#can’t wait for the whump this season…fingers crossed!!!!

[whumpypepsigal]

The Mandalorian s02e01: Mando vs The Marshal

“He’s seen worse.”

[jordanstrophe]

Be a Good Guest, part 8

CW: Whump, failed escape attempt (again...) kidnapping, electrocution, choking *inhales* intimate, possessive, creepy, protective, parental whumper, slapping, blindfold, restraining, shackles mentioned, manhandling, angst, so much angst with a seasoning of despair. No happy ending for this chapter at least :c

Masterlist

Walter was happy today, dancing and humming as he moved about the house with the radio playing a cheerful song. Gabriel didn’t even have the chain shackled to his leg today, he did still have the tracker in his neck of course, but if he pretended that it wasn't there, it almost felt like a normal ordinary morning.

“Good morning, little one!” He smiled. “Gmorning..” Gabriel gorged. He stood with his arms crossed while swaying on his feet, his eyes half open. He was hardly sleeping, the bed still felt foreign to him as he would just stare blankly at the ceiling. 

He was homesick. As lonely as his crammed apartment was back at home, he would rather be lonely, then here. He felt two arms slither around his waist from behind as he gasped with chills running up his spine. 

“Please don’t touch me!” He barked, jumping from his grasp and pinning himself against the wall.

“It was just a hug” He giggled, extending his arms out. Gabriel shook his head no as he refused to budge from his corner. Walter sighed as his arms fell crossed. “Are you still scared of me?” He asked.

He didn’t respond, his eyes just darted around the room to everywhere but his burning gaze. “Come now, Gabriel, It’s been a week. I’m doing everything I can to keep you happy, can’t you give it a little effort?” He asked, his voice growing impatient. “I just...I don’t want to stay here, please...” He begged. 

Walter’s face fell with sheer disappointment. He sighed as he slumped onto the piano bench, tapping his nail against the wood as an invitation for him to sit. Gabriel silently shook his head no once more, cringing and squeezing his eyes shut when he heard him abruptly stand up. He knew he was testing the waters a bit, but maybe he could pity himself out of this. He wouldn’t hurt him for something this mild, right?

*Slap*

His cheek burned as his whole body hit the fridge door. His lip that had just healed from the car crash splitting once again as blood smeared across the fridge. Gabriel took a shuttered breath as his hand gripped the door handle with his other hand on his red cheek. 

“Wh-what is wrong with you!?” Gabriel shrieked. “Are you crazy!?”

He regretted his words instantly as a hand wrapped around his throat, pinning him against the fridge as he fell silent. Walter rested his other arm over his head against the fridge as if he wasn’t already presenting enough dominance. He wasn’t squeezing his throat very tight at least, it was just enough to scare the daylight from him.

“I’m getting real tired of your constant disrespect, young man. You live under my roof, the least you can do is show an ounce of thankfulness for everything I do for you.” He hissed in his ear. Gabriel whined against his hand around his neck as he pressed his back against the fridge. The hand retracted as Walter’s fingers moved to wrap around his chin, tilting his head up until their eyes met.

“Tell me you’ll behave.” He raised an eyebrow.

“I-I’ll behave...” He whispered.

“Little louder.”

Gabriel’s eyes darted down, he was just doing this to be purely dominant now.

“Gabriel if you disobey me one more time I’m taking you to the basement.”

“I’ll behave!” He yelped.

“Good boy.” He smiled, his hand moving from his chin to lovingly caress his face as he slightly flinched. “Go sit down now, breakfast is almost done!” He smiled.

It was disgusting how he could change his mood in a flash. Gabriel’s legs felt numb as he struggled to walk to the table, slinking on the seat. He kept his wide eyes forward, too scared to move or even breathe too hard in fear of attracting anymore unwanted attention.

There was a clattering sound with a splash of water as Walter dropped a full cup of hot tea. “Drat!” He yelled, hissing and cursing under his breath as steam fumed off his soaking clothes. He grabbed his boiling wet robe and tossed it over the chair to get it off, before marching off to his room for a change of clothes. 

Gabriel sat wide eyes staring at the robe pocket opened just enough he could see the cluster of keys poking out.

Gabriel didn’t even think twice about the consequences as he reached into the pocket, grabbed the keys and bolted. They were much heavier than he expected, with about two dozen medieval looking keys hooked on a loop. His hands trembled as he fumbled with it, trying each one in the keyhole to the main door. The window, unfortunately, was out of the question, Walter made sure of that with metal bars after his pitiful first escape attempt.

He could hear Walter in the other room opening and slamming drawers, there wasn’t much time left. He was about halfway through and none of them had worked yet- 

*click*

One had finally fit as he bolted out the door. He still had a tracker in his neck, but all he had to do was outrun him, right? He felt his pulse beat through his body, his head pounding as he sprinted up the hill. He had been here before, but this time he was free of the chain dragging him down, the thing that screwed him over the first time. Finally, he made it to the road. He stood there, looking left, then right.

No cars… No one ever came here. He ran down the road, there wasn’t a soul in sight. He slowed to a stop as his lungs started burning, his hands on his knees as he gasped for air. He stopped when he thought he heard something… Chattering? Laughing? No, that was too good to be true. He took a deep breath and held it, trying to listen as he straightened up, spinning around trying to figure out where it could have come from. 

There it was again, a laugh. It was coming from the other side of the road near a trail. There must have been hikers! He bolted in the direction, following the cheery voices of what sounded like a small group of people having a laugh. He could see movement through the branches as his chest leapt with relief…

Finally, finally! He made it! There were people right there, just a few yards away!  “Heey!” He hollered, staggering through the woods. “PLEASE HELP ME!” He cried. He did it… He had made it out. 

His cries for help were interrupted by his own screams as a shock spiked through his body. What felt like thousands of needles stabbed through his neck forced him to plummet to the ground. After a couple of seconds, it stopped as he found himself lying in the dirt on his back, his hand held to his neck as he heaved for air. He scampered to his feet, before he could take a step, the full weight of someone tackled him from behind, pinning him to the ground on his chest with a hand tightly woven around his lips. 

His screams and crying were muffled as he fought back, digging his knees into the dirt trying to push the man off, who kept his arms and head pinned to the ground. He could hear the voices commenting the strange noise they heard in the woods, but brushing it off as some animal romping around. 

“But it sounded like a voice.”

“It’s just your imagination, or just another hiker, who cares?”

Tears swelled in his eyes as he was forced to watch the group walk by. He stayed pinned to the ground for several more minutes until they were long gone, the forest grew silent with their passing. The weight pressing against his back quickly became agonizing as his distressed noises were muffled. 

His hand retreated as he instantly shouted for help, electricity pulsed through his body again. His back arched off the ground in the man’s arms as he was held. “Gabriel, stop this right this instant!” Walter hissing in his ear after lifting off the trigger.

Gabriel went slack in his arms, his body still quivering. Walter got off him as he continued to lie still in the ground between his feet obediently. 

“Get up.” He ordered.

Gabriel blinked his eyes open, his tears mixing with the dirt on his face as he looked up with a pitiful expression. Walter only stared him down as he finally sighed in submission, slowly crawling to his feet. 

“Walk. Let's go.” He ordered. “You’re going to behave, and walk all the way home. Do you understand?” He growled. Gabriel flinched into a nod as he wobbled on his feet. Walter pointed to the direction of the cabin as Gabriel held his arms tightly to his chest as he shakily cowered past him. 

He was forced to walk in front, as Walter loomed behind him making sure he stayed in check. He lost his footing at one point and fell to the ground, only to be roughly grabbed and ripped to his feet. 

The cheerful music was still playing when he was shoved into the cabin. His hair was roughly grabbed as Walter dragged him along, ripping the basement door open. 

“W-wait..” He rasped. 

He was ignored as he was thrown onto an old wooden chair. Cuffs and shackles already built into it clamped over his wrists, ankles and neck tightly. He could still hear the happy music playing on upstairs.

“Wait! P-please!” Gabriel begged, tears dripping down his face as a blindfold was secured over his eyes. “Please don’t! You don’t have to do this!” He sobbed. He felt a hand rest in his hair, gently petting him. 

“Yes I do, little dove. Because you made me. This is for your own good.” He planted a kiss in his hair. “Since you want to be cut loose like a wild animal so badly, you can stay here, where it’s safe until you learn what’s good for you. That I’m good for you.” 

Gabriel heard his footsteps stomping up the stairs as the basement door slammed, muffling the joyful music playing like some sick fever dream.

“PLEASE! Don’t leave me here, I’m begging you!” He sobbed, his voice cracking. 

His cries were ignored as the house fell silent. He only saw darkness, as all he could do was listen to his panicked breath.

@alien-octopus @yesthisiswhump  @lave-whump @whumpasaurus101 @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @hamiltonwhumpdump @just-another-whumper @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @approach-me-and-ill-cry   @whump-it @kixngiggles @as-a-matter-of-whump

ʕっ• ᴥ • ʔっ  Thank you for reading! (and I’m sorry)

[aceofwhump]

Checking out Fate: The Winx Saga bc I saw you and @whumpypepsigal screaming about it and man what is it about YA fantasy tv shows picking redheads who can’t act as the main lead?? (having Shadowhunters flashbacks *shiver*) That said, the whump is A-MAZING so I’m mainly focusing on those scenes and it’s so good that way :D Also, I adore Saul and Sky’s relationship; it’s so wholesome and sweet!! - @whumpthencomfort

Okay, I’ve finished F:TWS now and is it bad that I’ve revised my earlier opinion? It’s not great, sure, but I’ve seen worse and there are enough good (or fairly good) actors to carry it, plus the physical/emotional whump is *chef’s kiss* With what happened at the end of S1 I imagine there’s going to be a huge amount of angst coming Saul and Sky’s way, which I would LOVE to see, so in spite of my earlier negativity, fingers crossed for an S2! - @whumpthencomfort

AGREED!! When I got to the end I couldn’t decided if I liked it or not but I did? Like, yeah it’s got some seriously cringey dialogue and sometimes I wanted to scream at the characterizations and plot (Why is Bloom so dumb? Why did she blindly trust the evil people who are obviously sketchy and release the crazy lady BEFORE she got answers? Why is Stella suddenly their best friend now and she likes Bloom now? Why is Riven such a dick? Why is Dane suddenly a dick and why is he so into Beatrix of all a sudden? Why can’t Aisha have a plot besides being Bloom’s sidekick/emotional support, ETC.) but I had a fun time watching it so that’s really all I need to know. I was into it. The magic, the story, the world, the characters. I liked it all. I wanted to see more. And the whump is FANTABULOUS!!! I’d have watched complete trash for that RJC whump. God he’s good. And that added whump with Sam at the end? SO GOOD! SO GOOD!!!! That boy is a great whump actor right now and I can’t wait to see him as he grows. That was delicious. And oh my god SAME! I really want a season 2 because there’s so much potential for some great Silva whump/angst and even more Sky/Silva father/son stuff which I crave. I want to see him struggle between his real dad and the man who raised him. I cannot WAIT for that! And maybe Silva will get tortured while he’s imprisoned. Wouldn’t that be lovely :D

So yeah I’m with you on the it’s not great but I had fun watching it and I’m looking forward to a season 2 :D

[shebeafancyflapjack]

What She Needs

Quick EOTB (not a) drabble for @cecret-with-c . This should make up for me clearly not finishing my other whump fic by the weekend as I’d hoped.

This stinks!

For that matter, when did the waves outside get so rough and loud? It’s as if every sound in this little corner of paradise he created has been amplified for his annoyance, right down to the mice scurrying around in the walls who only came out to help carry a lost remote or dropped earring.

No matter how what position he lays in, no matter how much he tosses and turns, he can’t seem to get himself comfy. It makes no sense! He made sure to summon the most desirable sofa, specifically for human napping, as he knew it would be used as Eleanor’s second bed as much as sitting to watch TV. Neither of them had any issues with it before so why was it so hard for him to get to sleep now?! Why did the pillows suddenly feel so damn lumpy?

Maybe sleeping on the couch was always this difficult. He can’t say he ever did it before. Ever since he learned how to sleep, it was always with Eleanor, in her bed. Sometimes they would take the occasional nap on the sofa together, curled up in front of a movie or spent after a day of simulated adventures. She took many a snooze on here during those early weeks, where she’d be buried underneath a blanket, clinging to one of the cushions like a shield while Michael pottered around her, trying to create as calm and normal an atmosphere as possible. Perhaps she found it as awkward as he did now, but was too frightened (and mute) to complain?

Oh, stop it, Mikey. Stop trying to rationalise this. 

He knew the reason he was truly so alert. The same reason he had been exiled to the couch in the first place.

“Are you just not gonna talk to me for the whole weekend then?” He asks once they’ve made it through the threshold and she’s still storming ahead.

He makes sure to scan the area, ensure the soundproofing is on, never too careful if one of his coworkers has followed to spy on them.

“Yep!” Eleanor snaps back before realising her mistake; “Oh...fork, that didn’t count!”

“Oh, c’mon, I said ‘my bad’! What more do you want?”

“Cockroaches, dude! You called me and my friends ‘cockroaches’ - you really don’t get why that pisses me off?!” She turns and rounds on him.

Maybe she, too, had been waiting until they were out of demon-sight to rage at him.

Michael raises his hands; “I did not say that!”

“Oh so your exact words weren’t ‘you guys are like cockroaches’?!” She quotes him, lowering her voice to badly imitate him.

He waves his hand.

“Yes, but I wasn’t...I wasn’t trying to insult you. Chidi asked me a straight question, I gave him a straight answer...Which happened to be a metaphor!” He tried to defend, stepping through the foyer of the beach house.

Eleanor was already on her way into the kitchen to grab a can of J.D and coke.

“Look, he asked me if I knew why I was struggling with understanding some of the things in his class and I was just trying to say, as an immortal being, I am technically superior to the rest of you...Your species!” He corrects himself as soon as she turns to scowl at him; “And I tried to put that into perspective for him! How it feels for me, a creature with unfathomable abilities and has been around since the dawn of time, to have to be taught lessons from a creature like him - a tiny, fragile, mortal species whose only existed for a tiny blink in all eternity.”

“And the first thing that came to mind...was a cockroach?!” 

Oh, she really is pissed about this.

He took a breath and tried to move closer, his hands out.

“Babe, c’mon now. You know I’d never mean to call you anything like that. It was just a force of habit, it’s how they would explain our jobs to use in Torturing 101.” He tries to tell her, his palm hovering near her elbow as she swigged her drink; “Old habits die hard but I’m trying my best, you know that, right?”

She meets his eyes, the sternness in her brow weakening a little, he can see. There’s a twinge in her lips as she refuses to melt.

“Old habits seem to be alive and well this week, man. Especially when you made Chidi’s writing come off the wall and attack him, just because he corrected you on Consequentialism!”

“Come on! You laughed at that!”

“No, Jason did! I...wanted to but resisted, which is what you should be learning to do! Stop lashing out at Chidi whenever he gives you the slightest bit of negative feedback, he’s only trying to help - which he keeps doing even though you can be such a nightmare student that you make me look like a teacher’s pet!” Eleanor cringes, putting down her can and stepping back; “Oh, what the fork have you turned me into?!”

“Hey, it’s not my fault you’ve become a total nerd! That’s on you.” Michael deflected as he hung up his jacket and removed his bowtie, snapping his fingers to turn his trousers to jeans. 

“Actually, ding dong, only reason I even asked Chidi to help me be a better person was because you tricked me into believing I wasn’t good enough to get into Heaven!”

“That wasn’t a trick, that’s a fact of the Universe.”

“You know what I mean! This is all your fault! We’re having to put up with these stupid fake tortures every day and when I’m not pretending to be miserable about that, I gotta babysit my demon boyfriend to try and stop him from actually torturing one of my best friends!” Eleanor raises her tone as she rounds on him; “And even when I finally get a chance to escape it all, I end up having a fight with said stupid demon boyfriend who’s too much of a jerkash to admit when he’s crossed the line!”

He watches her get closer, inch by inch, doing his best not to dismiss her comments and only focus on how cute she looks when she’s angry, as well as how hot it is for her to be so fearless shouting down an all-powerful immortal being.

Michael blinks as he realises she’s waiting for a response.

“Oh, you mean me?”

Eleanor groans again, moving back to the fridge. She grabbed as many J.D cans as she could carry before pushing past Michael and heading towards their bedroom.

He watches her go with a frown; “What you taking all those in there for?”

“Because I am gonna spend my torture-free night alone, in my room, drinking, eating crab and watching Real Housewives until I pass out.” She mutters as she turns the knob.

“Sounds good, count me in.” He went to follow.

“Alone!” 

That sounded less good. Michael stops in his tracks, watching her slam the door. He scoffs. She’ll be back out soon. What’s she gonna do, just leave him to sleep alone on the couch?

-

Yes, apparently.

Were he a true demon, he’d be hoping that Eleanor was having as much trouble getting to sleep as him. That she was regretting starting a fight on what was supposed to be their monthly getaway together and was going to appear any second to apologise and agree to forget it ever happened.

But he doesn’t, because he’s already passed failing at being evil, try as his natural instincts might try to rear their ugly tentacles again. He can’t wish anything bad upon her, the woman who changed his life, who shone a light in the darkness. He doesn’t even enjoy torturing her friends, not really. Chidi, a little, as an outlet, but only for an instant high that quickly wore off when he had to deal with the consequences. Which was mostly Eleanor being pissed at him.

He wondered how close she was coming to being tempted to turn a steak knife on him again? He probably deserved it.

It was...tough, being part of a team. Bonding with Eleanor on her own, two of them here isolated away from everyone else, had run so smoothly, as if it were destiny if he dared to entertain such a lame concept. But having to share her with others, taking classes with them, sometimes it was fun but other times...Ugh, he could gladly wish for retirement. He didn’t enjoy feeling dumb or small or...so clearly inferior to the kind, ethical human who got to spend way more time with his girlfriend than he did.

Not that Michael would ever bring that up. He’d sound as bad as Ross in Season Three when he was being possessive of Rachel with that Mark guy. What a tool.

Don’t be a Ross, Mikey. That’s Ethics for Dummies right there. 

He sighs, heavily, imagining losing Eleanor forever because of being like that doofus was with Rachel. He was better than that. He understood how important this was to her. He tried to respect her friends and what it meant for her to have all of them as a group; the family she’d been denied...that they’d all been denied in some way or another.

It’s on you to make this right, he tells himself. 

He hit his pillow before groaning again. Fine! First thing in the morning, he’ll wake her up with a nice breakfast, he’ll say sorry, he’ll let her know how frustrated he’s been with Vicky and others lately, and how he should make it up to Chidi and-

Click.

Michael freezes. That was definitely Eleanor’s bedroom door.

He closes his eyes, pretending to sleep. He doesn’t wanna try to do this now, not at this hour. Let them have a night apart to think, let her sleep, let it be a surprise to wake up to. She’s probably just coming in to grab some water from the Brita. Or some midnight shrimp from that infinite platter in the fridge. There’s a rapid thumping sound rippling through the air. He can barely hear her bare feet pad across the carpet...

On their way towards...him...

He struggles not to open his eyes when he feels the smaller body push against him, moving him back against the cushions and slipping under his arm for the lack of a blanket. He doesn’t need one and, even without his natural fiery body heat, it’s warm enough tonight. So why is she shaking all over as she curls into him-?

Oh. Oh shirt. Not again.

“You okay-?” he whispers only to find a palm pressed to his lips.

“Shut up!” her voice commands, her fierce tone trembling with fear; “M’still mad at you!”

Clearly. That’s not his main concern right now.

He nods, opening his eyes. The remnants of tears shine on her cheeks.

He carefully moves his hand to wipe them with his thumb, cradling her face as if it were the most precious object in existence.

“Just tell me what you need.” He says, softly.

They can deal with all the rest in the morning. Right here, right now, he’s to do what his role has always been since they first arrived here.

Does she want to talk about it? Can he get her anything?

He doesn’t need to ask these questions. They’ve been uttered a hundred times, over a hundred nights, throughout this house. He’s never denied her a thing and he’s hardly going to stop tonight.

Eleanor sniffs; “...Just...do the thing...”

He nods; “C’mere.” he lifts his arm again, letting her curl in close against this chest before he wraps her up tight. His fingers gently massage up and down her back as she tries to sync her breathing with his, burying her face in his chest. He whispers the same soothing words, the same promises of safety, the same tender reassurance that it will all be okay. She can never hear it enough, not after what she had to endure. It’s a miracle she ever came back from it.

Michael chances his luck a little when he feels her begin to calm by brushing his lips against her hair. She gives the smallest hum, fingers still clutching on tight.

“Still mad.” She mumbles, nuzzling into him.

“I know.” He whispers, “And I’m still here.” Always.

He’s not sure when the couch became comfortable again but he can feel his own eyes becoming heavy. He watches her face, so close to his, admiring the smoothness of her skin and each hair out of place.

“Guess I might as well stay...” Eleanor says, sleepily; “I know you need me to look after you.”

He grants her that, smiling; “We cockroaches gotta stick together, right?”

She doesn’t respond.

“Still not good?”

Her lips twitch; “Getting better. We’ll make a human outta you soon, demon babe. Now go the fork to sleep.”

[whumphoarder]

Long Distance Dadding

Summary: Peter gets sick while babysitting Morgan at the lake house and Tony is a Worried Dad™ about it.

Word count: 5,172

Genre: Sickfic, whump, hurt/comfort, fluff & angst

A/N: Mega thanks to @xxx-cat-xxx and @sallyidss or beta reading and ideas <3

(This story is set about a year and a half after the snap's reversal. Peter is 18 and in college and Morgan is 6)

Link to read on Ao3

The trouble with saving the world from the largest global disaster to date, Tony finds, is that no one ever shuts up about it.

“Okay, not to sound like an ass or anything...” Tony begins, already eliciting an eye-roll from his wife, “but I’ve already been given a Nobel Peace Prize, the Congressional Medal of Honor, three Victoria Crosses—British, Australian, and Canadian—a Russian Gold Star, a Chinese Hero's Medal, the Gold Cross of Zimbabwe, and about twelve other various countries’ awards. Why do I need to go to Morocco of all places now?”

“Because they built you a monument, Tony,” Pepper explains for the third time, her tone a bit exasperated. “There’s a two-hundred foot tall statue of you in their capital city, waiting to be ceremoniously revealed.”

Raising his hands to chest height, Tony wiggles his fingers—both the flesh and prosthetic ones—in a jazz hand gesture. “Oooh...a statue,” he mocks. “I’m titillated.”

Pepper snorts. “You’d better have mustered up some titillation by the time you shake hands with the Moroccan Prime Minister this weekend.”

“This weekend?” Tony balks. “We can’t go this weekend. Morgan’s got her… uh…”—he flaps his hand, trying to recall just what tedious elementary school obligation the first-grader has coming up next—“her snowman... ball… thingy.”

Pepper raises an eyebrow in amusement. “You mean the ‘Seasonal Snowflake Sing-along’?”

His face lights up and he snaps his fingers in recognition. “That’s the one!”

“Well, you’re in luck,” she laughs sardonically. “Earlier today, Morgan’s teacher called to let me know that our daughter has flat-out refused to participate this year. Something about itchy costumes, boring songs, and ‘child talent exploitation’—did you teach her that term by the way? Because I certainly didn’t and Ms. Sanchez was pretty ruffled about it.”

Tony has to bite the inside of his mouth to keep the grin from spreading across his lips. He shrugs innocently. “You know, it’s important to start building a child’s vocabulary as early as possible. All the experts agree.”

Pepper heaves out a deep sigh, but Tony can see the smile in her eyes. She leans in and pecks his cheek with a kiss. “Go pack for Morocco, Tony. Peter already agreed to babysit. And besides”—she whispers the next part in his ear, her fingers trailing over the collar of his shirt—“I don’t know about you, but I think we could do with a weekend to ourselves…”

“Well…” Tony clears his throat, feeling himself melting under her touch. “You always did know how to make a compelling argument, Ms. Potts.”

X

“So, Morocco, huh?” Peter says with a grin as he loads his duffle bag into the backseat of the car. Tony’s parked in the loading zone just outside of Peter’s residence hall at MIT that Thursday evening. “What’s going on over there?”

“Just another stupid award ceremony,” Tony grumbles. He moves back around to the driver’s side. “Gonna cut a big red ribbon, shake metal hands with some dignitaries, attend a couple of fancy banquets, yada yada…”

Breathing out a short laugh, Peter plops down into the passenger seat. He looks a bit haggard, though Tony can’t blame him; the first semester of college is always rough. Hopefully the long-weekend away will help.

Throughout the four-hour drive to the lake house, they chat about Peter’s classes (“You know, they told us in high school that college was going to be so much stricter, Mr. Stark, but there was literally a kid in my English class who started making grilled cheese sandwiches on a hotplate and selling them during the lecture and the professor bought one”), the new people he’s been meeting (“Pretty sure my roommate is in a cult, actually...”), and extracurricular activities (“Did you know if you take fencing, archery, pistol shooting, and sailing, you can become a certified pirate?”). Eventually, they run out of things to catch up on and Peter starts looking drowsy, so Tony turns on the radio for some background music and they continue on like that for a while.

Three hours in, Tony’s forced to stop for gas. Peter is sleeping soundly, curled up in his hoodie for the whole time it takes to fill the car. For a moment, Tony’s tempted to just let him be, but given that this will likely be their last opportunity for a break until they’re home he ultimately decides against it.

“Hey Pete?” Tony says, shaking the kid’s shoulder a bit to rouse him. “Did you wanna stretch your legs or anything?”

Peter blinks awake and shifts to sit up straighter with a small groan. “How far are we?” he mutters.

“Another hour at least, but I thought we might get some late dinner too,” Tony replies. “There’s an Arby’s right across the street.”

Peter’s face screws up into a grimace. “Ugh, Arby’s is the worst. It’s like, a wad of salty meat on a bun.”

“But with sauce,” Tony points out. Seeing Peter’s expression doesn’t change, he amends, “Alright no Arby’s. McDonald’s? They’ve got a new McFlurry flavor for the holidays I think.”

Peter gives a tired shrug, then curls back up against the window. “You can just get something for yourself. I’m not very hungry.”

Tony eyes him suspiciously. “Who are you and what have you done to Peter?”

“Hilarious, Mr. Stark,” Peter deadpans. Then, after a moment, he admits, “My stomach’s kinda hurting.”

Tony’s brow furrows. “Yeah?”

Rubbing at his gut one-handedly, Peter nods. “Yeah, since lunch. Probably shouldn’t have tried convenience store sushi...”

Tony snorts a bit. “Well, they do say a key part of college is experimentation and learning from your mistakes.”

Peter huffs out a laugh. “Awesome. Maybe I’ll join Martin’s cult next.”

X

They make it the rest of the way to the lake house without incident. Morgan’s already asleep, so Peter hangs out in the kitchen chatting with Tony and Pepper for a bit before turning in to the guest bedroom for the night.

Peter seems fine the next morning, if a little groggy. Their flight to Morocco leaves at 6:30, but both kids are up at stupid o’clock in the morning to send them off.

“You’re sure you don’t wanna go to your concert thing tonight?” Tony tries one last time as he encircles Morgan in both his flesh and prosthetic arms for a goodbye hug.

She shakes her head firmly. “Every time we practice Jingle Bells, Keegan makes farting noises with his mouth and the vein in Ms. Sanchez’s neck gets really big and red,” she says. “Peter’s more fun.”

“Yeah, probably,” Tony agrees. He pecks her on the cheek before turning to Peter, who’s blinking tiredly and sipping at a mug of coffee as he leans against the kitchen island. “Now, are you sure you’re up for a whole weekend of this?” He gestures to the energetic six-year-old in front of him.

“I think we’ll manage,” Peter says with a small smile. “If she gets too crazy, I’ll just web her to the wall.”

“Hey!” Morgan complains, and Peter sticks his tongue out at her in return.

Tony chuckles. “Sure, do what you gotta do,” he allows. “Just don’t get it in her hair—hate to have to cut it off. The Valentine’s Day sing-along is up next.”

“Uuuuggghh,” Morgan groans dramatically.

X

Despite all of Tony’s protests, he has to admit that Morocco is pretty gorgeous. There are definitely worse places to be honored with a gigantic statue.

“I’m just saying, I think the chin was too big,” Tony complains as they make their way back to their hotel room following the ceremony that evening.

Huffing out a little laugh, Pepper shakes her head. “I’m sure they did their best, Tony.”

“But of all the things to get wrong, why’d it have to be the chin?” he goes on, though there’s no real heat there. “I mean, c’mon, this whole thing is about the defeat of Mr. Purple Ballsack Face—they could have a bit more sensitivity…”

While Pepper heads off to the shower, Tony glances at his watch. It’s just after one a.m. Moroccan time, meaning Peter and Morgan are probably finishing up dinner back at home. He figures that’s as good a time as any to check in, so he calls Peter’s phone.

Four rings later, a small voice that definitely doesn’t belong to the teenager answers the call. “Hello?”

Tony frowns. “Morgan?”

“Oh! Hi Daddy,” Morgan greets, her tone going much brighter. “How’s your trip going? Do you like maracas?”

Tony chuckles a bit. “Sweetheart, I keep telling you, Mommy and I are in Morocco. A maraca is a musical instrument that you shake to make noise.”

“Can you buy me one?”

“One of what?”

She giggles. “A maraca!”

“No, honey, listen to me.” Tony runs a hand over his face. Maybe Pepper was right about the whole needing a vacation thing after all. “Maracas are not Moroccan. They don’t make them here. It’s a totally different thing.”

“Oh.” There’s a beat. “Can you buy me one anyway?”

“I don’t know—we’ll see,” Tony says, shaking his head slowly. “Hey, can I talk to Peter for a sec?”

“Uh…” Morgan hesitates. “Peter can’t come to the phone right now.”

Tony frowns. “Why’s that?”

“He’s throwing up,” she says simply.

“Morgan!” he hears Peter groan irritably in the background.

“What?” she demands, speaking away from the phone now. “You told me to talk to him for you, so I am.”

“But you weren’t supposed to tell—” Peter’s voice is cut off by the sound of retching, followed by the faint sound of liquid splashing.

Tony pinches the bridge of his nose. “Why is Peter throwing up?”

“He’s sick,” Morgan reports. “We were playing before, but then he said he didn’t feel good and his stomach hurt so we were just watching Wreck-It Ralph for a while. Then I said I wanted taquitos for dinner and he threw up on my Elsa blanket. It was really gross. But he said he was sorry, so I told him it was okay.” She pauses her rambling for a second. “We can wash it, right Daddy? Like that time I spilled all the yogurt on it?”

“Yeah, I’m sure the blanket will be fine,” Tony says absently. He’s already scrolling through his calendar app to figure out just how many Moroccan obligations they have left to attend. “Can you give the phone to Peter now, please?” he requests. “And then go to the kitchen and see if you can find him a can of Sprite, okay? Maybe some crackers too.”

“Yeah, okay,” Morgan agrees.

He hears shuffling over the line, which he assumes is the phone being passed between them, immediately followed by the sound of Morgan’s footsteps hurrying out of the room. A second later, Peter’s voice croaks, “Sorry, ’m fine, Mr. Stark. And Morgan was watching another movie. Got everything…“—he swallows hard—“handled.”

Tony rolls his eyes. “Very convincing. I’m sure Elsa agrees.”

“Elsa had it coming, honestly,” Peter grouses. “Those songs always get stuck... stuck in my—” He burps sickly, and then Tony hears the phone clatter onto the tile followed by more muffled retching and splashing noises.

Tony sighs deeply, running a hand over his face. So much for vacation. He fires off a quick text to Happy: Hey, you busy tonight?

As Peter continues to retch, three dots appear on the screen indicating Happy is typing. Are you in a foreign prison again?

For the last time, Slovakia was not my fault, Tony retorts.

A second later Happy texts: Keep telling yourself that.

Tony hears the toilet flush and the sound of the phone being picked up again. Peter’s voice, shakier now, comes back over the line, “Uh… you still there?”

“Of course. Wouldn’t miss it,” Tony says briskly. “Bathrooms have the best acoustics, you know.”

“That’s really gross...” Peter mutters.

“I don’t think you’re in a position to talk about gross right now, puke-boy,” Tony retorts as he fires off another text to Happy: Got a situation. How soon can you get to the lake house?

Happy’s reply comes a few seconds later: I’m watching Iron Chef America and doing laundry, Tony. It’s my day off.

Tony counters with, The kids are home alone and Peter just decided to reenact The Exorcist

The three dots appear, then disappear. Then they appear again a moment later, followed by a message: I can be there in 2 hours

You’re the best, boo <3, Tony shoots back. To Peter he informs, “Happy’s on his way.”

“He doesn��t have to,” Peter protests. “It’s just food poisoning or something…”

Tony scoffs. “Well, either way, someone who isn’t busy puking should probably be keeping an eye on the little troublemaker.” He pauses for a beat. “And Morgan too.”

Peter just groans.

In the background, Tony hears the telltale pattering of small feet on the tile. “I couldn’t reach the crackers, so I got you Doritos!” she announces.

Peter’s voice is hesitant. “Oh. Uh… thanks.”

There’s the sound of a crinkling bag moving closer to the phone. “They’re Cool Ranch flavor!”

Immediately, Peter starts gagging again.

Tony heaves out a sigh. It’s gonna be a long night.

X

After filling his wife in on the developments back on the home front (and being assured by Happy that he was keeping tabs on the situation as he made his way to the lake house), both Tony and Pepper decide they should try to get some shut-eye before their packed day tomorrow.

Pepper falls asleep straight away, clearly exhausted from their full day of travel and social obligations, but Tony finds himself tossing and turning on the overly-soft hotel mattress. It’s not until Happy texts that he’s safely arrived at the lake house to assume his uncle duties that Tony finally manages to drift off.

It doesn’t last long.

It’s barely 4:30 in the morning when Tony’s roused from his sleep by his phone vibrating under the pillow. He pulls the device out to see a message from Happy:

Kid’s had his appendix out already, right?

Being mindful of his sleeping wife beside him, Tony holds the phone just inside the duvet to shield the glowing screen from waking her. Yeah, before the snap, when he was 16, he replies, his mind going back to Halloween night seven years ago. A frantic and babbling Ned somehow managed to hack into Karen’s communication systems to inform Tony that Peter was more or less dying on the bathroom floor. An emergency surgery later, Peter’s been one appendix lighter ever since.

Why? Tony adds. Is it that bad?

Nah, just checking, Happy says. He says he’s alright but he’s running a fever and his stomach’s hurting a lot

Tony frowns. How high’s the fever?

Not very high. 100.9. It’s probably just a bug then

Yeah, probably, Tony agrees, despite the nagging worry in his gut. How’s Morgan taking it?

Just put her to bed, Happy reports. She kept trying to bring Peter juice pops until he finally ate one. Puked it up again ten minutes later. Don’t think nursing is her calling in life

Tony huffs out a short laugh as he types: Nope

Happy follows up with: Alright, I think I’ll try to get Sir Barfs-a-lot to bed now

Godspeed, Hap, Tony replies.

Then he slides the phone back under his pillow, pulls the covers up around his chin, and doesn’t sleep a wink.

X

“Look, I don’t like this situation any more than you do, but we can’t just bail on six dignitaries, Tony,” Pepper says in exasperation. She’s standing in front of the bathroom vanity, door ajar as she finishes straightening her hair. “We have two meetings this morning and a luncheon scheduled with the royal family at two.”

Tony runs a hand through his hair. “I know, I know…” he sighs. “I’m probably overreacting, it’s just…” he trails off.

It’s eight o’clock now, meaning the time is currently two a.m. back in New York. According to Happy’s last text, Peter managed to make it to bed around midnight and though he was still in a fair amount of pain, he hadn’t vomited for a few hours. Objectively, Happy did seem to have everything pretty well handled, but Tony still can’t shake the feeling that this might be something more than a virus.

Returning the sigh, Pepper unplugs the flat iron and sets it on the counter before walking over. “It’s just that your kid is sick, so you’re gonna be a worried dad about it anyway,” she concludes for him. “Am I right?”

“Guilty.” Tony gives her a sheepish smile. “Guess I’m getting soft in my old age...”

Pepper wraps her arms around him, pulling him close, and plants a gentle kiss to his lips. “Yeah, you are,” she agrees. “But don’t change. It’s a good look on you.”

They kiss for another few seconds before Pepper pulls back. “Well, the good news is, I’ve gotten quite good over the years at attending social obligations in your stead.” She gives his shoulders a squeeze. “You go do what you gotta do.”

X

With Pepper’s blessing, Tony leaves the jet and most of his luggage at the hotel with her, opting to just fly home in the Iron Man suit instead. It’s partly to ensure Pepper has a ride home in place, and partly so that he can shave an hour or two off the flight time. Even then, it’ll be a good five hours before he’s back, which gives him more than enough time to stress.

Sometime around the half-way point, Tony is soaring over the Atlantic when FRIDAY interrupts his thoughts. “Boss, you have an incoming call from Happy Hogan.”

“Put him through,” Tony says immediately.

A second later, Happy’s gruff voice comes over the speakers. “Got any extra sheets somewhere?” he says by way of greeting.

Tony grimaces. “So it’s one of those nights, huh?”

“Oh yeah, we’re having a blast,” Happy grumbles tiredly. His voice has a slight echo to it, indicating he’s in the bathroom. “Kid’s also wearing a pair of your pajamas now—hope you’re not too attached because the way this night’s been going, I foresee more casualties.”

Worriedly, Tony diverts more power to his thrusters. “The linen closet is in the hall by the master bedroom—should be some extra sheets in there,” he informs. “How’s his fever?”

“Holding steady around 101. He looks pretty miserable though.”

“Can I talk to him?”

“Hang on.”

There’s some movement and a few muffled words from Happy’s end before Peter’s voice rasps out a very pathetic sounding, “Yeah?”

Tony winces in sympathy. “Yikes, kid...” he says as lightly as he can manage.

“I threw up in bed,” Peter admits, his voice thick. “’m really sorry. I was tryin’ to get up, but moving made my stomach hurt more and then I just…” He trials off, sniffling slightly. “And now Happy says you’re flying home early and, and... I’m just really, really sorry.”

“Hey, hey,” Tony interrupts over the kid’s emotional rambling. “It happens, no big deal, okay? And honestly, Pepper’s much better at the whole decorum thing than I am, so the Moroccan royal family is better off with her anyway.”

A small, dismayed noise issues from Peter’s throat. “The royal family?” he whines. “Mr. Stark…”

“It’s just fancy tea with old people,” Tony assures. “Boring as hell, I promise. You’re doing me a favor.”

“God. I’ve gotta be the worst babysitter ever,” Peter moans sadly. “Zero stars on Yelp. You should give Happy my fifteen bucks an hour...”

Tony huffs out a single laugh. “Don’t worry, we’ll get him a nice fruit basket when this is over. Chocolate covered strawberries and all that.”

Over the line, Tony can hear heavy footsteps on the tile. “Sheets are changed,” Happy says, his voice muffled.

“Thanks,” Peter croaks back. Into the phone, he says, “Um, I’m gonna go back to bed now.”

Tony hums in affirmation. “That’s good. Try and sleep, alright?”

“‘Kay,” Peter says. Then, in a very small voice, he adds, “Uh...I’m really glad you’re coming home, Mr. Stark.”

Tony’s heart aches. “Yeah. I am too, kid,” he says softly.

X

By the time Tony’s boots touch down in the yard, the sun has just come up over the lake house, clearing the early morning fog. He retracts his armor and heads into the house, legs wobbly from the lengthy flight.

He finds Morgan and Happy sitting at the kitchen table, eating breakfast. The six-year-old immediately jumps up to greet him.

“Daddy!” she exclaims, racing over. Tony stoops down and wraps his arms around her, pulling her into a hug.

“Hey pumpkin,” he greets, planting a kiss on her forehead. “You’re up early.”

She shrugs. “I didn’t wanna sleep anymore. I wanted to see if Peter was better.”

“Is he?” Tony asks.

Morgan shrugs again. “I dunno, he was sleeping and Uncle Happy said I couldn’t wake him up ‘cus he’s sick. So we were gonna make pancakes, but Uncle Happy couldn’t find the pancake flipper,” she says with a pout. “So he was gonna use a fork. But then he dropped the eggs on the floor and they got broken and he said a bad word and now we’re eating cereal instead.”

His eyes flick up to Happy, who’s finishing off a bowl of raisin bran and looking at least as exhausted as Tony feels.

Since Peter is still sleeping, Happy and Morgan head out to feed Gerald and run some errands while Tony heads to his own room for a quick shower and change of clothes. Once he’s done, he pours himself a cup of coffee and heads to the guest room where he finds Peter curled up in bed, a lined trash can beside him.

“Aw, kid…” Tony breathes out as he approaches the bed. Even in his sleep, Peter’s brow is beaded with sweat and his face is pinched in pain.

He straightens out the kid’s covers and watches him for a few moments, taking in the rise and fall of his chest and his fever-flushed cheeks before sinking down into an armchair beside the bed.

Only a few minutes into his silent vigil, the combination of jet lag and sleepless nights catches up with him and Tony finds himself nodding off.

X

It’s the sound of whimpering that pulls Tony from his sleep thirty minutes later. His eyelids flutter open to see Peter curled up on the bed, arms circled around his stomach and eyes red and wet with tears.

“Whoa, whoa, hey,” Tony says in alarm. He quickly moves over to sit on the edge of Peter’s mattress, a hand on the kid’s shoulder, but the movement of the bed only makes Peter moan. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Stomach r-really hurts,” Peter manages to choke out. “‘S like, stabbing me.”

A fresh wave of worry washes over Tony. “Where does it hurt?” he asks. Cautiously, Peter hovers a hand over his lower right side, causing Tony’s eyes to widen. “Kid...” he begins.

“But-But it can’t be that!” Peter protests. “I already had it out. It’s gone, it’s—” He cuts himself off with a groan, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Does it feel like it though?” Tony presses. “Like your appendix did?”

Without opening his eyes, Peter nods hesitantly. “Yeah, exactly like that. But it can’t be,” he insists, sounding like he’s trying to convince himself as much as his mentor. “It’s gone.”

“True, but you’ve got plenty of other organs in there that could be going haywire,” Tony points out. He makes a beckoning gesture at Peter’s stomach. “Let me see.”

Reluctantly, Peter lifts the hem of his shirt up to expose his abdomen. His lower belly appears slightly swollen and the skin is flushed a light pink. As carefully as he can manage, Tony presses his fingertips to a spot about four inches down diagonally to the right of the kid’s navel.

Peter instantly gasps. He clamps a hand around Tony’s wrist, startling him. “Stop, stop, please,” he begs.

“Okay, okay,” Tony says, quickly releasing the pressure. But rather than relieving the pain, Peter cries out and curls even more into himself.

“That’s it—we’re going to the hospital,” Tony decides, already pulling out his phone to fire off a text to Happy. “Appendix or not, this is obviously something.”

Tellingly, Peter doesn’t argue. He just squeezes his eyes shut and gives a teary nod.

It takes a few minutes just to get the kid to uncurl enough to sit up, and then once he is up, he’s so nauseous that it’s another several minutes of hanging over the trash can and swallowing convulsively before he manages to get to his feet. The walk to the car is slow and shaky, with Tony bearing most of his weight. Thankfully, they’re less than half an hour from the lake house to the nearest SHIELD base, and they are equipped with a full Medical facility—something that definitely factored into Tony’s decision to purchase this particular property.

(Retired or not, he’s still a goddamn worrywart.)

Peter is lying curled up in the backseat, and Tony keeps stealing glances at him through the rearview mirror. The kid whimpers quietly with each bump in the road and every turn elicits a low moan.

“Almost there, kiddo,” Tony promises him. “Just fifteen more minutes.”

But only three minutes later, he hears Peter inhale a sharp breath, then suddenly go quiet.

“Pete? Still with me?” Tony asks worriedly, glancing up at the mirror. He’s half-expecting to see that the kid’s passed out, but instead finds Peter looking infinitely less tense than he did a moment ago.

“Yeah,” Peter breathes out. “It just hurt really bad for a second, but then it stopped hurting? Not all the way, but it’s a lot better now. Like, a lot better.”

Tony’s heart drops as one thought screams in his mind: something fucking ruptured.  

“That’s, uh… that’s good Peter,” he says shakily as he presses the gas pedal to the floor. “Just hang in there, okay?”

X

A gurney is waiting for Peter outside when they pull into the SHIELD base and he is immediately rushed to an examination room. But when the test results are inconclusive and his fever spikes to nearly 104, the doctors decide that exploratory surgery is their best bet to figure out what’s going on.

Tony spends most of the next three hours in the waiting room on his phone. First, he manages to get a hold of May in the middle of her shift. He gives her the lowdown while simultaneously sending a wildly expensive Uber to pick her up and drive her to the base.

Next, he calls Happy, who is currently at an indoor butterfly farm with his awe-struck niece. “Fucking knew something was wrong,” Happy sighs in response when Tony tells him.

Morgan talks to him for a few minutes, expressing both her heartfelt concern for Peter and the overwhelming joy she experienced when a very pretty purple butterfly landed on her arm a few minutes ago.

Tony can’t help but love her for it. Morgan might come across calloused or unfazed at times, but between the blip’s reversal, the defeat of Thanos, and seeing her dad’s long and arduous recovery process following the loss of his arm, she’s lived through more trauma in her six years than most people do in several decades. He’s glad that she’s usually able to find happiness regardless.

It’s around that time that Tony’s adrenaline fades enough for him to realize just how much his wrist is aching from where Peter grabbed it and rolls up his sleeve to reveal purple bruises. He’s pretty sure nothing is broken, but quietly gets an ice pack from the nurse anyway to press to the injury, sick at the thought of how much Peter had to be hurting to do that.

Tony calls Pepper—who has just finished up her royal luncheon—and finally lets himself fluster out properly.

She manages to talk him down from the panic attack that’s threatening to overtake him just in time for the doors leading back into the OR to swing open and Bruce to emerge.

“I’ll call you back, Pep,” Tony ends the call abruptly. Then hurries over to his friend, stomach in knots. “How’d it go? Is he alright?” he asks anxiously.

Holding up a hand, Bruce clears his throat, a little awkwardly. “Okay, first of all, I’d just like to say that the surgeons are just finishing up and Peter is, for the most part, fine.”

Tony instantly breathes out a huge sigh of relief. “Thank god…”

“But, uh, for the second thing...” Bruce goes on, gesturing to one of the waiting room chairs. “You might want to sit down.”

X

“It grew back?!” Peter balks at them.

It’s been about five hours since his surgery now and the kid is finally lucid enough to take part in the absurd medical conversation surrounding his unprecedented case. Bruce, Tony, and May attempted to explain the situation earlier, but Peter hadn’t been able to keep up and ended up nodding off straight into his jello cup, so they’re on round two now.

“Well… sort of,” Bruce explains, adjusting his glasses. “When you got un-blipped, your cells were reconstructed, same as everyone else who came back. But since your mutated DNA regenerates your cells at an expedited rate, they somehow took that process a step further and managed to restore your body to, uh…” He flaps a hand, searching for the correct term.

“...to factory settings,” Tony finishes for him. He huffs humorously. “Congrats, kid. You’ve gotta be the only person in history to have their appendix burst twice.”

Peter groans. “Awesome. Parker Luck strikes again...”

May tuts and hits his shoulder playfully.

“You’ll be on heavy antibiotics for a while,” Bruce continues. “Luckily, the rupture occurred very close to the time of your surgery, so peritonitis didn’t have time to set in yet. The surgeons flushed out your abdominal cavity as best they could and hopefully the combination of the medication and your enhanced healing will be enough to prevent another infection.”

“So don’t jinx it,” May concludes firmly. She ruffles her nephew’s curls.

Morgan and Happy appear in the doorway a few moments later. Tony gets up, ready to remind the little girl that she needs to be gentle with Peter since he’s still recovering, but it seems as though Happy’s already given her that talk because rather than bounding over, she tiptoes into the room, arms held behind her back.

“Hi Peter,” Morgan greets. “Does your tummy feel better now?”

“Yeah, a lot,” Peter assures her with a small smile. “Thanks.”

“Good.” From behind her back, she produces a colorful wooden instrument and shakes it. “Uncle Happy and I bought you a Morocco!”

Running a hand over his face, Tony lets out a long sigh.

God, he loves these kids.

Link to all my fics!

If you're interested in reading the full story of the first time Peter's appendix ruptured, check out my previous work: Ned the Dumbwaiter

Or, for more sick Peter at the lake house with Tony and Morgan, try: Dad Level: 3000

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Here we are, the next chapter!! I honestly.... can’t wait to get into this story more it’s... gonna be a fun ride :)

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Taglist: @faewhump @imagination1reality0 @galaxywhump @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @insanitywishes @spiffythespook (if you want on the taglist, just let me know!)

CW: Fantasy whump pet whump, referenced sensory deprivation, food, starvation used as a form of conditioning, conditioning, brainwashing, collars, leashes, self victim blaming, memory loss, being mean to people with stutters, tied to a table (thanks Jeremiah), abusive language, mentioned fingore, blink and you’ll miss it animal abuse, near escape attempt, barbed wire mention

Word count: 5,457

With time, the basement only got darker. Even with his Cambion night vision, a boon he was quite thankful for in fact, it never chased the looming bits that always stuck to the corners. It couldn’t rinse the wish for tomorrow, so that he might be let out of the basement for even just a few minutes like they had promised him.

It had been over a year and a half since Elisha had won the game they presented to him and had finally been let out on ‘walks’, as they put it. Now, he clung to the faint light that peeked from the basement trap door like it was his only hope. In some cases, it actually was.

In truth, a year and a half didn’t seem long enough to Elisha. It felt like it was shorter, but also longer at the same time. A year and a half just didn’t sit right with him, but Aridai had let it slip recently at some point, and he wasn’t about to question his Master. Instead, he allowed the words to hang in the air, constantly reminding him how long it had taken for them to finally trust that he was capable of being good. Elisha often found himself wondering how long it took the other people that Aridai had kidnapped to learn how to be good.

Even though he wasn’t one to question, it was all he could really do in an empty space like this, that is, if he didn’t want to acknowledge the damned shadows, which always felt like they were creeping around somehow. Elisha forced his mind to wander away from the thoughts, allowing himself to unravel the longer they left him be.

Most of the time, he simply stared up at the basement door, waiting for his Masters to come back.

Elisha was beginning to grow dependent on his captors, their very presence a source of comfort in spite of his attempts to believe otherwise. He barely got any interaction beyond them, and he couldn’t help but indulge the part of himself that was dreadfully lonely. Elisha clung to every morsel of voice they threw his way with an unhealthy need, like a touch starved animal begging for attention. At some point, he had begun to be good just to get the friendly pats they gave to him when they were impressed by his behavior.

It was easy enough for him to wonder if he was finally beginning to go crazy, stuck down here in the basement. Yet another reason Elisha wanted out.

As it seemed, in the midst of his thinking, his wish was eventually answered. He heard the heavy footsteps of one of his Masters thumping through the hallway, stopping just at the trap door that led into the basement where they kept him. Elisha shifted, chains rattling as he knelt at the center of the room obediently. They always hated when he kept himself to corners or sides.

The trap door opened, flooding dim light into the room. Footsteps slowly lowered one of his Masters down the stairs, unknown to Elisha until he caught sight of blonde hair and green eyes. They were a dead giveaway for Jeremiah, who quickly scanned the room until he found his quarry.

Without speaking he crossed the room, and Elisha leaned forward as best he could to Jeremiah’s outstretched hands reaching for his jawline, allowing his head to be taken so his Master could inspect his face. In a strange note of gentleness he brushed his thumb against a tear stain from last night, watching Elisha with thoughtful poise. The night before Elisha had cried himself to sleep after not being good enough to be allowed upstairs that previous day, and it was obvious how desperate he was to improve his manners.

“Aridai’s out for the day, pet. It’s just you and me,” he stated simply, removing his hands. While Elisha chased the touch, Jeremiah instead reached into his pocket to retrieve a key. The hands returned, tilting Elisha’s head to the side so he could unlock the chain. “You’ll be a good boy for me, right?”

Elisha watched silently as a leather leash was hooked onto his collar in place of the chain. He remained quiet, unsure if he had been given explicit permission to speak or not, until a sudden hand clamped down on either side of his jaw, putting enough pressure to make it hurt.

“Right, Caleb?” Jeremiah asked again, in a warning tone that made a chill run down his spine.

“Ye-yes, Master! I’ll be g-good,” he said, trying to recover quickly as the narrowed gaze was directed his way.

“Good. Up, boy.” Jeremiah tugged on the leash hard, forcing Elisha to stand to his feet. A small whine was pushed through his nose as he got up on wobbly knees that hadn’t moved from their position for what felt like hours, his tail the only thing that could help give him balance. Jeremiah didn’t seem to notice. “What’s your name?”

“Cay-Caleb. My name is Caleb.” Elisha, he corrected mentally.

“Good. What are your rules?”

As he slowly began to recite them, Elisha was led out of the basement. They had recently added a new rule in the wake of more recent - or perhaps old, he couldn’t remember - events. It had taken a bit of getting used to and a fair amount of punishments before he could accurately recall it, but it was simple enough eventually.

Pets with bad tempers get punished.

Jeremiah guided him up the stairs, giving him a moment to get his bearings towards the top. Elisha’s head poked out of the basement like a scared, stray cat, looking every way as his wide eyes attempted to adjust to the bright light. Being in the darkness for so long, Aridai had told him in that matter-of-fact tone, made him quite unused to having any normal light from the day. They had further gone on to tell him that his walks would need to be shorter until he got used to being up here, before they could let him stay up any longer. He couldn’t remember how long ago that had been.

Elisha was pulled up to his feet, standing on even footing with Jeremiah and easily towering over him. Sometimes he forgot how tall he was, considering he had spent so much time making himself smaller. Jeremiah kicked the trap door shut with his right boot, not bothering to lock it. There wasn’t anything to keep safe down there besides the chain, and that wasn’t going to escape any time soon.

Distractedly, a bird began chirping outside, joining the chorus of others. Elisha’s head whipped in that direction despite being dragged away, searching for the culprit. His sensitive eyes found bright light shining through the living room window, catching sight of broad fields of golden plants. A small bird was perched on one of the thin stalks, picking pieces of it apart to hold in its beak.  It was still somewhat blurry, but it was enough to put a smile on Elisha’s face before the image dipped behind the archway between the living room and the entrance.

He swiveled his head around to see Jeremiah leading him into the kitchen. Elisha watched as he tied him to one of the unmoving drawers beneath the sink, allowing him enough lead to walk the length of the kitchen and no more. To further prevent Elisha from just untying it himself and escaping, Jeremiah added a small padlock to the mix, shoving its key into his front right jeans pocket.

“Can you cook?” The question was simple, but it made Elisha pause for thought. He used to make many things for himself when he was home - likely the reason Jeremiah was asking in the first place - so he figured it wouldn’t be too hard to pick it back up again. He nodded, pulling his hands together to wring them. “Good. Then make me breakfast. Something with eggs.”

Again, Elisha nodded, slipping away from Jeremiah to cross the kitchen and access the fridge. Elisha liked eggs too, as far as he could remember, so he knew there were many ways to prepare a meal with them. For now, he decided on something simple, but what he liked: an omelette. He gathered eggs, some greens, and a bit of meat together, laying it all on the counter.

Elisha stared at the ingredients for a long time, feeling his mind drawing a blank on the proper steps.

Had he… forgotten how to do this? Forgotten how to cook?

It was fuzzy, similarly in the way he couldn’t remember what day it was, despite knowing that outside looked like harvest season. He couldn’t remember when harvest season was exactly, but the way the wheat looked it was definitely ready to be picked. In a similar fashion he knew what an omelette was, but seemingly all of the times he had made it slipped away, like water through his fingers.

As Elisha lay his hands over the meat - some bacon he found in the back of the fridge - his eyes began to well up with tears. He couldn’t remember what to do. How had he forgotten this so easily? Were there other things that being in the basement had taken from him?

“Something the matter?” Jeremiah’s flat voice murmured from behind him. He was sitting at the table Elisha vaguely recalled hearing a chair creak away from.

“N-no, I’m, I’m okay. It’s okay. I’m… I’m making food, Ma-Master. It’s…” Elisha forced himself to settle into a low crouch, opening one of the low cabinets to search for a usable pan. “just... been, been a while.”

The silence was deafening. Elisha forcibly rattled pans around until he found a suitable one, and rose to his feet to set it on the stove.

“...You better make something fucking edible, Caleb, or you’re going back down into the basement,” Jeremiah said in a low tone. Elisha looked back at him, seeing a serious expression stare back into his own, terrified eyes. Jeremiah only looked angrier, cold and without mercy. “Stop crying. I don’t want your fucking tears in my food.”

“Ye-yes, Master. I’m sorry, Master,” Elisha blurted out, flinching away as Jeremiah rose suddenly in his chair. He had immediately known what was wrong, even though he had been obedient and subservient like they wanted him to be. Pets don’t speak without permission.

Jeremiah reached up, grabbing Elisha’s horn and forcing him down. Elisha grabbed onto the counter for some leverage, his long legs sprawling out in a desperate attempt to stay standing. He could hear the thump-thump of his tail as it tapped against the wood cabinet, nervous and terrified of what was happening.

So close, Elisha could see the strands of light green that danced in Jeremiah’s eyes. “I didn’t fucking tell you to speak, Caleb. Are you going to give me problems today? Maybe I should just throw you back down there and be done with it, hm?” Elisha opened his mouth to say something until he felt another hand clamp it shut for him. “That wasn’t permission either, you fucking idiot. This better be a damn good breakfast for putting up with your bullshit, you understand me?”

He nodded as his face twisted into a horrible frown, tears beginning to stream down his eyes. Elisha’s foot slipped just slightly, lowering himself so that Jeremiah was practically holding him up by the horns.

Jeremiah… paused, for a moment. There was a slight twitch that Elisha wouldn't have been able to catch otherwise had he not been so close, a slight note of softness that wasn’t there before. The corner of his mouth twitched in tandem, before he released Elisha entirely, allowing him to sink, sobbing, into the floor.

“Come on. Get back to what you were doing,” he said. It was harsh, but not exactly in the way that Elisha had heard before.

He didn’t question it.

The threat was heard loud and clear, but it only made Elisha feel worse. There was so much more pressure on him now, with staying upstairs the reward that hung on the line. But he still couldn’t stop how he floundered on his memory, unable to recall even the simplest steps of making a fucking omelette.

He started by lighting the burner underneath the pan he set down. It took a moment to find the right one, turning on a couple others before he found it. Elisha took out some of the bacon and set it into the pan, just enough for Jeremiah, and waited.

Elisha was sure that he needed to be doing something else while this cooked, but he couldn’t be sure. He continued with the eggs, figuring that since it had been so long since he cracked one he needed to be more careful about the shells so he wouldn’t screw everything up. Another few moments of gingerly searching the cabinets, cringing every time Jeremiah shifted in his seat, Elisha settled on one of the two beige-colored bowls they had and drug it back to the counter top without making much of a sound.

Every time he selected one of the eggs and cracked it, it felt like eyes were boring holes into his back. The feeling itself kept his throat locked up so he wouldn’t speak, the constant lump in it forcing tiny whines whenever another sob wanted to tear through him again. Elisha knew that Jeremiah was watching him carefully, testing him even now. He felt a note of added stress at that idea, of still not being good enough to be given permission to exist. It ruined his nerves, which had already been shot since he had stepped foot into the kitchen. The bird seemed almost like a distant memory, now.

The eggs were slowly cracked into the bowl one at a time. As he set down the second set of shells, Elisha paused. I didn’t ask him how many he wanted, he realized.

With great reluctance he slowly turned back around, already wincing from having to confirm that his Master was watching him, only to see Jeremiah engrossed in what looked like a laptop. His eyes were focused on the screen instead of Elisha. Had he just been that paranoid this entire time?

Instead of giving it too much thought and psyching himself out of doing it in the first place, he strode towards the table and tapped against it with his index finger. Jeremiah’s gaze drifted from the screen over to his fingers, watching them for a moment. Then, he looked up to Elisha, who immediately flinched from his sharp gaze.

“What?” Jeremiah sounded annoyed at being bothered for even a moment, and Elisha had to resist the impulse to drop to his knees and start begging. His other Master might have appreciated that, but Jeremiah was quick and to the point. He wasn’t interested in playing games.

“Um… how, how many, um…” Elisha began, voice barely above a whisper.

“Speak up, I can’t fucking hear you. And stop stuttering, or I’ll give you something to stutter about,” he warned. Fresh tears sprung to Elisha’s eyes and trailed lazily down their familiar paths. He wiped them away quickly and pretended it didn’t happen.

“Um… How many… eggs?” he asked again, voice wavering.

Jeremiah turned his eyes back to the screen. “Three.”

With a feeling of relief and accomplishment, Elisha scurried back to his workspace. He cracked another egg with ease and flipped the bacon with a fork he found in one of the drawers. The same fork was wiped off and placed into the bowl with the eggs, the word scrambled flitting around his mind as he mixed them together quickly.

At some point, Elisha had given up on his original idea. There was no way he could remember how he made it before without some help, and he wasn’t about to ask Jeremiah. Instead, he just tried to cook to the best of his current ability. After the bacon was done, he found a plate to rest them on before dumping the eggs into the pan and praying that they didn’t mess up in the process.

A few agonizingly slow moments of watching the pan later, a breakfast for one was made. He ignored the empty, hungry feeling in his stomach as he finished plating it, instead picking it up to present to Jeremiah. Elisha hung close to him, watching as his Master drew his eyes away from the laptop to drag his plate closer to him.

He sharply looked to Elisha again. “What do you expect me to eat this with, my hands? Go get a fork.”

On command, he scrambled backwards and rustled through the drawers until he found a suitable fork, quickly placing it on Jeremiah’s plate and resuming his awkward posture of standing next to the table. Elisha tried resting his hands behind his back while holding his wrists, but the way that Jeremiah slowly looked over at him with that vaguely annoyed glare told him that this wasn’t right, either. He swallowed as Jeremiah stood up with a sigh, reaching for something on top of the fridge that Elisha hadn’t noticed.

He pulled out what looked to be leather straps from a bag. As Elisha watched the leather was slowly unwound, his heart leaping to thud against his throat with every second that passed by. He couldn’t run like he was, so he was simply forced to watch as Jeremiah moved behind him. A sudden force pressed him down against the table, pressing his chest into it as leather was wound around one of his wrists.

After Jeremiah was finished, Elisha had been carefully tied down to the table with no hopes of moving, arms outstretched outwards and legs against the corner stands.

Jeremiah sat back down with a sigh. He was still being watched with nervous eyes as he took the first bite, though his expression remained neutral as he audibly chewed and swallowed. Then, he turned to Elisha.

“Did you forget what salt was? This shit’s bland,” he criticised. Elisha remained silent, unsure how to properly answer that yes, he had actually forgotten about the existence of salt. “Whatever. I’m too fucking hungry to make you remake it. Just hope you know you’re not getting any reliable food until you learn to cook like we both know you can.”

Elisha felt a note of disappointment - at himself, really. Because Jeremiah was right, he used to be a rather good cook. He should have done something better to try and remember for his Master.

Jeremiah ate in total silence. Elisha watched every agonizing bite, trying not to imagine how good it must taste - even if it was bland. The only sounds present were the occasional clicking of the computer mouse and Elisha’s forced, slow breathing. His tail thumped against the table legs a couple of times until Jeremiah ordered him to stop, to which Elisha wrapped it around his ankle as best he could. In a final attempt to be good, he tried to focus on the computer screen to read what Jeremiah was doing, but he wasn’t able to catch anything due to the angle.

He vaguely recalled having a much better computer than that little laptop, and his heart ached at the thought of it. It was probably thrown out by now, or sold to someone else.

Jeremiah slid the plate away when he was done, standing to walk over by the sink. Elisha wondered what he was doing, until the smell of leftover scraps from the meal wafted in his direction. He strained to look, noticing crumbs of food and oil still left on the plate. Elisha’s stomach rumbled at the sight, smothered by the sound of a fork clattering into the sink. The water was turned on after that, and he could hear the sound of Jeremiah rustling behind him.

A cup of water was suddenly set into Elisha’s view, which made him jerk in surprise and shift the whole table. Jeremiah snorted in amusement as he slowly tugged at Elisha’s bindings and untied him..

“Kneel on the ground, Caleb,” Jeremiah ordered once he was free. Elisha slid down onto his knees without hesitation, somewhat thankful for being off of his feet. “Here. Drink this.”

A cup of water was placed against his lips as Jeremiah tilted his head back. Elisha savored every bit of the bland but refreshing taste of the water. He wasn’t usually given something to drink on a regular basis, so every drop Elisha was grateful for. It was another one of those unspoken rules that his Masters would get mad at him for if he didn’t comply.

“Thank you, Master,” he whispered when Jeremiah drew the cup away, setting it back onto the table.

“Good boy.” It released some of the inner tension in his stomach to hear the praise. It was so few and far between, especially from Jeremiah, that Elisha had quickly learned to savor every time it reached his ears. “Here.” Jeremiah slid the plate to the edge of the table as he settled back into his chair. “Eat the scraps off of that. It’s all you’re getting today.”

As if on cue, Elisha’s stomach growled. His tail lifted up into the air, curling happily as his skinny fingers pulled the plate off of the table. There were leftover bits of eggs, bacon, and oil - crumbs that the fork hadn’t been able to gather. He picked off what he could with his fingers, relishing in the feeling of having food on his tongue even if it was just the scraps. Elisha eventually resorted to licking at the plate, cleaning it of any taste that had remained on it.

While he busied himself, like an animal with one of those chew toys - even though he tried not to think about it like that - Jeremiah was doing something on the laptop. From his vantage point Elisha didn’t really care, having more important matters to attend to. However, when he did look up again he caught the cool greens of Jeremiah’s eyes staring him down, and Elisha paused mid lick to stare back.

“Alright. I think you’re done,” he muttered, snatching the plate from Elisha’s hands. His fingernails scraped horribly on the ceramic, making both of them wince at the sound. “And we’re cutting those today. I’m not going to be ripped to shreds by those claws of yours.”

As Jeremiah stood to put the plate in the sink, Elisha looked down at his hands. Claws, he had called them, but they hardly looked like it. They were just fingernails, albeit a bit stronger than normal, human ones.

Elisha felt an uncomfortable twinge at the memory of being held down, fingers held out of his sight while one of his Masters snipped away at his nails to make sure he was “declawed”, as Aridai had once said. Jeremiah had countered that they would have to cut off his first finger bones for that to happen, and proceeded to go into the diatribe of all this information he knew about declawing cats. They had a nice laugh about it, and joked about doing the same to Elisha. He repressed the shudder that crawled against his skin at the idea of Jeremiah cutting his nails, being left alone with him.

His collar was hooked upwards suddenly. Elisha made a startled, choked noise as Jeremiah drew him up to his feet.

“Come with me, now.” It was harshly toned and tense. Had he done something wrong? Elisha dared to not ask. Instead he scurried up to his feet and allowed Jeremiah to lead him to the bathroom and shove him inside. “Stay in here until I come to get you. Don’t make a fucking sound, understand?”

Elisha nodded, then Jeremiah shut the door.

He heard a knock at the front door.

Shifting forward, Elisha pressed his ear against the bathroom door so that he could listen. The front door wasn’t so far away from the bathroom - the house was small enough as it was - so if he was quiet he should be able to hear their conversation.

“Can I help you?” Came the muffled voice of Jeremiah as he opened the door. It wasn’t his typical greeting or voice, set in a higher pitch that Elisha remembers his mom saying was a phone voice. It meant there was someone new at the door.

Someone who didn’t know he was in here, trapped with two sadists.

Elisha’s heart leapt into his chest as it painfully beat against him. He could get free, perhaps. He could open the door and shout for help, and between two people they might have a chance of pushing Jeremiah out of the way and getting out of here. Elisha’s hands clenched into fists, eyes widened at the voices.

“Just a package, sir,” the other voice said. It was also masculine in nature. “Here you go.”

Pets aren’t allowed outside without explicit permission, the more cautious part of him hissed.

There was a pause. Likely Jeremiah inspecting the package and the man the same way he does with everything. Suspicious until proven otherwise.

I could have a chance at freedom. I could really go home.

“...Nice weather lately, huh? Can’t get warmer days like this in the fall,” the newcomer said, attempting to make conversation.

Elisha’s hand slipped down the door, thumbing over the handle with careful consideration.

Pets aren’t allowed. Pets do what their masters tell them to.

I could have my life back again.

Leave it ALONE.

“No, you really can’t. Helps make the farming easier, though,” Jeremiah responded. Elisha knew he was talking about the wheat fields he planted because he was bored and because it ‘helped sell that we’re farmers and not living with a Cambion pet’, as he had overheard before. “Hey, thanks for bringing this out here, by the way. I know some of you wouldn’t be damned to come out this far down the road to deliver a package like this.”

Open the door. Open the fucking door just do it do it-

A small whimper left through his nose as fresh tears flooded his eyes again. He couldn’t do this, he couldn’t disobey. The last time he did he was hurt so badly he couldn’t stand for what felt like a week.

Turn the knob and scream, tell him you’re trapped. He’ll understand from the leash, he’ll know-

They hate Cambion, out there Elisha, he heard a softer voice, one whose name he couldn’t place. Stay inside for me, okay? Don’t let them know you’re here.

“Oh, no problem! Gotta look out for the rural people, you know? My mom’s a farmer, so I totally get it. Besides, you and your partner seem nice enough.” A pause. Elisha scraped his nails against the wood of the door, praying he would be heard and hoping Jeremiah didn’t hear at all. “Looks like everything’s in order. Have a nice day, sir.”

“You too.”

The door shut.

He had missed his window of opportunity.

Elisha heard the sound of something heavy impacting the table. Then footsteps began to thud towards him. He scrambled backwards, forcing his hand away from the door and falling down in the process. He backed up so that he hit the side of the tub, chest heaving with utter fear as the door handle turned. It opened, and Jeremiah’s head peeked around from behind it.

Their eyes met, and he smiled. 

“That wasn’t so bad,” Jeremiah said as he opened the door all the way and held out his hand as if he were calling an animal. “Come here, Caleb.”

On command Elisha moved forward, dragging his leash behind him before stopping in front of Jeremiah to kneel. He looked up, leaning into the outstretched hand to accept the comfort offered. It was a gentle touch, one few and far between much like the praises they gave, so Elisha allowed himself to relax at the feeling of it.

“Alright, get up. You still have to clean up the mess in the kitchen. You can at least clean, right Caleb?” Jeremiah asked with a tilt of his head.

“Of, of course not, Master. I… I can, um, clean,” he responded, eyes darting away and back again as his mind slowly searched for the words that it wanted to say.

I could have almost been free of you.

Jeremiah tugged on the leash, leading Elisha back into the kitchen. He was tied to the same drawer and directed to clean up. Jeremiah watched him as he picked up all of the ingredients, including the greens he didn’t end up using, and put them back where he had found them. Elisha washed the dishes too, thankful that he could at least remember how to do that.

His mind slowly fell back to the voice of that delivery person, knowing if he had had just enough courage to step out and call for help, he might have been free already.

If only you didn’t rely on them so much, his mind hissed back at him.

Elisha sighed, leaning against the sink as he finally finished cleaning. He waited for a moment for his next order to be issued, but everything remained quiet. He turned around to see Jeremiah watching him like a hawk. Elisha froze, terrified that he had done something wrong, and darted his eyes away to look less threatening. His gaze found the box that was now on the table next to the laptop, funny letters scrawled on the top, black over white. He squinted to read “Barbed Wire” on the top of it.

“You know, I’ve been thinking,” Jeremiah started, dragging the box closer to himself. Elisha watched him closely, fear nearly cutting off his air. He heard me at the door. He’s going to punish me for it. I can’t believe I was so stupid to think I wasn’t caught, why was I even thinking about leaving pets aren’t allowed outside without explicit permission. “I don’t like it when you call me Master.”

Elisha blinked once, twice, three times before he finally registered what was happening. He had to force his hands to grip the sink hard to support his wobbly knees.

“Caleb, I want you to call me Sir from now on. It just sounds better, and it’ll be easier to know who you’re talking to anyway. Understand?”

That’s… it? Elisha glanced down to the box, then back up to his Master - no, his Sir, and blinked again. He realized that Jeremiah was waiting for an answer.

“Ye-yes, um… Sir. Yes Sir,” he stammered out, mouth dry enough that it took him a moment to properly get the words out. Elisha tapped quickly against the sink.

“What?”

“Um… Sir, are you… going to use that on, on me?” He nodded over to the box, trying to pause enough so that he didn’t stutter all over the place. 

There was a look of satisfaction and triumph that settled in Jeremiah’s eyes, one that mimicked Aridai’s in nature. “No, Caleb. These are for something else. Why, do you want me to use them on you?”

“N-no! I-I just… it’s… sharp. It’s sharp. The… wires.” Elisha let his gaze fall to the ground. “Sorry for, um… stuttering.”

Jeremiah snorted. “At least you know you’re doing it. But yes, they are. Maybe I’ll have you test them at some point. For now,” he stood, crossing over to the drawer that Elisha was sitting by and began to untie him from the handle. “let’s get you back into the basement. I have work to do, and you’re probably exhausted, aren’t you?”

Elisha gave him a gentle, polite nod. He was tired from being upstairs today, though he wasn’t sure whether he preferred this or the basement. Especially when there were visitors.

As they exited the kitchen, Elisha let his gaze traverse towards the front door where the delivery person had been. He could almost taste the fresh air coming from it, could only imagine how bright and golden everything was from the sun and the wheat. He actually managed to get another glimpse of it from the living room window, and he slowed his pace to get an extended look outside.

Jeremiah tugged at the leash a little harder than normal, nearly threatening to topple Elisha over. “Come on, Caleb. There’s nothing out there for you.” His voice held a thinly veiled warning that told him he was already pushing his luck.

With one last look outside, Elisha watched as a small wren dangled off of two of the wheat plants, then looked around and fluttered away to freedom.

[between-two-fandoms]

Hey! You probably remember me from my Hughie whump post and I just wanted to leave a Prompt here for inspiration purposes :). So whilst watching The Boys I was pretty much waiting for Hughie to collapse/faint or get himself hurt because he keeps panicking... idk where else to go with this idea other than I can imagine Frenchie calling Annie when he gets really REALLY sick and they don’t know what else to do. Yeah. Thanks for your previous fic rec btw - it was brilliantly written :)

Hi! I love your username, glad you liked the fic rec. Hopefully this is what you’re looking for :)

Summary: In the aftermath of the clusterfuck that was the season 1 finale, Hughie’s panic finally hits a boiling point. The Boys try to help but really there’s only one girl who can help Hughie through his panic attack. 

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“Petite Hughie, is everything alright?” He heard Frenchie ask through the haze of panic surging through his chest. Shaking his head in response Hughie backed into the fence wall and bent over, putting his hands on his knees. Butcher was back, and he was acting like everything was fine. Like everything was fucking normal… like Hughie’s life didn’t go to absolute shit before the fucking new year. Hughie’s hands began shaking and Butcher’s voice rang in his ears.

“Butch shut up,” he heard Mother’s Milk voice say as someone placed a hand on his shoulder. Hughie shoved the person off and began pacing anxiously as the world swirled around him. Butcher grumbled then asked,

“Why? Because the kid’s being a fucking cunt right now?” Hughie felt his chest seize again and he gasped for air. He couldn’t breath, didn’t they know he couldn’t fucking breath.

“Petite Hughie tell us what you need,” Frenchie said. Now that he had decent control over his eyesight he could see Frenchie’s face directly in front of his. Hughie shook his head and sunk to the ground, trying to find one thing to focus on.

“Can’t breathe,” Hughie said, pulling his knees to his chest. He took a shuddering breath, trying to control his hyperventilation. Frenchie frowned,

“I do not understand Petite Hughie, you are breathing fine.” Hughie shook his head then shakily reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He managed to unlock the screen until his hands were too uncontrollable and he dropped the phone, the screen cracked on the pavement.

“Kid what’s going on?” He heard Butcher ask, suddenly way too close for his personal space. Hughie scampered away from the suddenly crowded wall and to the corner of their hideout.

“Panic - panic attack -” Hughie managed to choke out through his gasps for air. Frenchie ordered Butcher and Mother’s Milk to stay where they were and crossed the room in a few short strides.

“Petite Hughie, you wish us to call someone?” He asked, obviously confused. Hughie nodded then tried to communicate what that he wanted them to call Annie, that without Annie his world was crumbling to pieces. Kimiko, god bless her soul, walked over to him and handed a piece of scrap paper and a crayon. He managed to spell out Annie’s name in scribbled letters before the dizziness in his head got too much and fuzzy dots began to fill his vision. The last thing he heard before his head hit the cold stone floor was,

“There is no way we’re calling that fucking cunt!”

-------

When Hughie woke up the first thing he noticed was that his breathing was back under control. That tended to happen when he passed out, his breathing resets when his brain shuts down his systems. It wasn’t the first time it happened either, just the first time it happened with The Boys. “Fuck,” Hughie cussed, staring at the light fixture attached to the ceiling above his bunk. They must have moved him after he passed out. He didn’t remember much, the panic settling in after Mother’s Milk yelled at him… Butcher walking down the stairs in all his motherfucking glory. “Fuck me,” he muttered. After having a panic attack like that one, all he wanted to do was curl up into his mattress and never return to the land of the living. Suddenly, when he was in the middle of burrowing, a voice spoke up,

“Well if you’re offering we might as well have a go you cunt.” Hughie shot straight up and cursed at the sudden head rush he felt boiling at the back of his head.

“Fuck off,” Hughie groaned, collapsing back onto the bed and curling away from Butcher. The man tsked then dragged a chair closer to his bed. With a sigh Butcher said,

“You want to tell us what just fucking happened mate?” Hughie just raised up his right hand and flicked Butcher off with his middle finger.

“right,” Butcher said with a contemplative sigh. He reached forward and patted Hughie on the shoulder. “Well, I’ll leave you two too it then.” Hughie frowned when he heard Butcher leave his bunk and someone else sit in the chair. He was curious to see who it was, but not curious enough to take the energy needed to turn around.

“Go away,” Hughie groaned as he pulled his knees to his chest. To his surprise the person just laughed, and he knew he would never forget the sound of that laugh.

“Hughie, I’d do that but then I’d leave you to be comforted by Butcher and I think his version of comforting someone is taking them on a mass murder spree,” Annie said, chuckling at her own joke. Hughie slowly uncurled himself and managed to turn away from the fall to face her.

“Hey,” Hughie said softly, voice still hoarse from the fit of panic. Annie handed him a bottle of water, which he took gratefully. Annie smiled softly at him and said,

“Hey.” After a beat of silence she asked, “do you want to talk about it? All Frenchie said was that you had a panic attack.” Hughie nodded mutley, not offering any more information. Annie frowned slightly, but quickly recovered her expression. “Do they happen often?” She asked, Hughie snorted. Yeah, just about every time we kill someone. Or someone dies. Or something happens.

“You can say that,” Hughie said lying back into the pile of blankets. She rolled her eyes,

“I swear, you and your boys are more dramatic than Ashely is.” After a brief moment of hesitation she said, “scooch over.” Ignoring his blatant look of confusion, Annie curled up onto the mattress next to him. Hughie frowned, but shifted so his back was against the wall and she was pressed against his chest. She pulled his arm over her waist and he pulled her close to him smelling her shampoo. He cringed, then apologized,

“Sorry.” Annie turned over so they were both facing each other. Her eyebrows furrowed together in confusion.

“What for?” She asked. Hughie shrugged then brushed a loose strand of hair out of her face. “Hey,” Annie said grabbing his wrist and locking their fingers together. “Sorry for what?” Hughie shrugged again,

“I smell,  you don’t.” Annie gaped at him in disbelief. “I’m sorry,” Hughie apologized again after assuming he made a mistake. Annie tightened her arm around his waist, preventing him from turning to face the wall again.

“You’re an idiot.” Hughie frowned again. Annie gestured to her civilian clothes, “I came all this way for you Hughie. Because I was worried about you, and you honestly think I’d break up with you because you smell?” Hughie shrugged then tried to turn away from her to avoid the conversation. She leaned forward and planted a soft kiss on his lips, he relaxed under her touch, previous night’s events completely forgotten.

“I don’t deserve you,” Hughie said as she began to run her fingers through his hair. Annie chuckled and shook her head,

“You do Hughie. We love each other alright? One day at a time, you aren’t scaring me away anytime soon.” Sleepily he curled around Annie as he said,

“I love you too.” Hughie’s eyelids grew heavier as his world turned to black and he fell into the first peaceful night of sleep he’s had since the clusterfuck of his life after Translucent’s murder.

[xxx-cat-xxx]

Stairway to Heaven (almost)

Summary: When the Hulk breaks the elevators in Stark Tower, Peter and Tony have to climb to the top in order to repair them. 93 floors shouldn’t be an issue, Tony tells himself, and, in typical Stark-fashion, completely ignores his heart condition. Turns out that was a bad idea.

Tags: Heart issues, Fainting, Whump and humour and a tiny little bit of angst, Irondad, Pepper/Tony, Bruce&Tony

A/N: For @greeniebean2014, thank you for the prompt and for medical consultancy services ;) Major thanks to @whumphoarder for beta reading.

________________________

“What exactly is the Hulk’s problem with elevators?” Peter inquires when they cross the 19th floor of Stark Tower and start climbing another flight. 

The boy is jumpy and impatient, but his breaths are even and, as far as Tony can see in the dim emergency light, there’s not even a hint of exhaustion on his face,. The engineer, on the other hand, is already starting to pant, his cheeks feeling flushed as he tries his best to keep pace with the kid.

“He’s just not a fan,” Tony huffs. “No idea why.” 

That’s not true, strictly speaking, because Tony knows very well that it all started with a certain event in 2012, but thinking about that would mean thinking about what happened to New York on this particular day, and that - no, not now. 

Tony’s always bragged that out of all the things he’s built, Stark tower is one of the coolest. Located in downtown Manhattan, with a fully wired artificial intelligence that’s adaptive to its inhabitants’ respective needs, containing a vertical garden, thirteen gyms, seven swimming pools, and labs that would make the AAAS go green with envy, it is certainly something to be proud of. Not to mention that it is the first of New York’s skyscrapers that’s exclusively running on green energy. 

The tower is also very, very high. Not, as some journalists suggested gleefully, because it has to compensate for anything, but because Tony wouldn’t build a skyscraper with his name on it that wasn’t visible from the ocean. And why go for 50 floors when you can have 93? He wanted to see where to land when he comes back from business trips with his private jet, or, more recently, feel more than a bit smug when returning from a mission in his Iron Man suit and spotting the Avengers symbol shining high above New York. 

Today is the first day he curses himself for each and every one of those 93 floors. 

“At least he could have left the power supply alone,” Peter goes on. “I mean, Hulk is pretty dumb - don’t tell Dr. Banner I said that - but somehow he managed to destroy the entire system.”

“Yup,” Tony replies short-windedly.

Peter gives him a side glance. “Do you need a break?”

“Do I look like a pensioner to you?” Tony retorts in mock-offence. “I once crossed half of Tennessee in a snowstorm while dragging my own armour behind me. This little workout is nothing compared to that.”

“Okay, okay, I was just asking,” Peter appeases. “By the way, did I tell you about the new web-fluid formula that Ned came up with?”

The kid starts to ramble while they make their way towards Tony’s workshop on the 79th floor, where, in a moment of maybe not-so-genius, he has installed the controls they will need in order to get the arc reactor in the basement back online. The tower is protected against pretty much every imaginable outside threat (and even against most of the inside ones) but Bruce, of course, has access to almost every part of the building and Tony never thought that Hulk would be clever enough to disable all the security measures protecting the main power supply. 

By the time they reach the 26th floor, Tony has started to pant for real, unable to conceal his breathlessness any further. When they cross 32, his chest starts to hurt with every step, and he thinks that maybe a break wouldn’t be that bad after all. But the kid next to him is still taking the steps two at a time, not even a bead of sweat on his brow. So Tony grits his teeth and tells himself that this means he can skip his exercise routine for the next couple of days. 

At 35, Tony’s head is swimming and his fingers begin to go numb. There’s an irritating tingling sensation in his left arm and that’s when he knows that things are Not Great™. He makes it another two floors before the pain in his chest spikes and his vision blacks out completely for a moment before turning into a blur of colours. Tony’s foot catches on the next step. He stumbles and would have fallen if it hadn’t been for Peter’s quick reflexes.

“Whoa, Mr. Stark, are you okay?” the kid asks in panic while he lowers Tony down onto the floor.

Tony grunts and tries to get back up, just to realise that he can’t really differentiate up and down anymore. His own heartbeat is pounding loudly in his ears, pulsating in time with the stabbing pain in his chest and the pattern of black and grey in front of his eyes. 

“Mr. Stark, what’s going on?” Peter’s voice is openly worried, his hand still holding tightly onto Tony’s arm.

“‘m okay,” Tony manages. “Jus’ give me a sec. Gotta take a breather.” He feels himself list to the side and is glad when his shoulder finds a wall he can lean against. Tony lowers his head onto his knees, fully aware of how stupid he must be looking, and waits for the symptoms to subside.

They don’t. Instead, his vision goes from fuzzy to spinning, the pain from bad to worse, and he is suddenly very nauseous. Tony swallows hard, determined to preserve his last bit of dignity and not throw up in front of the kid.

“Mr. Stark?” The kid addresses the ceiling when Tony doesn’t reply. “FRIDAY, what’s going on with him?” The AI doesn’t answer, of course, because the power is still out, which Tony could have told him if he had any intention of opening his mouth. He feels bile rise in his throat and gulps.

“Do you feel sick? Are you gonna puke?”

Tony manages a shrug. “Dunno,” he grunts out through gritted teeth.

He feels more likely to faint on the spot, but he isn’t going to tell this to the kid. Peter is saying something else and Tony thinks he can make out Pepper’s name, but the kid suddenly seems very far away. Everything has gone sort of slow and muffled. There’s another stab of agony in Tony’s chest, and he can’t suppress a groan. He’s used to pain, been in a lot of it, but this is definitely somewhere in the upper end of his tolerance scale. 

Tony closes his eyes and tries not to stop breathing.

“Tony? Can you hear me?” He opens his eyes again and makes out a very blurry Pepper, her red hair shimmering like a halo behind her face.

“‘m okay,” he gasps, “’s just s-stupid heart -” He reaches for the staircase railing, determined to get back to his feet and pull himself together and -

That was a mistake. The pain in his chest spikes. Tony can feel his body fold into itself - can hear Peter and Pepper yelp in unison.

Then he passes out.

*

He wakes up to the steady beeping of a heart monitor and an entirely different kind of pain in his chest. Tony blinks himself awake and waits for his vision to clear while the faces of Pepper, Bruce, and Peter slowly swim into focus. 

They are in the medbay. Bruce is wearing a mismatch of clothes and a worried look on his face, Peter has streaks of tears on his cheeks, and Pepper looks to be somewhere in between relieved and very, very angry.

“Hey, I’m back online,” Tony announces to no one in particular, then has to interrupt himself to cough against the dryness in his throat.

“How are you feeling?” Bruce hands him a glass of water, luckily with a straw in it because Tony doesn’t feel quite up to sitting just yet. 

“Good, good. Guess I’m okay now,” he lies. “Why the long faces? You all look like Happy when he found out Downton Abbey wasn't getting another season.” 

“That’s not funny,” Peter replies with a seriousness unusual for him. 

“It is, actually,” Tony retorts. “For weeks I’ve been trying to get Pepper to take an evening off and have dinner with us, and turns out all it took to get you three into one room is - what is it that’s wrong with me? Feels like the Hulk danced on my chest.”

Bruce turns pale at the words and swallows hard before speaking. “You were in ventricular tachycardia, which means that your heart was beating in such a way that it wasn’t getting your blood to the rest of the body. We had to shock you back into sinus rhythm. Pepper performed CPR before we got you to the medbay. She, uhm, might have broken one or two of your ribs.” 

Tony mimics a shocked expression. “Wow, Pep, I get that you’re pissed at me, but no need to get violent…” he trails off upon seeing Pepper’s stony face.

Bruce gives him a serious look. “Sorry to tell you, Tony, but it looks like you’re gonna need to get a pacemaker. As soon as possible, I think.”

Tony replies nothing.

“Tony?” he repeats.

“Yeah, I know,” Tony finally says without looking up.

“Wait, you know?!” Pepper’s voice is so shrill that he winces.

“I had an episode a couple of weeks ago and contacted a specialist,” Tony admits, weakly raising his hand to stop her from interrupting. “I’ve got a check-up appointment scheduled on Friday, and if everything goes well, I’d get the pacemaker before the end of the month. Nobody would’ve even realised. Just, maybe, shouldn’t have climbed forty stairs. Stupid elevator.”

There’s a break. Peter looks shell-shocked. Bruce is chewing his lower lip. Pepper Potts is actually speechless for once.

“I am so sorry,” Bruce starts, his cheeks going red. “I didn’t think I’d ever have an incident in the tower, I am really -”

“Bruce, stop,” Tony orders with as much strength as he can muster. “We talked about this. It’s not your fault that the Hulk has a personal grudge against elevators.” 

“But if you knew that something’s wrong with your heart, then why did you even think of climbing 80 floors?” Peter speaks up. “I could have gone upstairs on my own!”

“See, advanced planning when it comes to my own health isn’t really...what I do,” Tony admits with a weak grin. “Sorry for scaring you, though. You shouldn’t have been there.”

“Oh, it’s actually a good thing that he was there,” Pepper replies with a sardonic smile on her face that makes Tony suspect something evil. “I couldn’t have carried you all the way to medbay.”

“You did what?” Tony glares at Peter. “Please tell me she’s joking.”

“Uhm…” The kid’s face takes on an even darker shade of red. “There wasn’t really anything else we could’ve done, I mean, with the electricity out and all that…”

“Oh god,” Tony buries his head in the pillow, “I think I’ll just pass out again. For the rest of the month, maybe. And then I’ll fire you, kid. After making you sign a confidentiality agreement.”

The kid looks actually intimidated for a second until Pepper gives Tony a stern look and says, “A thank you would be more appropriate here.”

“Yeah, yeah, thanks, kid.” Tony lifts his head up again to look at Peter. “I mean it. FRIDAY, for the record, interns with super strength are very useful. Should be added as a criterion for the application form on the SI website.”

Peter tries to hide a chuckle. “I’m glad I was there, Mr. Stark. But really, you should take better care of yourself.”

Tony, mature as ever, sticks out his tongue at him.

There is a moment of silence in which Pepper gives a confused Bruce a very pointed look, until he suddenly says, “Oh, Peter, what about a hot chocolate? You look like you could use one. And then you can give me a hand fixing the power supply…”

Peter is a bit quicker on the uptake. “Okay, Dr. Banner.”  He almost trips over his feet while walking backwards out of the door.  “See you later, Mr. Stark. And don’t try to get up yet.” 

Bruce pushes himself to his feet with visible exhaustion and gives them a tired wave before disappearing out of the room. 

“See,” Tony spills the moment the door has closed behind the two of them, “I would have told you, I swear. I’ve been seeing this specialist about developing a custom pacemaker, but we’re not yet sure whether it is gonna be effective with all the scar tissue in my chest and I didn’t want to get your hopes up before I was 100 percent sure it would work.”

He makes his eyes as big as possible before looking up at Pepper. “Please don’t be mad?”

With a sigh, Pepper shifts her chair a little closer to the hospital bed. “I am mad,” she emphasises. “But I’m also glad that you didn’t die while climbing the stairs. And proud that you’re working on getting it fixed, though I’m not sure yet which of them is stronger.”

“Well, that’s…” Tony struggles to sit up a little against his lumpy hospital pillows and grunts when the pain in his ribs flares up, “that’s something I can work with.”

“How are you actually feeling?” Pepper asks. “And no lies this time.” 

“It hurts,” Tony admits. “My chest. And, well, there’s the aftershock of almost dying.” The corners of his mouth twist into a smile. “But what else is new?”

Pepper’s expressions softens. She reaches for his hand on the blanket and takes it in both of hers, giving it a squeeze. Then she reaches up to his chest and lets her flat palm rest just above his traitorous heart. 

Pepper doesn’t often talk about feelings, and if she does, she phrases them in a rational manner - so unlike Tony, who swings back and forth between stinging sarcasm and cheesy declarations of love. But he knows what she’s saying now, through the concern in her eyes, through the fingertips that outline the scars between the electrodes fixed to his bare chest. 

I need you. I was so scared of losing you. Don’t be gone again. 

Tony lays his hand on top of hers. “Thanks for saving me, Miss Potts,” he whispers. 

She smiles in response. “That’s my day job, Mr. Stark.”

The lights suddenly flicker back on, replacing the green emergency glow with a cold white light. Tony blinks against the sudden brightness, feeling a headache throb against the back of his skull. He’s exhausted as if he’s been on a three-day mission. Although his original plan was to sneak out of the hospital bed and repair the elevator as soon as Pepper goes back to work, he now wonders whether a bit of rest might not be a bad idea. Not while he is alone, though.

“You gotta get back to SI?” he asks casually, wondering somewhere in the back of his mind whether there will be a day when he’ll simply be able to utter the word stay.

“Oh, seeing that the electricity went out, I postponed my meeting. I guess it’s okay to be absent a little longer and just answer a few emails from here,” she replies just as casually, nodding at the StarkPad poking out of her handbag.

The thing about Pepper is, sometimes she just gets him. 

“Well then, be my guest,” he says with a smirk. “Make sure that Bruce and Peter get some rest after repairing my tower - poor guys have had a long day. And could you ask someone to check up on Dum-E and U…?”

“Sleep.” She silences him with a light kiss on the lips. 

He takes her face in his hands with somewhat uncoordinated movements and kisses her back, hard, until he has to stop to take a breath. He feels very complete, slightly winded, and also a bit woozy. Pepper catches on to that and raises an eyebrow. “No sexual activity until you get your pacemaker, boss,” she teases. 

A small smile spreads across Tony’s lips just as he can feel his eyelids start to grow heavy. "We'll see about that."

__________________________

@badthingshappenbingo This is my fill for the ‘Broken Ribs’ square.

All my fics

Taglist: @toomuchtoread33  @yepokokfine

[artistic-writer]

Sparking the Pavement :: CS Moto GP AU :: E :: Ch 3

Title: Sparking the Pavement by @artistic-writer Rating: E (eventually) Summary: Killian Jones has everything he has ever dreamed of.  He likes fast bikes and even faster women, that is until almost losing his brother makes him rethink his life choices.  And then a chance encounter with a blonde bombshell on the race track gives him the chance to change and find love, but as usual, team politics get in the way and for the first time in his life, Killian can’t just get what he wants.  Moto GP racing AU. A/N: Ch 3!  Many thanks to @hollyethecurious who agreed to beta this, and to @doodlelolly0910 who regularly listens to me ranting about wanting to write when my fingers don’t want to work. And @darkcolinodonorgasm who understands how relevant real-life race rules are haha and @effulgentcolors for writing The Wife which has not only inspired me to word again after getting a puppy, but has helped me decide on where this story is going.  You’re all going to love it, but be super suspicious of me in the mean time :D

Taglist: @resident-of-storybrooke @hollyethecurious@kmomof4 @hookedonapirate @winterbaby89@courtorderedcake @initiala @cocohook38 @branlovesouat @teamhook @snidgetsafan @sherlockianwhovian @shireness-says @wingedlioness @lenfaz @therooksshiningknight @ilovemesomekillianjones @bmbbcs4evr @blowmiakisscolin@deathbycaptainswan @onceuponaprincessworld@chinawoodfan  @seriouslyhooked @snowbellewells@wordsmith-storyweaver @jennjenn615 @delightfully-difficult-pirate @doodlelolly0910 @tiganasummertree @hookedmom@thejollyroger-writer @rachie1940 @unworried-corsair @cs-forlife @notoriouscs @killian-whump @darkcolinodonorgasm@mariakov81 @strangestarlighttree @effulgentcolors

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Three weeks. Liam had been dead for less than a month, and already the team was hiring a replacement. Logically, Killian knew they would have to eventually. There wasn’t a race team out there that could manage without a team of mechanics to fix what the riders broke race after race. Most riders were also mechanics, and it was a sensible field for retired riders who still needed to hear the squeal of tyres on the asphalt, but you couldn’t be a rider and a mechanic, Killian knew that. Logically.

Logic didn’t bring his brother back. Logic didn’t help him when his team needed a mid season photoshoot to happen before he returned back to full time racing. The time it took Killian to get kitted out in his leather suit was twice as long as it took for the photographer to get his shot. Killian Jones and Will Scarlet, sitting atop their bikes, both faking the smiles they knew the fans wanted to see took far less time than either of them anticipated and gave them the rest of the day morning to do whatever they liked.

Killian headed out to the team owned practice track to clear his head. It was quiet this time of day and not many people used it during race season anyway, so he had taken his bike out there to think whilst on his extended leave of compassion. He had needed time, more time than allowed, but the team understood and let him. Killian had immense balance, every rider did, and he would often do laps at what most people would consider a snail's pace just to hear the roar of his engine and his tyres on the tarmac. The bike would speak to him and he would answer, giving her exactly what she wanted and opening her up on the home straight.

Only, today was different. When Killian arrived at the track, someone else was already there, someone he hadn’t seen before, and they were thrashing the hell out of a motorbike with a matte black paint job and pristine brushed steel trimmings. Killian wandered over to the start line, the leather pants he was wearing squeaking with every step. His leather jacket was unzipped and his henley underneath had the top three buttons undone because of the almost stifling heat that beat down upon the track.

He waited, making sure that his bike was secured on its kickstand before the mystery rider came flying around the last bend at breakneck speed. They sat up, dropping a gear and ignoring the protest of the engine as the bike slowed down, nearing the worn, patchy paintwork of the start finish line. Killian bent down and placed his helmet on the ground next to his feet, promptly straightening back up, crossing one foot over the other and leaning on the seat of his bike.

Killian recognised the bike instantly. It was a Suzuki Hayabusa, one of the fastest road legal motorbikes in existence, but it had been heavily customised, most likely to reduce weight and increase speed. It purred, the highly advanced liquid cooled, four cylinder, 16 valve engine much more powerful than most cars. The Hayabusa had a top speed over over 390 km/h, and he had no doubt that it had been hitting those speeds, especially with such light cargo. Killian frowned as the bike approached, the rider almost shaken from the seat as they revved the engine once more.

Silence fell over the practice paddock as the mystery rider cut the engine and kicked out the bike stand. Killian watched, fascinated by the way the rider moved, dressed head to toe in black leathers that matched their bike. They were shorter than he was, thinner and more shapely and as they kicked their leg over the bike, slid to the floor, and pulled the crash helmet off their head, Killian realised why.

She was a woman. A beautiful one at that.

Her hair was silky golden, tumbling from where it had been stuffed into her helmet like it had just been combed smooth when she shook her head. It framed her face and pulled his gaze to her green eyes that glinted in the sunlight, even as she squinted. Killian felt his heart speed up at her presence, his skin prickling in his leathers at the sight of her in her race gear, every curve accented to his view. She took a large breath and smiled at him, a cock sure grin of pride and flirtatiousness that had him shifting his weight when his groin began to tingle.

Killian didn’t know who she was or where she had come from. The track was restricted for employees only, so she had to at least work for the team to be able to be here, and the thought of that made him mirror her grin. If she worked here, he would see her more often, but who was she? She moved in slow motion, sauntering over to him, the sounds of the world fading away from him as he narrowed his focus onto her and only her, a lump forming in his throat that he desperately tried to swallow.

He didn’t mean to, but a low hum of appreciation escaped Killian’s mouth before he could stop it as he dragged his gaze up from her feet to her face. He fixed his stare on her mouth, the gently plumpness of her lips and the slight dimple in her chin underneath that gave her a cuteness that Killian was sure would be his downfall. She held her helmet at her side, swinging the matte black gear in time with her walk until she was finally within earshot of him and her perfumed scent overpowered him, cutting through the darkness of his mourning like a break in the storm.

“You know, I can get you a picture if you’d like?”

“I’m sorry?” Killian blinked, clearing his thoughts with a shake of his head.

“Of me,” she said with a slight chuckle. “So you don’t have to keep staring.” She arched her brow at him, a sideways smile telling him he had been caught.

Killian blushed, the heat creeping into his cheeks before he had time to look away. He sighed a nervous laugh, his hand reaching up to paw at the patch of skin behind his ear, a trepidatious habit that made him wish he had put on his helmet already.

“My apologies, lass,” Killian finally said, dropping his gaze to his feet. He pushed himself off of his bike, the kickstand groaning with the release of weight, and extended his hand to her. “Killian Jones,” he said smoothly, his lips ticking up at the corners when she took his hand.

“I know who you are,” she said firmly, gripping his hand. The warmth of his skin was electrifying and sent a shiver down her spine. He didn’t pull his hand from hers, and neither did she, his long, slender fingers gripping her almost to her wrist.

“Is that right?” Killian gave her a raised brow, intrigued by her boldness. She nodded but gave no words, simply biting her bottom lip and pulling her hand from his. Killian missed the contact immediately, the shine of light she was offering him taken away, the blemish of losing his brother quickly seeping back into his being.

“I’m sorry,” she offered gently, as if reading his mind. “Liam Jones was one of my inspirations as a kid.”

“Aye, mine too,” Killian uttered softly.

“He’s the reason I got into racing,” she told him honestly. “I wanted to be as good as him. Going fast wasn’t enough, you know?”

Killian nodded in agreement, a smile forming across his face at the memory of his brother. “It warms my heart to know he inspired someone other than myself.” She smiled at him, that warming presence Killian was already addicted to flooding back into him. “So,” he began, nudging his head towards her bike behind her. “You race?”

“I did,” the woman smiled back at him. “Moto 2.”

“Moto 2,” Killian repeated impressed. “Big bikes, big names. Maybe I know yours,” he prompted boyishly. He scratched behind his ear for the second time, a salacious smirk playing on his lips.

“Maybe you do,” she shrugged, her eyes flitting to his lips.

She moved, the sway in her hips deliberate as she walked past him to his bike. Killian followed her movement, turning on the spot and letting his gaze fall to the stretch of leather over her behind. Normally leather would be unflattering, but somehow she pulled it off, her fitted gear holding his attention for far longer than it should have. Killian inhaled, his hands balling into fists at his sides, his fingers itching to touch the siren in front of him. He waited, enthralled as she wet her lips and whistled at the sight of his bike.

“Yamaha YZF R1. This is nice,” she almost sang, extending the words as she ran her fingers along the curve of the fuel tank. “I like the blue.” She looked up at that moment, a flash of emerald making Killian’s heart almost stop. “It matches your eyes,” she rasped, locking eyes with his.

Killian swallowed hard, suddenly much hotter in his leathers than he should be. The way she was caressing his bike was too much, her fingers smoothing over the high gloss paintwork as gently as the breeze. Killian’s heart hadn’t beat this fast since he won his first race and he hadn’t realised how much he missed it until now.

“What’s your name, love?” Killian asked again, his voice low and slightly hoarse from the dryness that had taken root in his throat.

The woman smiled and unzipped her black leather jacket, flicking her hair over her shoulder and leaning over the seat of his bike. Her elbows pushing into the soft leather and it was Killian’s undoing. He couldn’t help but stare, her breasts nestled comfortably in the confines of her low cut red top creating a delicious cleavage for his view. She was doing it on purpose, he was certain, and it was only when she spoke again that he was able to drag his eyes back to hers.

“Tell you what,” she began, a playful smirk on her face. “I’ll race you for it.”

“For your name?” Killian frowned, quirking his eyebrow at her.

“Why not?” she shrugged with a grin. “One lap. If you cross the finish line first, I’ll tell you what it is.”

Beguiled, Killian let a soft laugh escape his mouth. He bent down to retrieve his helmet, testing the weight of it in his hand before looking back up to her. “And if you win?”

She sighed. “I haven’t decided yet.” Her smile reappeared, lighting up her face in the infectious way Killian noticed it always did, making him mirror it immediately.

Killian licked his lips, his smile fading as he tilted his head to one side. “Are there any rules, love?” he asked her, his tone more business and serious.

She hummed in thought, looking around the deserted track paddock. It was just them and their bikes, hers far faster than his as a stock machine, but the modifications they both had done to their bikes put them on the same level. Or so she hoped.

“No rules,” she grinned, righting herself back into an upright position. Before Killian had time to object to his loss of view, and with a gentle squeak of leather, she lifted her leg and straddled his bike. Her delicate hands gripped his handlebars and she gave them a squeeze with a sigh, knowing he was watching her every move. “But I think I want to ride your bike,” she said softly, accenting the last words as a euphemism.

Killian’s lips ticked into a playful smirk. “You won’t win on my bike,” he told her through the smile he was unable to shift. He emphasised his point by motioning to his bike with his helmet.

“Won’t I?” She narrowed her eyes, lifting her helmet to rest on the fuel tank. She shook her hair back again, tilting her head so that she could slide on her helmet and buckled the under chin strap. “You know what?” She muttered, her cheeks squished into the helmet. “I’ve decided. If I win, I keep your bike. That sound like enough of a challenge for you?”

With a last smirk she pushed her visor down into place, the shadowy black plastic blocking Killian’s view of her gorgeous green eyes and snapping him back to reality. The roar of his engine followed as she turned the key and it sparked to life, the deep throaty rumble of his shorter racing exhaust pipe filling the paddock. She zipped up her jacket and leaned forward, twisting the throttle so the engine revved in the familiar growl Killian could swear turned into a purr under her attention.

With a kick of her slighting heeled matte black boots, the stand peg sprang back into position against the side of the engine, and she was off, throttle fully open and the bike rising up onto it’s back wheel like a well trained stallion. She held the wheelie for a long while, finally dropping the bike back onto two wheels and returning to the start finish line with a few final revs of the engine.

Killian was in love, he was pretty sure. It was hardly possibly to describe the feelings he was experiencing as anything else. She mesmerized him, called to him through the sound of the engine and even though he didn’t even know her name, he felt like he had known her forever. She knew bikes and it was clear by the way she handled his that she could tame even the mightiest of beasts. She revved his bike’s engine again, one foot barely on the tarmac by her toes, body hugging the fuel tank as she focused on the road ahead of her.

Killian finally willed his feet to move, heading for her bike, the engine so shiny he wasn’t sure it had even been ridden in yet. A quick inspection of the tyres told him it had been, no presence of bobbling to suggest they were new. Maybe she just liked a meticulous bike? The rest of it was pristine, the dull black paint normally prone to blemishes and smudges absolutely clear of both.

With a careful lift of his leg, Killian mounted the Hayabusa, kicking the stand back into its resting position and righting the bike. Another rev of his bike told him she was growing impatient, and he would be lying if he said he wasn’t keen to know her name, so with a turn of the key he started her engine and the second roar of a bike reverberated around the paddock.

Her bike felt foreign between his legs, but welcomed, the vibrations from the engine causing the muscles in his legs to shake violently in the way he loved. He pulled his helmet down over his head, adjusting the fit so he could see and then walked the bike to the barely visible start line. Beside him she twisted her wrist down again and the engine of his bike screamed out its annoyance at being stationary for so long. Killian slapped his visor down, his world turning a grey through the polarized perspex, and echoed her revs with a twist of his own wrist.

The mystery woman looked to him at the same time as he looked to her, holding up three fingers and then pointing to the road head. Killian nodded, her signal clear; on the third rev they would go. One lap, less that two minutes.

She revved the bike once, the engine squealing before the sound disappeared into nowhere, the bike between her legs calming. She did it again, and Killian did too, the back wheel of the bike he was riding squirreling a little, a fresh smear of rubber from the tyre appearing on the tarmac. The anticipation between them was almost palpable, both of them lowering their bodies to the fuel tank, getting as close to it as possible for aerodynamics and increased speed. And then a third rev echoed out across the track and the squeal of tyres was all that could be heard as they both took off for the first corner.

The Hayabusa had more torque, tearing off the start line with a ground shaking rumble. Killian tucked in his knees and elbows, the wind rushing over his shape like he wasn’t even there. The Yamaha wasn’t far behind, the woman’s lighter weight nothing for the huge capacity engine, and Killian cast a quick glance to under his armpit to judge the distance between them. She was good, using the inner racing line to cut up the inside of him, whizzing past him as he sat up to assist his braking towards the first corner.

She had no fear, barely leaving herself enough time to brake efficiently as they approached the bend, her tiny frame leaning into it despite her lack of knee protection. Her knee was millimetres from the ground, the bike travelling at around 128 km/h, but she had no reservations about accelerating out of the bend and leaving him behind. Killian was barely out of the corner himself when he saw she was swinging over to the other side, knee down around the next bend, the familiar sound of a gear change echoing through his ears.

Killian focused on the back of his bike, the unknown woman riding it handling it like she hadn’t ever ridden anything else. The bike bowed to her every command, even when she pushed it to its limits down the straights. It was here Killian could catch up, the power he wielded in the Hayabusa far greater than the Yamaha, and he slipped up the inside of her and overtook her with ease. But his bike was heavy, and it took a longer time to accelerate out of corners, so it wasn’t long before the blonde beauty was leaving him in her dust once more.

The track had an ‘s’ bend about a third of the way around, something that ever rider had to slow down to almost a stop for. It was tight, and there was a straight approaching it, so Killian used the opportunity to zoom past her in the hopes he could dominate the narrow section. He was wrong. She was a speed demon, or just full out crazy, but she managed to slip the 379 lb machine right past him, their thighs brushing when they were upright in the middle part of the meanouvre. She even had time to look over to him, and even though Killian couldn’t see her face through her visor, he was sure she was smiling.

Neither were in their racing wear, and that would slow them both down, so the rest of the race would be down to their ability as racers. Who was the most brave? This track had a few notorious sections, Killian knew that better than anyone and had recently learned the hard way that no one was immune to failure, regardless of ability. Liam was a far better rider than he could ever hope to be and he had been snatched from humanity in the blink of an eye. Maybe that was why, even with the faster bike, Killian took his time, being more than cautious around the twists and turns that made up the track, losing time in hesitation as the mystery woman sailed to a victory.

There was less than a wheel length in it as they crossed the finish line, both throttles fully open, engines screaming to deafening volumes. They both sat back up on the cool down lap, allowing the bikes to roll around the track and their racing hearts to return to normal. With the engines idling on the start finish line, they both pulled off their helmets at the same time. Again her hair tumbled effortlessly over her shoulders whilst Killian’s looked like he had been pulled through a hedge, adorably sticking out in all directions.

“Woo!” He yelled over the sound of their engines, a boyish grin on his face, cheeks pinked from adrenaline. “What a rush!”

“Yeah!” She screeched, slapping the fuel tank on Killian’s bike like she was praising a horse.

“You,” he pointed at her, losing his words. “I-.”

“Did you enjoy losing?” She panted, her own adrenaline speeding up her heart.

“To you? Absolutely! You’re a bloody brilliant rider, love,” Killian offered, catching his breath.

“And how did your bike look like from behind?” She quipped with a wink. “Bet it never looked so good, right?”

“I wouldn’t know, love,” Killian grinned, revisiting the now imprinted image of her perfectly shaped rear as she sat astride his bike. “I wasn’t looking at the bike.”

Killian couldn’t tell at first if the rosy tint to her cheeks was from her blush or her tight fitting helmet, but when she averted her eyes shyly, he knew it was the former. It made him smile, cheeky and juvenile, just like the way she had somehow made him feel when the last three weeks had been nothing but empty.

“Might I add that the front is just as beautiful.” When she looked back at him, Killian raised an eyebrow, tracing the ridges of his teeth with the tip of his tongue.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” she muttered through her smile, nodding reassuringly.

It was Killian’s turn to blush, thankfully mostly hidden behind his already reddened cheeks, only the tips of his slightly pointed elven ears giving away his true feelings. He averted his eyes, focusing on the ignition key in front of him, his vision shaking with the motion of the bike. “Can I ask you something?” He said suddenly, turning the engine off and looking back over to her.

“As long as it’s not my name,” she smirked. “Loser,” she teased.

“Quite,” Killian laughed. “Do you miss it?” He added, pointing to the bike between his legs. “This thing has more power than any other road legal bike, nearly twice the top speed of that thing,” he pointed to the R1 she was sitting on and she looked down at it. “And yet you beat me,-”

“You let me win,” she cut him off.

“I assure you, love, I did not,” Killian laughed with a defiant shake of his head. “You’re a fantastic rider who clearly misses racing. What happened?”

Her smile faded instantly and she swallowed hard. Killian could see he had tugged at a nerve, possibly one that had been cut and continued to fray over many years, and he immediately regretted his words. Her silence was deafening and when she lowered her head and took a long, steadying breath, Killian felt like the worst person in the world.

“You know what?” He said quickly, slapping his helmet with both hands to gain her attention. She looked over to him and he smiled a weak, apologetic smile. “How about dinner?”

“It’s a bit early for dinner,” she chuckled.

“Tonight,” Killian insisted. “I don’t need to know your name to take you out, do I?” He poked out his bottom lip and pretended to be upset by the prospect of her declining, lifting a cocky eyebrow at her before his lips turned up with a smirk. “And you can still keep the bike,” he added, hand over his heart.

“Really?” She didn’t believe him, even if she had won it fairly.

“Aye, love, I’m a man of my word.”

He gave her a smile, one she was sure had won over the hearts of every one of his fans, and one she felt powerless to resist. She studied him for a moment, smitten with his charm and handsome features, something she said she wouldn’t fall for again, but was failing miserably to ignore. She knew him. She had seen the headlines. Killian Jones, World Champion, playboy. She regarded him with a narrowed gaze, unsure if she was just another Killian Jones conquest or if he was genuine. Had the media got him wrong? Was he a man of his word?

“Okay,” she said finally, a coy smile spreading across her face. “Tonight. Do you know how to plan a date?”

“Oh, this is a date now?” He teased with a wry grin.

She rolled her eyes playfully. “Who knows? Maybe if you play your cards right, we might follow up dinner with a little dessert.”

Killian ran his tongue over his teeth, eyes flicking over her leather clad body still nestled atop the bike he had just lost like she belonged there. What he wouldn’t give to see her in that exact position sans leathers, the sounds she would make with the rumbling engine pressed against her most intimate region something he was having a hard time not imagining. He looked up to her, eyes darkened by his lustful thoughts that made her breath catch in her throat. “I assure you, love, there will be nothing little about dessert.”

[cole-winchester]

I Won’t Run Away

Lethal Weapon Fic 

Clayne Crawford - Seasons One and Two based ONLY!  Don’t even get me started...

Summary:

A girl from Riggs' past surfaces and they discover they’re both as screwed up as the other.  Alcohol, depression, PTSD...You name it, they’ve got it.  When feelings develop, will their past trauma stand in the way of healing one another...or will it be their downfall?

Song inspiration for Title and Pic Quote:  I Won’t Run Away

Original Characters:

Aiden Gallagher - Main character opposite Martin Riggs  (pictured her as me in my head while writing - picture her as you wish with the descriptions given in story)

Robby Anderson - Main character’s ex (Pictured as Stephen Amell)

Mike Callahan - Main character’s friend/co-worker (Pictured as Dominic Purcell)

Warnings:

This is a whump fic.  There will be characters beaten to hell and back.  Some depression and PTSD flashbacks and suicidal dialog.  Read at your own caution.

Tag List:  Tags are always open, hit me up if you want on it!

@adorkabletiff91 @garcywinchester @t-rexprincess

Part One

"You good to close up, Mike?"  I sighed lightly as I leaned on the doorway to the bar’s office, running my hand absently through my dark brown hair.  The metal door frame was cool against my bare arm as I gazed down at the man.

"Yeah I got it."  He smiled as he closed the safe and stood, turning to me.  His tall broad frame making the office look much smaller than it was.  "I'll walk you out."  

I nod, grabbing my flannel and small cross-body bag off of the hook and met him at the front doors.

"You know you don't have to walk me out each night."  I smirked as I stepped up behind him. 

"Oh don't even start, Aiden."  Mike chuckled as he opened the door for me.  "There's too many psychos around this part of town at night." 

"Yeah, but I'm a big girl."  I joked and lightly bumped his heavily muscled arm with my shoulder.

He barked out a laugh.  "Not as big as me, sweetheart.  You're what?  All of 130 soaking wet?"

I giggled as my boots scuffed the sidewalk.  As much as I wanted to be tough, Mike was right.  Any creep on the street would have to think twice with him walking beside me.  He was tall, built to the nines with his wide jaw and shaved head...he was intimidating. 

Mike had taken me under his wing when I came to LA a while back looking for a job.  His bar needed the help and plus, he didn't want me getting caught up in a shitty situation that most pretty girls end up in out here.  He was a sweetheart and with two daughters of his own, he couldn't turn away the option of helping a girl like me out.

We headed around the corner to the small parking area next to the bar.  The cool air snaking around my legs.  Mike's gaze scanned the surrounding streets for any movement in the shadows. 

I turned to him as we reached my jeep and smiled.  "Thanks, Mike." I embraced him, wrapping my arms around his waist.  "You're a good friend."

Mike chuckled and pulled back, ruffling my hair with his large hand.  "See ya Sunday, kiddo.  Have fun at the barbeque tomorrow."

I smiled as he back stepped, shoving his hands in his pockets.  "G'night, Mike."

"Night."  He waited until I was safely in my jeep and pulling out of the lot onto the street before he made his way back to the bar. 

* * * *

I walked into the house, closing and deadbolting the door behind me.  I dropped my bag on the hook in the entry way and tossed my keys onto the small table.  I stepped down the hall towards the bedroom when the kitchen light flicked on, stopping me in my tracks.  My gaze snapped to the right and landed on the figure in the middle of the kitchen, my heart pounding.  

"I missed you, Aiden."

Robby...

"No!"  I screamed as I took off down the hallway.  How could he be here?!  He's in jail!  This isn't happening!

I reached for my cell in my shorts, but found nothing.  It was gone...as if it disappeared out of my pocket.

Shit!

I neared the corner of the hallway desperately trying to get to the landline in the dining room before he could.  A force slammed into my legs, knocking them out from under me as he came around the corner.  I crashed to the floor and quickly scrambled to get to my feet when his boot collided with my head, sending me backwards against the wall.

Wake up, Aiden!  Wake the fuck up!  This isn't happening!  My thoughts screamed as my vision spun.

"You should've never opened your mouth!"  Robby's hand dug into my hair, pulling me up from the floor and slamming my back against the wall.  "You stupid fucking whore!"

"This isn't happening.  This isn't happening.  Wake up!"  I whimpered as his face came into focus.  His ice blue eyes glaring at me with pure hatred as an evil grin spread across his face.

"Oh, it's fuckin' happening, sweetheart!"  He spat at me and lunged his right hand towards my stomach.

A white hot pain pierced my midsection sending fire throughout my body.  My eyes widened in shock as his face was inches from mine.  He eased back and I looked down as he pulled a crimson knife from my body.

"I told you I'd kill you for what you did to me.  You can't hide from me."  

My knees weakened and my body went numb as he lunged forward with the knife again.

* * * *

"No!"  I screamed and flailed as I woke from the nightmare, tumbling off the bed in a tangled heap of sweat soaked sheets.  I panted frantically as I clutched my stomach where the knife had been in the dream.  The dull phantom ache of it still lingering.

I've had the same nightmare at least once a week since I'd testified against Robby, resulting in him being locked up for the next twenty years.  My shrink said it's perfectly normal in these type of circumstances...but for three years?  

He's locked up in max.  He's 3 states away.  He can't get to you.  You're safe. 

I repeat in my head, trying to calm the shaking in my hands.  I absently reach up and trace the jagged scar running from my temple down to my jaw in front of my ear.  It seems to burn at my touch, bringing back memories I've tried to put behind me.  I shake my head, willing the images away.  Untangling myself I look over to my alarm clock...the bright red letters blazing back at me...530am.  I sigh and flop back against the side of the bed.  I'd only had a couple hours of sleep since my shift at the bar.  Deciding that it was useless to try and get any more sleep, I hauled myself to my feet.  

Well... time for whiskey and some paint therapy.

I head over to the spare bedroom that I'd turned into my art studio.  The floors covered with old flat sheets, stacks of fresh canvases tipped against one wall, finished pieces tucked in protective boxes ready to be sold against another and my large easel in the center with a fresh canvas.  Aside from the bar, I had a part time afternoon shift at a local coffee shop and in my spare time, I created and sold paintings.  Some were hung in the coffee shop advertised for sale, and every few months I did a small showing downtown.  That's where I'd first met Trish Murtaugh.  Her daughter, Riana, was a regular at the coffee shop in the afternoons when she got out of school.  She'd eyed my paintings and had brought her mother to one of my showings.  Trish had fallen in love with my art immediately.  I was more of an abstract emotional artist.  Most of it consisted of blacked out female silhouettes, some profiles, some full body, with bright colors splattered, slashed or dripped down around them.  I also dabbled in realistic portraits and some custom commissioned work.

Today?  Today called for some paint throwing.  

I grabbed my bottle of whiskey and downed a shot, slamming it down on the table.  I popped a can of paint open without looking at the color and reached my fingers in, coating them in the bright purple liquid.   I stepped about five feet in front of the canvas....and flung my hand toward it like I was throwing a baseball.  

I got lost.  My mind blank with whiskey buzz and zoned in on the task at hand.  Grabbing random colors and splattering them against the sheer white background of the canvas.  The paint slightly dripping and mixing together to form its own shade.  I was in my element.  Lost in my own universe as the world around me ceased to exist. 

After a while I stepped back a moment, gazing at the splattered canvas in front of me.  The contrasting splotches of neon colors scattered across the face of it.  It needed something.  I set the can of paint down and stomped the few feet to the canvas.  I drug my fingers through the wet paint, creating swirls and spirals in strategic order around the piece.  I eyed it for another moment, gauging its story.  Satisfied with my work, I wiped my hands clean on a rag and downed another shot of whiskey, plopping down in the corner of the room.  I sighed and leaned my head back against the wall and gazed out the side window at the rising sun.  A new day had begun.

* * * *

I had managed to catch a few more hours of shut eye thanks to Mr. Daniels, when I was awoken from a text alert.  

Shit, what time was it?! 

I fumbled for my phone on the nightstand as I sat up against the headboard. 

1130AM  

Oops, guess I got more than just a few hours..

I rubbed my eyes as I opened my Messages.

Trish: You're still coming today right?

Yes.  Wouldn't miss it.  You need me to bring anything?

Trish:  Just yourself! :)  I can't wait for you to meet everyone.

Awesome.  I'll see you then!

I locked my phone and tossed it on the bed as I stretched my stiff muscles.  I had two hours before I had to be at the Murtaugh's.  Thank god Trish had texted me.

* * * *

I eased my Wrangler at the curb across from the Murtaugh residence.  I felt weird not bringing anything to the barbecue but Trish insisted, and from what I'd gathered so far in our friendship, you don't argue with her.  I glanced around at the few cars in the driveway and along the street as I stepped out onto the pavement.  At least I wasn't the first one here...that's always a little awkward.  I made my way across the street as I heard laughter coming from the backyard.  Assuming everyone was outside, I let myself in the side gate.  As I rounded the side of the house I was greeting by a decent sized group.  Some teenagers Riana's age but majority were adults that most likely worked with Trish or her husband, Roger.  

"Hey!  You made it!"  Riana bounded off of the deck to me, embracing me in an excited hug.  I laughed and hugged her back.  "Mom's inside grabbing some more wine.  Come on!"  She grabbed my hand with a big smile on her face as she led me over to the grill.  "Dad!"  

A man looked up from the grill at her call and he smiled as he stepped to us.  "Ah, this must be the famous Aiden I've heard so much about.  Roger."  He held out his hand to me.  I took his hand and smiled, laughing off his comment.   His eyes darted to my scar and quickly back to my gaze, his smile only faltering slightly before he recovered. 

"Nice to meet you."  I said as I released his hand.

"Likewise.  Trish has shown me some of your work.  You're really talented."  

"Thank you."  I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear.  I was never one that accepted praise very well.

"Oh!"  Trish's voice sounded from the deck behind us.  "I'm so glad you could make it!"  She stepped down and handed Roger a plate of burgers before embracing me.  "You want something to drink?"

"Sure."  I glanced around at the coolers lining the deck.  

"There's beer in the coolers and wine inside."  She smiled and turned slightly to Roger, dropping her voice to a heated whisper.  "Is he coming?  Where is he?"

"I don't know he said he'd be here."  Roger wasn't as quiet as his wife so I was still able to catch the conversation...and then it hit me.

"Oh, god, Trish.  Tell me you're not trying to set me up with someone?"  I smirked and crossed my arms over my chest.

Both her and Roger snapped their attention back to me.  Roger looked guilty as hell and Trish plastered on a mischievous smile.  "I-I wouldn't call it 'setting you up.'  More of ... just a friendly introduction."

"Ugh."  I sighed and dropped my head back chuckling.  "While I appreciate the offer...I'm not looking to date anyone right now."  I gave her a small smile.

I hadn't opened up to her yet about my past.  This was the first time aside from my art gallery shows that we'd actually hung out.  We'd become friends but not to the point yet of sharing our deep secrets.  I'd caught her and Riana eyeing my scar each time we'd seen each other, but they both had the respect to not ask about it.  I just wasn't ready to share that dark part of my history yet with anyone.

"I'm not asking that you read anything into it.  He's a great guy.  A little rough around the edges but-"

Trish was cut off by a commotion from the side yard at the corner of the deck.

"Aw, you guys didn't have to wait for me to get here!  Let's get this party started!"  A loud male voice echoed through the yard.

"Speak of the devil."  Roger muttered as Trish threw me a smile before moving behind me towards the man.  

"Martin!  I'm glad you came!  Come here, I'd like you to meet someone."  I turned as Trish laced her arm through the man’s and guided him over toward me.

I froze.  

Martin stopped abruptly when I’d turned to face them.  Trish didn't seem concerned and stopped with him, smiling as she motioned for me to come forward.  Martin removed his sunglasses and his shocked amber gaze bore into me.  Everything around me seemed to stop as my pulse pounded in my ears as our eyes remained locked with each other.

"Martin, this is my friend-"  Trish began.

Martin breathed out in disbelief, cutting her off.  “Aiden..?”

[wincestbigbang]

2017 Master Post

Prompt 1: The Spaceship Impala Artist: amberdreams Author: samsexualdeancurious Rating: NC-17 Warnings/Spoilers: Unrelated Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Unrelated Winchesters, Anal Sex, Anal Fingering, Bottom Dean, Bottom Sam, Top Dean, Top Sam, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Android Castiel (Supernatural), Sex in Space, Alternate Universe - Passengers (2016), This is Passengers with a better ending, Near Death Experiences Summary: Dean Winchester is an engineer in hibernation aboard the starship Impala, journeying alongside five thousand other passengers to a new beginning. When his pod malfunctions, he wakes up ninety years too early. Art: LiveJournal Story: Ao3 Prompt 2: The Winchester House Rules Artist: emmatheslayer Author: puckity Other Pairing(s): Implied Sam/Jess, Implied Dean/OMC, Sam/Dean/OFC Rating: NC-17 Warnings/Spoilers: N/A Summary: There are rules—there have to be rules—otherwise Sam and Dean wouldn’t make it out of this world in one piece. An exploration of tropes, kinks, and meant-to-be through the Winchester life cycle(s). Art: LiveJournal Story: Ao3 Prompt 3: Armageddon Game Artist: dreamsfromthebunker / hit_the_books Author: alulaspeaks Rating: NC-17 Warnings/Spoilers: Canon-typical Violence Summary: A year ago Dean watched Sam walk away from the life. A few months later Sam dropped off the radar completely, his last words to Dean a scribbled note. I just need some time. Don’t look for me. I’ll call if I need you. Now it’s 2009 and Dean finds Sam locked in a warded cell guarded by the Campbells. They say he’s running with demons, that they call him the Boy King. They say Sam’s up to something big. Dean and Bobby confront a caged Sam who is cold, and distant, and far too knowing. While everyone tries to tell Dean that the brother he knew is gone, Dean is determined to find the truth. Along the way he discovers angels, broken seals, a runaway apocalypse, and visions of another timeline that burned up his brother’s brain. Now all Dean has to do is figure out what Sam’s endgame is and how to stop it, or risk losing Sam forever. Art: Tumblr Story: Ao3 Prompt 5: Synecdoche Artist: apataeavaca Author: samdeanddlyumptious Rating: NC-17 Warnings/Spoilers: ABO, heat, knotting, brief consent concern Summary: The girls are on their way to meet their dad for a hunt when a heat hits D. Lots of fluff and sisterly teasing and passionate sex, with some angst and whump at the beginning to keep things interesting. (This is a timestamp, but can stand alone.) Art: Tumblr Story: Ao3 Prompt 6: A Shadow of What Should Be Artist: fridayblues Author: wetsammywinchester Rating: PG-13 Warnings/Spoilers: None, Stanford angst, hallucinations Summary: Sam wakes up in a strange bed, a strange apartment, and living in domestic bliss with Dean and a dog named Mothra. Obviously, either he’s lost his mind or all of this is a dream. Art: LiveJournal Story: Ao3 Prompt 7: My Anchor Artist: kuwlshadow Author: backrose_17 Rating: NC-17 Warnings/Spoilers: Top Dean, bottom Sam, hurt Sam, Hallcuifer tormenting Sam Summary: Death was the ending that endverse Dean had been waiting for what he got was anything but that. Dean finds himself in a rundown motel with someone he thought he would never see again his Sam. Only this Sam is broken tormented by visions of Lucifer and his Dean missing he is on the edge. Two broken souls each missing their other half find a peace and sense of belonging to one another. A love story between Endverse!Dean and pre-season 8!Sam. Art: LiveJournal Story: Ao3 Prompt 8: Howls In My Bones Artist: azziria Author: weefaol Rating: NC-17 Warnings/Spoilers: Underage, Top Dean, Bottom Sam, Angst, First Time Summary: When John gets a call to investigate a series of grisly animal killings, he drops Sam and Dean at an abandoned cabin two towns over. The boys find ways to keep busy — playing cards, watching movies, chopping wood — but with a howling winter storm on the way, there’s nowhere for Sam to hide his illicit feelings for his older brother. As the lure of desire threatens to devour him, Sam must learn to face the wolves that lurk outside and the monsters within. Art: Ao3 Story: Ao3 Prompt 9: Bolide Artist: weakspots Author: laughablelament Other Pairing(s): Sam/Dean/Jess Rating: NC-17 Warnings/Spoilers: mild underage, non-con, early S12 Summary: A run-in with witches leaves Sam in a supernatural coma. Dean must navigate the broken, shifting landscape of his soul to get him back. Art: LiveJournal Story: Ao3 Prompt 10: Doesn't Matter What I Remember Artist: stargazingchola Author: smalltrolven Rating: R Warnings/Spoilers: Spoilers for episode 12.11,"Regarding Dean" Summary: Maybe it’s because they both almost lost each other again. That’s part of what makes Dean do it, but mostly it’s the essay he read in a magazine in the laundromat. Sometimes the right words find you just when you need to read them. Art: Tumblr Story: LiveJournal | Ao3 Prompt 11: Perfect, Twisted, Bloody Family Author: justanothersaltandburn Artist: emmatheslayer Rating: NC-17 Other Pairing(s): Dean/Ketch, Dean/Ketch/Sam Warnings/Spoilers: sibling incest, serial killer AU, police detective!Sam, butcher!Dean, serial killer!Dean, bounty hunter!Ketch, serial killer!Ketch, murder boyfriends, drunk sex, gore, violence, torture, murders, desecration of corpse, oral sex, anal sex, rough sex, bottom!Sam, switch!Dean, top!Ketch, threesome (M/M/M), bareback, coming untouched, dirty talk, polyamory Summary: Dean has a great life. He’s got amazing boyfriend and a successful business, lots of friends, and a smart detective for a brother. They have awesome dinners at each other’s houses, poker nights, and a relationship most siblings would envy. Dean also has a deep, secret lust he’s been harboring for said little brother. That, and the occasional murder of a pimp or drug dealer, just to keep things interesting. C’est la vie. Art: LiveJournal Story: Ao3 Prompt 12: That Time Dean Came to Stanford Artist: tx_devilorangel Author: runedgirl Rating: NC-17 Warnings/Spoilers: Pre Series, First Time Summary: Sam goes to Stanford carrying a secret about his feelings for his brother. Seven months later, everyone’s talking about the good looking guy with the gorgeous ’67 Impala holding court at the local bar. What sparks will fly when Sam sees Dean again? Art: LiveJournal | Ao3 Story: LiveJournal Prompt 13: Hold My Hand Artist: nisaki Author: meohmywhyohwhy Rating: NC-17 Warnings/Spoilers: Bottom Dean, Bottom Sam, Top Dean, Top Sam, Angst, Internalized Homophobia, Established Relationship, First Time Fic Summary: Sam isn’t sure he can do this anymore–he can’t keep being Dean’s dirty little secret. A case in Missouri brings things to a head, while memories from the summer this all began keep bubbling to the surface. Art: LiveJournal | Tumblr Story: Ao3 Prompt 14: Reckless In Love Artist: loracine Author: paperann Rating: NC-17 Warnings/Spoilers: Explicit Sexual Content Summary: When Dean fought his way through the soil to an Earth he never thought he’d see again, he didn’t care how he escaped Hell. The only thing on his mind was seeing Sammy. It turned out to be harder than he thought, but with the aid of Bobby they found him: post-party, having a fuckin’ blast with some half-naked chick in a motel room. It was almost a punch to the gut when she asked the million dollar question—“if they were together” and Sam couldn’t say “they’re brothers” fast enough. Of friggin course, they never flaunted ‘it’, but Sam was acting cagey. Like he genuinely meant it. Dean knew damn well his brains hadn’t scrambled. He knew he hadn’t imagined Sam’s urgent confession the moment his one-year-left Crossroad’s Contract was revealed. And…his own astonishment, upon discovery, because Dean felt the same way. If there was helluva way to go out? God, it’d be that year—every day (every second) was lived with passion, freedom and without regret. But most important: they lived fearlessly with each other. Had Sam’s mind changed after Dean died? Was he humoring the last wishes of a dying man? Either way, if Sam didn’t feel the same anymore…maybe Dean should have stayed in the pit. Art: LiveJournal Story: Ao3 Prompt 15: The Golden State Artist: bluefire986 Author: soy_em Other Pairing(s): Sam Winchester/OMC Rating: NC-17 Warnings/Spoilers: Implied/Referenced Rape, /Non-con, Abusive Relationships, Domestic Violence, Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Sam and Dean are still hunters, Hurt Sam Winchester, Getting Together, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence Summary: A year after Sam leaves for Stanford, the Reckoning happens. Angels and demons descend to earth and destroy much of the planet in an endless war. Dean survives, living with Bobby in the survivor city of Sioux Falls, but he never forgets his missing little brother. Finally, after the world has stabilized a little, he decides it’s time to undertake the dangerous trip to California and try to find Sam. He finds his little brother in a settlement on the Californian coast, but all is not well with Sam, who is in an abusive relationship with the Boss, the settlement’s shady leader. Dean has to rescue Sam so that they can rebuild their lives in the safety of Sioux Falls, but the Boss is not going to let Sam leave easily. And Dean’s not even sure that Sam wants to leave... Canon divergent from the beginning: in this world, Sam and Dean are the characters we know, and grow up in hunting monsters with John, but are not the vessels. Art: LiveJournal | Ao3 Story: Ao3 Prompt 16: Never bet against a Winchester, even if you are a Winchester. Artist: stormbrite Author: milly_gal Rating: NC-17 Warnings/Spoilers: No Spoilers, Cross Dressing, Sex Depravation, CRACK. Summary: The lack of sex is driving both Sam and Dean crazy, but neither brother will admit defeat and beg. What happens when you place a wager on your willpower and then realise you have none? Art: LiveJournal | Ao3 Story: LiveJournal | Ao3

[whumpypepsigal]

honestly, i must say, steve harrington’s redemption arc has to be the best redemption arc i’ve ever seen from any show. he has become my most beloved character in stranger things. i love him so damn much.

and the newcomer eddie munson, don’t know if it’s just me, but i find the man and those big ol’ brown eyes of his very very very cute. eddie is wholesome personified. and whenever he smiles, it just warms my heart. what i’m saying is i’ve fallen in love with eddie munson and i NEED an eddie munson in my life.

[icecubelotr44]

To Every Thing a Season (12/16)

Summary:   After witnessing the tragic murder of his brother Liam, Killian Jones is more determined than ever to discover the secrets of time travel. Fast-tracking his education at Storybrooke University, Killian is assigned a lab assistant, one Emma Swan. Together, they find a way to break through the veil of time so Killian can set things right. But what will be the price for changing the past, and is it one they’re willing to pay?

Rated:  T, for violence, some dark themes, angst, and whump

Art credit/link: The totally awesome @optomisticgirl made imagesets for all the chapters and @ab-normality made a video and a gifset for this fic.  You can find the imageset for this chapter above and here on @optomisticgirl‘s blog.  The video is linked here and on @ab-normality‘s blog here and the gifset is posted here!

Beta readers: The as-always wonderful @nothingimpossibleonlyimprobable, thanks so much for all of your help and cajoling and reassuring!  And a huge thank you to the spectacular @spartanguard who stepped in to help beta read as well!

A/N:  Written as part of the 2017 Captain Swan Big Bang Challenge.  You can catch up with all the other fics that are complete by following @captainswanbigbang and/or subscribing to the Group Collection on AO3 and/or the C2 on FFN. This is complete in 16 parts and will be posted every Thursday from now until its completion. And yes, there is a happy ending after all this… just so you know.

Word count:  ~ 5,450 (80K+ Total in 16 chapters)

From the beginning: ao3 | ffn  

Current Chapter: AO3 | FFN

Chapter 12: To Keep Silence and to Speak

Agony.

Heat.

Sick.

Burning.

Nausea.

Hurts.

Hurts.

Hurts.

Make it stop.

Killian’s entire world focused down to the inferno at the end of his wrist.  The slightest brush of air fanned the flames and sent shocks of white-hot pain lancing down his arm.  He couldn’t focus, he couldn’t think.  Someone was screaming.

Was it him?

They had landed.  He thought.  It didn’t matter.  The only thing that did was getting out of the machine and away from whatever had turned his hand into an incendiary.  Something, anything, to get rid of the agony that was sapping his strength, his will, his sense.

He was going to pass out.

There was nothing for it, he had to open the door.  He had to get out.

But his hand.  Oh God, his hand was on fire.

Killian fumbled to stand from where he'd been thrown in flight - not bothering to buckle his harness had been a monumental mistake.  He was vaguely aware of yelling, of the sounds that were coming from outside the machine, of the glare that was coming from the man with him.  Was he important?

No.  Not right now.

Now he needed to get out.  He needed to stand.  He needed her.

His brain couldn't exactly pin a name or a face to the thought, but he knew it was paramount.

He needed her.

And then she was there.  And then he was in her arms.

And then his hand tried to reach for her spasmodically, and he was back to focusing on every minute particle in the air that was assaulting his hand.  He was sure that there was a ball of fire gripped in his palm, burning it from the inside out and leaving a smoldering pile of ash in its wake.

Just cut it off.  Get rid of it.  Make it stop.

But no.  He needed his hand.  He needed to be whole.

A brief memory of an old man with one hand flittered through his consciousness before it was gone, replaced by pain and agony and nausea and the scent of her hair.

Don't look.

Don't think.

Help me.

Emma.

Help me, Emma!

Everything went black.

Emma thought the paramedics believed her about an accident with the heavy, metal hatch that David had haphazardly smeared blood all over moments before.  She didn’t really care one way or another, but Killian would.  In the days and weeks and months ahead of him while he recovered, the time machine ready and waiting for him would help.  She thought.

She hoped.

She couldn’t focus on anything other than the blinding lights as they wheeled Killian to the waiting ambulance, the mask on his face fogging up with every comforting breath, the IV line in his right hand - the line that had delivered the medications that had stopped him from gasping in pain, even in unconsciousness.

And then all Emma could see was the door shutting, her only glimpse of Killian through the tinted window.

“No!” she cried, startled by the sound of her own voice.

Emma moved forward without really thinking, her hand coming up to pull open the door.

Someone tried to stop her.  “We need to take him now, Miss.”

“I…”

“Family only,” they tried to reason with her.

Emma growled.  “I am his family.”

The paramedic rolled his eyes, and Emma thought about punching him.  But that would delay Killian’s care and he was what mattered right now.

“You can sit up front,” the young man relented.

Emma scrambled before someone changed their mind.

And then she was summarily planted in a waiting room with every Tom, Dick, and Harry who had wandered in off the street with the sniffles, Emma snarked angrily to herself as she waited.

Not family.  We’ll let you know.  Call his parents.

Emma seethed.

And then a nurse who had worked on Killian’s leg the last time he’d been brought in took mercy on her and moved her to a more private waiting area.

“He listed you as his emergency contact when he was discharged last time,” the woman explained.  “You’ll still have to wait out here, but I’ll make sure the doctors come out to speak to you if any decisions need to be made.”

Emma was going to pass out.

Decisions?

She was shaking now, replaying the last few hours in her mind.  They’d been so happy that morning, wrapped up in each other.  It had only been a few hours, right?  What time was it?  Did it matter?

Emma wasn’t sure how David and Mary Margaret had weaseled their way past Nurse Ratched at the admission desks, but they were soon by her side, wrapping her fingers around a travel mug that smelled suspiciously like Granny’s hot chocolate and dwarfing her with David’s warm coat.

“Miss Swan?” a doctor called out as he came to stand in front of them.

Emma nodded.

“Can we speak privately?”

Emma nodded again.

She thought he might take her to an office, or at least somewhere more private than the hallway.

He didn’t.

“I don’t really have time to mince words, so I won’t,” he started, and Emma felt the blood drain from her face.  “There’s simply too much damage and I wouldn’t even know where to start trying to repair his hand.  Whatever crushed the limb did a damn good job of wrecking his chances.  We need your permission to remove it before he becomes septic.”

Emma locked her knees before she hit the floor, but it was a near thing.  “What?” she asked, alarmed at how weak she sounded.

“You’re his emergency contact.  Because of the medications we have him on, he’s not cognizant and can’t make this decision.  Either we take him to an operating suite and remove the dead tissue, or we take our chances trying to find something to repair.”  He paused, clearly waiting.  Clearly not thinking there was a choice to be made.

Emma looked around helplessly.  Lose his hand?  How could he cope with only one?  How would he react?

What if he hated her for making this decision?

“Miss Swan, we need to-”

“-do it,” she commanded before she could second-guess herself.  She’d heard of sepsis, knew how dangerous it could be.

Killian may hate her for losing his hand, but she’d hate herself more if he lost his life.

The doctor didn’t even wait to see if she was okay, just took off at a sprint.

“Wait!” she cried, tearing down the hall after him.

He looked exasperated.  “Miss-”

“Can I see him?”

He shook his head.  “He won’t know you’re there.”

“But I’ll know,” she whispered.

He sighed, but nodded.  “Just while we’re finding an open suite.  But then you’ll have to go.  Every minute counts, understand?”

She nodded again, following him meekly down the hall and into the trauma room.

Killian.

Killian looked so small.

Emma was shocked to see him, the only one still amidst a flurry of activity.  He was wrapped up in so many wires and tubes, an oxygen mask, and blankets that Emma had trouble seeing him in the clutter.

He was so pale.

So still.

So vulnerable.

Emma was caught up in the ridiculous need to shoo everyone from the room, to wrap him up in her arms, to take him away from all of this.  Which was absurd, naturally, but it didn’t stop her from crossing the room to take up residence at his side.

What was left of his hand was wrapped in thick gauze, resting high on a stack of pillows.  There was a cuff around his forearm, and Emma didn’t want to think about what it was for.  She lifted his right hand, tangling their fingers together and squeezing.

She didn’t really expect a response, but her stomach still clenched when she didn’t get one.

He was so cold.

“Careful, miss,” a nurse admonished.  “Don’t disturb anything.”

Emma nodded shakily, glancing down at their hands to make sure she hadn’t touched anything.  Her other hand came back to brush Killian’s hair away from his forehead, then leaned down and gently kissed the chilled skin there.

“Come back to me, Killian,” she whispered.

His eyes fluttered.

“Jones?” she whispered again, more hopefully this time.

She could just see the blue of his eyes beneath bruised eyelids, his pupils shifting around lazily.  His fingers twitched in her hand and she smiled gratefully.

“I’m right here, Killian.  I’m gonna be right here when you wake up.”

He muttered something unintelligible, the whoosh of oxygen in his mask stealing his words.

“I love you, too,” she replied anyway, knowing it was what she needed him to have said.  “Stay strong for me, okay?”

The barest of nods was her response, and then he was out again.

“We need to take him now,” the same nurse said gently, already moving the side rail up on the bed.

Emma thought the hardest thing she’d ever had to do was to let go of his hand and back away.

She was ushered up to yet another waiting room, this one equipped with a television and coffee maker and already home to Mary Margaret, David, and now Ruby as well.

“The doctor will come out and let you know when everything is done.”

Emma wanted to say something, wanted to do something, but she was frozen.  Somewhere in the hospital, a doctor was cutting Killian’s hand off.  She knew, logically, that there was an art and a science to it, that they were trained in how to best help Killian in the long run.

It didn’t stop her from imagining someone just slicing it off with a sword.

Emma sat alone, curled up in the corner of what passed for a couch as time passed them by.  She wasn’t sure if it was hours, or days, or weeks since she’d last spoken with Killian, since he’d been awake and worried about what the future was going to bring.

Their friends took turns trying to draw her into conversation, to bring her snacks and drinks that she barely tasted, and in one horrendous moment, to try and hug her.  

They only tried that once.

She vaguely remembered Granny, herself, coming over with a steaming cup of chocolate and a plate of lasagna.  The old woman had draped a soft blanket over Emma’s shoulders and tutted sadly before she, too, admitted defeat.

Emma only wanted Killian.

When the doctor finally came into the room, looking tired but satisfied, Emma tried to pay attention.  Phrases like “transradial amputation” and “long enough for good range of motion” and “good for his future” filtered through, but it wasn’t what she needed to hear.

She needed to know when he’d be awake so that she could be there.

She’d promised.

They wouldn’t let her in the recovery room, of course, and she understood that.  But when the doctor had suggested that she go home for the evening and come back in a few days, David had had to hold her back from hitting him.

Mary Margaret had been busy doing the same to Ruby.

So Emma sat some more.  And when she was done with that, she paced.  And when she was done with that, she stared out the window.  She wasn’t leaving until she saw him and, if she had her way, not even then.

He needed her.

She hoped.

It was long past midnight before Emma heard anything else.  This time from an perky young woman who introduced herself as Killian's new best friend.

Emma bristled.

But then she began to understand - this was the psychologist who was going to hopefully help Killian come to terms with his new situation.  Emma tried to rein in the protective part of her that wanted to keep all her belongings - human or otherwise - to herself.

And then Anna became Emma's best friend with one statement.

“He's going to need you at his side as much as possible.”

Emma almost hugged her.

Anna took her by the hand and led her down one hallway after another.  If she led Emma to an office with a couch to lay down on, they were going to have a different discussion than the psychologist intended.

But the opening of a door led Emma exactly where she wanted to be.

“He was awake for a moment in Recovery, and he asked for you.  He'll probably sleep through most of tomorrow, but no one will bother you.”  Anna followed her in and made sure Emma was as comfortable as she could manage in the cushioned chair at Killian's right side.

His head was tilted to one side, as if he were waiting for her to join him, and Emma had to remind herself that they were in the hospital - that he'd likely be there for some time - and that it wasn't the time to cuddle.  Her gaze traced down his left arm deliberately, taking in the thick bandages and the startling end where his hand used to be.  Her stomach tied itself into knots at the sight, but she continued to stare at it until it just seemed to be another part of him.

Killian was going to have a hard enough time trying to cope with his loss, he didn't need to worry about how she was going to react to it, too.

“I'll leave you two alone,” Anna piped up, making Emma jump.  “But if you need to speak to anyone, Emma, I've got an open door and two good ears.”

Emma nodded.  The mere thought of speaking to someone like Anna terrified her, but if it would help Killian - if it would help her help Killian, then she would get over her own discomfort.

“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice scratchy from disuse.

Anna grinned and handed her Killian’s glasses.  “I'll bring you a sandwich.  And some of my favorite hot chocolate before I finish my rounds.  I think you'll like it.”

Emma smiled.

Killian did sleep through the majority of the day, as did Emma.  She only woke up when the nurses came in to check on Killian - taking vitals and eventually changing the bandages over his stump.

The drain that snaked out of the wound was by far the most shocking part of the whole thing, and Emma found herself feeling slightly ill at the sight of it.  But she forced herself to watch everything that the nurses did until she could cope.

She wanted to run.

She wanted to curl up with Killian and never leave his side.

She wanted to go back to the lab and use the machine to prevent Killian from ever building it in the first place.

She wanted him to wake up.

As if Killian had heard her, his eyes fluttered open and met her gaze.

“Hey,” she whispered, reaching out to brush the hair back from his forehead.

He mumbled something as his eyebrows furrowed, and Emma sat forward until she could brush her lips over the wrinkles there.

“Just rest,” she ordered, squeezing his fingers tightly.  “I’m right here.”

“Don’t go,” he muttered pitifully.

Emma shook her head violently.  “Never,” she vowed.

He smiled.  It was a little thing, barely twitching the sides of his mouth up, but it seemed to Emma as if he were beaming.

“Hey,” she called again, waiting until his eyes cleared and he was looking fully at her.

Killian made some kind of questioning noise when she didn’t speak for long moments.

She smiled back at him.  “I love you.”

Now he was beaming, tugging at her hand until she gave in and leaned forward to meet his lips in a chaste kiss.  Everything seemed to settle around them and between them and in her, and while it would be a long while before they could do more than that, this kiss just made everything right.

“I love you, too,” he mumbled, already dropping back to sleep.

He hadn’t asked about his hand, and Emma was ashamed to realize she was relieved.  She didn’t know how much he remembered, if he even knew where he was or what they’d done to him while he was unconscious.

What she’d done to him.

Maybe Killian wasn’t the only one who needed to talk to Anna, after all.

Awareness came to Killian in fits and starts.  Emma had been there at first.  He didn’t really remember how he got from the time machine to her arms, but knew it had happened.  Then he vaguely remembered being surrounded by doctors while immense pain tore his attention away.  There wasn’t much after that, maybe a cold and sterile room with more medical staff in face masks.  Not so much pain there, but fear - he couldn’t find Emma.

Emma meant he was safe.

Stay strong for me, okay? and then Where’s Emma? I need Emma. and then I love you.

He remembered I love you most of all.  Because he hadn’t needed to say it first that time.

And now, as he fought against the vestiges of sleep, he could smell her hair.  She was there, and if he could manage to open his eyes, he was sure Emma would smile at him.

If she smiled, then everything would be all right.

Her fingers were slipping through his hair, he was sure, but it was dark and comfortable in this half-asleep state, and he wasn’t ready to leave.  There was something tickling at the edge of his mind, something that he didn’t want to know about.  Didn’t want to face.

If he stayed asleep, he wouldn’t have to.

Emma was there, that was all that mattered.

He slipped back into the darkness.

Killian floated there for a few minutes or a few days, he wasn’t really sure, but eventually he was called back to wakefulness by voices around him.

“...how to tell him.”

“I can help…”

“I’m just worried…”

“...it from you.”

“...love him so much.”

Emma.  That last one was Emma.  And he didn’t think he recognized the woman she was talking to - he was sure that someone that excitable, he’d remember.  Curiosity got to him and Killian finally managed to open his eyes.  Blearily, he looked around until he could focus on the blonde hair startlingly close to his face.

“Emma,” the perky voice called out and jerked his attention away from his girl.

“Hey there, you with me this time?” Emma asked, her fingers tracing the scar on his cheek as he turned his head towards her.

“I go somewhere?” he croaked, surprised at how awful his voice sounded.

Emma just smiled gently.  “Doesn’t matter now.  How are you feeling?”

“Fuzzy,” he whined a little.

She nodded.  “I bet.  They’ve got you on some pretty good stuff.”

His eyebrows furrowed.  Who? and then What?  He focused beyond Emma, the stark and clean smell, the antiseptic looking walls, the rhythmic beeping, the scratchy sheets and the lumpy mattress.

Hospital?

It all came back in a startling moment of clarity.  Gold.  Milah.  Dead.  Travel.  Hand.  Hand.  Hand.  Emma.  Stay strong.  Don’t go.  I love you.

Killian sat up abruptly, trying to curl in on himself against the onslaught of memories.  He was vaguely aware of Emma’s arms around him, of someone else holding his left arm still, of his gasping breaths.

“Breathe, Killian.  Breathe for me.  Please?”

It was the please that did it, Emma’s breathless plea in his ear, fear and worry all wrapped up in one word.  He took a shuddering breath and then another, sagging into her embrace and letting her strength buoy his own.

“Wait,” she commanded, and he didn’t understand.  She said it again.  “Wait.”

He wanted to ask what he was waiting for, why she needed him to do so, but when she hissed it a third time, Killian realized she wasn’t talking to him.  Wasn’t ordering him to stop.  He managed to look around and saw a syringe poised over an IV port, the man wielding it looking over his head at Emma.

“He’s fine.  Aren’t you, Jones?”

He nodded.  He could calm down for her.

Killian focused on the way her chest rose and fell where they were pressed together, matching his own breaths to hers and fighting off the spots that had started to cloud his vision.  The man backed away slowly and then left, leaving he and Emma - and another woman he hadn’t noticed before - alone.

“That’s it, Emma, keep talking to him,” the woman said softly, still holding his left arm.

He looked at the woman when Emma asked, “Can I…”

“Sure.”

The next thing he felt was Emma climbing up into the bed with him and tugging him back to rest against her.  He went willingly, the burst of adrenaline now nearly spent.  He was finally content when she hugged him tightly.  The other woman’s grip on his arm slowly released as she, too, backed away.

“You’ll be fine,” she directed towards Emma.  “I’ll check back later.”

Emma made a little noise of protest, but it was to the woman’s back before the door shut behind her.  Killian settled down against Emma, letting her cradle his head against her shoulder.  He saw her hand snake down his left arm to hold it secure, but his still-fuzzy brain couldn’t quite understand why he couldn’t feel her grip there.

And then he saw it.  For the first time, he was able to clearly put together the immense fire he'd felt with what it meant.

His hand was gone.

Cut off abruptly at the wrist and swathed in so many bandages that he could almost pretend that there was a fist wrapped tightly beneath the gauze.  His breathing started to pick up again, tears stinging his eyes as he continued to stare in horror.  It was gone.

Gone.

Lost.

He thought he heard Emma speaking softly in his ear, her fingers tight against his cheek as she tried to turn his head away.  Her own left hand was grasping his forearm, but she needn't have worried.  He couldn't move his arm, couldn't feel his entire arm.

He was panicking, and knowing that didn't help at all.

"-at me.  Killian, look at me.  Look at me," Emma kept repeating in his ear, her voice pitching higher and higher as he ignored her.

"Killi-" her voice broke on his name and it was finally enough to switch his focus.  He rolled his head against her shoulder and took in the wild look in her eyes - it was the look of someone who didn't know if they should run towards or away from the danger.

He was the danger.

"-mma?" he managed.

Emma's eyes squeezed tightly shut and a harsh whoosh of breath blew across his face as she whimpered a little.  The hand that had been on his wrist moved to tangle in his hair and he began to make out more of what she was saying.

"-sorry.  God, I'm so sorry.  I'm sorry.  Don't hate me.  Please.  Please, Killian.  I'm sorry."

Killian forced his unresponsive body to turn more fully into her embrace, burying his face in her neck and just breathing in the scent of her.  He stayed like that for minutes or hours or weeks, he wasn't entirely sure, but eventually it was enough to calm them both down.

"You're here," was the best he could come up with when his voice started to work again.

If she wasn't going to mention the damp patch on her hoodie, then he wasn't either.

"I'm here," Emma whispered back, hugging him impossibly tighter than she had been.  "I'm not going anywhere.  God, Killian, I've been so worried."

He nodded noncommittally, not sure what his response should be to all of this.

The most pressing, then.

"It's gone?"

Way to state the obvious, Jones.

Emma nodded and he could feel her tears soaking his forehead.  “I’m so sorry."

He was confused.  What on earth was Emma sorry about?  His hand?  That wasn't her fault.  Did something else go wrong?  Did she know about Milah?  Did she-

He must have made some kind of noise, because she was nodding against his forehead.  "I am.  Please, God, Killian.  I'm sorry."

Killian pulled his head back, searching out her gaze with his own.  He was so tired, he had so many questions he needed to know the answers to.  But first, he had to make sure she was all right.

"What is it, luv?" he croaked.

Emma shook her head and leaned her forehead against his own.  "It's my fault," she whispered.

"What?" he hadn't meant to sound quite so defensive, but none of this was her fault.

She sniffled.  "I'm your emergency contact," she said as if that explained anything.

"I know," he told her.  "I'm the one who put you there."

That didn't seem to fix anything.  She nodded, moving both of their heads when she did so.  "So it's my fault," she tried again.

He still didn't understand.

"I..."

And then her gaze cut over to where his arm still lay awkwardly behind him.  And he understood.  "Oh, Emma," he breathed sadly.

Her breath caught in her throat when Killian slid his arm behind her so that he could tug her into the best hug he could manage.  "I’m sorry, luv.  I'm sorry you had to do that."

"You don't hate me?" she asked timidly, burrowing into his side as well as she could manage.

Killian settled back against the bed, wrapping his right arm around her tightly so they could both rest.  He could already feel the pull of sleep, and he still had so many questions - namely, why couldn't he feel his entire arm - but they could wait until after he'd slept.

Emma couldn't.

"No, luv, never," he vowed, going onto explain further.  "It's not your fault.  And I'm glad you were here.  Glad you are here."

"Always," she whispered, her breath only hitching a little over the word.

He smiled into her hair, letting his eyes drift shut as he listened to all the machines in the room.  The last thing he was aware of before he fell asleep was Emma's breath whispering over his chest.

If the way the shadows in the room played over Emma's form was any indication, they'd slept for several hours.  She was still sleeping easily, her hand curled just slightly over his heart.  God, did he love her, he thought idly, tilting his head to breathe in the scent of her hair.

Someone shifting on a chair to his left caught Killian's attention, so he rolled his head on the pillow, trying not to wake Emma.

The woman from earlier was sitting there, smiling at him disarmingly.

Killian was instantly on edge.

"Hi!" she perked up, and Killian startled at the bounciness in her tone.  "I'm Anna."

He nodded hesitantly.  "Hello."

"I just wanted to introduce myself.  We'll probably be talking a bit, later, when you've had a little time to - you know - process and all that jazz."

Killian's brow furrowed until his brain caught up with the speed of her speech.  "You're a shrink."  It wasn't a question.

Anna nodded anyway.  "I am.  Emma and I talked a little while we were waiting for you to wake up."

"I'm not re-"

"Oh, I know you're not ready yet.  But I just wanted to get in here at the start so you'd be used to seeing me, and to see if you had any questions.  Your doc will be in a little later to check on you again, but I can try to answer anything first," she paused, smiling conspiratorially, "in real-person speak."

The corner of Killian's mouth twitched up involuntarily.  "Can she stay?"

It was the only question that really mattered at the moment.

Anna nodded.  "As long as you want.  I made sure of it."

The fist around his heart loosened a little bit knowing that no one was going to take her from him.  Not now, not when he was so painfully adrift and Emma was his only beacon.

"Thank you."

She grinned.  "I'll come back later and check on you again.  Maybe bring Emma something to eat that didn't come from our cafeteria" - she looked apologetic - "but you're probably going to have to make do with what they give you for awhile."

The thought of food turned Killian's stomach anyway, so he just nodded and watched her leave.

"I like her," Emma interjected before he could tilt his head back down to rest against hers.

He huffed out a breath.  "And how long have you been awake?"

"Since Anna said 'hi'," she replied easily.  "She's kinda loud."

He did laugh this time, and it felt good.

But then everything came crashing back down around him, and Killian wanted nothing more than to go back to sleep.

“Hey,” Emma breathed in his ear - and when had she moved? - “It’s going to be okay.”

Killian nodded even though he didn’t believe her.

"Emma?" he asked some time later, when his breathing was more under control and he didn't feel quite so lost.  

She replied with a hum to let him know she was listening, her nose buried in a book that he knew she wasn't really reading.

He gulped quietly, afraid to know the answer, but determined to find out.  "I... why can't I feel my arm?" he whispered on a breath.

She tilted her head to look up at him.  "That hasn't worn off yet?"

Worn off, it wasn't permanent.  He shook his head, relief already surging through him.

"Oh," she sounded a little confused.  "Well, I don't know exactly how they did it, but the doctors made your arm numb for awhile so it wouldn't hurt right away when you woke up.  Doctor Whale should be-"

On cue, a man in scrubs walked in and explained more about Killian's amputation and what the next few days in hospital were going to entail.  At the end of it, Killian felt a little sick and a lot tired, so when Emma tried to get up to give him some room, he gripped her hip tightly and pulled her in close.

She stayed.

The nerve block wore off a few hours later and tore Killian from vaguely threatening nightmares.  The world was a little blurry without his glasses on and the numbers that usually danced through his vision at the slightest call were terrifyingly silent, lost in the expanse of pain and confusion that had been his recent history.  He groped for the pain pump Whale had explained to him, needing the relief and possibly the dreamless sleep, but was waylaid by a nurse coming into the room.  Killian didn't recall meeting her before, and the dark look in her eyes told him he needed all his faculties about him if he were to survive the encounter.

Boy, whatever meds they have you on are making you melodramatic, he thought idly as the woman came closer.

"She really shouldn't be sleeping there," the woman commented severely, pointing to the other bed in the room.  "We've provided accommodations for her on your therapist's demands."

Killian's arm tightened around Emma's back.  That other bed was so far away, she couldn't... he couldn't- "Please," he croaked.  "I need her here."

The nurse was very clearly unimpressed with his plea.  "You need to rest and recover.  That doesn't include-"

He shook his head, interrupting her.  Killian tried to make her understand again.  "I've lost... With her here, I..." he couldn't put it into words.

When the woman reached out towards Emma's shoulder, Killian forced himself to explain.

"I love her, and when you love someone, you protect them.  With this" - he raised his left arm a centimeter or two from its perch - "gone, I know I've lost all of that.  And God knows she doesn't need anyone to fight her battles for her.  But with her here, where I can hold her, it feels a little bit like I could still protect her if I had to.  I..." he trailed off when the nurse's hand fell back to her side.

He didn't know how else to reason with the woman, didn't know what else he could say to make her leave Emma with him.  All he knew was that with her at his side, Killian felt like maybe someday - a long time coming, but some day - he could be almost whole again.

"She's the one thing left to me that makes it all worth it."

Tagging: @gusenitsaa, @katie-dub, @kiwistreetswan, @lenfazreads, @xhookswenchx, @killian-whump, @eala-captian, @kmomof4, @onceuponaprincessworld, @couldnthandleit

[whumpypepsigal]

just finished young wallander after seeing your beautiful GIFs and my only complaint was the whump ended after 3 epsiodes... fingers crossed for s2 amirite? :)

awww! i’m glad you watched it!…YAY🥳! haha yeah! and i was so disappointed that the whole season was just 6 episodes. I actually thought it will be the usual 10 episodes for Netflix shows. sigh lol.…can’t wait for s02 + more whump!!!

[whumpypepsigal]

Hey. La Brea season 2 trailer is out and it looks like there might be plenty of whump? I watched the show because of you so I had to let you know. I can’t wait.

YESSSSSSSSSSS!! i just watched the trailer and it looks so good already. looks like there will be more action and whump *fingers crossed* this season too. aaaaahhhhhh can’t wait too my dear anon.