#the swelling is mostly gone now and the bruising is turning purple

[radiowallet]

Eyes Open - Chapter 8

Pairing: Marcus Moreno x Amy Oliver (ofc) Summary: It seems silly to wait a whole week. WC: 2.1K Warnings: 18+ MDNI Canon-typical violence, talk of police work, a blatant show of testosterone, blood, injuries, kissing, making-out, dry humping, a smidge of dirty talk hurt/comfort, slow burn, yearning, idiots friends to lovers, financial stressors, second chance romance, workplace romance (sort of), older love interest, single parents, DID I MENTION THE YEARNING?

Series Masterlist II Main Masterlist II Marcus Moreno Masterlist

Cross-Posted to AO3

Part 7 >>> Part 9

For any new writing follow @radiowallet-writes and turn on notifications.

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Marcus checks his reflection in the window of Amy’s apartment building one last time, happy to see the swelling around his eye is finally starting to go down. He slips his glasses back on, and checks again, relieved that the black plastic hides the worst of the damage. He must have been something terrible to look at earlier, super strength helping to dull the pain but doing little to hide the gruesome sight of his late-night scuffle. Still, he was pleased with the way the purple had already faded to something more grey, content that the bruise would mostly be gone by morning. 

Amy had been justifiably upset when they left the dark confines of the evidence locker, the bright fluorescent light of the precinct giving her a much better view of the damage done. He had tried to wave it off again, making a half-hearted joke about ‘seeing the other guy’ but she refused to laugh, instead marching him straight back to the bathroom, stopping only long enough to grab the first-aid kit from her desk.

“You can tell me what happened now, or I can just read it in the report that hits my desk Monday morning,” she warned, her sharp tone an odd match to the gentle way she cleaned his wounds. It was clear she’d had practice, and he had to fight back the wave of jealousy that her hands had touched anyone else with the same soft touch. 

“I miscalculated. I thought Miracle was on his way. Plus I didn’t know Baldwin was still working the case.” 

“He sweet-talked Special Crimes. Bought himself a little bit of time.” 

It was almost bolstering to hear that Derek was just as desperate as Marcus to put a stop to all of this, even if their methods were so mismatched. Perhaps success wasn’t so far out of reach despite the loss they took today. 

“And who made mincemeat out of your face?”

Marcus winced as Amy pressed a cotton ball of alcohol to the worst of his cuts, but she paid him little mind, still waiting for an answer to her question. 

“The guy down in holding cell 4.” 

She grew quiet after that, her movements slowing just enough to catch his attention. Marcus took care to grab her hands and hold them tight, waiting for her to say out loud what he already knew. 

“Amy?”

“…he’ll make bail.” 

He nodded, “I’m counting on it.”

It was wrong. Dangerous, even. Stupidly so. It seemed Amy agreed, echoing her plea from earlier, all but begging him to be careful. It had seemed like a good opportunity to kiss her again, and so he did, cupping her cheek to keep her close, as he stole the taste of stale coffee from her lips. When it became apparent neither of them wanted to pull away, laughter broke out between them again, the joyful sound helping to ease the tension that refused to part from this day. After that, Amy suggested he swing by after she got Harris down for bed. 

“Seems silly to wait a whole week.”

Marcus couldn’t agree more. 

Amy’s home feels just as cozy as it did the week prior, the lights dimmed low and the balcony door cracked open, letting a late spring breeze blow through. They settle together on the couch, curled into each other, the last of the wine Marcus brought Thursday split between them, the sound of the city keeping them company in place of the scratch of Amy’s records. 

He's quick to take advantage of the newest state of their relationship, resting the curve of his palm along the bend in her knee, and thrilling at the shade of pink creeping up her cheeks. Not to be outdone, Amy leans over to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, giggling at the tickle of his mustache. He steals one of his own before pulling back, just enough for her to settle into his side, her head finding the space between his shoulder and neck. 

“What did you and Harris get up to tonight?”

“Had pizza over at Christine’s then came back home for a few cuddles before bedtime,” she shrugs, a generous sip of wine chasing her answer. “I always say I don’t hate these Saturday shifts until I get home and realize how much time I’ve missed with her.”

“You’re doing great,” Marcus asserts, but without even looking he can see the roll of her eyes and the frown on her face. “You are,” he says again because she is and he means it. 

He knows that guilt just as well as Amy does. That all-too-familiar foe that lingers at the back of his mind, a consistent and constant worry that one parent isn’t enough, could never be enough. He wishes there was a way to wipe it from her mind and put her heart at ease, but Marcus knows that the only solution is to remind her again and again. 

And so he does. 

“You are.”  

He feels her nod, a soft brush of her fingers along his chin before settling back onto his thigh, enough of a cue for him to change the subject. 

“How mad was Baldwin after I left today?”

“Oh, he quieted down not long after,” she hums, her smirk hidden behind her wine glass. “I think your mere presence is a trigger for him these days.”

Marcus can’t help but grin, something like victory blooming in his chest. He lets out a sharp laugh and squeezes Amy’s knee in reply. “Who’s gonna break the news that he’s about to see a whole lot more of me?” 

He’s only half-joking, his lips finding the crown of Amy’s head, breathing in the sweet scent of her shampoo. It feels almost like a dream – one he had been so reluctant even to consider – and the long list of reasons why seemed so stupid with the weight of her resting against him.

“Maybe we just let him figure it out on his own,” Amy offers, the tips of her fingers drumming a pattern out on Marcus’s thigh. It’s slight, the small wave of nerves shifting out of her. It feels like she needs room – or maybe it’s time – to parse through her words, and Marcus is content to wait for her. 

“I just…,” she starts, her breathing shaky along the rim of her glass. “I don’t want things to change.”

He presses another kiss into the crown of her head, this time holding his lips there for her to feel the intent behind them. “It won’t.”

She’s quiet in the wake of his reassurance, leaning deeper into his embrace, her fingers finally stilling where they rest on his leg.

“So you’ll still pop in to awkwardly flirt while I slip you police reports and suspect lists?”

This earns her an amused snort and another kiss, this one to her temple, his lips lingering on the small patch of skin. The feel of it sends a wave of pleasure to the base of his spine, something warm and heady pooling low in his gut. He hums, the sound rough and deep at the back of his throat, the hand on her knee curling tighter to ground him in this moment. He swallows around it, finding his own voice, but just barely.

“My flirting wasn’t that awkward.”

Amy tilts her head to brush her lips along the underside of his chin, her lips parting enough for him to feel her breathe out her gentle tease. 

“Debatable.”

Things fall into place quickly after that. Wine glasses find their way to the coffee table, Amy turning up and around, all of her settling in his lap. Marcus takes care to hold her steady, wrapping his hands around the slip of her waist, eyes finding hers as she leans in for a kiss. She gives just as openly now as she did the first time they kissed, her lips smooth where they meet his own. He parts them easily, his tongue melting into hers, the taste of her better than he remembered. 

Amy is warm and heavy on top of him, one hand curled into his hair, the other clinging to the back of his neck. Marcus almost feels helpless, gripping tighter to her waistline and pulling her closer and closer still, until he swears he can feel the beat of her heart against his own. The heat between them burns brighter, and with it, his hunger for her. He thrusts up, just once, dragging a moan from her between her lips. He swallows the sound, and trades her one of his own, letting the whole of it fill her up. 

Their kisses only grow more frantic from there, a messy press of lips lost in the sound of breathless sighs and hushed pleas. They move together, hips grinding up and down, not nearly enough but still so much in the heat of the moment. Marcus breaks first, gasping for air as his lips pull away. He doesn’t go far, knocking his glasses off and burying his face in the curve of her neck, teeth and tongue finding the salty sting of her skin. 

“M-Marcus…I…it’s been so… so l-long….” Her voice is a whisper, strangled and panting in his ear. It's like music, and he can’t help but bite down harder, officially marking her as his. Amy’s words break off, her hips canting down to meet his own. 

“Shhh, I know. I know,” he promises, soothing the hair off her forehead, refusing to stop even as she presses her lips to his cheek, her mewls almost silent as tries and fails to beg for more. 

It’s intoxicating, knowing he’s making her feel so good; so good he’s stealing the words from her lips, and replacing them with only the pleasure of his touch. He feels light-headed, dizzy, almost lost, his thrusts frenzied but not without purpose. With each drag of his hips, bright white bursts across his vision, his cock painfully hard beneath the weight of Amy. But he doesn’t care. 

Fuck, how he doesn’t care.

All he cares about is how she whispers in his ear, her nails biting into his skin, pleading for him to keep going. As if he would dare to stop. He holds tight to her waist, wondering selfishly if she’ll bruise, pulling and pushing her into him as hard as he can. She winds her arms around his neck, muffling her cries in the turn of his neck. He can only guess at how close she is by the tremor in her muscles, legs and arms shaking where they’re wrapped around him. Already he’s thinking of the next time he has her like this, hungry to hear how loud she can be when given the freedom. How exquisite she’ll sound when she breaks around him, and he’ll take care to put her back together. 

For now, he’s happy, feverishly so, everything falling by the wayside as she gasps out his name, her body locking tight as her orgasm crashes into her. He talks her through the height of it, coaxing every ounce of pleasure from her that he can. 

“I’ve got you. I’m here,” Marcus repeats over and over, in awe at how she chases the wave of relief, seemingly desperate to hold on to how good it all feels. He grabs her chin, guiding her mouth to his with a skilled hand, swallowing the last of the quiet gasps she sets free, until finally, she falls against his chest, completely spent, sated. 

Carefully, her body pliant and her breathing even, he tucks her beneath his chin, another kiss gifted to the crown of her head. 

“What about…” she starts, her hips dipping forward to meet his erection, but he shakes his head and holds her steady.

“I just wanted to take care of you.”

She takes the admission in stride, her lips pressing to the hollow dip in his throat, her fingers finding a home where his hair curls at the nape of his neck. He thinks maybe he could fall asleep here, the twist of their bodies tangled on her couch, the city sounds floating in through the dark night, Amy’s warmth enough to keep any chill at bay. 

But neither of them are want for a night on a couch, and it isn’t long before she’s sliding away from him, casting a quick glance down the hall, ensuring the door to Harris’s room is still closed tight. Satisfied with what she sees, Amy turns her attention back to Marcus, her cheeks flushed and her eyes dark. He can’t help himself, pulling her in for another kiss, the palm of his hand cradling her cheek, and holding her close even as their kiss breaks apart. 

“I think I like this thing we’ve started,” Marcus whispers, the tips of his fingers finding the patch of skin beneath her shirt, the small of her back tacky with the lightest sheen of sweat.  

And then, after a pause, Amy whispers, “Please, be careful.”

And Marcus knew. Without even asking, he knew. 

Be careful with me. With us. Please. 

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Part 7 >>> Part 9

For any new writing follow @radiowallet-writes and turn on notifications.

A/N: Would it be a story I wrote if I didn't include my favorite thing in the whole world? Surely not. What can I say? Your girl loves some dry humping.

Big huge thanks to @jazzelsaur who had to listen to me after I wrote this about how fucking hot I accidentally got myself. Who I would be if I couldn't whore around in her DM's?????

[kirk-says-wah]

𝐒𝐭 𝐀𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 - 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟗

Pairing: Kirk/Lars, Kirk/James

TW: drugs

You can also read it here

Kirk awakes to a prod in the shoulder.

He’s pulled from a dreamless sleep, curled up on his side, his head pulsating in time with his heartbeat.

He groans, rolls onto his back before squinting his eyes open. Lars is sat next to him, just by his hip, a soft smile on his face.

“How did you sleep?” he says, voice quiet and gentle, reaching out to pet lightly at Kirk’s hair.

Kirk just grunts, closing his eyes again, relishing in the comfort Lars is giving. His head feels like it’s about to explode, and his finger is throbbing mercilessly. He just wants to go back to sleep.

“It’s okay,” Lars says, “go back to sleep. You don’t have to go to school today.”

School. Dave. Shit.

Kirk’s eyes practically fly open, shifting slightly to sit up.

“What times’it?” he mumbles, swallowing a yawn.

“It’s half eight,” Lars says, arching a brow as Kirk tries to sit up. “Why? What are you doing?”

“I’ve got to go to school,” Kirk answers, managing to finally sit up, the pressure in his head doubling, and he sways a little. Lars’s hand comes to his shoulder.

“I told you, you don’t have to,” Lars replies, concerned. “You’re not well enough to go.”

Kirk just makes a frustrated noise, goes to rub at his eyes but flinches at the tender flesh he finds there.

“I’ve go to go,” he repeats, and Lars just looks at him like he’s gone crazy.

“Kirk, you can hardly stand up. I can’t let you go in like this.”

“My mum will kill me if she finds out I’ve been off,” Kirk lies. He knows his mom will probably be more concerned about his welfare, and it’s not even like she’s going to be back from her buisness trip for another few days.

Lars seems to buy the lie though, tucking a piece of hair behind Kirk’s ear.

“Are you sure?”

“I’ll just go in for first period and if I feel worse I’ll come home.”

Lars nods.

“How are you gonna get home, though? You don’t even drive.”

“I have you,” Kirk states, grin too wide, and Lars laughs, shoving at his shoulder playfully.

“It’s a good thing I love you.”

The both of them still at the words. Kirk’s heart threatens to burst from his chest with how fast it’s thrumming, and he looks at Lars, watching his startled expression turn into panic.

Before anything can be said, Lars changes the subject, reaching over to grab his medication.

“Have you taken any of these yet?”

Kirk shakes his head slightly because he’d been passed out since Lars left him the night before.

Lars grimaces. “Not even the antibiotics?”

“I was asleep,” Kirk answers, voice tired as he smothers a yawn with his hand, his bruised nose protesting at the motion.

“Well, take some now, and then go wash up. I’ll drive you.”

Kirk agrees to that, swallowing down his pills with a bottle of water Lars supplies from somewhere, before Lars helps him up, making sure he can stand on his feet.

The change in height has him a little dizzy, and he’s thankful for the warm hand around his waist.

“Are you sure you’re gonna be okay?”

“I’m sure,” Kirk replies, teeth gritted as he shuffles into the bathroom.

When he catches sight of himself in the mirror, he almost has to take a double take.

There’s bruising under both eyes, his nose a dark purple at the top, and there’s a small cut on his cheek over swelling skin. The sling around his neck looks clinical and stiff, keeping his finger strapped tight to his chest.

He sighs, running the tap before wiping his face, trying to be as soft as possible as to not aggravate the bruising further.

He has to call Lars over to get him to squirt toothpaste on his toothbrush, but manages to actually brush them by himself, even if Lars does hover.

Lars manages to get him dressed into a new tshirt, one less embarrassing this time, but neither of them can be bothered with the hassle of changing his joggers.

Lars is mostly quiet the whole time, only speaking up to tell Kirk to be careful when they finally make their way down the stairs and into the car.

By the time Kirk’s got himself in the passenger seat, he can hardly breathe and he’s turned a sickly grey, breathing through his mouth heavily.

Lars is staring at him but doesn’t comment, just put his hand on his thigh, a silent way of telling him that it’s going to be okay.

They drive to school in silence, but it gives Kirk enough time to finally figure out what’s he’s going to do. He decides he isn��t going to tell Lars about Dave. At least not yet. He doesn’t want to worry him more than he already is, and he doesn’t want to get Lars involved in something he shouldn’t. It’s not fair.

When they get to school they’ve only got ten minutes till class starts, and Kirk is quick to spot Jason in the parking lot.

“Will you be okay with him?” Lars asks, lugging his bag over his shoulder. “I’ve got to go speak to my tutor before class starts.”

Kirk nods, reaching out to squeeze Lars’s hand gently.

“I’ll be okay. Go.”

Lars gives a tentative smile before leaning forward, pressing a shy kiss to Kirk’s cheek. Kirk’s heart flutters, and he can’t help but swoon as he watches Lars walk away.

“Jeez man, are you sure you should be at school?” Jason’s voice sounds, and Kirk turns to him, finding the younger looking a little amused at the sight of him.

Kirk doesn’t have time for jokes though. He pulls Jason forwards by the arm, close enough that he can talk without anyone hearing.

“Dave’s getting me involved in something. I don’t really know what he wants from me but it’s probably nothing good.”

Jason nods, brow furrowed. “Have you told Lars?”

“No. I don’t want to get him involved.”

“Oh, but you don’t mind me getting involved?”

Kirk just sighs, shaking his head, ignoring the pain that slices through his skulls.

“Please just-… I’ll let you know when I know more.”

Jason pats his shoulder, offering a smile. “You can tell me anything, man. You know that.”

Kirk nods, feeling like a weight’s been lifted from his shoulders. That is, until he sees a rush of red hair make its way across the parking lot towards the field.

“Thanks,” Kirk says, before throwing a thumb over his shoulder. “I’ve gotta go.”

“‘Course. See you later.”

Kirk trudges away from Jason, anxiety swirling in his gut as he rounds the corner, finds Dave stood under one of the trees.

He’s staring at Kirk, eyes narrowed, and Kirk walks over, throat tight.

“I’m surprised you showed,” Dave says, stubbing out his cigarette on the tree. “We’ve got five minutes so listen to me.”

Kirk nods, stepping forwards, even if trepidation has him shaking. Just being near Dave after their last confrontation makes him want to puke, but he holds his ground.

“There’s competition. I don’t know who it is, but they’re taking my customers. I want you to find out who it is.”

Kirk swallows. “How do you want me to do that?”

Dave digs into the interior pocket of his jacket before producing a few bags. Most of it looks like weed, but there’s also some other stuff intermingled.

“I want you to sell this. Make me fifty bucks next week and you’ll have paid me back half.”

“I thought I only owed you fifty?”

“Yeah, well now you owe me a hundred,” Dave sneers, thrusting the bags into Kirk’s hand.

“Don’t be too obvious. And don’t fucking turn me in. You go down, you go down alone. Got it?”

Kirk stuffs the bags into his backpack, body trembling at the tone of Dave’s voice.

“Got it,” Kirk replies.

The bell rings and Kirk sighs. Finally, he can go to class. Dave deliberates over him for a moment before walking past, slamming into his shoulder in the process.

Kirk has to hold in a whimper as the movement jars his finger. God, he should’ve just stayed home.

By the time he gets off the field, class has already started, and he doesn’t want to look a fool and turn up late for everyone to see.

Instead he decided to go sit in the library for a while, just until next period starts where he can grab Lars to drive him home.

He’s really not feeling too great, already dreaming of his bed.

He sniffs, manages to find a spot behind some shelves where no one will find him. He dumps his bag on the floor and slumps into the chair, careful of his bandaged hand.

He stays there for a while, drifting in and out of sleep as he waits for the bell, when a commotion sounds from somewhere behind the shelves. Kirk perks up a little bit, listening.

He definitely recognises that voice.

He gets up, sidles up behind the shelves before peeking around it.

He finds familiar blonde hair, back to him as hands flit across the books on the shelf, as if looking for something but too angry to find it.

Kirk frowns, watches James smack his hand onto the wood, a loud fuck sounding from his lips.

He wants to but in, wants to ask if he’s okay, but Kirk’s still not forgiven James for what he did at prom, and it’s ultimately that that makes him stay quiet.

He watches as James finally stops, defeated, crumpling into a chair in the corner, face guarded in his hands. Kirk decides he’s seen enough and slinks back to his own chair, sitting in it carefully as to not make any sound.

He opens his phone, sends a text to Lars to come pick him up from the library because he doesn’t think he has the effort to walk the corridors by himself, then leans back in his chair, closing his eyes.

It’s silent for a few moments before there’s the sound of footsteps; footsteps that stop directly in front of Kirk.

Kirk hold his breath, opens his eyes.

James stares back at him.

“Kirk?”

[crunchingtiger]

God you know one time when I was 20 years old I got half the skin ripped off my fucking foot because I was playing capture the flag barefoot and someone in cleats stomped down hard on my foot and twisted. I'm not exaggerating about half the skin from the top of my foot just straight up gone. I guess it got stuck to the bottom of his shoe but he ran off so idk. I hope it did I hope he found it and it traumatized him. Anyway just excruciating pain I think I briefly whited out just from the shock and the pain combined. My foot wound up swelling up and turning purple. Got it x rayed eventually no bones broken just the fucking trauma and bruising from getting the skin fucking brutally ripped off.

Then because I'm dumb as hell right after this happened I just gingerly wrapped it in soft bandages, got em tight, overlaid a stretchy ace bandage and then just left it alone. Left it alone for three days. Three goddamn days. Walked on it and everything. Just ignored it.

Then I realized "oh shit I've gotta change the bandages they're gonna get infected". So it's like 3 am cause I just came back from hanging with my toxic as hell FWB, we'd just had sexual contact for the first time. I lied and told my mom I'd been stealing college wifi parked up beside the college library to watch movies cause I just needed to get out of the house. Don't think she believed me, didn't care just didn't want her to ask questions, I think she was scared to. I think she was scared too.

Anyway so it's just me and my damn busted up foot and it's 3 am and I know I've made a series of bad fucking decisions and I go to start unwrapping my foot and I'm just peeling layers off and I'm not a praying person but I'm just begging for it to not be an infected mess under there.

And I get to the last layer and I can. God I can fucking see where the scab and the new growth has grown into the goddamn soft bandages. Just actually through the goddamn shitty Walgreens bandages I slapped over my mangled foot. And of course it does not come off cause it's part of my actual damn foot now.

So I soak my foot in hot water to loosen the scab and then I grab a washcloth I hope is clean and I put it between my teeth so I don't wake anyone up and so I don't crack my teeth from the clenching and I grab the corner of that shitty soft ace bandage and I rip the bandage and the scab and the new growth off my foot all at once and when I tell you that's the worst pain I've ever felt from an injury in my whole damn life I'm not fucking playing with you. Felt like I could feel every nerve screaming I thought I was going to throw up I'm just glad I had the damn mostly clean washcloth in between my teeth I bit down so fucking hard.

And when I fucking tell you the these goddamn period cramps are just as fucking painful I'm not fucking playing you either I swear to fucking god I am popping out one kid maybe two and then I'm getting fucking sterilized. Whatever I have to fucking do so I never feel this pain again in my entire goddamn life. I'll rip my own uterus out with a pair of tongs if I have to I don't fucking give a shit.

[aralioideae]

I sprained my ankle on sunday (like, properly) and I don’t want to take a taxi to the eye test tomorrow because that costs money and it’s only round the corner but I cannot even take a guess at how long it’ll take me to walk it let alone if I even can without fucking my ankle up more and I certainly wont be able to walk quick enough to get there, have the test, and get back within my lunch break

[causticcauses]

this gravity can’t forget

cross-posted on Ao3

Pairing: Druig x Eternal! Female Reader

Summary: You don’t know if you can get through this, but that look promises a time when you’re not broken, but whole.

And his touch, too, promises fullness, as if the emptiness inside you is just a dream to be forgotten on the morrow.

Genre: Angst, Smut, Hurt/Comfort, AU - Canon Divergence

Warnings: Depression, vaginal sex, oral (female receiving), unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, lowkey body worship, a bit of cock warming 

A/N: All the events after Tenochtitlan don't happen; the group splits, but everyone is still alive and the betrayal/Emergence hasn't happened. Hundreds of years after splitting up they find that the Deviants are still kicking, and have to periodically regroup to eradicate them. Reader has to deal with the fact that there may not be an end to this fight. Druig tries to help her.

Your whole body is aching. Hell, at this point you feel like more like a bruise than a body. The hot water beats down on your head and shoulders, but it isn’t quite enough to relieve the tense pain scrawled in sloppy handwriting across your muscles. Eventually you acknowledge that your sorry state isn’t going to change any time soon and you drag yourself out of the shower.

Staring at yourself critically in the foggy mirror, even through the haze you can see the splotch of plum purple across your ribs, the torn skin of your left shoulder. A stupid mistake. The Deviant shouldn't have been able to touch you, let alone do this.

There was a reason you hadn’t asked Ajak to heal you. Such a dumb misstep didn’t really deserve a reward. Besides, if you’d asked her Druig would have noticed. They all would have. Standing amidst the scraggily trees, the Deviant corpses nearby, with the rain pouring down from a sky that seemed too grey and tired to manage it, you just hadn’t felt like dealing with the swell of emotion that would come if they knew you were hurt. You didn’t want to worry them, or feel their pity, or disapproval. You didn’t want to deal with any of it, actually.

The thought has your power kicking up, a thin current of electricity scouring across your skin like it could wipe away the anxiety. It’s a reassuring sensation, the energy skittering over your aching flesh, a feeling instead of the numbness that’s engulfed you. But it’s also childish. Immature to need to reach out for reassurance, and at your age. Several thousand years and you still haven’t really grown up.

You scowl, abruptly cutting off the electric current, and turn away from your battered reflection, snagging a towel off the rack as you do.

It's one of those crappy hotel towels that might be repelling the water instead of absorbing it, but you wrap it around yourself anyways in the vague hopes it'll do the job at a later date. Exiting the small bathroom leads you to an equally small room, with the usual – and by now familiar – assortment of mildly ugly brownish-gold duvets, a mismatched chair or two, chipped paint and several insistently bland paintings on the walls.  

The bed isn't comfortable, but you still collapse on it with a blissful sigh, too tempted to resist the chance to lie down. Just for a second. It isn’t like anyone is in the room, anyway.

You lie there, towel wrapped around your torso, staring up at the ceiling, and try not to exist. A futile experiment for an Eternal. There's a horrendous headache imploding behind your eyes, and you think it's kinda unfair Eternals have to deal with those at all, on top of everything else. At least lying down feels (mostly) good on your strained muscles.

Your wounds are still throbbing, but a rest and a day or two will see them healed well enough. The shower has gone some of the way and your supernatural powers will do the rest. Headache proof, no, but at least you recover quickly.

Another sigh, and you tilt your head back, eyes closing. This has been one hell of a road trip. Sprite said it'd be fun – and it has been, sometimes – but getting your ass handed to you this morning by a Deviant that sort of looked like a Yeti crossed with a T-Rex had soured that. You’re just so fucking tired. Tired of strangers, of fighting, of moving, of all of it. You've always been the type to get homesick, which is funny given that you've never had a home. Not a permanent one. The whole never-aging thing tended to get HOAs foaming at the mouth.

Druig's joke, said with a wry smile as you'd packed up the apartment you shared several months ago, ready to chase down the hint of Deviants that Makkari had found in the north. Druig had said it to make you feel better about leaving, and even now you smile wearily, picturing his invitingly ironic expression.

Not a home, that man, but a place to find comfort all the same. At least if you had to travel to the ass-end of nowhere, he could be by your side the whole way.  

You're in some place called Dawson City now. Druig snorted when you drove into the small town that was assuredly not a city, and you concurred. Seemed like the only people who lived here – or would live here, ever – were as far from city-slickers as a bear was from a Deviant.

Was that why the nest of Deviants you'd wiped out this morning had been so fierce? They needed to be that tough to even have a hope of snacking on the folks up here in the Yukon?

A laugh bubbles in your throat but doesn't escape the fatigue sinking thick and languorous through your body. Today has just been – a lot. So much. Just like so many of your days, these last couple of... how long has this been plaguing you? Just years? Decades, now?

In a couple of seconds, you're gonna have to get up, update the maps, figure out where to head next. You and the other Eternals are doing a sweep of the entire Yukon, seeing where you’d missed a monster or five. Druig and the rest will be back soon from their supply run. It'll be good to have a few suggestions ready when they return to the hotel. It’s just Druig and you in this room, but you’ll all gather in Ajak’s room and talk shop around slices of pizza, or maybe a fancy assortment of frozen microwave dinners.

Gil is a great cook, but even he hadn't felt like trying to make meal magic in the grubby hotel. It's fine. You're all used to quick food, anyways. Of course, Kingo is gonna moan and groan like it's poison, but that's fine. You're all used to that, too.

Having some possible places and routes marked out ahead of time will be helpful to get everyone on track. It's the least you can do, after skipping out on the supply run. Druig had looked at you closely when you'd dipped, claiming a headache, and you'd just focused on projecting your tired vibes. It wasn't that hard. You were almost exhausted enough to drown out the guilt, the dejection, without even trying.

Druig probably didn't pick up anything. Or at least not much. Otherwise, he would have stayed. He'd offered to, but you'd squashed that with a brusqueness that might have offended someone who hadn't known you for millennia. Actually, it had slid off him, and he’d pressed you more about it, but eventually you’d managed to convince him to go.   

His concern is just another thing to feel guilty about, but you're just so tired. Too tired to let it cling to you for long. This isn’t new, not by a long shot, but it’s gotten so much worse since leaving for this latest trip. Some days it’s all you can do to get up, let alone plan, or help, or fight. You need to do something about it, but you’re so goddamn exhausted. Besides, you’re an Eternal. None of the others need – anything, to keep going. Not rest, or meds, or to talk. You shouldn’t either.

You don’t want to think about this anymore. Besides, you need to look at the maps. Plan a route. Do something useful.

It’s the least you can do.

You'll do it soon, too. In a couple minutes. The bed is miraculously getting more comfortable, though, sucking you into sleep. A long day. A hard day. You’ll just rest for a bit and then get up. In a couple of minutes...

---

Some time later, there’s a soft whir at the door as it unlocks. When Druig pushes his way into the hotel room, hands loaded down with bags, he only takes a few shuffling steps inside and then pauses, brow furrowing. Almost unwilling, a smile curls the corner of his mouth, and he shakes his head.

You were pretty fucking cute for someone passed out cold in a raggedy towel and nothin’ else.

He takes a few minutes to put the supplies they’d grabbed into some semblance of order, ready to be crammed into the backpacks they’ve got stowed away in their two rental trucks. There’re a few advantages to not taking the Domo – like feeling less like alien interloper overlords, for one – but convenient space isn’t really one of them.

Or more comfortable beds. Druig is surprised you managed to knock out like that, given this hotel’s got mattresses like concrete blocks. You must be really tired. Given the day everyone’s had, he supposes he doesn’t blame you. Besides, maybe the headache really took it out of you.

Once everything is in a semblance of order, he moves closer to you, not quite aware of how much his face has softened. His eyes are settled on your quiet if somewhat dopey expression, good to see after the days (months, years, decades) of stress that've built up in drawn lines over your forehead, a tight smile across your lips.

He knows you want to quit. Throw in the towel – or maybe just sleep in it. Hell, he'd half expected you to refuse when Ajak contacted you both months ago, ordering everyone together again. Another mission. Another group of Deviants to destroy. Another apartment you had just made perfect, with a second-hand couch you were ridiculously proud of and some blinds that almost complemented the wall paint. Another job you loved.

Another goodbye.

It's good you're sleeping. Druig's not even sure if you slept last night, or the night before. Certainly you'd still been sitting up and reading when he'd fallen asleep both nights.

After a moment of hesitation, he reaches out with his power. Carefully – tenderly – he feels along your consciousness, not even fully certain what he's looking for. Not details – he can't get those from other Eternals, can't get through the walls. It's more like standing outside a room with light spilling through the cracks in the door.

It's a light he loves, all the same. Reveres, almost. Maybe it's because he can't see through the door. It's not something Druig thinks about much, anymore. What he does think about is the colour, the vibrancy, the warmth of that light.

Your presence, ever since getting that call from Ajak, has... dimmed. You drag yourself through the motions, and there are flashes of brilliance, amusement, affection – hell, annoyance, even anger. But mostly, you've just been so flat. That’s something you’ve dealt with before, but now it seems to be... He didn’t know. Overwhelming you. Worse than it’s ever been. He doesn’t know why, or how, but it’s there. Impossible to deny.

It pains him to see you like this, aches in a way he didn't expect. A heart-hurt lodged in his chest that he can't get rid of.  

It's not destined to leave tonight. There's not much for him to pick up from your aura. It's just – You're still so tired, he can tell that even from his outside vantage. Even asleep, you're so tired.

His eyes had fluttered closed while he focused, but they slide open now, an aggravated sigh slipping from his lips. How can he help you? Ajak said it isn't something she can heal when he grudgingly approached her about it. (At the risk of his life, given you would have killed him if you found out.) If the healer can't do anything, what can he do? His power isn't – it's not for healing.

With a grimace, Druig shakes his head. Maybe this really is the last of the Deviants. Maybe this time – unlike in Tenochtitlan, unlike in Nagano, unlike in Oymyakon – they'll really be done. The gods know that you and him could use a break. A permanent one, to give you time to recover, whatever that means.

He doesn't want to think about what that means. It's too complicated a question. Besides, they've all been through this too many times. He doesn't know if he'll ever actually believe the Deviants are truly gone. Given the look on your face when you'd heard what Makkari had found in her world travels, nearly seven decades after the last "eradication," Druig's pretty sure you won't ever believe it. Not fully. You're probably gonna live the rest of eternity waiting for another call to arms.

The thought disturbs him more deeply than he knows what to do with, a jagged lance of unease burrowing into his brain. Another shake of his head, more impatient this time, and Druig shoves the idea away. Almost defiant.

You'll get better. He'll make sure of it.

To that end... There are a couple of hangers and an extra blanket in the otherwise bare closet, and he takes the thick material out. Getting you under the covers without waking you up is impossible, so this'll have to do.

The blanket bundled in his arms, Druig hesitates again, though this time it's from affection and not worry. You really do look fucking adorable with your face pressed into the pillow, damp hair straggling across your face, the towel perilously close to falling off completely. In another mood, the sight would have set something burning in his stomach and lower, but as it is, it just tightens his throat. Protectiveness, regret... love.

Except... as he settles the blanket gently over your sleeping form, you shift, turn to your other side, and the cover slips slightly off. His eyes reluctantly move from the amusing picture of your face scrunched into the pillow, and Druig’s gaze catches something he didn’t notice at first. Something on your shoulder. He studies it for a moment, his mouth thinning.

Anger and hurt and fear laps at him, a low tide. Why wouldn't you tell him about this? By now the wound – it looks like a bite that mangled a nice chunk of flesh – is sealed over, but it's still an ugly, enflamed patch in your otherwise smooth shoulder, blood-curdling in how close it is to your neck. The armour helps, but it’s not perfect, and the Deviant must have got a real good grip. It looks painful, even now, and he doesn't like to imagine how much it had hurt when it happened. A stupid pain. A useless pain, when Ajak could have healed it so easily.

So why hadn't you told him?

Druig already knows the answer, even as he soundlessly mouths the question.  

You'd been slow today. Blunt, but true. He'd only half seen it, his attention bent on corralling the hunters the Deviants had been trying to eat to a safer area. One Deviant had approached you from the side as you directed your lightning into crackling spears that drove back another monster threatening Kingo. Druig thought you'd turned, seen the Deviant approaching, and yet when it leaped at you, you – didn't move. Not fast enough.

That’s been a theme, these past few months. A theme he finds so hard to swallow, when you’ve always been the most agile of the Eternals, with the obvious exception of their speedster.

Maybe that's why, when Makkari blew it off you with one of her sonic booms, and you'd sprung to your feet quick enough, Druig accepted you were fine. That you'd channeled enough electricity into its jaws to seize them up and stop it from snapping at you. Because your slip up couldn’t have lasted long enough to really let it get it’s teeth in you.  

Or maybe he's just trying to give himself an excuse, like a fucking coward. He should have asked, pressed, refused to lay off when he could feel how off you were. Are. Of course you wouldn't tell him, or anyone. When have you ever been able to admit a mistake without it all but killing you? And it's only gotten worse with the weight that’s been dragging you down.  

Something... something has to change. Truth be told, Druig isn’t used to dealing with one of his fellows sinking. That’s usually him, with all the shit with the humans and right and wrong hanging around like a sign that points in every direction but straight. But you’re – If Druig believed in gods, believed in them in a way that made them worth worshipping, he’d be praying for help now. For a way to hold you up, or show you how to stand on your own. Anything, anything. Because something has to change.

In your sleep you murmur and twist, pressing your face harder into the pillow as a shadow of something he can’t name crosses your expression. The tightness moves from his throat into his chest, a painful squeeze. His hand hovers for a moment, indecision a paralyzing poison locking his muscles in place. He’s scared to touch you. Scared of waking you up, yeah, but scared that – that he’s the reason for all of this. That he’s an infection, spreading his own cynical view of the world to you, and maybe that’s why you’re so low now. Thousands of years together would rub off on anyone, right?

He can’t reach into your mind to find out what’s hurting you, and maybe that’s the worst part of it all. There isn’t a simple answer in front of him – or any answer – and it’s killing him.

Something has to change.

---

Waking up is all fog and aching. You’re wrapped in blurriness and warmth, a muddle that has you longing to just drift away again. But there’s a nagging feeling stirring in the nest of lethargy, a pricking at the back of your brain that increases as your eyes slowly open. It’s not quite dark, in the... the hotel room. Where you and the rest of the Eternals are staying. Your mind gropes for each fact, finding them only tentatively.

With a low groan, you start to stretch, only to cut yourself short as your body remembers what it takes your memory several more seconds to recall. Right. The whole getting bitten and tossed around by a nightmare monster thing. Your breath catches, and you try again, testing out the pain level. Not so bad. Worse in your shoulder than your ribs.

“A little sore?”

The unexpected (though not unfamiliar) voice has you gasping, and you jolt up into a seated position, electricity automatically sparking along your skin before you snap it off. Your motion makes the blanket covering you fall off and you realize three things simultaneously as it does. One, you’re naked. More concerning, you must have fallen asleep and totally failed to do... hell, anything productive for your family. And maybe worst of all, Druig is on the bed next to you, almost at the very edge of the mattress, but with the low, orange and pink-tinted light slipping through the window, you can tell his eyes are on you. On your broken body.

Instinctively you grab at the blanket, heave it up to hide what he probably already saw. Definitely saw, as your brain keeps catching up with reality and you realize the blanket you’re clutching must have been put on after you fell asleep. “What time is it?” you ask to avoid his question, your voice a croak. Clogged with a sudden surge of emotion at the thought of the tender gesture.

“Around 5 in the morning,” he replies.

You suck in a breath in shock, feeling like the information punched the air out of your lungs. It was – the light was – You’d thought it was the sunset, not the sunrise! How could you have slept so long? The panicked guilt surges, and you move to get to your feet as if there’s anything useful you can do now, the rough towel that had fallen off you rubbing uncomfortably underneath your body

“Stall a sec,” Druig says, and there’s something strange about his voice. It’s too soft, without the sardonic bite you’re used to. As he continues, the note doesn't change. "You don't have to get ready or nothing like that. We're not headin’ out today."

Still you're poised to get up, sick with a shame mired in the sleep-addled fog that's wrapped like cotton around your head. "Not heading out?" you repeat stupidly, which would normally provoke some kind of teasing, but Druig just shakes his head in confirmation. "Why...?"

"Gil found out they've got somethin' called the Sourtoe cocktail at the saloon. Whiskey and a toe. You drink it and get to be part of some club or somethin'. Saloon doesn't open until the Friday, though, so he begged Ajak to stay for today."

You stare at him, trying to find a trace of joking on his face. He seems to be totally serious. Part of you wondering if this is still a dream, you say, "A toe? We're staying for a toe?"

"A toe drink," Druig corrects. "Besides, Makkari mentioned she'd like to visit that Jack London cabin or museum or whatever." His expression turns contemplative. "'Tween you and me, I think she wants to nab one of his journals. Like she's not got enough crap cluttering up her room on the Domo as is."

"And Ajak is okay with this? And Ikaris?" It's the only objection your brain can put forward, although it's a valid one. Those two aren't entirely the types to allow distractions.

"Sersi persuaded Ike. She wants to talk to some of the people here, maybe fix some of their houses when they aren't looking. You know how she is. And Ajak..." He looks away from you. "Ajak agreed we could all use some R&R. Not like those Deviants went down easy yesterday."

Your shoulder twinges when you shift uncomfortably, and he looks up at the motion. Druig hesitates, and then asks, "How are you, anyways?"

Pasting on a flaky smile is easier than speaking the lie, but you manage both. "I'm good. After sleeping for like 12 hours, I'd better be, hey?" You don't feel like you slept that long. Or maybe you do. Maybe that's the reason for the lassitude weighing down your limbs and everything else, too.

You don't like lying to Druig. To any of your family, but him especially. Not least because he sees through it so often. After several millennia together, he seems to know when you're talking bullshit, even if he can't read your mind.

His head tilts as he considers that. If he knows you, you know him, too, and you can tell by the way his mouth is pulling down at the corner that he doesn't believe you. That knowledge has your stomach tightening, more shame and frustration. You’ve talked to him about how you’re feeling before. Or more specifically, he’s pried admissions from you, from time to time. It’s just that neither of you know what to do with the information. It’s not like there’s an Eternals therapy hotline.  

Besides, you don't want to worry him, or disappoint him, and you're fine. You're fine. There's no reason for him to be worrying.

And even if you're not fine, there's nothing he can do about it, so what's the point of getting him involved?

"Really," you insist into the long pause, hoping he'll just leave it alone. "Guess my headache just took me out. If it's not Deviants it's something else, right?" Your laugh is a weak thing that trails off quickly.

That irritates him; his eyebrows draw down, lips thinning even further. His voice isn't harsh when he replies, though. Just strained. "I saw your shoulder last night. Your headache grow teeth when you weren't looking?"

Of course he saw. Of course he won't leave it alone. "It was nothing. Just a scrape."

"Yeah? Then it must be gone by now, huh?"

You glare and don't drop the blanket, a mixture of annoyance and guilt surging in your gut. And something deeper. Heavier. Something like despair, but with less of a name.

When you don't respond, the blanket clutched protectively around your shoulders, he exhales. "Love..." Druig starts softly, wavers. "I know y'won't let Ajak look at it. I guess there's no point in asking?"

Biting your lip makes pain bloom across your mouth, which is better to focus on than the pain laced through his voice. A quick shake of your head because you can't think of anything to say.

Druig leans towards you, reaches out. You stiffen, half expecting him to try to snag the blanket away, but he just puts his hand on your leg like he can't stand not having the contact. "What about begging?" he asks, low and fervent as his fingers stroke lightly along your leg, over the covers. "Would that do it?"

"I’m fi–" The words catch in your throat, and you have to force them out. “It's fine, Druig. I don't wanna bother Ajak for something so small."

"She wouldn't mind."

You know that's true, and yet... It's pathetic, but you can't face Ajak. What if she knows there's something wrong with you? What if it's something she can sense? How can you tell your leader, the woman you look up to in so many ways, that after thousands of years you want an end? That you're too weak to go on forever?

She'll understand. Of course she will; she's Ajak. But that understanding, that acceptance of your weakness, that's almost worse than contempt.

"No, Druig." Your voice comes as a brittle snap, almost cracking, and you force yourself to smile and lighten the tone. "It's ugly as hell but it'll heal quickly." Please leave it alone.

In the washed out lighting, it's hard for even your enhanced eyesight to be sure, but his eyes seem red when they meet yours. It occurs to you to wonder if he's been awake all this time, watching over you... agonizing over you, wearing himself thin for something he shouldn’t have to care about. Please, Druig, you find yourself thinking, so violently it's almost desperation, just leave it alone.

And you ignore the smaller, shakier voice whimpering something along the lines of help.

Maybe you think it hard enough, maybe it really does emanate from you – or maybe Druig just knows. Either way, after a moment, his hand tightens on your leg, and he nods once. Nods again, confirming it to himself. "Okay," he murmurs. "If you're sure."

A quick, jerky bob of your head, and his grip relaxes, once again back to soothing as he smooths over the cover. "Mmkay. You wanna try to go back to sleep for a couple hours? I can grab your sleeping stuff."

Getting changed means letting him see your shoulder – or asking him to look away, which, given how long you've been fucking, would just be weird – so you say quickly, "No, that's okay. I'm – this is comfortable." By this time you're not really tired, not in the way that calls for more sleep, but you don't want to say no yet again. Worst come to worst you'll just lie there until 7 or something.

For the first time, a hint of the familiar sardonic note enters his voice. "You wanna sleep in the towel? Comfy."

Responding to the provoking tone, you reply archly, "Who said I was gonna put on the towel?"

He laughs, a low sound that burns away some of the fog in your stomach. "Fair enough. Who'm I to argue with the likes of that?"

When Druig leans over, you close your eyes and let him kiss you. In this, at least, in the taste and touch of him, there's a little relief. A little life where everything else feels so dead. You're so drained you don't feel up to deepening the kiss, to threading your fingers through his hair and pulling him closer, but you savour the comfort and connection that this brings. If only for a moment.

He makes to pull away, pauses, and then returns like he can't quite bear to break off. Hand moving up to find your waist under the blanket, Druig holds you as he murmurs against your lips, "I love you. Y'know that?"

"I know," you respond unevenly, fighting back the leaden tears prickling in your eyes. "I love you so goddamn much, too."

It's so true.

So why isn't it enough to fill the hollow emptiness?

Finally you draw back from him, and slowly, reluctantly, he lets you go. "Get some more sleep, love. You'll feel better."

"Mmhm."

Going a little against your word, you wrap the towel back around yourself as you lie down under the blanket, and Druig joins you. Under the same blanket, in his boxers, but keeping his hands to himself. It's not like sleeping in the nude is unheard of for either of you, but today – today you need a little shield. Even if it's damp and, now that you're not on the verge of passing out, pretty damn uncomfortable.

Maybe a sad, wet towel is exactly what you deserve.

There’s a part of you that knows how silly and pitiful your wallowing is, but it’s not a strong enough presence to knock you out of it. You just curl up, your back to Druig, eyes closed but sleep far from your mind. He’s so close, but he’s so far away from you. How can you build that bridge when everything is splintering inside you?

Your thoughts keep circling from one bleak thing to another. Your failure with the Deviant, falling asleep when you shouldn’t have, the fact that Deviants still exist, the fact that Deviants will always exist and there’s nothing you can do to get rid of them or stop this incessant cycle of fight and kill and rest and fight again. There’s nothing you can do. Everything is so fucking miserable and you don’t want to be here anymore...

You couldn’t have said how long you lay in the semi-dark, sleepless and hopeless. It went on unending, just like your life. On and on and–

His hand is a heavy weight on your hip that anchors your spiralling thoughts. “Can’t sleep?” Druig whispers, and of course he knew you were awake. The gratitude swells and meets the dull despair darkening your insides and it's impossible to say which one is stronger. Maybe your reply is the answer, as you desperately try to keep a tight hold on the gratitude amidst an impulse to brush him off. "I guess. Sorry if I'm keeping you up."

"It's fine. I couldn't fall asleep, anyways."

That sends a sharp pang through your chest, knowing well enough why he can't sleep, and your eyes open. "Sorry," you repeat softly.

He slips his hand over your hip and further, lightly shoving up the towel until his palm is spread wide against your stomach and the touch makes your breath spill out. "S'okay," he murmurs as he hugs you one-handed, and the warmth of his bare chest against your back is another spark filling up the emptiness.

Arm wrapped around you, he asks, "Wanna talk about it?"

You stiffen in his embrace automatically, accidentally. This has been a conversation between the two of you before, one you've fought and twisted and even snapped too hard to get out of. You can't explain it – you can hardly bear to acknowledge it – and having another Eternal, a man with far more reason than you to crumble, trying to be understanding and find a solution when there isn't one is something you can't accept. "No," you say, your voice hoarse with the weight of that answer.

There's a moment of silence as Druig struggles to find a response, a way forward. There's tension in the arms holding you. You cringe internally, fighting resentment that he feels the need to press, an anger that clashes with the piteous gratitude that he's still asking.

Eventually Druig's arms tighten, drawing you closer to him, and you can feel how deliberately he lightens his tone. "Okay." He kisses your ear, a gentle press. "If you can't sleep, how about we do somethin’ else?" is his quiet but oh-so-blatant suggestion.

You stir in his embrace, emotions clashing in the pit of your gut. A flare of affection and something hotter, but over it all the suffocating mantle of your fatigue. And guilt. Always, always the guilt.

You're not enough for yourself, so how can you possibly be enough for anyone else?

"Druig, I'm sorry but I'm not sure..." Before you can find words to express the bewildering, pathetic lack of energy, your companion eases away the stagnant pause.

"Not about me today, love. I'm not asking you for anythin'. Just wanna help."

Even as he speaks, Druig draws his hand up your stomach, under the towel, a tingling trail as his fingers barely skim your skin. The touch remains a graze of contact that he doesn't deepen, just traces delicate, aimless patterns over your ribs, your sternum, your breasts. Waiting for you.

Your eyes have screwed shut, and you're so torn. You feel stretched tight between two desires, so painfully thin that his fingers might pass through you at any moment. Your depression, heavy as a black hole, dragging you to the center of exhaustion. And then your longing – aching – for a reason, a moment, a second in eternity to feel good.

Druig ducks his head and kisses your neck where it meets your shoulder. "Come back to me, yeah?" he whispers, and the plea is so imploring and so, so lost. As lost as you feel.

Your voice is broken when you reply. "I don't know how."

You can feel his breath, gently expelled against your skin in a sigh. Then his fingers are moving, finding one of your nipples and caressing it, just hard enough to send a prickle of pleasure through your chest, through everything else.

"Focus on this," he instructs, a low command that swirls through your head, for all the world like telepathy. "Just this, love."

"I–"

"Shh. Just this." Druig kisses your neck again, higher, right below your ear this time, and he rolls the sensitive bud of your nipple between his adept fingers as you exhale shakily.

He knows you so well. Even when everything else is adrift and there's nothing you can find in the sea of black, his touch is an island in the midst of drowning. Something to cling to as the world washes away. You open your eyes against the darkness inside, letting in the bare morning light, trying to make yourself relax, to just – be. Just this.

Cupping your breast now, gently massaging, inspiring a soft bloom of enjoyment that makes you exhale again. "There's a good girl,” Druig hums. “Remember this?”

A line of kisses down your neck, across your shoulder, brushing over the tattoo on your shoulder blade. You do remember, vividly, like each sweet press is a breadcrumb in the forest, leading you through the dark trees to a place that’s almost home. Instinctively you tilt your head back, letting yourself rest against his strong chest, and Druig knows it for the encouragement it is. He pauses, takes his hand away from your breast to tug at the towel still wrapped around your torso. "Mind if I take this off?"

Rather than replying, you scrabble at the towel yourself, yanking it off and then writhing to get it out from under you. It's thrown into a heap on the floor, and Druig is quick to throw back the blanket, leaving it rumpled at the end of the mattress as he pulls you back against his chest.

Part of you doesn't know what you're doing. You're well enough aware that this isn't going to solve anything. It's pointless. The fact that Druig wants to help you – desperately, you can tell, from the pressure of his hands, the timbre of his voice – is an ache that's too complicated to put a name to, settled at the base of your throat and making it harder to breathe.

At the same time... it feels so good when he drags his fingers over your stomach and then lower, dipping down to caress the insides of your thighs with languid focus. It's not a blaze, some all-encompassing desire made of sweat and heat and urgency. You've had that with Druig, so many times, but this is softer, not as demanding. It's less of a chase and more of a stroll in the sun, no destination in mind. Warm and safe and comforting.

And somehow still not enough.

That's a wrenching thought that has frustration lancing through your muscles, tightening them into bundles of aggravation. Druig feels it; he must, because he's suddenly pulling away from your back.

Regret cascades down your cold spine, regret that you always have to make it more difficult than it should be. Why can't you just take what you’re given? Just accept it? Why does this have to be so hard?

Before those questions can turn into something with teeth, Druig is leaning over you, and you shift to lie flat on your back and look up at his shadowed face. Natural as breathing, he moves so that he’s on his knees at your side, all the while watching you. He takes his time, searching your expression with eyes that are almost too intense in their passion. Those same beautiful blues aren't slicked over with gold, so he's not trying to read you, at least not deeply. But all the same, you shift uncomfortably, suddenly afraid. Druig doesn't really need his telepathy to decipher people, sometimes, and he certainly doesn’t need it just to feel someone’s general mood.  

One side of you hopes he can pick something up, some way out that you can't find in yourself. An answer, you're praying for an answer, but what if all he sees is – nothing? What if you're really as empty as you feel?

Druig reaches out, cups your jaw with almost unbearable gentleness. As his thumb strokes along your cheek, his intent look doesn't ease. "You gotta let go of it," he says finally. When your jaw tenses, ready with a retort, he smiles, just a bare twist of his lips. "I know, I know. Easier said, huh? But love... Trust me on this. Just now, right now, let go."

The tears are back, stinging in your eyes. “Help me?” you ask, hating how weak you are but knowing all the same that if there’s anyone on the planet you can turn to without fear, it’s Druig.

And you’re right. Druig’s smile warms, his grip on your face becomes just a little firmer, and he urges your chin up, ducking to press a long, slow kiss into your neck. "I can feel you, love," he whispers, and you shiver at that prospect. With the sheer intimacy of it. “I know you’re tired. And that’s okay. You can be tired today, tomorrow. S’okay. We’ll get through it.”

You don’t know if you believe that, but there’s the whisper of his mouth ghosting along your jaw, just skimming your lips before he pulls up, and you can drown your disbelief in that feeling. If his touch wasn’t here to ground you right now, you’d – you’d be falling to fucking pieces. Or at least smaller pieces than you’ve already broken in to. But he is here, so soothing as he feels down your side, too gentle to provoke pain even in your bruised flesh. His fingers once again slip between your thighs, other hand still caressing your face, and the reverent look in his eyes...

You don’t know if you can get through this, but that look promises a time when you’re not broken, but whole.  

And his touch, too, promises fullness, as if the emptiness inside you is just a dream to be forgotten on the morrow. His fingers brush your folds, and your legs fall open wider, welcoming the sensation. “Beautiful,” Druig all but sings, and his fingers are a counterpart to his lilting accent as they ease inside your cunt and inspire a breathy gasp.

He dips down, mouths along your collarbone, to the crook of your neck. Slower now, tenderly pressing kisses to the outside of your wound, not enough to inspire pain, only fondness. Then he goes lower still, finding one nipple and swirling his tongue around it in a heady wash of warmth. And all the while his hand is a fervent disciple to your need, thumb circling your clit, fingers working with languid concentration to draw out more gasps. Over it all, a steady stream of murmurs breathed against your skin, the words oxygen to your suffocating heart. “You feel so good, my love. That’s a good girl. Just relax... Christ, fuck, you’re so lovely.”

The build of pleasure is slow, your depressed body and mind resistant to the call of buoyant oblivion, but Druig is patient. He has all the time in the world, after all. Steadily, then, he works you over, touching you in the ways you like best, heedless of anything so mortal as the clock ticking on. His patience is rewarded with the wetness between your legs, by your moans, by the way your hips begin to buck in slow, indolent rolls into his hand. Heat builds in your core, in that cold void, not hot enough to burn, but secure as a hearth fire all the same.  

Your power becomes restless, like a muscle aching to be stretched, and gingerly you let it loose, just a low trickle. Druig sucks in a breath when it arcs between him and you, but there’s no pain on his face, and you know from past experience that the sensation is a pleasant one as long as you keep it muted. That’s not a challenge anymore, and the buzz of electricity along your skin is an added sensation, putting more into a vessel that’s nearing capacity.

“Druig,” you whimper when he slips three fingers inside, the stretch an ache that sets your already humming pulse to a higher pace. “I want – I want–” The pleasure is a cloud you’re grateful to sink into, but it’s stealing your words, leaving you to meet his piercing blue gaze with pleading need.

His touch relaxes, but only for a moment. “I know,” Druig murmurs, and the pressure he’s applying to your clit increases, making your whole body tense with the edge you’re hovering over. He pumps into you a little deeper, a little faster, and the waves tingle over your body, your eyes heavy with the need to close. You keep them open, though, fixed on Druig. You know he loves watching you come undone under his hands, and today his expression is even more attentive than usual, adjusting his tempo and depth to every spasm across your face and every cry you make.

“Just a little more, love,” is his appeasing response to your increasingly urgent whines, and he isn’t wrong. Just a little more, of his fingers curling in the wet warmth of your cunt, of his thumb against your clit, of his other hand twisting the sensitive bud of your breast. Just a little more, floating over the verge in weightless bliss, and with Druig against you, the loneliness and heaviness retreating to somewhere far away. Just a little more...

Another crook of the fingers that know you so well, and you gasp, your core tightening, thighs clamping around his hand. Your orgasm dances over your skin, a series of tingling, light waves that are just as gentle as his touch. The center of you is filled to the brim, and it’s like the pleasure is overfilling, sending little ripples outwards. Druig slows but doesn’t stop, prolonging the swells of warm electricity, making you writhe and pant, and you’re not too far gone to deliberately bask in the realization of his promise, to revel in a moment when your lungs are full and the tiredness is translated into contentment.

He hasn’t stopped watching you, and as the orgasm fades and you sag, your legs falling open, eyelids fluttering, Druig sighs. “So fuckin’ beautiful.” It’s impossible to doubt those words when they’re said in such an awed voice, and the reverential, reluctant way he draws his fingers from your cunt just reinforces that.

Breathless with the airy pleasure in your chest, you say, “Tangled hair and all, huh?” Easy to make that joke; your appearance isn’t one of the things that Druig has let you have any insecurity about over the years.

With a snort, he cleans his hand off on the bedding before running it through the truly frightening snarl your unbrushed hair has become. “Gives you a certain je ne sais quoi, sure.” He butchers the French purposefully, making you laugh, and then his eyes become more serious as they scan over you. You can see the question on the tip of his tongue, and you don’t want to answer it.

Instead you reach up with both hands, catch him with arms around his shoulders, and bring him to you. Your tongue parts his lips, and he hums against your mouth, even that vibration sending a warm spark of pleasure through your nerves.

But though the invitation is there in your embrace, Druig doesn't collapse against you. He breaks the kiss after a moment, stays hovering above you, that same intense consideration in his eyes. Even with all the relaxed gratification spread through your muscles, you go rigid, waiting to brush away the concern, smile away the questions.

He surprises you, though you shouldn't be surprised that your lover can pivot around your prickles after so long together. "Still so tense," Druig comments, dragging a thumb down your hard jaw.

You flush, taken aback when you'd been expecting a question. When you start to look away, he clicks his tongue reprovingly. "Not on you, love. Just means I gotta do a better job, huh?"

Your mouth draws up, but the smile you're trying to put on misses the latch and falls away. "Might be too much for you." A joke, but a warning, too. No matter how good Druig can make you feel in a moment, you're starting to believe it doesn't matter. That you're always going to go back to that dark place. It's happening already.

"Ye of little faith," drawls the man leaned over you, and though he smirks as he says it, you can see a mix of sorrow and determination in the heavy furrow of his eyebrows.

You know Druig, and once the other Eternal decides to walk a road, he doesn’t alter his path easily. Not with the decision to leave Tenochtitlan and you for the humans. Not with rejoining the group, when that nest of Deviants was found more than two hundred years ago. And not now. You’ve learned of Druig’s relentlessness, but you’ve yet to find a way to change his mind once he’s made it.

With his usual lithe poise, still smirking, Druig moves to kneel between your legs, hands resting on the jut of your hips. "Ready to become a believer?" he asks. Challenges, chin high and gaze evaluating.

"Druig..."

When his fingers move to trace along your stomach and then drop lower with silky grace, you're still sensitive from before, and your head falls back, breath halting in your lungs. Fighting to get your oxygen back, you repeat more firmly, "Druig."

His hand stills, and Druig looks at you earnestly. "Say you've had enough today and I'll stop. You know that."  

That makes your breath explode out, and you couldn’t have said if it was from frustration or affection. "I know. And I – fuck, I don't want you to stop." The gods knew that to be true, but– "I just..." It's almost physically painful to confess, but his hands are on your skin, drawing you out. "I don't want to disappoint you."

"Ah, love," he says, and your heart almost breaks with the sheer adoration in the words. "You could never disappoint me."  

Then he's bending to press kisses against your hips, the inside of your thighs, just a touch of teeth in the contact, just enough to make your muscles tremble, your toes curling with anticipation for what's to come. He's decided to do this, no matter if it works or not – and you can't keep resisting.

Your fingers curl in his hair, more for the grounding than for control. But as Druig keeps his lips everywhere but the pulsing of your cunt, you tighten your grip, feeling the scrape of his scalp beneath your demanding fingers. His laugh slides out, just the right shade of taunting to have your heart slamming into your ribs, a new wave of desire pitching over the rim of your control. A moan rips out of you, and he laughs again, huskier this time.

Thankfully, he also takes your cue. Mouth finding your cunt, Druig tongues your dripping folds, his arms wrapping around your legs and holding them open when the sharp stimulation makes them tighten, threatening to close. "Christ," Druig rasps, the vibration of his voice another pleasure added to the mix. "You taste so good, love." The way he sucks on your clit makes you believe him, if the work his tongue is doing didn't already.  

"So good," he groans into your pussy, and your breath is somewhere outside your body, certainly not in your lungs. Druig pulls away for a moment to press a few more kisses into your thighs, and the sight is almost enough to make you come right there. Hair messy and sweat-darkened against his forehead, face flushed, and lips stained with your pre-cum, he looks so fucking good that you can't control another moan that rises out of you.

And you're glad you didn't control it, as Druig ruts into the bed at the sound, an eager bid for friction against his groin.

He curses roughly, returns to your cunt, tongue thick and greedy as it shoves into you. One of his hands abandons your leg, slips inside his boxers, and it's your turn to laugh, a breathless exhale.

The laugh turns into a grunt, because Druig's thumb is rubbing your clit while his mouth works elsewhere. He's still touching himself with his other hand, groaning at the taste and sound of you, and the sight combined with his expert tongue turns your nerves into livewires.

It's a broad, sizzling pleasure, deeper in your core than the first time, so deep it feels it might actually be reaching somewhere that matters.

"Druig," you gasp, falter, fighting for the words. "I want you now, now – inside me, please. Please!"

That wasn't the plan, not his plan, anyways, but you don't care, your cunt throbbing to be filled with him. And he's flexible in more ways than one, as he shoves down his boxers at your pleading, kisses your cunt one last time with a tenderness that only sets the aching to a heavier level. Then he's moved himself over you, eyes on your face, drinking in your glazed expression before crushing your mouths together.

A moment later, Druig is entering you, not quite so gentle now, his cock thick and exactly right in how it stretches your cunt out. You arch up into him, relishing the contact, the way his sweat and scent and presence washes over you. He kisses your strangled moans out of your mouth, his tongue swiping across your teeth and stealing the sounds.

In his slow, deep thrusts, in the way he slides so easily into your center, in the way your bodies fit together, there’s another promise fulfilled. Because – with Druig inside you, with his head dropped and lips pressed against your collarbone, with the horrible hollowness filled – you find yourself believing. Only for this moment, this fraction of eternity, but you believe. That this is enough. That with Druig, you can find an answer to the emptiness. That gravity can’t lay a claim to you forever.

Only for this moment, and this moment is enough.

"More," you huff, hands on the small of his back, urging him on. "More, Druig, I want you, I want you!" All of him, filling up the space inside of you, and he does exactly as you ask, strokes going to the hilt of his cock, stretching you out until it feels like the filaments of your body are about to shatter.

You come before him, a combustion in your core that's denser, hotter than your first orgasm. It spills across your muscles like fire over oil, greedily consuming every piece of you. Nails digging into his back, hard enough to leave marks, you cry out, hips rolling to keep the sparks jolting through your body. Sparks literal and figurative, as your power flickers across your skin in volatile lines of light and heat that fuel rather than dispel your pleasure.

The electricity leaps into Druig and amps him up, too, his panting becoming harsher, pupils blown, hands grinding into the bed sheets and all but ripping them off the mattress as he balances himself.

His thrusts become erratic, jarring your hips as you rise up to meet him, welcoming the impact. "Christ, Christ, you're just–"

With a choked groan, Druig comes, spilling himself into you in a gush of warmth and liquid. He bucks several more times, amplifying the thrill in your belly, and you're both so wet there's almost no friction, just the slick slide of his cock against your walls.

When at last his arms spasm and he collapses on top of you, you're both quivering, breath and bodies spent. The current you're generating fizzes and dies, the sudden absence of the lightning more than made up for by the feel of his flushed skin against your own. As is his tendency, he buries his face into the crook of your neck, panting, one hand resting on your chest, feeling your heartbeat under his palm. In turn you run your hand through his hair, stroking the messy strands away from his forehead as you try to catch your breath.

Eventually, as the trembling subsides, he makes to pull out, and you grab his shoulders to keep him still. His questioning eyes find yours, and there's been too much emotion today, early as it is, for you to be embarrassed. "Stay inside me?" you ask quietly. "Just for a bit?"

The cool blue of his gaze softens, and he nods. "I could manage that."

You both twist so that you're lying a little more easily, legs intertwined, heat sultry between you where your bodies are touching - which is almost everywhere. It's not all that comfortable, except it is, because even with Druig soft, barely inside you, there's a sense of presence in the void of your chest, a shade of peace in the silence. With him so close, his limbs draped over you, it's like something besides gravity is weighing you down. Something more solid than your overwhelming sadness.

Holding his hand, you trace the familiar terrain of his knuckles, your thumb brushing over their rough peaks and valleys. After a moment, Druig changes the grip, brings up your clasped hands and kisses your fingers, one at a time.

The morning light spills like honey across his face, and Druig doesn't say anything. He knows you too well. You've known each other for so long, now.

"Druig?" Your lover hums a reply, eyes fixed on you. "I can't talk about it now. But maybe..." Maybe when this trip is finished. Maybe when all the Deviants are dead. Maybe when this is all over and the years have passed and you can find your courage.

Druig fills in your blanks, like he's done for a millennia. "Whenever you're ready," he says, softly, fervently. Another promise. "I'll be here."

And you don't really know what you believe at this point, but you do believe that Druig's promise will last at least as long as gravity does.      

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Vampire Chris and jake get stranded in the middle of nowhere one night. Maybe a car crash or something. As they walk back the sun starts to rise.

CW: Car crash, bruising, seatbelt burn, vampire whumpee, caretaker turned whumpee

The moment of the crash is gone.

He opens his eyes to the aftermath.

Jake blinks, the world spinning, and his head drops back against the headrest of the driver's seat. The world is still lurching, sickeningly, in circles around him. Something is ticking, the engine maybe, slowly cooling down and shit, at least it's not on fire.

The air bag has a smear of terrible vibrant red against its pillowy white as it slowly deflates, and all he can do is stare at it until he realizes the blood must be his own.

One hand comes up to touch at his forehead, and his fingers come away wet and red, too. What he'd thought was sweat is a head wound, bleeding down one side, tickling his cheekbone and jaw. It stings, a little.

The pain seems distant, somehow, like it's being held at arm's length. As if he's looking at his pain from a distance further than he can close.

"Ch-... Chris, you okay, buddy?" He turns, and the passenger seat is empty. The air bag deployed on that side, but there's no blood.

The door is standing open, dome light still on. It takes a long few moments of staring before he can understand that the door is open because Chris forced it open, closed his hands on the metal and squeezed until it bent beneath his strength and let him out.

Jake's body aches as he shifts forwards, fumbling to unbuckle his seatbelt. All the pain is filtering into his senses, piece by piece as if he can only understand a wound once he sees it.

He can't remember the crash.

They were at a four-way stop, listening to some of the terrible pop music Chris loves about the modern world, and Jake had pulled through. They were laughing at some lyric that Jake had had to explain, that had made the little vampire boy flush a little at the definition.

Then there were headlights blinding him, overtaking everything. Chris had yelled something and Jake had yelled something and then-

The moment is gone.

So is the entire back half of his car.

He turns around with a hiss to stare right out a giant gaping hole where his backseat should be into the cool, clear night.

Parts of his car are strewn haphazardly across the road and the grassy ditch he's come to a stop in. As he looks, he can see the frame of a door, crumbled metal that must be his trunk, a tire. Another tire. The bumper on the ground. Glass and metal everywhere.

The stop signs at the fourway are all standing totally untouched, except for one bent at a hard angle, leaning like a man fighting a strong wind.

The sweater he'd been wearing when he got in the car - removed and tossed carelessly in the backseat to pick up later - is hanging off the bent stop sign.

It's fucking spotlessly clean still.

He blinks.

Blinks some more.

What the fuck?

He'd driven Chris up into the hills to go star-gazing, making the most of Chris's bubbly energy that only comes out at night and his classes being canceled tomorrow because of some issue with the campus water supply. This is countryside up here, with houses miles and miles apart. Remnants of old orchards and homesteads, still kept by the descendants of the men and women who traveled out here. Nobody drives out this way this late. It could be morning before someone finds him.

His phone. He can call for help.

Jake looks around, but his phone is nowhere to be seen. He digs around the footwell, what he can touch of it, and there's nothing. Nothing nothing nothing.

His windshield is shattered, open to the outside, and he wonders if his phone flew out of it. It was on the dash, wasn't it? On Chris's side...

Shit.

It could be anywhere in the grass, and he's a fucking moron who keeps his phone on silent or vibrate 24 hours a day. He'll never hear it out here.

First things first, then.

He settles for trying to open his door.

It's been crunched, just a little. Enough that it won't swing out, and he has to throw his shoulder against it, grunting in pain, again and again until finally it nudges just enough for him to fall onto shattered tiny squares of safety glass on the ground. A water bottle is lying there. It's Dasani.

He hates Dasani water, but it'd been free at the gas station they'd stopped at if he bought a bag of chips, so...

Oh, right. His car is full of fucking gasoline.

He groans, scrambling away from the vehicle, trying to remember what a safe distance will be if his car catches on fire or fucking explodes in the middle of the night. At least if it explodes it'll get someone's attention, right?

Shit, he's going to throw up.

Jake lays there, waiting for his stomach to settle, and then crawls again. He makes it up to the road, to the rough asphalt and the gravel that lines the side. The little pebbles sting his palms, rub dirt and dust into the cuts, but he ignores it.

He makes it to the road, twenty feet or so from his car, and then... then he just lays down.

"Chris..." He can barely think. Where has the little vampire gone? Why isn't he here, creeping out of the treeline to ask if Jake's all right? Did he run? Maybe he has Jake's phone. Maybe there was no signal and he's gone to try and find some, to make a call.

Maybe...

Fuck, it hurts to think.

Even just taking a deep breath hurts - something's wrong with his ribs. Bruised or broken. When he pulls his shirt up, he can see the seatbelt burn starting to deepen in color, a diagonal stripe from shoulder to hip written in bright red darkening to burgundy bruising, soon to turn purple and black. If he hadn't been wearing a heavy shirt it'd have torn his skin open. One side of his neck is rubbed raw, he can tell when he touches it and has to pull his fingers away at the spike of pain.

There are spots of dark on his pale shirt, blood seeping through or dripping from his forehead.

But, shit. It could be worse. Looking at the back half of his car, it seems like a goddamn miracle that it isn't.

Jake pulls his legs under him and tries to stand up.

His right leg just won't fucking do it.

Rather than take his weight, it buckles with a spike of pain so bad Jake cries out and collapses back onto the road.

As if it were a dam breaking, all the adrenaline holding off the worst of the pain seems to wear away at once.

Everything hurts, suddenly, a sickening wash of pain breaking against him like he's nothing but a shell to be worn to sand. He aches when he breathes, when he doesn't. A cough makes him whimper as his ribs creak and crack. His head throbs, his hands sting, his leg is swelling even as he looks at it, a broken bone. Definitely a broken bone.

"Jesus Christ," He groans, rolling onto his side, his face pressing into gravel and safety glass.

Nat won't notice they're not home until morning.

No one's going to know he's out here until after sunrise, until he's not up to get ready for class and Chris isn't curled up in the closet to sleep in his nest of blankets and pillows. No one's going to know what happened, and where the everloving fuck did his phone go?

Time passes. He doesn't know how much.

Maybe Chris figured they can't protect him and took the fuck off. Maybe he's going to find somewhere new to crash, some new people to care for him. Maybe he's hunting.

Who the fuck knows?

He comes and goes, in and out of consciousness.

He can't stand, and sort of scooting and crawling around does nothing to help him figure out where his cell phone has gone. No one else drives by on this mostly-abandoned country road, and it was a stroke of seriously bad luck the asshole who hit them and ran was there at all.

Asshole was probably drunk, driving back from the bar, trying to use the backroads to avoid the goddamn cops.

Bad. Fucking. Luck.

Jake wonders if the asshole will even remember hitting his car in the morning, or if he'll wake up and discover the front of his vehicle all fucked up and have no idea how it happened.

He thinks he might pass clean out for a while.

That can't be good.

His head hurts worse when he wakes up.

He raises his head slowly at the sound of a distant rumble, an ancient truck engine coming closer. It takes more effort than he ever imagined just to get himself up to sitting, ready to wave down whoever it is - whatever fucking angel is on this road at what has to be 3 or 4 in the morning by now.

"Please," He whispers, dry lips scraping against each other. "Please, please don't run m'over... please..."

Headlights wash over the scene of the crash, fading everything to nearly black-and-white. Jake raises a hand to shield his eyes, blinking rapidly, as the blue-and-white Ford comes to an idling stop.

A door swings open with a creak and then slams shut again, boots crunching on the glass and debris on the road. Jake raises his eyes to see an old man in worn jeans and a grayish t-shirt staring down at him. "Well, I'll be damned," The man says, his voice low, a little rough around the edges. His hair's dark, but speckled with silver that's visible even in the night air. "You all right, son?"

Jake slowly looks back at his wrecked, ruined car, then back up at the man. "I'm pretty clearly not," He answers, then winces at his rudeness. "Sorry. I mean... no."

"That's all right. We all of us get a little more honest when we're bleeding from the skull. I'm gonna bet you aren't a natural brunette and I'm looking at a big old ton of blood there. What happened?"

"Guy ran the stop sign, hit me... drove off."

"Well, damn. What're you doin' up this way this late at night?"

"Would you... y'believe me if I said... star-gazin'?"

The man chuckles, but it's a low sound, and he moves closer. He pulls a heavy old cell phone out of his pocket - one of those goddamn flip phones that never dies or gets destroyed. It's like Captain Fucking America. Jake has to hold back a half-hysterical laugh.

"Hm, I might. It happens from time to time. Y'didn't come with a young lady, did you?" The man looks over the scene of the crash, searching for more people.

"No, no... just... jus'... I'm just here." He thinks of Chris, the open passenger door, the total lack of a vampire nearby. Is he hiding in the woods? If he's seen, or found out, he'll be hauled back off to be locked up somewhere, milked for venom for pharmaceutical drugs, treated like an animal. They can't admit he was here, he can't be seen. He must be hiding.

That's it.

Chris must just be hiding...

"Please, man, I-I can't find my phone to call for help-"

"I got you, son. I'll make the call. Likely your phone's just buried in the grass somewhere, we'll figure it out. You stay put right where you are, you don't want to move around and make any of it worse."

"Yes, sir." Jake stays where he is while the old man makes the call to 911, feeding him details when he asks, staring off into space when he doesn't.

They can pick Chris up when he and Nat come to get his stuff from the wreck tomorrow. They'll get him then. It'll be fine.

It'll be fine.

The old man hangs up and heads back to his truck, pulling out a battered old first aid kit. "You're lucky I believe in ghosts, you know."

"What? Why? Am I dead?" Jake looks down at his hands. They're scratched and bleeding, and he's pretty sure dead people don't bleed like that.

"No, son, no. But I wouldn't be out here if I didn't."

Jake blinks. "I... I don't follow."

"Well, had a little ghost show up at my bedroom window and refuse to shut up until I drove out here. Redheaded boy. Kept calling for a medic. Felt like I was back in the war for a minute before I realized it was him."

"Which... which war?"

The man fixes him with a stare as he crouches, old knees cracking as he does, in front of Jake. He opens the box and takes out some gauze and adhesive, antibiotic cream, something else Jake doesn't recognize. "You need medics in every kind of war there is, son. It doesn't matter which one. I've fought in two. But this boy called for a medic like he's seen the need for 'em before and didn't have time to save someone. Some kind of old ghost walkin' these roads saw you and made sure I knew."

Jake exhales, almost a laugh, and feels tears burn hot in his eyes. He realizes he's going to cry from sheer relief and exhaustion and pain, and he's not sure he can stop.

A ghost in the window means...

Chris left and ran for help.

"Thank you," he whispers, and he's not really talking to the old man at all.

-

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

[daryl-dixon-daydreams]

Words: 4,565 Daryl Dixon x Reader Reader pronouns: she/her Era: Alexandria Warnings: Language, typical TWD stuff A/N: This is Part 5 of a series! Find the previous parts on the Masterlist! Summary: A violent encounter outside the walls only increases Daryl's questions and concerns about Y/N.

Your name: submit What is this?

You immediately and instinctively grappled for your knife at your hip and unsheathed it, staring up in horror at the two men now standing over you. A lot happened very quickly. It must have only been matter of seconds, but it felt immensely long.

“Ohhhh, sweetheart. You’re in trouble,” one of them said, laughing as he glanced over at the man beside him.

You tightened your grip on your knife but the next moment there was a swift kick to your wrist and then a boot came down on it, crushing it into the floor, eliciting another yell from you. Your knife clattered away and you followed it with your eyes desperately.

You struggled to get away but the man was suddenly grabbing you by the ankles and dragging you closer.

“Get the fuck off me!” you growled. You lashed out with your boot and caught him in the face with the toe.

“Agh! You fuckin’ bitch!” he roared, spitting out blood onto the floor. He let out an animalistic growl and stood over you. “You’re coming—with us!” His words were punctuated with strong kicks into your ribs, which left you unable to cry out or even to breathe. You curled into yourself on the floor, willing your diaphragm to unclench and draw breath.

Daryl. The only desperate thought in your mind.

The man who was standing over you suddenly dropped down so he was straddling over your writhing form. “I said, you’re coming with us. Back where you belong.”

You finally were able to wheeze in a breath and glared up at him. “Fuck. You,” you spat, disdain contorting your face. Where the hell was Daryl? you thought desperately.

“This will go a lot easier if you don’t fight it!” his partner shouted down at you, rifling through his bag for something. “We don’t want to hurt ya!”

You shot a knee up as hard as you could and caught the man over you in the tailbone. When he doubled over forward, swearing with his face growing more and more red, you did the only thing you could think of and headbutted him in the face. Hard. As hard as you could.

His nose crunched sickeningly and started to bleed profusely. He let out an anguished scream while you were seeing stars. Fat, crimson drops fell down onto you as you struggled, still beneath him. You were trying to extract your body from beneath his but his weight was too much. He was now completely enraged and the next thing you felt was his hands around your neck, squeezing, compressing. You couldn’t breathe. You tried to break out of it but his hands were so large they wrapped completely around your neck, compressing blood vessels and your airway. Your scratched and clawed at his hands, trying desperately to pull them away. You started to see spots and darkening around the edges of your vision. You clawed at his arms with your fingernails and tried to break his grip at the elbows. You were vaguely aware of some commotion in the background as your struggling grew weaker by the second. You were going to black out.

But suddenly, you could breathe and the weight of him on top of you was gone.

You curled over on the floor, coughing and sputtering, gasping in rasping breaths desperately.

“Y/N! Y/N!?” Daryl’s voice nearby, completely frantic.

You couldn’t stop coughing. Your throat was on fire. Your neck felt raw.

“Jesus—can ya breathe?!” Daryl’s urgent voice again. You felt his hand on your shoulder.

You finally managed to gain control of your gasping breaths again and rasped out. “I’m okay,” nodding but unable to look over at him. You submitted to another coughing attack. Your gasps were wheezes like a kid with asthma.

Daryl was kneeling beside you with his crossbow in his hand. “Are ya sure?!”

You finally glanced over at him, certain your face was bright red and your expression desperate. His features were overwhelmed with panic and concern, blue eyes piercing through the curtain of dark hair around his face. You nodded. “Uhh… I think so. Mostly.” You winced, feeling pain suddenly shooting through your wrist and ribs and a pounding in your forehead as the wave of adrenaline had crested and now started to diminish. “Fuck… What the fuck?” you said, glancing around. There were the bodies of the two men, both with a crossbow bolt through their head.

Daryl clenched his teeth and gently grasped your arm. “C’mon.” He pulled you gingerly to your feet. You stayed hunched over, an arm wrapped around your ribs. You squeezed your eyes shut and tried to steel yourself for a moment.

“Fuck…” you muttered again, not even meaning to speak it out loud.

Daryl froze, looking at you with his brow furrowed. His stomach was rolling with regret. “I—'M’ sorry. I should have been faster. I—but this goddamn ankle and I had to get my bow loaded and—”

You raised a hand to quiet him and shook your head. “S’not your fault. At all,” you said, pressing a few fingers to a particularly raw feeling spot on your neck.

But Daryl was blaming himself. He should have been there faster. The angry red marks around your throat were burning into his memory. He bit back his anger at himself and re-secured the front door as best he could. He glared down at the two corpses and retrieved his bolts. He nudged his head in the direction of the other room.

You followed him in, still hunched over. He pointed at the couch and you sank down onto it slowly, hissing through your teeth with each movement.

Daryl set his crossbow down and immediately grabbed his pack. As he was digging around inside it, he spoke with some anxiousness. “Ya know them?” he asked, not looking up from his bag.

You gulped. “What?”

All his movement stalled, his hands still inside his pack, clutching medical supplies. “They sounded like they recognized ya. Said you’re ‘comin’ back where ya belong.’ Did ya—d’ya know them?” When he finished the question, this time his eyes flickered up to your face, watching your reaction carefully.

You were gingerly holding your wrist in the other hand and Daryl thought your eyes looked a bit frantic. You didn’t answer. You seemed—frozen.

Daryl nodded and shrugged, turning back to the pack. “S’alright. Ya ain’t gotta say.” He felt like he pretty much had his answer. “What hurts?” he asked you gently.

You didn’t answer for a moment and Daryl thought he saw waves of panic rising and falling in your eyes.

“Y/N—” he said again.

You seemed to come back to reality, grounded by the sound of his voice saying your name. “Umm… right. I—my wrist. I think that’s the only thing we can do something for. Nothing to do about my ribs,” you said with a wince, your breath hitching every time you tried to inhale too deeply.

Daryl pulled out some gauze and materials to splint your wrist, which he suspected was broken, based on the swelling and how it was already changing colors. “We need to get ya back to an actual doctor,” he mused. “Tomorrow I’ll see if I can find a car close. We can take it back to our truck. Can’t let that wrist go too long without gettin’ set.” His eyes continually found the ring of angry red around your neck and he watched as you pressed a hand to your head, which was pounding.

“You can’t go out there by yourself. You’ve got a fucked-up ankle,” you argued.

Daryl shot you a look and heaved a sigh, leaning his arm on his bent knee where he was crouched. “Well, now out of the two of us I’m in the best shape. So, we’re gonna do what I say and you’re gonna sit here and rest. Ya got a broken wrist and probably some cracked ribs. Not to mention that fucker nearly choked the life out of ya.” His tone told you arguing was pointless. “Now gimme your damn arm.”

You avoided his eyes and held out your hurt wrist. His rough hands on your skin was grounding and you were again reminded of how he had insisted on stitching your arm up that night when you came back after your last bad run-in outside the walls. He was amazingly gentle. You marveled at how small your arm looked in his hands—like something fragile. Daryl was trying to minimize the skin-to-skin contact—almost fearful of what was happening inside him every time his skin brushed yours, but it was a little difficult to do while he was tending to you. He splinted and wrapped your wrist, frowning at the way your thumb was already bruising purple. “Ya scared the shit outta me,” he murmured softly, not even meaning for it to actually fall from his lips.

You raised your eyes to his face in surprise but he was still fixated on bandaging you up. “I’ll, uhh, try not to do it again,” you said, and Daryl was relieved to hear that your voice had relaxed some, though the rasp was still in it.

“Better not,” he growled. He grabbed a small gauze pad and poured a little alcohol on it. “Here. Ya got a pretty good scratch on your jaw there.” He scooted closer to you and watched as you swiped a few fingers over it.

“Oh,” you said, looking at the rusty color that came away on your fingers. “Probably did that to myself trying to pry him off of me…”

Daryl’s expression darkened. “Mhm.” He hesitated a moment before dabbing at the scratch with the pad. “Really. Ya scared me.”

_ _ _ _ _ _

“Jesus fucking Christ!” Rosita exclaimed as she heaved the gate open to let you and Daryl into Alexandria. “Thank God!” she exclaimed next, looking both of you up and down. “Rick was about to send out a search party. We’ve all been worried sick. Aaron has been driving me insane, coming up to the gate every ten seconds to ask if I’ve seen anything.” Her eyes finally seemed to register the full extent of your injuries and she froze. “Y/N—your neck… Oh my God. What the hell happened?” she pressed, shutting and latching the gate behind you both.

“Uhh…” you walked unevenly, your uninjured arm wrapped around your ribs, though it did nothing to lessen the shooting hot knives of pain with every breath. “Walkers. And then more walkers. And then a corpse and rotten floor boards. And then—” you hesitated., suddenly feeling sick.

“And then people,” Daryl finished gruffly, sparing a glance over at you, his face darkening with worry.

“Shit,” Rosita said, her eyes going round. “A corpse? As in, not a walker? And did you say something about rotten floor boards?”

You nodded. “Yeah...”

Daryl shot her a look that clearly said ‘later.’

“Sorry—just… I need to get to the doctor to fix my wrist before it heals this way,” you said, avoiding her eyes.

“Right! Right, of course. I’ll grab someone else for guard duty and go tell everyone you’re alright. Here, I’ll take your guns.” You and Daryl handed over your weapons and Rosita hurried off.

You limped your way to the clinic and he insisted on holding the door open for you and letting you go in first. Surprisingly, Pete was still there. You always assumed he just was drunk after 4:30 pm.

“Whoa! Looks like we’re running a little ragged, huh? Come on in and sit down and let’s have a look at you,” he said jovially. You eyed him with distaste.

“Where’s Denise?” you asked.

Pete looked around the room dramatically, hands outstretched. “Not here. So, shall we—”

“I would prefer to see Denise.” Your tone was cold.

Pete let out a laugh which he only managed to make sound half-genuine. “She isn’t here so—”

“I’ll wait,” you snapped. You limped over to an exam table and sat down, your countenance stormy.

Pete glanced at Daryl and he shook his head. “Nah. Just her. I’m good. Sprained ankle is all.”

Pete let out an exhale that was mostly a growl. “I guess I went to med school to be an errand boy,” he muttered under his breath, but nonetheless, he left to find Denise.

Daryl sank down on a rolling stool and scooted over to sit near you. “Hey,” he said suddenly.

You snapped out of some deep reverie you were having and looked at him.

“Ya alright?” he asked. “Really. I mean, that was some serious shit that happened out there…”

You nodded. “Fine.” You uninjured hand went to absently touch the bruises on your neck, which were now dark and mottled. “Thanks to you.”

Daryl shrugged. “S’nothin’. Wish I had been faster.”

You rolled your eyes at him. “No. No, it was definitely something…” Despite your assurance that you were okay, Daryl had the sense that it wasn’t entirely true. You were alive, sure, but since those men had busted into the house you had been uneasy. It wasn’t lost on him that you turned to glance behind the truck the whole drive back to Alexandria, and even now, safe inside the walls, you were rigid and on edge. You should have known better than to try and bullshit Daryl. The archer was annoyingly good at reading you. But, to be fair, you were also annoyingly good at reading him.

Your eyes shot up as the clinic door burst open loudly. Aaron ran in with his mouth dropped partially open and wide eyes. “Oh, thank God,” he said, rushing over to you and Daryl and immediately grabbing you into a tight hug.

“Ow! Ow ow ow! Aaron!”

Aaron drew back suddenly at your exclamations. “Oh—God, I’m sorry.” His eyes found the bruising on your neck and his face blanched. “Oh my God. What the hell happened? Are you alright?” he asked desperately.

“Define alright,” Daryl murmured.

You shot him a scolding look. “Yes, that’s what I need. Worry him more. Thanks, Daryl,” you said.

“What happened?” Aaron asked desperately again. It wasn’t lost on him how you avoided his eyes as you answered.

“Just—people. Bad people,” you said.

He stared at the dark purple bruising on your thumb and the splint before glancing over at Daryl.

“If Daryl hadn’t been there—” you broke off, giving Aaron a somewhat fearful look.

Aaron looked back at the archer again and heaved a heavy sigh. “I won’t hug you,” he said, cracking a smile, “but thank you. Thank you.”

Daryl nodded.

“Okay, I promised Eric I would come right back with an update so, umm—I’m gonna go, but thank God you’re back and you’re at least mostly whole,” he said, backing toward the door again. “Thank you,” he said again, looking at Daryl.

You let out a small laugh as the door shut behind him, shaking your head, smiling fondly.

“You’re close,” Daryl said. “With him and Eric.”

You nodded. “Yeah. When they first brought me in, I used to joke that I was like a stray cat they found and adopted. I felt so out of place, you know? And they just—they didn’t care. They just accepted me right away. Made it feel a little more like a home. They’re good like that. They understand what it’s like to be an outsider.”

Daryl nodded. He knew exactly what you meant.

Denise came in with Pete trailing after her. She looked a bit harried and you apologized for having her come in, to which she just gave you a small smile and a meaningful glance. She was well aware of your feelings toward Pete and she shared them… He stood lurking around in case Denise had questions.

“Okaaaay,” she said, gingerly unwrapping your wrist, wincing at the sight of the swelling and bruising. “Yup. This needs to be set…” she said gently, glancing over at Daryl who was still sitting nearby, his blue eyes taking in everything like he was standing guard. “Okay, Y/N, just lay back.” You obeyed, letting out a wry laugh and a forced exhale at the pain shooting through your ribs. Denise muttered an apology as she palpated your arm with her fingers. “Um. Okay. Daryl, I’m going to need you to hold her arm down while I—”

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” you teased Denise, a smirk on your face. She pulled a face at you, drawing a laugh which made you clutch at your ribs again and mutter a pitiful “ow.”

“Do you know you’re my least favorite patient?” she retorted jokingly. “Daryl. Come on.” Pete stepped forward, clearly annoyed.

“Are you sure you don’t want an actual--”

You cut him off. “Last I checked, Denise went to fucking med school. And for the last time you aren’t touching me.” Pete muttered something and backed off but he remained nearby watching.

“Ya ready?” Daryl rumbled, his strong hands firmly pressing your arm down against the table.

You nodded and focused on his blue eyes. “Sure…” you said, your voice coming out a little high with nerves and apprehension at the anticipated pain.

Denise didn’t give you a countdown or anything. She just forced the bone back into place. “MOTHERFUCKER!” you yelled, shooting upright on the exam table as soon as Daryl’s hands lifted off your arm. It felt like someone had rammed a red-hot poker into your arm. “Mmmm,” you groaned, squeezing your eyes shut and forcing breaths in and out.

“Done! Done!” Denise said. “See! Not so bad!”

You let out another sardonic laugh. “Easy for you to say.” She immediately fitted you with a stiff brace and instructions to limit use of your wrist and hand for four to six weeks.

“Six weeks,” you repeated. “Are you frickin’ kidding me?” You stared at her, incredulous.

“It’s a broken bone, Y/N, not a bumped elbow,” Denise said as she adjusted the brace.

You looked at the archer beside you for assistance but found none. “Six weeks?” you repeated again. You scoffed. “I’m going to lose my freakin’ mind in here. I can’t—I can’t shoot. I can’t go outside the walls… I can’t even write. It’s my dominant hand.” You let out a frustrated growl. “I might as well be a frickin’ baby,” you growled.

“Kinda are bein’ one right now,” Daryl rumbled. Your eyes snapped over to him and you managed to catch the quick twitch of the corner of his mouth in a rare smirk.

You shot him an unamused look. “I don’t know why you’re so entertained, chuckles. You’re benched too.”

Daryl rolled his eyes. “Whatever. Ya heard her, though. Four to six weeks.” You read genuine concern on his face and sighed.

“Yeah, yeah… I heard her,” you mumbled.

Denise laughed. “Alright. I see your neck… Nothing we can do about that,” she said with a wince. “God. That looks painful.”

You pressed your uninjured hand to it, reflexively covering it up as you felt Daryl’s eyes hitch on the bruises and stay there. “It’s not too bad.”

“Okay, anything else?” Denise asked.

You hesitated for a moment. Daryl didn’t know just how bad your side was and you weren’t real keen on him seeing the extent of the injury from the man kicking you. “Umm… Yeah. Uhh—I think I have some broken ribs maybe and—” you gulped, but you grabbed the hem of your shirt and lifted it so Denise could see your side.

Daryl immediately stiffened in anger as he saw the extent of the black and purple bruising all up your side. He actually let out what sounded like a low growl before averting his eyes. You noticed his hands clenching and unclenching into fists and he was suddenly restless.

“Oh my God… I’m so sorry this happened to you,” Denise said, her eyes flickering up to yours. She gently palpated your side. “I don’t feel anything concerning beyond the bruising and normal swelling—how did this happen?” she asked you quietly.

You were about to answer when there was suddenly a commotion as Daryl strode over to Pete and pushed him hard in the chest, making him stagger backwards. “Hey!” Daryl roared, posturing toward the surgeon. “What the hell are ya lookin’ at?” You and Denise stared at the two men in confusion and surprise. “We don’ need ya, so why don’ ya just get the hell outta here,” Daryl rumbled, flicking a hand in the direction of the door.

For a moment, Pete looked like he was considering hitting Daryl but he finally just clenched his jaw and left the clinic, slamming the door unnecessarily hard behind him.

Daryl turned to see you and Denise staring at him in confusion. He paced a little uncomfortably. “He was—I didn’t like how he was lookin’ at ya,” Daryl finally spat out.

You felt your cheeks color and averted your eyes from the archer. Apparently when you had lifted your shirt, revealing the bare skin from your waistband to the strap of your bra Pete’s eyes had been a little too hungry, a little too searching, and had lingered a little too long for Daryl’s taste.

You didn’t know what to say. The air in the room was thick and heavy with tension. Denise finally cleared her throat a little awkwardly and broke it. “Okay, I’m serious about the wrist. I’m going to give you some heavy-duty painkillers and anti-inflammatory meds to take for the next five days. If you feel any changes in your side or abdomen you come get me, okay? I’m serious.”

You nodded and Daryl rushed over to help you climb down on the table, hardly noticing the ache in his ankle anymore. You felt another flush in your cheeks as he gently gripped your elbow. “Thanks, Denise.”

She nodded. “Daryl, you’re sure you don’t need me to look at that ankle?”

He shook his head. “Nah. ‘M good. Just gonna get Y/N home so she can rest.”

“You too,” Denise said, pointing vehemently at him.

You walked, or hobbled more like, the distance back to your house with Daryl in silence. It still felt a little heavy, a little uneasy, like the air was holding things unsaid, but finally you climbed the steps and to the front door. You gave him a small smile, but there was something like apprehension in your eyes as you thanked him for all his help. “You know, I’ve known you only a short while and I think you have now officially saved my ass and patched me up more than anyone,” you muttered.

“Yeah, well…” he shrugged. “I think it’s about the same in reverse.” Daryl left with a hollow feeling in his chest as the heavy clunk of the deadbolt secured your door behind you.

Carol was waiting on the front porch and immediately grabbed him into a tight hug. “You scared us,” she said, holding him back to take him in, her eyes searching for injury. “Rosita told us you were back but nothing else. Are you okay?”

“’M Fine. Better than, Y/N,” he said, nudging his head toward your house across the street.

Carol’s brow furrowed. “What happened? Is she alright?”

“Mmm,” Daryl hummed, a noise meaning he didn’t want to talk about it. He dug in his pocket for a cigarette and allowed Carol to gently push his hair out of his face and clasp his shoulder, before he stiffened and moved away to sit on the steps. She knew that meant he wanted to be alone, wanted time to think.

“I’m glad you’re both back and at least mostly in one piece. We’ll be inside if you need anything.”

“Thanks,” the archer murmured. Daryl sat there most of the night, smoking the cigarettes he had left and staring at your dark house, wondering if you were awake like he was.

You were.

The next day, Daryl found Rick in the kitchen in the afternoon. He’d already explained what had transpired outside the walls, why you had both been so delayed. Rick had listened carefully and firmly grasped his shoulder, telling him how relieved he was that Daryl was back safe and that you were too. His words seemed a little pointed, but Daryl shied away from it. But now, after being unable to think of anything else all day, he had a question to ask Rick.

“Hey,” Daryl said, finding Rick in the kitchen, trying to convince Judith to eat something as she squirmed in his arms.

“Hey, Daryl. What is it?” Rick perceived something in the archer’s expression as soon as he glanced up at him.

Daryl scruffed a hand awkwardly through his hair. “Y/N’s interview. With Deanna, when Aaron first brought her in. Did ya watch it?”

Rick nodded, his face falling. “Yeah… I did. I think I watched just about everybody’s.”

Daryl shifted his body weight anxiously from one foot to the other and crossed his arms over his chest, trying to hide the vulnerability he felt while showing such obvious interest in you and your story. “Well… what—what was on it?”

Rick sighed, finally giving up on coaxing Judith to eat, and set her down on the floor on a blanket. He stood and hung his thumbs in his pockets, staring down at his boots for a moment. “You want to watch it?” he asked the archer, glancing up to take in his expression.

Daryl shrugged and let out a non-committal hum.

Rick studied his friend’s expression. “Whatever you’re lookin’ for… Whatever answer… It isn’t on there. But you can watch it if you want,” Rick offered. “Ya saw somethin’ out there that has you worried. I can see that. You can tell me if you want to, but I also understand if you don’t. Y/N is… private… about whatever happened to her before this, before here.”

Daryl swallowed at the tightness in his throat and considered Rick’s words. He chewed his bottom lip thoughtfully, his face dark. “I ain’t worried about us,” he clarified. “I ain’t worried about Alexandria.”

Rick nodded. “Just about her.”

Daryl shrugged and avoided the look in Rick’s eyes, which was something surprised but knowing. “We’ll do our best to keep her safe,” Rick said.

Daryl nodded and this time when he glanced up at his friend there was a fire in his blue eyes, a fierceness. “Ya. We will.”

[hellosummersun00]

The Dark Pictures Anthology: Biohazard

Someone has been sleeping on the dirty mattress right on the floor. It was a man, well-built, but weak by the hits, that have turned bruises on his hands and other open body pieces purple. Jason recognized him at once: by the shaved nape, dark hair, clothes that he has gone missing in.

"Joe," his name slipped out with lightweight and at the same time painful gasp. How Jason could abandon his the only one loved person in this disgusting, monstrous and frightful place? Has he really been here for 3 years? How he could come in this state and what other investigations did? What these people have done with him all this time?

More terrible questions arised in Jason's head. But except it the most terrifying was the fact that Joe has been in this place because of him. If Jason hadn't turned away from his words and guesswork, Joe would have been alright.

"Joe!" called him again Jason, hard and loud.

The man on the other side of the cage woke up from familiar voice. It has sounded in his head from time to time, when pain backed down. Sometimes, staying in the absolute darkness, listening someone's footsteps between the walls and imagining this nasty image, Joe whispered the brother's name and called him for help. After 3 years he stopped to believe that someone will come after him and save.

"Hey, buddy, it's me," Jason smiled softly, not the way he usually does it. He just wanted that his brother will be in safe for the first time in a long while. But what he had seen, made him erased all emotions from face.

Joe got up from the mattress and looked at Jason. The fresh bruise under his right eye started swelling and the red cut over the eyebrow on the same side was well visible to Jason. Sharp cheekbones became more noticeable. But the most hard thing was the empty, lost and frightened look. Will his former funny enthusiast Joe return someday? Or this place have already taken his soul?

"Jason, is it you?" only his voice was the same, a little quiet, but the same. It had seemed that an instant hope twinkled in his eyes, but immediately lost in the cold dull room light.

"Yep, bro. And I get you outta here."

"It must be key somewhere here. Look next to the workbench, the old man usually leave it there," continued quietly Joe.

Jason explored quickly the owner's workshop. He found an old metallic key on the wall among rusty tools. Joe held onto the cage to not fall. It was problematic to stand on his own two feet. Joe watched every Jason's action carefully. They hadn't been too close before Joe's disappearance: despite the family bond, Jason spent his time with Nick mostly, and Joe didn't want to intrude and ruin their comfort. Nevertheless, Jason has been always worried about his brother and has been ready to help him, he's the only one left of the whole family. But Jason wasn't there with him in the most needed moment.

"Joe!" Jason grabbed him in tight hug. Joe freezed for the moment, but then clapped unsure his back and put arms around him too. "I knew you're alive. Nobody believed me, but your message... fuck, I just knew it!"

"Message? What's the message?"

"You sent me a video. Told me where I can find you. Said come after you and save."

"I've sent nothing to you."

Jason let his brother go and looked seriously at him.

"You don't remember it? You've sent a record and said in it you're in fucked up mess. Asked pull you out from this place. It was two days ago."

"Yeah I made some record for you. But it was three years ago and I warned you never come here."

"What are you fuck talking about? I'm not bloody crazy! You've said where to go, so I'm here."

"Someone changed my record. But how they could falsify it so professional?"

"Dunno. But we must get outta here right now."

Jason hadn't had time to move from Joe when the second one couldn't stand more on his feet, falling on the floor and making an unpleasant moan.

"You're ok?" Jason got down on one knee to him.

"You shouldn't have come here."

Dark veins appeared on Joe's hands, he started to breathe frequently, making hoarse and growling sounds. Jason touched his shoulder and angry black eyes looked at him with the ruthless abyss in them.

"Fuck what's wrong with you?" asked nervously Jason.

"They... they've done something to me."

"What exactly?"

"I don't fucking know!" shouted Joe, and his face distorted due to pain. He fell in Jason's hands again. "I don't wanna die here, Jason. I don't wanna die."

"You won't die, I won't let this happen."

"You don't know these monsters. They're not humans. They won't let us go."

"I'd survived in the fucking mess, so this house seems bullshit to me. I won't lose you again. We just need to go. Now."

[moonlightflower21]

Hi Lia! Just wondering how Raph would act if his S/O was angry at him? You can take your time I just love whatever you write🙈😊

thank you angel, sorry for only just getting to it now ❤

"you're mad at me, aren't you?" a small voice comes from your back porch but you focus on stirring the hot soup in the pan. winter was here and the chill of the cold settled in your bones, sometimes making your allergies acting up. you don't reply instead focusing on stirring the log, making sure it didn't overcook.

raph takes a deep breath, knowing that he deserved the silent treatment from you. last night him and casey went out and to put it shortly, beat the foot but also got their asses handed back to them.

it almost scared you to see the state raph was in, red covering most of his body instead of green. he had taken the worst of the hits but casey had also been in pretty bad shape too. his brothers were angry but you had remained mostly silent throughout it all. and that was the worst.

"i'm sorry.... please say somethin'...." raph calls out desperately, hating when you weren't speaking terms with him. it scared him that he'll just go over the limit and you'll just leave him, destroy any and all contact. maybe one day when he'll come over to your home but see you snuggled with another man, making you laugh like he did before. but you're happier. he shakes his head to get rid of those thoughts, trying to remain cool.

you stand still, switching the gas from under the soup before diverting your attention to the terrapin outside.

"you're just not being careful anymore, raph" your voice is hurt, scared for his well being. you set down the spoon aside and look at him, continuing.

"last night was a close call but how about tomorrow? what happens if one day they'll push the blade down where it can't be fixed? i never want to get in the way of your ninja duties, i know how important it is. but i don't want a call to say that my boyfriend is unconscious, unable to wake up. or worst, that he's gone..." you take a deep breath, trying to clear your mind of those haunted images.

you knew raph was smart, you knew that he would always be able to defend himself. but one day, if he faltered in his movement or if he took on more than he can chew, then what happens? he wasn't invincible. everyone had a weakness, all the foot needed to do is exploit it to their advantage.

"i'm sorry fer making ya worry, y/n. but don't worry, they won't hurt me. i'll always find a way ta come back ta ya. i promise" he comes in your home slowly, hands raised towards you to hold. but you resist, a pensive look on your face as he approaches you.

"promise me you won't go out looking for trouble for fun" you sigh and turn to him, the injuries from yesterday healed well. he was almost back to normal aside from the swelling and the occasional purple bruise. and the stitches.

"i promise ya" he smiles warmly at you and you take his hand, leaning your body against his. your head placed in the crook of his neck whilst one hand gently rubs your back comfortingly. even when he's hurt, he always makes sure that you're okay. his heart is so big, constantly making sure his loved ones are safe and protected.

your lips curl into a sweet smile, you couldn't stay mad at raph for too long. you just wished he didn't always run in the face of danger. his hand holds your face between his warm fingers, planting a small kiss on your forehead and then to your lips.

but you lean into it, not quite ready to let go just yet.

[five-rivers]

Long Night in the Valley Chapter 15

It's been a bit, hasn't it?

.

.

.

Toshinori pushed himself up off the ground with trembling arms. Although, by the position of the sun, it hadn’t been for long, he’d blacked out when—

“Oh, no,” said Toshinori. His head throbbed at the sound, making the edges of his vision go dark and fuzzy.

When All for One had broken through into the shared mindscape.

“Oh, no,” he repeated.

Where was Izuku? He had to find—Oh, thank goodness, Izuku was right there. He let out a sigh of relief.

His relief was short-lived. Izuku, to put it lightly, did not look well. His eyes were open, but only glazed slivers. His breath was coming shallow and fast, not quite to the point of hyperventilating, but it was a close thing. His skin was pale, except for deep, bruise-like circles under his eyes. He was sweating more than Toshinori had ever seen him sweat (which was really saying something; Izuku broke out into nervous sweats with some frequency). Perhaps most concerningly, he was shaking like a leaf.

Izuku was, Toshinori realized, still maintaining the effect of Two’s quirk.

He tried to reach inside himself, contact his predecessors, but swiftly pulled his mental fingers back, as if they had been burned. Bad idea.

“Izuku,” he said, “can you hear me?”

Izuku made a small, pained noise that tore at Toshinori’s heart.

“I’m going to pick you up, okay?” he said. Izuku didn’t answer, but then Toshinori didn’t expect him to.

The simple act forced Toshinori to call on the embers of One for All. Not enough to make his muscles swell, but enough to give him the strength of an ordinary, healthy man. His muscles and his remaining intact lung screamed in protest, not to mention his scars. He ignored them.

He stumbled forward, priorities shuffling themselves. They’d been trying to escape, but if Izuku was this ill… he needed a doctor. An exorcist might be a good idea, too, what with All for One running around in their heads.

But to get a doctor, they’d have to put themselves in commission hands, and Toshinori could feel the echoes of Two and Three telling him exactly how stupid that would be.

The commission had sent Hawks after Izuku. Toshinori had no doubt they’d throw him in Tartarus, and the treatment of criminals in Tartarus was one of the few things Toshinori had publicly disagreed with the HPSC on in his hero persona. Not that it had gone anywhere. He simply hadn’t had the time to really push it and the commission had somehow managed to paint him as somehow too good, too forgiving, to be trusted when it came to the disposition of terrible villains.

“’ll be’kay,” mumbled Izuku, the sentiment clearer over their mental link. “N’ospital.”

“Okay,” said Toshinori, slightly breathless. “Let’s—Let’s keep going, then. Find a good place to camp out, far away from Todoroki Touya, here. Yep.” He was aware he was rambling, and needlessly at that, but he couldn’t help it.

One foot in front of the other.

Was that a car running?

Toshinori, keen on getting help and care for Izuku, even if it meant hijacking a car, changed directions slightly. Of course, it would be ideal if there were friendly bystanders who didn’t believe the hero commissions lies and had a medical license and a healing quirk, but Toshinori would be more than happy with—

He stopped. Laughed. Laughed some more, a little hysterically. There, abandoned in a ditch like a beached sailing ship, was Vlad King’s much abused car.

Sure, it would have been reported stolen by now, and the police and heroes would be looking for it, but that was a problem for future-Toshinori. Present-Toshinori, on the other hand, was simply grateful for the windfall, and wary – the presence of the car could indicate the proximity of the League of Villains.

He gently put Izuku down in the passenger seat, turned the car off and made sure it was in the appropriate gear, then walked around to the back of the car and lifted it out of the ditch.

If his muscles had been complaining before—

He staggered back to the driver’s seat, leaning heavily on the side of the car the whole time. Blood dripped from his mouth. “This is nothing, my boy, nothing,” he said in what he hoped was a reassuring tone, as he felt Izuku’s concern press heavily against him. “Used to have worse every day of the week.”

Toshinori got the sense that Izuku was not, in fact, reassured. Nevertheless, he grinned, pouring every drop of his fabled ‘everything will be alright’ smile into the expression. Even if Izuku couldn’t see it, Toshinori needed some of the comfort that came with donning a familiar mask

“Let’s see if we can get to the Wild Wild Pussycats today, after all.”

.

“Eri-chan,” began Abe, tapping together her papers. She’d drawn the short stick. Ito was interviewing one of the older students, and Abe got the feral child.

“No,” said Eri.

“I didn’t even ask you a question yet.”

“Only people I like get to call me -chan. That’s the rule. Prinzible Nezu said so.”

“Principal,” corrected Nezu, cheerfully, like the unhelpful rodent rat bastard he was. If only she could have gotten him kicked out… but, no, he and Present Mic were both sitting in on the interview.

“PrincipalNezu told me, and he’s in charge.”

“You tell ‘em, Eri-chan!” said Present Mic, just a little more loudly than was comfortable.

.

Eri nodded to let Present Mic know the noise-cancelling earplugs were working.

.

“In this situation,” said Abe, sternly, “I am in charge.”

The girl tilted her head, and suddenly her expression went from ‘pouting child’ to ‘superior being contemplating an uppity insect.’

“Eri-san,” began Abe.

“No,” said Eri.

Abe looked up incredulously. What was wrong with -san?

She decided to ignore it. “You spoke with—”

Eri began to scream like a teakettle whistling.

“Can’t you control her?” Abe demanded, turning to Nezu, who chittered.

“This is very good progress!” he said, barely loud enough to hear over the ongoing shriek. “Before now, Eri-chan was too hesitant to act out or misbehave in any way, fearing the punishment that her former and completely unqualified caretakers would inflict upon her.”

Abe didn’t know which was more longwinded, the still-screaming child or the rodent principal. Her body was so tiny, how was she still screaming?

.

Eri clicked off the Present Mic-themed combo audio recorder and player in her pocket at the same time she shut her mouth. Principal Nezu was right! This was fun! At least, it would be if Deku was here.

“I get to pick what you call me,” said Eri, patiently. Since this person wasn’t smart enough to see that Deku was only the best hero ever and not a bad guy, she’d have to explain slowly.

The person evidently wasn’t even smart enough to breathe, as she was slowly turning purple.

“What,” she said, in stilted tones, “would you like me to call you.”

Eri let the smile Aizawa had taught her spread across her face. “Eri-sama.”

“Is that a joke?”

“It’s very important to respect the boundaries children establish, Abe-san,” said Nezu.

.

Katsuki blinked. It was about time he woke up. Stupid dream time dilation or whatever. Stupid boring soy sauce face and his stupid boring mindscape dreamscape whatever hellscape. There was a limit to what you could do in a square mile that mostly consisted of a tape-covered jungle gym and a boring apartment building. Katsuki had found it, and, after spending a good period of time being angry about it, had decided to go to sleep.

Dream time dilation or whatever the commission proctor had been going on about after the first billionty-and-one stupid hours, it didn’t matter, Katsuki hated it, it was just taking too damn long. If he didn’t have to do this to keep his provisional license, he’d tell the commission to shove this stupid pointless training up it’s—

About a minute after he should have twigged to something wrong, Katsuki realized the ceiling was too familiar.

He sat up. Why the hell was he in UA’s infirmary?

And not just him, about half the class was here with him.

He scowled. So, something had gone wrong with the test after all, and it looked like Deku wasn’t involved. Stupid nerd would hold it over him.

“Hey!” shouted Katsuki, spotting Recovery Girl. “What the f—”

“Language!” scolded Recovery Girl, shrilly, practically teleporting across the room to jab Katsuki with her cane. “You’re in a school, young man.”

“I know that!” protested Katsuki. “But why the f—” he faltered under the force Recovery Girl’s gaze even as she started to run through the checklist she usually did for people who’d been knocked out like wimps. “Fudge. Am I here.”

“I think the more pertinent question is, how are you awake? There should be at least one more hour, if not two, left to that quirk.”

“I went to sleep,” said Katsuki, attempting to fend her off.

“Well, you wouldn’t be waking up if—”

“No. In the shhhtupid dreamscape thing. I went to sleep.”

Recovery Girl paused for a moment, then sighed. “I don’t suppose you were the one whose mind they were exploring?”

“No. That was soy sauce face. Why are we back here? And where’s the nerd?”

Recovery Girl seemed to droop at his question, and a heaviness filled the air. “That’s a long story.”

“Did we get attacked by Dusty McGee again?”

“No.”

“So, what did happen?” snapped Katsuki. “The nerd break out a new quirk in the middle of the training or something?”

Recovery Girl’s eye twitched, and she sat down on a nearby stool, taking a deep breath.

“The hero commission suspected Midoriya of working with the League of Villains and attempted to use the training to interrogate him. Under the influence of at least one mental quirk, Midoriya fled. At about the same time, All Might left and met up with him, after which the commission accused Midoriya of kidnapping All Might. They haven’t given him an S-Rank villain classification, but I suspect that’s just because the paperwork hasn’t gone through yet.”

All right. Honestly, with his creepy stalker notebooks and obsessive All Might shrine room, Deku probably seemed like a prime kidnapping suspect to an outsider, but considering that Katsuki had witnessed Deku and All Might’s sickeningly sweet interpersonal interactions, somehow managing to be a goddamn third wheel to some sort of surrogate parent-child found family drama nonsense…

“Has anyone told ‘em it’s more likely the other way around? And that if it was, it’d probably be for the nerd’s own good, too?”

Recovery Girl nodded tiredly.

“They hiding out here?”

“Midoriya is a wanted criminal.”

“So what?”

“We’re a school.”

“You’ve lost me.”

Recovery Girl sighed. “No, Midoriya is not here.”

“Well, that’s stupid. What are we doing about it?”

“Right now? You are doing nothing. Commission investigators are in the building, and it would be better if they thought you were still unconscious.”

Katsuki grumbled. “Should go and try to bring him back.”

“What, so he can be arrested?”

“No!” said Katsuki, defensively. “But he’s probably running around out there making everything worse!”

“Bakugo,” said Recovery Girl, patting his leg, “from what I’ve heard, the only thing that could possibly make this worse is being found.”

.

“Can you describe to me the circumstances under which you lost your quirk?” asked Ito, the other commission investigator.

“Sure!” said Mirio, hoping the man couldn’t detect his discomfort at the subject. Even if he’d made that split second choice to shield Eri with his body with full knowledge of the consequences, to jump in front of Nemoto’s bullet, it was still a traumatic experience. It still hurt, even if he didn’t regret it.

He took a deep breath. “Well, it was during the Shie Hassaikai raid. I had gone ahead to confront Chisaki Kai and rescue Eri. There were a few other yakuza with him, members of the Eight Bullets. Nemoto Shin, Sakaki Deidoro, and, ah, Chrono, I think. I can’t remember his proper name.”

“That’s fine. Please continue.”

“I engaged with Sakaki and Nemoto while Chisaki and Chrono went ahead. I was affected by their quirks, but managed to get by… It was a hard battle!” he interjected, suddenly. He belatedly realized he wanted to draw out this line of questioning, and dove into a supremely detailed description of his fight with Sakaki and Nemoto. It was funny, too, and he saw Ito getting sucked in.

Sir would have been proud.

“And then, I chased after Chrono and Chisaki!” said Mirio, gesticulating wildly to illustrate his movements. He continued narrating the battle, the wild swings of fate, Eri’s hope and fear, the strikes and counterstrikes! Just like when he’d first debriefed after the raid.

Weirdly enough, going through it like this also made him feel better. Less like he was reliving a terrible, painful moment in his life, and more like he was telling a very dramatic story.

“—aaaaaaand,” he wrapped up, “Chisaki tossed the gun with the erasure bullets to Nemoto – I hadn’t realized he was still conscious. I’d been too worried about getting to Eri.” He shrugged. “I got shot.”

“Despite your quirk?”

“I didn’t want Eri to be hit.”

“Even though the loss of her quirk might have been a blessing for her? Considering the difficulty she has using it and the pain it gives her.”

Mirio felt his smile settle into something blander and more dangerous than his usual beaming grins. “Are you suggesting that I should have let a six-year-old be shot?”

“Not at all,” said Ito, making a mark. “Now, where was Midoriya at this time?”

“He hadn’t caught up to us, yet,” said Mirio. “He was with Sir.”

“Who?”

“Sir Nighteye,” clarified Mirio. “Before that, they were with Rock Lock and some of the others, I believe.”

“But you don’t know for sure.”

“I wasn’t there, so… no, not really. But the exact situation should be on file, from our debrief, and Rock Lock can confirm or clarify.”

“Only the parts he saw,” said Ito. “Did you try to use your quirk after that? Or did you simply assume it was gone?”

“Of course, I tried to use it!” said Mirio, feeling somewhat offended. “I’d trained it to be reflexive. Right after, I kept thinking my quirk would protect me, and moving too slow to dodge attacks. I got really beaten up.”

“And was this before or after Midoriya Izuku arrived?”

“Before, mostly,” said Mirio. “It isn’t like the fight stopped the minute he showed up.”

“And you are certain your quirk stopped working before Midoriya arrived.”

“I’m sure.”

“How did you know you were hit by a permanent quirk-erasing bullet?” asked Ito.

“Well, when my quirk didn’t come back we were pretty sure,” said Mirio.

“But you didn’t know beforehand, for certain, that the bullets were permanent.”

Crap. Mirio had screwed up somewhere in there. He could feel it.

“I think Nemoto and Chisaki were shouting at each other about it during the fight,” said Mirio. “They were pretty proud of it.”

“But you did not know, for sure, that your quirk loss was permanent,” insisted Ito. “There was no way for you to know that their claims about the bullets were true.”

“I mean… not really,” said Mirio. “But, again, here I am without a quirk.”

“Yes… but that isn’t the only way a person can lose a quirk, is it?”

“The Scourge of Kamino was already in Tartarus when the Shie Hassaikai raid took place,” said Mirio. “I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”

“Did Midoriya Izuku come into contact with you before the end of the day?”

“We talked, yeah,” said Mirio.

“Physical contact.”

“Actually… no,” said Mirio. “After the fight, we were both whisked off to the hospital, separately. Midoriya came to visit me after we both got patched up, he felt guilty about not getting to me and Eri sooner, and--” Oh, dear, he’d have to think back on that conversation a bit more. Later. He swallowed. “--and… Sir’s death…” He looked down at his hands. “Sir… in retrospect, he didn’t like Midoriya very much, but his death hit Midoriya hard. First death in the line of duty. It… it was the first time I’d seen a hero die, too.”

“You’re quite certain he didn’t touch you? At all?” asked Ito, undeterred by Mirio’s not-at-all-feigned grief.

“Pretty sure, yeah,” said Mirio, now annoyed by the investigator’s callousness.

“I see.”

.

Ochako rubbed her eyes, but the darkness stayed. “What,” she said out loud, her voice somehow doing the opposite of echoing, “what happened?”

“I don’t know,” said Todoroki. He had positioned himself so as to guard her back.

“There was a bang,” said Iida, “and then…” He trailed off, clearly finding just as much difficulty in describing the event as Ochako did thinking about it.

“They were talking about All for One getting in,” said Ochako. “You don’t think…?”

“Maybe we timed out the quirk and we’re about to wake up,” said Iida, optimistically.

“Where’s Aizawa-sensei?” asked Todoroki.

“I don’t know,” said Ochako. “He was standing with us… I mean, I couldn’t see you guys at first, either.”

“I’m here,” said Aizawa.

Ochako turned to see their teacher methodically scanning their black surroundings, his eyes red. “Do you know what happened?” she asked. “Do you think this is just, I don’t know, a new transition? A memory?”

“I don’t know,” said Aizawa. He blinked, eyes returning to their normal colors.

“It isn’t,” said an unfamiliar voice. The figure of a young man with uncut white hair slowly faded out of the darkness. “Hello.” He raised a hand. “I’m One. Or, I guess, you can call me Kazuki. Sorry about the landscape. Most of our mental resources were just rerouted.”

“Does this have something to do with that vault thing Izuku mentioned?” asked Ochako.

“Yes, sadly,” said One. “My brother’s broken out. Which means you really shouldn’t be here. All our minds are about to become battlefields. I have some techniques that might help you get out, but--”

“Six told me there was something taken from Midoriya that we could get back, if the vault was open. Is that still a thing?”

One raised a fist to his lips, and pressed down. “You understand, don’t you, that to search for this is to go into my brother’s mind?”

“If it’s to help Midoriya,” said Todoroki, stepping forward, “we’ll do anything.”

“That is very admirable of you,” said One. “I do mean that, I really do, and I’ve seen your heroics and spirit through Izuku’s eyes. But I’m not sending children to fight my brother. Eraserhead, you’d be going alone.”

“I can work with that,” said Aizawa.

“But we won’t be in any real danger!” protested Ochako. “The worst that could happen to us is that we’ll run out of time and wake up. Right?”

“Don’t underestimate my brother. Judging from the fight at Kamino, he lost a lot of quirk control and strength after his first fight with Eight, or else he’d never have been captured. But that’s only if we take it at face value. I don’t doubt that he has five or six plans in place to escape Tartarus and steal every interesting quirk in there, thereby increasing his power exponentially, or even healing himself.”

Ochako blinked. How would anyone heal from… Wait. “Overhaul.”

One’s smile was a bitter thing. “I certainly wouldn’t have put the two of them in the same prison.”

The villain at Kamino, already strong enough to go toe to toe with All Might, with Overhaul's power? Ochako shuddered.

"What did he take from Midoriya?" asked Aizawa. "I'm going to need to know before I do this."

"You're sure you want to do this, then?"

"I haven't decided."

One sighed and pushed his hair back, out of his face. Ochako was struck, momentarily, by how the color of his eyes perfectly matched Izuku's.

"My brother took what he always takes," said One. "His quirk."

"But!" protested Ochako. "He has a quirk! He has..." she trailed off as another revelation hit her.

"He…" said Iida, next to her, "has several quirks."

"He has your quirk," said Todoroki with one-hundred-percent unwavering confidence.

"You had a quirk like All for One," said Aizawa. "But considering what we've seen… the quirk to pass on quirks?"

"That's why you call yourselves by numbers! Because that's the order you had the quirk in!" added Ochako.

"I prefer thinking of it as the ability to share quirks," said One, "but since everyone but Eight and Nine is dead, the distinction is academic."

Aizawa sighed and ran a hand over his face. "Okay, let me get this straight. You and... your brother both had meta quirks. He could… give and take quirks. You could just pass your own quirk on. He decided to become a criminal mastermind. You decided to, I don't know, invest your quirk until someone had enough quirks to fight your brother?"

"And they're all related," said Todoroki.

"And you're all related," said Aizawa with an air of suffering.

"It was significantly less intentional and more complicated than that, but, yes, those are the basics."

"And, for some reason, All Might thought that it was a good idea to pick a teenager for the job."

"In his defense, Eight thought my brother was dead. The one you should really be throwing shade at is Seven."

"I have questions."

One tilted his head. "Normally, I would answer them, but we're running out of time."

Aizawa sighed. "Alright. I'll do it."

"We want to help, too!" said Ochako.

"Three will find a way to ghost murder me if I get you involved in a fight with my brother."

"So would I, incidentally," said Aizawa, "and then I'd expel all of them."

Iida cleared his throat. "Is there any way for us to help without coming into contact with All for One?”

“Yes,” said One, clapping his hands together. “Getting out before that Suzuki fellow does and giving Izuku some good publicity.”

One’s image seemed to waver and split, then, as if Ochako had crossed her eyes. She blinked, hard, but after that there were still two of them.

“I’ll lead you to my brother’s mind,” said one of the Ones, waving at Aizawa.

“I’ll stay and try to help the rest of you get out,” said the second One. “We should - Oh.”

“Oh?” repeated Aizawa. “‘Oh,’ what?”

“Oh, we forgot about someone,” said One.

.

“Oh,” said All for One, catching sight of an anomaly. “Who is this little intruder to our gathering?”

“Just some government lackey,” said Miranda, hands still for now, but in a position where she could likely summon ball lightning in a matter of minutes. “Not someone you can use as a hostage.”

“Actually,” said Ryuji, who, unusually, had yet to disappear from All for One’s senses, “if you could figure out a way to get rid of him, it would be convenient.”

“Two!” snapped Nana.

“Come on, we were all thinking it,” said Ryuji.

“You can’t use a him as a murder weapon,” hissed Nana. “Nine will get in trouble.”

“You’rethe one who repeatedly dropped him from a dozen stories up. And the one who was fantasizing about murdering him in real life.”

“That daydream could have belonged to anyone.”

“It had Gran Torino in it.”

“Eight knows Gran, too!”

All for One coughed, returning the full attention of the vestiges to himself. “Is this a pathetic attempt at a distraction?”

“Do you know any other adjectives?” asked his little brother, who was slouching off to the side with his hands in his pockets.

All for One sneered. “Are you not taking this seriously?”

“Not really, no,” said Kazuki, “and neither are you, or else we’d be fighting already. We both know that what you can affect here is limited.” He started counting off on his fingers. “You can’t bring us back with you, you can’t affect Nine’s morality, you can’t take the stockpile, you--”

“I knew it!” shrieked the little intruder, jabbing a finger at All for One. “I knew it! You’re All for One! Midoriya is working for you!”

“Hey, if you’re going to do the sibling thing and prove me wrong about the whole ‘can’t do anything’ thing, can I suggest you start with him?”

All for One narrowed his eyes and scanned his relatives. There was an uncharacteristic lack of protest.

“Are you briar patching?”

“No,” said Hibiki, “they’re quite serious. I personally would prefer it if you didn’t kill him, but not enough to risk myself.”

He could always trust Hibiki to be blunt and straightforward. He got it from his wonderfully forthright and businesslike mother. He hadn’t loved her like he loved his current, still-living spouse, but she had been refreshing.

“Mood,” said Rokuya.

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” said dear, sweet Izuku, raising a hand, “but I’m not actually comfortable letting All for One kill him in front of us.”

“Don’t try that now! You’ve shown your true colors, traitor!”

“Don’t worry, kid,” said Daigoro, “we’re pretty sure he won’t be able to.”

“Torture, then.”

“Not sure he can do worse than Nana did.”

“All I did was drop him!” protested Nana.

“Repeatedly, from a great height,” Miranda reminded her.

Everyone was much more relaxed, now, and… were they ignoring him? They were!

“Are you all under the effect of a quirk?”

“Yeah,” said Kazuki. “How else do you think this is happening?”

“No, I mean… your personalities… they’re all…” He gestured at the One for All users who had stopped to watch him.

“Niichan, I’ve tried to tell you this before, but at least for me, I’m not all that great a person. You just suck so enormously that I look like a saint in comparison.”

“That’s not true!”

“It is,” said Kazuki. “I mean, think back to our first argument. I was less concerned with your overall morality and more concerned with the fact that the demon king alway loses--”

“Excuse you, but I’ve beaten every one of you.”

“No you haven’t,” said Hibiki. “I, at least, died with no input from you.”

“Killing you is obviously different from beating you,” said All for One.

“I mean, by the time you chucked me in that vault, it had evolved to a moral and ethical complaint,” said Kazuki, his one visible eye unfocused in remembrance. “But it started out with me worried about you getting yourself killed.”

“No it didn’t.”

“It really did. You know, I don’t think I ever told you this, but if you’d been twenty percent more ethical? I would have absolutely been on your side.”

“What.”

“I mean, it was you, the government, and ragtag resistance groups, and the government sucked.”

“I can confirm that,” said Miranda, “and it continues to be disgustingly corrupt. But since you’re also swimming through the human experimentation cesspit, we’re staying where we are. Don’t get any ideas.” She ended the sentence with a hiss and fog started rolling in.

“I agree that if you stayed away from the kidnapping, murder, and cult stuff, I would have probably stayed with you,” said Ryuji. “Except you did do all that stuff… Why are we even talking about this?”

“I would add personal freedom to the list of things I’d want from you in the hypothetical world where we stayed on the same side,” said Hibiki, “but, otherwise, I agree.”

All for One blinked several times, a small part of his mind cherishing the fact that he had eyes. “Do you all feel that way?” he asked, oddly touched but also strangely disturbed.

“No,” said Daigoro, “the rest of us hate you and the government just about equally.”

All for One turned his gaze to the quivering ‘government lackey.’ “I see. So, I suppose I have the government to thank for this turn of events. Hm? What did you do to have these soft-hearted fools so upset with you?”

The little man squeaked and jabbed something like an epi-pen into his leg. A second later, he vanished.

“Wait,” said Izuku. “Wait. THAT’S how to get out? That’s so stupid! Can we do that?” The last was said as an aside to Nana.

“Not with him here,” said Miranda. Her voice had dropped back into its more dangerous registers.

“Oh, so we are going to fight after all,” said All for One, clapping his hands and smiling. “What fun.”

.

“I can’t believe you distracted him and got Suzuki to leave like that,” said Aizawa as they stepped out of the fog.

“Well, my brother always did like to hear the sound of his own voice. And be a jerk, but I’m sure that was obvious,” said One. They came to a stop in front of a normal-looking apartment building. One sighed. “This is where we lived,” he said. “Before…” He sighed again.

Aizawa examined One out of the corner of his eyes. He looked tired.

“How much of what you said back there was true?”

“Huh? Most of it, really. My successors built me up as some kind of big good, but I was never anything but a normal guy with a slightly more functional moral compass than my brother.”

From what Aizawa had seen so far, he suspected One was seriously underselling himself.

“I’m sorry,” said One, “but I’m going to have to leave you here. Nine’s quirk should look like a younger version of himself. He couldn’t have been any older than five when it was taken.”

“Anything else I should know about?”

“Sorry, not really… I’ve not exactly been inside my brother’s head. If you manage to find a switch labeled ‘empathy,’ you might take a second to flip it on. Or not. Could be booby trapped. Wouldn’t put it past him.”

“Great,” said Aizawa.

.

“Midoriya-san,” said Mr. Compress. “We’ve been searching for quite some time now, I hate to say it, but I rather suspect that your son has thoroughly escaped.”

“Escaped,” repeated Midoriya. “Like a prisoner.”

Mr. Compress coughed into his fist. Tomura glared at him through a fog of exhaustion. He was wearing a mask. Why bother with the fist at all? Sometimes, Tomura felt like the only sane person on a planet of aliens.

“Honestly, we didn’t even know he was in the area, Midoriya-san. But… Perhaps at this point, the best course of action would be to return to our, uh… temporary base so that you can get some clothes. I’m sure Dabi will have something that can fit you.”

“Or maybe,” said Toga, hesitantly, “Magne might have had something?”

“Excellent idea, Himiko! Yes, I’m sure Magne’s clothes will be much more appropriate.”

“I don’t know that dressing her in a dead woman’s clothes is a good idea?” whispered Twice.

“Normally,” said Midoriya Inko, “I would say that the fires of my anger at Hisashi provide me with enough warmth to scorch the ground I walk on but—” she shivered, “—unfortunately you may be right. I’m not a young woman anymore, and Izuku would want me to be safe and healthy. So that I can give Hisashi a… firm talking to.”

Tomura shuddered. The ice in her tone was more frigid than the toilet seat in their stupid unheated bathroom at night.

… He hoped Sensei didn’t get a mind reading quirk in the near future. He definitely didn’t want him to know about that metaphor.

“Machia, will you be a dear and take us back? And Mr. Compress, would you put Dr. Garaki back in one of your marbles? I suspect he’ll be… more comfortable that way.”

At least Tomura wasn’t the doctor.

Machia leaned down and let them all get on, though not before fixing Tomura with a glare and delivering some glitchy threat about the ‘Little Lord’ and ‘playing nice.’ Completely redundant, what with Midoriya Inko’s much more pertinent and detailed threat regarding the same thing.

“Hey,” said Twice. “Do you guys smell--? It’s like a barbecue!”

Himiko sniffed the air. “It does smell kinda smokey, guys. Do you think Dabi got in a fight, too?”

“With who?” asked Tomura.

“Well, Izu-chan has to still be around here somewhere, right?” asked Himiko, putting a finger to her lips.

Machia sped up.

“It’s probably just the wind blowing someone’s bonfire smoke this way,” said Spinner.

Machia slowed down again.

Tomura frowned. “There shouldn’t be anyone close enough for that,” he said. If Dabi had set the forest on fire and given away their position, he was going to murder him.

Machia sped up again.

They came into sight of their current base and the source of the smoke.

These happened to be the same thing.

“I’m going to kill Dabi,” said Tomura.

“Are we sure it was him?” asked Twice.

“I don’t care.”

[scaryscarecrows]

I'd Crawl on Broken Glass to be the One That Laughs Last

Gotham’s gone straight to Hell in a handbasket. Scarecrow’s dead, which is no loss, but Bruce is missing, Arkham blew up for reasons unknown, and the Arkham Knight’s Militia is still in control. Oh, sure, there’s a fair chunk of them in lockup, but they’ve been getting steadily more riled as the days wear on (three days since the Asylum, their boss has to be dead, who’s in charge now?), and the tanks are still running patrols, the bombs are still in the road, and there are checkpoints and watchtowers everywhere.

Jim thinks they’re waiting for something. There’s been no assault, not like he thought there might be. The street thugs and any uncaptured Rogues are still allowed to run wild, though the watchtowers have been spotted taking shots at something big flying around out there. Honestly, they’re even leaving the police alone, for the most part...but they will still shoot at the cars if they get too close. It’s like they’re on babysitting duty or something until the Knight gets back. It’s unsettling.

He’s out doing a little exploration-he doubts they’ve killed Batman, or they’d be gone, but Bruce still isn’t around-when something drops onto the roof of his car. He hits the brakes, tires screeching, and narrowly avoids sliding into a tank crossing the road.

Breathe.

Jim has no time to go for his gun before the driver’s side door gets ripped open by what Jim can only describe as the Hulk. The man outside is only a little smaller than Bane*. There’s a rocket launcher on his back and Jim’s sure he’s not the one that landed on the car, because the car would be a pancake.

He’s proven right a second later when the polar opposite of the giant jumps down. That said, this guy might be tiny, but he moves like he knows half a dozen ways to kill you. The cherry on the disaster sundae? Both of them are wearing army fatigues.

Militia. Shit.

“Boys,” he says, already planning on how to get that rocket launcher from the big one, “don’t be stupid.”

The little one doesn’t say anything. The big one laughs and before Jim can move, he’s been pulled out of the car.

“Boss wants to see ya.”

So they have a boss. Who. Who is it? One of their own? Riddler? Penguin? Goddamn Deathstroke? Who is his new problem?

“No.”

“Sorry.” The man does sound mostly sorry. “Not really askin’. C’mon.”

Jim tries to slam his elbow into the man’s collarbone. He doesn’t even really get to move before the little guy grabs his arm and wrenches it behind his back. Not hard enough to dislocate it, but hard enough to be a warning.

“We don’t want to have to hurt you, Commissioner,” the big man says. “We’re just picking you up.”

“Go to Hell.”

A gun presses against his back. Fine. He’ll go. But he won’t like it.

* * *

He’s disarmed, bundled into an APC, and blindfolded. After way too many sharp turns and double-backs, he’s...somewhere in the underside of the city. He’s thinking over near Drescher.

Wherever it is, he’s pulled out of the APC, taken inside somewhere, and handed off to new hands. When the blindfold comes off, his kidnappers are nowhere to be seen.

The men in charge of him now (and only for now, give him time…) are less...unnerving...than the other two. One is wearing the white uniform of a medic, and the other is having a snack. Cashews? Cashews.

The medic is a man on a mission. Jim doesn’t even manage to get out a, ‘you’ll be sorry’ before the man’s turning on his heel, jaw working furiously, and snapping, “Come on.”

“Where are we going.”

“Boss wants to see you, won’t listen to reason. This way.”

He stalks off and the snacker chuckles.

“Cashew?”

“No.”

“Suit yourself.” They follow the medic down a crumbling hallway. “They didn’t scare you too much, did they?”

“What’s with the good-cop-bad-cop routine?” he demands. “Is your friend up there gonna come back and threaten to carve my face off?”

The man just laughs.

“Probably, but he does that to everyone.”

“Sometime today!”

Huh.

Jim thinks they might be in the old mall. Scarecrow had been driving that way when something had happened, and, well, if Jim were going to have an evil base of operations, this would be a good one. Lot of ways in and out, nobody ever comes down here anymore-too dangerous-and it’s big, big enough to hold tanks and soldiers and whatever else these boys have. When they round a corner, he sees a familiar logo and decides that yes, that’s where they are. Hm.

They round another corner and end up in the back of the building. Jim’s not sure what this was, but there’s a corridor lined with doors. The medic stops in front of one and turns, hands clasped behind his back.

“Twenty minutes and no more,” he snarls at Jim. “You’re lucky you get that many minutes. You try anything, you might live to regret it. Might. You tire him out, out you go, I don’t care if it’s been two minutes. Don’t touch shit, don’t knock shit down, don’t--”

“I think he’s got the picture,” his other escort soothes. “Don’t terrorize him.”

“Humph. With the amount of work I had to put in to keep his dumb ass alive, I’m entitled to terrorize people.”

“Still.”

“And I’ll tell you something else. You lay a finger, one solitary finger on him, you so much as breathe too hard--”

“There won’t be anything left to bury,” the other man says, smiles with all his teeth. “Here you go, Commissioner.”

“Twenty. Minutes.”

And then he’s shoved into a room with--and good God, how--the Arkham Knight.

The Knight is lying in bed. He looks the worse for wear, but Jim can’t quite muster up pity for him. This...this is his fault. Gotham, Bruce, Barbara…

He swallows down the rage. Not because it’s the right thing to do, but because the Knight’s not alone. Jim supposes they wouldn’t just leave him unattended, not with those injuries, but still.

The Knight doesn’t seem to notice Jim. He’s certainly not looking at him. He’s looking at the laptop the other man has. Right now, at this exact second, he looks like a sick kid, wan and tired, eyes fluttering like he’s fighting to stay awake. But he’s not. Robin or not, he’s...the Knight’s not that boy anymore. Robin wouldn’t have done this, any of this. Robin’s dead.

“Sir.” The other man here isn’t wearing a uniform, he’s wearing jeans and a raggedy flannel that hangs open over some sort of band shirt. But his bearing is still that of a soldier’s, and the rifle leaning against the wall by his chair is top-of-the-line. “Gordon’s here.”

“Hrm?”

“Remember? You wanted to see him.” The Knight blinks a few times, heavy and confused, and tries to lever himself up before his companion reaches over to pin his shoulder. “Don’t do that.”

More confused silence. Now that he’s moved his head, Jim can see his pupils are blown wide. That’s not a surprise. He’s pretty sure he was in Arkham when it came down, and he hadn’t looked well before that.

Serves him right, he thinks, remembering the cuts on Barbara’s cheeks and chin. Serves the bastard right.

He keeps his mouth shut. The laptop has been closed and set aside, and the rifle is now in its owner’s lap. It’s casual enough, but the threat’s there all the same: you’ll go through me to get to him.

He wonders, a bit, what drives these men. He doesn’t really care, but he wonders a little all the same. Even the ones in the cells have been resolute that ‘the boss’ will get them out, that he’s got everything in hand, just you wait and see.

...in their defense, Jim had thought he had to be dead, and yet here he is. So.

“S’right,” the Knight finally breathes. He sounds terrible, and Jim suddenly matches the purple swelling on his throat to handprints. That scares him. Not out of pity or sympathy, but because what little he’s seen of the man says he can handle himself. Whoever did that… “S’right.”

“You up for it?”

He’d better be. Jim was kidnapped off the street for this.

“Yes.” Good. “Glad to see you’re unharmed.”

No thanks to you, Jim doesn’t snap, resolutely ignores the memory of the Knight holding up his hands and telling Scarecrow, voice painfully earnest, to take him and let Jim and his men and Robin leave in one piece. He settles for a curt nod, can’t quite muster up a, wish I could say the same.

The Knight pulls in a painful-sounding breath and drops his head to the side.

“Bring up the footage for Commissioner Gordon, would you?”

“Yessir.” The laptop returns, balanced delicately over the rifle. Jim doesn’t know if he wants to know what’s going on. “Hang on...give it a sec to load…”

The Knight moves and visibly bites back a wince, but the new angle means that Jim can see the full extent of the bruising on his neck.

“There we go--you okay, boss?”

“Ribs,” he breathes. “They don’t like it when people zipline into them.”

What.

“Need me to call--”

“No.” He swallows hard and beckons Jim closer. “M’fine. Just sore. And stiff.” He clears his throat, grimacing. “You worry too much.”

“I worry exactly the right amount.”

“M’just not used to being still this long--”

“Deal,” his friend says sharply. The Knight just grins, but that annoys the other guy. “Did you miss the flatline bit?”

“Technically?”

“I--never mind.” He makes an irritated noise in the back of his throat. “Never mind...okay, all set.”

He turns the laptop around and Jim hesitates before perching on the very edge of the bed. Nothing terrible happens to him.

“This is footage from my helmet. How it kept going after that level of trauma, I’ll never know, but my IT department managed to recover it remotely.”

The footage picks up in a dark area, abandoned sewer network or something, probably, and it’s glitchy and stuttery.

Bruce has been caught on camera before, but not like this. This is...savage, animalistic. He comes out of nowhere, dodging gunfire and seemingly oblivious to the shouts of surprise, and moves in via a flying kick to the camera itself, which goes white and static-y for a second. A few of them come up behind him and suffer backhands and powerful kicks for their troubles, and then Bruce fills up the frame, shoulders positioned like he’s got his arms out and...and...

He looks at the Knight, looks at the bruises around his neck, and looks back at the screen in time to see Bruce going down and being dragged backwards.

“He do this to you?”

The look the man gives him is so reminiscent of the little boy Jim remembers that it makes his head spin. It screams, I know you’re not really that stupid...right?

“Well, I didn’t do it to myself.”

“--okay, sir, I’m just gonna…”

The helmet moves and Jim spots the medic from earlier before it gets set on the ground, facing Bruce. Bruce is chained to a pipe, seemingly unconscious.

“Don’t talk, just nod. Can you breathe okay?”

There’s an obvious cut--they don’t want to share it all, apparently--and then Bruce stirs and starts...giggling. Jim knows that giggle.

“What the hell.”

The Knight shudders and burrows under his blankets.

“It’s complicated. We’re reasonably sure he’s been eliminated, or at the very least contained, but--” A hand moves, presumably indicating himself. “I made it out. He might have, too.”

His friend closes his laptop and sets it aside.

“We’ve got teams sweeping Arkham’s grounds to the best of our ability,” he says. “Unfortunately, we are not a rescue team and as such are not fully equipped to handle the more unstable areas. That said, given the police department’s...track record...we would very much prefer that your men stay out of our way until we either find the individual formerly known as the Batman, or definitively confirm his demise. We’re hoping that at the very least, any injuries he may have sustained slowed him down, but we can’t prove that, given the lack of video footage for the incident.”

“It’s our understanding that Batman has, at least for the time being, lost his fight against the effects of J.” The Knight swallows. “Of Joker’s blood. I attempted to contain him--”

“Contain, my ass,” his friend grumbles. The Knight ignores him.

“I attempted to contain him,” he says again, “via...ah…”

“He blew up the goddamn asylum with himself and Batman inside,” comes the sharp interjection. “In case you managed to miss that.”

Jim had not managed to miss that, thank you very much.

“I noticed,” he says dryly. The Knight huffs a painful-sounding laugh and falls silent.

There’s. There’s a lot Jim wants to say. The Knight was Robin, and Joker killed him (and made sure they all knew it, that tape, good God, he’d sent it to everyone and Jim remembers Dove bursting into tears when she tried to tell him), but he’s not dead now, and look at what he’s done.

Much as he’d like to demand answers--or at least bring half of that up--he won’t. He doubts the man with the laptop will react well; now that he really looks, the man’s tense, clearly poised to move if he has to.

Jim can probably take him. He absolutely can’t take the others that will come at the commotion.

There’s a small dinging sound, and silence, and then an urgent, “Sir. Sir.”

“Hrm?”

“We got something.”

The Knight blinks a few times before half-surging up and demanding, “Let’s go, let’s go, then, help me up--”

“Chair or Trent?”

“Neither--”

“Chair or Trent.”

“Chair,” he grumbles after a second. “But I can walk on my own--”

“Yeah, but if the doc sees you, he’ll be mad. Here it is.”

Jim moves, semi-prepared to offer to help but not really wanting to, but they must have a system, because the Knight’s in the chair with a blanket in short order.

“I feel like a cheap Bond villain,” he’s complaining now. “One that rolls down a ramp into an electrified pool or something.”

“Maybe next time, you’ll consider your life choices, sir.”

“They weren’t supposed to come back to haunt me!”

“I know, sir.”

“Christ...what do we have.”

Should he…? Sure, apparently.

What a day. He needs a drink. A good strong one.

“My understanding is it’s better seen than explained, sir. No body, I don’t think.”

“Fantastic...the bastard’ll survive anything.”

Jim privately thinks the same applies to him, but he doesn’t share that thought. He doubts it will go over well.

The computer room isn’t crammed full of people. There’s one guy on the monitors and another one-one of the ones from before, actually, the one with the cashews-lounging in a chair next to him, drinking a Coke.

“What’s going on, you said something turned up--” He doesn’t quite hide a shiver, but when the other people in the room zero in on him, he shakes his head and insists, “M’fine.”

“Boss, I can link this to a laptop if you’re s’posed to be in bed--”

“M’fine. Pull up the footage.”

“You’re not gonna like it,” monitor-guy says, spinning around and wheeling over to make room. “Looks like he got out, same as you.”

“Seriously?”

“Would I joke when it mattered, sir? Here, look. See this?” He makes the screen bigger. “That look familiar to you?”

It certainly looks familiar to Jim. Bruce’s cowl is difficult to mistake, and there it is, crumpled in the rubble. It’s singed, and one of the ears is broken, but it is Bruce’s cowl.

“Damn,” the Knight breathes, and...Jim doesn’t like admitting it, not after tonight, but...he looks so young. A scared little boy, that’s all. “That’s not good.”

“What do we do, sir?”

“We don’t even know for sure if he’s out.” The Knight’s friend leans over the chair to get a better look at the monitor. “Maybe he tried getting out and died, we don’t--”

“I made it out,” the Knight says quietly.

There’s a wave of annoyed grumbling that includes at least one, ‘self-sacrificing dumbass’ and a, ‘in spite of your best efforts’. Jim has to wonder about that one. He can’t muster up that much sympathy, but he does wonder.

The Knight just sighs and adjusts his blanket around his shoulders.

“Fair. Anyways, seeing as I found a way out, it’s not unlikely that he’s done the same, barring the. The possibility of an instant death. I suspect we wound up in a pocket, though, so.”

“You didn’t notice anything on your way out?” Jim demands. “Was he right with you?”

“I was--”

“Concussed and bleeding to death,” a new voice snaps. “And in no shape to be walking, let alone note-taking. What the hell are you doing out of bed?”

“Briefing the--”

“Literally anybody else can do that.” The angry voice belongs to the medic from before. “You don’t seem to understand what ‘flatline’ means, sir, or maybe you’ve just got a death wish, but tough fucking titty, said the kitty, you’re not dying on my watch. Say bye-bye to the commissioner, you’re going back to bed and staying there or on God, I’ll put you in a coma and keep you there until you don’t have so much as a bruise. Do I make myself clear?”

Jim expects argument. None of the Robins ever let Batman boss them around to that extent, and he knows damn well that if he’d backtalked his superiors like that, he’d be in, frankly, deep shit. But the Knight just sighs.

“He’s been here long enough, anyway.” Long enough for what? “Keep your men out of our way, Commissioner. No offense, but Batman existed for a reason. You can’t handle him.”

Jim bristles.

“Can’t handle--”

“You know it’s true,” he snaps, and straightens up, turns to the man with the cashews. “Call everyone back.” All of a sudden that’s no longer a little boy playing Soldiers. That’s the man that crippled Gotham within hours. “I want everyone off the streets and back at base, now. Do not engage under any circumstances.”

“Yessir.”

“Get into the street cameras,” he continues. “If a rat comes out of a sewer, I want to see it. I want whatever drones we have left out and searching, but leave the car alone. That hasn’t worked so far and I’m not losing more--”

He must breathe wrong, because he suddenly starts coughing, harsh, violent whoops from down in his chest.

“Get him back to bed,” the medic orders once the coughs cease. “Or he’ll be Snow White and believe you me, nobody is getting in here to kiss him awake.”

“Jones--”

“We can handle this, sir. We’ll let you know if something comes up.”

“But--”

“You trained us for this, remember? We’re professionals.”

The Knight falls silent, one hand still pressed against his ribs, and finally melts back into his chair.

“Fine,” he says at last. “Bye, commish.”

He doesn’t recognize the men that take him back. The streets are empty, though, barring the patrolling drones, and they make it back to the GCPD unscathed.

Unfortunately, Jim returns to, quite frankly, a disaster. The officers on duty are tied up, and the militia cells are empty. Not a man left. He’s just freeing Cash when the broadcast screen crackles and the Knight appears on it, face serious.

“I mean it, Commissioner,” he says. “Keep out of the way, or I’ll put you in a cell instead.”

“You--”

“Tell Bullock hey for me, would ya?” He leans forward. “Stay safe.”

Click.

THE END

*I’m figuring Bane is bigger than the Giant Mooks because his boss fight consists of you jumping on him to slash his Venom tubes AND because he can and will run you over, while Giant Mooks of any affiliation are not rideable and don’t run.

[fruitcoops]

I NEED TO SEE THAT LUPIN VS GREYBACK FIGHT HOLY SHIT THE WOLF IS A N G R Y ALSO- sirius’s reaction after the game 😏 maybe if you feel comfy with that if not it’s fine i just feel like sirius would go buck wild if he saw remus fight lmao. o r——— remus being vv bossy and dominating and- you get the idea lmfao. work your magic, love, ill love it regardless of what you do with it ❤️

Anon, this ask made me laugh so much when I first saw it. If anyone has computer skills, please record a live reading of this and send it to me so I can giggle for all eternity. I love you.

As requested, Sirius’ POV! It’s almost 2k words again and some of the dialogue is the same as Remus’ POV, but since he was in an......unreliable headspace the first time around there have been some changes. I hope you like it! Credit for Coops/ Sweater Weather goes to our savior @lumosinlove

TW for a panic attack, fistfighting, and scabs/ bruises/ minor blood

Sirius was so gone for Remus Lupin it wasn’t even funny. The whole game, he had been a force to be reckoned with on the ice as he dodged checks and slammed two goals in without breaking a sweat. Remus had gone to bed anxious and awoken with a determined set to his mouth that was incredibly attractive, though Sirius had been unable to properly appreciate it at the time.

Then Leo got hit, hit by Greyback of all people.

Sirius hesitated at first, torn between rushing to Leo’s side or going to beat the living shit out of Greyback for what he did. Finn crossed the ice with Talker and Kuny on his heels and they carefully pried Leo off the posts—oh, god, he looked like he was in so much pain—while a flash of black and furious red slammed Greyback down. Remus?

Greyback seemed too shocked to fight back as Remus landed hit after hit on him, pinning him to the ground with one hand wrenching the front of his jersey until it nearly tore. Sirius had made the foolish mistake of thinking yesterday’s emotional breakdown would be the end of his nerves, but no; no, this was the culmination of years of looming terror.

By the time Sirius got his arms around Remus and tried to pull him off, Greyback was a wreck. His lips was split and both eyes were already swelling with purple-black bruises as he stared up in shock. “Let go!” Sirius shouted over the stadium noise. “Re, you have to let him go or you’ll get in trouble!”

“—fucking let me go—”

“Stop it, this isn’t you!”

“—if you even breathe on them again—”

“Remus, sweetheart, that’s enough!” Sirius heaved backward and Remus came with him, writhing in his hold like a cornered wildcat. His threats were low enough that Sirius could only make out every third word, but the pure, unbridled venom in his voice was palpable. “Just—just stop fighting me, love. You have to breathe, Remus, take a deep breath.”

“Get off me, I’m not done with him yet,” he spat, struggling to break free. Remus was strong, but Sirius was stronger—his arms didn’t budge as he leaned back against the boards and nearly lifted Remus off the ice.

“Yes, you are. Leo’s going to be fine.” Sirius grunted as one of Remus’ sharp elbows caught him in the side. “Greyback’s going to get kicked out but you need to stop.”

Remus’ sudden weight as he slumped was a surprise; Sirius nearly dropped him. His whole body shook for a second and he grasped at Sirius’ hands. “Leo—around the goal post—“

Sirius wasn’t entirely sure what reassurances came out of his mouth, but they must have been good enough, because Remus listed to the side and stopped thrashing entirely. “Lupin!” Coach barked as Sirius pulled him off the ice. Please don’t be angry, please don’t be angry. “What the hell were you doing out there?”

“ ‘m sorry, so sorry, Coach,” Remus wheezed, leaning all his weight into Sirius, who scrambled to catch him. His face had gone from flushed to alabaster pale, almost gray in the bright lights. His pupils were so dilated there was barely any of the warm amber Sirius’ loved around the edges and every breath was shallow. “Fuck, wasn’t thinking, ‘m sorry.”

Coach visibly rocked backward, his gaze flickering to Sirius’ face. “Alright, Lupin, why don’t you head back into the locker room for a bit. Black, make sure he’s okay.”

Thank you, Sirius mouthed as he wrapped one of Remus’ arms around his neck. Coach nodded silently and he felt his eyes follow them as they headed for the tunnel. “You’re okay, sweetheart, just hang on for a moment—”

Remus mumbled something and dropped like a stone.

Sirius’ knees smarted with pain as they hit the ground, but he was too consumed with Remus to focus on that. He couldn’t seem to decide what to do with his hands, grasping and grabbing at the walls blindly. “Remus, look at me. Come on, you’re okay, just open your eyes.”

“Bad. This feels bad ohmygodIhithim.”

“You did—”

“Sirius.” His voice cracked and Sirius’ heart broke. “Sirius, I hit him. ‘m not scared, just angry.”

“I think you’re a lot of things right now,” Sirius murmured under his breath. “Can you open your eyes for me, love?” Remus sucked in a few harsh breaths as tears slipped down his cheeks, but soon frightened amber met grey and Sirius reached out to hold his arms. “It’s just us right now. We’re in the tunnel.”

“So much happening. Can’t stop shaking.”

“I know, Remus, just take your time. Let it out. I love you so much, you know that? You’re okay now and you can just hang on to me. I’ve got you.”

“Why do I feel like this?” he asked in little more than a whisper as he desperately reached out for Sirius.

“You just worked through a lot of trauma in under a minute, honey.”

“It is, it really is.” Sirius frowned; he started to wonder what Remus was talking about when he began…laughing? He was laughing. Okay. That was new. It wasn’t really laughing, just short, broken-off wheezes that were a cruel imitation of the little down-up that happened when Remus read a funny passage in a book or Sirius made a pun.

And then he cried, and cried, and cried.

So Sirius held him.

“I hate him, and I feel better,” Remus mumbled into his shoulder on the tail end of a heaving exhale. It was the first coherent thing he’d said since the ice.

“Ride it out, sweetheart, you can do this.” Sirius pressed a kiss into his hair as cold hands tangled in his jersey and strong shoulders shook. The guilt was eating him alive—how could he have missed this last night? Just how long had Remus been bottling this up?

“Pads?”

Sirius looked up at the end of the tunnel but never relinquished his hold. “Hey, Pots.”

James’ eyes flickered once to Remus and his heartbreak was clear. He had always been an open book like that. “How is he?”

A pause. “He’ll be better soon. We’re just gonna head home, I think. Any news on Leo?”

“Bruised ribs, no major damage.” James raked a hand through his sweaty hair. “Three weeks and he’ll be good as new. I’ll let the guys know you left, alright? Do you need a ride?”

“I’ve got it, but thank you.”

“Sirius.” Remus’ strangled voice made them both wince and Sirius rubbed his back gently as the sobs abated into trembling breaths.

“Keep me updated?” James asked, resting one careful hand on Sirius’ shoulder.

“I will.”

“Drive safe, Sirius.” And then it was just the two of them, twisted together as Remus slowly came back to himself.

Sirius didn’t say much as he led Remus to the car, both in their socks with their skates in his other hand. The drive home was quiet; Remus curled up against the window and closed his eyes immediately. The worst of it was behind them.

Even Hattie seemed to understand something was wrong, because she nuzzled Sirius’ thigh once and licked Remus’ hand before laying down in her bed and watching them leave. “Good girl,” he said softly.

Remus managed to get two whole buckles undone on his pads before Sirius stepped in with careful fingers and lifted the heavy gear away. The scabs and bruises on his knuckles had been hard to see in the darkness of the tunnel, but they were stark in the gentle light of their bedroom. Sirius took his hands and stepped into the shower, then turned the water on hot.

A slow ripple worked its way down Remus’ back as the steam rose and fogged up the mirror. Sirius reached for a bar of soap—not mine, he says it’s toothpaste on steroids—and smoothed the suds down his spine. “Is this okay?” he asked as the muscle jumped under his touch.

Remus sighed. “Yeah, it’s good.”

He worked his way up to his shoulder blades. “Are you okay?”

There were a few heartbeats of comfortable silence before Remus spoke again. “I think so? I feel lighter. I don’t know yet. Did I scare you?” His voice was fragile, but not laced with panic, just exhaustion.

“What?” Sirius laughed a little in surprise. Of course he scared him, what kind of question was that?

“Your voice was shaking when you pulled me away. I was worried.”

You were having the worst panic attack of your life and you were worried about me. Sirius’ knees nearly gave out with how much love flooded through his body. “You scared me a little, yeah, but mostly because you didn’t seem like you,” he admitted, sliding his hand up to wash the nape of Remus’ neck. He had been so tense on the ice, so viciously angry and vengeful in a way that Sirius would have never expected. He spat and snarled and flailed like he was going to die if Sirius held him a second longer.

“You were fighting me like I was going to hurt you, and then in the tunnel you just kind of dropped. I was expecting something to happen once the adrenaline wore off, but it was really fast.” He poured some shampoo into his palm and began working it through Remus’ curls.

“It felt fast. That’s nice.” Damp, soapy skin slid against his chest as Remus leaned into him, then turned to face him. His face was cast in shades of pink and gold again, and his eyes went soft as he looked at Sirius. “Hey.”

The breath rushed from his lungs. “Hey.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.” Do not cry, do not cry, nobody else gets to cry tonight.

“Are you…using my soap?”

“It does have an intense smell.” Remus looked up at him and smiled. “You make it work.”

“Thanks?”

The pre-laugh hiccup made the lump in Sirius’ throat return and he closed his eyes against the burn, only for a feather-light kiss to touch his nose and make him freeze. One pressed to his left cheekbone, then his right, then one to his jawline, and finally, finally, the lingering pressure of Remus’ lips on his own. Lean, strong arms settled over his shoulders and Sirius held his hips like the world would come crashing down if he let go.

“Are you ready to go to bed?” he asked, leaning in once more.

A wry smile, one that was so Remus it hurt, flickered over his features. “I’m not tired yet.”

“Okay.”

And as Remus dragged him into the bedroom by the hands, laughing at Sirius’ antics and lighting the whole damn place up with his smile, Sirius knew he wanted to spend the rest of his life right here. 

[damienthepious]

hello tuesday i’m predictable and perpetually obsessed with these nerds and their soft lizrrd kissin <3 

kiss it better

[ao3]

Fandom: The Penumbra Podcast

Relationship: Lord Arum/Sir Damien/Rilla

Characters: Lord Arum, Sir Damien, Rilla

Additional Tags: Second Citadel, Lizard Kissin’ Tuesday, Established Relationship, Mild Injury, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Cuddling & Snuggling

Summary: Sir Damien wears a tapestry of scars, new and old.

Notes: just another weird exploration of their relationship told mostly through soft touching. i'm predictable, what can i say? also i didn't have time to edit as thoroughly as i'd like, so forgive any obvious typos or grammar weirdness.

~

There is a certain sense that Amaryllis and Sir Damien make together: the doctor alongside the knight who cannot seem to stop himself from falling headfirst into injury. They fit together in this way as they do in many, many others.

(Arum, monstrous lord of a monstrous land, is still trying to work out precisely how he fits, within their already perfect embrace)

Arum pretends not to linger, pretends not to watch as Amaryllis disinfects Damien's most recent injury, a set of friction burns on his hands from an ill-advised tug-of-war with an unfortunately stubborn ogre, and a related bruise (contusion, Amaryllis says) on his ribs. She is careful, focused, apparently oblivious to the way that Damien watches her work, moon-eyed and nearly too loving to bear. Arum does not quite understand how she may ignore such attention; he is certain that if Damien aimed such a gaze at him, he might, perhaps, bolt from the room lest he respond to such intensity in foolishness.

Damien winces as Amaryllis puts away the disinfectant and instead begins working one of her healing salves into his battered palms, and Arum-

Doesn't mean to make a small noise of sympathy, but Damien glances up, then, blinking and seeming to remember Arum's presence, observing them. The knight's cheeks darken, but- he does not look away, after he meets Arum's eyes.

"I'm alright," he says quietly, after a moment, and Arum ducks his head with a skeptical growl.

"It should heal up fine," Amaryllis adds, her voice practical and a little distant with her focus. "It's just bound to hurt because there's a concentration of nerves in the hands."

"It is nothing that I cannot bear," Damien says, more gently, and then he quirks his lips into a small sort of smile in Arum's direction, tilting his head, something odd and yearning in his eyes. Arum flicks his tail, resisting the urge to look away or step closer or whine softly in sympathy, or something else equally embarrassing, and after another moment Damien's chin lifts a little higher. "Why... why do you stand so far apart, my lily?"

Arum opens his mouth, hesitates, and then allows himself to take an uncertain step forward. "I shouldn't like to get in the way," he says, shrugging. "Far be it from me to interfere with the doctor's skillful work."

"Honestly I'd be grateful if you'd come cuddle him so he can stop staring at me for a second or two. Not that I don't appreciate the attention, Damien," she adds, conciliatory as Damien pouts, "but when you look at me like that I mostly just wanna stick my tongue in your mouth and I can't exactly do that until you're all bandaged up, can I?"

Arum laughs as Damien flushes even darker, ducking his head with a pleased little breath, and then the poet raises his eyes again, and Arum wonders if Damien knows how compelling and inarguable he looks, pleading up at Arum through his lashes like that. Absurd creature.

Well. If Amaryllis would like him to come closer, would like for him to embrace Damien as she works...

He seats himself behind the poet, out of the way of Amaryllis as she winds her bandages slowly over Damien's palms, and after a moment he sighs, dropping his chin to rest on Damien's shoulder, pressing his snout into the crook of Damien's neck.

"Better, honeysuckle?"

Damien hums, tipping his head to rest against Arum's and pressing a sideways kiss to his brow. "Hmm, yes, it certainly seems so."

Arum pauses, then growls a light warning, his frill fluttering out on one side and trapped against Damien's neck on the other. "You are the injured one, honeysuckle," he mutters. "Again. Don't-"

"I know, love." Damien presses another kiss to his cheek, then one beside his eye, and then over his forehead again. "Only teasing. You know I don't mean to make you worry."

Arum growls again, a little lower, a little more weakly, and he finally relents, reaching to caress Damien's arms, obviously not hugging him close as he wishes to, considering that Amaryllis has shifted focus to the bruise on the poet's ribs, now.

"Not much to do for this one," she says, narrowing her eyes and pressing the tips of her fingers to the skin on either side of the purpling mark. "I'll make a cold pack for it, bring down the swelling, but the best way to treat that one is for you to take it easy, and I know getting you to do that is gonna be more of a battle than the actual battle, so."

Damien gasps, a wordless indignant denial. Arum chuckles against his skin, and watches over his shoulder as Amaryllis replaces her supplies in her bag.

"Whatever would he do without you, Amaryllis?" he whispers, his intended teasing tone failing entirely when his voice wavers.

Amaryllis twists her lips into a wry sort of smirk, and then she reaches to grip Damien's wrist above the bandaging. "I shudder to think," she says, and Damien pouts again with his eyes gone even more pleading, turning in Arum's arms to face him, using Amaryllis' grip on his arm to tug her closer as well.

"Come now, loves, I am not so terribly fragile as all that-"

"Not fragile," Arum agrees, readjusting his grip as Damien twists in his arms. He swallows, and then helplessly drops his forehead, pressing his face against Damien's bare shoulder with a sigh. "A fact which you seem determined to prove by constantly testing yourself against foes that should break you."

Damien makes a noise so small that Arum feels it more than hears it, and then the poet leans even closer and lifts one arm, curling almost protectively around Arum. As if Arum is the one in need of protection, ridiculous little knight-

Arum tilts his head, then flicks his tongue to tickle at a long scar high on Damien's bicep. He presses an almost-kiss to the shadow of an old claw mark on his shoulder, then nuzzles gently against a splash of a burn over his collarbone, and then he turns to another mark, and another-

It is a part of Damien's beauty, in a strange, vaguely terrifying way. The subtle mapping of scars, layers of new marks over older remnants, pale lines like constellations and inkwell spills of old burns, raised bumps of lingering punctures, bites, and, most vivid of all to Arum's eyes, one long, shallow, deliberate silvery slash on Damien's arm, the mirror of his own.

An archive of injury, a tableau of every attempt this world has made on Sir Damien's life.

(As Damien sleeps through some measure of his exhaustion after the Terminus, Amaryllis traces these lines and pools and patterns of silver in the dimness of their newly shared bed, whispering memories old and new over Damien's gently resting body, quietly murmuring needed to poke himself awake so the gorgon wouldn't kill him, took days and I was furious when he finally came home, and a leopard, nonmagical even, just sick and starving and desperate, and an accident from a sparring practice in his training days, and terrible reaction to a Viper-Rose bite, it took weeks for the rash to respond to treatment, and Lord Arum does not sleep a single moment, that night, for the thought of all the ways he could have lost Sir Damien long before they ever had the opportunity to meet.)

Thank every single speck of magic in the Universe that Damien had Amaryllis, that they had each other. Thank Damien's Saints too, if there is even a chance they had a hand in any of it.

Arum draws his tongue soothingly over a long-healed slash on Damien's chest, then presses his snout against a raised ridge of scar tissue on his other shoulder, then lifts his face to flick his tongue against a thin, subtle line on his chin, and the poet makes a soft noise, a sighing noise.

Amaryllis cups his chin, tilting his face towards her and pulling him into a warm, lingering kiss.

"If I didn't know any better I'd think you're trying to outshine my bedside manner," she breathes against his mouth, and Arum gives a helpless gust of laughter. "You are so- Saints-"

"Amaryllis-"

Damien coughs politely, one arm still wrapped around Arum's shoulder, and then he smiles very shyly when they both glance towards him again. "The both of you, my loves, my flowers, you make me feel... you make me feel as treasured as a relic, as beloved as- as-"

"As beloved as you are, I should hope," Arum murmurs, looking away reflexively, but Amaryllis tugs his face closer again for another kiss, humming her agreement against his lips. Arum sighs as she releases him, his nerves settling, and then he turns in Damien's arms, kissing him just as soft.

Damien is not fragile, not truly. He is resilient, headstrong, brave in spite of his fear. Damien is not fragile, but-

He has endured more than his fair share of harm. Arum cannot soothe that harm as Amaryllis can, cannot help him heal, but that does not mean that Arum can do nothing. He can still hold him safe, he can still smooth his fingers over those ridges and lines and marks, can still kiss him across every beautiful inch of his body. He may love Damien's scars, for all that they prove that Damien has survived.

Damien is not fragile, but Arum and Amaryllis may still treat their brave, headstrong, resilient knight gently, may treat him delicately.

As delicately, perhaps, as honeysuckle.

[skiller0dani]

Lockdown | Dean Winchester

M A S T E R L I S T  Supernatural Masterlist

smut  requests info been in a BIG Dean mood. working on some Timmy stuff. thanks for being patient with me. love you all xx

“You stay. You’re hurt.” Dean said, his voice low and stern. You pouted as you watched Sam sling a bag over his shoulder and send you a guilty smile. Dean shot you a serious look before he knelt down to press a chaste kiss to your forehead. You had recently gone on a hunt with Sam and Dean, but you ended up getting hurt pretty bad. You’d been in a warehouse hunting a demon, you tried to stab it but the demon deflected. You ended up getting tossed out the window and fell 2 stories to the ground, you’d broken 3 ribs and your back was also hurt pretty bad. Dean freaked out, he thought you were dead when he saw you laying on the sidewalk. He carried you to the Impala and then into the Bunker, but now Dean is putting you on lockdown. He doesn’t let you leave the Bunker, hell he doesn’t even let you get your cereal from the top shelf. He does everything for you, making you rest in bed. The worst part of this recovery however is that Dean refuses to touch you. 

He doesn’t want to risk hurting you, so the two of you haven’t had sex in nearly a month. It’s driving you absolutely crazy. Your fingers aren’t even getting you off anymore, you need Dean. It took you nearly a week to convince him to sleep in the same bed as you at first, he’s limiting contact with you to allow you to heal but you can’t take it anymore. So as you watch your very sexy boyfriend and his brother exit the Bunker you bite your tongue to keep from screaming in frustration. There is still some bruising along your spine, and your ribs have mostly healed. The biggest nuisance is the soreness, your ribs and chest are so sore. It took you ages to even convince Dean to go on this hunt in the first place. 

“I’ll just get someone else on it.” Dean said, and you rolled your eyes. You laid back in yours and Dean’s shared bed, “go. I’ll be fine.” You insist but Dean looks up with one of his famous ‘deadpan glares’. Reaching forward Dean lifts your shirt to inspect the deep purple, yellow and blue bruising along your chest and upper abdomen. He looks up at you, concern swimming behind his eyes as he turns back to his phone. “Baby really, I’ll be fine for a few days.” You insist and finally Dean sighs in defeat. You and he both know he’s going stir crazy in this Bunker, “you start to hurt, something happens, anything happens you call me. Understood?” Dean asks, taking your hands in his and you nod with a smile on your face. 

Before he left however Dean insisted on moving any foods in the cupboard to a place you could reach. So most of the food is sitting on the counter even though you told Dean that wasn’t necessary. You grabbed some crackers and cheese from the kitchen before moving back into yours and Dean’s room. You lifted a book from the bookshelf, a large collection of the original Grimm Fairy Tales. You read the book word by word, trying your best to focus on the stories in front of you. You feel a heat simmering through your entire body as you look down at the sheets, oh how many times Dean’s made you cum on these sheets. You feel a throb begin to drum between your thighs as you imagine Dean’s perfect cock stretching you open. You take a deep breath while shaking your head before trying to refocus on the book. You continue reading a story called ‘Tom Thumb’, a very strange tale about a man who is only as big as a thumb. 

But once again as you continue to read, your mind wanders back to Dean. You imagine feeling his hands on you, running down your sides, slapping your ass, teasing up your inner thighs. You can practically feel the razor burn from his stubble lining his cheeks as he buries his head between your thighs. “Fuck it.” You mutter as you reach for your phone. You’re throbbing and practically dripping wet as you peel your clothes off. If Dean’s going to refuse to fuck you, then you’re going to make sure he’s suffering as much as you are. You undress down to your panties before posing in front of a floor length mirror you recently bought. You’re sitting on your knees with your thighs spread eagle wide so Dean can see how wet your panties are, and your elbows are pressing your breasts together. You snap the picture before sending it to Dean with the following message attached.  

Miss you xx 

Dean sits in the hotel room, rubbing a hand down his face as his eyes read over a website on rugaru lore. He wishes more than anything that you were here, he hates going on hunts without you. Dean squeezes his eyes shut as he remembers you on your knees during the last hunt, taking his cock all the way down your throat. He groans deeply as he pinches the bridge of his nose, he can still feel your hot wet mouth around him. Dean feels his cock swelling in his jeans when his phone vibrates. When he looks down he sees a message from you with a photo attached. Odd. You don’t normally send him pictures. Dean opens the message and when he sees the picture he feels a tingle shoot straight through his hard cock. You’re kneeling in front of the new mirror, your perfect legs spread open allowing Dean a view of your wet panties. Your breasts are nearly spilling out of your bra and you have such an innocent look on your face. Dean quickly types a reply and hits send. 

You wait for a few minutes before your phone vibrates. 

Christ baby. This hunt is sure as hell gonna be a lot harder with you sending me shit like this.  

You smile at his message when a wicked idea pops up in your head. You posed again, but this time you slid the crotch of your underwear to the side, revealing your bare pussy. You send it to Dean with another teasing message crafted. 

Though I’m not sure if I miss you or your cock more. ;) 

Dean nearly topples the table over to grab his phone when it finally vibrates again. He taps on the picture and he feels his cock throb painfully against his jeans. His eyes focus on your bare pussy, glistening in the light. Dean immediately responds, you’re really not making this ‘no sex’ rule easy on him. But he has work to do and he’s never going to get it done if you keep sending him pictures like this. 

I’ve gotta focus baby. 

You pout at his reply, tossing your phone back on the bed. Your pussy is throbbing as you lean back against the bed. These next few days until Dean gets home are going to be harder than you thought. 

***

Over the next few days you continue to send Dean raunchy pictures. One of you splayed out on the bed, another of you in the shower, bent over the kitchen table. You were wet and horny and now you were driving Dean to sex induced insanity. Every time his phone goes off he tenses up, trying to control his raging hard on before he even sees the picture. Sure enough when he opens his phone his cock stands at attention when he sees you with a vibrator buried inside yourself. “Fucking Christ,” Dean mutters to himself as he waits near the Impala for Sam to finish packing his stuff. Dean tries to subtly readjust himself in his jeans so Sam doesn’t see the bulge. 

On my way back Princess. Better be naked and waiting for me when I get home. 

Dean’s messages sends tingles to shoot through your entire body, thankfully this hunt was already in Kansas so they didn’t need to go far. You practically skip to yours and Dean’s room as you begin to pull your clothes off. You leave a trail of clothes from the hallway to the bedroom and soon you’re sitting on the mattress- stark naked. You feel heat spreading through your entire body and the wait is absolutely brutal. Your nipples are erect as the cool air brushes over them, and your pussy feels as though it’s melting into the bed due to how wet it is. Finally you hear the Bunker door swing open and slam shut. You hear two deep voices and some laughter echo through the hallways. You hear steps coming down the hallway before they come to a stop. “Uh Dean? Y/N needs you.” Sam groans uncomfortably when he notices your clothes scattered through the hallway. You smirk to yourself and try not to giggle as you imagine the grimace on Sam’s face. 

You hear a second pair of boots coming down the hallway and soon the door handle is turning. When the door swings open you see Dean standing in the doorway, you also see your bra hanging on the door handle. Yours and Dean’s sign for Sam to...not disturb you. Dean’s pupils are dilated as he kicks the door shut with his foot, and you can see his hard on through his jeans. “So baby do you wanna tell me why you tried to distract me when I was working?” Dean asks, his voice lower than it usually is as he crossed his arms. You squirmed under his heated gaze, your thighs rubbing together. “I-I missed your cock baby. You haven’t fucked me for weeks.” You complain, your eyes refusing to meet Dean’s. You keep your eyes down when you feel the bed shift as Dean sits at the end of it, his hand bringing your head up to look at him. “I couldn’t fuck you because you got hurt Princess.” He explains gently as your eyes meet his. 

“Well I’m better now, please fuck me Dean.” You plead, your fingers curling around the lapels of his jacket to try and pull his lips to yours. Dean however is much stronger than you and doesn’t move an inch as you tug on his jacket. “Does it still hurt baby?” Dean asks, his lips brushing against yours and you immediately shake your head no. “Only a little sore. Dean please I need your cock so bad baby.” You plead again, nearing tears as your hand reaches down to jerk him through his jeans. Dean’s resolve finally breaks as he gently lays you back on the bed, still making sure to be careful not to hurt you. His hands run up your stomach to cup your breasts, his lips following the path his hands took. His mouth curls around your left nipple, his thumb and pointer finger pinching at the other. You cry out, sensitive due to lack of contact for so long. Your fingers curl into the short hairs at the back of his head as you pull his head closer to your chest. Your back arches into him as Dean begins to grind his clothed cock against your wet pussy. “Princess you have no idea how badly I’ve missed being inside you.” Dean groans as his lips find your neck and one hand slides down your stomach to toy with your clit. 

You cry out again, your arms curling around his shoulders to hold him closer to you. Dean’s lips trail kisses up your neck before his lips meet yours at the same time that he slides 2 digits into you. Your moan is muffled by his lips as he begins to slowly pump his fingers inside you. “God baby,” Dean groans when he pulls back to admire you. Your body is covered in a sheen layer of sweat and your head is thrown back as you cry out softly. You feel your high building when you push Dean off you and roll over to straddle his waist. Dean’s eyes are wide and a smile is on his face when you frantically reach for the buckle of his belt. His smile widens when you slide down his legs after you take his cock out to slip the head into your mouth. Dean’s head is thrown back as you take him down your throat the first time. Groans tumble from his lips as you hollow your cheeks and bob your head up and down his length. His hand twists into your hair as he guides your head to move along his cock faster. When Dean feels his hips begin to stutter he yanks you off him before rolling over you again. 

“Baby if you start to hurt tell me mkay?” Dean says, the head of his cock parting your lips as he looks up into your eyes. His head brushes over your clit, causing a whine to fall past your lips, “okay baby. Now please get inside me.” You plead desperately and Dean doesn’t need to be asked twice. Dean slides into you with one push of his hips and both of you release sighs of relief. “Fuck baby you’re so tight, it really has been a while.” Dean groans into your neck as his arms wind protectively around you to pull you close to his chest. You can do nothing but moan in response as Dean pulls his hips back before pushing into you again. Dean sets a gentle, slower pace as he slides out so far only his head is still inside you before he thrusts into you again. The pace is steady as he rocks into you, and your hips meet his thrusts. Your chest feels sore as Dean’s head buries into your neck but you don’t say anything because you know he’ll stop and shit you never want him to stop. “Dean, baby don’t stop. God don’t stop baby please I’m so close.” You beg, your voice broken as your nails dig into his shoulders. Dean continues to pump into you, feeling his own high nearing as you clench around his cock when you cum. When you press kisses to his shoulders and squeeze around him again Dean is pulling out and cumming in hot thick ropes on your stomach. 

After taking a moment to catch your breaths, Dean presses a hot kiss to your lips before standing from the bed. He reaches into the desk for a box of tissues and he cleans the cum off your stomach before he collapses onto the bed next to you. Dean wraps an arm around you to pull you into his chest and you inhale sharply as pain rushes through you. Dean’s eyebrows raise in concern as he eyes you, “your ribs fucking hurt don’t they?” He asks, both guilt and concern rushing through him. You bring his lips down to yours as you kiss him sweetly, “just sore.” You reassure him before you pull Dean back down to lay next to you. Dean doesn’t entirely believe you but he decides to leave it alone to preserve the gentle nature of this moment. “I love you baby, you’re such a tease.” Dean growls playfully before pressing a kiss to your forehead. You nuzzle into him, a smile on your face. “I love you Dean.” 

[themetaphorgirl]

I wrote this drabble earlier about Spencer spraining his ankle while Emily was supposed to be in charge

so here’s part 2!!!

once again. it’s a lot longer than I planned. I hope you like it though!!

(more about the boarding school babes)

----------

Spencer wrapped his arms tighter around Hotch’s neck and rested his chin on his shoulder. It was a long haul to get up to the seventh floor, and even though he was still attempting to prove to the older kids that he wasn’t a baby, he was grateful that he didn’t have to walk it. And if he was being truthful, he was glad that Hotch was carrying him instead of Emily. He loved Emily, he did, but Hotch was a lot stronger and bigger, and a lot less likely to drop him.

“Listen, Hotch, it was just an accident,” Emily pleaded, trailing behind them on the stairs.

Hotch pressed his hand against Spencer’s narrow back. “I don’t care if it was an accident, Prentiss, it was stupid,” he said sharply. “Stupid and childish. You’re seven years older than him, you should fucking know better.”

He couldn’t quite see Emily’s expression, but she slowed her pace, falling far back behind them. “Hotch, she didn’t do it on purpose,” he said quietly. “It’s my fault, I shouldn’t have done it.”

“We’ll talk about you later,” Hotch said. Spencer bit back a sigh. 

Alex was pacing in the seventh floor common room, her arms folded over her chest, still wearing the nice blue dress she’d worn for the senior’s seminar. “Oh my god,” she said, her arms dropping to her sides. “Spencer, are you okay?”

“It could be worse,” he offered. 

“That’s not reassuring.”

Hotch set him gently down on the couch, careful around his injured ankle. “It’s a bad sprain, but it’s not broken,” he said. 

“He hit the ground so hard,” Derek said. 

“Yeah, I definitely heard a crack,” Penelope added.

“I’m so sorry, Spencer,” Alex said. “How bad does it hurt?”

He shrugged. “Not too much,” he said, offering her what he hoped was a winning smile.

Her eyes narrowed. “Really?”

“Uh-huh,” he said.

Alex made a face at him and started signing instead. Are you lying to me? 

He squirmed and signed back a no.

Be honest, she signed. How bad?

Spencer sighed heavily. An eight, maybe?

His ankle really did hurt, the numbness from adrenaline long worn off, but he didn’t want to say anything that might make Emily feel bad. But he’d learned the hard way that it was impossible to lie to Alex; she was the only one who could see right through him every time.

Alex’s expression softened. “I’m sure you’ll feel better soon,” she said, smoothing his hair back. “But you have to rest, okay? Actually rest. No getting up and walking around and saying you’re fine when you’re not.”

Hotch tossed Spencer’s favorite blanket at him. “What she said,” he said. “You’re not moving until classes on Monday morning. And even then, if you’re not doing better, you’re not going to class.”

“But I have a history paper due Monday!” he protested.

“I’ll stop by your class and turn it in for you,” JJ offered.

“See? There you go,” Derek said. “And we’ll pick up all your homework for you.”

“I’ll be able to go to classes on Monday, I know it,” he said.

“Rest first, then we’ll see,” she said. “Don’t pout.”

“I’m not pouting,” he said, his lower lip dropping. 

Hotch tapped his chin. “Stop that,” he said. He propped his injured ankle up on a pillow and draped an ice pack over it. “These are the consequences of your reckless actions. Have you learned your lesson?”

“Yes,” he grumbled. 

“It wasn’t his fault, I...I kept teasing him,” Emily said. 

Alex didn’t answer her. “Did they give you ibuprofen or anything at the infirmary?” she asked. 

“Yeah, and I can take more in a couple of hours,” he said. 

Penelope leaned over the back of the couch. “It’s my turn to pick for movie night, but do you want to pick, Spencer?” she asked. 

“No, don’t let him pick again!” Derek said. “I am not in the mood for Star Wars.”

“I don’t always pick Star Wars!” Spencer said. “Besides, there’s eleven films and a holiday special to choose from. That’s a lot of variety, right? More if you include the two Ewok films.”

“Spencer, don’t you dare make us watch the holiday special again.”

“Fine,” he said. “I want to watch Singin’ in the Rain.”

Derek rolled his eyes. “I thought if Penelope wasn’t gonna pick, I wouldn’t have to watch a musical,” he said. JJ smacked his arm. “Hey!”

“All right, all right, cut it out,” Hotch said. “Who’s getting snacks tonight?”

“I’ll order pizza,” Emily offered. “It’s been a while since we’ve done that.”

Derek pumped his fists in the air. “Yes! Okay, I have some requests,” he said.

The other kids immediately started squabbling about pizza toppings. Spencer reached out and tugged lightly on Alex’s skirt. She turned around in confusion before looking down at him. “What’s wrong, Spence?” she asked. 

“Can you sit with me?” he asked quietly.

She blinked, a little puzzled. “Of course I can,” she said. She tilted her head to the side. “Are you all right? Is there something you’re not telling me?”

“No, I’m okay, I just…” He gave up midsentence and shrugged. He wasn’t sure how to put it into words. But Alex seemed to understand. She sat down on the couch beside him and he leaned against her shoulder, huddling under her arm. 

“Okay, you guys, enough! Stop fighting!” Hotch said. He picked up JJ around her waist and forcibly moved her away from Derek and Penelope. “We’re going to get what we usually get. Derek, if you really want that abomination of a pizza that badly, you can pay Emily back for it yourself.”

“No, it’s fine, you guys get whatever you want,” Emily said. 

“Well, in that case, I-”

Hotch pinched the bridge of his nose. “Somebody just put in the movie, okay?” he said.

“I got it, I got it,” JJ said.

Spencer shifted around, trying to get comfortable as she started the movie. Even without an eidetic memory, he could probably recite the whole thing backwards and forwards. It was one of the movies his mother had on constant rotation when he was little, background noise while she graded papers- so, overall, mostly good memories. 

By the time pizza got there he was actually hungry- unlike lunchtime, when he was so focused on keeping his hurt ankle a secret that he couldn’t possibly eat. JJ brought him his plate, and Hotch took off the mostly-melted icepacks to check if the swelling had gone down at all (t hadn’t, and purple bruising had crept above the line of the bandages) and gave him more ibuprofen and a glass of water with strict instructions to drink all of it.

When the first movie was over, he let Penelope choose the second one, which turned into another squabble, but eventually she picked something else. He watched quietly, still leaning against Alex. Every so often he flexed his left foot, trying to see how much effort it took to move his ankle. 

Alex tapped his knee. “Stop that,” she chided gently. 

“I’m just testing it,” he said.

“You’re not a science experiment. Stop trying to see how much it hurts.”

“I’m okay.”

She lifted him onto her lap. “Nope, no more,” she said. “Sit still.”

“I’m not a baby,” he protested as he tucked his cheek against her shoulder. 

Alex wrapped her arms around him. “I know you’re not a baby,” she said. “Now what did I say about resting?”

Spencer obeyed, curling up against her and hugging his blanket to his chest. He had gone a long, long time without anyone willing or able to take care of him- or allowing anyone to take care of him, for that matter. It was kind of nice to have his friends fuss over him. And Alex cuddled him without making a big fuss about it, or making him feel stupid or childish. 

He was almost asleep by the time the second movie finished, his breathing deep and slow and his head resting heavily on Alex’s shoulder. But he was still awake enough to hear Hotch whisper-scold the other kids as he switched off the TV, telling them it was late and they needed to go to bed but they better not wake Spencer.

“Emily, wait here for a second,” Alex called softly. 

Spencer kept feigning sleep as the other kids filed out of the common room and Emily sat down heavily on the other end of the couch. “All right, Miller,” she said. “Go ahead. Tear me a new one. This is all my fault.”

“No, I’m not going to tear you a new one,” Alex said. “You’ve been beating yourself up all day already, I’m not going to make it worse.”

“God, can you just not be so perceptive for once?” Emily said. “Just yell at me and get it over with.”

“I’m not going to yell. I don’t want to startle Spencer,” Alex said. Emily snorted. “And besides, I don’t want to yell at you.”

Emily groaned. “I deserve to be yelled at,” she said glumly. “Hotch is right, I should have known better.”

“I mean...yeah, technically,” Alex said. She ran her hand lightly up and down Spencer’s back. “But...okay. This is going to be kind of blunt. When have you ever had someone to be responsible for? Somebody to care about?”

Emily was quiet for a moment. “Well, I mean...my mom…”

“Emily. I’ve heard you talk about your mom. You call her the Ambassador. She enrolled you in first year French because she didn’t remember you were fluent. She makes you call her every Sunday, but half the time it goes to voicemail because she’s busy.”

A longer silence. “All right, so my mom isn’t the best,” Emily said. “What does that have to do with me being an idiot and getting Spencer hurt?”

“My point is that you’ve never had to worry about anybody but yourself before,” Alex said. “You’re a good person, Emily, you’re a really good person. And I know you care a whole lot about all of us. You’ve just never had to learn how to take care of anybody.”

“Okay, now you’ve passed regular perceptive and into super perceptive,” Emily said, but Spencer could hear the hint of a smile in her voice. “Yeah, I guess...I guess you’re not wrong. I hadn’t thought about that before.”

“You’re getting there, though,” Alex said. “I mean, you were the one who took care of Spencer when he got hurt, before you could hand him off to us.”

“That’s true.”

“And in the meantime, you don’t have to be so tough and pretend like you don’t care about anything. You don’t have to act like nothing bothers you.”

“Nothing does bother me, Alexandra, what are you talking about?” Emily teased. Alex poked her in the side. “All right, all right, fine. Jesus. I guess you’re right, at least about some of that.” 

“I’m right sometimes, about some things,” Alex laughed. “And besides, let’s be real. All of these kids are kind of a handful. Especially this kid. This could have happened with any of us in charge.”

“I haven’t spent any time with a ten-year-old before Spencer,” Emily said. “So they’re not all like this?”

“Oh, god, no,” Alex said. She reached over and squeezed Emily’s arm. “Really, Em, I know you didn’t mean for him to get hurt. And he knows too. If he wasn’t pretending to be asleep, he’d tell you that too.”

“He’s faking? How can you tell?”

“He’s not snoring.”

Spencer opened one eye. “I wasn’t faking,” he protested, struggling to sit up. “I was sleeping. And I don’t snore.”

“No, yeah, you kind of do,” Emily said. “Cute little kitten snores.” He rolled his eyes, but she took his hand in both of hers. “Can you please tell me you’re not mad at me?”

“I’m not mad at you, I promise,” he said. “A mild sprain can heal in one to three weeks. Maybe six weeks for a moderate sprain. I’ll live.”

She squeezed his hand. “Okay, cool, can you tell that to Hotchner?” she said. “I don’t think he’s quite so willing to forgive me.”

“I’ll talk to him,” Alex promised. “He might hold a grudge, but I’ll get over it, I promise.”

Suddenly Emily leaned over and pulled Spencer into a hug. “You know I love you, right, babe?” she said.

“I know,” he said, startled. The hug was definitely a little too tight, but he had the sneaking suspicion that, just like him, she wasn’t used to having people care. “I love you, Em.”

She kissed him on the cheek. “Just wanted to make sure,” she said, letting go and pulling back from him. “It’s late, you probably need to go to bed.”

“I’m not tired,” he said.

“Yes, you are,” Alex said. “Come on, let’s go.”

It was slow going for him to hobble to his room and change into his pajamas, and by the time he was done he actually was kind of tired. Hotch stuck his head in his room as Alex was helping him climb into bed. “Everything okay?” he asked.

“I’m fine,” Spencer huffed as he fell back against his pillow.

“How’s your ankle?”

“Also fine,” Spencer said. Hotch didn’t seem convinced. “I’ll stay off it all day tomorrow, I promise.”

“Yeah, you’d better,” Hotch said. “Goodnight, kid.”

“Hey, Hotch?” he called, and Hotch doubled back and leaned in the doorway. “Can you be nice to Emily, please? She already feels bad about everything. She didn’t mean it.”

“I make no promises,” Hotch said. “But...I’ll try. Goodnight, Spencer. Get some sleep.”

“You think he’ll actually be nice to Emily?” Spencer asked.

“We’ll see,” Alex said. “Lie down.”

He obeyed. “Goodnight, Alex,” he said as she tucked him in snugly.

She swept his hair back and kissed his forehead. “Goodnight, darling,” she said. “Sleep tight.”

He snuggled under the covers. His ankle didn’t hurt as sharply as it did earlier, and his favorite blanket was soft and reassuring against his cheek. Alex switched on his little nightlight, and he was asleep before she closed the door.

[barbasbodaciousbeard]

If You Love Someone, Let Them Go: Part 11

Summary: Since starting with SVU, Sonny hadn’t kept much terribly close to the chest. The squad knew about his family, growing up on Staten Island, the classes at Fordham. What was hidden was why he didn’t date. Sonny Carisi was also separated from his childhood sweetheart, a separation neither ever took to divorce. They had the same haunts. They’d grown up neighbors. Their paths crossed every few months, and divorce talks would turn into reminiscing would turn into a night spent together, sometimes sex sometimes just talking until the early morning. It always ended with one of them waking up alone however. How will that change when the squad finds out?

Pairings: Sonny Carisi x Original Character

1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - 7 - 8 - 9 - 10

A/N: One of the first chapters I wrote. 

March 2016: 

“I don’t like this,” Victoria muttered, brushing his hair back. 

“I know, doll. I’ll be home soon enough, okay?” He was going undercover, staying in a shelter for sex offenders, and she was clinging to him beforehand. Sonny was thankful when Victoria came home with a bag of clothes he was inheriting from Margy’s husband so that he didn’t have to bring anything from this home after. The only thing he refused was taking his ring off, working marriage into his back story. It wouldn’t come off again. 

“I know. I just hate knowing where you’ll be. Who you’ll be around.”

“Me too, Tor. I gotta pretend I’m one of them.”

“We’ll go see Bella and Tommy when you’re home. Play with our newest niece.”

“I’d like that a lot.”

“I love you, Dom. I’ll miss you.”

“I love you, Tor. I’ll miss you too. Be home as soon as I can, okay? You call Liv if you need anything. Amanda has your number too, in case she needs help with Jessie.”

“I know. Go catch the bad guy, okay?”

He kissed her softly, and she ruffled his hair as he left. Sonny didn’t want to look too much like himself for this. She’d suggested the name Smitty, mostly as a joke when they were watching some movie. It was a week and a half before he could come home. Once they thought they had Loomis, and then realized Richie was involved too, Sonny got to come home and shed the persona before returning to the precinct. Of course, Victoria didn’t know any of this; she just knew Sonny would need support.

In the time he’d been gone, she’d been feeling under the weather, so when he got home, she was sipping ginger tea in a vain attempt to settle her stomach. He dropped the duffel bag when the door was locked, immediately starting to peel off the jacket, then the inherited hoodie, then the jeans that didn’t fit right and drop them on the bag.

“I gotta wash this off,” he said plainly as he went for the shower. It was a habit he’d taken to as he figured out how to separate the days on the job that felt like they stuck with him the most. Sonny would shower, though he usually didn’t feel such an aversion to his clothing, and then talk to her once he felt better. This time, she went to the bathroom after a while, sitting on the toilet seat.

“You okay?” she asked.

“I guess.” The water shut off, and he pulled the curtain back to get a towel. “I didn’t like pretending I had pictures of kids. But it also was weird? I don’t think any of those guys got enough time. But I was also, like, playin’ dominoes with them. Can make you wonder if they’re the same guy as before they did time.”

“I know that’s not easy to think about.”

“It looks like they might have proved me wrong.”

“How?”

“The guy who did it? He’s the one I thought was probably rehabilitated. He also saved me when I got jumped so-”

“You got jumped?”

“Shit, Lieu didn’t tell you?”

“No. Dom, are you okay?” 

“A vic’s dad saw me at the precinct. I was new in the place so he thought I was the perp and he and his friends brought bats.” He shifted around, and she could see deep purple bruise across his back. “Richie, one of the guys, saved me.”

“Sweetheart,” she whispered, fingers gently brushing over the swelling. “Did you see a doc?”

“It’s just a bruise. Feeling better every day.”

“Liv said you gotta go back in?”

“No. But, I need to hear everything. See this through.”

“I know. Liv said she approved for you to take a few days off when it’s over.”

“She told me. Somebody meddled.”

“Love you,” she sang softly. “You need to take time to recover.”

“I was planning to ask, and I appreciate that you did meddle when you watched Noah. I love you. So much.”

“I’ll get you some clothes while you shave and stuff.”

“Thank you, Tor.” She left him to get ready, laying out a suit and tie and everything else. He came in not long after, and she took advantage of the opportunity to watch him get dressed. Things had been good again for almost a year, and she needed to talk to him, but knew this wasn’t the time. In the worst case of timing, she’d started to feel sick while he was okay. It wasn’t too bad at first, easily written off as PMS, but she’d realized she was late the night before, something that made her wish it had taken him just one more day to come home. She hadn’t taken a test yet, and it didn’t feel like the right time to talk about it. She knew he’d be ecstatic if she were, but they’d decided to drop the subject until summer. The possibility still scared her because all she could consider was that he'd get distant when the first hard case came.  

Sonny would get home that night, and they’d have the weekend. The trial would start on Monday, and Dominick planned to go. They had the next two days, and then he’d take two after the trial. There was a box of tests tucked at the bottom of her underwear drawer, and a lazy Saturday felt like the right time to find out. He fell into the bed when he got home,taking just enough time to tell her the attorney was the real perp and the guy who had saved him wasn’t before falling asleep quickly. Since he was home so late, it was easy enough for her to wake up before him, running the shower as she watched the clock. 

“How about I join-” she could hear Sonny before she turned and saw him, eyes wide. He took in Victoria settled on a toilet seat with a small white stick clutched in her hands.  “Is that what I think it is?”

“Yeah,” she said, cheeks red as her eyes welled up. “Don’t be mad.”

“Hey, hey,” he soothed, kneeling in front of her. “I’m not mad. Did you not want me with you?”

“Yeah. I’m scared, Dom.”

“Why?”

“I wanted to process it. What we talked about at Christmas. The fact it’s not June yet, so I shouldn’t be pregnant.”

“We’ll stay in therapy. Unfortunately a verbal agreement doesn’t prevent pregnancy,” a soft smile as he teased her. “But I’ll be here. I swear to you, doll. I know the doin’ is the only thing that can make that real.”

“I was definitely going to tell you if I am. I got a little box to put it in.”

“That’s all that matters to me, okay? We’re two separate people. You’re the one who may be carrying our baby. If you needed to process that first, it’s fair. I really hope you are, though.”

“I think what scares me is that I kind of do too. We always talked about it. But this isn’t when we planned, y’know?”

“I know, doll. But I think the last few years tell us everything ain’t going to go to plan. But we can get through anything,” Sonny whispered, kissing her temple. She looked to her phone, letting out a breath. “Want me to check it?”

“Yeah,” she nodded, head on his chest. He reached forward, holding it up.

“How many lines is a baby?” 

“Two.” She knew the answer as soon as she heard him sniff and felt his arms tighten around her. Victoria could feel the smile on his face, and she clung to him. 

“We made a baby, tesoro.”

“Lemme see,” she murmured, eyes teary. Reverently, she held it, wrapping around his middle. 

“Wait, so around six weeks is when my sisters all realized. Tor, are we having a Valentine’s baby?”

“I guess,” she whispered. “They’ll give us the conception window, won’t they?”

“Oh my god, we’ll get to see them soon,” he beamed, dropping his hands to her belly. His wide eyed reverence made her feel butterflies in her stomach, butterflies that started to overshadow the nerves. 

“We will. I’ll call a doctor Monday. Maybe they can squeeze me in your off days. Then we can see them before you tell anyone. I know you won’t be able to wait until 12 weeks to tell ma.”

“What made you start realizing?”

“I had all that indigestion. Got fatigued right before you went. Then I’ve been nauseous all the time and peeing a lot. I realized I was late like the night before you got home when I realized how much my boobs hurt. I wanted to know before you got here but then it wrapped up.”

“What are you craving?” he asked, picking her up and gently settling her on the bed. “I’ll get you these ginger candies. Teresa, Bella, and Gina all swear by them for the nausea and indigestion. I couldn’t get Amanda to eat them with Jesse. You’ll need a pregnancy pillow when you get bigger. And not to be gross, but we gotta get chia seeds. Bella learned it helps you not get constipated.”

“Nothing yet. But I love you,” she whispered, pulling him to lay against her side. She wanted to cry, so grateful to see his response. The change she’d imagined was sudden, an immediate withdrawal. Now he was here, after a hard case, not pulling back. Instead, she had a feeling there’d be a basket of ginger candy, bananas, and chia pudding waiting on a pregnancy pillow with a handful of onesies.

“I love you, too,” he grinned before ducking to kiss her unchanged belly. “And I love you, kiddo. Me and your mom can’t wait to meet you.” Victoria’s hand rested in his hair as he laid his head on her side. She was right, and he went to the store after a while, returning hours later with bags. Carefully, he laid everything on the coffee table. He was excited, she could tell, and she wondered if he’d even make it to the appointment before telling his mom. 

“So, I know we aren’t tellin’ ma yet, but I did some googling about your boobs to try to figure out what can help. It said the, like, stretchy bras like these so I got a lot. And then these boob ice packs and nipple cream because I didn’t know which part hurts. Prenatals, because duh. Ginger candy since that’s bothering ya now. I got chia seeds for if you get constipated and then Gina ate a banana a day because she got lots of muscle cramps, so I got us more bananas. And then there’s that dip and chips you like flowers in the kitchen.”

Victoria was silent, staring up at him. The doubt that had wormed its way into her head was gone, though she knew it would reappear until experience confirmed she was wrong. But now? She was more secure than she’d ever been. She thought whatever change would be there suddenly, that he’d pull away when he knew and spend too much time in his head. Instead, here was Sonny, just off a case that wasn’t easy for him, putting his focus on the good news. He knew she was afraid, and he was genuinely there for her. She also knew that there was an extent to which this was his way of saying See, doll? I’m not going anywhere. Victoria teared up, and Sonny looked worried, dropping beside her.

“Come here, you absolute sap,” she sniffed. There were the hormones. Really, there was the overwhelming confirmation that he wasn’t going anywhere and they’d get this life together. The sentimentality she often felt when she realized he was just so good and so sweet, even if he thought his job tainted that.

“Ah, you happy crying?”

“Yeah. You’re so perfect, Dom. This is so sweet.”

“You’re carrying our baby, Victoria. This is the least I can do. I’m going to take care of you. I’m so grateful.”

The weekend and trial went by in a blur, but Victoria was able to confirm she was pregnant with bloodwork while he was in court. They were going to an ultrasound that Thursday, and she was glad to know the trial would wrap up in time for Sonny to make it without her needing to reschedule. She was later than she realized once she visited the doctor, and Sonny had excitedly downloaded apps for both of them to track the pregnancy week by week. The first time anyone saw them together, they’d probably guess that she was pregnant, based only on the way he escorted her like she’d break now and instinctively reached for her belly despite the lack of a bump. If it weren’t so endearing, she’d be furious.

“You excited to see them?” he asked, leg bouncing as they sat. “Ain’t a valentine’s baby, but that means we get them two weeks sooner.”

“I can’t wait,” she said, hand going to his knee. “You okay, Dom?”

“I’m so nervous.”

“Me too. But we can see them today.”

“The app says they’re the size of a raspberry. Maybe that’s why you’ve been craving them.”

“We’ll track the weekly comparisons.”

“We’ll tell everybody at dinner tonight. Ma’s gonna flip.”

“And you can tell the squad when you decide. I know you. Four weeks could be unbearable.”

“I just wanna tell everybody. We got a little raspberry.”

“Saturday we get the next fruit.”

“Perfect. I’ll update my chart of what you’ll be craving.” He kept his hand on her back as they went to the ultrasound room, watching the tech like a kid on Christmas. If she didn’t know for a fact that he’d been incredibly supportive of four different women through pregnancy, she’d think he didn’t know how any of this worked. When the nurse started to show them the baby, confirming the heartbeat and measuring to determine if the age was correct, Sonny watched the image with what was officially the goofiest of his grins she’d ever seen. 

“Want to hear them?” the tech asked softly. “I think we’ll be able to hear.”

“Please,” Victoria smiled as she held his hand tight. Sonny pressed his lips to the back of her hand as the steady sound filled the room. His eyes were brimmed with happy tears, and she started to cry too when they made eye contact, which made them both let out happy laughs. 

“That’s our kid.” The joy in his voice made Victoria wish they’d just gone straight for this a year before. 

“It is,” she whispered. Soon enough, they were in their apartment, and Sonny had his cheek pressed to her belly and the print out of the sonogram clutched in his hand.

“I’m gonna tell them a story every night. And if I get caught on a case, I’ll call and tell a really short story.”

“Yeah?” Her hand smoothed through his hair as she watched him. His eyes were closed, and he was desperate to see if he could pick up on the baby’s heartbeat. He knew he was just hearing hers, but maybe if he stayed there long enough…

“Yeah. And I’m gonna be at every sonogram. I can’t wait, Tor.”

“Me either, Dom. I know I’ve been scared, but this week makes me feel better about it. I can’t promise I won’t get panicky sometimes.”

“I know. I’m glad you’re feeling better about it, but I understand if you get freaked. The girls and Rollins? All three of them got really emotional and panicky.”

“I love you. We both do.”

“I love both of you. I’m telling Lieu tomorrow. I want to let her know. And be positive I get to be at the twelve week appointment.”

“That’s fine, Dom. I also know you gotta tell somebody.”

“That too,” he admitted.

The next morning found him giddy as he got to the office. On his way, he’d grabbed zeppoli, setting them out and dropping at his desk with his coffee. He’d only seen Fin so far, but it felt impossible not to run up to him, whip out his phone, and start showing off the ultrasound photo. He kept pulling it up just to be sure it was there and real and ready for him to show Olivia. He wasn’t sure he’d have made as much progress as he had without the squad she led. It had helped him feel more stable as he accepted that there were things he needed to work on to be okay again. Olivia was, to him, unknowingly a big part of why he’d gotten his head out of his ass. He went to her open door the minute he saw her sit down.

“Hey Lieu, can I talk to you?” he asked from the doorway. Liv motioned for him to come in and close the door. 

“Everything alright, Carisi?”

“I just got something you need to know, ‘cause I’ll have to disappear for a couple hours every once in a while.”

“Oh? Is everything okay?” she asked, leaning back as she looked up at him.

“Yeah. Tor’s nine weeks along as of this past Saturday, so the reason is about the size of a cherry now.”

“Victoria’s pregnant?” she beamed, and Sonny nodded eagerly, fumbling to pull out the ultrasound picture on his phone. 

“We found out a week ago. The ultrasound was Thursday. There’s no bump yet, but she’s got just a little bit bigger and I can’t wait until she pops. It’s kind of crazy, I know, but I’m going to be a dad. I was gonna wait until we did the twelve week ultrasound, but y’know, I gotta leave to do that.”

“And you just wanted to tell somebody.”

“That too,” he said, and Olivia wanted to tease him for how boyish he looked with the grin and nervous glances to his lap. “I’m glad I knew before the bar, or I wouldn’t have been able to focus.”

“You two will be phenomenal parents. Congratulations. Unless something comes up, you’re fine to go for doctor’s appointments. How’s she feeling?”

“Pregnant,” he laughed. “But the bakery’s in a good way. She’s stepping back a little more. And between my sisters and Amanda, I remember what stuff helps so I try to help.”

“I gave Bella Noah’s old clothes or I’d offer them.”

“I appreciate that. We’ll inherit enough from everybody though. Plus, I kinda like shopping for onesies and stuff. They’re really cute. And Target got in some real cute outfits...”

“Are you telling everyone else?”

“Not until twelve weeks. But I couldn’t go without telling you, lieu.”

@cycat4077​