unlike the brain size thing, there is actual research that says your brain doesn't function properly when you’re tired. And you, my love, are t-i-r-e-d.”

Spencer allowed himself to be lowered onto the brown leather couch, rubbing at his eyes. “Just twenty minutes.”

“Mhmm.” Y/N reclined next to him on the couch, grabbing the throw blanket draped over the back. “I’ll set the alarm.” She held out her arms. “C’mere.”

Despite himself, Spencer didn’t hesitate, winding his arms around Y/N’s middle and laying his head on her shoulder. She tucked the blanket around the both of them and wound their legs together.

“The alarm’s set?” Spencer mumbled, already falling under the spell of sleep.

Y/N pushed her fingers through his hair and scratched lightly at his scalp, smiling when he hummed happily and burrowed his face into her chest. “Setting it now,” she assured. Maybe she set it a little longer than 20 minutes, but Spencer didn’t need to know that.

⧭⧭⧭

Y/N rolled over toward the nightstand and reached out, clumsily running her hand across the smooth table to grab the ringing phone. When her fingers wrapped around the device, she pulled it towards her only to have it jerk abruptly out of her hand when the charging cord reached its limit. “Shit,” Y/N muttered as it clattered to the floor. She emerged from under the duvet, leaning off the side of the bed and dragging her hand blindly across the floor. Finally, clutching the phone in one hand and pushing herself back into bed with the other, Y/N swiped to answer the call. “H‘lo?”

“Hey.”

At the sound of Spencer’s voice, Y/N was suddenly wide-awake. “Spence? Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine, I just—um. I know it’s late, sorry. Are you—? I just—God, you have to work in the morning, I’m sorry. I can—it can wait.”

Y/N paused a moment to make sure he was finished before asking, “Do you need me to come to you, or are you coming here?”

Spencer let out a sigh of relief. “I can—I’ll come to you.”

After thirty minutes of groggy pacing, Y/N opened the door to Spencer, hair frizzy and clothes rumpled from a long flight. She stepped back, allowing him into the apartment and then closing the door behind him. Spencer dropped his go-bag on the floor and ran a hand over his face as Y/N turned the deadbolt and secured the chain. She had barely turned around before he was latching onto her, completely enervated. He burrowed his face into the crook of her neck, and Y/N wrapped her arms tightly around him.

Y/N shifted her weight slowly back and forth, moving the two of them in a gentle swaying motion. She rubbed a hand up and down Spencer’s back, soothing and rhythmic. Spencer let out a shaky breath, and Y/N felt the collar of her shirt becoming damp. She brought a hand up to Spencer’s head, stroking his hair and repeating a familiar mantra: “You’re safe. I’m here. You’re safe. I’m right here.”

Y/N lost track of how long they stood there, swaying and soothing and shattering. Maybe minutes or maybe hours later, Spencer pulled back, head lowered and swiping his arm underneath his nose. Y/N reached out to grasp his face in both her hands, lifting it and sweeping her thumbs under his eyes. When Spencer finally looked at her, Y/N saw the golden irises were shining and ringed with red. “I love you.”

“I love you. So much.” Spencer circled Y/N’s wrists in his hands. “So much.”

She pressed one, two, three chaste kisses to his chapped lips. She dropped one kiss onto the tip of his nose, drawing out a hesitant smile. “Wanna talk about it?”

He shook his head. “No.” Y/N pursed their lips, and Spencer sighed. “I—I will talk to someone, I promise. But I just—I don’t want it in here. In our space.” Y/N wound her fingers through Spencer’s, pulled his arms down, and tugged him closer. “Honestly, I just want to sleep with you,” Spencer admitted. Y/N wiggled her eyebrows and Spencer laughed. “You know what I mean.”

Y/N tried to pull a pout but just ended up smiling. “Fine. Come on, spoilsport. Let’s go to bed.”

⧭⧭⧭

“It was just… not a good day for her.” Spencer leaned back on the couch and scrubbed his hands over his face.

Y/N sat next to him on the couch. She couldn’t find the right words. “I’m so sorry, Spence.”

“Pragmatically, I know that there’s nothing more I could be doing. She made it clear what she wants, and I can’t force her to take medications or try new treatments.” He looked down at his hands, fingers tracing the lines of his palms. “But some days I—I just can’t… reconcile that this is what her life is now. Just… remembering less and less every day. Being confused and agitated all the time. I mean, all the time.” He paused and drew his lips into a thin line. “Not knowing who I am. That happens much more frequently than it used to.”

Y/N reclined back next to him on the couch, putting her feet up on the coffee table and pressing her shoulder to Spencer’s. “Even if she doesn’t always remember, you do. And if there’s one thing I know about you, it’s that you are irritatingly persistent,” she joked. “You won’t ever stop trying to remind her. And that’s the best thing you can do for her.”

Spencer nodded, dropping his head onto Y/N’s shoulder. She tilted her head, an idea flitting across the front of her mind. “Hey, here’s a thought. You know that scrapbook your mom made? Every page is a story from her life. But she stopped around the time you were like, ten, right?”

“Yeah. There’s… not much in there after that.”

“Ok so, what if you picked up where she left off? You have so many great stories and memories with her. You could put some of your journals and articles in there, too. Pictures of you and the team. That one of you and Ethan in New Orleans. Ones with Henry and Michael. Maybe one of you in the lecture hall.” Y/N sat up. “Writing her letters is great, you should keep doing that for sure. But did you know that visual aids—like, particularly photographs—can help stimulate memory recall in Alzheimer’s patients at any stage?”

Spencer smiled. “I actually did know that.”

“Ugh of course you did. Couldn’t just let me have this one thing.” Y/N rolled her eyes, though Spencer caught the hint of a grin underneath the feigned annoyance. “Seriously, I don’t know why I didn’t think of this sooner. I have a ton of scrapbooking stuff,” Y/N said, scrambling up from the couch and into her bedroom.  

“You do?” Spencer furrowed his brow. “I’ve never seen you scrapbook.”

“Eh, yeah, it was a phase,” she called from the bedroom. “Scrapbooking paper’s expensive as fuck, so it was a short-lived hobby.”

Spencer chuckled, listening to the sounds of Y/N rummaging through the bedroom closet. There was a muffled thud. “Everything okay in there?”

There were a couple more bumps and bangs, and then, “Ah yeah, here we go.” Emerging from the bedroom, Y/N wheeled a huge black roller bag over to the couch. She unzipped the top pocket and Spencer peered inside. “Oh so you meant, quite literally, a ton of scrapbooking stuff.”

“Look, my ADHD goes all out when it comes to starting new projects.” Y/N shrugged her shoulders. “It’s the, you know, finishing projects that we struggle with.”

The pair went about die cutting, arranging, gluing, and giggling. Y/N scoured the depths of the internet (namely Penelope’s Facebook page) for photographs of Spencer—in costume at the BAU Halloween party, in his tuxedo at JJ and Will’s wedding, a selfie with Penelope at a Dr. Who convention, a candid of him doing magic for Jack and Henry, and even one of him singing karaoke.

Spencer worked on laying out the pages, gluing down frames and choosing decals that reminded him of his mother. He wrote a short synopsis on each page, summarizing his degrees, his work, and his friends. By the end of the afternoon, they had more than a dozen pages for the new book.

“I need one more picture,” Spencer said.

“I thought I got one of everyone? Or is there another karaoke picture that I don’t know about?” Y/N gawked over the top of the laptop from her spot on the couch. She was never going to let him live that down.

Spencer laughed. “No, I’m pretty sure that’s the only photographic evidence of that night.” He turned and smiled up at Y/N from where he sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by scraps of paper and the remnants of sticker packs. “I need that one of us at the Cherry Blossom festival.”

“Oh. Well, um.” A blush crept up Y/N’s cheeks. “Coming right up.” She sent the photo to the printer, standing to retrieve it from her desk.

It was quiet in the room apart from the sounds of the printer, rhythmically whirring and inking the memory into life. Y/N absentmindedly chewed the inside of her lip, waiting for the final strokes of the photo to be laid. She turned back, photo in hand, to see Spencer smiling at her, soft and warm.

Over the course of the afternoon, he had swapped his shoes for a pair of fuzzy socks, and his contacts for his glasses. Y/N’s heart actually ached at the length of his sweater sleeves, covering all but the tips of his fingers. The picture of domesticity, Spencer patted the floor next to him. When Y/N sat, he took the photo from her hand, meticulously adding glue dots to each corner before pressing it down onto the page. He lifted his arm, tucking Y/N underneath and pulling her close. “Thank you. For all of this.”

“You’re very welcome.” Y/N snuggled a little deeper into his embrace. “All right so let’s see this masterpiece.”

When they arrived at the last page, Y/N was still incredulous over the details of the karaoke story. “Okay, but there has to be a video somewhere.”

“Oh, I’m sure there is. And you will never, ever see it.”

“Penelope Garcia is a tech wizard, and she is not above a bribe,” Y/N warned.

“What a coincidence, because I am also not above a bribe. Especially if it keeps that video from ever seeing the light of day.” Spencer laughed and squeezed Y/N’s shoulder. “I think this page is my favorite.”

Y/N and I at the Cherry Blossom festival. Y/N is kind, thoughtful, and passionate. She never fails to make me laugh. She’s always up for cloud watching with me, although she prefers altocumulus formations to the cumuliform heaps. We read together almost every night. You both love King Arthur and the Legends of the Round Table, particularly Tristan and Iseult. I could write a million more words about her and it wouldn’t be enough. When I was little, you told me that love is a world of its own that lives in the heart, not in the head. I know exactly what you mean.

⧭⧭⧭

Y/N tossed under the duvet, knowing that she wouldn’t be able to find a comfortable position. She had been sleeping for so long that her lower back was aching, the type of pain that twinges like the ticking of a clock, steady and incessant. She rolled over onto her stomach, stretching her whole body and reaching to turn the alarm clock toward her—3:27pm. She huffed, burying her head in the pillow with a loud groan. She had called out of work to have a productive day at home, and instead she slept the day away.

Y/N threw the duvet off and sat up. She tried not to let the guilt of calling out creep in. Instead, she shuffled into the bathroom to brush her teeth and wash her face. She resolved that small victories might be all she was capable of today.

She pulled her favorite sweater from the hook on her bedroom door, wrapping it tightly around her as she stepped over the threshold into the living and dining space. This is why she had stayed in bed so long. Y/N had been spending so much time at Spencer’s that she had been able to ignore the declining Depression Room™ facing her now.

Three days’ worth of dishes were piled in the sink. There was a stack of unopened mail about a mile high on the kitchen island. The trash and recycling needed emptying about a week ago. Jackets and shoes were strewn about the place—over chairs, the back of the couch, all over the floor. The coffee table was littered with granola bar wrappers, an old McDonald’s bag, empty gatorade bottles, and the dirty containers from last night’s takeout. Her desk was overrun with unfinished lesson plans, professional development books that needed reading, and spelling tests that needed grading.

Y/N knew she would feel better once she started, but she also knew it would take her all day to get the apartment looking even halfway decent. Since she had spent so long in bed, she had even less time to get it done. She was failing to fend off the guilt of calling out, particularly since she hadn’t actually gotten any work done. Compounding her guilt was the fact that Spencer’s apartment was always so clean and cozy. His job was a thousand times more demanding than hers. His life had more trauma and daily stressors than she could even imagine. And still, Y/N was struggling with basic adult tasks. She couldn’t understand it.

Just hang the jackets up. Throw away the junk mail. Wash the pots and pans first, then the plates and silverware. It will take four minutes to take the trash out. Spelling tests need to be in the grade book before the end of the marking period.

The door buzzer sounded and Y/N nearly jumped out of her skin. Running a hand through her hair and cringing at the greasiness, she crossed to the intercom and pushed the button to talk.

“Yes?”

“Hey!” Spencer’s chipper voice crackled through the speaker. “I tried calling you but couldn’t get through.”

Y/N was immediately torn between relief and panic. She was desperately in need of a hug and his company, but she was also mortified imagining what Spencer would think about the state of her apartment, the state of her life. “Y/N?” His voice broke through her musing.

“Yeah, sorry!” She tried to school her voice into something resembling normalcy. “Sorry, I—my phone died and I just— well, yeah.”

There was a pause, and then a tentative, “Can you buzz me in?”

“Oh, um.” Y/N turned and surveyed the apartment. There was nothing to be done. If she said no, Spencer would know for sure that something was wrong. “Sure, yeah yeah, hang on. Just—just a minute.”

Y/N moved quickly around the space and gathered the jackets and shoes into her arms. She fumbled with the door handle of the coat closet, tossing them in haphazardly and closing the door. There was no time to do much of anything else. She jogged back to the intercom, pressing the door button and then roping her hair up into a bun, hoping she could mask how dirty it was. She could hear Spencer coming up the squeaky stairs and felt her eyes start to water. She tilted her head back to keep the tears at bay.

Even Spencer’s knocking sounded happy. And of course that only made Y/N feel worse. She plastered on her best smile and opened the door. “Hi.”

“Hey!” Spencer stepped past Y/N, kissing her cheek and dropping his bag as he entered the apartment. “We had a paperwork day, and I write reports about as fast as I read, so I’m always done early. How was your day?”

“Um, you know, it was ok.”

Spencer’s eyes tracked over her face. “Did something happen?”  

“No, no, I just wasn’t feeling great this morning. I called in, just hung around here.”

“You could have called me.” Spencer stepped closer. “How are you feeling now? What were your symptoms?”

“I’m fine. I was just, um—just really exhausted.”

Spencer studied her face a moment. “What’s going on?”

“Hmm? Nothing. Nothing, I’m fine.” Y/N cursed her wavering voice for betraying her emotions.

“Y/N, you have never once, in all the time I’ve known you, failed to answer your phone. I almost thought you were going to tell me to go away before you buzzed me up.” He put his hands in his pockets. “Did I— Did I do something to make you upset?”

Y/N closed her eyes, feeling more awful by the minute. Of course Spencer would worry it was his fault. “No, no, Spence, not at all. I just—um.” The genuine concern on Spencer’s face was enough to have it all spilling out. “I get like this sometimes. I can’t focus on anything or don’t feel motivated or whatever, so I put things off, and then they build up until there’s so much to do that I don’t know where to start, so then I don’t start anything, and then I feel bad about being lazy and not getting things done, and I get so overwhelmed that all I can do is sleep for like, fourteen hours like I did today, and then the whole day is gone and I still haven’t accomplished anything I was supposed to—”

“Whoa, whoa, c’mere.” Y/N hadn’t even realized she was crying until Spencer pulled her into him. He locked his arms around her back so tight it almost hurt. She was vaguely aware of the volume of her sobs, but she couldn’t even bring herself to be embarrassed. It was a completely visceral moment of release, one that she might never have permitted herself without Spencer’s prompting. Now that the floodgates were open, there was no stopping the rush of everything she had allowed to build up. She spent so much of her life being the one who helped, always listening, supporting, and comforting the people around her. She was good at it, and she liked being someone that others could count on whenever they needed her. She just didn’t know how to listen to, support, and comfort herself.

Eventually, her mind and body began to slow down, plunging from the emotional high. When Spencer felt her breathing return to that consistent rhythm, he loosened his grip around her. He left one arm firmly around her waist and used his other hand to rub circles on her back.

“I’m sorry,” Y/N mumbled into his chest. “This is so stupid. Compared to the stuff you see every day—”

“No— no.” Spencer pulled back to force her eyes up. “Don’t do that. Just because horrible things happen to other people doesn’t mean that what you’re going through isn’t hard. Y/N, do you hear me? Don’t diminish your own pain because you think someone else has it worse.” He cupped her chin gently in his hand. “What can I do to help you right now?”

“You already have helped,” Y/N sniffed. “It’s okay. I’m fine.”  

“Y/N... you’re not fine. And there’s nothing wrong with that. It—it’s okay to not be fine. But seeing you in pain hurts me, too. And I need to be able to do something about it.” He cradled her face in both hands. “You help me all the time. Please, let me do this for you. Let me be here for you.” After a moment, Y/N nodded and that was approval enough for Spencer. “What did you eat today?  

“I um, I didn’t yet.” She sniffed. “I slept pretty late.”  

“Okay, well it’s after 4:00pm. We’ve got to eat something.” Spencer ran his hands down Y/N’s arms. “I’d cook for you, but we already know how that story usually ends. How about takeout from the Indian place? They’re usually pretty quick.”

Y/N nodded again. “I need to take a shower, too.”

Spencer kissed her forehead. “You hop in the shower, and I’ll call in the order. It’ll be here by the time you’re done.”

When Y/N emerged from the bathroom, hair damp and skin smelling like lavender, the familiar aroma of curry and tandoori was drifting through the apartment. The coffee table was cleared and the kitchen table set with the takeout boxes and mugs of tea. The trash and recycling were freshly emptied. Spencer stood over the sink finishing up the last few dishes, the pots and pans already laid out to dry.  He was quietly singing along to a familiar song—one of their favorites. His voice was sweet and soft and slightly off-key, and her heart panged in the best way as he sang:

Don't put the world on your shoulders 'cause you know it ain't your load to bear alone.

Y/N waited until the final notes of the song faded out, padding quietly across the kitchen floor. “You didn’t have to do all this,” Y/N said, wrapping her arms around his middle.

Spencer dried his hands before turning in her embrace. “I don’t mind. I like taking care of you. And I learned from the best.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead and spoke against her skin. “You can even have the last Jell-o.”

Y/N smiled, quick and genuine. There were moments when life crashed over her, relentless waves breaking her down into grains of sand. And in those moments, this man forever grounded her to the truth—that she was treasured and deserving and whole— all of her, just as she was.