#ive given up trying to clean him until he dries

[wkemeup]

Heal Me, Baby

summary: Bucky Barnes can’t seem to keep away from your med tent no matter how many times you fix him up. // challenge prompt: bed sharing  pairing: 1940s bucky x reader word count: 5k warnings: a very charming bucky 😉 a/n: This was written for @cake-writes​ 1940s challenge! Congrats on the 3.5 milestone!! The title of this fic comes from the song Heal Me by Snow Patrol 

There was blood on the white of your dress; slow and steady seeping into the fabric and staining the cotton blend fibers. Red and as deep and bold as the cross sewn into the chest of your uniform, the blood became part of the design because no matter how many times you scrubbed it clean, more would find its way back to the hip of your skirt, the sleeve of your shoulder, the hem of your apron by morning’s end. Sometimes you wondered why they’d bothered dressing you in white at all. Might as well make it red with the number of wounded soldiers they dragged through your tent; most halfway towards the shiny bright light and others inches away from their last breath.

The chaos was constant, a given, and despite the noise and clutter, it was where you felt most at home. It was better than the lull, the calm before the inevitable storm, where you’d be swarmed with men on stretchers, bleeding out onto the dirt and tossed into overcrowded beds. The steady stream was easier than the rapids, easier than assigning ten men to a single nurse where injuries could be missed, vital tears overlooked.

You were at the end of your shift for the night, dirt on your forehead, sweat damping the carefully curled ringlets at your neck. A file in your hand of the man at the end of the room, thicker than most, and you kept your eyes down as you pushed your way through the crowd of nurses and visiting soldiers, heels sinking slightly into the grass with every step.

When you came upon him, you finally noticed the name etched into the top right corner of the folder; the cheesy grin as he propped himself up on his elbows, blood and dirt coating most of his face, though still as annoying handsome as ever.

“Hiya, doll.”

“Oh, not you again.”

Bucky chuckled to himself as he plopped back down against the pillow, hands clasping behind his neck as he watched you work around his bedside. You huffed the hairs from your eyes, brushed the sweat from your hands as you slipped on a pair of gloves, careful to avoid the urge to smile at the way Bucky was so obviously studying your every move.

You’d seen him about a dozen times since you’d been transferred to the Italian warfront along with the 107th. He’d found a habit of stumbling into the medical tent after a night in the trenches, covered head to toe in what looked to be a dried mixture of mud and blood that didn’t always turn out to be his own. 

He’d flash that smile of his like he couldn’t smell the retch of sweat and grim on his skin, sweet talk you like he wasn’t thrown head first to the middle of a war he didn’t sign up for, and get your stomach twisted all up in knots, hands fumbling with the IV bag, a nervous flutter in your chest – though you’d never let him see that.

Sergeant Bucky Barnes was the kind of man the nurses talked about when he walked by. A tip of his cap, a slight salute in their direction, and they’d giggle themselves into a mess, clinging onto one another as they waved at him. 

But then, across the courtyard, his eyes would catch yours, a softer tone about him and he’d simply wink, something subtle and barely noticeable, but enough for it to be personal, almost intimate, because it wasn’t for others to see.

“Not happy to see me, huh?” Bucky drawled, crossing his ankles as he stretched back on the worn-down cot like he was sitting at home on the couch, waiting on a beer as he read the evening paper.

You pursed your lips, shooting him a narrowed look as you glanced over the intake file. “I’m never happy to see men in this tent, Sergeant Barnes. Did you forget where you are?”

You gestured down to the series of beds filled with men, some waiting as they hung off the edge of crutches or slumped over in chairs, with bandages wrapped around exposed chests, blood seeping through, broken limbs exposed, the quiet whimpers of pain muffled by forearms and pillows.

“Oh, come on, doll. You know I’m just teasing ya,” Bucky smirked, sitting up in the bed because he knew the routine well enough by this point. 

You held a single finger pointed up in front of his eyes and he followed it without instruction as you moved it across his line of sight. No sign of abnormal dilation. Ruled out a concussion, at least.  

“You should be more careful out there,” you warned, gathering the first aid kit from the bedside table. “You’re in here almost every day, you know.”

“Maybe I like the company,” he shrugged, blue eyes piercing straight through you and you tried to ignore the way your heart skipped a full beat.

Your hands trembled slightly as you cleaned the wound on his forehead, a hit from a fall by the looks of it, though it wasn’t deep enough to require stitches. He winced a little, a slight hiss in his tongue as you applied the alcohol.

“You shouldn’t be taking the bed from someone who needs it.”

“Hell, I do need it, doll,” Bucky whined, a little dramatically. “Look at me. I’m in pieces. I’m fallin’ apart at the seams and you’re the only one that can save me, sweetheart. I need ya.”

You paused with a tight pout of your lips, sitting back on the cot beside him long enough to roll your eyes. “You need a band-aid and stern warning, Sergeant Barnes. You’re fine.”

“Oh, call me Bucky, won’t you?”

You pressed the bandage to his forehead, a little firmer that you would have for most any other patient and he grunted under his breath, trying to steady himself against the thin mattress.

“Time for you to go, Sergeant Barnes.”

Bucky grinned, nodding to himself as he stood. “Been a pleasure, doll, as always. I’ll see you tomorrow!”

“You better not!” you called back, arms folded over your chest as he snickered to himself, walking through the mess of chaos to the exit on the other end. He glanced back over his shoulder as he pulled up a flap of canvas and winked at you.

You clenched your jaw and got back to work.

***

Sure enough as the tides rolled in, so did Bucky Barnes to your med tent a few nights later.

You found him waiting for you on the last bed in the aisle, one leg tucked under him, the other hung over the side of the cot as he nursed his right hand in his lap. He was humming to himself through pursed lips, a tune that you recognized from the radio station your father often played back home; head bouncing a bit to the rhythm, massaging gently at the palm of his hand, completely unfazed by the chaos around him.

Stepping up to the edge of the bed, you supposed he caught sight of your shoes because he started to smile before he so much as lifted his head.

Slowly, like he was taking his time, he glanced up at you with that sheepish smile of his, a light chuckle under his breath, and he ran his left hand through the mess of hair atop his head.

“Hiya, doll.”

“What is it this time?”

Your arms were folded, toe tapping against the ground, but there was something in the way he couldn’t stop smiling at you, even as you scolded him, that tugged a bit on the tight strains in your chest. It pushed at the walls you’d built, poked at the cement layers between bricks until they started to fall one by one and you fought against the urge to smile back at him.

He was too sweet on you, too handsome and charming, and you were almost certain it was an act, so you clenched your jaw and forced a frown.

Bucky held up his hand and for you, showing off a rather nasty burn in the underside of his palm, just along his thumb; red and seared, bubbling a bit on the edges. Your resolve took a bit of a hit because he winced a little in the motion, like the chill of the air was enough to cause him pain.

“How did you manage to do that?” you asked, tone still a little tense, though you took a seat on the side of his mattress, the lumps of the worn-down cot pressing against your thighs.

You reached for the medical cart near the bedside table, though it was just an inch from reach, and Bucky took the liberty of wheeling it over for you. You paused, watching him as he casually slid the cart in front of you, careful of your shoes and the dips in the ground.

“It was my shift in the kitchens,” he shrugged.

His hand slipped into yours as you gestured for it; rough and calloused though still untouched in places, soft and tender. You wondered what he did before he was drafted, if he worked in factories or in a garage, if his hands had seen hard labor before he was handled a weapon and a battalion, or if they were a blank page, yet to be filled by the scars and abrasive markings of a man at war.

You turned it over gently, easing the back of his hand to sit cradled in your palm as you examined the burn. It looked like he’d singed it on the side of the stove. The ring of the plate visible on the edge of his palm.

“Didn’t think you were required take shifts in the kitchens, Sergeant,” you commented, raising an eyebrow, though you kept your focus on his hand.

“Helps with morale,” Bucky replied simply. “Doing the same grunt work together does something for when we’re out in the trenches, you know? I’m not any better than them because the higher-ups threw some title in front of my name. We’re all stuck here, aren’t we?”

There was a chuckle in his voice, a lightness, and it surprised you as you looked up to see that it didn’t quite touch his eyes. How often did that happen and you didn’t notice because you were so caught up in holding up walls to keep from his games? How often had it not been a game at all and rather a mask he wore, to protect the most vulnerable parts of himself from giving into the horrors he saw on the front lines?

He took a deep breath, focused on the grip of your hand around his as you slowly started to apply aloe along the burn. Cautious eyes glancing up to him, you watched as his shoulders slumped a little, a weight lifting from the tension he carried as the cooling of the gel started to take effect. The hardened lines on his face softened, his breaths coming in a bit steadier, the sigh that left his lips light and sweet.

“I’m sure they appreciate what you do for them,” you said, softer this time, in hopes of distracting yourself from the way his lips parted ever so slightly in relief the longer you soothed the gel along his hand.

“Eh, keeps me busy,” he said, brushing it off, almost like the praise was uncomfortable for him, like it didn’t feel warranted or necessary. He smiled to himself, pulling his lower lip between his teeth as you started to wrap his hand, gentle touches delicately easing the bandage around the burn. “Brought me back to you, didn’t it? I call that a win.”

You laughed a bit at that despite yourself as you clipped the edges of the bandages and secured it properly. “I’m sure you would have found an excuse to come bother me all on your own, Sergeant Barnes.”

“Bucky,” he reminded you again, grinning so wide it must have hurt.

“I don’t want to see you in this tent for at least a week,” you warned, placing his hand back into his own lap. You stood, brushing the wrinkles from the edges of your dress. Though you were stern with him, you were smiling. He certainly took notice of it.

“That’s a lot to ask of me, sweetheart. I’m a clumsy guy.”

“You’re the best sharpshooter we have!”

“I’m a mess, honey. Look at me! You’re my only hope.”

“Oh, get out of here!” you laughed, pushing on his shoulders though you were met with significant resistance; a playful game of cat and mouse, and damn if you weren’t completely falling for it.

He finally gave in when your laughter started to draw the attention of the nurses gathered around the bedsides of injured soldiers, and you swatted him on the shoulder, heat flushing to your cheeks in embarrassment, though you were unsuccessfully biting back a smile.

As he made his way to the exit, he turned back for a final look, surprised to find you still watching him, and he winked; cool and collected, confident. You shook your head at him, arms folded over your chest, but he saw the way the corners of your lips pushed up high into your cheeks, the brightness in your eyes, the whisper of a laugh still in your breath.

If this was all a game, he was certainly winning.

***

A few weeks later and the nurses had resorted to reserving a spot for Bucky in the back of the tent; the same cot in your assigned row because he all out refused to be seen by anyone else. He’d duck through the canvas flaps at the entrance, smile politely at the nurses and wait patiently for you to notice him.

His injuries varied anywhere from a paper cut along his palm to a splitting headache to simple heartburn. He knew better than to take your attention away from soldiers who really needed it, but he’d come to consume the moments in between, whether you liked it or not.

But a funny thing started to happen.

You started to look forward to the days when he’d peep his head into the tent, checking to make sure you were on shift before he’d saunter his way inside and take his seat on his favorite cot. You’d find disappointment burning like jealousy in your chest on the days he didn’t, and your mind would wonder where he was or if he was alright.

He’d once waited hours before you were able to step away from the gunshot wounds of a soldier two beds down and though the scrape on his knee had all but scabbed over by then, he stuck around until the kid stabilized. 

You were exhausted by the time you made it over to Bucky, losing hope that you’d be able to keep the injured soldier alive through the night and trying to mask the utter helplessness you felt.

But Bucky made his light-hearted jokes, he teased you for the dirt on your forehead, whined and complained dramatically about his knee though you both knew he’d sleep it off my morning, and it brought back a smile to your face before you realized it. He managed to push through even the darkest parts of your days.  

***

Bucky’s regiment was out on assignment for over a week and you would have been lying to yourself if you said you didn’t miss him. You found yourself glancing down at the entrance every few minutes, feeling like something was missing when you finished your checklist, stabilized your patients, and finally had a free moment for yourself. There was something else you would have been attending to.

It wasn’t until you realized it was Bucky you were searching for, waiting to see his smile light up at he caught your eye, that it hit you just how easily you’d fallen for him.

At the end of a very long week, he stumbled into the med tent on a rolled ankle, leaning off the shoulder of Captain America himself, complaining of a pain in his left arm. You were relieved to see him, like a weight lifted from your chest that was holding you underwater for days, but you couldn’t let him see that.

“Been a while, honey,” he smirked. “Miss me?”

“Watch yourself, Barnes,” you warned, though it was light and airy. You eased his arm over your shoulders and excused Steve as he was still supporting his weight. You tried not to focus on how nice it felt to have Bucky this close, his arm draped over your shoulders, his side pressed up tight to yours as he hobbled in support of his injured ankle.

“Got real lonely out there on the front without you,” Bucky teased as you helped him down to the cot. “Stevie had to fix me up. Wasn’t pretty.”

“I can see that,” you laughed, gesturing to the mess of bandages circling around his arm. “What did you do? Bump into the corner of the tank?”

“Not exactly,” he chuckled awkwardly, pulling his arm from what remained of his sleeve to give you better coverage. He curled his shirt up in his hands, shivering as the cold touched exposed skin and you tried to ignore the taunt lines of his muscles and the placement of freckles down his back, the shadows over his abdomen.

Slowly, you pulled back the bandages, wrapped about a dozen times over, until red started to appear in the white of the cloth, soaking through the layers thicker and darker until you found the source. Your smile had long fallen by the time you saw the wound on his arm, a bullet grazing on the outer stretch of muscle; ripped and raw on the edges, a piece of your heart torn along with it.

“You were shot?”

“Oh, come on, doll, it ain’t so bad,” Bucky chuckled. “It’s just a little graze.”

You shook your head, quickly tending to the open wound with alcohol swipes that left him hissing from the sting of it. Your hands were shaking slightly, but you held your breath in hopes he wouldn’t notice.

“Why is it that you feel the need to come in here with senseless injuries and waste my time but when you're actually hurt, you brush it off like it’s nothing?” 

You weren’t angry despite the tone of your voice. No, it was fear that took over, marred through the tension of your words and the frantic thumping inside your chest. The idea of him never walking into your tent again ripped the heart straight from you. 

“We’re at war, honey,” Bucky replied gently and though he still wore that beautiful smile on his face, it was softer. “This kind of stuff happens all the time.”

“Not to you,” you whispered, voice low and heavy.

Your fingers were trembling as you attempted to thread the needle for the third time, though it was no use. It kept missing the eye, your hand was shaking too much for a steady grip. You couldn’t protect him when he was out in the trenches, couldn’t heal his wounds and tend to his injuries. You couldn’t save him if something happened out there, leaving him stranded. 

A few inches to the right and the bullet could have torn through a major artery and maybe Steve Rogers would have showed up in your tent with his helmet held at his chest and a solemn look in his eye when he told you that Bucky fought valiantly until his last breath.

The thread missed the needle again and you let out a groan, a wave of frustration and anger and fear and suddenly Bucky’s hands were on yours, slowly lowering them back to your lap. He smiled sweetly at you as he gently took the needle and thread from your hands and slipped it through the eye. He knotted it at the end and handed it back to you, adjusting his position on the cot to give you better leverage.

“I should get someone else to do this,” you said quietly.

“No deal, honey. You’re the only one for me.”

“Bucky, my hands are shaking. I should ask one of the girls to--”

“It’s you or I walk.” 

Bucky smirked, winking at you over his shoulder before he settled in again. Determined and stubborn as you’d ever seen him. 

You sighed, pushing out a deep breath as you steadied your hand. “Okay, well, no complaining if you end up with a scar.”

“Me? Never.”

***

Bucky wasn’t the only soldier in the tent that night and you were worn thin; running on startling lack of caffeine and frequent cold bursts of air outside, you hadn’t slept in nearly two days as you attended to the influx of injured men.

Half of your girls were out sick from the bug that was floating around camp, though you were almost certain it wasn’t airborne as they insisted and they’d contracted it by getting cozy with the soldiers. You couldn’t blame them for seeking comfort amongst the harsh conditions of the war, but being down two girls in an overcrowded, busy tent full of men in terrible pain wasn’t easy to manage on your own.

Bucky’s presence seemed to help, though. He’d smile at you whenever you looked in his direction and you started to wonder if he was watching you as you worked, as opposed to the book in his lap. He always seemed to be looking at you when you turned over your shoulder to check in on him, anyway. The pages of the book sitting in his hand remained unturned for too long, even as he fought against the heaviness of his lids, sleeping threatening to pull him under though he resisted.

He gave in after you’d swiped the book from his hands and ordered him to close his eyes.

“Anything for you, doll,” he said, yawning through every syllable.

You watched as he settled into the sheets, bare chest exposed and the heavy bandage wrapped around his arm. His eyes fluttered shut, nose scrunching as he sniffled in a tight breath, and his whole body seemed to relax, finding sleep rather quickly.

It was nearly two in the morning by the time the med tent quieted down.

Most of the men were asleep, the others too doped up on pain medications to notice much of anything going on around them, their eyes softly gazing out ahead of them, heavy eyelids falling shut. You let the remaining girls go back to their own tents until dawn, given that the worst of it all had subsided.

With a tired yawn, you dragged your feet down to Bucky’s bed. He was snoring softly in his sleep, lips parted just slightly, and you realized gazing down at him, that he looked years younger like this; the innocence he often masked amongst the perils of war rising fresh to the surface, unobstructed.

With a cautious hand, you reached out and grazed your fingertips along his arm; his whole body sighing in response, a slight curve of his lips, his head lulling to the side closest to the touch.

But you couldn’t stand there and watch him sleep all night. The bandage had started to bleed through and it needed a rewrapping.

You pulled up a chair next to his cot, carefully beginning to unwrap the cloth from around the tight muscle of his arm. Smooth skin under pebbled goosebumps from the chill outside, you gently released the bandage to the mattress. The wound didn’t look so bad underneath, but you cleaned it up a bit to be safe. With a quick dab to his arm with the disinfectant, you glanced up at his face in search of a hitch in his breath or a hiss on his tongue, but he remained fast asleep.

Even men like Bucky Barnes needed a break. He looked so sweet sleeping like that, the slight pout on his lips as you cleaned the wound, the sniffle through the beginnings of a head cold. 

You yawned, struggling to keep your eyes open and quickly rebandaged his arm. There were more men in this tent that needed your attention.

A few beds down and an hour later, you began to switch out the IV drip of a man with a severed leg; a young, baby faced kid who didn’t look old enough to graduate school, let alone be given a gun in the middle of wartime. He scrunched his nose in his sleep, his thigh twitching like he might still think something was there. There was sweat beading on his face, dripping damp into the pillow. You didn’t know how much longer he had.

Your legs wobbled slightly under you and you gripped onto the bedside table. The exhaustion was starting to reel you in, pull you under to the warm embrace of sleep, but you had a job to do, men to care for. Pressing the heel of your palms to your eyes, you tried to push the tiredness from you, though a yawn broke through again anyway.

“Looking like you might need some rest, doll.”

You froze at the sound of his voice, like ice and fire, relief and panic.

A heavy sigh sat in your chest before you turned around, only to find Bucky brushing at his eyes, sleepily smiling up at you from his cot. He propped himself him on his elbows, as you quickly made yourself busy, simply watching as you continued about your work.

“Someone has to attend to these men, Bucky,” you replied, a little tenser than you usually were with him, but the exhaustion had taken hold of you and it took effort just to keep your eyes open.

“Doll,” he called, softer this time, “you’re going to pass out. Where'd everyone go?”

“Sent them off. No need for a crowd to watch over sleeping men.” You checked the vitals of a man across the aisle from Bucky; steady rhythm, even pulse. He’d make it until morning, at least.

“When’s the last time you slept?” he asked slowly and you could feel his eyes following you around the tent, watching intently as you tended to each of the men, assuring yourself that they were as restful as they appeared. There was a concern in his voice, a sincerity, and it tensed in your shoulders.

You released a heavy breath, keeping focused on replenishing the infusion bag of a soldier who was hanging on by a thread. One quick glance back at Bucky proved to be a mistake as he was still watching you, though it was under kind, worried eyes. He was still waiting on an answer.

“You don’t need to be worrying about how much I’m sleeping,” you said, turning your back to him because your eyes were falling heavy and it was near impossible to keep them open. You leaned onto the frame of another soldier’s bed for support, pretending to be busy for Bucky’s sake.

“No?” Bucky questioned with an embellished sigh. “Someone has to, don't you think?”

“Bucky, I’m fine,” you yawned, covering your mouth with your wrist as you turned back to face him. 

He chuckled a bit under his breath, chin falling to his chest, before he smiled up at you like you’d missed out on some kind of inside joke.

“Oh, ‘course you are, doll. Must have been someone else who put the same bloody bandage back on my arm after cleaning it then, huh?” he shrugged teasingly, gesturing to his arm where a dark red bandage circled around his bicep.

Your eyes blew wide, a gasp in your throat and you rushed over to him. Hands fumbling for the chair, missing several times and resorting to falling at your knees, you made quick work of trying to peel away the red bindings.

“Shit! Shit, I’m-- shit,” you panted, shaking, “that’s never happened before and I—oh God, I’m so sorry, Bucky—I’ll fix it, just—just give me a second and—”

“Hey, hey, it’s alright, honey,” Bucky cooed sweetly, helping to unfasten the bandage because your hands were fumbling too long with the clasps. His right hand encased your shaking fingers, holding them tightly long enough to pull your attention away from his arm. “It happens, okay? No harm done. I’m aces, alright?”

“No, no, it’s wildly...” you sucked in a sharp breath, tingling in the back of your jaw, stretching at your cheeks, “...unacceptable and I...” another yawn broke through, “...should report myself because...” and a third.

“Jesus, doll, listen to you. You’re exhausted,” Bucky eased, reaching for the clean bandages on the bedside table. He grabbed a fresh one and put one end between his teeth for leverage as he began to wrap his own arm.

You sat back on your heels, kneeling next to his bed and certainly getting dirt along the end of your dress. You watched as he wove the clean cloth in and around his arm, concentration etched into his facial features to mask the slight wince of pain as the fabric touched the wound.

Guilt was fresh in your chest as Bucky wrapped his arm himself, pulled it tight and gestured for you to fasten it. He could have done it himself, you were sure. There was a smile on his face as he looked at you, like he was trying to make you feel better.

“I’m sorry, Bucky. It won’t happen again,” you mumbled, defeated and you rose to your feet, beginning to walk away.

“Wait, honey, don’t go--”

You froze, surprised by a sudden grip at your hand before you could take a step away from his bedside, and when your eyes shot back to his, he let go immediately, his cheeks flushing red as he began to laugh nervously. It was a kind of embarrassment you never expected to see in him.

“You don’t gotta apologize to me, doll,” he started, scratching at the back of his head.

“I can’t afford to make mistakes,” you retorted, voice a little more somber. “You can’t afford it either.”

“Then, make it up to me.”

You narrowed your eyes, fighting off the urge to yawn again. “What would you have me do?”

“Get some rest?” he asked sheepishly, scooting to the far edge of the tiny, twin size cot. He took up most of the space himself and you swore you may have seen him swallow nervously as he pulled down the covers, gesturing to the open space.

“No, I... I can’t,” you said flatly, though your heart was racing.

“You’re going to pass out where you stand and you said yourself you can’t afford to make more mistakes,” he argued gently. “Just a few hours. Then you’ll be good as new. No more dirty bandages.”

“Bucky, I...” you shook your head, stepping back and folding your arms over your chest. “I-- I have to look after these men. I can’t fall asleep. What if something happens?”

“I’ll wake you up,” he responded with a shrug. “I got my hours in. Anyone starts throwing a coughing fit, monitors start going haywire, I’ll let you know. I promise.”

“People will talk,” you whispered, excuses lined up but Bucky didn’t let them break his smile for even a moment.

“No one's around, sweetheart.”

“It’s inappropriate.”

“So is half my guys sleeping with your girls and yet...”

You laughed a bit at that, chewing on the edge of your lip, the rouge long faded of color. A heavy silence passed, a slight sway in your stance as your body fought tirelessly against the urge to close your eyes. Glancing down the rows of cots, it seemed quiet. Not a peep for hours and everyone was stable.

You turned back to Bucky. He was waiting patiently.

“You’ll wake me?”

You didn’t think it was possible for him to smile wider, but – God – it was blinding.

“Cross my heart.”

Stepping out of your shoes, you slowly made your way to the edge of his bed. You stared down at the open space and the slim line of mattress available to you. You must have taken too long because he started shifted a bit more to the edge, to the point where he was nearly falling off.

“Promise I’ll be a complete gentleman,” he chuckled lightly, cheeks pink and rosy. It was damn near impossible to say no to him when he looked at you like that, with a sincerity you hadn’t known since you left the States, draped under ocean blue.

“One hour,” you warned him as you slowly lowered yourself into the cot beside him. It squeaked as you let your weight fall to its uneven springs, the lumps evident against your back, the frame prominent through the thin cushion.

“One hour,” he agreed, giving you space as you rested your head against the pillow if you wanted it, though you heard his breath hitch as you tugged his arm down a little to lean against his shoulder, his right arm curling around your back to keep you steady on the bed.

Laying on your side, curled up next to him, you rested your left arm against his chest, tracing your fingers along the exposed lines of his stomach, the dip at his sternum, the scars littering smooth stretches of beautifully tanned skin. He shivered under your touch, his breath slightly uneven, though he didn’t say anything. His hold on you tightened as he suppressed a gasp under the bite of his teeth, like a reflex, pulling you tighter as his toes curled and his spine lightened.

“This okay?” you asked quietly, voice barely above a whisper and you watched as your breath touched his chest, goosebumps in its wake.

“Perfect, honey,” Bucky replied sweetly, his fingers drawing patterns along your back, tracing along the zipper of your dress and the seams in the shoulders. “Close your eyes, will you?”

A sleep heavy laugh pulled up at your cheeks, resting on his chest, as you let your hand fall flat against his stomach. You nodded, curling up as close against him as you could manage, losing yourself in the gentle waves of his touch along your spine.

“Thank you,” you whispered as your eyes began fluttering shut. You could hear the pulse of his heart beating gently under your ear, the steady rhythm lulling you a warm embrace. The slip of consciousness tugging you kindly to the ease of temporary darkness.

There was a slight touch on your forehead, something warm and sweet, lingering as your breaths became longer, steadier, drawn out and even; the heat of breath to your skin, the slight hum of a content sigh. A kiss as gentle and kind and tender as the man behind it.

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

[hansensgirl]

salvatore | iv

series summary — Bucky Barnes doesn’t believe in love anymore. Especially after the tragic, unknown death of his wife, Natasha. He thinks it’s stupid and a waste of time and- oh my. Hello there, you. There you were, with your notebooks and your novels, writing your heart away. He’s hellbent on saving you from this nasty world, his elusive neighbor that has him under the stupid spell of love. You soon find yourself trapped in a tragic love story with Bluebeard, not Prince Charming.

chapter warnings — dark!bucky, dark themes, stalking, voyeurism, cameras, stealing, slight angst, smut, female masturbation, perving, male masturbation, violence, mentions of cheating, fluff, feelings, noncon/dubcon, 18+

pairings — Dark!Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader, Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader, Bucky Barnes x Natasha Romanoff, Natasha Romanoff x Steve Rogers

word count — 2,961

a/n — finally! finally, i posted! please leave some feedback if you’d like! happy reading, and if you do not like any of the things in the warnings, do not read this!! also thank you to @mariessecretfantasies for beta-ing, ily! check her wonderful stories out please, you won’t regret it!

“Oh, bunny.” She cooed, tracing the scars that were scattered about Bucky’s body. Bucky whimpered and opened his eyes. The redhead smiled down at him, wearing a simple sundress and heart sunglasses. She twirled her tongue around the cherry flavoured lollipop as if she was sucking his cock. The old Bucky would’ve had a boner in just a few seconds, but the sight of Natasha had startled him deeply. “We should go to the Valley this weekend, Bunny.” She pulled the sunglasses down to the bridge of her nose. “Yeah, so you can visit Steve huh?” He spoke, but they weren’t the words that left his mouth. “Of course, Nattie.” His fingers ran through her red locks on their own accord. He tried to pull them away, but instead he pulled her closer. She set the lollipop on the dashboard of the Buick. She crawled into his lap and began to unbuckle his belt, desperately craving his cock. She suddenly left his belt and grabbed the knife that was in his thigh holster, bringing it up to his throat. “You know Nattie, I used to think the world of you.” He growled through gritted teeth. She pressed the knife closer to his throat, her hands shaking slightly. “Yet now, you barely even cross my mind.”

Bucky shot up suddenly, Natasha’s name leaving his name in just a whisper. One that when he himself couldn’t hear. He was drenched in sweat, his naked form all sticky. “Fuck.” He cursed, pulling off the thin grey sheet that barely covered him. The gruesome dreams replayed in his dark mind, sending chills down his spine. It was the first dream he had about Natasha in a while, and he didn’t know what triggered it. He pulled on his boxers and sat on the bed idly, wondering what he should do. There was no way he would go back to sleep, he didn’t want to face Natasha again. His eyes fell onto the laptop on his bedside table and his lips worried a smirk. It was devilish, almost as if Satan cursed himself upon Bucky. He peered out of the window and managed to see through the pitch black darkness that filled your room. You had a pillow between your legs and your sheets were a mess.

You clearly were knocked out, probably still hazy from that hangover. He sat near the window and opened the laptop to enter his password. He carefully typed your name and added his favourite number at the end before pressing the arrow button. It loaded quickly, given that he had harassed the guy down at IT for speedy wifi and advanced technology. He tapped into the cameras that he installed in your house one afternoon whilst you went for a quick run. He rewinded the tape to when you were in the shower, washing your hair. The water had to be cold as he inspected your body language and facial expressions. Seeing the water spill over your body had his cock throbbing between his thick thighs. He watched you slip a hand between your thighs, rubbing the pearl of nerves that had your knees buckling and your eyes rolling back into your skull. No wonder you were knocked out. Your mouth fell open to let out a silent scream and your ministrations on your clit sped up. Bucky’s large cock became fully erected, leaking with pre-cum. He grasped the base and swiped the tip with his thumb, before beginning to stroke himself.

“Fuck.” You both gasped, throwing your heads back.

He swore under his breath and watched you edge yourself. He wondered how many times he could edge you before you couldn’t take it anymore, before you would let those tears fall just for him. He would love to see you break under him, though he knew you were already slightly cracked beneath the lines. You palmed your breasts eagerly before spying the shower head with a smirk. “Such a naughty, dirty girl.” He degraded, letting a moan slip past his plump lips. It was almost as if you heard him, only saying one word. “Yes, yes, yes, yes!” You came undone on your frail, delicate fingers that could barely reach your g-spot. Your creamy cum coated your hand, and you pulled your fingers away from your honey pot. You had the urge to suck your arousal off of your fingers, and Bucky could tell. You hesitatingly stuck them in your mouth and you sucked them clean, which pushed Bucky off the edge of the cliff. His streaks of cum painted themselves on his abdomen, wishing you were there to catch it all in your mouth. He sighed as his cock became flaccid, and you washed your sins away with steaming hot water.

He switched cameras and fast-forwarded to when you dried yourself off with the fluffy towel. You bent down to wipe your legs, giving him a view of your pussy. He paused the camera and admired you for a bit, his breathing becoming more laboured. Your freshly-shaven lips glistened with water droplets, but he wished it was his cum instead. He shut his eyes and muttered incoherent words under his breath. This isn’t wrong! I’m just making sure you’re safe, that’s all. He mindlessly watched your moisturize and get ready for bed, all while jamming out to your favourite song. He could watch you swing your hips for hours, watch you flip your hair until you felt dizzy. And he could, but it’s not as good as he wanted. He wanted to be there with you.

Bucky decided to try and get a few hours of shut-eye, knowing that he’d deeply regret it if he didn’t. He hadn’t noticed that your breathing never slowed. You laid in bed, with your eyes shut. You were teetering on the verge of falling asleep, but your thoughts kept you up.

You wondered how you had managed to fall in love with your neighbour. The neighbour that you had only known for so long. It couldn’t be love, because love is dumb, right? It’s just a crush that makes you feel all sick and happy, a crush that lasts forever. You tossed and turned in your bed, trying to get some rest for once. But sleep never came. Instead, your heavy eyes watched the sun rise until it nearly blinded you. You sighed and rolled out of bed. Your body was almost on auto-pilot. You went downstairs and made yourself a cup of coffee, along with a bagel. You somehow found yourself pulling on a sundress that was a little too revealing for your taste. You admired yourself in the mirror for a bit, wondering what Bucky would think of your outfit. Would he be disgusted? God no, he’s too much of a gentleman. You pushed the negative thoughts out of your mind as you were determined to have a good day. You stared at the book that sat on top of your night stand. Ever since Bucky had gifted it to you, you never opened it up.

You could either read the classic that he gifted, or spend the day looking for a nearby job that would pay well. You chose the former. You gathered all your notebooks and pens, hoping that maybe inspiration will strike you. You went to open your back door, just to find it unlocked. You furrowed your brows with confusion, trying to recall whether or not you locked it. “Probably didn’t.” You muttered under your breath. You shook your head with disappointment — something that your mom constantly would do to you. You shut the door behind you and sat on the sun chair. The sun was bright — maybe a little too bright for you. But it didn’t seem strong enough to harm your soft skin. You flipped to the first page and began to read, but you lost track a few times. You imagined yourself as Catherine, and Bucky as Heathcliff. The story was already wrong in so many ways, but to picture yourself as one of the characters was almost too much. You couldn’t help it though, you really couldn’t. You stopped at the second page and decided to retire the book for the day.

You played with your pen and chewed at your bottom lip, trying to think of a way to start your new story. “Hey, neighbour!” A deep voice called out. You turned your head just to see Bucky peering over the tall white fence. You silently waved at him and gave him a friendly smile. “Got any sugar for me to borrow?” He joked, making you giggle. You shook your head as you played along with him. He put on a frown that made you a little lovesick. It was chilling almost, as if he had practiced those puppy eyes. Your smile faltered slightly, but you kept it on anyways. A flash of darkness struck Bucky when he saw the slight dullness to your lips. “So, writing the next best novel?” He questioned, even though he already knew that you were just writing something for your Tumblr. “Not really, I just have the muse to write.” You meekly explained. He let out an understanding sound, nodding his head as your words sank in. Well, this is awkward… “Why do you write?” he asked, the question making you shoot your head up in a flash. “Pardon?” You scoffed incredulously. “I know you heard me, if you don’t want to talk about it then that’s fine, just curious. Sorry.” He looked down with guilt, making your heart break slightly. God dammit!

Bucky’s manipulative resolve nearly broke when he nearly smirked as he saw your face fall. He began to move away from the fence before you called out his name. “Bucky! Wait, I’m sorry!” You apologized, getting up from your seat. Bucky smiled and turned around to face you. He once again wore those puppy eyes that manage to manipulate you. You apologized profusely, your notebook and pen scattered on the freshly grown grass. “I’ll only accept your apology if you let me hang out with you, doll.” Doll, the nickname had you smiling sweetly. His stoic gaze burned into you as he admired your smile. So fucking gorgeous. “I’ll open the front door for you-” You started, turning away from Bucky. “Actually, I think I can hop over this fence.” He admitted, making your eyes bulge out. Before you could say another word, Bucky swung himself over the tall white fence. “Oh my god.” You whispered in shock, realizing he avoided stepping on your flowers. He smiled at you and began to look around your garden. He acted as if he hadn’t seen it already, as if he hadn’t broken into your home already.

Well, he didn’t break in. You just didn’t let him in nicely.

You noticed the gardening gloves that he donned. “You garden?” You asked with pure curiosity. “Huh? Oh, yeah.” He answered. “Do you always garden? Or have you just started?” You wondered out loud as the heat of the sun grew. He took in your form as he wondered what lie he should choose. “Just started, any tips?” He peeled the gloves off as he spoke. The way he maintained eye contact was intimidating, almost scary. “Eh, not really… Mrs. Carter helped out actually!” You exclaimed, making the awkward tension even worse. Bucky nodded and stalked closer towards you, making you gulp thickly. Why were you so nervous? It’s not like he would hurt you, right? “Relax, I can hear your heart beatin’ fast.” He smiled down at you softly. You hadn’t realized how much bigger he was than you. He towered over you and even blocked the sun from blinding you. “Are you nervous, baby?” He nearly let out a coo when you nodded shyly. The way the tension between you too changed into something else was practically elusive. “I could go for some nice lemonade to be honest.” He smirked.

“L-lemonade?” You questioned. Your brows knitted together with confusion. What did he want from you? “That is what I said, isn’t it?” He looked up at the bright sky as if he was pondering to himself. “O-of course.” You walked away from him and nearly tripped over your feet. He had turned you into a nervous-wreck — you couldn’t even bear to look him in the eyes without shying away. With every few steps you took, you glanced back at Bucky, who was staring right at you. You felt his cold eyes burn into your back until you were out of his sight. Bucky quickly grabbed your notebook and flipped through the pages, before pulling his phone out. He snapped photos of every single thing you’ve written. From novel ideas to entries about your life. “Maybe if you let me in then I wouldn’t have to do all this, doll.” He grumbled. As he flipped through your notebook, something fell out. It landed on his foot but he barely felt the impact of it. He reached down and picked it up, realizing it was a polaroid.

Before he could turn it over, the sound of your feet pattering on the wooden floor screamed at him to set everything back to normal. He hurriedly closed the notebook and picked up your belongings, setting them on the small glass table. He shoved the polaroid in his pocket and smiled at you. “That was fast- where’s the lemonade?” He questioned, making you smile meekly. “It’s inside.” Your voice was small, quiet. He clearly enjoyed the fact that you were intimidated by him, that you were scared of him. You led him into your home and he acted as if he hadn’t been in it already, marvelling at every aspect of your living space. “Can you um, take your shoes off?” You requested, but your tone of voice made it seem like a demand. He raised a challenging eyebrow at you and took his shoes off at a painful pace. C’mon doll, being so rude to a world hero? If it weren’t for me you wouldn’t even be alive at this point. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be so rude!” You apologize quickly, pouring him a glass of lemonade.

Bucky flashed you a smile that was both sweet and sultry. Oh, the things he did to you. You handed him the cup and watched him drink it all down. Your lemonade-making skills were a bit rusty, but it seemed to you that he enjoyed the refreshment very much. Maybe a little too much. “Y’know, I might have to steal this recipe from ya. It tastes just like the way my ma used to make it.” He stared out into space blankly, his features softening completely as he spoke of his mother. You felt giddy with his praise, and he let out a coo as you looked at the bland kitchen tiles. It’s weird that you hadn’t noticed the faint footstep print. You frowned and tried to think back as to when you stepped into the kitchen with muddy shoes, and you couldn’t recall anything. “What’s wrong doll, hm?” Bucky asked, leaning over the counter. “It’s nothing.” You spoke too soon, which told him that in fact it was something. “So, have you planted any flowers?” You questioned, changing the conversation. Bucky’s jaw clenched as soon as you did, he hated that. “Yeah, some roses, some marigolds and some cosmos and I have yet to plant some asters.” He divulged into the topic of his garden and he slowly began to light up in a way that had you smiling. “The flowers are pretty, just not like you.” He spoke loudly. Your shy smile turned into a grin, and you thanked him.

“Just the truth, doll.” Doll, how many times had that nickname slipped from his lips? No, wrong question. How many times did that nickname make your poor little heart flutter? Bucky smiled as he heard your the pace of your heart beats pick up for the nth time. He walked around the counter slowly, all whilst staring at you like you were his prey. You took a step backwards but his hand on your waist stopped you. “Why? I- I don’t know what you want. Y- You’re confusing me, Buck.” You stammered, but your tone held so much frustration that he understood where you were coming from. “I want you doll, but not like this. No, one day.” His words baffled you and so did his actions. His grip left your waist but it still lingered, and he grabbed his gardening gloves. “Tomorrow, tomorrow we’ll figure this all out, doll.” He spoke softly, smiling at you. He slipped his shoes back and he left you all alone in the kitchen. Your mind replayed everything that had happened, and you were bewildered. “James Buchanan Barnes, could you be any more confusing?” You wondered aloud.

Bucky shut the door behind him and took off his shoes, leaving the gloves on the small table that was beside the door. He walked into the kitchen and plucked the Stark Industries tablet off of its charging pad. With a few gentle taps, he watched you clean up the house impassively. He chuckled, knowing that he had twisted the wires in your mind so much you couldn’t be left some with your thoughts. His long, lithe fingers paused the live video and he admired the way your tongue peaked out of your supple lips in concentration. He spotted the notebook once again and recalled the polaroid he had purloined from you. He pulled it out of his pocket and flipped it over, his eyes going wide at the image that you had kept.

Oh doll, how could you betray me like this?

[winunk]

Under A Peach Tree | iv | Akaashi Keiji x fem!OC

Chapter Four: Can I Call You Tonight?

Pairing: Akaashi Keiji x fem!OC

Summary: Akaashi isn’t sure why but he wants to spend more time with Sasaki. He’s struggling to figure out his feelings and doesn’t want to push Sasaki’s boundaries.

Genre: romance, angst, humor if you squint and think I'm funny

Warnings: cursing, incompetent author who literally does not know how to update regularly, cringe anxious teens, broken caps lock key

Word Count: 1.8k

Check out the series playlist here!

I fucked up.

I watched her walk away from me.

I fucked up.

The train was shaking me, but I couldn’t feel it.

I fucked up.

I hung my bag on a hook next to my desk.

Why couldn’t you just tell her that you wanted her around?

I dried my hair with my towel, staring back at the boy in the mirror.

Why do you even want her around?

I sunk into my bed, wrapping myself in the covers.

Tomorrow came too soon. Before I knew what was happening, I was unlocking the club room and getting all the equipment ready in the gym.

Focus, Keiji. You’ve got to get this team to the Spring Tournament again.

I began warming up as the rest of the team trickled in. I set the volleyball off the wall, and it came back perfectly to my hands.

This isn’t enough.

I started going faster, running back and forth, bouncing the ball of the wall from different angles.

Just hit that same spot.

I kept going, sweat dripping down the side of my face. The cold air of the morning pricked my skin. 

Just--

I slipped. My shoes screeched against the gym floor, stopping my feet as my body flung too far to the left. I landed on the hard ground, a sharp pain in my ankle.

I fucked up.

“Akaashi-san,” Onaga called out, rushing to my side. “Are you alright?”

I rolled over onto my back, sprawling out on the floor. “I’m sure I’ll be okay,” I reassured him.

I’m definitely not okay.

I accepted his help up, and my knees almost automatically buckled. Pain flared up in my ankle.

Well, shit.

“Yeah, you’re going home.”

Onaga called Yuka and Coach Yamiji over to help me to my feet. He explained the situation to them, and Coach gave me a pointed look before telling Yuka to wrap my ankle and lock me out of the gym.

“You’re not going to actually lock me out of the gym, are you?” I asked Yuka.

She slid the door shut with a slam.

So much for being her favorite senpai.

I started on my way home.

Where did I go wrong?

I grabbed a bag of ice on my way to my room.

I’ve never been kicked out of practice like that before.

I set the ice bag against the part of my foot that hurt the most and sat down at my desk. I started to do some work written on my to-do list, but I kept glancing at my phone. I wasn’t sure why, but I kept checking to see if Sasaki had messaged me.

Yu-chan must have told her about my injury. She had to have given Sasaki my number for managerial reasons.

I picked up my phone and started looking through my social media apps for any missed notifications.

Why do I want her to message me so badly?

I opened the video calling app on my phone and called the first person on my recents list. Really, he was the only person on my recents list.

Maybe I just want attention right now.

“AGAASHE!” Bokuto’s hair filled up most of the screen. His eyebrows filled the rest. “How are you? You never call this early in the day.”

Do I want his advice or do I just want to catch up with him like normal?

“I finished my homework early, so I thought I would call you, Bokuto-san,” I replied, rubbing the nape of my neck. “How have you been?”

“I’m doing GREAT!”

I turned down the volume.

“I took Coach’s advice and stopped practicing on our days off!” he bragged. “I’ve been spending so much time just WALKING AROUND! THERE’S SO MANY FOOD STALLS HERE!!! I’LL JUST STOP ON MY WALK AND PICK UP SOMETHING TO EAT AND BE ON MY WAY!!!”

I smiled. “That’s good for you, Bokuto-san,” I said. “You always seemed a little more tense during those week-long training camps. Training nonstop didn’t do you well.”

“BUT YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND, AGAASH!!!” he exclaimed. “THE FOOD HERE IS SO GOOOOD!!!!!!”

“I’m sure it is, Bokuto-san.”

He continued talking about how much he was enjoying Osaka. Bokuto rambled on and on about the food. He had been upset that he wasn’t on the official roster for the team at first, but he was in the pool for the team to pick players from.

“It’s actually a lot nicer than I thought it would be, Akaash!” he shouted. “I’m getting to play a lot of games without feeling the pressure weigh down on me.

“I mean sure, I have to be good enough for them to put me on their team, but everyone here is good. Not that the guys at Fukurodani aren’t good. These guys are just so good. I don’t feel like I’m being pushed into a corner though. They’re pushing for me to be better in a good way.”

I nodded along. He gave me the opportunity for me to talk about what universities I was applying to. As always, he tried to convince me to go to a school with a good volleyball team so i could play.

“Hey, why are you upset?”

I blinked rapidly, his question washing over me like cold water.

How did he know?

“I’m not upset, Bokuto-san,” I responded, trying to slow my breathing.

My heart was beating faster as my mind scrambled for something, anything, to say to shake Bokuto’s interrogation.

When was he able to read me this well?

“How was your game with Nekoma yesterday?” Bokuto asked instead. He was narrowing down on everything that could have gone wrong in the last 24 hours.

I nodded my head, looking at the stack of books on my desk. “It went well,” I said. “We lost, but only barely. They have a pretty solid team while we’re still trying to get the first-years working in sync.”

Bokuto scratched his head. “Didn’t you say there was a really good first-year hitter?”

“Mamoru-kun.”

“Mamoru-kun! How is he doing?” Bokuto asked, light flashing in his eyes. “Is he giving you as much trouble as I gave you?”

I chuckled and shook my head. “Bokuto-san, you weren’t as troublesome as you thought you were,” I reassured him. “But, uh, Mamoru-kun is shaping up very well. Anahori-kun actually got to play quite a bit in the last set of the game as well.”

His eyes narrowed and a wide grin graced his face.

Ah, so he’s caught on.

“I KNEW THERE WAS SOMETHING WRONG!” he shouted. “What’s got you so wound up?”

“You seem awfully happy that I’m upset, Bokuto-san.”

“AGAASHEE!!!”

I sighed. “So there’s this,” I hesitated, “person that I’ve gotten close with. I asked them to help Yuka-chan with her manager duties--”

“Haha! You said duties!”

“--but yesterday they quit out of nowhere,” I finished, ignoring Bokuto’s comment. “I don’t know if it was something that I did wrong, or if the team was actually stressing them out.”

My mind flashed back to Onaga’s arm around Sasaki’s shoulders. I felt my blood boil thinking about how uncomfortable she looked.

Bokuto scratched his chin. “What does this have to do with you losing to Nekoma?” he asked. Didn’t you guys just play them last weekend at the training camp?”

“I think I just got nervous with them watching,” I admitted, not realizing that it was the truth until I said it. “It’s the first game that they’ve watched, and I really wanted to impress them.”

“Oh?”

I sighed. The storm that had been brewing in my mind for the past couple days was finally settling down into a soft drizzle.

“They’ve been really distant from me, but I can see the intelligence behind their eyes. I want to spend hours talking to them about literature and school. I want to ask them a million questions about how they think the universe works.”

Bokuto laughed heartily at me.

“Why are you calling me then?”

“Wha--”

“Bye Akaashi!” he shouted. “I think you know what to do!!!”

He hung up on me. I couldn’t believe he just hung up on me. My own face looked back at me in shock.

Bokuto’s voice echoed through my room, through my mind. The phrase repeated itself over and over again.

I know what to do.

I messaged Yuka-chan.

“Took you long enough,” she sent back before sending me what I asked for.

I didn’t ask her what she meant by that.

How did Yuka-chan and Bokuto-san catch onto my feelings before I did? I’m still not even sure just how I feel.

“Hi, it’s Akaashi Keiji,” I typed out.

The blinking cursor mocked me. My thumb rapidly deleted the message and tapped out a new one.

“Hey, it’s Akaashi.”

I sent the message, my stomach uneasy with nerves.

“Can I call you tonight?”

The bubble indicating that Sasaki was typing popped up almost immediately. I felt like I was going to throw up.

Throwing my phone on my desk, I wrung my hands.

My phone buzzed, and I scrambled to pick it up. I couldn’t have her thinking I left her on read.

“I’m about to shower, but you can call me in an hour.”

I sighed in relief.

She doesn’t think I’m weird.

My phone vibrated again. “Are you alright? Did you need something?” she asked.

“I’ll call you at 19:30,” I texted back.

I’ll just explain to her what I need when i call her. Perfect. I get to talk to her.

Why do I want to talk to her?

I spent most of the next hour killing time. I cleaned my room, though it didn’t need much cleaning. I walked to the kitchen and stared at the contents of my fridge. I sat on my bed, staring at my closet in contemplation before deciding that I didn’t need to change my shirt.

By 19:28 I was lying on the ground, staring at the clock on my phone.

Should I call her exactly at 19:30? What if she thinks that’s creepy? Should I call her a little bit sooner? What if she’s busy and misses the call? Should I call her a little bit later? What if she thinks I forgot to call?

I groaned in frustration, slamming my thumb down on the screen. I quickly put my phone on speaker and laid it down next to my head.

With each ring, the pounding in my chest felt louder. My stomach felt like it was trying to dig its way into the ground.

Why is this so nerve-wracking?

“Hello?” a voice called out from the speaker on my phone. “Akaashi-san?”

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. “Hi, Sasaki-chan,” I replied.

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Taglist: [Open]

a/n: Most of this playlist/fic will be Dayglow songs. I love his music so much and they just vibe.

fun facts:

**I 100% made up Bokuto’s situation (I don’t know how pro sports works in Japan)

**Bokuto is Akaashi’s BEST FRIEND!!! just because he’s loud doesn’t mean he isn’t emotionally intelligent and knows what Akaashi needs!!!!

[sasskarian]

Your Danse fic though! Can you do something for "My heart is thrilled by the still of your hand?"

oh, nonnie, have I got a ficlet for you. 

Note: I still maintain that this is all @asaara-writes​ fault. TWs for illness, wounds, and needles.

*** Hozier Prompts! *** Read on AO3! ***

Danse has been a soldier too long to be a deep sleeper. 

That’s the first thing the Brotherhood trains you out of. The indoctrination comes later, because only a good soldier can be indoctrinated, and a good soldier has to wake up at the first hint of danger. So when he hears the first whimper from across the room, his eyes snap open. The night is quiet, except for Evelyn’s breathing. But even as he watches in the dim moonlight of the gutted building they’re squatting in for the night, her arm spasms— and the dog bellies up to her, nosing at her with a low whine. 

Now that he’s awake, he can hear the uneven, ragged edge to her breath in place of the normal steady and slow he’s used to. Switching on his low-light red headlamp, he makes his way over to her bedroll. Dogmeat looks up at him, snuffling at the quick pat Danse gives him. The closer he gets to Evelyn, the more alarm fills him until he’s kneeling next to her and trying to stay calm. Sweat beads on her forehead, rolling down her damp skin in rivulets he might find aesthetic under literally any other circumstances. In the places it’s already hit her flight suit, dark patches lay like lightless pools against her chest. 

Even as he watches, she convulses once, twice, and then a third time before falling so still, Danse checks to make sure she’s still breathing. Every good field medic has scanners built into their suits but Evelyn has something better. He tilts her Pip-Boy, fumbling with the tiny controls until, in frustration, he shucks off the heavy gauntlets and gloves of his power armor. She teases him about all but living in it, and his gut clenches as he convinces the Pip to show her vitals. He taps it, wondering for a moment if it’s malfunctioning, but the high pulse rate and low oxygen levels stay exactly the same. 

Injury detected, it reads. Deploy stimpak?

Injury? His eyes sweep over her, pinning on a darker spot than the rest and rolls down the collar of her suit, hissing. Imprinted on freckled flesh is an almost perfect set of bite marks, flaming red and hot to the touch. Danse tries, desperately, to remember when she could have been bitten. Was it the fight near the old bookstore? Or down outside of Goodneighbor? In his memory, he hears the clang of armor hitting the ground, and a pained goddammit! But when he’d looked, Evelyn had been reattaching her pauldron, a smoking mutant hound at her feet. 

I’m fine, she’d reassured, reloading her gun— the one he’d given her, some absurdly pleased part of him noted— before heading out. It’s a lie he should have known, recognized, after telling it so much himself.

How long had she been out of her armor? How long did radiation last after a radstorm? Danse searches his brain for answers but none came. Lists of symptoms, survival chances, those things dance in his brain, but the best he can do is shrug out of his own armor (that she wasn’t coherent enough to tease him about it stung) and sit on the side of her bed. 

“Come on, Evelyn,” he murmurs. Shaking hands pry out a bottle of purified water and a cloth from their supply pack, trying to clean the bite of dried blood. As he puts gentle pressure on the wound, dribbles of pus and debris come away on the rag and he rips it in half, trying to prevent contamination as he cleans her, holding on to his forced calm by the tips of his fingers.  

Danse’s scores in field medicine had been average across the board, but with his team more versed in it, those skills are rusty and fuck, he wants to kick himself for it. 

“RadAway,” he tells himself, searching the field kit. Attaching the IV to the bag is easier than finding a place to hang it; he settles on taping it to the hip-brace of his armor with the medical tape Evelyn had insisted on. Finding a vein is harder. He bit his lip as he presses on her arm, thumps it with his fingers, curls her hand into a fist. Nothing seems to work until finally, the smallest hint of blue in the dawning light shows in the back of her hand. 

Evelyn jumps and moans as he swabs the area with the cleaner side of the damp cloth and slides the needle in, her eyes fluttering. The first signs of the medicine helping come around eleven that morning, her crumpled features smoothing out a little. It’s subtle, but Danse can tell; he’s spent the entire night cataloging her every exhale and movement. Dogmeat has somehow ended up half curled on his lap, half draped over his mistress, his heavy rump giving a tentative wag when Evelyn’s breathing begins to even. 

The last of the RadAway drips from the bag, traveling down the long, thin tube to her arm, and Danse slides the IV from her with relief. Next is hydration: a stimpak will have to wait, since he isn’t sure what the mixed medications might do. But as he shifts, leaning over her to drip lukewarm water into her mouth, her hand shoots out and grabs his. 

“Nate?” Her voice cracks, ragged and wet-sounding, and oh, how his heart clenches. “I’m so cold, Nate.” 

He— what does he do here? Dozens of suggestions zip through him, at least half fueled by the heat of her hand on his. “It’s okay,” he finally manages. “You’re a bit sick. Just rest.” 

“Mm.” She curls into him, her cheek nuzzling against his thigh; Danse stares, frozen, disbelieving. “Stay? I’ve been having the worst dream.”

There’s only one answer to that, and his voice is soft, almost wondering, even as the soldier the Brotherhood raised to need nothing beyond himself quails and shivers in his cage of steel. “Of course,” he whispers. Slow, so slow and tentative, he brushes through the coppery hair spread across his lap. Danse can’t remember the last time— if ever— he’s touched someone without his gloves, and the silky slide of her curls through his fingers rocks him down to his bones. 

And that's when he knows he’s in trouble. This— the soft afternoon, with wasteland birds warbling and the touch of her hand on his— is boggy ground. He is her Paladin, her commanding officer. She is his soldier, but… she’s also a friend. In this, though, the way she rests against him, warm and shivering and somehow more real than anything else he’s felt before, Danse is knee-deep in emotion and sinking fast. 

It’s past midnight before her fever breaks. Danse has long since given up on propriety, stretched out on his side next to the bedroll to help keep her warm. Dogmeat drapes over both their feet, snoring softly in the night, and the only stretch of time measured is in the small beep the Pip gives for the alarm he set. Slowly, so he doesn’t disturb Evelyn, he reaches into his pocket for the stimpak syringe and eases it into her injured shoulder. She tenses in his arms, burrowing her face deeper into his chest, but doesn’t wake. 

(It shouldn’t feel good, right? Is he a selfish old bastard, for enjoying this simple human contact?)

Still moving slow, he nudges Dogmeat into waking. “Your turn, boy,” he says, almost soundless. The dog is smarter than most humans Danse knows, though, and he trusts him to stand watch and wake him if something goes wrong. But they’ve picked their camp well, so he doesn’t expect much trouble: Ferals were cleared long ago in another patrol, and there’ve been no signs of mutants for at least a mile. So for a moment, a desperately needed moment after almost two days of trying to keep Evelyn breathing, Danse lets his eyes droop. 

Sleep has almost claimed him when she stirs, breathing her husband’s name against his neck. Guilt lazily slides through him, that her delirium has slapped a dead man’s face over his own in her mind and he hasn’t corrected her, but shock freezes him solid when her lips brush his. Once, soft and sleepy, and then again, more firm; not quite a demand, but when her hands slide to his jaw, he knows he is definitely awake and not hallucinating from exhaustion. He pries her hands from his jaw, ignoring her quiet whine, and settles them between his chest and hers, shuddering when her fingers curl into his undersuit.

“Missed you,” she mumbles against his mouth, her breath a thousand soft pleas against his skin. 

“You’re still sick,” Danse says, summoning the words from somewhere deep inside, a place where willpower reigns over guilt and loneliness. “Rest now, Evie.” 

When she finally settles against him, her ankle resting trustingly between his and her hair tickling his nose, Danse squeezes his eyes shut against the prickling that is most definitely not tears. Paladins don’t cry, and especially not over lovers they can’t have. Loving Evelyn would be a betrayal of her trust, of his military discipline, and disrespecting the memory of her husband. (Wouldn’t it?)

But a smaller, sly part of him knows that he’ll tuck this memory in the depths of his heart: the way she feels, the heavy, reassuring warmth of her body against his. How she fits in his arms, and the silken, forbidden glint of sunlight on her curls. How soft her lips are, even in this dried out desert of horrors.

He’s not in love. He’s not. 

But his final thought, before finally dropping into sleep, is a faint wish that maybe he could be, if he let himself.

[gone-to-fight-the-fairies]

Fault

Summary: Connor is devastated after a near-fatal wound hospitalizes you, and turns all blame on himself.

A/N: Work also posted on my dbh blog, @detroit-become-me​  

Pairing: Connor (RK 800) x reader

Word Count: 2k

Persistent beeping pestered you out of your dreams. You want to roll over, to evade the blaring, and go back to sleep. But something is tugging at your arm, and the strange sensation makes you more curious than you are exhausted. There's something else on the same side, but clutching your index finger. The more you stir, the sound seems harsher. The pitch bounces around your skull, around the room, like there's no furniture or objects to soften the racket.

Where are you?

Against the strain of exhaustion and how stiff your body's become, you push your lids back, eyes settling on an unfocused setting. Blurry vision prevails, but you can detect that the walls are white... and too bright.

"Don't worry." A voice so sincere coos. It's almost angelic yet... informative. "You're safe now."

Connor.  

Turning your head quickly makes you dizzy. But he's sitting right there beside you. You blink the blur away, focusing on the softness of his facial features, which you observe to be grimmer than usual. You didn't know an android could look so worn.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

You groan at the increasing pitch, but you refuse to take your eyes off of Connor; the only thing certain in an unknown environment. The corner of his mouth twitches, but there's a heaviness to his expression.

"Relax," he tells you, cupping a hand over yours. "The threat's been eliminated. No one can hurt you now. It's all over."

What was he talking about? The revolution succeeded. Markus won the equality for the androids while Connor and Hank prevented further corruption of Cyberlife. Markus' succession speech had started... Everything was on track towards improvement.

You glance around for clues and halt on the dark splotches on Connor's otherwise pristine jacket. It's dried and... crimson? Androids bleed blue-

"You were attacked..." When you glance up at his face his gaze shifts. "At the Celebration Speech. The shooter mistook you for an android." There are gaps between Connor's words, and his eyes shifted towards the door. "I need some... air."

For a man that didn't breathe? You reaching after him, but the same restraint holds you back, and you curse at the IV.  

"Here you go, girlie." Hank's rough voice calls out a moment after and serves as his form of knocking. An object flies through the air, and you catch it before the greasy package hits your face. You nod towards the Lieutenant, and he laughs. "See, you're going to be back to normal in no time."

Hank occupies the vacant seat Connor left, unwrapping his own food. "Hell, you gave us quite a scare." You're more curious about the events that occurred than what's in your hands.

You shift, sitting up. Though your side burns and it feels like you've been stabbed. You whimper, clutching your left side. Nauseous, you push your food away.

Hank's telling you to take it easy, but you're growing frustrated at the missing information and the pain doesn't help. "I don't even know what's wrong with me."

Hank furrows his brows, glancing up from his burger, delaying his bite. "Connor didn't tell you? He practically diagnosed you himself before any responders could get through the crowd. A clean shot to the side; broke two ribs in the process. Fuck, the doctor was oblivious that the bulled nicked your liver. Connor had to fight 'em to reconsider the original diagnosis, which, from what he says, would've made you bleed out."

There's a growing lump in your throat, but better than the anxiety of the unknown. "I guess we both have troubled livers now." Hank's laugh spits out part of his burger, making you to smile momentarily before you return to seriousness. "Connor did say that someone who hates androids did this-"

"Hated," Hank corrects, and you understand immediately. Something in your expression alternates what he says next. "And, yeah, sort of. It hated Deviants. Uh... maybe we should talk about this when you're feeling better."

It?

You aren't given the proper time to calculate the information as another voice interrupts and a figure enters the room. "The robot mentioned you were awake."

Was Connor willing to talk to the entire building before you?

"He's an android, doc," Hank grumbles, crossing his arms. It wasn't easy to let go of another's mistakes, but Hank clearly didn't think much of this doctor.  

The doctor ignores Hank, checking your charts. "Vitals are stable. How do you feel?" He directed towards you while looking at the papers on his clipboard. "Wait, you're not the one with appendicitis."

"No, she's the girl you almost killed yesterday-" Hank's standing up to square off with the man, but you reach forward, ignoring the pain to tug at your friend's sleeve. "Hank." You plead, and after a long moment, he curses and waits outside the room for the doctor to finish.

When the doctor left, Hank swore up a storm worse than the blizzard days before. "Didn't even suggest you stay away from this grub." Hank held up his half-eaten burger. "Connor's smart not to trust the doctors around here. Rely too much on androids to do their God damn jobs."

Hank wanders back to the chair, and picks up his burger to resume eating, but stays standing. He's watching you, knowing that something beyond your health is bothering you. "You know, Connor somehow got into your operating room, which is beyond me. Surprised he left in such a hurry just now."

"Maybe he just didn't want to be here."

The Lieutenant takes a bite, talking with his mouth full. "I know Connor just as well as I know Japanese, but I do know that becoming a Deviant means he doesn't do anything he doesn't want. And Connor hadn't left your side for one second since you were shot." When you aren't convinced, Hank continues. "Connor blew away that piece of shit within seconds of the attack. But I think he regrets not preventing it, so it's hard for him to see you like this."

You stare at your hands placed gently on your lap. "It was an android that shot me, wasn't it."

Hank's swift change of conversation confirms your question. "You know, why don't I reel Connor back in here. He's lurking somewhere."

The Detective wanders out, only leaving his wrapper on the seat as you wonder about Connor. 

Connor leans over the rails of the second story pavilion, watching people enter and leave the hospital. Maybe he's trying to normalize what happened to you or distract himself. But diverting his attention is unsuccessful, and that seems to be fitting to the last few days of his life. The sun shines on his face. The blizzard finally abandoned Detroit, allowing the sun to shine upon the new age of freedom. But the city had never seemed so dark.

Despite the productive surgery and you regaining consciousness, he still felt the pang of fear, one which bled from his subconscious into the rational portion of his brain. Becoming a deviant meant feeling everything, and he wished he could be selective.

You were alive, and you were safe, Connor had to remember that. It provided some relief but the grit of reality to still hung in the air no matter where he went.

"You should talk to her." Hank was bound to find him sooner or later.

Connor didn't physically react, watching a woman clutch her stomach as a man wheeled her towards the emergency entrance.

"She's wondering why you ran off." Connor's led spins yellow. "Thinks it's her fault." Then red. 

"It isn't." Connor watches his friend from his peripheral. "I'm adjusting to the side effects of emotion. It isn't... pleasant."

Hanks struts up beside Connor, leaning an arm on the rails while facing the android. "Hospitals are the scariest places on Earth. Do you think I want to be here? Fuck no. But despite my triggers, there's a girl in recovery here that could use a friendly face. And if you haven't noticed, I'm not the friendly one between the two of us. So, you should get the hell back in that room."

"I don't know how to handle this." He gazes at the Lieutenant. "When you were here for Cole-"

"Do I look like a therapist to you? Figure it out, you dumb fuck." Hank's already walking away. "And stop triggering me."

Connor's Led swirls yellow, but the soft blue never returns.

"It's all my fault."

You furrow your brows by the time you make eye contact with the android. He's standing in the doorway, appearing terrified to enter.

"From what I hear, you're the reason I'm alive."

Connor shakes his head, taking a step inside. Unable to make eye contact, the android's eyes dart around the room until they land on the discarded burger in your bed. The way he zones in on it, you know he's scanning the wrapper. "That's insufficient dietary for recovery. Hank shouldn't have brought that."

The android meets your eye, and the misery on your face makes him confess. "The shooter was an android sent by Cyberlife; my replacement." Connor wanders back over to the chair beside your bed. "I should have strung Cyberlife along, making them believe I was still on their side, even towards the end. Then you wouldn't have been in the line of fire."

"So, I wasn't the target?"

Connor blinks, astounded that technicalities are your primary concern, not that he was the core reason for your hospitalization. "You blocked the shot. The... assassin," he had a difficult time saying the word. " attempted to shot through you to strike Markus."

You squeezed the android's hand. "You've saved so many lives by leaving Cyberlife. Don't ever regret that. I knew what I was signing up for by fighting for the revolution."

Connor's dark eyes remained low, making it impossible for you to detect what he was thinking. "Connor?"

"I've never seen so much crimson blood before," he admits, glancing up at you through his dark lashes. "More blue blood than all of my versions could store, but your blood..." Connor's face falls ultimately, and his eyes swell with tears, causing your stomach to churn. "I was so... scared. Becoming a Deviant has changed things, but what I felt holding you on that stage... I couldn't have ever imagined that much fear. The...pain of knowing that if I had done something differently-"

"Guilt," you remind him, knowing he was still adjusting to emotions, all of them that came with being alive. "is a sticky business, especially when it's felt unjust. You shouldn't feel guilty. Hank says I would've died without you. And this is what happens when you have people you care about when you have friends."

"But we're not just friends," Connor looks up at you. "Are we?"

Your heart thumps erratically, and you know Connor doesn't need the monitor to detect the irregularity.

"An android falling for a human... it may be the first occasion in existence. And because I wanted to be near you, with you, I didn't think of the consequences of angering Cyberlife." His voice breaks, and you can see moisture built up in his eyes. You hadn't known androids could tear up. "I shouldn't have been so selfish, I'm sorry... more than I can ever express."

Connor studies your face. "Have I said something that has made you uncomfortable? I won't bring it up again if you prefer-"

"Kiss me, Connor."

His led swirls frantically as he processes the request, while your free arm outstretches towards Connor. Your hand brushes his cheek, lingering over the false skin, how soft and even warm he felt under your touch. And the android rests into your embrace. He leans in, making it possible for you to reach up, and press your lips against his in the softest and most blissful motion.

Getting shot was worth this.

[detroit-become-me]

Fault

Summary: Connor is devastated after a near-fatal wound hospitalizes you, and turns all blame on himself.

A/N: Work also posted on my main blog, @gone-to-fight-the-fairies​​  

Pairing: Connor (RK 800) x reader

Word Count: 2k

Persistent beeping pestered you out of your dreams. You want to roll over, to evade the blaring, and go back to sleep. But something is tugging at your arm, and the strange sensation makes you more curious than you are exhausted. There’s something else on the same side, but clutching your index finger. The more you stir, the sound seems harsher. The pitch bounces around your skull, around the room, like there’s no furniture or objects to soften the racket.

Where are you?

Against the strain of exhaustion and how stiff your body’s become, you push your lids back, eyes settling on an unfocused setting. Blurry vision prevails, but you can detect that the walls are white… and too bright.

“Don’t worry.” A voice so sincere coos. It’s almost angelic yet… informative. “You’re safe now.”

Connor.  

Turning your head quickly makes you dizzy. But he’s sitting right there beside you. You blink the blur away, focusing on the softness of his facial features, which you observe to be grimmer than usual. You didn’t know an android could look so worn.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

You groan at the increasing pitch, but you refuse to take your eyes off of Connor; the only thing certain in an unknown environment. The corner of his mouth twitches, but there’s a heaviness to his expression.

“Relax,” he tells you, cupping a hand over yours. “The threat’s been eliminated. No one can hurt you now. It’s all over.”

What was he talking about? The revolution succeeded. Markus won the equality for the androids while Connor and Hank prevented further corruption of Cyberlife. Markus’ succession speech had started… Everything was on track towards improvement.

You glance around for clues and halt on the dark splotches on Connor’s otherwise pristine jacket. It’s dried and… crimson? Androids bleed blue-

“You were attacked…” When you glance up at his face his gaze shifts. “At the Celebration Speech. The shooter mistook you for an android.” There are gaps between Connor’s words, and his eyes shifted towards the door. “I need some… air.”

For a man that didn’t breathe? You reaching after him, but the same restraint holds you back, and you curse at the IV.  

“Here you go, girlie.” Hank’s rough voice calls out a moment after and serves as his form of knocking. An object flies through the air, and you catch it before the greasy package hits your face. You nod towards the Lieutenant, and he laughs. “See, you’re going to be back to normal in no time.”

Hank occupies the vacant seat Connor left, unwrapping his own food. “Hell, you gave us quite a scare.” You’re more curious about the events that occurred than what’s in your hands.

You shift, sitting up. Though your side burns and it feels like you’ve been stabbed. You whimper, clutching your left side. Nauseous, you push your food away.

Hank’s telling you to take it easy, but you’re growing frustrated at the missing information and the pain doesn’t help. “I don’t even know what’s wrong with me.”

Hank furrows his brows, glancing up from his burger, delaying his bite. “Connor didn’t tell you? He practically diagnosed you himself before any responders could get through the crowd. A clean shot to the side; broke two ribs in the process. Fuck, the doctor was oblivious that the bulled nicked your liver. Connor had to fight ‘em to reconsider the original diagnosis, which, from what he says, would’ve made you bleed out.”

There’s a growing lump in your throat, but better than the anxiety of the unknown. “I guess we both have troubled livers now.” Hank’s laugh spits out part of his burger, making you to smile momentarily before you return to seriousness. “Connor did say that someone who hates androids did this-”

“Hated,” Hank corrects, and you understand immediately. Something in your expression alternates what he says next. “And, yeah, sort of. It hated Deviants. Uh… maybe we should talk about this when you’re feeling better.”

It?

You aren’t given the proper time to calculate the information as another voice interrupts and a figure enters the room. “The robot mentioned you were awake.”

Was Connor willing to talk to the entire building before you?

“He’s an android, doc,” Hank grumbles, crossing his arms. It wasn’t easy to let go of another’s mistakes, but Hank clearly didn’t think much of this doctor.  

The doctor ignores Hank, checking your charts. “Vitals are stable. How do you feel?” He directed towards you while looking at the papers on his clipboard. “Wait, you’re not the one with appendicitis.”

“No, she’s the girl you almost killed yesterday-” Hank’s standing up to square off with the man, but you reach forward, ignoring the pain to tug at your friend’s sleeve. “Hank.” You plead, and after a long moment, he curses and waits outside the room for the doctor to finish.

When the doctor left, Hank swore up a storm worse than the blizzard days before. “Didn’t even suggest you stay away from this grub.” Hank held up his half-eaten burger. “Connor’s smart not to trust the doctors around here. Rely too much on androids to do their God damn jobs.”

Hank wanders back to the chair, and picks up his burger to resume eating, but stays standing. He’s watching you, knowing that something beyond your health is bothering you. “You know, Connor somehow got into your operating room, which is beyond me. Surprised he left in such a hurry just now.”

“Maybe he just didn’t want to be here.”

The Lieutenant takes a bite, talking with his mouth full. “I know Connor just as well as I know Japanese, but I do know that becoming a Deviant means he doesn’t do anything he doesn’t want. And Connor hadn’t left your side for one second since you were shot.” When you aren’t convinced, Hank continues. “Connor blew away that piece of shit within seconds of the attack. But I think he regrets not preventing it, so it’s hard for him to see you like this.”

You stare at your hands placed gently on your lap. “It was an android that shot me, wasn’t it.”

Hank’s swift change of conversation confirms your question. “You know, why don’t I reel Connor back in here. He’s lurking somewhere.”

The Lieutenant wanders out, only leaving his wrapper on the seat as you wonder about Connor. 

Connor leans over the rails of the second story pavilion, watching people enter and leave the hospital. Maybe he’s trying to normalize what happened to you or distract himself. But diverting his attention is unsuccessful, and that seems to be fitting to the last few days of his life. The sun shines on his face. The blizzard finally abandoned Detroit, allowing the sun to shine upon the new age of freedom. But the city had never seemed so dark.

Despite the productive surgery and you regaining consciousness, he still felt the pang of fear, one which bled from his subconscious into the rational portion of his brain. Becoming a deviant meant feeling everything, and he wished he could be selective.

You were alive, and you were safe, Connor had to remember that. It provided some relief but the grit of reality to still hung in the air no matter where he went.

“You should talk to her.” Hank was bound to find him sooner or later.

Connor didn’t physically react, watching a woman clutch her stomach as a man wheeled her towards the emergency entrance.

“She’s wondering why you ran off.” Connor’s led spins yellow. “Thinks it’s her fault.” Then red. 

“It isn’t.” Connor watches his friend from his peripheral. “I’m adjusting to the side effects of emotion. It isn’t… pleasant.”

Hanks struts up beside Connor, leaning an arm on the rails while facing the android. “Hospitals are the scariest places on Earth. Do you think I want to be here? Fuck no. But despite my triggers, there’s a girl in recovery here that could use a friendly face. And if you haven’t noticed, I’m not the friendly one between the two of us. So, you should get the hell back in that room.”

“I don’t know how to handle this.” He gazes at the Lieutenant. “When you were here for Cole-”

“Do I look like a therapist to you? Figure it out, you dumb fuck.” Hank’s already walking away. “And stop triggering me.”

Connor’s Led swirls yellow, but the soft blue never returns.

“It’s all my fault.”

You furrow your brows by the time you make eye contact with the android. He’s standing in the doorway, appearing terrified to enter.

“From what I hear, you’re the reason I’m alive.”

Connor shakes his head, taking a step inside. Unable to make eye contact, the android’s eyes dart around the room until they land on the discarded burger in your bed. The way he zones in on it, you know he’s scanning the wrapper. “That’s insufficient dietary for recovery. Hank shouldn’t have brought that.”

The android meets your eye, and the misery on your face makes him confess. “The shooter was an android sent by Cyberlife; my replacement.” Connor wanders back over to the chair beside your bed. “I should have strung Cyberlife along, making them believe I was still on their side, even towards the end. Then you wouldn’t have been in the line of fire.”

“So, I wasn’t the target?”

Connor blinks, astounded that technicalities are your primary concern, not that he was the core reason for your hospitalization. “You blocked the shot. The… assassin,” he had a difficult time saying the word. “ attempted to shot through you to strike Markus.”

You squeezed the android’s hand. “You’ve saved so many lives by leaving Cyberlife. Don’t ever regret that. I knew what I was signing up for by fighting for the revolution.”

Connor’s dark eyes remained low, making it impossible for you to detect what he was thinking. “Connor?”

“I’ve never seen so much crimson blood before,” he admits, glancing up at you through his dark lashes. “More blue blood than all of my versions could store, but your blood…” Connor’s face falls ultimately, and his eyes swell with tears, causing your stomach to churn. “I was so… scared. Becoming a Deviant has changed things, but what I felt holding you on that stage… I couldn’t have ever imagined that much fear. The…pain of knowing that if I had done something differently-”

“Guilt,” you remind him, knowing he was still adjusting to emotions, all of them that came with being alive. “is a sticky business, especially when it’s felt unjust. You shouldn’t feel guilty. Hank says I would’ve died without you. And this is what happens when you have people you care about when you have friends.”

“But we’re not just friends,” Connor looks up at you. “Are we?”

Your heart thumps erratically, and you know Connor doesn’t need the monitor to detect the irregularity.

“An android falling for a human… it may be the first occasion in existence. And because I wanted to be near you, with you, I didn’t think of the consequences of angering Cyberlife.” His voice breaks, and you can see moisture built up in his eyes. You hadn’t known androids could tear up. “I shouldn’t have been so selfish, I’m sorry… more than I can ever express.”

Connor studies your face. “Have I said something that has made you uncomfortable? I won’t bring it up again if you prefer-”

“Kiss me, Connor.”

His led swirls frantically as he processes the request, while your free arm outstretches towards Connor. Your hand brushes his cheek, lingering over the false skin, how soft and even warm he felt under your touch. And the android rests into your embrace. He leans in, making it possible for you to reach up, and press your lips against his in the softest and most blissful motion.

Getting shot was worth this.

[edourado]

Together, ch iv

Here’s chapter four, because I need something light and fluffy, to help me stomach the world. I’m sad, I’m angry, sick to my stomach, I am legit losing faith in humanity, I burst out in tears at any given moment. And I don’t want to lose my mind, so here’s me coping. 

This is nothing, its a silly piece of fluffy fanfiction, but it’s for George Floyd, for Ahmaud Arbery, for João Pedro, a 14 year old black boy from Rio who was shot by police while playing inside his home, for every black individual who died because they were black, for their families, for the protesters. This is nothing, nothing, nothing, but it has a little of my heart in it, so it’s for them. 

I hope it makes you smile.

------- 

It wasn’t long until Frank got cabin fever. 

Staying inside all day was not at all like him. How long had he been spending most of his days outside, moving, doing something, or just looking at the people walking around the street?

To Karen’s amusement - and delight - he cleaned the entire apartment, top to bottom, and was even able to remove the touch stains on the light switches. He did something to the fridge, and by the time he was done, the shelves and the door were gleaming as if had just arrived from the store, brand new. 

But the apartment was not big enough to keep him entertained for long, so he started ordering things online to improve on little stuff, like the shelves she needed for her shoes, since she had needed to make room for his, or these fancy magnets to install on bottom of  the doors, so they would stop banging shut whenever it was a little windy. He spent a whole afternoon on the phone with David Lieberman, deciding on the best cameras to install around the place.

Reading only took him so far. He went through four books before he found it hard to keep still, and it was even worse with Netflix. 

Then, one day, the masks they bought from the neighbor from two floors down were ready, and she texted to let them know she had left them at their door. 

“I thought they’d be much worse”, Karen said, after they wired the neighbor the money and collected the neatly packed masks. “These are good, look!”

She put one on and they were, indeed, much better than they both had expected. Not fancy or in any way tech advanced, but a simple cloth mask that covered mouth and nose without leaving gaps. All of them black. 

“I think I’ll order more”, Karen mused, while Frank put one on. As far as masks go, this was not the worst he had ever worn, not by a long shot. 

That night, Frank lied awake in bed, his finger twitching, unable to sleep. They had cooked a big dinner together, looking for something to do to spend the time and use the things they had on the pantry, trying to avoid spoiling food. 

Karen had also stayed awake for longer than usual, but now she breathed slowly, sleeping by his side, and Frank had given up keeping his eyes closed, and now stared at the ceiling. 

After what seemed like forever, he looked at the window and noticed that the sky was starting to become a tad lighter. When he checked his phone, it told him it was 4:34 in the morning. With a glance at Karen, he got up, careful not to wake her. 

After silently dressing, Frank picked up his phone from the bedside table and carried his shoes to the living room, stopping to pick up one of the masks they had washed before starting on dinner. The radiator had dried them all completely, leaving them warm and crisp feeling. 

Closing the apartment door silently behind him, he locked it and then moved quickly down the stairs. 

He couldn’t take a proper breath in, with the mask covering his mouth and nose, but the fresh air that made it through his lungs when he inhaled deeply were enough to make him feel better already. Looking at the empty street before him, Frank set off for the first jog he had in years. 

Ever since he came back from his last tour, he favored other ways of exercising. Jogging was neither possible nor efficient after the whole mess, but it felt good, it felt natural, to run without hurry and from nobody, not chasing anybody. Run for the sake of running. 

He was on a break by the river, almost an hour later, when his phone pinged. 

“Ok”, said Karen’s text, in reply to the one he had sent her before he left the apartment, letting her know he was off for a run. “Have fun”, and then, almost as an afterthought, “Be careful. Don’t touch anything and don’t take off your mask.”

“Yes, ma’am”, he replied. 

Frank ran for a good while. Not counting the time, or the miles, or his heartbeat, he just ran, took breaks, walked and then ran some more, looking as the morning made the city brighter, noticing how strange it the streets looked, so empty, even this early. He ran and he wished he could take off his mask, but he didn’t, happy that at least he was able to breathe some fresh air and not see any walls around him, for a change. 

The sun was up when he turned to make his way back, at 7:15.

There was a bakery one corner away from home, and the smell of fresh bread lured him in. A man in uniform, a mask and gloves told him they just took a fresh batch out of the oven, and Frank bought a few, along with cheese and two cups of coffee (which they had at the apartment, but he figured these people were risking themselves to provide food for the neighborhood and try and keep their business alive, so what’s two cups of extra coffee?)

“Thank you so much for your support” said the guy, handing him the bag and the cup holder through a window. 

“Thank you”, Frank replied, happy for this little slice of normal. “You guys open tomorrow?” 

“From seven to seven.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then. Name’s Frank.”

“I’m Ray. See you, Frank. Have a good day.”

He walked the rest of the way, and had to balance his purchases in one hand while taking the key from his shoe, towing said shoes off and unlocking the door, walking in in his socks.”

“Frank?” Karen called from the bedroom.   

“I’m here” he called back, starting the new strange process of cleaning the things he brought home with him. 

After putting the warm bread on the designated bread basket and disposing of the paper bag, he transferred the cheese to a clean container and the coffee to the coffee pot, where Karen had not yet pushed the button to brew. 

After his shower, he walked to the bedroom, feeling much, much better than he felt before getting up this morning. 

Karen was still in bed, phone in hand, and smiled at him when he walked in. 

“Hi”, she greeted, and he walked to her. “Enjoy your run?”

“Hmm”, was his answer, lying down half on top of her, kissing her gently, closing his eyes when her hands caressed his hair. “I brought breakfast.”

“I can smell it”, she said, softly. “That show we wanted to watch is available on Netflix. Wanna eat on the couch and watch it with me?”

He made them egg sandwiches and brought it to the couch while she cued the new show on TV, and when he settled down to watch it, he didn’t feel restless or that itch that made him want to get up every five seconds. 

What a difference, a run made. 

.:.

He came back to the apartment on the fourth day with croissants and the usual coffee, sweating profusely, since he had not made any stops this time, nor did he walk, and the jog was just straight up sprinting.

“Kare?” he called from the kitchen.

“I’m here!” she called back, and he saw her hand waving at him through the window. She was in the fire escape. 

He had to deal with the sanitizing of the shopping and then a shower, so it was a few minutes before he walked to the living room window. 

Before he got to the ledge, she popped her head inside and smiled at him. 

“I got you something.”

When Frank ducked to climb out to the narrow fire escape, he saw what she had gotten: a hammock. 

Cream colored, she had tied it on the iron bars above head, it hung a good few inches above the floor. She had placed two throw pillows in it, plus a heavy blanket. 

“You’ve been feeling so cooped up, I thought this would maybe help a little.

Turning to her, Frank smiled and moved to kiss her. 

“You didn’t have to do that”, he said, a hand caressing her hair. 

“I wanted to. I’m only sorry it took so long to arrive, I ordered it almost a month ago.”

Frank looked at the hammock, swaying lightly in the wind, and thought that this small act, this simple purchase for his benefit made him a little more sure that she meant it, when she said she loved him. 

It was silly, he knew that, but there still was a little part of him that expected her to wake up one day and realize that all she thought she felt for him was nothing but the thrill of the danger, the forbidden, the very ill advised act of rebellion, or even misinterpreted feelings of concern and worry and gratitude.

The fact that she didn’t run away from him after they slept together for the first time, or asked him to stay after the second third fourth and so on, asked him to move in, gave him a key, made room for his things, made room for him, bought him a hammock. It all told him that yeah, she was serious about that love. 

“Maybe we can have breakfast here?” he suggested, and she beamed, nodding. 

“So you like it?”

“I do”, he said against her mouth. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Settle in, I’ll get the food.”

 They ate the croissants and drank the coffee while sharing the hammock, after adjusting the height a little bit. 

“This is so good”, she said around a mouthful of warm croissant, taking a sip of coffee, looking out at the street below them. 

Frank watched as the morning light caught in her hair, how it made her eyes shine just a tad bluer, accentuated the few freckles she had on her nose.

“Yeah, it is”, he agreed, squeezing her foot under the blanket, thankful that, if he had to be stuck inside, at least it was with her.  

[vendettacanons]

(💔) My muse help washes blood off your muse. -> Jacob and Lisa || @maximuses

⚔️ Moonlight Aesthetic Prompts // CLOSED ⚔️

That was close. Way too close.

Finding Jacob like that had instilled a new level of distress Lisa wasn’t even aware she was capable of. She would’ve been impressed if she hadn’t felt so helpless. She’d screamed so loud it scared the birds from their trees, scared the wolves from the hills, and caught the attention of some Judges who immediately alerted their accompanying Chosen to find the source. A stroke of blind luck it was. Had they been maybe a couple of meters further away, they never would’ve heard her, never would’ve gotten Jacob back in time. Lisa sat in the back of that pickup truck for six agonizing minutes trying to resuscitate Jacob while the roaring vehicle beneath them ripped the grass from the dirt pushing 160 across the region towards the Veteran’s Center, all the while trembling so violently from the stress on its mechanics she feared it might shake itself apart beneath her.

Her arms burned, her lungs ached, and she felt like fainting, but she kept going. Kept giving compressions. Kept giving breaths until she was certain she felt Jacob’s pulse beneath her fingers, fluttering as faintly as an injured butterfly but still there. She did everything she could to keep that little flutter going. She talked, laughed, cried, screamed, threatened, praised. Anything and everything that might keep him alive. It bought him time. Precious valuable time for him to be transferred into a proper bed, given the necessary IVs and patch jobs, and stabilized enough to say with confidence that he’d make it through the night. And Lisa sat with him through it all.

When the morning light shone in, Lisa awoke to a gentle hand rubbing over her scalp. Calloused fingers brushed softly through golden blonde strands, a quiet voice whispering her name amongst a series of psssts, honeys, sunshines, and darlin’s. She raised her head after a short while, rubbing at her sleepy eyes and peering up through sunshine-colored lashes to see the weak grin playing on Jacob’s face. The sight was enough to bring her to tears. He held his arms open, welcoming the way she leaned up and gently rested her own against his shoulders, placing a chaste kissed to his chapped lips and resting her forehead against his. She mumbled how worried she was that she would lose him, how scared she’d been when she found him half-dead against the rocks on the mountain (hill?) like that. And he tenderly reassured her that he would be fine because he was strong. Because he had her. And for a moment his tone wavered, his brow twitched, his voice cracked— because in that moment he realized how close he’d been to never seeing her again.

He remembered how his last thoughts had been of her.

She realized that, aside from the medically necessary stuff, the cult had done little to clean Jacob up. His face was still smeared with dirt and coagulated blood, and his hair was matted with grit and dried sweat. His dark circles were as prominent as ever and his clothes would need a power wash just to get the surface layer of grime out of the fabric— a necessity, considering she knew Jacob would never get rid of his prized army jacket. She couldn’t do much about his clothes while he was still complaining of soreness and stuff muscles, and though that made Lisa’s cheeks puff out in a small bout of frustration, she figured then at least she could clean his face off and do his hair. And that’s exactly what she set out to do.

“Hold still now.” Lisa murmured, dabbing at a dry patch of blood on his cheek until it grew moist enough to wipe off. Jacob hummed as the rag drew lower down his face, warm water and pleasantly coarse fabric caressing through his beard.

“The hell is in that water? It smells good.” He mused, half tempted to lick his lips and see if it tasted half as nice.

“It’s green tea with lavender extract and thyme mixed in. It’s great for cleaning and it’ll make your skin nice and soft. Maybe even help you sleep.”

“I got you for that, don’t I?” He chuckled when Lisa’s cheeks grew rosy and she mumbled at him softly to hush up. It made his chest ache and burn something fierce, but the warmth of her hand against his now clean cheek made all the pain fade away like it was nothing.

It took Lisa a bit to finish up with his face before moving onto his hair. She wet a brush over and over again, running it through short red locks until the oil and dirt was out before towel drying it and smoothing it back into place. “Just one more thing she commented.”

She had Jacob’s curiosity until she pulled out a familiar looking tube of green goo and he groaned. “Oh come on, not that again—“

“Come on, it’s good for exfoliating your skin! It’ll make it nice and soft and it’ll smell good.”

“You’re not putting that on my face again.”

[exodusmc]

Outsider 06

Genre: Power au, war au, rebel au

Words: 1495

Paring: Light manipulator Baekhyun  x  Lieutenant Reader

Side character/s: Yixing

Warning!: Mentions of nightmares, drugs, medical equipment, needles,  stop of puls, talk about death

a/n: Chanyeol’s solo is so beautiful and I really like that Vivi is in Sehun’s. :)

Gif is not mine 

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The reflexion in the mirror looked tired, weak with bitten lips. Baekhyun stared at himself, not believing it was him. Was that really him? Looking so empty? It was and he shouldn't be surprised. Ever since he had been caught and put in the box had he not been forced to make sure he survived, no, he would just wake up and there would be something to eat, which meant he had time to think, remember all the suppressed nightmares swirling in his mind. A sigh pushed past his mouth, orbs slipping through the empty room. He was alone, like most of the time, and it hurt. Before could he at least pretend but that wasn't the case anymore, his differences always shoved in his face. 

Getting out from the bathroom, Baekhyun tensed. Beside the guard were you standing, talking lowly. The door shut behind him and he felt dread pinch his skin, you gazed at him, speaking words which dried his mouth.

“Good morning Byun, I have to perform some tests which had been left out from your file.”

-

The light was dim, a lone chair standing in the middle, Baekhyun sitting on it. Tubes and machines were connected to him, pierced his skin. You stared through the glass, glaring at his vitals, making sure you didn't miss a thing. The black patch attached to his forehead read his brain waves, another right over his heart. A special form of drug had been given to him, a drug which let your organs keep working but taking away you, the power to move when you wanted. It didn't work for too long and if it was given in high doses could it kill. 

“Put on the first scenario…”the hospital didn't have everything needed to perform all of the tests but you were unsure if you really wanted to do the worst ones.

His brain waves increased, signaling he started to see pictures from the needle in his neck, heartbeat going a little faster. What you knew was there only images of the republic sigil and ads beings shown but his reaction still fueled by fear. Someone wrote down his vitals, every move of the green line.

“Next one..”an exhale left you, eyes following his still body, but the line turned straight.”What is he shown?”

Darkness creep up Baekhyun's legs, clawed at flesh until it was everywhere. Thick and like oil, swallowing him whole. He felt like he was a child again, covering in his room, crying. Figures moved around, grabbed him, tore his skin. Air couldn't reach his lungs, shallow breaths racing through his body, but it wasn't enough. Panic crawled over his numb limbs, unable to move, to see. 

“No no no NO!”suddenly was there no darkness or monsters, only light. It held him carefully, cradled his tear stained face. His lips were parted, chest slowly stopping the rushed intake of oxygen. He relaxed but kept the light close, let it be a part of him, making him less lonely.

Yixing watched you with surprised eyes. He had never seen anything like this happen before, a high ranking person struggling to help an unnatural. When Baekhyun’s mind had panicked, creating a light so bright it crushed the glass and machines, had you jumped to him. All the tubes were taken out from his trembling body, hands helping him down on the floor as you searched for a pulse and breathing. You hadn't felt it at first, even when his body jerked, so you performed cpar, hands burning from the sheer heat he was lingering in. It had been so bright, his light, bright like you had never seen before. And when a sigh left him, were you panting by his side. Baekhyun survived but didn't open his eyes. That’s when Yixing stepped in, taking the sleeping boy to one of his rooms, however, now could he be sure, sure that you would help him as the time came. 

-

Why? Why did you jump through glass, ripping your arms open, just so you could help the unnatural? You shouldn't care but you had and it hurt your head. Bandages wrapped around your wounds, laying softly against the wood as you wrote, letters not as neatly as they should be. Byun was scared of the dark, so much so he almost became pure energy in the form of light. You had closed your eyes just in time to keep your sight. He had been on the brink of death, a few wires having tron his skin open. 

“Case 04’s biggest weakness known as of now is darkness. It forced his body to turn into the most primitive way of protection, almost killing himself in the process…”he had lit up like a thousand stars, black hair burning gold together with his eyes. It scared you slightly, because it meant that the unnatural were extremely powerful, but at the same time was it dangerous for themselves.”...Case 04 were unable to continue tests after. Lieutenant Shin Y/n Juniela 23 year 4508, time 20:02.”

The pen landed against your desk, laid still as you stared. Ever sinces you got to this place with case 04, had your head hurt. You had seen things, felt things, done things, you shouldn't. It was like your reality was slowly crashing down, lies reaching up to your ears. Never had the scared eyes affected you but it changed, made you want to throw up when you were the monster in their eyes. The nightmares felt like memories and you couldn't think of the unnatural as bad. Red and black were what you wore but it meant nothing. 

Outside your window was the world in peace, grass covering the ground, but there was so much more going on, you just couldn't see it like you used to, hidden so far away from it all. Rebels were coming close and they were after what you fought for, maybe even you, because even if you hadn't killed in months, didn't it mean you’ve never done it before. Crimson had splatted over your boots and they had gotten cleaned of, while whoever was unfortunate was forgotten, erased from this life.  Killing was what you did, raised on fear and anger, but they were put on the wrong people. Innocent were no one, however, some were evil. 

A sigh passed your lips, glass panes open so wind could stroke against you cheek. You eyed the forest, wondering of the world’s secrets and what it was like living in the past. All of earth couldn't be dying, there had to be a place which was blooming, full of life like it was back then. There had to be a place where you weren't a killer.

-

Baekhyun groaned, mind groggy and body sore. The last thing he remembered were needles, so many needles poking his skin. But then there was darkness, and his throat clogged up. Sitting up rapidly, Baekhyun felt his head spin, whatever he had in his stomach coming rushing up. Someone held out a bucket were the content of  his stomach could fill, coughs rising up through his lungs as he tried to breathe. Baekhyun saw his hand through the unshed tears in his eyes and felt more panic hit him. A needle with a clear tube was connected to him, just like before. Muffled cries left him, fingers trying to rip the tube out.

“No no, Baekhyun.. relax..”Yixing held back Baekhyun’s hand, forcing him to keep his breath until it steadied and he slumped back down on the white sheets.”..It’s okay..It only an IV bag with saline..for your dehydration..” 

Cloudy orbs moved around the room, lips dry. Yixing exhaled, staring at the white bandages Baekhyun wore, swallowing when the boy leaned back. 

“It’s okay now, I promise..”the doctor started writing and Baekhyun couldn't stop feeling like when he was lock on the chair, but his arms were free, he could move.”..You’re alive because of Lieutenant Y/n and that is great news, it means our chances of getting out of here increase ten fold.”

Yixing spoke but Baekhyun couldn't get over the first part of his statement. You saved him? Why? You were the one who put him in that situation in the first place, so why save him? Did you know something?

“Sleep some more..”Dr Zhang's voice broke the spirleiling of Baekhyun’s thoughts, coaxing his heavy eyelids to fall down, but he couldn't stop thinking about you, what your motivation was, where you had your heart..if you had a heart. He almost felt scared of the thought of you having no heart to strear you. In some ways were you like him, alone and not like anyone else. His eyelashes fluttered as new thought danced across his mind, made him see your empty eyes filled with something else. Maybe you were even more of an outsider than he was.

Tags: @shesdreaminginoverdose​

[neuro-whump]

Lost In Transit, Part 3

This is my entry to the Box Boy Extended Universe which was originally created by @sweetwhumpandhellacomf and written by @shameless-whumper and I’m using a lot of world-building which was done by @ashintheairlikesnow. Still somewhat vague on hospital procedure here, only semi-deliberately.

CN: Dehumanization, human trafficking, mass casualty events (referenced), dehydration, amnesia, mistaken identity, box boy universe, vomiting, bed-wetting, IVs

Part 2

Kenna was already having a bad second unsupervised day of work ever when she left their nameless patient to run his blood to the labs, and and do all the things that her regular assigned patients in the neuro ward still needed even when there was a all-hands-on-deck, honest-to-god mass casualty event filling the ER and flowing out into the hallways, failed to get the charge nurse to find an empty bed, and finally to go back to the ER, which was still overflowing - but maybe, finally, was beginning to overflow less - and managed to look in on him for just a moment before rushing off to take care of all the tasks and people who were more urgent than the scared, disoriented kid huddled in a corner behind a hastily erected curtain.

He didn’t seem better, and she made a note in his chart like she’d been taught and meant to find Joey or Dr. de Courcy and ask about it but Joey was up to her elbows in a code and she couldn’t even find Dr. de Courcy before the next set of ambulances arrived and then she was pulled into a trauma bay with a medical resident and neither of them knew where the burn dressings were and by the time she had time to check on or talk to anyone she had blood spattered on her scrubs and their mystery patient was doubled over being violently sick.

No one else really seemed to have noticed. He was out of the way without a call button and, compared to the general hubbub, not making much noise. And sitting, terribly precariously on a gurney without the side rails up (she should have put those up, why did she forget to put those up). She went over to him and braced his shoulders so he wouldn’t tip off onto the floor. Finding a basin seemed like a waste of effort anyway, he was already a mess.

“I’ve got you,” she said to him, “I’m right here, just just let this happen. It’ll be over soon.”

“I need a hand,” she yelled, and she hoped her patient was too preoccupied to notice how squeaky her voice had come out.

One of the ER nurses - Dana, or was it Carla - stuck her head around the curtain.

“I need -“ Kenna started, then took a breath and tried to sound like a professional, “Joey and Dr. de Courcy assessed him earlier but he’s deteriorating, and de Courcy wants him admitted to neuro and I can’t find a bed.”

Dana-Carla nodded briskly and left again and Kenna, who went back to trying to comfort her patient.

He was still retching periodically, even though he didn’t seem to have much left to bring up, and sobbing pitifully.

“S-sorry,” he gasped, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry,” she said, “you just got a bit sick, is all.”

Really, he was more than a bit sick, and covered in vomit and dried-on salt and amber coloured urine. Why was he still so dehydrated?

“Is that why you’re upset?” she murmured to him, “because you had an accident? These things happen, no one’s mad, we’ll get you cleaned up right away. Just hang in there.”

She leant over to check his IV, but it was working fine. She opened it up wider anyway and hoped it would help.

“I’m sorry, I - ow,” he started again, and then shuddered and trailed off into a thin, pitiful whine and gagged again, curling up with his arms around his stomach.

Kenna stroked his shoulder a little bit, and tried to figure out what the hell she was supposed to do. He needed a bath, before the stomach acid started burning his skin, and clean bedding and a damn hospital gown because he was still naked under the soiled sheet, and she knew that and knew how to get all those things done in a real ER room, but to get any of those things right now, she’d have to leave her sobbing, disoriented patient unattended because she was actually standing in a corner of the waiting room with a curtain around it which hadn’t come up at any point in training because this whole day was insane.

Kenna was still standing around being an indecisive lump about what to do when Dr. de Courcy swept in. She’d been hoping for Joey.

“There’s an open bed now in 281,” she said, with no preamble, “don’t let them brush you off just because you’re new. When did this start?”

“Sorry,” Kenna sputtered, “um, he was about - that is, unchanged about an hour ago, and he was vomiting when I next saw him.” She could feel herself blushing, she felt like an idiot.

Dr. de Courcy looked them both over, and bent down to talk to their patient. He was already looking at her, he’d quieted and had his eyes fixed on her since she walked in.

“Do you remember swallowing anything before you arrived here 798591?” she asked.

He nodded miserably, with tears streaming out of his eyes.

“Can you tell me what it was?”

“There was some water,” he whispered, “and I thought I was supposed to.”

“And did that taste salty, or unpleasant?”

He nodded, “I’m sorry,” he whimpered, “I was bad, I’m sorry.”

“You’re just confused,” said Dr. de Courcy, soothingly, “I don’t think you’ve done yourself much serious damage, now, I need you to lie down so I can examine you, and then Kenna is going to take you upstairs and get you properly settled, and hopefully more comfortable.”

It was pretty clear that the last thing he wanted was to have someone press their hands into his obviously tender abdomen and Kenna wished she could stay and hold his hand through it, but he needed the be admitted properly and the ER needed the space and she could, occasionally, take a hint.

When she got back with a wheelchair he was sitting back up with his arms wrapped protectively around his stomach, still staring at Dr. de Courcy while she wrote out a prescription.

“You can give him an H2 antagonist for a few days, for any lingering gastritis,” she said, and handed Kenna the prescription, “I’m not changing Joanna’s prescription for the dehydration, it should work better when he doesn’t have a gut full of salt water and I’ve put in an order for repeat labs.”

Kenna looked at the orders and devoutly hoped she’d be off shift before it was time to redo the labs in the middle of the night.

Dr. de Courcy did help her get their patient into the chair, which Kenna appreciated, and then walked off without any indication of what she was planning to do with him other than store him in the neurology unit, which she did not.

The patient, who still didn’t have a name, Kenna supposed they should be calling him John Doe really, sat quietly and let Kenna dress him in a hospital gown and wrap the blanket he’d been brought in wearing around his shoulders so it wouldn’t get lost, and take him up to room 281 where the hospital gown was promptly tossed in the laundry and the blanket was tossed onto a chair until she could store it with the rest of the patient’s belongings.

“Alright, 79- um, oh boy I wish I knew your actual name, I’m going to give you a shower and get you your medication and then you’ll feel much better, sound good?”

He didn’t answer. He was crying quietly again.

“What’s the matter?” she asked, while she wound plastic around his IV port to keep it dry, “is the pain really bad? Can you tell me if its bad?”

He shook his head, which might have meant it wasn’t, and might have meant that he couldn’t tell her.

“Can you stand up,” she asked, “just until I get you into the shower.”

He nodded.

She got him into the shower and cleaned him off and tried to examine him properly and usefully, like a real nurse. She had definitely been taught how to do this without spattering herself with water, but she needed clean scrubs anyway.

Under the layer of salt and grime he was covered in superficial scrapes and bruises she tried her best not to put any more pressure on them than she had to. He’d obviously fallen forward at some point, there were a matched set of deep grazes on both his knees and the palms of his hands.

There was also a barcode tattooed onto his left wrist, with a tiny neat string of numbers underneath it 7-9-8-5-9-1.

It made a curl of anxiety form in her belly, which, in turn, made her feel a bit like a hysterical little girl.

She focused on talking him through the shower, and getting all the salt out of his hair, and coaxing him into rinsing his mouth out - he seemed uneasy about the mouthwash, which made her think he was still nauseated - and then drying him off and getting him into bed and a clean hospital gown. He was quiet through it, leaning on her a little while she transferred him into the bed, still staring at her with sad dark eyes like a fawn. He looked a little bit like a fawn actually, skinny and wide-eyed. The caramel coloured hair, currently dark from the shower, didn’t help. The thought caught in her head and jammed.

“I’m going to get you that medication now, alright,” she said, “I’ll be right back.”

“I don’t think she likes me,” he said suddenly.

“What’s that sweetie?” she asked.

“She’s going to send me back,” he whispered, his lower lip trembled, “I don’t want her to send me back, I don’t want to be r-refurbished.”

The curl in Kenna’s stomach curled a bit tighter. But she was the professional here. She comforted people while she was at work. People could comfort her when she was off the clock - whenever that actually was today.

“Do you mean Dr. de Courcy?” she asked.

He nodded. Two big tears dripped out of his eyes.

“Oh sweetheart,” she said, “No one’s going to send you anywhere. You’re safe. I promise you’re safe.”

More tears. She decided that, given it was late and they were both having a crappy day, that a few half-truths probably wouldn’t hurt anyone.

“Besides,” she continued, “I think Dr. de Courcy likes you just fine. We’re just having a bit of a crazy night, and she’s just sort of scary like that all the time, its just her personality. She scares me too.”

That seemed to work. He nodded and tried to give her a watery little smile. It wasn’t a very good attempt. But she patted his forearm and left to get the prescription, and bandages.

Fawn stared dubiously at the pills when she brought them back.

“I know,” she said, “I know you don’t feel like swallowing anything right now, but these are to help your stomach feel better.”

He took them with a vague look of hurt in her general direction but by the time she’d got him medicated, and settled into bed and dressed the worst of the cuts so he wasn’t bleeding onto the sheets he seemed calmer and better focused.

“What’s this, sweetheart?” she asked him, picking up his tattoo’d wrist.

He looked at it like he’d just noticed it was there.

“The identifying bar code means I can be returned if I am lost,” he said flatly.

Returned to who? Kenna wondered, but she didn’t ask, because she was afraid to hear the answer.

“Well, you’re safe here tonight,” she said, and smoothed the blankets down around him, “and the call button is right here,” she pointed, “so if you need anything at all, or if you’re feeling too unsteady to get to the bathroom and manage the IV pole you can just press on it, and someone will come and help you.”

He nodded, but Kenna had a weird feeling about it, so she said again, “you can press the call button for whatever, okay, even if you’re just afraid. Its okay, its allowed.”

Okay, so, possibly the night-shift staff were going to hate her, but she really wasn’t sure he believed her about the button, and he looked so pitiful.

While she was fussing over him, Joey walked in.

“Carla said there was an issue with the IV?” she asked.

“Oh,” said Kenna, “no, he wasn’t hydrating well, but it turns out he swallowed a bunch of salt water, we think, well, Dr. de Courcy thinks. Dr. de Courcy said the original IV should be fine, but I turned it up bit.”

Joey came over and checked the line, and then bent over to talk to Fawn.

“Feeling any better?” she asked.

He nodded.

“Got a name for us yet?” Joey asked.

Fawn shook his head, “Dr. de Courcy didn’t want to give me one.”

Joey grimaced. In fairness, Kenna also grimaced.

“Well,” she said, “I’ll ask her about that.  Maybe she’ll come up with something.”

Fawn sat up and smiled at her, “really? Is she going to come back?”

“Sure,” said Joey, “ but she’s going to come see you sometime tomorrow and its late now, so you should just try and have a good sleep okay? Would you like Kenna to turn the light off for you?”

“Can it stay on?” Fawn asked in a whisper, lying back down and curling himself up around the pillow and shutting his eyes.

“Sure hon,” said Joey, and left.

Kenna wished him good night, which he didn’t respond to, and went to talk to Joey.

“Everything okay,” Joey asked her, when she caught up.

“I am,” she said, “freaking myself right out.”

“What’s up?” said Joey.

“Fawn - um - John Doe, has a barcode tattooed on his wrist with that number he answers to under it. And he insists he was inside a box and he doesn’t want to be sent back. And its just, way too much.” Kenna explained, all in one go so she couldn’t chicken out half way through, “today is insane. Today is just insane right? People don’t get shipped around in boxes. Right?”

Joey looked at her and just sighed.

“Today is, in fact, insane,” she said, “but I don’t think you are. You need to tell Dr. de Courcy.”

“What,” squeaked Kenna.

“She’s his attending physician,” Joey explained. “Besides, if there’s going to be, like, legal weirdness, we won’t have to wrangle any lawyers if she’s there to do it.”

Kenna gulped, “where do I—“ go tell the most intimidating person in the hospital my insane-sounding, and possibly straight-up insane theories?

“If she’s not still in the ER or in her office she’s probably gone back to lay down in her coffin,” said Joey.

“Why does everyone make that joke?” Kenna asked, “I think you’re the third person I’ve heard say she does that.”

“Oh you don’t—“ Joey started, “I’ll tell you later.”

Kenna found Dr. de Courcy in her office, so at least she didn’t have to make a spectacle of herself in the middle of the ER where people could see her.

“Kenna. Come in,” she said, before Kenna could ask.

“I’m worried about our John Doe,” Kenna started.

“Is he displaying new symptoms?” Dr. de Courcy interjected in the space of Kenna gathering her thoughts.

“No, — I mean —“ Kenna babbled, and then tried to sound professional, “the patient’s condition is unchanged, but some of the observations I’ve made —“ she gave up, it was too late, and she was too tired, and she was going to sound insane either way, “I think John Doe might actually have been, being, you know, um, shipped in a box?”

Dr. de Courcy looked up from her computer and stared at Kenna, “which observations?”

“He talked about being in a box,” said Kenna, “and when I spoke to him earlier he was really scared of being ‘sent back’, and I know he might just be delusional, but he is responding to a string of numbers he has tattooed onto his wrist instead of a name and - and  I know I’ve been watching stupid videos on Youtube, and believe me I’m going to stop, but he’s got a really weird form of amnesia right?”

“He does,” Dr. de Courcy said, “and I will be interested to see how many of my residents are able to make the same observation. And while I do not have what could be reasonably described as an appreciation for your taste in media, I do agree. I’ll write the hospital legal department. How widely have you discussed this?”

“I talked to Joey,” said Kenna.

“That’s fine,” she said, “but please refrain from talking to anyone else until we’ve got either ironclad confirmation . I’d prefer the public outcry to be over facts, rather than speculation, if at all possible.”

“Yes Doctor,” said Kenna, which made her sound like a nurse in a starched cap from an old movie, but honestly Dr. de Courcy just had that effect on people, the more experienced nurses all did it to, and most of the doctors here went by their first names.

[marvel-lucy]

The Ultimate Weapon, chapter 14

Bucky’s POV

I didn’t trust her, not for one moment. Sure, I felt sorry for her when we found her, but that was it. We’d been making our way through the base in Siberia for a few minutes – me, Tony, Steve, Nat and Clint. Bruce was waiting out in the quinjet in case we needed anything demolishing by the big guy. The base was heavily armed and had a lot of Hydra soldiers, but it was no great issue to smash our way through it. After a while, we got to more heavily secured areas – fewer soldiers, but a lot more doors. Tony left one of his Iron Legions with us to break down the doors and went off with Clint to start the data retrieval process, vital to find the next base, and the rest of us carried on through.

We were pretty low down in the sub-levels by now and came across a row of locked cells. Typical Hydra interior design – concrete, damp, cold. Most of them were empty although the scratches on the walls and marks on the floor showed they’d been occupied once. Lucky occupants made it out, whether walking or carried, it had to be better than in. Fourth cell along and we found the first body, a young man. He was well muscled but I guess he didn’t feel too well given that his eyes had melted onto his cheeks and he’d bled out through his ears. Nat did a quick check but he was definitely dead. Two cells further along and we found another body, we didn’t check this one – from the smell alone we could tell this one was not going to be perking up any time soon. I pitied anyone who’d been near that smell for long, and then we walked along to the final cell and found someone else. Someone alive.

She was sitting on the floor at the back of the cell, pushed right back into the corner behind the bed. Eyes open and staring straight ahead, I thought she was dead until I saw her frantic breathing. She was pretty small, probably starved, but well-muscled, and heavily scarred. Her face was a mess, she’d obviously taken a heavy beating at some point and her teeth were smashed in and it looked like a broken cheekbone. Her hair had been hacked off in lumps, no doubt to attach electrodes at some point. I could guess what she’d been through, we’d passed enough rooms full of torture devices to guess, and I figured her mind was probably broken. If I’d been on my own, I’d probably have shot her, it would have been kinder. Nat probably felt the same, but Steve was with us and he’s nothing if not ridiculously honourable.

So, the Iron Legion blew off the lock and Nat went in. We thought she was probably paralysed with fear but as Nat got closer she could hear the start of a whimper, getting louder as she got closer. Nat, not known for her gentle ways, tried out a variety of ‘OK, we’re not here to hurt you’ and ‘sshh’ then the girl stood up, fast. Standing you could see she was even more hurt than we’d thought. At least three of her fingers were broken, there was dried blood and fresh on a number of wounds, burn marks, cuts, you name it. Her ribs were standing out and it was surprising she had the strength to move but suddenly she attacked. Nat was fast, of course, and fought back, and Steve stepped in as well and managed to get a tranq into her but she was strong. She’d obviously been enhanced, and that was when I started to worry about what we were taking on.

Steve took her back to the jet while Natasha and I finished checking the base. We had a few Hydra agents captive – Tony and Clint had already called in Jarvis to send a carrier – and quite a few bodies. I loaded up some of the equipment that Tony wanted to investigate, left them to finish up and headed to the jet.

Bruce had secured the girl with restraints, although if she was enhanced I doubted they’d hold, so he had given her another dose of sedative. I got everything loaded and Nat started the pre-flight routine and then set us on course for Stark Tower, before setting autopilot and coming back. The four of us stood and looked at her. She was, quite frankly, unappealing. Filthy, starved, broken and highly dangerous. She was obviously young but she was a Hydra tool. I knew what that meant, I’d been one too. I kept my thoughts to myself though, and waited until we all got back.

Once we were at Stark Tower, Nat and I got on with unloading and reports, while Steve and Bruce, the softer-hearted ones, took her up to the medlab. She was still sedated, so Bruce brought in one of our on-call doctors. By this time, I’d headed up to the medlab too to patch up a few cuts. The doctor whistled when he saw the state she was in – and he was used to us – and set about his work. Antibiotics, fluids and nutrient IVs, wounds cleaned and stitched, basic scans done. Result: she was definitely enhanced. She had severe internal and external injuries. She’d survive. He talked to Bruce quietly about sedative doses then arranged to send a nurse to help with the basic care and left.

Tony and Clint were back by now, Hydra agents handed over, data transferred for later research, so all of us stood over her and waited for each other to speak. It was Steve who started. “We have a duty to help her…” was all he managed before I said “she’s probably a killer. There’s almost certainly no humanity left. She’s a liability”. Steve looked at me and said what I’d been dreading: “so were you”. After that I didn’t have a leg to stand on and so I watched as they moved her down to a secure room, the nurse came in and cleaned her up, and the ball started rolling.

It was about a week later that she woke up. The nurse had been changing her IVs and shed’ been healing before our eyes thanks to the serum. The doctor could see no reason to keep her sedated so we’d thanked them, paid them off, and agreed to take turns keeping watch. It was Bruce’s turn when she finally woke and by the time Jarvis had the surveillance up on the screen, Steve and Tony had got down there and she had a broken piece of metal at Tony’s throat. Nat held me back from going down, pointing out that there was plenty of strength in that room to deal with her, and anyway, hadn’t I always wanted to have a weapon against Tony’s throat. We listened and watched as they talked to her calmly, then asked her name, and then she fainted. Once she’d dropped, Tony rubbed at his throat and all three looked awkward before Tony spoke. “OK, so, any bright ideas?” They tucked her up again and left, and we had yet another discussion about what the hell to do.

The next time she awoke, she was alone but Jarvis had been monitoring. Bruce and Steve went down, and Nat and I were watching on screens nearby. We saw her, well, do nothing. Come out of the bathroom, see them in there and then suddenly they were across the room. Nat and I were off and running long before we saw them stand up. Straight into the room, and straight in to her, knocking her over, and ready to kill. Steve and I had too much history and I saw red when I saw him in danger. If it hadn’t been Steve’s voice telling me to stand down, I probably wouldn’t have. I saw ‘threat’ and I acted instinctively, but his voice broke through, so I stopped and then all of a sudden we were giving her clothes and outside the room, where I stood and glowered as Bruce and Steve discussed next steps.

I did NOT trust her. Bruce had us all sitting in a little circle to make her feel at ease but I sat poised to jump and I knew she picked up on it. I saw her jump when Jarvis spoke and knew she was tensed, but so far she hadn’t attacked again. It was just a matter of time.

Over the next few weeks, she stayed in her room but awake. She ate and slept and people went in and out to talk to her and she looked relaxed but I knew it was fake. Jarvis was watching her, in addition to trying to identify her, but I spent long hours at the surveillance screen, looking for any sign of threat. Then Tony decided it’d be a great idea to get her out into the Tower. You can imagine my reaction – a Hydra weapon, a potential Hydra agent, free to wander? But everyone was taken with her by now, thinking she just needed a hug and some friendship and she’d be saved. Steve and I had a stand up shouting match about it, with him pointing out that I was no different to her, and me responding that that meant I knew how much danger she was. Seemed like I was on my own. I was glad when she freaked out leaving the room, it gave us a bit more time, but it also surprised me. She looked vulnerable, not something I was used to with Hydra, and suddenly I started seeing the kid she was, superimposed on the threat.

When she made it up to Bruce’s lab and Jarvis let us know she was going to be evaluated, I ran straight up the stairs rather than wait for the elevator. I wanted to see what she could do, but I also wanted to be there as protection. When I got there she was already running and she kept going so long we all started to relax, eating popcorn and making bets. Eventually Bruce got her to stop and she wasn’t even breathing hard. Then Tony got Steve lifting weights alongside her and we all started to realise just how enhanced this frail little broken kid was. Funnily, seeing that strip of nothing kid lifting weights made me feel more protective than I had when she’d been sedated and no danger.

When Nat challenged her to fight, every instinct said this was a bad idea. Running and lifting was one thing, facing off against a real opponent was another. I let them fight for a bit, both as good as each other, then decided I’d join in. I wanted her to know that I was there to protect my friends. What I didn’t expect was that she’d decide to take on both of us. Or that she’d win. Within a short time, I could see the blood lust rising and I knew her Hydra training was taking over. Alarm bells were ringing because she was GOOD, and when she hit us with some kind of mind power and we ended up on the wall, I thought that was it. Then I saw her blink herself back to reality and consciously reject her training, although it must have taken a hell of a lot of willpower. Knowing Hydra, she had built-in reflexes that were giving her immense amounts of pain and punishment for refusing a kill, but she didn’t show it, just did the right thing despite the personal cost. She let us down, unhurt, and I realised that maybe, just maybe, she could be OK.

I waited and watched her while everyone left and realised she was on the verge of panic again. I didn’t sense danger from her, just fear, and realised she was incapable of moving, so overloaded with pain and confusion. I helped her back to her room where she sat and shut down, a tactic I was used to from Hydra overload. I waited with her and watched, and started to rethink my earlier doubts. This girl was powerful. Strong enough to kill all of us. But she seemed desperate not to and she’d overridden Hydra training. Maybe she could be saved. When she looked up, I told her to shower and went to collect food for her, knowing that she’d need to be ordered around and treated functionally for a while. To get upstairs and find out they knew who she was was a shock – and then hearing her story was even more of a shock. Now I definitely could see her as just a kid. A tortured broken kid, who needed a second chance. At least when they’d taken me, I was an adult. I’d chosen to be a soldier. She was just a teenager who had mind powers Hydra wanted.

When I told her her name, I could see hope flash in her eyes, that she could be more than a weapon. We left her to read the research herself, but I couldn’t help watching on the monitors. I saw her read and cross-check everything, looking up occasionally as if to test what she was reading against her memory but getting frustrated. Then she hit the images and suddenly I was calling to the others that she was having some kind of fit. I’d thought sedation might help and it was only when she told Bruce that she’d been locked in her head as every memory flooded back that we realised what we’d done. Just from the few memories I had of my time with Hydra, most of them being wiped away, I knew the torment she must be feeling. Six years of torture and grief. I hadn’t trusted her when she knew what she’d been through, but now that she remembered everything, I made it my mission to save her.

After that, I spent every moment I could with the kid. I wanted her to know that it was possible to get free of Hydra in your head, and to find a new life. I felt her watching me and sure, I enjoyed a bit of her hero worship over the next few weeks and months. I knew she trusted me and felt safe with me, despite our rocky start. She knew I understood but didn’t pity. When she decided to throw herself into her new mission of worldwide Hydra destruction, I had to ask the others to help. She couldn’t see that it was impractical, or dangerous, and she didn’t realise that she had to find more to her life than that. I spent more and more time with her and watched the humour start to come out, despite the fear. I liked her, a lot.

I’d thought I saw her as a little sister, right up until Nat got her dressed up and fancy for Steve’s ‘be a person’ plan. Heck, she was not a kid. I’d been so used to seeing the skinny and fearful, broken toothed and raggedy haired wretch that I hadn’t noticed she was gaining weight – and curves – her scars were fading and she was not a kid. She was beautiful. Sure she looked awkward and uncomfortable and ready to kill, but the fact she had no clue what she was like was endearing. I saw the others staring at her in surprise but she stuck by me. I kept my leg pressed against hers throughout dinner and felt hers shaking with nerves but gradually settling as she drank a fair bit of wine. When she fell asleep against me, I’d had a fair bit to drink too and it made me realise that I was in pretty deep now. I still felt protective, but the way I was feeling now was a long way from what a brother should feel.

[zacharybosch]

Playing Dead - chapter 2

featuring the first of some new illustrations by the incomparable @theseavoices​!

chapter 1: tumblr / ao3

read chapter 2 of Playing Dead below or on ao3!

The Florentine house was, like Hannibal’s property in Baltimore, extravagant. But unlike Baltimore, this house was decorated far more warmly; where Baltimore had felt like a museum, chamber after echoing chamber filled with so many terrible and untouchable things, Florence was like a private club for the museum’s esteemed patrons. The hallways were lined with wood panelling in a thousand subtle shades and hues. The furniture in the sitting room was bespoke, hand-crafted by a family of local artisans who had been building furniture in the city for centuries. The blankets on the beds were all antique textiles, carefully and lovingly restored. The kitchen was Tuscan marble the colour of warm sand, grand and beautiful and covered in dust.

The bathroom was a different matter. It had been exquisite when they first arrived, with elegant frescoes on the walls, floor tiles coloured like the deep ocean, and a huge, shiny copper bathtub taking pride of place in the centre. Now the room was a cacophony of mirrors, hung on every empty patch of wall and propped up in every available corner. Some of them were modern and reflected Will’s image; most of them were far older, and showed only Hannibal’s scowling face.

The floor was dull and splattered with bloodstains. Will had placed towels on the floor to keep the worst of it off, but the attempt was half-hearted at best and if he knew where the mop was, he didn’t care enough to ever fetch it.

The tub was no longer shiny. Will had given up trying to keep it clean when his attempts to turn Hannibal kept on failing. Now the rim of the tub was turning black with the build-up of dried blood and other bodily fluids.

Hannibal was desperate to clean it. Will could see the twitch of his fingers, the grimace every time Hannibal lowered himself gingerly into the tub, but he was too weak to do much beyond lie on the sofa and complain about it. Vigorous cleaning was certainly outside the realm of Hannibal’s current capabilities.

Will had been sparing at first in his attempts to turn Hannibal, but Hannibal’s insistence that they try and try again, and Will’s apparent inability to say no, had got them to the point where Will was making the attempt nearly every week. The toll on Hannibal’s body was enormous, and the IV drip snaking out of his arm had become a near-permanent feature.

The last attempt had been mere days ago, but instead of packing up their things and preparing to leave for the next multimillion dollar bolthole like Will knew they should, they were in the bathroom and attempting the change again.

“I’m still angry that you opened the window,” Will said, trying to disconnect Hannibal from his IV drip. “I told you so many times not to do it. All it takes is one person to glance up from the street and see your face. We can’t risk it.”

“You have me locked up here like a prisoner. This is not at all what I imagined our future together would hold.” Hannibal batted Will’s hand away and disconnected the IV tube from his cannula himself. “I think I can be forgiven for wanting a little fresh air.”

“You get fresh air every damn night when I take you out into the courtyard. Don’t pretend that this was anything other than you trying to pick a fight.”

“Did it succeed, at least?”

Will closed his eyes and silently prayed for strength. “No. This isn’t a fight.”

“A shame. Maybe you should rip my ear off again.”

The ear was Hannibal’s favourite fallback. No matter that Will had done it just to provide some evidence that Hannibal was dead, no matter that Will had immediately applied his healing blood to the wound to help a new ear grow in its place, no matter that Will had done it all solely to smooth the way for their escape; as far as Hannibal was concerned, it was just another scab to pick at. But all Will said was, “Get in the bath.”

Hannibal eased himself in slowly, crusts of dry blood flaking away from the sides of the tub as he settled and adjusted himself. He hadn’t removed any of his clothes, and it just made him look all the more frail, veins standing out in stark relief against the soft drape of his shirtsleeves.

“Remind me again why we’re doing it this way,” Hannibal said, in a tone of voice that suggested the last thing he wanted was to be reminded of why they were doing it this way.

“Because,” Will grunted, fiddling around with sticky tape and plastic tubing, “we’ve tried the old-fashioned way and it didn’t take.”

“This approach hasn’t exactly been taking either, Will. The old-fashioned way was far more stimulating.”

“And it also has an incredibly high rate of failure. This way is easier to control, more precise. Do you want the change or not?”

“You know that I do.”

“Then stop nitpicking.” Will connected the new tube to Hannibal’s cannula. The needle had been inserted in the same spot where he’d bitten Hannibal that first time, back in Baltimore. He could see the marks, the shiny, pink little punctures where his teeth had sunk in so easily. Already half-healed by the time Will had hauled Hannibal over the butcher block and poured his regenerative blood down Hannibal’s throat, they were scars that would never fully fade.

Will felt an absurd stab of sentimentality, and swiftly brushed it aside. “Okay. Where do you want to bleed from today?”

“Surprise me.”

Will took a knife from his box of supplies, a mean little thing with a smooth wooden handle and a wickedly sharp blade, and stuck it deep into Hannibal’s thigh.

Hannibal didn’t flinch, just closed his eyes briefly and worked his jaw. “The femoral artery, again. That’s not very surprising, Will.”

“I swear to God, Hannibal, I will walk out of this house right now and never come back.”

“Then walk,” Hannibal challenged, and Will slammed his fist into the side of the tub in frustration. For a long moment they just stared at each other, both on the brink of doing something stupid.

Eventually, Will silently picked up and inserted his own cannula, connecting himself to Hannibal via two metres of sterile plastic tubing. He watched his blood wind its way through the tube until it got to Hannibal’s end. Then he yanked the knife out of Hannibal’s thigh.

The rush of blood was sudden and powerful, and Hannibal’s trousers and Will’s hand quickly became soaked. Will perched on the edge of the tub and slowly licked the blood from his fingers while Hannibal’s body spasmed and eventually stilled. Every time they did this, Hannibal passed out from the blood loss a little quicker. If Will couldn’t get the change to happen soon, he’d have to consider holding off entirely for months, maybe even a year, to let Hannibal come back to his full health. It would not be a pleasant time for either of them.

But Will knew that Hannibal would demand they try again as soon as he awoke from this current attempt, just as he would demand after the next failed attempt, and the next, and the next.

The longer they remained like this, with Hannibal suspended in a bloody half-life, coming back from the brink over and over, the more reluctant Will became to see the thing done. Over the preceding months Hannibal had grown difficult to deal with, borderline petulant. Will didn’t want to be stuck in the mire of yet another petty argument, only for that to be the time that the change finally took hold, and then Hannibal would be frozen forever with a sneer on his lips and a chip in his heart.

Will wanted… He didn’t know what he wanted. The old Hannibal, maybe, whoever that was. The Hannibal he had known in Baltimore, after the revelation but before the blood and the escape to Europe, when they would just sit and talk and exist together. Before Will had recklessly dangled the promise of eternal life, and Hannibal had grasped at it viciously and refused to let go.

Perhaps the new Hannibal, if Will could just make the damn change stick, if he could bear to open himself up like he knew he should, instead of meeting every one of Hannibal’s jabs with another brick in the wall between them.

After every attempt, when Hannibal had been drained and filled with Will’s blood and left to stew overnight, there would be a brief moment, just a small handful of seconds, where Hannibal awoke and he was thrumming with power, radiant and vital as a king. Those moments were what kept Will trying again and again, the tiny glimpses of Hannibal elevated to a level beyond what he had ever achieved in his human life.

But it always ended up a false hope, Hannibal’s awakenings being nothing more than the defibrillator effect of Will’s blood as it shocked him back into life and then faded into nothing. The small chance that it wouldn’t fade, that Hannibal would awake strong and full of new vampiric life and then stay that way, seemed to become more impossible to grasp the harder they reached for it.

[subtlerain]

Chrysalis - Part II

→ Vampire!Taehyung x Reader

I ♥ II ♥ III ♥ IV ♥ V ♥ VI ♥

A/N: Hello hello and welcome to Part II! I want to thank you for all of your support on the first part of this series, and I am seriously so pumped to share this next part! I will be posting a new part each Sunday evening (more on that in my faq) and as of right now, I am not sure how long this series will be. Please show your support on this series as I have a TON of ideas I think you will love!

Warnings: angst/emotional themes, sadistic vampire Tae, feelings & character development woop

Tagged: @fuckingpisces @ophelia-carolina @jeongin-stay @charlesgrey1875 @lilliaflurr @thelonelyshinbu @squadlevi 

Let me know if you’d like to be added to my tagged list so you don’t miss the next part! ♥

You stayed curled up in a ball for what seemed like forever, your face dried with tears and mind racing. It was regret you felt first, terrified out of your mind of what you had walked so mindlessly into, what would happen next in this unknown place. You had fallen asleep almost instantly, so exhausted and scared and so drained that the corner of his living room was the perfect surface to curl up on.

You hadn’t cried so openly for such a long time, and whether it was the very terrifying presence of the lonesome vampire, or your own emotions suddenly crashing down on you, you didn’t know.

One thing you did know though, was that you were foolish for thinking he’d be kind to you, have any sense of remorse for your pathetic situation that he very obviously did not care about.

The only thing that kept you somewhat sane was the fact that your sister was still alive and in a clean hospital, a kind nurse by her side, and money for her care and future piling up in the account under her name and her name only.

You awoke at a nudge at your ribs and a low voice above your head.

“Get up, girl.”

You shot up instantly, blinking away sleep from your eyes and brushing back your messy hair with your hands furiously, trying to grasp onto the very little dignity you had left.

You yelped as your eyes landed on the vampire, who was hovering above you. Pure fear caused you to scoot back suddenly, pressing your body against the wall as your eyes widened to saucers.

He stood above you, his almond eyes narrowing even more, “I hate the smell of salt.”

You realized he was talking about your tears, and you wiped at them hastily, “I-I’m sorry.”

You knew you looked pathetic, and you hated it, but when you were faced with death in the form of an elegant creature who at any moment could tear you to shreds, you reacted the way another other human would.

He only looked away, “Follow me. I’ll take you to your room.”

It took you a moment to process his words in your fuzzy brain before you leaped up and grabbed your bags, knees wobbling as you followed him wordlessly.

He walked fast, sweeping along the corridors like a ghost, and you tried to memorize the turns you took down darkened hallways, past old antiques and dusty bookshelves.

You stared at the back of his head as he walked, wondering what he was thinking. Upon your first interaction, it was clear he was not of your kind, rather possessing a supernatural aura that caused your uneasiness. You were sure you had passed other vampires, perhaps in the subway or on the street or in a coffee shop, but they all concealed their uneasy energy, if not gave it up completely, if that was possible.

That was not the same for Mr Kim.

He was the most vampire-ist vampire you had ever come in contact with, from his victorian style, creepy mansion to his lose fitting, velvety clothes.

Unlike any human you would come in contact with, it was hard to analyze him, judge his expressions or gauge his response. He was stone-faced and remorseless, and you wondered just how long it took him to perfect his unpleasant demeanour.

Your eyes drifted from a curl of hazelnut at his nape to the patch of exposed skin at his nape.

But if you knew anything about those who appear horribly sharp and vile on the outside, they used that exterior as protection, as a shield from everything on the outside.

And this vampire’s chrysalis had had decades and decades to build up.

You were pulled from your thoughts as he suddenly stopped in front of a door, and you reeled back to avoid slamming into his back. He produced a key from his dress-coat pocket, a shiny brass instrument that he jiggled into the keyhole. He twisted the knob and you followed slowly as he flicked on the lights.

Like the rest of the house, it was victorian style, lavish and old-looking, but somehow still beautiful and elegant. There was a large bed in the centre with dark red sheets and pillows, a vanity and a closet. It was larger than you expected, and you continued to admire the room until you noticed him looking at you carefully.

“You will sleep here.” He said sharply, and he seemed to think for a moment, his eyes trailing down your body and to the small case still clutched in your hand, “Although it seems you brought some belongings, I’ll send your measurements to my stylist to have clothes made for your stay.”

You shook your head, “Oh, no really, that’s okay! I don’t need—“

His eyes narrowed, “As I said yesterday, you’re living in my house under my rules, and as much as I despise this awful ‘companion’ concept, I’d rather pay for new clothes for you than have you walk around in whatever rags you brought.”

Although you felt a pang of offence which you knew he certainly meant, you just nodded. After all, his father had said he would pay for your expenses, and a new wardrobe did sound rather appealing, especially hand-made ones from his personal stylist.

Silently, you walked over to the bed to place your suitcase on the mattress.

Mr Kim watched you carefully, letting his eyes sweep over your features again. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been so close to a human. Just as much as this was a new situation for you, it was for him, and he took a moment to analyze you, his narrowed eyes traveling up and down your body. You weren’t particularly attractive nor unattractive, he thought, and he could point out all your flaws easily. You obviously didn’t have a lot of money based on how worn your shoes were and how faded your dress was, and he wondered why you still hadn’t tried to run away after his threats, and after your complete meltdown on the floor of his living room.

The door was unlocked, and it wouldn’t take you long to run back to humanity and back to your sick little sister that you were foolish enough to waste your young-adult life on by agreeing to live with him.

He wondered why you weren’t at least trying to fight back, why you had been so submissive even after his blatant insults.

He noticed that you had been still for a little too long, and how you tried to hide your trembling hands from him, even though he could detect every tremor in your tiny body. But, the most intriguing thing to him was that he could hear the steady rhythm of your heart. He noticed that it spiked every time he looked at you, and you tensed each time he talked. It was rather distracting, he thought, the sound of your warm, pounding organ loud in his ears.

It was also irritating that you were so blatantly alive. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been in the same room as a human girl, one so full of life and so so devastatingly warm.

“Mr Kim?”

His eyes snapped to yours as you turned around and faced him. You looked away for a moment before pulling your eyes back to him.

The vampire was also surprised at your willingness to look at him in the eyes. Most humans avoided the eyes of a vampire, for they were piercing and cold, unforgiving orbs that sucked out nearly all light. But even with your trembling hands and pounding heart, you looked right into him with those large, human eyes of yours, even if he tried his hardest to summon all the darkness in him directly to his irises.

But, he reminded himself, you were not just a regular human girl, of course. You were obviously, horribly, stupid. After all, you had agreed to practically give up your life and freedom for a family member, and live with him, a hopeless, reclusive vampire.

And worst of all, it seemed you had hope that you of all people would be able to change him.

“Yes?” He replied.

You let out the smallest of smiles, “I haven’t introduced myself yet.”

He blinked.

You bowed your head, and gave another small smile, “My name is Y/N.”

You were smiling, however your eyes were still puffy from your tears and your hands were still trembling. He wondered why you were trying so damn hard to be okay when you clearly were not.

He narrowed his eyes, and ran his tongue over his incisors, “I do not wish to know your name, because I am still trying to figure out if I am going kill you.”

Your eyes widened, and your heart rate spiked again, the sweet crimson pumping through your blood rapidly, your response only natural given his words.

Fear.

He brushed back a piece of his fringe, “I will call you what I want, or I will choose to disregard you completely.”

You blinked at the ground, but you nodded simply, as if you had already guessed his answer.

He rested his hand on the doorknob and looked away, “I will give you further instructions tomorrow.”

The last thing you remembered before you fell asleep was the words of Mr Kim’s father:

“He is the future of my company. Your job is to help to integrate him into our world, so do not fail. Your request will not be fulfilled if you do not do your job.”

***

Mr Kim tested your name on his tongue as he walked down the hallway to his own quarters. It didn’t taste bad on his palate, in fact, it rather suited you, he thought.

He listened to your heartbeat even out as he walked down the hallway, and he listened to it slow even more as he lay in his bed that night, his eyes closed, as you fell asleep in the next room.

He had lived alone for decades, and he had always walked down these corridors by himself, the only thing in his ears the occasional hoot of an owl or rustle of leaves. But now, in his home was a human girl, and your presence was nearly overwhelming for his senses, his palate, and his whole, dead, body.

It should be a vampire’s dream, but it was his worst nightmare.

He let his mind roam as he lay in his bed, looking at the ceiling.

He could kill you now, he could rip the human life out of you so quickly that you wouldn’t know what had happened. Or he could drag it out slowly, watch the life seep out of your eyes and let your body go limp in his arms, like a perfect doll.

Or, for a fleeting second, he thought he could take you to the room of your sick little sister and stab you straight through the heart with the sharpest dagger he owned, and he could watch the little girl pale and scream and cry because you had taken the one person that probably mattered the most to her.

Before he slept, Mr Kim wondered what it would be like to be on the side of the dagger this time, to hold it in his hand and place it in the heart of a human.

He wondered if your sick little sister would mirror his horrified, helpless, desperate expression that he wore all those years ago.

***

You slept very well for a person in the home of a sadistic vampire. However, you woke with alarm, the unfamiliar room causing you to nearly scream with panic until you remembered the events of the previous day.

Mansion. Vampire.

You sighed and pulled yourself from under the sheets. You weren’t one to take a lot of self pity, and after your meltdown the night before, you now just felt a little empty. But it was better than crying, so you took the numbness with ease.

Plus, the good news was, he hadn’t killed you in your sleep.

How grim.

You opted for another summer dress, this one light floral and collared. You looked at your figure in the mirror as you did up the top button and slid on a pair of flats.

This was your life now, and the sooner you accepted it, the better.

You thought of your sister for a moment, her doe-eyes filled with tears when you told her that you had to leave. She had tried to sit up in her hospital bed, but the monitor beeped and the the tube in her arm stretched, so the nurse in the corner of the room eased her back down.

“When will you be back?”

You remember looking away and not knowing the answer, wishing that you could tell her something to ease her mind like a date that she could count down in her little brain.

So instead, you smiled the kindest, warmest smile you could muster.

“No matter how long, I’ll always be with you. Sing a song and I’ll sing too, whisper you worries and I will hear them.”

She had beamed through her glassy eyes and nodded, and you nearly sobbed because she was so strong, and the most determined little girl you had ever met.

So when you left, her soft little voice helped you gain courage, and made you smile.

With a deep breath in and out, you put a small smile on your face and made your way down the hallway, using your mental-map of the mansion to navigate, until you finally reached the main foyer of the house.

It was empty, and you let out a sigh of relief when there was no trace of Mr Kim. Although you knew he was most likely lurking somewhere, it was much too early in the morning to deal with his piercing eyes and sharp words.

You stood in the foyer for a moment, unsure of your next move. It occurred to you that he hadn’t told you what he expected the next day, nor where you could find him if you needed anything.

Then again, he seemed to want nothing to do with you, which was just fine. Much like a stubborn child, it would take time to fully complete your task, and time what what you had now.

However, the first problem was that you had no idea where the kitchen was, and the loud rumbling of your stomach was persistent.

Your question seemed to be answered when you strolled down the large hallway and a pungent smell hit your nose. You gagged, and covered your mouth with your hand, eyes nearly watering at the strong scent.

Mold? Rot?

You prepared yourself for the worst as you entered a door towards the back of the house, eyes widening as you walked into the kitchen.

Or, what supposed to be a kitchen, and not mountains containing layers of garbage and old food and blood bags littering the once-white countertops.

Huffing, you made an executive decision, and five minutes later, you were decked out with a face mask, apron and blue rubber gloves you had found in a cabinet, trash bag in one hand and mop in the other.

You bit your lip as you tossed blood bag after blood bag into the trash, followed by old food and boxes of frozen pizzas and ramen noodle cups in the trash. You almost laughed at the fact that he ate the same brand of spicy ramen noodles as you, despite being a blood-sucking vampire.

Maybe you had more in common than you thought.

Once the trash was tossed, you scrubbed the counter tops with the strongest soap you could find and bleached nearly the whole kitchen. Despite the horrifying mess, you were just glad to have not found piles of dead bodies drained of blood that had first come to mind from the smell.

Old pizza and bags of blood supplied by your local hospital were just fine.

It was the humming that awoke Mr Kim from his slumber, the light vibrations sounding from your throat that caused him to snap his eyes open, and just listen, his senses alert. Something moved deep inside him at the sound, so harmless yet so comforting.

He hadn’t heard a woman hum so idly for such a long time.

He wordlessly followed your soprano, creeping along the hallways with narrowed eyes, however, his ears were wide open, and he felt a flit of something pleasant stretch through his body as your voice filled his ears.

He banished the feeling, of course.

Your voice lead him to the kitchen, and he halted his movements when he saw you turned away from him, scrubbing out a particularly stubborn stain on his granite countertop. His eyes flitted to the garbage bags packed with packages of blood and rotten food, and the stench nearly gave him a headache.

It was a stench he hadn’t noticed whenever he rummaged through the kitchen with a burning, instinctual hunger and ripped open a bag of blood, or grabbed a handful of ramen noodle cups and retreated back to his study.

He looked at you, clad in rubber gloves and a face mask, apron wrapped snugly around your waist. Your heart rate was relaxed, breathing soft and even.

And you were still humming.

But then you turned around, and your heart rate spiked, and your eyes went wide with sudden surprise.

“M-Mr Kim! You scared me…” You said, eyes landing on the ground again.

“What are you doing?” He asked, your shallow breaths loud in his ears.

“Cleaning.” You answered softly, your voice muffled by the face mask.

He looked around you, and he seemed to be thinking before he responded, “Very well. Continue.”

You breathed out a sigh of relief, nearly expecting him to chastise you. But his response was so normal that you paused for a moment before picking up your sponge and continuing to scrub.

He didn’t leave, either.

You watched him from your peripheral vision as he pulled out one of the dark oak bar stools and sat, leaning backwards on the chair, dressed in silk pyjamas and the same housecoat he had on yesterday. His dark hair was messy from bedhead, but somehow still looked wonderful, wispy curls of melted chocolate brushing around his face.

You were confused but his presence, yes, but opted to pretend he wasn’t there, so instead you scrubbed harder until the countertops shone.

He watched you carefully, and kept himself busy by listening to your heartbeat as it slowed down to a normal pace. You had stopped humming, and for a moment, he wished he hadn’t interrupted you so he could hear the sound again.

He saw the way you kept glancing at him from behind your mask, your wide eyes landing on him before darting back to your work, and he smirked before speaking.

“I’ve come up with a list of rules for your stay here.” He proposed.

You stilled, “O-okay, Mr Kim.”

His eyes never left you, “First, you’re not allowed to leave this house.”

You stopped scrubbing, “What? But what about—”

He narrowed his dark eyes, “Take off that mask, I cannot hear you properly.”

You flushed and slipped off the rubber gloves before pulling off the mask, bare face now completely visible to the man in front of you.

He deliberated, “Fine. You are not allowed to leave this house, unless accompanied by me.”

You blinked.

That was unexpected.

He seemed to notice your surprise and continued, “I don’t trust to not run away. If I lose you, or if you get hurt, my father will not be happy, and as much as I hate him, he is undoubtedly more powerful than I.” He looked down at the countertop, “I do not wish to leave, but I will do so to protect myself and keep you in line.”

You only nodded. Self-benefit. Of course.

“Next,” He continued, not missing a beat, “Do not bother me when I am sleeping. There will be consequences if you do.”

You nodded. Simple enough.

“Do not be noisy for no reason. Do not scream or cry or do anything that is unnecessary or foolish.” He said harshly, not a snippet of remorse in his tone. “I expect you to cook and clean as-well, but do not over eat, I find that annoying.” He looked away.

You nodded again.

He stood up, slightly surprised at your submission, “And your manners are atrocious, I will teach you how to behave properly soon.” His eyes were narrowed as he paced in the kitchen.

You looked down, feeling your face redden.

“Understood?”

You jumped, “Y-yes, Mr Kim.”

Suddenly he was in front of you, and he shook his head, jaw tense, “And…don’t call me that.”

You blinked up at him, and you willed yourself to not look away, “Call you what?”

His eyes were on yours again, dark and unwavering, “Mr Kim. That is my father, and I’ll throw myself off the very top of this mansion before I become that scumbag.”

You nearly laughed from surprise at how sincere his comment was before you spoke up again, “Then what shall I call you?”

There was a crack in his composure for a moment, so quick it was over in a blink of an eye, only visible because you were so close to him. It was as if he was very venerable for just a moment, and you could’ve sworn you saw something inside the deepness of his irises soften for a fraction of a second.

Then he turned away, back facing you, and his voice was low, “If you must, you may call me Taehyung.”

Your lips quirked into a secret smile, and you felt something in the centre of your chest flip.

Taehyung.

***

“Y-you really don’t have to—“

Mr Kim whipped around to face you with narrowed eyes, “Do not make me ask again.”

Deciding hesitation was a bad option, you got onto the stool he had placed down in front of you, raising your height to almost match his.

He unrolled a measuring tape, “Although this is a waste of my time, as I said, you wearing the same clothes every day is not ideal.” His eyes met yours, “I still cannot believe you don’t know your own measurements.”

You only sighed. Taehyung had been rather adamant about getting you new clothes, and you had to admit, your very few pieces of clothing would not suffice. So, here you are, standing on a stool in your room, feeling bumps raise on your arms as he disappeared behind you.

You had noticed that he hardly ever wore the same things twice, and he always had some kind of accessory, ranging from a long silver earring or a leather choker.

For someone who hated your world, you were sure he could easily become the next model for some high-end, trendy fashion brand if he wanted.

You had barely been in his house for a week, and you already knew that arguing with him was a pointless exercise, even if he was being completely irrational. Such as the situation you had found yourself in, where you could’ve just popped over to the local department store, but no, things were never easy, and he refused to step one foot out the door despite your suggestion.

So you went along with him, deciding to use this opportunity to get to know the vampire better, if he would even let you.

You flinched as his fingers brushed down the side of your arm, stretching the tape from your nape to your wrist.

You breathed in, “Do you do this often?”

He didn’t miss a beat, “I would measure my father for his suits, when his assistants were away.”

He moved to write your measurement on a piece of paper, before facing you again, eyes trained on your torso.

You swallowed as his fingers moved around your hips, “Do you see him often? Your father.”

He scribbled down a number, “No.”

Your lips quirked into a small smile, “I guess you wouldn’t want to, the two of you don’t seem to see eye-to-eye.” That was the kindest way to put it, you thought.

Taehyung was back in front of you, his body only inches away as he wrapped the tape around the dip of your waist, “He means nothing to me.”

You bit your lip. You had only had a few interactions with Taehyung despite living with him, but it was clear as day that he despised his father. He had never given you any inclination as to why, but you guessed it was a difference in beliefs. After all, his father is the charming CEO of a big corporation, and Taehyung is a reclusive introvert with a clear dislike to anything outside of his mansion.

His eyes flitted to yours for a second, and he murmured under his breath, “Pardon me…”

You tried not to think about his hands as he wrapped the tape around your bust, and you concentrated on lifting your arms, dropping them weakly as he once again pulled away.

You watched him carefully, a single question balanced on your tongue, “What about your mother?”

He stilled, his pencil hovering above the paper, “She died long ago.” He wrote your last measurement down.

You looked away sadly, “I’m sorry.”

He clenched his jaw, “You’re not at fault, so don’t apologize.”

Based on his reaction, you knew he had closed off this topic, but that didn’t keep you from wondering what had happened to her.

Instead of staying quiet, he spoke up, “And your parents?”

You shook your head, “A sob story I’m sure you don’t want to hear about.”

He turned around at that, his stone-faced expression mildly bordering on curiosity. Of course he knew of your sister, the sick little girl that his father was giving medicine to. But, he realized, he knew nothing else about you apart from your name and your little mannerisms that he had picked up on. And of course, he knew your intoxicating scent, and the sound of that sweet crimson pumping through your veins.

But he had to admit, he was curious about you.

You smiled weakly, “She was a single mom, and she died when I was younger.”

His eyes were already on yours when you looked up, “You have no mother, and your sister is ill.”

You nodded and stepped off the stool, “It’s just me and Mina.”

Taehyung watched you carefully, trying to mask his expression while watching yours. You were acting so calm, open and easy, as if you had just been talking to him about your favourite colour, not this horrible past that he would’ve never guessed existed.

His eyes narrowed, and he felt something sticky inside him, a familiar feeling that he felt all too often, “She left you nothing.”

You shrugged, “We never had much. She was depressed, she was struggling too. Things just got more difficult when my sister got sick.”

Taehyung clenched his fists as he watched you, your expression so calm and understanding, so very horribly accepting of the things that had happened.

He swallowed, “Why aren’t you angry?”

You smiled at the ground, “What will getting angry help? What will resenting my dead mother change?” You looked at him with a sudden determination in your eyes that nearly left him breathless, “I have to keep my head up for my sister, and for myself.”

His lips parted slightly, and he realized that he truly didn’t have anything to say.

You didn’t speak to him much, and when he demanded to be left alone, you did. He didn’t know what exactly you did when he was locked away in his room, but he had never seen you cry, never seen you scream or get angry at the world, even though you had every right to be.

It was so unfair, he thought, so unfair that you had to bear this burden at your young age, so unfair that you had left your sister and lived with him, your selfless actions that you made with such ease, as if it was what anyone would do.

He looked at you once again, your chin up, shoulders relaxed as you started towards the door.

It was so unfair that you, like him, couldn’t just have a normal life.

You glanced at him briefly from your doorway, “Thank you for measuring me for new clothes. I’ll send up dinner to your room later.”

And that, that horrible, terrible, genuine smile that you had given him way too many times. It was those kind eyes you showed him, ones that he did not deserve in the slightest, that made him speechless, because he was so unkind, so horrible and unpleasant in every way.

So why had you always been so kind to him?

Taehyung let his hands drop to his sides, and for the first time, he saw a piece of you in him, a person with a past full of heartbreaking memories.

But where he had hidden, you had risen, and somehow, the world had lead you to him.

[faangirl101]

All you need, Prologue

Avengers x reader, Tony stark x reader

Summary: It was not meant to happen, but it did. There i was, on the steps of the stark tower, in the pouring rain. I dont know why Tony let me in, maybe it was the tears down my cheeks or maybe the wet clothes clinging on my body. Thats when i met the avengers, a bunch of train wrecks huddled up in seperated rooms with crippling deppresion and anixety. I think they saved me, but they think i saved them. Maybe they were to long gone for my fixing or maybe all it needed was new baked cookies and a movie marathon.

Warnings: Mention of almost abuse

                                                   MASTERLIST

                                                 {Prologue}

I pounded on the door, my heart racing like crazy. My breath was stuck in my throat, blocking all access of air. I was glad it was pouring heavenly behind me so the tears running down my cheeks were as good as invisible. I felt the urge to give up, to turn my heel and leave, but i stayed. I needed shelter, i needed somewhere safe. Just when i was about to start running in the rain a click made the door open slowly. The inside looked expensive, like the rest of the house. White and modern. The otherside of the heavy grey door was empty, leaving me in a state of confusion. Who opened the door? I had to get inside either way, i was freezing my ass out here. I slipped inside, letting the door hit my backside as it closed. I bent over, resting my hands on top of my knees. “Who are you”, i whipped my head up just to be met by silence. “I”, i opened my mouth, trying to push down the lump “my name is y/n”. It took a few moments until it clicked, it wasn't a real person but just robot. You know, like alexa or siri. i let out the breath, hugging the jacket closer to my shivering body. “Your body gives off extremely high stress levels and your heartbeat is dangerously high”, the voice almost sounded british in a way “you're in shock”. I nodded, not sure at where i was supposed to nod. That's when the door in the end of the corridore opened and a older man stepped out. I recognized him, but it was hard to put a name on the handsome face behind my blurry eyes.

A perfectly trimmed beard covered his chin and his dark hair was a mess on top of his head as if he just woke up from a nap. He was dressed in a loose pair of grey sweatshirts and a vintage iron maiden shirt.

“Hey, hey”, he had a calming voice as he moved closer to me. I backed away in instinct, my back hitting the door behind me. “Mr stark, her heartbeat is raising”, the robotic voice stated. The man kept eye contact with me as he answered the robot “yes, Jarvis, i understood that. Is she cold?”. Jarvis hummed, and you figured he was scanning your body. “Yes, i'm afraid she might catch a cold if she doesn't warm up immediately”. The man nodded for himself as he moved slower to me with careful legs as i he was nearing a  dangerous predator. “My name is Tony, are you alright?”, he asked, his chestnut eyes scanning your tears striped rosy cheeks. You dried your nose, trying to calm your shaking hands “I'm sorry to… just barge in”. He smiled sweetly “Its okay, you looked like you needed some help.”. I nodded, stepping closer even if my whole body was begging me not to. “I recognize you”, i looked down my wet sneakers “you're the smart rich guy, stark”. Tony chuckled and rubbed the backside of his neck “Yeah, the one and only”. I met his eyes, trying not to break down in tears at the soft look he was giving me. “Stark means strong in german”, i muttered and now i was just a arm length from him. His hand slowly made its way to my upper arm to give it a soft squeeze “well i'm not that strong”. I snorted in disbelief and he chuckled. “Come”, he gave me a soft smile “lets get you warm”.

I sipped on the apple cinnamon tea Tony had given me, enjoying how it  warmed the depths of my stomach. The blanket on my weak bruised shoulders didn't feel so heavy anymore but rather….. nice. I looked down at the clean and dry shirt Tony had given me, a shirt with the text “are you my appendix? because i have a gut feeling i should take you out”.

I chuckled for myself, taking another big gulp. I moved some of my wet hair behind my ears and looked up as i heard steps getting closer. I looked up expecting to see Tony return… but he wasn't alone. Behind him, quick in his steps were a group of people i knew i had seen before. On television, youtube, the newspaper and always as a relevant topic in all conversation.  The avengers.

“Are you alright?”, captain america, aka steve fucking rogers, asked me with a sweet careful tone. This guy was a legend, a national hero. I remembered getting taught about his great success for america in the second world war.He wasn't wearing his normal suit but some tight jeans and a black t-shirt. He had some beard growing along his chin iv never seen on pictures but it suited him. “Ay ay, captain”, i said quietly, scared my voice might crack. Steves whole face lit up like a christmas tree and i saw him try to hide the smug smile. “are ya ready kids”, i heard someone mumble quietly behind the crowd of people. I leaned to the side to see a boy around my age with wavy curls and an iron man shirt looking down his fluffy socks. He was adorable, and there was just something about him that made me want to wrap blankets around him and braid his hair. “Ay ay captain”, i repeated, too well familiar  with the meme, which in any case seemed to please the boy. He wasn't as good as steve to hide the smile.

Tony sat down next to me while the rest of the people stood almost awkwardly next to the couch. I recognized most of them. Black widow, Thor, Clint and bruce banner. He was a legend as well, they were all legend. And me? i was just another boring mortal. It was odd seeing them without their normal chose of clothes but just instead saturday night type of clothes.

“What happened?”, Tony laid an arm around the back rest of the couch, his fingers centimeters from my shoulder. I took a shuddered breath, trying to push down the sudden anxiety threatening in my chest. “Um”, i look down at the patterns of tea in the bottom of the mug “i was walking home and i got jumped. They had a gun and…… and they tried to take off my shirt so i just, just kicked them in the nuts and ran to the closer building”. The room feel quite, uncomfortable quiet. i was to scared to look up from my mug. of course they would think i was weak, here i was almost sobbing from a failed robbery while all of them have been through so much more traumatic shit daily. A hand on my shoulder made me flinch back to reality. I raised my head, ignoring how my entire body would rather just fall asleep. All of the faces that met my was dipped in true empati and some anger. Black widow was the first one to break the silence with a whistle “kick em in the nuts? attam girl”.

I couldn't help but to smile. Black widow was talking to me, i was freaking out. “I will kill these foolish men for daring to touch ms pretty human girl”, Thor raised his hammer in the air, some bolts shooting lightly from it similar to spark. Steve grasped around Thor's thick arm “No one is killing any one”. he then turned to me “Trust me, i know how it is getting jumped in alleys, but yours must have been more traumatic. You can crash on my bed”. I blushed, admiring his honest kindness. Tony snorted “i know you wanna be a gentleman and all that, captain spandex, but i'm literally a millionaire. I own like 15 guestrooms. You can crash for as long as you like y/n”. I smiled at him before looking down my pale hands “i don't wanna be in the way for the mightiest heros of earth”. i heard some snickers, and tried to hide the smile. “Please”, Bruce smiled nervously behind his glasses “we would need some normal company around here”.

And that's how i started living at the stark tower.

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[pamphletstoinspire]

The Church's Year - INSTRUCTION ON THE THIRTEENTH SUNDAY AFTER PENTECOST

Pray today at the Introit of the Mass with the, Church against her enemies: Have regard, O Lord, to thy conversant, and forsake not to the end the souls of thy poor: arise, O Lord, and judge thy cause, and forget not the voices of them that seek thee. O God, why hast thou cast us off unto the end: why is thy wrath enkindled against the sheep of thy pasture? (Ps. LXXIII.) Glory be to the Father, etc.

COLLECT Almighty and ever­lasting God, give unto us an increase of faith, hope and charity; and that we may obtain that which Thou dolt promise, make us to love that which Thou dost command. Thro'.

EPISTLE (Gal. III. 16-22.) Brethren, To Abraham were the promises made, and to his seed. He saith not, And to his seeds, as of many, but as of one: And to thy seed, which is Christ. Now this I say, that the testament which was confirmed by God, the law which was made after four hundred and thirty years doth not disannul, or make the promise of no effect. For if the inheritance be of the law, it is no more of promise. But God gave it to Abraham by promise. Why, then, was the law? It was set because of transgressions, until the seed should come to whom he made the promise, being ordained by angels in the hand of a mediator. Now a mediator is not of one: but God is one. Was the law, then, against the promises of God? God forbid. For if there had been a law given which could give life, verily justice should have been by the law. But the scripture hath con­cluded all under sin, that the promise by the faith of Jesus Christ might be given to them that believe.

EXPLANATION St. Paul in this epistle proves to the Galatians who were misled by false doctrines, and ad­hered too much to the Jewish Law, that they could be saved only through a lively faith in Christ, enriched by good works. Therefore he says that the great promises, made by God to Abraham, referred to Christ, through whom all nations of the earth, who would believe in Him, would be blessed and saved. (Gen. XII. 3., and XXII. 18.) The law, indeed, does not annul these promises, since it rather leads to their attainment, yet it must be placed after them because of their advantages, nay, even cease to exist, because the promises are now fulfilled, Christ, the promised Messiah, has really, appeared and liberated man, who could not be freed from their sins by the Jewish law.

ASPIRATION O, let us be grateful for this promise, yet more, how ever, for the Incarnation of Christ, whereby this promise has been fulfilled.

GOSPEL (Luke XVII. 11-19.) At that time, As Jesus was going to Jerusalem, he passed through the midst of Samaria and Galilee: and as he entered into a certain town, there met him ten men that were lepers, who stood afar off, and lifted up their voice, saying: Jesus, master, have mercy on us. Whom, when, he saw, he said: Go, show yourselves to the priests. And it came to pass, that as they went, they were made clean. And one of them, when he saw that he was made clean, went back, with a loud voice glorifying God, and he fell on his face before his feet, giving thanks: and this was a Samaritan. And Jesus answering, said: Were not ten made clean? And where are the nine? There is no one found to return, and give glory to God, but this stranger. And he said to him: Arise go thy way; for thy faith hath made thee whole.

What may be understood by leprosy in a spiritual sense?

Sin, particularly impurity, by which the soul of man is stained much more than is the body by the most horrid leprosy: In the Jewish law (Lev. XIII. ) three kinds of leprosy are enumerated, viz: the leprosy of the flesh, of garments, and of houses. Spiritually, the impure are af­flicted with the, leprosy of the flesh, who easily infect others, and are therefore to be most carefully avoided. The leprosy of garments consists in extravagance of dress and scandalous fashions, whereby not only individuals, but also whole communities are brought to poverty, and many lose their innocence. The leprosy of houses, finally, is to be found in those places, where scandalous servants are retained, where nocturnal gatherings of both sexes are en­couraged, where, obscenities are indulged in, where unbe­coming dances and plays are held, and filthy actions per­formed; where married people allow themselves liberties in presence of others, and give scandal to their household, where they take their small children and even such as al­ready have the use of reason, with themselves to bed, where they permit children of different sexes to sleep together, &c. Such houses are to be avoided, since they are infected with the pestilential leprosy of sin, and woe to them who vol­untarily remain in them.

Why did the lepers remain standing afar off?

Because it was thus commanded in the law of Moses, (Lev. XIII. 46.) so that no one would be infected by them. From this we learn that we must carefully avoid scandalous persons and houses; for he who converses with lewd, vain and unchaste persons, will soon become like them. (Ecclus. XIII. 1.)

Why did Christ send the lepers to the priests?

This He did to show the honor due to the sacerdotal dignity and to the law of God: for it was commanded, (Lev. XIV.) that the lepers should show themselves to the priests, in order to be declared by them clean or unclean; He did it to try the faith, the confidence, and the obedience of these lepers: for Christ did not wish to heal them upon their mere prayer, but their cure was to cost them something, and they were to merit it by their cooperation. Their purification, therefore, was the reward of their obedience and faith. Further, Christ sent these lepers to the priests to show figuratively, as it were, that he who wishes to be freed from the leprosy of sin, must contritely approach the priest, sincerely confess his sins, and be cleansed by him by means of absolution.

Why did Christ ask for the others, who were also made clean?

To show how much ingratitude displeases Him. Although He silently bore all other injuries, yet He could not permit this ingratitude to pass unresented. So great, therefore, is the sin of ingratitude, hateful alike to God and man! "Ingratitude," says St. Bernard," is an enemy of the soul, which destroys merits, corrupts virtues, and impedes graces: it is a heavy wind, which dries up the fountain of goodness, the dew of mercy, and the stream of the grace of God." "The best means," says St. Chrysostom, "of preserving benefits, is the remembrance of them and gratitude for them, and nothing is more acceptable to God than a grateful soul; for, while He daily overloads us with innumerable benefits, He asks nothing for them, but that we thank Him." Therefore, my dear Christian, by no means forget to thank God in the morning and evening, before and after meals. As often as you experience the blessing of God in your house, in your children, and your whole property, thank God, but particularly when you take in the fruits of the earth; (Lev. XXIII. 10.) by this you will always bring upon yourself new blessings and new graces. "We cannot think, say, or write anything better or more pleasing to God," says St. Augustine, "than: Thanks be to God."

ASPIRATION O most gracious Jesus! who, as an example for us, wast always grateful to Thy Heavenly, Father, as long as Thou didst live upon earth, grant, that I may always thank God for all His benefits, according to Thy example and the teaching of Thy servant St. Paul. (Col. III. 17.)

INSTRUCTION ON THE SACRAMENT OF HOLY ORDER

Go, show yourselves to the priests. (Luke XVII. 14.)

Such honor did God show to the priests of the Old Law that He sent the; lepers to them, although they could in no wise contribute to the removal of leprosy. What honor, therefore, do the priests of the New Law deserve, who througu the sacerdotal ordination, gave not only re­ceived from God the power to free mankind from the leprosy of the soul, but also far higher privileges.

Is the priesthood a special and holy state, selected by God?

Yes; this is evident from the writings of the Old as well as of the New Testament, and is confirmed by holy, apostolic tradition. In the Mosaic Law God Himself selected a particular race - Aaron and his descendants-from among the tribes of Juda, to perform solemnly the public service, to pray for the people, and instruct them in matters of religion, (Exod. XXVIII. I.; Lev. IX. 7; King's II. Z8.) but particularly to offer the daily sacrifices, (Lev. I. II; Num. XVIII.) for which offices they were consecrated by different ceremonies, ordained by God, which ceremonies lasted seven days. (Exod. XXVIII. 4. &c. ib. XXIX.) Besides these, God instituted a sort of minor priesthood, Levites, for the ser­vice of the temple and of God; (Num. III. 12; VIII. 6-18.) they were of the tribe of Levi, and received no land like the other tribes, but lived on the offerings and tithes, and were consecrated like the priests. (Num. XVIII. 21.; VIII. 66-26.) This priesthood, an emblem of the real priesthood of the New Testament, was not abolished by Christ, but He brought it to its fulfilment and completed it, since He did not come to take away, but fulfil the law. For this reason Christ selected twelve apostles and seventy-two disciples from among the faithful, at the commencement of His public life, and He said to them: I have chosen you, and have appointed you, that you should go, and should bring forth fruit. (John XV. 16.) He gave them power to free man from sin, to sanctify, and reconcile him with God. (Matt. XVIII. Z8.) He commanded ahem -to preach His gospel to all nations, (Matt. XXVII. 18-20.) and to offer up His holy Sacrifice. (Luke XXII, 19.) Just as the apostles were chosen by Christ, so afterwards by the Holy Ghost. St. Paul was chosen to be an apostle, and he calls himself a minister of Christ and a dispenser of the mysteries of God, (I Cor. IV. I) and who together with Barnabas was ordained. (Acts XIII. 2, 3.) In the same manner the apostles chose their successors, and ordained them, (I Tim. IV, 14.; II Tim. I. 6.) and even appointed seven deacons, as assistants in the priestly office. (Acts VI. 1-3.) From these clear testimonies of holy Writ, it is evident that, as God in the Old, so Christ in the New Testament chose a particular class of men, and established certain grades among them, for the govern­ment of His Church, for the service of God, and the salvation of the faithful, as holy, apostolic tradition also confirms. Already the earliest Fathers, Ignatius and Clement, disciples of the apostles, write of bishops, priests, and deacons, who are destined for the service of God and the faithful. Subdeacons, ostiariates, lectors, exorcists, and acolytes, are mentioned by St. Gregory of Nazianzen, St. Justin, St. Cyprian, and many others, but particularly by the Council of Carthage in the year 398, which also gives the manner of ordaining priests.

The heretics, indeed, contend that the Roman Catholic Church robs the true believers of their dignity, since she grants the priesthood only to a certain class, and give as proofs of their assertion two texts, where St. Peter (I Pet. II. 9.) calls the faithful a kingly priesthood, and where St. John (Apoc. I. 6.) says that Christ made us kings and priests. But these texts speak only of an internal priesthood, ac­cording to which every Christian, sanctified by baptism, who is in the state of grace, and consequently justified, and a living member of Christ, the great High-Priest, should offer spiritual sacrifices,1 that is, good works, such as prayer, mortification, charity, penance &c., on the altar of the heart, as also St. Peter, (I Pet II. 5.) St. Paul, (Rom. XII. I.) and David (Ps. 1. 19.) teach. If the assertion of the heretics were true that all believers are priests, why did God in the Old Law institute an especial priesthood, why did Christ and the apostles choose suitable men for the service of God? If all believers must be priests, why are not all kings, since St. John says, that Christ has made us kings? God, on the contrary, severely punished those who presumed to arrogate to themselves a priestly office, as He did to King Ozias, who was afflicted with leprosy because he burnt incense in the temple, which the priests alone were permitted to do. (II Paralip. XXVI. 18. 19.)

Of course heretics must make this assertion; for since they say that Scripture is the only rule of faith, and that every one can explain it, for what purpose are preachers necessary? And since they have no sacrifice, and with the exception of baptism, no Sacraments, for what purpose should they want priests? But since the sacrifice of Jesus is to continue in the Catholic Church until the end of time, since all the Sacraments instituted by Christ are still dispensed by her, and the command of Christ to teach all nations, must be carried out by her, therefore, there must be priests chosen and destined, who will perform the ministry of the Lord, and these must not only be chosen, but also be consecrated for this by a special Sacrament.

What is Holy Order?

Holy Order is a Sacrament by which Bishops, Priests, &c. are ordained, and receive grace and power to perform the duties belonging to their charge.

What is the external sign, by which grace is communicated to the priests?

The imposition of the bishop's hands, the presentation of the chalice with bread and wine, and the words by which power is given to offer the Sacrifice of . the New Law, changing, bread and wine into the Body and Blood of Christ, and to forgive or retain sins. (Conc. Flor. in Decr. Eug. et Trid Sess. 14. C. 3. de poen. et Sess. 22. C. 1.)

When will Christ institute this Sacrament?

At the Last Supper, when, having changed bread and wine into His body and blood, He said: Do this, for a commemoration of me, and when after His Resurrec­tion He said to them: As the Father hath sent me, I also send you (to free man from sin and to sanctify him). When he had said this, he breathed on them: and he said to them: Receive ye the Holy Ghost. (John XX. 21. 22.) The power to forgive and retain sins He gave them when He said: Whose sins you shall forgive, they are forgiven them: and whose sins you shall retain, they are retained. (John XX. 23.)

Has Holy Order always been regarded as a Sacrament in the Church?

Yes, for St. Paul admonishes his disciple Timothy (I Tim, IV. 14.) not to neglect the grace conferred upon him by the imposition of hands, and in another place he admonishes him, (II Tim. I. 6.) to stir up the grace which was in him by the imposition of his (St. Paul's) hands. From this it follows, that St. Paul believed that the external sign of the imposition of hands of the bishops con­ferred a particular grace, wherein, indeed, the essence of a Sacrament consists. Therefore the Council of Trent (Sess. 23. de ord. can. 3.) declares those anathema, who contend, that Holy Order is not a real and true Sacrament, instituted by Christ, but only a human invention, or a certain form of electing the ministers of the Word of God and the Sacraments.

Are those called to the priesthood ordained at once?

No, they are not admitted to Holy Order until they have undergone a rigid examination regarding their voca­tion, moral conduct, and their knowledge of the sacred science.

How many degrees are there in Holy Order?

In Holy Order there are seven degrees: four lesser, and three greater. Of the lesser, the first is that of Porter, whose office is to keep the keys of the Church, sacristy, treasury, and to see that due respect is observed in the house of God: to him the bishop says, in his ordination: So behave yourself as to give an account to God of what is kept under your charge. 2. That of Lector; his office is to read aloud the lessons of the Old and New Testament, which belong to the divine office, and to instruct the ignorant in the rudiments of the Christian religion: the bishop gives him a book containing those things, and charges him faithfully and profitably to fulfil his office. 3. That of Exorcist; to him is given power to exorcise possessed persons: the bishop gives a book of exorcisms, and bids him receive the power to lay his hands on such as are possessed, whether baptized or catechumens. 4. That of Acolyte; his office is to assist the deacon and subdeacon at the altar; to carry the lights, to prepare the wine and water for consecration, and attend to the divine mysteries: the bishop gives him a wax candle, with two little cruets, bidding him light the candle, and serve wine and water in the cruets.

The first of the greater is the order of subdeacon; he serves the deacon; prepares the altar, the chalice, the bread, and the wine; he reads the epistle aloud at high Mass; the bishop before he ordains him declares that none are to receive this order, but those who will observe perpetual continency; he then gives him a chalice, paten, basin and towel, two little cruets, and the book of epistles; bids him consider his ministry, and behave so as to please God. The second of the greater orders is that of Deacon; his office is immediately to assist the bishop or priest at high Mass; and the administration of the sacraments. He reads the Gospel aloud at high Mass; he gives the cup when the sacrament of the Eucharist' is given in both kinds; he may administer baptism, and preach the Gospel, by commission. To him the bishop gives a book of Gospels, with power to read it in the Church of God. The third is that of Priesthood, which has two degrees of power and dignity: that of bishops, and that of priests. The office of a priest is to consecrate and offer the sacrifice of the Body and Blood of Christ, under the forms of bread and wine; to administer all the sacraments, except Confirmation and Holy Order; to preach the Gospel, to bless the people, and to conduct them in the way to life eternal; as also to bless such things as are not reserved to the benediction of the bishop. The bishop, when he ordains a priest, anoints his hands with oil; he gives him the paten with bread upon it, and a chalice with wine, with power to offer sacrifice for the living and the dead; then hd lays his hands upon him and says: Receive the Holy Ghost, whose sins &c., and performs several other ceremonies.

Learn from this instruction to honor and respect the priests, whose dignity as representatives of God, and dispensers of His mysteries, surpasses all human dignity; upon whom a load, too heavy even for angels, as St. Chrysostom says, has been imposed, namely, the care of your immortal soul; who daily enter the sanctuary before the face of the Lord, to offer the immaculate Lamb of God for the forgiveness of our sins; to whom Jesus confided the merits of His most precious blood, in order to cleanse your soul therewith in the tribunal of penance, if you confess your sins contritely; of whom God will one day ask the strictest account. Honor, therefore, these ministers of God, pray daily for the assistance of heaven in their difficult calling; particularly on the Ember-days implore God, that He may send pious and zealous priests; and if, perhaps, you know a bad priest, do not despise his high dignity which is indelibly imprinted on him, have compassion on him, pray far him, and consider that Jesus has , said of such: "All things whatsoever they shall say to. you, observe and do: but according to their works do ye not." (Matt. XXIII. 3.)

________

1. See the Instruction on Sacrifice on the fifth Sunday after Pentecost, and on Rational Worship on the first Sunday after Epiphany.

A. Sacrifice:

INSTRUCTION ON SACRIFICE

Offer thy gift. (Matt. V. 24.)

In its wider and more universal sense sacrifice comprehends all religious actions by which a rational being; presents himself to God, to be united with Him; and in this sense prayer, praising God, a contrite heart, charity to others, every good work, and observance of God's commandments is a sacrifice. Thus the Holy Scriptures say: Offer up the sacrifice of justice and trust in the Lord. (Fs. IV. 6.) Offer to God the sacrifice of praise. (Ps. XLIX. iq..) Sacrifice to God is an afflicted spirit; a contrite and humble heart, O God, thou wilt not despise. (Ps. 1. 19.) It is a wholesome sacrifice to take heed to the commandments, and to depart from, all iniquity. (Ecclus. XXXV. 2.) "Therefore," says St. Augustine, "every good work which is united in sanctity with God, is a true sacrifice, because it refers to the end of all good, to God, by whom we can be truly happy." As often, then, as you humble yourself in prayer before the majesty of God, when you give yourself up to God, and when you make your will subject to His divine will, you bring a sacrifice to God; as often as you punish your body by continency, and your senses by mortification, you bring a sacrifice to God, because you offer them as instruments of justice; (Rom. VI. 13.) as often as you subdue the evil concupiscence of the flesh, the perverted inclinations of your soul, deny yourself any worldly pleasure for the love of God, you bring a sacrifice to God. Such sacrifices you should daily offer to God; without which all others have no value and do not please God, such as these you can make every moment, when you think, speak, and act all for the love, of God.

Strive then, Christian soul, to offer these pleasing sacrifices to God, the supreme Lord, and as you thus glorify Him, so will He one day reward you with unutterable glory.

B. Rational Worship

INSTRUCTION ON THE VIRTUE OF OBEDIENCE

He was subject to them (Lk. 2:51).

From this all Christians should learn to be obedient to the commandments of God and of the Church. God has united life or death, blessing or malediction with obedience or disobedience to His commandments, and the Bible (I Kings 15:22) shows that obedience pleases God more than sacrifices or the fat of rams, and that He despises disobedience as He does witchcraft and idolatry. We must be obedient to the Church, because Christ Himself with His holy Spirit lives in her, and governs her, and has said: Who hears not the Church, let him be to thee a heathen and a publican, therefore, shut out from eternal life. We must be obedient to our parents, because they are placed over us by God, and we are indebted to them, under Him, for life and many benefits. Those children who do not assist their parents when they are old, poor, and helpless, or are ashamed of them, have reason to be afraid, since even Christ Jesus, the God-Man, was obedient and subject in all things to His poor mother, and to a humble mechanic who was only His foster-father. Cursed be he that honoreth not his father and mother (Deut. 27:16); how much more cursed those who despise, deride and abandon their parents? Their eyes will one day be picked out by ravens (Prov. 30:17). If God commanded obstinate and disobedient children to be stoned (Dent. 21:20), what do those not deserve who even strike or abuse their parents?

How did Jesus advance in age, wisdom and grace?

He showed new effects of the wisdom and grace with which He was filled, as He advanced in years, and thus teaches us to progress the more in virtue, and fulfill the duties of our state in life that we may attain perfection hereafter.

ASPIRATION Most amiable Jesus! Who in the twelfth year of Thy age, didst permit Thyself to be found in the temple by Thy parents, and, as an example for us, wast humbly obedient to them, grant that we may diligently attend to the important affair of our salvation, willingly carry the yoke of Thy law from our youth, and be always obedient to the laws of Thy Church, to our parents, and superiors. Prevent uneducated youth from growing reckless, and preserve them from a scandalous life. Give parents wisdom and grace to educate their children according to Thy will in all virtue. Grant to us all, that we may never lose Thee by sin, or if we have lost Thee, anxiously to seek Thee, happily find Thee, and with Thy grace more and more increase in wisdom and in virtue. Amen.

TRUE PIETY

They found Him in the temple (Lk. 2:46).

Many people deceive themselves in regard to true piety, because their imagination represents it to them according to the effect produced by their passions or disposition of mind. He who fasts often and willingly believes that he is pious, though in his heart he nourishes a secret hatred, and while he fears to wet the tip of his tongue with wine, even with water, lest he should not live temperately enough, finds pleasure in detraction and slander, that unquenchable thirst for the blood of his neighbor. Another, because he is accustomed daily to recite a long string of prayers, esteems himself pious, though he gives vent afterwards to haughty, bitter, offensive language, hurting people at home and abroad. Another keeps his purse open for the poor, but keeps his heart ever closed to the love of his enemy, whom he will not forgive; another forgives his enemy with all his heart, but will not pay his creditors, until forced by law. All these think themselves pious, and are perhaps so regarded by the world, but in truth they are far from being pious. In what then does true piety consist? In the perfect love of God. This love is called the beautiful love, because it is the ornament of the soul, and attracts to itself with complacency the eyes of the Divine Majesty. When it strengthens us to do good, it is called the strong love; when it causes us to do that good quickly, carefully, and repeatedly, it is called piety. The ostrich has wings, it is true, but never uses them to fly; the chickens fly heavily and not high; but the eagles, the doves, and the swallows, fly high and swiftly, and do not easily tire. The sinners are but earthly people, they creep upon the ground; the just, who are still imperfect, rise, it is true, towards heaven but seldom, and then but slowly and heavily. But there are some, true, pious souls, who like the doves and the eagles soar high on strong, swift wings to God. In a word, piety is nothing else than a certain active, swift energy of the spirit, with which the strong love in us, or we with it, performs, as far as it is possible to us, all good. As the strong love urges us to keep God's commandments, the perfect love, that is, piety, urges us to keep them carefully and with all possible zeal.

No one is just or pious who does not keep all God's commandments without exception; for, to be just we must possess the strong love, and to be pious we must possess besides, a certain eagerness to profit by all the occasions of doing good, that present themselves. Thus St. Francis de Sales writes in his Philothea, from which it is seen that true piety consists not in special devotions, or the practice of special good works, but in the zealous, earnest, continuous obedience to the commandments and performance of duty for the love of God.

[schooloftieflings]

II, Past and Future

— Boy, where ar’cha? — The old man asked, looking around the warehouse in the docks. This memory was vivid in Tief’s mind. Still vivid.

— Bo-o-oy? C’mon, I know ye are 'ere… ‘got a new chord for ye! C’mon, quit hidin’.

Tief was hiding behind a large box of something. He couldn’t read back then. But he memorized many melodies, many songs, so much…

Tief wasn’t showing himself. Seth chuckled, sitting on a chair in the middle of the room.

— Aight pal, ol’ papa Seth will try to entertain ye’musical thirst. Now, tell papa, what’s this a’chord? — He said, tuning the lute. His lute. The lute that now was in the corner of Tief’s room, on which he played magic.

Geth, Cess and Doht. Three most useful chords. He didn’t know what they were called in reality, in fact, Seth didn’t know either. But Tief knew how they were labeled in his mind.. These three were the most common, simple, useful. But after using them so many times, they became dull.

But this chord… Seth played some new tone, something interesting. Major. Bright. Warm. In the light of the cracked oil lantern on the table he played.

He didn’t memorise it well back then, but now he could play it with ease without thinking. The Ayem-meht Nehtiya chord. Tief didn’t know what this language was, he knew it, but couldn’t speak in it, he could sing it, but didn’t understand what he was singing. Seth was saying that this language is “spooky”, and always said he liked it. It was fiery. Fiendish. Of his tiefling nature. And Tief didn’t quite like it. He was curious about what it was, but was afraid of it, as it was something completely unknown for him.

He remembered Seth’s melodies. The Duckling Song, In Tabernia, Ol’ My Rucksack, Black Cape Mystery… But he couldn’t remember the exact look of Seth’s face. Tief was always afraid to look into people's eyes, because once he scared some lady on the street. It was his most early memory.

Tief remembered Seth having white hair, long to the shoulders, and a moustache looking like a lowercase-N. He remembered him being tall and skinny, with a breathy voice, as if he was a castaway in a desert and didn’t drink water in months. But when he sang… His voice became soft, like silk, like the fur of a kitten. Everytime Seth sang Tief lullabies, Tief felt like he was a kitten, and Seth’s song was a petting hand.

It was all around six years ago. In spring, Seth was visited by some men. Tief could hear them talking. He heard their words. “Tax”, “Payment”, “Owe”, “Credit”, “Fucking Fiend Bastard You Keep In Here”. Tief was hiding in the dark behind the boxes and barrels.

Then he heard no words, but a sound. A sound of a dagger piercing into flesh. A gulping sound of Seth as he fell on the floor.

They left.

Seth was sitting on the chair, his hand red, his stomach stabbed and bleeding.

— Sunny, dear… — He called him. — I can see yer’ eyes, boy, c’mere… — Seth was weakening. Tief was crying, a small child, walking to him slowly with tears in his eyes, sobbing with the most bitter sorrow.

— Sunny, it’s fine, I’m okay, see? Tis’ jus’a scratch… — Seth was pale. His eyes were full of fear. But not of death. He was afraid of what would happen to Tief.

— Yer’a good boy, sunny, don’t be afraid. I’m sleepy, okay? ’member my lute? I ‘ive it to ye. Ye deserve it. Yer a good boy sunny. You play very well, with those claws, yes… — Seth petted Tief’s cheek with the clean hand.

— Good boy… Take it, it’s yours. Now ye’ll b’free to wander, run ‘way from ‘ere… This place’s bad. Play music and don’t let go of the lute. ‘member me, sunny… ‘member my words: Yer a good p’rson, a good boy of papa… Good… Boy…

Tief was crying the whole day over Seth’s lifeless body. He was still warm, his hand on his shoulder, a slight sad smile on his elderly lips, a trail of salt from a dried tear.

— ‘tis bastard’s dead already, go look for the fiend spawn… — Tief heard in the dark of the night, as two people walked into the warehouse. He took the lute, and fled.

...

So the night passed, in the morning Tief still felt pain in his back. He woke up slowly, with grunts, with little gasps of pain.

— Ouch… — He held the hit place, on his lower back right under the ribs, on the left. Tief was struggling to fight the pain when he reached to check his goods. In place. Two golden coins among 6 silver ones and 43 coppers. It was such a big lot…

But the paper… What was it? In the morning light coming from between the planks, he looked at the paper. It was… A letter. His hair went on end. He could read, but… It was hard. He would try…

To: The tiefling bard child playing in the Serreip Sed district of Revenland.

From: SoT

If you can read, then read carefully. If not, then to the one reading this message: please speak the letter the way it’s written without skipping anything.

We from the School of Tieflings are giving you an invitation to our school. The given two galleons might be enough for you to buy suiting clothing and everything listed below, it will be useful if you wish to study at us:

A suitcase full of comfortable semi-formal clothing. Preferably a good amount of spare socks

An empty book or diary (x5)

A cape with a hood, comfortable and weatherproof to some degree

It is allowed to take any possessions, such as jewelry, musical instruments, talismans and so on with you. We are waiting for you in the village of Cargealdor, in the Amperholm territories. Look for a tall male tiefling with red skin, or let yourself be seen by him.

Everything best, Prof. Aiv Avlis

Tief was confused. He did understand most of the message. But why? Why was he invited there? It made no sense. And why was it so important? Was this… Prof Aiv Avlis the man who gave him those two golden coins? It must be, right?

His back hurt, and his head ached. He needed to do something…

— Here mister officer, he’s under the stairs. Yes he lives ‘ere, go take ‘im.

Tief’s eyes went wide as he heard the voice of John Billiehorn, one of the brothers who owned this building. Officer? A guard was there to take him to jail, or worse, execution. He was trapped, framed, with no way out. His claws were the only thing he had to fight back.

...grabbing the lute, the hat, the fortune of coins (which he put in the little pouch-pocket on his raggy clothing), and the blood-stained letter tucked into her top clothing, he limped a little while the guard was coming.

— Right here officer, here’s the door yes. He’s still sleeping, yes, a lazy freak he is… — John Billyhorn spoke in his grumpy manner.

— Turn around, sir, leave us. He’s needed to be… — The guard, probably a huge man, judging by his deep voice, didn’t finish the phrase, but Tief knew what he meant. Through the planks he saw the great pike that the guard had…

The guardian of peace opened the door in one great swing move and looked inside.

Inside, there was no one.

— Huh? — He grunted confused. Tief was there, on the ceiling of the room, flat, his tail between his legs. Now.

Tief dropped on the floor holding the pike by the shaft, sticking it into the ground and rushing past the guard and John Billiehorn. The guard shouted in shock. Tief’s lower back still hurt sharply, but he ran. To the fence and over it, onto the street…

There were two more guards. One of them got time to blow in the whistle, and thus alerted the other. Tief hesitated before running away with all the stamina he had, hungry, wounded. He was running for his life.

The morning lights were shining bright, the sun rising, people were waking up. It was around 10 o’clock in the morning, and the city was already sprouting with life.

Tief knew a route. On the bazaar he rushed to one specific place in the backstreet, and there easily and fastly climbed a wall. One of the guards almost hit him with his halberd. Now, on the roofs, he could get anywhere he wanted.

Running on the red roofs of Revenland, he soon got the chase off his tail, leaving the guards alone in the streets, tricked.

`Iya rohtuneht

Iya hefhed-le-ekem

Roht-e oameht

Iya’llyr bedtekem`

He instinctively sang, feeling his ancestry's magic flow. His pain got numbed, and stamina somehow reloaded.

And he ran, ran fast, until he reached the highway. There were many carts and coaches going in and out of the city. He sneaked down on the ground and sat by the way. He was hoping to get out of the district, and then to some better place. Blood rushing, heart thumping in his chest loudly, Tief let himself relax a bit.

Here is a good cart. With hay, and that was all. Quickly, he stood and rushed to walk by it’s side. No one was looking at him, which was strange, considering his looks. He felt it was magic, but didn’t have time to think about it. He jumped in the hay, and hid there. Breathing through the hat to have some better air, he laid there, relaxing.

Hay in the district. Maybe it was coming from the Emirpal district? There were mostly farms, perhaps this cart was just passing by…

It was pure luck to find a cart like this. A single horse, the rider, and a lot of hay to hide in.

— Didn’t even… break… a sweat… — He spoke, at first feeling fresh but suddenly feeling tired, and the pain in his back coming in a great wave, strong enough to knock him out completely…

...he woke up after some time. His first thought was “I am a wanted man”, before he looked around in the hay scared. Memories came back and he tried not to whine from the pain in his back. This was no good, he needed rest. But where? He felt paranoid. Anywhere he would go he would be met with dangers. And there…

Where was he now?

He carefully looked out of the hay, towards the cart’s direction of movement. Other than horse arse and the tired looking farmer, he saw only one thing.

Golden plains of wheat. As far as the eye could see, and a little town in the far.

— Holy name of Ueid! Fiend! — The farmer shouted scared, startling the horse. Tief backed away, showing himself.

— Please, have mercy! — Tief shouted instinctively, covering himself. — I just needed a lift, I’m sorry sir! I-I can pay!

The farmer had a pitchfork by him, and now had it in his hands. He stopped the horse.

— Ayh? Pay? Who's ya fiendling!? Tella name!

— I-I’m…

— Now!

— Ex! — He said. It wasn’t his true name, but it was close to it. He didn’t trust anyone to give them his true name.

— Ex? Aight aight, — The farmer said putting the pitchfork away. — Ex! How much do you have, in coins?

— T-thirteen coppers… — Tief lied bluntly.

— Nghrh… Give me five of ‘em ‘n ye’ll be fine. Just sit in ‘ere, c’mon! Give the coins!

— Y-yes sir… — He tried not to tinkle his fortune, and tried to act sad to give such a big part of his already small balance. He pulled out not five but six, giving them to him.

— P-please, I need to see my dad…

— Shoo! Shutcha and sit still, bunny- — He said taking the coins and putting them in a little linen pouch.

Tief gulped nervously, sitting by the man, who now was looking nervious.

— Knew’t, Ueid… Knew’t there’s s’one in’e cart ay… Is that a cithara?

— N-no sir, this is a lute.

— You stole it.

— No! It’s a gift…

— ‘en play somethin’. — Was the dry answer of the man. Tief uncomfortably took the lute and cleared his throat. Tuning it, he put the hat with the letter on his own head, and played the first chord. The man raised a brow of interest.

`When you ridin’

Past fields of rye

Shining gold

That pleases’ the eye-

When you ride

Your way back home

Know there’s someone

Awaits you to come-`

— What’s that song?

— I-I made it up just now sir-

— Are you reading my mind? How do you know about my wife?

— I-I- sir, forgive me, but I am not gifted with the quirk to read minds. It was just a poking guess… — Tief said, still playing the tune.

— ...aye like it. — The man said, looking a little thoughtful. — Ya know ‘at song, “Raise yer cup, an’ bottoms up, bottoms up!”, aye?

— I know it yes!

— Oi matey! Play it, let’s sing together-

Tief asked for a moment to tune the lute, and then nodded. The man started singing, very out of tune:

`Aye who’s coming with me to walk long way’t’e’sky?

I love boozey, let’s jus’ drink that thing dry

Whatta place, whatta place ‘ere to be-

Have a cup fromme bottle, hava’drink ‘ere with me!

Raise yer cup, bottoms up - bottoms up!

Raise yo cup, bottoms up - drink it up!

Aye who’s comin’ with me to a quest?

Whoza comin’ with me, oh with me an’e rest?

Whoza comin’ with me, whoza comes is the best

Whoza coming with me, raise yo cup - take a rest!

Raise yer cup, bottoms up - bottoms up!

Raise yer cup, bottoms up - bottoms up!

Aye raise yer cup, bottoms up - bottoms up!

Raise yo cup, bottoms up - drink it up!

It sounded awful, truly, but Tief managed to fit the bad rhythm and the horrible accent of the man with a suitable melody. The man demanded to sing again, and thus the song was sung thrice.

— Phew, ‘ery nice...

— Actually the song’s different lyrics sir, it goes…

— Do aye look ‘ike I care? Tis’ my cart, I sing the way I want.

This… Was a good point, truly. Tief thought about it. “My cart, my songway” - that was the idea he got solid.

— Aight, here’s your coppy matey, ‘atas nice. — He threw Tief one of the coins he gave him, and laughed a little madly.

They soon arrived at that town Tief saw from a distance. Tief thanked him, and walked off. The sun was setting, and he needed to find a safe place for tonight.

Tief walked through the streets, and finally had some time to think.

— I’m in another town… Where do I go next? — He didn’t quite believe the letter he still had in his hat, nor did he trust that Profaiv Avlis person.

School of Tieflings… What was that? He didn’t know at all, he didn’t even dream of going into a school for he knew he wouldn’t have the money for that. He learnt to read Common by walking through the city with Seth, as he showed him the signboards of different merchants. “Butcher”, “Smith”, “Locksmith”, “Clothing”, these words he learnt to read first. Then Seth teached him how to read and write whatever he pleased. Many walls in the docks were covered in meaningless word-experiments, “oongooloostoo”, “biblidygook”, “vararansque”...

Tief stopped.

There were several town people looking at him, but it wasn’t bothering him much right now. What catched his interest was a large sign by a three-story building.

Tavern Duglew

Was written on a wooden sign with pyrography. Tief easily read the word “tavern”, but “Duglew” was a little odd for him. He thought a little bit.

It was getting dark, late evening, and inside the tavern there was some light. Tief inhaled and with courage walked in.

The insides of the house were pretty poor: several square tables placed in rows, chaotic placement of chairs made it look like they were dancing around each other. There were some people - all humans, a mature woman and two men, all smoking cheap weeds and looking at Tief confused. The woman spoke first.

— Bar’s closed kid. Shoo-

— I need a room. — Tief said confidently. He knew he had the money, and could afford the luxury. He never slept in a real bed before, but saw those through the windows and in Billiehorn’s house.

— A room?

— Yes. For two nights paying in advance. — As Tief said this, the faces of all three went long.

— Y’see lil’ pal, it ain’t for free y’know…

— How much?

— Half a stag for a’nite’n’day. — One silver coin for two days? Tief couldn’t believe his pointy ears.

— Here I have one, show me a free room, — Tief said, pulling out the coin. — Servin’ food?

— Offerin’ ‘eakfast’n’lunche deal. — The man with darker and longer hair said.

— Good then.

After a quarter of an hour, Tief was in his room alone. Hungry and his stomach growling, he thought about what to eat. There must’ve been leftovers in the kitchen which he could have bought, perhaps… Not leaving anything in the room, he walked out of it and downstairs. There were several new patrons, four men drinking and talking with each other quietly.

Walking to the dark haired man of the staff, Tief spoke.

— So is there anything to eat, sir?

— We have some bread and cold stew. Want me to heat’t up a bit, chum?

— Sure, how much will it be?

— Seven coppers.

The said coins were already being placed on the counter as Tief nodded and walked to take a seat at one of the tables. Everyone here seemed pretty friendly, though he still kept his ears sharp and eyes peeled.

He ate the pork stew, and the bread, now feeling so sleepy and tired… Tief slowly made his way to his bed and found himself sleeping tight.

Tief didn’t have dreams, he had memories. Some were pretty distant, some current, but now he was thinking about the Billiehorn Roost. He remembered petting the peepers several times when nobody watched, these fluffy little chicks…

Then, unexpectedly for himself, he woke up covered in cold sweat. He found it difficult to breathe, laying on his stomach. Confusion grew into fair fear, because Tief couldn’t move. Outside it was late night, but he could see in the dark as if it was nothing but slight dusk.

— ‘s he asleep? Y’sure?

— Shutcha, let’s-a see… — Behind the door of his room the familiar voices talked among themselves. Tief made a crippled sound, trying his best to move a muscle.

— The dreamnut must’ve got ‘im ‘lready, ‘ike a log he’s… — One of the men said, opening the door with an audible creak.

Tief made a scared squeak, looking at the silhouettes of the two.

— Ueid of all saints!

— Easy, it’s only his glowin’ eyes, focking fiend’s a liver huh. Take his cithara, — One of the male silhouettes said. Tief wanted to scream, trapped in his body and unable to move at all. His head felt dizzy, he had trouble telling where’s the ground and where’s the ceiling.

— Look in’e chest, ‘s goods mus’be ‘ere… — Said one while the other tried to walk past Tief, who was laying helpless on the bed. Tief teared up huffing into his pillow as the men looked for his money.

— Look a’dat! — He raised the pouch with the tiefling kid’s money. — He’s a thief-ling oaye mate?

— Shall’e kill ‘im?

— Aye-

`Dohtiekem hefhed ilthyahkem bedtast ardoht’seht-`

— Whot was’at? Y’said something?

— A-nope-

Tief was feeling fear and hate, raw magic flowing in his mind and forming in subconscious thoughts in the ancient language he knew from very birth:

`Cesshokekem oht’neht yahkemou’roht bedt-lackoht hekheme’art’seht-`

One of the two men coughed a little into his fist. Tief was hearing thunder in his mind. The other man stepped to him and pulled the pillow from under Tief’s head-

`Dohtiekem hefhed ilthyahkem bedtast ardoht’seht

Cesshokekem oht’neht yahkemou’roht bedt-lackoht hekheme’art’seht

Hefhede’elyr tayem’hekem webrathekhem ohthefhed mehtekem-`

The man pushed Tief to lay on his back and placed the pillow on his face, smothering him.

— D’ya hear ‘at?

— Prolly ‘e wind- — The second one answered coughing once more, now uncontrollably while smothering Tief.

Tief tried to hold his breath. He was afraid to die. He was betrayed, he was poisoned with paralytics, he was helpless and robbed, but in his mind was still reading the darkest curses known, even when slowly drifting asleep, unconscious:

`Hefhede’elyr tayem’hekem webrathekhem ohthefhed mehtekem

Sehtwall’oweb yahkemo’uroht bedtraineht’seht ayemn’doht dohtiekem

Dohtiekem, dohtiekem, dohtiekem-hefhedoroht’ekemveroht-`

At this point, Tief was prepared to see Seth in the afterlife, drifting to complete darkness. He heard something distorted, but couldn’t tell what it was. He heard his lute falling on the ground, but was too late to think about it…