#I'm going to die writhing in agony until my body gives up or I'm going to make it quick and shoot myself

[aftermathing]

How to find will to live and purpose in life when chronic pain is destroying your body and mind.

[squishidoodles]

OC-tober Day 12: Nightmare

(Sort of a part one) I used colored pencil for the tree, along with sharpie for all the black on it. Luria is with my pens, and the background is watercolor, 'cause I've been playing with them.

Luria sat up, finding herself in the forest that kept re-occurring in her dreams. She stood next to the same old tree. Glancing down, she saw the same spot where she had torn up the grass the night before.  

"Welcome back, child." 

The voice from the night before said. 

Luria shuddered, and looked up at the sky. "You again…?" 

The sky cracked, and black splits crawled along the sky, and seemed to reach for her. She stood, and backed away from it. 

"It is. I saw in your mind that you hoped this was all a dream, and I wasn't real… But you were wrong." It almost seemed to be amused. 

"I'm not going to comply with anything you want, so please leave me alone." Luria said. 

The tree died, and started turning black, and crawling along like the cracks, coming closer and closer. Luria's arm started throbbing, and when she looked down at it, she saw the black marks making a dark thickness to the air around the wound. 

"You don't seem to understand where you stand, and just how powerless you are in this." 

"I don't think I do either, but I won't help you." 

Sudden, sharp pain shot up her arm, and Luria saw that the marks climbed up to her throat again, burning as the reappeared. She winced, and squinted, gritting her teeth. But she looked up at the shattered sky and shook her head. The Shadow clicked its tongue, or maybe, made a noise that sounded like it did, and the world was white. 

The world was a dark blur. All Luria could see were dark shapes that moved around, though it was so blurry that she could only guess what they were doing. But she could hear. Nothing she heard sounded remotely pleasant. There were harsh words being spoken, and she could hear blows being dealt. She tried to close her eyes, but they wouldn't move. In fact, she couldn't move anything. She felt like she was floating. In what, she couldn't tell. It felt like an ocean of lukewarm water. Panicking, Luria tried to find somewhere solid to stand, or to swim above the water, and breath. As her panic grew, the water, or air, or whatever it was, grew gradually colder, until it felt like ice. As the water got colder, the noises grew louder. Soon, she was frozen, floating in liquid ice, screams of agony, terrified shrieks, calls for help, or to run, ringing in her ears. She tried to open her mouth, to say something, call out for someone. But she still couldn't move. 

'Where even is this?!?' She thought, though her thoughts were drowned out by the noises. Soon, the cold numbed her body, and with the numbness, oddly enough, pain awoke. She found that if she had a voice, she too would be screaming on agony. If she could move, she would be thrashing, fighting, trying to get out of wherever this was. She wished she could pass out, or die, just to be free. But nothing changed, only that the pain, the horrible noise, and the coldness got worse. So she floated, screaming, sobbing, writhing inside, but unable to do a thing, for what felt like hours. Eventually, a cold, familiar voice broke the noise, and the pain, and cold eased till it was bearable. 

"Are you bored now?" 

As it spoke, the water rippled and vibrated. Luria found that she was now finally able to move her face, and catch the breath she couldn't have lost. The entity waited patiently, as the girl caught her breath. 

"Are you bored of trying to get me to help you yet?" 

Luria replied with a cough, and a scowl. The water suddenly became like ice again, and the agony returned. She shrieked. 

"No… no…. That won't do at all. You must behave yourself; I won't have disrespect. No scowly faces." "Will you behave now?" 

Gritting her teeth, Luria nodded. The pain and cold returned to bearable. 

"Good girl. Now, we've known each other for a while, so let me give you a face to see. Who will that be? We don't want it to be someone you love, now do we…" Suddenly, the air rippled, and Kinsai appeared. But the voice of the shadow came out of his mouth, as it asked: "How's this?" 

Luria froze. It wasn't this bad before, but she had been safe for so long, that it was a shock to see someone who had tried to kill her. She tried to block the pictures that flooded into her head, but they were everywhere. She was scared. The man whom this face belonged to had kidnapped her after hurting her so badly, she nearly bled to death. He had chased and shot her. She tried not to remember all she felt, how he knelt on her chest, holding a gun to her head. And how if it weren't  for Paul, she'd be long dead. She shuddered. 

Shadow, bearing Kinsai's face glanced at the images floating around her head, and clucked his tongue.  

"Oh dear, you must be cold. You're shaking like a leaf. Where are my manners? You human peoples do always like your acquaintances to be well mannered or whatnot." 

The cold, dark water seemed to drain, and Luria found her feet reach dry ground. Her freedom of movement returned, as he landed gently, on a chair. Shadow snapped his fingers, and a cold blue light came on. The cold and pain dissolved. 

"Is that better?" 

Luria nodded. "What do you want?" 

"You know very well what I want, little girl. I want you to be my vessel. As we discussed last meeting, you will serve me, you're only choice is how soon, and how painful it will be. Give in now, and it will be over soon, make me take you by force, and it will be many more painful sessions. But I will have you."

"I told you last time, I won't let you hurt my cousin, and I will not let you use me to do so." Luria shook her head. "Why do you want me?" 

"You may believe that you have a choice, or a say in what happens to you, child, but I am by far more powerful than you, and what happens to you happens to you, and you don't even need to know why." 

"If my only choice is to give in, and it be less painful, or to not give in, and have more pain…." She looked down at the ground, and rubbed her arms. "I would rather live in agony then betray my friend. So I will fight you until I breath my last, if I must. But I won't give in." 

"Are you sure? You may not understand just how bad it is." 

She looked the creature in the eye. Ignoring the fact that it was using the eyes of her almost-killer. "...Yes. I'm sure." 

"To be taken by force, I must weaken your wall of defence. Therefore I must spread the infection in your arm throughout your body. Your mind too must be numbed. Slowly, I must break your will, your conscience. You will not like this part, for you will end up only half aware of what is going on outside of you. You will have no peace from the screams and your limbs will ache without end, you will live with a constant splitting headache. Insanity is what you could call it. You're mind will become useless. The you inside will be lost. Only a twisted, shredded, scrap will remain once my task is finished, with no possible end to it all, for you will be unable to die. Do you really want that?" It's tone was condescending, as it slowly swaggered to her chair. It reached out, and  flipped the curl on her forehead, remarking. "Still so young. It'd be a pity." It sighed. "Well, you've chosen this for yourself. "

Luria awoke, back in her bed. Her arm throbbed, and the marks burned like veins of fire. Her room was dark, and she felt suffocated and unsafe. She grabbed her blanket, and strode out of her bedroom, closing the door behind.

[mythicamagic]

Editing my last ask - realizing two sentences started the same: Kagome is injured - "Can you walk?" "I'm bleeding."

AN: Takes place in early canon

----

It wasn’t every day Sesshoumaru found himself staring down at his brother’s wench laying in a bloodied heap at the bottom of a ditch.

After quickly assessing her with a cursory glance and inhale, he realised she was in fact not dead and very much alive judging by the glare she sent his way, face smeared with dirt.

He arched a brow.

How the tables turned. He could just leave the bratty young woman to die. She had nothing to do with him- and had practically been Inuyasha’s cheerleader during the day he’d cleaved Sesshoumaru’s arm off.

Fierce blue eyes narrowed, body shaking. She tried to rise, crumpled body unable to move from the inch deep murky waters and slick mud. Crimson slashed across her shoulder and stomach, marring her strange white and green garments.

Sesshoumaru’s pale lips curved, coldly amused by her struggles. Let her writhe in the dirt some more.

Let her feel a mere sliver of the humiliation he’d felt.

“If you’re j-just going to watch me die- get lost,” she rasped.

“Is that any way to speak to your possible saviour?” Sesshoumaru’s velvety baritone purred.

Kagome gave a weak laugh, wincing soon after, “hilarious,” she tried rolling onto her side, the action sluggish, progress slow.

Apathetic golden eyes bore down on the miko, vaguely curious as to how she’d met such a fate. “Perhaps I may be inclined to help, if…”

“I’m- hah- not going to do something stupid like snatch Tetusaiga from Inuyasha and give it to you,” Kagome quivered, pressing a palm to her stomach. Pale skin gained a ghostly pallor, once lovely black hair sodden with dirty water.

Sesshoumaru tilted his head to consider her loftily from his position, savouring every flinch as a means of petty revenge. It wasn’t like her agony could rival that of his phantom limb pain that he endured every damn night. “That is not it. I was merely going to suggest...begging goes a long way, miko.”

A brief look of horror crossed her features, before she snarled, forcibly rolling onto her side with renewed vigour and resting a hand on the steep incline, as though meaning to drag herself up alone. “As if I would! Y-you’re such an asshole!” she panted, groaning and making a valiant effort of dragging her body onto the grassy verge- but it proved too slippy, making her slide back down.

“Can you walk?” he asked pointedly.

“I’m bleeding,” she hissed. “Of course I can’t, s-smart ass. But I’ll drag myself if I have to,” Kagome panted with scratchy sounding breaths, gripping a fistful of wet grass and crawling on her belly. She gave a low, breathy groan.

Sesshoumaru’s insides stirred with heat. Intrigue shook to life. What a strange, strong little slip of woman. Naïve of course, but effort should be applauded no matter how in vain it all was.

His nostrils flared. Blood was soaking through her uniform onto Kagome’s hand where it cradled her stomach. If she continued, she would likely…

He sighed, stepping off the ledge easily. Silver hair drifted up behind him as he drifted down, landing beside her gently as though gravity was nothing, mud caking flawless black boots.

Kagome stiffened, warily frowning up at him. The blue of her eyes blazed so fierce and bright they could put many demonic gazes to shame.

“You cannot survive without aid,” he evenly informed her. “But I am not going to assist you out of the goodness of my heart- only a fool would do so,” Sesshoumaru leaned over her, covering the miko’s body in shadow like the overcast skies looming above.

“Beg me, miko.”

Kagome sneered, matted hair sticking to a cut cheek. Her breathing was becoming thin, and she likely understood the futility of her struggles, gaze flitting to the high verge. She hissed out a curse, looking at him with palpable hatred.

“Please,” she whispered.

“Hm? I did not quite catch that,” Sesshoumaru hummed.

“Please save me, Sesshoumaru!” she snapped, growling. “I’m a weak, pathetic mess who got separated from her group, mugged by bandits and left in a damn ditch to die!- There! Is that what you wanted to hear?”

A strong arm shot down, sliding around Kagome’s waist and ripping her from the sodden earth’s clutches, dirtying his hakimono. She groaned with pain but bore it well enough, shuddering as mokomoko wrapped around her, cradling the miko close and supporting her legs.

With a spring of bent knees, Sesshoumaru glided into the air. “That was not so very terrible, was it?” soft words caressed her ear.

Kagome weakly rested against him, fanning hot, laboured breaths against his neck. He repressed a shudder, a little disconcerted by his reaction.

“My hero,” she croaked, forehead pressing against his collarbone. It felt feverishly hot. For a long time, neither spoke. Fresh breezes fanned over them, drying the mud and encrusting it onto clothes and skin. Sesshoumaru figured she’d passed out from blood loss until she stirred. “F-for what it’s worth,” Kagome’s voice rasped- barely a whisper now, “I was kind of horrified the day your arm was cut off. We were defending ourselves- but it still didn’t sit right with me. I guess I’m sorry it had to happen.”

Saying such a thing was ridiculous. They were enemies. She and Inuyasha had merely fought against him as adversaries should. Wounds or battle scars were a natural consequence of fighting that every warrior accepted before they began a fight.

Nonetheless, his stinging, bruised ego that would likely never be repaired after suffering such a huge loss felt oddly quelled by her words. Appreciative.

Sesshoumaru said nothing, and when Kagome fell unconscious, he did little more than adjust voluminous furs around her broken body.

-------

Kagome awoke hours later in Kaede’s hut, temples pounding, friends crowded around her, voicing their concerns- or chewing her out for getting separated from them in Inuyasha’s case.

“Still, it coulda been a lot worse,” he grunted, scratching his nose. “Luckily you were pretty much fine...dunno how you got here though,” thick brows pulled down.

“Fine?” she echoed, sitting up and automatically reaching for her wounds. “Fine? Inuyasha my stomach was practically cut open! And my shoulder was-”

Kagome’s hands stilled. Flawless smooth skin met shaking palms. Not one cut lay upon her body.

Her friend blinked, triangular ears pricking, sensing her distress. “The hell is it?”

“You were covered in mud, Kagome,” Shippo helpfully supplied. “But just passed out. We’re all glad you’re alright,” he shot a look at Inuyasha, who grumbled.

The miko was barely listening, fingers stroking over warm, pale skin. Her heartbeat drummed wildly, sweat perspiring along her brow.

She didn’t dare voice her confused thoughts aloud, visualising a certain sword resting by the haughty, cruel Daiyoukai’s hip.

Kagome teeth gnashed, lips pressing together. Tension slowly released from her body, but she quietly continued to reel for the rest of the day and long into the weeks after.

The truth of what had happened was only known to two- apparent in Sesshoumaru’s citrine eyes which caught and held her captive during their next encounter. It remained unspoken, but carefully, imperceptibly, Kagome gave the barest incline of her head in thanks.

Sesshoumaru’s lips barely quirked at the edges in response.

[dcbicki]

I'm sorry to double dip but could you do danxamy for 14 and Jonsa for 6? Those are my two fave pairings!

I did the Dan/Amy one, but (if you’re still interested) could you send me a different message for the J/S one - it makes things easier to post? Also, I love how this was supposed to be a ‘few short paragraphs’ meme but I went over 3k words with this… Enjoy! :)

14. Things you said after you kissed me | Post-s6, in which Amy is ready to give birth, and Dan’s feelings are semi-ready to express themselves.

-

“If I find even one picture of this on that phone, you’re a dead man.”

“Ah, come on, Amy,” He starts, grins - that prick! - and then he’s scrolling through what she can only guess is a new photo album on his fucking iPhone. “Don’t you wanna have something memorable to show people, to commemorate this joyous occasion?”

She can’t tell if he’s fucking with her, or if this is actually all just a part of his stupid fucking plan.

“I think the probable sociopath I’m squeezing out of my fucking vagina is gonna be enough of a souvenir, thanks.” Her teeth grit and she’s frowning, reaching for something to hold onto other than the railing of the hospital bed.

She’ll commemorate this joyous occasion by chopping his balls off and force-feeding them to him through a tube. That sounds like a pretty solid revenge scheme right now.

“Dan! Can you just put the fucking phone down and get me some ice chips? For fuck’s sake.”

Amy doesn’t notice the two cups already on the side, chips melting. So, he just smiles, picks one up and hands it to her. There, hold that.

She doesn’t though – instead she finds herself grasping at his shirt, knuckles whiter than usual, face a pretty picture of sheer agony, “You’re gonna pay for this, you dick.”

“So you’ve said.” He’s rolling his eyes, and he laughs (because he’s not the one forcing an infant through his genitals) like the asshole she knows him to be.

And then he smirks, because he’s Dan, because he can, “You can only kill me so many times, you know?” The threat count is probably nearing the two hundred mark at this point.

Apparently, within the next couple hours, she’s castrating him with children’s craft scissors, gauging his eyes out with bendy plastic spoons, ripping his hair right from his scalp with just her bare hands, carving out his shrivelled up black heart and proceeding to feed his carcass to a pack of wild dogs. Oh, and she’s gonna feed him his ballsack through a fucking tube. Whether that’s pre or post heart failure, he isn’t sure.

Sure thing, Ames.

“I still get to torture you beforehand.”

“True. But you know I’d just consider that brutal foreplay.”

“Oh, fuck off.” She’d let go of his shirt sometime in the past minute, and her palm is wrapped so tightly around the frame she’s sure, he’s sure it will snap. Fuck, it’ll probably shatter.

Dan looks over at her then, (attempts to) run a hand through over-gelled hair, phone finally shoved inside his back pocket, “D'you want me to leave? I can just wait in the hall. I mean, I’ve got some calls to make and-”

Yeah, Dan, you’re not good with hospitals or empathy, I know.

“You’re staying right here.” Her blue eyes are like frozen blocks of ice, and her lips draw thin, cheeks puffing as her face flushes, neck tenses. “You’re gonna stand there, and only there, and you’re gonna hold my fucking hand like the nice man your mom thinks she raised.”

He nods, complies, shuffles forward so he’s leaning over the side of the railing. Even when she’s sat and he’s slouched, he still towers over her, still doesn’t loom. What kinda bullshit-

“Okay.” Dan sighs, adds, “Your mom’s outside, by the way.” As though that will get her to change her mind.

Oh, yes, Dan. Yes! Go get my mom, and you can wait in the hall with fucking Gary! That’ll make you happy, won’t it? Go!

“Well, then, that’s where she’ll stay.” She huffs out, eyes closed since he agreed to stay. Her head’s thrown back, blonde hair askew, face pink, lips plump. God, he wants to fucking straighten her hair. She isn’t her.

“Really?” He frowns anyway, confusion clear across his face, “Don’t you want some other woman here? I thought that was like a… thing.” His nose crinkles, “What about your sister?”

He doesn’t quite understand why she wants him here, especially with her mother right outside and she’s always seemed closer to her than anybody else in her family. Hell, Gary’s probably better suited for this kind of thing than he is - he’s into all that feminine crap, right? And he’s just-

Well, he wasn’t even all that great when they went for checkups. He just sat there in the chair and smugly grinned like an asshole whenever the doctor pointed at the screen, at the bean-sized, peanut-sized, melon-sized spawn of his that Amy was incubating.

Come to think of it, he’s not even sure he’s ready for the little bugger to be born yet. Then again, him not ready being ready isn’t the worst thing. Amy’s the one having to do all the work.

Push, scream, push, push, scream, cry, push, sweat, cry, sweat, scream.

Hopefully, she doesn’t die. Hopefully, she won’t leave him alone with a newborn. That would be some serious fucking divine retribution right there. Dan, you take this. You deal with it. Have fun, fucker.

“That’s not a fucking thing, and if you ever fucking bring up Sophie again, I swear to God I will have you murdered in your sleep.”

He’s brought back then, all wide-eyed and lost-looking.

With a sigh, he concedes. He is the father. (Wow, that’s fucking weird.) He’s the one who did this to her, with her. He’s the one who fucked her, and subsequently fucked them both over.

“Nah, you wouldn’t.” He glances down at Amy, raises one eyebrow pointedly in that way she really, really, truly fucking detests, “You wouldn’t deprive yourself of that pleasure.”

His gaze shifts to the door then as it swings open, allowing Amy’s (midwife? obstetrician? fuck knows!) doctor to walk through. A nurse follows, and Dan catches a quick glance of Amy’s mom talking to Gary in the waiting room.

Are they deciding which one of them is going to watch over the kid first so that Amy can catch some sleep, and Dan can go home and change out of his day-old shirt? He’s actually surprised that, for once, Gary isn’t at Selina’s side like a fucking half-turtled turd.

Amy’s been here for fucking hours – all bed-ridden and shit in a sweaty dull-coloured hospital gown, and (truth be told) he’s still pretty pissed about the blue balls she’d left with him earlier. (Granted, she went into labour, but still.)

Going home to stroke one out might actually come in handy. Pun fully intended, he grins. Just as long as he doesn’t catch a view of her child-baring vag beforehand-

“How are we feeling?”

He’s flicking open the chart the nurse hands him - Dan’s forgotten his name because it was some European-sounding bullshit and he had more important stuff to do than learn it - and he smiles up at Amy, all red hair and freckles and glasses.

“Just tell me if I’m fucking dilated.” Amy writhes on the bed, focuses her attention on the patterned ceiling, and Dan’s damn sure she’s gonna pull a fucking Exorcist in a minute and start levitating. It doesn’t look comfortable. Maybe Mike hadn’t been lying about his surrogate’s birthing story, after all.

The doctor shoves his glasses up his nose, snaps the chart shut and smiles (like a fucking teenage boy who’s gonna get his first upfront look at a woman’s privates).

He leans forward, does his thing (and Dan watches him out of the corner of his eye because focusing on that is a little more personal than he’s willing to get right now, or ever.)

He’d rather not see some guy - trained professional or not - put his hands anywhere near Amy’s crotch. (Unless it’s in a mirror… and he’s the guy.)

“Looks like I was right on time. You’re just about ten centimetres.”

The blonde sits up in her bed then, neck muscles still tense, shoulders raised and bony, “So the little fucker’s finally ready to come out?”

“Amy.”

“I can… start pushing?” She corrects herself with a sigh, half-ignores Dan’s burning stare. Fuck you.

“Seems so.”

She briefly relaxes then, lets herself fall back for only a moment, but then another contraction hits her again, only it’s worse this time, and Dan’s hand is actually there for her to hold and bruise and fuckin’ crush. Jesus, woman!

“Whenever you’re ready.”

“If we’re waiting for that, the kid’s never coming out.”

It’s intended as a joke, but Amy just tightens her hold around Dan’s hand, waiting until his knuckles crack before finally softening her grip.

Prick.

He holds up his other hand (semi-apologetically given the proud look on his face) before lowering it down to the side of the bed, wrapping it around the metal post and leaning closer to her.

“Okay. Push.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Just fuckin’ push, Amy.” He sounds ticked off, worked up, “Jesus, it’s not hard.”

Despite herself, she finds herself reassured when his hand reaches for her own, and then she’s going for it.

-

Turns out, it’d been harder than he thought it would be.

That epidural – no, those two epidurals – clearly hadn’t done shit because she was still in pain throughout, and her body was on the brink of a fucking collapse. Maybe that’s just what happens though. How the fuck is he supposed to know? He didn’t even wanna be here for this until she roped him, forced him into it.

Watching Amy Brookheimer give birth (to his child) hadn’t ever been on his bucket list, and now, he notes, there’s a reason that was. The whole thing had been brutal. She screamed, in his face, into his shirt. She cried, in his arms, into his shirt. She sweated, like a fuckload.

She’d been all red and warm and horrifically in pain, and Dan’s pretty sure he’s going to picture her mid-labour face whenever he’s holding himself back from coming from now on.

At least now she’s calmer, and quieter, and she’s finally fuckin’ let go of his hand. Honestly, childbirth turned out to be much more of a team sport than he’d thought it would be. He didn’t think he’d ever have to be someone’s punching bag, or actual fucking support system, so that was an experience.

At least now she looks like herself, and her blonde hair is straight again because she (post-labour, of course) practically assaulted a nurse until they gave her a hairbrush. Type A, confirmed.

At least now, he can run his hands through pretty, long, straight blonde hair and grab it, tug it, pull it. Maybe once she’s out of here, and he’s changed out this bloody tear-stained, snot-ridden sweaty mess of a striped shirt, they could-

Honestly, she’s really fucking glowing and he’s kind of enjoying it. Is she supposed to look this fuckable after just giving birth? He’s probably a mess himself, all bruised knuckles from her death grip, and aching legs from standing up for so long. Oh, well.

Their son is born at a healthy weight, with blueing grey eyes and a patch of light dark hair atop his head. But he’s all gunky and gooey and just plain fucking gross, so the nurse takes him away to be cleaned up when Amy’s had just about a minute with him.

He was actually kind of… cute? Fuck, she hates that word.

Cute in a way that meant if she stared at him for too long, she’d fucking vomit. Cute in a way that meant he was cuter than most babies – but then again, that’s just their genetics.

“You did great.” Dan’s grinning (again, like a dickhead), “You know that, right?”

“Doesn’t feel like it.”

“I’m serious.”

It’s not the first time he’s complimented her skills, competence. But it’s a strange kind of sincerity, one with a little more meaning, depth behind it than she’s used to receiving from him, from anyone.

Pushing herself up on both palms, her back aches as she stretches, props herself up into a comfier position against some square pillows. It’s not soothing, though, and she has to readjust the shitty cushions behind her to find some kind of comfort. She’s fucking sat on one, and it’s doing nothing to alleviate the pain she’s feeling down below.

“When do you think I can leave?”

She wants to be working, walking about, running around, doing things. Being cooped up in a hospital bed is not fun, is not productive, is not rewarding. Granted, she can still talk and call and email but it’s not the same as being up and about, out where the action is, where she’s actually useful.

Dan gets to leave whenever he likes. Dan doesn’t have to remain on bedrest for an undetermined amount of time. Dan doesn’t have to deal with a sore vagina and everything else that entails. Dan is a man, got the ‘get out of jail free’ card when she drew the one that forces her to take five places back.

Dick, she scowls.

“Probably tonight. That nurse said there weren’t any complications so we can probably go home later.” He reasons, shrugs as though it’s nothing major. Dick.

“We?” Amy lifts a brow, sniffles, “You can go home already, you know.”

“What, you think I’m just gonna fuckin’ leave you here?” Dan stares down at her, runs one hand along the cool railing, “Jesus Christ, Amy, you just had my kid. Even I’m not that fuckin’ cold.” He almost looks appalled at the idea – he’s desperate to leave though, to go home. Fuck it, he’s half-tempted to pack her bag, get her dressed, grab the baby and make a run for it.

“I’m just saying, you don’t have to wait for me-”

“Shut the fuck up.” His head ducks, eyes closing. What the fuck is he doing?

“I can have my mom bring me back to the apartment later. It s fine-” Because she’s still here, because Grandma B likes being involved in all things Baby Brookheimer-Egan related, because she’s just that kind of person. At least they’ll have someone to babysit for them that isn’t hired or fucking Gary.

“Amy, seriously. Shut up.”

“Why?” She smirks, figures she can get a rise out of him and whatever the fuck he’s trying to conceal. Is that… fucking emotion, some kind of weird display of fucking devotion? What- “Or Gary. It’s not like he has anything better to do anyway, other than trim Selina’s nails or wipe her ass.”

“You’re not going home with Gary. For fuck’s sake, Amy. Is it so hard for you to just shut your fucking mouth every once in awhile?”

You getting worked up there, Danny?

He sighs (deeply, strangely), and then he’s leaning down and kissing her before she can even say anything else, anything at all.

It’s a weird kiss, different from their normal, their usual. There’s no tongue shoved down her throat (which she almost sadly longs for), no hand on her neck (which is oddly irritating), no hair-pulling or shirt-tugging (which she really fucking craves).

It’s just a kiss on her lips (soft, surprisingly bland yet somehow charming), and then it’s over.

“What the fuck?” She exclaims when he’s pulled back, scratching the space between dark furrowed brows. “What, did you develop some kind of sappy dad hormones as soon as the fucking baby started kicking and screaming?”

“No, I-” He begins, shifts his gaze from the white sheet of her hospital bed to her face, all pink lips and flushed face. “I don’t know, Amy. Fuck!”

He doesn’t know why he kissed her - like that - save for the fact that he wanted to (almost desperately), so he did. Fuck, he feels feverish. He’s flushed, more than she is, has been, and he doesn’t understand why. His breathing is faster than it was a moment ago, and he wants nothing more than to take that kiss back.

“Sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?” Amy leans back against her pillows, hitches up the bottom of her gown and stretches out her legs. “Fuck.” Her eyes close and she swallows a breath, way too calm for his liking.

Why isn’t she on edge? Why isn’t she begging to be let out of this room? Why isn’t she bribing nurses?

Why isn’t she Amy?

“You know I like you, right?”

“You like me?” She grins despite her eyes remaining closed, and her neck reddens, “Wow, Dan. What a revelation.”

“As in, I like you more than I like anybody else.” Dan shrugs (for no good reason), and he clears his throat with one hand smoothing along the bed railing, “As in, I say I like you, but it’s more than that, and you know it.”

“Oh, I do? Because you’ve made it so blatantly obvious over the years?” She laughs, once, practically hiccups. “Sure, Dan. You like me like that.”

His fingers dance along the thin mattress, curling around the hem of her gown, all pale skin and pastel blue cloth.

Why is she Amy?

“You never wondered why I stayed?”

“Because you think you’re getting something out of this.” She reasons, peeks one eye open and looks at him, flicks both eyes open when she notices his frown. “Jesus Christ, why do you look like someone just reported you as a sex offender? Sort your face out.”

“I mean, you’re not wrong.” He nods. He did get sex out of this. He did get Amy out of this, in some way, in some capacity. He did get a mini version of himself out of this, and his narcissistic ass kind of really loves that part of the deal. “Not entirely.”

“Oh, go on.” Amy smiles, “What am I missing? Why did you stay?”

“Because it’s you.”

Why is she Amy?

Because if she wasn’t, he wouldn’t be Dan.

“Is this the part where I swoon, and you get down on one knee, and the whole hospital staff applauds when I agree to marry you?” She’s smirking - that bitch! - and she licks her lips, holds her breath for a second.

“Is this where we elope and move to the suburbs and fuck maybe once every three months and I don’t let you finish?” Biting her lip, “Is this where you say you love me?”

She drags out that word, and Dan’s face near drowns of all colour. Fuck her.

“You’re a real cunt, you know that?”

She just nods, sheepish, lets the hand in her lap move to brush against his own, toying with her blue gown, “You love this cunt.”

“I do.” His palm runs along her stomach, stops just above the space between her legs. “And you love this dick.”

Amy smiles, ducks her head, understands him straight away yet doesn’t exactly deny it, “Fuck you.”

“Oh, believe me, you will. I’m just waiting until we can leave and they clear you for sex.”

“You’re seriously fucking turned on by this, aren’t you? That’s some next level, twisted mommy-issue shit right there, Dan.”

“Babe, the only mommy I’m thinking about right now is you.”

“If you start calling yourself ‘daddy’, I swear your balls are getting the chop.”

“Daddy Egan?” He boasts, beams.

“Just my luck.”

[bittykimmy13]

Lifeless (GT)

This takes place two weeks after Torn. Be warned: this is not a happy story.

Characters belong to me and the lovely Obsess-Confess

The weight of his world lay in the palm of his hand and looked up at him with agonized green eyes. She twisted and writhed against a pain that couldn’t be escaped, her skin and clothes soaked red, red, red.

“It hurts,” she whimpered. Her expression became blank, eyes empty. Her blood-smeared lips barely moved. “It hurts.”

He brought her close to his chest, fighting to move faster, but his legs felt like they were dragging through wet cement. The forest shuddered and stretched around him, blocking out the stars. Tree lashed out with skeleton-like branches and slowed him further, determined that Sylvia would die in his hands.

“You’re going to be okay, Sylv,” he croaked. “You hear me? You’re gonna make it.”

They both knew he was lying.

It was that revelation that woke him up.

He opened his eyes blearily, processing the dim motel room. The malevolent trees no longer choked out the sky, but the drywall ceiling did. His hands were empty.

It hurts.

The echo of her voice struck him like a blow to the head. He came to consciousness soundlessly, but on the inside everything screamed in ear-splitting agony. Inescapable, like the pain that had torn Sylvia apart until her body gave up.

Agony had become the norm, hurting so much that he was beginning to be numb. He didn’t want to be numb. He wanted to hurt. He deserved to hurt.

Cliff didn’t agree.

Sylvia wouldn’t want you to be like this. Man, think about the fit she’d throw if she saw you doing this to yourself.

Jon’s punch had been just short of dislocating Cliff’s jaw for saying that. Blinking hard, Jon peered across the room and saw the other bed still empty.

Good. They both needed the space.

His eyes slid cautiously to the nightstand, and he reached under his pillow to grip the hilt of his knife. But the nightstand was empty this time. He suppressed a shiver.

Nightmares were one thing. He swore something was following him. More than once he’d awoken to see her on the nightstand. Watching. Unmoving. As if she had followed him from his nightmares. He would blink, yank the lamp cord, and she’d be gone. There’d be a thrill of fear and paranoia, and then the lethargic reality that came with being awake. He didn’t have the will to chase hallucinations.

Cliff wouldn’t say it out loud, but Jon could see the way he was starting to look at him. Like he was crazy.

Maybe he was. But there was nothing on the nightstand watching him tonight.

Because it was huddled under the shadow of his pillow.

Jon flinched as his fingers brushed against something soft and solid as he prepared to settle back into bed. Devoid of all else but basic hunter instincts, he locked his fingers around the thing.

It cried out, and even his instincts became nothing.

That voice.

“Jon,” she sobbed, trembling in his grip. “Jon.”

He yanked her in front of him and fumbled with the lamp switch, every nerve surging with electricity. His eyes adjusted to the light and drank her in desperately, but something was wrong. In his hand was Sylvia.

But not Sylvia.

While the rest of the room was washed with light, darkness congealed around the thing in Jon’s hand. It breathed through heavy gasps and squirmed to free its arms, vacant of natural color–as if Sylvia had stepped out of a black-and-white film. Worse than that, its presence seemed to warp and eat the light around it like a living shadow.

It looked up at him pleadingly. Its eyes were not green, but dull grey and swimming with tears.

“Jon,” it whispered.

“No.” His voice wasn’t much more than a breath, and then he was shouting. “No, no, no!”

Tearing his eyes away from the shadow thing as it ducked its head and whimpered, Jon threw his free hand under the pillow and pulled the knife out. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and held the blade close to his captive, breathing hard.

“Don’t!” it cried, writhing anew. “Please! Just let me ex–”

“Stop moving!” When it didn’t listen, he pressed the sharp edge to its upper arm. He didn’t put enough pressure to carve its flesh, but it gave a piercing shriek that stabbed his heart.

A wisp of black smoke hissed where the blade made contact with the shadow’s skin.

The knife was iron.

Tears raced down its cheeks, down the black traitor brand that belonged to Sylvia. “It hurts! Jon, please, it hurts!”

Lightheaded from the sound of her voice, Jon jerked the blade away. He couldn’t bear to feel the squirming in his hand any longer. Stumbling to the dresser, he dropped the shadow roughly, pushing aside the coffee maker, the telephone, and empty beer bottles so it would have nothing to hide behind.

It got to its feet shakily, and he shoved it into a seated position with the back of his hand.

“Don’t move a fucking inch.”

“J-Jon–”

“Don’t move!” he hollered, leveling the blade mere inches from it as it started to straighten. It froze, eyeing the knife with absolute terror. He growled through his teeth, “If you really know me, then you know I’m fast. You know I can gut you before you even get your wings open.”

The words were acid in his mouth. He would have strangled anyone who spoke to Sylvia like that.

This thing on the dresser wasn’t Sylvia.

“I am Sylvia,” it said, as if it could read his mind. “I-I’m not here to hurt you or anyone. I'm… I’m just…” It scooted back on his hands, shoulders wracking with her tearful little gasps. “I-I don’t know.”

Jon didn’t waver. “What are you?”

“I wish I knew for sure,” it answered, hugging its legs to its chest. “I know what this looks like… what I look like. But Jon, it’s not what you think. Fairies coming back. There’s legends about that, called shades. Warriors and heroes who were slain before their time. It’s far-fetched, even for fairies, but–”

“Stop,” he hissed, because he knew in his heart that he wanted to believe it. But it couldn’t be true.

It sniffled. “You’re the one who asked. Y-you can’t get mad at me just because it’s not what you want to hear. What do you want to hear, Jon? That… that I’m a monster who’s come to haunt you? Will it make it easier for you to use that?” Its voice cracked as it pointed at the iron blade.

He couldn’t look at the shade. It wore that frustrated, determined expression its face. It was her face, and the shadow didn’t deserve to wear it.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he spat. “You shouldn’t exist, just like any other spirit. You’re dead. She’s dead!”

“Yet here I am, and I-I don’t understand it any more than you do. Fairies and humans are different in life, right? Is it so crazy to think they’re different in death?” It unwound its arms from its legs and stood tentatively, gesturing to itself. “I’m all here, Jon. I… I feel just like I did before it happened. I’m not some vengeful piece of me. I’m all of me.”

He glared at it, tightening his grip on the handle of the knife. “How do I know that?”

It shrugged helplessly. “I would have shown myself to you the moment I figured out how to prove it. But I don’t know how. You have to believe me. I… I know you’re hurting. I’ve seen y-you.” The shade swiped at its eyes, voice choking. “I’ve wanted to show you I’m still here, but I was afraid of you.”

“You should be.” Jon leaned in and made the shade shrink away in fear. He wished his voice would stop quivering. “Because you’re not her. Stop talking like you’re her.”

“I don’t know who else to talk like.” Its wide eyes darted to the knife, then locked onto his face. “B-but… if you had absolutely no hope that I’m telling the truth, you would have run me through by now, so I’m not giving up. It’s me, Jon. You can’t begin to imagine how hard it’s been not to blow my cover. When… when you’re crying or drinking, or when you’re fighting with Cliff. Or when I think about all the episodes of Survivor I’m missing because you won’t turn on the stupid TV.”

The shade gave a broken, whimpering gasp that might have been a laugh.

Jon stared and staggered back. His hand shook. The knife fell to the carpet, and so did he.

“I miss her,” he choked out, dropping his head in his hands. Sobs pounded against the inside of his chest, crushing his lungs. “I miss her so goddamn much.”

The shade peered over the side of the dresser, tiny grey hands gripping the edge. “You don’t have to miss me,” it pleaded. “I’m here, Jon. I-I’m right here.”

“Go.” Jon look down. “Get the fuck out of here. I can’t look at you, and I can’t kill you, so just go.”

There came a buzz of wings, but they didn’t retreat. He glanced up and found the shade approaching him through the air tentatively. Jon’s fingers brushed the hilt of the knife on the carpet.

“Leave!” he shouted, scaring it back several inches. “Don’t make me change my mind.”

Its little face was scared and defiant. Sylvia’s face when they argued. “I don’t care. Kill me if that’s what you want, but you can’t expect me to just stand back and see you like this and do nothing!” It flew down closer, no more caution in its movements.

Jon leaned back against the foot of the bed, his fingers slackening on the knife. He left his hands on the floor on either side of him, no longer able to fight the punishment that had no doubt finally come to haunt him. He dropped the back of his head against the mattress, tears spilling onto his cheeks.  

The shade brushed against his hand, ducking under his thumb to lean against his fingers. He couldn’t bear to look. It trembled as it collapsed into his tilted palm. He wanted to close his hand, to hold her the way he used to.

“Why were you by my pillow?” he asked, staring at the ceiling. “Why not stay on the nightstand like you always do?”

The shade didn’t deny the accusation of where it had been standing all those nights.

“I wanted to remember what you feel like,” it said quietly, brushing its cheek against the side of his finger. “I couldn’t stay away. I couldn’t just watch anymore.”

Jon’s fingers twitched against his will, closing around the shade. A fingertip glided shakily against its arm, its shoulder, its cheek. If he didn’t look, he could pretend it was her. It felt like her. It felt more real than any ghost he had ever encountered. Even poltergeists were only solid when they struck out in violence.

This one’s touches were soft.

“You said you were afraid,” Jon said, forcing his fingertip to stop. “Why are you doing this?”

He expected another insistent, pleading answer. Instead, there was a deafening pause followed by weeping. He couldn’t bear it any longer. He scooped the shade up closer to see.

Her face was buried in her hands, hair disheveled. She wore Sylvia’s typical outfit–a tank top and a pair of shorts–devoid of color like the rest of her. A patch of darker skin marred her upper arm where the iron had burned her.

Watery grey eyes peeked over her fingers as she slowly dropped her hands. “Just because I’m afraid doesn’t mean I don’t love you.”

She looked at him sadly, adoringly. The kind of look she would give him after long, grueling hunts, when the two of them wanted nothing more than to curl up together and lock out the ugly, unfair world.

His other hand inched up until he could reach her hair. It started off as an experimental touch. When her hair proved to be as a soft as it ever had been, he found himself stroking it. She didn’t flinch away.

“Your wings,” he murmured. “They’re back.”

���Like it never happened.”

"But… I still have them.” They were wrapped up in her favorite blanket, tucked safely into the pocket of her favorite of Jon’s shirts in his bag.

“I know.” Sylvia looked down at herself, tensing as if he would revert to anger from the revelation. “Like I said, I… I don’t understand it. But I’m me. I don’t know what’s on the other side, but I do know it wasn’t ready to take me. I’m still here, with you. Whatever’s on the other side decided we deserve a second chance.”

He nodded, no longer harboring the strength to deny her. “It’s you.” Admitting it felt like a boulder had been lifted off his shoulders.

It made him feel alive and exhausted all at once, but it made her smile. Colorless or not, she was still the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

Jon cupped her close to his face, drinking in the sight of her greedily. How could he have thought she was frightening? His fingertip hovered near her hurt arm, and he shuddered. “Sylv… I-I’m so sorry.”

All those sleepless nights of aching for her in his hands, and the first thing he’d done was hurt her. Threatened her. Still she had been brave enough to approach–that same courage he’d always loved about her.

“It’s just a little burn,” she said. “It’s already getting better, see? You should go back to sleep. I know you haven’t gotten much.”

He shook his head, rubbing her unburnt arm up and down with the back of his fingers and reaching around to stroke her wings, terrified that she might vanish into thin air at any moment.

“I just got you back. If this is all a dream, I’m not ready for it to be over.”

“It’s not a dream. I’m not going anywhere.” She scooted to the edge of his palm and reached out to touch his damp cheek. The teary smile she gave him made him certain that this was too good to be true. But he didn’t care. “I was afraid before,” she went on. “I thought you wouldn’t understand, but you do. I’m still here, and I’m not leaving you. You deserve to sleep.”

“I don’t,” he whispered. “I don’t deserve to have you. You have a second chance, and you’re wasting it. You should be anywhere but here. Somewhere happy.”

She chuckled and leaned her forehead onto his cheek. “I’m going to be happy with you whether you like it or not. Look at me, Jon.”

He pulled her away reluctantly, both hands cupped tenderly around her shadowy little form.

“It’s time for you to get some sleep,” she told him firmly.

With no further argument, he adjusted one hand around her and stood, shuffling back to bed. She was right. If he didn’t lay down soon, he would collapse from the shock. Even as he settled in and reached over to turn out the light, he never took his eyes off her.

He turned over with his back to the door and tucked his hand with Sylvia under the sheets right beside him, where Cliff wouldn’t be able to see her. Jon kept his hand over her, fingers curled in a gentle grip. She was practically invisible with his shadow over her.

“You’ll still be here?” Jon murmured, exhaustion calling louder and louder with each featherlight stroke of Sylvia’s hand on his finger.

“You’re not getting rid of me.”  

With her promise echoing quietly in his ears, it wasn’t hard to fall asleep.

 Sylvia didn’t sleep. She hadn’t known sleep since she died.

 Peering out from under the sheets, she stared expressionless at Jon’s peaceful, slumbering face. While he slept, he was easy to leech off. And now that he had accepted her, it was even easier. The burn on her arm was healing fast.

 It had been harder than she thought, but he had given in. Maybe it was the nightmares she fed him. Maybe it was her tears. It didn’t matter anymore. He was hers.

She didn’t feel a drop of guilt for lying to him. She couldn’t.

Other than an insatiable desire to have him, and a merciless will to survive, she couldn’t feel a thing.