#mild injury cw

[highfunctioningflailgirl]

Damage Control - 1x10 Asylum

Back at the motel, they’re both quiet and subdued; both pretending that what had happened at the asylum - Sam trying to kill Dean - was just another Thursday. They hadn’t talked in the car, but Dean had felt Sam’s discomfort and bad conscience. And as much as Dean wants to deny it - he’s hurt, both physically and emotionally.

The rock salt from Sam’s shotgun had hit him square in the chest. When he stiffly goes to the bathroom and slips out of his blood-stained t-shirt, he finds the skin underneath peppered with small wounds. They sting, the salt embedded in them having dissolved. Bruises are blooming around the wounds. It’s nothing serious; he’ll live. But he will be in pain for a few days - a constant reminder of the near-fratricide he survived today. And of Sam’s hurtful words.

Of course, Sam had been under Ellicott’s influence. His brother hadn’t been himself when he’d first blasted him with salt and then pulled the trigger of Dean’s Colt, aimed directly at Dean’s head, several times. Thank God the gun had been empty. 

And yet. It had been Sam. Sam on supernatural steroids, but still Sam. Ellicott’s brain scramble hadn’t turned him into someone different. It had only taken what was already there and amplified it. The ghost doctor’s “treatment” had boosted and multiplied whatever feelings of anger Sam had been carrying around with him. And, apparently, those were a lot. 

Dean knows that his brother has a quick temper. People always thought Sam was the softer one of the two, the one who thought before he acted. That wasn’t entirely true. Sam could be mercurial and rash. When Sam and their father had fought - which had happened all the time - tempers on both sides had flared equally quickly. A small trigger, even a single word could be enough to cause an explosion, and many times Dean had been caught in the middle, unable to defuse the tension before scathing insults flew and doors were slammed. If it hadn’t been for Dean’s intervention, things would’ve turned physical more than once. 

To Dean’s knowledge, Sam’s anger had rarely been directed at him. Sure, he’d become tired of being ordered around by his older brother during teenagehood. But that was normal, right? However, in the asylum’s basement, shotgun pointed directly at him, Dean had been shocked by the vitriol in Sam’s voice.

“I'm just telling the truth for the first time.”

Had it been the truth? Sam’s accusation that Dean was just “Dad’s good little soldier” and desperate for their father’s approval? 

Dean steps into the shower, wincing when the pelting water stings in his wounds. The dried blood washes off him, swirling rusty brown into the drain, and he wishes he could wash the uneasiness about Sam’s attack off just as easily. They’ve faced manipulative creatures before who’d played fucked-up mindgames with them. Their recent run-in with the shapeshifter is the latest example. Sam seems to have shaken that one off without qualms. But somehow, Dean can’t shake his feelings of doubt - and anger.

Desperate for approval? As if John Winchester had ever shown much appreciation for any of his sons. Sure, he’d put more and more trust in Dean’s hunting abilities and relied on him as Sam’s guardian whenever he’d left them alone. Both had filled Dean with a quiet pride as much as it had put pressure on him and, sometimes, overwhelming responsibility. But considering their vicious fights, Sam had been the desperate one, pleading for acceptance and for his father’s blessing when he’d wanted to go to college. 

Sam is the emotional one. The one who needs a pat on the head and a warm word to thrive. Dean doesn’t. He’s content with who he is. And, right now, all he wants is to go back to the way things were a few years ago - hunting alongside Dad and Sam. He doesn’t need approval. All he wants is his family back together. What’s left of it, anyway.

“You okay in there?” Sam knocks on the door, sounding worried.

Dean shuts the water off. “I’m fine!”

He hurries to dry himself off, surprised at the amount of steam that’s built up in the small bathroom. He must’ve been in the shower much longer than he’d intended. The mirror’s fogged up, but when he looks down at himself, he can see that the wounds on his chest look less garish, now that they’re clean. With his skin still red from the shower, the fresh bruising isn’t all that apparent, although he can feel it alright and knows he’ll be mottled in shades of purple come tomorrow. Only a few specks of blood remain on the towel when he dabs at his chest, so he doesn’t bother with disinfecting or bandaging. 

Towel slung around his waist, he steps out of the bathroom in a billowing cloud of steam. He could’ve taken fresh clothes with him and put them on, but, somehow, he wants Sam to see the damage he caused. He wants him to have a bad conscience.

And he succeeds.

“Does it hurt?” Sam asks ruefully, face twisted in remorse, as Dean walks past him to rummage around in his duffel bag. 

“No,” Dean lies.

“You know that I’m sorry, right?” Sam gets up from the bed he’d been sitting on, all 6’4 of him somehow looking contrite and ten years old. “You know I didn’t mean any of what I said, right?”

Dean remembers Sam aiming the gun at him.

“That's the difference between you and me, Dean. I have a mind of my own. I'm not pathetic, like you.“

And he remembers his own, defiant words:

“You hate me that much? You think you could kill your own brother? Then go ahead. Pull the trigger.” 

And then Sam had. That’s the problem. No matter what Sam says now, no matter how much Dean wants to believe him - he still feels the shock of the shotgun blast blowing him off his feet. He still sees the hate in Sam’s eyes as he points Dean’s own Colt at him and pulls the trigger, once, twice, three times. If the gun had been loaded, Dean‘s face and brain would be splattered all over that basement floor now.

“I know, Sammy,” he says, forcing the creeping doubt down, down, down, along with the anger and the hurt. “That wasn’t you.”

“I just feel that–”

“It’s fine, Sam,” Dean interrupts him. He really doesn’t want a discussion about their feelings now. “Just forget it.”

“Only if you do, too.” Sam does the sad puppy eyes now, and Dean cannot with those. The drama makes him bristle. 

“I will! I do!” he almost shouts, turning away to rummage in his bag again. He grabs a fresh t-shirt and pulls it over his head, over his wounds, putting them out of sight and out of mind. “Can we just…” He takes a deep breath, then looks around. “Where’s the beer?”

“In the fridge.”

Dean stalls to the small kitchen counter, opens the fridge and grabs two bottles of Mariekugel’s. He holds one out to Sam. It’s a peace flag.

Hesitating a little, Sam grabs it. The crease above his nose softens and his shoulders relax. Only now does Dean realize there’s a bruise blooming on his brother’s face, where he punched him in self-defense. He’d almost forgotten about that.

“How’s the jaw?” Dean asks him, pointing with the opened bottle.

Sam rubs it. “Sore.”

“Well, you deserved it.” 

“True.” They both take a swig, nodding in agreement. Dean takes his clothes and goes back to the bathroom to put the rest of them on. Some uneasiness lingers, but he’s willing to let the ground feel steadier beneath him again. While he’s not one to forgive easily, this is Sammy. He’s family. Right now, his only family. He’ll let it go and move on. He has to.

Read the whole series on AO3 here:

[muutosarchive]

“You can be rough with me, I won’t break.” (Pey to Lawrence?)

lawrence doesn't quite understand the intricacies of human beings. the ways in which they aren't confined to certain labels, or certain ways of life. he grew up in the system. so wrapped up in the pursuit of love, &. in the hatred of those who denied him, that ignorance was easy. he hated women. hated the mere idea of them. hated that they were always mocking, within the tight confines of his mind. he hates what's personal, &. everything else seemed unimportant. though somehow this felt easier. sinful, in itself. it felt like he shouldn't enjoy this. shouldn't find it easier. but he does.

but the sickening desires are far from just that of the flesh. a different pound always on his mind. there's a spark of a charming smirk in his chuckle, crowding against the wall. but the fantasies lurk in fishing inside them. seeing what he's really made of. shoving of their shoulder against the wall causing tilted head to press closer. "-- yeah?" he breathed, a soft desperate noise transferred from mouth to mouth as he open-mouth kisses him. teeth piercing through lip upon drawback. hot iron taste on his tongue. "but, what if i want you to break?" he asks, fingers pressing harshly onto hips beneath clothes. licking the wound left behind there, with a shameless moan.

🍒 @poisonedfire ↪ smut starters

[orbital-inclination]

Narrow Escape! Nightmare and his gang are hot on their trail, oh no!

i originally sketched this out last September for Inktobertale. (for the bones shatter prompt) i felt like finishing it up today. Also playing around with lighting a bit. I have no idea what I’m doing! :) Ink sans @.comyet Dream @.joku US Sans @.p0pcornpr1nce

[starry-bi-sky]

my body's aching like a knock-down drag-out

and my poor heart is an open wound A Childhood Friends Au snippet that very briefly delves into Danny's life post-accident. CW: Mild Mentions of Blood, Violence, VERY mild gore ig. Danny briefly recalls getting impaled during a fight.

------------

What they don't tell you about being dead is that it hurts. That it can hurt. That it can hurt more than when you were alive. That when you die, the emotions you die with stick with you like a leech that just won't let go. That emotions are ugly little thorns that stick their barbs into you and grow beneath your skin; or, at least, whatever’s left of it. 

Danny is familiar with anger. It kept him warm in Gotham, when his parents weren't home from work and he and Jason were crowding Crime Alley with their presence. It kept him warm in Amity, when the fresh sting of moving was still needling into his heart and he wanted nothing more than to rip and tear into the closest person next to him.

He's familiar with violence. With fights. With death. He's seen people die in Crime Alley probably every day. From overdose, from gunshots, from stab wounds; anything that can kill, rest assured he's seen it. He's familiar with getting his own knuckles rough and bloody when other kids turn and bare their teeth at him and Jason; they're all just starving dogs stuck in a fighting pit, primed and ready to rip out each other's throats. 

Black eyes, stomped hands, bloody noses. You name it; he’s had it. Gotham is paved with the blood of her children, and Danny likes to imagine that when he was born, the doctors handed his mother a file and told her; “Take it. He’s going to need it for his teeth.” 

Danny’s mom (and dad, for that matter) was too busy trying to keep him and Jazz fed, so Danny stole the file from her drawer with Jazz’s help, and did it himself.  

He’s familiar with anger, he thought he was getting better at it these days. It doesn’t come to him as easily as it did before. Of course, that was before Jason died. 

Danny is less familiar with grief. Caring kills and Gotham kills the caring, so Danny cares very little about other people. Or he tries to. But grief hurts. His grief hurts. It hurts too much. It hurts like a bug trying to crawl out of his chest; like a rat chewing a hole through his heart. Some days he wants to dig his hands into his hair and split himself down the middle. Some days he just wants to scream. 

He’s dead. He’s dead. He’s dead. 

He wants the whole city to hear him wailing, some days. It sticks itself in the back of his throat like bile, and Danny is one wrong retch away from letting it loose. It sticks in his lungs like all the tar he’s smoked in since he was nine. It pushes and aches at his temples, in his head, like his brain is trying to swell out of his skull. His thoughts becoming so loud they threaten to commandeer his tongue.  

He has no mouth, but he must scream. 

Something they don’t tell you about being dead is that it hurts. That it hurts more than when you were alive. Something they don’t tell you about being dead is that it’s violent. That it’s bloody. Or as bloody as it can be when everyone has no blood. 

Another thing they don’t tell you about being dead, is that it’s a lot like Gotham that way.

With no threat of death, Danny’s enemies forget death itself. Blood comes easy, like water, and teeth are encouraged. Bring your own fangs to the fight. Dying is something you can just walk off. 

Danny’s been dead for three months. He can’t say he’s been walking it off easy. He’s perfected the art of turning his nails into claws since his heart was still beating, but he can’t say he’s perfected fighting other ghosts. 

Scrappy is just not enough. 

He feels like he’s back in Gotham again. Back in her death-shroud alleyways, fighting someone bigger than him. But there’s no Jason to watch his back, and Danny has to get himself out of there alone. Or he might just not get up at all. 

Black eyes, busted lips. It’s familiar to him like an old scent, Danny isn’t quite sure that he’s missed it. It’s more familiar than his fights with Dash. 

But there’s no one else who can do it but him. Not Sam, not Tucker. He can’t lose them too. He can’t. He can’t. He can’t. His heart can’t take another break, he already feels like he’s going insane. 

With no threat of death, Danny’s enemies fight like death themself. He learns why when Technus puts a street sign through his stomach one day. It pins him to the asphalt like a moth pinned by its wings. 

Danny claws at the metal like how an animal caught in a trap chews off its leg, and every move is blinding pain. He thinks he was howling, but it’s hard to tell. He couldn’t recognize the sound of his voice. 

He bleeds green. It mixes in black with the pitch blackhole in his heart, which throbs and twists and cries in time with his reckless panic. The finger-choking terror of dying again strangles out the air he doesn’t need. His blood evaporates, only to reabsorb into him. It just bleeds out again, cycling like a snake eating its own tail. 

Danny breaks his nails clawing at the metal, and eventually gets it in his mind to pull it out. So he does, and the end drips ectoplasm green as he gets to his feet. In red-vision, Danny sends the sign back with snarling, vicious fervor. The pain is irrelevant in his rage.

Only after the fight does the hole the pole left start to close. Danny doesn’t shift human until it’s gone. Unlike other injuries, a scar stays behind. Ugly; mottled, it aches for a week with every twist and stretch his body makes. He hates it. 

Being dead is agony. 

Every part of him is in pain. Every step, every word he speaks, everything he does, it is prerequisite with pain. The body is temporary, but the soul is forever, and death has carved into it with its freezing green hands and left him with never-ending heartache. It has torn from him and stolen what of him it could, and in return it’s left him with sorrow. 

His pain is his grief, and he’s sobbed in the safety of his room more times than he can count. It’s still as fresh as the day he heard the news of Jason’s death. He knows, instinctively, that it will stay fresh forever. 

In his room, Danny shoves his hands over his mouth and shrieks in whatever, muffled way he can into his pillow. It’s not enough. It’s never enough. He needs to be louder. He needs to be heard. He refuses to be. 

Being dead hurts. 

[steddieas-shegoes]

uh. what?

for @steddielovemonth prompt 'love is healing wounds'

rated m | 1,782 words | cw: injury recovery, mild blood, recreational drug use | tags: post s4, hurt/comfort, getting together, fade to black

💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖

The stitches pulled and he couldn't get comfortable. He almost wished Robin hadn't made him get checked over, but anything that required this many stitches probably would've killed him if he hadn't. At least that's what Nancy said when he complained to her about it.

But now, Steve couldn't sleep, and sleep was apparently very important for healing.

The alarm clock next to his bed said 2:07 am, so calling someone was out. Going somewhere was also out, unless he wanted to go to the 24 hour diner alone.

Fresh air sounded good until he realized he'd have to either go for a walk in the middle of the night alone or sit by the pool alone.

He didn't want to be alone.

His phone started to ring just when he was considering taking a shower out of boredom.

"Harrington residence, this is Steve."

"So formal for two in the morning, Stevie," Eddie's laugh rang through the line and Steve couldn't help smiling. Something about Eddie's energy was contagious, a beacon of light when all he had was the darkness of his room.

"Didn't know if it was an international business partner for my parents. Happens sometimes when they forget time zones." Steve moved to the edge of his bed so the cord didn't have to stretch as far. "What are you doing up?"

"Had a dream about being eaten alive again. This time they managed to eat both of my nipples." Eddie scoffed. "Isn't one enough?"

Steve chuckled. "And you can't go back to sleep because you're scared they'll come take your other nipple?"

"It's a genuine concern, Steve! I have big dreams of piercing this thing and if they take it from me, what do I have left?"

"I think you'd probably just find something else to pierce," Steve shook thoughts of what that might be out of his head before they could take over. "So you can't sleep. You thought you'd call and wake me up to suffer with you?"

Eddie was silent for a moment before responding. "Did I wake you up?"

"No," Steve said quickly, not wanting Eddie to feel bad. "I was awake."

"Nightmare?"

"No, stitches are bothering me."

"You wanna come over? I found my hidden stash. Might help with the stitches," Eddie offered.

Steve probably shouldn't. He was on some pain meds already and if he got too fucked up, he'd probably cry. That's what happened last time he had some of whatever Eddie was selling.

"I'll come over, but probably shouldn't have anything. Robin would kill me if I end up in the hospital," Steve gave a half-truth.

"Yeah, she's terrifying. I'll leave the door unlocked."

Before Steve could tell him that was a bad idea, he hung up.

********

When Steve got to Eddie's, he let out the breath he'd been holding the entire drive. Eddie was sitting on the porch, alone, his guitar by his side.

Maybe he'd been playing already, or maybe he planned to play to help distract Steve from the way his skin felt like it was too much.

He got out of the car and waved when Eddie looked over at him with a smile.

"Didn't think you'd get here so quick," Eddie didn't bother standing up, Steve just knew to go sit by him.

But the steps on the Munson's porch were rickety at best, "temporary" according to the government officials who had stuck them here because they didn't think it was worth putting them in a home across town, and Steve's eyes hadn't quite adjusted to the dull glow of the light by the front door. He missed the top step and immediately fell, barely catching himself on the wood of the porch.

Eddie was helping him up immediately, doing his best not to make his own injuries worse.

"Shit, you okay? Wayne tried fixing it, but it just keeps getting loose."

Steve felt a stinging pain on his side, and when his hand grazed over the worst of his bites, he felt something warm and wet on his fingers.

"Shit," without looking, he knew he'd torn his stitches. "Eddie, I need a towel or something."

"Shit, that's a lot of blood. That's a lot of blood. It shouldn't be that much, right? Like even tearing your stitches, it shouldn't be-"

"Eddie." Steve poked his arm, stayed as calm as he could. He bled easy, so sometimes even small things looked worse than they were. "Towel."

"Right, yeah. Should you come with me?" Eddie shook his head. "I mean can you move? Should you stay here?"

"I'll sit here until I have a towel. Don't wanna get blood on the carpet."

"Got it."

Eddie still seemed unsure about leaving him, but must have noticed how much blood was soaking through Steve's shirt and rushed inside. He was back in less than a minute, a black towel in his hand.

"It's clean. It's the one I usually use for my hair, but I didn't get to fold it from the dryer yet. Um, just put pressure on it."

Steve knew what to do, was used to putting pressure on wounds, but appreciated Eddie trying to triage it anyway.

"You got a needle and thread, right?" Steve asked once he took his shirt off and put pressure on the bite. It was already bleeding much less, a positive sign that maybe it wouldn't be too bad.

"I mean, I do. I don't have medical tools that have been sanitized properly."

"You have water to boil and vodka?"

"Steve. I'm not fucking performing a medical procedure on your stomach," Eddie shook his head. "Do you have a death wish or something?"

"I trust you."

The words hung heavy between them, despite the fact it wasn't exactly news to either of them. They'd been through it all together, why wouldn't he trust him?

"Okay, let's get inside and I'll get everything ready."

Getting inside was easier said than done. The bleeding had mostly stopped, but the pain had really started to set in and every breath felt like knives stabbing into him.

"Deep breath, Stevie," Eddie said as he sat him down on the couch and helped him lay back. "I'll get you something for the pain."

"Something" was an edible, and Eddie seemed hesitant to give it to him, but all reservations Steve previously had went out the window as he felt his hands shaking from the pain.

Eddie prepared everything while the edible kicked in, checking in with Steve every few minutes to make sure he hadn't passed out or started bleeding again.

When the room started to feel blurry and his head felt light, Steve smiled over at Eddie, who looked nervous.

"Ready for your magic hands," Steve wiggled his brows.

Eddie made a strangled sound before leaning over the wound and wiping some of the blood away gently so he could see where to stitch him back up.

He worked as quickly as possible, humming softly to distract himself and Steve from what was happening.

Steve was high.

He was high and he was feeling good despite the needle in his skin.

He drifted for a bit, couldn't be sure how long, but eventually, Eddie was touching his cheek and making him open his eyes.

"Think you should stand up so I can wrap a bandage on it. Then you can try to shower off some of the blood if you want. Wayne got one of those removable showerheads. Feels fancy," Eddie said as he moved the hair off of Steve's face.

"Help?" Steve managed to ask.

"Yeah, I can help you with the wrap and start the shower for you," Eddie nodded.

"In the shower?" Steve asked.

Eddie paused. "I can keep us dressed?"

"But." Steve huffed. "Blood."

Eddie couldn't help but laugh at his confusion, Steve's lips pouting out and his eyes squinting. "Okay, okay. If you're okay with it, I'm okay with it. You're high as shit, man."

"I'm standing right on the ground," Steve waved his arms around him. "Or is the ground standing on me but the other way?"

"God, this is the best. Okay, let's go."

"Wait!" Steve grabbed Eddie's arms. "You should know something."

Eddie raised his brows in question. "Go on."

"I'm very in love with you. And also kinda hard."

Eddie blinked, not processing. Now he felt high.

"Uh. What?"

"I have an erection." Steve made a disgusted face. "Hate that word. Sounds so middle school sex ed."

"It is." Eddie shook his head. "I guess I meant more like, how and why and what the hell do you mean by it."

Steve giggled. "I said you had magic hands and I was right."

"Dude, I was literally giving you stitches. I am failing to see why that would make you hard."

"It's cuz you're so gentle and your tongue sticks out when you're trying to focus. And also I started thinking about what you'd do if I couldn't move," Steve sighed dreamily. "You have handcuffs."

"Okay. Let's pause." Eddie let out a small hysterical laugh. "You want me to help you in the shower because you love me? Do you even need help?"

"Probably. But I also want help. And also you're a helper for me."

"What does that even mean? Where's Robin when you need her to decode what the hell you're talking about?"

"You're a helper for me! Because you help me be better about asking for help! And then you help!"

"Okay, that's. Good. I'm still not sure what's happening."

"You're gonna help me shower. I'm gonna try very hard not to come. We sleep?" Steve looked around Eddie out the window, like he was checking if it was still night time. "And then in the morning I wake up and get yelled at by Robin."

"Why would she-"

"The stitches. And the telling you I love you thing. She's gonna be real mad about that."

"Why?" Eddie felt like he was losing it. What was even happening anymore? How had he completely lost control of the night?

"She wanted to help me do a speech thing."

This was just getting more wild.

Steve needed a shower, and he needed sleep. Eddie needed a minute to gather his own thoughts.

"Shower. Sleep. Talk in the morning." Eddie raised his hand to cup Steve's neck. "Robin murders you after we talk."

"Deal." Steve's face sank, but he quickly perked back up. "But shower?"

"Yes, shower. Go, horndog."

Steve laughed as he half-limped to the bathroom, clearly feeling some pain even with the drugs in his system. Eddie followed and resisted touching Steve as much as possible.

Which ended up being about two minutes.

[reborn-from-taxes]

Ghost god

[desultory-novice]

It's RtDL DX's 1st Anniversary!

...and one year since one of you waltzed into my inbox and said (paraphrasing here) "Hey, Dess! Have you gotten to the last fight in the True Arena yet? I think you need to see it!! ^_- "

One year since the Kirby series politely informed me that whatever horrors I was imagining could happen to the characters, director Kumazaki can always come up with something much, much worse.

...Happy Birthday, True Arena Magolor Soul...

(thanks to the power of tags, you all get the uncensored version!)

[drarrily-we-row-along]

Infected

"No," Harry shouted, cradling his injured arm close to his chest like Draco was the most unreasonable brute to ever live, like Draco was the one who had hurt him in the first place.

"Harry-" he started.

But Harry shook his head, stepping around their kitchen table, keeping the table between them. "No!" he repeated, "you're going to hurt me."

"For fuck's sake," he sighed. "You've brought this on yourself."

His husband's bottom lip protruded, wobbling precariously, "It's not my fault," he whined.

And it was ridiculous just how hard it was for Draco to resist the urge to give in and just give Harry whatever he wanted when he pouted like that. "Harry, I told you not-"

"It's not my fault!" he interrupted.

"It literally is!" Draco argued, taking counter measures to try to catch the other man.

He shook his head, darting out of Draco's reach and moving into their living room, putting the couch between them this time.

"Harry. I told you to leave the next door neighbor's new dog alone. I told you that he is an asshole and that he was going to tear into you."

"But it's not my fault!"

Draco rolled his eyes and put his hands on his hips, "You literally walked up to the fence and reached over it for him!"

"It's not my fault that he is so bloody adorable!" Harry whined. "What was I supposed to do? Just let it continue looking so cute without touching it?"

"Yes," Draco said reasonably, "as a matter of fact."

"I can't," he pouted.

Draco rolled his eyes, "Well, now you have to deal with the consequences," he said, waggling a potion at him. "We need to get this on your arm so that you don't get an infection."

"But it hurts," he whined.

"Harry," he said, ignoring the way his pouting made Draco's gut twist uncomfortably, "it will only hurt for a minute, then it will be better. It's probably hurt more in the time you've put it off than it will just having the wound healed."

His husband slumped, looking defeated.

"Come here," he cajoled, sitting down on the couch and waiting.

After one more second of indecision, Harry made his way over and plopped down next to him.

He held out a hand and Harry gingerly placed his forearm, wound up, in his palm. "That looks like it hurts," Draco said sympathetically.

Harry nodded.

"Okay," he murmured, tapping lightly with his wand to numb the area slightly before pouring the potion on the wounds. He watched as the wounds knit themselves together, Harry wincing and hissing his way through the healing process. Then once the wounds were closed, he cast a spell to clean his arm. "There," he said lightly, "good as new."

Harry pouted at him.

With a little laugh, he brought Harry's forearm to his lips and pressed a kiss to where the skin had healed. "And a kiss to make it better."

"Thanks," he mumbled a little shy, even after all this time together.

He leaned in and pressed a kiss to his temple, "I love you, you know."

"I love you too. Thanks for fixing me up."

Draco smiled at him, "My pleasure, love. Happy to keep you safe," he added softly because it was true. Getting to love and take care of Harry was the great joy of his life. And it was something that he happily did until the day he died.

---------------

Read more of my fics here.

[cheerycherrycandy-resurrected]

What You've Done, You Cannot Undo (Medieval AU)

Chapter 4

Dew tries to protect his pack, but it's harder than he anticipated.

Rating: M Content: mild descriptions of violence and death, injury, peril, (wrongful) imprisonment Words: 4130

Links to full fic: Tumblr | AO3

Hello tag alert ghesties @revengeghoulette @everybodyshusband! If anyone wants to be added/removed from this list just lmk! 🥰

Read below, or on AO3!

Ghouls were functionally immortal creatures, even when they lived topside in clans or amongst humans. They were immune to most diseases and any accident or natural disaster would simply return them to the pit, unharmed. Ghouls who failed to care for their vessels through starvation and neglect would meet the same fate. Life was easier down below, albeit less enjoyable, with many elderly ghouls choosing to return voluntarily. Despite all of this when there was intent to kill, ghouls were just as mortal as humans.

~~~~~~~

Dew burst through the door to the cottage, almost ripping it off his hinges. Before he had a chance to warn his packmates of what he'd seen, he was met with an equally concerning sight: Swiss was sat at the kitchen table, head in his hands and whimpering in pain. Mountain was knelt in front of him trying to coax his hands away from his face, while Aether had returned and was hovering behind him looking lost and panicked.

"What's happened?” Dew almost shrieked, surprising himself at the pitch of his voice.

“Swiss had a vision,” Aether wrung his hands anxiously, “Nothing specific, but look how it's left him!”

Swiss let out a deep wail, like the mournful bellow of a whale. His tail curled around Aether's calf, constricting tightly and making the ghoul wince in pain.

“It hurts, Aeth! Make it stop!”

Aether frantically locked eyes with Mountain.

“I can't give him any more quintessence, he'll go mad!”

“Please calm down Snapdragon, try and breathe!” Mountain looked near tears himself.

Together, the huddle of terrified ghouls followed each other's shaky breaths until Swiss was able to speak clearly.

“Something's very wrong, all I can see is pain! But I don't know who's!”

“It's Rain,” Dew panted, “Something's wrong with Rain, I saw it. Dark clouds over Wilkins’ farm, his magic must have got out of control!”

The three larger ghouls looked at him in confusion.

“What do you mean, lost control?” Mountain asked, “Rain's not got enough power to lose control of yet.” he looked at Dew sternly, “He's perfectly capable of moistening a field or two on his own, no matter what you think of him. This has to be something else.”

Dew shook his head furiously.

“There are storm clouds over Farmer Wilkins' that aren't natural, they've got to be from Rain!”

"Swiss' vision...” muttered Aether, “if it's all connected...”

“Then we have to get out of here.” finished Dewdrop, “Someone's got to go and find him before the humans do!”

"Maybe we should keep a low profile until we know what's happening?” Mountain suggested. “Swiss is in no state to move right now, it's probably just an unexpected summer storm.”

“If we rush over all guns blazing it will attract even more attention that a freak rainstorm, then we'd all be in danger.” Aether said, nodded slowly in agreement. “Rain won't be back for ages anyway, he only just left.”

Dew looked between his packmates, appalled. They were happy to just wait things out when their most vulnerable packmate could be in danger? Maybe it was residual guilt over his comments that morning, but Dewdrop felt he had a responsibility to ensure the young ghoul's safety. They were pack, after all.

“So you're just going to sit here?” the silence from the larger ghouls was all Dew needed to hear. If they were prepared to just sit and wait until Rain was due home before doing anything, he would have to fix this himself. Dew turned on his heel and bolted back out the door he had just entered through, his golden hair swinging behind him the only response to the upset shouts of his packmates.

Dewdrop set off into town, jogging along the hedgerows to stay hidden. The sun overhead taunted him, belying the icy fear in his veins. As he got closer to town Dew ducked into the shadows, creeping through alleyways to stay hidden. Nearer the centre, he picked up Rain’s scent. His normally sweet essence of kelp and lemongrass was acrid and burned, the smell of fear unmistakable.

Scaling a wall, Dew leapt lightly down into the courtyard behind the town hall which was thankfully empty. Rain's scent was strongest here. He followed his nose across the area, staring in confusion up at the seemingly blank wall next to the building where the wafting smell of terror was so strong it made him feel nauseous. Looking around, wondering what could be behind it and if Rain could be there, he noticed a small metal grill at floor level. Dew crouched down to peer into the darkness and the continued stench of fear combined with filth and decay coming from inside made him retch.

His eyes adjusted slowly to the darkness, until he could just make out the shapes inside. Curled up and chained to the far wall, was Rain. He was clutching his knees to his chest and gently rocking back and forth. Dew couldn't make out many details, but he could see the silhouette of Rain's unglamoured horns cast by the dim column of light from above.

“Rain!” Dew whispered. Rain made no sign of acknowledgement and continued his absent swaying.

"Rainy!” Dew hissed, louder this time. He saw Rain's ears twitch, and he turned his head to look at him. Even in the darkness, Rain's eyes were dim and blank. One clearly had a deep purple bruise around it, the eyelid swollen almost shut. He stared straight through Dew, without seeing him.

“Oh Rain, what have they done to you!” Dew whimpered instinctually at the sight of the broken and injured ghoul. “I'm going to get you out, okay? Hang in there, you're going to be alright!”

He pushed a soothing scent towards Rain, trying to comfort him. Rifling through his pockets, Dew found a small amount of dried fish wrapped in paper; his uneaten snack from that morning. He wriggled a hand through the iron bars, grateful for once that his arms were skinny enough to fit and tossed the little package towards Rain. It landed close to the water ghoul, his tail snaking out to prod at it when his chained arms couldn't reach.

“It's fish, eat it. I'll bring you more I promise!”

Getting to his feet, Dew brushed the dust from his knees while he considered his surroundings some more. The only way out of the courtyard was through the town hall itself, or back over the wall. He could melt the bars and get Rain out that way, he was just skinny enough to fit through the opening, but there was no way Rain had the strength to climb the wall alone in his state, and Dew wasn't capable of hauling them both up. He'd need to find another way out, or get the others to help.

Dew bent down again to whisper through the gap quickly, “I'm gonna find a way out Rain, I'll be back soon!” He gave what he hoped was an encouraging wave and jogged lightly over to the big oak door. It was tempting to try the main handle, but Dew knew that getting himself caught wouldn't help either of them. At least he would have the element of surprise though...

Forcing himself to consider other options before making the rashest, most impulsive decision, Dew spotted another small window, this one a floor higher up but without metal bars. The building thankfully had large gaps between bricks, just enough to form a few risky footholds. The rough edges of the stone were cold and foreboding under Dew's fingertips, but he eventually got hold of the windowsill. Dew pulled himself onto the narrow ledge, his skinny arms straining and his feet scrabbling against the rough stone, sighing in relief when he saw the inside of the room. It was a latrine, and even better it was unoccupied. Dew shimmied through the small opening and dropped to the floor below. He was in.

The tiny room was dark, the deep brown panelling on the walls and floor absorbing the small amount of light that filtered in the window behind Dew. He pressed his ear to the door and, hearing nothing, slipped into the corridor. The whitewashed walls stretched in both directions, a number of moulded arched alcoves thankfully providing him with some cover. The ceilings were high here, and the cold stone made every footstep echo.

Dew had only been in the large building once before, but he remembered where the main council room was, where he expected the townsfolk would be discussing Rain’s fate. He crept along the hallway, ears pricked like a guard dog, until the murmur of voices could be heard in the distance. Dew pressed himself into an alcove, behind a spindly plant that had seen better days. When it was clear the voices were not getting closer, he inched closer to them to try and pick out words.

Emerging from the long hallway, Dewdrop found himself in the open expanse of the staircase. The ceiling here was even higher, a peak in the centre supported by numerous crossing wooden beams. A vicious draft wafted up the cold stone stairs. Windows high in the wall cast beams of sunlight down onto the stairs, reflecting off the white lime walls in a way that made Dew feel very exposed where he stood.

The sound was clearly coming from the large chambers on the ground floor. He knew that the stairs led directly down into the main meeting hall, and walking down would be tantamount to the grand entrance of a bride at a wedding. He crouched out of sight at the top of the stairs and let the conversation drift to him.

“I always said they’d be trouble! How do you expect any of us to sleep soundly knowing these monsters live amongst us?”

“They’ve always been benevolent until now, maybe this was an accident?”

“Three people are dead Marcus, even if it was an accident he’s not safe to have around our children!”

Three people were dead? Well shit, thought Dewdrop, we really are fucked.

“What if this flood was just the start of it? We need to stamp out this witchcraft before they kill us all!”

“I say we hang him, and the rest too! Burn down the farm, and rid ourselves of these demons that walk the earth. If this is what the weakest one can do, what are the others capable of?”

“We owe it to ol’ Mr Wilkins after what that monster did to his daughter!”

“All in favour of hanging the demon?”

A chorus of ayes made Dew’s blood run cold.

A week. They'd given Rain a week. The mob had demanded time to plan their hanging day celebrations and to try and capture the rest of the ghouls too, or at least run them out of town first. They clearly didn't understand pack loyalty: once Aether, Mountain and Swiss finally realised Rain was directly threatened, pack instincts to protect would take over and they would fight to the death. Dew had to get back to the farm and tell the others; maybe now they would believe him.

The ruckus downstairs providing cover for his echoing footsteps, Dew turned and bolted back along the corridor. He debated squeezing back out the window he had entered through, but at the last moment he remembered he had meant to find Rain some food. And water: as a water ghoul he was especially susceptible to dehydration. Judging from the sounds echoing up the stairs, Dew expected all the building's occupants would be down there for a while longer. He started trying doors at random, hoping to find one with some supplies he could steal.

The first door Dew tried opened easily. Inside was a small library, the books mostly covered in a thick layer of dust as very few of the villagers were able to read. From a quick glance, it seemed most of the books pertained to the laws of the land, and historical records of the town. Dew spun back out of the room and tried the door opposite. It was locked, but that posed no issue to Dew as he effortlessly melted the latch.

This room contained haphazardly stacked ledgers of documents and a small writing desk, empty for now. The window was cracked open, letting the warm summer breeze in, but Dew could still smell the recent presence of a human. He scanned the room carefully, his eyes eventually landing on a small woven basket under the desk. Dew pounced for the basket, ripping the cloth covering off to reveal the bounty inside. Food: lots of it. Clearly clerical work was hungry business. Dew snatched up the fruit, meat pies and small wax-covered cheese, filling his pockets. He also grabbed the full waterskin and took off back out the door.

The noise from the main hall was beginning to quiet, the mass of intermingled voices separating into distinguishable conversations as the townsfolk dispersed. Dew made a break for it, before he was caught too. As he hurled himself from the office, back in the direction of the small bathroom, he heard one conversation becoming louder, two sets of footsteps echoing up the stone staircase at the end of the corridor. He slammed the door to the latrine shut not a moment too soon, and braced himself against it to hold it shut as he heard the men get closer and eventually pass by.

Dew let out a shaky breath and hoisted himself up to the window. He stuck his head out to check the courtyard was still empty, before wriggling back through it and letting himself fall to the ground. His ankle rolled as he landed, making Dew hiss out a stream of curses, but he knew he had to move fast to get out of here. Bending down to the small opening above Rain's jail cell, Dew saw him look up at the noise with more recognition in his eyes this time. Clearly the morsel of food had helped shake him from his shock. Dew fed the stolen lunch items through the window bars, tossing them in range of Rain as best as he could. Once again, the water ghoul's thick blue tail snaked around them to bring the food to him. Lastly, Dew lowered the waterskin down, desperately hoping it wouldn't burst as it landed. It didn't, and Dew was pleased to see Rain immediately open it and take a deep gulp.

“I'm going to get the others, Rain. We're gonna get you out of here!”  He didn't have the heart to tell him about the sentence the townsfolk had just decided on; it wasn't like the knowledge would make any difference anyway. Dew chose not to acknowledge the inherent selfishness of keeping Rain's proposed fate a secret from him, as dark eyes stared back up at him almost accusingly. The disconnect still present in them made it hard for Dew to tell if Rain was fully with him or not.

“Look after yourself Rainy, I'll be back as soon as possible.”

With a final encouraging smile, or at least that's what Dew was aiming for – it felt more like a grimace to him, he scurried back across the courtyard and over the wall, his ankle protesting the whole way. He was more cautious on his way back, and even more careful to stick to shadowy alleys and stay out of sight. As he finally reached the dirt road leading out of the village to their farm, he had to resist the urge to sprint headlong back to his pack. It was too exposed for comfort; he could be seen by anyone on the road for a mile in each direction, and the shooting pains lancing up his leg begged him to be careful until Aether could heal him.

An agonising half hour later, Dew limped up to the farm door. He had snapped a branch from one of the hedgerows he slunk behind to use as a makeshift crutch, but he could feel the swelling getting worse nonetheless.

“Dew! You're back,” Mountain exclaimed as he stumbled through the door, “I think you might be right – Rain still isn't back, and Swiss's visions are getting worse!”

Dew gritted his teeth against the urge to tell Mountain he told him so – that wouldn't help Rain right now. He didn't know what would.

“They've got Rain. We have a week to break him out before they kill him. Are you ready to listen to me now?” his voice broke into a snarl at the end as he tried to hold back his tears of helplessness tinged with guilt.

“Dewdrop?” Aether reappeared in the kitchen and paused as he saw Dew leaning against the doorframe in pain, and Mountain frozen in shock.

“Get Swiss.” growled Dew, “I'm not repeating myself again.”

Aether nodded quickly before vanishing back deeper into the house. He returned moments later with a drained-looking Swiss clutching his arm.

“Rain's in the town jail. They want to hang him next week.” Dew was struggling to keep his composure, every word shook.

Aether went as white as a ghost, staring at Dew like he had grown an extra head. He stumbled as Swiss collapsed against him with a howl.

"W-what happened?” Mountain asked.

“It's worse than I thought. He flooded Wilkins' field, it killed his daughter and two others. And then he went full gills-out ghoul on them all.”

“How? He can barely make a ripple in a puddle, let alone cause a deadly flood!” the earth ghoul looked to the others as though for confirmation that Dew must be exaggerating, but they were still staring at Dew in silent horror.

“I don't know! Something must've happened, and I think it broke his glamour – he's sat in a cell under the town hall with his tail and horns still out!”

“You spoke to him?” Swiss looked up with hopeful eyes, shining with unshed tears.

“I don't know if he heard me,” Dew sniffed back the beginnings of a sob, “he's completely out of it. I got him to eat a bit, but I don't know if he even recognised me. Something bad happened, something really bad, and the townsfolk are coming for us next!”

“We have to go and get him...” Aether finally murmured.

“That's what I've been trying to tell you!” frustrated, Dew almost yelled. “We don't have time to ask about the whys and hows, we're all in danger. We need to get Rain and get out, now!”

The slightly frantic nodding of his packmates told Dew that – finally – they realised the severity of the situation. Dew pushed off the doorframe to start gathering their belongings to leave and hissed in pain as he put weight through his bad ankle.

“You're hurt too?” Aether looked like his world was collapsing around his ears. Dew guessed it sort of was.

“Just my ankle,” he gave it a test wiggle, “I rolled it earlier, I think it's a sprain.”

Aether ushered him into a chair, picking his boot laces undone, before laying his cool hands onto the enflamed joint. Dew sighed at the relief, moaning as he felt the burning from the injury dissipate throughout his body and evaporate away until only a dull ache remained.

“Take it easy Dew,” he begged, still on his knees in front of Dewdrop, “I can't have you hurt too!”

Dew nodded noncommittally; he could take it easy when they were all safe. He looked around at his packmates and had a horrible realisation about the futility of their current situation. Aether and Mountain, the natural pack-leaders, sat shell-shocked and totally at odds with their normal calm and controlled personalities, Swiss was barely able to speak and still being rocked with aftershocks of his visions, and now Dew was slowed down by an injury. How on earth were they going to stage a rescue mission and escape unscathed? Someone was going to get hurt. If they all shared an element it would have been easier: they could have overwhelmed the town while remaining unaffected themselves. Sure, Dew could burn down the whole village, razing every building to the ground, but it would harm Rain in the process. They needed help.

Thinking on his feet, Dew knew who he could ask. He had sworn he'd never go back; his new life was a world away now, but he couldn't see any other solution where they didn't all end up dead.

“We have to get moving, before the village comes for us.” Dew declared, “Aeth, Mount, go and gather all the plants and herbs you need for basic potions, and some vegetables that will keep. Me and Swiss will sort stuff in here.”

The pair paused, not used to taking orders from Dew. They looked cautiously at Swiss, still zoning out at the table, until Dew made shooing motions outside with his hands, silently pleading with them to fall for his plan and leave.

“I'm gonna grab a few things from upstairs, you good to stay here for a moment?” Dew received only a small nod from Swiss in return, as he grabbed as his head and groaned from the onslaught of another wave of pain.

He took the stairs two at a time before bursting into his bedroom. He grabbed a sheet of paper from the desk and scrawled a quick note, addressing it to his packmates. Stuffing that into his pocket, Dew next set about prying up the loose floorboard on the far side of his bed. This was the only place he allowed himself to hold onto memories of his life before, and the small collection of items had been untouched since the day Dew put them there. He took the battered diary and the metal amulet from underneath it, and neatly placed them in the bottom of a knapsack. On top of them, he threw a change of clothes.

Dew cast one last look around the room he had called home, and closed the door. There was nothing left he couldn't replace; the most precious things in his life were his pack. As an afterthought, he ducked into Mountain's room and took a leatherbound notebook from his writing desk. Him and Aether had been collating an anthology of medicinal plants together over the last several years, it would be unforgivable to let that suffer whatever fate the townsfolk had planned for their house. It could also be a useful bargaining chip: where Dewdrop was headed, knowledge ruled far above gold.

Just before he went back downstairs, Dew saw Rain's door open at the end of the hallway. He'd barely been here a year, yet the whole room was so distinctly his. Shells and rocks he had collected dotted every available surface, the transparent ones thew rainbows across the walls from the sun that poured through the window. Dewdrop knew which one Rain would want saved; a pale stone with tiny fossils embedded in it, polished smooth by millennia of water flowing over it. He'd had it in his pocket when he'd arrived, his only material possession besides the clothes on his back. Dew didn't know what made it special, only that was. He tucked it carefully into the knapsack beside his own amulet.

He barrelled back down the stairs. Swiss was still at the table, and barely looked up when Dewdrop re-entered.

“Swiss? You in there?” the larger ghoul looked up through dark eyelashes. The mental pain from his visions swirled across his eyes, the normally deep amber colour muted and foggy.

“You need to remember your guitar, okay? Go and fetch it now.”

Like a puppet, Swiss lurched to his feet and in the direction of the living room. Dew snatched the last heel of Mountain's bread from that morning off the table, placing the brief letter he had written in its place. He quickly opened the pantry and threw as much dried meat and fruit as would fit into the top of his bag, maybe a day or two's supply if he was careful. Lastly, he filled a waterskin, shrugged on the knapsack, and headed out the door.

Dew could hear Mountain and Aether's voices from around the other side of the house by the herb garden. He walked quietly and quickly towards the gate, refusing to allow himself time to feel guilt for abandoning them like this; they could curse his name until the air turned blue, but if he could save them then that wouldn't matter. Once he was sure he was out of earshot and his footfalls wouldn't be heard, Dewdrop spared a single glance behind him at the place he had been proud to call home and broke into a run.

[mythical-illustrator]

@staycalmandhugaclone

Art master list

Another one for their wonderful story. This time Wolffe and Doc. (Two in one day because I'm on a roll and hyped on caffeine 😅)

Inspired by the PTSD/flashback moments in Found footage when Plo and the Wolf pack take doc in...after injuring her

Clone armor 😩

(let me know if I need to tag for anything. I tried keeping it vague in terms injuries)

[highfunctioningflailgirl]

Damage Control: 1x01 Pilot

Jessica is dead, and although Sam acts tough, Dean knows that his little brother is still in shock when they roll up to a motel for the night. He books them a room, dumps the take-out food and sixpack he’s bought on the table and sits Sam down on one of the two beds. 

“Alright,” he announces. “Let me have a look at you.”

Sam, who’s been stiff-jawed and quietly on edge during the ride, immediately looks angry.

“What, why? I’m fine, Dean!” He moves to get back up, but Dean holds him down by his shoulders. 

“You’ve almost had your heart ripped out of your chest by a friggin’ ghost today, and you’ve crashed a car - my car - into a house. And your girlfriend died. I just want to make sure you’re okay - at least physically.” 

“I am okay,” Sam protests, slapping Dean’s hands away. His eyes gleam.

“Yeah, right,” Dean says cynically. “‘Course you are. But you might be walking around with broken ribs and not even notice, wired-up as you are. Just lemme have a look! You’ve also had a drawer slam into you, if I recall correctly.”

Sam glowers. “That wasn’t just me. Thing pinned you as well.”

“Yeah, and I’m feeling bruised as shit, so stop being stubborn and let me check you out!”

What Dean says is true. He feels sore from his hips down, and during a pit stop he’d checked himself out in the gas station’s bathroom. His legs are mottled with bruises, and his right knee has stiffened up a bit, but nothing’s torn or broken.

“Come on, Sammy,” he complains, annoyed and worried. “Don’t make this difficult! You know how it goes. Hunter’s rule: Take care of your injuries, or you can’t hunt. And you want to hunt this thing, right?”

Sam huffs and rolls his eyes. But, after a last irritated look at Dean, he peels out of his jacket and lifts his shirt. 

“See? It’s nothing.”

“You let me be the judge of that.”

Frowning, Dean inspects the five small puncture wounds on Sam’s chest where the Woman in White dug in her nails. Sam’s right: they’re harmless, superficial and already scabbing over, with minor bruising around them. Sam doesn’t even flinch when Dean palpates the wounds and runs his fingertips along Sam’s ribs. No indentations, nothing out of place.

“You got lucky.”

“Told you so.”

Nevertheless, Dean fetches a washcloth from the bathroom, douses it with whiskey from the bottle in his duffel bag and insists on disinfecting the wounds. He knows he’s motherhenning. And that he’s compensating. He couldn’t save Jessica, couldn’t protect his little brother from that devastating loss. He couldn’t shield Sam from harm. But this, he can do. 

“Your legs?” he asks when finished.

Another eye roll. “Bruised but fine.”

“You sure?”

Sam grabs his tattered shirt and gets up.

“Yes, I’m sure! Same as yours, I guess. Come on, what do you want me to do? Take off my pants and turn this into a strip show?”

Dean wants to bristle, but he holds himself in check. He knows that underneath all of Sam’s defensiveness grief is waiting to push to the surface, and that his little brother is keeping a lid on it as best as he can. That he’ll break at some point, without Dean provoking it. 

“God, no,” he chooses to say. “‘S far as I know, you haven’t changed your underwear in days. I don’t have a death wish.”

Sam flings his shirt at Dean. “Jerk.” 

“Bitch.”

Somehow, that familiar exchange erases the tension between them. Sam huffs, but Dean sees the hint of a smile accompany his exasperation. 

“Seriously, I’m alright,” Sam adds while he walks to the bathroom. “Couple bruises, nothing dramatic. Promise.”

“Alright, champ.” Dean concedes. “Your call. But don’t come complaining to me tomorrow morning when I’ve got to haul your sorry ass out of bed because you can’t move!”

Sam points a finger at him. “Speak for yourself, old man.”

“Hey!” Dean slaps at Sam’s hand, acting more appalled than he is. They will both feel sore and older than their twenty-something years in the morning. 

“Ow!” Sam shakes out his hand.

It’s all mock fighting now, and they both fall into it with a sense of comfort. Dean is content. Sam will yet have to face the aftermath of his loss and Dean will have to watch him suffer through it, but he will be there for Sammy, every step of the way. And tonight, he’s done what little he could do to make it a little easier.

A/N: I'm attempting a missing scene/coda ficlets series of all the times Sam or Dean (and, later, Castiel) got hurt on the show and we never saw them dealing with the aftermath. I think it might be a good opportunity to follow our boys' character development throughout the show. And, of course, there's a lot of h/c involved, sprinkled with a variety of other tags. This is part one.

If there's any particular scene you want me to cover/add to, send me an ask!

Find the whole series on AO3 here:

[blitz0hno]

Drabble about the whole mikotosys-night-terror chronicles cuz I don't get to write much.

Post trial 2: Mikoto, still deep in denial (although deep denial doesn't mean ur as unaware as you let on/feel all the time), cries himself to sleep again. He hates the long-time habit, but thinking about his life up to this point, especially now... It makes sense, and unfortunately a lot more starts to make sense too.

It was happening again.

Mikoto was laying on the bed in his cell, staring at the ceiling. It was the only time he knew which way was up these days.

And today had been long, and stressful.

Why must he be this kind of person?

Chained up and interrogated.... Es trying to explain why the words "I saved you" echo in his mind.... a fuzzy ringing in his ears overtaking seemingly every conversation he had with the warden; Mikoto did his best to be attentive but was purely pretending. He was sure he dreamed the crime he was accused of, sure of it. It wasn't real, he couldn't do that! He had a future to look toward, and even if some people in his life were holding him back, his urge for quick relief had been but a horror-movie fantasy. A place for his brain to put his anger so he couldn't find it.

He had always wondered where his emotions went when he made them disappear. It didn't look good that nearly every moment now felt like a dream, either.

Answering questions with pen and paper had been particularly difficult. He didn't remember much of that either. He remembered the first couple questions. He remembered waves of frustration flooding his train of thought. He remembered feeling sick when he realized it was over and he thought he had only answered two or three out of the twenty questions.

Mikoto had started off this strange "Milgram" experience intrigued, but the more he thought about the events that led up to this "reality show," the more scared he got. He had always been a forgetful guy, but felt confident enough in his ability to keep track of important things. School, work, home duties, everything was always nearly lined up in his thoughts. Sometimes he had strong feelings about a task, but he was easily able to power through. He was oddly proud of that ability, from his adolescence up to his office job.

Sure, he had been picked on for living outside the city and never going anywhere. But he was reasonably popular with girls and very on top of his grades, which made other students like him well enough he supposed. No reason to feel lonely with how busy he was anyway. Taking care of home with his mom and sister, making sure he remembered to eat and study before shifts, and cramming for tests had all paid off, hadn't it?

He had a career he was passionate about, an end goal, and a stable job at a famous company. Although this job was... Not as glamorous as he had hoped. Nonetheless, he had worked so hard for it. He wouldn't just throw it away.

Not even when his meal times got shorter and shorter.

Not even when his boss made him redo weeks of work on a whim.

Not even when 60 hour weeks turned to 80 hours.

Not even when he broke down and cried after coming home to an onslaught of texts informing him of a deadline being shortened yet again.

He needed to sleep. Without sleep, he became irritated easily, and hiding it with a polite smile always left him with a permanent lump in his throat, as if he could burst into tears at any moment but wouldn't let it happen. When it all got too loud, Mikoto knew how to put it away for later.

Now was later, and he was crying.

He wished people listened to him. If they got to be cruel with no consequences, chain him to one thing or another, tell him to come and sit and stay until 3AM doing paperwork, he should get a say too. A say in how he was spoken to, in his rest, in his mind, anything.

But he second-guessed himself every time, coming up with nothing and doubling down on his polite diligent worker persona.

His chest heaved as he sobbed. How pitiful and pathetic, if they saw him like this. And to think everyone was scared of him now, not only because he apparently really killed people, but now more things he didn't remember were coming up. Torn up clothing he had tried so hard to laugh about reporting to Es; but all the morning he couldn't stop himself from crying, even through his mask. He had heard from others in the past that he talked in his sleep, but the noises? The shredding and screaming and destroying?

That was all new.

And embarrassing.

And mortifying.

Mikoto had no memory of any of it. He thought and thought, but only recalled feeling overwhelmed, perceiving the stares and the body language around him as tense, and the rush of anxiety which was renewing itself again. Out of habit, he searched for the smile he always tried to force through the tears, even now that he was alone.

Another sob.

Alone.

And everyone knew it. His boss, his mom, his baby sister, his peers EVERYONE watched him go it alone, pushing and pushing and succeeding at any cost to himself. But that was the goal, too, to be left alone. Not screamed at, following the rules in place, breaking them if it meant a more pleasing outcome for his current audience. His breath picked up as he remembered every comment, every stare every sneer every nitpick EVERYTHING others did to belittle his hardest work. His sweat, blood, and tears turned into a cycle that kept piling more on his back.

He held his hands against his ears as his sobs turned to a choked wail. Again tonight, he felt like he couldn't stop himself. "I HATE THIS! I'm not smart enough to even remember what I do, not strong enough to even control myself! FUCK!"

Again his uniform shirt felt far too tight. The restraints he had become more used to were suddenly like snakes whose every movement he could feel through the fabric, writhing on his skin. Mikoto screwed his eyes shut and begged to disappear, pulling at the jumpsuit.

Then John screamed.

He tore, he ripped, he fell off the bed and threw himself against the wall as if it would give him more force against the restraints. He couldn't stop. He knew it was his fault, and he knew why it was his fault, but they were hurting Mikoto all the same.

John forcefully wiped the tears from his face. His breathing was ragged as he felt himself grabbing at his hair. This was bad.

He couldn't calm down. Mikoto was beyond upset, he was terrified. John's own anger and Mikoto's fear had them in a frenzy, their hands pulling at anything they could grasp. What could he do? He had to help Mikoto. After all, it was John's fault, John's anger, John's actions that caused him this agony. Mikoto wouldn't hurt someone like that. He couldn't!

"I COULD. I DIDN'T WANT TO!" A shriek escaped his mouth. John didn't feel like that words were his. He took a deep breath, one hand still keeping his hair in a death grip.

The other was over his mouth. John had heard enough of what the other prisoners were able to hear. He was sure that they would be punished if they were any louder; or maybe Mikoto was sure.

He just didn't know anymore.

"They were killing you," John whispered, voice strained. "Even if you didn't do i-"

The words caught in his throat, and John's breath hitched as he felt the world start to blur around him.

"I do remember that I wanted to," came a choked whisper from Mikoto. "I wanted nothing more. Those people - those men... My life was hell. I was too slow with turnarounds no matter how long I submitted before the deadline. They called me day and night like a dog to their side. And th- the way they spoke to me and my coworkers - realizing their contempt toward the working men alone but god the WOMEN-" He sobbed loudly, burying their head in his hands. "The- these are the people our baby sister gets to meet next. The ones our mom married, the ones who lie and cheat and demand and force- they should be GONE they SHOULD. BUT- but I never thought-" he trailed off, curled into a tense ball. He could hardly feel John anymore -

Oh god.

He could feel John.

Like another person in the room, he felt another presence almost by his side. Another sob turned into a laugh at the absurdity of it all. The warden had no dog - Mikoto did.

And it was himself.

And that's why there was another "him," blaming his newfound self for Mikoto's plans and actions.

He felt terrible, in a hundred different ways. "John, it wasn't your fa-" Mikoto stopped mid-sentence, torn between guilt for his other self and the terror of realization hitting. He pressed himself against the cold wall and breathed slowly as he could, suddenly overcome with a clammy, nauseous feeling.

It wasn't a dream.

Mikoto had been sick in his cell once before, during a particularly bad panic episode. He had cleaned it up well and told no one, but somehow he was still met with looks of concern and pity and fear ten times over the following morning. Damn thin walls. The already isolated prisoner was not about to let that happen again. He slumped against the wall, closed his eyes, and grit his teeth as the room spun, wanting only to sleep. If only he could shut down, wake up in his apartment and cry about his shitty day at his shitty job surrounded by shitty people that his shitty singular self did not kill.

The weight of that possibility leaving forever made him feel like he would never eat again.

John felt the pressure mounting in their head and body, powerless to help. Just behind front, able to listen to the perspective he'd been wishing to hear for so long, and unable to do a damn thing. After all the begging to be acknowledged, he still hadn't saved Mikoto. Not by a long shot.

They were both stricken with panic by now, John beginning to pace around the cell and breathing deeply to the point of pain. Anything to keep from spiraling, from causing a mess, from snapping again, from hurting someone or even needing them.

And then they froze, a third voice that felt equally unreal catching their attention. Difference was, she and another were outside themselves , and outside the door to their room.

"He's at it again..." John heard Kotoko sigh faintly, breathing shallow as he stood at a standstill. He was so at a loss that he forgot to be angry at her treatment of Mikoto. Mikoto wasn't a killer. John was. Leave Mikoto out of it, let him live without this pain. It's why John was here to begin with! Did he fail? Did he drive any other help away?

"Ugh. I'll wait here, as you requested. Give him this." John heard a small acknowledgement from Es as they took the mystery item. He flinched, bracing himself.

Were they chaining him up again? Drugging him? What did he get Mikoto into now??

Whether he knew it or not, Mikoto was feeling the same guilt towards John, ashamed for not having noticed and feeling cowardly for running from him.

"John..." Es brought the protector to attention, gently holding out a water bottle. He hadn't even registered that they opened the door. He stared for a second, feeling shamefully and ridiculously dog-like, but took the offering. "How did you know..."

"Because Mikoto puts on airs," Es replied plainly. "He would have forced a posture that was more relaxed, perhaps greeting me as 'Guard-kun.'" Their voice went up a tad as they imitated Mikoto's tone, first amusing and then startling John. Was the switch that obvious? Had he ruined any chance of Mikoto being normal again?

"So you can... You can tell. We really are that different?"

"Afraid so," Es replied. "John, do you two... Do you know how DID happens?" They stood across from him, gauging his reaction. John seemed to be struggling to stay grounded as he explained.

"We never thought we had any sort of amnesia... We once read that it happens when... Oh," John sighed. "I have no idea what happened. But I know... I know..."

"When a child is hurt badly over a period of time, in their very early stages-"

"Yeah I know how it goes." He snapped like John, but John felt the words come from elsewhere. The voice also sound absolutely defeated, the truth having come to reveal itself.

"Mikoto...?"

"..."

Mikoto felt.

He was aware, he knew what he was saying, but his voice was bitter and monotone. He didn't know what to feel. He just felt.

"I don't fuckin know anymore," he sighed. Es was not entirely convinced it was only him - his voice was cold, and while quieter than John's, Es wasn't even sure they had heard Mikoto curse before. Of course, Mikoto was subject to change as any other prisoner, and his demeanor almost reminded them of Fuuta's current state.

Mikoto took a deep breath, standing a little straighter. "I... Suspected it, when I heard about it from some class, and then forgot about it. But yeah, when a mother and a father hate each other, and possibly you, very very much... I know how it happens." His eyes darkened. "Life got better, I think, when Dad left. Mom wouldn't talk about him, and she'd get mad if I even said something that she thought he would... But I could tell she missed him. My baby sis seems okay for her age, on track development and all, but despite all the responsibility I could handle I could never quite get it right."

Es nodded thoughtfully. "So you were ridiculed and blamed for things you weren't even aware was upsetting to your parents? Did they take things out on you, because you were older?"

"I... I guess. I never thought it was that bad," Mikoto sighed. "But living on my own, I started to feel more and more disconnected. More angry, more paranoid... And I started having nightmares. I forgot about those for awhile too. When it started affecting my work, I even tried to forget I was stressed at all."

"Or rather, your mind helped you forget," Es mused.

"It should have stayed forgotten," the prisoner growled. "I can't believe I ruined everything, and I didn't even know it. John wanted to protect someone who forced him to exist because I COULDN'T protect me!" He pulled at the strap over his chest, struggling to keep composure. There was no trace of his fake smile.

"You didn't force anything," Es corrected him softly. "The brain is an organ that adapts to survive. Even had you known, it's not something that can be harnessed and commanded. It's adaptation." It was a simple matter-of-fact, complex as it was. Es hoped they had their facts straight now, anyway.

"So how do we go back to normal?!" Mikoto cried. His hands were shaking now and was sobbing again; he quickly realized how dizzy he was becoming. "I-I need to sit." He lowered himself back to the floor and slumped against the wall, arms childishly wrapped around his knees. He felt nothing but shame presenting himself this way. He was 23, he was a graphic design agent, a working man! He couldn't break down like this! He couldn't have it this bad! Even if he didn't even feel like himself at the moment, even if reality felt completely made up... "There's got- there's got to be a way to fix this."

To his surprise, Es didn't look at him with judgement or pity. The only thing that stood out was curiosity, and they gently sat beside him as they gathered their words. "It's not a matter of fixing, Kayano-kun. You all need... Healing," Es spoke carefully. They figured the nickname would do for now.

"Can't heal from a murder charge," the prisoner scoffed. Mikoto felt reality spin as John spat out his remark. John ran a hand through his hair, smoothing some parts and causing others to stick out awkwardly. "It's still my fault. Those urges, those feelings... They're mine to carry, to protect him from."

"John... maybe you can protect each other. Share the burden. It was one body and, according to Milgram, one prisoner. Maybe if you can forgive yourselves... Milgram will show me a better outcome for you both." That was the best Es could think of to help right now. To think it was upon them to say whether this man was forgivable; he had seen so much of the real world that they themselves had yet to remember, and they couldn't even imagine the stress of his perfectionist lifestyle on top of it all. They wanted to cry from how unfair it all was, but prisoner 009 was the priority right now.

As the warden... They had to do what they thought was best. They almost felt guilty for having Kotoko on standby, even though it was she who insisted. But that didn't mean Mikoto, or even John, was dangerous.

"I know I didn't do the right thing," Mikoto sighed, sitting up as he regained composure. "And it still doesn't feel real. I can almost feel the memory slipping again. It hurts, Guard-kun!" He gripped the sides of his head. Es instinctively reached gently for his hands to discourage him from pulling his hair out, and Mikoto flinched. He hit the barrier between them with his hands as he automatically covered himself.

"Shhh... Mikoto..."

"I'm sorry!"

"You didn't hurt me. I startled you," Es said. "Mikoto, you don't need to remember all the time. That's what your alter John, and any others there may be... Are for," they looked away, thinking bitterly about what may lie in their own memories. "It can hurt to remember, Mikoto. Sometimes it's even dangerous."

"I was dangerous when I didn't remember, too," Mikoto sniffed. "John... He wanted to protect us - protect me - so badly that we hurt a lot of things. Even you."

"Well as for me, Mikoto, my physical health is no worse for wear," Es replied. They were only partly lying - they were exhausted constantly, but John's outburst was long down the list of incidents by now. "I forgive you. Do you... Forgive you? Forgive John?"

"John... I barely know John..." Mikoto sighed, feeling defeated as the words he tried to form seemed to fade from his mind. "But I... I forgive his mistakes. I hope he can forgive me too." Mikoto then felt lightheaded again, but although his throat felt stuck and his chest was tight, his left hand gave a small thumbs up.

Es couldn't help but chuckle a bit. "Well, there you go."

Mikoto heaved a sigh, suddenly feeling more exhausted than ever. "Thank you..." He whispered. He began to cry again, but smiled a smile that seemed to come more from genuine gratitude than fear. "Thank you, Guard-kun. I know... John will be happier now. I'm... I'm really scared. But we don't have to be lonely."

Es stood up slowly, offering a hand to help him to the bed. 009 sat still on the floor for a moment, a small frown forming on his face as he took their hand. "It's... It's John." He whispered, although they were partly holding him upright, Milgram ignoring his presence and giving him away. It felt strange, announcing himself like that, but comfortable too. "I know we can't undo what we did... Thank you for helping Mikoto."

"You deserve help, too, John. Mikoto wants to be there for you, too," the small warden looked up at him with almost a sense of urgency, praying John wouldn't try to take it all on himself anymore.

"Well he can start..." John mused, "by not giving away my cigarettes anymore. How's that?"

"Oh yeah, he did tell me to stop giving those to him even if he asks. I think..." They almost didn't suppress a laugh as they walked the system to their cot; although the situation wasn't funny itself, it was an interesting process. "I think finding those over and over is when he knew he forgot more than he knew."

"Damn right..." John sat down on the bed, the body falling over nearly instantly.

"Goodnight, John-kun, Mikoto-kun," Es said softly, heading towards the cell door.

"Goodnight, and thank you again," John's low voice replied.

As they went out the door, they heard another.

"Oh! Goodnight, Guard-kun!" A soft whisper said from across the room. "...And thank you."

That night was the most restful sleep Mikoto's body had gotten in years. He almost felt like he could finally get used to this. He would never get used to "being a killer," though. He didn't know much about the social perception of DID, so he sure hoped that wasn't a general stereotype.

End.

[shatouto]

a random royal au

[daryascurse]

last night i sliced my thumb open on some dried pasta sauce on the rim of the jar opening it (embarrassing) but like i feel like i understand how tokyo ghoul kagune works sorta now

[wyvchard]

Context: This takes place after this devastating set of events.

"Agent, tell me what exactly happened. You went missing for nearly 5 hours!" Reginald huffed as his agent remained unresponsive from their desk, merely twisting the tips of the pens to watch the ink spill onto the pages of their notepad.

You saw the medical report, Reggie. I don't think I need to explain that.

"Phoenix. Please, tell me what happened. You had a bunch of cuts by the time you got to the medical wing. You went off the grid and you expect me to be fine with that? Don't you know what happened last time? We almost lost you! ... Again."

Phoenix merely sighed. "Even if I say something, I doubt you'd hear me anyway." Their breaths were shortened, hiccups as their lungs fought to stay grounded. "Sorry. That was... I'm sorry."

"Agent, I understand." He sighed, watching his agent from the cameras. His hand wandered to the pen on his desk to document his observations on his agent once more. "But please tell me why you were covered in cuts and looked like you're about to cry when we were checking up on you.

I know that look, agent. I'm sure you've seen it on my face multiple times already."

"I failed to save them. They got away." Phoenix muttered as they used their TK to wrap themselves in the blanket he got for them during their hospital stays. "I'm still too weak and it resulted in another Agent Phoenix being in danger."

"Agent, some things are out of our control. You know that. But I do understand. I blamed myself for what happened back with Juniper, and even recently. I... felt helpless. Even when you were running from the agency."

"I-"

Their mind wandered back to the words someone said, taking away their words in order to smash it onto the walls they built up over the years once more.

"Reggie, I should have been able to handle it on my own."

"Agent, the agency does not rely on a single person, nor should it be."

"It would have been better if I was the one taken. I can take it if it's up to me. If I'm the only one who will suffer. But no... my weakness caused someone else to... Why am I so pathetic?"

"Agent, listen to me. It's not your fault. Do you hear me?

If it bothers you, then... how about tell me some things you can control? Something you can do to pass the time?"

"I suppose I can check up on someone else for the moment. The other Agent Phoenix who got more injured than me."

"Good. We can start there. You're still off the field, and you can no longer use the excuse that you're in another world to go around that.

...Do you need something, Phoenix?"

"A hug." Phoenix got up from their desk and walked to their handler's office, using the blanket as an impromptu cloak.

The trip towards Reggie's office was long and slow, yet the end felt so comforting as they melted into his warm embrace.

Phoenix didn't keep track of the time but they soon fell asleep, exhaustion melting onto their bones.

13-12 was fussing over the wounds on Phoenix as they grabbed the bandages they packed. Based on the distance, they would be left alone with this crazed doctor as the others chase after 004-2.

Phoenix opened their eyes, darting around to look for 043, reduced to nothing but a marionette following orders. "Target outside of range."

"Dr. P, look out!" 13-12 tackled 004-3 before using their TK to form a wall to keep the fight between both of them, regardless of the concerned protests of the others around them.

"Interrupting a target mission will result in death."

13-12 merely closed their eyes as they brandished their knife. Their nerves were shaking as all they could do was dodge. Their grip was still too unstable, the faint smell of blood making them gag as the anxiety of their realization started bombarding them. They were in too in Dr. Vadas' strategy, unable to leave with a win.

"You're quite a flighty one, little bird."

13-12 didn't pay heed to the mocks from Dr. Vadas' mouth, trying their best to make sure they wouldn't get fatally injured this fight.

'Agents shouldn't be attached. You shouldn't have gotten attached. Now, look at you. Isn't that why you avoided the other people in your agency? What made them different this time? Is it because they were another version of you?'

It only took one moment for Phoenix to slash 13-12 on the arm, causing one of their knives to falter, leaving it on the ground with a clang. They grabbed it and pointed it straight at them.

Phoenix's eyes were glazed over, empty and apathetic to anything other than the mission. 13-12's eyes were brimming with tears, haunted by the fact that the other was no longer there.

Rules in the agency were created for a reason, even if they aren't written in the concrete construct of paper. 'Handlers shouldn't be attached to agents.' 'Agents should try to trust their handlers.'

'Ruthlessness is something unavoidable in this line of work.'

Perhaps it was a weakness, perhaps it was not. But all that is clear at the moment was faltering only led to the reopening of wounds barely bandaged by the cells in their body. They dodged another time, hissing as the slash was made with little regard on the amount of havoc it would cause.

They had wanted to give Vadas a taste of their agony, yet they knew how heavy such a move will cost. It wasn't worth it. Subjecting another person into carrying the revenant of others had been far too cruel, considering what they had gone through under its clutches.

"Interrupting a target mission will result in death." The pair of mismatched eyes looked at them with indifference as the blade dug deeper into their skin, the warm sensation slowly turning cold. It wasn't as deep as the ones in their arm and surely 043 had it worse.

Everything else was a blur outside of them occasionally helping Dr. Greaves with patching 043 up back at the van.

They woke up with heaviness as they got up from the bed. Bed? Right. They did send a text that they wanted to go home. They looked around to their apartment to see a note with breakfast prepared.

Sent the other Reggie that plushie. Don't worry too much, alright? You'll win one day. If there's anything I know about Agent Phoenixes, it's that you lot just don't give up. Also, make sure to wear the new watch R&D sent. We know we can't stop you, so please at least let us know where you are.

Phoenix smiled a bit, only to falter a few seconds later. "Dr. Vadas, you don't mess with those we call family. You may have won this battle but we will get them back."

They got up out of bed in order to visit someone who probably needed to talk about this as well.

"This isn't over. But a few days to think things over won't hurt."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

@phoenix-and-found-family , I hope you like mild angst.

@the-one-and-only-043, this is just 13-12's view before the hospital visit.

[bitssweetart]