#but i promise there's whump in every single one until the last

[whumpsoda]

WSFSP - A is for Apology

For the first prompt for this month’s event Alphabet of Whump by @alphabetofwhump!! Who knows how many of these I’ll do, I just loved the prompts!

Masterlist

cw: pet whump, box boy universe/bbu adjacent, Institutionalized slavery, conditioned whumpees, implications of past abuse, recovering whumpees

——————

When Prince had brought up the prospect of joining the others for lunch, which in turn obviously meant leaving the two’s shared room, Mutt had panicked, instantly shooting him down with a shake of the head.

In the end Prince left anyway - as if he even needed to listen to Mutt in the first place - Mutt obediently and cautiously following in suit. Keeping his chest puffed and his scowl solid, Mutt ensured an intimidating presence.

It didn’t last long.

The glass, formerly halfway empty, was now a shatter of slick, knife sharp shards scattered across the wood of the kitchen. It happened so quickly Mutt couldn’t so much as tell how he broke it, too caught up in his own world to notice, only sure that it was his fault. He always was humiliatingly clumsy.

And everyone stared daggers at him, the room falling eerily silent, as if Mutt was under a blinding spotlight. The sting of their gazes made him cower, curling in on himself as a pounding sensation of horror began. nearly enough to get him to drop to his knees and beg had he not been paralyzed with fear.

“I-,” Should he have spoken, spilling meaningless apologies that could never overshadow the mess he had made? Should he have stayed silent, and be reprimanded for thinking something like him wouldn’t need to grovel? Mutt took a shaking breath, clenching his fists. “I’m- I- I’m sorry-,”

“It’s okay. It’s okay.” Isaac stole a swift step forward, far away enough not to step into anything that may cut her, hands out as if to stabilize him from feet away. “Just a glass. An accident.”

She said it so reassuringly, but Mutt was well aware that all of his accidents had piled up since he’d gotten to this strange place, and now he was finally going to be punished for every single little thing. How could they not be completely fed up with him?

Sniveling back ugly tears, Mutt choked out more apologies, biting at his quivering lip. “I- I, um, I’m sorry-,” his hands were trembling - no, his whole body was.

“Hey, hey, it’s alright. No one’s mad, nothing bad is going to happen, I promise.” Her voice wavered with a slight of urgency, each wary of how the other might react. “You can cry if you need to, I understand. Just- look at me, okay, can you do that?”

“Y- yes, yes ma’am.” Doing exactly as ordered, all the while holding back his overflowing emotions, Mutt met her glimmering brown eyes. Leaning toward her, almost enraptured by her stare, he looked to Isaac for any sort of guidance.

“Take some nice, deep breaths. In, and out. In… and out. In… and out.” She guided him along as he obeyed, keeping a wave of sobs at bay all the while calming the drumming beat in his heart. “Better?”

Salty tears flooded his gaze as he stumbled backward, bumping into Prince who caught him by the arms. “Yes, yes, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry-,” he always was a crybaby, as his masted had deemed him.

He hadn’t even noticed how long it had been without a punishment until then, he hadn’t been grateful for it. They were going to make him pay. Master always did.

She shook her head, just by a bit, curls shaking along with the movement. “Accidents happen, we all make them. You’re all good, man. Swear on it.”

His vision flickered to a woman - Edith Prince had called her - bumbling in front of him with a tall broom as she got right to work cleaning up Mutt’s mess.

He reached out for her. “Can- I can help, please-,”

A hand, absentmindedly and gently placed to Mutt’s arm, was soft with a slightly cool touch. Unfamiliar it was, but he didn’t realize until then how terribly he craved it. “Oh no, my dear. You have no shoes on. You might step on something and hurt yourself.”

“But, but, please-,”

“Isaac will help you to the other room, okay honey? Me and Oscar will clean this up, no problem.” She had this smile that bubbled a sugary warmth in his belly, even through the horror running about his mind. “Don’t even worry about it.”

Shaking his head, Mutt insisted, begging to be of service, to try even the slightest to make up for himself. “I can help, I can do anything, please.”

Swiftly and carefully Isaac cut between them, with a soft force stealing Mutt away from the kitchen, tears running down his flushed cheeks. “Come with me, okay? We’re just going to go over here by the couch.” She took him by the hand, her far smaller fingers curling over his as Mutt took Prince’s hand in his other, pulling the pet to his guard’s side.

Mutt whimpered, realization striking him hard in his knotted stomach as he stole a glance outside. “Do- do I… have to go in the dog house?” He was sure it was coming, positive there was no way they would let him off scott free for his undeniable insolence.

“Dog house?” Isaac took a piece of his tear stained hair, gently brushing it back into place. “Is that like… that’s a punishment, yes?”

“Uh, uh huh.” He sniveled, wiping one eye with a burly fist.

Her warmth hardened, expression going cold. “No. No, never ever, I promise you. There’s no such thing as that here - not even punishments.”

“No… punishments?” The idea was completely foreign to both him and Prince, the other pet quietly chiming in with his own confusion of the concept.

“Nope. You will never be punished, disciplined, or anything else your owner may have called it ever again and that’s final.” Isaac stated, sternly. “That goes for the both of you.”

“B- but-,”

“Never.”

“What if-,”

“Hey.” Isaac stopped the two, putting both of her outstretched pinky fingers to them. “Never. No what ifs, no buts. Pinkie promise.”

Prince carefully interlocked his own finger with hers, letting out the faintest of a chuckle as Mutt watched in confusion.

“It’s like a regular promise, just better. One for both of you.” Isaac whispered to him, and he, drying his face with his shirt, followed along with Prince. “Good.”

No punishments.

That’s what she said at least, and Mutt was inclined to believe her.

——————

Masterlist

Taglist - @softvampirewhump @ivymyers @taterswhump @octopus-reactivated @tippytappytyping

@distracted-obsessions @starfields08000 @bitchaknso @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl @scoundrelwithboba

@whumped-by-glitter @whumpering-heights @arlin-always-writing @bilightningwhumper

If anyone wants to be removed or added to the taglist, please let me know! :)

[teeth-n-ambitions]

So Be It

Okay so I lied about how soon I would post again. Life's kicking my ass a bit. But here we go! I'm very happy with this part so let me know what you think! If you want to be added to the tag, feel free to reach out.

@deluxewhump @whumpyourdamnpears

TW: possessive whumper, vampire whump, lady whump, pet whump, blood, knives/cutting, licking(?), slight dehumanization

It’d been a few months, but Lila remembered how it felt to dissociate. That fish-bowl feeling where life happened outside of her and all she could do was watch. When she’d forget moving from one place to another. How she would stare at some fixed point in space, allowing everything around her to dissolve into static. It always came with a hollow feeling in her chest and molasses in her limbs, apathy heavy on her tongue.

This was not that.

Lila was fully conscious of her surroundings when she inexplicably followed Cassara out of her prison. Even as she kept her eyes on the creature’s straight back, she could see her surroundings in her periphery every step of the way, and yet she could not remember a single detail of it. They went up a floor, made a few turns, but that was all her memory could conjure. Cassara had done something to her. Even now, as she struggled against it, silently begging her legs to run the other way, she instead stood beside the sink in a large bathroom, perfectly still as Cassara rubbed a wet washcloth against her stinging cheek. If it weren’t for her shallow breathing, one might think she looked almost relaxed.

“I’m sorry to do this to you, darling,” Cassara said. “It’s frightening, I know.” She squeezed the washcloth, let more water run down Lila’s face. “But you’re far too worked up at the moment. I can’t take care of you if you’re going to fight me the entire time.” Once she was satisfied with her work, she tossed the washcloth into the sink. “Now this is going to feel a bit strange at first, but I promise it’ll help.” Gingerly, she took Lila’s head in her hands and licked a stripe up her cheek.

A shiver of disgust raced down Lila’s spine, making her stomach churn. Cassara’s tongue was cold, like the rest of her, as was the saliva she was so carefully lathering onto Lila’s skin. The whole thing was reminiscent of a slug repeatedly running across her face. She wanted to gag.

Finally, after what felt like eons, Cassara retreated, stood tall again. “Just give it a moment to sit, and…” A few seconds passed before Cassara retrieved the washcloth from the sink and rubbed Lila’s face one last time. “There, all better. Go ahead and feel.”

Lila’s right arm could suddenly move independently again. She brought her hand to her face and found it…smooth, undamaged. It was as if she’d only dreamt that she’d hurt herself. The scrapes—and the accompanying sting—had completely vanished. Just like that.

An amused little smile appeared on Cassara’s face. “Vampires’ saliva speeds up the skin’s healing process,” she explained. “Perfect for keeping your prey from bleeding out and attracting others.” Her hand reached out, Lila involuntarily tilting her head, and ghosted her fingers over the sore spot on Lila’s neck. “Or to save for later.”

Though she’d been breathing this entire time, Lila gasped when she could open her mouth again, took in a few heavy breaths before practically snarling, “What the fuck did you do to me?”

Lila’s arm lost its mobility once more as Cassara stepped toward her and snaked a hand behind her back. “Just a bit of my influence, love.” She guided Lila away from the sink, over to a folding chair beside the large bathtub, and sat her in it. “Hypnosis, in my thrall, whatever you want to call it.” Another chair stood against the wall in the far corner, over by the towel closet. Cassara strode across the bathroom and grabbed it, let it fall and unfold as she lifted it off the ground. “It’s just until you’ve calmed yourself.” She dropped the chair a foot or so before Lila, graciously crossing her legs upon sitting down. “I supposed I could fulfill my end of the bargain and explain things to you in the meantime.”

“And you can just do this whenever you want?” Lila asked. “Just—” She grunted, trying again to move, but she couldn’t even tense her muscles. “—just freeze any part of my body without even blinking?”

“More or less. It takes some focus to fully control someone, but anything less than that comes naturally after some practice.” Cassara shifted in her seat. “Is that where you’d like to start? You seem to be hung up on this.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry that I’m struggling with the revelation that fucking magic is real,” Lila barked. “Is it usually easier when you kidnap people?”

Cassara waited a moment before speaking. “Let me make something clear.” She leaned forward slightly. “Your soul became mine the moment you trespassed onto my territory. I cannot ‘kidnap’ something I already possess. Do you understand?”

“I didn’t realized you owned a random-ass forest in the middle of fucking nowhere. Is it the whole forest? Is the road included? The phonelines? If that road’s yours then you’ve got a lot of potholes t—” Lila’s lips suddenly pressed together, her tongue stilling. She would have glared if she had control of her face.

“You may speak when you’re ready to actually converse with me,” Cassara said. “I’ll summarize everything, and you can ask for any clarification afterwards.” She leaned back in her chair again. “This wood has been occupied by my kind, and others, for centuries. The initial agreement was that we’d stay within the general confines of the wood, but anything that entered was ours to handle however we pleased. You humans may have forgotten it over time, but the deal still stands. Blink twice if you comprehended that.”

Lila obeyed, her eyelids the only thing she could move.

“Good. Now, you stepped onto my portion of the land, so I choose what to do with you. I intended on draining you and letting your carcass fertilize my lawn, but you were so cute—” She punctuated this by gently tapping the tip of Lila’s nose. “—that I’ve decided to keep you. You will be my pet, and you’ll be treated well as long as you earn it. I am not cruel, but you are to know your place. I will train you personally so you understand exactly what is expected of you. Got that?”

Lila would have grit her teeth if she could. She blinked again, slow and pointedly in the hopes of properly conveying her anger.

But Cassara paid this no mind as she continued, “My servants will tend to you as I direct, but you’ll primarily spend your time providing me with companionship.” She waited for Lila to reluctantly blink once more before waving her hand and saying, “You may ask me your questions now.”

Lila sneered the moment she regained control of her facial muscles. “You’re fucking delusional. I’m not going to be your goddamn dog.” She was pushing it, she was certain, but she held Cassara’s gaze regardless. Even as the vampire’s eyes locked on hers for a long, silent moment, she kept her face set. She willed her heart to keep its pace even as the spot on her neck began to pulse again.

The standoff finally broke when Cassara snickered, shaking her head. “It appears you’re still struggling to fully grasp the situation you’re in.” She rose from her seat, smoothed out her skirt. “That’s fine. We’ll just have to skip ahead a few steps in the process. Come.”

Cassara’s magic seized Lila’s muscles once again, forcing her to stand and quietly follow Cassara out of the bathroom and back the way they came. Again, her memory failed to map a single step of the journey, leaving her unable to remember exactly how they’d ended up back downstairs where they began.

While Cassara went straight for the collection of knives mounted on the wall, Lila’s body marched to the sleek metal table standing tall beneath the domed light smack in the middle of the ceiling. She climbed on top of it and laid on her stomach, placing her forehead upon her folded arms. Her heartbeat picked up, oh shit oh shit oh shit circling round and round in her mind. Every hair on her body stood at the sound of Cassara’s voice suddenly just above her.

“I can tell you’re trying to mask your fear with that harsh tongue of yours.”

Lila shivered at the distinct sound of knives clattering onto the table beside her ear.

“And while it’s a valiant effort, it’s not going to work.”

A chilled hand ran down Lila’s back and slipped beneath her shirt, gently lifting it off her skin. The other selected a blade from beside her, the soft clinking of the metal loud as a jet in her ear.

 “Typically, this is step four or five—” Lila felt a tug at the back of her shirt collar before the knife was ripping the fabric in two. The halves fell at her sides, exposing her skin to the damp air of the room. “—but every pet is different. If you need me to prove my ownership first, then so be it.”

The knife was set back down. Lila’s breath hitched at the brush of fingers against her back as they unhooked her bra and pushed the wings aside to rest with her shirt. There was a small pop above her. Then the wet tip of a marker pressed into her spine, right between her shoulder blades.

“This will tie your soul to mine,” Cassara continued. She gingerly laid her hand on Lila’s back to steady herself, the other drawing a perfect circle reaching a third of the way down the girl’s spine. Without picking up the marker she started on the sigil. Her hand never faltered, the movements so familiar that she could have done it blind. “As long as it remains, you’ll be unable to run from me. You’ll be completely at my mercy.”

Snot dripped from Lila’s nose to mingle with the tears collecting beneath her. She had no idea when the tears started, but they were flowing freely now, unable to blink them away. She could only swallow when the vampire’s ice breath blew onto her back to dry the ink. Another shiver surged through her.

Cassara capped the marker and swapped it for another knife, this one smaller, more precise. “Your survival will depend solely on mine. I die…” She pressed the tip to the top of that circle, lining up the blade with the curve. “…you die.”

A burning scream caught in Lila’s throat. The initial prick of the knife quickly gave way to a sharp, searing pain as it glided effortlessly through her flesh. She screamed again and again every time it skated over spine. Her lungs ached with each stuttering breath, suffocation inching closer and closer with each push of her chest against the table.

Regardless, Cassara’s hand stuck to the outline without issue. Even as fresh blood pooled in the wound, spilling over and trickling down the human’s sides. The copper scent swirled around her, making it harder and harder to ignore the swell of her venom glands. More than anything she wanted to taste it. To feel it gather on her tongue as she dragged it across the broken skin, lap it up like an animal licking a plate clean.

But she couldn’t. Not this time. Then the skin would heal all too fast and she’d have to go through this whole process again. No, she would restrain herself, no matter how badly her jaw ached.

Lila’s poor back was a horrid, bloody mess by the time the knife finally retreated from her body. Sweat beaded on her forehead. Bile threatened to race up her esophagus. She almost puked right there at the cold fingers carding through her hair, the tenderness giving her whiplash.

“Almost done,” Cassara murmured. “You’re doing so well.” She pulled her hand from Lila’s head and walked to the sink against the other wall, grabbing the drying bucket from underneath it. The washcloth on the rim was still damp from its last use, but it was clean. She sat the bucket beneath the faucet and turned on the hot water. She shut it off once a few inches sloshed around in the bucket, letting the washcloth fall in as she lifted it out of the sink and over to the table. Rolling up her sleeve, Cassara dunked her hand into the bucket, retrieved the washcloth, and squeezed out the excess water. Her free hand went back to Lila’s hair as she began to dab at the blood.

Lila hissed at the contact, though the sting was bliss compared to the agony of the knife.

When the bleeding stopped and the blood was cleaned away, Cassara brought her thumb to her mouth, swiped it across a fang until her own blood rose to the surface. Carefully, she pulled the apart skin in the center of the sigil with her fingers, opening up the incision enough to press her bleeding thumb directly into it. Lila whined. Cassara shushed her.

Bright, blinding light began to shine beneath her thumb. She kept it in place as the light raced through the carving in Lila’s back, until the entire sigil was lit like a neon sign. It glowed for a few seconds before abruptly dying. Cassara popped her thumb back into her mouth for a moment, let the skin heal.

She grinned. It was finished.

Every muscle relaxed the moment Lila had control of her body again, her mouth falling open and heaving in a breath. Her nostrils were almost completely blocked by mucus, and breathing had been near impossible with her mouth shut. She could have cried in relief if she had any tears left.

Her vision was still watery when she lifted her head off her arms, but she could see Cassara’s gorgeous face gazing down at her all the same. The creature’s ghastly fingers were still in her hair, massaging her scalp in an cheap effort to soothe her. She didn’t have the energy to smack them away.

“I hope you understand things now,” Cassara said. “You’re mine, and anyone who sees that sigil will know it. You’ll know it as it burns, you’ll know it as it heals, and you’ll know it as the scar tissue leaves it permanently etched into your skin. You are my pet, and that is your collar.” Her fingers constricted, making Lila wince as she pulled her hair taut. “I own you.”

Pain bloomed behind Lila’s puffy eyes as a headache formed, her forehead throbbing in time with the angry wound on her back. Her throat stung when she swallowed, voice hoarse when she opened her mouth.

“Okay,” she rasped. “Okay.”

[watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees]

Temporary Fix

IM BACK

I’m making them apologise… well i tried, see for yourself. this is how long my promise to myself lasted not to use any actual 1D song titles *i have alternate titles for all 5 albums figured out, and some for the most famous songs, but i'm weak and temporary fix fits perfectly here, it’s not an actual song of 2ws though, just a chapter title, so i'm not actually going against my own ideals,, technically* 

special thanks to @ziptiesnfries for the chapter idea (and the general idea as well, as always lol)

previous masterlist

Taglist: @ziptiesnfries @fleur-a-whump @lumpofsand @risk606 @lordcatwich

TW: dehumanisation, bruises and scars mention, implied abuse, pet whump (lmk if I forgot something?)

Things have mostly settled back into rhythm. Tension rose every time he encountered the singer or the guitarist in the kitchen or the living room, but the house was big enough for Oliver to keep his distance. Even James steered clear of the other two as much as it was possible. When they reluctantly sat down to rehearse he kept to himself, his usual witty remarks and contagious laughter afterwards drained all the life out of their songs. 

Oliver found it increasingly noticeable as he listened from behind the closed door, the lyrics were meaningless, a mishmash of romantic cliches and syrupy phrases dropped into their laps straight from the soulless assembly line of the writer’s room of their management. 

The boys were undeniably talented musicians, and Oliver believed with all of his soul that if they were given the time and freedom to do so, their own music would still hit the top of every chart. 

He wondered what they would write about if they had the chance. He felt safe to assume they would not feel the need to end at least one line in every song in “girl.” The thought made him smile.

A few moments of silence followed the second to last song on their set list before a new catchy melody filled up the house from the living room, which temporarily served as a makeshift rehearsal room. There were only a couple of weeks left until the tour began.

If the song’s title was “Nobody in particular,” it would have made absolutely no difference to a single line in it. Oliver tried to imagine the mere impression of a person, they cooked up in the writer’s room. The small of your back is soft to place my hands on, the lines of your smile light up the sky, waking up in the old t-shirt I lent you, oh. He looked over at James’ unmade bed, with a stuffed animal that once resembled a bear sticking out from under his pillow. It was covered in one of the drummer’s shirts. He scoffed and rolled his eyes, as the boys got to the chorus of the song again. If it weren’t for the quickly fading scar on his right cheek and the colourful bruises up his arms, he would have felt bad for them.

Even he could come up with lines more meaningful, maybe even poetic. He loved to read, and spent his freetime cuddled up in his bed with books he could get lost in. The one he took to the first concert with was left untouched ever since on the top of the dresser. James looked at it with disgust, even asked Oli if he could throw it out, but he didn’t want to. He would finish it one day. Maybe after his scar had faded.

He leaned back on his pillow and closed his eyes. The volume of the music made it hard to follow the words on the page. He tried to imagine the song was about him, maybe that would help redeem the quality, after all that had to be the audience's contribution. It didn’t help. The power I feel, when I grab you by the leash, oh you, puppy, following my every wish. He rhymed to the chorus with his own twisted, hurtful version, but revelled in his own wit. He pushed away the memories of making up songs and tales for the kids, as he agreed with himself it was way too painful to think about. 

Not long after the music died down, there was a soft knock on the door. He looked up expecting it to open, but nothing happened, maybe he heard it wrong. James never knocks on his own door anyway. 

"Oli, can I come in?" Even muffled, he heard the rasp after hours of rehearsing in the singer's deep voice. He threw his book in the corner and untangled his limbs to slip off the bed in one fluid motion to kneel on the floor. He took a deep breath and tried to will his heart back in its place from his throat. 

"Y-yeah" he stuttered and hoped it was loud enough for Eddie to hear, because he was sure he wouldn't be able to repeat it. 

The door opened and the singer took a cautious step inside. Oliver looked him up and down warily, searching for a sign of danger in Eddie's poisonous green eyes; instead he was met with a sort-of-apologetic half-smile. He awkwardly combed his hand through his hair and cleared his throat before he started speaking.

"We're going out for the afternoon. Would you- Do you maybe want to join us?" 

"Who's coming?" Oliver asked cautiously.

"Just me and Will" the singer answered, averting his gaze. He knew it was wrong. Fuck no. If it was all of them, he would think about it. 

"Sure" he replied instead. 

"Good" Eddie nodded, his awkwardness slowly dissipating. Oliver felt like he was watching a deflated balloon animal take its shape again, as the singer straightened his back and fixed his hair again "We both owe you an apology" That they agreed on, however, he didn't continue, just nodded to himself and turned around "Come on then, puppy"

He got to his feet and followed as quickly as he could. 

Will was waiting at the front door, twirling the red leash Oli had just got, in his hand. He obediently lifted his chin so it was easy to clip on. 

The guitarist checked his phone before opening the front door.

"The car should be here any moment, we can go" 

They got out of the car in an alleyway and entered the music shop. It was well past closing time, only the owner was present besides them. It was a nice change of pace from constantly being swarmed by fans whenever they left the house.

The shop owner was a man was well in his fifties, tall, with a long beard, and as much as Oliver could follow the conversation he had been the one that sold both Will and Eddie’s first guitars. This happened way before the band was put together as a group to compete in the show that later got them where they are now.

The store was spacious, all kinds of instruments covered the walls, some Oliver didn’t even recognise. He was directed to sit on a pillow by the counter while the guys browsed. They seemed relaxed, eventually getting comfortable enough to hold hands. The pet frowned. To him it was clear how much of their tension that resulted in fights and eventually him getting hurt would be resolved if their contracts didn’t exist. The band, as an entity, never really existed,  they should have been a group of hired actors, for it to work on the long run, it was clear as day even to him. 

Oliver realised with horror just how bad he felt for all of them. It was wrong, so so wrong. Both the fact that he felt bad for the people, who were meant to rescue him and the predicament they had years long contracts forcing them to stay in.

“We should get going, thanks again” Will passed the bag of whatever they bought to Eddie and grabbed Oli’s leash. They expected the car to wait for them right outside. The chauffeur was nowhere to be seen.

“Where the fuck is he?”

“Maybe he parked somewhere else to wait” the guitarist shrugged and pulled Oliver with himself from the backdoor of the shop to the pavement to look around the length of the street.

A small red car rounded the corner, and he carefully took a step back, in case it came too close to the curb. It wasn’t their car, but it slowed down, not too far away from them and stopped. The pet felt his heart rate jump, the day had been so calm so far, no strangers around.

Oliver looked at the guys, confused, but they didn’t seem to care, or even notice it. Eddie was texting the driver, and Will looked the other direction.

Two girls got out of the car, with phones in their hands, talking in hushed tones. They looked nervous as far as the pet could tell, something one might easily mistake for excitement. He tugged on Will’s shirt to get his attention.

“Hey, guys?” One of the girls asked, not loud enough to shout, but a little louder than warranted by how close they were “Can we get a picture?” Oliver tried to mimic the smile both of them immediately put on, unsuccessfully.

“Of course, but our car is here any second now, I hope you don’t mind we don’t have much time” Eddie’s tone was gentle, with an edge the pet knew too well. The girls exchanged a look.

“Thank you” the shorter one said, her smile a little more convincing than the other’s. They took turns taking pictures, with both of the guys. 

The exchange felt horrifically unnatural, Oliver had a growing knot in his stomach with each second that passed. The driver was still nowhere to be seen.

“Can I take one with just, uhm, Oliver?” the taller girl asked, glancing over at him. The pet was pushed aside so far, standing off to the side awkwardly. Eddie huffed a laugh in disbelief.

“Puppy, you seem to have some fans yourself” he grabbed his leash and yanked him closer “Hold it, it’s more fun that way” he handed it to the girl. 

Oliver obediently looked at the camera aimed at him by the other girl, just as he had been taught. She didn’t click a picture, in fact both of them seemed frozen in time for a moment. 

When they moved again, barely a second later, the pet felt like he was seeing everything in slow motion.

He looked down at the girl’s hand, and noticed one of her bracelets in particular. It was plain white, with black text on it that said “All humans” in a bold font. She changed hold on his leash and yanked him forward.

“Run” she yelled and bolted with Oliver in tow. He stumbled forward, and only caught up with them so he didn’t fall. “We’re saving you”

This could not be happening to him. They opened the car door and tried to shove him inside. Finally his brain caught up, and he fought back. He was vaguely aware of the camera shoved in his face clicking some pictures, but his main concern was getting their hands off him. One of them managed to unbuckle his collar, the chequered one, James’ favourite and therefore his; it only fuelled his will to get away. Not having a collar on was unsafe, a collar meant he belonged, and so he fought with all his might. He was sure he’d bruise where he hit his head on the roof of the car, and his lower legs he hit multiple times. 

It didn’t last much longer than a few minutes, the two girls were pulled off him. The taller one by the driver the shorter by Will. Eddie held his phone to his ear with one shoulder, and held Oliver up by both shoulders, before he could collapse on the pavement.

“Heyhey, Oli, are you alright? Are you hurt?” He found comfort in the genuine worry from his voice.

He couldn’t hold back a sob as he nodded. He kept his arms by his side, dug his nails so deep into his palm he thought it would draw blood, anything to keep him from reaching up to his neck and face the absence of the collar. 

[astranite]

Blue Skies

@edutainer2022 @janetm74 That whump prompt? Well, I wrote more. (Not what I had planned on doing, and it is definitely past my bed time that I finished this, but hey, what happens, happens.)

This was initially in its first part here, as a fill of a whump prompt by @fern-writes-whump. But this is now a part two and I’m putting it all here together for completeness sake. 

I’ll stick this up on AO3, but not right now. (Link goes here)

Scott and Gordon. Whump. Hurt/comfort. Bereznik. Mostly about trauma (There’s a happy ending.)

Warnings: Injuries. Violence. Panic attacks. PTSD. Somewhat graphic but I wouldn’t say particularly bad? (Just tell me if I can warn things better.)

-----

Scott’s hands shook, one wrapped white knuckled around his holstered gun, the other balled into a fist by his side.

Bare desert surrounded him, scoured by relentless winds.

Cold sweat ran down the back of his neck, despite the heat. He shivered. The endless heat rippled above the ground, refracted light warping his sight.

He put one boot in front of the other, step after step. It didn’t matter how much his legs wanted to fold beneath him. Weak knees begging to give in and fall kneeling on the sand.

He kept going.

Scott missed his IR blues. This uniform fit the same, except it was dusty camouflage. His belt held ammunition clips, not rescue equipment. Or maybe it was. This had to be a rescue, Scott couldn’t face anything else.

A gust of wind stroked over his cheeks and Scott flinched. His saliva was tacky in his mouth as he swallowed. He could taste the sand.

When his radio hissed with static, Scott’s breath hitched. It resolved into Kayo’s voice, running through last positions. Approach by stealth. Scott snapped out a crisp military, “Acknowledged.” He hoped his sister would miss how hard it was to get out a single word without his voice breaking.

He marched on.

It loomed in the distance. The compound walls were stone, a single story high. It was made of the same rock as everything else here.

Scott hadn’t remembered that.

The paramilitary base was stout, sprawling, and as unassuming as any other settlement around here.

In Scott’s head it had loomed dark against the sands, rock the same colour as congealed bl--- as rust.

He still swore it was large enough to block out the sun.

All familiar, too familiar. He smelt blood and bitter fear. Scott stumbled to a halt. Something ran down his face, leaving a warm trail. He swiped his hand across his cheek.

His fingers came away damp and salty, but not red, they weren’t red. It was only sweat. The day was hot, he was sweaty, that was all.

The blood and fear were tricks of his mind.

(It didn’t matter for months that was all he could smell.)

Gritty rock, solid beneath his feet was real. The rest wasn’t, not now, not anymore.

The others had argued against Scott coming. Virgil had lain a hand on his shoulder and looked at him with soft, soft eyes. His brother would forgive him if Scott sat this one out. But Scott could never forgive himself. He knew the terrain best. He’d been there. Every crack of that place was carved into his bones. He was the tactical advantage.

Scott tore his eyes away for as long as he could. He stared up at the searing blue sky, desperately hoping for the light and the colour to sink into his skin. The sky’s promise of freedom if only he could reach it.

He took a step, then another. He just kept taking them.

(Kept taking the hits, even when there was no way he could stand it any longer.)

Every instinct told him to get the hell out of here. Turn back, flee, like the spooked animal he was. Scott ducked his head and ignored them like he had all the other warning signs in his life.

Bereznik. The place he’d swore to never set foot in again.

(On dark days, he still saw it in his dreams. Those were the ones his feet pounded the island tracks, before the sun even rose. When he ran until his muscles trembled with exhaustion and nothing else.)

(He dreamt of the island while he was there. Of blue skies, blue skies, his blue skies. He woke crying and desperately wiped the tears away because he couldn’t given them any more reasons.)

(Afterwards, he’d been wrenched awake more times than he could count to his brothers bursting into his room. They’d say they heard him screaming in his sleep.)

Bereznik. The place he’d spent years of his life trying to out run, out climb, out fly.

Because he couldn’t go back.

He had to. For his little brother.

He kept walking because Gordon was in there. His sunshine little brother who loved life itself with all the joy of the sea meeting the shore.

He couldn’t let them turn him into Scott.

He couldn’t.

He kept walking.

-----

Gordon took Scott’s spare side arm as he handed it to him, checked it over expertly, and followed Scott out of hell.

(The way Gordon never hesitated when he had to shoot would haunt Scott forever.)

They escaped that place. Running over shifting sands towards a stealth-hidden One. The kilometres left to go beneath their feet. Gordon’s stony, set face. Scott’s own heartbeat throbbing in his ears.

He kept going.

Gave into every instinct to flee he’d pushed down before, now he had his brother back.

His and Gordon’s breaths came in pants, out of time with each other and their dull footsteps on the sands.

The sun beat down on them, shadows stark, rippling, wavering, urging them on.

Scott stumbled on a rock, lurching, the desert coming up fast towards him, until Gordon caught his arm. Gordon who he was meant to be rescuing.

No time to fall, no time to stop. He didn't think he could even if he wanted to. He’d be crawling through the sands, dragging his body over the rocks, bleeding out before he stopped.

Dizzying adrenaline surged through his veins. Scott couldn’t tell the difference between fear and freedom any longer. They were the same, his heart pumping for further, faster, higher.

The sky closed in on them, holding them close, pulling them away from the sand.

They were alone in the desert. Pursued by enemies. Alone.

(The same alone of falling from the sky in a perfectly controlled dive, his hands the only ones on his ‘bird.)

(Or the same alone as trapped in a cell, where the thick walls blocked every sound.)

(They were both running from that place now.)

Clouds of dust were kicked up by their boots, eddying and swirling. The wind tossed what it wanted across the desert without a care in the world, picking up the sand and scarce plant life alike. Erasing foot prints like they were never there.

(Like it was all a bad dream. Too many times when he was there, Scott’s mind had taken him home. To his brothers around him, and the old farmhouse. To mum’s musical laugh accompanying the piano. Dad’s hands on Scott’s as he showed him how to fly, before he could even reach the foot pedals. He’d curl up in the big bed with his family around him, because it was just a nightmare.)

(Waking up was worse than anything his capturers could do to him.)

He and Gordon kept running. They hung onto each other, gripping far too tight, running together.

Running, running, running.

They climbed into One, pulling each other up. Scott’s hands fell to the controls, as blindly and as easily as breathing.

Gordon buckled himself into the passenger’s seat. The sound of his brother shouting, “Go, go, go, go go!” washed over Scott’s ears.

Something inside him was still screaming.

The Thunderbird’s engines thrummed at fever pitch, burning up in seconds.

Grounded landing shifted to VTOL, shifted to flight.

And Scott out flew them all.

His one grace, the one thing he couldn’t ever fail at. The only reason he was still alive, in too many ways.

Blue, his blue, swallowed them up.

Enemy planes were blips on his radar, dark specks beyond his windscreen. Then they were flashes of red and debris tumbling towards the ground. In his element, they never stood a chance.

That place, Bereznik was a tiny rectangle blot against a sea of beige from the air, not even able to touch the sky.

(Not able to touch him up here. Not able to take his brothers.)

It merged with the desert sands, blurring into the dust left behind them.

All was searing sunlight. The bright burned everything else away.

(Gordon had show him the sun, afterwards. Dragged Scott out of his room and out of his head, down to the beach. They lay on the sand, fine yellow sand, as the sun shone on them, soaking into their bones. Scott was drowning in blue, blue, blue in the way he loved, the way he’d lost and forgotten.)

The world opened up for him and all he had to do was fly.

As soon as he reached friendly skies, Scott switched to the autopilot. He got up from his seat and walked the length of Thunderbird One, to where Gordon was crouched by a locker, digging for a first aid kit.

Then, for Scott, the sky came crashing closed.

His legs gave way and his knees hit the metal flooring with a crack. He never felt it. Scott’s eyes were on Gordon, staring at the bruises on his face, the blood crusted on his upper lip.

They’d taken his brother. And they’d hurt him.

Scott made to say anything, anything at all, but he only managed a tiny croak.

He was frozen, kneeling on the floor, chest heaving.

(He fell to the floor, too weak to get up.)

He wasn't a fighter, everyone got that wrong about him. Commander of the IR was an act. He wasn't strong like his father, no matter how much he wanted to be. Scott was just pathetic and terrified.

(How quickly he’d learnt to keep his head down and his mouth shut, meekly following orders.)

Virgil knew, because of course he knew, Scott could never keep anything from him. John figured it out, so Scott didn't have to tell him.

(Screaming until his throat was raw. He’d promised himself he wouldn't make a sound and give them the satisfaction, but it just hurt too much.)

The little ones could never know. Not Alan and Gordon. He couldn't let that place touch them.

(Sobbing on the ground, just lying there because he was so, so tired.)

But Gordon was in front of him, black eye on the way to swelling closed.

(His arm cradled to his middle, and he was pretty sure it was broken with how it throbbed, but there wasn't anything he could do about it except hope the pain went way.)

Gordon’s lips were moving, he was saying something, Scott couldn't make out what he was saying.

(Blurry figures dragged him to his feet and he couldn’t stop them.)

Gently, gently, Gordon wrapped his arms around Scott.

Solid and warm and real and right here.

Scott choked out a gasping sob. Then another. Until he was just crying his eyes out between desperate gulps for air.

The edges of his sight went black and Scott swayed, clutching at Gordon’s torn uniform. There was no yellow baldric, somehow it was missing. Gordon held him tighter, still ever so gentle, until Scott was leaning on him for support.

Scott shut his eyes, and hid his face at Gordon’s shoulder.

He’d see who Scott really was and then it would be far too late for anything at all.

All Scott could do was pretend it wouldn't happen.

(Blankly watching trails of red make their way over his skin. He knew it was blood. It was his blood and he just didn't care anymore.)

(He could never escape the smell of blood and bitter fear that clung to him.)

He couldn’t pull away, not from Gordon, not from his little brother.

(Helpless, helpless, helpless, helpless, helpless.)

(Wrapping his arms around himself, desperately wishing they were his brothers. Knowing they weren’t and glad of it. This place could have him, he didn’t care anymore as long as the others were alright.)

But slowly, ever so slowly, the world filtered back in. Gordon was still there. He held Scott, rubbing a hand up and down his back. His breaths were deep and steady, clashing with Scott’s ragged ones. He’d been hyperventilating? Worn IR blue filled Scott’s vision when he tentatively opened his eyes, his eyelids gummed up with tears. Scott’s head swum, woozy from panic and lack of oxygen.

“We’re okay. I’m okay. I’ve got you Scotty, you’re okay.” Gordon’s babbling words came through, familiar, familiar in the way that meant he was safe.

Scott managed a small noise, a whimper when he thought Gordon was pulling away.

Gordon’s arms tightened, and Scott could breathe again.

“Shhh, shhh. I just wanna check on you. I’m not going to go anywhere.”

Reluctantly Scott let Gordon move until they could look each other in the face, still nearly nose to nose. He managed to avoid Gordon’s eyes.

Gordon’s glanced away, tugging at Scott’s hand a couple of times. Scott allowed him to, he trusted Gordon.

A small blue hologram appeared from his wrist comm, as Gordon activated it.

“Why the hell did you cut comms?!” John’s voice sliced the air, sharp and worried.

“He’s okay, Johnny,” Gordon answered, “We’re both a bit worse for wear, but everything is fine.”

John didn’t rise to the nickname. Instead he let out a relieved noise, tipping his head back and closing his eyes. The same sound he always made when he was scared for his brothers and finally got news they were alright.

Something passed between John and Gordon. Scott let it fly over his head, too tired to parse out the meaning.

“I can handle this. Just be there when we get home,” Gordon said, then signed off the call.

When Gordon let go of his hand, Scott let it fall limply into his lap.

He stared at their knees, his own in beige camouflage, Gordon’s in his wetsuit, both coated in desert dust.

“I’m sorry,” Scott blurted out. He took a shaky breath.

Gordon’s voice was steady, but tears glinted in the corners of his eyes. “You came for me. That’s all that matters.”

“You were there.” His voice cracked in the middle.

“I’m okay though. It’s just a few bruises, and you got me out.”

Scott reached for the first aid kit sitting on the floor beside them. There wasn’t anything he could do about the rest right now, but this was something he could do.

Gordon let him wipe away the blood from his face, along with the worst of the dirt. He turned his head with Scott’s gentle fingers on his chin. Neither of them commented on how Scott’s hands trembled ever so slightly.

(Cleaning up Gordon’s scrapes was the same, no matter how many years it had been since Scott had lifted Gordon up onto the kitchen bench because he was too short to hop up by himself, and applied fish bandaids to grazed knees.)

At home they could put an ice pack on the bruises. The dark circles beneath Gordon’s eyes could only be solved by sleep, safe with everyone on the island. It would probably help the worried crinkle between his brows too.

Gordon sagged in exaustion, now leaning on Scott. They rested on each other, half against the storage lockers.

Scott helped Gordon out of the top half of his wetsuit, wanting to check up on the cut beneath the tear in his uniform. Gordon wriggled his shoulders and body free, but kept his arms inside the sleeves. He winced when Scott dabbed antiseptic at the thin cut that stretched from collar bone to part way down his chest.

He gave Scott a big, shiny grin that didn’t reach his eyes. Blood started to ooze from the tiny split in his lower lip, caused by Gordon’s chapped lips and trying to smile for Scott.

Gently, Scott wiped it away.

He clenched slightly bloodied gauze in his fist, putting himself together enough to ask, “What happened, Gordon?”

Because no one came out of there okay. Gordon was avoiding the hurt, at the same time as he was trying to protect Scott from it. And what Scott needed most right now was to be able to be a big brother and help Gordon.

“Scotty, I’m okay. They mostly didn't hurt me. It was three days, they had you for months.” Gordon attempted to reassure him or maybe himself, by just telling himself he was fine.

Months. Scott could rattle off the exact timings from his after action report.

He didn’t remember much.

Mostly the snippets that he could put together were from the early days.

(Name, rank, serial number. Name, rank, serial number. Name, rank, serial number.)

(Setting his own dislocated shoulder by crashing into the walls, grunting and gasping. Because he knew he couldn't leave it like that, but it hurt worse than what they’d done and there were tears streaming down his face. Over and over, vision whiting out, until it grated back into position.)

(Gnawing hunger in his stomach, head pounding from dehydration. He wasn't sure when they last gave him a meal. Or when, or whether they would again.)

Later, everything blurred together.

(Darkness closing in.)

(He’d do anything just to see a glimpse of sky.)

(For his family to hold him close one last time.)

(Just to make the pain stop.)

What had they done to Gordon?

Three days was enough.

(They’d learnt how to tear Scott apart in minutes.)

Scott reached out to touch Gordon’s arm but he flinched away.

“I’m here Gordon. No matter how bad it is,” He said, to the second youngest of his little brothers. And he would be here, no matter how long it took for both of them.

Hesitantly, Gordon peeled away the rest of his wetsuit, hissing in pain, revealing his wrists. In amongst Gordon’s old hydrofoil scars, now only raised pink lines, his wrists were covered in red marks, his skin raw and torn. Some cut deep enough to be oozing blood.

Injuries Scott knew only came from desperately thrashing against restraints.

“Gordy.”

Gordon whispered, “They said they had you. That they’d hurt you again, like before.” His little brother sounded far too young.

Scott gathered him up in his arms. Hot tears ran down his face, he was crying again. They both were. Gordon was shakily sobbing against his chest.

They clung to each other.

Bereznik had taken something from both of them. Something had broken, cracked right down the centre. Scott still didn’t know whether it could ever be completely fixed.

But they had each other. They had their brothers, their family.

Neither of them were okay right now, but one day they would be at least a bit better. In the same way the clouds parted after the monsoon rains on the island, their blue skies would come again. They’d still have scars but the sunlight would reach Gordon’s ocean and Scott would fly.

Scott held onto Gordon, and Gordon held onto Scott for the rest of the way home.

Until Thunderbird One was in her hanger and they were both standing on the steady floor. Until the rest of their brothers, Virgil, Alan, John, all came up to hold onto them too.

[geode-crystal]

Magic Whump Week, Cursed

Magic Whump Week Day 2: Cursed/"You'll have to wait this out."

A sequel to "Control." Darius took a hit for Mianu, and he's not having a good time. It does not help that he knows Mianu has gone through all this before... too many times.

1500 words. Angst with a fluffy ending

CW: magic whump, allll kinds of emotional drama, lots of guilt, vague mentions of past trauma, various magical injuries

_____________________

Darius had been hit by curses before. It was part of the job, mostly.

But not like this.

Never like this.

The pain burned. It was blinding. All-consuming. And it had been so simple. He should have seen the ambush coming. He should have known his enemy was hiding something. He knew about magic, he’d faced it before, he should have figured it out.

He should have been stronger.

Darius had done everything he could. He’d tried to protect Mianu. Just like he had promised he would always do. But he’d just been a liability.

One spell. That was all it had taken. One single spell.

And now every nerve from his fingers to his shoulder felt like it was on fire. He couldn’t concentrate. Every breath was ragged as he fought to bury his own screams. They wouldn’t help him. They would only bother Mianu. Mianu, who had somehow managed to get them out of that ambush. Darius had no idea how.

He didn’t know much of anything at the moment.

He knew they were moving. At some point—gods knew when—Mianu had grabbed him and tried to haul him up. Darius was vaguely aware that his good arm was around Mianu’s shoulder. He stumbled along as best as he could as Mianu ran… somewhere. Away from their attackers, probably. Hopefully.

And he knew Mianu was talking to him. The prince’s voice was the only thing that truly managed to break through the haze of pain.

“I’m sorry,” Mianu whispered, over and over again. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, just keep moving…. We’ll be safe soon, I promise, just hold on… gods, I’m sorry…”

Darius wanted to tell him there was nothing to apologize for.

He couldn’t find his voice. Not until later. Maybe much later. When he was finally able to rest.

Mianu informed him breathlessly that they were back at the inn that had been their refuge for the past two days. How he managed to unlock the door while both hauling Darius around and avoiding the ever-curious innkeeper, Darius would never know. It didn’t matter too much at the moment.

Not when the curse still hurt like hell.

He must have voiced that out loud at some point. He could practically hear Mianu wince.

“I know,” said Mianu, voice tight. “You didn’t deserve that. It’s… it’s awful, and you should never have been—"

“Not your fault,” Darius gasped out.

“I didn’t sense the attack in time,” said Mianu. “I couldn’t defend myself.”

“My job.” It was infuriatingly hard to talk, with the curse still tearing through him, but Darius talked anyway. “My choice. Don’t… never apologize. Not for that.”

Mianu fell quiet again.

Somehow, that made the pain feel even worse.

Darius tried to get his breathing under control. He wasn’t sure if it worked. Especially when he felt something shift. Mianu must have been sitting right next to him before, because he was certainly standing now, and farther away from him.

“You must be freezing,” he said. “I’m… it’s my fault. I’ll get more blankets. That’s… all I can do.”

“Not your fault,” Darius said again.

And once again, Mianu gave no reply. All he did was bury Darius in blankets. It did help. If only a little. But there was still a chill in the air. The signature cold that came with dark magic.

Or with shadow magic.  

Darius finally opened his eyes. And he saw the state Mianu was in for the first time. Saw the way Mianu’s bad arm—the one that was always more affected by his own shadows—was still hurting him. The last remains of whatever spell he had cast curled off of his arm, trailing like smoke.

Darius’ eyes locked on the sight. “So that’s how you got us out.”

Mianu grimaced. He gripped at his arm with his opposite hand. “It is. My magic, it… I couldn’t help myself. I couldn’t stop it. I didn’t want to.”  

Darius tried to nod. That simple act made him wince. But he soldiered on anyway.

He understood exactly what Mianu meant. Mianu must have lost control of his magic. He must have unleashed his full power, something he had promised that he would never allow himself to do. It was too great a risk. To his enemies, yes, but to himself as well.

“I’m trying to be better,” Mianu murmured. “I’m trying, Darius, I swear to all the gods—”

“I know,” said Darius. He made his strained voice as gentle as he could. “You did what you had to do. You saved me.”

Mianu shook his head. “You saved my life, Darius. I couldn’t… I can’t let you die. Not for me.”

“Mianu, I—”

Whatever Darius had been about to say—he wasn’t completely sure himself—was cut short by a grunt of pain. The curse was flaring up again.

How did one spell do so much damage?

And if that was just the enemy’s curse, than he couldn’t even imagine what power and pain Mianu must have been dealing with in that moment.  

Mianu made an odd noise, almost like a sigh. Or a sob. “I know. I know, it’s awful, you don’t deserve to—”

“How do you… stop it?” Darius gasped out.

The question fell from him before he could stop it. He hated himself for sounding weak. But he knew he needed help. And maybe he could distract Mianu from his own worries.  

Mianu grimaced. “You don’t. I’m sorry. All we can do is wait it out.”

Darius took a few deep, measured breaths. “H-how long?”

“I don’t know.” Mianu sighed in frustration. “I should know, I should be able to help, and if I could take this curse away from you, if I could carry that magic myself, I—”

“No,” Darius said immediately. “You’ve borne enough. M-my job… make sure you’re not hurt…”

“And how do you think I feel, sitting here watching you suffer?” Mianu snapped. “I can’t fix this, Darius. My magic doesn’t fix things. It just makes it worse.”

The room got a little colder. Mianu made that weird almost-sob sound again. Darius looked up at him. He forced himself to sit somewhat more upright. Mianu immediately met his gaze, eyes wide in concern.

“Wait, Darius, you shouldn’t—”

“Then what makes it better?” Darius cut through Mianu’s worried rambling. “How do you get through times like this?”

Mianu stopped short. For a moment, the question hung heavily in the air. Darius tried to focus on his own breathing, giving Mianu the space he needed.

There was a deep understanding underneath that question. Understanding that came from the knowledge that only Darius had. Mianu had suffered much in his life. And Darius was the only person he had trusted with the full story.

Part of that story heavily involved Mianu’s magic. He’d always had powers, for as long as Darius had known him. And he’d always struggled with holding that power back. When Mianu had gotten mixed up with the wrong crowd, coerced by someone who wanted to use that power for their own selfish reasons… things had just gotten worse. He’d been hurt, almost beyond compare.

If anyone knew what it took to survive a curse like this, it was Mianu.

Darius just hoped he had said the right thing. That he had given Mianu a way out of his worries, instead of putting him on a path that would send him spiraling further down into the darkness.

Mianu let out a soft sigh. “I… to be honest? It helps to think of something better. Something that makes you happy. And for me, it… it helps when I think of you.”

Heat crept into Darius’ cheeks. “Does it?”

Mianu nodded. He glanced away. He couldn’t meet Darius’ eyes anymore.

Darius shifted. He pushed himself up a bit more, ignoring the pain lancing all the way to his chest. His breath hitched. But he still carefully settled himself against Mianu’s good shoulder.

Mianu froze again. “What are you…?”

“Should make it easier to think about the good stuff like this,” said Darius.

He managed a tiny smile. Mianu slowly relaxed. Some of the chill left the air. And finally, Mianu smiled in return.

“Much easier,” he agreed. “Though you still shouldn’t be sitting up. It’s hardly worth it.”

Darius tried to hum thoughtfully. It sounded more like an annoyed grumble. But Mianu probably got the sentiment.

“There must be some kind of solution to that problem,” said Darius, almost teasing.

“You could just ask me if you want to cuddle,” said Mianu.

Darius said nothing.

Mianu cuddled him anyway.

Mianu was right. It was much easier to ride out a curse like that. 

_____________________

(tagging @whumperofworlds and @tildeathiwillwrite because the boys are back baybeeee)

[ao3feed-witcher-dddne]

by Anonymous

Jaskier lay there for a long time, hating himself. Usually he was the one who snuck out at first light. Or was chased out. This… this felt shit. Geralt had never been one for grand goodbyes. But usually there was a goodbye, a stern nod at least. The sun rose as he sulked under the covers. He knew it couldn’t have lasted, of course it wouldn’t. It had been a mistake from the start. Whatever semblance of a home, whatever proximity to companionship he’d had… he had, quite literally, fucked it. - Lambert regretted everything about that night. Every single moment he’d had Aiden beside him but been too afraid to close that gap. He’d crossed the point of no return a long, long time before. Maybe back on that day at the market eight years ago. As he held Aiden’s medallion, clutched against his heart where he’d once held his hand, Lambert knew he’d already had everything he had ever needed and that he’d already lost it forever. - After being cast aside right at the moment it seemed he might finally get everything he'd wanted, Jaskier is taken by the sadistic survivor of one of their most grueling contracts. Subjected to utter brutality, he comes to know the tortured witcher held captive alongside him.

Words: 14434, Chapters: 3/15, Language: English

Fandoms: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con

Categories: M/M

Characters: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion, Aiden (The Witcher), Lambert (The Witcher), Eskel (The Witcher)

Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Aiden/Lambert (The Witcher), Aiden & Jaskier | Dandelion

Additional Tags: eskel is also there, the plot is a vehicle for smut and whump, usually in quick succession, prepare for whiplash, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt Aiden (The Witcher), Lambert Needs a Hug (The Witcher), Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, friends to fucking to friends to lovers, Slow Burn, they fuck in ch 2 but it is slow burn i promise, Gratuitous Smut, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Canon Divergence, Torture, as in literal gross torture, Rape/Non-con Elements, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, not until like chapter 5+ but for real, Making up the plot as I go along, no beta we die, inconsistent capitalisation dont at me, additional TWs by chapter, More will be added, Wiedźmin | The Witcher-Typical Violence, Wiedźmin | The Witcher-Typical Bathing, dialogue from the show at times, literally 33 per cent porn

Read on AO3

[itswhumpday]

Blood Bags - Chapter 1

[Prologue]

Caretaker gets everything ready for the new arrival. 

They thought it’d be harder to clean up their last assignment’s room, but they quickly fell into muscle memory. They had already done that so many times before. None of the human blood bags had any belongings other than the freezer full of plastic blood bags they were drained of. 

The cell resembles a hospital room - and it’s frequently used as such. 

There is a hospital bed surrounded by medical equipment. There are white cabinets with medical supplies. A freezer with the blood bags, now filled with the type he’s been informed it’s the new arrival’s.

It’s hard to believe their last assignment is gone. They’d been here almost three years, much more than any of the others could take. Strong heart, strong mind. Caretaker was sure at some point that Whumper was going to Change them.  They were a good friend. 

Caretaker can’t begin to imagine how scared they must’ve been to forget all the rules and try to escape. 

Perhaps now I’ll learn. Caretaker thinks with a sigh. Perhaps now I’ll learn not to make friends with the blood bags. 

They hear the doors to the Pantry open and steps travel down the hallway filled with cells just like this one. 

“Ah. Great. You’re all done. Just in time. May I introduce the newest member of our staff?” 

Whumper says when they push the metal door to the cell. They gesture to the person behind them. As Caretaker turns around, the newcomer follows Whumper into the light. 

Under a wave of dark hair, Caretaker sees green eyes. They’re pale, fragile, numble, like they already been fed on. They look like they might not make the night. Caretaker feels a wave of anger. Why would they pick one that has no chance?

But they look Caretaker in the eyes with no fear, taking in their quarters. 

“Hello”, the human says. 

“Hi,” Caretaker replies. “Welcome.” 

“Thank you.” 

Caretaker can’t help but notice how strange this conversation is. 

“Caretaker here is the one responsible for my blood bags. He’ll be the one tending to your needs.” Whumper explains in their favorite voice: a condescending professoral tone Caretaker can’t take. 

Then something bizarre happens. Whumpee smiles. 

“My own butler?” They chuckle. Caretaker is struck. No other blood  bag has chuckled before, especially not in the first day. “I can get used to that.”

They walk inside and sit on the bed. Caretaker goes to the door, expecting they’ll make a run for it. But the new blood bag doesn’t. 

“They’ll come help you get ready for dinner later today.” Whumper says, before giving a small bow and leaving.

“Can’t wait.”

The human says, looking right in Caretaker’s eyes and smiling. Caretaker gives them a shaky wave before leaving too.

As Caretaker closes the door, they can still feel that smile burning through their defenses. They knew, even then, that this one might be the one to destroy them completely. 

-----------

“Do you have a name?” 

Caretaker asks as they arrive later to get the human ready for their first dinner. 

“Whumpee.” They answer, swinging their legs that hang over the side of the hospital bed. “What’s yours?” 

“Caretaker.” 

“Cute.” And there’s that smile again.  It has to be a game. 

“You’re not a wild human, are you?” Caretaker asks, raising one of their brows. 

“Nope!” Whumpee pops the P in the word. “I was bred in another vampire house.” 

Caretaker nods. That makes sense. They already know what’s going to happen. That’s a change from the humans they capture. This one doesn’t have a life to run back to. Caretaker doesn’t know if they should feel relieved or sad. 

“So you’ve been fed on?” Caretaker takes out the blood pressure meter.  

“I’m practically an expert at it.”

Caretaker looks at their neck. Healed holes, but some scars remained. They definitely haven’t been fed on the way they were about to. 

“I take it your last owners were kind.” 

“I wouldn’t say that. They drank my blood for living and bred humans like animals.” Whumpee seems comfortable saying those things in front of him. Caretaker tries not to sigh. They would have thought the breeders would teach them how to control their tongues. If they’re not careful, they won’t last at all. “Why would you think that?” 

Caretaker looks over their shoulder to make sure no one else is in the Pantry. They don’t hear anything. They finish taking Whumpee’s blood pressure and put the meter aside. 

“Whumper has… Their own way of doing things. As do each vampire lord.” Whumpee nods slowly, leaning in to hear. “You’ll be trained to fit their standards.” 

“Standards? Don’t they like a certain type of blood like anyone else?” Whumpee’s eyebrow shoot up. 

“Younger vampires do, in fact, favor blood types. After hundreds of years, however, it starts to get old. Each vampire lord develops… Special tastes. Some enjoy the moments before death. An expensive taste. Others enjoy sexual drinking, which treats the blood bag better physically, but not emotionally.” 

Caretaker finally sees a flash of what they’re used to in Whumpee’s eyes. Fear. 

“And what does my vampire enjoy?” 

“Adrenaline.” Caretaker says, a word they’ve learned to hate. 

“So, like… They enjoy roller coasters?” 

Caretaker is about to tell them. They need to know or they’ll be doomed. But their watch beeps letting them know the Whumper is on their way to their dinner room. 

“We have to get you dressed.” They give Whumpee the change of clothes they brought. Soft, velvety and dark. Not the easiest to clean, but at least the stains won’t show later. Whumpee receives the clothing with a serious expression. That’s good. They have to learn. 

“Any advice?” 

Their innocent green eyes send a wave of protectiveness over Caretaker. They’ve felt it before, but never this early, never this strongly. They touch Whumpee’s chin softly.

“Be afraid. Be very afraid.”

[kim-poce]

No Dignity 2 - Boring

Previous | Next

Masterlist

CW: implied past torture, beating, canning, past starvation, pet whump, fear of punishment, reluctant whumper (?), future reluctant caretaker (?), forced stripped (non-sexual)

======

Whumper wanted to test Whumpee’s behavior, and they did, kicking, punching, using the cane even. But this was… boring, Whumper never used such a word to describe torture but there was no more fitting word.

Whumpee forced themself up to a kneeling position until they were in too much pain to do so, and even after this, they didn’t stop trying and never allowed themself to scream freely. It was an annoying sight.

Whumper stopped, and Whumpee weakly thanked them for the punishment, which was annoying, or at least that was the word Whumper wanted to use, it’s not like they were pitying Whumpee, right?

Whumper decided to cook something, it was a good way to clean their head. they thought about their new pet, it was a recluse person, only ever got out of their house to bring in the groceries someone delivered, never talking to anyone. An easy target.

Whumper end up burning the food and decided to call it a day. Tomorrow would be better.

-----

The next day Whumper tried to have fun with Whumpee again, but it was boring. Whumpee took all well, too well. Whumper thought it might be fun to see their limits, to see how broken Whumpee was, but Whumpee was too broken. They obeyed every order, they forced themselves to be quiet and were terrified, terrified of someone else.

"Hey," Whumper called and the beaten-up scared figure crawled closer in despair. It wasn't one of Whumper's rules and they didn't like it. "I brought you food."

Whumpee knelt by their feet, keeping their head down as Whumper put the food in front of them. They didn’t eat, are they fucking waiting for an order? It also wasn’t one of Whumper’s rules, the last thing they want is to have to bother is ordering every single thing.

Whumper sighed causing Whumpee to flinch away, annoying. “Eat.” Whumpee did, desperately, only then did Whumper notice how slim they were. Maybe I should take a look…

Whumper waited for them to eat it all, not even trying to use their hands, when they were done Whumper ordered, “Take your clothes off.”

They were sure Whumpee would obey in a heartbeat again, but instead of the expected Whumpee whimpered and lowered their head, shaking more than ever. “Didn’t you hear me? Clothes off.”

Whumpee shook their head desperately, whimpering pitifully, scared. Usually, Whumper would love to see so much fear on the face of their pet, but Whumpee wasn’t afraid of them, they were afraid of someone that wasn’t even there.

Whumper sighed, approaching Whumpee and starting to take rip the clothes off, Whumpee struggled weakly, mumbling pleas, apologizing, and promises to do better. Whumper ignored them until the shirt was off.

Whumper could see the scars, old and new, the cuts, burns, and the whip marks. They could see their ribs under the skin, this was just the start. It was more than Whumper intended to ever do, it was more than necessary to break someone, to turn someone into a helpless pet.

Fuck, Whumper thought with themself. Maybe I am pitying them.

======

@temporary-username, @cupcakes-and-pain

[inevitably-johnlocked]

Quick question sorry if this has been asked before: do you know any Johnlock fanfic where they’re extremely sensual? Like not just making love but just super methodically drawn out and slow and sweet?

Hi Nonny!!

Ahh, because of this ask, I went through my bookmarks to see if I have any listed with “sensuality” so that’s what this list is!! It definitely doesn’t have all of my fics because I have to go back through them and tag them, but in the meantime, enjoy what I started tagging a few months ago when you sent me this ask, LOL <3

As always, add your own fics here, Lovelies!!

SENSUALITY

See also:

Emotional Love Making || [MOBILE POST]

Emotional Love Making Pt. 2

Loved. by inevitably_johnlocked (G, 1,231 w., 1 Ch. || First Sherlock POV, Slice of Life, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Nose Kisses, Morning After, Love Confessions, Morning Cuddles, Emotional Sherlock, Sentiment, Bed Sharing) – Sherlock reflects on his relationship with John. Part 5 of I-J's Tumblr Ficlet Collection

Morning Sunlight by slashscribe (E, 3,565 w., 1 Ch. || PWP, Morning Sex, Fluff, PWP, Established Rel., Soft Idiots) – A thin band of soft morning light peeks between the curtains and stretches across John’s torso, laying dormant across his forearm, dipping into the space between his arm and his chest, illuminating his right nipple but just brushing the edge of his left, disappearing into his armpit, and reappearing again right over Sherlock’s eyes where his head rests, nestled against John’s shoulder. Sherlock is not annoyed by the light’s intrusion on his sleep, not when it rests so soft and tantalizing on John’s skin, a work of unintentionally erotic art. A PWP with so much emotion.

Living Musical by VeeTheRee (G, 4,149 w. 1 Ch. || Est. Rel., Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Domestic Fluff, Hobbies, Summer, Song Fic, POV Sherlock, Painting, Play Fighting, Soft Sherlock, Dancing, Love Declarations, Hair Petting, Promise of Forever) – A one-shot of John and Sherlock being domestic during summer. There is paint, fluff, and music from Imagine Dragons, namely from the album 'Speak To Me', specific song in this one-shot is 'Living Musical'. Part 1 of the Happy Fluffy Johnlock Time series

London Gods by a_different_equation (E, 11,092 w., 5 Ch. || American Gods Fusion || Magical Realism, Sex Magic, True Love, PTSD John, First Kiss/Time, Marathon Sex, Sensuality, Genie Sherlock, Human John, Internalized Homophobia, Star-Crossed Lovers, Soul Mates) – Sherlock Holmes is a jinn who does not grant wishes. However, when Dr. John H. Watson, recently returned from the war in Afghanistan, gets into his cab by "accident", it might not even need magic to grant both men their deepest wish: love.

To be loved by Strange_johnlock (E, 12,436 w., 8 Ch. || Post S3, Established Relationship, First Person POV Sherlock, Pet Names, Soft Sherlock, Mild ADHD, Protective John, Captain Watson, Body Appreciation, Bottomlock, Rough Sex, Travelling for Holidays, Introspection, Sherlock Loves John So Much It Hurts) – John is so deeply integrated into the work, both as my conductor of light, and as a great shot with a vicious right hook who tackles men -and women- no matter their size all in my defense. He protects me with all he can without question, and this loyalty is surely more than I deserve. Or: Sherlock is counting his blessings.

The Invocation of Saint Margaret by Ewebie (E, 15,831 w., 1 Ch. || POV John,  Crossing Timelines, Light Angst, Fluff, Series 3 John / Series 1 Sherlock, The Matchbox, Mushy Romance, First Time, Bisexual John, Pining John, Bottomlock, Love Confessions, Sensuality, Emotional Love Making, Snippets of Time) – When Sherlock Holmes opens the matchbox from The Sign of Three and John finds himself years in the past, back to that first dinner at Angelo's with a much younger Sherlock Holmes. Is he dreaming?

Permanent Fixture by vitruvianwatson (E, 18,836 w., 9 Ch. || Post-S4, Parentlock, Slow Build, Friends to Lovers, They’re Good Parents, Blushing Sherlock, First Kiss/Time, Explicit Consent, Sexual Content, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Pining, Big Feelings, Crying, First Kiss, Fluff, Anxious Sherlock, Inexperienced Sherlock, Emotional Communication, Love Confessions) – Now, as Rosie sat curled up against Sherlock’s side, John watched and wondered exactly how he had ended up here. Domesticity had never suited him before, not at any point in his life. His disastrous marriage had been proof of that. But somehow, here in the warmth and safety of 221B Baker Street, here with Sherlock Holmes reading medical jargon to his daughter, Sherlock’s bony feet nudging against his leg, John couldn’t imagine anyplace that would make him happier.

Division by MrsNoggin (E, 19,542 w., 11 Ch. || Coffee Shop AU || First Kiss/Time, Fluff, Barista Sherlock, Clingy Sherlock, POV John, John’s Limp, Bed Sharing, Fluff, Sleepy Cuddles, Sensuality, Touching, Virgin Sherlock, Insecure John) – John likes mysteries. And every morning he dips into the local independent coffee bar with his newspaper and ponders another... one Sherlock Holmes.

Through the Clouds by Mazarin221b (E, 20,004 w., 6 Ch. || Retirement, Sussex, Bees, Home Improvement, First Time, Romance) – Sherlock takes a remarkably early retirement at 47, and convinces John that a change of pace would do them both good. They buy an old cottage on the South Downs, and exchange their nonstop life in Baker Street for quiet contemplation, bee studies, and book writing. They might go completely insane, but sometimes it takes stepping outside of the life you're living to find the life you want. Part 1 of Through The Clouds

How To Unfold a Heart by elwinglyre (E, 25,477 w., 7 Ch. || Post S4 Fix It, BAMF John, Mentioned Eurus, POV First Person Sherlock, Case Fic, Fluff, Slow Burn, Topping from the Bottom, 3 Yr Old Rosie, Introspection, Sexual Fantasies, John Worship, Ogling, Hand Holding, Kidnapping, Domesticity, Sherlock Whump, First Kiss/Time, Doctor John, Caring John, Soft Sherlock, Sensuality, Touching, Crying, Love Confessions, Anxious Sherlock, Rimming, Toplock, Fingering, Bossy Bottom John) – To Sherlock’s dismay, John’s return to Baker Street with Rosie is only temporary. Sherlock’s daily visits to Regent Park with John and Rosie illuminate his lost childhood memories and missed opportunities. But with each trip to the park, Sherlock also feels a growing sense of hope. That is until the past horrors return unexpectedly in a cryptic note folded in the shape of a heart. To decipher the message, Sherlock must uncover the nature of the hearts around him, including his own.

Lucifer's Gardens by ampersand_ch (E, 32,679 w., 12 Ch. || GERMAN VERSION || Romance, Friendship, Friends to Lovers, Murder, Poison / Drugging, Mystery, John Undercover, Academic Club, Therapy, Rituals, Jungian Archetypes, Doctors & Physicians, Grief/Mourning, Esotericism, Hospitals, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, John Falls In Love With Another Man, Jealous Sherlock, Crying, Doctor John, Hand Holding, First Kiss/Time, Mysticism, Hugging, Touching) – John goes undercover for an investigation as a favour to Lestrade in a village in Suffolk. The events surrounding the case awaken deep-seated fears in Sherlock. While John begins to come to a realisation of what he needs in Lucifer's Gardens, Sherlock tries to find a way to reach John – in more ways than one.

A Promise Made to Be Broken by PlantsAreNeat (E, 37,018 w., 7 Ch. || Fake Relationship, Pining, Slow Burn, RST, Eventual Relationship, POV Sherlock) – A young John makes an ‘if we’re still single at 40, we’ll get together’ pledge to a woman who ends up all wrong for him. She keeps reminding him of the promise, and won’t let go of it. John asks Sherlock to pose as his boyfriend at a family wedding, so as to dash her hopes permanently. Sherlock, who has at last acknowledged his feelings for John, reluctantly agrees despite knowing how painful it will be to ‘have’ John, but not keep him.

Gold Rush by ShirleyCarlton (E, 71,783 w., 17 Ch. || Post S3 / No Mary, Friends to Lovers, Mentions of Past Sexual Abuse, First Kiss, Case Fic, Slow Burn, Alternating POV, Switchlock, Angst with Happy Ending, Marriage Proposal, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Abduction, Anxious/Insecure Sherlock, Miscommunication, Emotional Lovemaking) – John has divorced Mary and pops round to 221B one evening to find Sherlock in the middle of a case. As Sherlock tries to find the identity of a young woman’s stalker, John realises he can no longer deny his feelings for Sherlock – which then, to their befuddlement, turn out to be mutual. Shy kisses and tentative embraces ensue. But will Sherlock be able to cast off a shadow from his past that he thinks might prevent John from wanting to stay?

Repairing the Broken Things by BakerTumblings (M, 75,252 w., 15 Ch. || S4 Compliant, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Medical Trauma, Hospitals, Big Brother Mycroft, Misunderstandings, Realizations, Severe Accident, John Whump, Pneumonia, Medical Procedures, Bed Sharing, First Time, Healing, Happy Ending) – "I'm calling today to notify you that there's been an accident."

Northwest Passage by Kryptaria (E, 95,157 w., 27 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || Canadian AU ||  BAMF!John, Canadian John, PTSD, Anal / Oral Sex, Rimming, Emotional Hurt / Comfort, Drug Rehab, Falling in Love, Pining Sherlock, Love Confessions, Sherlock’s Violin, Panic Attacks, Switching, Anxious / Protective Sherlock, Hugs for Comfort, Suicide Mentions, Healing Each Other) – Seven years ago, Captain John Watson of the Canadian Forces Medical Service withdrew from society, seeking a simple, isolated life in the distant northern wilderness of Canada. Though he survives from one day to the next, he doesn't truly live until someone from his dark past calls in a favor and turns his world upside-down with the introduction of Sherlock Holmes." Part 1 of Tales from the Northwest

Against the Rest of the World by SilentAuror (E, 151,714 w., 20 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || Post-TRF, Hiatus Fic, POV First Person Sherlock, Present Tense, First Kiss/Time, Big Brother Mycroft, Escaping from Capture, Soft Sherlock, Toplock, Insecurity, Infidelity, Travelling, Introspection, Pining Sherlock, Depression, Fantasies, Yearning for the Past, PTSD Sherlock, Suicidal Ideation) – Sherlock has been away from London for nine hundred and twelve days and counting, and has no idea what sort of reception to expect when he finally returns.

[ashintheairlikesnow]

11/17 Whump Prompts: Tooley wishes to make an art piece of a vampire/demon/evil spirit burning in the sunlight. He severely burns Chris and paints him at dawn, forcing Chris to stay awake as the sun shines into his eyes. The title of the painting is something like “Rather dead than evil” or something. Which is ironic, because Tooley is evil, not dead and money hungry.

CW: Vampire whumpee, immortal whumpee, sadistic whumper, burns, creepy whumper

New York City, 1934

"You heal too quickly," Tooley complains, moving the vampire's thin wrist into position. A stripe of brilliant sunlight cuts across the perfect line of his arm like a spear held by an avenging angel. "I had to starve you for weeks to get you to hold a burn long enough to be worth it."

"'m sorry, Tooley," The vampire whispers through chapped, parched lips. His skin is paler than ever, drawn tight against the lines of his skull and bones underneath. His freckles stand out almost garishly this way - Tooley doesn't paint those.

It's hard to make a freckled redhead with such sad eyes seem like a demon.

The burns run red and viciously, carefully designed down his back, in the shape of where Tooley imagines the connections to wings would be. He spent hours with hot metal creating the perfect pattern, to hint at the loss of heavenly feathers without making them obvious.

He ties the vampire down once he's perfect, fixing wrists and ankles to hooks in the floor.

It takes another two slats of wood removed from the window to get every beam of sunlight to hit just right, illuminating the deep blistered burns he's made.

Then he steps back, picking up the seedbag of black crows' feathers he's been collecting for months, washing and drying and adding them to his collection. He tosses them carefully around the vampire's prone figure, humming to himself, a jaunty little tune he heard on the radio.

Finally... Perfection.

He settles down to paint, occasionally losing himself to simply sitting with his brush held, staring at the agony of his creation.

The painting, when it's done, depicts a fallen angel of tremendous, heartbreaking beauty.

Burned along his back where God Himself has torn away his wings, surrounded by the last evidence of them, the soft sheen of a thousand black feathers. Tooley carefully works a hint of shape into the cruel beams of light, suggesting one of God's archangels watching, watching, always watching the torment below.

There are further burns on his arms - Tooley added those later - and, finally, a single burn in the shape of the Ash Wednesday cross in the center of the vampire's forehead.

Oh, how the boy wept at the profane use of the Holy Cross.

Tooley paints his tears, even kept in the tinge of pink from what was left of the blood within him.

He titles the painting God Spared Not the Angels Who Sinned.

When he has finished, he unties the vampire from the floor and throws in a boy he brought home from the street, someone he promised a bed in exchange for a favor.

The boy doesn't understand that he will die until it's already happening.

The vampire apologizes and tearfully asks for forgiveness as he kills him, says that he is simply too hungry to resist.

I'm sorry, the vampire boy cries, his mouth ringed in red. I'm so, um, so so sorry...

The cross burned into his forehead disappears when he feeds, as though it was never there.

It gives Tooley another idea for a painting. He starts the sketch that very night, while the body of the boy from the streets is still warm, while the vampire weeps red.

The buyer of his painted fallen angel, a German man, is enchanted by the reference to sin when the subject is the absolute image of innocence. The contrast delights him.

But how did you paint the burns so clearly? The man asks, with great interest. Have you been in a fire yourself?

Tooley smiles. I research every painting... thoroughly.

-

@mylifeisonthebookshelf @insaneinthepaingame @keeper-of-all-the-random-things @burtlederp @finder-of-rings @newandfiguringitout @astrobly @endless-whump @pretty-face-breaker @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @doveotions @boxboysandotherwhump @oops-its-whump @cubeswhump @whump-tr0pes @downriver914 @whumptywhumpdump @whumpiary @orchidscript @nonsensical-whump @outofangband @what-a-whump

[whumpy-writings]

Fed and Watered

Masterlist

The story of 023, aka Henri, and Aldon continues. @thecyrulik asked if Henri's life was going to get better, so here is some comfort and fluff for poor Henri. This post is also dedicated to @whumpsy-daisy , 023's number 1 fan!

CW: Vampires, slavery, dehumanization, anxiety, starvation, disordered eating, mention of past physical and mental abuse, nudity (non-explicit/non-sexual), scars, (and fluff, I promise)

The last thing he remembered was Master telling him to breathe. Now the ground beneath him was soft.. No. Not the ground. A bed. Henri’s eyes flew open in a panic. Humans weren’t allowed on beds. He rolled to the side, falling off the bed and onto the wooden floor. Oof. He rubbed his sore nose, wincing. Henri looked around the room. It was large with dark wooden furniture giving it a sense of finery. The walls were lined with red tapestries which depicted various scenes from folklore.

Henri’s eyes stopped when they reached a small table. On the table was a bowl, and he could see the steam rising from it. Terror swept through him. Master had said it would be a couple days but apparently had changed his mind. Henri crawled over so he could clearly be seen from the door and knelt, heart pounding. Breathe, he told himself. In... out...in...out. His mind started to wander. This was his life, all he was was a meal for his betters. But sometimes… sometimes he still wished for more. He tried to push those thoughts away but they always came back, sneaking into the corners of his mind that weren’t completely dark. Thoughts of a life without fear. A life without pain. He jumped as the door opened, heart in his throat. Master stood in the doorway, his broad shoulders almost filling the entire frame. Master’s eyes fell on Henri, and Henri had to suppress the urge to flinch. A frown.

“You don’t need to do that here, Henri, you can stand up.” Henri rushed to get to his feet, a wave of dizziness hitting him. Next thing he knew, Master was next to him, grabbing his arm so he wouldn’t fall to the floor.

“Careful there.” Master glanced over to the table with the soup, a crease on his brow. “Why haven’t you eaten, Henri? You must be starving.” Henri looked from the soup to Master and back again, confused. He wasn’t allowed to eat yet. Henri tipped his head to the side, exposing his neck for Master.

“No, I don’t want that,” Master said quickly.

Henri let out a sob. He was so hungry, but he couldn’t eat yet. “Please Master, please I’m so hungry and I can’t eat until you have.”

…

Aldon froze, shocked. He had never heard of such a thing. “Was that your old Master’s rule?”

“Yes sir.” Aldon considered this, horror building in his stomach.

“How often did your Master feed?” he asked.

“Usually about three times a week, sir,” Henri replied quietly.

Aldon gaped. No wonder the human was so weak. Humans needed to eat at least once every day, much more often than vampires. Aldon took a deep breath, thinking of what to say.

“Here there is a different rule. I need you to be healthy, and eating three times a week is not going to accomplish that. You’re to eat everyday, whether or not it’s a feeding day. Anytime you’re hungry, let me know and I’ll get you some food.”

Henri looked at him in shock, big blue eyes huge. Then he started to cry. “Thank you for your kindness, Master.”

Aldon’s heart broke a little at being thanked for granting the bare minimum for survival. “Of course, Henri. Now why don’t you eat your soup? I’m going to go draw a bath for you.”

…

The soup was heavenly. It was warm, with potatoes and carrots and onions. There was a slice of bread too, which filled his mouth with yeasty deliciousness. Henri savored each bite. When he was done he leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes. He was full. He hadn’t been full in… he didn’t even know how long.

...

Aldon felt the bath water. Not too hot, not too cold. He turned off the tap, drying his hands on the nearby towel. Time to get Henri. Aldon walked down the hall, gently rapping on the door before poking his head in. “The bath is all ready. Did you eat?”

Henri nodded vigorously, a ghost of a smile on his pale face. “Yes Master, Thank you Master.” He got out of the chair, hesitating for an instance. “Master…” he said, face going white, “I’m sorry for using the furniture without permission. Please forgive me.”

Aldon took a calming breath. Henri’s old master was certifiably, undeniably, an awful person. “No need to apologize Henri, you are allowed to use any of the furniture that you want.”

The relief was apparent on Henri’s face.“Thank you, Master.”

Aldon turned around hurriedly so Henri would not see the rage on his face. The ways some people treated their humans were just despicable.

“Come on Henri, let’s get you cleaned up.” Henri followed Aldon down the hall to the bathroom. It was small, with a white clawfoot tub and floors and walls covered in white ceramic tiles. This was one of the few houses in this part of the city that had the luxury of running water. Aldon turned back to Henri, only to find the man already undressed, pants on the floor. Aldon turned away immediately, cheeks burning.

“Is something the matter, Master?” Henri asked, voice filled with uncertainty and a tinge of fear

.

“No, I just was going to give you privacy to change. You’re allowed privacy here,” he quickly added.

“Oh,” a pause. “Thank you, Master,” Henri said quietly.

“You can climb in the tub now.” Aldon averted his eyes as Henri climbed in, then turned to the human sitting in the tub, bubbles up to his chest. “Would you like help bathing, or will you be able to do it on your own?” he asked carefully.

Henri considered this for a moment. “I would like a bit of help with my back and my hair, if you would be willing to. This hair is… a mess.” he said, gesturing to the greasy blond mop on his head.

“I can definitely help you with that.” Aldon knelt down next to the tub and picked up a cloth. He could hear Henri’s elevated breathing and could see the rapid rise and fall of his chest. “You’re okay Henri, how about we take a couple breaths?” Aldon led Henri through a couple rounds of deep breathing, until the human had calmed down.

“I’m sorry Master,” Henri said, staring down at the water, regret thick in his voice.

“Hey,” Aldon said, reaching out and taking Henri’s chin in his hand, gently making him look up at him. Henri’s blue eyes sparkled, threatening to spill tears. “I know this has been a big change for you. Anybody would be nervous in your place. I’m really proud of how well you’re doing.”

Henri blushed. “Thank you, Master.” he said.

“Of course, Henri,” Aldon said, picking up his cloth and dipping it in the water. He started to gently rub his back. Aldon pressed his lips together. Every single rib and vertebra was visible, creating deep ridges in the skin. Henri was covered in dirt and the water quickly starting to take on a brownish hue. Aldon paused when he glanced at Henri’s neck. There was a scar there, two actually. They were parallel to each other, running from the base of his skull all the way to the collarbone. Almost as if… someone had dragged their fangs down his neck. Aldon pursed his lips, fingers lingering on the scar. Henri froze, beneath his touch. “Henri, who did this to you?”

Henri didn’t respond for a second, and Aldon started to worry that maybe he shouldn’t have mentioned it. Then finally Henri said, “Mas… Old Master” A pause. “I… I tried to run away.” Aldon cocked an eyebrow at that. Henri continued in a rush. “I know I shouldn’t have, that I should have been grateful for his protection. I didn’t make it far. This,” his fingers went to the scars, lightly tracing them “was my punishment. He wanted to make sure I knew who I belonged to. I’ll never try to run away from you, Master. I’ve learned my lesson.”

Aldon couldn’t see Henri’s face, but he could hear the sadness in his voice. Anger bubbled to the surface. How dare someone do that to another creature? Aldon pushed his feelings down. He would deal with it later.

“Thank you for telling me that, Henri.” There was silence for a while, Aldon moving on to Henri’s hair. It was matted with dirt and grease, tangled into knots. Aldon worked his fingers into the knots, slowly loosening them. After a while of working, he noticed that Henri was much more relaxed, his breathing steady. He smiled to himself. “Well, I think I’m done. Can you rinse your hair for me?”

Henri nodded, ducking quickly under the water. When he came up he was smiling. “Thank you, Master. That was wonderful.”

Aldon gave a quick nod, not trusting his voice. He cleared his throat. “You can finish up, and then get changed. There are some clothes for you on the table.” Henri nodded. Aldon left the room, quietly shutting the door behind them. Then he leaned back against it, head tilted back, and smiled.

Tag list: @thecitythatdoesntsleep @whump-cravings @thecyrulik @neverthelass @michelleswhumpyreblogs @whumpsy-daisy

[spencers-renaissance]

a touch that never hurts

Summary: a rewrite of the Tobias Hankel aftermath, in which Spencer gets plenty of cuddles and physical affection from his father figure

Tags: aftermath of torture, hurt/comfort, platonic cuddling, whump, protective hotch, dad hotch, fluff, angst TW: brief mention of the non-con drug use that occurs in the Hankel arc, as well as the physical torture Spencer underwent

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner & Spencer Reid; Platonic

Word Count: 1.7k

Masterlist // Read on AO3

Happy bonus fic Thursday :) I wrote this because I noticed how gentle and kind Hotch always is to the victims he rescues, and I was in the mood for some good, mushy Dad Hotch fluff. Title from Charles Dickens' Hard Times: "Have a heart that never hardens, and a temper that never tires, and a touch that never hurts."

When Spencer Reid falls into Aaron Hotchner’s arms — his feet whipped and bleeding, his veins throbbing with dilaudid, his body bruised and aching — he decides that he never wants to let go.

He’s spent countless hours at the mercy of three different personalities, only one of them even close to resembling something kind, and all he could think while he was tied up in that chair was how much he ached to be held and comforted by the man he trusts most in this world.

So when Hotch saves him — and he does; he sent that message directly to him and it was heard loud and clear — he can’t help that he breaks down, that he cries into his shoulder in front of the entire rescue party, that he falls apart in the most painful way possible, until he’s not sure he can ever be put back together again. But when Hotch speaks soothingly into his ear, caressing his hair with the gentle touch of a father, he thinks that maybe he can be. Maybe he’ll somehow make it out of this in one piece.

He’s driven promptly to the hospital, of course. He’d anticipated an ambulance, but apparently it’s harder than you’d think to get an ambulance to a crime scene at 3am with absolutely no notice in deep, rural Georgia.

Derek drives, eyeing him anxiously in the rearview mirror, and Spencer sits glued to Hotch, refusing to be separated from him for even a second. He considers vaguely that he should probably be embarrassed of that fact, but he can’t find the energy. Not when Hotch is sitting just as closely; seemingly matching his need to be comforted with his own need to protect.

“It’s gonna be okay, Spencer,” Hotch murmurs, a little too quiet for Derek to hear over the noise of the car engine. “I promise.”

Spencer doesn’t say anything. He’s not entirely sure he believes him. Instead, he just burrows closer into Hotch and hides his face from the soft illumination of passing car lights and the sporadic street lights of rural Georgian roads.

He accepts the wheelchair Derek runs in to grab from the hospital because his feet are suddenly screaming in agony. When he’d had to stumble through the graveyard behind Tobias Hankel’s cabin, the adrenaline had prevented him from feeling the true extent of his injuries, but now, with the adrenaline seeping out of him like a river through a broken dam, he can feel every single fractured bone, bruised patch of skin, abused and broken tendon.

Panic immediately arises when he sits down in the chair, though. All of a sudden, he doesn’t have that connection he’s had to Hotch since he was rescued, and he’s almost instantly on the verge of hyperventilation until Hotch crouches down in front of him.

“Hey, Spence,” he says gently, patient and soothing in a way the team doesn’t often get to see. “I’m right here, okay? I’m not going anywhere. How about I hold your hand?”

Spencer nods, and Hotch smiles at him encouragingly before giving the nod for Derek to push the chair towards the Emergency entrance. Hotch’s hand clutches tightly at Spencer’s, and he squeezes his eyes closed against the panic, against the memories, against the fear of what’s to come, and focuses all his energy on the firm, unwavering connection he has to Hotch.

It makes the minutes that it takes them to cross the parking lot bearable, and he’s grateful for that much.

As soon as Hotch explains the situation to the ER doctor that greets them at the door, Spencer is rushed into an examination room.

“I’ll wait outside, Spence,” Derek promises. “I’ll be right here.”

Hotch doesn’t let go of his hand.

They examine his feet first, using a portable x-ray machine to find three broken bones overall. Spencer cries when he hears that. Knowing they’re broken doesn’t change how much they hurt or how scary the situation feels, but it is a tangible acknowledgement of the torture he’s just been put through, and he thinks that that’s probably enough to make most people cry.

“It’s alright, Spencer,” Hotch soothes him, laying his palm on his forehead and smoothing it over his hair gently, slowly. “I’m right here. The doctors are going to help you out.”

“The good news is that most of the fractures are fairly minor,” the doctor explains. “You’ll need a cast for your right foot since the damage to the metatarsal bones is much more significant, but most of the damage overall appears to be torn tendons and bruised muscles, which means plenty of rest and a simple brace or boot on the left foot should do the trick.”

She smiles encouragingly at him, but he barely reacts. He’s so tired. It feels like he’s not even in the room; the only tether to reality being the soothing hand in his hair and the occasional whispers of support.

They treat his feet before sending him off to a CT scanner to check that the rest of his injuries are minor enough to heal on their own, and rule out internal bleeding. Spencer cries the whole twenty two minutes, because this time Hotch can’t hold his hand. He’s stuck watching through the observation window, trying not to cry himself as he listens to Spencer’s sobs over the intercom.

Thankfully, he manages to stay still enough to ensure clear enough images of his body to confirm that rest and pain medication should take care of the rest of his injuries.

A specialist comes round to talk to him about withdrawal. He’s been moved to a room on the assessment ward, which is at least a little more comfortable than the bay in the Emergency Room, but it still feels foreign and frightening, and he’s had quite enough of that in the last few days, thank you very much. At least Derek’s been allowed to join them now. He feels safer with both of them as close to him as humanly possible.

“The good news,” the doctor starts — and God, Spencer wishes they would stop associating any of this with the word ‘good’ — “is that you haven’t taken enough doses to become truly dependent on the drug, which should make your withdrawal easier. I’m prescribing buprenorphine, clonidine, acetaminophen, and ondansetron, which when combined, should make your symptoms significantly more bearable. We do advise that you stay with somebody—”

“He’ll be staying with me,” Hotch interrupts firmly, both of his hands clasped warmly around Spencer’s as he eyes the doctor with an unwavering gaze.

“Well, that’s perfect, then,” the doctor says cheerily. It feels grossly misplaced. “You’ll need to prepare for the coming symptoms and ensure that he has no way to get his hands on more dilaudid.”

Spencer resents the doctor for saying that. He has no desire to inject more of that poison into his veins: it might have been a pleasant distraction when he was being whipped and beaten and forced to choose someone to die, but now that he’s back with his family, now that he’s safe, the last thing he wants is to keep reminding himself of that god-awful man in that god-awful cabin.

He doesn’t say anything, though. He just closes his eyes to try and smother the turbulent emotions threatening to show on his face.

“That won’t be a problem,” Hotch confirms.

They wait for an hour in relative silence, Spencer enjoying the solace of a safe, quiet room with the people he considers protectors both holding his hands and soothing him when panic threatens to overwhelm him, before the discharge doctor comes round. She checks him over one last time, before helping him into a wheelchair, handing him his medication, and wheeling him towards the entrance.

Derek goes ahead once they reach the airstrip where everybody’s been waiting to go home and herds them onto the jet first to give Spencer some privacy going up the stairs.

“Are you okay for me to carry you?” Hotch asks as he climbs out of the car first, speaking gently as he has done since he rescued him.

Spencer nods. Of course he is. It means he’s even closer to Hotch.

Hotch carries him the short distance between the parked jeep and the jet before ascending the stairs as carefully as possible, making sure Spencer’s feet don’t so much as brush the railing. He sets him down on the sofa, but Spencer clings to his hand, looking at him desperately as he tries to get him to understand what he needs. Thankfully, he’s obvious enough that Hotch simply smiles and sits down on the sofa with him.

They get settled in a horizontal position, Spencer resting his head on Hotch’s chest as he revels in the feeling of safety that having both of his arms wrapped around him provides. A gentle hand finds its way to Spencer’s hair again, and he closes his eyes against the relaxing feeling, exhaustion finally catching up to him.

He vaguely hears some quiet laughter in the background, and he’s been with the team long enough to predict the raised eyebrows and teasing expressions on their faces.

“You’ve gone soft,” Derek accuses warmly, making sure to keep his voice down, and the others chuckle in agreement.

“Wait until Penelope hears about this,” JJ teases quietly.

Hotch laughs, and Spencer feels the pleasant vibrations against his cheek. It makes him feel even warmer inside than he did before. “You wouldn’t dare.” Spencer imagines the smile on his face and burrows closer to him.

“It’s a good thing, Hotch,” Emily chimes in, her voice bright and easy. Spencer really likes her. “It’s nice to see this side of you.”

“Well, you’d better savour the moment because it won’t happen again.”

He must feel Spencer’s panicked tensing, the way his muscles go rigid and his breath hitches, because he rushes to add, “unless Spencer needs it of course.” His hands resume their gentle caresses of his back.

“I’d do anything if Spencer needed it,” he murmurs, and the team might hear, but the words aren’t for them.

Spencer hears them loud and clear, and somehow — when he thought only hours ago that he might never be put back together — he falls asleep feeling calm and safe, with a small, hopeful little smile on his face.

taglist: @criminalmindsvibez @suburban--gothic @strippersenseii @takeyourleap-of-faith @negativefouriq @makaylajadewrites @iamrenstark @hotchseyebrows @temily @enbyspencer @reidology @spencerspecifics @bau-gremlin @tobias-hankel @hotchscotchh @oliverbrnch @physics-magic @sbeno22 @im-autistic @anxious-enby @kuolonsyoja @reidreids @cmily @notevanbuckley (add yourself to my taglist here!)

[whump-a-la-mode]

Villian-Sicle

A drabble I couldn’t get out of my head. Villain puts themself in a harrowing situation-- with the only way out being to trust hero. I’m open to continuing this if anyone is interested ^^

CW//Superhero whump, villain whumpee, environmental whump (kinda), implied hypothermia, hospital setting

Villain should have known.

It was a risk, they did know that much. The few henchmen they still had among their ranks had warned them, worrying and puttering about like nervous schoolchildren. The heroes had grown ever closer in their pursuit, with scarcely a day going where one of them wasn’t seen in the nearby city.

The only thing keeping them away, for the moment, was secrecy. Villain’s base was embedded into a nearby mountain, settled into a worn Cold War era bunker that had been hewn from the rough limestone. Every last one of their henchmen had had the same advice for them: “Let’s just lay low for a bit, boss. They can’t sniff around here forever, we have enough supplies to last a month, at least, I made sure.”

Would such a plan of action have been wise? Certainly. Even now, villain couldn’t help themself from dreaming of a week or two, laid up on the couch, watching TV and reorganizing their armory.

Impulse had gotten the better of them, however, as it always seemed to do. The Serum had been transported to a nearby hospital on a specially chartered plane. The pilot and crew would be staying in the city for the night, while the Serum stayed in the hospital, housed safely in the freezing cold temperatures that it required to stay fresh. It was a short opportunity, so short that they would miss it if they so much as blinked. Once the dawn rose, their prize would be whisked away, never to be seen again. They couldn’t miss it.

They would be in and out, Villain promised their henchmen. A few hours, if even that. No risk at all. What would a bunch of white-coat nerds do to stop them? Yell out some facts and figures?

It was supposed to be a quick job.

It was very much not a quick job.

Villain’s hot breath burned against their own face as they tore through the bright, sterile-lit hallway. The tiles beneath their feet couldn’t have possibly muffled their footsteps any less. Instead, their movements were broadcasted to everyone in the building, and, probably, in the entire city, with how much this damn hall echoed.

They had entered the building through a back entrance, just twenty minutes ago. Or maybe it had been more like fifteen, or thirty, or... they had been running for so long. They didn’t know anymore.

Their powers crept from them at the very thought, weaving out into the world around with invisible tendrils of information. One latched onto a computer, politely informing them that they had been running for their life for exactly twenty three minutes and 32.34 seconds.

Great! The joys of technopathy. Villain couldn’t defend themself, but they could find out the time. Fantastic.

Before them, a fork in the hallway appeared, almost too quickly for them to react. With a split second decision based on nothing, they tore to the left, nearly tripping over their own feet with the motion. A few seconds later, their pursuers performed the same action.

Villain kept running.

When they had gone in through the back entrance, the hospital had seemed nearly dead. Motion-activated lights sat dead as the emergency room staff chugged their way through their third round of coffee. It was perfect. They crept through the back storage room, and began making their way to the cold storage.

It was perfect, until Hero stepped out around the corner. It was perfect, until Villain found out that the Heroes had assigned themselves to provide an overnight guard for the Serum.

Of course they had been.

Villain nearly slammed into an empty gurney, narrowly darting around it. The Heroes on their tail swore.

It was a miracle they hadn’t been shot yet, in all truth. That would have been too merciful. No, the Heroes had to hunt them like prey. Like the beasts there were.

In nature, most predators can be classified as ambush predators. Creeping in the bushes, the tall grasses, waiting for their prey to turn its head. However, some predators had a different approach. Endurance predators. Chasing their prey until they grew too tired to go on any longer. It was a common method among social predators-- wolves, notably.

Wolves. That was what their pursuers were acting like.

Villain considered swearing under their breath, but decided quickly against it. They didn’t have the air. Neither did they have the air to keep running like this for much longer.

In their chest, they could feel their heart as it struggled to beat itself free from their ribs. Their lungs struggled to bring in any air, gasping every shallower with each breath.

They couldn’t keep going. Even with the enhanced physical prowess that the simple virtue of having powers gave them, they couldn’t keep going. At this rate, they would collapse at any moment, succumbing to their predators’ jaws.

Another gurney was dodged, and another turn made. They couldn’t feel their legs. They had to stop. With another quick reach of their powers, they found their current location on the hospital’s floorplan.

Nowhere near a single exit.

They were fucked. The windows weren’t much of an option either-- they were on the fourth floor, by now. But, it was either that, or being caught, or...

Or getting what they came for.

In the distance, a few doors ahead, they saw it. It was nearly unbelievable-- a mirage of water in the desert.

A door, simply labelled “Cold Storage.”

The last of their strength was quickly spent on advancing just a few more steps and slamming their body into the door, quickly gaining them access. They slammed the steel door behind them, clicking the lock into place as quickly as they could.

Outside, fists beat at the metal. A smile grew across Villain’s face. Their pursuers had been just a second too late.

Villain collapsed. There was little other way to describe the ungrateful way in which they fell to the ground, a heap of limbs and unwashed hair. They were safe, at least for the moment.

A cursory moment of curiosity led them to seek the temperature value being read by the thermometer on the wall. -20 degrees Fahrenheit. Why did that seem off...

-60 degrees. That’s what the Serum had to be kept at.

Shit. They glanced again at the floor plan. There was more than one Cold Storage.

Shit shit shit.

More banging on the door. Villain sat up, still gasping for breath. This time, however, the air being gulped into their lungs burned for its cold, rather than its heat. They wrapped their arms around their chest, reminding themself with a prick of nervousness that they were wearing little more than a light sweatshirt.

The influence of their powers searched the room, twisting along the walls and among the shelves lining them, searching for whatever was keeping the place so damn cold. They found nothing but a vent-- the cold air was being pumped in from somewhere else. Somewhere too far away for them to reach.

They gulped.

Someone yelled outside the door, followed by a weapon of some sort striking the handle. It didn’t budge.

A shiver rippled along their spine. They hugged themself as tight as they could, but it didn’t change the fact that the feeling in their fingertips was already beginning to fade.

From outside, a laugh. A voice. That stupid, stupid voice. Hero’s voice:

“You’re going to catch your death in there. Open the damn door, we’re not gonna hurt you.”

Likely story.

Villain lowered their head, closing their eyes and trying to pretend that their teeth weren’t already chattering.

[perfectpaperbluebirds]

@sicktember #1

Prompt # 1: Fever

Title: Damn Nick Fury

Fandom: Avengers/MCU

To kick Sicktember off, I'm starting with some classic Avengers sickfic. This is actually part of a longer work that I posted many moons ago on AO3. Still one of my favorite whump fics that I've written.

Clint Barton breathed slowly and deeply as he drew back his bow, sighting in his next target. He was so far unnoticed by the cultists they were fighting, perched high in a tree as he was. Below, Natasha was baiting and dodging them with ease, dispatching one every now and then to keep them occupied. Clint's task was to pick them off as she did so.

Another arrow met its mark.The archer sniffled wetly as he reloaded while cold water continued to trickle down the back of his collar. He had made Fury aware a day or so ago that he had a mild cold, as was his duty as an assassin. If he wasn’t at one hundred percent, his commander needed to know. However, Fury had insisted he and Nat take this mission, since no one else was available. The soaking rain they encountered when they arrived was unexpected. However, it turned out the rain had actually made it easier to obtain the objective of this particular mission. Meanwhile though, it was making Clint thoroughly miserable. Compared to other missions it was going quickly, but the five hour stakeout leading up to the current fight had not been pleasant in the continuous downpour, even up in a tree.

Wiping his nose on his shoulder, Cint again loosed an arrow. Only five more cultists to go. Then they could loot the bunker, get the map they needed, and go home. A drip of water hit him right in the eye, and he growled to himself, inwardly cursing Fury. He had started to shiver an hour ago, though he made sure his hands were steady as ever. He couldn’t wait to take a long, hot shower and sleep for at least twelve hours. He only needed to hold out a little longer.

The tickle in his throat had gradually become a low, irritating ache. He coughed softly. The sound did little to make his throat feel better, but it did make the nearest cultist look up at him. Before the man could do anything other than widen his eyes, Clint’s arrow ended him expertly.

Hawkeye sighed wearily. Four more to go.

~~~~~~~~~~

Thirty-six hours later, Clint and Natasha were relaxing on the couch in Avengers Tower. Natasha had her legs tucked up under her and was reading a book while Clint had his head pillowed in her lap with his arm flung over his eyes. Suddenly, his breath hitched warningly. Natasha lifted her arm in a practiced way to give him room to turn and bury his face into a tissue:

"HehyYIIZSHHhoo! hihtESHHHiew!"

She looked down at him with an irritated sound. "That is the third time you've sneezed in as many minutes. I'm making zero progress in this book. You're going to be finding yourself a new pillow in a minute here. Plus I'll kill you if you get me sick."

He sniffled wetly and blew his nose before replacing his head in her lap with a weak cough. "Aww, you would ndever kill mbe, 'Tash. I'mb the only one who puts up with your crap. But I'mb sorry. I can'dt help the sneezing. It's mbaking mbe mbiserable too if that helps."

She sighed in an annoyed way, but couldn't help looking down at him fondly. "You're lucky I know you well enough to understand what you're saying. And you're also lucky that it just so happens to be true that we tolerate each other better than most, so you're safe from assassination for now."

"Blame Fury. This cold wasn't so bad until I had to sid oud id the rain for hours." He sniffled thickly again, barely turning his head away as he followed it up with a cough.

Natasha made a face, swatting his shoulder lightly. "You're gross. Cover your mouth when you cough. And I don't *have* you let you lay here, you know. You have a perfectly comfortable bed only a short elevator ride away."

" 'm cold though. And if I go ubstairs there's ndo one to mbake mbe tea." He swiped at his reddened nose with the tissue, trying to look extra pitiful.

"You're extra whiny when you're sick. Not a good look on you, Hawk." She carded her fingers once through his hair. "And you're just cold because you're a little feverish."

Instead of replying, Clint halfway sat up again and brought a tissue to his nose, breath scissoring and nostrils flaring.

Natasha groaned as Clint once more exploded into a sneezing fit:

"Gihh-ESSHHshuuu! hehKSHHHshuu!" He coughed, then sneezed again: "ERRSHHhuh! Hih'EZSHHyue! --guhhh." Clint miserably rubbed the space between his eyebrows, slowly lowering himself once again to Natasha's lap.

"Apparently my partner has managed to catch the world's sneeziest cold. How did I get so lucky?"

Once again Clint was kept from replying as Natasha's communicator began to ring. She glanced at the screen, then at Clint.

"It's Fury," she warned.

Clint quickly sat up. She answered the device, turning it so they could both see. Fury's single eye met theirs, looking as serious and commanding as ever.

"Good, you're both here. Barton… your nose looks red. How are you feeling?"

"Aboud the sabe I guess. Sneezy."

"And feverish," Natasha said with a warning look at her partner.

"How feverish?"

"Ndot very. One hundred or so," Clint mumbled.

"That's… not ideal. But I don't have any other option… if at all possible, we need you both out in the field again ASAP. We've discovered a small Hydra base, but it's a crucial one. Some of their brainiest goons are posted there, working on something big. From some communication we intercepted, it sounds like their project is almost finished. I need eyes out there immediately. Recon only for now. Think you can handle that?"

The assassins glanced at each other. "We're good to go," said Clint firmly, though the sore-sounding rasp in his voice betrayed him slightly.

"I hope so. Don't disappoint me. I expect you in the air in an hour or less." With that their director ended the call.

Barton and Romanov glanced at each other once more, this time with a weary sigh from Clint before they stood and went to get ready.

~~~~~~~~~~

"Barton! What's your situation?"Natasha's voice crackled over the com.

"Being... chased by three. Heading... to the roof… of the base," Clint gasped around labored breathing.The metal steps made a sharp clanking noise as the archer sprinted up them, nocking an arrow as he went.

"Can you handle them on your own?"

"We'll… see...," he panted, sweat rolling into his eyes. "Backup… would be nice...."

"I'll be there as soon as I can. I've got 4 of my own. Hang in there, Hawk!" The line went dead for the time being.

"I'm gonna … kill Fury…," he mumbled breathlessly as he reached the roof. He darted to the far side of the area and spun around, taking a knee and aiming his bow at the stairway he had just vacated. The sounds of the three Hydra agents sprinting up behind him were unmistakable, but he was as ready as he was going to be.

"This was supposed to be... an easy recon mission, but noooooo…. It's another... full-on assault," he continued to mumble, trying to catch his breath as the shouting on the stairs got louder.

As an extra stroke of bad luck, it was pouring rain here too. Clint flipped the water out of his eyes with a toss of his head, his hair and clothes hanging on him limply. He hadn't stopped shivering since they'd gotten off the jet. His teeth were now chattering and his fingers were blue with cold. His throat was absolutely burning now, raw and inflamed, the pain exacerbated from running. He couldn't suppress a hoarse barking cough just as the first baddie poked his head through the opening. Clint dispatched him immediately, but the two still coming up were not dissuaded.

The second goon got lucky. Clint's hand slipped on the bow a fraction, and the Hydra agent got hit in the shoulder instead of the heart. The archer knew he was in trouble now. With trembling hands, he managed to kill number three with a final arrow, but the one he had wounded, by far the biggest of them all, continued to advance menacingly.

Hand-to-hand combat was evidently imminent. On any other day Clint could have made short work of this, but this miserable, feverish cold had him operating at around fifty percent capacity and falling. Clint pulled out his knives with shaky hands and another rasping cough. When his opponent was a foot away, Clint tried to leap up to get in the first hit. Instead he slipped and staggered, and the Hydra agent's fist, with all of his weight behind it, caught him in the ribs. Clint heard a dull cracking sound as he was flooded with pain, but he couldn't pause. He spun and ducked, trying to avoid the worst of the blows while trying to get in some of his own. At least ⅓ of his opponent's swings met their target though, and in minutes Clint was battered and bruised, barely clinging to consciousness.

He knew he only had enough stamina for one more try. In a split second, while the Hydra agent was off-balance winding up for another swing, Clint leapt once more, and at last his knife met its mark.

As the baddie crumpled to the ground, so did Hawkeye, wheezing weakly, every breath agonizing. He activated his com as his vision threatened to gray out:

"Roof... clear. Good...Nat?"

"All clear down here too. Mission complete. Nice job, Hawk. Let's turn this bunker inside out and go home."

"Mmph."

"You good, Barton?" she asked, concern suddenly in her voice.

"Gonna need... medevac… Won't… make it down… stairs…."

If Natasha replied, he did not hear her. He let his head fall against the cool, wet metal and let the grayness overtake his vision.

~~~~~~~~~~

48 hours later found Clint lying on a bed in S.H.E.I.L.D. medical with broken ribs and and a confirmed case of pneumonia. He was drifting in and out of consciousness from the drugs they were giving him, but his ears perked up when he heard Natasha arguing with someone nearby.

"He's stable. Not on oxygen. Fever is controlled. He can tolerate oral meds. There's no reason he needs to stay. I promise you, he won't recover while he's here. You need to discharge him home."

The haughty-looking orderly she was speaking with huffed angrily, muttering about shortness of breath and heart rate and changing oxygen requirements.

Clint let himself drift off again to the sound of their voices, trusting his partner to deal with the situation. A cool hand on his cheek awakened him a little while later. He blearily opened his eyes to meet Natasha's, for of course it was she that had roused him.

"We're busting you out of here," she whispered with a little smile. "They're bringing a wheelchair now."

"Thangk god," Clint groaned. "And thangk *you*, 'Tash. You're a lifesaver."

"Eh, you've saved my life plenty of times too. I think we're pretty even."

It took some maneuvering to get a very breathless, battered, and achy Clint out of the bed and into the wheelchair, but they managed it with minimal damage. Once he was settled in the chair, Natasha wheeled him away to their rooms.

Inside Clint's suite, they again had to coordinate getting him from the chair to his bed. Natasha was grateful Clint's pain tolerance was high, because she knew the transfer was far rougher without the assistance of the medical staff. He didn't make a sound throughout the process however, though his face was drawn in pain. As soon as he was settled though, he let out the breath he'd been holding in a rush, which quickly became a nasty coughing fit. He had trouble catching his breath for several moments even after the fit ended. He gasped and wheezed and clutched his ribs, sweaty and reddened and miserable. Natasha could only watch helplessly, stroking his hair to try to help him relax.

"Damn Fury," he croaked weakly when he could finally speak. "This fugcking sucks. "

"Language, please. But I can't argue with you there."

"I'mb gonna kill himb for sending me od thad mission."

"I think he got his just desserts since now his best archer is out of commission for a few months. But at least it seems like the sneezy part of your cold is better."

"You h- had to s- hih- say sumbthing, dih- dn't you?" Clint croaked, gingerly bracing his ribs as his breath scissored and his red nose twitched:

"Gih'tsschh! Ghhnxt'chf! Oh Fugck. Ow! Ow ow ow...." Clint groaned, gritting his teeth, eyes squeezed shut in pain. "Not doing that again."

"Yeah, stifling is probably not wise. Poor sick guy," Natasha murmured, carding his hair with her fingers as they waited for Clint's pain to subside.

After a moment, Clint opened one eye, looking suspicious. " 'Poor sigck guy?' Who are you and what have you done with mby partner?"

Natasha smirked as she sat on the edge of his bed. "Would you prefer I call you a whiny asshole?"

"Yes. Maybe. I dunno," Clint mumbled with a weary sigh and a grimace of pain as he exhaled.

"Well too bad for you, because right now *my* partner is sick and miserable and I plan to baby him at least a little until he's feeling better."

"Guess I'mb nodt complainig," Clint mumbled, stifling a cough, which only made him clutch his ribs in pain. "Hurts whed I cough. Hurts whed I try not to cough. Fugck me."

"Language, seriously. But what can I do to help? You need water, food, drugs, anything?"

"Nodt hungry or thirsty. Too sood for drugs. I just want to sleeb, 'Tash."

"That sounds like a good plan. I'll leave you be then. But I'll be back to check on you soon." She stood up right away, fussing around and tidying up his nightstand area before moving toward the door.

" 'Tash?"

She turned expectantly.

" 'm still cold," he mumbled thickly, looking pale and weary now.

Her face softened affectionately. "Well you're still running a fever, hotshot. You're gonna feel cold."

He groaned pathetically. She moved to his side once more.

"Aww, you're shivering," she murmured, stroking his cheek.

"Told you, I'mb freezing…."

She sighed, looking at him fondly. "Is this you trying to say that you need some extra body heat in bed with you for a while?"

He looked at her pleadingly.

"Okay, okay, no more puppy eyes. I'm coming. But if you get me sick--"

"I know, I know, you'll kill mbe. I'll try ndot to share."

"That's all I ask." She kicked off her shoes and slid into bed beside him, doing her best to jostle around as little as possible. They carefully arranged themselves so that Clint was tucked against Natasha, most of his weight resting against her, while her weight was against the stack of pillows behind them. This position seemed to cause the archer the least pain, and in fact he relaxed against her right away, his breathing deepening.

" I'mb sorry I'mb so warmb. You'll probably swelter," mumbled Clint sleepily.

"It's not the first time I've slept with you when you're running a fever, and I'm sure it won't be the last. As long as you're warm enough."

"Am now," he breathed, nearly asleep.

"Then that's all that matters to me."

[ao3theskyisblue]

We are lost (and we’re falling)

Summary:

His words had come out cold, short, and he knew Carlos didn’t need to be a cop to hear the bite in his tone.

The sound of the front door closing echoed loudly in the silence that followed, and he knew Carlos saw what he was looking at the second he heard a sharp inhale.

A sound of a bag dropping to the floor. Keys being returned to their rightful spot. Slow footsteps moving closer, but TK didn’t take his eyes off the offending piece of paper, glaring holes through the thin material holding insurmountable value.

“TK-”

“When.”

Written for Day 1 of @911lonestarangstweek : Emotional whump + “How do we fix this?” 

Read on AO3 

“When were you going to tell me?”

TK didn’t get up from his spot on the couch, stock still since he found a certain piece of paper reciting words he wasn’t sure he had read correctly for the 10th time that night. So, he sat, staring blankly at the muddled words on paper, waiting for his husband to come home to get the answers to his innumerable questions.

His words had come out cold, short, and he knew Carlos didn’t need to be a cop to hear the bite in his tone.

The sound of the front door closing echoed loudly in the silence that followed, and he knew Carlos saw what he was looking at the second he heard a sharp inhale.

A sound of a bag dropping to the floor. Keys being returned to their rightful spot. Slow footsteps moving closer, but TK didn’t take his eyes off the offending piece of paper, glaring holes through the thin material holding insurmountable value.

“TK-”

“When.”

TK looked up sharply, and felt his chest tighten at the way Carlos stepped back slightly. But they were going to have this conversation, because he had gone through the various stages of shock, disbelief, fear, anger, and now…nothing.

He wanted to understand.

“A few days before our one-year anniversary.” Carlos said quietly, and TK clenched his jaw, lifting a hand to run through his hair roughly.

“Our one-year anniversary when we were dating, or when we got married?” TK knew the answer to that when he saw Carlos tense, letting out a hollow laugh.

“Were you just never planning on telling me? Until what, I find out myself eventually? When it would already be too late?” TK bit down on his lower lip, hard, tasting the bitter tang of blood as his teeth broke skin. It wasn’t nearly enough to distract him from all this. He could see from the corner of his eyes as Carlos slowly took a seat on the ottoman in front of him, but still keeping a semblance of distance.

“I promise, I was going to tell you,” Carlos’ voice was still quiet, as if he knew the moment one of them raised their voices, it would only further escalate the conversation. “I just never found the right time.”

The right time.

TK couldn’t help a scoff at that, standing up sharply from his spot on the couch to pace the wooden floors of their living room, his steps arrhythmic.

“Tyler-”

TK let out an ugly sound, shooting Carlos a glare that could cut through glass.

“Don’t you dare. I am not in the mood to hear my name right now, especially when you decided to put it in a place where I absolutely object to.” He tore his gaze away from the coffee table, hands clenched tightly by his sides.

“How do we fix this?”

“Oh, so now it’s we?”

“TK-”

“No. I can’t–I can’t do this right now.” TK abruptly stopped his pacing only to violently slam his palms down on the kitchen counter, the skin of his palms stinging with a certain pain he couldn’t feel over the bleeding wounds of his heart. He could feel the tears burning like acid in his eyes, knowing that they could spill at any fueling word.

“Sweetheart,”

Clenching his fingers inwards towards his palms, he felt his nails digging against the soft skin, no doubt leaving deep crescent indentations in their wake.

“TK, look at me.”

The sound that ripped out of his throat was immediately covered with his hand, and TK furiously blinked back the onslaught of tears. He felt a gentle hand on his bicep, and forced himself to take in a few shuddering breaths before turning around, facing his husband. Carlos’ own eyes were red-rimmed, but he still had a small, albeit sad smile on his lips.

“Talk to me.” Carlos’ grip on his arm tightened, and TK swallowed back the sob that wanted to break free, instead taking in another deep breath and closing his eyes.  

He could feel the anguish filling up the room in suffocating waves, but he had already found it hard to breathe the second he had accidentally found the will. His name was printed neatly underneath a paragraph of writing, taunting him.

TK stares at the space between them, knowing that there was a hand on his arm, but not quite feeling it.

He couldn’t really name anything he was feeling right now.

“You have no idea what you’re asking.”

The words came out quiet, subdued, and TK wasn’t sure if Carlos even heard him. But then there was a warm hand trailing up his arm, giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze.

“You’re my partner. My better half, the love of my life,” Carlos stresses, as if that would somehow alleviate the pain currently tearing him to shreds. “There is no one else I trust with this more than you.”

A hot wave of fury washed over him. TK stepped back from the gentle hold to level a glare at the man standing before him, who looked stricken. TK hardly ever pulled away from Carlos’ touches, feeling a pit growing in his stomach at the hurt in his husband’s gaze.

“You-you have no idea-”

“I trust you-”

“I don’t trust myself, Carlos!”

TK felt the man in front of him reel back at that, but still refused to lift his gaze. He knew what he would see – concern, confusion, but what he couldn’t bear to see was the ever-present softness that never disappeared no matter how bad their arguments got.

Swallowing thickly, TK twisted the gold wedding band around his finger. Ever since the day they promised each other forever, the ring had become one of his grounding sources. Not stopping his administrations, TK tried for a smile which only turned into a grimace.  

“You are asking me to be the bridge between your life and death,” He started, clenching his jaw at the last part. “A single word, a signature, and I have the power to take your life. Don’t you dare make it seem like this is an easy decision for me, you don’t get to do that.” TK waved a hand towards the papers scattered on the coffee table, hearing Carlos suck in a sharp breath.

The ticking of the kitchen clock sounded louder than he remembered, and he tried to focus on the rhythmic ticking to try and calm his racing heartbeat.

It wasn’t working.

Carlos didn’t move closer, but his next words hit him like a bucket of ice water.

“You think I don’t know you put my name down for yours?”

The words weren’t accusing, nor were they harsh. Instead, they were stated as a fact, something TK couldn’t deny.  

That didn’t mean it was the same thing.

“That’s different.” He says icily, but Carlos didn’t so much as flinch. His gaze never wavered.

“How so? From where I’m standing, you and I seem to be thinking the same thing.” One thing he’s found to be a little frustrating and also endearing was how logical Carlos was with his arguments. TK didn’t know whether it was something that came from working in law enforcement, but he found it hard to argue with reason.

They didn’t fight often, but when they did, it was a brief fuel to the fire, something that both of them knew that would be worked out in the end and that at the end of the day, they were just two men who fiercely loved each other.

“Because you-” TK trailed off, the sudden heaviness of his thoughts weighing him down like lead. Carlos frowned.

“Because I’m…?”  

There were a few beats where they just stared at each other. TK could see that Carlos was itching to reach out towards him, but he knew that he had to be the first one to close the distance between them.

He wasn’t ready.

“When people leave, they take pieces.”  

His dad took the first piece. It had been a small piece, but a piece, nonetheless. Something he couldn’t grasp – just watching from a distance as it slipped through his fingers.

His mom took the next piece, and a 7-year-old’s memories were surprisingly vivid. He still remembered the colour of the moving truck parked outside their house, the sound of the spluttering engine as it came to life, the look on his neighbours’ faces as they not-so-subtly watched through the window as his parents argued.

The pieces kept chipping away as the years went by. His stepmom. Enzo. Every new friend he made and grew to never speak to again, his first overdose, the dinner with Alex.  

All those pieces left scars that he learned to bear better with time, but they never fully healed. He would never completely get those pieces back, but building himself to always strive for a better life created new ones he could nurture and protect.

And the person who carried the biggest piece of all, was the man standing right in front of him.

TK closed his eyes, knowing that Carlos could see the tremble of his lips as he tried to swallow down the lump in his throat. “You have all of me. If I have to watch you-if I’m the reason you leave this world-” A single tear slipped down his cheeks, and he quickly lifted a hand to wipe it away roughly. “I won’t be able to let you go Carlos, don’t ask me to.”

Carlos remained silent. TK didn’t know how long they had been standing in the little area between the living room and the kitchen, but from the way one of his knees had locked, the dull ache pulsating through his leg in waves, it must have been a while.

He still couldn’t bring himself to sit down.

“You think it’s easy for me to think about letting you go?”

There was a sharp intake of breath, and TK warily lifted his gaze from the floor to Carlos’ eyes, which were filled with ripples of love and pain. He took a small step forward, but nothing more than that.

“Because let me tell you, it would be the single hardest decision in my entire life.” He says shakily, and TK feels his heart shatter at the tears that broke free. This wasn’t the first time, nor would it be the last that he would see Carlos cry, but it never changed the fact that every time he did, something in him died a little with every tear that slipped down his cheeks.

He hadn’t realized his hands were trembling until he lifted them to gently cup Carlos’ face, thumbs slowly moving to delicately wipe the tears away. Two warm hands covered his own, and TK leaned up to press his lips gently to Carlos’ forehead. The hands covering his tightened when he leaned back.  

“I thought the single hardest decision were those adoption papers we filed a few months ago.” TK says lightly, feeling the first genuine smile grace his lips since the start of all this when Carlos let out a wet chuckle.

No matter how many years have passed, TK feels himself melting all over again at the signature warmth in Carlos’ gaze that was surely mirrored in his own as they looked at each other.

“They’re on different meters.” Carlos responds, and TK’s eyes crinkle at the sides. His hands move to his hips, pulling him in closer.

“We can’t see the future,” Carlos says softly, and TK’s smile dims. “There will be many more uncertainties down the road, obstacles we’ll face. But I’m sure, with every fiber of my being, that I want to face them with you– to be the one to hold your hand until the end.”

TK forcefully swallows past the bitter tang in his throat.

The words wash over him in a dizzying warmth. Death was inescapable, and a constant presence in both their lines of work. It was one of the reasons they treasured every minute they got with each other, never knowing when their clocks would abruptly stop. And although the mere thought of the possibility of Carlos leaving his world tore him raw and hung him dry, he knew that if it truly came to that, he would want the exact same thing.

For better or for worse.

Lifting a hand to run through Carlos’ curls fondly, his other hand drifted to his pulse point, feeling the rhythmic pulsing against his fingers.

“I love you.” TK says instead, pulling Carlos into a tight hug that was returned with equal fervor without hesitation.

“I know. And I love you.” Carlos murmured, tightening his arms around him. TK closed his eyes, pressing his face into the slightly rough material of his husband’s uniform, absently remembering that he hadn’t gotten a chance to change when he got home.

Pressing a kiss to Carlos’ shoulder, TK looked up to see brown eyes already looking at him affectionately. He slowly trails a hand down his husband’s arm, smiling at the trail of goosebumps left behind in their wake.

“I’m never letting go of your hand,” TK whispers, his hand having travelled down to intertwine with Carlos’, lifting it up to press a lingering kiss to the back of it. He stares at the ridges and scars with teary eyes, every indentation – every mark ingrained into his mind.

“I’m going to hold onto you for a long, long time.”  

[thoughtsonhurtandcomfort]

Alex meets Ari, epilogue

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 |

Content Warnings: demon/incubus character, romance, established relationship, car accident mention, injuries, bruises, arguments, angst, emotional whump, caretaking, consensual kissing and touching, happy ending

Tag List: @deluxewhump @grizzlie70 @gatheringofsuffering @xmonster-under-the-bed @emreads @whumpingmydarlings  @endless-whump​

Author’s Notes: I can’t believe I actually finished something I started!! Once again, thanks so so much to everyone who’s read these. :)

----

Dating Alex is like dating the weather. There are storms and dreary skies, calm overcast days, days of warm sunshine. Getting to know him is like diving into a lake he thinks is shallow only to find unexpected depths of thoughts and feelings, of humor and intelligence. In spite of the relatively mundane life they lead, Arinn finds he is never bored.

All of it is a novelty. Staying with the same person, of course, takes adjustment. Arinn had such a set routine and methodology when it came to finding sustenance that he feels a little lost when it’s gone. But that void is always quickly filled. They binge shows, they try recipes, they take walks. They go to movies and restaurants and, yes, the mummies exhibit and other museums. It’s the closest thing to a normal life Arinn has ever had, yet it feels strange and exciting.

Perhaps the most astounding thing is the lack of pressure to have sex. Before this he was in bed with a new person a couple times a week. Often someone he didn’t particularly like, just to scrounge for the smallest touches to keep himself going. Worse than that, sometimes he would end up discovered, captured and tormented, with no one to help, not like that day Alex found him. The things that were done to him, that he had to bear alone…

But now he only has sex when he actually wants to, and it feels like a small miracle. He enjoys sex well enough, but is more than happy with cuddling, kissing, even lying with his feet across Alex’s lap. And if the kissing gets heated or Alex looks particularly gorgeous that day, well…Arinn certainly isn’t going to complain if they end up in bed.

A little over eight months into dating, Arinn’s lease ends and he moves in. He spends most nights there anyway, but still, it’s a little daunting. But between their jobs and Alex’s therapy and workouts, it doesn’t feel like they’re constantly around each other. Arinn adjusts to it quickly. He can’t deny how incredible it feels to know without a doubt that he won’t go to bed alone each night.

They both work early shifts, starting before dawn and getting home in the early afternoon. So Arinn isn’t prepared at all when Alex comes home telling him he’s going to have to work an evening shift for a couple of weeks.

During the first week, Arinn returns from work only an hour before Alex has to leave to catch the bus. Other than that single hour and when Alex crawls into bed at night, they have no time together. By Friday, Arinn is beyond ready for the weekend. He works Saturday morning, but he doesn’t care. He’s prepared to stay up late just to greedily take in a little extra time with Alex.

“I’ll be home by 10:30,” Alex promises as he gets dressed.

Arinn has the restraint to wait until he’s finished buckling his belt to go over and kiss him. “10:30. I’ll be here.”

Alex’s smile warms him like nothing he’s ever felt. “Good.” He kisses Arinn once, then again, then a third time. He’s contemplating a fourth when Arinn nudges him towards the door.

“Go on,” he says reluctantly. “Have a good day. Night. Whatever.”

Alex laughs as he slips his shoes on. “I’ll try.” And then he’s out the door.

----

10:30 rolls around. Arinn has showered, tidied up the house, and threw together a small meal for Alex to heat up if he’s hungry. Then he plops onto the couch and waits.

At 10:37 he assumes the bus is running late. At 10:49 he wonders if Alex missed the bus and had to catch another. He bounces his leg impatiently and checks his phone every couple minutes in case Alex calls or texts.

He doesn’t.

By 11:00 Arinn is up and pacing. He calls Alex but gets no answer. He leaves voicemails, his voice shaking. He texts him. Where are you? Are you okay? Did work run over? Please answer me.

He said 10:30, Arinn thinks. He said no later than that. He promised. But he isn’t here…

Arinn doesn’t know what to do. He flips between worry and anger and hurt. What if something happened? What if he went out for drinks with coworkers? What if he lied? The possibilities spiral through his mind unchecked.

Then, at 11:43, there’s a key in the lock. It clicks, and the door creaks open.

Alex steps - stumbles - inside and closes the door slowly behind him before leaning back against it with a long sigh.

He looks like hell. His hair is a mess. There’s a bruise on his cheek. His jacket is torn and his clothes are dirty. He’s got one arm draped across his opposite side and he’s breathing raggedly.

Arinn can’t process this. Alex said 10:30, he wasn’t here, Arinn was going out of his mind, and now he shows up looking like this. It’s too much. Before he can stop to think, he explodes.

“Where the hell were you?! It’s been over an hour! Did you get into a fight or something? What the fuck, Alex?”

Arinn is shaking. If he could just stop and think he’d know he isn’t really angry, just shaken. He would see the hurt in Alex’s eyes. He would reach for him with care rather than lash out with accusations.

Alex’s face hardens. He kicks off his shoes and hangs his keys up on the hook.

“Bus crashed,” he mumbles. “Driver had a stroke or something. Ran off the road and rolled onto its side. None of us could leave until we were all looked over by the paramedics and questioned by the police.” He winces as he removes his jacket. “I was lucky I guess. Just some bruising. Got cleared and got a ride here from a cop. Some people left in ambulances.”

Something sinks inside of Arinn. His resolve crumbles and he’s left at a loss for words.

“Why didn’t you call?” he manages weakly. “I would have - have - “

“Have what? Picked me up? We don’t have a car.”

“You still could have told me! Or at least answered my texts!”

“My phone fell out of my pocket!” Alex bursts out. “It’s probably still in the bus being towed halfway across town by now. It’s not like they were going to let me go look for it while they were trying to pry out people who were trapped!”

He begins to walk stiffly toward the kitchen, past Arinn without so much as looking at him. Arinn follows numbly. He watches Alex take a pack of frozen veggies from the freezer and hold it to his side while he leans on the counter for support. His back is to Arinn.

“Fuck...” he whispers. “Alex, I - god, that’s - I don’t know what to say…” Say sorry you idiot! “Thank god you’re alright...I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to you…”

Alex huffs. “Guess you’d have to find a new meal ticket,” he snaps. 

As soon as he says it the room feels colder. Tension hangs over them like a dark cloud. There’s a hesitation from Alex. For a moment it seems like he might speak. Might take it back. But he only sighs and carefully makes his way into the living room. Arinn hears him groan as he sits on the couch. He continues staring at the place where Alex was just standing.

Arinn’s feet are moving before he knows what he’s doing. He throws his shoes and coat on over his pajamas and is out the door.

He hears it slam behind him.

He hears “Ari, wait! Shit - “

He keeps going.

He doesn’t look back.

Arinn is a block from the apartment building before he finally slows down. He can barely see the sidewalk ahead of him through the blur of tears.

I fucked up. I fucked up. It’s over. I fucked up.

He’s angry, but only at himself. If Alex meant what he said it has to be because Arinn screwed up, didn’t show him enough that he cared, wasn’t good enough at communicating. He should have known he was in over his head. That it was too good to last.

“Arinn!”

Arinn stops walking. It can’t be…

He whirls around to find Alex staggering after him. Even in the dim light from the street lamps Arinn can see that he’s struggling to remain standing, let alone walk. Yet here he is.

“What are you doing?” Arinn croaks. “Y-you’re hurt, you need to be resting…”

With considerable effort, Alex catches up to him. He’s panting heavily. Arinn can’t decide if he wants to turn and run or pull Alex into his arms. He does neither.

“I’m - sorry - “ Alex gets out between breaths. “I didn’t mean it. I swear. I was angry - it, it just popped out - “

“I don’t blame you,” Arinn says quietly. “Given what you know about me. But if it means anything, I - I don’t see you that way. As just a - a meal.”

“I know,” Alex says, putting his whole heart into the words. His eyes are shining. He looks desperate and fragile and Arinn just wants to gather him close and make it all okay again.

“I know that,” he says again. “Please believe me. I shouldn’t have said that, it was so stupid. I shouldn’t have yelled at you. I’m sorry.”

“Why are you apologizing?” Arinn asks a little too harshly. He flinches and softens his tone. “I attacked you the minute you walked in the door. After the night you had that’s the last thing you fucking needed. I was just scared.” He puts his face in his hands. “I don’t know what I’m doing, Alex. I don’t know how to do any of this.”

When Alex speaks again he’s a little closer. Just a few feet from Arinn, but still not close enough to touch.

“Me either,” he says. “This is the first time since coming here that I’ve had to actually use the things I’m trying to get better at...it’s like, therapy was just training but this is the real deal. And I’m so scared I’m going to fuck it all up. Like I did tonight.”

“That makes two of us,” Arinn whispers. He lowers his hands and wraps his arms around himself, feeling cold and brittle. “This - us fighting - is what I was most afraid of. I can’t help what I am. If - if it goes wrong, if we spend time apart or - or - “ he can’t bring himself to even say the words break up aloud for fear they will manifest as real. “ - or separate, what am I supposed to do? I can’t just go sleep with someone else if we’re still together, or if it’s unclear! I’m a lot of things but I’m not a cheater. I - I wouldn’t, I couldn’t…”

Alex listens. He always listens. Even when he’s tired or stressed or angry. Even now, when he’s injured and shouldn’t even be out here.

“You’re right,” he says when he’s sure Arinn is finished. “You can’t help who you are. And I won’t ever really understand what that’s like.” He takes a shaky breath. “What if we made some kind of deal or something. Like, if...if it ever comes to that, you can do what you have to do. No questions asked.”

Arinn’s chest feels tight. He’d do that? He’d let me do that? He knows the depth of Alex’s abandonment issues, between parents who were never around and friends and boyfriends who left him when he needed them most.

And yet he’s willing to look past Arinn sleeping with someone else, willing to trust that it’s nothing more than for his survival. It’s an offer that so many others would happily exploit. The amount that Alex is putting his heart on the line is daunting.

“I don’t want that,” Arinn replies, his voice cracking. “I don’t want anyone but you.”

As soon as he says the words he knows that they’re true.

Alex steps a little closer. His expression is indecipherable. His bottom lip is trembling.

“Really?” And oh, the disbelief in his voice is the most heartbreaking thing. Arinn feels a swell of hatred toward every person who made Alex feel like no one could ever want him.

“Yes, really.” Arinn steps a little closer, too. “Alex…”

The next words terrify him. He feels as though he’s hanging off the edge of a cliff, and if he doesn’t make his move, however risky, he’s going to fall to his death. The truth is all he has now. It could ruin everything, or save it.

“Alex, I love you.”

Fragile silence follows, filled only by the soft chirp of crickets, the hum of someone’s television from a house, a train off in the distance.

A car comes up the road. Its headlights illuminate Alex’s face for a moment and Arinn can see the deep sea of emotion in his eyes.

Arinn is tensed so tight he feels like he might snap. He can feel his mind seeking a way out, the walls he’d let down going up -

“I love you too, Ari.”

With those softly spoken words the walls crumble to dust. He stares, dazed, at Alex.

“Don’t say it just because I said it,” he begs. “Don’t say it if you don’t mean it.”

Alex is shaking his head. He’s searching for words.

“No, no - you don’t understand, I-I do. I have. For a while now. But I was scared, I didn’t know where we stood. Or if it was too soon.”

“For...a while?”

“Yeah,” Alex says, hanging his head like a chastised child. “Don’t even know exactly when. I think maybe...I was a little in love with you right from the beginning. Which sounds crazy, I know.” He shrugs. “I’m a little crazy, I guess. And a lot to handle. But I know what I feel. And I love you.”

Arinn starts to speak but chokes on a sob. He throws his hand over his mouth. Tears stream from his eyes as he stares at Alex. Alex loves him. No one has ever loved him. He’s never loved anyone. It’s so much all at once, he can’t even get a word out. His sobs grow harder, everything he’s feeling boiling up and spilling over.

He doesn’t see Alex move closer, but he feels it when Alex’s arm wraps around him. He’s right here, warm and solid and real. He loves me…

Arinn finds himself pulled in by his gravity, leaning closer until he can bury his face in Alex’s shoulder. Alex tips his head to rest against Arinn’s.

“Please come home,” Alex whispers. “Please.”

Something between a hiccup and a laugh bubbles out of Arinn. “Of course I’m fucking coming home,” he says, the words half muffled into Alex’s shirt. He slips his arm around Alex’s uninjured side and holds on desperately. Alex kisses his head. Arinn doesn’t comment on the tears he feels drip into his hair from Alex’s cheek.

They stay like that until Arinn’s sobs cease and Alex’s breathing calms. By then it must be near one in the morning. A chill runs through Alex and his breath hitches as the movement jostles his injuries. The sound finally spurs Arinn into action.

“Come on,” he says, gently easing Alex’s face up. Alex looks like he could fall asleep where he’s standing. Arinn cups his cheek and kisses him deeply. “You’ve had a long day. Let me take care of you.”

Alex nods gratefully. He remains glued to his side, leaning heavily against Arinn as they slowly make the walk back.

----

Arinn’s hands shake as he prepares two cups of tea. In the quiet of the apartment there’s nothing stopping him from turning over the events of the night in his mind.

Tonight things came too close to ending, in more ways than one. If Alex hadn’t followed him he doesn’t know if they could have salvaged things the next day or not. He’s never done this. He doesn’t know when to keep fighting and when to give up. Tonight...tonight he gave up too quickly.

But what has him more shaken is the crash Alex was in. What he said was right: he was lucky. Arinn hates that he’s hurt at all, but it could have been so much worse. He could have been hospitalized, paralyzed, concussed, killed…

Arinn shudders and nearly drops the kettle as he goes to put it back. He stops and takes a few deep breaths to calm himself. He’s okay. He’s okay.

He sets the cups on a tray - a real tray, not the baking pan Alex once brought him breakfast on - and carries them to the bedroom, trying to appear more together than he feels.

Alex is resting on the bed with his eyes closed, breathing softly. When they got back he managed to remain sitting up long enough for Arinn to peel off his ruined clothes and get some boxers onto him, then he flopped back against the pillows with a groan while Arinn maneuvered his legs onto the bed and pulled a sheet up to his waist.

Arinn sets the tray on the bedside table and looks at him. He focuses first on the slow rise and fall of his chest. He’s okay. He’s okay. It’s impossible for his eyes not to wander to the deep bruising that mars Alex’s skin, from the left side of his face trailing down over his shoulder and arm, his chest and ribs and side, fading out at his hip.

It’s a fucking miracle that nothing is broken. Something must have padded his fall somewhat. Arinn tries not to think about it too hard, because if he does, he imagines Alex’s body being tossed like a ragdoll against unforgiving metal and he wants to scream.

“Hey,” he says. He sits at the edge of the bed and strokes Alex’s cheek until his eyes open. As soon as he sees Arinn he presses his cheek into his hand. Arinn smiles. If he didn’t know better, sometimes he’d think Alex was the one who survived on touch.

“Tea’s ready. I have medicine, too. Tomorrow I’ll go get you something stronger but this will have to do for now. And then we can go to sleep.”

Alex nods, blinking slowly. He turns his face and kisses Arinn’s palm. “Thank you…”

“Stop that. You don’t have to thank me.” He reluctantly takes his hand away from Alex’s face. “Can I prop you up a little?”

Alex nods again, reluctantly. He draws in a sharp breath when he tries to sit up a little so Arinn can put another pillow behind him. “Ah...fuck, it hurts…”

“I know...I know, babe…” Arinn gets the pillow back there as quick as he can and then eases Alex gently back against it. He kisses all over his face in praise. “Just think, if it was worse and you went to the hospital, some nurse could be doing this right now.”

Alex chuckles. “Guess you’re my nurse instead.”

“Hmm. I don’t think nurses are supposed to do this to their patients…” he dips in and kisses him. Alex’s eyes slip shut and he sighs as their lips part.

“No, you’re right,” he agrees. “That has to be against some kind of protocol.”

Hearing him joke around lightens the weight in Arinn’s chest. He kisses Alex one more time and then takes his teacup from the tray and holds it up for him. “Here…good arm only, remember.”

Alex takes the cup with his right hand and takes a sip. He hums with approval.

“This is good.”

“This is how tea is supposed to taste when you don’t over steep it,” Arinn teases gently.

“Guess you’re making the tea from now on.”

“Gladly.”

While Alex sips at his drink Arinn looks through the things he pulled from the medicine cabinet. There are a couple different varieties of pain pills and some sort of bruise relief gel he’s never heard of.

“That’s for work injuries,” Alex says when he notices Arinn holding the bottle. “Doesn’t happen often but sometimes I drop something on my foot or lose my footing and fall. A coworker recommended it. It does help. I’m not sure I’ll be able to move enough to put it on, though…”

“Who said anything about you putting it on?” Arinn turns the bottle over to read the back. “You aren’t moving an inch. I’m taking care of you.”

When Alex doesn’t answer he looks up. His breath catches when he sees the open fondness on Alex’s face.

“What?”

“Nothing...I’m just...really lucky.”

Arinn feels his cheeks heating and he can’t do a damn thing about it. “Well...I am your nurse, right?”

“Mmhmm. My hot nurse.” Alex winks suggestively. In his weariness the gesture is clumsy, but it still makes Arinn’s blush deepen.

“Good lord, you’re already loopy and you haven’t even taken the pain meds yet.” Arinn pops open the bottle and puts a pill in his hand.

Alex reaches for it, but Arinn decides it’s only fair to turn the tables a little. He shakes his head and holds the pill up. Alex’s eyes follow it as Arinn slips it onto his own tongue.

His brow pinches. “What are you - oh - “

Arinn leans forward and kisses Alex slowly. As he does, he slips the pill into his mouth. When he pulls back, Alex is the one blushing.

He fumbles a little with the tea cup and drinks down the last of it, swallowing the pill. He lets out a shaky breath when he’s finished. “Holy shit Ari, you can’t just do things like that. I’m too banged up to - to - “

“To bang?”

Arinn grins. Alex groans, but he’s smiling. “You’re worse than I am.”

“And yet, you love me.” The words are still as foreign on his tongue as they are in his mind.

Alex’s expression turns soft, almost shy. He takes Arinn’s hand and squeezes it. “Yeah. I do.”

Arinn could drown in that deep gaze. To stay afloat he busies himself with opening the bottle of gel and squeezing some out into his hand.

“Alright. Last bit and then you can go to bed.” His hands hover over Alex’s heated skin. He chews his lip. “I don’t want to hurt you…”

“It’ll only hurt at first,” Alex reassures him. “Then it’ll help.”

“Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. Okay…”

He starts small, rubbing a tiny bit of the gel onto Alex’s bruised cheek. That goes fine. He rubs it onto his arm and shoulder as carefully as he can and Alex barely flinches.

The bruising on his side is the worst of it, though, and Arinn dreads it. But that’s also where he needs this the most.

Arinn gets some more gel onto his palms. Slowly, gently, he smooths it over the tender skin, flinching himself every time Alex makes a pained sound. “Hang in there…” He makes sure he’s covered every inch before finally moving down to his hip. When he’s done he presses an apologetic kiss to Alex’s chest. “All done…”

Alex breathes a sigh of relief. “Thank you…” He closes his eyes as Arinn continues trailing comforting kisses up his neck and cheek, avoiding the bruised side.

When Alex’s breathing has evened out, Arinn gathers everything onto the tray and brings it to the kitchen to deal with tomorrow. He makes sure the door is locked, shuts off the lights, and then finally slips into bed beside Alex.

He lies there a while staring at Alex’s silhouette in the darkened room. Alex is so still, his breaths so slow, that Arinn assumes he must be sleeping. So it’s a surprise when his eyes open and he turns his head to meet Arinn’s gaze.

“You’re too far away,” he mumbles sleepily.

Arinn exhales. “I can’t exactly sprawl on top of you right now,” he whispers back.

“Then just…” he pats the small but notable empty space between them.

How can he not give in? At least it’s Alex’s uninjured side. He presses up close to him and holds his arm like a child holding a stuffed animal. “Better?”

“Better.”

After another stretch of silence, Arinn can’t help himself. “...Alex?”

“Yeah?”

“I can’t...can’t stop thinking about how it could have been so much worse…”

His tail curls over his hip, brushing against Alex’s hand where it lies on the bed. Alex cradles it and strokes it with his thumb.

“But it wasn’t. I’m right here, Ari.”

“But if you weren’t...if you hadn’t made it...you never would have known...” he nearly chokes on the whispered words.

“Known?”

“That I love you.”

“...neither would you,” Alex replies.

Arinn holds his arm a little tighter. He hadn’t thought of it the other way around, but Alex is right. In their fear and insecurity they both held in something the other desperately needed to hear.

“But now - “ Alex’s words are broken by a big yawn. “ - now we know…”

Arinn kisses his shoulder, overwhelmed with relief, gratitude, and love. “Yeah. Yeah, we do.” He kisses again and again, each one slower and sleepier than the last. “Get some rest,” he whispers against his skin. “I’ll be here in the morning.”

And the morning after that...and the next, and the next...

...and every morning after, for as long as you want.

-- The End --