#Aftermath of Violence

[wangxianficrecs]

heroic aftermath by Last_for_Hell

heroic aftermath

by Last_for_Hell (@last-in-line-for-hell)

T, 5k, Wangxian

Summary: A typical night hunt goes south quickly as Wei Wuxian gets severely injured protecting the juniors. They are understandably not okay with this, and try to deal with the aftermath of what they went through while taking care of a comatose Wei Wuxian. They were in for a long night ahead of them. Kay's comments: My heart breaks for the juniors in this story, but it's also so heart-warming to see how much they care for their Wei-qianbei. I was especially taken with Ouyang Zichen in this one, the fourth junior who often gets forgotten but is just as much part of the junior squad as the others. Despite Wei Wuxian being hurt badly in this story, there's no need to fear! Happy ending guaranteed! And many found family vibes as well! Excerpt: “We almost died but me walking around is too much for you?!” Jin Ling snarled, edges sharp. “We were not the ones who almost died!” Lan Jingyi cried out. The room went silent. A strangled inhale came from behind them, and Lan Jingyi spun on his heel, hand immediately outstretched, “Sizhui, I-“ “He almost died.” Lan Sizhui voice trembled, “He almost died again.” Lan Jingyi’s hand fell. Lan Sizhui didn’t look at them, eyes anchored to Wei Wuxian’s slack face, “Hanguang-Jun would have lost him again - my father would have lost him again. He’d never recover.” He was shaking. “I...I could have lost him again. And this time I remember, I would know what I lost. I can’t- I can’t lose him.” No one had anything to say to that.

pov alternating, post-canon, established relationship, adorable juniors, hurt wei wuxian, wei wuxian whump, hurt/comfort, emotional hurt/comfort, aftermath of violence, wei wuxian has a fear of dogs, implied sexual content, angst with a happy ending, guilt

~*~

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[flowers-for-the-grave]

Calm Before The Storm

There were no more Yellows now. Which as a result meant no more mercy, or grace periods. No one would show kindness anymore, not when the entire world was against you. Allies would only be standing in your way. Hindrances to success.

Scott stood at the diving board, staring out upon the server. He could see everyone beginning to head back to their bases clearly. His fingers itched, the way they always did when he was Red, slowly finding his bow and holding it up. An arrow was nocked, aimed and ready for someone's head. He didn't know whose head. It didn't matter in the end. They were all just heads on bodies waiting to be chopped off.

Shaking himself out of it, he lowered his bow and put the arrow back in its quiver.

Gem was sat on the floor with her sword in her lap. A strand of hair fell over her eyes and she hastily brushed it away. She stared at her reflection in the sword, a frown tugging at her lips, tilting it this way and that presumably to find a noticeable change.

Everyone felt different as a Red.

No one knew how. There were no physical differences to before, no changes in demeanour or personality. A player didn't instantly grow cold and calculated with an intense thirst for blood. The bloodlust was always inside of them. It just never arose as a Green or a Yellow. It simmered in their stomachs on a low heat, only to have the temperature rocket up and the pot overflow, teeming with the urge to kill. The need to have blood on your fingers. To feel the weight of a weapon in your hands, or to hold the lever to set off a TNT trap.

Many tried to look for a difference. It was quite common for players unfamiliar with the game to do so. They always believed there to be something wrong with them physically, and resorted to searching for changes in what little time they had on their hands.

They never found anything, sadly, but no one did.

"Gem," Scott began, walking over to her. She lifted her eyes to his for a moment, then looked back down at her sword. "Gem." he repeated, firmer. She paid him no mind. Apparently a reflection was more important than her teammate.

Impulse stepped out of his house and sat next to Gem. He stretched his arms and placed his palms in the grass, running his hands through the blades. Like many other players, his hands were riddled with scars, burns, blisters and callouses. "What's up?"

"That's the problem," Scott replied. "Nothing. Nothing is happening."

"Isn't that a good thing?" Impulse asked. "I mean, that means we have time to prepare for an attack, or a trap." He nudged Gem with his arm playfully. "Right Gem?"

She didn't respond.

Scott leaned in a little closer and sighed. Her eyes had glazed over. Again.

"Third time today." he grumbled.

Standing up, Impulse bent down to scoop Gem up into his arms and made a start for the gate. He gestured with his head for Scott to follow, and follow he did. He opened the gate for Impulse, and the two of them descended down the stairs and walked past the Secret Keeper statue. The mere sight of it was enough to send shivers down Scott's spine and make him want to run.

They stopped by Cleo's first. Unsurprisingly, Etho was there too.

"What is it?" Cleo asked. She whispered something in Etho's ear and he nodded, scurrying off quickly.

Once his receding footsteps were out of earshot, Scott answered. "It's happening again. I'm gathering some of the players."

She nodded, gradually understanding. "Alright, just give me a moment to grab my things." she disappeared.

Scott stood there, impatiently tapping his foot until Etho arrived with Grian in tow. Both of them were holding bundles of blankets with some snacks thrown in there for good measure. Grian yawned, attempting to rub his eyes.

Cleo reemerged a short while later with more snacks and some water.

The group left and headed towards Pearl's, where Scott broke off from the group to retrieve an additional guest. Before he could even knock on the door, Martyn was outside with all his stuff, a small smile on his face.

"Cleo messaged me," he explained. Scott walked alongside him back to Pearl's, where everyone was sat waiting. Some of them weren't able to join them, so it wasn't quite as full a group as usual, but it was still something.

He took some of the blankets from Martyn and laid them out on the floor. Everyone else did the same, then sat down.

Gem was the last one to sit. Impulse had to guide her to an available spot and gently lower her until she was perched on the edge. Her eyes were still glazed, but a fraction of light and normalcy was returning to them already.

Scott sat down beside Impulse, with Martyn's head in his lap. He absent-mindedly twirled strands of Martyn's hair whilst humming a small tune. He couldn't recall where he'd heard it; perhaps in passing, in the space between the games, or maybe it had been playing when he was in a different server. It sounded similar to a drinking song, so maybe it had been from Pirates.

"Now what?" Grian asked. He perched himself far from the others, but close enough to Cleo and Etho to reach them in case of an unfortunate event. His gaze was on Gem, his eyes narrowing mildly.

Etho chimed in. "We hang out. Eat. Talk. And we wait for Gem to come back."

Cleo nodded in agreement, a small smile curling at her lips. Her hand met Etho's, and their fingers entwined.

---

It took a while for Gem to come back fully. She'd return in brief fits, then leave soon after. It was like flicking a switch on and off repeatedly, only more stressful and each wait seemed to stretch on for eternity.

But once she started to ground herself, it became easier.

Her thoughts were a swirling mass of death, flashes of red every time she shut her eyes. Something was wrong with her. Something had changed, but what? What had changed so drastically about her?

She looked the same. Felt the same. Even tasted the same, which she tested herself (although maybe she did taste different and simply didn't notice.)

But something about her must have been wrong.

She was wrong. A freak. A creature of her own design or maybe someone else's.

Whenever she came to, she was surrounded by people. Impulse's hand on her knee, fingers tapping along to a rhythm. Scott humming a tune, playing with Martyn's hair, his hums occasionally turning into snippets of song lyrics. Cleo and Etho holding hands and smiling, Etho's head on cleo's shoulder, eyes shut in contentment. Grian watching warily. Pearl next to him with a calming hand on his shoulder.

A pang struck her heart when she came to.

They were all here for her. They'd dropped whatever they were doing, for her.

She was important to them.

Gem fell back again into that whirlpool of thoughts. They swirled viciously in her mind, growling and barking and biting like a pack of rabid wolves. Their fur was the colour of blood, and Their eyes were pools of purple. A strange black liquid oozed from Their fangs and dripped onto the ground. They approached from all sides, closing in slowly, leaving Gem less and less time to escape.

Panic bubbled in her chest and she balled the clumps of her shirt in her hands, trying to remember how to breathe.

"You're okay," Impulse's voice whispered in her mind. Was she? She didn't feel like it. "I've got you."

She almost laughed at the thought. He didn't. Not only because she was here and he was out there but also because no one could ever truly have Gem secure in their company. There was always that thin line, that tightrope of danger she was obliged to walk on. One misstep and she fell back into that world of blood, wolves and that rising sense of fear.

"Gem, we're here for you. Take your time." Cleo.

"You've got this," was a half-hearted encouragement from Martyn. He yelped, grumbled under his breath, then hastily added, "I believe in you!"

A hand gently squeezed her kneecap. She saw it, saw the hand, but not the hand at the same time. It flickered in and out of physicality, not wanting to be there for too long. Then it settled into reality with a firm determination.

Something else appeared, too. A shaky apparition, a figure bathed in sunlight. His wings were folded against his back, his red sweater worn and fraying. There was a scar on his temple, and a bruise on his cheek. A second appeared closer to her, gently illuminated by small floating stars, his pointed ears sharp and alert. Then came another, in a cloak of woven moonlight, a toothy smile revealing her elongated canines.

Then finally came one surrounded by a thick outline of red. There was a pendant around his neck of a hand grasping an hourglass.

They all smiled kindly at her, their faces coming into visibility slowly. Everything unnatural about them faded away until they were simply Grian, Scott, Pearl and Martyn, all still in their respective positions.

"Welcome back," Etho greeted.

Scott exhaled in relief, his hand falling to his side. Martyn frowned at its absence, sitting up properly. His hand crept into Scott's lap and rested on his thigh. A grin curled at Scott's lips.

Gem leaned into Impulse. "I'm tired." she whispered, not trusting her voice enough to raise it much more. Still, her words carried across to the others and a blanket was tossed her way. She caught it easily - surprisingly enough, but that must've been a good thing if her reflexes were already coming back - and wrapped it around her shoulders.

"G'night," Martyn said, letting gravity push him backwards. Scott fell with him, letting out a displeased noise when his back hit the ground. "Let's all have a five minute grace period before killing each other, yeah?"

They all mumbled their assent.

Gem and Impulse lay down, close but not touching. She couldn't touch him just yet; her body still didn't quite feel as it should. But when it did, she'd hug him.

Until then, she'd have to rest.

A Red Life was many things; vicious, unforgiving, spiteful, vengeful.

But they were also kind, gentle and merciful when the time called for it.

[gregorovitch-adler]

What Will I Be, Without You?

John had dozed off on the sitting room sofa of his new flat, covered in his own mess. Worn-out, two-day old clothes, stinking with sweat and alcohol.

It had been a year since Sherlock's death. Well, a year and two months to be exact. John had moved out of Baker Street within two days after Sherlock had jumped off the building. He couldn't bear to live in that place anymore.

Not without being reminded of Sherlock in every single particle of that living space.

Not without thinking he saw Sherlock in public every time he stepped out of the house. Not without going through the entire line of thought and regrets.

Regrets about what could have been, if he had been honest about his feelings for Sherlock when he was alive. About how he called him a machine, hours before he committed suicide. All that.

He knew there wasn't any point in living any more, and absolutely not at Baker Street.

So he'd moved out. Having spent the time of his life with Sherlock for a year and a half, after they'd met, had made him somewhat hesitant to actually to take his own life.

That didn't mean he didn't consider that every now and then. The gun sitting on the coffee table probably had a lot of things to say.

A few hours later, the morning light from the outside hit his eyes and they fluttered open. He must have forgotten to draw the curtains last night.

His head was throbbing with pain as he got up. He winced and held his head in his hands. Must be the hangover from yesterday.

He felt disgusted and sluggish, the smell of sweat and alcohol making his nose scrunch. He turned around to drop his feet on the ground to get up slowly. To go on with yet another dreadful day.

When he looked up, a tall figure dressed in dark clothes greeted him. A man with curled hair, sea-green eyes and an impeccable dress sense. He was holding a bottle of tablets and a glass of water in his hands.

John startled and sat back as he stared at him blankly. The man looked strikingly similar to Sherlock, John thought, as he reached for the gun that he'd left on the coffee table yesterday.

"That would be hardly necessary, John," he said, holding held out the bottle and the glass to John. The voice was unmistakeably Sherlock's. John would know. "You should take these."

John's jaw dropped. He felt some dizziness, and he didn't remember the next few moments or probably hours.

*

John's eyes opened again and he found himself lying on the sitting room floor, covered with a blanket and a pillow beneath his head. He winced as Sherlock sprinkled some cold water on his face.

"You okay?" Sherlock asked, placing a hand on John's left shoulder.

"You... aren't you..." John was suddenly bolt upright on the floor as he stuttered. "You were dead! I saw it happen, I was right there! How... Sherlock, what the hell!"

Sherlock gazed at him for a bit and lowered his eyes. His lips were compressed too. "I'm sorry, John. Forgive me."

John opened and closed his left hand trying to process all the things he was feeling. His hangover wasn't helping. He massaged his forehead with his hand.

Sherlock Holmes was alive.

John still remembered how he wished Sherlock would stop being dead when he was performing his burial.

Not just that day. John kept hoping (begging) for it to happen every single day since then. He thought about nothing but that only yesterday.

Just another day of his live since Sherlock died.

John knew how impossible it was, but he kept asking Sherlock - who resided in his mind, heart, soul, every part of his body - for the same thing: to stop being dead. And Sherlock was alive after all!

His whole body lightened up from within with joy.

But he dimmed again almost as quickly as he'd lightened up.

A whole year of his life had passed by, grieving for nothing. Everything he went through, all alone, was in vain.

John hissed and grabbed his head with both of his hands.

"Please take this. You're clearly not okay and -"

"You don't bloody get to tell me what to do!" he shouted, aggravating his headache some more. "You leave, make me grieve for more than a year pointlessly, I'm left here feeling like a bloody idiot, and you break into my flat pretending none of that happened? Now you're sorry? Perfect!"

John hissed in pain and snatched the bottle of pills out of Sherlock's hand.

John swallowed a pill and drank the glass of water that Sherlock had placed on the coffee table, before he had sat back defensively.

He got up from the floor and went straight to the bathroom to brush his teeth and take a shower, leaving Sherlock behind in the sitting room on his own.

He spent the whole shower cursing Sherlock mostly in his mind (and a bit out loud) and going through a plethora of conflicting emotions. The whole time they spent together, after all they'd both been through, did that mean nothing to Sherlock? Not as much as it meant to John, apparently.

He scoffed bitterly as he continued to wash himself. Sherlock had probably gone to an adventure. Maybe the case was unusually complicated this time. Or, who knows, he probably solved a lot more than just one case during his time away.

Why didn't he let John accompany him then? Was he really that useless to Sherlock? At least he wasn't dead now.

No. Screw that.

John got out of the bathroom and slammed the door of the attached bedroom. He was getting dressed as quickly as he could, planning to head to the kitchen to make himself some tea and breakfast, all while ignoring the hell out of Sherlock. Probably this would make him leave John's flat.

He opened the door to go to the kitchen.

"John." Sherlock called from behind as he followed him. "John? John, listen to me!" his volume was getting higher.

John was not going to respond. He put on the kettle and looked for some eggs in the fridge.

John couldn't help wonder one thing though: why was Sherlock back now, if he thought John's presence in his life was that useless? What was the point?

Maybe Sherlock needed his expertise in his current case. Yeah, fuck that. He wouldn't even think of helping Sherlock after this.

"John, can you hear me? How long are you going to pretend I'm not here?" Sherlock's tone had become indignant. The audacity! "It's not like I'm invisible!"

John didn't even turn around. "Well, you were. For more than a year. Until yesterday." He kept his voice as cool as possible, suppressing his rage.

He took out the eggs and grabbed a pan from one of the cabinets and began to cook.

It must have been two whole minutes of silence in the kitchen while John watched the things he'd put on the stove. He served those eggs on a plate before pouring some tea in his mug.

He set the things on the kitchen table and sat down to eat, as though this was just any other day, and he was the only sign of life in that dark, lonely flat.

He could feel Sherlock's gaze on his face tangibly. Probably he was waiting for John to make eye contact with him. John shifted in his chair a bit.

Part of him wanted Sherlock to get the hell out of here. Part of him wanted the man to stay.

John sighed as he kept looking at anywhere but Sherlock in the room.

"Fine. If you're going to be like this..." he trailed off began to look here and there for his coat.

John's head snapped up. "If I'm going to be like this? Me? Sherlock you utter-"

"I did it for you," he said, looking at John in the eye with earnestness.

John scoffed as he continued to eat.

Sherlock shook his head with his brows knitted. "I'm not lying. Moriarty had appointed three snipers, threatening to kill three people who were the closest to me. You, Mrs Hudson, and Lestrade."

John looked up at Sherlock again with his lips parted.

"His only condition was that I jump off the building. The keycode that I'd deciphered - it was fake. He told me those three snipers could be called off only by him. And then he shot himself in the mouth."

John placed the silverware on the plate. If Sherlock was to be believed, then... Oh God.

"You tell me. What was I to do then? I could either go ahead with Mycroft's plan that involved faking my death, or I could die for real and never come back. Did you really want the latter, John?"

"Jesus, no! Sherlock, I didn't... I thought you were - I thought you'd gone on with an exciting case or something. An adventure. Without me," he dropped his voice a bit in the last sentence. His stomach gave a pang of guilt.

"Why would I do that?" he asked, with a genuine-sounding confusion in his voice.

John shrugged. "Because you thought I was useless. Maybe you didn't need me anymore."

"Don't be ridiculous," he said and drew a chair for himself, taking a seat across from John on the table. "I always need you."

John swallowed as he picked up his fork again. He wanted to reach out for Sherlock's hand. Not now. "There's some more tea in the kettle," he said instead.

Sherlock waved this off. They gazed at each other and, if John wasn't imagining, there was surely something else he could see in Sherlock's eyes apart from the obvious frustration.

Something that probably reflected John's own feelings for him.

John cleared his throat. "What happened after that? Where did you go?"

"Many parts of the world. Russia, China, and India were some of them. I was trying to dismantle his network from its root. My last location was Serbia, before I came back to London, finally. It took me unexpectedly long to get out of there..." he trailed off and swallowed as he looked away.

"Why?" John took sipped his tea some more.

"Never mind."

"Sherlock," he warned and gave him a hard stare.

Keep me in the dark again and I might actually punch you in the face.

Sherlock seemed to have read his mind, because he looked up at John and took a sharp breath. "They captured me in a confined place. Worse than an average jail. They tied me up. Whipped me, starved me to death, and if I would dare to doze off, they'd whip me some more. I had to live with the smell of my own human waste for a whole month." Sherlock bit his bottom lip.

"Jesus!" he exclaimed in a whisper. He looked down at Sherlock's slim forearms that were placed on the table. He wished to reach for them, but didn't, for some reason. His heart was on fire with anger. "How did you escape?"

"Mycroft showed up," he said briefly. "He managed to set me free. And now I'm here."

"When did you come back?" he asked, knowing nothing else to say.

"Three days ago."

"Why didn't you come here then?"

"I was in hospital the first night."

John nodded, blinking a bit with a strange, stinging sensation in the corner of his left eye.

"Then I was thinking of ways to meet you in person. Explain myself to you," he said and paused for a bit. "John, I know you've been through a lot. But I wasn't out there having fun without you either," he said in a cautious tone, sounding quite gentle.

"I know! Or I know now, at least." John swallowed and got up from his chair, his eggs forgotten on the plate. He went around the table and stopped behind Sherlock. "May I see?"

"John... I don't think-"

"Please?"

Sherlock turned around to face John. He nodded and got up from his chair to take off his suit jacket.

He unbuttoned his shirt slowly and shrugged it off, revealing his sculpted upper body and a completely battered back. Black and blue. Some blisters had appeared, too, on his lower back.

"Jesus Christ," John whispered and felt his eyes welling up. John wanted to find all of those arseholes and kill every single one of them. "You did all that for us?"

Sherlock began to put on his shirt again silently. He tucked it in his trousers. "For you, mainly," he said, in a quite tone.

John couldn't take it anymore. He placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, making him turn around and placed his arms around Sherlock's neck. He tried to be careful about his wounds.

Sherlock stiffened for a moment but then he relaxed as he placed his arms around John's waist.

They didn't speak for a long moment. John closed his eyes and sighed.

He turned a bit to breathe in Sherlock's perfume and his natural scent from his jawline and neck, enjoying his proximity for as long as he could.

Their arms were wrapped tight around each other and for the first time in a whole year, John felt alive again. John was living in the moment like anything.

"I'm sorry," John said, breaking the silence in the room.

"What for?"

"For assuming the worst about you," he said in Sherlock's ear, with his nose touching Sherlock's cheek. "For reacting like this when you returned."

Sherlock hummed.

"Who else knows about this?"

"Molly and my homeless network."

"Molly?" John's heart sank.

"She helped me with the plan along with Mycroft. It was only possible because Moriarty deduced the very specific people who were the most important to me. She was excluded from the list." Sherlock cleared his throat. "You were the first person I decided to meet as soon as I was discharged from the hospital after coming back to London."

John sighed in relief, feeling bad about jumping to conclusions again.

Another moment of silence fell in the room. Their breathing was synchronised.

Sherlock turned to face John, who did the same at the same instant. Their eyes locked with their noses touching.

Unsure of who initiated it but now John's mouth was on Sherlock's, and they were kissing. John placed one of his hands through Sherlock's curls and deepened the kiss as Sherlock tilted his head a bit.

They parted after some time and stopped for breath. The way Sherlock looked at him was setting John's whole being on fire with all the things he felt for Sherlock at the moment (always had).

"John," he breathed. "Since when?"

"Always. You?"

"Same." Sherlock leaned in to close the gap between them again.

John gasped with relief and kissed him back, trying to express everything he felt for Sherlock through his fervent kisses.

They found themselves moving to the sitting room. No one broke off the kiss, not until they both sank in the sofa, with John on top of Sherlock.

John moved his mouth along Sherlock's jawline and planted kisses along his neck, getting familiar with what that beautiful, long neck felt like at last.

"I always need you," Sherlock said, repeating his statement from before. "You'll never be useless to me." He grasped for John's jumper around his shoulders and held him tight.

"I see. Thank you for telling me," John said when he stopped kissing him. They looked at each other in the eye again. "I need you too. Right now."

Sherlock furrowed his brows. Then his eyes widened. "Oh."

"Please, can we...?" John trailed off, painfully aware of the tightness in his jeans now.

"John," Sherlock began, clearing his throat and shifting back on the sofa to look at him properly. "Let's not, I'm afraid."

"Oh." John shifted too and they were both sitting on the sofa now, facing each other. John cringed at what he was going to do. He was now getting soft. "Sorry. I shouldn't have -"

"It's not that," he said and took both of John's hands in his own. "You don't have to apologise."

"But what's the problem?" John wanted to know. "D'you think it's a bit too soon? I'll understand." He shrugged.

Sherlock shook his head. "There's no problem. I've never done this before with anyone," he said, gesturing between the two of them. "Never wanted to." He looked away and inhaled deeply. "And never will."

John frowned. "You don't want a... relationship, then?" (Please no.) "Still married to your work?"

"What? No, of course I want that! But not the other thing, what you wanted to do with me a moment ago."

"Oh." He looked down at the space between them.

"I've always been like that. Don't think it's personal."

John looked up at him again. Then he tried to recall the term he'd heard (or read) on the internet in passing for people like Sherlock. Asexual, probably.

Once he remembered that, everything fell in place for him.

John nodded in understanding. He stopped feeling anything negative after that. "That's okay," he said and pulled Sherlock in his arms again.

They arranged themselves a bit and John was lying on the sofa on his back, with Sherlock on top of him.

"Do you still want me?" asked Sherlock, with his face buried in John's neck.

"Of course, I do!" John pulled him closer and kissed him on his cheek. "With you gone for a whole year, dead - at least in my eyes - I was lost. Worthless. Feeling like a vegetable. A rotten one. I used to think about taking my life every other day."

"John!" Sherlock turned to look at him, alarmed.

"Why do you think I have my gun lying around, otherwise?"

"Don't do that again. Don't even think about it. Just, please," he rambled, gripping John tight around his waist.

"I won't anymore. I promise. But just saying. I'll never stop wanting you."

Sherlock kissed him on the forehead and smiled against his skin. "Neither will I."

John sighed in contentment. He could stay on the sofa all day with the love of his life.

"Let's move back in to Baker Street. I can't let you live like this. Please."

"I will. Move back in with you, I mean."

They gazed at each other, with John's heart brimming with fondness and love, and began to kiss again. Softly and slowly this time. There was no rush, after all.

They had the rest of their life to love each other as much as possible.

--

Tags: @helloliriels @gaylilsherlock @gaypiningshit @totallysilvergirl @lisbeth-kk @jamielovesjam @a-victorian-girl @topsyturvy-turtely @keirgreeneyes @peanitbear @inevitably-johnlocked @catlock-holmes

[dominimoonbeam]

Scars That Remind - 8

AU where Darlin's parents leave the pack and leave them behind when they're a teen. Gabe finds out they're homeless and basically adopts Darlin.

also available on ao3.

tags: aftermath of violence, protective david, darlin doing their best!

Scars That Remind - Part 8

As bad as getting healed by Milo’s Stealth would be, Darlin suddenly wished they’d already gotten there and done the job when they heard David’s truck door slam.

Their body spasmed on the couch, trying to get up and make a run for the back of the house—for the bathroom to clean up or maybe just to hide in their bedroom. It was a childish instinct.

Milo tsked and caught their good shoulder, nudging them back down onto the couch before they could bolt.

The front door thumped open and Asher leaned back in his chair, head rolled as far back as his neck would allow to look down the front hall at David. “Hey boss. Everything is okay.” He’d said that on the phone too, in that same easy tone like if Asher could stay calm then everyone else would find there way to it too.

“There’s blood all over the lawn,” David snarled, coming around the corner of wall and stopping when he saw Darlin on the couch.

Fuck. Darlin looked down at themself, shoulder still ripped open by teeth, shirt shredded and soaked, and knuckles busted. Their face was probably bad too. It felt bad. Their lip was definitely split.

David didn’t move for long seconds, his eyes running over them until they couldn’t stand it anymore and fixed their gaze on the coffee table.

 -

 David fought the urge to shift.

“Stealth is on their way,” Asher said, still leaning back in that chair like this was a fucking get together.

David curled his lip. “Go hose down the driveway before someone sees that mess.”

Darlin started to get up and David felt his eyes widen, furious that they’d even think he was talking to them. Like he would tell them to do anything but sit there and wait to be healed right now?

Milo caught their good shoulder and nudged them back down with a roll of his eyes. “Seriously?” he mumbled with a thin laugh before turning and heading out to the front yard.

Asher got up too, making a show of stretching and turning but stopping there for a second, right next to David. “They howled,” he said quietly, tapping his shoulder before passing him to follow Milo outside, giving them a few minutes alone.

Darlin still wasn’t looking at him.

He dragged a breath to steady himself, thinking about what Asher had said. They’d howled. That explained why the other two were there. But Darlin had never howled for help before. He came closer and sat down on the coffee table right in front of them, their knees bumping.

“You didn’t need to come over,” Darlin muttered.

He looked at the deep slashes in their shoulder. Teeth. “Was he trying to kill you?”

Darlin jerked a little, surprised. Their jaw flexed and their gaze darted but didn’t quite meet his. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

“Is that the worst of it?”

Darlin glanced at their shoulder and then nodded. They had blood down their chin, oozing from a deep split in their lip.

“Did it even occur to you to try to heal any of this yourself or were you just going to put some super glue on it and call it a night?”

They finally looked up at him then and he saw the answer there. It had not occurred to them. “I guess if I save this mess until my next healing class they could use me for practice,” they said, offering a thin joke.

David sighed but nodded.

Darlin looked at the coffee table again. “Your shirt’s inside out.”

“Your shirt’s blood soaked,” he countered. “What are we going to do about this, Darlin?”

They dragged a breath like they were a teen again, gaze fixing on the bottlecap tray on the table. “I handled it.”

He followed their gaze. There was another tooth in the bowl. Yes, his sibling could handle themself. But they shouldn’t have to, and Quinn didn’t seem to be taking the hint. “Will he come back again?” David asked, but he knew the answer.

Darlin closed their eyes, jaw tight. “Eventually. Yeah.”

David reached out and pushed their hair out of their face, frowning at the swollen skin on their cheekbone. It might be broken. “Do you want to hear your options?” he asked quietly. They’d never talked about this before but he’d thought about it plenty.

Darlin looked up at him, nodding once.

“When Stealth gets here, we could file an official report with the department…put him on their radar.”

Darlin winced and looked down.

“Or we can finally make this pack business, like it should have been from the start, and run him off our territory every time he shows up.” He chose his words carefully, because they both knew what it would mean. It wasn’t likely Quinn would go easily. It wasn’t likely to deescalate anything. They might have to kill him.

Darlin closed their eyes. “He’ll hurt someone.”

“He already has.”

Darlin sighed and it sounded like it was deep in their soul. “He’ll hurt someone else. He’s…dangerous. If he can’t get to me, he’ll take it out on the pack. He’ll get to me through them.”

David absorbed every word Darlin whispered. They sounded so tired but so certain. They’d thought it through. How long had they been sitting on that? How long had they not been asking for help because they were afraid it would spill over onto someone else?

David couldn’t dwell on that. He had to be grateful they’d gotten to this point, where they were finally taking help, and make sure he didn’t make them regret it.

“You and Ash have human mates,” Darlin whispered, so serious that it hurt. “It’s not worth the risk. I’ll handle it.”

“Handle it how?” he asked, pushing aside the way his teeth ground at the thought of anyone targeting Angel, let alone anyone else in his pack. But it wasn’t the first time he’d considered the possibility. When he’d left Angel’s bed tonight, he’d called Arden to come hang out in the building until he got back and sent Miguel to lurk around Babe’s place…just in case. Just until he had a scope of what was going on and where Quinn was. He had secretly hoped he’d be dead on the lawn.

Darlin looked at the teeth in the bottlecap bowl again.

It wasn’t that David doubted they could kill a vampire, it was just so cruel that they’d have to kill someone they’d once cared about. It was too much history. It would make Quinn an inescapable, permanent part of Darlin in a way David had so desperately hoped to avoid.

What would his dad tell him to do?

He reached out, slow enough that it wouldn’t surprise Darlin. He palmed the side of their head, scratching at scalp the way he did sometimes when they were sad—the way he’d seen his dad do to so many in the pack before him. Darlin exhaled, closing their eyes and leaning their head into that affirming contact. “We’ll figure it out together, as a pack.”

Darlin winced but didn’t pull away.

“I know,” he said to all their fears—to all the things that could go badly and all the ways they imagined it was their fault. “You are ours and we are yours. If it was anyone else, would you abandon them to handle this alone?” He didn’t have to wait for an answer because they both knew it. “We’ll find out if he’s still in Dahlia—”

“He’ll skip town after tonight.”

“Then we’ll be ready when he comes back. We can drag him to DUMP ourselves.”

Darlin sighed hard and looked up at him, eyes red and glassy. “You really think the department will do anything?”

David stared back at his sibling. No. He didn’t really think the department would hold Quinn until he’d killed an empowered person, one with an empowered family to complain. But they would try to do it right…first. “If not, we’ll handle it ourselves.” Together. Probably himself and Asher, but definitely not Darlin alone.

He looked at the deep cut on their shoulder again and then down at their busted hand. David knew why he wouldn’t let Darlin finish things with Quinn, the reason that weighed heavier than all the others—all the worries about what it would do to their heart and how unfair it would be—he was afraid Darlin would die with Quinn, that they would break themself against him and take damage equal to everything they dealt out.

A car pulled up in front of the house and soon Asher was thumping knuckles against the door before walking in, leading Milo and Stealth into the living room. He had two pizza boxes balanced on one hand and a half-eaten slice in the other. David rolled his eyes at his best friend but loved him for how easily he defused the room.

David let go of Darlin and moved to another chair, giving Stealth his spot to look at the mess.

Darlin whined childishly. “Come on! It’s not that bad!”

“You’re delusional from blood loss,” Asher said around a full mouth, putting the pizza boxes on the coffee table next to where Stealth had sat down.

“Shit…” Stealth muttered, peeling the shreds of t-shirt on their shoulder to the side to get a better look at the cuts. “Take this off?”

Darlin snorted but didn’t lift their shirt.

Stealth frowned and for a second David wondered if they’d press it. They didn’t, shrugging and getting to work on knitting that shredded tissue back together. Mending the bones in Darlin’s hand ended up being the worst of the healing for both of them. Stealth muttered an apology, but Darlin was quick to tell them they were the one doing a favor and thank them for it. The pizza ended up being appreciated when Stealth was done and a little drained and Darlin exhausted. Asher was good at getting everyone talking on topics that had no weight, just friendly and funny, while they polished off the food.

 -

 Darlin made it to class the next day, despite not getting cleaned up and in bed until nearly four in the morning. They felt sore all over but maybe it was just in their head. Stealth had healed everything visible, even got rid of the bruising before it colored.

They rubbed their shoulder, subconsciously searching for the cuts that had been there the night before, the ones Quinn had made with teeth and then pressed on with fingers.

They sat down and unzipped their bag, pulling out a textbook and notebook only to discover everything discolored reddish brown. They’d forgotten to check. Forgotten to clean it up. Well, there goes the resale value of that book. They put it down and flipped it open. At least it wasn’t soaked through, the cover taking most of the mess. Some of their notes were stained but they found a clean page.

They felt someone looking.

Glancing to the side, they caught the fire elemental with his sharp gaze on their desk before it flicked up to their face. They expected him to balk when he realized he’d been caught looking, but he didn’t. “You okay?” he asked, voice stiff but definitely unafraid.

Darlin considered saying something like “it’s not my blood” but that wasn’t entirely true. Some of it was. Maybe most of it. And they didn’t really want people to be scared of them, even if they had accepted it. “Yeah.”

He nodded slowly, thumb tapping his own notebook. “If your notes are ruined, let me know. I can make copies of mine, if you want.”

Darlin blinked, surprised. “Thanks.”

He huffed in a way that sort of reminded of David and turned forward just in time for the lecture to begin.

After class he introduced himself and Darlin did ask for some of the notes, their own stained too badly to be read. They went to the library to make copies and ended up studying together. It was nice. It was normal. They exchanged numbers with a vague plan to work on the upcoming project together that Darlin didn’t really expect him to follow up on, but with an hour they had a text specifying times he was available to meet up and work on it.

It ended up being a good day, and a then a great week. The shadow of Quinn loomed in the back of their head, but for the most part it was easy to forget him there. Until the new vampire started stalking them.

He didn’t know that Darlin knew, and they weren’t giving it away any time soon. He had been outside their house every night, sometimes just for a few minutes and sometimes for hours. Darlin caught his scent close to the doors and windows one day and wondered if he’d tried to get inside.

When Darlin had night classes, he was there, waiting for them to leave the bright and always populated campus for that lonely walk home. He followed on the walk sometimes. He never got close enough to attack though.

It wasn’t Quinn and despite their reputation on campus as a vampire groupie, they didn’t know any others anymore. Was it some enemy of his looking for revenge, or had he sent someone to keep an eye on them?

 -

 Sam followed the wolf from the DAMN campus. He’d never gotten close to them, but he’d still seen the scars up the side of their neck. Feeding scars, worn like badges to show all other vampires that they belonged to another. He curled his lip at it the first time he saw it, breathing in the reek of Quinn all over this wolf.

Quinn had skipped town after his visit to Wonderworld…after killing those kids that were now struggling with their new undead lives. The Solaire’s had filed the reports with DUMP but they’d just said they’d keep an eye out for him if he came back. Like that meant something. Like that offered anything. How many more would die before they bothered to find Quinn?

He still felt Fred’s pain like it was his own, his fear and anguish, the family and friends he’d lost in a moment, the teeth in his throat and his life slipping out.

It hadn’t been hard to find the wolf. Quinn had gone almost straight to them before skipping town. They must have gotten into a fight, their blood scents mingled up and down the street. Sam had been worried that Quinn had attacked this wolf too, until he saw them—until he heard the rumors about their relationship.

Whatever they were to each other, however turbulent or toxic their relationship, one thing seemed to be certain to everyone that knew anything about Quinn and Darlin—he would come back to them. He always came back to Darlin.

So, if Sam was patient, he would eventually get his hands on Quinn just by watching his chew toy.

In the first days, Sam had gotten close to the house and tried to look inside. He’d figured the stink of Quinn’s and the wolf’s blood all over the yard would mask his own scent. He hadn’t gotten as close in the days since.

Days became weeks and he knew this wolf’s schedule like his own. They rarely deviated from it. Campus, library, home. Sometimes the Shaw den where Sam was smart enough not to follow. The last thing he wanted was to cause problems with the Shaws. Guilt gnawed at his chest when he thought about that—about the trouble he could be inciting between his clan and Dahlia’s pack. William didn’t know he was keeping an eye on the wolf and Vincent had tried to advise him against it.

But it seemed too easy to ignore. Quinn would come back. He would come to this person. Sam just had to be patient. And when Quinn did come back, he would wait until he left the wolf before attacking, so as not to start a fight with the pack. But not even the pack could argue his right to bring Quinn to justice.

And from all the rumors Sam had heard, the Shaw pack wasn’t exactly proud of its wayward child’s connection to Quinn. It sounded like something of a dirty secret. If he was lucky, the pack wouldn’t bat an eye at his involvement if it meant getting Quinn off the streets and out of their member’s bed.

But the wait had been easier in the beginning, when he was fueled by revenge and rage. When it turned into a quiet game of patience, he couldn’t help but notice more about this wolf than the stories he’d heard about them being a fighter looking for pain—about their messy on and off again violent relationship with Quinn and their tenuous connection to their pack. The rumors made it sound like they were unwanted, cruel, and looking for trouble.

The person Sam was following was none of those things. Pack members showed up to the house sometimes, whole groups of them for what looked like family dinners at least once a month, and Darlin was clearly loved by them. He hadn’t seen them get into a single fight, despite overhearing some students on campus loudly calling names to the wolf on their way home—clearly baiting them into an altercation. Darlin had not batted an eye.

Through library windows he caught glimpses of them with what he assumed was a study group. They were almost shy with those new friends. And he saw the way they walked a little taller, with a smile tucked in the corner of their mouth when they’d done particularly well on an exam. And he saw the days when they had gone too long alone with their thoughts, an intangible weight on their shoulders when they headed home to that house—alone.

This wolf did not strike him as the Clyde to Quinn’s Bonnie, like the rumors said. Whatever was going on between them, whatever had gone on between them, he found himself hoping Quinn didn’t come back after all.

He stayed because a part of him was worried about what would happen when he did. There had been so much blood soaked down into the yard that first night he found the house. But maybe if the rumors were wrong about this wolf, they were also wrong about the relationship to Quinn. Maybe he wouldn’t come back there. Why would he?

But then Sam thought about all the scars he had glimpsed over the months, so many carefully laid bites from the back of their ear down to their shoulder—only on one side. Quinn had marked them up. It would have taken time to lay those scars over one another like that—to wait for one to heal naturally and slowly before adding another. Whatever their relationship really was, Quinn would come back to it.

And then, one night, when Sam strolled across the dark campus for what he’d started to think of as a “check in” with the wolf, they were not where they usually were.

Their class let out, but they were not among the students exiting the building.

It was the first time he’d seen them miss a class.

He circled the campus, drawn to the places they usually were but also searching for a trail of them anywhere. It was never hard to find the wolf, because of their backpack. The blood had long since dried, but it was still there, like a beacon to his senses. He caught the scent and followed, expecting to spot them any second only to find himself standing in one of the many stretches of grass outside a building, near one of the paved paths, over the backpack. It was in the grass, dropped on its side, the zipper half-open with books spilling out.

[bespectacled-bookwyrm]

2023 Whumptober 19

Summary: It wears the face of a dear friend.

Written for the 2023 Whumptober event!

[theglamour-theterror]

There isn’t a scar on his body. The Capitol healed them all. All his pain are wiped away. As if they never existed.

Alex can’t see very well, but he sees Haymitch clearly now, through broken glasses. It’s an irony, how easy it is for him, being able to choose what he sees and what he doesn’t.

Alex is grateful. He is perfect.

[hopeamarsu]

Whumptober Day 26: No One Left Behind

Whumptober masterlist

Frankie Morales x Benny Miller

Rating: Mature

Word count: 815

Warnings: Rope burns, the aftermath of violence, love confessions

Summary: They had found Benny and brought him to safety. Will that safe space give way to more than what Benny thinks Frankie is to him now?

Separated | Rope burns | “Why did you save me?”

“It’s just some rope burn, Catfish! No need to go all mother hen on me!” Benny erupts, wrenching his arm away from the other man holding it gently. The MMA fighter tucks his forearms close to his body in a cross, cringing slightly when the movement pulls on the burned skin. His eyes narrow to slits as he waits for the rebuttal. It always comes with Frankie, the man will not back down. 

“Ben! They fucking dragged you through the woods by that hemp rope! I know it fucking hurts and I can help!” The pilot yells back as expected, running his agitated hand through his hair and messing it up even more. The curls falling down his forehead look fluffed up at his actions as they fall down haphazardly. He stops his motions slowly when Ben glares at him harder, before lowering his voice and speaking softly. “Let me help.” 

The blonde man shakes his head vigorously, he is not going to let Catfish any near his wounds. He’s too keyed up, too hopped up on leftover adrenaline to let the man of his dreams come too close. There’s no telling what Benny will do if Frankie touches him intimately now. He’s not about to lose his best friend, his cornerman, over something trivial like his unrequited crush and some rope burns. 

His skin pulls again when he moves, but Benny grits his teeth together tighter, unwilling to let the huff of pain escape. Frankie is quicker though, catching on to the tiny flash of pain he was unable to hide and steps closer. He is so close that Benny can see the flecks of gold swimming in Frankie’s eyes. He looks concerned, their breaths mingling together in the charged air. The younger man gulps but doesn’t dare to say anything. 

Catfish takes the silence of the other man as permission to get even closer and he slowly peels Ben’s crossed arms away from his body, holding his wrists up gently, reverently. He picks the one that is more hurt, placing the other hand down slowly. Frankie focuses all his attention on the one he’s holding like it’s the most fragile thing he has ever encountered. 

There are deep, red welts running crisscross over the delicate skin on the inside of Benny’s wrist. Some of the hemp fragments had broken off from the rope and dug their way to his wounds and both of the men can see just how broken and raw his flesh is when Frankie turns the wrist left and right. A touch so gentle it barely feels like a feather over Benny’s hand, making him shiver. 

“I’m sorry,” Frankie mumbles, eyes transfixed on the wound. He keeps tracing the lines, seeing where the hemp overlapped itself and pressed a little deeper mark onto Benny. A growl of frustration escapes his chest before the pilot catches it and hides the sound behind his closed lips. He glances mournfully at the blonde. “I’m sorry we couldn’t be there sooner.” 

“It’s okay, Frankie. I’m okay,” Benny whispers, feeling a delicate bubble forming around them. It almost feels like the world around them falls away and tucks them into something safe, something feeling a lot like a sanctuary. “I’m glad you found me.” 

“I will always find you, Benny. Always. I’ll never leave you behind.” 

The dark-haired man holds their gazes locked into one another after his confession. It takes a moment, but suddenly every single wall inside him drops Benny can see all the emotions warring inside him, begging to be let loose. Worry, fear, panic, devastation, and sorrow fight to gain the upper hand. All the feelings Frankie must’ve felt during their recovery mission are there and its almost like Benny can feel them himself. 

Then something new joins the emotions already swimming in his brown pools of infinity, pushing its way to the surface and the intensity in his sad gaze steals the breath right out of Benny’s lungs. 

Love. 

There is no other explanation to the rawness in Frankie’s gaze and the way he cradles Benny’s hand in his. It’s clear as day now, how the pilot feels about him. How deeply he loves him.

In return, Benny finally lets his own walls crash down simultaniously. He finally allows himself show his emotions too, pushing all the negatives to the side and gives Frankie the same love reflected back to him. 

The same intensity, the same depth, the same power. The way it burns just as bright and covers them completely. 

The two men stand there, Benny’s hand still cradled in Frankie’s, and they watch each other be truly honest about their feelings for the first time. There’s no telling which one of them moves first but as their lips melt into one - two final pieces of the puzzle falling into place - there is no need to find it out.

[yszarin]

winternelson with: “Call me when you get home.”

[read on AO3] [send a prompt, get a fic in 1-5 business days]

Barnaby had hoped that his desk might be better. It isn’t worse, at least. He doubts anything could be worse than lurking around in that cold-lit hospital corridor like a premature haunting, nodding in splintered understanding as the doctors use words like critical and catastrophic, Sarah’s hand in his, gripping so tightly that he should have felt his knuckles crack.

It’s the same, in a different way, at the station. He’d needed to be useful, but there’s nothing left to do. Every officer available had descended on this investigation like locusts, stripping the possible tasks until every scrap of evidence had been collected and examined and compiled into a neat little report that tells him that they’re still no closer to determining who had left Winter for dead, bleeding and broken in the gathering frost.

Ground too cold for tyre tracks, no cameras for miles, any potential witnesses bundled up indoors the way anyone sensible should be on a freezing January night. Nothing from forensics at the scene, though they’re testing for fingerprints on all the nearby gates, and they’re still waiting on full analysis of Winter’s personal effects.

No wonder that no one in the incident room seems to want to come anywhere near him.

Maybe he should just go back to the hospital. He’d be just as much use there. It’s not as if Fleur would welcome his presence in the lab.

A chime from his email heralds the arrival of Winter’s phone records, and Barnaby pounces on it with the speed and desperation of a starving crow at carrion. The data spools out across his screen, lists of calls and numbers, reams of texts, enough to make his computer wheeze for a moment as it adjusts.

Barnaby had sent him two messages, that night. He hadn’t really noticed that Winter never answered either of them. Maybe, if he had, they might have–

He swallows against the sting in his throat, and clicks into the file of voicemails, before leaning down to excavate his headphones from the depths of his drawer, yanking at the wire as it tangles, again and again, no relief in the dull force of it. Once they’re finally free, he plugs himself in, and hits play on the first one.

“Hi, Jamie, it’s Charlie.” The voice at the other end is so familiar that it takes Barnaby a moment to register the actual words being spoken, his jaw slackening. “Sorry to ring in work hours. Turns out I’ve got some leave coming up, and I thought maybe I could come down. Or we could go somewhere together, if you like. Call me when you get home.”

Nelson. Barnaby blinks against the hang-up tone, and for a long minute his body feels simply too heavy to move. He doesn’t know what he’d wanted. A confession, perhaps, a name for Winter’s assailant. A clear, plain-English explanation for what had happened, what he’d even been doing out there in the first place.

Not this. Not something personal. Not something so personal that he’d had no idea about it himself.

He’d been aware, he supposes, that Nelson and Winter know one another. They’d met at Sarah’s last birthday do, and a couple of times since, on the odd occasion that Nelson had come visiting. If pressed, he might have said that they’d got on, but he’d spent the lion’s share of that party either doing the rounds or hiding in the kitchen with Paddy, and he couldn’t say how much of that belief was just a vague awareness of shared interests. He remembers them sitting together, Winter sprawled in a garden chair like it’s an art form, gesturing with a champagne glass, Nelson straight-backed, smile slow but sincere.

Winter had never mentioned him. Yet here they are. First name terms, making plans.

Barnaby shifts the mouse to select the next message, and can’t help his focus drifting past the monitor, to Winter’s empty desk. It watches him back, a hollow monument, and he clamps his teeth together at the sudden impulse to make excuses to it. There still might be something in here that could help. He has to check.

“Hello, me again. Working late? I did try texting, and messaging, but I suppose you’re out in the sticks somewhere, and the second you get back to Causton I’ll have drowned you in notifications.” Nelson pauses for a moment, and Barnaby grimaces. The sticks isn’t inaccurate. They’d found him miles from anywhere, a pale gash amongst the bramble and hedgerow of a field boundary. Barnaby hadn’t seen him there, though he’d passed the ambulance on his way out. There had been enough of a picture left, in crushed grass stems and bloodstains, the skeletal branches of a handful of trees jagged overhead like the roof of a shattered cathedral. “I swear, Midsomer won’t get proper phone coverage until it’s obsolete everywhere else. Anyway, they did all go out at normal intervals. Look, this holiday thing, it’s not urgent, they just want me to book it as soon as I can. Hope whatever’s going on isn’t too grim. Call me when you can.”

There’s an unease, gathering in the low points of Nelson’s voice, papered over and rationalised, but still clear enough to Barnaby. A fear that he couldn’t quite stifle.

One that Barnaby will have to confirm. Someone else he loves, who this will punch a hole in. At least he hadn’t had to tell Fleur – she’d already been at the scene when he’d got there, tearing into some poor uniform for something, as if she could make up for the blotching on her face with the sharpness of her teeth. Sarah had been there when he’d taken the call, and they’d felt it together.

He can’t even be sure that Nelson will be an end to it, not when Winter’s personal life is apparently more immaculately compartmented than Barnaby’s sock drawer. Nothing hidden, just neatly never spoken of.

“Jamie,” Nelson says, in the next voicemail, a shade more urgent, control wavering. “Call me. Don’t make me try Barnaby.”

That certainly would have been an interesting conversation. Though, from the timestamp, not one that would have made any difference. They’d had the call by then. Dog-walker. She’d thought he was dead already. Barnaby had taken her statement, the odd-eyed collie that might have saved his sergeant’s life sitting patiently, obliviously by her side. He’ll have to tell Nelson that, too, make sure he understands that there was nothing he could have done.

Barnaby clicks through again, despite the flat, heavy certainty in his bones that there’ll be nothing here, nothing that’s his to hear.

“You’re not getting these, are you? I don’t know why I keep sending them.” Nelson drags in a breath, raw over the faint static of the line. “I checked the local news. I need you to call me, text me, I don’t care, send me a carrier pigeon, I’m sure someone still has those down there, just tell me that wasn’t you.”

Barnaby hasn’t seen the reports. Someone else – the chief superintendent, probably – had spoken to the press. He’d been sitting on one of those hospital chairs, listening to Sarah’s breathing hitching beside him, waiting to hear Winter’s odds on lasting the night.

Last one.

“So, I’m on my way down. Nearly called Sarah about eight times. Not sure what I’ll do if you’re okay – surprise visit, I suppose. That wouldn’t be so bad, would it?” There’s a thud of a car door from somewhere, a distant muttering of other voices, Nelson’s cracking quieter in response. “I started picking up Radio Midsomer in the car. They’ve still not given a name, so–” He cuts himself off, half-sigh and half-sob. “I love you. I’ll see you soon.”

Barnaby wrenches the headphones off like a noose from round his neck, and then presses his face into his hands, hard enough that false light sparks across the backs of his eyelids. Something about the way that Nelson had said I love you had felt like it was the first time. Evidence, he thinks, and hates it.

He pulls his phone out, so numb that it doesn’t even really feel like an action that he takes, then scrolls down to his lesser-used contacts, and makes the call.

Nelson picks up within a second of the first ring.

“Sir?” His voice is taut, aching. He knows what’s coming, would have taken it as confirmation that Winter was the police officer he’d heard about on the news the second he’d seen Barnaby’s name on the phone screen.

“Are you driving?”

“Pulled over.”

He hadn’t meant it as a traffic safety admonishment, and hopes Nelson hadn’t taken it that way.

“We had to access Winter’s phone,” he says, and then stops. Gives that a moment to settle in, for Nelson to grasp what it means, for the turning of guilt in his stomach to subside. “I’m sorry, Nelson.”

“Is he…?”

“They’re doing their best.” It might not be enough. “You shouldn’t have found out like that.”

“Causton Hospital?”     

“Yes. How close are you?”

“About an hour. Give or take.”

“Sarah and I will meet you there.” And he’ll grant Nelson the dignity of telling Sarah about the relationship himself, he decides. He’ll check over the rest of Winter’s phone records, excepting his message history with Nelson, and then make his way back to the hospital. “We’ll you soon.”

“Yes, sir.” Nelson pauses, the silence thick with everything that he’s stifled back into his throat. “Thank you, sir.”

Nelson rings off, before Barnaby can tell him he doesn’t deserve that, and then he’s left alone in the incident room, at the centre of a wasteland of hush that no one here would cross. He swallows, strikes the damp from around his eyes, and makes himself focus in on the screen again. This, and then he’ll make sure that Nelson doesn’t spend another second of this alone.

It’s not as if there’s anything more he can do, for either of them.

[tendertenebrosity]

Back to Rill’s POV. Starting to need a masterpost...

 Prev: Part 1, part 2 Part 3, part 4

Tagging: @redwingedwhump, @whump-cravings, @burtlederp, @quirkykayleetam, @annablogsposts.

"Definitely not Imperial," Rill said. He let his head loll back against the wall, probed a swollen cut on the inside of his cheek morbidly with his tongue. Talking was making it worse. "Not anymore. The country, my country is called Saverain."

His fellow prisoner looked somewhat unconvinced. He was sitting in the centre of the cell facing Rill’s side, but he still managed to fill it. A rounded, golden-brown statue of a man -  not just tall, but broad, with a muscled chest and shoulders and a rounded belly, and a thatch of blond hair and beard. If the cell was cramped for Rill, it was doubtful that Jak could even stretch out enough to sleep.

"Never heard of it," he said.

Rill shook his head. "You are... getting back at me," he said, knowing that he was using the wrong idioms, that his grammar was broken. "For calling your home the Pirate Isles."

Jak chuckled. "At least you mainland folk talk of the Isles, friend, even if you use the wrong name. You say you're from a country that didn't exist ten years ago."

They had been working on Rill's Castar, off and on, for a few days now. Rill rarely had the energy to talk for longer than twenty minutes or so at once, and Jak didn't seem to begrudge him that. Seemed to understand when all Rill had in him was to curl up in the corner and hurt.

Jak was so amiable, in fact, that Rill struggled to picture him offering violence to anybody unprovoked, although he had quite cheerfully admitted yesterday that he was imprisoned for piracy.

"It existed, it just wasn't independent," Rill said. "Until the... My point - my point is, I'm not an Imperial citizen any more."

Jak shrugged. He flicked something, some bug or tiny vermin, off his muscled blond forearm. "Good enough for me. Explains why you're here, huh?"

Rill hunched his shoulders, crossed his arms over his knees, and didn't answer.

This conversation - exchanging names and origins, piecing together a language he hadn't heard in years and had never really learned properly, making things that were almost jokes - felt like trying to paper over a gaping hole. A gaping wound. Anything to occupy himself with that wasn't the sickening, hideous knowledge of what the future held.

"Your place must be a real thorn in their side, 'cause they sure hate you." Jak was still talking, across the wooden slats and a thousand miles away. "What'd you do to earn you all of... that?"  

A thorn. All of their ambitions, the world they'd seen, all of the tears and blood. Nothing but a thorn, an irritant, apparently. Rill knew it had been worth it. It had been. It still was.

Jak was looking at him, crooking his neck slightly to be able to see through one of the gaps. Rill shook his head, the way he did when Jak used an unfamiliar word or spoke too fast for him to understand. "Uh.... no, um, sorry. Don't know."

He let his head sink down onto his arms.

The officer on the ship - oh, God, the officer, Rill still felt that wave of shame to think of him, of what Rill had admitted the first time they'd spoken - had told Rill the last time they spoke that Rill looked 'better'. More 'lucid'. Swinging the pendulum back towards pity, away from spite.

Rill had at least been lucid enough to keep his mouth shut this time and say nothing; which was probably what had lost him the clothes. Still, however, pathetically easy to read.

Jak sighed. "You should eat that."

Rill raised his head enough to look at the ration that had been slid in to him this morning. Hard bread. Even if it hadn't been physically painful to eat...

"Why bother," he mumbled.

"Well, we're not hanged til we're hanged," Jak said, almost philosphically. "Are you sure we're going to the capital?"

"That's what they said," Rill mumbled, for at least the third time. Jak seemed dubious, for reasons he'd tried to explain, but Rill's Castar tended to fail him once Jak got to talking about ships or the ocean.

"That is weeks away, and we are still alive," he said firmly. "Got to keep your strength up."

Rill took a deep breath, let it out shakily. He examined briefly the thought of explaining to this inexplicably upbeat, inexplicably kind foreigner, in his butchered terrible Castar, the concept that if he was physically weak when he got to the capital he might not last so long under torture, which would be a miserable blessing.

He sat up, inched painfully away from the shared cell wall. "I'm tired," he said instead. "Sorry. No more talking for today."

Rill lowered himself down, to lay on the shoulder that hurt the least, and closed his eyes. He breathed slowly in the fetid dark, the wooden deck seeming to rise up to press against his cheek rhythmically, and tried not to let the waters of panic close over the top of his head. It is worth it. Saverain is still worth it. I'll never see it again, and most of it never even liked me particularly much; but it is and was and always will be worth it. 

Rill didn’t quite notice when he’d slipped into a miserable, queasily rocking sleep. But he must have, because he woke up to find the cells even darker than usual, and Jak hissing urgently at him.

Rill made some blurred, indistinguishable noise, rolled painfully onto his back.

Jak was a towering figure, standing silhouetted against the light coming down the stairs from above, hair limned in murky gold.

“Rill,” he said, eyes shining in the dark. “Get up! Something is happening.”

[process-pending]

Chapters: 6/64 Fandom: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Eskel/Triss Merigold, Lambert/Macee (Original Character), past jaskier/valdo marx Characters: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion, Eskel (The Witcher), Lambert (The Witcher), Triss Merigold, Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, Vesemir (The Witcher), Macee (Original Character) Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Biker AU, Geraskier, Triskel, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Fluff, family by choice, Found Family, dnd, Fiber Arts, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Major Character Injury, Disabled Character, Jaskier Has a Physical Disability, Physical Disability, Chronic Pain, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Aftermath of Violence, Misunderstandings, Miscommunication, Getting Together, Financial Issues, Financially Poor Jaskier | Dandelion, Food Insecurities, Musician Jaskier | Dandelion, Poverty Series: Part 1 of Take Me Back (To the Night We Met) Summary:

"Witcher business?” Eskel asks, recognizing the fury burning in Geralt's eyes, the one that stemmed from innocents being hurt by monsters who deemed themselves men. Technically it is in that Valdo will be blacklisted but the rage, the want to show him how monsters are dealt with isn’t. It would never be sanctioned, should never be. “Valdo Marx is blacklisted. Every chapter to be notified. He’s not welcome here, better for him if he doesn’t make it through the doors,” Geralt’s words are calm, but it’s the danger that lurks in the spaces between. Lambert looks over his shoulder at Eskel as he shifts to the side, keeping an eye on Geralt. This was broad strokes measures, actions with repercussions that couldn’t be easily undone. We all know the story of how the White Wolf saved the Songbird, but this, dear reader, isn't that story. This is the tale of how it would have gone should the White Wolf find out long after blood has been spilled that someone else ensured the Songbird lived to sing another day. This is how the Songbird gains an army of Wolves to bring the monster to justice all while learning he's just as strong with a damaged wing.

[thanto-phobiaaa]

Okay hear me out, a whumpee that was held captive in a freezer being haunted by winter after they escape.

Whumpee not being able to bring themselves to open the front door, too afraid of that biting feeling of cold air hitting they're skin. Memories of that biting cold turning into numbing frostbite replaying in they're head. Remembering not able to feel they're fingers, not feeling they're own tears running down they're face or even the scars and cuts and bruises they've collected attempting to claw and ram at the door.

Each time they see an icicle they're brought back to the sensation of attempting to walk on legs you can't feel. Or falling to the floor and feeling the quickest prick of a shard of ice breaking skin before it all went numb again. When they see people playing in the snow they wonder "why wasn't captivity like that?" Filled with soft, fluffy snow and delicate sheets of ice, instead it was heavy, dense, painful ice and a sheer cold that still haunts them.

[wangxianficrecs]

Overwhelming Enthusiasm by Shadaras

Overwhelming Enthusiasm

by Shadaras (@shadaras)

M, 1k, Wangxian

Part of the MDZS Casefic Exchange

Summary: When the library’s alarms went off, Lan Qiren wearily expected to arrive to find an apologetic Wei Wuxian—possibly with one of the young disciples who looked up to him—explaining that No really I didn’t mean to touch that, I’m so sorry, let me reset that for you. Kay's comment: This was actually really funny, though I would give it a light gore warning. Really enjoyed it and the flavour of a good uncle Lan Qiren who has considerably warmed up to Wei Wuxian post-canon. Excerpt: “Shufu.” Lan Wangji let out a long breath. “A creature attracted to Yang energy appeared unexpectedly. We may have, ah. Overfed it. Until it burst.” There was a wealth of understatement in Lan Wangji’s words. Lan Qiren stared at the lattice-worked carvings that edged the library’s ceiling and attempted not to imagine the sequence of events. Or how Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian had ‘overfed’ such a beast. “I see,” he said neutrally. “Have you identified the source of this creature? I’m surprised it could appear within the wards.” “I think it snuck in with us,” Wei Wuxian admitted. “There aren’t any obvious holes in the wards, and I don’t think it manifested from any texts in here, though admittedly I haven’t had time to check yet. Also, um, you can turn around? If that would help.”

pov lan qiren, post-canon, canon era, blood and gore, aftermath of violence, coitus interruptus, good uncle lan qiren, nerd wei wuxian family feels, slice of life, everyday means everyday

~*~

(Please REBLOG as a signal boost for this hard-working author if you like – or think others might like – this story.)

[lover-of-midnight]

It hurts

Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

Gen

Fandom:

Merlin (TV)

Relationship:

Merlin & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)

Characters:

Merlin (Merlin)

Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)

Leon (Merlin)

Gwaine (Merlin)

Gaius (Merlin)

Additional Tags:

Hurt Merlin (Merlin)

Protective Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)

Protective Knights (Merlin)

Aftermath of Violence

Threats of Violence

Whump

One-Shot

Wordcount: 1.000-3.000

FebuWhump2021

febuwhumpday8

Merlin's Magic Revealed (Merlin)

Hurt/Comfort

Angst

Language:English

Series: ← Previous Work Part 8 of the Febuwhump 2021series

Collections: febuwhump 2021

@febuwhump

The night air was cold, the knights were slowly falling asleep. It was just another day’s ride then they would be back in Camelot.

Arthur was sitting on a rock looking into the darkness, he could hear the men’s breathing evening out.

His eyes strayed to his friend who was slightly outside the ring of knights, Merlin’s mob of hair was even messier than normal.

He could feel the fatigued clawing at him, wanting to drag him under, he couldn’t imagen how his men must be feeling. It was a battle worthy of the history books.

But at the moment, he just wanted them to rest. The patrols were getting more and more with the sorcerers attacks picking up. The people were scared but there wasn’t much more that they could do to keep everyone safe.

Arthur's eyes moved around the trees to see if he could see anything, the woods were silent except for insects making noise.

The animals of the wood were used to the man walking through the clearing, his magic crackling around him.

When he first started to live here, they would fall silent every time he would move, he was a danger to them, but he never attacks them, he doesn’t hurt them, and when they got injured the man would heal them if he found them.

So they continued with their songs of the evening, it didn’t bother them that his magic was more violent than normal.

Arthur could feel his hair standing up like a pissed of cat. He grabbed his sword. He kept his eyes trained on the woods but there was no movement and the wood was still alive with insects.

He knows that a good indication if something is going to happen, is through listing to the wood, but at the moment, nothing was giving him an indication for having a bad feeling.

The man’s green eyes flashed gold and smoke started to drift into the camp, he could see the prince was aware that there was something in the woods that was out for them.

In less than five minutes since the spell was uttered Arthur fell over, his mind felt like it was trapped. And there was simply no way out. Arthur tried to push himself up, but his body felt like it was made of lead.

He could only watch in horror as the man picked Merlin up. He felt himself getting nauseous when the man slapped on demetricuffs around his arms.

For a moment it felt like his mind was going to split in half, he wasn’t sure what he felt. On one hand, Merlin is a bloody sorcerer and on the other hand horror because his friend was taken and he had no idea where he was being taken.

The man and Merlin disappeared into the woods. Arthur tried again to get himself up, but it was impossible, his muscles were locked.

When the sun started to rise Arthur finally managed to get himself upright. He felt like hell, but he wanted to get Merlin back.

He had a long time to think of what it would mean the fact that Merlin is a sorcerer and how it made him feel. He was angry about it. But at the same time, Merlin never gave him any reason to believe that he is against Arthur.

Arthur bit the inside of his lip. They will just have to talk about it when they find Merlin.

“Wake up! This isn’t the time for sleep anymore” His voice echoed around the clearing, he could see that his men struggled to push themselves up. Their eyes were slightly clouded, but it looked like everyone was okay.

“What happened?” Gwaine’s voice was hoarse, and he stretched out trying to work the weird stiffness from his body.

Everyone’s eyes landed on Arthur and a singular question went through everyone's mind. Why didn’t he woke them up for there turn for guard looked out?

“Something happened last night, I am not properly sure what happened because one minute I was still fine and the next I couldn’t move. But that is not the problem, the problem is that the man that caused it took Merlin.” Arthur could feel the anger boiling under his skin. And the worst part is that he wasn’t sure what he was angrier about.

The fact that Merlin was kidnapped or the fact that he had magic.

Arthur was silent as he looked at the knights, he knows that most of them think of Merlin as a little brother to them.

“Why would they take Merlin?” Leon looked firmly at Arthur.

Arthur was silent for a while, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to blab Merlin’s secret to them, but at the same time, he knows they wouldn’t just up and abandon him.

“He has magic,” Arthur’s voice was low, none of the anger he had felt through the night was there, now he was just scared and hoped that he would be able to get to Merlin soon.

There was a silence around the camp and for a moment Arthur thought he had misread how the knights felt about Merlin.

“So what are we waiting for, let's go get him back.” Gwaine glared at the rest slightly. Sometimes they need a kicked under the arse to get it moving.

The rest of the knights threw a shout into the air. Soon everyone was packed.

They walked through the woods which were spent in silence as they tried to find a trace of the man’s footsteps.

Just after the mid sun had started to pass, they stopped to eat something. How bloody far had the man gone?

The man stared at the boy in front of him. This is supposed to be the all-powerful Emerys? He almost scoffed. He couldn’t help but think that Merlin was nothing more than a runt. But in either way, it doesn’t matter what he thought.

They were sure that he was the one destiny had a prophecy about all those years ago.

“Wake up! This isn’t the time to sleep.” The man’s voice was hard.

Merlin woke with a start. His eyes were wide as he tried to figure out where he was. A small whimper escaped his lip when he saw the man.

His heart rate skyrocketed and he tried to pull into himself.

The man just looked at Merlin, he could see the fear clearly in the blue eyes and for a moment he was filled with joy. He so loved the terror he could create.

“Now, now none of that.” The man’s voice was lower but the darkness in it almost made Merlin close his eyes.

When a thumb traced over Merlin’s cheek, he froze up, he could feel his magic fighting to get out, but something was stopping it.

Pain washed over him when he tried to use it. Merlin could feel himself freezing up complete. He could feel the panic trying to smother him and for a moment it felt like it was.

The man only laughed before he calmed himself.

“So you see there are a few people that are pissed that you are helping the prince, betraying your people so that he could sit on the throne one day.” The man was talking as if he was giving information about the weather.

Merlin just stared at the floor. He admits to himself that he hates himself about that. He never wanted to hurt another person, but there was sometimes no choice. He needs to keep Arthur safe at all cost.

“They want information, and you are going to give me that information.” The man continued.

Merlin knows that he wouldn’t talk no matter what. There was simply too much at stake.

When silence was the only answer, the man turned around pulling a tray closer.

“We can start with something easy. A nail, the longer you don’t give me what I want, I will pull a nail out. And we can move on from there, to break your fingers. And we will continue to go through your body and restart if necessary until I have the information I want.” The man informed Merlin.

The knights were just back on their horses when a scream echo to them. They froze for a second before they started to follow from where the sound had come from.

It took them another hour of walking and a constant screams that had to follow before they found a small house.

They could hear someone talking inside the house, but they couldn’t make out what the person was saying. With a nod from Arthur, they pulled their swords and crept closer.

A kicked against the door and they spilled into the house, the man turned to face the knights. He was covered in blood.

With a wave from his hand, he sends the knights backwards, but there wasn’t enough thought in the movement and Arthur manage to jump out of the way.

The man didn’t bother to say a word or look back but simply disappeared from a door.

Leon and Gwaine rushed to try and catch up but when they opened the door, no one was there.

A silent curse was all that left their lips before they turned to Merlin. They were ready to step in when they saw that Arthur was busy to take off the cuffs.

His eyes had softened when he saw Merlin.

Merlin was pale and broken sobs left his lips, both his hands where cradled to his chest. Leon stood closer with a medic kit Gaius had sent with them.

The flinch made everyone feel like shit, this was their friend, they should have helped him more. But they couldn’t.

Arthur crouched down next to Merlin, he could see that Merlin’s right-hand was broken and it looked like some on the left.

“Merlin, can we see your hand please?” Arthur’s voice was low as he looked at Merlin.

It was clear to see that Merlin didn’t want to offer his hands up.

Merlin pulled his hands closer to his chest. He was surprised that the knights were able to get so soon to them.

A sob left his chest and he curls into himself. Arthur gave a worried look to Leon.

“Merlin, can you please settle against Arthur?” Leon gave Arthur a stern look but at the same time was his voice low and soothing.

Merlin gave an unsure look to Arthur, before he was pulled against Arthur’s chest, a warm hand settled against Merlin’s head.

The warmth and comfort Arthur offered calmed Merlin down slightly.

“Can I see your hand, Merlin?” Leon kept his voice in a soothing tone, the same he would use when he needs to help frightened villagers.

A frantic head shakes from Merlin only happened. He couldn’t bring himself to allow anyone near his hands.

Arthur forced himself to take a deep breath. His hand ran gently through Merlin’s hair.

“Merls, give your hand to Leon, he needs to set it so that Gaius can look after it. If it sets wrong you won’t be able to use your hands.” Arthur kept his voice low, but he knows that Merlin would want to keep the use of his hand, even if it was limited.

Merlin gave Arthur a pleading look, everything in him screamed to keep his hands against his chest.

Leon just sighed. “Merlin please, we need to keep it cool and make a sling that you can keep your hands still.”

They could see the fear in Merlin’s eyes.

Arthur gently ran his hand through the sweaty hair of Merlin. He could feel the shiver running through Merlin’s body.

Merlin’s arm was stiff as he handed to Leon, his body was even tenser than a few minutes before. A pain shot through his arm when Leon started to exam the hand.

“St-stop, please.” The pleading broke Arthur’s heart.

Merlin wanted to pull his hand back but he didn’t want to hurt himself even more if he pulled away.

“Calm down, Merlin.” Arthur’s voice was soft but there was a firmness in his voice that made Merlin listen to him.

Merlin forced himself to breath as Leon wrapped a cooling salve on his arm, he knows that it will help with the swelling that was already happing.

But it didn’t stop the fact that it was painful.

When a bandage was put around Merlin whimpered, but it looked like he was starting to calm down.

With the sling finished, Merlin sat back and rest against Arthur. Now only the fingers that were broken need to be splinted.

When everything was finished, Arthur picked Merlin up. He easily helped Merlin onto his mare, before he slipped up behind him.

Merlin was heavy against Arthur. Arthur tried to over as much as support as he could as they rode to Camelot.

Arthur could feel Merlin’s body slowly going heavier as the fatigued dragged him down.

The ride was spent in silence as they rode on to Camelot.

“Merls, it is time that you wake up.” Arthur couldn’t help but ran his hand against Merlin’s cheek.

Arthur could feel the tension returning to Merlin’s body. With some manoeuvring, Arthur managed to get Merlin down from the horse.

The trip to Gaius chambers was long, and Arthur was kicked out as soon as Gaius had learned what had happened.

Dusk was just falling when there was a knock against Gaius door. The physician answered it, he only nodded at Arthur and allowed Arthur into the room.

Merlin was sitting upright, his hand in a bandage. He kept his eyes on the floor.

“I will leave you too it, don’t upset him, Arthur.” Gaius's voice was a warning.

Arthur only nodded and waited until the door closed behind them. Arthur crouched down in front of Merlin.

“How are you feeling?” Arthur’s voice was soft, he wanted to reach out and take the pain away.

“Alright.” Merlin’s voice was soft and childlike.

“I’m not mad Merls.” Arthur's voice was gentle.

Merlin's eyes widen slightly as he looked at Arthur.

“B-But…” Merlin trailed off.

“But nothing, you are the same dollop head that started work for me, if you wanted to hurt me, you had plenty of change, but you never did.” Arthur gently ran his hand through Merlin’s hair.

Merlin gave a broken laugh.

“We will figure this out Merls.” Arthur hopes the smile he gave Merlin was giving him some hope.

Merlin could only sag forward, Arthur easily caught him. Just holding him close to his chest.

[theyellmanfan]

Chapter 1: The Orphan Boy

Summary:

Aizawa wants to adopt Izuku. Mic wants to adopt Izuku. Izuku wants to go home with both of them. Problem? They are polar opposites and can't stand each other.

Or: In this fic, Mic and Aizawa have to learn to tolerate each other for the sake of their mutually adopted son in order to make the boy happy, but will they find romance along the way or strangle each other for their parenting styles first?

Tags:

Crimes & Criminals, Crime Scenes, Aftermath of Violence, Detailed Crime Scenes, Alternate Universe - Quirks are rare, Alternate Universe - No Quirks (My Hero Academia), Enemies to Friends to Lovers, actually more like, Enemies to coparents to friends to lovers, Gross descriptions, PLEASE READ WITH CAUTION AS THERE IS, Gore, idk how hard the gore is bc I don't read it often enough for a ref, so please proceed with caution, Fake Marriage, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Trans Midoriya Izuku, Trans Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead,

[dominimoonbeam]

Promises Promises

Another Sam/Vincent fic... I love the idea of these two.

Alexis has just turned someone and William drags Vincent along to check on things... only to find a terrified Sam.

tags: angst, non-con turning, hurt/comfort, blood, aftermath of violence

Promises Promises

Vincent followed William onto the elevator, going straight up to the penthouse. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Alexis had never been his favorite person and he almost never went to her apartment, but William had told him to bring a car around tonight, so he had. William had gotten into the passenger seat, so Vincent had gotten back into the driver’s. On the way, William told him that Alexis had turned someone tonight—that she and a friend had been in a car accident.

The elevator stopped and the doors slid open. They stepped out right into the foyer of her apartment. She rushed to meet them, sensing William.

Vincent gawked. He’d never seen her so… frazzled? Her clothes were bloody, dirty, and torn. Her hair was a mess and her eyes wild. There were empty blood bags on the floor of the hallway leading to her bedroom.

William cooed at the state of her, opening his arms to her.

Vincent saw the relief flash across her whole body when he showed her affection, as though she’d been expecting something else. Why? William had always been sweet with her, even though she rarely deserved it. She pressed into his arms and let him fuss over the state of her.

William met Vincent’s eye and then flicked his gaze toward the hall.

Vincent didn’t second guess it. He disappeared down the hall and through the open door of her bedroom. It was dark inside, but his eyes could see through even the thickest shadows.

The reek of blood, death, and fear almost repelled him as soon as he entered. The covers had been tossed off the bed and a man lay on the sheets, shaking in tight, strange convulsions. Vincent came closer, staring down at him. The man’s shirt had been ripped off, his side smeared in blood with a thick, fresh scar beneath. From the car accident? His breaths came ragged, almost choking, and Vincent realized suddenly that the man was awake and staring back at him. Why was he shaking like that? Why was he breathing like that? Was it part of turning? He didn’t remember much about being a newborn himself. Was this normal? William probably should have sent someone else to check…

He was about to step back when the man let out a choking cry, stopping him cold. He strained, as if he was trying to arch off the bed but was strapped down. “I can’t… I can’t…” he wheezed out words, panic almost tangible in the air now.

Vincent leaned closer, gaze flashing around to try to find what was holding the man down. There was blood on his mouth from feeding, and blood on his neck from dying.

“She said I can’t move and I can’t… Oh god…” he said, barely a whisper and accent thick, but it was all thunder in Vincent’s ears.

No. He wasn’t strapped down by some invisible force. His maker had told him he couldn’t move, so his body wouldn’t. “She invoked you.”

“Kill me,” the man asked, almost demanded, breaths so tight that even that seemed to be a struggle under the hold of whatever she’d commanded. He stared up at Vincent, meaning it. Begging for it.

Vincent wanted to throw himself away from this stranger, the request too much of a reminder of things he had said only a handful of years ago. But this wasn’t the same. This wasn’t his fear and pain. This was someone else’s. This wasn’t the fear of being a vampire—it was fear of Alexis and being bent to her will.

“I told her not to turn me,” he choked out, shaking so hard against her invocation that he looked like he might pass out. “I told her. Please. Make it stop.”

Holy shit.

“Vincent, get out of there!” Alexis snapped from the other room.

Sam flinched on the bed, breathing faster, trying to stay conscious.

“I’ll get you out of here,” Vincent promised without another thought, the words jumping from his soul and past his lips.

“Vincent!” Alexis shouted, boots clipping the floor on her way toward the door.

No. He couldn’t let her in that room. He couldn’t let her near this guy again.

He was at the door as soon as she opened it, pushing her down the hall and back into the living room. “What did you do?” Vincent hissed under his breath.

She snapped teeth and shoved him off just as they reached William, who look appropriately surprised but not shocked that his children were fighting.

“What is he talking about, Alexis?” William asked, always calm.

She hissed at Vincent because she couldn’t say “nothing” and lie to her maker.

Vincent pointed back at the bedroom. “He didn’t want to be turned. He’s fucking terrified of her!”

“Shut up!” Alexis yelled back.

William had gone still, focus fixed on Alexis. “Tell me that isn’t true.”

She glared at Vincent and, for a second, he thought she would lunge for him.

“Alexis,” William called, voice low and deceptively gentle. “Look at me.”

Vincent tensed, something dangerous in William’s voice that he’d never heard before. Vincent realized then that he’d never heard him angry before.

She turned, trying to look sweet now. “He’s disoriented. We were in a car accident. I will present him to you in a few days and you will see—”

“Did he ask you not to turn him?”

Her lips pressed shut.

“Alexis…” Her name came out of him in a wave of disappointment. “He was empowered, yes? He understood the decision. We agreed to respect that.”

“Was I supposed to let him die? He’ll be grateful when he’s through the blood lust.”

“Will he be grateful, or will you invoke him to show gratitude?”

The silence that stretched screamed her answer. Alexis didn’t see the difference.

“She’s invoked him already. He can’t move,” Vincent said.

She shot him a glare and he knew suddenly that he’d have to watch out for her for the rest of his life. “Snitch,” she spat like a curse.

“Release him from any invocations, Alexis,” William said. It wasn’t a request. It was a command from a maker to progeny. Suddenly the weight of just how horrific this situation was hit Vincent. The power William had over them…She would have that over this person?

“Vincent,” William spoke without taking his eyes off of her. “Take our new friend to the car.”

“What?” Alexis was already shaking her head. “No! He’s mine!”

William hissed low and she jerked a step back from him. “You are going to tell me what happened. Would you like to do it on your own or must I make you?”

Vincent took steps back from the scene, ducking away down the hall to that dark bedroom again.

He was surprised when he walked in and the bed was empty, but only for the split second until he saw the shape of a man pressed into the corner. He dragged deep breaths, still shaking but not in the same way. He flinched when Vincent came closer, so he slowed, holding out his hands. “We’re going to leave,” he said clearly. “You, me, and William.”

The man’s face pinched, confused and struggling, and then smoothed with alarm. “Solaire.”

Vincent sighed, at least he knew that much. This wouldn’t all be entirely new and impossible to him. “I’ll keep her away from you. We’ll fix this.” He winced. It was the wrong words and he knew it instantly. They couldn’t fix this. This man was dead and turned. There was no reversing that.

But the stranger didn’t point it out, he didn’t look right at him either, seeming to weigh his very few options.

Vincent waited for that tiny nod of consent. “Is it okay if I carry you? I can get us out of here fast. You won’t have to see her.”

He still wasn’t looking at Vincent’s face, but he nodded again. “Alright,” he said, voice rough and the word rounded in his accent.

Vincent crouched down and easily scooped the other man into his arms, not missing how he tensed or tried to curl in on himself and away from him. He moved fast, through the apartment and down the stairwell. Alexis was too busy with William to even make a grab for them.

He got him down to the parking garage and into the backseat of the car. Thank god he’d taken one with a backseat… “I’m Vincent,” he said, crouching in the open door. He didn’t even know his name.

The guy’s gaze lifted almost to his eyes and then jerked away with a wince. “Sam Collins.”

Vincent’s heart squeezed in his chest when he realized why he wouldn’t look at him. “I can’t trance you. No one can.”

Sam’s heart beat faster. “Alexis…”

He nodded slowly. “Makers can invoke their progeny.”

He cringed.

“William will handle it,” Vincent promised, surprising himself with how much he believed it. They’d had plenty of rocky years, but he knew William wouldn’t let this go on in his clan. It was wrong and cruel, and William wouldn’t ignore it.

Sam nodded, seeming to at least be trying to believe him.

Vincent could sympathize. He had had to take a lot on faith when he died, and it all looked so impossibly terrible in those first days, weeks, and even months. He wouldn’t wish that on anyone. “Sam?” Vincent waited until he looked back at him, meeting his gaze for the first time that night. He wondered what those eyes had looked like before he was turned, but knew he’d never ask. It would never matter. All that mattered was what happened now. “I know this is awful, but I’m going to help you in any way I can. I won’t let her near you, if you don’t want her to be. I promise.”

Sam stared at him, still shaky, but slowly relaxed. He nodded tightly, once. “Thank you.”

Vincent stayed with him until he fell asleep in the backseat and William returned to the car. “She won’t be able to invoke him again,” the king said before getting into the front seat.

They drove home without another word and Vincent put Sam to bed in William’s house.

It was almost dawn and William told Vincent he could leave, he didn’t have to stay. William would untangle the mess and get Sam through his newborn phase. Alexis would not be a problem.

But Vincent didn’t go home, not yet. He’d stay at the main house for a few nights…maybe a few weeks. He’d made a promise, after all.

[bespectacled-bookwyrm]

2023 Whumptober 23

Summary: The darkness means nothing to a beast who cannot see.

Written for the 2023 Whumptober event!