#by that point the pain has gotten worse and my vision is blurry and then I DIE

[whimsyprinx]

i truly should’ve been born to a noble family that has more rivals and enemies than they do allies so that one day I would inevitably be caught in the crossfire and dies tragically coughing up blood (and tea) after succumbing to the poison that has laced my tea

[gloomzombie]

I'll Bury You For This

Pairings: Jeff the Killer X Male Reader

Warnings: Mentions of blood

Word Count: 4,244

Chapter 6: Don't Ask, Don't Tell

Ch. 1, Ch. 2, Ch. 3, Ch. 4, Ch. 5

August 21. 3:05pm.

It gets to the point where my burning lungs won’t let me go any further. I slow down and stop, gasping for more and more air. My eyes are still watering- no Y/N, you’re still crying. It doesn’t help at all with trying to catch my breath. It sounds like I’m hyperventilating. 

I breathe heavily as I look around, trying so desperately to take in my surroundings. But, with the state I’m in, I could’ve been here a thousand times before and still wouldn't be able to figure out where I am. It’s as if my vision has gotten ten times worse; I can’t make out anything, no shapes of houses or other buildings, not even the shapes of what I’m sure are trees. 

I push forward and find it so difficult to walk, I trip after a few seconds. My face hits what I expected to be concrete, but instead leaves. So. Many. Leaves. When did I get back in the forest? I jolt back up, grabbing at the dirt underneath me. I look around and it’s not all blurry anymore. 

All around me are trees, tall and thin, but some are thicker. I get up and turn around to find the only building out here it seems. An abandoned house? I seem to find my footing and walk up to where the front door used to be. I hesitate. What am I even doing? It’s as if something is luring me to this place, but I don’t know what. 

Snap. I spin on my feet quickly, my eyes flitting around at the trees, only to find nothing. I don’t trust that for a second. I guess I’m going inside then. My shoes step on broken glass and twigs as I walk inside the small place. It doesn’t really look like a house, more like a shack. It doesn’t have a bathroom or even any bedrooms. All it has is a bunch of broken and worn down furniture and..is that a gun? 

I shake my head, bend down at the knees, and examine it closer. Well, it definitely is a gun. I wonder if it’s loaded. Wait, Y/N, you should be wondering why it’s even here or, more importantly, who it belongs to. I stand up straight. Where the hell am I? And who left this here? Crack. I swiftly turn my head, and, this time, catch a glimpse of a dark figure. “Who the hell are you?” I ask. My voice comes out less shaky than I expected. Not only does my throat burn from all the running and heavy breathing, but I’m also scared shitless.

“Who are you and where the fuck did you take me?” I speak louder this time, but no answer. I followed in the direction I saw the figure sneak from, and step out of the building. Whoever it was, it seems like I gave them enough time to leave. Dammit. Suddenly, the hair on my arms stood on end. I cross them together, but that doesn’t help. There’s an ear-splitting sound that fills my ears and, helplessly, I gaze around everywhere for the source but all there is are trees. Wait, was the building gone? That question gets thrown out of my head as the sound gets worse.

“Fuck!” I groan out in pain as it gets louder, and I clutch my ears. What the fuck is going on? Where am I? Why am I here? What is that sound? I try so hard to keep standing, but that becomes impossible. My knees buckle and I drop to the ground. “Ugh!” I can feel the tears stinging at my eyes as the sound gets even louder. I blink rapidly, not wanting to shut them. In the short time that I manage that, I make out a figure standing across from me in the small clearing. But it doesn’t look right. Too tall, far too thin. Am I seeing this correctly or am I going nuts? 

My heart beats so loud in my ears, loud enough to be heard just above the sound. All of this crashing sound leaves a ringing in my ears. My head is spinning, my vision is spotting. I’m fainting. I don’t want this to happen. Everything goes quiet, and that’s the second I know it’s happening. My head drops into the grass just as the tall figure gets closer.

?:??

My head is pounding when I wake up. I groan, but that makes it worse. It’s so bad I can feel it in my teeth. I open my eyes only to see grass. Am I still in the forest? I sit up slowly, and wince. I feel so sore. My ears are ringing slightly. I bring my hand up to my wet nose, and wipe whatever it is off. I look down at my hand and notice it’s blood on my fingers. Well, that’s a nice thought. My nose was bleeding, which is confusing because it never bleeds. I sigh and ignore the headache, gazing around to get a hint at where I am. 

I guess I’m not in the forest anymore, but just outside of it. There’s trees at the edge of the grass I’ve been laying on, but only there. It’s darker out now; the sun’s gone. How long was I out for? “Enough for me to be starving” I think as my stomach makes all kinds of noises. What time is it? My phone! I was out for so long, someone could’ve robbed me. I feel around my pockets and let out a sigh of relief as I find my phone and wallet in the back one. I take it out, and try to turn it on. “You've gotta be kidding..” It’s dead. Of course it is.

I groan, put the phone back in my pocket, and stand up. My legs feel like they’re on fire. How long did I run for today? I walk away from the forest. I don’t want to go back there. As I walk, I try to make out anything that could tell me exactly where I am. I stop squinting as I come across a picnic table. Is that..? Am I in the park from earlier? I get closer to it and as I do, I smell the strong scent of Xander’s cologne lingering at the bench. Xander. The memories from today come flooding back and I feel so sick about it. Why did I break his nose? For literally coming out to me? I groan into my hands. I feel like such an ass. 

But I also feel so fucking exhausted. Too exhausted to get caught up in shit from earlier. I huff and walk out of the park. I wish I could call someone to come pick me up because I sure as hell don’t feel like walking all the way home. I walk to the nearest gas station, and go inside. The air conditioning feels so heavenly against my sticky skin. I desperately need to shower when I get home. “Welcome,” I turn my head to the front. I nod to the sleepy cashier and turn to the aisles. 

I look through the rows of snacks and pick out a bag of cookies. I go to the back and take a bottle of water, then head back to the front. I place the stuff on the counter and the cashier lazily scans them. “Did you find everything okay?” He asks. “Yeah..hey, could you tell me what time it is?” I ask. He stares at me for a second, then takes his phone out. “7:48.” I nod, making sure my face doesn’t reflect my shock. I was knocked out for almost 5 hours?

“11.57.” I hand him the cash and tell him to keep the change. He seems pretty thankful he had one less thing to do. I open the water bottle as soon as I leave, chugging down about half of it. It soothes my throat a bit, so I feel safe to eat a little. I sit down on the concrete, open the bag of cookies, and eat a few. Now that I’ve relaxed a little, I can think about stuff. Mostly about how I have no clue what happened before I passed out. I remember eating, then punching Xander and running away. Then I was in the woods for some reason. I try to remember, but come up with nothing. My headache gets worse when I try and think about it too much, so I give up.

I finish my cookies and throw away the bag in the dumpster by the store. I sigh. How the hell am I supposed to get home? I ignore all the pain in my legs and chest as I make the walk back home. It’s a good thing I’ve been to this park enough to know the way home. It’s so hard to make myself put one foot in front of the other, but I manage it. I’m definitely skipping dinner; I’m way too tired to deal with that.

?:??

It takes at least an hour and a half to get back home, though I can’t be entirely sure since my phone is fucking dead. I huffed and picked up the pace a little as I finally made it to my street. As I’m walking, I feel that weird sense that I’m being watched. I keep walking, then quickly turn my head to look behind me. My heart sinks. This dude is entirely covered in..is that blood? It stains his white hoodie so easily. He’s got long, messy hair that drips blood on the pavement like water after a shower. I take in his build, his hair, and especially his face.

I couldn’t get a good enough look at it, as he almost immediately pounces on me. The wind is knocked out of my chest when my back hits the concrete, and I gasp. He leans over me, his face so close to mine. I can feel myself start to shake as I stare at him wide-eyed. The scariest thing about him isn’t even the jagged scars that carve into the skin of his cheeks, or all the blood that he’s absolutely drenched in. No, the scariest thing about him is the way he stares unblinkingly into my eyes. My breath catches as I feel the blade of what I assume is a knife against my throat. I didn’t even realize he was carrying one.

I breathe slow and shallow breaths, so terrified that I don’t dare try to do anything more. I just stare into his eyes. What’s taking him so long? If he’s going to kill me like he clearly has others, why hasn’t he done it yet? As I stare into those soulless eyes, I notice how blue they are. Ice blue. As soon as I think about the connection, he suddenly jerks up and off of me. I pick myself up as fast as I can, but he’s gone when I’m finally on my feet.

I ignore my burning lungs and sprint the rest of the way back home. My hands are shaking so bad as I unlock the door, quickly getting inside and locking it behind me. I breathe heavily as I make my way to the bathroom, ignoring John trying to get my attention. I shut the door behind me, lock it, and turn the light on. I stare at the boy in the mirror. Jesus fucking christ, I do look crazy.

My neck is bleeding, but it’s not terrible. I guess the knife sunk in a little; just the thought makes me shiver. My hair is all gross. What happened to it? I think back to just a minute ago..how his hair draped across my face…Oh no. Please don’t tell me. The tears continue to drip down my face slowly as I move my hands into my hair. My breathing turns ragged as soon as I feel it. It takes all of me to pull my hands back out. They shake as I will my eyes to look. I must sound hysterical as I breathe so harshly. Blood. There’s blood in my hair. But that’s not the worst part. I felt chunks. I don’t think as I strip my clothes off as fast as I can and turn the water on in the tub. I switch the damn thing to the showerhead and take off the last of my clothes. 

I jump in and scrub my hair furiously. The blood turns the water red, and the chunks of it take a lot of water to finally slip down the drain. I’m crying again, but I can’t really tell much because of the water from the showerhead. My face feels so numb, and I almost forget about the cut on my neck. My neck. Once the water runs clean again, I press my fingers lightly against it. I wince as I feel across the line. It’s not deep, so I don't have to worry about a bandage or anything. 

I take a washcloth and scrub my skin raw; then I do the same with my hair, shampooing it twice. I only stop the water and get out once I feel like I’m about to faint. I take a towel from under the sink and dry my hair, making sure I get the roots. Once I’m done with that, I wrap the towel around me and open the door, then speed walk to my room. “Hey!” John tries to stop me, but I close the door on him, locking it immediately. “Go away!” I scream. There’s silence behind the door, then I hear his footsteps as he walks away. 

I take the towel off and put some comfy clothes on. I groan and flop down on my bed. What the hell just happened? Today doesn’t feel real. At all. The more I think about it, the more it doesn’t make sense- but does at the same time? When he jumped off of me is when I thought about Jeff. I mean, I don’t know what his whole face looks like; but the hair, those eyes, his build..Is that why he acts like such an ass? I shake my head. No, it can’t be true; it can’t be him…but is it?

I breathe in and out slowly, trying to calm down my racing heartbeat, and run my fingers through my clean hair. As I think it over, it becomes increasingly obvious that it would make sense if it was him. Is that why he ran? Did he recognize me? I sigh and rest my hands on my face. If it was him and he did recognize me, maybe he wouldn't bother me anymore. Stop that Y/N, there's plenty of people with the same eye color as Jeff.

“Ugh!” I groan. My brain won’t ever shut up when I fucking want it to. I turn on my side and press the power button on my phone, wait for it to turn on, then go through all my notifications. Oh. I have a bunch of missed calls and messages from Xander, a few messages from John and Gage, and a missed call from Lily. Wow, I must be getting popular or some shit. I bite my lip and press on the notifications from Xander before I get the chance to decide against it. 

August 21. 3:21pm.

Xander: Y/N pls pls just talk to me

Xander: I didnt mean to overstep

Xander: I didnt know u even liked me like that, im sry

4:46pm.

Xander: Y/N pls

Xander: Y/NNNN

Xander: Im sorry for kissing u without permission

Xander: That was my fault, Im so sorry

Xander: Pls just talk to me

5:57pm.

Xander: Im sorry. Pls dont be mad at me. Ill give u space

I sigh, dropping to lay on my back again. I feel bad for punching him and running away. Why did I do that? That was such an asshole thing to do and so not like me. It could be that I’ve had so much social interaction this whole week, first school, then the fucking bar, Gage’s house, and then seeing Xander. Or maybe it was all the confusing “feelings” I’ve been having for Gage. I’m still not entirely sure how exactly I feel about him, but that’s what dating is for, right? I’m new to dating, of course, so I’m not entirely sure. 

I lay there, thinking about it for a good while. It would be easy to fall for Xander again, but is that really what I want? Gage is good for me. There’s always the chance that Xander could fall back into his old habits, and if I were with him, I could too. I think of the pros and cons, who is better for me. So far, the only pros with Xander would be that I already loved him once, and that’d make it easier to get over him because, well, I wouldn’t have to anymore. But, I’ve already started things with Gage and finally started feeling better about Xander. Well, now I’m gonna feel like shit about him all over again. 

I groan. I wish he never told me he liked me, or I never got drunk enough to have the confidence to kiss Gage. I’ve never had this problem before. I’ve never had “options” until now. That feels like such a weird thing to say, but what else is there to say about it? When I got with guys, they didn’t really like me, they just liked what I could do for them; so it was easy for me to not think much about who I slept with, because it was just that, not anything close to love.  I like Gage, but I loved Xander. This is all so confusing. I sit up and stretch. I pick up my phone again, and decide to go with the hardest choice; see what happens with Gage and tell Xander I need space.

August 27. 3:34pm.

“Do you think this one looks good?” Gage asks as he does a little twirl, showing off the skirt he’s trying on. I smile. “It looks adorable on you. I’m not really a skirt guy, but it suits you.” He faces me and covers his cheeks with the ends of his sweater sleeves. “Thanks, Y/N.” I push off the wall and walk up to him. I kiss his forehead and wrap my hands around his wrists. I pull his hands away from his face, and kiss his lips. He giggles before pushing me away. “Y/N, you know I can’t kiss you until the snake bites heal.” 

I smile widely. “I know, but I can’t help myself when you look so cute,” I pepper small kisses all over his face and he whines in protest. It’s been a week since I decided to try things out with him. It’s also been a week since I last spoke to Xander. He’s coming to school again, but we don’t talk. He’s given me the space I ask for, and I’m glad. It makes me feel better about my decision, and better about him. I still find myself feeling bad, but it was either him or Gage; either way someone’s feelings would be hurt. I have a reason to deny Xander, but I don’t have any real reason to deny Gage. 

Since last week, I’ve also made more of an effort to talk to Jeff. He’s not as terrible once you actually get him to keep talking to you- but that’s the problem; he talks to me for a maximum of 10 minutes straight, then tells me to fuck off, walks away, or just ignores me. I’ve found out a bit more about him now. He’s 19, he lives by himself, and apparently he’s bisexual. When I found that out, it was mostly a joke question. “Do you like anyone here?” I had asked, and I didn’t really mean it as a romantic question, more like if he actually had friends; but looking back at it, it really didn’t sound like that at all. He just blinked at me- he’s finally dropped that offended look, well mostly. “No. None of these bitches are worth my time. The dudes here aren’t either.” It caught me off guard at the time, because people don’t usually drop their sexuality that casually. But I guess it does match his character.

And now I’m shopping with Gage, at Hot Topic of all places. I haven’t been in months and he’s never been at all. It didn’t surprise me much, because he doesn’t really look like he would shop here. But, when I brought the idea up, he seemed excited about going. “I’ve seen so much cool stuff from there, and I mean, I do want to try out a new style,” He responded with a cute smile. I couldn’t resist it. The thought of seeing him in clothes that were more my style made me feel good. It was like seeing him in my own clothes. Well, minus the skirts. We’ve been on a few dates before this one, including getting piercings together. I suggested snake bites for him because I thought they’d look good on him (they do), and he said I should get a septum to match his; I wanted to get one for forever anyways.

“Think I should get it?” he asks, leaning his head against me. “Yeah, but I think you should get one of their knit sweaters to go with it.” I pull away. “The ones with the holes in it?” he asked, his face going all pink. I smirk. “Yeah, one of those.” We go back to the front, and he starts going through the rack of sweaters and jackets. “Is this the one you were talking about?” He asks, and his face is still all pink. “Yeah, wouldn’t it look awesome on you?” I hold the cropped sweater up against his chest, and I imagine him in it. He would look great in it. His face grows redder. “My whole chest would be out,” He whispers, averting his gaze. 

I laugh. “Yeah, that’s the point. But, you could wear something underneath it. Orrr,” I lean in and whisper in his ear. “You could wear it just for me.” I pull away and smile as he shudders. “W-well. I guess you’re right.” He takes the sweater from me and carries it to the counter with the skirt. 

5:23pm.

After the mall, we went to get something to eat. On the way back home, my phone starts going off in my lap. Gage glances at me for a second before his eyes go back to the road. I ignore every message and call, before I just turn the phone off. I stare out the window, listening to the London After Midnight playing through the speakers. “Are you not going to answer that?” I hear Gage ask. “No, I don’t plan on it.” I sigh. I don’t want him to ask about John, really. “Who is that? You always get a bunch of messages that you just..ignore.” I chew on my lip. Do I tell him? I guess I could now, he was gonna have to know sometime. “My dad,” I responded. I can hear my heartbeat thump thump in my ears. Why do I feel so nervous about this?

“Oh.” He says blankly. As I bite down on my lip, the metallic taste of blood meets my tongue. He’s silent for a few minutes. What is he thinking right now? God, he probably thinks I just hate my dad for no reason. I continue to chew on my lip despite the fact it’s burning. “Why do you ignore him?” I fold my hands and start kneading them together. I don’t like talking about this. “Uhm. That’s really personal, Gage,” I murmur. Why does he want to know so bad?

I turn to look at him. He’s gripping the steering wheel tightly, as if he’s upset. He’s got an expression on his face that I’ve never seen on him before. His jaw tight, his eyebrows furrowed, his lips pressed into a thin line. Is he mad at me?  “Whatever,” He responds coolly. I look away. Why is he so upset? Did I do something wrong?

“What are you doing, Y/N? Why don’t you want me going inside?” I squint my eyes, and stand in front of the door so he won’t try anything. “Like I said, that’s really personal, Gage.” He stares at me, and I stare back. What the hell is he thinking? He strides towards me, but I shove him away; it’s easy to, because he’s shorter than me. “Y/N. Answer my question. What are you doing in there that you don’t want me to see?” I look at him defensively. “What the fuck is up with you? I’m not doing anything. What do you think I’m doing?” I ask, walking up to him. He glares at me. “Whatever Y/N, don’t answer me. But there’s something off about this.” He turns to walk away, but at that moment, the door swings open.

When we get to my house, I get out and shut the door like I usually do. I started letting him drop me off on Tuesday. He had agreed to not get out of the car when I asked him not to, albeit acting very weird about it. But now, when I start walking up to the door, I hear his footsteps trailing behind me. My brows furrow and I turn on my heels. “What are you doing?” I ask. He stands there with his arms folded in front of him. He still looks mad.

[blacklister214]

Honesty and Codology: Chapter 1 (Eejit)

I've had Scarnash on the brain since 4x06 and a strong hankering to write a POV fic for Patrick. This one takes place in the middle of 2x06 while Patrick is recovering in the hospital. I may do more chapters, but I have to warn you, my muses are fickle. Replies, questions, and reblogs are always appreciated! Apologies in advance for the typos I'm certain I missed. Enjoy!

___________________________________________________________

Patrick shifted slightly, trying to get comfortable on the lumpy mattress. There had been times when he’d slept on much worse, but the feathered bed he'd used for the past five years had spoiled him.

The nurse had administered the pain medication, so his leg was no longer leaving him in constant agony, but the ache was still there. Perhaps it was better to focus on that, than the disquiet of being alone in the hospital room. Patrick never liked silence. It gave him too much time with his thoughts.

He’d had his men stake out every entrance to the building, so he could, theoretically, go to sleep without endangering his own life. Unfortunately, some instincts were harder to overcome than others. How much did he really trust his men? If the bribe were right, would one of them allow his would be killer chance to finish the job? Such contemplations made it rather hard to relax. He closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, and willed the medicine to send him into a peaceful slumber.     

“Hello Patrick.” Patrick’s hand immediately dove beneath his sheets to where he’d hidden his pistol. He tried to blink the blurriness from his vision as he aimed his weapon at the figure in the visitor’s chair. 

Black bowler hat. Worn green waistcoat. Pocket watch. Fond, but vaguely disapproving expression on his face. It was Michael, exactly as he’d been the last time Patrick had seen him alive. 

"That laudanum must have been strong.” He’d been warned about the possible side effects of the drug, but he didn’t recall seeing spirits as being one of them. 

“Interesting way to greet your brother.” Patrick realized that he was still pointing the gun at Michael…no not Michael…at the empty chair where he was imagining Michael to be. Still, best to return the gun to its hiding spot before a nurse returned and caught him with it. Strictly speaking patients weren’t allowed weapons, but he’d gotten Clarence to smuggle one in. 

“You’re not my brother. Just a hallucination, brought on by painkillers.” It was important for Patrick to state it out loud. He’d enjoyed reading A Christmas Carol as much as anyone, but he did not believe in ghosts. 

“Does that mean you’re not pleased to see me?” The vision raised one eyebrow in a manner that was so familiar, so perfectly Michael, that Patrick had to swallow hard to keep tears from welling in his eyes. To see a memory animated before him was a miracle he’d never dreamed he’d witness.  

“Nice to have visitors of any sort, I suppose.” Patrick frowned. He’d been aiming for nonchalant, but that had come out a bit self-pitying. He didn’t need a constant stream of people bothering him while was trying to rest. 

“Clarence stopped by.” 

Patrick almost asked about how Michael knew about Clarence, since he’d been hired after Michael’s death. Then he remembered he’d already decided that “Michael” was a product of his own brain. Whatever Patrick knew, Michael would as well. 

“He needed me to sign some papers. God forbid my being shot interferes with the running of the accounts.” Clarence was a good employee. Loyal, hardworking. Certainly one of Patrick’s shrewder hires. Still, it wasn’t like they had a friendship. Employer and employee was a difficult line to cross and frankly they didn’t have much in common beyond a desire to see Nash and Sons succeed. 

“Maggie would be here, if you’d bother telling her what happened. Eamonn, as well I suspect.”

The tone of gentle chastiment was all too familiar to Patrick’s ears. Whenever Patrick has caused mischief, and he had quite frequently, it was always the same. Why Patrick? Why did you leave a dead mouse in your teacher’s desk drawer? Why did you throw Liam O’Toole’s fishing pole in the river? Why did you steal the tart off Ma’s tray, when she told you to wait until after supper? 

“No point in worrying them.” He’d gotten to know the witnesses to his brother’s murder over the years, and Patrick liked them both. Still, the dark history that bound them all together made him reluctant to form any tighter bonds. He was convinced he’d only survived his brother’s death because of Nash and Sons. He poured everything he had into the business, into making Michael’s dream a reality. Patrick couldn’t have done that with regular reminders of what he’d lost. 

“True. What are a few bullets in a leg in the grand scheme of things? You have two, after all.” 

Patrick has a strong impulse to cross his arms over his chest. He was no longer a child attempting to stand his ground with his much older brother. Patrick realized with a jolt that they were the same age now. Good god, seven years had flown quickly. What once seemed an impossibly large chasm was no more.   

“The situation is well in hand. I have the best investigator in London working the case.” He considered qualifying that statement, with “outside himself”, but rejected it. “Michael” was in his head, and Patrick had no illusions about how he rated against Eliza Scarlet.  

“The lady detective.” 

There was something odd in Michael’s inflection when he used the sobriquet. Perhaps a slight emphasis on the word “lady”? Patrick doubted that even a Michael of his imagination would take issue with a female PI. Their own mother, God rest her, had had a commanding presence that generals would envy. 

Perhaps it was the poshness the title implied. Patrick himself had made the mistake of dismissing the “Lady Detective” for that very reason. Women of the middle and upper classes, as a rule, hadn’t much in the way of grit. The only ambitions they were encouraged to nurture were of a matrimonial bent.  

“She’s very good. Tenacious. Ambitious. Clever. Hoodwinked me, more than once.” St. Clair had been furious when he’d shown up at the office, ranting about “that woman” making fools of them both. Patrick had agreed to buy up every available copy of the circular just to calm him down. Months later and Patrick was still using the story of his humiliation as tinder for his fires.  

“That must have been quite the experience for you.”  

Patrick looked down, smiling to himself at the memory of surprising her at her home. She had been confused by his smile and words of congratulations. She had a right to be. By her own admission her trick had hurt his relationship with St. Clair, embarrassed him in the eyes of the public, and potentially stuck him with a lawsuit. By rights he should have been furious with her…but he wasn’t. 

The fact was, he couldn’t remember a case where he’d enjoyed himself more. As he’d told her, he loved a challenge, and Eliza Scarlet was nothing if not challenging. Any anger he felt at the outcome was overpowered by the swell of admiration for her and the intense desire to make her a part of his agency. 

Patrick, glanced back up, suddenly aware he’d been musing to himself for over a minute. That was rude, even to a figment of his own imagination. Michael did not seem at all perturbed at being ignored. On the contrary, he was smirking at Patrick in a disconcerting manner, as though he were enjoying a joke at Patrick’s expense. 

“The point is, she’ll find out who was behind it.” Who had shot him, and why? A difficult question to answer. Someone he’d put away? A source of information he’d squeezed one time too many? A jealous husband? Not, of course, that Patrick would deliberately dally with a married woman. Too much trouble. But it wouldn’t be the first time a woman claimed widowhood a bit prematurely. Then, of course, there was always the possibility it was O’Driscoll. He had received no word from Eamonn or Maggie, but ships came in and out of the docks every day. It was possible his brother’s killer had avoided them, choosing to have Patrick removed before eliminating the more vulnerable targets. 

“Does it trouble you that you’ve angered so many people, you haven’t a clue who wants you dead?”

Patrick looked at Michael sharply, the memory of O’Driscoll coating his tongue with bitterness. 

“You’re a fine one to talk.” An old anger blossomed in Patrick’s chest as he returned to that night in his mind. Michael had gone to the docks alone that night, rather than wait for Patrick. If Patrick had ever done something so foolish, Michael would have tanned his hide.  

“That’s unfair.” 

“You should have taken me with you.” They were supposed to stick together. That was the deal they’d made. Michael, for the first time in his life, had broken his word, and he’d left Patrick all alone. 

“You weren’t there when the tip came in.” 

A fact continued to haunt Patrick to this day. He hadn’t been there. He’d been down at the tavern drinking and flirting with lasses.  

“We’d worked for two weeks straight on the case for next to nothing. I needed a break!” The words felt hollow, even as he said them. Selfish. As hard as Patrick worked, Michael had worked double. He never complained either. He had been so good. He’d always been so good. Patrick sometimes wondered if his being born was the universe balancing things out. 

“I never said you didn’t. I told you to go, remember?” 

Of course he did. Michael had forever been Patrick’s greatest advocate. Smallpox took both their parents when Patrick was only 8 years old. Michael had kept them both housed, fed, and clothed, working odd jobs until he was old enough to join the Royal Irish Constabulary. When Patrick was old enough, Michael had given him a recommendation. Patrick had been drummed out for insubordination, and Michael had immediately resigned his post. He’d gotten them passage to London and worked menial jobs until they’d saved enough to open Nash & Sons.      

“You should have come with me.” Just once, couldn’t Michael have been selfish? Ignored responsibility for a single evening? 

“I couldn’t. I’d made a promise.” Patrick briefly closed his eyes. He remembered the look on the faces of Maggie’s family, desperate for their daughter’s return. Did he really blame Michael for not wanting to waste time tracking Patrick down? No. Not with Maggie’s life on the line. In his heart of hearts, he knew where the blame truly lay.

“You and your honesty.”

“You and your codology.” 

Their old refrain. He remembered returning to their very first office with a small sign engraved “Nash and Sons.” When Michael had pointed out neither of them actually HAD sons, Patrick had explained that they were the “Sons.” The name implied that business was inherited, with a legacy of success, rather than an upstart agency. Michael had shaken his head in exasperation, but allowed Patrick’s his way.

Patrick had often joked that if it bothered him so much, he could find himself a wife and have some children. Michael had always smiled and said, “Or you could.” Then they’d both laugh at the likelihood of that happening.   

“You’ll be pleased to know I have been a bit more truthful of late.” The look on Michael’s face was skeptical.

“Oh really?”

“Miss Scarlett. I offered her a fair rate for referring cases to her, rather than just taking my finder’s fee off the top.” 

Today had actually been something of a success, bullets in his leg notwithstanding. His months of careful planning had paid off. Sending cases her way. Paying Detective Phelps for news regarding Inspector Wellington. He’d waited for the perfect moment, then struck. 

At first his proposal had not had the warmest of receptions, but in the end she had capitulated. Not totally, of course. Not yet. And naturally she’d managed to rest a small victory of her own from the encounter. Still, being out an extra month’s pay was more than worth the exhilaration that came with going toe to toe with a worthy opponent.  

“A noble gesture, I am sure. Not in the least self-serving.” Patrick rolled his eyes at the rebuke. 

“I didn’t grow our business to what it is today by being altruistic. Besides, Eliza despises charity. I would have mortally wounded her pride.” 

Her disgruntled tone when she decried needing his help told him everything he needed to know on that score. She could accept a business exchange, but under no circumstances did she want his pity. She was a unique woman, who was more offended by chivalry than chicanery.

“Eliza?” Patrick realized that he’d unintentionally used her first name. Odd, that.   

“I meant Miss Scarlett. A slip of the tongue.” 

“That would be a first.” Michael wasn’t wrong. Patrick's words were his best weapons and he usually wielded them with great care. Patrick shook his head and attempted to shrug it off.

“I am, as I mentioned, on rather strong medication.” 

Michael made a non-committal sound and rose. 

“Perhaps it's best I leave you to rest then.” He turned toward the door, as though he were a flesh and blood visitor, not a phantom of Patrick’s mind. Phantom or no though, Patrick wasn’t quite ready for him to disappear.

“Michael?” His brother paused and glanced back at him,  “Why now? After all these years, why am I dreaming of you now?”

Michael scratched his beard.

“I thought you said it was the laudenum. That I’m just in your imagination.” Patrick supposed Michael had a point. Any answer Michael gave would ultimately come from himself. Still, he wanted a response.

“I’m curious about what I’d imagine you to say.” That same mysterious smile from earlier returned to his brother’s face.

“You’re the detective. Has something changed in your life lately? Something you’d want to talk to me about? Or someone?” Patrick’s eyes widened as Michael's implication suddenly dawned on him. Eliza Scarlet. Somehow she had triggered this…encounter. 

He narrowed his eyes suspiciously at Michael. What exactly was he saying? That he fancied her? She was strong and clever and funny and pretty and a man would be mad not to be drawn toward that. And yes, she had a disturbing tendency to make him want to be more fair and honest, at least with her. All that though, was besides the point.

His affairs with women were uncomplicated things. He was interested in experienced women who enjoyed occasional companionship, but didn’t want the burden of a husband. That suited him perfectly. He didn’t have time for anything else. Besides, it was clear to anyone with eyes she had her heart set on Inspector William Wellington. Not that the fool deserved her, but that wasn't the main issue either. The issue was that she was going to be an excellent asset to his business, and he would never do anything to compromise that. Nash and Sons came first. Always.

Though he had to admit, it had been nice, when he’d opened his eyes and found that she’d stayed with him from his transportation to the hospital through the surgery. It was nice to have someone who cared, at least a little. Feck.   

Patrick glared up at his brother.

“Eejit.” Since when had Michael been the one to stir up unnecessary trouble? That was Patrick’s role and he’d thank his brother to remember it.  The corners of Michaels’ lips tilted up at the insult.

“According to you, you’re only talking to yourself. Now, get some sleep.” Patrick’s eyelids suddenly felt impossibly heavy and began to close. Fighting against his stupor, he managed to get out the words he hadn’t been able to say all those years ago. 

“Good bye, Michael.”

“Good night, Patrick.”

[aerodaltonimperial]

‘Why can’t you let me in. What are you so afraid of.’ ?

(sigh. you know that happened here. i can't control any of my word counts lol. WELP.)

He’d once read that after a car accident, injuries could take days to be felt, because endorphins are natural painkillers and adrenaline masks the soft tissue damage. He thinks it’s much the same when he walks off the ring with the FTW belt, leaving Lee Moriarty on his hands and knees, heart pounding against his ears. Hook’s aware that he just got the shit beat out of him, but his blood’s still singing and the nerves beneath his skin aren’t registering much yet. If his fingers clutch the damn belt harder than they need to, it’s only because he thought he was going to have it ripped out of his hands when his vision had gotten blurry, painted red around the edges.

He’s desperate to get out from backstage. The eight minutes in the ring had felt like a lifetime; the only pain points he’s aware of already are the ache building in his left elbow and the sting along his back. He knows, logically, that means both injuries are severe enough to push past all the inhibitors. It’s not a good thing.

Hook needs to get out, get one of the cars back to the hotel so he can lick his wounds in peace, and whatever deity observes AEW is clearly mocking him, because he runs smack into Ricky Starks. Objectively, the man looks terrible—he’s been a wreck since August, since the stable dissolved and Hobbs turned on him. But now, with blood smeared across his temple, he looks even worse.

“Hook,” he says, and Hook absolutely cannot deal with this right now. He doesn’t even reply, just tries to push through, only he’s misjudged how banged up his shoulders are and smacking into Ricky’s chest sends a wave of pain down his arm.

Ricky reaches out, quick as a wink, grabbing Hook’s bicep with one hand. “Hook, you’re a fucking mess.”

Hook only pauses because he’s surprised that Ricky is touching him; Ricky knows better. Ricky doesn’t usually do that without a warning.

“Hey, kid, listen.” Ricky’s hold tightens. Fuck. That stings. “He did a number on you out there. You need to have someone look it over, make sure you’re okay.”

“Let go,” Hook says, a challenge. Tries to rip his arm free and can’t, because every single muscle in his body has stopped responding to his commands.

“No, listen to me. This isn’t a sport you do alone. You think you can, but you can’t. Someone has to be in your corner afterwards.”

If Hook doesn’t escape soon, he’s going to lose it backstage with a hundred cameras surrounding him. He knows it’s coming; the fire’s leaving his limbs, fleeing and leaving a gaping hole behind. He knows what’s coming to fill in all that empty space.

“Fuck. Off,” he hisses.

“Hook, I’m serious.” Ricky leans in, doesn’t get the hint. “I’m not saying it has to be me. You need a support;  you need someone after a fight like this. Trust me. I know what I’m talking about.”

Sheer panic provides the burst of strength that Hook needs to break free, spinning out from beneath Ricky’s hand. His temples have started to throb, in time with his heart. He needs to get his shit out of the locker room and find one of the cars they’ve always got on stand-by for the post-match runs. He spins, leaving Ricky standing there with one arm outstretched; it’s not even like Hook dislikes the guy, but he cannot be here anymore. His left arm has started to burn and the pain is making its way up through his shoulder. Once the full onslaught hits, he’s going to…well.

“Hook!” Ricky calls, but Hook’s already in a half-sprint, and with the bang-up Ricky got backstage earlier, there’s no way he’ll be able to keep up.

Grab your shit, get out. Don’t stop for anything.

+++

The adrenaline crash hits him ten minutes after he’s made it back to his hotel room. If it wasn’t so overwhelming, Hook might have been proud of his ability to gauge the time needed, but as it stands, he ends up on the grimy carpet that he has just enough brainpower to hope has been recently cleaned when the pain slams into him all at once, a deluge.

His whole left arm is on fire. The burn, centered in his elbow, extends all the way up through his neck and rattles the teeth on the left side of his mouth. His back might as well have had coals raked down across it for how bad the sting has settled into his skin, and his right hand might be broken from where Moriarty jammed his fingers apart. There’s copper at the back of his tongue he can’t swallow down. Hook mashes his face into the carpet fibers and tries to bite back the scream, because there’s no way the walls will disguise that sort of noise.

He needs to ice his arm, his back—fuck, he needs to ice everything. He tries to push himself up and almost immediately his left arm goes out. At least the carpet swallows the resulting exclamation of anguish.

There’s no way he can ice his left elbow with only one hand. He might be able to get to his back, but twisting to attempt to reach with his good arm reveals the futility of that particular thought process. Fuck.

Hook manages to get himself up on his knees using only his right arm, left cradled close to his chest as best he can. If he just sleeps on it, he isn’t sure he’ll wake up with any feeling left at all. And if he can’t feel his arm, he can’t wrestle, and if he can’t wrestle—

There’s a knock at the door.

Hook squeezes his eyes shut, misery lodged in his throat. He freezes, hoping whoever it is will go away if he pretends he isn’t inside, that the room is deserted. A moment passes, and then another knock.

“It’s Danhausen,” comes the voice from the other side, quiet and muffled behind the wood. “Hook?”

“No,” Hook says. He isn’t sure it’s loud enough for Danhausen to even hear him.

“Hook, open the door.”

He can’t. Hook’s fingers curl against the carpet, nails tearing up little tufts of fuzz. 

“Danhausen knows you’re in there.”

“Go away,” Hook tries.

“Hook.” Danhausen’s voice, even from so far away, sounds…different. There’s a lower quality to it that Hook hasn’t heard before, almost like he’s dropped some of the act. “Why can’t you let Danhausen in?”

A second, and then, as an addition, even quieter: “What is Hook afraid of? It’s just me.”

If pressed, Hook wouldn’t be able to explain what came over him, what finally pushed him to stagger up to his feet and stumble towards the door. The onslaught of pain, probably, and the fact that he’s light-headed with how poorly his entire body is. He’s a half-step away from passing out as his brain struggles to deal with the overload. Or maybe it’s just that he actually does, somewhere, somehow, want to be anything other than alone.

His right hand smacks into the door knob before he gets his aim right, pulling it open. Danhausen’s holding a bucket of ice in both hands. There’s something off about the paint on his face: the black shapes are elongated, just off enough to be noticeable. But it doesn’t really matter. Hook slumps against the wall and winces, because even that was agonizing, all bruising contact.

Danhausen opens his mouth as though he’s going to say something, and then changes his mind. He slips in through the opening and closes the door behind him, setting the ice bucket down on the weathered television stand. “Hook needs to shower.”

Hook needs to fucking die. He closes his eyes as his whole body shakes against the wall. “Can’t.”

“Hook can simply—oh.” Something scrapes, plastic against plastic. “Your elbow.”

Warmth presses lightly, gently, against Hook’s side, the one that wasn’t smacked repeatedly. Danhausen’s hand curls there. “Come with me.”

If Hook was in a better state, not dragged halfway to hell and back, he’d fight it. He would. Instead, he lets himself be led into the narrow hotel bathroom. Danhausen turns the water on and wiggles his fingers beneath the spray to check the temperature. He’s, ridiculously, still in his black jacket, the one with the red embroidery and the bizarre teeth decals.

He turns back to Hook. His mouth is a thin, unhappy stripe of black. “Strip.”

“What?” Hook manages, chest constricting.

Danhausen motions with one hand, impatient. “Yes, yes, leave your shorts on, it’s fine, just take the rest off.”

Hook can’t even get his damn shirt off by himself. The fabric catches on his shoulder, the one he can’t move, and he has to bite down on his lip to keep from crying out. Danhausen has to help tug it free. Then Hook sits on the edge of the shower with his legs in the tub, and allows Danhausen to sort of nudge him forward so he’s leaning in, face down.

At first, he’s so fucking panicked he can’t move, not even when Danhausen grabs the shower coil and pulls the sprayhead out to wet Hook’s hair over the bath. He’s never had anyone do this before, never, and the nerves spark up and down his exposed skin, summoning goosebumps. But when Danhausen starts working shampoo into his hair, kneading at Hook’s scalp, his whole body sort of…slumps, giving in. It’s unbearably gentle. It’s nice. It’s emotion that sticks between Hook’s teeth, saccharine sweet.

Moriarty had gotten his hands in Hook’s hair, too, jerked his head back when he tried to pull the strands free. Danhausen’s ministrations help to soothe the burn left behind.

“Danhausen saw the match,” comes the statement from over his shoulder as Hook’s closed his eyes again to keep the rinse out of his eyes. “Hook did very well.”

“I almost lost,” Hook grits out. A bit of shampoo catches in the corner of his lips, bitter.

Danhausen hums a little. “But you didn’t.” Then he taps Hook’s shoulders. “Done. Hook should dry off. Can you handle the rest from here?”

“Yeah.” He’s got an extra pair of shorts peeking out from his duffel, just outside the bathroom door. He’s pretty sure he can do that with one arm.

Danhausen leaves while Hook changes into the new pair. Hook can hear him moving around beyond the bathroom, rummaging through a bit and moving the ice bucket. He thinks it ought to feel stranger to have Danhausen in his hotel room, only it doesn’t, because it’s just Danhausen. Ever since Hook let the man in, it’s just been…easy. A familiar sort of weird that’s strangely comfortable.

Hook stares at his reflection in the mirror—hair plastered to his forehead, skin pinking where the blood vessels will bruise—for only a moment. It’s a little hard to look at the aftermath.

He really did almost lose.

Hook exits the bathroom, leaving behind the bit of fog gathered on the glass to find Danhausen sitting on the bed. He’s got the ice bucket and a roll of Ace bandage he must have fished out of Hook’s duffel. He gestures for the space left open on the duvet in front of his legs. “Come, come.”

There isn’t much else Hook can do but oblige, gingerly lowering himself onto the mattress.

Danhausen moves for his arm first, which makes sense; it’s the worst of his injuries. Hook hisses, wrenches his face away when Danhausen slowly extends it. The pain is enough to sting the corners of his eyes, hot. He’s embarrassed when the tears track their way down his face to drip off his jaw, but he doesn’t pull his arm away. Danhausen wraps the ice in towels, and then secures the towels with the bandages. By the time he’s done, Hook can’t move the damn thing if he’d wanted to.

His fingers slide across Hook’s shoulders to the spot where Moriarty got his elbow in several times, a quick succession. When his fingertips hit the edge of the damage, Hook groans. Danhausen’s hand stills where it is.

Then he gathers more ice from the bucket, dripping water across the bed, and Hook’s whole body clenches up when the shock of cold hits his skin. He trembles against the ice Danhausen’s holding against his back.

“Hook will bruise,” Danhausen comments, voice low. His free hand traces a gentle loop up to Hook’s shoulder. “But I think this will help keep the worst away, no?”

“It hurts,” Hook admits through clenched teeth.

“Yes, I expect so. That Moriarty fellow was good. No match for Hook in the end, of course, but good.”

Hook waits. When nothing else follows, and Danhausen’s free hand remains where it is, featherlight contact, he thinks he’s steady enough to ask. “Why did you come here?”

“Hook had a rough fight,” Danhausen says. “The doctors should have looked at this, but it’s—”

“No, why did you come here?”

Quiet descends over them. Hook’s breathing is quick from the cold pressed against him and the aftershocks of the flight or fight response retreating; he can hear Danhausen’s breathing behind him, slower. More controlled.

“Danhausen got a call,” he replies, slowly. “From Ricky Starks.”

Hook’s mouth goes dry. “What?”

“Well, yes, Ricky Starks did not have Danhausen’s number at first. He sent a message to Danhausen’s friend Trent, who then contacted Danhausen’s friend Orange to obtain it. And then he called.”

Hook braces for the wave of humiliation, and ends up feeling…warmth. Relief. Gratitude. He’s grateful, so much so that if he were standing, he might double over, so grateful to the man he pushed away who still found a way to look after him. Grateful, despite it all, that Ricky still cares.

Grateful that Ricky knew enough to understand that Hook can’t let most people in, but that Danhausen could never be described as “most people,” grateful that he would go through so much just to contact him.

Hook’s gone silent, and Danhausen’s fingers on his back have gone still. “And…you came,” Hook says.

“Of course Danhausen came.”

“But, last week, who…” Hook swallows. His tongue’s three sizes too big. He can’t finish the question.

Danhausen understands anyway. “Danhausen’s friends Chuck and Trent helped to make sure Danhausen was all right last week.”

“Oh.”

The ice shifts, sliding a little up to Hook’s shoulder blade. Then Danhausen’s free hand moves up to Hook’s neck, his thumb dragging a gentle trail up towards his hair. “Danhausen is not upset. Trent and Chuck are good friends, of course.”

“But,” Hook prompts, even though he’s pretty sure he doesn’t want to hear the rest.

“Danhausen would have preferred Hook be there.”

“I’ll do it next time,” Hook promises, voice raspy. With his right hand, the only arm he can move anymore with the makeshift splint on the other, he reaches up, finds Danhausen’s fingers. Tangles them together. Maybe he squeezes too hard. 

He leans back, enough to trap both Danhausen’s other hand and the ice pack between them. This thing between them, it’s something; he knows it’s going to be something, but he’s in such a shit state and he can’t chase it down with every muscle in his body screaming. He hopes Danhausen gets that, he’s desperate for him to understand, that yes, yes, but not now, just not now—

Danhausen shifts forward, his chin on Hook’s shoulder, pointy enough to sting a little. Then he exhales, the echo rattling through Hook’s back, and his mouth turns down, makes contact. The ghost of a kiss skates over Hook’s skin.

“Danhausen doesn’t wish to leave,” he starts, and Hook’s pretty sure he knows what’s going to follow, “but there are…things I need to do.”

“Things,” Hook repeats.

“It’s complicated.” Cryptic. “Will Hook be all right?”

“Yes. You don’t have to stay.”

He wonders if this has to do with the off-ness of his face paint and the weird video from a few weeks ago. Eventually, Danhausen will tell him…probably.

Danhausen pulls back, finally letting up with the ice. Hook’s back is numb, thoroughly so, and that’s probably as good as he’ll get tonight. Danhausen slides away so he’s half off the bed, though one hand remains on Hook’s arm. “Hook ought to take something.”

“Many somethings,” Hook says, and sighs. He’s got a full bottle of ibuprofen in his bag.

Danhausen moves to leave. Hook grabs his fingers before he can fully slip away.

“Thank you,” he says, low. Almost a whisper. Almost too quiet to hear.

Danhausen smiles, one corner higher than the other, the unfamiliar lines of black crinkling. “Hook is most welcome.”

Hook doesn’t want to let go, but he does. Danhausen offers him one last smile, half a grimace, and leaves. He forgets the ice bucket.

Hook collapses back against the pillows. He’s got just enough strength to crawl beneath the blankets, and that’s where his reserve ends. His eyes close. 

That’s the thing about keeping everyone else at a distance—you get the chance to sleep, to keep ignorance to the rest of the world, to things like backstage feuds and grainy, black and white videos with metal spikes.

[jugg3rn4ut]

I have Thirteen Eyes and they all fit in my skull.

These Eyes are big and brown,

Dark though, maybe black.

They don't see too well.

I would wear glasses,

But where would I find a pair with so many lenses?

I just have to squint.

It must be frightening to have me squint at you.

No one else I know has Thirteen Eyes.

Do you?

Probably not,

You likely have two,

One on either side of your face.

Mine are dotted around my head.

People regard me with some caution,

Perhaps some awe.

Having so many Eyes is fascinating for others.

To look at, that is.

"You must see so well!"

I can't.

"Imagine all the money you could make!"

I haven't made a penny.

You'd think these Eyes would come with abilities,

Insight into the past and future,

A knack for multitasking,

An automatic business opportunity perhaps?

But my vision is blurry

And I look odd.

How do I market them?

Go on a talk show?

Break a world record?

Join a circus?

It wouldn't last.

I can't keep up,

I won't stay relevant,

I'll just be the creep with too many Eyes.

I can't sleep well,

How would I lay my head on a pillow

Without getting feathers in an Eye,

Poking one with a corner of the duvet?

The Eyes don't close all at once,

There's a weird delay,

Much like a blinking lizard.

Am I a lizard?

I often get eyelashes stuck in the tear ducts,

Some are quite hard to reach.

Showering is painful,

Soap burns

And I can't close all my eyes

To dodge the suds in time,

So I just writhe in discomfort.

I don't like showers.

I don’t have any hair,

Just Eyes everywhere.

I see people with pigtails and braids,

It's rather miserable.

I have friends,

Always have done,

But it's hard to feel comfortable with a friend

When they can't stop staring.

I'm so volatile.

I see so much at once,

Yet I can't see any of it properly.

It's so overwhelming it makes me twitch and itch.

I feel like a disappointment.

So many Eyes and so little to show for them.

I just stay in bed all day

Because I dread being seen.

Or seeing.

I'm so insecure and yet I refuse to admit it outloud.

I'm supposed to be cool, I have Thirteen Eyes,

I'm supposed to be superhuman,

But my Eyes don't work.

I'm so undesirable,

Imagine waking up in the morning,

Rolling over in bed,

And seeing a mass of Eyes staring back at you.

I'm so angry.

I didn't ask for this!

It wasn't my idea!

My life is ruined forever because of the way I am.

I can't fix it.

There's no cure.

How do I even cope with it?

It just gets worse as I get older.

Life is so daunting,

What if I have children and they come out like me?

No,

I can't risk that.

I can't get a good job,

I'd scare the customers away.

My Eyes could be a crazy selling point,

But that'd only last so long.

I can't cope with this,

I think I've begun hallucinating.

Or maybe my Eyes do have powers.

Maybe they can see the Unseen.

If so,

I wish they didn't.

The Unseen must be unseen for a reason.

The things that appear to me are abhorrent.

Bugs and viscera,

Distortion and death.

Sometimes they even have a smell!

Or maybe that's just me.

I haven't showered in so long,

The water's gone green and viscous.

My vision has gotten clearer.

I wish it hadn't.

Everything's become too clear,

And I can't shut it out.

I think I've reached the end now,

There's nothing more to write.

So I'll do this again now,

Before the cold starts to bite.

I had Thirteen Eyes and they didn't fit my skull.

They're no longer big and brown, they're just red and dull.

They see very clearly now, the two that remain.

After gouging the others out, I'm in a bit of pain,

But that's OK, it won't last much longer,

I'll bring it to a stop.

I'm looking over the bridge now,

It's a very long drop.

That comforts me. It'll be over fast.

The snow is falling so it's probably time.

You can treat this as my final goodbye,

A last hurrah, a parting gift,

I'll die content,

I'll die with Two Eyes.

[k-dokja]

— a kind of sorrow, yes i was listening to more than blue ost again

his eyes blur again.

"johan—!"

he bumps into something, he doesn't remember what. only the sharp pain which comes after and his entire body hurls forwards. there is nothing to stop him from crashing into the ground. his skin scrapes on the asphalt, and his palms burn from the impact.

damnit.

johan turns to his side and groans. he has gotten hit many times before, but it never stops being painful. indeed, he only gets used to the reality that he cannot avoid all of it.

nearby, he hears footsteps rounding him. slow then fast. within the moment, the heat of sunlight shining down on him is blocked by the shadow of another. gentle hands wrap around his shoulder and push him up into a sitting position. he doesn't move. he doesn't want to.

he pushes his hands up to his face, and the burns of his scraps meet his skin. no matter how he rubs, the light won't return to his eyes. he's stuck in an unsettling black once more.

"hey now," the previous gentle hands pry his hands away from his eyes, "you shouldn't irritate them even further."

he understands what you said. more than anyone, he knows what he's doing only making it worse for himself. yet, he cannot find it in him to sit back and do nothing. the helplessness drives him crazy. he can't even get back up if you weren't there to ground him.

hot wetness born from frustration begins to form in the corner of his eyes. his hands tighten into fists from the urge to wipe away his tears, but you only stop him a moment ago. he feels your hands wrapped around one of his, thumbs pressing into his palm. "focus on my voice, okay? just breathe, in and out. breathe with me, okay?"

and he breathes, in and out. it doesn't make his eyes lighter, but the rate of his heart calms. finally, the helplessness no longer overwhelms him. belatedly, with the panic no longer taking control of him, he wonders if he has worried you needlessly.

he doesn't want you to worry, he's not a child and... it shouldn't be this way.

"...thanks," he sighs, putting his other hand on top of yours. "help me up?"

"okay," you reply quietly. the rustle of your movements soon comes with your hand taking hold of his arm. he searches for your shoulder and finds it within the moment. it is a production but he no longer struggles the way he did the first time it happened.

well, he no longer lashes out the same way he did back then, too. his anguish of the situation shouldn't have been anyone's but his own. he knows it now, "just... just give me a minute," he breathes out, "i just need a minute."

in and out. you said it before. he needs to breathe. he needs to not let the panic seizes him. in and out, he only needs a moment. he doesn't want you to wait, but he has to do it. better than making his problem yours because he cannot calm down from his shortcomings.

in and out. both of you don't need to suffer all at once because of him. in and out. bad, bad negative thoughts. he doesn't need that to add to his pile. not now. slowly, trickles of light enter his vision again. tiny ones, nowhere near enough to let him walk freely. but it's progress and at this point, he's grateful for any progress he can get.

in and—"you're doing great," your hands loosen around his arms, he doesn't even remember that they remain there. again, regulate his breath. it will be better. he needs to give it time. the light flickers in his eyes again. that blank, bottomless world returns to his vision.

he lets out an annoyed snarl, angered more by the fact it sounds like a cry of distress. "fuck, goddamnit," he says, "why am i so fucking—damnit, why are you still here? why are you—" the tears come again. the wretched tears. even after all these times, he never stops crying.

he doesn't even know if it's possible to outgrow his past useless self at this point.

"i'm sorry, i..." he breathes in and out, light trickles back again, one by one. vision goes from dark to blurry. "i shouldn't put this on you, you don't deserve any of this, you don't deserve having to deal with me..."

he inhales once more. in the myriad of unclear images, he searches for the shape of you. and once his eyes set upon you, he stays there, finding your image to be the anchor to his focus. he sees movement among those blurriness. your palms meet his cheeks, soft and careful. your thumbs brush away the tears, leaving behind only a wet trail on his skin.

"i'm sorry," he mutters again, "i..."

your hands cup his face and he leans into them readily. his search for your comfort has become instinctive at this point. he doesn't know how he'd live without you, but he knows it will be better for you in the long run.

before the thoughts take root deep in, you speak again. "it's fine," is meant to soothe him, he thinks, but it didn't.

"it isn't," a flash of annoyance courses through him, "you shouldn't have to coddle me."

"i'm not coddling you," you say, "i'm only trying to help because i care about you. i told you before, we take care of each other. you shouldn't have to shoulder this alone."

he sighs again, allowing the tension in his body to slip away, "you shouldn't have to shoulder it with me."

"but i want to," you murmur, reaching up to kiss his nose, "I'm here, i'm not going anywhere, not unless you're coming with me."

"i'm sorry," he apologizes again, he doesn't know what he's apologizing for this time. but his vision returns finally and you solidify in front of him once more. patient and understanding eyes peer back into his. "i just..."

"i know," you pull him into a hug, his arms wrap around you. another chest-heavy sigh slips past his lips again. "i said it's fine, didn't i?"

yeah... maybe it will be.

he can only hope.

[lunar-wandering]

so. its the end of the week. we have not gotten a new trailer or a poster or screenshot.

so, as promised,

angst fic time.

-

He knows something's wrong as soon as he lands, and triumph fills her face instead of fear.

The Lady Bone Demon laughs, and dread fills Wukong's chest with a heavy, sinking feeling.

His connection to his successor, to MK, growing fainter, till it's nothing but a strained thread. He rushes to help, worry filling his every vein with adrenaline, feeling the connection grow weaker, weaker.

He shouldn't have left MK alone.

He keeps an eye on the thread as it twists and pulls.

"Oh, don't you already know? Surely you of all people could sense it."

It snaps.

"You're too late, Sun Wukong."

Wukong doesn't want to look behind him and accept reality. But he knows he has to.

Against his wishes, and his instinct's desire to keep the Lady, the real threat, within his vision, he looks over his shoulder.

It's like being crushed by a mountain all over again.

Some part of him had already knew. Had known the moment he'd felt the connection start to wither, that he was far, far too late.

But the rest of him is entirely unprepared to see the silent, terrified, stone face of his successor.

"Why, don't you look horrified." The Lady Bone Demon's voice hisses in his ear, almost as though she's right over his shoulder, but when he turns back, she's still the same distance away as before. "Fear, I must admit, is a nice expression on you."

Wukong doesn't have the time to grieve, to process the remnant statue of MK that looms directly behind him.

Still though, maybe, maybe if he runs now, he can find MK's friends, and if they don't kick him out immediately for being the failure he has proven himself to be, then maybe together they can find a way to fix-

"You should be made aware, I suppose, that your pitiful successor is not the only one you've failed."

Wukong doesn't even have the chance to ask her what she means before they're standing in front of him, blue, see through-

All the people he knew, entirely unresponsive.

Pigsy, Tang, Sandy. Hunstman, Goliath, Syntax, and a concerningly disheveled Spider Queen.

Princess Iron Fan and Demon Bull King. (He'd warned them, warned them, to get out of town, before he'd left. Hadn't given much reason as to why, only told them that things would be dangerous.

Maybe he should've told them entirely about the danger. Demon Bull King and Princess Iron Fan were stubborn after all, they wouldn't evacuate if not given a good reason.

He should've told them.)

He forces himself to look away, to not stare into their unseeing eyes-

And finds himself looking at the statue MK again.

There's a crack running down the center of MK's chest now.

Upon seeing it- something in Wukong cracks as well.

Eyes glowing red, ignoring how his body protests the movement, he snarls, leaping over the stolen souls, not even bothering with quips or snark as he focuses in on the Lady Bone Demon.

She maintains her cold smile, and simply moves out of the way.

He twists mid air, intending on summoning his cloud-

His cloud doesn't appear.

For a moment, shock makes it's way through the anger.

And then he plummets, and hits the sand below.

He coughs, pulling himself up, cringing at the way the pain of his injuries fluxes.

His eyes burn, and Wukong hisses, resisting the urge to rub them, knowing that it would only make it worse.

Stupid fucking sand.

Fighting through the pain, he forces his eyes open.

Just in time to blearily see the magic circle activate around him.

Gravity increases itself, pressing down on his back, nearly shoving him back down into the sand. He bites his lip, hard, his fangs drawing blood, to keep himself from screaming.

His vision is still blurry, but he can still see the blue as the Lady Bone Demon stands on the edge of the circle in front of him.

"How pathetic." She whispers, but it resonates as though it's been yelled. "Truly I expected you to put up more of a fight. Oh well...I suppose this works out for the better."

Wukong tries to stand up, fighting against the increasing pressure- only for the pain in his leg to flare, forcing him back down onto one knee.

"Hm... there are some hindrances that still remain though.... yes, perhaps this would be the best option." Her voice echoed in his head, ringing like bells. "It certainly would be more fun after all...."

Wukong shuddered as he felt cold chains loop around his wrists and legs. Through his blurry vision, he couldn't actually see them, but he knew. He knew they were there.

"Here is the deal, Sun Wukong." The Lady Bone Demon stepped into the circle, walking to loom in front of him. She held out her hand as though she was going to hold the side of his face, but didn't initiate contact, simply letting the coldness of her presence sink into his skin, frigidly threatening. Despite having fought enemies larger than himself multiple times before- this was the smallest Wukong had ever felt. "You will work for me. You will do my bidding. You shall never attempt to betray me, and in the end, you shall die by my hand. In return....your precious successor will not be reduced to crumbling ashes."

Distantly, Wukong could hear the sound of stone beginning to crack apart. His eyes burned too much for his golden vision to be of any use, but he could sense it. He could sense MK begin to crack and crumble.

There would be no way to fix him if that happened.

And Wukong knew full well, that handing himself over to the Lady Bone Demon willingly would mean horrible things for multiple people. He knew that holding one life over the many was a bad decision to make.

But at this point in his life- his old friends either long gone or already within the Lady Bone Demon's hands...

Well, his successor, who he'd honestly started to view as his son, MK was practically his only thing left to lose.

And he couldn't afford to lose it.

His voice refused to work, not even able to create a whisper. So instead, he lowered his head.

He didn't need to be able to see the Lady Bone Demon's face to know that it held wicked glee.

"Excellent." She hissed, and Wukong felt the invisible chains grow tighter, practically searing themselves to him. A cold wash of power ran through him, pushing the remnants of his own golden glow down, burying it under a freezing ocean.

It hurt. But if it meant there could still be some chance of somebody bringing MK back....

Then it didn't really matter what happened to him.

[purplecandygerl]

Fear

— Levi x Reader

— angst, fluff, mention of death, cursing

— summary: Levi never let his fear get in a way of his decision yet for this moment he did

— word count: 2.8k

It’s that time of the month once again, when Squad Leaders were given a tremendous quantity of paperwork to be finish in an unfair amount of time, Levi is unexcluded to this time but even worse for his part. A list of cadets where handed to him early on.

The list consist of mostly from the 104th cadets and his eyes soften at the familiar name included on the list. (Y/n) (L/n). All your efforts and hardship within the past month has finally paid off, he knew about your unspoken goal of wanting to be part of his squad long time ago. He couldn’t be much prouder of you ever since, considering you to his squad would definitely increase his time with you, he can already see himself having you by his side.

Content with list of candidate given to him, he decided to set it aside as he move on to another paperworks, his calloused hand reaches to the papers near him. The thick cursive heading made his breath hitched

Certification of Death

It felt like a hard slap to him as memories of the recent expedition flash before him as he passed through the forest seeing nothing, but the bloody corpses of his members brutally killed by the Female titan as tried to protect Eren till the end.

Worries began to fill him, he couldn’t bear to see you in those situation, this is the only thing that matters to his life and one wrong situation can slip you out of his grasp in a matter of seconds, yet he couldn’t afford any distraction in the moment of the expedition as the lives of the soldiers lies on his own hands, reaching for the list of candidates once again before crossing your name before stacking another paper above the list.

“Levi?” the sound of his name being called out as the door of his office shut close, revealing his (h/c) haired lover “not done yet?” he shook his head, “I see” he notice the lethargic tone you release as you sat on his lap, wrapping your arms around him as you buried your face at the crook of his neck indulging on his scent. He lean onto his chair caressing the tresses of your (h/c) hair. “Did something happened?” he questioned, which you shake your head

“It’s nothing, I just want to ease your stress somehow” those words never failed to cause his heart to leap in adoration, he always thought there will be times that you would finally leave him seeing that he always lack of showing his affection to you, yet one year after \here you are showering him with affection at first, he would stiffen at the unpredicted kisses you place on his cheek during your private time until it become something that enlightens his sour mood daily.

Placing a kiss in your forehead, he wishes for you to forgive him for what he was planning to do. He could take all your anger at him if it meant to keep you alive by his side.

༺═──────────────═༻

The final members of Levi’s Squad was finally announced, the rush excitement you felt were shattered to piece as the roll out of names ended without getting your name called, the combination of anger, frustration and disappointment were enough to put you on the edge, clenching onto your fist as you tried to fight off the tears threatening to fall down your cheeks.

“Are you alright (Y/n)?” you heard your friend worriedly asked as you both head back inside the castle, snapping you out of your thoughts. “Yeah, yeah I’m fine” you immediately answered. “You should head first, I’ll catch up”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’ll see you” bidding a goodbye before heading to a certain office for explanation.

“Captain” you called out from the outside of his office, giving his permission for you to enter.

“Why?” The first word that left your lips were the conclusion of messed up emotion you were trying to endure. You knew that he knows what you were talking about, you know that he would be the person who gets to decide on the final list of the members.

“There are more suitable soldiers fitted in my squad”

“So, I’m not suitable for your squad. Is that it?” you hissed, how could he say that when he knew how much you work hard to be part of his squad

“Yes” you stared at him in disbelief as your whole body began to tremble holding yourself opening your lips only painful laughter were able to leave your dry throat, which surprised the man in front you.

“Fuck you, if that was the case you shouldn’t have gotten my hopes since the beginning, you shouldn’t have fucking care if I work myself up if that was the FUCKING CASE, WERE YOU LAUGHING JUST LIKE THEM WHEN SAW WATCH ME FUCKING STRUGGLES FOR NOTHING” you snapped out

“FUCK OFF, (Y/N) ISN’T THE ONLY REASON YOU WANTED TO JOIN WAS TOO HAVE ENOUGH TIME TO FUCKIN LAZED YOURSELF AROUND ME” He spat off, his mind was screaming at him to tell the truth already yet anything that left on his mouth is nothing truthful. He was spouting to stand for his decision. For a second, he tried to reason himself it was for you own good, it really is. Until his gaze returned back to you. He watched how tears drenched down your cheeks for the first time in his life he saw you cried. He could only stand on his feet frozen as you tried to brush off the tears blurring your vision.

“it was never about that case, I--” biting your inner lips, there’s no use for you tell him everything what’s the point of everything at this point, giving up. You only turned your back at him before shutting the door close.

As the sound of the door clicking shut was the only time he realized he fucked everything up, he wanted to follow you back yet he remained frozen on his feet, the silence on his office only left your voice echoing in his mind, every word you left a stabbing guilt and regrets on him. Was everything really necessary? For the sake of keeping you alive he had to hurt you in the process.

“were you laughing just like them” clenching his fist, how his way of showing his affection were seen in a different, only then he realized someone was thinking so lowly of your effort yet it only returned back to him knowing you think he was just like them.

A knock on his door, snaps him back to his thoughts. “What?” he didn’t bothered hiding his irritation to the soldier disturbing him “S-sir, Commander Erwin called you to his office sir”

“What do you mean my squad would be on standby? I thought we would be leading for the clearing up tomorrow?” Erwin sighed, it turns out only two squads would be leaving tomorrow to examine the behaviour of the titans before clearing up the titan near the wall.

“I see, then who’s squad would you be sending instead?” he asked, taking a sip on his tea, surprisingly glad he had a free time which he would dedicated on asking for your forgiveness.

“(L/n) William’s Squad”

༺═──────────────═༻

It was supposed to be a clear up for the remaining titans roaming across the abandoned city, only expecting atleast twenty or less titans left, yet when you encounter a horde of abnormal titans gathered in the deeper corner of the city, you knew this can be the last of something. Right now, the titan’s attention were averted from you with the quantity they had you wouldn’t be able to take them all with the lack of gas and blade, if you fire the flare gun to sign the soldiers around you, the titan’s attention would directly be place to you which would lead to the first option. Lastly, if you tried to escape you will most likely lead them to the other soldiers.

Not only your choices are limited but everything is too risky for you and the other members.

“Fuck this shit” firing your flare gun instead of pointing the gun at the sky, you fire the flare at the titans instead before releasing your hook leading back to where your squadmates are, in the center of the city you found a familiar figure the vibrant red covering him.

“William!” You shouted turning his gaze his eyes widen as you fired your hook on the concrete walls in attempt to carry him “Wait no! AT YOUR BACK” he tried to warn, before you can process his warning a giant palm slaps your body like a fly.

the impact of being thrown inside of a building breaking the window in the process, a static rings across your ears as every part of your body is throbbing in pain, opening your eyes only to feel a burning pain with a blurry eyesight reminding you much of the arguments yesterday, recalling back the words you let out that time. Maybe, maybe they were right,

“Just this last time, let me see them” you speak to yourself, trying to stand up every movement you make felt like you were being electrified in pain, stabbing your blade on the ground using it as foundation for your footing. Feeling the ground continuous shaking, losing balance, hitting the concrete floor hard, a sharp pain once again pierce through you, causing you to whimper in unbeknownst to you a sharp wood stab through your abdomen, leaving you crumbling in pain on the ground the sight of shards of glass soaked a puddle of blood. was the only thing you have seen before blacking out

I was never suitable to be here in the first place.

༺═──────────────═༻

Levi anxiously waited on his seat, no matter how much he tried to focus on the meeting between regiments he found himself drifting back to your situation, despite already reminding a soldier to immediately call him when your group arrived, yet several hours have passed and the meeting is already reaching its conclusion.

“Captain!! They’re here” A soldier barged inside the office, disregarding Erwin calling him out he wasted no time to leave the meeting,

“They’re at the Medical Bay for now.” the soldier reported,

“How are they?” he noticed the grim look on the soldier confirming his fear all at once

“one of the squad were completely leaving only one soldier in critical condition” dismissing the soldier he immediately head to the medical bay, every step he make felt heavy as if the world had collapse at his grasp. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

“Levi” a familiar voice called out, hanji was waiting in front of the medical bay door, “Is she?” the jumbled emotion he’s feeling couldn’t continue the question he needed answers for, luckily Hanji quickly understand his struggles

“It turns out that there were more titan than what was initially reported, their squad had to face a horde of abnormal titans as we split up. We only found her inside of a building after a flare was shot. She was thrown by a titan trying to save her brother, a large wood pierce through her abdomen at the same time she already lose too much blood, the moment we found her” Hanji saw the grim expression from Levi, as he quietly listen the events that had happen, the fear, guilt, and regrets shown directly to his metallic irises. For once, Hanji saw a vulnerable side of Levi, a man so close losing a part of him leaving him once again alone.

A few hour has passed, when the door has finally opened as a doctor step out of the room, looking around the doctor only find him alone waiting.

“Captain Levi, are you perhaps the relative for Miss (L/n) (Y/n)?”

“Yes” leading him inside the medical bay, his eyes quivered at the sight of your figure wrapped in white pristine bandage up until your neck and another to covering your eyes. your pale like skin made it you look like “the progress of the surgery were slightly complicated due to the loss of blood but overall, the surgery was a success” Levi felt a relief wash over him, hearing how his lover is still alive felt like a heavy burden were lifted from his shoulder,

“at least that’s the good news, but the condition of her eyes had receive a different outcome”

“What do you mean?”

“Not only her abdomen where severely injured but also her eyes, shards of glass were able to damage her pupil that may became a permanent blindness, overall she needs to stay bedridden in three weeks before we can discharge her” the doctor explained, Levi remained stiff on his feet, his mind tried to comprehend the information given to him, blind? You wouldn’t be able to see anything from now on? You wouldn’t be able to see him?

Sitting beside your bed, his hand grasp to your bandage covered hand, entwining his fingers to yours, the coldness of your hands gave discomfort to his, it felt like he was holding onto a lifeless body the coldness of your body felt uncanny it might be because he was used to having your warm hands to his cold calloused hand. Pressing a kiss to your knuckle seeing the pattern of your chest rising and falling, was the only thing he need for now. Your alive that’s all that matters to him.

༺═──────────────═༻

Despite how much he doesn’t want to leave by your side yet with the constant nag from Erwin, it’s the third week you’ve remained unconscious, your temperature had increases in the spam of time yet it still frustrated him seeing no sign of waking up. He wanted nothing more but to hear your voice again. Placing a kiss to your forehead as he whispers his goodbye.

That was several hours ago, the sound of someone screaming from the top of their lungs had reached from the hallway he was in, either way he continue onto his path back to medical bay reaching closer the screams become clearer.

“IF IT WASN’T FOR YOU HE WOULD HAVE BEEN ALIVE” the woman angrily yelled out, nurses already had their hands around her preventing the woman from getting closer

“MISS PLEASE STOP SHE’S STILL RECOVERING” one of the nurses begged at the woman “NO LET ME GO” she demanded wanting to remove the grasp around her, she was able to pull you out of your bed earlier leaving you on the floor. Her hand was able to reach to your hair tugging it off roughly pulling you to her.

“WHY DIDN’T YOU JUST LISTEN TO US IN THE FIRST PLACE YOU WOULDN’T BE LEFT LIKE THAT?!”

“what do you think you’re doing?” Levi intervened slapping the woman’s wrist away sending a glare at the older woman while holding you at his arm protectively, the people The bandage on your eyes has already been removed, showing those eyes he long for were finally wide and awake.

“WHO THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?! I’M HER MOTHER I KNOW WHAT’S THE BEST FOR HER”

“I don’t care, your daughter is already adult enough to know what’s best for herself. you two” he called out the two-soldier passing by.

“guide the guardian her way out of the castle” obeying the captain’s order, the two already hand their hand to the exit, waiting for the woman to follow looking back at the two of you, clicking her tongue in irritation before following the soldiers.

After your mother left, his attention immediately turned to you carrying you at his arms placing you back to your bed, no words were exchanged during that time. Hugging your knees, leaning your head at the top. He wanted to say something, anything yet he couldn’t bring himself to left words out afraid he might hurt you once again.

“Let’s end this here, Levi”

Levi’s eyes widened.

“What do you mean?” He mumbled, afraid his voice might cracked any moment.

“There’s no point on continuing this”

“How?” your hand clutches on the white blanket covering your lower half, holding back the tears from building on your cloudy eyes.

“CANT YOU SEE?! I LOST MY EYESIGHT I’M ALREADY USELESS AT THIS POINT” snapping at him, the frustration you’ve been feeling since the moment you woke up and being informed by your condition finally took its last trigger and burst.

“I’m sorry” feeling his warm calloused hand at yours “I thought removing you from the list would keep you safer than the circumstance we had. I’m scared (y/n), I cannot bear to see you the same position that my old squad had that time, you’re an amazing soldier. I never mean what I said before”

“It doesn’t matter now, I can’t be a soldier anymore” removing his grasp from you

“Please just leave”

[ssneksnekk]

Crossmare Boobgrabbing

(NSFW, Nipple sucking, Tit squeezing, Aggressive behavior, Mentions of slut shaming)

Nightmare let out a whine, his entire body tensing before letting out a shaky sigh. “Be gentle, will you? Hell, I gave you an opportunity to touch me. Not rip me apart.” Nightmare grumbled out, averting his cyan eye. Though, the male he was sitting on didn’t seem to register his annoyance as he squeezed and pulled on the, recently inverted but now perked, nipples.

“Sorry…” Cross muttered again. He’d been having to do that every few minutes when Nightmare had to tell him or when he figured in he was in serious pain. But, stars, he couldn’t help it. Killer had really gotten to him this time. It was one thing to say dumb shit to his face but to say such inappropriate things about their Boss behind his back? It made him furious.

Nightmare was not a milf, nor was he a slut or a sex doll. He was a majestic King that had to be treated gently as to not break him for he was fragile. “Ow..! Cross!” Nightmare growled again as Cross accidently let his claws dig into Nightmare’s tits. “Fuck- I’m sorry..” Cross was growing angrier with himself by the second.

“Could you not think about what Killer may have said to you right now? Your anger is only hurting me and it’s not arousing at all. I may have to put you out and you may have to seek help from others, Cross.” Nightmare’s voice was full of annoyance and seriousness, yet still kept the matter short and simple and to the point. Not a way Cross really liked but it was better than being lied to.

“I know, I know, sorry.. I just.. he said some really nasty things and it really got my blood boiling. Especially when it’s perverted about the people I care for.” Cross muttered. Nightmare only rolled his eyes. He adjusted his sharp phalanges on Cross’ shoulders before tilting his head to the side in curiosity. “And what did he say, Cross?”

 Cross was quiet, stopping himself from painfully squeezing Nightmare’s chest and instead dramatically groaning. “He talked about you!” Nightmare was taken aback. “Me?” Cross nodded furiously. “Yeah, you! He talked about you like you were some stupid sex toy for the taking! How he wanted to have a turn with you when I was done or something.. Stars, he’s just so… gross!”

 Nightmare was quiet before he smirked. That’s what had gotten him so worked up? Oh, Cross, weren’t you a loyal soldier to his king. “How sweet..” Nightmare let his touch linger on the scar of the soldier’s cheek, gently training downwards to his chin and titling his head up slightly to look at Nightmare. “So all of this fuss has been all about me, Cross?” Nightmare felt flattered. He didn’t even care that he’d been in pain just a second ago.

 Cross face lit up a purple fury, breath hitching as his and his king’s faces were inches apart, the sweet, apple scent radiating off of Nightmare was intoxicating his senses. “I…” He didn’t even have time to finish before a deep, brooding chuckle left the king. “Fine. I suppose I can grant you at least this much, right? Do what you must.” Cross could only slightly see the faint, cyan blush on Nightmare’s face and that was enough to fuel him.

 Cross let Killer’s words flow back through his head and really let himself become aroused and angry. He’d show Killer. He’d show him how only HE could make Nightmare feel good. That only HE could treat him how he wanted. Nightmare was startled as he was picked up and gently thrown onto his bed. His eyesocket slightly widened in surprise at Cross’ sudden surge in dominance.

 Cross leaned over, his larger hands pinning Nightmare’s wrists to the bed. His sharp canines easily dug into Nightmare’s neck, bruising the dark bone which made it glow a gentle cyan. His knee pressed in between the king’s legs, stimulating the clothed entrance with ease. “Cross!” Nightmare moaned out, his eye closing tightly.

 Cross let go of Nightmare’s wrists, transferring to his large mounds where he squeezed and pulled on aggressively. His slightly, sharp fingers dug into the nipples, making sure to pinch them and rub them in between his fingers as a way of pleasure. Nightmare was into it greatly. Tears formed at his eye from the sensation of pain and pleasure mixing and he couldn’t help but feel he’d cum just from this.

 Nightmare fumbled with his pants, trying to get them off as soon as possible to discard them on the floor. Cross chuckled gently and held back a smirk, helping the king with his pants and throwing them somewhere else in his room. He finally had access to his wet core begging for him and he felt himself salivate.

 Nightmare could see the perverted look on his face and scoffed in amusement. “Gosh, you may just be worse than Killer.” Cross felt his face turn a bright purple and his brows furrowed, giving a yank on Nightmare’s tits which caused the King to let out a pleasured cry. “Don’t compare me to him.”

 Nightmare panted gently, ready for the dominance and the manhandling that he’d get though the shaky smile didn’t leave his face. “Yes sir.” Cross smiled happily at that, the dominant face leaving for a split second before it’d returned. At the sight of the bare king laying down in front of him at his mercy, Cross really couldn’t believe it.

 Like, he really couldn’t believe it. He never thought Nightmare would’ve even agreed to letting him touch his chest! It’d been pining for such a long time till only a month ago when Nightmare had spied on his dreams out of pure curiosity and realized the truth. It took a bit of insistence since Nightmare had been afraid of corrupting Cross, though Cross’ desperate attempts to be with the king finally paid off.

 “Fuck, Cross.. please, do something! Don’t just stare at me!” Nightmare growled, his face an embarrassed cyan as he adverted his eye. Cross had just been staring at him and it was embarrassing. Though, he’d never admit that. His begging had soon been accepted when Cross took ahold of his large tits, squeezing them with aggression.

 Nightmare’s back arched as he felt Cross’ thumbs dig into his perk, plump, nipples. They pressed down on the sensitive buds, making the king cry out. “FUCK! CROSS!” His legs wrapped around Cross’ waist, acting on their own. Cross pressed their teeth together, trapping Nightmare in a deep, messy kiss.

 Cross’ tongue tangled with the other’s aggressively, Nightmare barely being able to keep up with him and how fast he was. Where had this attitude even come from? Cross usually was to shy to even touch Nightmare’s hand! Let alone pin him like a wild animal and tease him. The king found it arousing to know he only was able to see this side of Cross.

 Nightmare was snapped out of his thoughts as tears blurred his vision and he almost screamed. He looked to his breasts to see Cross’ mouth trapped around one of his nipples, sucking and licking furiously at his right one while his hand was busy playing and pinching on the left nipple.

 It made small tears fall from the king’s face out of pleasure and he felt a knot build in his stomach. God, was he really going to cum like this?! “FUCK! CROSS!!” Cross felt a shiver run up his spine from hearing how he called out his name, the erection in his shorts restraining him. He grunted quietly from the restriction of his shorts and growled gently.

 Nightmare screamed out in pleasure as he came. His walls clenching around nothing and his clit throbbing. A soft liquid dripped from his entrance and down to his ass and onto his dark, lilac covers. He’d wash it later. Nightmare’s vision was blurry as he panted, sitting up on his elbows to properly look at Cross.

 Seeing sight of the hard, throbbing, purple cock that Cross had summoned, Nightmare felt himself drool. His cocky smile came back quickly. With shaky fingers, his spread his sensitive folds for Cross. Cross’ eyes trained on his tight cunt and only that alone as he swallowed wetly. A deep chuckle left the King.

 “O-oh.. Cross.” His voice was shaky, yet it still held a dominance in it. He was still in control. “D-don’t tell me you’re backing out now.” Cross scoffed in quiet amusement, lining up his cock with his entrance before roughly pushing in which earned Cross a sweet moan from the King.

 “Of course not, Boss. I always finish what I start.”

[aecs-multy]

Even in the darkest hour, we will find the light

Summary:

When Arthur discovers that Merlin has magic, things go downhill fast, but sometimes you need to reach rock bottom to get up stronger than ever.

---

He was tired. As the last bandit fell to the floor barely five meters in front of him, all the energy left his body. Around him were the unconscious bodies of men and women alike, the bodies of those who had tried to hurt them. They had been too many. He knew there had been no way that they had gotten out of the ambush alive if he hadn’t used his magic.

He also knew that there was no way that Arthur hadn’t seen him using it. Slowly, he lowered his hand, that had been pointing at the last bandit he had knocked out. He was so, so tired. He didn’t want to turn around, he didn’t want to see the hurt, the anger, the hatred, the betrayal that would be in those blue eyes he had learned to love.

Merlin’s vision got blurry, but it wasn’t until a lonely tear run down his cheek that he understood why. He was crying. Right in that moment, he had lost everything. He lost his life, his home, his family, his friends, his soulmate. All his life hiding, doing things from the shadows, completely alone, without people that understood him because he couldn’t let them in, for it to end like this.

I should have let that last one kill me, Merlin thought, Arthur wouldn’t have any problem defeating him and I wouldn’t have to turn around and see him now. He almost wanted to laugh. To think that he didn’t want to even look at Arthur right now because it would hurt too much to see what his king was thinking.

The point of a sword was placed between his shoulder plates and he stuttered a breath. This was it. He was going to die by the sword of the man he had sworn to protect, by the sword of the man he loved. His destiny was going to be his end. At least I won’t have to face him, he thought with a trembling smile while another tear fell.

“Merlin,” Arthur said, and his tone was cold, sharper than the sword that threatened to pierce him. “Turn around.”

He gulped and closed his eyes. It took him what seemed like hours to do as he was told, his body trembling with the chill that had suddenly filled his bones, feeling so cold that not even his hysteric beating heart could warm him.

“Open your eyes.”

He shook his head and pressed his eyelids harder together, willing himself to not break down. When he felt the sword reach his throat, he let a pained gasp fall from his lips.

“I said open your eyes.” Each word was said slowly and punctuated with added pressure of the metal against his skin, until a small drop of blood run down his neck.

He did as he was told, but the moment his eyes landed on Arthur’s, he wish he hadn’t, that he had kept them closed and died without the image that would now haunt him during what little he had left of live and during his death.

Those beautiful eyes were shining with unshed tears, full of those emotions he had put there, and he would give his life to make them go away. Arthur was gripping the hilt of the sword with both hands, in a position he had seen him do many times during his training and their adventures. The difference was that his hands were trembling now. It was barely noticeable, but Merlin knew him better than anyone.

“You have magic,” he said.

It wasn’t a question, but Merlin answered with a weak voice anyways, “Yes.”

“All… all this time, you... you’ve been lying to me,” Arthur said, his voice quivering. “I trusted you, I… I let you in, you were my servant, but also my advisor and friend, I… how could you do this to me?”

“I-” he tried to reply, but nothing came out of his mouth. He wanted to say a lot of things, but Arthur wouldn’t believe him, not now, not ever again, and proof of that was how he pressed the sword harder against him, making him hiss in pain.

He kept staring at Arthur’s eyes for seconds, minutes, hours, days? He didn’t know, but none of them moved or looked away. Finally, Arthur put Excalibur down. “I banish you from Camelot, you have until midnight to cross the frontier, if you ever return, you’ll burn in the pyre.”

His whole expression changed as he covered his emotions with a mask, not letting them show, and that was worse than seeing how much pain he had caused him.

“No,” Merlin said, his voice surprisingly strong, but being banished and separated from Arthur would be a fate worse than death. Determination filled him and he swore to himself that he wouldn’t let Arthur send him away. If he had to die, then so be it, but he wouldn’t that which made him whole.

A flicker of anger went through Arthur’s eyes before he could control himself. “What did you say?” Arthur asked between gritted teeth.

“I won’t go away.”

Arthur took a step closer, making them stand with their noses almost touching, but they had never been further apart, and said, “Then you’ll die, is that what you want?”

“No, but the only thing that will separate me from you will be my death,” he said. Merlin turned around and put his hands behind his back, wrists together, presenting them to Arthur to tie them. “I will be by your side until my last breath, until my heart stops beating, so don’t tell me to go, because your face will be the last thing my eyes will see when my world fades to darkness and your name will be the last word my lips will utter.”

“Then you leave me no choice.”

He felt something hit the back of his head, and then he fell, unconscious.

oOoOo

They were all seated in their respective places in the round table, but Gwaine couldn’t help but feel itchy, ready to fight at any moment. Something wasn’t right, he knew it because no one else was in the room but them, and neither were guards outside of the door like there would be any other day. What made him feel worse, though, was the lack of Merlin.

Their friend was always there, even if he wasn’t a knight, and not because he was Arthur's servant. He was always there because he was their friend and even if Arthur would never admit it, they often came to him for advice.

That’s why he knew something was wrong, because Arthur wouldn’t have called them all without Merlin being there, not unless something had happened to their friend. As he looked around, he saw the confused and worried expression of the rest of the knights, mirroring his own.

As soon as Arthur sat, he spoke, “Merlin is a sorcerer.”

With those four words, all the blood left Gwaine’s face. He knew what those words meant, but he refused to believe them. Merlin wasn’t a sorcerer, he was his best friend, he would know. No, Merlin wasn’t a sorcerer.

The silence in the room was deafening, everyone looking around, as if expecting someone to burst out laughing and tell them it was a lie.

“He isn’t a sorcerer, Arthur, how could he? He is Merlin,” Lancelot said, some kind of urgency laced to his words. Gwaine saw that, of all of them, he seemed the most affected by the statement. Lancelot looked as if he had seen a ghost, panic clear in his face, his hands trembling where they rested in fists over the table.

“I saw him myself doing magic, I saw how he defeated 20 bandits with just movements of his hands right in front of me. Merlin is a sorcerer,” Arthur said without looking at them, staring at the door.

“He isn’t,” Gwaine said. “He can’t be.”

“He is.”

“No, he isn’t, because that would mean that he will have to die, and that won’t happen,” Gwaine said fiercely. He wouldn’t let his best friend die.

“He betrayed Camelot, he used magic. I offered him banishment, but he said that he would rather die than go away,” Arthur said, his tone was low, but full of ice and betrayal and it echoed in the room. “He will burn in the pyre first thing in the morning.”

Gwaine didn’t waste a second, he got up and drew his sword. He said, “You won’t touch a hair of his head.”

Arthur didn’t move, didn’t even flinch. “He is accused of treason to his king, of using magic and letting it corrupt him. Both of those crimes are sentenced with death.”

“Treason of what?!” Gwaine shouted angrily, hitting the table with his free hand, leaning on it. “He is the most loyal person you will ever meet, more loyal than all of us together, and not because of a lack of loyalty in our part. He has gone to countless dangerous places for you, done a hundred million things to keep you safe and to protect you. He is the bravest man Camelot has ever seen, and all you give him in exchange is burn him to death?!” He was breathing shakily and his jaw hurt. “If you want to hurt him, you will have to kill me first.”

“Then I accuse you of treason and will die alongside Merlin,” Arthur said, his gaze now in Gwaine.

“Then I shall burn with them.” It was Lancelot who spoke now, and Gwaine noticed that he had stood up and drawn his sword at some point too. “I knew of Merlin’s magic since the first day I came to Camelot.”

Arthur looked at him now, his eyes full of hatred and his words dripping poison when he said, “You knew?”

“I did,” Lancelot said. “You want to know what he used the magic for when I discovered it? To save Camelot from the Griffin. To save you. All those times branches feel on our enemies’ heads, all those times we lost the enemy, all those times he guided us in the right direction, he use magic to help us.”

“Am I surrounded by traitors now?!” Arthur shouted standing up, looking at the rest of the knights, that cowered under the anger that radiated from their king.

“No, you’re surrounded by friends.” Surprisingly, it was Leon who talked. “I didn’t know about Merlin’s magic, but I do know him. I don’t believe that he is evil, nor a monster, nor corrupted. He was your friend, and so are we, and that’s the reason why we stand by your side, but sometimes we must stand against you to make you see reason. That’s why you trust us, because we aren’t afraid of telling you what we think. If you wanted someone to lick your boots and kiss the floor you step on then you would have sacked Merlin a long time ago in the first place.”

Arthur looked more and more enraged by the moment. “Merlin is a sorcerer,” he said through gritted teeth, as if that was the answer to all their problems.

“So what?!” Gwaine asked. “He is our friend and he would never hurt us or Camelot. He is so devoted to you that he would go to the mouth of hell just to make you smile!”

“He lied to all of us!”

“And can’t you imagine why he did that?! In Camelot, if you use or have magic, you die. What did you want him to do, come and tell you?!” Gwaine argued.

Arthur shouted, “Yes!”

“He couldn’t because if he did, you would have killed him, like you are going to do now!”

“I don’t want to kill him!” Arthur said, his voice breaking at the end, and now Gwaine saw what was happening. Arthur had been told all his life that magic corrupted whoever used it, but now that Merlin was the one he had to sentence to death, he was conflicted in his beliefs.

“Then don’t,” Gwaine said softer. “Magic is just a tool, not better or worse than a sword. It’s the one that yields it who choses how to use it. Do you believe that Merlin, and forget for a second that he has magic, would ever betray Camelot, betray you?”

The silence that followed then was answer enough. “We all know Merlin, he wouldn’t hurt anyone that didn’t deserve it.” Percival said.

“And what should I do?”

“Go to the dungeons, tell Merlin that he’s free and he won’t die, tell him that you are going to lift the ban against magic, tell him he’s no longer your servant, and when he has a fit about it, and we all know he will have one because only someone like him would want to be your servant, then you tell him that he’s now the court sorcerer.” Gwaine said.

“I can’t just lift the ban against magic, a lot of people wouldn’t be happy with that and they will demand a reason.”

Gwaine was happy to hear that the only thing he complained about was what people would think. Arthur appreciated Merlin more than he would let himself believe. “Then tell them it’s for Merlin, half of Camelot likes him, the other half loves him and would kill you if you put him anywhere near a pyre.” Gwaine shrugged.

“This isn’t a time for jokes.” Arthur sat down with a heavy sigh.

“It doesn’t need to be made in the span of a day, it will take months, maybe years, but erasing the ban against magic will be what we will aim for, starting with the erasure of the death penalty,” Leon said, always the pacifist and the voice of reason.

“Merlin betrayed me,” Arthur said, probably more to himself than to the knights, and before Gwaine could argue, Lancelot talked.

“He didn’t. Is it betrayal to do something with the objective of protecting their king and kingdom? Is it betrayal to hide something to avoid their death? Is it betrayal to risk their life for the people they love?” Lancelot said.

“We can’t kill Merlin,” Elyan, that had been silent until then, said. “It would be wrong.”

Arthur stared at his hands, thinking, until he said, “I want to be left alone, no one is to disturb me unless it’s an emergency.”

Everyone looked at the rest of the knights, unsure of what to do, not wanting to disobey their king but worried about their friend in the dungeons too. Gwaine wouldn’t move unless Arthur promised that he wouldn’t kill Merlin.

“I’ll go and free Merlin myself, now go,” Arthur said, addressing what everyone was thinking, and one by one, the knights left. All but Gwaine.

“I know your father always told you that magic was evil, but, Arthur, Merlin needs you right now. I can’t begin to imagine how lonely his life might have been, hiding something so important about himself. If you ever tell anyone, I will deny it, but I’m begging you, don’t be a prat, because if anyone can break him, it’s you.”

He didn’t let Arthur answer, he was out of the door before his words could take effect, praying that his friends would find a solution to their differences.

oOoOo

With each step he took down the stairs he willed his beating heart to calm down. He had went to countless battles, fought against thousands of enemies, lead armies to victory, killed mythical beasts, but nothing had terrified him as much as this.

“I want to talk to the prisoner alone,” Arthur said, trying to keep the fear out of his voice. The guards nodded and walked away.

He hesitated one, two, three times before he got the courage to walk in front of the cell where Merlin was. The sorcerer was sitting on the corner, his legs pulled to his chest, his arms around them and his chin resting on his knees, his gaze unfocused. His eyes were red from crying, his face was so pale that Arthur thought he was going to faint at any giving moment.

He had never seen Merlin like this, as if the life had been drawn out of him and nothing was left, just the shell of the bubbly man he had learn to love. Arthur still had problems believing it, that Merlin could use magic, that he could conjure such power.

The knights were right, Merlin didn’t deserve to die, he deserved every good thing the world had. He was the kindest, selfless, most loyal, bravest and strongest person in the whole kingdom. And yet, he had imprisoned him because Merlin had saved his life.

All the things Uther had said about magic, how it corrupted people, how it made them evil and dangerous, how they had to get rid of them, it had to be wrong. Everything he thought he knew about magic from his father was wrong. He didn’t know what to believe anymore, he was starting to doubt all the things he had learnt in his life.

His world was turning upside down, and the only person he wanted to be with was in a cell, where he had put him.

“Merlin,” he said, and talking now seemed like the hardest task of all, but he managed to choke his best friend’s name out of his lips.

The sorcerer looked up, a sad smile on his lips. “Is it time?”

Arthur felt sick. How could Merlin look at him, smiling, and accept his death without a fight? After what he saw at the forest, he knew that Merlin could have escaped, could have threatened him, or done something. But no, Merlin was there, sitting, looking miserable and staring at Arthur with trust and love in his eyes.

“It is,” he said with a shaky voice. Tears threatened to spill from his eyes, but he blinked them away. He wanted to know what to do, he wanted a solution, he wanted to go back in time and not know anything about Merlin’s magic because that way he wouldn’t have so many problems.

“It’s okay, I’ll look after you and Camelot even when I’m gone,” Merlin said, his smile so genuine that Arthur had to grab the bars from the cell to keep himself from falling down when his knees became weak.

“It’s- it’s not okay,” he said softly, voice choked with emotion. He didn’t like showing emotion, he didn’t like being vulnerable, but this was Merlin. Merlin, who had stood by his side even at the worst of times. Merlin, who had broken down his walls and disarmed him with smiles. Merlin, who had been loyal to him all this time. Merlin, who had seen him broken down and, instead of taking advantage of that, he had built him back together. Merlin, who treated him like a person, like a friend, and not like a king. Merlin, who had magic and had used it to save Arthur even when that meant he would be accused of sorcery and condemned to death.

Merlin, who he trusted with his life and who he loved more than he loved himself.

He could be vulnerable around Merlin, because even now, Merlin still believed in him, he could see it in his eyes.

“I- I don’t know what to do, Merlin,” he said, his eyes glued to Merlin’s, pleading him and asking for some kind of solution to this mess.

“Arthur,” Merlin said, standing up and almost falling when his legs gave out. He managed to recover and walked to stand before him. “You might be the king, but you don’t need to have all the answers.”

“That doesn’t help, so just tell me what to do,” Arthur pleaded.

“Well, it’s nice to see that you’re still a prat, barking orders. One might think that after all this years you would have learnt that I never do as asked,” Merlin said, and somehow, Arthur chuckled despite himself. He bowed his head and looked at his feet, a tear falling to the floor, between his feet.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“Why? I like being here, at least I don’t have an annoying dollophead bossing me around,” Merlin joked, his tone light, but it did nothing to lighten Arthur’s heart.

“I’ve been horrible to you, haven’t I?” Arthur asked, although he didn’t need Merlin to answer, he already knew it would be a ‘yes’. He had treated Merlin horrible at times just because he felt pressured to keep his servant at arm’s length, because he was the king, and a king couldn’t be friends with his servant. Never mind that to him Merlin was much more than a friend.

“No,” Merlin said, and Arthur felt hands over his a second later. When he looked up, Merlin was watching him with so much emotion that Arthur felt dizzy. “You might be a royal prat, and bossy, but you’re also my friend. I know you, Arthur, and I know you care about me, you don’t need to say it for me to know it. You would have sacked me a long time ago if it weren’t because of our friendship, because let’s be honest, I’m the worst servant ever.”

“You are,” Arthur chuckled wetly, a few more tears running down his cheeks.

“You may not have the answer to this, but I’m certain that whatever you do will be the right thing. I believe in you.”

“How can you say that when you’re locked in a cell because of me?” Arthur asked. He wondered how it was possible that Merlin was the one consoling him and not the other way.

“Because I love you,” Merlin said, his cheeks slowly reddening with a blush. “I have loved you for a long time now and I never told you because I was afraid of losing you. You’re destined to great things, too, and I trust that you’ll unite Albion and lead everyone to a time of prosperity and peace like never before.”

He knew he should say something back, like how he felt the same and that they could rule together one day, that if he was destined to great things would only be because he had Merlin by his side, but he couldn’t make a sound. When Merlin gave him another sad smile and took a step back, Arthur didn’t think, he just reacted.

He grabbed Merlin’s face and joined their lips, doing what he had wanted to do for a really long time. At first, he could feel the surprise in the sorcerer in the way he tensed, but when Arthur didn’t let go or pushed him away, he relaxed, and finally, the kiss was reciprocated. It was uncomfortable with the metal bars pressing in his cheeks, but all that mattered was how much he loved Merlin and the soft lips that moved at the same time that his.

Shivers ran down his spine and a tingling sensation spread through his body with each caress of their lips. His heart wanted nothing more than escaping the confines of his body and go to Merlin, because the sorcerer was its real owner. The feeling of the metal bars disappeared suddenly and hands moved to cup his face, thumbs stroking his cheekbones. Arthur’s arms circled around Merlin’s waist and pushed them flushed together until they were chest to chest, an urgency to touch him filling his bones. He could have lost Merlin because of his own stupidity, and he needed to know that Merlin was there, with him

“I’m sorry,” Arthur gasped when they broke the kiss to get some air, their foreheads pressed together. “I love you, too.”

“I got as much from the kiss,” Merlin said cheekily, his breath coming in puffs that tickled Arthur’s lips.

“Shut up,” Arthur laughed.

“We both know you don’t actually want me to shut up,” Merlin said, moving his head to look at him, an eyebrow raised in a way that made him look like Gaius.

“I don’t want you to change. I want you to always be you. Magic or not,” Arthur admitted, staring back at Merlin’s blue eyes and begging him to understand how much he meant those words. “You’ll have to teach me so that I can understand, but I can’t kill you, I could never do that to you.”

“I’ll tell you everything, I promise, even what I don’t want to say,” Merlin said seriously, but his eyes were full of happiness.

In that moment, Arthur noticed that with Merlin by his side, they could fix this, because they had always done things together. The reason why he couldn’t find a solution was because he needed his other half to guide him.

“Where are the bars of the cell?” Arthur asked when he looked around.

“I… made them disappear?” Merlin said, his eyes wide and innocent. It was such a Merlin thing to do that Arthur wondered how he could ever think that the sorcerer was evil. The knights were right and he would have never forgiven himself if he had sent Merlin to the pyre.

“Of course you did,” Arthur said, shaking his head in amusement. “Everything will be alright, won’t it?”

“It will, Arthur,” Merlin said, kissing him softly once again. “It will.”

[hypnomicimagines]

Fateful Meeting [Ninja!Harai Kuko/Reader]

The young ninja’s eyes were sharp, intense, so much so it felt like you were looking into the sun.

You looked down and away from his glare as you continued to tend to his wounds, ignoring the way he shifted uncomfortably, like he didn’t want you touching him at all. But he was the one who had stumbled upon your home a complete bloody mess, barely conscious as he looked up at you with pleading eyes, a moment of weakness when he thought he was on death’s door. Now that you had given him water and stopped his wound from bleeding his normal temperament had come back, and something told you he wasn’t the most pleasant dinner guest to have.

You had just finished bandaging him up when he abruptly stood, grabbing your wrist to stop you from reaching out to touch him again. You shared a look, wondering if he was the type of ninja to have taken a vow of silence before he opened his mouth for the first time.

“What do you want?” His tone is harsh but you think it’s likely just the way he sounds, if his looks are anything to go by. “You wasted your healing supplies on me, so what is it you want in return?”

“I don’t expect you to repay my kindness. Kindness isn’t kindness if it’s done expecting gratitude. Although I do suggest you spend some more time here recovering before you go anywhere…” Kuko’s eyes widened ever so slightly at your words but he doesn’t allow you to fully see his surprise, his neutral expression returning just as quickly as it had left. He adjusted the mask on his face as he stepped towards the door, ignoring your pleas for him to sit and rest a while longer.

“I always repay my debts.”

“Wait! Can’t you tell me your name at least? Or is that part of the whole secretive ninja clan thing you clearly have going on?” He hesitated for a second at your request, so simple to you yet to him… it was a show of trust. To willingly give your name to a stranger could mean terrible things for someone whose job was to blend in with the night; it would be better if you could forget he was ever even there which is why he becomes even more surprised when he spoke.

“Harai Kuko. Don’t forget it!” There’s a little more emotion in his introduction, a little less cold and far more personality shining through (which reaffirmed your assumption he was not the type of guest to bring home to your parents). But you found yourself charmed by him all the same, gentle smile on your face as you waved goodbye, his name just a whisper on the wind with how quickly he was gone.

You’re in awe at how such a bright shock of red hair managed to fade perfectly into the darkness but he’s gone from your view within seconds, leaving you reeling at the experience, wondering if it had only been a dream. The bloodied bed where he laid as you tended to him told otherwise but you tried not to think too deeply on it, grabbing the sheets to toss into your laundry pile to clean later. You cleaned up the scraps of your bandages and tidied your home like no one had been there, knowing that you had to sleep soon as you couldn’t burn the candle at both ends. You had to be up early for your patients the next morning as well since the work never seemed to end in the midst of the war.

As you’re finishing up there’s several aggressive knocks at your door, your body suddenly tensed as something feels off. Ever since your late-night visitor had left you felt an odd sensation in your chest, this anxiety unwavering in the heavy night air as you wondered how things could possibly get more interesting. When you’re greeted with the sight of two heavy-set men your anxiety finds itself skyrocketing, finding yourself backed into the corner of your own home as they make themselves comfortable.

“Excuse us for intruding. We just happened to see a trail of blood leading here… Are you alright?” His tone indicated he was not at all concerned about your well-being so you didn’t reply, instead trying to fix him with a steady stare that said ‘I’ve done nothing wrong’. “Ah, I see, the quiet type. I don’t mind that however… we’re tracking down a certain menace. A man with bright red hair who we heavily injured earlier today.”

“Why are you asking me?”

“Are you not the resident healer?”

“I am… but that blood trail could have just as easily been from an injured boar who was fighting for territory in the woods. Assuming it was human is a leap.”

“Might I ask why you’re still awake?”

“Some nights my mind keeps me awake with all sorts of thoughts, like whether or not I have to go into town to get more herbs and the like. You’re awfully inquisitive, are you perhaps looking to become a healer rather than being a person who supplies me patients?”

Your temper started to flare up despite you trying to carefully navigate the conversation, wanting these people who clearly came here to threaten you out of your home. You’d dealt with their type before, absolute savages, and you don’t appreciate their intrusion. You’re fonder of the random man who was bleeding out on your doorstep than these people who hurt just because they could, who bullied because they knew people were too afraid to stand up to them. Your irritation doesn’t go unnoticed but is returned with a heavy silence and glares, the two men who had forced their way in their home looming over you menacingly.

Perhaps you should’ve just gone straight to bed.

Kuko hadn’t made it far.

As headstrong as he was even he couldn’t deny the pain his body was in, his wounds aching as they hadn’t closed properly. He was normally far more respectful of the healers back at the temple but he was in a hurry, needing to report back to his father his findings immediately. He didn’t want to bring those hunting him to you either, it would be bad news as they seemed to have no issue slaughtering innocents left and right. He felt like there was a boulder in his gut that was slowing his movements, his body not able to move as nimbly until he’s finally forced to stop. He doesn’t know how far he’s gotten nor how much time has passed but he’s bleeding again.

It’s either turn back towards your hut or continue forward in hopes of finding another healer.

Something else is pulling him back towards you, like you’d attached strings to his body and were pulling at him to come back behind the curtain. Kuko bit his tongue hard to keep himself conscious, leaning against a tree, taking a deep breath, and then starting the journey back to your home. He’d have to prepare a proper apology for impeding on you so late at night but the sudden sense of urgency that rushed through his body stopped his needless worrying, walking forward with a huff.

He didn’t know why but he had to get back to you.

Now.

Your head is pounding as you lay in a crumpled heap on the floor, hands raising to cover your head to prevent further damage to your skull. You’d be in more pain if you were fully conscious but you’re only partially aware of what’s happening to you, your house in shambles around you. The place had been torn apart, the bloody bandages from earlier thrown across the room as they had been found during a ‘mandatory search’. The table you had been sitting at was flipped over and jars of needed herbs were tossed on the floor, even worse, now your own blood was staining the floor.

You’re fighting to stay awake, eyes scanning the floor for anything to defend yourself with but it was a fruitless endeavor. Your hands were meant to heal not harm, you weren’t suited for anything like this, and your assailants were clearly far more skilled than the average soldier. You wished you could say you put up a better fight than the pathetic mess that actually happened but there wasn’t time for self-pity.

“Hey you bastards! Didn’t hurt your pride enough after round one?”

Ninja’s are supposed to be quiet, stealthy, but Kuko had burst onto the scene like some sort of hero in a play. You’re wide-eyed as you spot the shock of red hair but your vision is so blurry and your brain so scrambled you’re worried you’re just hallucinating him. Your eyes met his for a second, your pleading reaching Kuko’s heart immediately; if he hadn’t been so carefully trained his entire life, he thinks his anger might’ve exploded in that moment, causing him to do something he’d regret. To see someone who had treated him with kindness, without asking any extra questions about who he was, someone who was likely innocent and had no means of defending themselves…

It pissed him off.

You hear the sound of skin on skin, some cackling that you’re sure is your ninja savior despite how high-pitched and wicked it sounded, and what you hope isn’t your house getting torn into even more pieces. Your face was buried in your arms as you were growing more exhausted, knowing the moon must be high in the sky at this point. You should’ve been in bed hours ago. Who would help your patients tomorrow when you could hardly help yourself? You weakly managed to bring your head up to survey the room around you but it’s suddenly silent, not a soul in sight until Kuko re-enters your home from the front door.

“Should I ask where you took them or just rely on blind faith?”

“You don’t have to blindly trust me but those assholes got what they deserved,” Kuko scoffed as he walked over to you, lifting you effortlessly so he could bring you over to your little bed (which had stayed clear of any debris). “Shit, I’m tired.”

Your eyes widened as Kuko lowered the mask so he could breathe a little easier, his face so smooth except for a scar on the underside of his chin. You can see a few more scars peeking out from the tears in his clothes but you don’t allow your mind to wander. Kuko is currently questioning why he just revealed his face in front of a civilian without thinking twice about the consequences, knowing this was yet another rule he had broken. There was a strict code all ninja were expected to follow and he’d already broken at least two rules, even more because he actually found himself liking you. He would be lucky if he got out of this unscathed by his father, not that he gave a damn what that shitty old man had to say to him, but he’d rather make his life easier.

“You’re bleeding… your wound from before reopened, didn’t it? I need to help you…”

Kuko shied away from your touch but you can see he’s actively fighting his body’s natural response to protect himself, freezing in place to allow you to place a hand on his shoulder. You kept your movements deliberately slow to prove you meant no harm, not like you could even consider raising a hand to him after he had saved you from who knows what kind of fate. He had half a mind to argue with you about trying to help him when you were injured yourself but he was too tired to even argue, his dad would’ve laughed if he heard that one.

“We should sleep…” After you had replaced his bandages with clean one you sent an exasperated look to your home, disliking the fact it was so messy despite none of it being your fault.

“We can just clean tomorrow.” Kuko flopped himself unceremoniously onto the floor beside your bed, hands behind his head like a pillow with his legs crossed; he winced a bit at the impact but otherwise gave no indication he was uncomfortable. You’re about to question his decision to sleep directly beside you but there really didn’t seem to be enough room in your home with a table flipped over in the middle of it, so it was easier to just settle yourself in beside him and hope he wasn’t secretly some pervert.  

Wait, did he say we?

“So, you’re going to stay this time?” You turned on your side to look at him, “I could use some extra help in the woods tomorrow… It shouldn’t be too rough a walk with your injuries… but I guess it’s selfish of me to ask a stranger to just help me out with my own chores…”

“Hmph. I guess I can help.” Kuko’s eyes are closed yet he’s unable to sleep, peaking one open when he hears you shuffling around next to him in an attempt to get comfortable. Even with a bruise forming on your temple you’re as stunning as ever, the young ninja biting his lip as he wondered how much of this was a sense of duty and how much was just him indulging his personal desires.

“Thank you…” You finally whispered out as sleep overcame you.

Kuko is left speechless, cheeks warm as he tries to settle his rapidly beating heart.

[rileymustdie]

So yk how hawks lost his wings yeah so hm what if it was a different story and the reader was a healer and brought his wings back BUT it hurts her in the process that’s my request if u can do it :)

UGH YOUR MIND

•angst, death, manga spoilers

•you both were a very good match. you both got along together, plus the fact that you were a healer and he was a pro hero that was constantly in fights, yeah he adored you.

• when he would come home all bruised and cut up, you would heal him. it only caused you a small headache, plus you had a happy and snuggly boyfriend after, what could be the problem?

•you never told him that if you overuse your quirk, it hurts you. you didn’t want him to start ignoring his injuries just because he didn’t want to hurt you. the headaches weren’t that bad anyways.

•that is until he loses his wings. the doctors said there was little to no chance of them coming back he was so upset about it and you knew you had to do something. so, you offered to attempt to heal them. his eyes lit up at the offer and so you sat behind him on the bed, trying your best to focus your power on him. now you have a massive headache and nothing even happened. you tell him “maybe it just takes time?” he goes back to sleep, upset. he knows it’s not really your fault and he shouldn’t have gotten his hopes up but the thought of having his wings back made him so happy.

•the next day you wake him up and ask if you can try again. you hate seeing him so upset, might as well take a few ibuprofen and get over it. he says yes so you try again, nothing happens. you lean your head on his back with a sigh. “sorry birdie, nothing happened”. he nods and you help him get up to go make breakfast.

•he notices while you were cooking that your eyebrows were furrowed and you looked a bit dizzy. he decides it’s just that you were tired. you go about the rest of your day like normal. hawks calls as many doctors as he can find to see if they can do something about his wings while you work on some household chores. you go to bed, still with the headache

•you continue trying for about a week with no results. finally, you begin to see two small bumps on his back. you tell him and he runs (stumbling a little bit) to the bathroom to see for himself. his face lights up and he picks you up and spins you around, thanking you. you stumble a bit when he puts you down. surely he didn’t put you down that hard, did he? he asks you if something is wrong, but you just brush him off and ask to go cuddle on the couch with a reassuring smile. he guesses he just put you down too hard and you both fall asleep on the couch.

•over the next month, you put more and more power into healing him. for every feather that appears on his back, another dark circle or bruise appears on you. he’s starting to get worried now, but you continue to act like you’re fine and blame it on low iron or just lack of sleep. he listens to you and you continue to heal him, but he keeps his worries in the back of his mind.

• after a few more weeks, he suggests that you should take a break from healing him. his wings are still small and not ready for actual flight, but it’s a large improvement from nothing. you tell him that you’re fine and that you need to keep healing him so he can go back to being a hero. he still tells you no, that he wants to wait until you’re feeling better. (keep in mind that you still haven’t told him that it’s hurting you) you agree with him and you go to bed that night.

•little did he know, you still healed him while he slept. of course not enough to where it would be noticeable the next morning, but you still wanted to help him.

•he started to notice that you hadn’t started to look any better over the past few weeks, and feeling so awful all the time took a toll on you too. every time you looked in the mirror, you saw the dark circles and bruises. how much weight you had lost. you looked deathly, compared to hawks. he was so bright, his muscles back to where they were originally, his hair so smooth. you felt like you should start listening to him and stop trying to heal him, until you heard him on the phone with the commission. “yeah! my partner has been healing me and my wings are coming back! i might even be able to go back to work soon!” oh no. he was no where near ready to go back, you had to work harder.

• you still continue to heal him little by little. you can no longer stand to look in the mirror or make eye contact with hawks for too long. one night before bed he’s holding you, and you start crying into his shoulder. he asks you what’s wrong, and you start explaining. you tell him how you’ve been healing him all this time, how insecure you’ve been, how sick you feel, how much you want to see him happy. you “forgot” to mention what your quirk does to you. he tries his best to comfort you and makes you promise to take a break.

•you decide to listen to him and you start to look a little better over the next few weeks. but unbeknownst to you or him, you’ve already caused permanent damage to yourself.

(also for plot reasons,, we’re going to act like hawks wouldn’t immediately take you to a doctor)

•you tell him that since you’re feeling better, you can start on healing him again. at first he shoots you down, saying that your health is more important to him than going back to work. but then he sees the look in your eyes, how you genuinely want to help him. “fine.” he says with a sigh, “once a week, but if you start feeling worse you have to tell me. deal?” “deal.”

•so, that next week you start again, and immediately you’re back to where you were. you know you should tell him, but he just looks so happy when he sees his wings growing. he only needs a few more weeks of healing and he should be able to fly again. you just have to hold on until then.

•one day, while he’s out getting groceries for the two of you, you start to feel more lightheaded than usual. you remember your phone on the couch and try to get over there to call keigo. you get to his contact, then the room goes dark. he comes home to you passed out on the couch, for a second he assumes you’re taking a nap and smiles down at you warmly. it’s only until he’s halfway through telling you about the new foods he got for the both of you to try that something was wrong. he walked over there and saw your phone was opened to his contact. he sat down next to you and asked if you were alright. no reply. he started to panic and picked you up, no response. you had a pulse going, a slow one. (a/n: i literally don’t know anything medical so i’m making this up and hoping it’s right) he immediately calls an ambulance, tears streaming down his face. “no, baby please don’t do this to me. i’m sorry, i’m so sorry. i should have payed attention more. please just be okay.” after about a minute of him sobbing into your shoulder, you start to wake up. your eyes barely open with a soft smile. he looks at you and hold you tight “what’s going on, what happened?” you give him a pained look as you start feeling numb. “i’m sorry keigo, i should have told you.” “tell me? tell me what? i don’t know what’s going on, i just walked in and you were passed out” he starts rambling, you use your last bit of strength to kiss him one last time. “you’re going to be a great hero keigo. i love you.” he stares while he processes what you said. “no, no please. don’t leave me. please there’s got to be something.” he grabs your wrist and checks for a pulse, vision blurry and shaking. nothing, you’re cold. he felt his breathing stop, his brain stopped working. the person he fell in love with so long ago, the person he spent long nights awake with talking about anything and everything, the person who greeted him with a warm and loving smile and dinner after a long day of patrol, the person who saw him at his weakest and brought him back up little by little, gone and never to return. he opened up his phone to do something, anything and there you were. the picture you had taken that day he brought you flying. your beautiful smile and that red shirt he got you for your birthday. he remembered how you said it looked so pretty next to his wings, he responded with “well, you look so pretty next to my wings” a silly response, yes, but it made you laugh and you kissed him on the cheek. he looked back at where you currently lay, grey and bony, no life left in you. all because of him. the ambulance finally arrived and they had to pry him off you. he finally got himself to stop crying so he could talk to them, but as soon as he saw them carrying you in the bag, his facade vanished and the tears started flowing again. that night on his way to bed, he saw the indentation on the bed of where you laid just that morning. he made his way to the couch, only to see your phone still on the coffee table. he started sobbing again, and fell asleep on the floor.

(tw: mentions of alcohol and suicide)

•your funeral was the next week, he went back to work the day after. he needed something to take his mind off you. he worked long hours, not caring how much his fragile and much smaller wings ached and how they could barely carry his weight. on his way home, he picked up the strongest alcohol he could get. he downed bottle after bottle and at one point, if he squinted hard enough, he could still see your sillouette.

• a month went by, he was miserable. some intern at his agency said “well, at least they died helping you. you can just get a different healer to finish the job, right?” he smacked the guy and retired then and there. he felt too much guilt, it was his fault you’re gone. just because he was too stupid to notice how bad you were getting. he stopped by your grave on his way home that night, the grass hadn’t even grown over the top. he looked at your name on the headstone. “heh, we didn’t even get to have the same last name yet. yknow, i had the ring in the drawer by the bed.” he looks down at the ground. “i know you worked so hard to fix my wings but, i hope you don’t mind too much if i joined you.” with that, he adds the roses to the growing pile of ones he brought before and heads home. the news the next morning read the title “Pro hero Hawks found dead after sudden retirement” He was with you again.

———————

okay okay i didn’t mean for this to be so long and so sad but here we are,, if you have any suggestions on how to edit it plz lmk! asks and requests are open and feedback would be appreciated! :)

[ivanabaqero]

Since I just returned from rehab, here is my.. idk, emotional journey on my chronic illness + mental health or wtf ever u wanna call this. This is the most personal thing I have ever posted but I need to get it out. 

Before you read, I guess I gotta tw this for suicidal thoughts and descriptions of my symptoms.

I don’t even know where to start. It feels like all of this happened in one week and at the same in a span of several years. But no idea, time just kept passing and more shit happened. 

Last summer was pretty cool. I worked hard and made a fuckton of money - not really considering the consequences of the fact that I overstepped the boundaries of my body every single day. Either way, I regret nothing it was pretty cool and another experience I am glad I could make. Well, but when I came back home, I started to notice a few things. Among some weird shit nobody wants to know about, I noticed a change of my eyesight. There was a cloud right on the vision on my left eye and it got blurry. At first, it started with minutes and then it passed. But I knew my body responded to exhaustion in an odd way so I let it slide. As doctors have instructed me, only when it lasts over 24 hours it’s an actual episode/flare and I should go to the ER -- to elaborate this further, I have been diagnosed with multiple sclerosis in 2015 and have not had any bigger flares since, only the regular symptoms like fatigue, etc.

 I got treated with the regular medication; cortisone. This shit gave me some energy boost for a few days and then, things went back to somewhat normal. The blurry thing in my eye has changed into a weird ass thing called nystagmus. Basically, my eyeball was twitching. It was better than the blurry sight and my doctors told me that physical therapy was the only thing to help me with that, and up until some weeks ago this didn’t stop, at the moment it’s gotten way better though - a relief because that caused me mad headache and made reading really difficult.

Anyway, that was the smaller problem. A few months later, in December around Christmas, I have gotten really weak and have been constantly dizzy. As usual, I let it slide for some days. Up until that point when I couldn’t move from the bed or look at anything else but right up at the ceiling or I would get fucking dizzy. Back to the ER again, the same procedure began. Cortisone  resulted in a massive push of energy that lasted for some days, but after that, all the symptoms slowly returned. Not only that, but it started to get worse. I have been dragging and limping with my left foot since months but I still managed somehow to walk and get around. In January I had a major panic attack when I noticed that I couldn’t walk on my own to my doctors, which is merely an 8 minute walk away. I had to call my mom to bring me back home because I couldn’t go any step more. My doctor sent me to the ER but the next day, I decided that I was fine and being over dramatic and everything was perfectly fine. The whole thing kept getting worse, I could not walk anymore, I kept feeling dizzy all the time unless I was staring at only one spot: my laptop or phone. So that was what I did, ignore my symptoms. Adding to my chronic fatigue, dizziness, inability to walk and my eye problem, a sensitivity problem spread all over my body from the chest downwards. My hands hurt and my fingers cramped up and got stiff, I lost all feeling in my feet. I had an appointment at the neurologist thank god, or else, I would have let it gotten worse and kept telling myself that I am being over dramatic and nothing is actually wrong. Delusional? Maybe. I don’t understand myself there either.

The neurologist decided to keep me in hospital for a whole ass week, getting cortisone every day. I got in there with the ambulance in a wheelchair and left out of there walking again. Not perfectly, but I thought things were looking up. Of course, once the high dose of steroids begins to wear off and you slowly come down from it, you first catch sleep. Steroids this time have been given to me five days in high dose instead of three and in addition, I had to take pills that I had to reduce slowly over another two weeks. I did not sleep in those three weeks more than 3-4 hours per night and then I finally could. To make this more understandable; my brain was tired but my body was buzzing. I also had a tremor that has still not entirely left me as a wonderful side effect from the medication. 

That time stationary they finally put me back in a MRT and found 2 bigger new lesions. One of them in my cerebellum and the other in my spinal cord. Each of them causing me all those massive problems. Back at home I had physical therapy every day, but despite all of it, I had to rely on a wheelchair. I got my wheelchair in march and named him Otto because he is the best man ever. Next time in hospital, I was mentally and physically just fucking done and tried to just ignore how much my mental health was going downhill along with my body, the neurologist offered me stationary rehab at a very well known center where they treat several physical as well as mental illnesses. I said yes, and luckily got a place in July.

The initial plan was to stay there for four weeks, but the doctors suggested to extend to six. I did. And good that I did. I made slow progress. Very slow. To imagine, in twenty minutes at the first day I could barely walk 130m with four  breaks in between, with walking aid and what not - and my last day I made 640m in the same time with no breaks. I know this doesn’t sound like a lot but fuck -- I made it out of a fucking wheelchair. I am walking again. Not perfectly or any good, but my legs are used for their purpose again; to get me through this world. For someone who loves hiking and going for little walks alone, this was such a big deal to just not be able to anymore. 

The day I had the panic attack was the day I realized that in 2015 I made a promise to myself that if I ever have to rely on other people, I would end it. But I felt selfish for not wanting to end it. I felt selfish  for wanting to live and being a burden to people. I know, none of this is my fault and I am the first to give good advice, but am I good at handling my own shit? Absolutely not. 

With all the physical therapy I did for six weeks every day, I also had a psychologist that helped me understand myself better and deal with the trauma this experience brought me. I have to find another psychologist at home as well, because I didn’t feel the one I have helped me at all. I had to make a lot of promises to myself, such as accepting and asking for help and that it’s no shame in doing so. I feared losing my independence and I still do. But fuck, this experience was an eye opener in so many ways. I made new friends in rehab as well, which was one of the coolest things. And I got hit on by two attractive men - can you believe? I was in a wheelchair, dressed like absolute shit and not making any kind of deal of how I look! But yeah, my interest wasn’t really there to get involved in anything. I’ve got a lot of love to give but I need to give it to myself rather than pour it out on someone else.

I learned so many lessons, about my body and about my mind. My brain is an idiot and I have so many fears I was never even able to see until now. I thought optimism could beat everything and well... while it helps me a lot to get through every day life, every now and then I just need a slap in the face to look at things in another light. Not everything is fine if you tell yourself it is, no, you are not over reacting and you are allowed to feel sorry for yourself when life is dealing you a bad card. It doesn’t matter that other people have it worse -- it doesn’t mean your own shit is any less valid. And with that, I am going to wash my face and stop crying. I am still in a shock of reality state because I am  back at home now and everything is different. And I got to admit, I feel a little lonely. But I don’t want to reach out to my old friends at the moment with whom I felt like the “sick friend”. I want more friends in similar positions as me so I don’t have to feel bad for... well, feeling bad, and I don’t want to hear any more optimism monologues from healthy people who have absolutely no idea what it is like to have chronic pain, fatigue and overall; an illness. Whether it be mental or physical.

If you really read all of this, thank you. There was no need to, but I appreciate it. I honestly just needed to let it out. Because I haven’t done so properly since all of that started. 

[war-torn-and-collateral-damage]

So I have a new medical update for everyone!! As many of you know I have had a very hard time finding a decent doctor and getting answers to my medical problems. Since 2017 when I was diagnosed with "Functional Neurological Disorder" my medical issues have only gotten worse, I have been subject to abuse, maltreatment and dismissal by the healthcare system time and time again. BUT!!! Finally, over 4 years later I have a doctor who is AMAZING who actually tested me for things, actually looked into my history, actually actively listened to me and my concerns and CORRECTED my diagnosis and gave us some answers.

Apparently, I have a rare genetic connective tissue disorder called Hypermobile Ehlers Danlos Syndrome, he was able to diagnose this based off of a 30 minute physical evaluation and my medical history, that is literally all it would have taken for another doctor to figure it out, hEDS itself explains why I have been dislocating/subluxing joints hyperextending/spraining and tearing muscles and ligaments for literally as long as I can remember. But you don't just have connective tissue in your joints, there is connective tissue in the entire body!!!!! In your head (this is why I am so prone to concussions) in your organs (which causes them to sag and makes things like digesting food difficult) etc.

hEDS alone does not explain everything but when it was confirmed today that it was paired with Autonomic Dysfunction we finally got some insight into what is going on!!!!

First off, we learned recently that my seizure/paralysis episodes are triggered by cardiac events. That is, I go tachycardic prior to an episode, my heart rate jumps from resting to 170 in about 3 seconds.

This is because the Autonomic Nervous System (which controls involuntary body functions i.e:

dizziness and fainting upon standing up, or orthostatic hypotension

an inability to alter heart rate with exercise, or exercise intolerance

sweating abnormalities, which could alternate between sweating too much and not sweating enough

digestive difficulties, such as a loss of appetite, bloating, diarrhea, constipation, or difficulty swallowing

urinary problems, such as difficulty starting urination, incontinence, and incomplete emptying of the bladder, bladder retention

vision problems, such as blurry vision or an inability of the pupils to react to light quickly)

You can experience any or all of these symptoms depending on the cause, and the effects may be mild to severe. Symptoms such as tremors, shaking, and muscle weakness may occur due to certain types of autonomic dysfunction as well.

We also learned today that tranquilizers and nerve relaxers amplify these episodes of paralysis and shaking because it over relaxes the autonomic nervous system which explains why my episodes would last so long and become so severe because in the past doctors were treating me for "psychogenic Neurological symptoms" with anxiety meds, nerve relaxers and tranquilizers.

I was continously sent to PT and OT with no results and worsening symptoms, we learned this is because my body cannot regulate its temperature so I have an exercise intolerance, I work out, do strengthening exercises etc and get hot (as you do in a work out) but my body cant cool itself down so then the ANS freaks out and i have episodes. (We now have a recommendation and referral for hydro-therapy)

We also learned that I have NOT been having seizures this entire time, I have been having "shaking episodes" which is another more severe symptom of autonomic dysfunction.

Autonomic dysfunction is now also being investigated for the cause of my GI problems. My doctor believes I have autonomic esoughagial dysfunction with an R wave meaning my esoughagus is working in the wrong direction!!!! Testing for this has now also been recommended and ordered!!!!

Unfortunately we did also learn that there is not a cure BUT now that we know the problem we can work at preventing episodes and symptom management (trying to keep me cooled of for example) we also learned ways to get me out of an episode of paralysis by "shocking the nervous system" by using ice baths, smelling salts, pain stimulation etc.

We have in no way fixxed the issues at this point but today we actually got answers and validation and I consider that alone a blessing.

In an effort yo manage symptoms there are some things I need, ai get what I am able to when I have the money but I do not make much on disability so if anyone wants to help ojt woth items on my home health wishlist zi would very much appreciate it. I will link the list here. Thanks everyone for the continues support and encouragement.

[dredshirtroberts]

Constellations

on AO3!

Rating: M / Lime Pair: Eskel/Geralt Summary: Eskel loves Geralt but their soulmarks don't match - he'd know. They're witchers, and scars are their business. As he joins Geralt in retirement, Eskel figures whatever he can get with the other witcher will be enough. He might get a little bit more than he thought he was bargaining for, but Eskel's never passed up a good deal.

My entry into the @eskelbigbang. Trying something new for posting fic so bear with me. Check out the awesome art by @dat-carovieh on their tumblr and twitter @ LupisLionstooth!

Eskel growled a little as he stumbled off the path, clutching the wound on his side. The scar on his face creased with his snarl as he collapsed into a tree. He hated being wounded. The blood loss was greater than normal and his vision swam as he tried to push forward. The horse beside him whickered softly at him as he tripped. A loose stone, probably—or at least he hoped. If there were nothing in the path that would be worse. That would mean he was worse off than he’d thought.

He needed to keep going. He had an appointment to make.

"You should meet me in Novigrad,” Geralt had said over cards last winter. They were several glasses of his horrible wine in (it wasn’t horrible, Eskel loved it, but he loved picking on Geralt more—loved making his nose wrinkle with irritation, and Eskel did prefer ale over wine but the wine made at Corvo Bianco was alright and, best of all, free) and having a quiet evening.

Most of their evenings together were quiet these days. How long had they lived now? How many of their friends were lost to the passage of time?

Lambert never stayed, preferring the road. They both dreaded his never returning but after the loss of his soulmate—the Cat Witcher that Geralt had helped avenge—he’d never been quite the same.

Ciri had grown up, grown into herself. She’d had a longer than average lifespan from her Elven blood, but she stayed with Yennefer more often than not, and had become a strong woman and mage in her own right. Yennefer, for her part, came and visited infrequently, lost often in her own research and pursuits.

Geralt’s bard, Dandelion, had retired from traveling, had owned a bar, had been a professor at Oxenfurt, and then, eventually, had passed in time from an old life lived long and lived well. Their other friends were either distant or dead.

So, things were quiet.

“Why would I meet you in Novigrad? I’m here?” Eskel had asked.

Geralt had rolled his eyes, “I mean when you’re not here. Back on the Path. We should meet in Novigrad. It’s a mid-point between here and your normal territory. And the biggest bookshop on the Continent.”

It was a tempting offer. And it wasn’t really like Eskel was going to refuse. They’d just never planned to meet before. Geralt had retired from the Path years ago, staying at his winery or traveling to meet his friends but never hunting monsters. Not that there were many monsters to find these days as it was. Eskel’s coin purse had been light for years, the only saving grace was Geralt’s hospitality during the winters, and his generosity with the funds that came in from the winery.

“Alright. Why?”

“Because I miss you when you’re out, dumbass,” Geralt groused with another eyeroll, the bite in his words sour and reminiscent of their younger brother-in-all-but-blood. The quick twitch of the corner of his mouth down and the tightness near his eyes belied the sincerity behind the words, however.

“Aww, I miss you too,” Eskel batted his eyes at Geralt sweetly, teasing, “Alright sure. I’ll meet you in Novigrad. When?”

Eskel was supposed to have been there days ago. But the contract he had been on was not only longer than anticipated but a larger beast as well. A more vicious one. And now he was injured and trying to make his way to Novigrad to meet Geralt.

He needed to meet Geralt there. He missed the man, his closest friend for the past century and a half, his only family. The closest thing Eskel would get to having his soulmate.

They didn’t talk about their marks. They used to. Before the Trials. Before everything had changed.

They were very young, the first time it had been brought up among their year group. Ten boys huddled around comparing the discolored skin that showed the closest their mate would ever come to death and recover from. They were in nothing but their smallclothes, sitting in a circle in one of the dorm rooms of Kaer Morhen and lit by only the fire in the hearth that kept the room warm in the cold nights.

Eskel’s mark was a series of dots on his arm, black-purple like bruises, peppered in regular intervals, dark lines running deep into his skin, touching the veins that brought blood to his hands, peppered in at the crook of his elbow. It was remarked by one that they were like stars—a description Eskel held onto for many years, even onto the Path itself, the constellations of Destiny drawing him to the match to his soul. Some boys had dark red patches on their chests, deep shadows of wounds-that-weren’t-yet slicing through their legs, their arms, their stomachs. One boy, Gweld, had a pale line running right across his throat.

Geralt’s was the biggest. A swath of pink skin from hips to shoulders, like he was flayed open and a new patch was sewn on in a slightly wrong color. Eskel’s heart hurt to see it. He liked Geralt best of the other boys, he wasn’t too loud when Eskel wanted to read, exchanged stories of knights and chivalry and wanting to be a hero with Eskel. And they of course got up to much mischief together, which Eskel always appreciated. To see him marked like that, to know that whoever Geralt’s soul was promised to would have to survive something that bad, was painful.

Eskel and the other boys knew Geralt’s soulmate was a Witcher. It was obvious. No one else would survive an injury that large, that deep.

Vesemir had caught them that night, scowling and barking to get back into their beds, that they’d all have kitchen duty in the morning and for the next week after for being out of bed so late. The boys had complained, whining as they got into their bunks.

The outline of Geralt’s soulmark was etched into Eskel’s mind for a long while after. Forever, really.

They’d discussed their respective marks privately at other times. Osbert had caught them out once, poking and prodding at one another, wondering what the cause of their marks would be, speculating on when they’d meet their soulmates. Would it be before they’d gotten the scars that would be representative of the marks on their bodies? Would it be after? What scars would they acquire and how would they show up on their soulmates?

Osbert had seen their marks. Saw Geralt’s and nodded, his eyes sad but knowing. Then he’d seen Eskel’s. The look on his face was one that Eskel wasn’t able to parse at the time, but as he looked back on the memory in later years, he realized it was devastated.

Eskel didn’t know what caused him to feel that way until he was strapped to the table during the Trials, mages and Witchers alike hovering over him. One of the mages had seen his arm, had nudged another beside him and said, “Look, this one already has where the needles go on his arm. Nearly labeled and everything.”

The laughter that had passed between the two mages frightened Eskel, but not more than the knowledge that his mate, the soul that matched his soul, the one that Destiny herself had picked for him, would go through the Trials, and that would be the worst thing they would survive. Would they die? On the table? He knew it was a possibility but…

Would he die before meeting his soulmate? That hurt worse, the thought of leaving his soulmate to the world without knowing what happened to Eskel. His brain raced through all the injuries he knew he’d acquired since coming to Kaer Morhen—which one was the worst one? Which one brought him closest to death? Which would be the mark on his mate’s body if he died on the table, chemicals and reagents and mutagens pouring into his bloodstream, changing his body?

For the first time in his life, he wondered if his soulmate would fear him after he became a Witcher, if he survived. And as the needles pierced his skin, their caustic, toxic mixtures seeping into him and altering him irrevocably, he cried.

Eskel, of course, had survived the Trials.

Geralt had, as well. Not easily, though. He’d been chosen for additional mutagens, extra tests, further Trials. Once-auburn hair that shone blood-red in the sunshine was snow-white. His skin was death-pale, and shadows seemed perpetually under his eyes. He had been unconscious when they’d brought him back up to the dorms, and Eskel had sat by his bed as often as he could, watching, waiting for his friend to wake up.

If he’d checked Geralt’s arms for the marks that still lay purple-bruised on his own, darker now with the pinpricks of the needles that had actually entered his arm, well… They weren’t there. His arms were as clear as the sky on a summer day. It was as if the Trials had not happened to him. Eskel knew that Witchers healed quickly, that the marks on his arm—the one’s he’d acquired, not the ones he’d been born with—would disappear shortly. But to see Geralt who had gone through more with nothing had…

Had…

Eskel hadn’t realized until that moment how much he desperately wanted Geralt to be his soulmate, until he had been so devastated by the undeniable truth that he wasn’t.

Eskel collapsed on the ground, the world shifting on its axis as he blinked foggy blurriness from his eyes. The horse behind him had stopped obediently. Geralt had trained him well, of course. Eskel didn’t expect otherwise from a man who had trained every single horse he had ever ridden—even if he did end up calling them all Roach.

He wasn’t going to make it to Novigrad.

It was the last coherent thought he had before he slumped to the ground, the world going dark around him.

Eskel had many wounds in his lifetime. Wounds that had brought him to the brink of death and he was saved only by the timeliest of Swallows, of magical healers, of mages. It was the fate of a Witcher. Their Destiny to be covered in marks from their profession. Some wore their scars proudly, some hid them away. Eskel didn’t really mind either which way. Not until Diedre.

The deep, horrible mark on his face certainly made him feel as though he were better off dead. It wrapped around the side of his face, tore part of his lip away leaving him with a constant snarl, reaching to his ear. He knew, in that moment, that whoever his soulmate was, had to hate him for giving them this…this…

This thing on their face.

It was also when he lost all hope that Geralt could still be his soulmate. That his best friend would ever become more. Geralt had always had a rather romantic idea of how soulmates worked. He would take his pleasure where he could get it in the meantime—as most Witchers did, but he would wait to have a romance with someone until their marks matched scars.

And Eskel, the fool, loved him for that. Loved him for his hopeless, idealistic view on soulmates, when in reality a soulmate was just a person, as flawed and horrible as every other person on the Continent. There were soulmate couples who hated one another. Those who never met. Those who hurt their mates, were the ones to give them their scars.

As soon as Eskel knew he was not Geralt’s he worried. He worried for Geralt because the man, despite everything was still soft on the inside, was still the boy with bright eyes who waxed poetic about becoming a Knightly Witcher, who would save the world, not just from monsters but from everything he could. The man who had wanted to name himself Geralt Eric Roger du Haute-Bellegarde entirely earnestly. The man who loved every horse he ever met and named them each after the same kind of fish.

Eskel worried because he could not protect Geralt if his soulmate hurt him, because Eskel was not his soulmate.

Eskel traced the constellations on his arm, the little stars that marked where his soulmate went through the Trials. That marked where he went through the Trials. Absently, late at night he wondered if they were someone he had already met.

After the pogroms and the attack of Kaer Morhen he no longer needed to wonder. If he hadn’t met them yet, they had probably already died.

It was years before he let himself consider that they had died even earlier than that. Likely the first year on the Path. He tried not to think about if they were from the Wolf school or another.

Sometimes he would run his fingers over the shape of the scar on his face, wonder if his soulmate could feel it—could have felt it, he sometimes reminded himself, they weren’t alive anymore, likely. He would think about what it would be to run his fingers lovingly over the mark that tied them together, let them touch his mark—the memories of the Trials were painful, traumatic for all who went through them, but maybe with the fact that it connected them together in so many ways it would be… better.

Eventually he stopped letting himself think about it at all. It hurt too much. It wasn’t Geralt, it would never be Geralt, and he would never know his soulmate.

And maybe, if he were really and truly honest with himself, he didn’t want to know his soulmate.

Eskel woke in a bed.

This was mostly jarring because he had the distinct memory of passing out in the middle of the road, but he’d woken up in worse places than a bed before. At least this time there were no succubi.

That had been interesting.

“Welcome back to the land of the living,” Geralt’s voice was gravelly as always, and coming from Eskel’s left hand side.

Eskel grunted as he turned his head to look at the white-haired man beside him. The ever-present dark circles under his eyes seemed darker than usual, the pallor of his skin waxier and wanner than Eskel remembered from the last time they’d seen one another.

(Geralt had been looking healthier since he’d retired, well-fed, relaxed. This looked like Geralt on the Path—something Eskel hadn’t seen in years, decades even.)

“You look like shit,” Eskel said, pulling his face into a rough approximation of a smirk. His body felt heavy and he could feel the familiar tug of stitches in his side. At least he wasn’t actively bleeding out anymore.

“Yeah, well,” Geralt started like he was going to retort, but his voice fell flat as his expression did something Eskel wasn’t sure he’d ever seen on the man before, “You’re lucky I caught your scent while I was out hunting or you’d have died laying in the road.”

“Business as usual, then,” Eskel grunted, attempting to sit up a little. Geralt moved quickly, faster than Eskel was anticipating, and a hand was on his chest, pushing him back down into the bed. If Eskel really wanted to, he probably could have ignored the hand but…

Geralt’s long fingers were cold and felt nice on his heated skin and it had been so long since their last hug in Toussaint before Eskel had left on the Path again. Maybe this year he’d actually talk to Geralt about retiring with him, about setting up in the winery with Geralt, becoming even-older-old men together. It wasn’t like the monsters were getting any more populous. He could take up a trade, maybe, and pretend he wasn’t made into a monster himself by mutagens and actions and scars. Maybe he could pretend they were soulmates again, that this was enough.

He suddenly remembered why he hadn’t chosen to retire with Geralt yet. Why he might not ever.

“Stay down, idiot. You’ll pull your stitches.”

“Doubt I need them much longer,” Eskel grumbled.

“The fact that I could see your intestines before I got you fixed up begs to differ.” Geralt’s eyes were narrowed, the slits of his pupils dark in the wheat-gold of his eyes.

“Eh, they needed a bit of fresh air,” Eskel’s joking tone didn’t quite hit, and Geralt’s jaw clenched as he swallowed thickly. Eskel winced, turning away, “That was dumb of me to say, I’m sorry.”

“No you’re…you’re right. It’s part of the job,” Geralt was leaning back, taking his hand with him and Eskel gritted his teeth together to avoid begging him to keep touching Eskel, to never let go.

“Doesn’t mean it doesn’t suck,” Eskel shrugged.

They sat in silence for a bit, Eskel’s eyes feeling heavy again.

“You give me something for it?” He asked, his brow creasing in confusion.

“What?”

“For the…” He gestured to his side, “Did you give me something?”

“Nah, why?”

“Tired,” Eskel mumbles, feeling his eyes drift shut again. Though, perhaps the exhaustion is more from having pushed himself on the Path for days on end before his last contract, and then further while injured, from having little to no food because he couldn’t afford it and the hunting was scarce close to the griffin.

Perhaps it was being in a bed for the first time since he’d left Geralt’s side in early spring, or maybe just the safety and comfort of having Geralt by his side again, listening to the man’s steady, Witcher-slow heartbeat and the soft sound of his breathing.

“So sleep,” Geralt’s voice is fond in Eskel’s ears and he thinks it’s probably just his mind making things up as it slows from waking to meditation to sleep, drifting from consciousness to dreams with little to no effort.

Eskel thinks he could get used to it, and fears what that means.

Eskel wakes again and it’s morning. Sun is shining through the window in the corner and birds are chirping outside.

Geralt is asleep, leaned forward on the bed, head resting on Eskel’s lap, and hands clasped around Eskel’s own. Previously cold fingers are warmed by the heat of Eskel’s palms and something in Eskel’s chest clenches in a way he is all too familiar with.

Geralt’s hair is loose, unbound and a tangled mess around his shoulders. Several strands have fallen across his face, a lock of it draped over his eyes, closed in sleep with pale lashes fanned out over dark circles. Soft breaths huff between parted lips that move slightly with the dreams that he sees behind his eyelids—Eskel can see the shape of his eyes darting back and forth beneath the thin skin.

He brings his other hand up, the one unclaimed by Geralt’s grasping fingers, and gently pushes the hair out of the other man’s face.

Geralt is beautiful. And Eskel loves him. He loves him so much.

Golden eyes drift open slowly, pupils sliding from wide circles to rounded slits with the light as Geralt blinks, taking a moment to wake up.

“Hey,” Eskel murmurs, a smile sliding over his face—easy, this time, and he is sure his emotions are plastered all over his face but he can’t really find it in himself to care. Geralt is here. Geralt was worried for him. Geralt slept at his bed rather than in one of his own, holding his hand.

“Hey,” Geralt’s already rough voice is moreso from the sleep as Eskel brings his hand away from the white hair that slides through his fingers like water made semi-solid. “You actually awake this time?”

“Probably,” Eskel chuckles, resting back against the pillow to stare up at the ceiling. “Been a tough season so far.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He wants to explain, but also he doesn’t. He doesn’t want Geralt to worry about him more. He didn’t really want Geralt to worry about him injured, either, but that wasn’t his fault.

(Their trainers might have disagreed, might have said of course it was Eskel’s fault he had been injured on the Path, but they weren’t there now, were they?)

“What got you?” Fingers trace the line of the wound, healed already, the stitches already out, having been removed while Eskel slept. Eskel shivers.

“Griffin. Villagers weren’t exaggerating the size, after all.” Eskel pulls himself up to sitting, his muscles protesting after so long relaxed in sleep. “Got here in the end, though.”

Geralt snorts, “Barely.”

“Eh, I knew either you’d come find me or it was my time to go,” Eskel half-jokes. A mirror of their earlier conversation. A conversation they’d had about various wounds and injuries accrued over their extra long lifespans. Geralt’s face is impassive, neutral and shows nothing. Which means he’s very upset by this comment.

“Come back to Toussaint with me,” Geralt says, and his voice is soft enough that if Eskel wanted to he could pretend he didn’t hear it.

Eskel isn’t sure what he wants.

“Why?”

Geralt’s jaw works as his mouth stays shut. There are words, Eskel knows, caught behind teeth and tongue and throat that will not come out because Geralt’s mind won’t let them. Ever since Blaviken, he’d been like this. Their hands are still tangled together and Eskel squeezes Geralt’s fingers to his palm gently.

“Why do you want me to come to Toussaint with you in the middle of the season, Geralt?” He asks again. Sometimes saying it again, saying *more* helps. Sometimes it makes it worse. He desperately hopes this makes it better.

“I don’t want…” Geralt starts. Stops. Squeezes Eskel’s fingers back. Then he pulls away. “You’re probably hungry. I’ll get food.”

Eskel drops it. Geralt will come to him in his own time. Eskel will decide what he wants to do in the meantime. A few days rest as planned here in Novigrad will be enough for now.

Geralt comes back with food for them both, and Eskel’s body remembers that it is starving. They don’t speak much during the meal, and when it’s over they talk about everything other than Geralt’s invitation.

Geralt doesn’t bring it back up that day, or the day after. Or the day after that.

They spend a week together in Novigrad. Eskel raids the bookstore—it was very impressive, filled with tomes on tomes of books with knowledge and poetry and stories and everything and anything. Geralt came with him, though he only picked at the plays and atlases, but he purchased several books that Eskel looked at longingly, tucking them in his bags to travel, saying they will be waiting in the library for Eskel when he comes back.

Eskel decided that meant they were not going to talk about the invitation to Toussaint again unless he brings it back up.

The thing is, Eskel doesn’t want to leave Novigrad. He doesn’t want to leave Geralt. He doesn’t want to go back on the Path where he will be lonely and cold, where there is little food and fewer friendly faces. Back to monsters and fighting and nursing himself back to health, to glares and fearful children, to long stretches of time with no contact with anyone other than the horse and his reflection in the water.

He doesn’t want to risk not being able to get back to Geralt.

That night, he begins the conversation.

“We’ve been here a week,” Eskel observed, taking a bite of a soft, buttery roll. He was not sure what kind of money Geralt was paying the innkeep here but they have eaten well since Eskel arrived.

Geralt freezes momentarily. Had Eskel not been watching, he would have missed it.

“Yep.”

“Been trying to think about where to go next. Not many monsters up north anymore,” Eskel keeps his commentary light, his tone gentle and observational only. Nothing to indicate that he’s leading the conversation anywhere.

“Eskel.”

“Geralt.”

Ah, he has been found out. Figures it wouldn’t work on the man who has known him the longest of anyone alive in the world right now.

“I- I can’t-…” Geralt pushes back from the table a little, tension clear in his body and shoulders, “I won’t-”

“I was thinking I could head south. Maybe travel with you. Head to Toussaint. I know they were having vampire problems decades back. You think there are still any hiding out? I bet there’s an infestation in your library. I should really check that out, you know. Since you’re all out of practice and all.”

Geralt glares at him but there is a relief etched in his bones that Eskel can feel as he grins unrepentantly, feeling his stiff scar tissue crinkle the skin on his cheek as he does.

“You’re an ass.”

“Hmm, but you’re friends with an ass so I think that says more about you than me.” Eskel teases and Geralt rolls his eyes.

“Ass-kel.”

“Come now, Geralt. We’ve surely grown past the insults you thought up when we were twelve.”

“Not if you still act like you did back then.” Geralt points out and Eskel laughs. The tension breaks, and the two of them end up nearly giggling over their dinner.

It is good to hear Geralt laugh again. Eskel wonders when the last time he heard it was and realizes it’s been much longer than a season on the Path.

Travelling with Geralt is easy. It is also the hardest thing Eskel has ever done.

They camp on the road. It’s economical, and reminds them both of earlier times, times before the world changed and left them behind. It also leaves them with little to no privacy between them and Eskel has never wanted a wank more in his life than when he has to wake up and watch Geralt still asleep in his bedroll, or bathing in the stream. But trying to get off with another Witcher around is even more difficult than it had been to try and get off in a keep full of them—especially when he doesn’t want Geralt to know.

Because Eskel is sure Geralt would figure out exactly what was causing Eskel’s need as soon as he was caught.

Geralt’s back is nearly unmarred by scars, leaving his mark clear as the day Eskel first saw it. The mark Eskel has seen in his mind's eye for decades. Nearly a hundred years of thinking of that shape, the line of it. The pink is the same shade as it was before but seems so much darker, starker with the contrast to Geralt’s death-pale skin. The shock of color interrupted by fine scars from smaller wounds, and from the bright white hair trailing between Geralt’s shoulder blades. Eskel wants to run his hands over it, claim it, mark it up with bites and scratches and make it his because that mark ties Geralt’s soul to another and Eskel wants what he cannot have.

He turns away, usually, and does not watch as Geralt bathes. Does not imagine what he is doing, does not follow the sounds of the water moving as it is sloughed over skin, hands chafing at dirt to scrub it off, dripping, dribbling sounds as it is squeezed from the long locks of hair.

The trip to Toussaint from Novigrad is the longest it has ever been and Eskel is glad when they arrive at Corvo Bianco, greeted by the man Geralt has hired to run things in his stead. The rooms Eskel normally uses are clean and available for him and he realizes he has actually agreed to do this. He will be staying in Toussaint. He won’t be finishing the season on the Path. He will be with Geralt.

He doesn’t know if he’s made the right decision.

Geralt is far more relaxed in Toussaint than he ever was anywhere else. He allows himself to be open with his affections—something he lost when he went off on the Path, and gained back in fits and spurts after rearing Ciri. Hugs to his brothers for no reason, gentle touches to shoulders and arms and hands, leaning on them when sitting together, especially when drinking.

Lambert always scoffs and complains, shoving the man off and griping about how he’s become sentimental in his dotage. Geralt always grins and laughs, making a joke of it, teasing the youngest of their remaining family and ramping up the gestures to absurdity for his benefit.

With Eskel it is quieter, softer. Eskel always returns the touch, reveling in the chance to hold the man he cannot have. Arms around Geralt for the hug, squeezing him tight. A returned pat to the shoulder or back (where his mark is, don’t think about it don’t think about it don’t–), a squeeze of fingers when their hands touch. His arm wrapping around Geralt’s shoulders when it’s late at night and they’re leaning on one another, deep into their cups and watching the stars and the lights of the town below the vineyards as the night drifts on around them.

If he adds a few touches of his own here and there, well, it’s just to show Geralt that it’s okay to share these moments. And a kiss to the top of the head during those late nights is entirely innocent enough.

(Wishing it was more, wanting desperately for more, more, more, is just something Eskel has gotten used to after all this time. Wanting and wishing is one thing, acting on those is another and he won’t do that to Geralt, he won’t.)

So it is that they find themselves late into the night, out on Geralt’s balcony, several bottles of wine in, and Geralt resting his head on Eskel’s shoulder, Eskel’s arm not around his shoulders but further down his back, settling on his ribs. His fingers are absently tracing patterns through the fabric of Geralt’s shirt—if he’s tracing the line of the mark on Geralt’s skin, well…It’s on his back, Geralt probably doesn’t put that together.

Geralt sighs softly, a happy, content sort of sound, and turns his head into Eskel’s shoulder, headbutting it gently with his forehead.

“You good?” Eskel asks, his voice barely above a whisper. For some reason talking louder feels like it might break some sort of spell between them. Something that would cause them to have to part.

“Yeah,” Geralt hums, a smile visible from what little of his face Eskel can spy looking down at him, “Yeah, I’m… I’m good.”

“Good,” Eskel pulls him in closer, abandoning his tracing of Geralt’s soulmark through his clothes to lay his hand steadily on Geralt’s side.

“You?”

“Yeah. Me.” Eskel teases laughing a little, “I’m good.”

“Good.”

And it is. Good, that is. They’re happy. It’s warm, the last of summer fading into autumn, a breeze blowing and rustling the leaves of the vines in the vineyard below. They can hear music from the town—probably none of the human inhabitants of the land Geralt owns can, but the two Witchers are able to. It’s faint, what with the distance, but it’s audible and sets a nice background tone for their evening. There are bugs making chirping noises and night birds calling in the trees and it’s peaceful and everything Eskel never knew he wanted alongside everything he always wanted.

“Esk?”

“Hm?” He glances down again at Geralt, having been staring out at the lamplight across the valley in a daze, feeling Geralt’s body heat against his own and his thumb absently stroking against the ribbones he can no longer feel so starkly under Geralt’s skin.

Geralt’s face is… much closer than Eskel thought it had been the last time he’d looked down at him and now it’s moving even closer and–

“Ger?” He whispers when Geralt stops, a hairsbreadth from their lips touching.

“I–” Geralt stops again, pulling back a little.

“I didn’t say stop,” Eskel breathes, leaning in and connecting them together in a way they haven’t before.

Geralt is on him like a starving man on a feast, hands gripping at Eskel’s shirt, pulling him in closer, closer, closer. And Eskel goes willingly, opening his mouth to Geralt’s assault, letting him do the leading, finding out where Geralt wants this to go because wherever it is, however far, Eskel will follow.

His hands bracket Geralt’s sides, palms resting above hip bones and thumbs pressing gently into the softer flesh under his ribs. Eskel slides them up and down slowly, just a fraction of an inch in either direction, and Geralt makes a noise that Eskel has never heard him make before and suddenly Eskel is the starving man and Geralt is the feast.

They break for air when even their lung capacity is at its limit. Gasping and panting, Geralt leans into Eskel’s neck, biting kisses into the flesh there, bared because this is home, he is safe and needs no armor, no barrier between his vulnerable parts and Geralt because he can trust this man like he trusts no other on this earth.

“Fuck, Geralt. Geralt, I–” Eskel groans, tilting his head to the side to give Geralt more room, “How long?”

“Forever,” Geralt breathes and Eskel’s hands grip his hips, yanking him closer, closer still, burying his face into Geralt’s neck for his own marks to be made on the pale, pale skin.

“I’m sorry,” Eskel’s teeth bite at Geralt’s jaw, “I wish I’d known.”

“Please,” Geralt asks, “Please come to bed with me. I– I can’t. I can’t wait for you anymore.”

Eskel answers by grabbing underneath Geralt’s ass and hauling him up. Geralt inhales sharply—whether in surprise or arousal is hard to tell—his legs wrapping around Eskel’s waist as his arms drape over his shoulders. And then there’s more kissing, which honestly Eskel doesn’t know how he’s gone so long without because it’s perfect.

Geralt doesn’t have a mark on his face, and doesn’t have scars on his arm, but Eskel thinks that this has to be better than kissing your soulmate.

He carries Geralt through the door between the balcony and Geralt’s bedroom, carefully making his way over dirtied clothes and stray shoes and half-read books to reach the bed. His knees bump the edge of the mattress and he grins wickedly into the kisses Geralt is plundering his mouth with before releasing his hold on Geralt suddenly.

Geralt clearly did not realize just how much of his weight Eskel was holding, falling to the mattress with a shocked yelp of surprise before Eskel was on him again, leaning over him, pressing him back into the bed.

“Still good?” Eskel asks between kisses to Geralt’s shoulders and neck.

“Yeah. Yeah,” Geralt is nodding and his breathy words are half-whined, “Still good, fuck Eskel. Eskel I’m– I’ve–”

“I know. I know, I’m sorry.” The kisses he is giving to Geralt get gentler, softer, sweeter, “I’m sorry, me too.”

“You’re an idiot,” Geralt breathes, fondly, “The fuck did I do falling in love with a dumbass like you?”

Eskel’s heart is fit to burst at this and he looms over Geralt suddenly, “Say it again.”

Geralt is blinking with wide, dark pupils encompassing almost the whole of his golden irises, his hair is fanned out around his head like a snowy halo and Eskel wants more than he has wanted ever before and he didn’t even know that was possible but here he is. Geralt is with him, wants him, and he can have him and it’s so much more and so much better than he thought it would be.

Why the fuck did they wait so long?

“Fuck, Eskel. Eskel I love you,” Geralt’s hands rest on Eskel’s arms, but they’re sliding up to cup Eskel’s face, thumb tracing the scar from lip to cheek and back again, “I have always loved you, you stupid idiot. How the fuck have you not known?”

“When the fuck was I supposed to know?” Eskel asks, frowning, “You never said!”

“I thought you did! I thought you were waiting for your soulmate or whatever but maybe you’d settle for me eventually.” Geralt scoffs, “Seriously? You had no idea? I’ve been so obvious that Yen said something about it ages ago.”

Eskel wants to comment on the fact that Geralt thought Eskel was waiting for his soulmate when the whole time Eskel thought Geralt was waiting for his soulmate. He wants to say something about how low Geralt’s self esteem is that he thinks Eskel would have to settle for him, like Geralt isn’t the only thing in the world Eskel can’t put a price on if he absolutely had to. He wants to make mention of the fact that Geralt thought he was being obvious about it, that Yen somehow figured it out.

Instead he just grins down at Geralt.

“I love you too, you son of a bitch.”

It’s good, what they have. It’s pretty much the same as it was, but Geralt is even more physically affectionate and now Eskel can kiss him and hold him and Geralt kisses and holds him back. Geralt is very good at kissing and Eskel tries to be as appreciative of it as possible every time he is gifted with the opportunity.

They have not gone farther than rutting against one another through their clothes and Eskel can’t decide if that’s a good thing or not.

On the one hand, he very much wants to fuck Geralt. It’s something he’s been thinking of doing for nearly a hundred years, and now that he gets to be so close to it, it’s almost painful that he can’t. On the other hand, seeing Geralt’s soulmark while they’re intending on doing something intimate together, despite how many times Eskel has fantasized about marking it up, making it his, making Geralt his, he’s not sure he would actually be able to follow through with anything if he saw it in the moment.

Geralt, too, seems to be reluctant and that’s probably the main reason Eskel hasn’t made any motions to go further with it. They share a bed at night for sleeping, they wake tangled in one another, they eat together, they drink together, they hold and touch and kiss and say “I love you” to one another like it’ll be the last time they ever get to say it, like it’s the first time they’ve ever said it before, and it’s good. It’s so good. It’s more than Eskel ever thought he’d get, and it’s enough.

Eskel has taken to helping out in the fields for something to do during the day. It’s harvest season and they need all the hands they can get out there, so he joins in and assists. It’s warm in Toussaint, in the early autumn, and he is sweating and dirty when he comes in for the afternoon.

Geralt is sitting outside, drinking and reading his legs crossed as he reclines a little in the chair he’s sat in, reaching blindly for the glass of wine on the table beside him to avoid looking up from his book. Eskel smiles but does not interrupt, instead shucking his shirt off with a roll of his shoulders and taking the bucket of water beside the patio and upending it over his head.

The sluice of water is chilly enough despite the bucket’s position in the sun, and while bracing, it is also refreshing and feels good on his sweaty and overheated skin. He shakes his head out like a dog—or a wolf, he thinks to himself with a smile—his medallion clinking gently on his chest as he stretches out. Not quite as rigorous as a training session with Vesemir, but close enough. He might even be sore later if he’s lucky.

There’s a startled gasp from behind him and the clattering of a glass on wood, followed by a curse. Eskel turns around to see that Geralt has knocked his wine over and is desperately trying to clean it up while also not setting his book down in it. His movements are flustered and Eskel wonders what startled him so.

“Good book?” He asks, a laugh at the edge of his voice, amused by Geralt’s movements.

“What? Oh, uh. Yes. Yes very… very… um,” Geralt struggles to come up with a word. “When did you get that big scar on your back?”

“What?” Eskel blinks at the non sequitur.

“The big scar on your back. That’s– it’s– it looks old but I don’t think I’ve seen it before?” Geralt is affecting a tone that says he’s trying very hard to appear nonchalant, which means he’s failing miserably at it. Eskel crinkles his brow with a confused smile.

“I have lots of scars on my back, Geralt. You will have to be more specific.”

“It’s…” Geralt stands, still acting flustered, and turns Eskel around, laying a hand on the top of Eskel’s shoulder and dragging it down in a rough diagonal before tracing the edge of it—it spans the whole of Eskel’s back, and he thinks he remembers which one it was.

“Uh… Leshen, I think. About… twenty years on the Path? It’s been a while, Geralt, why?”

Geralt spins him around and takes his arm, pulling it forward and stretching his elbow flat. The network of dots on his elbow are visible to the sun for the first time in, gods, half a century at least—he’s tried to keep them covered as much as he can because looking at them was too much. A pale finger traces over them, slightly cool as usual. Eskel wants to take those fingers and chafe them between his palms to warm them up but he knows that would only work a little. Plus he kind of likes that Geralt’s hands are cool to the touch.

“Yeah, uh… that’s where they put the needles for the-”

“The Trials. Yeah. I remember.” Geralt whispers, his finger tracing a connecting line between the star-shaped marks, “Had it done twice.”

“Don’t remind me,” Eskel scowls, remembering the fierce terror at waking up and not knowing where Geralt was, learning that he was having more torture forced on him, then the recovery period where he had sat sentinel at Geralt’s bedside.

“Worst thing I ever lived through,” Geralt murmurs, glancing up at Eskel through white lashes and oh.

Oh.

“Oh.”

Eskel feels numb. And dumb. And like he’s been struck by lightning. Or a griffin. Or a Leshen.

Oh.

“So… we’re idiots, right?” Eskel asks after a moment.

Geralt laughs leaning forward to drop his head onto Eskel’s shoulder. Eskel’s arms come up automatically to hold him, threading fingers through his hair, loose and long and gorgeous. He finger-combs the locks as Geralt shakes, not answering him. Eskel doesn’t worry, it happens sometimes, that Geralt won’t have words.

He does worry a little when he catches the scent of tears, “Geralt?”

“Yeah,” He finally says, “Yeah, we’re idiots.”

“But you’re my idiot,” Eskel says and it’s the strangest, greatest feeling in the world that it’s unequivocally true.

“And you’re mine,” Geralt leans back, tilting his head to the side, and taking Eskel’s mouth with a fierce—but somehow sweeter than even their chastest—kiss.

They knock their foreheads together lightly, eyes closed for just a moment as Geralt’s hands reach up and cup Eskel’s neck and face.

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

[hongism]

mists of celeste ➻ two

➻ pairing: ??? x fem reader ➻ genre: space au, pirate au, space pirate!ateez, angst, eventual smut ➻ Word Count: 3.6k (not @ me saying i would only write 2-3k words per chapter) ➻ Rating: M ➻ Warnings: language, violence, guns and weaponry, blood, future warnings tba ➻ summary: Sneaking aboard the ship of a renowned space pirate may not have been the best idea, but you’ll have to make do with what fate has handed to you

⇐ previous | next ⇒

mists of celeste act one ➻ part two

​

Spending four days trapped in a cramped box in a cargo bay with nothing except for spools of fabric to keep you company is certainly not your definition of a good time. No one would find this dreadful situation fun. To make matters worse, you aren't stuck in a box on just any spaceship. No, your luck would deem it to be the ship of the most notorious and dangerous pirate across the galaxy. Thrilling, no?

No, most certainly not thrilling.

During your time spent in the lovely little box, you have started to notice small bits and pieces of information about the ship you are hiding on. Notably, the crates packed full of food. You've been able to keep a full stomach off that alone, although water has been a bit elusive over the past two days. Now, on the fifth day, you are hoping to get a better source of liquid than you have currently, which is draining the juice from cans and jars of fruit. Attempting to hide the used canisters was only hard the first day you were aboard the Scourge's ship, but now you have a method of placing the used jars in the middle of each crate and covering them with full ones so that it doesn't look suspicious.

People come and go from the cargo bay, but no one stays long. You've noticed that it is the same three people who make rotations through the hold. You haven't been able to catch sight of them since you spend most your time curled in a crate, but the sound of footsteps sounds different each time. Three different patterns and you've had plenty of time to analyze the differences since you do nothing except stare into darkness all the time. It's only ever one person who comes by the cargo bay, those three making the same trek, and that's what helps you keep track of the time.​

There are zero indicators of time down here. The lights only turn on when someone enters the bay. No windows in the room either, although that wouldn't serve any purpose because being in space already means having a bad sense of time, but you didn't bring a watch to keep track. Then again, things weren't supposed to go down the way they did. You can't complain too much because if the Scourge and his crew hadn't come through, you would've gotten a bullet in the skull rather than one in your arm.

Today is no different than the last four. You wake up to darkness, and the only reason you know your eyes are even open is because of the feel of your eyelids pressing together. And of course, the searing pain that radiates from your right arm the moment you wake up. You haven't been able to check up on the wound. All your time spent out of the crate is time spent rushing to get food or drink then hurrying back to your same hiding spot. The pain has certainly gotten much worse over the past few days, the bullet still lodged in your flesh, and the blood still oozing out whenever you so much as bump it on the wall of the crate. The weather in the cargo bay is rather hot, no doubt partially due to the stuffiness within your hiding place. Even without the crate though, you would know that the amount of sweat leaking from your forehead and body is unnatural.

Fever. That is the only explanation. Fever, however, means infection, and infection means that the bullet in your arm is only causing more issues as time goes on. If the wound is infected already, then you don't have enough time to remain stuffed in a crate for who knows how long. In other words, you are slowly dying, and it is not your life's goal to be found dead in a storage crate full of fabric.

Perhaps fate is smiling down on you at the moment because today is your lucky day. The door of the cargo bay clicks open, signaling the time for a routine check. It should only take five minutes or so but you are holding your breath out of fear of being caught.

"Hmm… nothing new," a voice calls out. It isn't a familiar one; at least it doesn't sound like the only two you know. No one makes a habit of speaking when they come into the cargo hold, so this is new. "Pretty good at hiding your tracks."

Despite your fever and sweat, you feel cold all of a sudden. Your blood runs cold at the insinuation behind the words. He knows… He knows I'm here. No, wait. He could be talking to someone else. Maybe someone came with him this time? You wait five, ten seconds in the hopes that someone will respond to him but no one does.

"Bloodstains. Drip bloodstains to be specific. I know someone is here. Frankly, you're just lucky that I haven't told Captain yet. If he found out that he had another stowaway, it would be quite awful for you."

There is a pause to his words, a sharp inhale along with a sniff, then footsteps follow. They get louder as the man walks, meaning that he must be walking closer to your crate.

"I can't promise you a quick death." His voice is quieter now but still manages to carry across the room. "But if you're injured… Healer might have mercy on you. At least a little. Captain won't for certain. Lieutenant? Maybe."

Lieutenant… I know that one. The one I fought outside the boarding station. Tall, dark long hair, pretty good at kicking. Seonghwa, was it?

"Captain listens to him a lot more than he should, but a lot less than is kind. Oh, by the way, I'm sure you are wondering who I am. I'm Spectre. When you decide to talk, it would be for the best." His voice rings in your ears. Perhaps it's because of the increasing fever, but the volume of his voice is bringing a sharp pain to your head and adding to the already present ache in your body. "I am a spy and assassin for a reason. Finding people isn't difficult at all for me. Especially considering that there is blood on six crates. Body heat coming from one. Tell me how that adds up for you."

You bite down hard on the tip of your tongue, refusing to give him the pleasure of being right even though you have no way of proving him wrong.

"Alright then, stay quiet. I'll be back later with some food. Maybe you'll want to talk then, if you're done stealing food from the crates down here. I won't bring the healer though, that can wait for when you're ready to cooperate." Again, the man pauses. More footsteps follow, but this time they grow quieter as he moves. "I know you've been in that crate for at least four days now, meaning that whatever injury you have is either already infected or about to be. You don't have the proper medical equipment down her to take care of it, so that's the only logical explanation."

You reach around your arm and dab at the wound with two fingers. It's hot to the touch, and more than a little sensitive. The pain surges through your arm despite only touching one small spot. He's right.

"In less than three days, the infection will spread to the rest of your body, and you won't live much longer. Unless you want to be found dead in a crate, which I'm sure you don't, you ought to just get out."

You laugh to yourself upon hearing his words. It's as though he can read my mind. Pressing your head back against the fabric under you, you dip one finger into the wound and dig around in attempts to find the bullet. The action hurts like hell but serves its purpose when your finger brushes over something slick and round. You pull your finger out, rubbing it across your shirt. He has a point though. I don't want to be found dead in a box because of a shitty shot from a scared old man. You grumble under your breath, eyes rolling back as you realize the predicament you're stuck in, then shove upwards with your left shoulder. The lid of the crate rattles and comes loose. You roll out of the box, suffering a rather harsh landing. Luckily, you land on your left shoulder rather than your right. Glancing up from the floor, you search for the man in the cargo bay. He stands near the edge of the room, close to the door, and faces you with arms crossed over his chest.

You recognize him but only barely. The fever is messing with your vision, he's a blurry form before you, but clear enough for you to see cat eyes and a captivating smile. Him… It’s the man who was staring you down on the bridge when they boarded. You hoist yourself to your feet, pulling yourself up to be more at eye level with the man. You glance over his form and features. He bears dark hair, practically black in the blurry light, aside from a single strip of blinding white hair at the front of his head. His eyes immediately move for your injured arm.

"So I was right." His voice lilts through the air. "You're bleeding quite a bit. It's soaked through your clothes. You must be weak from not eating or drinking well for the past four days at least. I don't need to be Healer to know that."

You refuse to speak; instead, you glare at the man.

"Listen, I actually don't want to see Captain kill another person after the last ship he massacred." He takes a few steps forward, hands falling down by his sides. "I can get you healed… I can get you healed and off the ship before Captain notices. Just – You just have to cooperate." You stumble forward with shaky steps but still manage to come within a couple feet of him. You spit on his feet. A small smile rises to your lips after the action, and you laugh to yourself. The man scowls down at you. "Well, I'm regretting niceties about now. Just follow me if you want help. If not, you can crawl back into your crate and die. How does that work for you?"

Again you neglect to respond. The man, Spectre as he called himself, doesn't wait for an answer though; he turns on his heel and walks out the cargo bay, leaving you to play catch up. You trail after him in silence. Walking in and of itself is a serious struggle, legs weak and shaky from the lack of use over the past few days, as well as from the fever controlling your body at the moment. Your right hand reaches for your gun holster out of pure instinct, despite the pain radiating from that arm. You hiss as a particularly sharp stab of pain shoots through the limb, and the man is quick to comment on it.

"Oh? So you aren't mute after all. At least you can make some amount of noise."

Gritting your teeth, you bite back the next hiss as you continue to reach for your weapon.

"Don't."

Your fingers hesitate at the grip. 

"Don't strain yourself trying to shoot me. It wouldn't work even if you weren't injured so just leave it. You can't win like this. It's pointless really so, please. Please just save us both the trouble."

As much as you hate to admit it, he has another valid point. Even if you do shoot him, you still have nowhere to go. Stuck on the ship of a pirate in the middle of space with no idea where you are or where you’re going. Not doing anything happens to be the best option.

You stumble, tripping over your own feet yet somehow still managing to stay standing. Spectre looks back at you, no doubt hearing the clunk and thud of your feet. You attempt to glare at him, seem intimidating in some way, or even just block out the sight of his form before you. Instead, you heave and fall forward. Vomit leaves your lips before you can think twice or feel the action. Red decorates the pool of vomit beneath you, along with bile and the remnants of food you ate the night before. Spectre rushes for you, arms outstretched to try to catch you before you land in the pile, but he doesn't move quite fast enough. Your chin collides with the floor, directly atop the vomit.

"Oh, gross," he mutters more to himself than to you. "Your infection must be worse than I imagined. That's an unnatural amount of blood in your puke. Unless you have a tendency to throw up blood for fun, that is. Highly doubt that though."

"Ju-ust leave me," you stammer. Using your hands to push up off the ground, you sit up straight with the help of the man on your left. "Let me die."

"You talk after all." He earns a half-hearted and weak scowl from you for that remark. It's enough to shut his smartass remarks up and make him answer you though. "I won't leave you to die. Healer is just down the corridor. You'll be just fine." He loops an arm under yours and slides it across your back to support you as he gets you back to your feet. 

"Wh… Why all this – this effort?" You inquire. The floor under your gaze is getting progressively more blurry, black invades the edges of your vision, and soon you will be falling unconscious. Still, you try your best to stay awake long enough to hear his response. 

"Fuck. Fuck." Not quite the answer you were expecting or hoping for. "Captain—" That's the last word you hear before slipping into unconsciousness. 

✦          ✦          ✦

Waking up is a painful effort. Voices boom around you, loud and intrusive on your rest, along with an invasion of bright white lights. You squeeze your eyes further shut as though it will help. The voices – one familiar and another new one – maintain their raucous volume. You crack an eye open, glancing around the new surroundings, and find yourself surrounded by white. The whole room is covered in it: the walls, floor, ceiling, beds, cabinets, everything. This must be the Healer's room as Spectre mentioned, which would mean you're in a med bay. Over at the right wall, Spectre stands with his arms over his chest and glaring forward at the source of all the yelling. You follow his line of sight.

There stands the Scourge of the Black Sea, Captain, Kim Hongjoong, whichever name is most fitting, it doesn't matter. Another man is with him. He's tall, almost ridiculously so next to Hongjoong, and he bears dark brown hair with gentle features despite his yelling. Soft, gentle, kind – he looks a typical doctor. You bring your gaze back to Spectre, who notices the movement of your head and makes eye contact with you.

"Healer and Captain," he mouths. You nod at his words, a mere confirmation of what you already suspected. The action feels strange and foreign, and there is a weird crackling sensation that dances across your face when you move your head. You bring a hand to your face only to find a film across it. It's the dried-up remains of your blood and vomit, no doubt. How nice that no one decided to clean it up. Spectre notices your movements. He drops his arms and moves for one of the sinks in the room, snatching up a rag and bringing it over to the bed you're on. You take it from him with a small smile of gratitude then get to work on rubbing your face down. The yelling around you continues.

"Captain, please. I'm asking for just a bit of time to heal her."

"No. Absolutely not. Especially not someone in that fucking uniform." You glance down at your clothes, trying to figure out what he means by that, but you are no longer wearing your previous clothes. You've been stripped down to your underwear – well not all the way down to that, but down to the plain white shirt you were wearing underneath your uniform along with the unadorned navy military pants that match the top. Military. Ah yes, the thing he hates the most.

"Spare her. It's one person, Captain."

"I don't have space for any more stowaways. I had one and that's all I'm going to have. I won't waste valuable supplies on her, especially if she's military."

"You just ransacked and massacred an entire ship's worth of people and stole the supplies!" The healer argues, hands coming up to accentuate his words. "She either dies by my hand because I fail to save her or you float her in space."

"I'll put a bullet between her eyes before she floats."

"Please Hongjoong. Please have mercy on one person."

"Mercy doesn't get anyone anywhere."

"I can save her. It's my job to heal people, and I'll be damned if I can't do it."

"How about I solve the problem and put another bullet in her right now?" Hongjoong snarls, hand going for the pistol holstered at his thigh. He pulls it out, and all of a sudden, you're staring down the barrel of his gun. You don’t have time to react, barely enough time to blink. Then, a wall of brown. The healer steps in front of you, blocking your line of sight with Hongjoong. 

"Give her a chance. Give me a chance, or give yourself a chance, for fuck's sake. It might surprise you."

"48 hours," the captain states as he pulls his pistol back. "Fix her in that amount of time. If she's not better by then, you get to put the bullet in her yourself."

"No! Hongj—Captain, no, that's not nearly enough time to treat and gauge the recovery of an infection of her degree."

"And now you're down to 47 hours. Best work quickly, Yunho." Hongjoong holsters his weapon then leaves the room without another word. Silence overtakes the room for a few moments. The healer rushes into action once the door slides shut behind Hongjoong. He hurries over to the cabinets, yanking them open and rifling through them as though his life – well yours really – depends on it. 

"San," he calls over his shoulder. You're confused for a second, then the man who gave you the rag moves.

"Yes?"

"Fetch a bottle of vodka and something to bite down on." 

Spectre moves with the same amount of haste that the healer is. He heads out the door Hongjoong left through, leaving you alone with the tall healer. 

"Tweezers, needles, antiseptic, gauze, lots of gauze," he mutters to himself. The healer walks from cabinet to cabinet, gathering more supplies as he moves, and once he has an armful of items, he makes his way to your bedside. "Hi." 

He plops down on a stool you didn't even notice, scooting closer to you before dropping the items on the bed. He sorts them with quick and deft fingers. Each one finds a new home on a table nearby as the healer goes through them. Once they have all made their way to the table, the man looks up at you. Well, more like down since he's tall even while sitting down, but that's beside the point.

"My name is Yunho, I'm the healer here on The Horizon. I apologize for that shouting match you had to wake up to and witness." He reaches around you, picking up the cloth Spectre gave you earlier. He gently wipes at your face and scrubs at the spots you missed. "If I had more time, I would give you anesthesia. I'm worried that you may not be back to normal functioning if I give you the anesthesia now. Everyone's body reacts differently to it. We'll make do with it though. What's your dominant hand?"

You respond with your head, nodding towards your injured arm.

"Well, that complicates things quite a bit." Yunho sighs and leans back. One hand finds his hair, running through it and messing with the waves. "An infection like yours is going to take days if not weeks to fully heal. The muscle is damaged no doubt, as well as a potential fracture on the bone thanks to the pressure of the bullet. Since there's no exit wound, the bullet is obviously still in your arm, but I'm sure you knew that already. The infection is already causing fever in your body and weakening your system which means that until we get rid of it, your body will heal itself at a slower rate. Is this all making sense?"

"Y-Yea," you murmur back, nodding along with his words. 

"Okay good. You can talk, that’s a good sign. Eh, actually maybe not. We’ll see. The issue with this whole situation is this: Hongjoong – Captain, I mean, will most likely have you shoot a gun to prove that you're alright. Unless you happen to be ambidextrous when it comes to shooting, that could be a problem, no?"

"Just… get me well enough to shoot then." Yunho raises a brow at your words. "If all I need to do is fire a gun, then we don't need to worry about anything else."

"So you're not ambidextrous then," Yunho laughs at his own comment. The door to the med bay slides open again, and Spectre steps back through with items in hand. A tall bottle of clear liquid and what looks to be a belt folded in half. "Ah, San, you're back!"

"Bottle of vodka—" he passes the bottle to Yunho, "—and a belt to bite down on. It's the best we have on hand.

"It'll do." Yunho pops the cap off the alcohol and gulps down a large amount before setting it on the table with his other supplies. He clears his throat, stands up, and grins down at you. "Alright, let's get started then."

✧  ✧  ✧

a/n: alright alright alright, here is chapter two!!! i hope you all enjoy!! i really am trying my best to stay on top of my schedule and stick to it for awhile so i hope that i’m able to and able to stay inspired so that i can stick to my schedule! let me know what you think of this chapter!! reblogs, comments, and asks mean the world to me, and i love seeing your feedback so so much!

consider sending me a ko-fi!!

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.