#of my own agony over this gut-stabbing fic

[mama-we-all-go-to-huesos]

No comment just tears today

[podcastenthusiast]

I haven't reached Act 2 yet as my Durge but I've seen That Scene with Astarion. A rare fic of mine not written from his POV.

Dark Urge spoilers!

--

You open your eyes, squinting against the bright sunlight. Must be close to midday, you assume, yet you are still exhausted. A long night spent writhing on the ground, compelled by a terrible impulse to butcher the one person you love most will do that, you suppose.

There is dried blood beneath your fingernails. Alfira's? No, no, that's a wretched thing you will always carry with you but it is past, not happening now. Astarion's? No. You will not let it harm him. You didn't. The blood is just your own. This time.

You close your eyes. Sickening visions dance before you. Your limbs ache from straining against the bindings. Your head pounds and your stomach churns, craving only blood. What a pair you and Astarion make.

Voices outside your tent.

"Lu awake yet? I'm booored," Karlach complains.

"My fault, I'm afraid. She didn't get much sleep," says Astarion, smooth as silk as he expertly weaves half-truths together. "We were rather...tied up, you understand."

He sets the snare.

"I think I speak for everyone here when I say I would prefer not to know any details of what you two did together."

And Gale willingly falls for it.

"Agreed," adds Lae'zel. "But your dalliances have now delayed our progress. I will not wait around to become a mindflayer simply because you could not restrain your carnal desires."

"My dear, as I've said we were the very picture of restrained last night--"

Gale makes a mortified sound.

"Please just go wake her up and stop torturing us," Wyll pleads diplomatically.

"Fine. Honestly, you all are no fun," Astarion pouts.

You hear footsteps approaching your tent a few moments later.

"Darling? May I come in?"

"You don't need permission anymore," you remind him.

"Let it never be said I lack proper decorum," he says, slipping into the tent.

After last night, you can scarcely believe he's so willing to share an enclosed space with you. Even now your mind fills with gruesome images--one quick stab would end him, but then you wouldn't get to hear his pretty voice scream in agony. You could cut out his talented tongue. Watch the light bleed slowly from those beautiful ruby eyes.

"You didn't tell them," you say, swallowing down a wave of nausea. "About last night."

"Well spotted."

"You could have."

You don't want him to feel like he owes you for something. You don't want him to fear you either. But you do want him safe, even if that's the cost.

"And why would I? It's hardly my secret to tell, after all."

"I almost killed you."

"Good thing I'm already dead, then."

"Astarion. This is serious!"

"If harsh words and a bite or two qualify as murder, well, I'm guilty as charged a thousand times over."

You don't speak, for a while. He has no idea what a close call it really was.

"When I... I didn't remember, with Alfira. I wasn't fully conscious. But this was different. I was aware of everything and I still couldn't control it. I would've-- I--"

Tears come then, hot and desperate. He wraps you in his arms and you crumble, sobbing against his shoulder. You cling to him like you're drowning and, in a way, you are.

"Oh, pet, shh," he whispers. "Whatever that thing was last night, it wasn't you. I know how it feels to lose control, to be...puppeted. I wouldn't wish it upon anyone half as good as you."

"I'm not good," you choke out. The dark urges so often feel indistinguishable from your own thoughts. You could be deluding yourself. Poor Alfira's blood is on your hands regardless, because you weren't strong enough. Last night proves you could have been. But for how long? What does the oath you swore even matter if you can't protect anyone from yourself?

"Darling, do you think a bad person would cry her eyes out over a vampire spawn? Who, I remind you again, is perfectly fine."

You look at him. He's tired. Worried. A bit hungry. Your guts twist with guilt.

You are so tired, too, and selfish as it is, you cannot do this all alone.

"I think I'm a monster," you whisper.

"Oh, please. You rescue children from harpies."

You keep that story the kid wrote for you trucked away safe in your pack. You read it when you need to remember who you've chosen to be.

"I wanted to drown that child."

The confession pulls another sob from your throat.

"But you didn't," he says. "Now, I'm right here, and I've got you. Get some rest. I'll tell the others you aren't feeling well."

"No, I can--"

"My sweet, if you go out there all teary-eyed and miserable they might think I broke your heart. We can't have that, eh?"

"If you tell them I'm ill, they'll assume you took too much blood last night."

He shrugs. "As good a lie as any. Everyone gets a little carried away from time to time."

"You don't have to lie for me at all."

You recall Gale's cold, accusing stare as he watched you scrub away Alfira's blood until your skin was raw. You imagine the fear and deep relief you would feel were Shadowheart to draw her weapon on you. She isn't one for second chances, let alone third.

"I know that, love. I want to."

[kuzakat]

💌 Crossover Ships Week, Prompt - NIGHTMARES 🩸

Here's a snippet of a nightmare from Chapter 5 of our fic, This Isn't Love, This is a Bloodbath (gore warning)

The knife block rattled, and Dipper shot his hand out to grab one. Without thinking, Dib slammed the knife in his grip down, the blade stabbing straight through Dipper’s hand and sinking into the cheap wood beneath it.

            “You’re ruining it!” Dib exclaimed, the statement coming out more as a petulant whine than a threat. He watched Dipper’s pale fingers twitch, though strangely, no sound escaped his mouth. 

            “Then give me what I want.” Dipper replied after a moment, his voice steady. “Show me the grand kill you think I’m worthy of.” 

            Dib hesitated for a moment and Dipper laughed, sending irritation through his body, fingers twitching around the handle of the knife.

            “Why do you suddenly want me to kill you?!” He spat. “It’s no fun if you don’t fight! That’s why I chose you! You—there’s something in you.” He leaned back, ripping the knife from Dipper’s hand with a twisted crunch of bones and sinew. “Play along with my vision and you’ll get to see the finale—when I say it’s ready.”

            Dipper lifted himself from the countertop, supporting himself with his uninjured hand as he turned around to face Dib. His expression was the same as it was before, reflecting none of the agony Dib expected. Slowly, shakily, he lifted his hand to cup Dib’s cheek, the stench of the blood gushing from the wound, making Dib’s head spin. It was hot and slick against his skin, and he shivered as blood began to drip down his face in streams, gathering at his jaw and collarbones. 

            “You chose me, Dib.” Dipper murmured. “But the reasons you chose me are the same reasons I’m going to make this very, very difficult.”

            “I like a challenge.”

            “I know. You’re so painfully bored, aren’t you?” His voice was dripping with saccharine fake pity, and he tilted his head before clicking his tongue. The slight movement made Dib aware of the stickiness of the blood against his skin. 

            “I’m making my own entertainment.”

            “Mmh.” Dipper hummed. Dib expected him to drop his hand from his face, but instead, he was pulled, their lips colliding in a messy kiss. Dib certainly didn’t mind, pressing closer to the boy and pushing his tongue past his chapped lips, fighting for control—before he tasted blood. 

            “Huh—?” He was cut off by a wave of it flooding his mouth as he pulled away, coughing from the harsh metallic taste and drooling blood all over himself. 

            “Wh—what the fuck?” He lifted his head to look at Dipper, eyes widening as he took in the scene before him. 

            Dark blood poured from the boy’s mouth, running over his lips and down his chin like a waterfall. Dipper’s stomach sliced open before his eyes and he slid down the cupboards to the ground. His guts spilled out and made a wet noise as he hit the floor, squirming and pulsing in his lap and staining his jeans. Dipper coughed, wiping his mouth before lifting his head, locking his gaze with Dib’s. His lips quirked into a smile, and Dib was once again overwhelmed with blood filling his own mouth. A surprised noise escaped him as he doubled over and watched the dark—almost black fluid spill to the floor beneath him, spattering all over his shoes.

[whumpitlikeyoumeanit]

Whumpcember 5

All of this Whumpcember is a single, long fic, with the prompts used in specific scenes, in order. See the Masterlist and AO3 link here.

((content warnings: impalement, gore, blood, vomiting blood, painful medical treatment, gentle whumper / carewhumper))

promptspiration: @whumpcember Day 5: Impaled

Whumpee: Draco Malfoy Carewhumper: Harry Potter Pairing: mild Harry/Draco whump type: slow burn abuse fic with a whumpee who doesn't even realise he's a prisoner -> looks like hurt/comfort, gore fic type: post-Hogwarts AU

words: ~2900

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

The door at the end of the corridor led to the master bedroom. He peeked inside as he set the sign above the door, past another decorative suit of armour standing guard with a spear just inside. Large, ancient bed the house almost seemed to have been built around, with dark sheets, half-made. Bare spots on the walls where portraits had been removed. Luxuriously thick rug that his feet envied Potter for. He curiously crept inside to, well, snoop. 

As he approached the corner past the door so he could peer around it, he heard metal moving behind him and looked back. He realised that the suit of armour was animated and that he felt pain in his gut in the same moment. 

It had stabbed him, he realised blankly. He was too shocked to scream. He looked down at his body, both of his hands settling on the shaft of the spear that was sticking out of his stomach. 

The suit of armour took a step forward, and the pain spiked and redoubled, ripping through his stomach and back. He groaned and gripped the spear, trying to hold it off — it shoved him back instead, and he cried out as his back hit the bedpost. 

The armour tried to pull back on the spear, shaking him around a little, and failed, and he realised it was stuck in the wood of the bed. 

Fuck… it had run him through… 

He reached up to his chest, looking for his wand on reflex, but obviously there was nothing there. He heaved out a cough that felt like it ripped him further, and a thick stream of blood ran over his lips and splattered onto the spear. 

The armour realised that he was pinned and released the spear; the shaft sagged under its own weight and made him gasp. The armour was drawing its sword from its side — it was going to kill him. He pulled with all his strength on the spear, but it didn't budge. 

The sword came down at him, and he ducked and raised one arm, taking the blow across the bone in a spray of blood and a spike of crunching pain. In a surge of desperation, he gripped the spear shaft with one hand and shoved himself forward with a cry and the wet sloppy sounds of the spear sliding through his guts. His bad hand closed in the visor of the armour and yanked at it; with a cry of effort he managed to rip it from the body of the suit. 

The armour crumpled instantly as the spell was broken, collapsing into a pile of disassembled steel parts and a sword. 

He clutched the shaft of the spear protruding through him, gasping. There was blood running in quick rivulets down the wood, pooling against his hands and dripping onto the floor. 

"Help…" he called faintly. Too quiet, too weak. That wasn't going to do him any good. He tried to take a breath and coughed, spraying blood droplets. 

He tried to move and stumbled to his knees with a groan. The butt of the spear shaft came to rest against the floor, and he slid down it several inches before he could catch himself. There was pain… pressure…. a pulling like a Portkey except it was actually ripping his guts out… His stomach clenched in agony, convulsed, and he helplessly vomited out a gout of blood.

"Draco," he heard from the corridor. "Are you in my— Merlin, fuck!" Draco couldn't look up, but he could not help relief at Potter's ugly jeans that came up beside him. Then it was his face, crouched down beside him, worried but determined. "It's all right," he told him, and for whatever reason, he believed him. 

Harry lifted him up by the arms until he was on his feet again; he groaned in pain, and Harry held him tight against his side. "This is going to suck," he promised, and then stepped back and pulled him with him, dragging him up the length of the spear shaft. Draco screamed into his shoulder.

Then the pressure was gone, and he heard a clatter of wood hitting the floor. Harry made soothing noises into his ear and helped, almost carried, him deeper into the room, to the bed. He lay back with a gasp, hand clutching at his stomach, but Harry pulled his hands away and pressed them down into the bed. 

"Don't. It's all right; I'm actually a pretty accomplished healer." Harry looked down into his face earnestly, then turned his attention down. He could feel his hand on his stomach, pushing up his shirt. "This is still going to suck. I have to make sure there's nothing inside." 

"Don't—" he gasped.

"Sh." Harry set a hand on his chest lightly to keep him down. His touch was as gentle as it could be, at first, light touches against the pressure of his stomach and the edges of the wound. Then they pushed inside him, pressing the hole open, squirming around, probing and prodding. He gripped the bedclothes fiercely, groaning; they pushed in deeper, digging inside him, and he arched back to try to get away and screamed through his clenched teeth. 

"Hey." Harry moved his other hand to his cheek, pulling him to open his eyes. "Don't pass out." He was right above him, looking into his eyes intently to keep him with him. "Just look at me. I'm almost finished…"

He tried to focus on him and not the pain, struggling to breathe through the fingers writhing around inside him. Agony rippled out as he pushed deeper and he lost it, screaming again, and this time Harry's face pulled away.

"Splinter…" he said in a second. "Got it…" His fingers slowly withdrew, leaving the gaping hole in him, and he heard him mutter the spell to Vanish whatever he had pulled from him. Then Harry leaned over him again and held his face in both hands. One of them was smeared in blood almost to the wrist. "It's okay." He ran his thumbs over his cheeks, eyes flittering over his face. "It's okay. I'll close you up now." 

He nodded without trying to speak, trembling; a tear escaped from the corner of his eye but he didn't dare try to lift a hand to wipe it away. 

Harry did it for him, and sat up out of his line of sight again, murmuring healing spells. 

The pain gradually faded away, and Draco closed his eyes, trying to just breathe as it slowly lessened. There was other pain, but with the agony of his stomach almost gone, it still felt like cool relief.

"You've lost a lot of blood." Harry leaned up and ran his fingers through his hair. "Just stay still. I need to go find a blood replenishing potion for you." 

He forced his hand to unclench from the sheets and fumbled to hold Harry's arm, "Stay…"

Harry looked down at his hand with a soft expression, and ran his hand over his hair again. "I'll be right back," he promised, and cast a spell that left Draco in darkness.

—-

He woke to even less pain, and he was suffused with warmth and a familiar smell. It was comfortable. 

"You awake?" Harry's voice came from above him, and a hand rubbed his arm.

He nodded and let his eyes open. He found he was reclining with his back to Harry's chest, with Harry's arms around him and his head on Harry's shoulder. He was the source of both the warmth and the nice scent. Harry was looking down at him with a small smile. 

Without thinking, he lifted a hand to try to make a lick of Harry's hair lie down properly, and it immediately sprang back up. "Hopeless…" he muttered.

"Yeah, it is." Harry squeezed him lightly. "How do you feel?"

He lifted his head and looked at himself, trying to determine the answer. His clothes had been changed, he noticed. Harry's too. Understandable. 

There was an ache in his stomach, and in his left arm, which he found bound up in a kind of bandage sling. His throat also hurt, almost like it was bruised; he must have screamed more than he realised. "Water," he said hoarsely. He could tell he'd been fed at least the peppery potion that he hated; its taste was all over his mouth.

"Sure." Harry let go of him with one arm to conjure a glass and fill it with water from his wand, and handed it to him. Draco struggled to hold it with his bad hand, and found that the other twinged when he tried to move it. "Let me help." Harry supported the bottom of the glass for him.

He drank his fill and nodded, leaning back against him. He probably shouldn't, but it was comfortable and he deserved some comfort after all of that. 

…He wasn't going to tell Potter that he was using him to fill a hole because the coddling reminded him of his mother, but he was going to use him for as much of it as possible. He really wished he had Mother to rub his back and comb his hair right now.

"I feel all right." It hurt his throat to talk, but he'd live with it. "What happened to my arm?"

"It was broken. You didn't notice you were only using the right one?" He shook his head. "I'm not sure how it happened—"

"Sword," Draco realised, looking toward where the pile of armour had been. They were still in Harry's room, and actually still in his bed. The linens had been changed, presumably because of all of the blood. "I had other things on my mind, I guess."

"I guess," Harry chuckled. 

"Broken bone shouldn't need any recovery time like this." He lifted the sling.

"But hippogriff scratches do?"

"Must have had something dirty on its talons," he said innocently. 

"Must have been something dirty on the sword," Harry said dryly. "Actually, it's just that you're a little… delicate, physically, with everything going on with you recently, so it's going to take a little longer. Don't push it." 

"Mm." He did not care for that. He supposed various bouts of exposure, vaguely-defined illness, starvation, amputation, and whatever was going on in his fucked-up mind could make him 'delicate'. He wondered if it was some sort of metaphysical payback for spending his school years pretending to be prone to illness or injury to manipulate events. It turned out he didn't like it when it was true. 

"Sorry about the booby trap. It's been years and I still haven't found them all yet. I didn't even know that was animated; it must have been triggered by the entry of anyone who wasn't master of the house. Walburga seems to've spent her last years getting more and more paranoid." 

"So you're just living in a deathtrap." 

"It's fairly safe for me, now that it's been more or less cleaned out, but it looks like you just saw the proof it's not for anyone else, necessarily. And you not able to use a wand, in the shape you are… It's probably not a good idea to wander around alone. If I hadn't gotten home…" He rubbed his arm with a subtext of anxiety that Draco wasn't used to. 

He really was worried. 

"I suppose not," he allowed reluctantly, looking at the ceiling. His world just kept getting smaller and smaller. 

"You dealt with it well, though. What did you do?"

He glanced back toward the foot of the bed. The bloody spear was still stuck in the bedpost, and he looked at the gore on it that had been inside of him when he woke up this morning. "Pulled its head off," he said absently. "The enchantments on them are typically on the helms. I'd've thought an Auror would know that." 

"Well, the next time I have to fight animated armour without a wand, I'll remember that," Harry said dryly. "What were you doing in here, anyway?" 

"Honestly, you already know the answer to that." 

"Looking for a way out?" Harry's voice was cool. 

Draco lifted his head to look into his face with a small, puzzled frown. "Being nosy." 

"Right." He seemed completely normal, suddenly. "Find anything interesting?" 

"Didn't have time." Harry ran his hand over his hair, and Draco set his head back down, considering that strange suggestion. A way out? Of the house? Or… did Harry realise the problems he had moving around and thought the room was too much for him? His cheeks felt hot at that idea. It wouldn't have been, it had only one door—

No, wait, it did have two, he realised as he looked it over; there was a second on the perpendicular wall to the hall door standing open, he just hadn't had time to see the it before the armour attacked. So he actually could have. He closed his eyes silently to try to pack that flash of shame away somewhere else. 

"I can show you around on the weekend so you don't run the risk of triggering more traps." 

"Rather takes the fun out of snooping."

"If it'll help, I can leave some secretive papers lying around unattended downstairs." 

"I'd appreciate that, thank you." His voice was bland, though, heart not really in it. 

Harry clearly noticed. "Hey." He ran his fingers through his hair, and Draco could almost pretend they were Mother's. Her hands were much more delicate, though. Harry nudged him to open his eyes and look up. "You are going to be okay. Just a couple days of rest and you should be healed up and ready to go back to sneaking around." 

Not that there was any point in sneaking about this house. There was nothing secret to find out, with only Harry around, except for the investigations which he seemed to leave completely at work. No point in getting into the boredom this house engendered, though. "Since I'm so 'okay', why are you still holding onto me?" he pointed out instead. 

"Hey, I don't see you getting up, either. As a matter of fact, I was starting to think you keep injuring yourself just so you have an excuse for this." He rubbed his arm. 

"You flatter yourself." He didn't put any bite into the words, though. 

"I know." He rubbed his arm again slowly. "Well, if it's true, it can be our little secret." 

"I'm only letting you do this because I just got stabbed and I feel like being a baby about it." 

"I don't mind." Harry settled his arm across Draco's stomach. "Actually, I think you should stay here overnight."

Draco opened his eyes again and looked at him, then around. "Here. In this room that tried to murder me. In your bed."

"You make it sound weird."

"I think you did that yourself." 

Harry sighed. "I don't mean it like that, I'm just… I'd feel better if I knew you were safe."

He seemed so genuine that, for a split second, the idea didn't seem insane. Then Draco realised what he was considering and shook his head. "I won't. Go pick up some other homeless fugitive if that's what you want." He pushed himself to sit up, out of Harry's arms.

Harry did let him go, and he didn't know why for a second he thought he would not. "I said it's not like that." He sounded annoyed. "Why do you ruin everything?" 

"Natural talent." He had to stop on the edge of the bed, holding his stomach for a moment. He got used to the ache in a few seconds and could get up, with some effort. 

"You could at least say thank you," Harry pointed out. 

He gave him a cool glance and rubbed his arm. "Somehow it seems that every time you save me, I end up worse off than I was before."

Harry leaned up and grabbed his previously-broken arm through the sling before he could step out of reach. Draco hissed in pain and glared at him.

"I've never met anyone so ungrateful to be alive. I keep saving you from things that are your own fucking fault, and you're getting pissy with me over the results? I'm not the one who made you go walk out in the snow. I didn't make you come up here and invade my privacy. There's one common element to everything that keeps happening to you."

Draco set his jaw and looked away, lifting his chin. Potter wasn't wrong. His father would be smacking him upside the head for his lack of manners. 

He just hated this position he was in.

"Thank you," he said flatly, controlling his resentment down out of reach, "for saving my life on multiple occasions. If I ever get to go home, I'll see to it that you are properly rewarded."

"I don't want your money." Harry let him go. "It doesn't have to be like this, Draco," he said quietly. "You're the one making it hard." 

He didn't answer, just walked past the bloody spear and back to the hall.

[dxckgrxsonx]

Your Love is a Riptide

Fandom - DCU - Titans (TV Series)

Pairing - Dick Grayson x Reader Warnings - Graphic Descriptions of Violence - Blood - Swearing - Mentions of Injuries (Stab Wounds) - Heavy Angst - Hurt/Comfort - Fluff - Happy Ending. Word Count - 6.2K Prompts -“I’m fully capable of kicking your ass.” & “it’s because I’m so attractive isn’t it?” “I say this. and I cannot stress this enough. I find you completely repulsive.” Notes - Hello!! This is my first time writing something for the DC fandom. I hope I've not gone wildly out of characterisation for this fic. I'm basing this version of Dick from the Titans series and not the comics. I've had a lot of fun writing this and exploring Dick's character. Please let me know if you enjoyed reading!! 💕

**

‘My eyes ache with the weight of unshed tears. You are my home, do you not understand?’

’** You scatter into consciousness in the dark.

It’s cold and wet and the dim flickering light from a nearby streetlamp throws your blurry vision into an awful contrast of black and red and hideous yellow.

There’s a continuous pulse of warmth radiating from your side and your hand pats clumsily at your clothes, fingers trembling over your ribs. Your brain shouts that something is wrong, that you’re hurting and in pain. But half of you is underwater, your own thoughts trapped behind a wall of exhaustion.

The panic breathes into you slowly.

It rises like water in a trapped room. Bubbling up higher and higher until it flows in through your mouth, down your throat and into your lungs where it catches on every nerve ending in your chest. It burns and twists like a thousand needles along your spine, poking and prodding until it hits that one single nerve that catapults you into fight or flight.

Your fingers trip over something hard, something unyielding, something wrong.

Under the endless darkness of the Gotham sky you tremble, gasp open mouthed and desperate for air. Your breath won’t come and the act of expanding your chest sends agony rippling through your bones.

Crumpled over on your side against a dark brick wall you feel the rain wash over your face, clothes soaking up the water like a dry sponge. You’re shivering and as your muscles contract to generate heat you moan lowly on the edge of passing out from the pain. Everything around you shudders and ripples, the rain falls heedlessly into your eyes blurring everything into nothing at all.

If you focus–if you listen hard enough, you can hear the rush of cars, black tires splashing through puddles across the roads. There’s voices echoing not far from where you are and you’re immediately torn between asking for help or hiding.

You correct yourself within an instant.

It’s Gotham, you say to yourself. There’s no help to be found here. Anyone with half a brain knows that you stay out of danger by keeping to yourself. Ignore anything and everything that doesn’t involve you. Keep your head down. Don’t stay out after dark. Always have an escape route planned no matter where you are.

The constant need to catalogue an escape is exhausting.

Everything about the city is exhausting.

You’re so tired.

There’s blood in your mouth and the taste makes you want to be sick, stomach rolling and rolling and you force back the bile rising bitter at the back of your throat; you don’t have time for this.

Blood slick fingers press along your ribs, searching for the thick blade wedged between the curved bones. You vaguely recall the flash of metal before it punched through your skin, remember the lightning fast ‘oh shit’ feeling in your gut.

With a shudder, you remember the wild look in the eyes of the one who did this to you, remember that crazed smile tugging at thin lips before they twisted the blade to shove your ribs apart. The sound you made echos in your head, that high, thin wail of pain. That desperate wet gasp for air that followed.

You should have stopped it before it happened. You’re trained better than that.

Nudging the handle of the knife you choke back a sob. The miniscule shift scrapes the sharp edge of the blade against your bone and your vision whites out at the edges. Blood leaks from the wound with each breath and you know that removing the knife is a horrible idea but your brain shouts and shouts and shouts.

It shouldn’t be there.

Take it out, take it out, take it out.

You have to fight every snarling impulse not to reach for it. If you take it out you’ll bleed to death. You’re already dying, it howls. It shouldn’t be there, it’s killing you. You’re going to die. Tears stream down your face, mixing easily with the rain. You want to swipe them away, but you feel almost boneless–maybe even drunk.

In your pocket your phone starts to ring, the shrill chime of it grabbing you hard by the shoulders and shaking you back into awareness.

Reaching for it with your free hand it takes three attempts to hold it without dropping it. Staring at the screen you blink away the water in your eyes to focus on the name, to see who’s calling you.

NW.

Your finger swipes to accept the call and you refuse to think too much about the long streak of blood you leave across the screen.

“Hey–” You slur as a greeting, eyes slowly drooping shut, “Did you know that–uh–” Swallowing back the blood in your mouth you wheeze, chest burning, “Gotham fucking sucks.”

“Where are you? Are you hurt?” Nightwing questions immediately, hardly pausing to take in a breath, “You were supposed to report in twenty minutes ago.”

The sheer relief at hearing his voice threatens to split you in half. There’s always been something about his voice that files the sharp edges of your fears smooth, chases away the unease clouding your head. He’s always kept you safe, never once faltered in keeping you away from danger.

And you had to go and fuck it up.

A sob catches hard in your throat, “I–uh–shit…I’m sorry.” You heave, fingers skirting around the edges of the blade between your ribs. “I fucked up, this wasn’t supposed to happen. I’m s–” Your legs jerk as you knock the handle of the knife, a low moan of pain escaping your lips, “I’m sorry, please, you’ve gotta know, I didn’t want this to happen.”

The world spins through your eyes, edges of your vision darkening. Everything feels so far away, you’re not even cold anymore. Your hand drops, phone moving away from your ear. Distantly, you can hear Nightwing shouting your name through the tiny phone speaker.

“--ang on, okay? I’m on my way.”

He’s coming, you whisper to yourself, fingers swiping through the rain and blood pooling around you. The light of your phone draws your fading attention, he’s still on the line, he hasn’t hung up. For a brief moment you wonder if he knows where you are. In a fit of panic you reach for the device, only to whine when the movement pulls on your wound.

He calls your name again, something hard and unyielding in his voice. The tone is demanding, relentless, it kicks part of you half awake, a soft, submissive side you didn’t realise reacted to him like that.

Dragging the phone to your ear you exhale heavily, “I don’t know where I am–oh god, I don’t–where am I?”

“Breathe,” Nightwing orders, “Can you do that for me? Just breathe, I’m almost there.”

A weight sits on your chest, you struggle to inhale. The mere act of breathing forces the metal between your ribs to shift and you want to scream, want to yank it out and just be done with it. Adrenaline continues to ripple through your veins, you’re shaking very finely all over. Your clothes are soaked all the way through, you feel disgusting.

“Ho–how do you know…” You trail off, it’s too much effort to speak.

He’s always been clever, smart mouth and an even smarter mind. That quick, blinding spark inside his chest making everything dim in comparison. He’s almost electric, a raw flash of lightning in your hands. All blue and bright and powerful.

“Tracker in your phone,” He answers, always quick to catch on to what you mean, “As long as you keep it on, I’ll know where you are.”

A sweeping wave of tiredness washes over you, each blink gets longer and longer until you feel yourself drifting off. Starling awake your entire body flails, muscles jerking. A heaving wail rips up your throat, the pain feels alive inside you, something conscious searching for what makes you tick.

Movement blurs through your peripheral, you almost smile before realisation dawns.

You could recognise the way Nightwing walks anywhere. In life, in death and everywhere in between. You know his gait, the weight behind each step, the smooth, effortless way he shifts from heel to toe. Practised, rehearsed, overwhelmingly efficient.

The person approaching you isn’t Nightwing.

“Oh fuck.” You whisper into your phone, trying to move into a more defensible position.

Above you, someone snickers, an amused drawl tightening around your throat. Using the wall behind you for leverage you attempt to pull yourself into a sitting position, try to face the threat head on. But your body fails you as soon as you try, muscles far too weak to support yourself.

The figure crouches down, pale fingers reaching towards your phone.

“I’ll be taking this.”

Your body stiffens as soon as you hear his voice. That cruel undertone bleeding into every word. It’s the sound of someone who wants to hurt, who actively seeks it out. It’s the wet sound of your breath as you try to breathe around the knife in your chest. It’s the satisfied chuckle as you slump to the dirty ground, body halfway into shock.

He fiddles with your phone before dropping it onto the ground, shattering the screen and silencing the sound of Nightwings voice.

“I’m honestly surprised you’re still alive, sweetheart. Thought you would have bled out by now.”

You grin, “Fuck you.”

Rage twists his face into a sneer seconds before he backhands you in the mouth, hard. Your bottom lip splits on impact and the resounding jolt it causes makes you flinch. There’s pain everywhere, your whole world won’t stop spinning;

His hand is reaching for the knife.

“No!” You shout, hand moving to bat his own away. “Please—don’t…please.”

Leaning over you he curls one hand around your neck, holding you down. Thrashing beneath him you cry out weakly, desperately trying to shove him off. In response he tightens his hold and you gasp, air dragging horribly through your throat.

You’re shaking, the lack of control you have over the situation almost makes you sick.

“Don’t move too much, you’ll only make it worse.” He coos, breath fanning over your cheek, “You know, it’s such a shame you got caught sticking your nose into someone else's business, but maybe this will teach you a lesson, huh?”

In one single move he grabs the ridged handle of the knife and yanks it out. The thick blade scrapes against your ribs as it’s pulled out and you scream, legs kicking out violently, vision folding black at the edges. Tightening his hold around your throat he cuts off your air and your screams trail off to a strangled wheeze.

“There you go,” He murmurs, eyes alight with glee, “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Slapping at the hand around your neck you try to pry his fingers loose but he doesn’t budge, just stares down, eyes wide and unblinking, thin lips stretched into a grin. You think that if you survive this, every time you close your eyes you’ll see him. Hear his voice carving itself into your skull.

Your pulse pounds in your ears, you can feel the blood thrumming through the thick vein in your neck.

You’re going to pass out.

Dying in a back alley in the middle of Gotham was never really something that crossed your mind. Naively, you didn’t really think you’d die at all. Always set on the idea that death couldn’t touch you. Whether that was because you thought your training made you invincible, or because you thought that wherever you went, Nightwing would be by your side.

You’re such a fucking idiot.

Maybe dying isn’t such a bad thing.

The streetlamp flickering at the edge of the alley suddenly explodes in a hail of glass, plunging the alley into darkness. The man above you releases your neck and you suck in a full breath before dissolving into a coughing fit. Reflectively shoving him away from you, you throw your bleeding body into gear and heave yourself into a sitting position.

“What the fuck?” The man whispers, blood slick knife clenched tight in his hand.

Inside the darkness is a quick flash of blue, a sizzle of crackling electricity. The hair at the back of your neck stands on end. There’s something buzzing under your skin, you want to blame it on the rush of blood to your brain but somehow, you don’t think that’s it.

Pressing a hand to your side you attempt to staunch the flow of blood. It oozes between your clenched fingers, dribbling over your hand and down your clothes. With how heavily you’re bleeding, you’re surprised you haven’t fallen unconscious.

“Stay the fuck back!” The man yells into the dark, pulling your attention back to the rippling pulse of blue light. “I’m warning you, jackass!” He flips the knife through his fingers, settling it into a more aggressive hold.

You wonder why he’s so afraid, why he’s so aggressive and defensive and holding that knife like it’s the one thing keeping him alive. He was choking the life from you seconds ago and now he looks like he’s staring death in the face. Your head spins and spins until your eyes find him through the dark.

Blue light highlights his silhouette, the black of his suit bleeding into the shadows.

Nightwing looks like something out of a nightmare.

When you first met him–back when he was Robin–you lay witness to a certain type of anger bubbling under his skin. A quiet, endless fury that stemmed from some horrible, wounded part of him. A part that on the surface didn’t look like much, but as you got deeper, it turned into a gaping open wound; all festering and weeping and painful.

He was so young and in so much pain and it took a long time to find out the cause of it, to find the centre of that crippling hole wedging a dagger into his chest.

It was grief.

You look at him now, through the rain and the tears and the blood sliding warm over the backs of your knuckles and you see that rage return. It sits along each vertebrae in his spine, almost like it’s a part of him;

Like it never really left at all.

Nightwing unsheathes both ecrisma sticks and twirls them through deft fingers. The crackling burst of light forces your heart to skip a beat, you never tire of watching him wield those sticks like an extension of himself. The talent and skill that goes into every single move makes you lightheaded.

He’s incredible.

The fight is quick and bloody and no matter how many times you hear it, the snap of a bone makes your skin crawl. It’s something about the unnatural crack of it, the fact that something that’s not supposed to bend, is forced to until it breaks.

It’s about the burst of blood, and the flash of white and the gut wrenching howl that chases.

You remember the first time you heard it, that ugly break of a bone. You were young, and scared and ripped halfway into fight or flight before you knew what a panic response was. Violence was something you grew up with, something that settled in the back of your head as normal, maybe even expected.

Towards the end, you could pick out the sound of fists to flesh better than the echo of your own voice.

Part of you thought you could handle it, that defiant ‘I have to prove myself’ part was set on the idea that it would be easy, that it wouldn’t mess you up from the inside out. You’re no stranger to being wrong, to having the rug pulled from under your feet. But that haunting snap follows you and has done since you were a child.

You’d caused it after all.

You snapped the bone, forced it to bend when it wouldn’t…shouldn’t. Did it for approval, for praise. For that fleeting moment of control before it was taken away again. Every time you hear that sound, hear the wet punch of bone through flesh you remember.

You would have done anything they asked of you.

Maybe that’s why your skin crawls when you hear it.

Your eyes roll into the back of your skull.

**

Cold hands cradle your face, tense fingers sweeping along your hairline, down your cheeks, over your jaw. The sensation startles you hard enough to jolt forwards, fists coming up to hit anyone close enough. A flash of that cruel, thin lipped smile appears in your head. Pain bursts around your throat, over your ribs, in your mouth.

You slam open your eyes and swing without waiting for your brain to catch up.

“Woa–woah.” Nightwing breathes, catching your fist in the palm of his hand. He keeps his full attention on you, not once wavering despite the rain and the cold. “I’ve got you. It’s okay, you’re okay.”

There's a lump in your throat, you try to pull your hand back but he doesn’t give, just holds it there; firm and warm and steady. You’re crying, tears track down your cheeks, your lip is bleeding. Nightwing darts his eyes over your face, you can’t actually see his eyes through his domino mask but you can read his body language well enough.

“M’sorry,” You whisper. Shame settles heavy between your shoulder blades, you feel less like a friend and more of a burden. “I never wanted this to happen…I should have been better. They tra—I was trained to be better than this.”

Dark hair sticks to his forehead, rain sliding along his temples and down to his chin. The amount of focus in his posture makes you uneasy, you’ve never handled his full, undivided attention well. Nightwing has always been clever, even back when he was Robin he had this uncanny ability to just know what you mean, to understand the little tells your body gives away without you knowing.

It used to scare you.

To be known is to be predicted, and being predicted can lead to failure.

But over time and through the years you’ve known him–as both Nightwing and as Robin. You’ve come to appreciate the skill behind his eyes, to understand that not everyone is a threat. Sometimes, you think that Nightwing knows you better than you know yourself.

“Shh, you don’t have to explain.” He says, low and gentle, head moving to get a look at where you’re clutching at your side. “You’re bleeding, can I take a look?”

Your first instinct is to pull away, refuse, hide your wounds so they can’t be used against you. There’s always that lingering sense of ‘you can’t trust anyone’. It was beaten into you as a child and even now, years later, you can’t really seem to let it go.

But it’s Nightwing, you reason with that wounded child inside you. It’s Nightwing and he’s never once hurt you.

“Yeah, okay.” You finally answer. His shoulders drop just a fraction, a miniscule movement most wouldn’t catch. But you know him, and that slight shift reveals everything. “M’sorry if I bleed all over you.”

“Well…” He smiles, still holding onto your hand. “It wouldn’t be the first time you’d bled all over me, right?”

Tugging up your clothes the wound comes into view. Jagged slices of skin split apart under a thick metal blade. Blood seeps steadily down your side, the wound is almost gaping from where the knife was twisted to shove your ribs apart.

Letting go of your hand he shuffles forwards, fingers prodding at your side and over your ribs. His focus increases tenfold and a frown twists his face when you jolt, body trying to run from the pain.

“I know, I know.” Nightwing mumbles, trying to reassure that alarmed look on your face. “Let's get you somewhere warm and dry, huh? I’ll need to put a few stitches in you but the good news is nothing seems broken.”

Reaching out one hand, you touch your shaking fingers to his forehead and swipe away the wet strands of hair settled there. Nightwing sags forwards under your touch and you notice then, just how tired he looks. Adrenaline is an incredible response to danger, but you know that sometimes the come down is worse than the danger it protects you from.

“Okay, let’s go.”

**

Shoving open the door to the safehouse you collapse onto your knees.

Pain radiates throughout your ribcage, blinding heat and endless stinging pulling at the very edges of your sanity. It would have been easier to pass out, you think, head pounding. One hand claps around the wound and presses down hard, trying to give your body something else to focus on rather than the repeated, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts.

Behind you, Nightwing locks the door before sweeping in at your side. He slings your free arm over his shoulder and shoves you to your feet.

“Almost there.” He reassures as you hiss in pain, side pulsing and burning, blood sticking to the inside of your shirt. “Gonna drop you at the sofa then grab the first-aid kit, okay?”

Glancing at the side of his face you raise a questioning brow, mouth twitching into a slight frown.

Catching your eye through his mask he sighs, loudly, “Don’t fuckin’ look at me like that, I know you don’t like it when someone doesn’t explain what they’re doing…especially when you’re injured.”

Darting your gaze away to throw a glance through the safehouse you feel heat rise in your cheeks, “Didn’t realise you caught onto that.”

“Of course I did,” Nightwing mumbles, readjusting your arm over his shoulder. “If it makes you feel any better, I like to know too, helps with planning out contingencies in case something goes wrong.”

Not for the first time, you think that Nightwing knows you better than you know yourself. The thought should make you feel uneasy, should fire up those specific alarms in your head that warn you of attachment, maybe even fondness. But instead, the only thing you feel is endless relief.

“Fuuuck.” You whine, breath coming out in short pants. Your feet scrape over the floor and briefly, almost in a haze, you realise how much of yourself is resting on Nightwing. The strength in his muscles throws your brain into a loop it can’t quite get out of. “You do remember where the first-aid kit is, right?”

Huffing on a short laugh he drops you onto the sofa, “Under the sink–where I left it. Second one is wedged between the bed and the nightstand.”

“Show off.”

Giving you a quick smile he spins on his heel and moves to find the bathroom. Watching his back as he leaves you rove your eyes over the tightness of his shoulders, the heavy way he clenches his hands into fists. Even his steps seem louder, like he can’t contain something inside himself.

He’s still angry.

You wonder, for a split second, if the man who did this to you is still alive.

Struggling to your feet, you swallow back the groan of pain rising in the back of your throat as your stab wound pulls. Kicking off your shoes you tuck them away around the edge of the sofa and move to grab at the hem of your shirt. Lifting it up the hem brushes the bottom of your wound and you can’t fight the tiny whimper that slips past your clenched teeth.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

Dropping your shirt to settle back where it was, you shift to face Nightwing–still in his mask. “Taking my shirt off.”

His jaw tightens and you sigh, body quickly succumbing to exhaustion. You’re ready to sleep for a solid ten hours after this. Adrenaline sucks after the fight is over. Stepping forwards, Nightwing drops the first-aid kit on the sofa and then moves to stand in front of you, fingers twitching at his sides.

“You should have asked me to help. Moving too much will cause more damage.”

The sarcastic retort twisting on your tongue dissolves as one hand comes forwards and he starts playing with a loose thread at the bottom of your shirt. You wonder for a moment if the action was intentional. If he moved into your personal space and did an act so mundane, so tender, that you would give without a fight.

You wouldn’t put it past him, he’s always been tuned in to people's weaknesses, knows how to get his own way.

“Can you help?” You ask, smothering a yawn into your fist.

Trailing the tips of your fingers over Nightwings hand you wait patiently as he goes silent. Sweeping down each of his fingers with your thumb you twist to stroke over his inner wrist. Finding his pulse point you press gently and count in your head, mentally calculating his heart rate.

Slightly higher than normal.

Tapping your finger at his pulse point your mouth quirks at the edges when his breath hitches.

“Hmm?” He finally answers.

“Can you help me take my shirt off? Y’know, so you can stitch up this stab wound that’s still bleeding.”

“Shit–sorry, yeah of course.”

Warm fingers skirt up your sides as Nightwing lifts your damp shirt. The fabric drags over your skin and the sensation makes you shudder. Revealing the wound all over again makes you want to shrink away. Under the warm light of the safehouse you can see it for what it really is.

An ugly mess of skin tinged red.

You’re no stranger to wounds, or scars, or blood. Growing up within an organisation that places the success of an assignment over everything else does that to you. Your body is littered with scars, blemishes, patches of skin stitched sloppily together. Some from when you were a child. Others from your time trying to find your place in the world.

And now, you’ve got another to add to the collection.

“He really got you good with that knife.” Nightwing says under his breath, pausing in his movements to look at your side. “I’m surprised it didn’t puncture your lung.”

Humming quietly in agreement you smile bitterly, “Guess I got lucky.”

He gives you a funny look, something unreadable written in the lines of his face. It fills you with unease that sometimes you can’t get a single read on him. Can’t look at him and figure out what’s going through his head. If he doesn’t want you to know what he’s thinking, you won’t ever know.

Once again, his skill blows you away. Every time you think you have him pinned, he shows you another way he has control.

Your shirt hits the floor with a wet smack, water quickly seeping into the carpet. Kicking it towards the kitchen, Nightwing moves to grab the first-aid kit. Pulling out a thick wad of gauze and saline he kneels at your side so he’s at eye level with the wound.

Methodically cleaning the area you fight the blinding urge to flinch each time the gauze swipes over your skin.

“This is gonna hurt.” Nightwing advises, looking up to catch your gaze. In his hand is a tube of saline, the cap twisted off and hovering at the opening of your wound, “I need to make sure there’s no debris caught inside before I stitch you up.”

You think of the times when you were a child, sobbing and bleeding and trying to fix up your wounds as best you could. Needle and thread shaking in your tiny fist as some part of you bleeds and bleeds and bleeds.

They never cared much about tending to wounds that weren’t life threatening, always leaving you to fix yourself up under the guise of a lesson. Like they taught you how to do anything other than hurt.

‘The only way to survive in this world is to be self-reliant.’

Grabbing the saline straight out of Nightwing’s hand you close your eyes and flush the wound. The pain ignites inside you, almost like you’re being stabbed all over again. All the nerves fire collectively and your knee wobbles, dangerously close to collapsing out from underneath you.

A warm hand circles your shaking knee, holding it in place and offering temporary stability as you tremble. A soft noise of surprise escapes your mouth at the feeling and you open your eyes to see Nightwing already looking up at you, mouth pinched into a frown.

His free hand mops up the saline running down your side and he dumps the ruined gauze into a heap on the carpet.

“Why’d you do that?” He asks.

You can’t quite look him in the eye when you answer, “I–They never really cared much about–uh–minor wounds. Anything that wasn’t immediately life threatening was left to us to sort. I guess over time it was just easier to deal with it alone.” Tapping your fingers against your thigh you finally meet his gaze, something bitter lodging itself halfway up your throat, “Pain means nothing–they made it nothing–you should have just flushed the wound.”

Breaking eye contact you tip your head back and stare at the off white ceiling. There’s something wounded cutting up your insides. Even after all this time, you still can’t shake off what they taught you. You still can’t properly trust anyone besides yourself.

“They might not have cared, but I do.” Nightwing says after a careful silence. “You don’t have to deal with everything alone, you know?”

Opening and closing your mouth you search for the right words but they refuse to come. You’ve been trained on how to respond to things like this, they drilled it into your skull to ensure no one comes close enough to form an attachment. There’s sentences rolling around in your mouth, practised, rehearsed sentences that are easy and safe.

But Nightwing deserves better than that.

“I don’t—” The words stick to the roof of your mouth, your chest heaves with the weight of them. It feels like cutting yourself open with a dull blade. “Sometimes, I don’t know how to be anything other than what they made me.”

Nightwing taps your thigh, his fingers settling just below where your own drums against the muscle in an anxious rhythm. Peering down you watch as he removes his hand to peel open a clean dressing and stick it over your stitched up side.

You didn’t feel a damn thing.

You wonder for a split second if you’re broken.

Cleaning up the first-aid supplies he smoothly gets to his feet, standing close enough that you feel the comforting heat of him even through his suit. His domino mask still sits on his face, covering his eyes and keeping that barrier between you. Your fingers twitch at your sides, breath shallow.

Swallowing thickly at the weight of his gaze you wince when your throat flickers with discomfort.

Raising his hand, Nightwing sweeps his fingers over your neck, cataloguing the bruises settling there. The featherlight touch makes something inside you ache. Tenderness isn’t something you come across often, it's always been about finding your opening and striking and relishing in the pained noises that follow.

It’s never been about warm fingers tracing the marks left behind from someone else. It’s never been about watching Nightwing’s hand shake like he’s touching something forbidden, something precious.

Your hands move of their own accord, fingers finding each side of his mask and pausing, waiting for him to tell you that this is okay. That he wants this too. Part of you feels selfish for wanting to remove his mask, to see him under the soft light of the safehouse.

But another part is yearning, pleading to see him. To see the face of the man who cares, who said you don’t have to be alone anymore.

He slides his fingers to the back of your neck, twisting his fist into your hair and just holding you there. Face to face, close enough that his exhale brushes your cheek. The close proximity makes you dizzy, you want to sway. Your eyes flutter closed for half a second when he tugs at your hair, bliss settling along each notch of your spine.

You feel weightless.

“S’okay,” Nightwing whispers, his voice lower than you’ve ever heard it. “You can take it off.”

Opening your eyes you peel the mask from his face and–

Oh.

There he is.

“Hi.” You smile, like you’re seeing him for the first time all over again.

Dick ducks his head to break eye contact, a bashful little grin lighting up his face. When he looks back up his eyes are glittering, all soft and electric and filled with something unspoken. You try to turn your head, try to focus on something other than the way he looks at you, focus on anything but the heavy fluttering of your heart behind your ribs. It’s hard to look at him when he looks at you like that.

His fist tightens and your breath hitches, a soft moan balancing on the tip of your tongue. He won’t let you move your head away from him, the control he has over you makes you weak in the knees. You wait for the panic, the horrible wrench in your gut when you realise you’re not in control. But it never comes because Dick Grayson is safe. He’s safe and in control and you don’t have to be afraid anymore.

Resting your arms over his shoulders, your free hand plays with the damp strands of hair at the nape of his neck. A small shudder rocks his sturdy frame and you fight to keep the coy smile off your face.

In retaliation he gives your hair a sharp tug and you gasp, pupils blowing wide.

Studying you quietly a smirk plays at the edges of his mouth, “Never would have guessed you like having your hair pulled.”

Heat crawls up your neck, “I’m fully capable of kicking your ass.”

“It’s because I'm so attractive isn’t it?”

Dropping his mask to the ground it lands with a muffled thud. Cupping his cheeks with both hands you press your thumb against his lower lip. Darting your eyes over his pretty mouth you wet your lips and lean in close, ignoring the quiet hitch of Dick’s breath and the firm hand that circles your hip.

Lowering your voice to a charged whisper you exhale, “I say this, and I cannot stress this enough. I find you completely repulsive.”

Raising an eyebrow Dick pulls back and you swallow, stomach fluttering at the wild look in his eye. A calm focus overtakes his features and you know from experience that whatever he does next will take you apart. Dick is nothing but prepared and meticulous. Always in control and ten steps ahead of anyone else.

Opening his mouth to no doubt say something that’ll leave you on your knees his phone starts to ring.

“Fuck.” Dick growls under his breath, one hand reaching for the phone to stop it ringing. “I’m gonna have to go.”

Nodding quietly you run your tongue along the backs of your teeth, “Yeah, I know, crime doesn’t stop, not even for one night.” You smile, “Uh–thank you, by the way, for…for saving me. I’m not sure what would have happened if…” You trail off, the words won’t come.

Grabbing your chin between his thumb and pointer finger he holds you firm, unwavering. Something dangerous ignites in his eyes, something furious and protective, “He won’t ever hurt you again, okay?”

Looking away you focus on the wall over Dick’s shoulder.

“Look at me.” He orders, his voice is unyielding. He squeezes your jaw until you meet his eye, “He won’t ever hurt you again.”

Relief almost splits you in half, tears well up along your lower lashes and you try to blink them away before they trail down your cheeks. There’s a lump in your throat and not once, in all the time of knowing him, have you ever felt so thankful to have Dick Grayson in your life.

Tipping forwards he releases his hold of your jaw and you throw your arms over his shoulders. Without missing a single beat Dick winds his arms around your waist and holds you close. He’s strong and warm and safe and even though the harsh material of his suit irritates your skin you’ve never felt more at home.

Tucking your face into the crook of his neck you sigh, one hand gently combing through his hair. Placing your lips at the shell of his ear you whisper a soft little thank you, the words only audible to you and him.

Leaning back after a comfortable silence Dick presses a tender kiss to your forehead and your heart swells at least three sizes.

“You don’t need to be what they made you.” He says, looking you in the eye. “You just need to be you. That’s enough.”

Placing the palm of your hand on his chest–right over his heart, you hope he understands how much he means to you. You can’t quite give a name to the blinding warmth in your stomach. You’re not sure what love feels like. But in your head, you think it feels a lot like this.

Looking up, you trace the lines of his face and his soft little smile washes over you like the dawn–

Oh.

There he is.

**

[yourdeepestfathoms]

self-help

y'all liked my first fic, so here is another!

TW: Blood and injury; wound descriptions

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

“Are you all alright?” Alcina asked, looking over each of the three creatures assembled in front of her. The blonde was slightly roughed up, but still stood up tall; the brunette bore a particularly nasty cut across her cheek, though it didn’t seem to bother her; and the redhead was slathered in man blood from getting to kill the intruder that had foolishly entered their castle and tried to murder them.

“Yes, Mother,” the blonde said, always quick to answer Alcina.

Alcina nodded. She looked at her other two daughters. “And you two?”

“I’m okay,” the redhead chirped. She seemed delighted to have killed something that day.

The brunette lightly touched the cut on her cheek, winced, then nodded, “I’m fine. It isn’t that bad.”

“We should still make sure any of that man-thing’s filth didn’t get into you,” Alcina said. She opened an arm and began guiding her middle child down one of the hallways. “Daniela, do what you will with the body. You’ve earned it.”

The redhead perked up, beaming, and bounded down a different hallway to where the corpse of the man had been left. Once she was gone, only the blonde was left behind in the foyer, and the girl instantly doubled over with a moan of pain, holding her stomach.

“Fuck,” Bela hissed. She was lucky for the dark material of her dress or else the blood seeping through the fabric would have easily been seen by her mother and sisters, and worrying them was the last thing she wanted. It was her own fault that she was shot. There were better things for them to focus on, anyway. Like Cassandra’s cut! Yes, that was definitely more important. She didn’t need any help.

Bela stepped forward and immediately crumpled to her knees when a spasm of pain rippled through her stomach. She bit down firmly to keep from crying out and tasted blood when her teeth pierced her tongue. Usually, the metallic tang would be rather appetizing, but something about it right now made her guts churn and twist up into knots, which definitely didn’t help her discomfort.

Kneeling, still holding her stomach, Bela rocked back and forth while taking several calming breaths. Breathing deeply furthered the strain in her stomach, while not breathing at all just made her chest hurt- she couldn’t win. All she could do was grit her teeth and bear with it like she did with everything. Don’t be a burden, don’t be a burden.

“Lady Bela?”

Bela looked up. A wiry, ash brown-haired maid was lingering at the opening of one of the cavernous hallways, shifting on her feet. Her dark amber eyes displayed nervousness, curiosity, and worry. The last emotion wasn’t an uncommon thing to see, at least towards Bela. Because of her general politeness to the castle workers, they tended to show more concern over her. The perks of not killing them for no reason, she supposed.

“Yes?” Bela said, forcing her voice to stay level and not quaver beneath the fiery edge of her own agony. She didn’t want to cause a scene, but she especially didn’t want to cause a scene in front of a maid. That was almost as bad as her sisters seeing her in such a state--though, for what it was worth, the maids wouldn’t tease her endlessly.

“Are you alright?” the maid asked, taking a small step forward. She was looking Bela up and down, most likely searching for any wounds, and Bela once again thanked Mother Miranda for black fabric.

“Yes, I’m fine,” Bela answered. At the same moment, however, a second wave of pain roared through her and her vision was suddenly spotted by black snow. Did someone open the window? And how long had snow been black? None of her books ever said anything about this…

“Lady Bela?”

Bela blinked harshly, and the storm disappeared. No windows were open. Snow was not black. The maid got closer.

“Ahh--” Bela swallowed hard. “Yes?”

“Are you sure you’re alright?” The maid seemed to be trying to hold herself together. She was probably fearing for her own life if something happened to one of Lady Dimitrescu’s daughters under her watch. Bela would prefer to not have this one die, as she was nice enough to actually check on her instead of ignoring the situation like other maids would, even if Bela denied her physical state when she asked how she was.

“Yes, yes,” Bela said, nodding. “I’m alright. Just…stomach cramps?”

The maid blinked. “Do you even go through a menstrual cycle?”

Bela splayed her fingers open with a shrug. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

The maid actually laughed, which was a rare thing to happen. But the laughter was quickly cut off when her eyes focused on something, clouding over with concern, and Bela realized she was staring at her hands.

There was blood on her hands.

Her blood.

Bela balled her fists and cleared her throat. She looked up at the maid. “Go.”

The maid opened her mouth, but thought against whatever she was planning on saying, not wanting to test Bela’s civility--not that Bela would have hurt her if she had stuck around to speak whatever was on her mind. She dipped her head and scurried off, glancing over her shoulder as she went.

Bela sighed. She wiped her hands on a part of her dress that wasn’t damp. She needed to do something about her problem before her mother or one of her sisters found out.

Standing up was difficult, and Bela was sure Cassandra or Daniela, most likely both, would have teased her if they saw her like this. When she began to walk, she felt blood slither in slow trails down her legs, itching her skin. She fought the urge to scratch until she made it to the privacy of her bedroom, then instantly began shredding her dress with her claws, throwing the tatters of wet fabric to the floor to be picked up later. Once the gown was off, she turned to her mirror to inspect the damage.

Red. The entire front of her body was smeared in red. And beneath the red, there were holes, some as small as her pinky, some as big as a coin, each even darker than the blood and packed full of shrapnel.

Bela had been a fool to go after the man-thing on her own. As reckless and wild as Cassandra and Daniela were with their fighting, they were strong, much stronger than she was. She had seen them withstand vicious stabs and strikes and shots that would have killed any normal person and keep slashing their claws as if nothing had happened, but it took a blast from a shotgun to put her down. She was so blinded by the idea of killing the intruder to impress her mother that she didn’t even think to create an actual plan until she became well-acquainted with leaden bullet chunks against her midsection.

The buckshot was evenly spread out along her abdomen, and maybe it could have passed as paint splattered all over her body if it wasn’t for the malevolent grey peeking out from liquid red. There was a particularly large cluster of holes on her left side, where an entire chunk of meat had been blown free from her waist, but they reached all the way over to her navel and up to the underside of her chest. The bullet pieces were the seeds of her agony, and she desperately needed to reap them from her flesh.

Bela began rummaging through one of her drawers, straining the lead lodged in her skin, and pulled out an old cotton gown she hadn’t worn in years. She walked over to the rocking chair in the corner near the window and sat down. She loved this chair, and it was a shame that it was going to be bled all over, but wood was easier to clean than cloth. She didn’t want to risk staining her bed right now.

Biting down on the gown, Bela began going over the buckshot. There were eighteen holes in total, all of them full of lead. She nearly miscounted a few times because she thought some of them were empty, but then realized the bullets were just buried in her tissue. There was one in particular that she didn’t even see, but could feel shifting around beneath her flesh like a hungry maggot. It made her stomach roil in disgust.

This was not going to be fun.

Bela’s hands were shaking as she brought them down to her stomach. Simply brushing the skin sent waves of torture shivering through her nerves, and she didn’t even want to think about what it was going to feel like to actually remove the slugs, but she didn’t have much of a choice. She couldn’t just leave them inside of her.

Taking a deep breath and biting down hard on the gown, Bela stuck her pointer finger and thumb into one of the holes. Instantly, her vision flashed black, then red, and then white, and she was sure she had passed out for a few eternal seconds. Even when she pried her eyes back open, all she saw was a messy mishmash of swirling colors, and she wondered if she had somehow gone blind. But then sight slowly oozed back to her, and she was able to see the grotesque image of her fingers stretching the edges of a bullet hole.

She swallowed down acidic bile and grasped the sides of the piece of lead.

For a moment, the stubborn little thing didn’t want to come out, and Bela began to fear that it was just a part of her now, forever fused with her flesh, burrowed within her like a leaden parasite, but then it popped out with a small spew of blood and she was able to catch her breath. She dropped the ball, which was no bigger than her pinky finger, and watched it bounce across the floor before rolling beneath her bed. She would get it later. Right now, she had its stupid siblings to deal with.

Breathing in deeply again, clamping down on the gown like before, Bela dug her fingers into a second hole that looked easy enough to scoop out. And it was, surprisingly. The blood proved to be a helpful lubricant and the bullet slid right out when she tugged, not bothering to put up a fight. She peered at it for a moment, squinting her watery eyes.

“You are an asshole,” she spat.

The bullet winked at her in response, the bright red blood coating its surface catching on the light inside the room and making it twinkle like a ruby. She flicked it away, and it left a line of crimson across her polished floors. She would clean that up later, too.

Third time’s a charm. Bela prepared herself again, breathing in and biting down, and dove into the next hole.

She didn’t know why she thought the process of pulling out bullets would suddenly be easier just because she succeeded with the first two. She was an idiot when she had gotten shot and she was an idiot now, trying to rid herself from the consequence of her actions.

Her claws slipped on the slickness of her blood and accidentally pushed the bullet in deeper.

Bela would have screamed if it weren’t for the blood that crawled up her throat, clogging her esophagus. She coughed, thinking that the bullet was going to come out of her mouth, and red splattered across her bare chest, staining her bra. Tears sprang to her eyes and poured down her cheeks. Her shaking hands hovered over the hole, but she couldn’t see the slug anywhere.

“Oh no, no, no, no,” Bela muttered. Did she push it so deep it breached one of her organs? What would happen if it did? How was she going to get it out?

She tried to stretch the edges of the wound, but stopped when she nearly threw up from the pain. She sobbed. What was she going to do? Bela leaned back against the chair, causing it to rock slowly. Maybe she could just leave the bullets inside of her. They probably wouldn’t kill her. She and her sisters were able to endure more than normal creatures could, so it would probably just be very uncomfortable. For the rest of her life.

She swallowed blood and bile. Having to spend the rest of eternity like this didn’t sound very appealing. In fact, it sounded like the complete opposite of appealing. Unappealing.

A sound snapped Bela out of her muddled thoughts; the doorknob was wiggling. Someone was coming into her room.

Lunging forward, nearly slipping on a tiny puddle of her blood, Bela slammed the door shut before it could be opened completely and pressed her weight against it. From the other side, she heard a noise of surprise.

“Bela? What is the meaning of this?”

Her heart sank into her bullet-infested insides. It was her mother. She just slammed the door in her mother’s face. Oh, she was in for it now.

Bela nearly opened up right then and there and got down on her knees to apologize, but one glance down at her horribly-scathed body made her think better of it. She had told Alcina that she was fine, and now she needed to live up to it, even if she felt like she was being swarmed and eaten by her own insects. She had to swallow down her hopeless devotion to her mother to keep her from worrying over her.

“Sorry,” Bela said, hoping her voice wasn’t wavering as much as she thought it was. “I, uhh-- I thought you were Cassandra or Daniela. They always barge into my room without knocking. I don’t appreciate it very much.”

It wasn’t exactly a lie, but she still didn’t feel good about making up an excuse.

From out in the hallway, Alcina was quiet for a moment, and Bela wondered if she was going to break down the door and let herself in. But then she chuckled and said, “I see. I remember the time you tried to set traps for them when they kept interrupting your reading time.”

Bela laughed, which morphed into a groan of pain when her stomach strained. SHe masked it with a cough, then replied, “They were good traps!”

“Darling, you set up a board full of nails for them to step on.”

“My point still stands.”

“And a tripwire that would trigger a pot to swing into their face and knock them out.”

“You got to admit that it was pretty impressive that I was able to make that.”

Alcina chuckled again. “Yes, you have always been my most resourceful little one.”

Bela’s chest warmed with pride. The praise momentarily made her forget about the pain she was in.

“Now, can you let me in? I need to talk to you.”

And like that, the pain was back, the soothing warmth chased off by icy cold dread. Did her mother know? Did that maid snitch on her? She swallowed thickly.

“Umm-- can’t we just talk like this? It’s just as effective.”

“I would prefer it if I was able to see you when I speak to you,” Alcina said. She paused for a moment. “Why can’t I come in?”

“I’m-- I’m naked.”

Also wasn’t a lie, technically.

Alcina was quiet for a moment.

“Bela, I watched you come out of a mass of insects as naked as a babe. I do not think there’s anything left to be seen that I don’t know about already.”

You’d be surprised, Bela thought, looking down at her marred form.

“It’s-- it’s just embarrassing for me!”

Alcina sighed. “Then why don’t you put some clothes on?”

Realizing she wasn’t going to get out of this conversation, Bela said, “Right! Okay!” And then began scrambling for something to wear. The exertion made the two empty bullet holes pucker like hungry mouths and drool out even more blood that drizzled down her legs like snakes. She didn’t have time to clean herself up, so she just threw on the first gown she could reach in one of her drawers--a dark blue one she had sewn herself--wiped her hands off, kicked the tattered black dress under the bed, and smeared the blood on the floor until it couldn’t be seen against the hardwood. Then, she put on the most believable, while also innocent expression of normalcy and opened her door.

“My lady,” she said with a wide sweeping motion of her arm, trying to be funny, trying to hide the fact that she was in immense pain and simply being on her feet made her lightheaded, trying not to worry her mother.

Alcina didn’t laugh at her joke. She seemed rather suspicious as she ducked into the room--not that Bela really blamed her. She was definitely being very suspicious.

“What did you want to talk about?” Bela asked, looking up at her mother.

Alcina looked around her room, but Bela had been smart enough to clean the floors. Not well, but they were clean. When she found nothing, she studied Bela, and Bela held herself as she usually did--maybe a bit too formally.

“I just wanted to check on you all after the attack,” Alcina finally answered, meeting her eyes. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, Mother,” Bela said, and she hated lying to Alcina, but she didn’t have a choice. She hated being a burden even more and that was all she was going to be if Alcina found out about her wounds.

“Are you sure?” Alcina narrowed her eyes at her.

“Yes, Mother,” Bela repeated. Then, trying to change the subject, she asked, “How is Cassandra?”

“She’s okay,” Alcina answered. “She will heal. The cut wasn’t very deep.”

“And Daniela?”

“Feasting. I wouldn’t go near her if I were you. She may just maim you and add you to her meal.” A smile came to Alcina’s lips, and Bela let herself laugh.

Unfortunately, that laughter quickly turned to coughing as her body seized with pain. She tasted blood as the bullets seemed to rattle within her, flesh clenching down around lead. She wiped her mouth before pulling her hand away.

“I wouldn’t put it past her.”

Alcina didn’t respond for a moment. Her entire face was knitted with great concern, and Bela already felt bad for worrying her.

“Bela, are you sure you are alright?”

For a fourth time that day: “Yes, Mother.”

Alcina wasn’t going to let it go that easily, it seemed, because she questioned further: “Have you caught a chill?” She walked over and pressed a hand to Bela’s forehead. Bela couldn’t help but lean into it, always eager to be touched by her mother. “You shouldn’t be coughing like that.”

“I just had a tickle in my throat.”

“I don’t like being lied to, Bela.”

Bela’s resolve nearly broke beneath her mother’s stern gaze, but she kept her facade from falling through sheer willpower alone. She said, “I’m not.”

Alcina’s eyes narrowed. She pulled her hand back and went to say something when she appeared to slip on something. Steadying herself, she looked down at the ground, and Bela’s breath caught in her throat when she realized what exactly her mother had staggered on.

Alcina bent over and picked up the buckshot.

Bela didn’t let her panic show on her face as Alcina examined the tiny lead ball. Its siblings, still lodged deep in her stomach, seemed to giggle at the predicament she was ensnared in when a fresh bout of pain quivered through her nerves. She stayed calm as flashing yellow eyes slid back over to her.

“Bela,” Alcina said slowly, and Bela already didn’t like the tone she was using. “What is this?”

Bela considered playing dumb, but then she remembered that she was the smart, bookish one. She could use her multitude of knowledge as an excuse.

“That’s buckshot, Mother. It comes from a shotgun. Did you know that they have enough firepower to blow a head off? It’s because it has several bullets in one shot instead of a singular one, which means more power behind each blast.”

Alcina held a hand up and Bela instantly shut her mouth.

“Why do you have it?” Alcina asked.

“I was studying it,” Bela answered. It was believable enough. It did sound like something she would do, but Alcina didn’t seem very convinced.

“Your blood is on this, Bela,” Alcina said. “Why is your blood on this bullet?”

“I-- I--” Bela’s act was beginning to crumble.

Alcina turned to her completely, clenching the buckshot in her fist. “Were you shot?”

“Mother, I--”

“Were you shot?”

“Yes,” Bela blurted, unable to hide it anymore. “But-- but it isn’t that--”

“Show me.”

“Wh-what?”

“Bela Dimitrescu, show me where you are hurt. Now.”

Flinching at her mother’s severe tone, Bela removed her dress and revealed the mess on her stomach and chest. When she heard Alcina gasp, she quickly said, “It isn’t that bad. You don’t have to worry about me, Mother. I can take care of it.”

“You fool!” Alcina exploded, and Bela flinched away. “What were you thinking?! Why would you hide this from me?!”

“I-- I thought I could--” Bela was having a hard time collecting her words. If there was one thing she really hated, it was when people raised their voices, even if it wasn’t directed towards her. When Cassandra and Daniela would get into fights, she always left the room and got as far away as possible so she wouldn’t have to hear them yelling. But, as bad as their shouting was, it was nothing compared to their mother when she was worked up.

“I--”

“I asked you if you were alright!” Alcina roared on. “If you were okay! You said you were! And then I come in here and find you with bullets in your flesh?!” She shook her head, nearly dislodging her hat from her head. “What do you have to say for yourself, Bela?”

Personally? Bela really wished they weren’t having this conversation when she didn’t have a shirt on.

Dipping her head shamefully, the only thing that Bela could manage was a pathetic, “I’m sorry, Mother.”

“Why can’t you just let me help you for once?”

“I didn’t want to disappoint you,” Bela confessed. “Or worry you.”

Alcina sighed and rubbed her face slowly. “Bela, I am more worried and disappointed because you hid this from me.”

Bela could only squeak out a feeble, “Oh.”

Alcina knelt down in front of her and lifted her chin. “Honey, why would I be disappointed in you for coming to me for help?”

Bela couldn’t meet her mother’s eyes. “Because-- because I got hurt. And I shouldn’t have. I’m a shitty fighter and got shot and I should have been stronger.”

“Your strength has nothing to do with this,” Alcina said. “Cassandra got hurt too, you know.”

“Cassandra probably didn’t care.”

“I beg to differ. You should have seen her while I was rubbing honey into her wound. She was wiggling around like a little worm!”

Bela laughed slightly, then whimpered immediately after. Alcina glanced at her bullet-filled body, then cupped her cheeks.

“Do you know what I would have done if you had died from these wounds?”

Bela tried not to look at her.

“I would have done everything in my power to get you back to me. I would tear down the sun and moon for you, my darling.” There was so much love in Alcina’s words, so much tenderness and care. Bela was drawn to it. “Please tell me you will come to me next time something happens. I cannot fathom the thought of you being in any more pain.”

Whether or not she actually would when the time came, Bela nodded. Alcina smiled at her warmly and placed a kiss against her forehead.

“That’s my good girl,” she said. “Now…” Her eyes slid down to the bullet wounds. “To handle this.”

“I tried to get them out myself,” Bela said. “I promise I tried. I got two out, but then-- but I couldn’t--”

“Shh,” Alcina stroked her hair. “You tried. That’s all that matters. But I am so proud of you, darling. It must not have been easy.”

Bela shook her head with a whimper.

“Alright,” Alcina stood up straight. “Come on. Lay on your bed. We need to get those little devils out of you.”

Bela didn’t disobey. She had already disobeyed enough for one day. She crawled onto her bed, whimpering each time her body bent in a way the bullets disagreed with. They felt like festering parasites inside her stomach. She was lightheaded.

“Mama,” she moaned. She was the last to stop calling Alcina such a thing. Cassandra was first, then Daniela, and when they both heard her still referring to their mother in that way, they teased her. While it had been done playfully, it was still enough to embarrass Bela and get her to stop to avoid risking further humiliation. But now she didn’t even care. She was far too uncomfortable to care about anything her sisters had to say.

“Mama…”

Alcina caressed the side of her face. “I’m right here, baby. Lay back for me.

Bela, as loyal as a hound, did as she was told. Her head rested against one of her fluffy pillows, but it did little to stop the room from spinning like a top. She looked over at Alcina anxiously, but her mother had an expression of focus and calm.

“Alright, my dove,” Alcina said, cupping one of her clammy, pallid cheeks. “I need you to lay as still as possible for me. Do you think you can do that?”

Bela nodded feebly.

“Very good. I’m going to start now, alright? Just stay still and breathe. I’ll work as quickly as I can.”

Another nod.

“Here I go.”

Even with the warning, Bela’s body still jolted when she felt the sharp stab of her mother’s claws against one of the bullet holes. Her eyes snapped open, but she was blind for several seconds before details bled back into awareness. To her own credit, she managed to keep from crying out, but only because she clenched her jaw so hard she chipped one of her fangs. Cassandra and Danieal were definitely going to tease her over that later, but it was the least of her problems at the moment.

The third bullet slid out with relative ease, lubricated by her blood, and, Mother Miranda, she was only just realizing she had fifteen more to go.

“One down,” Alcina said, flicking the buckshot to the floor. She lifted Bela’s chin to examine her broken tooth. “Hmm. It’ll grow back, don’t worry. It didn’t chip that much.”

“I was using a gown,” Bela said, her words coming out wheezy and weak. “To bite down on.” She pointed to the dress left on the rocking chair. “Can I use it again?”

Alcina followed her hand, spotting the bundle of fabric. “Oh, clever girl!” she praised, rubbing Bela’s head. She picked up the gown and gave it to Bela. “As I said before: you are my bright little daughter.”

Bela smiled shyly before biting down on the gown. She gave her mother an affirmative look to begin again.

The next three bullets went out smoothly--or as smoothly as little masses of lead wedged in sensitive tissue and muscle could be. But then Alcina got to one of the deeper slugs and it didn’t come out when tugged on, causing Bela to cry out and jerk away.

“Breathe, darling,” Alcina said, settling her back on her back when she tried to roll over. “Breathe. It’s alright. This one is a little deeper. A lot of them are going to be, but I need you to stay still and stay calm for me. Can you do that?”

“I-- I don’t know,” Bela said honestly.

Alcina frowned. She stroked her face, wiping away tears. “I know you can. You’re strong, Bela, regardless of what you think. And just know that I am so proud of you.”

Bela reached up to grab her mother’s hand. She pressed into the warm palm like a kitten seeking heat in the middle of a winter storm. Finally, she relented, “Okay.”

“Thank you, darling,” Alcina crooned. She went to return to her work, but Bela didn’t release her hand. “I need you to let me go, Bela.”

Bela was unwilling to part with the warmth, so Alcina did it herself, easily peeling her fingers away. She touched her cheek tenderly for a moment before saying, “Bite down and breathe, baby. I’m starting again.”

Bela did as she was told, grinding her teeth into the gown as claws returned to her sore stomach. She flinched, but didn’t try to squirm away again, grounding herself by grasping handfuls of the sheets beneath her.

Seven, eight, nine, ten… Alcina worked diligently, expertly removing the buckshot from Bela’s body. When she got to the eleventh one and it proved to be rather reluctant to leave its host, she stopped for a moment to give Bela time to breathe and prepare herself.

“You’re doing so good,” Alcina cooed, stroking Bela’s hair, which was wet with cold sweat. Bela had started to tremble at some point, though she didn’t exactly know when, but she hoped it wasn’t making the bullet removal harder than it already was.

“Mama,” Bela mewled. “It hurts…”

“I know,” Alcina hushed her. “I know. I’m almost done. Just eight more to go.”

“Hurry-- hurry--” Bela panted.

“Are you sure? You can wait a moment longer to catch your breath.”

Bela shook her head. “Please.”

Alcina pursed her lips, then nodded. “Alright. Here I go.”

Bela braced herself.

“Eleven…”

Bela breathed.

“Twelve…”

Bela bit down.

“Thirteen…”

Bela--

Bela screamed.

Bela screamed because the fourteenth bullet was buried deep within her flesh, burrowed in her warmth like a maggot in a corpse. She kicked out her legs and tried to yell for Alcina to stop, but blood mixed with bile lurched up the back of her throat and her mouth was clogged with fluids. Alcina ripped out the pellet with enough force to slit the edges of the hole with her claws, threw it to the floor, and then lifted Bela’s head so she wouldn’t inhale her own blood and choke. Bela coughed, staining her chest in a fresh layer of red.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry--”

“Shh,” Alcina stroked her thumb with her cheek. “Nothing to apologize for, darling. You’re doing very well. We’re so close to finishing.”

Bela looked at her, breathing heavily, her throat thick with blood. She didn’t know what to say, so she just nodded weakly. Alcina set her head back down on the pillow.

“Here we go, my sweet. Just a little longer.”

But Bela wasn’t able to handle it when the fifteenth was removed. She grabbed her mother by the wrist when she reached for the sixteenth one, clinging tightly.

“No more, no more--” Bela begged.

Alcina frowned. “I have to get them out, baby. You’re so close.”

Bela shook her head. “No, no-- can’t we-- can’t we just leave them in?”

“Bela. You’re smarter than that. You know we can’t.”

“But-- but it hurts,” Bela wept. “I can’t-- I can’t take it anymore. Please, Mama. Please just stop .”

Above her, Alcina looked incredibly worried. She ran her bloody claws through Bela’s hair, soothing her.

“I have to,” Alcina said. “I’ll be quick, I promise.”

Bela sobbed, but didn’t stop her.

With a cruel yank, the sixteenth bullet dislodged with a spit of blood. Bela shredded the sheets beneath her.

The seventeenth took some digging, with her mother stretching the tender edges of the hole with one hand, picking out flesh with the other. She nearly threw up at the disgusting squelching sounds that filled the air, but managed to save herself from the humiliation by swallowing hard.

The eighteenth, the one she had accidentally pushed in deeper, was the worst. It was like having a hot knife thrust into her soft stomach over and over again. She shivered with pain and blood loss as she felt the bullet being tugged on in her ragged flesh. It was a sickening friction of skin sucking against the force of her mother’s claws. She didn’t even know if it came out fully because her eyes rolled to the back of her head and everything went black.

——— ——— ———

Wiping her claws of blood, Alcina frowned down at her eldest daughter. Bela was unconscious. It seemed the pain was finally too much for her little body. Though, she made it all the way to the end. Alcina was expecting her to pass out a lot sooner.

And she said she wasn’t strong.

Scooping her up into her arms, Alcina carried Bela to her bedroom, telling a maid to clean up the bloody mess left behind. Once inside her chambers, she ran Bela a hot bath, washing her of all the blood that stained her body. The warm water seemed to rouse her daughter because shiny amber eyes peeked out from under heavy eyelids as she was cleaning out her hair.

“Mama,” Bela breathed out.

Alcina smiled at her lovingly. “Hello, my sweet.”

Bela looked around sluggishly. She seemed dazed. “I’m… huh?”

“You passed out,” Alcina informed her.

“The buckshot…?”

“All out,” Alcina reached out to caress her cheek. “It’s over. You did it. I’m so proud of you, baby girl.”

Bela, always wanting affection, pressed into her hand. “Finally…”

Alcina chuckled. “I’m just going to finish washing all this blood off and then you can lay back down. You need lots of rest to heal.”

“Can you…?”

Alcina smiled again. Her heart swelled with adoration and love towards her daughter.

“Yes, I will lay with you.”

Bela had definitely earned it.

[sgtnightwolfinthetardis]

We Create Our Own Safety

Pairing: Winter Soldier x Mutant Fem!Reader

Word Count: 2,118

Summary: When HYDRA operatives try to take advantage of a Winter Soldier rendered helpless by his handlers’ orders, they discover just how dangerous you can be, and how fiercely you will protect what is yours.

Warnings: Explicit language, explicit sexual content (p in v), unprotected sex, rough sex, attempted rape/HYDRA trash party, violence, blood, feral!reader, Winter Soldier’s fierce competencey kink, both of them are possessive as fuck.

A/N: I will write that challenge fic eventually, I swear, but it's like they refuse to let me write them with Bucky as himself until I write him as the Winter Soldier. This fic was born from my all consuming need to stab anyone who has ever hurt or even caused mild discomfort to James Buchanan Barnes. HYDRA trash party? Not in my fucking AU! I have no beta so any mistakes are my own.

You raced down the hallway, nose searching desperately for the scent of gunpowder and leather. Training had been exhausting, but ultimately successful. It still galled you to do what the scientists and handlers ordered you to, but you had learned quickly that defiance brought only agony. Obedience however, brought you freedom to roam the complex for a time, which meant you got to see your soldier.

He wasn’t in his room or the gym, the usual places you found him in. You knew he wasn’t on a mission, and despite the fact that he could more than take care of himself, you were beginning to feel an uneasy twinge in your stomach. It was only as you moved deeper into the complex that you finally caught a hint of his scent. At least, you thought it was his scent. There was something different about it that you couldn’t place, and it set your heart racing as the uneasy feeling in your gut grew.

You started to sprint, following the scent to a large door. You stopped in front of it, wincing as the difference in scent became clear. Your soldier’s scent had a bitter tang to it, a scent you had come to associate with distress. Everything within you stood at attention as you moved to the door. You could practically hear his voice in your head, scolding you for your recklessness, but it didn’t matter. He was the only good thing in a life of nightmares, your protector, your soldier. If he was in trouble, you would throw yourself between him and that trouble every time.

You slipped into the room silently, and took in the scene in front of you. Assorted HYDRA operatives lounged throughout the room, chatting and indulging in copious amounts of food and drink. In the corner of the room was a bed, and on the bed was your soldier. He was pressed up against the wall the bed was pushed against, a large agent looming over him. The agent had one hand stroking over the prominent bulge in his pants, the other at the soldier's waist, undoing his belt.

“ What was it the handlers told the Asset?” the agent turned his head to ask his nearby friend with a sick grin. “Your orders are to stay and entertain the men. ”

The agent and his friend laughed. The soldier's face remained emotionless but the bitterness in his scent spiked. You froze in horror, realization washing over you.

“I can think of a few ways that you can be of entertainment, Asset,” the agent said lustfully, pulling the soldier's belt out of its loops.

The sound broke you out of your trance, as everything grew unnaturally quiet in your mind. There was a darkness in you, something completely feral and driven by instinct. You kept your mind when you transformed, but it was always there, lying dormant. It was what the scientists and handlers wanted to draw out of you, using pain, exhaustion, anything they could think of. You always pushed it back, away. You had been doing so your whole life. This time however, when you felt it rise up, you embraced it, letting it crash over you like a wave.

You moved without conscious thought, quick strides that brought you to the agent’s side. You grabbed the hand that had still held your soldier’s belt and snapped it back, delighting in the satisfying crack of the agent’s wrist as it broke.

“Get your fucking hands off him!” You snarled, shoving the agent back and placing yourself between him and your soldier.

“What the fuck, you stupid little bitch!” The agent cried out as he cradled his wrist.

You could feel the eyes of the whole room on you as you concentrated on the prickling in your fingertips. Your nails grew and hardened, a wolf’s claws forming on human hands. The smile that crept onto your face was malicious as you stared at the man who had dared to lay a hand on your soldier, who had planned to use and violate him without a second thought.

“I said, get you fucking hands off him,” you repeated in a low and exaggerated voice, your disdain dripping from every syllable.

“You have no idea who you are dealing with,” the agent said. Other agents and operatives from around the room began to rise from their seats and move towards the commotion.

The fight that followed was swift and bloody. The agents were trained and had the numbers advantage, but they were no match for your enhanced strength or your claws, and you wielded both with murderous intent. You cared little for the blood you split, the wolf’s mentality and your own rage shielding you from any squeamishness you might have felt.

The room was filled with groans by the time the last agent went down, a sea of injured bodies littering the floor. You had blood dripping down your hands and your clothes were rumpled and torn as you let loose a howl of victory that was chilling coming from a human throat. You stalked back over to the first agent who was bleeding steadily from numerous cuts and cradling broken ribs with his one good arm. You crouched down and grabbed him by the shirt collar, taking dark delight in his broken gasps of pain.

“If you ever try to touch him again, I will tear your fucking throat out with my teeth!” Your voice was steady and calm as you spoke, not a threat but a promise. Your words, while meant for the agent, carried to all in the room.

You turned from the agent and made your way to your soldier, who still sat motionless on the bed. Reaching out a hand, you hauled him to his feet using strength that was usually kept well hidden. You maneuvered him quickly to the door, snarling at any agent or operative that so much as twitched from their spot on the ground.

Every sense you had was on full alert, and your heart pounded in your chest as you slammed the door behind you, scanning the hallway in front of you for danger. Your soldier was silent as he moved with you through the hallway, though you could feel his gaze burning into your back, not even offering a protest when you growled at him for creating too great a distance between you. He simply stepped closer and gripped your hand tighter.

When you finally made it to his room, the door had barely shut behind you before you were being shoved against it. Your soldier crashed his lips against yours, his mouth warm and demanding. You moaned into his mouth and it only served to drive him deeper into a frenzy. His hand moved to grip your face and he pressed his body against you so tightly that you could barely feel where you ended and he began. You were light headed by the time he released you, moving his lips just far enough off of yours for you to draw desperately needed air into your lungs.

“Fucking embodiment of vengeance,” your solider mumbled against your lips as his hands worked to strip you of your clothes. “You tore through them!”

“Did you like it, soldier?” you cooed wickedly, his words making you feel powerful. “Did it get you all hot and bothered, watching me stake my claim on you?”

He growled, hauling your naked boy over his shoulder and stalking towards the bed. He threw you down, enjoying the slight squeak you let out when you landed. “Am I yours then, little wolf?” He asked, tossing his uniform carelessly into the corner, piece by piece, as he stripped. Once he was naked he crawled onto the bed and knelt between your legs, eyeing your naked body with hunger.

You gave him a sweet smile before bringing your legs up and kicking him in the chest, knocking him onto his back on the bed. You sprung up from your prone position, moving swiftly to crawl up his body, taking special care to drag your dripping core over his erection. The moan he let out as you moved over him was music to your ears. You continued to rut against him as you ran your hands through his hair, before tugging his head back harshly so you could kiss and bite your way down his neck.

“You are my soldier! Mine!” You whispered harshly into his ear, before biting down on the lobe. “But I am yours too. Your little wolf. Yours, soldier. So fuck me like it!”

He had you flipped over seconds after the words left your mouth, impaling himself within you in one swift thrust. Your soldier was an impressive man in all respects, and even as wet as your were his cock still split you open. You threw your head back, screaming at the delicious stretch that just skirted the edge of too much.

“Mine!” Your soldier snarled out as he set a punishing pace, each stroke harder and deeper than the last. “My little wolf, take it so well!”

You whined underneath him, unable to do anything but scratch desperate lines down his back and hang on. It soothed the wildest part of you. Your soldier was here, aiming to see if he could actually fuck you through the mattress, he wasn’t trapped by the cage of his handlers commands.

When his flesh hand moved between your bodies to rub furiously at your clit, you closed your eyes and just let yourself feel. You weren’t foolish enough to believe there would be no repercussions to your actions. You would pay heavily for your interference, but you didn’t care. They could make you scream, but never like your soldier could. This moment of bliss would stay with you through their torture, a reminder that your solider was worth it, worth everything.

“They can’t have you,” he swore as he brought you closer and closer to the edge. “ You are mine little wolf, branded into whatever tattered remains of my soul are left.”

You cried out as the coil in your gut twisted tighter and tighter, reaching up to pull him down closer to you. You wanted to feel him everywhere, to drown in his presence and his scent.

“Give it to me,” He demanded, hips snapping. “If you’re mine, then give it to me!”

You came with a deep moan, melting into the mattress as he fucked your though your high. You sighed as you felt him paint your insides just a few thrusts later, relishing in the feel of his teeth on you as he bit down on your shoulder to muffle his groan. He licked over the bite mark he left before moving to press his forehead against yours.

Eventually he pulled out slowly and maneuvered you to lay in his arms, dragging the blanket you had knocked clear of the bed in your frenzy over you both. For some time you lay there in the silence, drinking in the other’s presence, and the rare moment that held no pain for either of you.

The sound of far off footsteps reached your ears at the same time, a harsh signal that your peace was at an end. You both dressed quickly, and despite your belief that whatever was coming was worth it, your body still shook. Your soldier stepped closer and pulled you into his arms, tucking your head under his chin.

You stood locked together as the doorknob started to turn, ready to face your captors together. Your soldier looked down at you and you found comfort in the steadiness of his blue eyes. HYDRA may command you both like they owned you, but it was a lie, you belonged only to each other.

[glimmerglanger]

ok wild prompt ignore if u feel loke it but i just read "is that a knife in your thigh or you just happy to see me?" and immediately thought of Obi-Wan (bc i am always thinking abt him lets be real)

DJFKSLDFJ Did I have a jolt of inspiration for this in the middle of a work project? Yes. Did I take a break to jot it all down before I forgot? Also yes!

Anyway! This is a little pre-obikin fic. Set during the Clone Wars. Mentions of injuries (someone got stabbed in the leg, after all) and a rescue attempt that went very wrong. Sillier than it sounds, I think.

~~~~~

“Is that a knife in your thigh,” Obi-Wan slurred, as Anakin bent over him, swearing under his breath, “or are you just happy to see me?”

Anakin stopped for a moment, gaping down at Obi-Wan, who flashed him a wide grin, apparently unrepentant. Anakin decided to blame the comment on whatever the kriff the Separatists had dosed Obi-Wan with before Anakin managed to find him.

“It’s a knife,” Anakin told him, biting the words out and putting both hands on Obi-Wan’s head, because it was the only way to make him stay still. Anakin checked his eyes. His pupils were blown, no sign of blue around the edges of his eyes. He frowned, ignoring the pain radiating out of his leg. “You put it there, remember?”

“Oh, yes,” Obi-Wan said, expression abruptly going serious. He was still tugging on Anakin’s arms, uncoordinated. Anakin had a feeling Obi-Wan had been aiming for his gut, not his thigh. “Sorry about that.”

“I know you didn’t mean it,” Anakin told him, though that wasn’t….quite true. Obi-Wan had obviously meant to stab someone. Probably whoever had done this to him. Anakin wasn’t entirely sure what this was, only that Obi-Wan was...obviously not himself. And that he was hurt. “Can you stand?”

“Do I have to?” Obi-Wan asked. He was tugging Anakin’s collar to one side. Anakin resisted the urge to roll his eyes, using the Force to push aside the throbbing pain in his leg. He’d seen Obi-Wan get like this a few times, usually after he was given pain killers.

They affected him...oddly.

“Yes,” Anakin said, trying to lift Obi-Wan’s hands away from his clothes. “I can’t carry you. You stabbed me in the leg.”

“We could take the knife out,” Obi-Wan suggested, and Anakin just barely managed to catch his wrist as he reached down.

“We’re not going to do that,” Anakin told him, though there was an immediate temptation to the idea. It was instinct to want to pull out the thing that caused so much pain. But it would be a terrible idea in their situation.

Currently, the knife was the only thing keeping his blood inside his body. It wasn’t doing a great job, but removing it would make things much worse. He was pretty sure Obi-Wan had nicked something important. 

Obi-Wan pouted up at him. Anakin ignored the expression, looking him over and trying to get a better idea of how he was hurt. It was, at least, easy to assess his condition. The Separatists must have had him in bacta, based on how sticky he felt and the fact that he was barely wearing anything.

Anakin had no idea why they’d thrown Obi-Wan in this little cell. Or how he’d gotten a knife. He had a lot of questions that could be answered later. “Alright,” he said, shaking his head. The agony from his leg was making it hard to think. “You’re getting up, come on.”

“Sir, yes, sir,” Obi-Wan rasped, husky, and Anakin rolled his eyes. He focused on getting himself up, first, hissing as he tried to put any weight on his leg. Not only was he not going to be able to carry Obi-Wan out of here, it was feeling more and more likely that Obi-Wan was going to need to carry him. 

As far as rescues went, this wasn’t one he wanted recorded.

“Oh,” Obi-Wan said, as Anakin braced one hand on the wall, trying to stop his head from spinning. Kriffing blood loss. Kriffing Obi-Wan, stabbing him in the leg while Anakin was trying to rescue him, it was-- “You’re bleeding.”

“I am,” Anakin said, reaching a hand down. “Take my hand, you need to get up.”

Obi-Wan stared at him for another long moment and then stretched out his arm, wobbly. It took him two tries to grab Anakin’s hand, but then he managed to pull himself up. He swayed forward, into Anakin, who groaned in misery, biting his tongue and trying to avoid blacking out.

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan said, face mashed up against his shoulder. “Is a that a knife in your leg, or--”

“It’s a knife,” Anakin told him, ragged, “just like it was the first time you asked.” The room was spinning around. He thought he might be ill.

Obi-Wan patted at his sides and then asked, voice cracking, “You’re not happy to see me?”

Anakin was going to single-handedly tear apart every Separatist involved in whatever had been going on here. He swore breathlessly. “Of course I’m happy to see you,” he said, ignoring the way his leg was starting to feel very, very cold.

“Doesn’t seem like it,” Obi-Wan said, voice still quivering.

Anakin was also going to strangle whoever had developed whatever drug it was they’d given to Obi-Wan. Later. He swallowed, struggling for focus. “I’m so happy,” he said, through gritted teeth. “But I need your help to get out of here, right now.” 

Obi-Wan lifted his head at that, which was a mistake, because then he swayed to the side and almost went down. Anakin cursed, gripping him to keep him upright. “Kriff,” he said, hoping no one was around to see, “alright, you’re going to have to walk. And - and help me.”

“Ah,” Obi-Wan said, nodding jerkily. “Because of the knife.”

“Because of the knife,” Anakin agreed, and swallowed a shout when Obi-Wan immediately straightened, taking most of his own weight. He only swayed alarmingly for a moment before he reached out and grabbed Anakin, dragging an arm over his shoulder.

“Obi-Wan,” Anakin managed to pant out, as Obi-Wan took a swaying step towards the door, dragging him along. Obi-Wan made an agreeable, humming sound. “Next time I come to rescue you, maybe don’t stab me.”

“I’ll kiss it better,” Obi-Wan said, starting a jagged path down the hall, utterly unable to walk in a straight line. 

Anakin stared forward, his leg a dull throb and his vision starting to get a little blurry. He wasn’t sure he’d heard properly. His pulse was pounding very loudly in his ears. He asked, hearing a slur in his voice, “What?”

“Your thigh,” Obi-Wan said, readjusting his grip, taking a little more of Anakin’s weight. “Where the knife is. I’ll kiss it. It’ll be fine.”

Anakin considered that. It took a while to work all the way through the statements. He said, finally, “I don’t think that’ll help.”

Obi-Wan was quiet for a little while. They’d almost reached the end of the hall. There was a door there. And, with any luck, the ship Anakin had taken to come and rescue Obi-Wan was still out there. “Oh,” Obi-Wan said, finally, “I could kiss something else.”

“That sounds better,” Anakin told him, distantly aware that neither one of them should have been talking. But he didn’t have the energy to control his tongue. He felt...tired. And heavy. His body weighed as much as a small moon. He had no idea how Obi-Wan was dragging him along. “Why not my mouth?” he suggested, as the world wobbled around him. 

“Mm,” Obi-Wan hummed, nodding. “Alright, I’d like that,” he said, and Anakin laughed, just a little.

“Wait until I’m awake,” he advised, because if Obi-Wan really was going to kiss him, after all of this time, he’d like to be conscious for it. The world spun around again, as Obi-Wan shouldered his way through the door, over all the droid bodies Anakin had left behind on his way into the compound.

The sun beat down on his face. The ship was still waiting, ramp down. Anakin exhaled, relief carving away the last of his energy, and heard Obi-Wan make a concerned sound from somewhere far away.

[anonniemousefics]

Can we please get more tfota scenes from cardan's pov? Maybe something from qon this time 🙈

Happy New Year! ♥️🥂

It’s so great you guys are enjoying these Cardan POV pieces! This one sort of follows His Monstrous Bride and this other little continuation -- it’s taken from Chapter 18 of The Queen of Nothing when Jude and Cardan talk about her exile before meeting with the Living Council. 

I don’t have a title for it -- let’s just call it His Monstrous Bride Part II. lol

(Also a shameless plug for my ongoing fic The Nine Terrifying Moons, which will feature a Cardan POV chapter coming soon. Wheeeee!)

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

Cardan is well versed at hiding his emotions, but it doesn’t hurt to look the part. And the day that his High Queen is finally awakening, once again restored to Elfhame, is a day to dress for a very specific kind of battle. Jude has ignored him for months – now he must be unignorable. He has gold along his cheekbones and caps like gold knives at the tips of his ears. Jude likes knives after all.

He’s flanked by his guards at her door. (Their door? He’s unused to sharing.) The Living Council means to interrupt her convalescence, and he’ll have none of it. He’s there to make sure she is fit and ready, and he doesn’t have to do more than that, he tells himself. His envoy is at his sides at all times now, and still, in this moment, some part of him wishes there were more of them. Wishes he could shrink back from what may lie ahead.

“Your Highness?” His guards are waiting for him to do something. He hadn’t realized how long he’d been hesitating.

It’s just… it’s been months of endless rejection, though he knows now she never received his letters, but still…he’s not sure he can take one more. And his heart is still cracked and raw from her most recent brush with death.

He steels himself. And knocks at the door.

It’s Oak who answers with an innocent smile, which is something of a relief. With Oak around, Jude’s less likely to become stabby.

Although, at least if she’s stabbing him, she’s no longer ignoring him. And Cardan really can’t stand one more minute of being ignored by Jude Duarte.

She’s there now, and the sight of her standing catches him right in the chest. The last time he’d clapped eyes on her, she was bleeding all over his spider-silk sheets. He’d cleaned her blood with his own two hands, but now she’s upright and clear-eyed, dressed in a foreboding black number with silver at her collar and cuffs. Her auburn hair has been braided like a crown, and with smoky traces of rose around her eyes, she looks deadly and formidable once more.

It’s such a welcome sight. He has never been so thrilled to see her. And that’s such a treacherous and terrifying notion, since he thinks it’s very likely she’s might smack him in the near future if he can’t navigate the mess of crossed wires between them.

The thrill lasts only a moment, because then his stomach gives a lurch. He’s just realized that all of her sisters are there, too. And they’re all staring at him. And he’s been staring right back.

Suddenly, Cardan’s on the verge of breaking into a cold sweat.

“Walk with me,” he finally tells Jude, eager to get away from so many Duarte eyes.

“Of course.” Jude’s brown eyes in particular seem uncharacteristically wide and confused.

Vivienne catches Jude’s hand before she can join him.

“You’re not well enough,” she objects. As if Cardan can’t take care of her. As if he hadn’t cleaned up her blood himself.

“The Living Council is eager to speak with her,” he says instead. Jude should be proud of how he’s learned to curb his tongue in her absence.

“The only danger anyone has ever been in at a Council meeting is of being bored to death,” Jude is reassuring her family, before stepping away, the guards folding in around them.

Cardan offers her his arm – he wants to keep her close, and he wants Vivienne to take note. It is different now, and he wants them all to see. Jude is cared for here.

He wants to take his time with her at his arm as they swap neutral business about the Roach, about the Bomb, about Madoc, but he can hardly even look at her. His head is full of visions of those nights he wrote to her again and again, outright begging in the end, and then lying awake, alone, certain his agony would be never-ending. Gods above, he’d even written once that his heart was hers, buried with her in the soil of the mortal world -- and she’d sent no reply. And though he knows now it’s because she hadn’t even received it, he’s still completely unsure of how to act.

It’s extremely unsettling how normal Jude seems in this moment. As if no time has passed at all.

And there are still so many eyes on them. Courtiers bobbing their heads as they pass. The guards just an arm’s length away. This is no place to try to sort through what he had written to her, what she needed to know. So maybe he just won’t, he thinks. Maybe it can just be like this for an eternity and he can go back to drinking away his feelings after this Council meeting. Maybe this is the most he should hope for.

But then, Jude says: “I need to talk to you.”

And his heart plummets to his guts. He’s not sure he can keep the dread off his face.

“It won’t take long,” Jude says, which is maybe worse. It means it’s simple: she wants to end their marriage. She wants to return to the mortal world. Of course she does.

But then, she says: “Whatever your scheme is, whatever you are planning to hold over me, you might as well tell me now, before we’re in front of the whole Council. Make your threats. Do your worst.”  

What? What the bleeding skies is she talking about? This is such a mess he’s made. And it is, perhaps, the first mess he’s ever truly cared to clean up.

Cardan turns them away toward a corridor to the outdoors.

“Yes,” he agrees. “We do need to talk.”

He steers them for the royal rose garden, where he knows the guards will stop at the gate and leave them alone. He has only a few steps down a path of shimmering quartz stairs among the roses to decide exactly what parts of his heart he’s willing to reveal today. What exactly won’t hurt so terribly much should she throw it all back in his face.

“I assume you weren’t actually trying to shoot me,” he says, choosing first the obvious and easiest. “Since the note was in your handwriting.”

“Madoc sent the Ghost--” Jude starts, but then stops. Softens. “I thought that there was going to be an attempt on your life.”

This does not mean that she cares for you, he has to remind himself. He still doesn’t want to look at her. The memory of perceived rejection is still too strong, still too bitter.

But he’s not going to live with the regrets he’d drowned in when she’d nearly died. He tries to choose his next words carefully.

“It was terrifying,” he admits, feigning interest in a nearby bush of jet black roses, “watching you fall. I mean, you’re generally terrifying, but I am unused to fearing for you.” He swallows back the memories, threatening the periphery of his mind. “And then I was furious. I am not sure I have ever been that angry before.”  

“Mortals are fragile,” Jude shrugs him off. She doesn’t get it.

“Not you,” he sighs. “You never break.”

There. Can that be enough? He’s made it fairly obvious now, hasn’t he? Surely she gets it now – he doesn’t want her to die, he doesn’t want to see her hurt. Witnessing it was the worst thing he’s ever seen. Because he cares for her.

If he has to spell it out, it might kill him. So, he just waits for what she has to say to that.

Jude’s looking at the roses, too, when he glances at her, her thick lashes lowered.

“When I came here, pretending to be Taryn, you said you’d sent me messages,” she says, and oh, please, gods, not this. “You seemed surprised I hadn’t gotten any. What was in them?”

Cardan wants to vomit. No, he needs to vomit. If his nervous stomach would cooperate and vomit everywhere, he could still get away from this with a shred of dignity.

He clasps his hands behind his back so she can’t see how they shake, his smile telling the lies that the rest of him can’t. That he is cool and unaffected, not at all hopelessly in love with the mortal girl in front of him.

“Pleading, mostly.” He tries to say it like it’s a joke. “Beseeching you to come back. Several indiscreet promises.” Maybe that little bit of tantalizing will flatter her.

It doesn’t. Actually, he’s not sure Jude can be flattered. She closes her eyes shut in no small amount of frustration.

“Stop playing games,” she growls. “You sent me into exile.”

“Yes. That.” Right, of course she doesn’t love that he’s beating around the bush. If only he could help it. He’s so goddamn nervous. “I can’t stop thinking about what you said to me, before Madoc took you. About it being a trick. You meant marrying you, making you queen, sending you to the mortal world, all of it, didn’t you?”

The glare she throws him is so very Jude, though he loves it less when it’s directed at him.

“Of course it was a trick,” she seethes. “Wasn’t that what you said in return?”

Well, this is rich.

“But that’s what you do. You trick people.” Though Cardan’s starting to realize just how wrong he’s been about the things Jude enjoys. “I thought you’d admire me a little for it, that I could trick you. I thought you’d be angry, of course, but not quite like this.”

“What?” Jude looks like she could unhinge her jaw and swallow him whole. He might even deserve it.

He needs to put an end to this nightmare. There’s still a miniscule chance she’ll find some part of it amusing.

“Let me remind you that I didn’t know you’d murdered my brother, the ambassador to the Undersea, until that very morning,” he points out. Surely, the context will help his case. “My plans were made in haste. And perhaps I was a little annoyed. I thought it would pacify Queen Orlagh, at least until all promises were finalized in the treaty. By the time you guessed the answer, the negotiations would be over.”

But Jude’s face is unchanged. He isn’t seriously this good at trickery, is he?

“Think of it,” he presses, hoping she’ll follow along. “I exile Jude Duarte to the mortal world. Until and unless she is pardoned by the crown.” Any minute now. Any minute.

“Pardoned by the crown,” he repeats to her blank stare. Right, so, this game isn’t funny anymore.

“Meaning by the King of Faerie. Or its queen,” he explains, watching her eyes grow wider, wilder. “You could have returned anytime you wanted.”

When he’d first envisioned her figuring out the riddle, he’d expected probably a punch in the arm, maybe she would have even drawn her blade again. That would have been delightful. He’d thought about trembling beneath her again, about that searing look she got in her eye just before devouring his lips. That would have been – gods. He might have considered letting her murder more of his brothers to have that again.

But what is happening now is decidedly the opposite. Jude’s breath is quickening, her face flushing, and in the air between them, Cardan feels a rift cracking wider. He hasn’t played a trick – he’s done something horrible.

When Jude begins to back away from him, he thinks back to what it felt like to find Nicasia with Locke. What Jude’s face is doing now – that is what his heart had done then. She is recoiling from him. Jude Duarte is recoiling from him, because he has hurt her.

He honestly had not thought it was possible. He honestly had not thought himself capable. He honestly had not thought she cared enough.

She whirls then and marches away from him, and he has never hated himself more. Stop her, he thinks, but he’s still stunned. If he’d known she cared…

Stop her!

He runs after her. She has to know he wouldn’t have done it if he’d known. She has to know he will fight to keep her now that he knows. But when he seizes her arm, she hauls around and slaps him, hard enough to turn his face.

It’s not the worst hit he’s taken, not by a long shot, but its sting is entirely different. There’s something fiery in her eyes, and, for the first time, he’s aware that he is not the only one who has been in agony these long months. Oh, he would undo it all now if he could. He would pull her in and kiss her over and over until they both stopped hurting.

Except she still looks murderous. Getting close to her face is probably not a good idea if he doesn’t want to be bitten. (He does kind of want to be bitten, just…in a very different scenario.)

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he says, carefully, and his hand finds hers. To his great surprise, she lets their fingers lace together, and his heart seizes with a wild hope. It does not mean she loves you, he thinks. He fumbles. “No, it’s not that, not exactly. I didn’t think I could hurt you. And I never thought you would be afraid of me.”

“And did you like it?” Jude asks, narrowing her eyes.

His cheek is hot from the slap of her hand, and now with shame. Because how is he supposed to answer that? He didn’t hate being more powerful for once. He didn’t hate being the one with the answer to the riddle.

“Well, I was hurt.” He’s hesitated too long, and now Jude’s pressing on. “And yes, you scare me.”

Cardan finds himself taking in her full face then, the one that has always seemed so defiant and fearless and headstrong.

“You’ve always scared me,” Jude is saying, and this is what almost undoes him. She repeats it, telling him again and again each moment she had been afraid of him, and with each one, his mind bursts a little more. This doesn’t seem real. “And I am scared of you now,” she concludes, that defiant gleam in her eye til the end.

Cardan is speechless. And Cardan’s never speechless.

There was a time when he enjoyed playing a villain in her heroic story line, but she wasn’t supposed to be truly afraid of him. She was supposed to vanquish him and make him beg for her kindness. (And he would now. He really would.)

(Maybe he will.)

“You despised me,” Jude reminds him, because he does need reminding. He’s not sure now if he ever really did. “When you said you wanted me, it felt like the world had turned upside down. But sending me into exile, that made sense. That was an entirely right-side-up Cardan move. And I hated myself for not seeing it coming. And I hate myself for not seeing what you’re going to do to me next.”

At that, Cardan closes his eyes. Hopelessness is threatening to overtake him. Fear has created this monster before him, the one who irrevocably holds his heart. Is it possible to unmake such a curse? He’s certainly been unable to find a cure for his own fear, lifelong coward that he is.

When she’d first returned and his heart was freshly cracked, he’d thought back to a fairy story about a boy cursed with a heart of stone and the monster he took as his bride. It had been patience and fearlessness that had won over the monster in the end – something the boy had managed only because of his stony heart.

So, Cardan thinks of stones then. Of pulling together all his cracked and raw edges. Of being impenetrable and solid and fearless. He thinks of doing what needs to be done. He needs her, for so many things, and she must know that. Perhaps it is folly to wish for anything more than simply averting a crisis.

But he can’t manage it if he’s looking at her. He releases her hand and turns away.

“I can see why you thought what you did,” he says at last. “I suppose I am not an easy person to trust. And maybe I ought not to be trusted, but let me say this: I trust you.”

Patience. Fearlessness. Deep breath.

“You may recall that I did not want to be High King. And that you did not consult me before plopping this crown on my head. You may further recollect that Balekin didn’t want me to keep the title and that the Living Council never took a real shine to me.

“There was a prophecy given when I was born. Usually Baphen is uselessly vague, but in this case, he made it clear that should I rule, I would make a very poor king.” It hurts more than he thought it would to say it out loud. “The destruction of the crown, the ruination of the throne – a lot of dramatic language.”

He has to be cavalier about it; it stings too much otherwise. It’s been the bane of his existence, this prophecy. It is the reason his entire childhood was filled with nothing but dismissal and cruelty. It’s the very, very low standard he’s spent his whole life trying not to meet. The best his family had ever hoped for from him was his complete and utter disappearance – and he’d failed to do even that.

He turns back to Jude. Patience. Fearlessness. He has so much more to say. He has so much more he wants to be than this. Deep breath.

“When you forced me into working for the Court of Shadows, I never thought of the things I could do – frightening people, charming people – as talents, no less ones that might be valuable. But you did. You showed me how to use them to be useful. I never minded being a minor villain, but it’s possible I might have grown into something else, a High King as monstrous as Dain. And if I did – if I fulfilled that prophecy, I ought to be stopped. And I believe that you would stop me.”

Jude sputters at that, blinking hard.

“Stop you?” she echoes. “Sure. If you’re a huge jerk and a threat to Elfhame, I’ll pop your head right off.”

“Good.” And he means it. To die by Jude’s hand would be a dream. “That’s one reason I didn’t want to believe you’d joined up with Madoc. The other is that I want you here by my side,” and just for good measure, just in case she still isn’t getting it: “As my queen.”

But he can’t read the expression on Jude’s face when he says it – if it brings her joy, if it brings her more distress. He’s not sure what else he could have said to make it any more clear. And now her silence is threatening to eat him alive. This reeks of the beginnings of yet another rejection.

He smiles at her, instinctively, a last ditch effort to make this even slightly less awkward.

“But now that you’re High Queen and back in charge, I won’t be doing anything of consequence anyway,” he promises. “If I destroy the crown and ruin the throne, it will only be through neglect.”

He wants her to smile back. To roll her eyes at him and act like she isn’t amused when she so clearly is. He’s missed that, oh, how he’s missed that.

He gets all that and more when she blurts out a laugh.

“So that’s your excuse for not doing any of the work?” She quirks an eyebrow, and it makes his heart swell. They’re smiling together again. He’d needed that, too, more than he’d realized. “You must be draped in decadence at all times because if you aren’t kept busy, you might fulfill some half-baked prophecy.”

“Exactly,” he says. Exactly… It’s more true than he wants it to be. His smile fades. And Jude is looking more tired than he’s comfortable with. He hopes he has not pushed her too hard. He touches her arm, gently, not thinking. Her gaze catches his, soft and warm. He finds himself leaning in…

“Would you like me to inform the Council that you will see them another time?” he asks. “It will be a novelty to have me make your excuses.”

But Jude is stalwart and determined as ever. He expected nothing less.

He pulls back. She does not need him. Not like he needs her.

“No, I’m ready,” she says.

How he wishes he could say the same.

-----------

Tagging: @yellowavocadopit, @dagypsygirl, @ireallyshouldsleeprn, @booklover-sleeplover, @mwejh, @courtofjurdan, @faeriequeenofwest, @sugawsites, @loveyourselfsolid, @owl0y0s, @feelinglikecleopatra, @akaloto, @charrise, @persephxnecoven, @raging-bisexual-alert, @rteme, @nahthanks, @addies-invisible-life, @elorcanislife, @snusbandxknifewife, @poeticbrownmermaid, @duarteegreenbriar, @thefolkofthefic, @alittledribbledrabble, @carmensworld17, @annejulianneh111, @amandlas, @elriel4life, @idk-what-name-to-use, @thewickedkings, @juliazato, @woodsbeyond1, @booksmusicandgoodvibes, 

[blitzturtles]

Title: Two-Player

Rating: Teen and Up

Fandom: JoJo's Bizarre Adventure: Stardust Crusaders

Pairing(s): JotaKak, JoKa, Minor (and Platonic) Kakyoin & kid!Jolyne

Summary: There are days when Jotaro’s body remembers every single injury that it's ever received. Days when he aches from his toes to the top of his skull, and days when his nerves light themselves on fire. Medication won’t touch it, and the pain is either too grating or too unpredictable for him to ignore for any length of time.

He tries to break it down into pieces. To compartmentalize it all away the way he does with the memories.

Notes: I was having a chronic pain flare, asked my wife who I should inflict it on, and her answer was, "Jotaro and/or Dick Grayson". So here's the Jotaro version. Btw, I'm doing a writing / fic giveaway! Check out this post to see how to enter. Goes until 8.25.21!

-

There are days when Jotaro’s body remembers every single injury that it's ever received. Days when he aches from his toes to the top of his skull, and days when his nerves light themselves on fire. Medication won’t touch it, and the pain is either too grating or too unpredictable for him to ignore for any length of time.

He tries to break it down into pieces. To compartmentalize it all away the way he does with the memories. It’s all he can do in moments like these, when he’s hunched forward and breathing too heavy. Biting at his lip in a desperate attempt to keep from making a sound, lest Kakyoin or Jolyne choose that exact moment to barge in.

There’s the throbbing in his ankles and knees; both of which twinge with an excruciatingly sharp agony whenever he tries to stand from his desk. If he falters in the slightest, he’ll have his hips to contend with, and they’ll bring him to his knees for daring to exist. Best to stay put until he can no longer take the stillness that builds in the damaged joints, not that walking seems to alleviate the radiating pounding that blossoms in each joint and spreads endlessly outward. The more he thinks about it, the wider the radius grows, the harder it is to control his breathing.

Speaking of, his ribs burn from inflammation, and every breath is like inhaling fire, deeper and deeper until he’s choking on the exhale. The coughing that follows makes his guts twist up. Knotting around an invisible blade and splitting apart until he smells more than tastes the scent of blood and bile rising in the back of his throat.

The pain running through his nerves is a mixture of fire blight and an intense, piercing sensation that he’s yet to fully find the words for. There’s a reverberating ache to each stab. A constant and endless reminder that makes it impossible for him to sooth with the fingers he digs into the meat of his arms and legs. He can only stand to do that for so long, anyway. His wrists cramp after a few seconds. Already fatigued from writing. Working always makes the tendons tighten until they feel like they’re going to snap.

For whatever reason, his head feels the need to join in on the fun. Possibly because he’s already tense everywhere else. Possibly because it’s just that kind of day. Either way, he can’t ignore the ache there anymore than he can anywhere else, and it’s significantly slowed down his progress for the day. He’s done little more than stare at the papers on his desk with a blank expression for what must be hours now. The words blur together so badly that the ink almost disappears from his vision, which is a welcomed relief to the burning of his eyes.

He’s so overwhelmed by it all that he doesn’t hear Kakyoin. Kakyoin who he doesn’t ever tell, because Jotaro would rather grit his teeth and force his way through the day than tell his husband, of all people, that he hurts. As if Kakyoin doesn’t know a truer, more hellish agony in his every waking moment.

“Jotaro?”

His own name being called is what finally breaks him out of his pity party, and the look on Kakyoin’s face tells Jotaro that it’s been said more than once. There’s worry etched in the crease of Kakyoin’s forehead and in the way his lips are turned downward. Kakyoin would be crouched at eye level with him if he could, but his own body is hardly partial to that sort of movement.

“Sorry, what did you say?” Jotaro grits the words out and resists the urge to wince at the sound of his own voice. He doesn’t think he’s spoken at all today, but it still somehow sounds like he’s been chewing on glass.

Kakyoin’s frown deepens, “Jolyne was asking about- actually, it’s not that important. Are you alright?” He knows the answer already, but Kakyoin is nothing if not calculating. He wants to hear Jotaro speak. Wants to hear his reply. He’s trying to gauge how bad the situation is without expecting a proper, direct answer. He knows Jotaro too well for the man to be able to lie.

“Been better,” Jotaro admits, and he knows it’s an admission of just how poorly he feels. For him to fail to write Kakyoin off means that he’s struggling beyond what he can handle.

“I see,” Kakyoin says the words tightly. He seems to roll a thought over in his mind before sighing. “I think that you should lie down for a bit. I’ll get some painkillers. When’s the last time you had any?”

“I-” Jotaro mirrors the frown on Kakyoin’s face as he glances at the clock. Too long, he doesn’t say, but he doesn’t have to.

“Chasing pain won’t get you anywhere,” Kakyoin says, but his tone is far from patronizing. He speaks from experience. It’s better to try to stay in front of the brunt of their agony. They don’t stand much of a chance otherwise, not that Jotaro thought he’d had one since the moment he woke up that morning.

“Jolyne-” He starts, as a last ditch effort to get out of being mothered by his own husband, but he’s not surprised when Kakyoin shrugs him off.

“I’ll take care of Jolyne.” Kakyoin pauses, “And I can draw you a bath, if you’d like. The heat might help.” He would know, given his own chronic pain. He can’t take hot baths, given the sensitive nature of the reconstructed bits that make up his midsection, but he regularly soaks individual limbs when nothing else is working.

“I- yeah, okay,” Jotaro has to admit that the idea sounds nice. Maybe submerging the deep aches will help sooth them away, if only a little bit. Perhaps enough to make lying down more bearable, because that’s his problem with the idea of getting into bed: it’s going to hurt. He’ll hurt here or there, which is why he continues to insist on sitting at his desk on days like this. What’s the point in wasting time if he’s going to be miserable no matter where he is, or what he does? He might as well at least try to be productive.

“Good,” Kakyoin smiles gently, “Give me about five minutes before you come up? I’ll get that started and take care of Jolyne.”

“Sounds like a deal,” it doesn’t, actually. Kakyoin’s getting the short end of the stick all the way around. What with having to take care of Jotaro and Jolyne while dealing with his own pain.

“And quit that,” Kakyoin grumbles. He pokes Jotaro between the eyes, right on the bridge of his nose. “I married you, Jotaro. I don’t mind taking care of you or Jolyne, and I'm not inept for being a borderline cyborg.”

“I know,” Jotaro says with a sigh, “I don’t- I didn’t mean-” He hadn’t said anything, but that’s the problem with Kakyoin: he’s intuitive in a way that no one else Jotaro knows has ever been, and he can practically read Jotaro’s mind when he chooses.

“I know,” Kakyoin echoes, cutting Jotaro off before he can dig himself any deeper. His smile returns, and he leans down enough to press a kiss to the top of Jotaro’s forehead, only a short distance above where he had touched Jotaro a moment before. “Sometimes I just think you need a reminder. We’re equal, and you can have chronic pain, too.”

“Sounds fake,” Jotaro mumbles, but there’s a faint, upward pull of his lips that has Kakyoin barking out a laugh.

“Sure it does. Five minutes, JoJo.”

“Five minutes,” Jotaro repeats, already planning on it taking about that long just to get himself to the door to his study. His joints are already threatening to drop him if he so much as thinks about moving too quickly.

He watches Kakyoin go with fond eyes, and it takes approximately sixty seconds before he realizes that there had been a moment of relief. Where his brain had been too busy to be solely wrapped in his own suffering. Perhaps he’ll suggest that they all turn in early. There’s a new Disney movie that Jolyne’s been dying to see, and he knows she won’t mind being still too terribly if she gets to have the two of them in one room, sans work.

[onechicago-upsteadrhekker]

I’d go black and blue (to make you feel my love) - Upstead one-shot

I’m an hour late for posting on Valentine’s Day but better late than never right??

I wrote this for the @upsteadofficial Love Song Prompt Challenge! It’s probably a little different from a typical V-Day fic but what can I say? I apparently love angst and hurting my own feelings.

Also a HUGE shout out to @mashleighh! Thanks for listening to my ramblings, checking my stuff and always making things better❤️❤️

I hope you all enjoy it!

Read on AO3

Worrying her lower lip between her teeth, Hailey watched Jay slip down the hallway dodging the various cops coming in and out of the run-down house before he turned the corner and disappeared from her view.

Blinking, she tried to push down the urge to follow him. She had a job to do and she’d told Jay she would cover for him, but the text Jay had just showed her mere seconds before settled uneasily in her gut.

Jim. I need your help. Please come over.

“Hailey!”

She gave a start, turning to Kevin who had clearly been calling her a few times, a puzzled look on his face as he tried to get her attention. Realizing she was still standing in the middle of the busy hallway, she moved off to the side with Kevin to let forensics pass.

“You okay?” Kevin asked, his eyes following a couple of patrol officers passing them before turning his gaze back on Hailey, “I called your name like five times. Where’s Jay? Sarge wants to know if you found anything from the security footage.”

Whatever Kevin had just said didn’t register; her eyes still trained down the hallway Jay disappeared through. Sliding her gaze back to her coworker, Hailey gave his chest a distracted pat already moving towards the front of the house, “I need to go. Will you cover for me?”

But before she could leave, Kevin gently grabbed her arm, “Hold on. What’s going on, Hailey?”

She turned back to him, sucking in a breath as she debated over how much she should tell him.

“It’s nothing serious,” Furrowing her brow, she shook her head, “Not yet anyways, but I need to go make sure Jay doesn’t do anything reckless.” She saw Kevin opening his mouth to say something, but she cut him off, “Kevin. Please. Just do this for me, okay? I know what I’m doing.”

Hailey flashed a small, reassuring smile at his concerned expression before she took off in the same direction Jay had a few minutes ago hoping that for once, the sick feeling in her gut was wrong.

*

Her headlights lit up Jay’s truck as she quickly pulled over to park behind it, turning off the engine to sit in the dark for a couple of seconds as she decided what she should do.

It was obvious he wasn’t in the truck and the nagging feeling that something wasn’t quite right wouldn’t leave her alone. After a brief debate in her head over whether she should go undercover or not, the over-cautious part of her won out, quietly opening her car door and tucking her gun into the back of her waistband.

Hailey definitely didn’t want Angela Nelson to find out who Jay was and her by association, but she wasn’t about to enter a situation blind without him and not have a firearm.

She crept up the worn stairs and cautiously peeked into the windows, hoping to catch a glimpse of Jay doing nothing but repairing a broken appliance.

If that was the case, she could then creep back down the steps, shake her head in annoyance for overreacting and never tell him that she’d followed him, but as soon as she saw the front door slightly cracked from where it had been kicked in, her heart sunk, knowing that she was right to worry.

Swallowing hard, she ordered herself to get it together so she could get Jay out of whatever mess his big heart got him into. She was a cop; she knew better than to jump to conclusions without evidence.

But then the part of her that quietly dreamed dangerous dreams and lingered on forbidden hopes also knew all the scenarios running through her mind were very real possibilities

The house was deathly quiet, and it made the hair stand up on the back of her neck as she carefully swung the door in and edged into the living room as quietly as possible, her hand never straying far from where she’d hidden her gun.

Hailey was barely a few feet inside when she heard the distinctive click of a safety being flipped off followed by cool metal touching her temple, “Make a move and you die.”

Before she could react, she was pistol-whipped in the back of the head. Her last conscious thought to dump her star and pray that Jay was still alive.

*

When Jay came to, the first thing he noticed was that his hands were tied behind his back, the second was that he was in some sort of basement and the third was that he wasn’t alone.

His head was pounding, and his vision was blurry, but he would know that blonde hair anywhere.

At first, he thought his mind was playing cruel tricks on him. He hoped his mind was playing cruel tricks on him because why would she be here?

God, she shouldn’t be anywhere near here. Not like this, not laying on the cold, hard floor, unmoving.

He blinked a few times, her facial features partially hidden by blood-matted, blonde hair coming into focus.

His heart stopped and his breath shuttered in his chest. His worst nightmare just came alive right in front of him because it was Hailey. Passed out and tied up a few feet away, out of his reach.

A million questions ran through his head of how, why and who but the most prevailing one was if Hailey was still alive.

Desperate, Jay tugged on his restraints, ignoring the pain it caused his shoulders and wrists. Squeezing his eyelids shut as he strained away from the pole he was tied up to and towards Hailey’s still form.

He had to get to her.

Tears that had nothing to do with the physical agony he was in sprang to his eyes as he realized there was no way he was getting out of the binds he was in. The steel chains were trussed behind his back and around the pole in such a way that he didn’t have much slack if any at all.

Just out of reach. A cruel twist of fate, mocking him. Reminding him that she was always just out of his reach. That she was there with him but not in the way he truly wanted.

Except now, in this moment, it wasn’t metaphorical. And god if that didn’t anger him even more than his cowardness in telling Hailey how he really felt about her.

Because there was nothing he could do. Her skin was unnaturally pale, and he needed to put pressure on her sluggishly bleeding head wound but the damn chains wouldn’t budge. He trained his eyes on her upper body, watching intently.

Was she even breathing? God, he couldn’t tell.

*

“Hailey!”

She was floating in that state between restlessness and unaware, not sure where her dreams stopped and reality started.

“Hailey!”

Jay’s voice wasn’t uncommon in her dreams, but he wasn’t saying her name in the husky manner that she’d come to assign to her night visions.

“God, Hailey! Please do something--say something. Anything! Please…”

Why was he being so loud? And why was her bed so hard?

“Please, just let me know you’re alive.”

It was the sound of his voice breaking that brought her back to the present.

The text message. Angela Nelson. Following Jay.

Jay. His voice. He was alive, thank god.

A sharp pain shot through head when she tried to open her eyes and that’s when she remembered getting knocked out. She moaned, trying to take stock of her injuries over the pounding that slowly surfaced to accompany the harsh stabbing. Her hands were bound in front of her and her ribs hurt from an injury she doesn’t remember receiving.

“Hailey! Oh, thank god!” She heard Jay croak out followed by a murmured, “She’s alive. She’s alive,” Clearly talking to himself.

And that’s when she realized he must have thought she was dead.

Oh, Jay.

He must be tied up far enough away from her to not be able to check for a pulse. Knowing that if he were able to move, he would be right there next to her.

She redoubled her efforts to open her eyes so she could at least see him and reassure him that she was okay. Maybe figure out where they were and ask if they could manage an escape or if they should sit tight, knowing that Jay had probably already run all the possibilities through his mind.

Groaning, she forced her eyes to open and she found herself thankful for dim lighting, “Jay?” She managed to rasp, trying to figure out exactly where he was in relation to her.

“Yeah, I’m right here Hailey.” He paused, and she could almost hear the way his jaw clenched in frustration at not being able to move, “Can you come over here? I just need—I need you over here. Next to me.”

If they weren’t in such a dire situation, Hailey might have downright swooned at hearing those words fall from his lips after she’d recovered from the shock. As it were, her heart was beating a little too fast in her chest and that feeling in her stomach might just be borderline butterflies.

Clearing her throat, she answered, “Just give me a sec.”

She slowly stretched each of her limbs as much as she could with her hands tied in front of her, carefully checking what hurt and what didn’t before she even attempted to sit up. Once she was satisfied that she wasn’t majorly injured, Hailey turned so that she was lying flat on her back which instantly caused her head to spin and her stomach to churn.

Letting out a low groan, she closed her eyes and willed herself not to be sick as the world slowly stopped spinning.

“You good?” Jay’s worried voice cut through the dizziness.

She sucked in a deep breath and decided it was best not to lie about her condition, “Yeah. Just feeling a little sick. I’m like ninety-five percent sure I have a concussion.”

Before he could respond, Hailey forced herself to sit up, using her abdominal muscles since her hands were tied in front of her. If he said anything to her after that, she didn’t hear it, white noise flooding her eardrums as she desperately tried not to pass out.

The comforting words of “Breathe, Hailey. Just breathe,” reached her as she started to become accustomed with sitting upright, finally feeling confident she could open her eyes without seeing stars.

She was facing Jay, and the first thing she noticed was the blood coating his hairline and running down his neck. His lip was a little bloodied and his eye was slightly swollen, and it made her stomach clench in a way that had nothing to do with her head injury.

Gingerly, she scooted herself over to his side, grateful he was only a few yards away and angered as she realized that the way he was tied up meant he didn’t even have an inch of slack.

When she finally maneuvered herself so she was sitting shoulder to shoulder with him, she couldn’t stop herself from leaning her head on his shoulder. She told herself it was because she was still dizzy, and while she knew that was part of it, she knew she craved the comfort of being physically connected more.

And if Jay resting his head on top of hers was any indication, then he needed that physical touch just as much as she had. Silently reassuring themselves and each other that they were here. Together. Alive.

After a few minutes, Jay broke the silence, “What are you doing here Hailey?”

She couldn’t help the humorless uptick of her lips at the irony of the situation, “Well, I had a bad feeling, so I pinged your phone and followed you in hopes of getting you out of trouble.”

Glancing up at him, she gestured half-heartedly to the basement they were in, “You can see how well that turned out.”

When he didn’t say anything, Hailey lifted her head so she could get a better look at him. Careful eyes roamed over his slightly slumped form, checking him more thoroughly for injuries.

Now that she was closer to him, she could clearly see the beginnings of a black eye and an obviously split lip. The blood from his hairline mingled with blood that seeped from a wound on the back of his head, running sluggishly down the slope of neck and into the collar of his shirt.

She was relieved to not see any blood lower down on his shirt or pants, so she concluded that the most damage had been made to his face. His head injury did concern her slightly but he seemed pretty lucid so she figured it couldn’t be that bad.

Hailey knew it could be a hell of a lot worse, and that thought was what prompted her to raise her bound hands and gently touch his face in the pretense of checking his wounds but really, she was just reassuring herself that he was okay.

A lump formed in her throat when she thought about what she could have woken up to.

Shaking the thought away, she dropped her hands, sighing, “What happened, Jay?”

She felt more than saw his frustration. At himself, at the situation--she wasn’t entirely sure, but she had a pretty good feeling that it might be both.

“I got to Angela’s house and when I knocked, there wasn’t an answer, so I kicked in the door. The next thing I knew I was being hit in the back of the head with a pipe or something and then I woke up here.”

He tilted his head back, resting it on the beam he was tied up to. His eyes fluttered closed and she could see his throat working, “God, Hailey,” He turned to her and she was slightly surprised to see tears swimming in his eyes, “When I saw you lying over there, not moving. I-I thought my heart had been ripped right out of my chest. You scared me so bad. I didn’t know why you were here—I didn’t even know if you were alive.”

The way he was looking at her felt dangerous and she couldn’t help but think that they had been here before. Not even four months ago, standing in the breakroom when the threat of being torn apart was looming over their heads. When she was afraid to really look at him; afraid of what she’d find in his eyes if she did.

But today, right in that moment, when they were tied up and unsure of what the future held, she looked. She looked him right in the eyes and she clearly saw what he’d been telling her every time she’d caught him looking at her from across Molly’s and in every knowing glance they shared in the bullpen.

In the way he always checked with her silently before busting down a door, telling her without words that he had her back. In the way he told her he trusted her only using in his eyes.

And now. He looked at her like she was the very breath he needed to breathe. Like the world could crumble and he wouldn’t even blink.

He was looking at her like he was just realizing what love was; his eyes telling her that he loved her.

He was opening his mouth to say something. She wasn’t sure what—it might have even been those three little words, but before he had a chance to get it out, there was a commotion from the floor above, breaking their gaze.

They were suddenly brought back to steel chains and dirty basements, reminding them of the danger they were in. If they didn’t figure out a plan, their great love story could be over even before it had the chance to begin.

“Do you know why we’re here?” Hailey asked a little shakily, drawing back when she realized how close she was to Jay’s face.

Blinking, he did the same and she could almost see the spell fully breaking as he slipped back into level-headed detective.

“From what I gather, Angela helped some friend of hers steal some drugs. The people who she stole them from didn’t take it too kindly; she called me and now we are here,” He said it in the weary manner of one who had been there and done that way too many times.

And sadly, they had, but this time it was different because they were the ones caught in the crossfire.

Hailey sighed, wincing slightly from her bruised ribs, “Where’s Angela?”

Jay shrugged, “She was here when I woke up. She’d been shot in the side, passed out. The two guys who have us carried her out of here; said something about dropping her off at a hospital because they didn’t want any unnecessary blood on their hands. And besides, it was pretty clear she wouldn’t be able to give them any information. Not in the condition she was in.”

Sighing himself, he turned his head towards her, “I don’t what they ended up doing with her, and frankly I don’t care at the moment. I’m more worried about getting us out of here.”

That wasn’t like him to just disregard someone he’d been trying to help—or anyone for that matter—for his own gain, but she had a sneaking suspicion that he really meant he was more worried about getting her out of here.

He was always putting others before himself. Her especially now that she thought about it, and she knew it was just another way of him telling her he loved her.

As soon as they got out of this mess, they needed to have a talk.

“Alright,” She nodded, “So what’s the plan?”

Jay’s heart swelled. Those words, the sure look on her face, the absolute trust she held in her eyes. She was looking to him for guidance, entrusting him to get them out of this without even one ounce of hesitation.

The love he felt for her only seemed to grow with each passing second and he was tired of hiding it. He’d intended on telling her, showing her exactly how he felt, but then he was reminded of the situation he’d dragged her into and the need to protect her outweighed anything else.

And it was because he loved her so much that he needed her to be safe. If anything happened to her—

He knew there was no coming back from that.

Once they got out of here, he was going to tell her everything he’d been harboring in his heart for what felt like ages. He was going to lay it all on the table; that she was it for him and even though he was terrified at the thought of losing her, he was going to work his ass off to make this work. To show her that they could do this.

He knew he had made mistakes in the past, especially regarding his love life and he knew that being together and working together had its fair share of challenges, but he wasn’t about to let her go. Not when he finally found the girl he knew he was meant to be with.

The sound of a heavy steel door clanging shut snapped him out of his thoughts and if he subconsciously tried to inch in front of Hailey despite his restraints, she didn’t call him out on it.

“They don’t know we’re cops, and you know nothing,” Hailey heard Jay rapidly whisper to her before turning back in time to see their two captors appear at the bottom of the steps.

The taller of the two made a beeline straight towards them and Hailey could feel Jay tensing up, using his broad shoulders in an attempt to shield her. It didn’t do much good because the next thing Hailey knew, she was being jerked up, a gun pressed to her temple.

“You are going to tell me right now where those drugs are,” The man’s words were harsh, his breath was heavy on her ear and she could smell the vodka on him.

Jay looked panicked but in control as his jaw clenched in barely restrained fury. She couldn’t help but notice how hot he looked, and she immediately kicked herself for even thinking it under these circumstances.

“She doesn’t know anything,” He practically growled, “Let her go.”

Vodka man brandished his gun menacingly towards Jay before returning it to the side of her head, “She was at that house! There was a gun in her waistband! She knows something!”

Hailey kept quiet, trying to weigh the risks of attempting to knock him out but she decided against doing anything while the other guy was lurking in the shadows. With Jay tied up and unable to move, she knew she wouldn’t be able to take both of them down, especially while tied up herself.

The words that fell out of Jay’s mouth next made her heart beat wildly, and not in a good way, “I’ll tell you all I know, okay? Just take me and leave her alone!”

But that was a lie. He didn’t know anything, and she knew once these guys figured that out, there was no telling what they would do to him. He flashed her a look, pleading with her to be silent, to let him do this for her.

She didn’t want to, but she knew that the best chance of their survival was to do what Jay was asking. So, she stayed silent, glaring when Vodka Guy threw her down and unchained Jay from the pole, leaving his arms bound before hauling him up.

Hailey watched as Jay was shoved towards the steps, his eyes never leaving hers until he was out of her sight.

*

A series of muffled cries suddenly broke the relative silence she’d been sitting in for the past hour and it took all of her might to not scream out his name as she desperately fought with the chains wrapped around her wrists and feet. There were tears brimming in her eyes and she could feel her heart shattering.

They were low, guttural shouts filled with pain and she could only imagine what they were doing to him to make him sound like that. Jay was the toughest person she knew, had endured things beyond her comprehension and hearing him like that scared her.

And knowing that he was in pain for her and that there was nothing she could do about it made her physically sick.

But more than that, she was livid at the people doing this to him. How dare they touch a hair on his head? How dare they do this to him? That this was to be his payment for doing something so kind, so good in a world filled with hate.

Jay was a good man—a great cop—with a golden-heart that wouldn’t let anyone stand in his way of what he thought was right and that was what she loved most about him.

She loved him. And she wasn’t afraid to admit any more.

If this whole experience had taught her anything it would be to not hold back. Life is short, and she knew that. She’d been in similar spots before and had these same profound revelations about how precious life was, but today felt different.

Because the truth was, he had her heart, completely and irrevocably. He had it before she even had the chance to say no and the way she loved him made her question whether she’d ever truly loved anyone before.

She’d been scared before. Falling in love with another partner; just falling in love in general. It was risky and scary and honestly downright terrifying. But what she felt for Jay, she was starting to realize was worth the risk.

Life wasn’t without risks, and experience taught her that a lot of the time she ended getting hurt when she took them, but right here, right now, listening to Jay literally telling her and showing her how much he loved her in every scream, she knew the potential of what they could have wasn’t pointless or without reason.

It was the whole damn universe.

And if someone asked her right here and right now, she would give up her spot in Intelligence, her career, her life, everything—all without a moment’s hesitation, and she would do it all for Jay.

Being thrust into this situation with him has removed any old inhibitions and the lines that were being carefully walked had been completely eradicated.

The whisperings of her heart that had once told her she should give it a try, that he felt the same were now roaring inside of her with words of “I told you so.”

And it was ripping her heart apart.

After all, they say actions speak louder than words and right now, Jay was screaming.

*

It was silent now, and it had been for a little over an hour. Hailey was starting to think she’d rather hear Jay be in pain than sitting in the quiet, wondering if he was unconscious, bleeding out, or worse, already dead.

The only thing that had kept her from going totally down the rabbit hole of worst-case scenarios was attempting to get out of the chains she was in. She was grateful that she hadn’t been tied to the pole as Jay had been, giving her the mobility to scoot around the floor in hopes of finding something that could help her out of her restraints.

She was done waiting for the team. She needed to get them out of there as quickly as possible even if she didn’t know exactly how she was going to go about it yet.

A few minutes into her search, she’d found a file and she’d been diligently sawing back and forth at the weakest part of the rusty chains for last hour or so. It seemed to be working, and she felt like she was finally getting to a point where she could just break them by applying some outside pressure.

The sound of a door banging shut caused her head to snap up and she quickly hid the file in her back pocket. What she saw then she knew would be haunting her dreams for years to come.

The nicer of their two captors had Jay’s arm slung around his shoulder, practically dragging him down the steps before he deposited him in a heap beside her.

“What did you do to him?” Hailey couldn’t help but gasp out, already moving to shield Jay protectively.

He didn’t say anything, and she could see the remorse in his eyes as he headed back up the stairs and out the only door to the basement. As soon as he was gone, Hailey turned to Jay, fighting back the tears at seeing him in this condition.

There was significantly more blood in his hair, his lips were split in multiple places and she was pretty sure he had two black eyes, but that wasn’t what looked the worst. His shirt was torn, and she could see significant burn marks from a taser dotting his chest along with what looked like shallow cuts from a knife.

“Jay,” She whispered brokenly, hoping to get some kind of reaction from him, “Jay, babe.” It fell from her lips effortlessly and she didn’t even think twice about what she had said as she moved to use her body weight to break her chains.

As soon as she could use her arms and legs, she knelt beside him to cradle his face and used the pads of her thumbs to stroke his cheekbones, “Hey Jay. Look at me, baby. Look at me.” Not waiting for a response, she quickly started going over his body to check for other injuries all the while murmuring his name over and over again.

This time she gasped out a sob, all the air leaving her chest as she rucked up his shirt and found the distinctive welts from being whipped covering his torso and back.

“Oh my God, Jay,” She cried softly, wanting to provide him with some kind of relief but afraid to do anything, not wanting to cause him any more pain, “What did they do to you?”

She was surprised when he moaned, not expecting a response as he let out a raspy “I’m fine”.

Hailey couldn’t help but let out a watery chuckle, her hands going back to carefully frame his face as she caught a glimpse of those vibrant green eyes she loved so much, “Only you would say that in the condition you’re in.”

“Kev called undercover. The team’s close,” Even talking seemed to cause him pain, but he powered through knowing she needed to know this, “Found the drugs. They’ll be here soon.”

It was spoken brokenly, but she got the message, and she couldn’t help but let out a sigh of relief. There was no way she would be able to get him out of here by herself with him so injured.

Why did he have to be so adamant about her not knowing anything? He didn’t know anything either, but he’d somehow kept their captors from really harming her.

“Hailey,” Jay practically wheezed, catching her attention as he opened his eyes to find hers, “I can’t sit like this. It-it hurts too much.”

She barely managed to stop from crying again, biting her lip as she willed herself to stay strong for his sake. For him to admit he was in pain she knew he must be in a lot of it.

“Oh God, Jay,” Hailey swallowed back another wave of tears as she helped him move in a more comfortable position. She ended up half cradling him, his head resting on the swell of her breast and a protective arm around his shoulders to keep his back up off the ground.

She ran a gentle hand through his still miraculously styled hair, rocking him slightly and in all honesty, at the moment, she felt more like a woman sick with worry over the man she loved than a badass cop looking out for her partner.

Hailey’s not sure if she’s ever cried this much in her entire life or worried so deeply.

“What were you thinking Jay? Why would you offer yourself up like that?” She whispered to fill the silence, a couple of tears escaping on their own accord.

His gaze found hers. Strong, steady and certain in spite of all the pain, “I wasn’t about to let them hurt you. Not on my watch.”

Jay shifted in her arms, wincing slightly, “It’s my job to protect you, Hailey. And that doesn’t mean I don’t know you can protect yourself because you can—you’re a freaking badass, but it’s more than that,” Pausing, he reached up to tenderly brush away her tears with the pad of his thumb before whispering, “it’s because I love you and I can’t bear the thought of you getting hurt if I can prevent it.”

Before she even had a chance to respond, the tell-tale sound of the metal door shutting prompted Jay to move faster than she thought possible with his injuries. She scrambled up after him, but she could tell he wanted to keep her behind him in an attempt to protect her.

If it was anyone other than Jay, Hailey would balk at the notion, but she knew that’s just who he was and how he operated. It was how he protected the people he loved. She knew it wasn’t some caveman idea that she wasn’t capable of taking care of herself. So, she stayed behind him, letting him do what he does just as he let her be the badass she was any other day.

Except for this moment when she was terrified, worried about Jay who by all accounts shouldn’t be standing.

“Where’s our father!?” The drunk one exclaimed angrily, stomping into the basement, “You said your people were getting our drugs and now my father’s not answering my calls!”

He was focused on Jay and Hailey’s eyes were drawn to the pipe she’d found when she found the file, cursing at herself for not bringing it with her to Jay’s side. It was only a few feet away; if she could just get there before their captor noticed, she’d be able to knock him out.

His reactions were slow because of the alcohol in his system so that’s what she was banking on, but she also knew it made him more dangerous and unpredictable.

The gun pointed in Jay’s face made her nervous and she was hoping to get out of here without either of them getting shot but if someone had to take a bullet, it was going to be her for going for the pipe.

It happened so fast. There were two loud pops and suddenly Jay was on the floor in front of her.

She could vaguely make out Adam calling her name as he dashed across the room, knocking Vodka guy’s gun out of his hand but all Hailey was focused on was Jay, on the ground, bleeding. She dropped to her knees, hands immediately going to the gunshot wound in his shoulder and yelled at Adam to call an ambulance.

Kim was suddenly in front of her, kneeling at Jay’s other side and Hailey looked up, her hands still keeping pressure as tears welled in her eyes. Meeting her friend’s gaze, she whispered out brokenly, “He just took that bullet for me.”

*

“What the hell, Will?” Hailey exclaimed in disgust, pissed off about the entire situation.

The red-headed doctor looked about as exasperated as she felt and part of her felt bad about the harried look in his eyes, but she was getting anxious and he wasn’t cooperating with her, so she didn’t feel too bad.

“Hailey, it’s against hospital rules,” Will stressed for what felt like the one-hundredth time. He shook his head; and he thought Jay was stubborn.

If possible, the frustrated look on Hailey’s face grew as she crossed her arms, somehow looking very formidable sitting cross-legged in the middle of a hospital bed wearing nothing but a hospital gown.

“Rules are overrated,” She stated through a clenched jaw.

Will’s eyebrows rose, “Uh. Not gonna lie. It’s a little alarming to hear that coming from a detective.”

She just glared harder and Will was starting to realize he had nothing on a pissed Hailey Upton.

He wasn’t sure if they were engaged in a battle of wills or what, but he was afraid of what she might do if he broke their gaze and looked away. He was honestly a little afraid to blink.

He’d gotten to know Hailey pretty well because of her partnership with Jay, but he wasn’t quite sure he realized just how fierce she could be until this moment.

How fierce she could be when it came to his brother.

Will had always noticed the concern and the protectiveness she’d had when it came to Jay’s injuries on the job. He’d thought the nature of their jobs was the reason for this but over time he’d started to wonder if it was because there was something more there.

Today, he stopped wondering. It was clear there was something there and when Hailey turned her head to conceal the tears welling up in her eyes, he wondered what exactly went down between her and his brother in that basement.

She turned back to him, the determination and love clear in those glassy blue eyes he knew his brother had fallen for, “Will, I have to be with him.”

Still, he hesitated, “Hailey…”

And just like that, the angry pissed off look was back on her face despite the tears in her eyes, “I’ll have you know that I can make your life a living hell, Will Halstead.”

The threat was clear in the way her jaw was clenched but he could see her resolve starting to waver and he just didn’t have the heart to argue with her anymore, hospital rules be damned.

His head dropped in a resigned nod, “Alright. You win,” The relief that wafted off of her was palpable and he couldn’t help but give her a small smile even as he tried to look stern, “But, you have to take it easy because you’re a patient too. Also, if I get fired, I’m blaming it on you.”

*

If there was thing Hailey Upton was capable of, it would be getting her way when she wanted it.

Maybe it was all that time spent manipulating suspects in giving her the information she needed or maybe it stemmed from wheedling sweets and trinkets and whatever the hell else she wanted out of her older brothers when she was a kid, but usually, when it came right down to it, she was always able to convince people to hand her the requests she’d made on a silver platter.

And that’s how she found herself sitting on her own hospital bed that had been rolled into Jay’s ICU room for the foreseeable future.

As soon as the nurses that had transported her from her room were out of sight, Hailey very carefully got out of her bed, maneuvering around the IV going into her hand and gently slid in beside Jay. He was asleep but she knew from Will that he had already been awake, asking for her first thing as he came out from under anesthesia.

She was extra cautious to not upset the various lines running from his body and to machines monitoring his vitals as she settled in bedside his warm body, gently resting her head on his uninjured shoulder.

Hailey didn’t know how long she’d been laying there when she felt Jay shift, his voice slightly horse, “You know, I might start enjoying hospital stays if they mean I wake up next to you.”

Lifting her head, she blinked back tears for what felt like the millionth time in the last twenty-four hours. He was staring at her like she was his whole world, and he was just realizing what life was.

She wanted to kiss him. Was planning on it, but first she had to know, “Jay, why on earth would you take that bullet for me?”

Hailey was pretty sure she knew the answer. She was pretty sure it’s the same answer she would give him if she’d just taken a bullet meant for him, but she needed to hear it and not when he was laying on a dirty basement floor, writhing in pain.

She wasn’t sure laying on a hospital bed in a hospital right after he’d been shot was any better but it’s what they had, and he seemed pretty coherent for someone who had just had major surgery.

“Because I love you,” He said it so simply, so matter of fact and she marveled at the way it was so easy between them now.

And all it took was being kidnapped together.

Something happened between them while chained together in that basement. Something they had both been fighting for a while now and maybe it seemed sudden or rushed but Hailey knew in her heart of hearts that she and Jay were meant to be together.

Love wasn’t something you forced. It was something you had to wait for, maybe even had to get hurt along the way to really understand, but she now knew it was worth the wait.

“I love you too,” She almost whimpered before kissing him.

It wasn’t lusty, but it had an almost frantic urgency about it as they both silently acknowledged they could have very easily not had this moment.

He kissed her like he thought he’d never see her again and he told her yet again with his actions that he would follow her to the ends of the universe and to the very last of their tomorrows.

She knew they still had a lot to talk about. The things he especially went through in that basement, but she knew that could wait because they were alive and that was enough.

Because there was no doubt in either of their minds now.

They were right where they belonged.

Leave a comment! I’d love to know what y’all thought!!

[usaonetwothree]

First of all thank you thank you thank you so much for the johnny whump!!!

Also wondering if there's any chance you will be writing any johnny whump featuring more johnny/Carmen? Maybe an extension of that part of The Agreement where she's examining his injuries? The thought just gives me total whumperflies!

Thank you so much for the message, Anon!! And you're most welcome! The show is just teeing it up so nicely. I'm really just continuing what they started :)

I hadn't thought about an interlude to The Agreement, but now my plot bunnies are going. Give me a few weeks to see what I come up with! I'll post it here for sure, and if it's long enough, I'll copy it over to ao3 as a second chapter.

In the interim, I have the start of a whumpy two-chapter fic that I don't know if I'm going to finish. Working summary is "Johnny doesn't have time to get sick. Besides, it's just food poisoning... right?" I'll post the completed first chapter below, and the plan for chapter two would be from Carmen's point-of-view from the ambulance ride through surgery and Johnny finally waking up. I wrote a lot of the ideas I had for her part into Conflict, which is why I think I'm stalled on it here in coming up with something different. I don't know how long it'll take me to figure that out (if ever) but at least you'll have the first chapter. Hope you enjoy!

Thank you again for the kind message!

Pain exploded in his side, worse than he’d ever felt before. He had reference for this: he’d torn, strained, bruised, strained, dislocated and broken many things in the past. This pain blew them all away. It was he’d been stabbed with a hot knife up to the hilt, and someone was twisting it around in his guts.

His hand went to the area, came away warm, but he wasn’t bleeding. Felt like it. Felt oozing and wet and raw.

Somehow, above the nausea, above the stabbing ache in his head, he knew this was serious. And he needed help.

He couldn’t remember where his phone was. Didn’t have time to stop and think.

With every inch of his skin on fire, he leveraged himself off the couch and almost screamed as utter agony raced up his side. His knees buckled but he didn’t let himself fall. If he did, he knew he wouldn’t get back up.

Partially hunched over, he stumbled forward, careful not to jar his torso. He caught the door before the handle, barely cracking it open before he almost fell through. He jabbed his right elbow into the stucco wall, used that as a guide.

Elbow on the wall, left hand on his abdomen, trying to hold whatever was wrong in. One foot in front of the other.

It was the only thing going through his head.

Left.

Right.

Left.

A chill tore up his spine. His brain went fuzzy for a second and his elbow came away from the wall.

He almost went down again, caught himself at the last second. Leaned so far right he almost bashed his head into the stucco.

But he was vertical again.

He kept going until he hit another door.

The door that could help him.

Everything hurt now. He was sweating, burning up. His eyes felt like they were bulging out of his head, and his limbs were trembling.

He tried to knock, lost his balance. Went down in a heap of limbs.

His side crashed into the ground and fire tore through his abdomen, pain so sharp and intense he couldn’t speak—couldn’t breathe—couldn’t think.

He thought he smelled something familiar. Heard something close. Felt something against his forehead.

But it was lost in a wave of blackness.

A * A

Twelve hours earlier…

Daniel LaRusso walked into Miyagi-Fang to hear a sound he was uncomfortably familiar with. As his own stomach churned in sympathy, he stepped closer to the small wood door leading to the bathroom and rapped on it.

“Everything okay?” he asked, scrunching up his nose as the stench filtered out into the dojo.

“Fine,” a thin voice gasped.

“Johnny?” Daniel rapped harder on the door. “Let me in.”

“‘m fine.”

Daniel then heard the toilet flush and someone heave themself upright, before the faucet was turned on.

“Johnny, what’s wrong?” The worst-case scenarios were flashing through Daniel’s head: Johnny had gone after Kreese and gotten his ass kicked, he was drunk and trying to sober up before class…

But when the door slid open and a pale-faced and miserable Johnny stepped out, Daniel knew both were wrong.

“Are you sick?”

Johnny shook his head, then winced. “Don’t think so,” he said as he shuffled to the inlaid bench and sat down, propping his head against his hands with his elbows braced against his knees. “Bologna might have turned."

“I told you you should stop buying that stuff,” Daniel said as he fetched a water bottle from the small fridge and sat down beside Johnny, sliding it between his side and forearms.

“Then what am I going to have for breakfast?” he groaned, ignoring the bottle of water.

Daniel lightly wiggled it so it tapped Johnny’s arm and side. Groaning, the other man straightened up so his head was leaning against the paneling and took the water. “Cereal.”

Johnny took a small sip of the water and grimaced. “Milk goes bad,” he said faster but in a much steadier tone.

“Drink it faster. Or have eggs and bacon.”

Johnny groaned and clenched his jaw as his chest heaved painfully. “No more… food talk,” he ground out.

“Duly noted.” Daniel stood again and grabbed a towel, wetting it in the sink and laying it over Johnny’s forehead as he sat back down.

At first, Johnny pulled back in surprise, the towel slipping, but then he caught it and visibly relaxed.

“Thanks,” he muttered, closing his eyes and resituating the towel.

“How are you going to teach like this?”

“It’ll pass.”

“Uh huh.”

“Weren’t supposed to... be here this early,” Johnny mumbled as he shifted in his seat. He winced again then slowly lowered himself so he was lying on the bench, bringing his socked feet to rest on the wood as well. Daniel, who had originally been in the way, just shifted so Johnny could lie down unimpeded.

“That’s not making me feel a whole lot better.”

“’ll be fine by four,” Johnny replied. “Got like... an hour right?”

“Thirty minutes at best, and you know Miguel is always early.”

“’ll be fine by then,” Johnny repeated, somehow sounding so sure that Daniel found himself believing him.

He stood, then lowered the singular shade over the window. “I’ll come get you before class starts.”

Johnny just shook his head, though Daniel had yet to see his posture actually relax.

And yet, twenty minutes later, Johnny was standing in the backyard, dressed in his gi, looking… surprisingly normal. He was still a little paler than usual, but had clearly tried to push some color back into his face, judging by a few fading streaks on his cheeks.

“How?” was all Daniel could ask. The last time he’d had food poisoning, it had taken him four days and a trip to urgent care before he could leave his bedroom without puking.

“Mind over matter,” Johnny mumbled, straightening up as the kids began to stream in through the door.

That was… bullshit? Unbelievable? Incredible? But at the core of it, so very Johnny.

The kids were so caught up in the latest non-karate drama at the high school that none of them shot Johnny another glance. He did look at Daniel, grinning genuinely, and mouthed, “Thanks.”

Daniel just nodded, then set out doing the last bit of preparations for class.

A * A

If Johnny was being honest with himself, he should have known something else was wrong. His stomach had been hurting all day, even though he’d barely eaten anything since dinner yesterday: fried bologna, ketchup and some leftover rice Carmen had brought a few days ago.

But there was too much going on for him to be sick. There was getting the kids ready for the All-Valley, so they could once and for all remove Kreese from Cobra Kai—not that Johnny would be reinstating that name anytime soon anyway; his budding relationship with Carmen—which Miguel still did not know about; and the knowledge that Robby and a handful of his other students were doing who-knew-what under Kreese’s command.

There wasn’t any time for his problems.

So he’d taken a Tums last night, not really understanding how that had shown up in his medicine cabinet, and tried to sleep it off.

He’d shot awake somewhere around two, tangled in a thin sheet, sweating so badly it felt like he’d just come in from a run. But something else was wrong. His face felt too hot, the skin too tight, and his stomach continued to flip lazily, despite him begging it to stay where it was.

He’d cranked up the fan, and sipped some water, which was a mistake.

His stomach had rolled and he was puking up his meager dinner not long after. He sat there for a long time, head leaning against the cool seat, until he’d fallen asleep. He’d woken again when his forehead slid off the toilet and thudded into the vanity.

He was cool this time, freezing, and shit, that was signs of a fever. That much he knew.

He did not have time for this.

Still on his knees, he managed to reach the shower dial and turn it on. Then he crawled into the tub, clothes still on, and sat there, letting the cool water beat on him while he shivered uncontrollably.

He could not get sick. This had to be a twenty-four hour thing. The kids all came in with their runny noses, who knew what they got into at school. Maybe it was time he caved to LaRusso wanting hand sanitizer stations on the way out for those germ-minded kids.

Eventually the freezing water had become unbearable and he barely managed to reach back high enough to turn it off. Then came the more difficult task of stripping off his wet clothes, which he ended up doing still sitting in the tub, because the act of fighting with his clothes while standing seemed rather exhausting.

But then, he did have to get up, and it took everything he had to stay that way. His head swam and his stomach lurched.

That was when he felt a stabbing pain in his stomach around his navel.

No way this was some sort of flu.

He was reminded of Miguel pulling the package of bologna out of the fridge and frowning at the date. “This is over a week old, Sensei.”

“It’s fine,” Johnny had said.

Miguel had looked a split second away from pitching it, but had put it back in the fridge and chosen the bag of pretzels on the counter instead.

So this was food poisoning. It had to be.

He’d be in for a rough night, but it should be over by tomorrow, when he needed to be at the dojo, when he needed to be on.

The knowledge didn’t make his illness any easier, but it had made it manageable. He’d thrown up a few more times; felt his stomach cramp so severely, it doubled him over; and had eventually fallen asleep on the bathroom floor, ankles bracing the toilet, head leaning back against the far wall.

He didn’t feel better, per say, when he woke, but good enough to haul himself out of the bathroom, change into a loose shirt and sweats, and into the kitchen where he sipped at some OJ, literally the only thing in his entire kitchen that didn’t send his stomach rolling again.

At some point, he’d passed out on the couch watching TV and had jarred awake two hours before class.

He had to be there.

So he’d dry swallowed some aspirin and chewed another Tums, begged whoever was up there to keep them down, and headed out with the OJ tucked under his arm.

He’d barely made it to the dojo when his stomach began to cramp again, induced by the shifting horizons while he was driving. LaRusso found him and his once-nemesis had been surprisingly gentle. When he was better, Johnny owed him more than just a quick thanks for being decent about it, instead of leaving him to suffer on his own.

He’d had to pull over on the way home to puke again. Though he didn’t know what he was bringing up at this point. It was all acid and gunk from what he could see.

He was less than a mile from his apartment complex and he sure as hell wasn’t walking, so he slid back into the car, focused with all his remaining energy and went approximately ten miles an hour in the righthand lane the remaining way.

His fever was kicking up again as he parked, and his stomach began to ache with new intensity. He barely made it to the couch before he was retching again into the bowl he’d so left there earlier for just that purpose.

His head was pounding, his ears ringing, and the pain in his stomach had shifted so it was on his lower right side. He’d bruised a kidney before and it’d hurt in its own way, but it had been nothing like this. He hadn’t even fought anyone since Kreese. Couldn’t risk injuring himself and getting benched. Not with everything that was at stake.

It felt like he was getting the massage from hell, but inside, down in his guts. They were churning, dancing, twisting, oblivious to the pain they were causing. His actual organs hurt, however that was possible.

He sipped at the water, and immediately retched it back up.

Somewhere deep down he knew that was bad. Knew he needed to stay hydrated. Knew he hadn’t drunk enough the past eighteen hours. Knew he could replenish some of it from the shower, but it was so far away.

He just leaned his head against the arm rest, shifting until he found an angle that didn’t make him violently nauseous, and must have passed out.

It was only when he woke up that he knew something was seriously wrong, and that he had to get some help, and ended up passing out again in front of Carmen’s door.

Only it hadn’t been Carmen who answered.

“Sensei!” Miguel shouted, trying and failing to catch the older man. “Mama! Yaya!” he shouted as he dropped to his knees beside his Sensei, whose face was red and flushed but otherwise seemed uninjured.

“Sensei, please.” Miguel begged, tapping Sensei’s face and feeling the heat radiating off it. “MAMA!” he yelled again as he jabbed his fingers into Sensei’s neck, finding a thin pulse.

Then arms were on his shoulders, pulling him away, as his mom replaced him.

“¡Llame una ambulancia!”

Yaya was telling him to back up, was shoving her phone into his hands.

He didn’t remember making the call, but he must have. His mom was trying to rouse Sensei, had unbuttoned his shirt, and was swearing.

“Qué pasa?” Miguel demanded, but she didn’t answer.

“Ice, Miguel,” his mom was ordering, still bent over Sensei. “Quick!”

His feet were moving, grabbing whatever frozen vegetables they had in the freezer and handing them to his mom, who was placing them around Sensei’s neck, under his arms, around his groin.

Sensei groaned, flinched, but didn’t rouse.

“What’s wrong?” Miguel heard himself ask, but his mom was telling Yaya to take him in the apartment instead of responding.

“No!” he shouted, planting his feet. “I'm not leaving.”

His mom turned to look at him, a bit of panic in her eyes before she could hide it. “Go inside, Miggy. Please,” she said very carefully.

As much as Miguel didn’t want to, he did. Until he heard the sirens. Then he was outside the door again, watching as the paramedics swarmed Sensei.

They were asking his mom a bunch of questions and she was rattling off the answers. Then Sensei was on a gurney and they were rolling away and his mother was climbing into the ambulance with him, and then they were gone.

Miguel felt Yaya’s arm wrap around his upper back, not tall enough to reach his shoulders, and he turned and buried her head into her shoulder, letting the tears fall.

[creepereyes]

Seymour/Edna sickfic

Guys, I LOVE sickfics, specifically emeto fics, and this fandom is seriously lacking them so I’m here to fill that void. This is the first of two fics I’m writing for myself and @rolksart.

Summary: Seymour has a stomach bug and Edna takes care of him.

I’m going to say this once: Please don’t read this story if you don’t want to read emeto. Seymour pukes a lot here. If that is up your alley, fantastic! If not, feel free to ignore this completely.

Fic under the cut.

Lying had never been Seymour’s specialty, and when he unconvincingly told Edna he was fine, she saw straight through it. She sat on the edge of his desk and gave him a knowing look.

“Seymour, I love you but you’re a horrible liar. You are not fine.”

It was true. Fine, in the literal sense, wasn’t a word Edna could currently use to describe her boyfriend. Pale, sweaty, nauseated, yes. But fine? Ha!

“You’re right. I can’t lie to you, Edna. I feel awful. My stomach is more unsettled than mother at a swinger’s sex party, and I don’t know what’s causing it.” Seymour admitted.

Edna’s gaze softened. “Oh, Seymour. You didn’t eat the cafeteria fish sticks, did you?”

“No, I learned my lesson after the first time.”

The queasiness building inside him got a bit worse when he thought of the dreaded fish sticks that made him so sick several years back. Wether the ‘meat’ inside was actually fish or not was questionable at best, but anything tasted good deep fried. The students seemed to love them, but there was something about those crispy, overly greasy, probably-not-fish sticks that an adult’s stomach just couldn’t handle. A couple hours after eating them on that ill fated day, he’d gotten incredibly sick and started puking almost immediately after he got home. Today he didn’t think he’d last that long, it was barely past noon.

Seymour sighed and slumped backwards in his chair. “I’m sorry, Edna. Tonight was supposed to be our special night and I ruined it by getting sick.”

“We’ll reschedule. Don’t beat yourself up so much.” Edna scooted closer to Seymour and placed her hand on his forehead. It was alarmingly warm and his hair was damp with sweat. “You poor thing, you’re burning up.”

“I’m sweltering.” Seymour unbuttoned his blue blazer and shrugged it off. His tie felt like it was choking him, so he removed it as well.

Edna coyly rose a brow and ran one finger up and down his right arm. “Mmmm...are you going take all your clothes off?”

Seymour managed a small smile despite his increasing nausea. “When I feel better, I’ll let you undress me right here on my desk.”

“With my teeth?”

“Yes. I love it when you do that.” he placed his hand on top of hers.

He could be assertive when he needed to be, but when it came to sex, Edna was in charge and she made damn well sure he knew it. He liked it that way. He’d always had a thing for dominant women, and Edna Krabappel was all domme.

He leaned in to kiss her, but a massive nausea spike made him falter and he paled even further. Acid threatened to rise in his throat, but he choked it back.

“I need to lay down for a while.” he said. “Maybe you should-”

“No. I’m staying with you.” Edna cut him off.

“What about your students?”

“I put a movie on. They’ll be fine. But you aren’t.”

Seymour’s office had a red couch in it, though he rarely sat there. It was comfy enough, but it was mostly for decoration. He’d never admit it, but he’d given his office more flair to make himself feel less lame when superintendent Chalmers swung by for a visit. Chalmers’ previous comment about Seymour’s office looking like a low security prison cell had cut surprisingly deep.

Edna sat on the couch and patted the cushion next to her, signaling for Seymour to join her.

He shuffled over to the couch and damn near collapsed onto it. He sprawled across the cushions and laid his head in Edna’s lap. Another nausea wave crashed over him, bringing a stab of horrendous abdominal pain with it. He curled into himself.

“This is agony,” he moaned. “I don’t know what’s making me so sick.”

“Just relax. Close your eyes.” Edna instructed as she stroked his hair. “I’m here with you.”

Not only did Seymour feel extremely sick, he also felt like he was being stabbed in the gut with a rusty knife over and over again. It continued to worsen until it reached the point of no return. His stomach lurched and heat spread through his abdomen. He bolted straight up, ready to give in to his nausea. Fighting it wasn’t an option, he wanted to be rid of whatever was making him so sick.

“Give me a bucket, I’m going to throw up!” panic invaded Seymour’s voice. Time was rapidly running out, and thick, coppery saliva flooded his mouth.

“Oh! Uh, hang on!” Edna leapt up from the couch and looked for a receptacle.

“Please hurry,” Seymour gagged on the last syllable and firmly clamped his hand over his mouth.

Edna zoomed over to Seymour’s desk, grabbed the garbage can, dumped out its contents and strode back over to her boyfriend, but she was a second too late.

Seymour couldn’t hold it back. He pitched forwards and violently puked on the floor, and it splashed on his knees and shoes in the process. Some got on his shirt as well.

“Here!” Edna shoved the can under his mouth right as he vomited again.

Seymour gripped the can and retched noisily, his entire body convulsing as he puked more repugnant brown liquid. The acrid taste was revolting and he could feel the solids in it sliding over his tongue, which made him heave harder.

“That’s it, just get it out,” Edna soothed and rubbed his back. She could feel his shoulders hitch under her hand each time he heaved.

“Make it stop,” Seymour groaned. This was pure hell. His body was barely giving him time to breathe between retches, and he worried that he’d start choking on his own vomit if it didn’t stop. He was starting to think it wouldn’t end. There was only one thing that could make his situation worse, and someone or something must have had it out for him today, because it happened.

The door to his office flew open with great force.

“SKINNEEEER! Why in God’s name is Nelson Muntz hanging Martin Prince from the flagpole and-- Seymour, are you vomiting in a garbage can?” Superintendent Chalmers stood in the doorway, stunned at what he was seeing.

Seymour, pale, clad in a puke soaked shirt and looking half dead, glanced up. “Superintendent Chalmers,” he croaked out. “Hold on a minute.” he leaned over the can again and threw up a few more times until he was empty and left dry heaving. By now the garbage can was over a third full.

“Seymour is very sick,” Edna explained calmly. “I’m going to make sure he gets home alright.”

“Yes, you do that.” Chalmers cringed away from the scene and backed out the door. He paused with his hand on the knob and awkwardly added on, “And, uh, get well soon Seymour.”

With that, he turned and left.

Seymour wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and flopped down on the sofa. “That’s the shortest meeting with Chalmers I’ve ever had. Maybe I should puke in front of him more often.”

Edna laughed. “You’ve still got your witty sense of humor, I think you’ll be alright.” she massaged his shoulders.

“Will you get me some water, please?” Seymour asked.

“Of course.” Edna kissed his forehead and got up. She filled a cup at the water cooler and handed it over to him.

He took a small sip and waited. It was staying down for the time being.

“I think it’ll stay down.” he managed another micro sip before looking down at himself in disgust. “Ugh, look at me. I’m a mess.”

With great effort, he hoisted himself off the couch and made a feeble attempt at cleaning the vomit off his clothes with a handful of kleenex. “Well, I tried.”

“How are you feeling?” Edna asked.

“Not great, but a little better.”

“What do you say we go back to my place and get you cleaned up? I’ll get you in the shower and make you feel all better.” Edna said in a tone that was both motherly and seductive.

Seymour gave a genuine smile despite still feeling like crap. It was by far the best idea he’d heard all day. He placed his clean hand around his girlfriend’s shoulder and held her close.

“Edna, I’d love that.”

[fanpirex]

Deep Breath | Excerpt

In honour and celebration of the news that Greedfall will be getting extra content (whatever that entails), I figured I’d post a snippet of this idea I had for a fic ages ago. It’s focused on De Sardet/Constantin and would be a fix-it, basically. Not sure when, if ever, I will publish this and the excerpt might not remain unchanged if I do. Hope you enjoy anyway :)

Looking at him now, she struggled to reconcile the joyous dashing child of their youths with the crazed and distant being offering her godhood. She knew he was there somewhere, her sweet prince, her wonderful cousin who was too caring and sensitive for the harsh world he had received – he was just being supressed.

“Constantin,” she whispered, her voice raspy.

“Join me,” he implored, and there now was something in his gaze that mirrored his former self, just as there had been when he desperately demanded that his Nádaig not harm her.

She knew what she had to do; the dagger was heavy and cold in her palm. Its familiar pommel and engraved blade were both comforting and heart-breaking. She had given him this many years ago in a much happier time. She could scarcely imagine she would ever use it against him, and yet…

Her friends waited with their factions, their families, holding the line of defence just so she could have enough time. She imagined they expected her to be strong and capable – as she had made herself seem all these months in their company – but she had always been weak when it came to Constantin. He was the one who made her feel larger than life. He was also her hero as much as he was her responsibility. Ever since his actions had come to light, she had intended to convince him of a better way.

It wasn’t possible, she now realised, though still she tried.

“I want to go home, Connie. Come with me, please,” she begged. “Let’s go home together.” It would never be that simple, she knew.

“I did all of this for you, cousin,” he smiled, resolute. “So that we can rule together, like we always wanted. No one can tell us what to do anymore.”

The corruption and madness had driven him to extreme lengths, but these words were true. She’d known his motivations as she soon as she’d pieced his plans together. Regardless, it didn’t change the carnage and deaths that had been littered in the wake of his generous gift to her.

She smiled back at him, slowly, holding back her tears.

She barely knew she’d done it; the movement was swift, everything silent, until he gasped in pain. “What a shame,” he murmured, his eyes wide in agony. Even now, with his hot blood spilling onto her fingers, he didn’t blame her. He locked eyes with her and, in them, she could see forgiveness she didn’t deserve.

The tears spilled over her cheeks and she lowered his limp body to the ground ever so gently. With a loving touch, she swept the hair from his face and cradled him in her lap as his body twitched. The whole cave seemed to shudder with him.

“Good night, sweet prince.”

Her lips pressed against his forehead, the bony branches that crept from his scalp scratching her. He gasped one last time and his once amber eyes rolled and then… there was nothing.

In her numbness, she released him and heard the Nádaig behind her roar. She couldn’t bring herself to move. En on mil frichtimen seemed pleased and the breeze swirled around her in relief, but she just closed her eyes, curled up on the ground and burrowed into her cousin’s side.

He would never stroke her hair or kiss her nose again. The thought hit her straight in the gut and she lost all remaining breath in her lungs. She would never be ‘fair cousin’ again. She was alone now.

“Connie,” she keened, her hands grasping at his doublet. She rubbed her cheek against his chest, wanting to sink into his skin and be with him forever. She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t leave him.

The red stained dagger lay where she’d dropped it and she watched it yearningly.

The temptation was so sweet.

She wasn’t sure how long she’d been there for and she wasn’t sure how long it would be until her friends found her. Time was meaningless now. Nothing mattered past this cave, past her cousin’s unmoving body.

She’d betrayed her sweet prince. How could she bear to go on without him? He’d trusted her more than anyone, had cared for her more than anyone, and she’d murdered him.

Her friends would call it justice, would call it necessary – when she’d punctured his torso, that had been her belief too. Now, with his breathing stilled and his heart frozen, she wanted nothing more than to take it all back.

Clumsily, she made herself move. She pressed a hand to his wound as if to hold in the blood, as if enough pressure would revive him. She considered all of her past medical training and pushed at his chest and bent to breathe into his mouth.

She stopped like that, hand above his motionless heart, lips on his, and she just cried.

“Connie,” she whispered against his mouth, praying he would suddenly sit up and laugh jovially. “Don’t leave me behind.”

The air around her seemed to swirl and En on mil frichtimen’s voice echoed in her ears. “You have done well, flesh of my land. Do not weep. Tír Fradí is safe thanks to you.”

Her breathing halted. She glanced up with a snarl on her face. “I killed my minundhanem! And you tell me not to cry?” Her head bowed again, her nose brushing his, and she sobbed unabashedly.

In a burst of movement, she leapt for the dagger and raised it to her own gut.

“What are you doing?” En on mil frichtimen boomed, angry.

“I can’t live without him, I can’t,” she shook her head wildly.

“You mustn’t do this!”

“You can’t stop me,” she declared and stabbed herself with all the viciousness she could manage.

The pain was swift. Blood bubbled up her throat and her strength failed her. She let herself fall beside her sweet prince and just managed to clasp his hand in hers.

“No!” En on mil frichtimen cried out.

As her consciousness fled, she kept her gaze on Constantin’s face. “I’m coming, Connie,” she murmured blearily.

In the wake of her death, the god of a thousand faces raged. Magic filled the cave with overwhelming intensity and then the world simply ceased to go on.

[scarletbluebird13]

Hi! I was wondering if you could do a general MK fic where whilst they’re doing something in public (i.e. dinner, shopping), we catch sight of an enemy, and a few moments later, chaos ensues and after we go BAMF, we end up with an injury that is quite serious but we brush it off? Thanks if ever you choose to do this :)

Damn Idiot

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Title: Masquerade Kiss

Pairing: ?(ambiguous) x MC 

Tags: idk what to put here; shonen?? 

Triggers: mention of blood, fighting, stabby-stabby, heavy cursing

Word count: 2038

A/N: Hiya! Thank you for the request, Nonnie! <3 I hope this is at least close to what you wanted - since no character was specified and you requested a fic, I decided to write you a fic with no specifics on who the suitor is -- hopefully his role is ambiguous enough any of the four guys could fit in <3 And I know you probably wanted one of the guys to have the cool action moment -- but MC got snubbed in her own series in all four routes and I didn’t feel right downgrading her capabilities here either -- Hope this is pretty close to what you had in mind, my apologies if it wasn’t what you wanted. Luv you Nonnie! Thank you for your request~ It was appreciated (lol thanks for laying out a general idea for what you wanted and giving me enough creative space) Feedback/criticism always welcome <3 :)

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Palm to palm, interlocking fingers - his warmth seeps into my hand. A welcomed sensation and one I’m used to. A sensation dearly missed. I’ve just returned from a month-long mission in Los Angeles. All the sunshine in that state doesn’t come close to the warmth emanating from his hand. Typically, he’d find a way to be with me - he can be impulsive at times, but then again, what did I reasonably expect when I decided I wanted us to take the next step in our relationship? I’ve missed him so much - all those lonely nights without him…the other side of the bed empty and his smell absent from the sheets. Heh. But the nights we teased each other even though we were on different continents were fantastic. ...I wonder how tonight will go…? 

“What are you smirking about?”  

I glance up at him - but the way he’s so cool and collected in public, you’d never guess that handsome face was capable of mercilessly teasing me.

“What fun is it if I just tell you?”

A smirk tugs at his lips, satisfied with my response as he replies; “I’d expect nothing less from you.”

My heart feels like it’s going to beat right out of my chest as he gives my hand a squeeze - it’s embarrassing, but I couldn’t care less. I haven’t seen him in a month - I’ve craved his touch - and right now, it’s like we’re both immune to the stares of onlookers. Murmurs and sharp whispers can’t reach us. Not only could we care less about pda - what they say, what they think; none of it matters. What’s more? Today happens to be our anniversary and since I managed to complete the mission just in time, he’s decided to take me out on a mystery date - though, he’s so unpredictable I don’t have the slightest clue where we’re headed. 

Basking in the rare happiness and serenity, however, lay my own suspicions. 

I’ve had this sinking feeling since we began walking hand-in-hand - like there’s more to the onlookers than just passersby shocked at harmless hand holding. But today’s our day off, so I push my worries out of my mind, letting them settle in the peripheral of my mind’s eye. 

However, it’s not long before my heart begins accelerating with new meaning. 

I hear rapid footsteps approaching from behind - ones with purpose and imperativeness. All my instincts as an agent - and one who just wrapped up a mission the other day, no less - tell me this is no accident and this person means to charge toward us. Careful to not harm an innocent man running late for something or another, I look in the reflection of the window of the store in front of us, and see the man looks sketchy. Even though his eyes are covered, it’s clear he’s burning daggers at us. Whoever the target - the man at my side or myself - my instinct is to place a bullseye on this guy. 

When I see he’s too close and a millisecond would be too late to do anything, I drop the hand at my side, face the person, and land a hard kick to the ribs. In no way is the blow fatal, just enough to send the poor soul to the ground, coughing up blood. 

“___, do you know him?” 

“Oh yeah! He’s my best friend from high school, we used to do everything together- No. Of course I don’t know him.”

“Oh~ So even after kicking a man to the ribs she’s got her spice?”

“Shut up. He’s got friends.” 

And in just a moment, some of the onlookers have come to the man’s side. The others, clearly civilians, run in all directions, screaming.

“You’re a real bitch, you know?” The man with a bloody mouth says. 

“Oh is that the kind of impression I left? Glad I was memorable. Who’s lackey are you? Remind me?”

“Tch. Doesn’t matter. You’ll be face-to-face with him once we beat your sorry ass.” 

“Oooh I’m so scared.” 

“Shut up you bitch!!” I throw a punch at this annoying fool, right in the gut, my hand burning from the impact and my leg doing no better. Bad day to wear heels.  

The sorry excuse for a lackey goes flying before hitting the ground with a dull thud. Taking his place, another lackey from the crowd charges at me, and I’m able to take care of him. But there’s another - and if it weren’t for his timing, I’d have been hit. But he narrowly misses me. And that’s because the one I love steps in, punching the second lackey before he can reach me.

“Why’d you do that? I can handle this.” I say, a bit irritated at him. But I won’t lie, seeing him in action makes my heart pound - in a good way.

“A man who tries to beat a woman is not a man. That’s all.” He says, glaring the motherfucker down.

“This is my fight, not yours. Let me handle it-”

“I told you the same thing about a year ago. What was it you said to me?” He says, throwing a warm look at me from over his shoulder. With that I fall silent, remembering the love I feel for him in that moment a year ago. The same shattering fear of losing him. Of being without him. Wanting him to be okay in the end - it comes back tenfold. He gives me a soft smile before looking away from me, getting ready to fight;

“You don’t have to do this alone. I’m right here. Rely on me. Please.”

Before I know it, we’re taking out lackeys left and right, obliterating them. Rather, we should. At least one of us is an active agent with a severe training regime. 

Even with all that training

you’d think 

that I would consider every possible outcome. 

Good and bad. 

I finish up with the last pitiful excuse for a lackey when I turn around. I see the first guy coming back for another ass whooping with a sharp knife. I’m ready to take him on and disarm him the way I’ve been trained to do under certain circumstances, however, much to my horror, I see something I’ve never wanted to see since I realized how much he means to me. 

His silhouette flashes before me, his back encompassing my field of vision. I hear nothing. Feel the anguish and petrifying panic shock my nervous system. I feel faint. Like I could fall over at any minute. My hands are so pale, so cold, I forget what it means to be warm.

The only thing I see, the only thing I smell

is blood.

I’m ready to fall to my knees and scream his name but I can’t. I can’t stop now. I know I have to take out the last son-of-a-motherfucking-bitch-whore. And I wish it was the sight of his blood staining his back serving as the final thing that snapped me out of it. I wish it didn’t take me hearing his grunt and painful sighs to wake me up. I wish I would’ve sprung into action before he had the reflexes to jump in front of me like that. There’s so much I could wish for - but none of it will come true. Because the truth is I wasn’t fast enough. The truth remains that he got stabbed. And right now, all that matters is that I show the piece of motherfucking shit what happens when they go after someone so close to me. 

With tears stinging my eyes and blurring my vision I gather all my strength and run towards the fucker.

Fueled with a hundred fires burning in my core, distressed and angry and scared for his damn life, my movements are hastier and packed with more roaring fireballs than ever before. 

I catch the fucker’s wrist when he tries to stab me, and I twist it as hard as I motherfucking can.  

He screams in agony and tries to reach for his injured wrist with his other hand. And to that one, I merely said ‘hell fucking no’ before punching his uninjured arm’s elbow. My fingers were red and trembling, and they hurt like hell for all the punches I’d been throwing, but I can hardly feel any of the pain. Seeing the piece of shit in front of me writhe in excruciation serves as my anesthetic. You don’t get to be one of the Boss’s top agents by not working for it. 

Pathetic excuse for a lackey gets off easy. It wouldn’t do me any good to murder him (he’s not worth the effort anyway). While he’s distracted with what I’m sure must be the most excruciating pain of his life (I guarantee it is. This hurts more than a seventh grade breakup. More than pineapple on pizza. More than getting shot. I know this because I caused that pain. If this isn’t the worst pain he’s ever been in, I’m not doing my job - even though this is my fuckin day off. My anniversary with my boyfriend of all the damn days. And to top it off, the day after I get back home after not seeing him for an entire month. Fucker has some balls trying to mess with me today), I walk behind him and shove him to the ground. I put some pressure on his leg and ask him one simple question;

“Whose motherfucking lackey are you?”

“Screw you bitch.”

“Wrong answer.” I coldly spit out, putting more pressure on his leg. 

But I stop. I hear a painful sigh, and look up. He’s clutching his wound and walking towards me with a little glint in his eye. And in that moment I forget all about the fucker beneath me and I go over to him instead. 

“Stop walking - it looks like it’s really serious. You’re bleeding out and need-” I’m cut off by his lips on mine. My heart accelerates and it stops at the same time. My body tenses up and warm tears of relief stain my cheeks as I finally reciprocate the kiss. 

“Are you okay?” I ask him, looking deep into those eyes that see more than an agent. See more than a woman. They look past all I am and all I am not and see me for me. 

“Yes, it’s not that bad anyway.” He says, his voice strained.

“Liar. You’re bleeding out. You need help.” 

“No, I swear I’m fine. This is nothing. Besides, are you okay?”

“I’m not the one who’s stabbed, so yeah, I’d say I’m okay.” 

He chuckles a little before slightly grimacing.

“Okay, you need help. Now.” 

“Bet you I don’t.”

“That’s one bet you’d lose and another I wouldn’t ever want to take any chances on.”

“I love you - you’re incredible. I knew you were perfectly capable of taking those guys out on your own - and probably a hundred more - but wow.” 

I hit his shoulder a little bit before staring him down and scolding him;

“I appreciate your help, but I was trained for this. Or did you forget that part? I could’ve handled it much quicker and definitely painless by myself. Why did you jump in front of a knife like that?” 

“Because I didn’t want to lose you. I know you can handle yourself, but I wish you’d rely on me more. You’re not alone anymore. You have me. Or did you forget?”

“But what if I’d lost you?!” I scream, losing all control over my emotions, the reality of how close I could’ve come to losing him forever to the icy grip of death more than I can handle. “Did you think about that before you jumped in front of the fucking knife like that?! You damn idiot!”

He stays silent. All he does is let me sob against his chest. Though I try to be careful, as he was stabbed in the abdomen. He caresses my hair and holds me close. 

“I wasn’t thinking. He’d stabbed me before I knew I was in front of him. I’m so sorry I scared you like that.” He whispers against my hair, placing a gentle kiss atop my head. 

“Thank you for living.”

[lady-wallace]

Whumptober Day 30: “Where Did That Come From?” (JoJo’s Bizarre Adventure)

Day Thirty: Where Did That Come From

Prompts used: Wound reveal, hidden injury, internal/organ injury

Fandom: JoJo’s Bizarre Adventure: Stardust Crusaders

Read on Ao3

Read on FF.net

This is the last JoJo whumptober fic! If you guys enjoyed, please consider supporting me on Ko-fi (I do JJBA commission fics as well)

~~~~~~~~

Jotaro hunched over the counter in the bathroom, carefully sliding his clean shirt down over the bandages he'd wrapped around his middle. Maybe he should have used tape, he thought wryly. The wound hadn't really stopped bleeding, and he'd started to think that maybe it was worse than he had originally thought.

But what was he going to do about it, cry? Yeah it hurt a hell of a lot, but Jotaro would be fine. The sword hadn't gone in that deep, had it? Star had stopped it before it had done too much damage.

Besides, Polnareff already felt terrible about what had happened. Not that it had been his fault, really. The sword had possessed him and he hadn't been able to control himself. Jotaro had even volunteered to stay in the same room as the Frenchman that night to make sure he knew he wasn't mad at him. He'd really just been glad he hadn't had to kill Polnareff.

No, Jotaro would be fine. He just needed to rest. He was exhausted and his whole abdomen was aching.

There was a light knock on the door and he jumped, wincing as the motion pulled his wounded stomach muscles.

"Jotaro, we're going down to dinner!" Polnareff called.

Jotaro swallowed hard. Dinner. Yeah. He wasn't exactly hungry, in fact, he felt more like he was going to throw up. But it was better to put on appearances. They didn't exactly have time for him to lay around in a hospital for a week. His mom didn't have time. And he couldn't exactly bow out what with Kakyoin already out of the game…

"Yeah, coming," he called, and swiftly swept the bloody cloths into the trash, hoping Polnareff didn't see them. He grabbed his coat, tugging it on gingerly before pulling his hat onto his head and heading out.

Polnareff gave him a small smile, eyes searching, but Jotaro just glowered at him and nodded toward the door. The Frenchman took the hint and they left to go meet up with the old man and Avdol.

Thankfully it was a little later so the hotel restaurant was pretty quiet. Jotaro looked through the menu and ordered just some soup, knowing his stomach wasn't going to take more than that right now. Joseph looked at him with a frown.

"Are you sure that's all you want, Jojo? Are you feeling all right?"

"Get off my back, Jiji," Jotaro snipped wearily, leaning his chin in one hand. "I'm just tired of all this heavy food."

Joseph shrugged and went back to his own order. Jotaro felt a sharp pain in his abdomen and blinked hard, breathing in slow to avoid the wave of nausea that washed over him. He pressed a hand to his stomach and felt some blood seeping through the bandages.

Dammit. He tugged his coat further around himself. Maybe he would have to tape the wound closed after all.

Maybe he should just tell the others…

But no, Jotaro would be fine. His Stand ability allowed for quicker healing than normal, and, again, he wasn't going to risk his mom's life just for something that would probably be better in the morning.

He hoped.

He ate as much as he could, but the dull ache deep in his abdomen was making him sick and all he really wanted to do was lie down and try to sleep this off.

He excused himself as quickly as possible without it seeming weird and headed back up to the room.

He barely made it from the elevator to the room before the pain and nausea only increased. Jotaro leaned against the wall, gritting his teeth. He just needed to get to his bed, he told himself. Just needed to lay down, sleep it off, he'd be fine…

But he couldn't make it to the bed. He barely got the key in the lock before another wave of sharp pain tore through him, feeling like the blade was being shoved through his guts again.

Jotaro was unable to stop the groan that escaped his throat, gripping the door frame. His knees shook and he hurriedly got inside and shut the door. He was so hot too, sweating, and he clumsily tore his coat off and simply left it on the floor, not wanting to bend over to pick it up.

Blood trickled down his belly and he lurched toward the bathroom. He at least needed to stop the bleeding.

But his stomach had other ideas. Nausea so bad it made him dizzy and he went for the toilet instead, crashing to his knees as he started to vomit.

Pain tore through him, ten times worse than getting stabbed. His wounded stomach muscles spasmed and the agony just made him even more sick.

He gagged and gasped for breath before he was forced to throw up again.

When he finally blinked and got a breath in, he wiped his mouth and realized something was wrong, looking at the saliva smeared across his hand.

Red.

He was throwing up blood.

"Yare yare daze," he croaked.

"Jotaro?!"

Dammit. Polnareff. He tried to push himself to his feet, but pain and dizziness overcame him and he collapsed back against the floor, catching himself on the toilet as he was forced to throw up again.

Guess he couldn't hide it now.

XXX

Polnareff watched Jotaro leave the table, walking stiffly and slightly hunched over. He gnawed his bottom lip. He was really worried about the younger man. He hadn't even eaten half of the small bowl of soup he'd ordered and that wasn't like Jotaro.

Polnareff played with his own food. He really hoped Jotaro wasn't hurt that badly. He'd insisted he wasn't, patching himself up, and Polnareff had let him, figuring he probably didn't want any help from him.

Not after he had been stupid enough to get possessed by the Anubis sword and nearly kill his friend. That after Kakyoin had been almost blinded right beside him, and on top of that he'd thought he had gotten Avdol killed… Polnareff was wondering whether he was actually good for anything.

He decided he had to go check on Jotaro at least and excused himself, heading back to their room.

The key was still in the lock.

He summoned Chariot, and looked around cautiously as he stepped inside, but didn't see any enemies.

Something caught on his foot and he looked down to see Jotaro's coat lying carelessly on the floor.

"Jotaro?" he called, heart in his throat. Jotaro would never leave his coat like this, barely took it off to sleep—had something happened to him?

A retching sound, accompanied by a whimper of pain came from the bathroom and Polnareff saw the door ajar.

He hurried over and pushed the door open without thinking of it.

He found Jotaro bent over the toilet, arm wrapped around his stomach, and blood…he was throwing up blood.

"Jotaro!" Polnareff cried, rushing into the bathroom and crouching beside him.

Jotaro slumped limply and Polnareff caught him, noticing how pale he was.

"Dammit," Jotaro whispered.

"What is it? Is it your wound?" Polnareff asked frantically. He glanced down and saw a large spot of blood spreading across Jotaro's shirt under the arm he'd wrapped around himself.

"Something's…wrong," Jotaro gritted out.

"What can I do?" Polnareff asked, shifting Jotaro into what he hoped was a more comfortable position.

Jotaro swallowed thickly. "Get…get Jiji."

Polnareff's heart was in his throat as he carefully propped Jotaro against the wall and hurried into the room to grab the phone, calling the front desk so they could tell Joseph to get up here.

"Room 530, yes," he said and slammed the phone back into the cradle. He would have gone himself but he didn't want to leave Jotaro for more than a second.

He heard more retching and ran back into the bathroom to find Jotaro clinging to the toilet again, gasping for breath. Sweat dripped down his face, which was ghostly white. He shuddered and a very uncharacteristic whimper escaped his throat.

Polnareff grabbed a cloth and wet it, resting it on the back of his neck before dabbing his face. Jotaro groaned and sagged, seeming to have no energy left.

Polnareff caught him and let the teen rest against his chest. Jotaro seemed smaller without his coat and hat, especially when he was obviously in so much pain.

"Let me see it," he coaxed.

Jotaro curled up further, but Polnareff pushed his arm away worryingly easily and carefully pulled Jotaro's shirt up.

Haphazard bandages circled his stomach but were already soaked through with blood. Polnareff peeled them away, and Jotaro hissed and tensed, face crumpled in pain.

"Easy," Polnareff murmured. Honestly, he was terrified. Jotaro must really be in pain, because he never allowed himself to show this much emotion.

The wound finally revealed, Polnareff watched blood dribble from it as Jotaro tensed again, probably fighting through another wave of pain. Polnareff quickly grabbed a fresh towel and pressed it to the wound.

"Gah!" Jotaro cried out, trying to shift away, but Polnareff held onto him, pressing down in an attempt to stop the bleeding.

"Easy," he said again. "I'm sorry, but you're still bleeding pretty badly." Jotaro moaned, breathing through his teeth as his head lolled on Polnareff's shoulder.

"Why didn't you tell me it was this bad?" Polnareff asked. "I didn't even know. I didn't remember what I did." He bit his lip. Was Jotaro keeping this from him because he didn't want him to feel bad? Well now he just felt worse.

"Didn't…think it was…that bad," Jotaro gritted out.

Polnareff held him tighter as his body tensed again and felt a wave of relief when Joseph and Avdol came in.

"Polnareff, Jotaro?" Joseph cried.

"In here," Polnareff called.

"Jojo!" Joseph cried as he saw his grandson, and hurriedly crouched beside Polnareff, gasping at the blood. "What happened?"

"This is the wound from earlier," Polnareff bit out. "The one I gave him."

"Not…your fault…" Jotaro managed before another wave of pain tore through him and he groaned, eyes squeezing shut.

"Jotaro," Joseph whispered worriedly and carefully pulled Jotaro into his arms. Polnareff let him, almost reluctant to let the teen go, but knowing Joseph had more right.

Avdol pushed past Polnareff to crouch beside Jotaro, lifting the cloth to see the wound. He pressed carefully around it and Jotaro gave a hoarse cry taking both Joseph and Polnareff to hold onto him. His eyes fluttered and rolled up into his head.

"He's bleeding internally, we really need to get him to the hospital," the fortune teller said grimly and stood. "Keep pressure on that, and I'll call for an ambulance."

He left the cramped room and Polnareff watched, helplessly as Joseph held his grandson close, threading his non-mechanical hand through Jotaro's hair. The fact that Jotaro didn't even protest the caring gesture was more telling about his current condition than anything.

"Mr. Joestar, I'm sorry," Polnareff bit out.

"It's not your fault, Polnareff. You had no control," Joseph assured him. "He should have said how bad it was."

"I still feel like it's my fault though, I keep messing up!" Polnareff clenched his hands into fists.

"Polnareff, blaming yourself isn't going to help Jotaro," Joseph said firmly. "Now, help keep pressure on this while I go get my stuff."

He shifted Jotaro back into Polnareff's arms and Polnareff suddenly experienced an incredibly protective feeling toward Jotaro. Sometimes he forgot Jotaro was only seventeen, and yeah, Polnareff wasn't a lot older than him, but still, Sherry would have been about Jotaro's age if she were still alive…

Jotaro moaned and his head lolled to the side against Polnareff's arm and Polnareff gripped his shoulder. "You'll be okay," he murmured. "We'll have you fixed up in no time."

The ambulance came fairly quickly and Polnareff saw Speedwagon Foundation members file into the room and load Jotaro on a gurney. Good, he would at least be in good hands.

It was a long night. Polnareff hated hospitals. They all took turns sitting and pacing in the waiting room while Jotaro was in surgery. Joseph sat with his head in his hands, muttering about keeping Jotaro safe. Avdol brought them all coffee. Polnareff continued to pace.

They could do nothing but wait.

XXX

Jotaro swam out of oblivion gradually and blinked his eyes open. Everything was blurry and he shifted slightly before a dull ache formed in his middle and he took a shuddering breath, lying still.

"Jojo?"

Jotaro cracked one eye open and saw a tall head of silver hair looming over him.

"Pol…na…reff," he slurred.

"Hey! It's good to see you awake, mon ami!"

Jotaro winced slightly at the Frenchman's loud voice, but blinked again and his vision cleared. "Wha' happn'd?"

Polnareff's face fell slightly as he sat back. "You got wounded when you fought me after I got possessed by Anubis, remember?"

Oh yeah. Jotaro put his hands to his stomach and felt a swatch of bandages under his shirt.

"The sword had damaged your intestines and nicked one of your kidneys. That's why you were in so much pain."

Jotaro wet his lips, swallowing hard. Damn. He just hadn't thought it was that bad. But now here he was, in a hospital, wasting precious time.

He started to sit up but Polnareff hurriedly grabbed his shoulders, pushing him back.

"Hey, you can't get up!"

"Can't stay here," Jotaro grunted, but pain tore through him and he gasped, having no choice but to collapse back on the bed.

Polnareff squeezed his shoulder firmly. "Jotaro, you need to rest. The doc said you'll be fine in a couple days and should be good to travel, but until then…" He shook his head, biting his lip. "You gave us all a scare, especially your grandpa."

Jiji. Jotaro looked around but the old man wasn't in the room.

"He's getting some sleep right now. But I'm gonna call him and tell him you're awake."

"Polnareff," Jotaro said. "My mom…" he trailed off, swallowing hard. Refusing to break down in front of Polnareff. He was going to blame the pain medicine.

Polnareff's expression turned soft. "We'll still have time, Jotaro. Mr. Joestar is going to spend the next couple days working with the Speedwagon Foundation to try and get a better idea of Dio's location in Egypt. It won't be wasted time."

Jotaro closed his eyes, biting his lip as he tried to fight back his emotions.

"Hey, it's gonna be okay," Polnareff told him.

Jotaro finally blinked his eyes open again and looked over at the Frenchman. He swallowed hard, until he was sure his voice would be steady and then said, "Thanks."

Polnareff looked taken aback. "For what? I was the one who put you…"

"No," Jotaro said. "And if I catch you blaming yourself again, I'll kick your ass. Just…thanks, okay?"

Polnareff's face softened again and he smiled, seeming to understand. "Yeah. Of course, Jojo."

Jotaro sighed and felt his eyelids tugging downward again.

"Rest," Polnareff told him and pulled his blanket further over his shoulders.

Jotaro might have protested under any other circumstance, but right now? Right now, he would take the Frenchman's advice.