#and not in a way that's graphic whump or anything like that but more. just really dark

[davosmymaster]

No Time To Die

TAGS AND WARNINGS - +18, Minors DNI, no explicit smut but sexual themes, whump, a lot of angst, blood, graphic wounds and procedures (?) probably not medically accurate, could be almost gore if you squint, hurt/comfort, two dorks in love, canon-typical violence, near-death experiences. Not based on the game, I don’t know anything about the game and I don’t want spoilers please.

PAIRINGS - Joel Miller x fem!reader

WORD COUNT -  9.6k.

SUMMARY - The main difficulty of being Joel’s closest friend is not falling in love with him, but you still do. Those feelings are buried until you join him on a mission to trade supplies with Bill and Frank. With your life now hanging by a thread, Joel is determined to get you to safety, but the clock is ticking faster than he can run.

A/N - I honestly don’t know what this is. I tried to look for angsty and whumpy fics and couldn’t find any that hit the spot just right; so I wrote my own. This story is set in some time between 2010 and 2020, or so. Bill and Frank are still very much alive. The only warning apart the amount of blood in this, it’s my own knowledge of the English language.

'Breathe'

 With a shiver, you try to comply with your own command. The action itself confuses you, and you don't know where exactly in your mind that thought came from; or why. All you know is that a moment ago you were nothing, absolutely nothing, not even human. You forgot your own existence in a still ocean made of black thick ink. The ink is now backtracking, though, but the remnants of it stay in your foggy mind, clouding it as your consciousness comes back in waves.

 Waking up from a dream is easy, you just come back into yourself from a nice trip to your own imagination. Regaining consciousness, however, is a little more difficult. Instead of going somewhere, you go inwards into yourself. Your overworked mind, already tired and busy with keeping you alive, doesn't care much about bringing you to any other place so you can die peacefully. No. And the awakening is not as it should be either.

Coming back into yourself is your body crawling its way to the land of the living, with your flesh drenched in tears, blood and sweat; and nails digging firmly into the dirt. At least that's how it feels as you go back and forth between the two worlds, rocked violently by the waves threatening to drown you in its heavy never-ending dream.

 You wake up tired, and cold. The first sense that returns is touch; and with it, a pulsing pain radiates from under the right side of your collarbone and all the way down to your chest and back. The —obvious— wound is warmer than the rest of your body. It's like you've grown a second heart right at the borders of the wound; it throbs relentlessly. The second is taste. Your mouth tastes like salt and melted butter; despite not having eaten either in at least three days. Around the dryness of your tongue you feel a sticky liquid swirling around in your mouth, plastered to your gums.

 Whatever it is, you cough it out of your mouth. The old blackened blood splatters on the wooden planks below your mouth. Then, a second later, you feel a sprawled hand on your back; and the rest of your consciousness returns with it.

 He calls your name. And he, whose presence you'd have recognized even blindfolded, even miles away from there, doesn't appear in your mind for a few seconds. But even half-conscious and at death's gates, his name leaves your mouth with a sigh of relief.

 Joel.

 "I'm here," he says, his palm now pressing a bit harder into your back, trying to comfort you somehow. If you had been fully aware, you'd have been embarrassed at the relieved groan that had escaped your lips while saying his name. "How are you feeling?"

 His voice sounds less muffled now, but the pulsing pain intensifies the closer you are to the surface. A second groan escapes your mouth as the warmth under your collarbone becomes impossible to ignore.

 "I know, I know" he says.

 Your eyes flutter open. From your point of view there's not much to see except torn wallpaper, your blood stains, and the shadow of a window. You're on the floor, your cheek pressed against the dusty carpet, your body very still laying on them, and Joel rubbing your back.

 The room is dark. His fingers enter your field of vision, they dip on the wet blood stains and turn around so Joel can see the sticky fluid staining his fingers. He takes a breath, a gasp, really.

 "Goddamnit," he mutters under his breath. His hand stops rubbing your back, and as black stains crawl from the corners of your vision, trying to take you under the waves again, he talks to you:

 "I need to turn you around..." he says with a gentle voice. It's like the icing on top of a sour and burnt cake; he's trying to sound caring, but that doesn't change the fact that it's going to hurt like a bitch. "You hear me?" he says, and his voice breaks for a second. Your ears ring, the next thing he says your brain doesn't process it, your vision has been clouded by darkness again...

 A scream tores your throat as a shooting pain lights your body on fire. It feels like lightning going through your backbone. Suddenly, the waves are very far away and you're feeling way too conscious for your liking. Despite your pain, Joel is still as careful as he can as he lays you on the floor, now facing the ceiling instead.

 The throbbing pain continues, and you blink to get rid of the tears that distort Joel's face. His hand wipes the tears from your face.

 "I know," he says. He has a crease between his seemingly angry eyebrows that you had never seen before.

 Both hands are roaming your ribs now, before you can even say anything. His warm hands give you shivers as he touches your naked skin. The pain is so unbearable that all you can do to mitigate it is hold your breath. If you could move, you'd be right now curled on the floor like a pretzel. You are not crying anymore, but you'd be lying if you said you weren't close.

 "Can you breathe?" he asks then, when he doesn't find any cracks in your ribs by touch alone. You don't respond because you can't find your own voice, and he sounds desperate at this point. "You coughed blood, I need to know if any of your lungs are collapsing."

 "It-it hurts..." you wheeze, your eyes tightly shut. For a split second, you wish you were back to being nothing. Being nothing sounds way better than having a gunshot wound in your chest. The bandages, tight over your bones and shoulder, don't mitigate the pain either. If anything, they worsen it. It feels like a tight sock over a painful pustule on your heel.

 Worst part is you know all this pain is for nothing; you know you won't make it. If you go back to the QZ, you will be executed. If not, there's nobody to help you except Joel. But even if there were doctors or hospitals, you highly doubted you could find the necessary tools to extract a bullet and stitch the wound. That is, if you manage not to die of blood loss.

 "Where?" Joel asks. Even beyond all this concern and well-hidden panic, he seems to cling to an ounce of hope. "Tell me where it hurts."

 Your fingers gently trace your skin until they reach the area under your collarbone, and you sign to your back too. There's a bandage there, but nothing else, and that's when you notice you don't have a shirt on, just your blood-soaked bra.

 "Is it bad?"

 "Not that bad. The bullet went through," he said. That explains the pain on both sides of your body; you have a literal hole in your chest. "And it clotted soon enough to stop the bleeding, but you lost too much blood anyway... Anywhere else?"

 Your whole body hurts and this abandoned house suddenly feels like penance, but you don't want to scare him further, so you shake your head no very slowly.

 "Alright," he mumbles. Joel nods once, and it looks like he is reassuring himself. His eyes betray him, he looks like he is very far away from here, very buried under all the scenes playing on his mind; but despite his stillness, his lower lip quivers.

 You can't move your right arm at all, but with the other hand, your fingers lightly touch his knuckles still resting on your stomach. He winces, and your fingers are wet with his blood too. He must have beaten to death whoever shot you, that you are certain about.

 Your voice, little more than a weak breath, whispers:

 "I-I want you to do it."

 The crease between his eyebrows deepens. He seems confused rather than angry; the reaction you were hoping for. You take a breath to repeat your own words, but he squeezes your hand.

 "Don't," he says.

 "Joel..."

 "Don't even think about it," he snarls. "You are perfectly fine, don't be dramatic."

 You don't know what hurts more; his pain or yours, but his denial makes your eyes wet with tears again. This is already hard, but he is making it even harder. All he will achieve by trying to keep you alive is either prolonging his pain or getting himself killed. You both know this is no world for the injured and the sick, not out of the QZ, at least. And in most cases, not inside either.

 All you ask of him is to not leave you for the infected to find. Is that too much to ask?

 You want to insist, but you know he won't have it. Joel has lost so much already that the thought of losing what little left he has is not even going to cross his mind. Not until it's too late, at least. Also, you don't want your last moments with him to be a fight. You are tired of fighting, of swimming against the current. You just want to let go for once, give in to the external forces, close your eyes and peacefully breathe.

 What's more, you should have already known that he wouldn't do you that favor. He is too selfish for that.

 He pats your cheeks gently with his large hands, and your eyes, already rolling back into your skull, get focused on him again with a few blinks. You breathe slowly, trying to focus on him, on the world around you slowly twisting and turning.

 "...that's it," he says, it doesn't sound like his first sentence, so you guess he's been talking to you before. When you look back at him, his breathing is shallow, and you know he is trying to take a hold of himself too, trying not to give in to panic. "Good girl, that's it. Keep your eyes on me."

 Exhausted and hurting as you are, keeping your eyes open it's like asking you not to drop a weight that you cannot, in fact, handle; but you try nonetheless. It's your fault, really, for letting yourself go, for trying to give up on your fight earlier than you should. Joel is here trying to keep you alive, mending all your broken ends and stitching them together —he has always been good at that— while you're just trying to give up on him —you are really good at that too—.

 Giving up on Joel has been one of the hardest things you've ever had to do; and now you're letting him go for the last time. Part of you is glad you don't have to keep watching how he chooses Theresa over and over again. You are even relieved that fate —or whatever there is out there— is forcing you out of the equation. After all, you would never have given up fully on him.

 He refuses to kill you, what he doesn't know is that you've been dead for a long while now. Him being your executioner would be the kindest act he could have with you, the most intimate thing you'd ever share; your last moments. You want it to be him, you want him to free you from this torment.

 He refuses, though; and it feels like a punch to the pit of your stomach. You shiver.

 He gets up from his place on the floor, where you are lying just over the carpet. You follow him with your eyes and see a fire cracking up in a fucked-up chimney. He stokes the fire, throws some more wood on it and then comes back to you, covering you with his jacket, the very same jacket you had on before he turned you around. It's warm, his, and you have to stop yourself from sinking your nose into the collar.

 "I had to take off your shirt to patch you up," he says, but he doesn't say sorry. Ever. So you guess it's his way of apologizing.

 You simply nod, aware that you had wished for this very moment to happen many times before. You had dreamt of his rough hands over your naked flesh, caressing the sides of your body. You had dreamt of him watching you with those chocolate eyes as you took your shirt off, deep black pupils spreading over the brown as he watched the lace fall like a helpless witness.

 But now the bra was covered in blood and he was watching you anywhere but the lace. He had a frightened and concerned look on his face, rather than aroused. A look that would have made you feel guilty and ashamed if it had happened in the other scenario. And instead of undressing you, he was covering your body with his jacket as if you were his child.

 "What's wrong?" he is asking now, instead of whispering 'I want you' and it hurts all the same to know he's not ever going to say it, and that Tess now will have all those words for however long their lives are.

 You guess they were made for each other. And it makes all the sense, really, no one like Joel would ever look at you twice. You were grateful that he even allowed you to be his friend.

 "Nothing," you respond.

 It's always 'nothing' when it comes to Joel. It's always that nothing whenever he notices you are under the weather. It's always nothing when you are hurt, when someone tries to rob you and they leave an angry black eye on your face. It's always nothing; and he never believes you.

 "I don't make promises, you know that," he says, taking your left hand in his. "but you will be fine, I swear."

 You don't know what to say, how to explain that you are not scared of death, that you are just scared of not seeing him again. But you can't, so you say nothing and just nod.

 Does he want to hurt himself? Okay. You can't do much while lying on the floor anyway.

 After that, both of you stay silent. Joel seems to be avoiding looking at you. His eyes are stuck in the fire creaking in the chimney, but they are too restless to be present and conscious of the yellow and orange haze.

 Your palm lands on his thigh, your fingers gently brushing the denim. You want to comfort him somehow, but, at the same time, you are scared he will reject your touch and reassurance. That's all you can do for him: no words, no further touching, just a featherlight touch that indicates you are still present. There, with him.

 "I thought we couldn't make a fire."

 "Don't be dumb. The windows are all broken, it's winter and you are in shock. How else would you heat up?"

 "Got it. You're not in a talking mood," you huff. "Alright."

 Silence settles between both of you. However, one of his big, rough hands travels to where your fingertips are gently brushing his thigh. At the touch, even if you don't want to let go, your fingers begin to back off. He's not in a good mood, and you seem to be pushing his boundaries a little too much. Except that, instead of letting you go, he catches your hand in his and puts it back over his jean. This time, it's him who brushes his thumb over your knuckles.

 For a minute, the only sound in the living room are both your breathing patterns, the flames licking the air and the wind rushing through the broken windows.

 "I'm sorry..." you start. And immediately, his brown eyes are all over you again. Your voice sounds exhausted, more than you'd have liked. "...I fucked up the mission. I know-"

 "You haven't fucked up anything," he interrupts. That's Joel, all stoic, swallowing his feelings and denying everything that it is not up to his standards. "Would you mind to just rest-"

 Your eyes well with tears.

 "Joel, for once... Just for once, don't lecture me, don't ignore what I'm trying to say just because you don't want to hear it," you tell him. Then, he thankfully presses his lips together in a pained grimace, but stays silent nonetheless. "I fucked up the mission getting injured. I know it isn't my fault, but it doesn't matter whose fault it is. If you wanna go on without me, I won't blame you."

 His fingers are now squeezing yours, but you know he is not even conscious of that. He leans in a little, his cheeks now reddened in anger. He looks like he is about to spit on your face.

 "I'm not leaving you anywhere," he says. He looks offended that you even thought he was capable of that. "You and I are gonna get to Lincoln, either if you like it or not. There, Bill and Frank will help you. We have traded all kinds of things with them, and I know they are very well supplied."

 "Why would they help me?"

 "They are not just people we trade with," he says. His fingertips brush a strand of hair out of your face. "I know they will."

 "What if they changed their minds?"

 His pupils lock into your own, his jawline swells as he grits his teeth.

 "I'm persistent."

 The mission was supposed to be an easy one. Walk out of the QZ undetected, walk fifteen miles to the town of Lincoln, just outside Boston, get our things and come back. Our cargo were the two last spools of aluminum that Joel had promised to trade with them and two packets of seeds. Theirs? Two pounds of rolling tobacco and a gun. Tess couldn't make it, she had appointments with other smugglers, probably the ones who snuck the drugs in; which was more than half of their business. If it wasn't that important, she wouldn't have stayed in the QZ for anything in the world. But Bill and Frank were also important, and Joel couldn't go alone.

 The two of you should be home by now, and you wondered if Tess was regretting her decision of asking you to go with him. Last night you had both snuck out of the Boston QZ; and it usually didn't take more than six hours to get to Lincoln. But just outside the city you had bumped into raiders; and a stray bullet had hit you. Now you were stranded in a small cabin lost in the woods, about seven miles away from Lincoln; and unable to walk a single step.

 And to top it all off, Joel was enraged and neurotic.

 Still with the same expression, he takes your wrist and squeezes two fingers into it. Even if you had preferred him not to, knowing that your heartbeat got wild whenever he was around. You let him check on you, hoping that if your symptoms got better he would let you have a quick nap. Your nervousness, however, doesn't improve despite your efforts of trying to calm yourself down.

 "Since when are you a doctor?"

 He lets your wrist go, then gets back on his feet and gets his rifle.

 "You should rest. You'lll need it," he says, now heading to the entrance. He's gonna be standing on guard all night, you are sure of that. "We're leaving tomorrow morning."

 That is when you lose it. You can't believe he is that blind, that caught up in his own world.

 "I know in your perfect fantasy this is just a scratch, but I truly can't move, Joel. Even laying here awake is hard. How am I supposed to follow...? Joel!"

 But he's out of the house before you even finish the sentence.

  [***]

  Joel doesn't keep his word.

 A few hours later, not even near dawn yet, you get pulled back from a dream. Your eyes take a few minutes to register your surroundings; again. And the memories gallop back to your mind in a rush; accompanied by the burning and piercing pain on the upper right side of your chest. Your eyes shut tight, and you inhale a shallow breath. Even breathing hurts.

 "We need to go," Joel whispers. His voice sounds muffled, especially over the sound of your beating heart. "C'mon, wake up."

 He is once again rocking you rather than shaking you awake. Just to be able to fall asleep you had rolled back into your chest, cheek once again firmly pressed against that twenty-year-old dusty carpet. When he came back from checking the perimeter, not even five minutes after your argument, he placed his backpack right under your stomach so your right side was elevated. You wouldn't have been able to fall asleep if it wasn't for that. The pain was maddening, atrociously painful. Joel had found you gritting your teeth even in your sleep.

 He had said you'd leave the next day, but you felt like not even minutes had passed.

 "Morning," you complained, half a grunt accompanying your words. Joel shook you gently again when he saw you relax a second time, and your voice came back. "Y-you said...mor-"

 "I know what I said but we can't wait any longer," he answered. "I'm gonna sit you up."

 Fear pumped enough adrenaline into your system to wake you up. The ache from before rushed back into your mind, and your 'please' and 'wait' left your mouth like a prayer.

 "I can do it," you said, but it sounded more like begging than an affirmation.

 "I know you can," he lied. As your eyes opened and you saw his expression —eyes focused on you, trembling hands, half of his face hidden in the shadows, the other half gently licked by the orange-like haze of the dying fire— you understood that you had to be in a really bad condition for him to look at you that way, and feel the need to lie to make you feel better. But then, a second right after that, his shoulders relaxed, his eyes fluttered between your face and the surface of his jacket over your shoulders. His stoic mask was back on. "I'm just gonna help you, okay? But you do it."

 He did not, in fact, let you do it.

 You had managed to lift yourself barely an inch over the carpet, using all the strength left in your healthy arm, when both his hands curled around your side and pulled you up to his chest. Clenching your jaw, you allowed him to drag you a few feet back and into a seating position against the wall; your whole weight over the left side of your body.

 "Don't lean on the other side, your shoulder blade is broken."

 "Oh..." you almost chuckled. "Great."

 For a second, Joel looks at you as if you were completely insane. He reaches for his backpack, crouching on the place where you were lying just seconds prior. Then takes his flask and doubts when passing it on.

 "I'm not that desperate for water," you respond, reaching for the flask and drinking a gulp of the liquid. You swallow despite the soreness in your throat. "Next thing you'll do is spit food into my mouth."

 "Not even getting shot shuts your fucking mouth, does it?" he says, grossed out at your comment. However, a smile tugs at the corners of his lips. Relaxing him has a calming effect on you too.

 You try to pass him the flask again, but he refuses.

 "No," he says. "Drink it all. You'll need it."

 You look at him with narrowed eyes, confused. It's hard to keep a single thought in your head other than the throbbing pain in your chest and back, but you still try. Rather than asking him how you are supposed to walk seven miles, with the aluminum and his pack, you try to approach the matter another way.

 "What's the plan?"

 He takes a deep breath.

 "You're not gonna like it," he says, his deep voice almost slurring the words. It's barely a whisper. He looks into your eyes, then. "I'm gonna carry you."

 "What?"

 "You heard me."

 There's not an ounce of doubt in his eyes. Joel has that look of determination, the one you only really see when he has his eyes set on something really fucking important for him; most times that includes his own brother or not talking about the times before the outbreak. And with that look on his face, you know there's nothing you could possibly say or do to make him reconsider his own words. He's stubborn like that.

 You still try.

 "It's seven miles, Joel..." you tell him on a thready voice, a whisper. And Joel sighs through his nose —as if he had forgotten. "And we have to carry..."

 "We leave everything here," he says. "Come back for it later."

 "They won't let us in empty-handed."

 "You don't know them."

 For Joel to be so certain about it, certain enough as to put both your life and his on the hands of strangers; you understand that their relationship goes beyond trading. Joel had told you about them, about their situation and the first time Tess and him had shared dinner with Bill and Frank. Still, you were suspicious of them, and you thought that he was too; up until now, at least.

 "It's still seven miles," you tell him, and you know him, you know he's about to stop talking to you and leave the room if you don't, at least, partly give in to his reasoning. "...are you sure you wanna do it?"

 His pleading brown eyes engulf you, then, with an emotion he had never showed before. His gaze diverts for a second to your wound, to the bandages that, as you look at them, you find they are once again covered in blood. They are soaked in it, the skin surrounding it has a large black bruise —internal bleeding, you guess. And when you try to take a full deep breath, you find yourself unable to, at least not at full capacity.

 The understanding hits you, then. You don't have much time left.

 "I don't have any other choice," Joel says, but what he means is 'I don't want to lose you'.

 "Okay."

 Not even a full second has passed from your reluctant acceptance, but he is already on his feet. Joel walks to the only table in the room, takes your gun and puts it in his hip, right inside the jean. The only other thing he takes apart from ammo is another set of bandages —and he silently thanks whatever it is out there that he put those there a month ago—. He doesn't have anything to clean the wound, though; and one of his biggest fears is that it might already be infected. Even bandaged it looks bad.

 He approaches you, crouches down so he is facing the wound.

 "I'm going to tighten the bandage, and I have to keep the pressure," he says, loosening the knot. His fingers are once again stained with you blood, and he has to fight the images of him pressing on your wound from a few hours ago, when he had found you and, with trembling hands, had tried to stop the bleeding coming out in waves. He looks at you, trying to forget the awful picture of your eyes closed, your body limp on the ground. "Bite something."

 You reach for the sleeve of his jacket, the one hanging from your shoulders; and put the padded cuff of his jacket into your mouth.

 Joel doesn't give you a warning; and you're not sure if that's a good or bad thing, either. He presses the heel of his hand right over the covered hole in your chest, with such strength that you wonder if he will end up breaking your clavicle in half. As he presses your body against the wall, you can almost feel the cracked bones in your back smashing against each other.

 Needless to say, the pain is blinding. The view of the room, the feeling of his heat around you, the scent of him under your nose... all gone in a matter of seconds. Your vision turns white, all your senses stop functioning. Over the scream that falls from your lips, muffled by the jacket, you hear him say:

 "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

 He lets go, and your vision immediately darkens, the shadows flowing from the corners of the room quick to reach you. With your last grip on reality you feel yourself melting against the wall, slowly slipping to the side. Joel catches you before you hit the floor.

 Cold water is what brings you back. Your breathing quickens at the coldness of it, and the next thing you feel are his wet hands palming your cheeks, throwing water from his flask all over your face.

 "C'mon," he mumbles. "I need you awake."

 Your eyes flutter open, your whole body relaxed now that he's not applying pressure; but alert enough that your unfocused eyes make a single shape out of him.

 While coming back into yourself, Joel does not have any time to lose. He takes his jacket over your shoulders and slips your left arm inside the sleeve, the other, where the wound is, he decides to leave it as it is; and buttons it over your chest so you're not exposed.

 "You good?"

 In any other situation you'd have said some joke, or just something to piss him off. But as of right now, nothing comes to your clouded mind; and even if something did come, you're too exhausted to even do the mental effort to say it. So you just nod.

 "Okay," he nods too, talking to himself inside his head, then takes your face in his hands and looks into your eyes. "You're fine, you hear me? I'm gonna carry you and you're gonna be on my back; so I need you talking all the damn time, alright?

 You nod again.

 "Starting now."

 "Y-yes... okay."

 "Good," he says. His hand crawls to the back of your neck, and he joins both your foreheads. He takes quick breaths. He's terrified when he whispers. "You're doing so good. I'm so proud of you."

 "Y-you... are?"

 "Mm-hmm," he says. And as his words settle into your brain, you feel your chest warm. When you open your eyes and he separates, there's a tear on his cheek, but he's quick to wipe it off. "I'm gonna open the front door."

 It's just an excuse, you both know it, but neither dares to say anything. None of you wants to talk about the elephant in the room, the fact that your chances are slim even if this works.

 Joel returns quickly, with his lashes wet and reddened eyes. It makes you speechless, to know that all this effort and tears are for you. You'd have never, in a million years, thought you'd ever see Joel Miller cry; let alone for you. He had always been so quiet, so detached from everyone, even from Tess.

 Without a word, his hands get hooked on the underside of your thighs. He lifts you up, seemingly effortlessly, and your inner thighs surround his hips. You take a deep breath, again —or at least try to— as you try not to blush and show those feelings you buried long ago. This is not the time, nor the place; so you allow your head to follow his range of motion; forwards. Soon, your nose is pressed against the lapels of his denim shirt. With your good arm, you grab one of his broad shoulders. The other falls limp, and even that little movement hurts like hell.

 He freezes, his shoulders now stiff under your hand. His beard grazes your jaw as he tries to look at you, so still in his arms.

 "You okay?"

 "Yeah..."

 Better than okay, you want to respond. Better than I've been in a long time. But you don't.

 He leaves you on the table, on the edge, with your legs dangling.  His eyes waver for a second as he leaves you there, his hands squeeze your knees in such a brief movement that you wonder if he was even conscious of that. He looks like he wants to say something, but he can't think of what, so he turns around and bends his knees a little to get you to a good height.

 "I need you to push yourself up with your good arm," he instructs. "and keep the other still, okay?"

 "Okay," you respond, fighting the urge to just nod instead.

 Not even following his instructions to a t saves you from the pain. The effort, even with your arm limp in the air, makes your body shudder and an agonizing stab runs through your whole spine. The scream that tores from the depths of your throat is so intense that Joel hesitates to put you back on the table, his back trembles for a second as his body shivers in distress. But, in the end, he has you in the air with a good hold.

 He waits, but doesn't hear anything except shallow breaths, doesn't feel anything but the weight of your head over his shoulder.

 "You with me?" he asks. He is seconds away from aborting the mission.

 "Y-yeah..."

 Your arm surrounds his neck loosely. Your fist is closed tightly, grabbing the other shoulder, and he wishes he could touch you, give you some kind of comfort, but he can't let go from his grip under your knees.

 Joel does not have the privilege of time, every second is precious, so not even giving it a try, he starts walking as if you weighted nothing. He crosses the front door and the freezing cold wind of the East Coast cuts your cheeks. If he notices —and you know that he has, wearing just his shirt in the middle of the night— he doesn't react.

 "Remember what I told you?" he asks.

 In less than a minute he has crossed the space from the cabin to the highway, where you were surprised by raiders. You look around, see the bodies of five men sprawled on the floor; lifeless, drowning in a pool of their own blood. One of them has his face mauled to nothing. The sight is so sickening —or maybe you are getting so ill— that a sudden dizziness takes hold of your shivering body.

 "Hey..."

 "I'm sorry..." you start, teeth chattering from the cold. "I'm sorry I screamed into your ear earlier."

 A sound, half a relieved sigh and half a chuckle, leaves his mouth.

 "I'm half deaf from that ear anyway."

 A light chuckle falls from your lips too. Joel keeps walking west through the highway, and you keep yourself desperately clinging to him for dear life. The moon is your only other companion; without her, you both would be completely blind in the darkness of the night.

  [***]

  Joel probably hadn't thought about the possibility of taking breaks along the way. That's why, fourty-five minutes later, and under a beautiful sunrise of orange tones, he's struggling to keep going. His knees are screaming for him to stop, his biceps and hands tired of walking with a person's weight over his shoulders. And for the first time in years he remembers the times before the outbreak, when he was capable of lifting and moving huge pieces of furniture; often times on his own, other times with just Tommy.

 He might have overestimated his own strength, assuming he was as strong as before. But it seems that not only his mental health has deteriorated after Sarah's death, no. All of him has become older and darker and more broken since then. He hardly recognizes himself in the mirror anymore.

 "Joel?"

 "Yeah..." he gasps, out of air. "Sorry, I got distracted. You were saying...?"

 It is in moments like this that he hates not to be that same person he was before. He wonders if he is, finally, paying for his past sins, for all the people, infected or not, that he has killed.

It is unfair, the fact that you're paying for his piper.

 "You should stop for a while," you tell him, your voice low like a whisper. The warm air from your mouth slithers across his skin, up his neck, over his ear, and almost sends a shiver down his spine.

 "No."

 "Joel..." you huff. Before speaking again, you take a big gulp of air. "We are not getting anywhere if you don't take breaks. You'll just wear yourself off before we reach the halfway mark."

 His mind refuses to agree, but it's as if his body takes a relieved breath when he hears the words. Little by little, his body starts to listen to you before his mind does. His thighs are screaming, sore from the pain of exertion; and before he acknowledges, even, his body has stopped moving.

 "Okay," he gasps, quick tired breaths quickly entering and leaving his lungs. "...but just a minute, we don't have time for this bullshit."

 "Okay," you say, in the same tone he used earlier with you; when he lied and said he knew you could sit up on your own. "Just a minute."

 He pulls to the side of the road, and with the last of his strength he kneels down and tries to lay you on the ground as carefully as possible. You fall on your ass on the wet ground, but at least you don't hurt yourself on the spot. He asks you for the millionth time in the last twenty-four hours if you are okay.

 "I think I'm doing better than you," you respond, but your voice is so exhausted that Joel would love to just lay next to you and lull you to sleep.

 He turns around, his whole weight sitting on the grass as he takes gulps of oxygen. His eyes shut tightly, he wipes off a tear of sweat from his temple and looks at you.

 Wide-open eyes stare back at you, but just for a split second. He gets closer, his thumb brushing the shoulder of the brown jacket, his brown jacket. His eyes pierce yours.

 "Are you sure?"

 "That bad do I look?"

 Joel doesn't look at you, not at your face getting paler by the second or the dark circles under your eyes, or your hair now dishevelled. He sees you on his memories and can barely recognize you; your skin and eyes always glowing under the sun, your hair always perfectly done. Your job was often to act as an HR for their clients, and very rarely took actual FEDRA jobs that stained your hands; you weren't like Joel, you didn't care about rations or money or whatever.

 Expert fingers gently tug at the buttons, unbuttoning them so he could take a look to the wound. He had barely a glimpse of it when your fingers stopped his hands. Joel looks at you with those puppy eyes, as if you were about to faint in the next second.

 "If you wanted to see me naked you didn't have to wait until I got shot, you know?"

 You had said it in a playful manner, kidding, as a joke; but he saw beyond that. Part of you had only expected him to laugh, the other was dying —not pun intended— for him to kiss you. You'd have never said it if you weren't in this position, you'd have never gotten in between Joel and Tess.

 However, he didn't laugh, didn't make any funny remark. The way he looked at you, from under his eyebrows, lit a spark of hope somewhere inside you. Deep, deeper than your conscious mind would have ever reached. Joel didn't say anything, not even chuckled. His eyes came back to the wound, and uncovered the full sight of it.

 He had to fight a shocked gasp. His eyes fluttered, while holding his breath, between your own face and the wound. The bandage was still soaked in blood, that he had expected, but not the large bruise growing into your neck; or your right hand slightly paler than the other. He lifted, with trembling fingers, a corner of the bandage, and his action caused a trickle of dark blood to gush out, as if he had crushed a piece of watermelon between his fingers and it was now running down his arm. He looked below, inside his jacket, and saw a trail of blood that landed right into your navel.

 This time, it was impossible for him not to react. Not only his face, but also his body. He tried to get back on his two feet again, but before he finished the action, your fist closed around his wrist.

 "Joel..." he heard you call.

 "We need to go, now."

 Pressing your lips in a sad smile, you pulled him to the ground and he sat, mesmerised on that face he had only yet seen once; that time when he got too drunk on a Friday night and told you about Sarah at three in the morning. He felt his pulse quicken, his heart beating at the ends of his fingertips.

 "It's okay," you told him. Your gentle touch brushed his palm, danced around over his tan skin. "You can rest."

 Joel felt like he was in a fever dream. The setting certainly felt like it. You hadn't left the Boston QZ in a long while, and he had never pictured you out of those big silver walls either. He had not agreed to Tess' idea either, the dangers beyond the walls were almost impossible to escape. Still, Tess and him knew the city, they could get out fairly easily, had done that for a couple years to share stories over dinner with Bill and Frank. And Joel had loved the idea of seeing you sitting at that dinner table next to him, surrounded by a garden full of flowers, going through the dresses in the boutique that Tess had sworn you'd love.

 He had not signed up for this.

 "We need to go, please..." he tried a second time, but you just shook your head. He understood, somehow, what you meant.

 "A minute won't make a difference," you told him. In reality, you wanted to tell him that you'd be dead when he got the both of you to Lincoln, anyway. "If you are tired we will never get there."

 Useless and powerless as he felt, his only option was waiting. He took your hand, intertwined his fingers with yours and took a deep breath. You had never seen him so upset.

 "What are you so scared of?"

 At your words, his lower lip quivered slightly; it would almost have gone unnoticed if it wasn't because you had been watching him attentively for so many years. He looked at you, eyes barely half open, from under his eyelashes.

 "You're very important to me," he said. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth, he seemed to be even more breathless than he was before. Joel had a hard time admitting his feelings, even to himself. "I don't know if you understand to what extent you're important to me."

 "I know..." you answered, nodding, your hand squeezed his for a second, trying to give him strength. "But you have Tess home, and your brother loves you... It will hurt for a while..."

 "Shut. Up."

 His eyes were tightly shut when he said it. It was a metaphor, almost, the way his eyes were closed not just to the physical world, but to the whole situation too that he couldn't escape from.

 The tip of your tongue wetted your lips.

 "What I'm trying to say is... it will pass..."

 His chest heaved, his gaps the only sound that filled the space between the two of you. And you continued:

 "People die all the time, Joel; and most times we can't do anything about it."

 His body rushed at you, his hands locked perfectly on both your cheeks, like two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle finally in place.

 "Not you, you hear me? Not you," he almost growled, his face a mixture of anger, determination, and grief. "Never you. You're not allowed to leave me. I will never forgive you."

 There was something hidden between the lines, something Joel wasn't saying. It was something you had denied yourself for a long time, for years, something you had insisted on not seeing because you didn't want to see it. Because, deep down, you were afraid that Joel would never love you back, that he would break your heart, that the only good man you'd ever known inside the walls of the Boston QZ would also be the one to abandon you to your luck.

 Joel had been your family for so long, and you had unconsciously protected yourself from seeing him as something else. But now there it was, clearly, latent in his confession. Your punishment for years of silence was now time, or rather, the lack of it.

 "I'm not giving up," he said. "and I need you not to give up either."

 He's close. His hot breath smells sweet -so instinctively Joel- and it's all around your face. His flesh is warm over the freezing skin of your cheeks. His body around you is shelter, is home.

 Joel is soon leaning in. He's all erratic breathing, rapid heartbeat and trembling hands; and as you close your eyes to allow his presence to swallow you like a black hole, he closes his eyes too.

 He doesn't let go, not just yet. He breathes in into your quick breaths the same way you revel in his.

 "I need an answer," he whispers over your mouth.

 "I won't, either."

 At first it's like a collision. He kisses you angrily for a split second, demanding and impatient; then, once he knows this is really happening, once he does understand that this is —finally— not a dream, he relaxes into your touch, your fingers delineating his jawline, caressing the beard there.

 He's quick, quicker than you'd have expected him to be; definitely quicker then he would have liked. He separates, then; and looks down at his jacket and the drops of blood staining the insides of it. It's not enough blood to send you into shock again, but it means part of the wound is ripping. You need stitches, not just a couple of bandages.

 "Enough resting then," he says.

   [***]

 Seven miles is usually nothing for Joel. In the first few months trading with Bill and Frank, Tess and him usually walked the fifteen miles that separated the city and the town at least twice a month. But this is all the more difficult, not just carrying you there, but knowing that he is running out of time.

 And you seem hellbent on making the journey even more difficult.

 "So...Tess?"

 "Pass."

 You huff, and the warm air sends a shiver down his spine; but he says nothing.

 "Okay."

 Your voice sounds so disappointed that he feels a pang of guilt. You know him better than to insist, and he knows that too. The guilt increases, though; and now he's inhaling a big gulp of air while still walking as fast as he possibly can without hurting his own knees.

 "We fucked a few times, before," he says. "but that doesn't mean anything. She's my colleague. That's all."

 If he was better with words, and feelings, he could say that he didn't feel anything for her. He could say that their hookups were nothing, just a fun thing they used to do before, before he realized that the one who he really wanted was you. A few months back he had realized that it never actually satisfied him, that those moments with Tess weren't as fun and innocent as they seemed to be before. They had talked about it, of course. He didn't want to play with her feelings, and that had been the end of it. She was just as fine without him, anyway.

 "I thought you two were dating."

 "If selling drugs for a living is what you call dating, then yes."

 Without even looking at you, he knew you were smiling, he could almost feel your lips stretching over his shirt.

 "I..." you said, then he heard you take another deep breath before talking again. "I'm sorry I asked you," another breath. "I... ran out of things to say."

 His brow furrowed in confusion.

 "You can say anything," he says. "Anything you really like, even a story."

 Anything just to know you're there...

 "Well..." you started. Then, a wheezing noise filled the air, followed by a gasp. "I... liked rock music-" silence. "...back in the day."

 "You okay?"

 Your fist tightened around his shoulder, your forehead pressing against his trapezius. He heard that wheezing sound again, followed by a pant. His hands squeezed harder the tender flesh under her knees.

 Joel tried to look at her, but all he could see from his peripheral vision was the top of her head and one eye tightly closed. His throat turned into knots.

 "Baby..." that was the most gentle tone you had ever heard coming from his mouth. "C'mon baby. Hold on, we're almost there."

 His whole body felt paralyzed, and he had to force himself to keep walking.

 What he didn't know was that your lungs were burning. They felt like a pair of balloons squeezing against your ribs, trying to expand beyond its cage. And it made all the pain in your back, from the shot, double as painful. The air you tried to swallow so bad, sounded like a whistle, like the breeze through an almost closed window. You were suffocating.

 "Talk to me, c'mon."

 With a painful drag of air, you complied.

 "I can't..." your fist tightened around the fabric of his shirt. "I can't."

 "Goddamnit..." he was panicking now. "Okay, that's okay baby. Just hold on to me, don't let go."

 Unable to do anything else, you just nodded as best you could and kept on holding on to him. His eyes desperately looked for signs of the town, and far away, in the distance, the row of trees ended; and he walked faster, hoping that Bill had already seen the both of you through the cameras.

 "J-Joel"

 You struggled to find air, and, therefore, the words.

 "Easy, easy" he said. "Just a bit more. You can do it, I know you can."

 His words lingered in the air, unanswered, not even him fully believed them. Joel was starting to feel his own shirt wet with blood from your wound. The feeling made him sick, his own imagination as he pictured what Bill was watching through the cameras, made it all a hundred times worse.

 He kept hearing the panting, the wheezing, becoming more desperate by the second. He realized, with horror, that you were suffocating righ there, on his back; from a collapsing lung, he guessed.

 He shouted Bill's name as he saw the fence that separated them from the town. Joel wasn't sure if he could hear him, but tried anyway.

 He felt your grip on his shirt hesitate, and he had to fight the instinct to squeeze your hand; if he had done it, you'd have fallen from his own grip. He heard you try and say his name.

 "Save it," he responded, even if it came out not as reassuring as he would have liked. "Don't try to talk."

 Before he reached the fence, it was already opening. Bill came out running, yelling something that he was too distracted to distinguish, Frank came behind him. Joel felt his knees wobble once through the gate. And now kneeling on the floor, he called your name, tried to turn his head to take a glimpse of you.

 "You did it. We're here."

 He noticed, then, that everything seemed all too silent. Everything that happened after that, happened very quickly. The hand that had been gripping his shirt slipped, limp over his shoulder.

 His mind disconnected, completely unaware of the other two people approaching. He released you with all the care that a person could have had, and his arms immediately caught you in an embrace. The sight of your closed eyes made him panic, and not having even checked your pulse, he buried his face into your neck and sobbed.

 Trails of blood ran through his forearms, and he threw up all the words that passed through his mind; a string of 'please stay' and 'I'm sorry'.

 "Joel," Frank struggled with him, fingers digging into his shoulder. "Joel you have to let go. Let us help her."

 He was too far gone, so much so that once your body hit the floor, Frank didn't allow him to touch you again. He sobbed, and, for a second, Bill saw himself in him. He would have never thought he would see Joel in this state, but yet there he was. He kept pressure on the wound, and saw himself in Joel, and Frank in you; and promised he would never let this happen to the two of them.

 Never.

  [***]

  The sun comes out the next morning. As it always does, as it always has. Orange light and blue skies illuminate the room, the clouds shine a different color; and Joel blinks; absolutely exhausted, devastated.

 His body is heavy, even if he's not holding any of his weight. He's sitting on the cold tiles, on the floor, his sore knees and thighs in the space under the bed, his head lying on the mattress, his whole body is bent over and it feels like jelly. His eyes are the only thing moving, they look at the window and see the night sky turn into daylight.

 Joel couldn't possibly say that he slept in that position; because he didn't actually sleep. He hasn't had a second of sleep since you got shot two days ago. Lying on the bed, is you, dormant; and his thumb draws circles on the back of you hand even if he's not paying attention to it. It comforts him to a degree, at least.

 Suddenly, pretty much everything has lost its meaning. Frank opens the door an hour later, almost tripping with the tray of food and water that he left the night before for Joel. He hasn't touched any of it. In fact, he forgot about it, but if it bothers him, Frank doesn't say anything. He takes it in his hands so he can take it to the kitchen downstairs.

 "We played 'I will survive' in the radio" he whispers before leaving. "It's a 70s song, but Tess will get the meaning."

 "Thank you," he mutters, his mouth pasty from barely speaking in the last twenty-four hours. Funnily enough, the only word he's said to them is 'thank you'.

 "You're welcome, Joel," he says. After a few seconds, waiting, he makes a dissatisfied sound. Frank approaches Joel, his palm squeezing his shoulder. "You should eat something, at least. Is there anything you want?"

 Joel looks at him, lifting his cheek from the mattress for the first time. His eyes are blood-shot and black circles adorn his eyes.

 "Coffee."

 "Not coffee, you need sleep."

 He huffs, his eyes lost in the window again. Frank, knowing he won't get anything from him again, vanishes behind the door and into the kitchen. He will bring him warm food later, hoping the smell will make him eat something despite his unwillingness to listen to any signal of hunger from his own body.

 A few moments later, your hand slips from his. As he loses your touch, a pang hits the pit of his stomach. But then, as he lifts from the mattress again, your fingertips lightly touch his chin, your thumb lovingly brushing his beard.

 "Baby?"

 Maybe he lost his sense of time, because he didn't expect you to wake up yet. In any case, when he sees your eyes open he practically pounces on the bed. He sits on the edge, and swallows the image of you looking at him.

 "Morning."

 He smiles at your words, feels his strength coming back into his body.

 "You're here," he says.

 Even beaten up as you look, he thinks you are gorgeous. Your face has regained its usual color, the bruising is coming down, changing colors little by little, the wound is stitched and bandaged, and the blood flow seems to reach your fingertips normally once again. Joel has no idea how Bill fixed the collapsing lung, he had said something about medical knowledge being necessary in the field too, but he hadn't paid attention. He doesn't care about the details, though. He just cares that you're safe and sound, and despite the close call, that has seemed to be the end result to this whole dilemma.

 There's no blood in sight, not even in the bandages. Frank had washed the blood from your hair the day before, and Joel had helped with the rest. He wished he could have you like this everyday: happy, clean, safe...

 In the last few hours Joel had discovered he was jealous. He wished he had a town like Lincoln all to himself, just so he could see you picking flowers in the front garden.

 "I'm here," you told him. The words felt like strawberries in his mouth. "and I'm not giving up on you."

 He released a breath he didn't know he was holding, leaned in for both your foreheads to meet, and kissed you.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x f!reader #tlou fanfic #tlou spoilers #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal x female reader #the last of us fanfic #pedro pascal x oc

[anilovie]

could I please have some anakin fluff when the reader is on her period and every inch of her body are sore and the period pain is so painful? despite how he intense he could get during sex and all, I wanna see the gentle and loving side of anakin from you hihi, thank youu

hii thanks for the request!! i wrote a little something that’s been bouncing around in my head for a while, but if you want some more general thoughts on this just let me know!!

CW: whump + fluff, mentions of menstruation/blood/pain but nothing too graphic, f-implied reader

WC: 1.3k

You would try your best today — that’s all you could promise yourself when you woke up to the dreaded stomach pains, sore muscles, and the dark red spot blooming on your bedsheets; all signs pointing to a very unfortunate time of month.

It was a shitty way to start the morning, ripping your bedsheets off and throwing them in the wash and trying not to beat yourself up for making a mess, waddling around your room due to the sticky mess between your thighs. You hadn’t anticipated starting today— you were a few days early, which was just perfect, because of course you’d be on the heaviest day of your period when you had so much to do.

No matter how bad you wanted to stay in bed all day, you had to get your clothes on and join the rest of the hustle and bustle in the temple halls. The war didn’t stop for your period, after all.

Considering you were in a shit mood, you tried to avoid everyone and stuck to working alone. Anakin was also busy, which you were glad for. He didn’t need to see you like this.

But he, without fail, always made it a point to free up time in his busy days to see you. Somehow. Even if it meant swiping you from your own work to walk with him to the caf for a quick coffee run.

And of course. Of course of course of course. Right before he dropped you back off to let you go back to work, he leaned in real close and said:

“You okay? Do you need anything from me?”

His eyes subtly shifted downward, and then back up, and you full-heartedly wished the ground would just open up and swallow you whole.

“I’m good, Anakin, thanks,” you rushed. He was never embarrassed to talk about it, but for some reason you were.

How could he even tell??

“Okay,” he knew not to push, even though you were clearly lying. “Just come find me if you need anything, alright? I’ll see you tonight.”

He gave you a quick kiss on the forehead and pulled back with a small smile.

Just as soon as he turned to leave, a cleaning bot turned a corner too fast, one of its long metal arms flailing out too fast for you to anticipate. It slammed you in the lower stomach, right where it hurt the most.

“Shit—“ you gasped, arms instinctively wrapping around your middle, keeling over in pain. The droid was long gone by now, not having the capacity to understand what it did and scurrying back to duty.

Anakin swore a little too loud, turning right back around. He’d caught what happened out of the corner of his eye, forgetting about potential onlookers as he held you up with his arms, urging you back into an empty room and sitting you down in the nearest chair.

“Where’d it get you? Right there?” He was kneeling before you, brows creased in worry, subconsciously rubbing your arms up and down as his gaze pierced into the death grip you had around your middle.

Your eyes welled with pained tears, lip quivering as you struggled to keep your cool. “I’m okay,” you squeaked. “It was an accident.” But God, did it feel like your insides were being shredded up right now.

The cramps you’d been dulling with regular doses of painkillers came back full-force, twisting and pinching and radiating all through your lower abdomen, back, thighs— god, it hurt everywhere, and you really didn’t need this today.

That thought had a pathetic little whimper escape from your throat, and you would have been able to see Anakin’s heart break if you weren’t still hunched over, trying to diffuse any of the pain at all. Anakin’s hand roamed from your arm to your back, rubbing between your shoulder blades, giving you a minute.

“I’ll have to find that droid later,” he sighed under his breath, sinister. “But first, we should get you into bed. I don’t want you working any more today.”

The fact that you actually nodded in agreement was a very bad sign. Anakin wished he’d grabbed that stupid droid as soon as it passed you and broke its damn neck. Some sensors were clearly missing, anyways.

He wished he could carry you, but it was the middle of the day and too many people were walking around the temple. “Can you walk?” He asked tenderly, ducking his head to try and catch your eyes.

“Yeah,” you grit between your teeth, wincing as you straightened up and pushed yourself to your feet with a great big breath. It ached, the worst you’d ever felt, and you couldn’t walk without leaning forward, pressing a hand to your tummy as if it would help at all. Anakin took your other hand and led you out of the room, through the halls, and to your room.

His com started beeping as soon as he closed the door, answering it with an exasperated, “Not right now, Ahsoka. I’m busy.”

You’d have scolded him for snapping at his Padawan, but you were too focused on beelining to your bed, needing to sit again.

“Shit,” you swore under your breath. Your sheets were still in the dryer from this morning. “I forgot to make my bed,” you explained to Anakin once he caught up from the other room.

“Let me draw you a bath. I can make it in the meantime,” there was no room for argument as he slipped past you to the bathroom. “Come. Sit,” he held out a hand, almost stern, and once you took it, he nudged you to sit on the lip of the bath as he leaned in to twist the knobs.

He was mother-henning.

One of his hands remained on your knee as he fiddled with the knobs until he got the right temperature, testing it with his own hand before deeming it acceptable.

“Hands up,” he demanded, turning to you after shaking the water droplets from his fingers.

“Anakin, I can undress myself…” you cringed. Really, you didn’t want him to see how bloated and gross you probably looked. It’s how you felt at least. Even if you logically knew it wouldn’t even phase him, you’d rather take care of this business yourself.

“Alright,” he surprised you, giving in with little argument. “Can I just see, though? I want to make sure it didn’t bruise you.”

“I don’t think it did,” you said softly. “Just hurt really bad cause, yaknow… but you can see after.”

“Okay,” he stood, kissing you on the head on the way up. He grabbed a towel from the hanger behind the door and folded it on the sink for you to grab easily. “I’ll be right outside.”

“Aren’t you busy, though? You don’t have to stay with me.”

“I’m not busy,” he lied, and you gave him a pointed look. “None of it’s very important, at least.”

You were too tired to argue, plus you did really want him to stay with you. So you just nodded and whispered, “thank you,” as he closed the door.

With him gone, you finally allowed your face to twist into the pained grimace you’d been holding back, not wanting him to see how bad it truly hurt— was still hurting. Whatever that droid did, it must have knocked something loose, because it never usually hurt this bad.

With some deep, measured breaths, and lots of quiet swearing, you got undressed and cleaned up a little before getting into the bath, sighing in relief as your sore muscles relaxed in the hot water. You leaned your head back and closed your eyes, chest warming at the muffled sounds of Anakin walking around your room, making your bed and talking to someone on his com: something along the lines of, “Leave me alone, I’ll do it tomorrow. Yes, I’ve already given the report, have some faith in me, why don’t you? No, it wasn’t last minute— by the way, there’s a CC-4 walking around missing some sensors—“

You didn’t stay in the bath for long, not wanting to keep Anakin waiting. Plus, it was making you sleepy and you wanted to get into bed so you could sleep away your woes.

Cringing with every movement, you lifted yourself from the bath and rushed to get everything cleaned and covered before you made a mess on the floor. You pulled your robe on from its hangar and exited the bathroom in considerably much less pain, pleased to see Anakin finishing tucking the sheets into the mattress, having laid out some snacks and a big glass of water on your desk. As you grew closer, you also found a little napkin with some pain pills on it.

“You should take those,” he instructed over his shoulder, and you smiled softly, picking them up and swallowing them with water.

“Thanks for all this, Ani,” you said, crawling onto the newly made bed. “Are you really gonna stay?”

“Of course,” he pulled the blanket right up over you before you could even reach for it. “Obi-Wan’s covering for me. I’m all yours tonight.”

“You should buy him a cupcake or something, it’s very nice of him to do that,” you muttered, already reaching for his belt and tugging on it loosely . “Can you get in bed with me?”

“Alright, alright,” he chuckled, unclasping his belt and laying it carefully on your desk. He kicked his boots off and slid in right beside you, and you instantly sighed, melting into his warm chest, arms circling around you like it was second nature. He let you shift around until you were comfortable, leg slotted between his, draped half-on and half-off his chest, head tucked right below his chin.

Another achey cramp washed over you, urging you to take his flesh hand and direct it over your lower abdomen, right where it hurt the most; which was also where you got hit.

“You said you’d show me,” he reminded gently.

Your response was muffled by the material of his robes. “It’s not bruised. I’ll show you later.”

You couldn’t see, but he smiled at your slightly slurred voice, your smaller hands gripping his large one to keep it over your tummy. He loved knowing that just his touch could give you so much relief. “So sleepy,” he teased, lips skimming over your forehead.

He breathed you in deeply for a long moment, rubbing your tummy in gentle motions. It ached at first, but soon the motions and the warmth of his hand eased away the pains, massaging you with just the right pressure to make it feel much, much better. You sighed in relief.

“I’m sorry you don’t feel well,” he whispered, though you were already half asleep.

“‘Ts okay. It’s unavoidable.”

“I’m still sorry. I wish you didn’t have to be in so much pain all the time. I wish I could take it away from you.”

You almost laughed at what you could say in response to that, but he was being serious, so you were too. “You’re making me feel better now, Ani.”

He sighed, squeezing your waist with his metal arm. “I love you.”

“I love you,” you kissed his collarbone.

He huffed a gentle laugh, and you relaxed further into him, putty in his arms. Anakin just had a way of making you feel so warm and so safe, your brain just goes quiet whenever you’re around him.

He slowed his hand on your belly, easing the pressure just a bit so you could tumble into unconsciousness. Somewhere between watching you sleep, roaming his hands over each of your aching muscles, front to back, and fiddling with the ends of your hair, he followed you into unconsciousness.

#requests #anakin skywalker #anakin x reader #anakin #anakin x reader fluff #anakin fluff #anakin skywalker fic #anakin skywalker x reader fic #anakin skywalker x reader fluff #anakin x reader fic #fluffy anakin

[writeforfandoms]

The Hanging Tree

Find my CoD masterlist

You've known Johnny for years, and for a long time you thought all the codes and prep you two went through was just to assuage his paranoia. Until he sends you a code and you have to get out fast.

Johnny “Soap” MacTavish x f!reader

Warnings: Graphic violence, mild panic attack, minor character death, blood, gunshots, threats of violence, threats of death, spy shit, angst, whump, feral Soap. 

Word count: 5.1k

In all the years you'd known Johnny, you had gotten to know how he worked quite well. He was occasionally prone to over exaggerating, and sometimes was dramatic. But he had never been flippant about your safety. Never. 

Which was why, when you got a text from him that said simply "hanging tree", you stopped breathing.

And then you bolted for your room. 

For all his planning and paranoia, Johnny had never actually used any of your safety codes until now. 

You stuffed some clothes and necessities in a bag, grabbing the bundle of cash you kept hidden. For Johnny to have used this sign was… bad. Bad enough that you knew you couldn't use any of your credit cards or anything. 

Briefly, you cursed yourself for not taking him up on his offer of packing you a bug-out bag. 

But you were still out the door in under twenty minutes, locking up behind you and starting to walk. 

You and Johnny had gone over the route before, multiple times. A few times on foot, more often only verbally, until you could recite the way unaided. 

You treated your memory now, reciting the directions to keep yourself calm as you left your home behind. For all you knew, you would never see it again. 

A deep breath helped to calm you, a bit, and you took the first turn. 

It wasn't late, fortunately, so you passed people as you walked. You smiled and nodded to those you knew, but didn't linger. It was best to move quick, but not so fast as to attract attention. You could practically hear Johnny reminding you of that. 

You paid for a ticket in cash to your first stop, three towns over. From there, you'd go west a ways, then back north a bit. It was a roundabout route, but necessary. 

Just in case anyone was trying to follow you. 

The sun had set by the time you got onto the second bus, your breath fogging up the window ever so slightly as you leaned your temple against the cool glass. You almost felt like crying, or asking him if he was sure, or anything. 

But his instructions had been very clear. 

"If you ever get this signal from me, you leave. Immediately. Don't linger. You remember the route?"

You had rolled your eyes. "Of course I remember, Johnny. Do we need to go over it again?"

He'd laughed quietly, pressing an almost apologetic kiss to your forehead. "Nah, sorry, hen. I know you know. I just–"

"Fuss. You just fuss." But your smile was unmistakably fond as you gazed at him. 

"Dinnae fuss," he grumbled. "Anyway. You get that signal, don't contact me. Right? This is important."

"Get out as fast as possible, follow the route, watch my six, don't contact you," you reiterated, almost flippant. Almost. "I know, Johnny. Is there… is there a reason you're doing this now?"

"No," he assured you. "No, just makin' sure, I promise you." 

You had smiled then and let him distract you with kisses. 

You breathed out hard, blinking back tears. No. You didn't have time for that. Safety first, then crying. Maybe. 

The transition to the third bus was a long one - the busses didn't run as frequently this late. So you got to sit in the terminal and wait, backpack on your lap, playing on your phone (on airplane mode) to keep yourself busy. 

Fortunately, from the looks you chanced around, you didn't recognize anyone. It didn't look like you'd been followed. That was something of a relief. 

Finally, you boarded the last bus. Setting your backpack down on the floor in front of you, you stared down at your phone. The urge to text Johnny, to call him, to ask if he was alright and demand to know what was going on, was… it was hard. Your next inhale was a little shaky and you swallowed hard. 

And stuffed your phone back in your pocket. 

Johnny had been very clear, and the instructions were for your safety as well as his. 

You couldn't contact him. You just had to get to safety and wait. 

The last bus stopped, and you got off. It was the middle of the night now. The sky was clear and cold, stars twinkling down at you, the moon bright. You started walking, shivering a little, keeping a close eye on everything around you. 

But nobody else got off the bus, and nobody followed you. 

From here, it was a long walk to the cabin. Johnny insisted on that, said that a secluded place would be safer. In case he needed to patch himself up without nosey neighbors calling him in, or he needed to lay low. 

The end result was that you were walking for a lot longer than you really wanted to. The chill wore off after a while, at least. 

Nearly-numb fingers fumbled the cabin key out of your backpack, and you unlocked the door, flipping the lights on. The cabin was cozy, not large but well furnished, and always stocked with non-perishables. The door shut behind you with a soft click, and you locked it. 

There was only one bedroom, and you claimed it as yours. Since Johnny had sent you all the way out here, he could take the couch if he got in while you were sleeping. You left your backpack next to the bed, stripped down enough to be comfortable, and collapsed. 

The room was bright when you woke, and you groaned. For a moment you thought about pulling the pillow over your head and going back to sleep, but no. You needed to get up. 

Groaning again, you dressed in clean clothes from your backpack and padded into the kitchen on bare feet. No sign of Johnny yet. No anybody at all, actually. 

Sighing, you went through your options for breakfast, and settled on a protein bar. Not exciting, but it would do. At least he had tea here. 

The day passed achingly slowly. Johnny had left plenty of books and board games in the cabin, even a TV and DVD player. But nothing held your attention for long, not with the low-level anxiety as your constant companion. You barely even felt hungry, picking through the available food with a choosiness entirely unlike you. 

Not even a hot shower helped to quell the anxiety. Every minute without an update felt like an eternity stuck in purgatory. 

The second day dragged just as slowly as the first. You left the TV on all day, playing movies without paying attention to them, just for the background noise. Just to have something outside your own head. 

Because the possibilities running non-stop through your mind were terrifying, now. 

You forced yourself to eat and keep hydrated. You cleaned. (You'd helped choose the cleaning products, you remembered a playful argument with Johnny over rags of all things, remembered whapping him in the chest with your chosen towel, remembered shrieking laughter as he chased you outside and tackled you down into the grass–) 

One book caught your eye. One you'd thought you had lost years ago. Johnny had sworn up and down that he had no idea where it was. 

Fucking liar. Your laugh cracked into a sob, and you pressed a hand to your mouth, suddenly terrified of making too much noise. But the tears didn't stop for a long time. 

The third day felt a little… listless. Surely Johnny should have come by now, or sent one of his friends? Surely it wouldn't be so bad to turn your phone back on and check for any messages? 

A knock on the door a couple hours before sunset startled you so badly you knocked over your water. You swore softly, gaze darting to the door. 

Someone called your name from the other side of the door. Not Johnny. Someone with an English accent, smoother than you would have guessed of one of his teammates. 

"Soap sent me," he called through the door. "I'm going to take you to him." 

You dropped a towel silently on the spilled water, aching to open the door. But you didn't know any of his teammates, not really, and you couldn't confirm one way or the other. You needed something more. 

"Ah, he said he'd get you ice cream?" The man sounded confused now, but still pleasant. 

And you relaxed. That was the all clear. You practically bounded to the front door, yanking it open. 

"Finally," you breathed, looking him over. Dark, nondescript clothes, dark hair, dark eyes. "Is he here?"

"Close," he answered, a little evasively. "I'm taking you to him." 

"Let me just grab my–"

"Leave it." 

You jerked a little, startled at his tone. He smiled apologetically. 

"You'll be back here soon. Might as well leave it. We need to go now." 

You hesitated. Something didn't feel right. But you'd been anxious for days - maybe that was still throwing you off? Or the lack of good sleep? He'd given you the all clear, it should be fine… 

"Okay," you agreed softly, grabbing your shoes and shoving them on. The cabin door closed behind you and you started towards the car parked in front. Black sedan, tinted windows. "How far are we going?"

"Oh, not far at all." Something jabbed into your neck and you shrieked, trying to tear away. But he anticipated that, one arm winding tight around you as the needle left your skin. "You'll sleep right through it." 

The world started to tip under you, at once too bright and blurring together. Your limbs felt thick and clumsy, uncoordinated. 

The last thing you felt was leather under your cheek. 

Throbbing in your temples woke you, insistent and annoying. You groaned softly, squeezing your eyes shut before opening them carefully. The sudden flood of light made you close them tight again with a whimper, pain radiating all the way to the base of your skull. 

Trying to lift your arm to block the glare didn't work, and you panicked then, a little. You couldn't move either hand, or your legs. When you tried, something rough rubbed against your skin, quickly rubbing you raw. Your breathing sped up in your panic and you carefully opened your eyes, head tilted down to try to minimize the light. 

You didn't recognize anything. You were tied to a chair, the rope tight enough to prevent you from moving much, but you could at least still feel all your fingers and toes. Quick looks around showed nothing but a bare wooden room with a spotlight set up directly across from you. The light was so bright it hurt your eyes, and you gave up trying to see anything directly around it. 

You had no idea where you were. You were tied up snugly enough that you couldn't escape. And you were alone. 

This time, there was nothing you could do to stop the panicked tears. Despite knowing it wouldn't help, you couldn't stop yourself from jerking at the ropes, trying desperately to find some weakness. 

The click of a door opening may as well have been as loud as a gunshot. You stopped breathing, stopped moving, stopped everything. Footsteps approached you, smooth and even. 

"Ah, you're finally awake. Just in time." 

It was the man from the cabin, the one who'd given you the all clear. You sucked in a gasping breath, trying to form words. 

"Best not. You're only here as incentive. I only need you alive, not unharmed." 

You swallowed hard at that, at how casually he threatened you. Your mouth closed without a word. 

"Good. Now, you just sit there and look alive." He chuckled a little at his own joke, stepping past you to fiddle with something just underneath the light. You couldn't see what it was - between the headache still incapacitating you and the man's bulk, you were useless. 

You nearly started crying again but swallowed it back with enormous effort. You needed to be quiet. You needed to not give this man a reason to hurt you further. Johnny would figure this out, you had no doubt that he'd find you. 

You needed to be alive for him to find. 

The man moved behind the light again, and you winced at the brightness. 

"Mr. MacTavish." His voice was lower now, drawling, insulting. "You have been making yourself quite a pest these last weeks, haven't you? You know more than you should. But you're not the only one." 

Your eyes had finally adjusted enough to the light to see the little red light underneath. He was recording this. He was making a video to send to Johnny. You swallowed again, gripping the chair tight to hide your trembling. 

"By now I'm sure you've noticed something is missing. Well, here she is. Still alive, as you can see. At least for now." 

The click of the revolver was loud in the otherwise-silent room, and you squeezed your eyes shut. He was going to kill you. He was going to kill you and send the video to Johnny. Johnny would never survive that, he'd never get over it, this would destroy him– 

"She is still alive by my grace, Mr. MacTavish." Something cool brushed the skin of your temple, making you flinch hard. But the gun didn't retreat, just shifted down to just under your ear at the hinge of your jaw. "Now, I propose a trade. If you cease your actions immediately, I will let her live. If, however, you continue on your current course…" The gun left your skin but a moment later there was a loud bang. You screamed, ducking your head down, unable to help yourself. Your ears rang with the shot, unbelievably loud in the enclosed space. 

"Well, I think you get the picture. Decide quickly, Mr. MacTavish." 

The man took a step away from you and you looked straight at the camera, eyes wide, heedless of the tears streaking down your cheeks. 

"Johnny, don't–" 

The pistol whipped across your temple. For a moment, you didn't feel anything. Then pain blindsided you, warm wetness flowing from your temple freely to mix with your tears. You choked on a gasp. 

"Tick tock." The man sounded completely unbothered, steps just as smooth as ever. He must have turned off the video, because you heard rustling sounds, and a moment later he spoke again. "That was quite foolish of you. Let's hope, for your sake, that you remain quiet now. Or my patience may wear out." He walked across the room without turning off the light or unbinding you. 

The click-shink of the door closing and locking sounded terribly final to you. 

–

Soap felt like he was losing his mind. He'd sent the code to you three and a half days ago. It had taken a while for him to get to his selected agent to exfil you, making sure he knew the protocols you two had in place. 

But the soldier had reported back that you were gone. The cabin had clearly been inhabited, your backpack was still in the bedroom. 

But you were gone. 

Soap knew you, knew you wouldn't take off without your things and without reason. Especially not since he'd been drilling the importance of your safety into you for years. 

Something had happened. Someone had gotten to you first. Based on the lack of blood or visible signs of struggle, someone had gotten to you and given you the code. 

This had been an inside job. Someone had known all of his contingencies and gotten to you. That narrowed the pool considerably. 

But still not enough. 

"Soap."

There had to be more he could do. He needed to be searching for you, he needed to make sure you were safe, he needed to–

"Johnny!" 

He blinked when Ghost grabbed his shoulders, physically forcing him to stop. Soap took a deep breath, feeling like it was the first he'd taken in hours.

"Calm down. You're no good if you're panicking." 

Soap snarled, pulling away from Ghost. "I need ta get ta her! She cannae get hurt, no' fer me." 

"We will find her," Ghost said, crossing his arms over his chest, immovable. "And when we do, you need to be sharp." 

"Ah am!" 

"You've gone full Scot." 

Soap swore, and then swore again because Ghost was right. Not that he had a chance to admit it. 

His phone pinged. For a moment, neither man moved. Then Soap pulled it out, eyes going wide. 

There was a video message from you. 

He hit play immediately, going cold as he watched. Your scream sent his heart all the way down to his feet. His hands were shaking. 

He knew exactly who had you. Who, but not how or where. 

His phone was plucked out of his unresisting hands and Ghost was saying… something. Soap couldn't hear past the roaring in his ears. 

You were supposed to be safe. You were supposed to be away from all the shit in his life, safe from the darkness and the filth. 

And now this one man held your life in his hands. 

"--p. Soap. C'mon." Ghost pushed him a little, and as the rage and panic receded enough for him to feel more or less cognizant, Soap realized he was being herded to Price's office. 

"Soap, Ghost." Price looked between the two, eyes narrowed. 

"Captain." Ghost held out the phone without another word. Soap didn't watch, couldn't watch from where he stood, feet too heavy to move on his own. 

But the sound of your scream… that would haunt him for the rest of his life. 

"Fuckin' hell." Price leaned back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his mouth. "When was this sent?"

"Just a few minutes ago." 

Price nodded, setting the phone down very gently. "I'll see if we can get any location data from the message." 

"And the rest of it, sir?" Ghost didn't move, didn't even shift his weight. But the tension in the room was undeniable. 

Price breathed out slowly. "He's targeting Soap," he murmured with an apologetic glance at the Scot. "Means he doesn't know the rest of the 141. Everything was addressed just to Soap. For now, we'll back off to recon only." 

"Copy that." Ghost did finally glance at Soap. "And her?"

Price was silent for several moments. "We have to assume she's alive." 

Something in his chest loosened with his captain's confidence. Price assumed she was alive, so Soap would too. Just because she'd been bloodied didn't mean she was dead. 

But it did mean that the arsewipe who thought he could hurt you would pay dearly for every drop of blood he spilled. 

It took far longer than Soap was comfortable with for Intel to find you. (Any time was too long, any time spent with that rat bastard was unacceptable, the sound of your scream echoing in his head on repeat, your blood-stained skin etched behind his eyes.) 

But they did find you. Price organized the raid. The best and worst thing? He hadn't taken you far. A couple hours from the cabin. Not far at all, in the grand scheme of things. 

Price led, with Ghost finding a good sniper spot around the back. Gaz and Soap followed Price in. The goal was to do this as quick and quiet as possible. 

The building had once been a home, but had been renovated and added on to before being abandoned. There had been no up to date plans of the interior that Intel could get their hands on. 

All they had to go off of was the video. That damned video. 

Two sentries outside. Price dispatched one, Gaz the other. Soap hung back, watching through the one uncovered window. 

No movement inside that he could see. 

The snake cam showed one more guard inside, back to the front door, focus on something further in. 

"Gaz." Price kept his voice low, almost too low to hear, but Gaz knew. He nodded, testing the door. It swung open slowly with the faintest of creaks. 

"Don't even with me, George," the guard started without turning. "Your break–" 

Price slit his throat, silencing him. The body slumped to the ground. 

Gaz went first, creeping slowly further into the house. A woman sat in a room further in, typing away on a laptop and speaking quietly into a phone. 

"...the Cayman account. Yes I'm sure. I don't pay you for your opinion, just get the money moved. Now." She hung up with a short sigh and then stood. "Ray? I need the car, Mr. Hammond will be late to his next appointment." 

Gaz moved silently behind the woman, clamping one hand over her mouth and his other arm firm around her middle. Soap pounced after her, quickly restraining her arms. Gaz dragged her outside at Price's nod. 

Price and Soap continued on, moving silently through the building. The rest of the building was clear. 

Except for one last door, in the middle of the house. Soap pressed himself to the wall on one side, Price on the other, both listening hard. 

"You see, I'll be leaving momentarily." Hammond spoke calmly, as if this was nothing more than a meeting. "I can leave you here to the tender mercy of two of my men, or I can shoot you now." 

Your muffled whimper sent Soap's blood boiling, rage tightening his muscles. 

"Don't look at me like that, it won't help you." Hammond was quiet for a few moments longer. "Well. I suppose I'll let you live for now." Footsteps approached the door, and it pulled open into the room. 

Soap lunged, tackling Hammond around the middle into the room. The first punch hit Hammond right in the eye. Soap didn’t even feel the impact against his knuckles. He didn't realize he was cursing, either. He just punched Hammond, again and again. 

Until a hand caught his, hauling him back. Soap turned, lips curled back in a snarl. 

"Easy, Soap," Price barked. "That's an order." He shoved the sergeant more or less gently in your direction. 

Price must have cut you loose, because your hands were over your mouth, wrists rubbed raw and oozing. Blood still stained your skin from the injury Hammond had given you. 

You were also the most beautiful thing in the world.

"Darlin'." Soap lurched forward, dropping to his knees in front of you, hands hovering an inch away from your face. Shame washed through him, hot and bitter. You were here because of him, you'd been hurt because of him. How could you ever forgive him, ever want to see him again? 

Except you hiccuped a tiny sob and your hands covered his, pressing them to your cheeks. You leaned into his touch, heavy and desperate as you started crying again. "Johnny," you whimpered, hands convulsing around his. 

That was all the convincing he needed. Soap pulled you in slow and careful until you could hide against his shoulder, one hand carefully shielding your wounded temple, the other rubbing across your back. 

"Yer alrigh', darlin'," he crooned. "I got ye. My sweet bonnie, my darlin' lass, I got ye." 

–

You had no idea how long you sat and cried against Johnny's shoulder. Long enough that you ran out of tears. Long enough that your breathing evened out. 

But you still flinched when someone else cleared their throat nearby. 

"Jus' my Captain," Johnny murmured to you, his hand never ceasing its soothing rubbing along your back. 

"We need to go." The Captain's voice was low and rough. You risked a careful peek over Johnny's shoulder and the Captain gave you a tiny smile, standing guard at the door. 

"Can ye walk?" 

You blinked a few times and then nodded carefully. "Slowly," you agreed. 

"Alrigh'." Johnny stood and helped you to your feet, holding you steady. Hammond was gone, something that you noted absently and were eternally grateful for. 

"Gaz and Ghost are in one car," the Captain told you both (mostly Johnny). "We'll take the other."

"Rog." Johnny kept one arm around you, helping to support you out. You tried not to look at the blood splatters on the floor and ground. 

Rather to your surprise, the Captain opened the door to the backseat for you, and Johnny helped you in before quickly scooting in next to you. 

"We'll head back to base," the Captain said as he started the car. Ahead of you, you could see the other car leading the way. "We'll need to take your statement." It wasn't until his eyes met yours in the rear view mirror that you realized he was speaking to you. 

"Okay," you agreed quietly, though the thought of having to relive the last few days sent your pulse racing. 

The drive was silent. Johnny refused to let go of you entirely, holding your hand and rubbing your knee, both relatively uninjured areas. 

You shuddered to think how you'd feel tomorrow. 

You had no idea how long the ride was. Long enough that you were nodding off against Johnny's shoulder, only to wake going over a bump. 

"Easy," Johnny murmured in your ear. "We're almost there. Then we'll get you patched up." 

You nodded, squeezing his hand. You just wanted to go home and sleep for a week and forget any of this had ever happened. 

The transition from the car to medical was… a lot. There were a lot of people and a lot of talking over your head. But Johnny refused to let go of you the entire time, staying glued to your side. 

But you still could never remember how exactly you got to medical, sitting on a cot while someone cleaned blood off your face, Johnny sitting pressed up against your side. 

"We should do this now, before you forget anything." Price lowered himself into a chair in front of you, out of the way of the nurse cleaning you up. You realized with a little start that your wrists had already been bandaged, and when you tried to lift a hand to check your forehead Johnny caught you. 

"Best not, darlin'," he murmured, low and concerned. "It's taken care of." 

You pulled in a deep breath, holding it for a moment before you nodded. Your hand fell limp unto your lap. "Okay." 

Price nodded, setting down something on his knee and motioning for you to proceed. 

You started slowly, stumbling a little. How you got the text and packed up a backpack. How you followed protocol, doing everything exactly as Johnny had planned. 

How you got to the cabin and waited. And waited some more. 

"He knew my name." You felt a little bit floaty by now. The nurse had gone, too, leaving you with the two men. "He called my name through the door." 

Johnny looked worried, squeezing your hand gently. "Did he know the all clear?" 

"He did. Not at first, he said… said you'd sent him to pick me up. But when I refused to open the door, he gave the all clear." You blinked slowly and licked your lips. 

The men exchanged another significant look. You just reached trembling fingers for the cup of water. 

Price rescued you, handing it over and holding it until you had a firm grip. "Then what?"

You sipped the water and shrugged. "Well, I opened the door. He knew the all clear. He told me to leave my things, because we needed to go." You paused, tipping your head a little. "I think he drugged me. It gets fuzzy, but I think I remember something hurting my neck, and maybe being set down in the car?" 

"Okay," Price murmured. "We're almost done. When did you wake up?"

Your hands started shaking. "A few minutes before that video." 

"You don't need to tell us about that," Johnny was quick to assure you, shooting Price a look as if to keep him from objecting. "What happened in between waking up and the video?"

"Not a lot. He didn't say much, just said…" You swallowed hard, hand clutching tight to Johnny's. "Said he needed me alive, but not necessarily unharmed, so I should behave." 

Johnny rubbed your knee soothingly. "That should be enough, aye, Captain?"

"Just one more question." Price leaned forward a little. "After the video ended… what did he say?"

You looked away, swallowing roughly. You didn't think you could physically cry anymore, but you wanted to. "That what I did was foolish, and I should remain quiet or he'd kill me." Your next inhale was shaky. "He wasn't planning to let me leave alive no matter what Johnny did, was he?" 

"No. He wasn't." Price turned off the recorder and patted your knee. "Get some rest. You too, Soap." And then he was gone, striding away. 

You leaned more heavily into Johnny, exhaustion pulling at your eyelids. "Are we done?" You couldn't raise your voice above a murmur. 

"Yeah, we're done. You did so well, darlin'. So well." Johnny pressed feather-light kisses to your temple and cheek. "Drink the rest of that water, aye? You're dehydrated." 

You drank, and then laid back in the cot when Johnny helped. His hand leaving yours caused you to struggle into sitting again, a pained noise leaving you. 

"Easy, darlin', easy," Johnny assured you. "Just moving this cot so I can get some sleep too." He dragged the cot right next to yours and then laid down, once again holding your hand. There was open pain in his gaze as he looked you over again. "I am so sorry."

"Don't. Don't apologize for him. It's not your fault." You held tight to his hand, frowning and ignoring the pull of the butterfly bandages at your temple. 

"But–"

"No. They chose to do awful things, not you. Don't take the blame for them." You dared to scoot a little closer to him. "Please, Johnny. Don't let this destroy either of us." 

His eyes widened and a moment later he was curled around you, trembling minutely. His breathing was fast and shaky, unsteady. But you held firm through it all, lifting one hand to rub at the soft, prickly short hairs on the side of his head until he calmed. 

"You're a bloody marvel," he finally whispered, breath warm against your collarbone. "And you need to sleep."

"Stay?" You pressed your hand to the back of his head, gently holding him. 

"As long as you'll have me," he vowed, quiet and sincere. "Maybe even a bit after that." 

"You'll be waiting a long time," you murmured. Your eyes were closed and you couldn't pry them back open. Thoughts were hard to keep track of. 

"Wouldn't have it any other way, darlin'." 

You meant to reply, you really did. But between thinking of a response and trying to actually say it… you fell asleep. 

But you wouldn't have it any other way. 

#john soap mactavish x reader #soap x reader #soap x you #mind the warnings

[icybluepenguin]

The Sweetest Screams

Summary: Astarion relives a night of torture under Cazador. You wake him up and help him feel better by telling him how you see all the parts of him. Inspired by his lines “I am more than what you made me” and “I feel safe with you. Seen.” This is kind of exploring how he got there.

Pairing: Astarion x gender neutral Tav/reader

Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Dark, Whump, Torture, Graphic Description, Emotional Abuse, Physical Abuse, Cazador, Godey, breaking bones, cuts, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Emotional Comfort, feeling seen & safe, Praise, Love, Astarion Has A Bad Time, I'm Sorry, but then he gets put back together again with lots of love and fluff

Note: Extra extra thanks to @brabblesblog and @leomonae for taking their time to beta & edit this. 💙 Go check out their work, they're amazing!

This link will take you past the torture, if you want to read the comfort/fluffy part: Skip hurt only comfort (goes to Ao3)

---

“Astarion…”

The dark singsong voice in his head sent a shiver down his spine. It was cloyingly sweet and full of false enticement. 

He balled up the shirt he'd been working on and hurried to hide it, together with his needle and thread. He didn't want his siblings to find them; he knew he wouldn't be able to come back for a while. 

“Come to me, child.”

Astarion had no choice but to obey. 

What had he done wrong? Has he not been the very model of obedience lately?  Even his siblings had noticed, calling him the master's little lapdog. Had he not brought back a beautiful half-elf for his master? 

He huffed at himself.  As if it ever mattered what he had or had not done. There was only one thing that tone of voice meant. 

Astarion knew where to find him. Even without the vague sense he always had of where his sire was, Astarion knew what to expect tonight.  

The master was bored. 

Astarion made his way down dark hallways, his feet moving on their own.  He felt like he was floating.  He passed no one on his way– was that his mistake tonight? He had come back too early, before the others, and so was the only target? 

The stench of the kennels wafted over him as he opened the door.  Decay, despair, rust.  Fetid and heavy.

The master was there, as expected, sitting in an ornate chair that had been dragged in just for the occasion.  A body slumped on a table next to him; still alive, but barely.  The man Astarion had brought back not two hours ago, now with a huge, dripping gash on his neck.  The scent of blood made Astarion feral, his hunger roaring through his dread. 

It was going to be a long night. 

“Is this how you greet your master, boy?” 

The master dragged a finger through the oozing blood on the body, bringing it to his lips to lick it off.  Astarion's mouth watered, his whole body aching for a taste of it. 

Astarion knelt, back straight and head bowed. “Good evening, Master.  H-how can I serve you?”  He hated the tremble in his voice he could never get rid of.  Hadn't he been tortured enough by now? Shouldn't it not bother him any longer?  Why must he be so weak? 

“Remove your clothes.  We do not want them getting stained, do we?  They are already pathetic.”

And whose fault is that, Astarion couldn't help but think, and then cowered into his own mind, stripping his shirt off faster, as if it would erase his blasphemous thought. He folded his clothes with trembling hands, quickly, terrified to be seen as anything but obedient.  

“We will make lovely music for the master, won't we, little one?” Godey chattered as Astarion placed his folded bundle somewhere the spray of blood wouldn't reach it.  “We are so lucky he is joining us tonight.  We will put on a good show for him.”  

The skeleton’s genial, eager voice washed over Astarion as he planted his feet, shivering uncontrollably, his eyes unfocused and pointed at the wall. There was nothing to do now but endure. He couldn't stop this. 

“Start with his face, Godey. I want to see his lovely features covered in bruises.”  The master took another drink from the body, blood coating his lips. “And you, Astarion. Stand still and scream prettily for me.”

Godey's bare finger bones creaked as they folded into a fist.  Astarion closed his eyes, knowing that bracing for the blow was useless, but the instinct hadn't died yet.  Pain bloomed across his cheek; he barely had time to gasp before the other side was punched - harder.  It split his lip, his own blood bright on his tongue.  

He swayed on his feet, dizzy and starving.  When was the last time he ate?  The scent of rich, fresh blood filled the air, the master playing with his meal as he watched.  Astarion, so, so desperately hungry, almost bared his fangs for a taste.  He could never touch that blood, even if he were not too weak to take it.  But he wanted it so badly even the cracking of his cheekbone from the rain of blows didn't ache as much as the hunger did. 

Astarion knew what the master wanted. A tiny, contrary part of him– a part he had tried hard to crush–  demanded he make the master earn his screams. He could indulge in this small withholding, this smallest sip of power, couldn't he? 

It wouldn't matter either way. They would destroy him, it was inevitable as the sunrise. 

He could barely see now, his eyes swelling nearly shut. His head was spinning. He staggered down to his knees, hands splayed in front of him to keep him from falling on his ruined face.  He thought there were tears, but he couldn't feel them. 

“Do not slouch, boy.”

Astarion tried to stand, but his brain seemed to slosh in his head and he collapsed back down. The earliest wounds were already starting to heal.  But it was slow- it had been so long since he'd fed.

“Weak,” the master sneered, the word full of disappointment and disgust. “I told you to stand still. Such a simple command and yet you cannot follow it.”

Godey’s hand grabbed his hair, the bones scraping on his scalp, pulling back to bend his neck at a cruel angle. There was something in its other hand, something red with dried blood.

When the blade touched his skin, he begged. It was what they wanted. In a slurred, breathy voice, he begged for mercy, for forgiveness, for the knife to stop slicing his skin into hideous art.  

He begged for death. 

It did not matter. There was no rhyme or reason to this. 

His pleas were worthless. He was worthless. Nothing he did changed anything, now or ever.  He was nothing. Weak. 

“Please, I'm sorry… Just kill me, please, let me die…”

The master sighed with frustration.  “Always such yapping from you.  Are you never out of words?”

His only purpose was to be entertainment.  For his master, for his victims.  He only existed to be pleasing, and his pain was pleasing to them.  

He couldn't even do that right. 

The master stood. Astarion rocked back and forth, whimpering, trying to pay attention to the master's movements, to anticipate what the master would want from him, but the burning, stinging, overwhelming pain consumed him. 

An elegant hand held something wriggling and squeaking to Astarion's face.  

Fresh.

Alive. 

It's a trick. 

His body acted before he could think.  He snatched the treat with greedy hands and sank his fangs into its twisting body before it could be taken from him.  He drained it in huge gulps, finishing far too soon, sucking on its empty body long after it had ceased to give him blood. 

“Disgusting.  Have you no manners, boy?” 

The master's eyes glowed a brighter red and magic seized him, yanking him to his feet. 

The rat dropped from his mouth and he whined, still starving. His wounds were healing faster, burning through what little nourishment he'd gotten. He knew it was a trick, food was always a trick. It didn't matter. He wanted more. 

His body was contorted, forcing him back to his knees, arms extended in front of him. 

The master grabbed his chin, examining the closing cuts on his face and the rat blood that had dripped down his neck.  “Not even a ‘thank you’ for your dinner?  What an unruly child.  After all I have done for you–  such wasted effort.”  His palm cracked across Astarion's face, making his head snap to the side, making his broken cheekbone shriek with renewed vigor.  “At least we have stopped your yapping, for once.”

Haven't I been obedient, didn't I bring you a beautiful meal? he wanted to wail.  What more can I do?

The master wiped his hand clean of blood on Astarion's hair and returned to his chair.  “I have not heard him scream yet. Break his hands. That is always a delightful sound.”  

“Oh yes, we haven't done this in a long time. Last time, you sounded so pretty, little one,” Godey hummed as it rummaged for something out of Astarion’s sight.

Astarion's stomach dropped like a stone, his muscles yanking helplessly against the magic. Beat him, flay him, drain him, but–

He sobbed, “Please, I've been good, please, I'll be so good,” knowing that mercy did not exist in this room. They would cut him and break him until they tired of it, dragging his pulverized body to one of the blood-stained palettes until he healed enough to do it all again. 

And again.  

And again. 

“Stop making such a fuss, little one. Godey will take good care of you, just like always.” The skeleton raised a pair of large pliers into Astarion's view. 

The metal jaws were intensely cold on his finger.  No, no no-

He screamed for them. He screamed until his throat was raw, until his voice was gone, and still he screamed. The master's pleased laughter cut through his own noises to ring in his ears. The master's delight wouldn't save him. Nothing would save him from the crushing, crunching, ripping–

“Astarion. Astarion!” 

He jerked. 

There was no pain. 

The air smelled clean and… sweet. 

He stared blankly up at a face that had skin and softness, not naked bone.  

You. You were there. He was in your tent in… Rivington. Yes, that's where he was. Not the kennels. 

“You were screaming.”

He swallowed, noticing the soreness in his throat.  

“They're getting worse, the closer we get to Baldur's Gate, aren't they?”

“Well, it's not as if I have any happy memories to meditate with,” he said, trying to wave it away even though his voice was hoarse.  It was getting worse, the closer he got to home.  Instead of memories that he could replay as an observer, detached, he felt swallowed by them.  Forced to relive every torturous detail.  He held his hands in front of his face to be sure they weren't crushed to a pulp.  He could almost still feel it. 

He was desperate to kill Cazador.  Every second of delay was interminable. He wanted to be truly free of the man, to see his corpse at his feet and know that Cazador would never touch him again. And if he could take all of his potential power for himself? Even better.  

But he was also terrified to his very core to see his old master again. What if he couldn't do it? He was stronger now, but he still felt too weak for this. And what if something happened to you? He would never forgive himself.  

“I’m sorry that I woke you,” he said. “Go back to sleep, darling. I'm fine.” Guilt made his stomach twist. You got precious little sleep as it was, and he was making it worse. After all you had done for him. Ungrateful. Unruly. 

“Yeah, that's not happening. You were screaming. I'm not going back to sleep and leaving you alone.”  You cupped his face in your hands, rubbing his temples with your thumbs. “Tell me about it.”

He didn't want to; wanted to shove it down and pretend it had never happened, like every other time. He hated to burden you, to make you listen to him yapping. You deserved better.

“Astarion,” you said gently. “I know that look. Try me. Please.”

He felt so brittle under your touch. Ready to shatter into a thousand pieces if he wasn't careful.  Gods, he wanted to tell you everything as much as he didn't want to tell you a single thing. 

“It was just…” He struggled for a quip, but nothing came.  “It was a memory of Cazador's torments. Nothing special.”

“Come on.” You stood, grabbing his hand to urge him up. “We're going outside.”

“Outside?” He was completely baffled. 

“Yes.” You pulled the blanket off the bedroll and led him out, the both of you barefoot and in your nightclothes.

The moon was bright and low on the horizon, its silver light shining on you as you picked your way across camp, still holding his hand. Astarion inhaled deeply, the cool air filling his lungs.  He hadn't even realized he had felt trapped in the small space of the tent but now, as a breeze tickled his hair, he couldn't imagine going back inside. 

He couldn't stand to keep the words trapped inside either. They came haltingly at first, half-mumbled as if he hoped you wouldn't hear. But by the time you were spreading out the blanket on a patch of soft grass, the memory was pouring out. It was easier out here in the open with you not staring at him, while he choked back emotion, trying and failing to stay aloof and sarcastic about it all. 

You sat next to him, fingers laced through his in silent comfort. 

When he was done, he waited for the pity, for you to see him as a broken, pathetic thing.  He knew you couldn't make these memories go away, could never remove the pain of them.  You couldn't make it so he hadn’t lived them.  

But you surprised him again. 

You squeezed his hand just a little too hard. “We are going to destroy that rat-bastard.  There won't be enough pieces of him left to fill a chalice when we're done with him.”

He coughed, a laugh stuck in his throat from the uncharacteristic venom in your voice. “Well, I do appreciate that, darling.  It wasn't even the worst night,” he shrugged. “Or maybe it was one of many similar worst nights. Hard to pick, really.” He sighed. “It was usually one or the other of them. But nights when Cazador was bored… When he wanted to be… entertained, those held an extra layer of humiliation.”

He pulled his hand from you, wrapping his arms around his knees, curling his body around the sudden crushing pressure in his chest. Weak. Pathetic. Disgusting. Never obedient enough.  Never good enough.  

He strangled back the tears that threatened to fall. “I was nothing to them. Less than a dog. Just… an object to be broken at their whims.”

Astarion put his head on his knees, huddled as tightly as he could get, but the shame and despair and fear wouldn't stop growing. Weak. 

“And this wretched contract.  All the shit Cazador put me through, the centuries of torment… just to be consumed so that he can attain greater power?”  Why, why did that hurt?  He hated Cazador to the very depths of his soul.  Being discarded, though, even by him, being so worthless that only his death mattered at all crushed his heart. 

Bitterness twisted his lips and he huffed.  “Being consumed. That's what I was made for.”  

“Astarion-” 

“I'm only good for entertainment. I'm a toy. Sex or torture, it doesn't matter.” I don't matter. 

“That's not true at all.”

“Oh, isn't it?” he snapped, head jerking up to glare at you. “How did this start then?” He gestured between you. “You just had to sleep with the sexy vampire, didn't you.”  

He bit his lip hard. Lashing out was easier than being honest, pushing the hurt onto someone else, being the one to wield the knife for once. He cowered deeper into his knees. And after he had woken you and you were staying awake with him.  Ungrateful. Unruly.  Weak.  Pathetic. 

But you didn't rise to the bait.

“Why are you even with me?” he asked in a quiet, broken voice - the question that had been lurking in the back of his mind since you'd chosen him, the question that begged to be answered whenever he looked at you but that he could never utter, terrified of what you would say. “I’m too much wasted effort. I can't give you anything. Not sex, not safety…” 

“What in our time together gives you the impression that I am someone concerned with safety?”  There was a bit of laughter in your words, incredulous but gentle. “I was never with you for the sex.  It was nice-” 

Even drowning as he was, Astarion couldn't keep from retorting, “It was more than just ‘nice.’”  

Your slightly exasperated smile warmed his hurting heart. 

“Fine, it was mind-blowing in every way. But that was not and is not and never will be why I love you.”

You had never said it before. Love. But you said it so clearly, so naturally, as if there was no question at all, that Astarion's eyes welled with tears.  He blinked them back. 

You touched him carefully, drawing his head up to look at you but giving him the chance to pull away.  “I love you, Astarion.  All the broken pieces, all the rough edges, all the contradictory mishmash.  I love the gleeful little noise you make when we find some good treasure.  And the pride on your face after you open a particularly hard lock.  I love watching you read, I love watching you embroider, I love watching you try to learn necromancy.  Mm, if I were worried about safety, I probably shouldn't let you do that.”

Something started to uncurl from the tight, painful ball in his chest as Astarion watched you talk about him with bright enthusiasm. He hadn't realized how much attention you'd paid to the small details of him. 

“I love listening to you. I love seeing you smile. Gods above, I love seeing you smile.”  You smiled to yourself at the memory of it.  “I've watched you grow from being so afraid– understandably–  to trusting us. Trusting me enough to let me know you.  And I am so glad you did. I'm so glad you're here.” 

“And I'm beautiful, don't forget that,” he said with forced airiness to deflect, adoring the praises and uncomfortable with being so seen at the same time.

“You are unfairly beautiful. But that's not what this is about. You are brave, Astarion. You've thrown yourself into battles with goblins and cultists and a hag, fights that would have given trained soldiers a fright.  You don't take shit from anyone. Not even explosive wizards or transdimensional warriors or whatever the hells Withers is.”

Your voice lowered and you touched your forehead to his. “I love you. All of you.”

Three little words… everyone's favorite. He had used them to con hundreds of people.  Hundreds had said it to him in a lust-driven haze. This was something so vastly different.  

He could feel it.  It wasn't just three little words.  It settled in his ribs, sweet and precious and sincere.

“May I kiss you?” 

The question surprised him. But now that you had asked, he wanted it badly.  To feel connected to you, to this new life, to feel like he was wanted. 

“Please,” he said. 

But you didn't lean in as he expected. 

You picked up his hand, laying a soft kiss on each joint.  You kissed his palm, turning it over to kiss the other side. You laid another on his wrist and then did the same with the other hand, slow and methodical.  These weren't teasing or erotic. It was, he realized, as if he were a small child.  You cupped his face and pressed your warm lips to his cheek, to the bridge of his nose, to his brow.  

Everywhere that he had said he'd been hurt. 

He couldn't hold back the tears any longer. They surged up in a tidal wave, the simple kindness of your kisses flooding him, and he buried his head in your neck with a whimper.  

“Shh, I've got you,” you whispered, stroking his hair. “It's okay.”

He wrapped his arms around you, clinging like he'd be lost without you grounding him.  His hands clawed into your nightshirt;  all the longing and doubt and fear and rage that he'd been shoving away crashed over him, impossible to ignore, impossible to hold.  It poured out of him in gasping, ugly sobs. 

You just held him, rubbing his back, occasionally murmuring something comforting or encouraging. 

He cried until he was empty, until the raging storm had passed and all he felt was exhausted and drained.  His grip on you loosened, but he didn't let go. He listened to your breathing, consciously pulling air in and out of his lungs to match. It was soothing. 

He was a mess and so was your shirt.  He felt shaky and vulnerable, tender like a new wound. 

But he didn't feel weak.  

“Here, my love,” you said, holding your wrist up. “Eat.  You'll feel better.”

He almost dissolved into tears again.  There was no trick, no hidden motive, just food because he needed it.

Taking your arm, he did his best to bite gently. It was the least he could do. You hissed and tensed but wouldn't let him pull away.

“Just stings a little more than I expected. I'm fine. Eat, please.”  

It was exceedingly peaceful, watching the sky slowly lighten and the stars fade, slumped against your shoulder with the rich taste of your blood in his mouth. You stroked his back with your free hand, and he thought, maybe this was what home was supposed to feel like.

Loved.  Wanted.  Seen. 

-

Master Post

#my writing #This is the doc that gave me such anxiety editing #Not even because of the content #I asked for help and these lovely people gave it #And my brain went absolutely haywire with guilt lol #but it's done now my brain can calm down right #right??? #brain: outlook hazy try again later #hurt/comfort #dark fic #dead dove do not eat #dead dove fic

[bokettochild]

Fenuwhump request for day 3, how about make it about Wild & Legend, where Wild’s the one who’s injured enough to need to bite down on something while Legend it trying to treat him. Maybe they need to get a spear or something out of Wild before using a Fairy. Whump for both of them basically except for Legend it’s emotional whump.

Oh boy, this one was fun! Took me a hot tick (and it's late, whoops!) but it was worth it!

Wordcount: 5,157

Rating: Teen

Warnings: Hemophobia, panic attacks, graphic descriptions of injury and LOTS OF BLOOD

-

They’ve been wandering for a week.  

Normally, that’s expected, only normally they find at least something in their path while they do so. A village, a town, a couple of farmhouses- be they occupied or not, there’s always something. Here though there have only been monsters, and lots of them. He'd think, based off of the abundance of enemies, that it was his own time, or something very close to, except even his era has more in the ways of civilization than this! At least back home, the paths lead to somewhere, and even if homes and villages aren’t prosperous, they’re at least existent! 

Legend sighs. Maybe it's the rain, maybe the stiff joints and the sore muscles caused by the heavy downpour of the last two days is the cause of his ire. He's not usually so fussy about where he’s walking, as long as it’s on a path, although this era of Hyrule doesn't seem to have much in the way of those either. He really had wondered if they were in his time though, but the lack of civilization and the sparsity in monster species had convinced him otherwise. Not that there’s a lack of monsters, just that there’s only been three or four main types they’ve run into in the last week, and they’d all been familiar, almost easy to take down, and frankly boring. He’s used to having changing targets, things that challenge him and make him actually try in order to stay alive, but so far most of the monsters they’ve met on this journey, here in this era or in the ones before, have been familiar. Although, the strange black blood does tend to make them more violent, resilient and intelligent, so fighting them isn’t exactly easy either.  

Wherever they are, no one else seems to enjoy it either. Time looks most miserable, his armor no doubt incredibly uncomfortable while wet, but saying he’s the most miserable isn’t saying much about the comfort of the rest of them. Twilight slogs through the field, leading Epona beside him and hunching in under his heavy fur hood. Likewise, Four has donned his hood, shivering as he walks along at the center of their group, grumbling softly under his breath about whether rain is or isn’t the worst sort of weather. The consensus so far seems to be that sandstorms are worse, but by a thin margin because they’re incredibly rare in comparison. 

Personally, Legend finds hail to be the worst sort of weather, seeing as the chunks can get as large as some stones in his era, but he keeps that to himself. It’s not like Four’s asking for his opinion after all. 

“Anything?” Sky calls ahead, his sailcloth pulled over his head and, surprisingly, not soaking up the water. Legend wonders what the thing is made of, maybe he can ask later, or give it a look once they’re somewhere dry. He’d never expected it to be waterproof. 

Beside their leader, Warriors shakes his head, water dripping off the ends of the hair that’s now well and truly plastered to his face. The captain had leant Hyrule his scarf, and while seeing him without it is strange enough, seeing his hair as flat and ruined as it is, is even stranger. “Nothing, sorry, Chosen.” 

The skyloftian sighs again. They all know, from previous conversation, that rain is very much a new sensation for Sky still, and while he’s apparently past the stage of thinking the sky is falling, something he’s apparently still in the process of teaching his fellow skyloftains back home, he still doesn’t like it at all. Like the vet himself, their chosen hero seems to be wary of storms, and lightning storms for the man, as with himself, are the worst. 

Actually, you know, maybe hail isn’t so bad. Maybe lightning storms are worse, especially after Four said that your chances of being struck increase with each time it happens. Or something like that. 

“We’ve been walking for days,” Wind whines, a true testament to his frustration, because their youngest hates whining. “How is there still nothing?” 

“Because life hates us.” Four drones, “life hates us, and the goddesses are pissed we are still alive.” 

Even he stares at the smithy for that one. 

“Four,” Warriors pauses in his walking, and most of them follow suit. “Would you like me to carry you?” 

The genuine request is shut down very quickly with some foul language that no doubt would earn a very harsh stare if anyone could still see the captain’s face. Good grief, their captain looks like a drowned sheepdog with his bangs hanging that low, he desperately needs a trim (not that Legend’s offering). 

“Sumthin’s sure t’come,” Twilight tries, and it’d be assuring if it wasn’t the thirteenth time he’s said that in the last few days. “jist hod in there, sailor.” 

“How many times have you said that already?” Sky sighs. 

“Thirteen.” 

The rancher shoots him a glare and Sky chuckles, adjusting his baldric as he walks, head shaking under the white sailcloth. Strangely, he looks like the pictures of the old priestesses like that, and while Legend’s not in the best of moods, what with his hands and joints burning and aching from the rain, he still smirks a bit at the thought, although he doesn’t speak it. Catching eyes with Hyrule though, face half hidden by blue fabric, he sees a similar sort of smile playing over the traveler’s face, one that glints a bit as it turns on him, as though asking if he sees it too. He grins back, only to wince as his feet stumble some over the uneven ground. 

He flounders for a moment, almost catching his balance only to have the muddy earth slip under his newly settled feet and make him trip further. It’s Wild hand, shot out to catch his own, that stops him, and he grips back tightly as he finds his feet again, panting maybe a bit harder than necessary once he has. When he glances up to thank the champion though, he’s met with flat eyes and a blank face, none of their young knight's typical cheer and playfulness present. 

“Champ?” 

“Watch your step,” it’s not harsh, but the other’s voice is distant as the other withdraws. Wild’s been quiet for a while, since the rain started actually. Usually, bad weather is met with some hair-brained anecdote or story that has Twilight shaking his head and Time cracking secret smiles, but these last couple of days are different for some reason. Legend can’t name why, but he supposes it’s not his place to ask either, seeing as how it’s not like they’re close or anything. Maybe more so than they were before, but not nearly as much as the champion is with Twilight and Time, or Wind is with Warriors. 

Oh well, Wild being weird isn’t new either. As long as the young knight doesn’t do anything, it should be fine. Still, he makes a note to keep an eye on the kid, at least until he starts acting like himself again. For now, though, the champion walks- no, marches- along at their center, just in front of him and granting him direct view of set shoulders and a tense jaw. He’s making that same face he does when he’s in a memory, although he’s proven to be more responsive than when he fades out into one of those. Glancing around, the vet wonders if maybe this place reminds their champion of something, or maybe he’s just equally off put by the lack of people, places to stop, and opportunities to warm up by fires or cook. They haven’t been dry in over twenty-four hours after all, and that’s got to have an effect on anyone.  

“What the heck is that?” The voice of the captain has all their attention drifting to the front, watching their medic dash hair and water out of his eyes for what’s got to be the thousandth time, peering out into the rain with a squint. The rest of them follow suit, staring out and trying to make out anything against the grey sky and thick curtain of water that pours down around them. 

He hears it before he sees it. It’s a strange mechanical whirring noise, steady and unbroken, but very, very unfamiliar. He can’t even tell where it’s coming from for a moment, but then, out of the deluge around them, he sees a faintly pink glow. 

Wild, directly in front of him, stiffens, hands flying for sword and shield. 

“Cub?” 

“Guardian,” the champion bites out, and while that word means nothing to any of them, they all follow his example, arming themselves and crouching low. If the thing, the guardian, is a threat, it isn’t doing anything yet, just wandering around on long, spider-like legs that almost remind him of a tektite, or maybe a gohma. 

“Threat?” Time asks, glancing back, as though they aren’t already prepared for that very thing. 

Wild nods, sharp, firm, jaw set. 

That’s the last thing any of them are able to do either, as a moment later there’s a sharp, alarming beeping that makes some part of his soul scream in response, a red beam cutting through the rain around them, drifting over them briefly before settling on the champion, who’s closest. Harsh blue eyes blow wide at the sight, and the champion’s voice, a soft rasping whisper a moment ago, rises in a shout. “Run!” 

They scatter, like so many keese out of a cave, they dart off in all directions, Twilight swinging up into the saddle and catching Four by the belt as he does so, kicking his mare off and away even as the rest of them rely on their own two legs. Some of them slip, some of them fall, but they’re all well accustomed to moving and moving quickly when enemies appear. The important thing is not letting the red beam settle on them. He’s not sure why, but he knows, and he’s ever been one to ignore instinct. 

An explosion, not unlike one caused by a beamos, lights up the grey world not far from where they’d all been standing, and Time’s form darts across his vision as the man circles around the creeping monster as it glides on far too many legs towards their quickly fleeing group. 

“Cub, weaknesses!” Is shouted over the sound of their feet and the rain, the steady mechanical whirr of the so-called guardian sending his mind screaming in warnings that any normal person would take as a sign to book it out of there. They don’t though, because heroes never run when they should, unless it’s to run towards the thig trying to kill them. They’re a bit dumb like that. 

The champion is somewhere on his left, no, right- blue tunic standing out against the grey world, even despite the sheets of rain making it muddled against the cloudy sky and churned up earth. “Eye!” Except the blasted thing is a mechanical monster, so there isn’t an eye. Legend supposes the blinking blue and pink circle on what seems to be the front of it is rather like an eye though, and it doesn’t take much to send an arrow flying towards that point, a whisper of a prayer on his lips that it’ll do some good. 

The red beam tracing after Wind disappears, pink and blue lights blinking in and out for a brief moment as the whole creature shakes and shudders, the top part swiveling wildly for a second before turning, slowly, as the lights come on again. 

The red beam focuses on him. 

Shit. 

“Vet, run!” 

He does. He didn’t even need the warning, he just breaks into a full sprint the moment he can, boots kicking into use to give him a little extra speed. Pegasus boots aren’t nearly as effective in the rain, or on muddy ground, but it’s better than his normal speed when it’s wet and cold and his joints are aching enough to make walking miserable. Unfortunately, that does require him staying upright, something that’s exceedingly more taxing on his body as a whole. 

“Do not take it on!” The champion shouts, and Legend has no clue how the usually rasping voice of the young knight carries so clearly over the drenched field, but he can hear it as clearly as if the champion is right next to him. “Move away! Get as far as you can!” 

They rarely warn each other to not take on monsters, usually only in the case of the worst ones, but the utter and complete terror he’d seen on the champion’s face the split second before they’d all darted off had been clue enough that that is the case now. Even if the others didn’t see the champion’s face though, the run. Twilight is already out of sight, Four with him. Time stops to grab ahold of Wind and then they both plunge off into the wetness, Hyrule and Sky taking off in the opposite direction, north and northwest. 

Southwards of the strange thing, Legend’s got no chance at following any of them, and the blinking red beam fixed on him is making his steps more and more desperate as he weaves this way and that, desperately trying to throw off its aim as it trundles steadily closer, hardly hurried as the blink of its beam quickens its flash. 

In a last-ditch attempt, he throws himself down into the mud the moment he hears the blast fire. The ground in front of him bursts into flames, unaffected by the rain pelting from the sky, but at least he’d escaped. This time. 

The sound of another blast charging has him darting up, but the ground and his joints are no aid, making him slip and slide and falter for a moment before he finally gets his feet underneath him and takes off again. 

The second shot strikes the ground just a few inches from him as he darts to the side, once more at the last moment. 

“Hang on!”  

He doesn’t know why Wild’s still around, the rest of the heroes now absent by both sight and sound, but he can hear the other flying through the mud and the muck towards him, arrows pinging harmlessly off of the sides of the giant, multi-legged hell-beast that’s chasing him. For some reason though, its sights remain locked on him, not faltering even for a moment towards the champion whose breathing is becoming more and more shallow by the second, terror painted clearly in its pulses. 

The thing is getting closer, he’s losing ground. Instinct says that he’s not outrunning this thing, not even with all his magic poured into his boots to try and speed him along. The moment he runs out is the moment it catches up, and he’s not making great distance anyways. They need a new plan. 

He turns around, shield raised. 

The champion’s throaty scream rings out at nearly the same pitch as the firing laser. 

The blow makes him stumble back, force like nothing he’s faced before, even a lynel, but the mirror shield does its job, sending the horrid blue light rocketing back to its source with a flick of his arm. 

 The spidery monster stalls, lights blinking and fizzing, top spinning about again, this time for longer than what the arrow had done as the things stops moving long enough for Wild to reach it. The champion’s sword, freshly forged for the second time, swings for the legs, hacking and cutting in a motion he darts to mirror, tackling the twisting limb that’s closest. Two legs hit the ground, still writhing, sending the not-a–beast teetering and then tipping, unbalanced with the loss of two of its eight awful legs. That isn’t enough to stop it though. No, the thing’s glow returns, top spinning again, seeking them, and Wild’s hand catches his wrist before it does, the champion pulling him away. 

The red beam follows them as they dart off, and the monster does too, although it’s slowed by the loss of its legs, and a quick shot from the champion’s bow at the last moment has it spinning and fizzing again, stopped in its tracks a moment more and granting them both long enough to gain some ground. 

Wild’s hand is a vice on his wrist. 

He doesn’t dare pull away. 

Their feet slip and slide, and more than once he nearly falls, only for the hand nearly bruising his wrist to pull him up again. An arm wraps round his shoulders to steady and pull him up, Wild’s blue eyes cast all the while towards the thing behind them. There’s fear in those eyes; desperate terror that makes him almost miss the empty coldness from on the road. Makes him miss the wild child streaked with dirt and all too eager with a stupid plan. The ma beside him, soaked to the skin, dirt streaked and desperate, is like a whole different person, but even that doesn’t stop the fact that his brother is there, standing beside him and getting his ass out of danger as best he can rather than darting off as his own mind is likely demanding he do. 

Didn’t Wild say his scars came from a guardian? Didn’t he die to these things? Are they going to die? 

The mechanical whir picks up again, the steadily increasing beep that he’s quickly learning signifies preparation of a shot is sounding in their ears and they only have so much distance between themselves and the monster that outpaces them without even trying. 

“Keep running,” Wild orders, eyes finding his for a moment, startled at the contact, but the other pulls back all the same. 

Legend finds his own feet skidding to a stop, already whirling around to ask what the champion’s plan even is, but a harsh “that’s an order!” has him obeying. He's not sure if it’s the firmness, the desperation, or maybe even fear of the champion himself, but his instinct takes the lead to send him stumbling away as quickly as possible. 

This is Wild’s monster, he knows it’s weaknesses, he knows how to fight them. This is Wild’s world, he knows what he’s doing, he does. Wild knows what he’s doing, Wild knows what he’s doing Wild knows- 

The champion’s grunt of pain, a bit bac scream and the sound of something falling stop him in his tracks. 

The champion is wincing, ash floating around him, shield now notably missing as the enemy closes in on the hero who is running and darting with a speed Legend didn’t know he had in him. Running towards him, eyes locking on him, blowing wide and full of terror as they catch on the vet’s frozen form. 

The red beam locks onto the running form of his brother. 

They don’t have time. Wild doesn’t have a shield any longer and Legend’s not confident he can replicate the parry he’d done before on total accident. Their options are slim, but they have some. 

His bow is easy to equip, arrow flying off the string in a second, aim easy to take as the mechanical monster crawls steadily towards them, target never shifting. The single shot does little, save restart their timer, but that at least is something. He fires again. 

“What are you doing?” 

“Distracting!” Depleting the health, if this thing even has health. He's doing damage though, he knows that much He’s doing damage because they’re out of time for flight, it’s time to fight now. 

The champions snarls, a foreign, harsh sound that rips across scarred vocal chords, but he’s not challenged. No, instead, the other darts in, sword ready and already hacking the moment Legend fires off another arrow. The new sword screams against the metal legs of the guardian, but after some heavy, terrible looking blows, yet another twisting, writhing limb falls to the soaked earth, and the spinning head of the not-creature turns to focus instead on the champion. The red beam pulses, already too quick, eye faced away and out of sight of Legend’s bow. 

“Wild!” 

Resignation is already clear in those eyes as the other hacks away, darting and jumping and flipping about, moving too fast but not fast enough, rough voice still so harsh against his ears. “Run! I’ll hold it off!” 

He’s not going to. 

“I’ll be fine!” The champion’s voice breaks on the words. He won’t. 

The pulsing light is blinking faster than his pounding heart, lights blurring his vision as his feet slide in the dirt, running as bidden. Rather than away, he’s headed towards, but even with sword and shield raised, with all his magic streaming into aiding his stride, he’s not fast enough. 

The beam of blue light strikes Wild in the center of his chest, and it’s like time stops for a moment. The scream of his brother rings over the field, no doubt echoing in the ears of their fled brethren. He’s frozen, watching, as the champion falls, as though in slow motion, but then Wild’s body slumps against the earth and the guardian is turning on him this time and time catches up again, returned to normal, ticking on as though he hasn’t just witnessed the stuff of his brother’s nightmares. 

And yet Wild still get’s back up. 

“Go!” Those eyes are so wide, so pained, so terrified. “Zelda! Run!” 

Wild doesn’t know it’s him. Wild doesn’t know it’s him! Oh crud, Wild doesn’t know it’s him! Wild is running, stumbling, one hand to his sodden and bloodied chest and the other clutching tightly to his sword, gaze fixed on the vet with the same sort of desperation that screams and pounds fit to make Legend’s own heart burst. 

If Wild takes another shot, there’s no promise he’ll get up again. But Wild isn’t seeing Legend, he’s seeing his princess; his desperate, defenseless princess, and there’s no way in the Dark World that the dutiful knight he knows would let Zelda take the blow of an enemy, even if that means he has to make himself into a living shield. 

What to do? The things bearing down on him, target set, lights already blinking in a too quick countdown. He can’t parry the beam back twice in a row, there’s too much distance to use his sword. He can shoot but for how long? How long till it’s on him? How long till he runs out of arrows? 

Arrows! Zelda! 

He’s not sure, hasn’t time to think, hasn't time to do more than send a prayer heavenward that Hylia did more than curse him with her blood, but then it’s there, shining and bright and light arrows are at the tips of his fingers, bright and warm and pulsing as they fly to his string. He pulls back. The guardian’s light pulses once. He releases. 

The thing flies back, rolling and crashing against the wet earth, sparking and fizzing out, twitching and spluttering as the ever-present whine of its core gives out. Legend doesn’t care, he has eyes only for his wavering friend, the brother whose eyes are flickering, and legs are faltering. He tries to quicken his pace, but even as he reaches out his arms, the strain and the mud have them both tumbling down into the muck, the chapion’s breath stuttering with a pained groan as they slide and roll. 

He comes out on top, something he alters quickly, pulling himself to the side and upright, knelt over his brother’s sprawled out and boody form. He gags. 

The beams effects are immediately obvious, flesh burnt away, bubbling at the edges as blood seeps out from the wound, running thin under the rainwater but in no ways washed away by the downpour. There’s charring already, and where there isn’t is exposed muscle that trembles and spasms, veins pulsing as pained shudders shake the champion. 

Shit shit shit, he;s going to be sick, he’s going to be so sick! 

“Zel-” the pained whimper has him tearing his eyes away, wide violet finding fluttering blue, holding as one hand lifts, the champion trying to catch hold of him in some way or another. 

For a brief second, the image of his uncle, gaping wound leaking blood across the floor and into the sewage drain behind them, flashes in is head. Wild’s eyes are just as glazed over, words fumblinga nd slurring as a hand reaches clumsily for him. He catches it, pushing it down and out of his way, motions a echo of ten years ago when he did the same for the man who raised him. “H-hey-: his voice is shaking, trembling, foreign even to his own ears, “h-hang in there, y-you're- you're gonna be fine.” 

He doesn't know how to treat a burn like this. Doesn’t know how to deal with the hole that’s been seared through his brother's chest. He’s no medic, no healer, and his magic may be enough to end but it can do nothing to heal. 

“Zel,” his brother wheezes, still fighting his hands, finger slipping easily across soaked skin to grip his own, tight but not tight enough, not as tight as the bruising grip before. “y’gotta keep-” his breath stutters “-keep running. Calam-” 

“No,” Wild’s eyes aren’t focused enough to see him shake his head, but he’s not thinking about that right now. “No, no, Wild I am not leaving you like tis i got it, it’s dead, I got it.” 

“Zelda-” 

“No!” His voice is sharper than the sound of the blast, “Din dang it, Link, I’m not leaving you!” 

Wild’s blue eyes flutter open, breath straining, hands fumbling even as he tries once more to push the away, to turn his attention to the smoking hole in the man’s chest, the blood oozing out to turn the mud beneath them faintly pink, blue tunic unrecognizable beneath the crimson flow and spattered earth.”You have-” 

“I have to save you!” Not save the world, not save zelda, not save his sister or chase his destiny or leave becasue he is not leaving again! Not again! He’s not wandering off and leaving the champion to bleed out, letting precious life-blood spill down the drains of Hyrule castle as though it’s worth as much as the sewage it flows alongside. He's not taking the sword and the shield, he’s tossing them down and pressing his hands over the gaping would, trying desperately to stop the bleeding even as his vision swims and weak hands fumble against his own. 

“Princess!” 

He ignores the cry, the scream at the contact of his hands with exposed muscle, with blood that seeps between his fingers and stains them, flows past even despite his efforts to trail over skin and ruined clothes. 

He needs to close the wound! He needs to stop the bleeding and close the wound, but the hands reaching for his have become violent, clawing at his wrists and tearing to pull them away, the champion’s scream of agony rattling his heart, his mind, making his vision swim and his own breath falter and catch in a cry he can’t hold back.  

He needs the screaming to stop! 

He tears his hands away, plunging them into his bag and grabbing the first thing that gives way under his touch. For a moment he stalls, mind flicking through his inventory, praying a potion or fairy hides beneath the mounds of supplies, but he’d used his last one in their last battle and they haen;t seen fairies since Time’s world. He grabs the soft feeling thing, ripping it out of his bag and sparing uit not a single glance before shoving it towards the champion’s outh. “Bite down on this.” 

Be it in relief or desperation, his order is obeyed, and sharp teeth close tightly on the old belt, sinking into it and granting blessed silence long enough for his brain to function again. 

Blood, he needs to stop the blood. 

The blows too close to the heart, there’s no cutting off blood flow, there’s no stopping the blood seeping through except by packing the wound and praying it’s enough. Pack and bind, like Fi taught him. Use any scrap of clean cloth he’s got and hope the blood will stop long enough for someone to find them- or him to find them- or any blessed miracle to grant itself to them and provide a way to end the wound! 

His hand flied to his bag again, sorting by touch alone, finding wool socks he’s mostly certain are clean and pressing them to the wound, one hand holding them there een as another stifled scream escapes his brother, the champion’s back bowing forwards, body surging up under his hands to writhe in pain, a motion he only barely responds to, pushing back down again as his other hand paws and grasps wildly for anything, anything at all to stuff into the gaping hole that pours blood, so much blood, red crimson ooze that stains his hands and is warm, far too warm, burning hot against trembling, froze hands. 

There’s so much blood. God, why is there so much of it! Why isn’t it stopping? Why cant ke make it stop! 

His own sobs ring in his ears beside the agonized cry of his brother. He can’t even feel the grip of the champion’s fingers clawing at his wrist anymore, mind a stuttering and stalling haze as he somehow manages to press another wadded up piece of clothing to the endless stream of red. 

Bandages, he manages to process. He needs to bandage them in place, tie the packing in so that it won’t get out, so the wadded-up fabric and wool will catch the blood and stop more from coming out, make it finally stop. Stop staining his hands, stop burning, stop rolling in his stomach and pounding in his heart and clogging in his throat as his breath catches on it, lungs seizing on it, vision lost to red red red. 

Somehow, he manages to bind the wound. He doesn't know how had he doesn’t know what with, but he knows that he does and then he’s pulling Wild in, holding close and clinging, rocking slowly as the champion whimpers. 

His fingers are red, streaking red across white features as Wild’s screams fade to moans and whimpers, the champion's nails still clawing at his wrists, at his arm, painting them both in more red red red. 

He whimpers, body shaking, breath stalling, chest stammering and seizing. 

He did it. It’s bound. The blood is stopping. He did it. He didn’t run away, and he didn’t leave. He didn’t leave the blood to flow, flow, flow, dripping into the sewers, staining the stone, painting the dungeons in blood blood blood. 

He did it. He did it this time. 

He did good. 

He stopped the blood. 

#linked universe #linkeduniverse #febuwhump #febuwhump2024 #lu legend #lu wild #tw hemophobia #tw blood #tw violence #tw panic attacks #tw injury

[realbeefman]

Do you have any good house fic recs? I am Struggling with my search.

for sure! although Disclaimer, i havent been reading house fanfic for very long and ive pretty much only read house/wilson so far, SO this is more of a hilson fic rec list than anything lol

Warning Signs by out_there - oneshot, 12k words, Wilson-POV, set around the end of s3. SUCH A GOOD FIC i laughed so much while reading this. genuinely delightful. possibly my fav house fic i’ve ever had the pleasure of reading.

The Line of Thought by tevinterimperium - oneshot, 12k, Wilson-POV, set after s3 e15. THEEE classic fake-dating AU. this was the first fic i read in this fandom and it absolutely fucks. im a SAP i love a good “no homo but OH GOD THE FEELINGS” plot!!

Desert Mesa Motel - 8 miles outside of Kingman, Arizona - 12:03 AM by plorp - ficlet, 1k, House-POV, post-canon. this makes me BAWL. very very good fic but SAD. and DEPRESSING. will make you CRY/pos

How Not To Be Boring by fourleggedfish - incomplete/abandoned, 497k, Wilson-POV, AU from around mid-s5. if u like whump (which i absolutely do) u will probably like this fic. if u are squicked out by sex, u will hate it bc these guys bang 24/7. this fic had me pacing, glued to my phone, sick to my stomach, crying (several times), and obliterated my sleep schedule. i can’t rec it highly enough. every chapters includes appropriate content warnings, but some major themes that appear throughout are character death (not of main characters), the aftermath of severe child abuse, and mental illness. if any of these topics are a trigger for you, please don’t read this work.

Forsake Me Here by MonsterBoyf - complete, 8k, Wilson-POV, ambiguous setting. Wilson has intrusive thoughts about mutilating House. He tries to cope. features a lot of very graphic imagery and does an excellent but extremely accurate job of portraying an OCD-spiral that could be triggering to people. i LOVE this fic i think about it so so much.

An Inconvenient Truth by anathaema - complete, 15k, House-POV, ambiguous setting. contains the quote “You’re the suicide bomber of revelations” and is one of the funniest things i’ve ever read. plus the way in which wilson’s sexuality in this fic is handled is honestly so realistic and entertaining. HIGHLY recc this to absolutely everyone who enjoys hilson

the more it took away by scribespirare - oneshot, 10k, House-POV, ambiguous setting. Omega!House has his first heat since presenting. Alpha!Wilson helps him through it. I LOVE OMEGAVERSE AND I LOVE FUCK OR DIE AND I LOVE THE WAY THIS FIC HANDLES THIS IS JUST GRAHHHH. If u don’t enjoy omegaverse u won’t like this but i can’t make a house fic rec list and NOT include this one

Aftershocks by black_cigarette - series, around 125k in total, various POV’s, set sometime post-Tritter arc. this fic IS gen, but honestly, i didn’t know that going in and didn’t realize it wasn’t a slash fic until the very end. tldr is that wilson is brutally assaulted because house has been gambling with some unsavory people, and house helps him deal with the aftermath. this fic does not pull punches. its is extremely graphic and everything wilson goes through is described in detail. it is a messy story about recovering from brutal trauma and everything that entails. DISCLAIMER: there are sequel(s) to this series available on the author’s livejournal, but i haven’t read them and can’t speak to anything they discuss.

no need to worry (making up your mind) by scribespirare - complete, 25k, House-POV, set sometime in the early seasons. House lies about having a Jewish boyfriend to get out of visiting his mother at Christmas. Things quickly get out of hand. THIS FIC IS SOOO *tears into it with my teeth*. I love when they scheme together <3

#ty for the ask!!! had a lot of fun thinking abt which fics i enjoyed the most/stuck with me the hardest #tried to provide tws for everything but if i missed anything plss call me out #house md #hilson #housefic #house md fic recs #hilson fic recs

[theywhowriteandknowthings]

The Princess and The Duke Chapter 4: Like Real People Do.

This blog is a 18+ space, Minors, do not engage. If you are under the age of 18 you are not welcome here. Your reading and consumption of my work is your responsibility but I will endeavour to mitigate any discomfort for you, the reader, as possible. Once again, this is a 18+ space and minors should not interact. 

Specific Warnings: Smut, fluffy as fuck smut, Sex Work, Cam work, Infidelity, Step-Cest, Dave York(he always needs his own warning), Near SA/taking advantage of drunk reader, alcohol abuse, addiction/alcoholism mentions, whump, hurt/comfort, family-based trauma, someone ends up in hospital, domestic violence, drink driving/DUI, Dave York has communication issues, Dave York needs a slap.

Let me know if I missed anything!

Graphic made by me, no use of Y/N. Thank you @clawdee and @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin for beta-ing this for me!

Please consider checking out my ko-fi or patreon if you want to support me! [AO3 link]

Wordcount: 5.7k

<- Previous Chapter | Masterlist | Next Chapter->

The Princess and The Duke Chapter 4: Like Real People Do

“She’ll be home soon you know?”

Dave says, lips brushing your skin as he pulls you back against him. You whine at the way his half-hard dick presses into the small of your back. You don’t want to move, you want to stay like this, for as long as you can. But you know you’re on borrowed time. The coral-amber light of dawn illuminates your room, bathing you both in a honeyed glow.

“Fuck her.”

You grumble, you know it’s petty, petulant even, but now you’ve had a taste of Dave, there’s no going back.

“Luna, baby,” He purrs in your ear as he trails a hand down your stomach, his lips latch onto the shell of your ear as he nips gently at your skin, “You make it so hard,” He grinds his dick against your ass, as emphasis to the word hard, “To say no to you.”

You gasp at the sensation as you rub back against him. You’re already so needy for his touch, desperate to have him again. His hand slips further down your body, and you arch back into him as he ghosts his fingertips over your clit. He dips down further, gliding through your folds, gathering your slick on his fingers before rubbing slow, firm circles around your swollen clit.

“Dave, please.”

“Please what?”

“Fuck me, like this.” You mewl as you turn your head, lips parted as you look up to see Dave’s eyes blown out with desire as he leans in to kiss you. The angle is awkward, but you’ll take anything Dave will give you. Your lips press together softly, a tenderness you’d never expected with Dave but it’s more addictive than the sex. But you push that feeling down, it’s too close, too much like you’re catching feelings, which you cannot let happen.  

“Have to be quick, I meant it when I said your mom’s going to be home soon.” He whispers against your lips as he continues to toy with your swollen bud.

“Don’t care, just need you, now.” You whine as you push back against his weeping tip, manoeuvring your hips so that you’re angled just right for him to take you.

“Fuck you’re so bad.”

Dave doesn’t give you quarter to quip back at him about how he’s the one fucking his stepdaughter. His lips are back on yours as he notches himself at your entrance. You lick into his mouth as he eases into you. Your knees are clamped together, making everything impossibly close and oh-so-intimate.

“Fuck, so tight like this,” Dave growls as he breaks the kiss, panting heavily as he bottoms out inside you, “Such a sweet pussy.”

“So full.” You groan, as you feel your walls clamp tight around him.

“Can I mark you?” He huffs into your ear as his ministrations on your clit become more frantic as he finally starts to move.

“Yes, anything for you Dave, just not above the neckline, my viewers might get jealous.” You huff out a small laugh as you also think of the consequences if your mom saw it.

“Let them be jealous, you’re all mine now.”

Your pussy clenches as his words, the possessiveness unravelling any sense of feminism from your mind. You want to be his, in every sense of the word. But Dave does as instructed, settling for a spot just shy of your shoulder blade.

“Oh, you like that huh?” Dave sneers as he peppers kisses along your shoulder, “Like it when I call you mine?”

“Yes, fuck, I’m yours Dave, all yours.”

“Good girl.” He murmurs against the nape of your neck, sending shivers down your spine as he picks up the pace. His one arm is looped around your belly, holding you firm against him as he snaps his hips against your ass. The other hand toys with your clit, you’re surrounded by Dave, filled to the brim with him as he sucks and bites at your flesh. It’s suffocating but you wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Gonna come, fuck, Dave!” You cry out as your orgasm hits you hard. It ripples through you like a cresting wave, you hit your peak as you squeeze your eyes tightly shut. Hit after hit of pleasure rocks through you, making your legs tremble and you dig your fingernails into Dave’s forearm, not caring if you leave a mark. There’s nothing else on your mind but the way Dave ruts into you, fucking you through your high as he steadily reaches his own.

Your body rocks with every pulse of your cunt around his cock, making you writhe under Dave’s firm grip. Dave’s fingers continue to rub tight circles around your overstimulated clit as his thrusts get faster. Every rake of his dick through your walls makes you tremble as his rhythm starts to falter.

“Dave, please, come inside me, fill me up.”

That does it for him. In seconds he’s grunting low in your ear as he pumps you full of his spend. He finishes with a soft growl as he holds you tight against him, lips peppering your skin as he pays particular attention to where he left his mark on you.

“So, you calling me Luna now huh?”

“Maybe. You like it when I call you your stage name?” Dave buries his nose in your hairline as he breathes you in. There’s a delicious perversion to the way you both savour each other. Be it your kisses, your tender drag of fingertips over skin, but most importantly the way you seem to both be intoxicated by the other’s scent.

“I like that you call it a stage name, and that you’re so cool with what I do for a living.”

You say softly, running your fingertips over the fine, soft hair on Dave’s forearms as you cling to him. You know he needs to pull out, you know you need to pee, and shower, and actually stop fucking for at least a few hours. But you don’t want any of that, you just want Dave. Here, now, with you. Forever.

“Baby, I was watching your channel for months before I knew it was you, wasn’t shy with my tipping either. I’d be an awful hypocrite if I didn’t approve of sex work.”

You giggle as he tightens his grip around your waist, clearly just as desperate as you for this moment to last forever.

Dangerous waters.

You think to yourself, but you don’t want to sour the mood with reality, not when you can live in the fantasy just a little longer. At least until she comes home.

“I’ve just never felt like I could admit what I do to anyone, let alone someone I’m sleeping with.” You admit, guilt pooling in your belly as you squeeze your eyes shut, as if that would help numb the involuntary ripple of disgust and shame that rocks through you.

“I know you didn’t exactly choose to tell me, but I hope you know I would have accepted it, no matter what.”

Tears well in your eyes as you turn, carefully navigating his soft cock sliding out of you, sure not to hurt him as you fawn up into his soft, chocolate brown eyes.

“Dave, I-!”

“I’m home!”

Your mom’s voice hits you like a slap in the face, your skin pebbles with goosebumps as you see Dave’s smile sour. His plush lips twist into a grimace as he gently pushes you away, rolling out of your bed without another word. He dresses with lightning speed; you barely have time to put on a brave face as he reaches the door.

“See you later Luna.” 

Then he’s gone, your bedroom door closing with a soft click behind him. You hear him greet your mom with enthusiasm. The pain that bursts into your chest like the thrust of a knife is harrowing, twisting into your heart. It forces you to get up. You can’t be wrapped in the sheets stained with your combined scent, for fear it’ll drive you to despair.

You take your Bluetooth speaker into your ensuite, turning the volume up loud as Angry from the new Rolling Stones album comes on. It’s the first track so you shouldn’t be surprised, but it fits, you’re angry and you don’t want to hide your emotions anymore.

~*~

Three weeks go by and you’re planning to go out with a group of friends for your birthday. The big three-o which everyone but you seem to be panicking about.

But that’s not why you’re so bummed out.

The last few weeks have been hell, your mom has been all over Dave like a fucking rash. Every time you see him, she’s there. She’s drinking less, clearly seeing Bryce less, and that leaves no time for you and Dave. He even stopped texting back as of last week.

You feel like you’ve been played the fool, Dave got what he wanted, and he could just go back to playing the good husband – who definitely didn’t fuck his stepdaughter multiple times – and pretend that what you two did never happened.

He still watches your livestreams and you’re already in half a mind to block his account from your channel. You’ve hovered over the block button three times tonight already, bitterness poisoning you from the inside-out.

You’re finishing up your make-up when your text tone makes you flinch, smudging your mascara over your eyelid as you curse. You grab a make-up wipe to dab at the black smudge, trying not to disturb the beautiful smoky glitter look you’d spent the last half an hour perfecting.

Duke🎷: Hey, you free tonight? We need to talk.

You see red, your teeth clenching painfully as you try not to scream in frustration. You decide not to answer, putting your phone on Do Not Disturb before working to fix your make-up. You continue getting ready, slipping into a pair of black leather pants and a silk blouse before shucking on some low heels.

You spritz some perfume over your body and grab your wallet, keys, and phone, slipping them into your purse before you take one final look at yourself in the mirror. You look amazing, and you really hope Dave is around as you head downstairs; you want him to see what he’s been neglecting.

Some part of you deep down knows that he’s not hurting you on purpose, that he’s navigating the shitty prenup – the prenup you fucking drew up – as best he can. But the least he could fucking do is let you know. All he needed to do is pick up the phone and lay it out plainly for you.

Maybe that’s what he’s trying to do?

You think to yourself as you head downstairs. But it’s been three weeks, he’s not been away on business in that time. He’s been laughing and flirting and likely fucking your mom the whole time. The thought makes you sick as you feel tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. You hate yourself for how bent out of shape you are.

“You heading out?” Your mom’s voice snaps you out of your thought spiral. You look up and your heart is in your throat as you see them – both of them – in the living room, watching some shit on TV. He’s holding her against his side, just like he held you that night after he rescued you from Tristan.

His eyes go wide as he sees you, there’s a mix of horror, shame, and something darker on his face as he takes you in. You don’t miss the way his arm jerks away from your mom’s shoulders, nor do you miss the way his eyes rove over you like a starved animal.

Good.

You think as you subtly puff your chest out, making sure you maintain eye contact with Dave as you do.

“Yeah, Ashleigh’s taking me out, for my birthday.”

“Oh yeah, happy birthday hon, we should go out next weekend and celebrate!” Your mom says with a forced smile as you watch her realise that she’d forgotten your birthday, again. Dave’s mouth falls open and his face pales as he registers what’s going on.

“Sure mom, whatever, I probably won’t be home tonight, don’t wait up.”

“Ok hon, if you’re sure?” Your mom’s voice is strained as she seems to realise for the first time in your life that she’s wronged you.

“Yeah, have a good night in together.” There’s too much venom in your tone but you just don’t care, you just hope your mom is too oblivious to notice, but you see the way Dave’s face is contorted in abject fury as you cock your head to the side in mock whimsy.  

“Night hon, have a good time!”

Your mom’s voice filters through the air behind you as you try to remain calm, but you’re shaking bodily as you stride over to the Uber parked on the other side of the road. Your blood rushes in your ears as you confirm the destination with the driver. You barely register the tears already tracking down your face as you dab them away with the back of your hand. You’re just thankful you remembered to use setting spray.

You unlock your phone and see another message from Dave as you take it off Do Not Disturb.

Duke🎷: I’m sorry. Happy Birthday.  

~*~

“Happy Birthday!”

Ashleigh, Mike, and Peter cry out as a massive bowl of something blue and alcoholic is placed on the table between you. Your friends know better than to get you a cake and you smile through the pain in your chest as you pick up the bowl with both hands.

“To being old!” You crow, not believing the sentiment for a moment. You’ve never had qualms about aging, but as the elder of the group, you know you have to keep up appearances.

There’s a chorus of cheers as you take a large gulp of the cocktail, forgoing the straws to drink straight from the bowl. Ash is dressed to kill in a tight crimson body con dress with heels to match. Her blonde waves styled up to expose the lean column of her neck.

Peter is dazzling in a purple sequinned shirt, and leather trousers even tighter than your own as he scans the crowd for his date. His jet black hair slicked back with pomade as his angular face is made up masterfully, contours and highlights for days. His dark eyes are framed with massive purple bejewelled eyelash extensions you could never dream of pulling off, yet here he is, putting everyone else in the bar to shame.

Mike keeps stealing glances at you, thinking he’s being subtle as he sits in his acid washed jeans, Metallica band t-shirt, and maroon cowboy boots. His mousey hair is splintered with auburn and chocolate brown. His hazel eyes are shy, but kind. You almost feel bad about his unrequited crush on you. But he’s just not your type.

“Damn girl, you’re not messing around!” Peter laughs as he knocks back a shot of vodka before settling on one of the four straws on the bowl.

“Yeah well, I need to get drunk tonight.” You laugh as you purse your lips around your own straw as you try not to think about the reasons why. The music in the bar is thankfully low enough you’re not having to scream over it to understand one another, but it’s still too much, you don’t want to be out. There’s only one place you want to be, and you don’t want to think about it. About him.

“Your mom forget again?”

“How’d you guess?” You ask with an exaggerated roll of your eyes. All three of your friends give you a look that makes your stomach twist. You hate the pity, but you just guess it’s a natural reaction to your situation.

“At this rate, it’s the safe bet.”

Peter says with a judgemental look, clearly aimed more at your mom than you.

“Fair.” You shrug as you feel the twist of grief in your gut.

Grief for a loss you know you have no right to feel.

“You wanna go home?” Ash asks, placing a hand on your arm. She knows you too well, but you can’t go home, not right now.

“Nah, home is the last place I want to be right now, give me a minute, need to pee.”

You strut through the bar, aware of the eyes on you as you lift your head high. You fish your phone out of your purse and ignore the string of texts from both your mother and Dave. You’ve even got a missed call from your mom, and you scoff.

That’s a first.

You think to yourself as you open the camera app and set your purse down on the middle sink before getting ready to pose in the mirror. You angle the camera lens just right, so your face is cut off above your lips. You take a few shots, unbuttoning your blouse just enough to reveal your lacy bra and pushed up cleavage.

You apply a few filters on the best shot before loading your Cam Dolls account. You go to the status update section, and you know exactly what to write.

Hey Daddies, I’m out on the town tonight but I’m feeling rather glum. My Daddy forgot my birthday, he’s been awful mean, ignoring me for weeks now. I’m so horny and lonely, might just have to find some boy toy tonight.

What do you think Daddies? Does he deserve to be cucked? Let me know in the comments. 😘 Xx

You hit send and put your phone back in your purse. You know Dave will see it, and you hope it drives him mad. It’s petty, and you should be mature enough to not play such childish games, but you never thought fucking Dave would have such an impact on you emotionally.

Not that there’s anything there. You’re just horny. You have not – and will not – catch feelings.  

You lie to yourself as you head back out to get absolutely wasted with your friends.

~*~

Dave sits at his desk, fists curling and uncurling as he reads comment after comment calling for him to get cucked. He knows it’s his own fault. He knows he caused this resentment, this pain. But it doesn’t make it any easier to deal with.

He should have talked to you about the situation, found time to get you alone so he could reassure you. But he didn’t. Every time there was a window, he busied himself with work admin, working out, or cleaning the house, anything instead of being open and honest with you.

It’s not like he can tell you the full truth, no, that’d put you in too much danger, but what else was he to do? Lie? Create another alternative set of the facts to cover for his cover?

“Fuck.”

He growls aloud as he leans back in his office chair. He’s already worked out what bar you are at, the bathroom stalls and décor an easy indicator to work on. He’d scrolled through the likely bars in Austin’s Instagram profiles, selecting a range of women’s profiles, before shaking his head at the way people just advertise their location so easily these days.

It had taken him less than half an hour and he knows exactly what bar you’re at. He could just get in the car, pick you up and bring you home.

But to what end?

He thinks to himself, your mom is still awake, he’d made an excuse to come down to the basement, something about a work emergency. If he brought you home, you’d just be pissed, and you wouldn’t be able to talk with your mom still awake anyway.

Then it strikes him.

I don’t have to bring her home.

~*~

You dance without rhythm between Mike and Ashleigh, Peter and his boyfriend are making out in a booth somewhere. You’re wasted, worse than the night with Tristan, but you just don’t care. The ache in your chest is dulled somewhat as you feel Mike’s hands fall to your hips.

“You’re so beautiful.”

You flinch as you hear the words in your ear, his lips ghost the column of your neck and you feel an instinctive twist in your core. You almost like the way his lips feel on your skin, but something about it feels wrong. Like you’re cheating.

“Mike, no.” You grumble softly but there’s no fight in it, you’re so trashed it’s not funny. You’re also so needy, you’re almost considering it when the thought of Dave flashes across your mind again. You may have teased the cucking on your channel, but never did you think you’d follow through.

“Don’t like seeing you sad baby,” You shudder at the pet name, your thoughts once again going straight back to Dave, “Let me make you feel better, no strings, let’s just go back to mine.”

“Mike, I said no.” You protest meekly as you try and pull away, but his hands are firm on your waist as he grinds his pelvis against your ass. You feel sick as you feel the hardness of his dick rubbing against your tight pants.

“Hey, Mike, she said no.” Ashleigh is suddenly up in your personal space, glaring over your shoulder up at Mike as she yanks his hands from your body.

“Shit, sorry, I don’t know what came over me.” He stutters as you feel him move away.

“Yeah, well take a lap before I knock you the fuck out.”

Mike mutters something under his breath but you’re not lucid enough to catch it. You look up with bleary eyes at Ashleigh and she shakes her head at you.

“Come on, we’re going back to mine, you’re a fucking mess.” She says as she loops her strong arm around you, guiding you out of the club as you let the tears flow.

She’s right, I am a fucking mess.

~*~

You aren’t here.

Dave’s blood pressure is through the roof as he does another scan of the bar. He nurses his beer as he leans against the door by the wall. He’s scanning the floor for your friend Ashleigh but she’s not here either. Then he hears your name being barked by someone to his right.

“The fuck did you do Mike?” The disco ball of a man to Dave’s right demands of the milquetoast man before him.

“Nothing Peter, I just, I fucked up ok? I thought she was finally going to say yes.”

“And how fucking drunk was she Mike? Was she sober enough to say yes?” Peter snaps as he shakes his head at the taller man.

Dave vaguely recognises Peter now, he’s seen him in your instagram stories and reels. But the other man he doesn’t recognise, but he clearly seems to know you.

“Excuse me fellas,” Dave heads over, and both men narrow their eyes at him for a split second before realising that the way Dave carries himself means he’s not someone to be fucked with, “Have you seen this girl?”

He holds up your instagram profile and Peter’s brow immediately raises at him. Mike goes to say something but he’s quickly shushed by Peter.

“What’s it to you? You the dick she’s been crying over all night? Here to upset her even more?” Peter snaps as he steps into Dave’s personal space. He might be shorter than David, but Peter is anything but timid.

“She’s been crying?” Dave’s voice breaks, his usually finely curated façade cracking as his chest twists in shame.

“Jesus, you don’t deserve someone like her, go home old man, find someone else to mess with.”

That sets David off, something primal flaring in his mind as he grabs the collar of Peter’s glittering shirt. He pulls him close, but Peter doesn’t so much as flinch. Instead, he just holds Dave’s gaze, lips twitching in amusement, as if issuing a non-verbal challenge.

“What are you going to do? Hit me? Go on then, show her exactly the kind of man you are, beating on her friends when they’re trying to protect her. I bet she’ll love that.”

Dave’s jaw ticks to the side, the thrill of violence bubbling under the surface. He really wants to hurt someone, but Peter’s right, what would this even prove? He lets the younger man go, holding up his hands in surrender as he realises, he’s gone too far.

“Sorry man, just worried about her, I’m her stepdad, not her boyfriend or whatever. She’s been going through a lot; her mom forgot her birthday.”

“Yeah, well, not sure what kind of man you are if you married Nancy, but get used to the way she treats her daughter. She’s never been anything but a piece of shit.”

Dave’s nostrils flare at the harsh words but it’s not new information, not by a long shot, it just hurts to hear it from someone else. Peter looks Dave up and down with scorn as he casts his judgement. Dave finds himself kind of liking him, despite the verbal reprimand.

“Starting to see that, finally.” Dave says with a sigh as he rubs one of his hands over his jaw, pulling at the skin in frustration as he shakes his head.

“You know where she’s gone?”

“She’ll be with Ashleigh, but I don’t think she wants to see anyone right now, even her stepdad.” Peter says the title with a knowing tone to his voice and Dave’s jaw clenches before he composes himself.

“Noted,” Dave throws a few bills down on the table, “Next rounds on me, enjoy the rest of your night boys.”

Dave storms out of the club and pulls out his phone, immediately pulling up your contact.

Duke🎷: I’m really sorry, please, can we talk when you get home?

To his surprise you start typing straight away. His heart races as he waits for you to hit send. He’s casting his eyes up and around him as he heads back to his car, as he waits for your answer, knowing all too well how vulnerable someone is when texting and walking.

Princess🌙: Sure bed now fucked up too drunk. Miss you.

Duke🎷: Miss you too, princess.

~*~

You groan as you roll awake, forgetting where you are for a moment, and you yelp as you fall off Ashleigh’s narrow sofa with a thud.

“Morning sunshine, got you coffee, juice, and some water.”

Ashleigh chimes from somewhere above you. Your throat is burning and your head pounds aggressively as you silently vow to never drink again.

“Shit sorry Ash, didn’t mean to get so drunk.” You apologise with a whine as you roll onto your back. You open your eyes to see Ashleigh looking down you with a soft smile on her plush lips. She sets the drinks down on the table before flopping into her favourite armchair.

“Yeah well, you had every right to.”

“What do you mean?” You ask, sensing something more to her tone than her usual disapproval for your mother.

“Nothing,” She shakes her head, deciding against whatever she had been about to say before continuing, “Oh, Peter and Mike ran into someone last night, claiming to be your stepdad?”

“Ah shit, what happened?” You ask before downing the orange juice in one long gulp.

“Nothing, but why’s your stepdad chasing after your drunk ass babe?”

“He’s just worried about me, had to rescue me from the guy I went home with last time.”

“What?” Ash goes pale and she grabs your hand with two of hers, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Nothing happened, even head butted the guy, popped his nose.” You chuckle humourlessly as you recall the way that Tristan had manhandled you.

“Jesus, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have left you alone, was thinking with my cunt.”

“It’s fine, you couldn’t have known he’d end up being rapey.” You shrug as you sip on your coffee.

The two of you sit in silence for a moment as you try and gather your emotions.

“Babe,” Ash says slowly, her face contorted in thought as she turns back to you, “How’d your stepdad even know where you were?”

Shit.

You meant it when you told Dave you’d never let anyone else in on your Cam Dolls secret, not even Ashleigh. But you aren’t ready to have that conversation right now.

“I don’t know.”

 You lie.

~*~

You take a deep breath as you exit Ash’s coupe, you give her a sheepish smile and wave as she drives off. You walk barefoot up to the porch, the sound of the garage door opening startles you as you fumble with your keys in the lock. You look over to see your mom’s Escalade roar through the automatic doors, your eyes go wide as she misses the bottom edge by a hair’s breadth as she lurches onto the driveway.

She’s careening all over the place as she swerves onto the main road. You stand in shock, terrified by what you just saw. You hear the door wrench open behind you and what you see makes you feel physically sick.

Dave’s holding a bloodied rag to his head as he lumbers through the doorway. He barely sees you as he collapses forwards onto the porch. You catch him at the last moment, hands trembling as you strain to keep him upright.

“Dave what the fuck?”

“S’nothing.” His words slur into one and you can see the vacant, wandering look in his eyes as he seems to be chasing focus every few seconds.

“This is not nothing Dave, I need to get you to a hospital.”

“No, n’hospitals.” He protests weakly before he unceremoniously passes out in your arms.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” You mutter in rapid succession as you go against Dave’s wishes. If he hadn’t passed out, you might have obliged his request by looking after him at home. But you’ve seen enough violence in your life to know that concussions aren’t something to fuck around with.

By the time you’ve dragged Dave to his car and strapped him into the passenger seat you’re covered in sweat, blood, and your own tears as you can no longer hold your emotions in check. You’re trembling from overexertion as you back out of the garage. You blink through your tears as you force yourself to get it together. You head onto the main road into Austin with one thought on your mind.

I will destroy that fucking prenup, if it’s the last thing I do.

~*~

Dave’s throat is sore as he rouses to the sound of machines beeping around him. His eyes snap open and he hisses as the bright fluorescent lighting stings at his retinas.

“Hey, take it easy, doc said not to make any sudden movements.” Your voice filters through the brain fog and Dave relaxes instantly, even if the buzzing at the back of his brain tells him something is really fucking wrong.

“Said no hospitals.”

“Yeah, then you passed out on the porch, bleeding out. I can patch up most wounds Dave, but brain damage is beyond even me.”

“Brain damage?” Dave asks as he tries to open his eyes, slower this time, giving himself time to adjust.

“Uh-huh, tripping over the cat and falling down the stairs’ll do that to a man.” You say, affecting your voice slightly to try and signal for Dave to play along.

“Cat? What cat?”

“Jesus, you can’t remember Dennis? The orange menace?” You try again as he looks over at you with raised eyebrows, then it clicks.

She’s covering for me, and her mom.

“Shit yeah, damn I must have hit my head hard.” He forces a pained chuckle out as he starts to really come round. Nausea threatens to bring up what can only be bile right now, but he steels himself.

“There he is.” You coo softly as you rub your thumb over the back of his hand, making sure not to jostle the cannular that connects the IV to his skin.

“Hey.” He says airily as he smiles up at you, your head haloed by the lighting and if he were religious he’d even say you look like an angel.

“So, doctors want to keep you in overnight, they had to drain some fluid and they want to make sure the swelling is going down.”

“Reasonable, not my first concussion, nor first that has landed me in hospital.” He grunts as he shifts his hand, moving to cover yours with his as he squeezes as hard as he can, which in reality, isn’t very hard at all.

“I was so scared Dave, there was so much blood.” You sob as the tears come unbidden and Dave’s heart clenches and twists in his chest. He sits up, ignoring the swimming sensation behind his eyes as he pulls you against him.

“It’s ok, I’m here, I’m ok.”

“I thought I was going to lose you, and I was so angry at you, and I couldn’t bear the thought of never reconciling that with you.”

You press yourself against Dave, not caring for the tubes and shitty hospital gown rubbing and digging into your skin. You just need to be held, and to hold him. He smells sterile, and so unlike himself, but there’s a layer of something there, the smell of him just about filtering through and you cling to it.

“I know, I know, we have so much to talk about, I have so much to apologise for, but I’m here now, I’m not going anywhere.”

“Neither am I Dave, and we’re going to get through this, together.”

Dave rests his chin on the top of your head as he lets you ride it out in his arms. But the only thing he can think about is the way your mother struck him with her fist, the way rage built in his stomach as he forced himself to not react. He didn’t even see the candlestick coming.

“I promise, we will get through this, together.”

He boils alive inside with rage as he soothes you. He’s going to find a way to end this bullshit sham of a marriage.

No matter what it takes.

<- Previous Chapter | Masterlist | Next Chapter->

Please consider checking out my ko-fi or patreon if you want to support me!

Join my Taglist here Tag list: @pr0ximamidnight @ktheunready @harriedandharassed @survivingandenduring @wannab-urs @neverwheremoonchild @noisynightmarepoetry @casa-boiardi @xoxabs88xox @guelyury @its-nebuleuse @deadly-femme-bimbo @covetyou @christinamadsen @mirandablue1 @clawdee @youandmeand5bucks-blog @hiddenbabynyc @stevie75 @star017 @darkheartgatita @patti7dc @pastelnap @beskarandblasters @jksprincess10 @beefrobeefcal @anoverwhelmingdin @pedroshotwifey @bitchwitch1981 @ @dameron-grant-spector @livingdeadmaria @cantbenameds-blog @nashja @casa-boiardi

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #fanfic #smut #dave york pit #dave york #dave york fanfiction #equalizer 2 #dave york smut #dave york x female reader #dave york x reader #dave york x you #dave york x ofc #dave york x oc #The Princess and The Duke #Princess Luna x Duke Silver #forbidden romance #tw stepcest #stepcest cw #stepdad #stepdaughter #soft!dave york #dom!dave york #soft dom!Dave York #vi writes #my writing #cw sa implied #cw sa mention #dave york did nothing wrong #dave york apologist

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

what are some of the most appealing whump tropes for you? i'm new to writing kind of subject matter, but i love making my oc's/fave characters suffer. i would love ideas from someone experienced!

my top 10 favorite whump tropes

tw: force feeding, implied/reference self-harm, nonconsensual drug use

forced surrender — for me, the trope suits defiant whumpee better than whumpee who’s already broken and terrified. it gives me whumperflies when whumpee who is feisty, defiant and prideful is forced to surrender. so while they are obedient, there may be occasional hissing and snarling from them. should they get punished for such an audacity? the choice is yours.

enemies to friends / enemies to lovers — classic one. though I personally like it better if, prior to their becoming enemies, they started out as friends. so it’s ‘friends to enemies to friends (or lovers) again’. but besides whump, if fluff isn’t your thing and you 1.) don’t want to make their relationship wholesome the second they go from enemies to friends/lovers 2.) want to make it hot and sexy, then I did talk about spicy ;) enemies to lovers trope and the dynamic between two characters here and here. so you can check them out too

medical whump — maybe this one’s not as popular, but it’s still my personal favorite. anything that involves hospital setting, or maybe it doesn’t necessary have to take place in a hospital but a medical ward anywhere where the main focus is whumpee being injured while also being taken care of by caretaker. the more graphic, the better. (it doesn’t really have to be medically accurate, just… you know, how graphic the scene is described, the more the better. give me all that blood and gore, describe to me how each character feels, etc.)

hallucinations — self explanatory. love love love it when whumpee hallucinates from blood loss, infection or high fever, etc. they can hallucinate about anything you want!

sickfic — in my opinion, ‘medical whump’ associates with injuries, while sickfic is about illness. I personally like it when whumpee has the flu and is bedridden, though they’re the worst patient, whining and trying to convince caretaker that they’re fine when they aren’t. unlike medical whump and hallucinations, which deal with angst and stress, I like to throw in some fluff while writing a sickfic. guess you could say sickfic is the fluff version of medical whump and hallucinations (at least that’s how I personally view these terms).

force feeding / hand feeding — bonus if, instead of caretaker, whumper is the one feeding whumpee; they can force feed whumpee as a way to keep whumpee alive (maybe they secretly, genetically care about whumpee, deep down? *cough cough* enemies to lovers?), and they can hand feed whumpee as a way to dominate, humiliate, dehumanize whumpee.

shock collar — whumper puts defiant whumpee in their place by using a shock collar on them.

restraint — there’re so many ways to restrain a whumpee, and they’re all so good, but one that is so criminally underrated in my opinion will always be straightjacket. put. the. blorbo. in. a. straightjacket.

“who did this to you?” — this. this right here. whumpee tries to hide their injuries from caretaker, but of course, they can’t fool them. so when caretaker demands in a low voice that whumpee rolls up their sleeve, caretaker is hardly able to contain their anger when they see bruises on whumpee’s arm (because while they’d rather whumpee not try to hide this from them, they’re not angry at whumpee but at whoever did this to whumpee) and when caretaker asks, “who did this to you?” you know someone is about to pay for what they did to whumpee.

locked up by mistake — I’m not talking about jail here. I’m talking about a psych ward, an asylum. whumpee is not actually crazy or suicidal, but either there’s been a misunderstanding (no one believes them when they say these cuts on their arm aren’t self-inflicted) or they’ve been set up by an enemy. but of course, the more they try to make people believe them, the more unwell they look. and from there, there’re so many ways, so many scenarios to explore, maybe whumpee is drugged until they’re so groggy they don’t even remember their own name, maybe they’re restrained to the bed or are forced into a straightjacket. or maybe they have to undergo a shock therapy.

#admin answers #top 10 #writing #whump #whumpblr #writing challenge #writing inspo #writing inspiration #writing ideas #whump trope #whump tropes #writing trope #writing tropes #trope #tropes #angst #writeblr #writer #whump prompt #whump prompts #writing prompt #writing prompts #prompt #prompts #whump community #whump scenes #whump scenario #whump blog #writing community #writers

[steddie-fanfic-recs]

The Pretty Ugly

by writersagainstwritersblock

Rating: Mature Archive Warning: Rape/Non-Con Relationship: Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson, Steve Harrington/Other(s) Character: Steve Harrington, Eddie Munson, Robin Buckley, Nancy Wheeler, Jonathan Byers, Argyle (Stranger Things), Chrissy Cunningham, Maxine "Max" Mayfield, Dustin Henderson, Eleven | Jane Hopper, Will Byers, Lucas Sinclair, Mike Wheeler, Jim "Chief" Hopper, Joyce Byers Additional Tags: Hurt Steve Harrington, Protective Eddie Munson, Steve Harrington Whump, Steve Harrington Needs a Hug, Steve Harrington Needs Love, Eddie Munson Loves Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington Needs Therapy, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, (rape/non-con elements are mostly off screen), Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Steve Harrington Has Absent Parents, Steve Harrington Has PTSD, Eddie Munson Calls Steve Harrington Pet Names, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Rockstar!Eddie Munson, Prostitute!Steve Harrington, Minor Character Death, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Eventual Happy Ending Words: 182,356 Chapters: 44/44

Summary

Rockstar Eddie Munson needs a fake boyfriend after a scandal; enter high end escort Steve Harrington. Unfortunately Eddie's heart didn't get the memo on the 'fake' part of the deal, while the more time he spends with Steve the deeper he falls, the closer he gets to something that looks a whole lot darker than a college student just trying to pay off his student loans. “For you, your highness.” Eddie bent at the waist as he offered the cheap stuffed animal. Steve’s eyes went wide, but he accepted the little stuffed animal, holding it up for inspection. Some of the stitches were visible and his eyes were lopsided, but it didn’t change the way Eddie’s heart stuttered as Steve very gently touched its nose against his own, holding it like it were an actual small creature and not cotton and thread. “What’s his name?” “Bernard,” Steve said with such confidence that Eddie couldn’t help laughing. “What?” Steve said, looking mildly affronted. Eddie grinned. “No, it’s a great name, Bernard the Bat. Berry for short even.” Steve crossed his arms, but with the stuffed animal it looked more like he was hugging it to his chest. “Slushies?” Eddie said before he could do anything stupid.

#steddie #steddie fic rec #multi-chaptered #100-200k #hurt/comfort #angst with a happy ending #au modern #rockstar eddie #sex worker steve #au no upside down

[galaxywhump]

Prompt: Wren doing something that's blatantly stupid/suicidal (like going out into the jungle to pick fights with the wildlife) when he becomes apathetic about his own life, and Daniel's reaction to that?

[SV-240 masterlist]

Thank you for the prompt, anon! Sorry it's so late, it's been in the making for a while now and I finally got the motivation to finish it.

Warning: this is a rather heavy one; it's also not canon.

contents: slavery whump, forced relationship, creepy/intimate whumper, suicide attempt (nothing graphic), depression, restraints, comforted by whumper.

~~~

Wren leaves the house without Daniel’s knowledge.

He still has the tracker, of course, but when he left, Daniel was napping, so hopefully he won’t wake up for a few more hours. Wren just wants to go for a swim in the picturesque pond he remembers the path to. He’s unarmed, without so much as a kitchen knife, but he’s not scared. He’s not anything.

There is an emptiness inside of him that has had a grip on him for several weeks now. It’s the sort of hopelessness he’s been trying so hard to avoid, but instead of making him Daniel’s loving partner, it’s only making him… do this. Go for a walk in the jungle, looking straight ahead, not scanning his surroundings, barely flinching when he hears rustling and other sounds of the dense forest.

He’s had these thoughts a few times before, but now he’s decided to follow them. Not directly, even though he knows there are several options inside the house; instead, he lets fate decide, since it seems to control his life anyway. So he goes for a swim. If fate decides he should stay underwater, he won’t fight it, nor will he fight if it decides not to let him reach the pond at all.

He’s clothed, and yet feels so exposed, a puny human in a jungle full of animals he knows nothing about, having only met one, which tried to kill him. Maybe there are others like it. Maybe one is already stalking him.

Keep walking, not running, walking with calm emptiness. Get away from Daniel’s house, leave his life on the jungle’s mercy. He frowns when he feels a small pang of regret. He should turn back. He should live. But it’s too late now, isn’t it? He’s far enough that the way back would be anything but safe, and he doesn’t want Daniel to question him once he returns. He takes a deep breath, clenches his fists, and keeps walking.

There are noises all around him.

There’s a noise somewhere behind him.

Soft steps, a low growl. He’s being stalked.

He closes his eyes.

And then there’s a familiar man-made sound, cracking bolts of plasma piercing the air; one followed by the sound of the animal fleeing, one hitting a tree just a few centimeters left of Wren, making him jolt in place.

“Hi there,” he hears Daniel’s voice, almost playful. He swallows and slowly turns around to face his captor, who’s standing still with his arms crossed and his eyes narrowed.

“You missed,” Wren says, lifting his chin, though there is nothing more to his defiance, no spark in his eyes.

“If I wanted to shoot you, we wouldn’t be having this conversation right now.” There is no affection in Daniel’s voice, and Wren prefers it this way. “Have you forgotten about your tracker?”

“No.”

Daniel raises his eyebrows.

“What was even your plan?”

“I went for a walk,” Wren explains, looking him straight in the eye; his expression remains empty.

“Good one,” Daniel scoffs. “You know you’d be dead before the day’s over, don’t you?”

“I do.”

The silence that follows is unbearably heavy. Daniel gets it, and for a split second he looks genuinely surprised before going back to his usual unbothered expression.

“Come here. Let’s go home.”

Wren doesn’t break eye contact.

“And if I run?” he asks. “Will you miss again?”

“I’ll shoot, but I won’t kill you. I’ll target your leg, maybe both, and I’ll drag you back. Now come here.”

He does, his head lowered, brow furrowed, mind blank. The jungle around them is bustling with life, never completely quiet, yet the silence between them feels suffocating enough that it could spread over the entire forest, forcing it into stupor. Neither of them says a single word on the way home.

Home. Wren sighs. Home. Daniel’s house is his home now, there’s no denying that. He’s too tired to deny anything anyway, not to mention worry about what Daniel’s going to do to him after his stunt.

They’re still silent when they reach the house and the door closes behind them. Wren follows Daniel to the living room, sits down on the couch, and watches him retrieve two pairs of leather cuffs.

“You’ll have to be restrained more after this, you know that?”

“Yeah.” Wren puts his arms in front, wrists close together, and does the same with his ankles. The cuffs close, a familiar sensation, and he stares down at them, barely feeling anything.

“It’s for your own safety.” Daniel doesn’t crouch down, doesn’t sit next to Wren, still standing in front of him, towering over him.

“Yeah,” Wren repeats, his voice monotone; he only wants this pointless conversation to end, and Daniel can sense it, which doesn’t mean he cares.

“Look at me.”

When he does, Daniel frowns seeing the weary emptiness in his eyes.

“Why did you do it?” he asks, and his accusatory tone makes Wren flinch, like he’s being scolded. It’s the last thing he wants to experience today.

“Take a guess,” he mutters, lowering his gaze, as if even looking up requires too much energy.

Daniel sighs and his frown deepens. He knows the truth, as much as he doesn’t want to accept it.

“I won’t let you do that, Wren.”

“I know. Cause I have nowhere to run, right?” For the first time today, there is something in Wren’s voice, the tiniest of sparks. “I can’t fucking escape you and this-this fucking nightmare, I’m stuck here and you won’t even- you won’t even let me-” He gets choked up, and to his frustration he tears up. “Fuck, just fucking hold me already and spew your bullshit, I know you’re going to do it anyway.”

Without a word, Daniel sits down next to Wren, who leans against him and exhales slowly when Daniel embraces him.

“I’m not going to spew any bullshit. I just…” Daniel trails off for a moment and gives Wren a light squeeze. “I wasn’t expecting this, and it hurts.”

“Oh, it hurts you?” Wren laughs in disbelief. “Poor you, the guy you’re keeping captive and torturing is a depressed loser. Cry me a river.”

“It hurts me because I love you, Wren.”

“You said you weren’t going to spew bullshit.”

“It’s not bullshit to me, and I hope that soon it won’t be bullshit to you, either.” Daniel sighs, a heavy sigh that makes Wren even angrier, which he knows is, at the very least, better than complete emptiness. Daniel doesn’t have the right to feel and react this way, not when he’s the cause of all of this. “And remember that you were depressed even before I bought you.” He feels Wren tense up at that. “You can’t pretend otherwise, it was right in your file. Depressed, isolated, drinking problem. You were lonely, and that made it possible for Berkeley to make you disappear without raising any eyebrows. Now you’re here, I’m here with you, I know about your problems, and I want to help. On my terms and at my pace, but I do.”

“You’re not helping,” Wren croaks, trying and failing to blink away tears, Daniel’s blunt words feeling like a dagger piercing his heart, over and over again. “I wasn’t- It was better than this, I wanted to get better, I just…”

He just couldn’t, and it was only getting worse, until he started spending entire hours - he was too busy to afford days - curled up in his bed, staring at the wall, questioning the point of it all, and he was alone, completely alone, and-

“On Earth, I wouldn’t have been there to stop you.”

Daniel’s words are like a punch to the face, strong enough that Wren would sway on his feet if he wasn’t sitting down. It’s true, he realizes in horror, and a painful sob reverberates through his body; he slumps in Daniel’s embrace, overwhelmed by the most terrifying what if he’s ever had to consider.

“Shh, sweetheart.” Daniel gently runs his hand up and down Wren’s arm and pulls him closer as he sobs, unable to stop, because Daniel is right, and he was so stupid, and in a twisted way he almost let Daniel win.

What could have been back on Earth doesn't matter anymore. Here, if he dies, Daniel wins. It’s a way to escape, but it comes at too great a cost, and now that he can think more or less clearly again, he can’t believe he even attempted that. So stupid, so stupid, and if it wasn’t for Daniel, the very same person he's fighting against, he wouldn’t be here right now.

He won’t thank Daniel, he can’t, but he leans into his touch ever so slightly, and he’s still crying, so overwhelmed by what he almost did and so relieved that he’s still here, still fighting.

“Cry it out, sweetheart. I’m right here.”

For the first time, though he would never admit it out loud, he’s grateful for that.

~~~

taglist: @faewhump @inky-whump @whole-and-apart-and-between @whatwasmyprevioususername @procrastinatingsab @funky-little-glitter-bomb @goneuntil @redstainedsocks @luminouswhump @lonesome--hunter @as-a-matter-of-whump @renkocchi @whump-only @muddy-swamp-bitch @girlwithacoolcat @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees @sophierose002 @whump-headspace @to-whump-or-not-to-whump @kixngiggles @ohwhumpydays @whumpsical @wibbly-wobbly-whump @stab-the-son-of-a @his-unspoken-words @pumpkin-spice-whump @onlyhappywhenitpains @suspicious-whumping-egg @morning-star-whump @burtlederp @there-will-always-be-blood @springwhump

#slavery whump #forced relationship whump #creepy whumper #intimate whumper #suicide tw #suicide cw #creepy comfort #depression whump #restrained #sv-240 #wren rackham #daniel rooney #my writing #so much time passes between updates i forget all my tags #anyway thank you for the prompt anon i really loved it! #writing this was really cathartic and i hope you enjoy

[hadesstan]

June of Doom Day 3

"I can handle it"

| Kidnapping | Fracture | Struggle |

Cw: Kidnapping and fracture, torture, murder (not graphic)

I went for Hero-Villain whump this time cause that's the shit. I want to do some villain-caretaker stuff but the prompts didn't really fit. Perhaps tomorrow!

...

Hero had fought their captors from the moment they'd woken. They'd thrashed and punched and tore at the guards who'd restrained them and dragged them towards the warehouse.

The guards were stronger than them though, and they hadn't achieved much by the time they were unceremoniously dumped on the ground in front of Villain.

"Villain," they spat. "I should have known this was you. Couldn't wait for our next fight, huh? Had to snatch me off the street."

Villain shrugged. "I didn't order you brought here Hero, I just came to watch the show."

"What-" Hero was cut off by the chuckle of Supervillain, who was now making their way across the bloodstained concrete floor towards them.

"You think Villain would have organised something like this? That's sweet," they said, crouching down before Hero.

Hero jerked forward, aiming to headbutt Supervillain. They missed. And Supervillain just laughed again, standing.

"No need for that Hero. I'm going to need you to be cooperative. You're going to tell me how to kill Superhero."

Hero spat at him. "I'll never tell you anything, torture me all you want."

"Oh, I will, don't worry. I didn't expect you to give in so easily."

Hero smirked, pushing the last of the rope off their hands. They hadn't tied them very well. "I won't be giving in at all."

They lunged, going for the nearest guard, snatching his blade and holding it to the man's throat.

Villain started, but Supervillain stopped them.

"I can handle it."

Villain nodded and stepped back as Supervillain approached Hero.

"You think I care if you kill him? You're not going to escape that easily Hero."

Before they could even register what had happened, the guard was falling, dead, to the ground, Supervillain's own knife lodged in his eye. Hero jumped back, still holding the blade. But they were still slow from being knocked out, and Supervillain disarmed them with ease, throwing them to the ground.

"Can't be having any more of that nonsense now, Hero. Guess I'll just have to find a more permanent way of restraining you."

And with that, Supervillain brought their foot down on Hero's forearm. The crack was so loud it could be heard over Hero's scream.

Villain turned to leave just as Supervillain crouched to break Hero's other arm.

They climbed into their car to the symphony of screams and sobs coming from within the building.

#whump #whump writing #whumper #whumpee #hero x villain #hero whumpee #supervillain whumper #june of doom #whump drabble #whump prompts

[whiskygoldwings]

Petals Spill From Lips (Your Stain Upon my Heart)

Well, this post just took hold of me and wouldn't let go. - https://www.tumblr.com/wantonlywindswept/742887323554988032/fox-hanahaki-fic-idea-that-lives-in-my-head-rent?source=share

Original idea credit to @wantonlywindswept

Here, have nearly 4000 words of Fox angst and fix-it I wasn't expecting to write tonight. I hope it does the original concept justice and many thanksto Wantonlywindswept for sharing the brilliant idea in the first place.

Summary: Fox spills petals from his lips and wears the colours of his love across his chest. He can't let anyone know, even as the roots tangle in his lungs and steal his breath.

CW: graphic descriptions of choking/vomiting, implied rape, implied fanon-typical violence towards Corries, Fox-whump.

Starts under the cut because it gets right in there with the content warnings.

Fox vomits petals and blood. Horrible, clotted masses of delicate flowers and lung tissue. He splutters, choking, then coughs violently, forcing the last of it out of his throat.

He gets up, goes to the cupboard on shaky legs, and grabs a cloth. He’d managed to get the majority of it in the bin this time, but there’s still spatters of it that somehow managed to get on the floor. His breath rasps, and he’s pretty sure there’s still petals in his chest.

He cleans the mess tiredly, occassionally stopping to cough up a stray petal. Vormur, he notes absently. Of course it’d be Vormur. His mind hasn’t left Wolffe since the Malevolence incident.

What a small word for such a big thing.

He pulls together the bag he’d placed in the bin, and wipes over his mouth and chin before pulling his helmet on. With firmer steps, he walks out of his office and down to the chute for rubbish, disposing of the evidence of his weak heart.

He returns to the office after, pulling off his helmet and leaning back in his chair with a sigh. Then he gets back to work.

-------

It hadn’t started like this. When they were on Kamino, this had never happened. He’d held his brothers in the night, watched over them in the day. He’d shown his love in his actions, and they’d reached back for him with quiet joy in their eyes.

It began a month into Coruscant. Into being the Marshall Commander of the Guard. He’d been brutally, thoroughly introduced to the cruelty of the Senate and a city that saw them as nothing but meatdroids, and his brothers had been dying on the frontlines. He’d been reading a battle report from Bly’s battalion, Bly’s words frank and clinical, but Fox could feel the pain in the way he repeated the casualty numbers; the way he emphasised the lack of accurate intel. He’d curled over the datapad, shaking with his desperate desire to be there, to hold Bly’s head against his neck and keep him safe for a while.

The feeling had swelled in his chest, brushing against his lungs and heart, and then flowed up his throat and burst from his mouth.

Candlewicks. Beautiful, round flowers, glowing gently golden.

He had, in all honesty, freaked the kriff out. Had cough and spluttered, stuck fingers into his mouth trying to figure out where they’d come from, how he’d coughed up flowers. Of all things. They weren’t exactly something the Guard came into contact with very often. He only knew about them because Senator Organa, one of the few kind Senators thus far, had shown him some he kept in a small planter in his room. It’d been the middle of a night shift, the Senator working far later than most of the others would bother, and he’d spotted Fox on his way back from getting more caf. The man had excitedly told him to watch, and Fox had looked on in wonder as they bloomed, spreading wide with soft light.

He did not look on in wonder that time. Had quickly scooped up the blooms and shoved them in a drawer, then sat at his desk and, admittedly quite frantically, searched the holonet for anything like it.

It hadn’t actually taken as long as he’d expected to find out. Hanahaki syndrome. Developed in very emotional people. Began as simple petals and flowers, but if allowed to take root, could strangle the lungs and cause bleeding, shortness of breath, and eventually, death.

He’d scoffed at first, thinking it was impossible. How ridiculous, flowers growing in a person’s chest! It made no sense! Reportedly the petals and flower changed based on what emotions the sufferer was having for which person, but all usually symbolised some form of love or care. It simply made no sense!

Even if he was determinedly avoiding the evidence sat in his desk.

He’d set it aside. Told himself it was a one-time, freak event. That it’d never happen again.

It did, of course, happen again.

The second time had been when Rex had left Cody’s battalion to captain the 501st under General Skywalker. Fine grey hairs had already started threading their way through the sides of Fox’s hair by then. He lived on a diet of caffeine and stress, eating only when the other commanders thrust ration bars into his hands, sleeping only when he knew every one of his Guard were safe.

Or, when he passed out face down in a pile of datapads.

He’d been on the comm with Rex and Cody, Rex looking determined, if a little nervous. He’d been holding a helmet that had previously born the 212th’s gold paint, and now was decorated in blue. Fordo had bestowed him with Jaig eyes after his actions in the battle that had gotten him promoted, and they were proudly displayed on his helm. Fox had swallowed down pride and fear, so, so, pleased for Rex.

But he’d seen the reports on Skywalker’s actions and behaviour. The man was reckless, dangerous. It worked out, usually, but Skywalker had the Force, and a clear lack of concern for his own safety.

Rex was too similar to him at times. Too willing to throw himself at the enemy in order to win. He was an excellent strategist, but he enjoyed the thrill of adrenaline a little too much.

Fox came off the comm call and tried to breath deep, the image of Rex’s broken body insribing itself behind his eyelids. That blonde hair stained dark red with blood.

He bent over as the urge to scream no, to call him back clambered up his throat, and suddenly blue blossoms were swirling from his lips.

He coughed and they flew forth, gentle and delicate and oh so bright against the dreary grey of his office walls. They spilled from his chest, the painful feeling near his heart easing as they fluttered to the ground.

At first he’d just stared. The galaxy had betrayed him. It’d happened again. Once was a coincidence. Twice was...

Was.

Shaking, he’d gathered them up in his hands. Hadn’t been able to hold them all at once. How they’d fit in his chest he had no idea; they seemed to just keep going. These beautiful, 501st blue petals that danced between his fingers.

He’d thrown them out the window in a fit of pique. Watched them flutter and twirl down, bright spots of colour in the smog.

The datapad had come back out. Apparently, the disease was linked to the Force. Sufferers usually had a degree of Force sensitivity, even if they weren’t actually aware of it. There was a lot of mysticism to it, but there were recorded cases, with holos and medical reports to support them.

Fox couldn’t be Force-sensitive. The Kaminoans had ensured that. There was no way it could have been missed, with all the blood tests and checks.

He needed to keep this to himself. If the Kaminoans found out, he’d be decommissioned. They all knew tubies who’d been found to exhibit the Force had had their tubes turned off.

Fox was the line of defence between the Senators and his siblings. He could not be found out and removed. It’d fall to Thorn after him, and he would not do that to them.

So Fox had carried on. When he’d choked up Gargrell flowers in the fresher on Cody’s visit he’d flushed them away. When Gree had been denied shore leave again, too cembroiled in a siege to be pulled away, he’d spluttered through entire Duran feather-lilies, catching against his teeth and forcing him to pull them from between his lips.

He’d potted those. Had one at his window. The others he’d gifted to Gree, who’d smiled delightedly and pulled him in with one arm for a hug.

He’d had to make a quick dive for a discrete corner after Gree had left. The new lilies had joined the one in his window, carefully nurtured and whispered to when Coruscant felt particularly cruel.

All the while, his body showed other signs of his love.

Purple, blue and black painted their way across his ribs in riotous splotches of colour. Red, red blood decorated his legs. Ashen grey spread over his cheeks. Silver white at the crown of his head.

He choked up Hai-ka flowers near daily. Beautiful, soft, orange blooms that whispered of death and pain. He took them into himself so his siblings didn’t suffer too. When he failed, when one his Guard returned broken and scarred, or simply didn’t return at all, he wept with flurries of Uneti blossoms, their sweet scent turning cloying and rotten in his despair.

Somehow, somehow he kept them all to himself. He learned the signs. When his chest tightened, and his heart beat louder, wisps of something brushing against his insides, he found an excuse to leave the room. He learned the placement of all the rubbish chutes, discovered which windows opened and which didn’t. He learned the best way to crush them between his fingers, mushing petals into sticky masses he could dispose of more easily, or squeeze into a pouch on his belt to hide.

He got a reputation for always smelling lovely. Stone had teased him a few times, then asked where he even managed to get the fragrance from. It certainly wasn’t standard issue.

Fox had blithely told him he had no idea what Stone was talking about, and refused to respond to any of his following prods. Eventually, they’d stopped asking, accepted it was just one more of those mysteries of Fox.

It helped that they loved him in return.

Sometimes he shattered under the pressure, bent under the strain. Thorn always knew. To this day, Fox doesn’t know how. But when it was at it’s worst, Thorn would be there. Would take Fox’s face into his hands, would kiss his battered cheeks, the strange wrinkles already forming between his eyebrows, and pull him away. He’d find a pile of their siblings, who’d reach out to Fox with welcoming hands, guiding him into the middle and curling up around him.

They never spoke of him shaking between them, raging and crying in turn, cracking at the seams and bursting out of his skin. Every member of the guard had sat with Fox like this, held him until he could start putting himself back together again. They’d shelter him while he scraped himself raw, digging out all the anger and pain.

When he was empty, they’d whisper their gratitude, their admiration and love. He’d fill himself again with the support of his siblings. And when he was finally full again, when the seams started closing back up, Thorn would join him, and sing to him until he fell asleep.

He always spent the next day with petals falling from his lips.

------

The first time the Chancellor struck him with lightning was when it changed. He’d woken up on the floor of the Chancellor’s office, blackened ash spread across the ground beside his mouth. His lungs had burned, and he’d hoarsely rasped, hacking coughs bringing up fragments of burned petals and stems.

The Chancellor had been stood above him, watching with avaricious eyes. He’d taken Fox’s face into his hands, swept aside Fox’s arms as he tried to struggle, and pushed his fingers into his throat.

Fox had cried, choking and desperate, as something cold and agonising had curled inside his chest. The Chancellor had laughed, cruel joy on his face, and told Fox he was a miracle. Had wondered if there was any chance this defect could be found in his siblings. Had told him it spread by sharing those feelings and the depth of them with others.

Fox had promised himself then to never let them get close enough to find out. He’d sworn to himself to keep them from the Senate, away from this hell. Even as his eyes rolled into the back of his head, vision swimming with grey.

The Chancellor had chuckled, and pulled his fingers from his throat. Between them, he held a beautiful, delicate flame-rose.

He’d looked Fox in the eyes as fire consumed it.

-------

He stopped answering his batchmates comms. Only answered when he knew it was business rather than pleasure. Wouldn’t meet with them when they were on planet. They were confused, sending him gentle messages in the case of Bly, or demanding curses, in the case of Wolffe.

He didn’t open them. Left them unread on his comm, blinking notifications at him. He collected them to hold to his heart, when he felt the gaping loneliness. Read the previews over and over again in between bandaging his wounds and sliding to his knees for one more disgusting Senator.

He avoided Thorn as well. When he felt his skin getting too tight, the ever-present pain in his chest growing, would find somewhere to be, some work to do. He could feel Thorn watching him. Along with all the other Guard members. They reached for him in the hallways, turned to him in the offices, left him ration bars and small trinkets they’d managed to find at his door.

Cody tried to ambush him in the barracks, but by that time he’d already instituted the rules to prevent outsiders from getting in, trying to conceal the guard’s carefully painted walls and closely-kept individuality from those who’d use it against them. Thorn had berated the Guard who’d soundly refused to let Cody enter, made it clear that was intended for nat-borns, not siblings, but Fox had already been made aware.

He’d hidden himself within the Senate walls. In the end, it’d worked out. A Senator had been trying to bully a shiny into his office. Fox had happened upon them at the right time, offered himself up instead.

When the shiny got back to the barracks and reported to Thorn, Fox knew he’d realise what was happening. Would know straight away that Fox wouldn’t want Cody to see him in the aftermath.

Fox had stumbled back hours later, throat swollen shut and ringed with fingerprints, blood and fluids he refused to think about between his thighs. Cody was long gone.

Thorn was there though.

He’d lain in the medical bed that night, staring at the ceiling with blossoms restings on his chin. His breath had become wheezing rasps lately, blossoms joined with specks of blood. There never seemed to be enough air, even within the carefully controlled environs of his helmet. The flowers were more crumpled, and he had to force them out. Petals still slipped from between his lips sometimes, but he’d hacked up clumps of them with more and more regularity.

Fox was pretty sure he was dying. Didn’t know what to do about it. He didn’t dare reach out, bring his brothers into the viper’s nest. The fear of leaving Thorn to take his place sent pangs through his ribs and tears to his eyes. But he couldn’t, wouldn’t risk spreading this to anyone else.

By morning, he’d swallowed the petals he’d coughed up back down. There was nothing left for the medics to find.

----

He sits alone in his office, eyes gritty and sore, chest heaving under laboured breaths. It’s taking twice as long as it should to get through his datawork. The words waver and fold, and he’s fairly certain he keeps blacking out. He coughs weakly, feeling a soggy clump stick in the back of his throat, and forces himself to cough hard to bring it fully up. With a sigh he dumps it in his desk drawer, too exhausted to deal with it right now.

If he can get this last stack of datapads dealt with, he can sleep. He’s so close. Just needs to keep pushing a little longer...

He wakes to fingers stroking through his hair, and a mask tightly pressed to his face. There’s voices murmuring softly around him, and a hand wrapped tightly round his right wrist. As he drags himself awake, forcing crusty eyes to open, the fingers in his hair pause, and the conversation is cut off abruptly.

Fox opens his bleary eyes to the sight of several similar faces surrounding him. Bly sits to his left, his hand still cupped around Fox’s head. Thorn is to the right, and it’s his hand around his wrist. Cody, Wolffe, Gree and Rex are all leaning forwards in chairs or stood around the rest of his bed.

He blinks up at them, horror freezing his heart.

“Wha..” he coughs, wet and raspy, but thankfully nothing comes up. “What are you doing here", he slurs.

Thorn’s hand tightens painfully round his wrist, before relaxing. Wolffe’s face twists with anger, and Bly resumes stroking his hair.

“You nearly died, Fox,” Cody says, tone tight with something Fox doesn’t want to recognise. “Thorn found you in your office, blood and vomit all over your desk, and you face down in the middle of it, not breathing.”

“I had to do CPR on you Fox,” Thorn whispers, and Fox can’t look at the tears on his face. “Your heart stopped. They’ve had to resucitate you twice.”

Fox wheezes, trying to think. He doesn’t remember. Everything feels like it sits at a distance, just out of reach. Even his emotions feel muted. The initial fear at seeing his brothers around him has smoothed out into a dull ache between his lungs.

“I don’t...” He begins, and Wolffe throws himself to his feet, chair clattering behind him.

“You nearly died, Fox!” he snarls, fists clenched and face broken. “I just lost nearly the entirety of my pack and... And I can’t lose you too you fucker!” He swipes angrily at his eyes, and Fox can’t breath. Has never seen Wolffe cry. “Why have you been hiding all this from us!?” Wolffe demands, and Fox is pretty sure his heart stops. “Did you think we wouldn’t help you?”

“Wolffe,” Rex murmurs beside him, one hand coming round to rest on his shoulder. “He’s not strong enough for this right now.”

Wolffe crumbles under the words, sinking down out of sight. Rex and Ponds go with him, and Fox can hear soft sobs being met with gentle words.

“You have Hanahaki disease,” Cody states. Fox jerks, eyes flying to meet Cody’s, which stare fiercely back at him. “The healers say it’s one of the worst cases they’ve ever seen.”

Thorn shakes his wrist, and Fox snaps his eyes to him. “There were roots piercing through your lungs and wrapped around your heart. You were suffocating in your own blood. And if that didn’t kill you first, your heart was being slowly constricted.”

Fox stares. Doesn’t know what to say. He thinks he should feel scared, or worried. The Chancellor had told him it’d spread if he shared the feelings. And now everyone knew.

“You were lied to,” comes a stern voice, and a Twi’lek steps into view, blue lekku agitated over her shoulders. “I’m sorry for interrupting, but it was getting difficult to keep your emotions eased from a distance.”

“General Che,” Cody salutes respectfully, and the Twi’lek snorts bruqsuely.

“I am no General, Commander, I am a healer,” they move behind Thorn and checks some readings on a machine next to him, continuing to talk all the while. “Hanahaki disease cannot be spread. It only develops under very special circumstances.” They turn to Fox, staring down at him with kind eyes. “Someone wanted you silent, Commander, and it is with the greatest apologies that I admit the Jedi didn’t notice your pain.”

Fox blinks, confused and struggling to make what she’s saying make sense in his head. “I... It doesn’t?” His voice is faint and hoarse, the mask making it difficult to hear, but the Twi’lek nods firmly.

“Who told you that, Fox?” Thorn asks urgently, leaning forwards. Cody’s intent too, while Bly shifts uneasily in his chair.

“I... I can’t...” Fox rasps, knowing they won’t believe him anyway.

“Was it the Chancellor?” Bly asks quietly, and Fox startles badly, wrenching round and dislodging Bly’s hand from his hair. He stares wide-eyed at Bly’s sad smile, before being surprised again as Wolffe suddenly roars to his feet, slamming a fist into the wall.

“That kriffing bastard!” Wolffe snarls, as Gree and Rex clamber up beside him. Wolffe whirls round and stares down at Fox, one eye brown, the other cybernetic. Both pierce through him.

“He’s a Sith,” Gree states, and Fox really can’t take all these shocks anymore.

“Whu-What?” He gasps, right arm twisting under Thorn’s hand and fingers grasping for theirs.

“The Chancellor’s a Sith,” Cody repeats, arms folded and face calmly furious. “The strange scars on your body are from Sith lightning.”

How the hell do they know about his scars?

Thorn quirks a strained grin at him, even though Fox knows he didn’t say that out loud. “I had to pull all your armour off to do CPR. And then they cut away your bodysuit to get your heart started.” Thorn squeezes his fingers, and Fox realises he’s trembling. “I didn’t...” Thorn swallows. “I didn’t realise just how many scars you had...”

Fox leans his head back, looking at the pale-cream ceiling. He can’t look at any of them. No one was ever meant to see his body, see the story of what he’d given up for them.

It hurts deep in his chest to realise they all know now anyway.

The Twi’lek leans around Thorn and places gentle fingers on the side of his face. “The Lichtenberg figures were saturated in darkness,” they speak calmly, while Thorn lifts his hand and presses it to their lips. “They could only have been caused by the Sith.” Fox closes his eyes, feeling tears roll down into his hairline. “Attacks like that leave whispers of themselves in the Force. They lead us back to the Chancellor.”

Fox blinks his eyes open, glancing over at the Twi’lek in sudden realisation. Their face is open and honest. They hold his eyes as they say, “We went and confronted him shortly after realising, Commander. The Sith has been defeated and is no more.”

There’s awful, grating sounds in his ears, and it takes Thorn reaching over and dragging him against their chest for Fox to realise they’re coming from him. He’s weeping loudly and openly, pain spilling from his lips for everyone to see. Crimson petals float down against the bed covers, and suddenly there’s hands and bodies pressing against him anywhere they can get to.

Wolffe has climbed onto the bed, sitting hunched over his legs and digging desperate fingers into his chest. Bly leans in from behind him, stretched awkwardly over the bed and pressing his face into the back of Fox’s head. Gree has squeezed between Thorn and Wolffe to lay his hands over Fox’s and hold on tight. Cody and Rex move together, as always, and weave arms between them all to curl fingers against him wherever they can reach.

Healer Che quietly leaves the room and closes the door. With a smile, she makes a note on Fox’s file that he’s recovered enough for the surgery that will remove the mass from his chest.

Fox cries for a long time, emotions releasing painfully. The petals fall sporadically at first, but as he holds on to Thorn and Wolffe, feels the warmth of his brothers spreading through his skin, they slow down, and eventually, stop.

Fox isn’t okay, but he’s not alone anymore.

#Marshall commander fox #commander fox #Coruscant guard #hanahaki disease #clone wars fanfiction #Fox-whump #Fox angst #Fox fanfiction #Inspired by Tumblr post #Crossposted to AO3

[pigeonwhumps]

Introduction and masterlist

Writing commissions

Hi! I'm Ruth, they/them pronouns, 25, and I enjoy most types of whump! I do art, graphic design and writing.

I try my best to tag, but if I miss a content warning you'd like added, please just shoot me an ask! I won't tag lady whump as a content warning, but anything else I will if you ask.

Favourite tropes:

RECOVERY WHUMP!!!

Found family

Gagging

Muzzles

Pet whump

Whumper pressing down on whumpee's back to keep them from getting up

Branding

Whipping

Caretaker turned whumpee/whumpee turned caretaker

Hero/villain whump

Tall whumpee/small caretaker (or vice versa)

Tall whumpee/small whumper

G/t whump

Whumpee thinks caretaker is their new whumper

Incompetent/clueless caretaker (they're trying their best but they have no idea they're doing)

Non-human whumpee

Immortal whumpee

Human weapon

Picky:

Major character death

Mouth whump

Pregnancy whump

Squicks:

Graphic tooth whump

Everything taglist: @painful-pooch @i-eat-worlds @a-funeral-romance @rainydaywhump

Other taglists part 1 / part 2

Masterlist

↓ under cut ↓

BBU:

Bug and Company

Bug's 18 when they're handed over to BetterPets by their foster parents, going through various owners and sets of training before being freed for good. This is their life, and that of those they've touched.

Contains: BBU, pet whump, lady whump (Maria), abandonment

Finding Safety

After being kidnapped, dumped at WRU, and shipped to the USA, Cass isn't having a good time. And then Tyrone takes him to be his ring-fighting Guard Dog, alongside Aaliyah, a Romantic he already owns. Now he's definitely not having a good time, and nor is Aaliyah. After losing everything, they need to build their lives again, but with Aaliyah not remembering her past and Cass unable to reach his, it's a challenge, even with assistance.

Contains: disabled whumpees (Cass becomes an ambulatory wheelchair user and has problems with his eyesight, and Aaliyah is non-verbal), lady whump, BBU, pet whump

Pets of the Silver Screen

In the silent film era and the early days of the WRU, young pet number 95, real name Eloise, is bought by film producer Hayes Fletcher to star in his productions. A few years later, he hires Agatha from Foster Montgomery to be her stunt double (read: to scar in scenes where it's necessary, because Eloise is too valuable), and the two young woman strike up a somewhat unwilling friendship.

Over a decade of working on- and off-screen later, it's the roaring twenties, pet liberation is starting to grow, and they're more than ready to leave. Enter Ira Waterhouse – a woman who's had just about enough of the pet industry and is willing to take in two runaways.

But WRU is expanding, and running a newly-acquired safehouse in London's docklands isn't a piece of cake. Especially when the two former pets Ira's running it with are a) famous, b) wanted for burning down a film studio, and c) even more traumatised than she originally assumed...

Contains: BBU, pet whump, lady whump, multiple whumpees, historical whump

Sanctuary

Anita and her grandmother Indira are thrown into the world of pet ownership when Theo, a profoundly deaf unwanted box boy, is mistakenly delivered to the animal shelter Anita works at.

Meanwhile, 785, Theo's bonded, is now struggling to survive Eleanor alone.

As long as she's useful, anyway.

When 785 is refurbished and sold, meeting a defiant illegal pet named Cass along the way, she ends up living alongside a Pet who seems to know her far too well. Meanwhile, Theo discovers that the person he cares about most in the world barely remembers his existence, and Anita is in way over her head.

Contains BBU, pet whump, whumpee thinks caretaker is their new whumper, recovery whump, amnesia, lady whump, disabled whumpees (Theo's deaf and Lea has a stutter)

Sam and Lucan 'verse:

Kara and Edith

When Kara, a declawed werewolf and escaped slave, is given a gift card for Swift Auction House, she buys Edith, a 700-year-old vampire who has been owned by one family for about 600 of those years. Taking her home with the determination that she won't have to recover alone like Kara did, they now have to learn to live freely together, which is no easy task for either of them, although at least they have each other, and Amanda to help.

But nothing lasts forever.

Contains: pet whump, whumpee thinks caretaker is their new master, found family, recovery whump, non-human whumpees, werewolf whumpees (Kara, Nuru), vampire whumpee (Edith), disabled character (Kara), whumpee turned caretaker, mutual caretaking, fantasy racism, lady whump

Sam and Lucan

Sam rescues Lucan, a pet-class faerie slave belonging to Caroline Jones, famous actress and prominent supporter of the continued slavery of non-humans. They're not sure what they're doing, only that it needs to be done, and Lucan's trust in both them and Amanda is hard-earned, his eventual friendship even more so.

But nothing lasts forever.

Contains: pet whump, whumpee thinks caretaker is their new master, found family, recovery whump, non-human whumpee, fae whumpee (Lucan), disabled characters (Lucan, Sam), slavery, BBU-adjacent I guess, fantasy racism, PTSD

Torturing Fangs

The Mask livestreams the vampire Fangs' torture, with input from commenters.

Interactive via asks (asks = livestream comments)

Contains: non-human whumpee (vampire), lady whump, dehumanisation, 'it' as a pronoun for dehumanisation, torture

Other whump series:

A Death in the Family

When his estranged father dies, Tristam, against his better judgement, attends the will reading, and ends up leaving with long-term bloodbag Sunday Afolayan and Eldrida, his father's former employee (and a terribly mistreated one at that, it turns out).

Even with Aileen and Evelyn's expert advice and friendship, it's tricky to bring Sunday back from the depths of his enthrallment, and Eldrida's struggling too. Six years under the cruel fist of Barnabas Sharpe was hard to survive.

It's a difficult recovery for both of them. But surely, things can't get worse now.

Contains: vampire whumper, non-human whumpee (vampire), lady whump, conditioned whumpee, disabled characters (Tristam has ADHD, Eldrida has anophthalmia, and Sunday has joint problems, a badly-healed arm, and an absence epilepsy-like condition), recovery whump, multiple whumpees

Botanist Whumpee

When the rich and powerful Sebastian Beaumont offers Alyssa a place to stay, she doesn’t expect to become his captive for three years. And when Silver rescues her at a party… well, the only thing she’s absolutely sure is better is that they don’t have a basement. They don’t have much of anything, actually. And she doesn’t know whether she can trust them or not, but she stays anyway. With no-one left to care about her, and Beaumont using all his money and connections to search for the pair of them, where else is she supposed to go?

Contains: recovery whump, captivity, lady whump, somewhat defiant whumpee, found family, intimate whumper

Cian and Row

In a world where superpowers are real, heroes and villains exist, and there's a large black market in powered people, Rowan's been enslaved for as long as they can remember. They're befriended when they're three by Cian Sinclair, a local empathic five year old, and at the age of eleven is rescued and adopted by the Sinclairs. Years later they become a supervillain, disappear for five years and reappear to reunite with their family, and attract another enemy, one far more powerful than their previous captors and obsessed with their healing powers.

Contains: slavery, PTSD, minor whump, past minor whump, immortal whumpee, discrimination, villain whump

Immortal Cannon Fodder

Phoenix, an immortal hero, joins a team that hurts them and uses them as cannon fodder. But their teammates are only doing what's necessary to help them all survive. Phoenix's regular sacrifices are necessary. And it's not like they've got anywhere else to go anyway.

It takes the arrival of Kai, a wolf-shifter and telekinetic, to help them see what's going on. But a friendship and a promised eventual transfer can't fix everything.

Contains: hero whump, abuse, past abuse, immortal whumpee

MD-264N

When MD-264N, the government's best weapon, runs to avoid being decommissioned and collapses on the doorstep of a small ragtag team of rebels, it's a surprise to everyone. But despite resistance, the weapon, now known as Morgan, starts to find their place, and the rebels soon find that they'll do anything to keep them free.

Contains: living weapon, found family, dehumanisation/self dehumanisation, team dynamics, reluctant caretaker (not the main caretaker), recovery whump, caretaker whump, disabled caretaker (forearm amputee)

Out of the Frying Pan

Five years ago Elis, former bodyguard and weapon of Lord Wulfric, was rescued from a fiery death by Col and Sæwin. He now lives in relative peace with them in Sorestan, a peace that's abruptly disrupted after an unwelcome visitor brings his past colliding with the present.

Contains: medieval whump, fantasy elements, living weapon

Out of the Water

Túathal, a merman, is captured and kept prisoner by pirates for his valuable scales. While Robyn, the youngest of the crew and not very popular, takes care of him, the others only bother with his scales (and anything that makes their extraction easier). Especially James. And once the rest of the pirates discover that Robyn and Túathal have become fond of each other, things only get worse.

Contains: merwhump, pirate whump, mutual caretaking, language barrier, outcast whumpee, defiant whumpee

Survival Skills

Whumpee is captured by a Whumper who wants to teach them survival skills. Painfully.

Contains: survival skills whump, sadistic whumper

The Greatest Show on Earth

Damon and Pythias are an unwilling two-person sideshow act in The Greatest Show on Earth, Pythias forced to kill Damon multiple times a day for the entertainment of paying circus patrons. Damon has been in captivity since birth, Pythias not quite so long (although certainly long enough), and they're both ready to get out.

But the outside world is even trickier to navigate than they imagined.

Contains: non-human whumpees, multiple whumpees, immortal whumpee, lady whump, circus whump, public whump, captivity, recovery whump, temporary character death (both implied and shown at times), guilty whumpee, whumpee as caretaker

Other writing:

Non-series whump masterlist

Miscellaneous writing, art and graphics

Fanfic masterlist

BBC Merlin and Good Omens fanfic

Other stuff:

Whumpmas in July 2022 masterlist

BBU Community Days 2024 masterlist

BBU Community Days 2023 masterlist

Prompts

Ask games

Bad Things Happen Bingo

#whump #masterlist #whump masterlist #whump writing #whump art #updated intro and masterlist! #could do with one that has summaries and contents on...

[parasiticwhumpee]

Starving Artist

CW: Multiple whumpees, conditioned whumpee, sadistic whumper, royal whump, graphic descriptions of violence, vivisection

(Let me know if I missed anything)

Maurin had been sitting on the cold dungeon floor for hours now. He could not tell how many hours exacltly, but he knew that the king never left him down there for long. The gravely stone was slowly digging into the skin of his knees. The initially sharp pains of the rubble had faded into a dull pulsing across his legs. Maurin had already shifted positions multiple times but that did little to aid the ache. The pain was the just a backdrop to the soft sounds of bloody droplets making their way to the ground. The near silent plopping was just enough to keep Maurin occupied. The quiet sound was better than absolute silence after all.

Maurin slowly shifted his gaze up towards the source of the crimson liquid. Suspended in metal shackles was Abel, the man who was about to face the full wrath of the king. Abel’s blood was dripping as a result of the initial defence from the guards, which was to be expected for stealing without a solid escape plan. The fact that a quick beating was enough to bring Abel to unconsciousness was saddening. Maurin doubted he would last more than an hour once the king came.

As if on cue, the sound of footsteps could be heard approaching the dungeon doors. Maurin let out a long sigh and stood to his feet. He quickly brushed off the rubble that latched onto his cloak and stretched his legs. He then slowly picked up his sketchbook and made his way to the fortified door. The artist knew how to properly greet the king, this was not his first time after all. Posture-straight, clothing-dusted off, sketchbook-ready. The door unlocked with a loud metallic clunk and opened eerily slowly. At last, the boot of King Dante stepped onto the dungeon floor.

“Good evening my lord…” Maurin made sure to keep his eyes to the floor as he bowed his head. 

“Maurin! How lovely to see you again!” Dante stepped past the artist, further into the cell. “Please forgive me for leaving you down here so long! I had some last minute business to attend to!” 

Maurin knew the king was lying. Maurin knew he was not a priority. But Maurin also knew that voicing his thoughts would be like begging him to switch places with Abel in the shackles. Flattery was the way to stay in the king's good graces, that was something Maurin had always known.

“Always no trouble my lord. I am just overjoyed that I was allowed to stand in your presence once more.” Mumbled Maurin without lifting his head for even a moment. 

Dante took a quick glance at the man next to him. While the king normally despised such spineless cretins, Maurin was capable of getting his job done. The king sauntered across the room to the bloodied man hanging from the dungeon ceiling. The state of the man was honestly pathetic. Matted blood coated his hair, concealing the original blond colour. Specs of blood littered the body, mixing with the coloured bruises to create a wonderful masterpiece along the skin. 

The king made his way over to the dark, wooden workbench in the corner of the cell. The bench was littered with his favourite tools and devices, all intricately crafted by the most talented craftsmen for the king’s royal hand. Abel was still completely unconscious, which would ruin Dante’s fun. That obviously could not happen, no one would ruin the king’s fun. Dante reached for the bucket of water hidden underneath the bench and practically skipped over to Abel. Within moments the bloody man was splashed, soaked, and gasping for air. 

The king ignored the sounds of blubbering and looked back at the artist. “Maurin? Are you ready yet? I know I am!” 

Maurin sat down on the floor in front of the quaking Abel and placed his sketchbook in his lap. “I am prepared as always, my lord.” 

Dante smirks and strides back to the workbench. His gloved hand grazes over the instruments before landing on a sharp, steel cleaver. A personal favourite of his. He brings it over to the now soaking Abel at an agonisingly slow pace. He makes an even slower motion of pressing the sharp metal deep into the man's stomach. The king leaves it there for a moment to enjoy the ear piercing screech of Abels voice. 

Once the initial enjoyment fades, Dante makes quick work of bringing the cleaver higher and slitting the skin. Thus revealing the beautiful yellowing of fat beneath the layer. He gives it a few pokes and watches the squirming figure dangling in front of him. The next movement of the cleaver creates a clean cut through the fat and, unintentionally, the muscle. This creates the perfect opening in the gut for the king to reach into. It takes a few moments of concentration and handiwork to find exactly what Dante was looking for. With a nice pull, the small intestine came tumbling out of the hole. Seeing the graphic display below him was enough to knock the bloody Abel back into a sweet unconsciousness.

Maurin did not want to spend any more time watching the display than he had to. Instead focusing on the work at hand. He was quick to grab his ink pen and start the sketch of the scene. It was far from Maurin’s first gory task as the royal artist, and it would be far from the last. The artist stopped feeling pity for the subjects of his pieces after the fourth time King Dante had hired him. All that time worrying was better spent drawing. He had not spent all these years earning the king’s favour just to mess up a piece. Maurin knew that Dante appreciated seeing all the little details that only the artist could provide. Every speck of blood and every inch of viscera perfectly captured in a single work of art. The king just wished Maurin could be there for every session.

It took a few hours for Maurin to finish the inky sketch. Coincidentally, Dante had finished his own entertainment just a few minutes later. The normally ostentatious king was now a bloody and dishevelled mess. His once royal gaze now akin to that of a deranged peasant. The two exchanged a brief glance before the artist looked back down at the floor.

“I have finished the sketch, my lord. I shall have the final painting completed and sent to your quarters by the end of the week.” 

The king let out a small sigh before looking back at the man sitting below him.

“I thank you for another great day of work, Maurin.”

The two of them spent a silent moment together before they excused themselves from the cold dungeon. Leaving the hanging corpse to rot until a passing guard would remember of its existence.

#Parasitic Whumpee #whump #whump writing #whumpblr #oneshot #royal whump

[herrmannhalsteadproduction]

That Herrmann/Halstead DNA (Chapter Seven)

Summary: This is Part Twenty-One of my series A Herrmann/Halstead Production. It is an AU where Christopher Herrmann's mom had an affair with Pat Halstead resulting in a baby. The series follows this OC character (Rebecca "Bex" Herrmann) as she grows up and gets to know her brothers and the various Chicago teams. It is very much an AU, just to underscore that. It doesn't follow the same timeline and characters will follow different paths.

Click here for the Series Rundown where you can find the links to read all of the previous installments (which I highly recommend you do so that this one makes sense.)

Rating: Mature

Relationships: Christopher Herrmann & Original Female Character, Jay Halstead & Original Female Character, Will Halstead & Original Female Character, Jay Halstead & Will Halstead, Greg 'Mouse' Gerwitz/Original Female Character, Will Halstead/Connor Rhodes, Assorted OC Couples

Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Major Character Injury, Assault, Stabbing, Gunshot Wounds, Blood and Injury, Whump, Trauma, Eventual Hopeful Ending

A/N: I received my degree from the medical school of Television Drama which means while things might not (*cough* will not *cough*) be accurate, they will be exciting. *jazz hands* SEE END FOR MORE NOTES

Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Jay

Jay was about ready to crawl out of his skin.

He needed to do something—anything—but…Mouse was taking care of Bex, Connor was with Will, and Chris was on the phone updating Cindy.

Ms. Goodwin had come by and said she would take care of checking on Connor and Will. (And hopefully get an update about how the operation was going.)

Nobody needed snacks. (He’d asked.)

He couldn’t even work the friggin’ case. (Detective Medeiros said so.)

Waiting around, not knowing what shape Bex was in or if Will—

If Will was going to—

Jay scrubbed a hand down his face. He was two seconds away from losing his damn mind.

“Halstead!” Platt came charging down the hall with most of Bex’s school friends trailing behind her. “They put us on lockdown upstairs and just let us out now. Said there was a shooter. What the hell happened down here? Everyone okay?”

A debrief. He could do that.

Jay looked at the huddle of worried faces in front of him and gave a pared down version of what happened, trusting that Platt could read between the lines.

“But they’ve got him now?” Isaac asked, sending an anxious glance back at the elevators. “Ty? He’s in custody? Sam’s up with Emery by himself. Is that—”

“There’s absolutely no way he’s getting loose again,” Jay reassured him. Between Detective Medeiros and Voight, that was an iron-clad guarantee.

“Any word on how Will’s doing?” Devon asked quietly and Jay shook his head.

He was trying not to think about it too hard. Surgery like that always took awhile and they really hadn’t been gone that long. Will was strong. He was going to be okay. He had to be.

Jay wasn’t going to accept anything less.

“Yeah, no, we, uh, we haven’t heard anything yet,” Jay said, sighing. He jerked his chin in a little nod at Chris as he ambled toward their group, finishing up his call with Cindy.

“I love you too,” Chris said, stopping to stand beside Jay. “I will. Yes! I promise!” he said into his phone, raising his eyebrows. “He’s right here. It’ll be the first thing I do. Yup. Yup. Okay. Hug the kids. Love you. Bye.” Chris ended the call with a tired smile. He stuffed his phone into his back pocket and turned to Jay, immediately pulling him into a bear hug.

“Wha—”

“This is from Cindy,” Chris said, squeezing him tighter. “You gotta take it. No arguing.”

Jay hesitated a moment before letting himself melt into the hug. He had a feeling Cindy would somehow know if he didn’t accept it and would immediately call Chris back.

Besides, he was tired. So tired of this shitty, shitty day.

He needed the damn hugs.

Chris gave him a couple of pats before finally letting go. “Guess who we forgot about?”

“I can’t even think right now,” Jay said. “Just tell me and—oh, crap, it’s Kol, isn’t it?” Poor dog had been left alone for hours now. “We have to go get him. Where can we—”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Chris said, reaching out to squeeze his shoulder. “Cindy realized as she was leaving and swung by Will and Bex’s place to pick him up. Thank god she’s in charge of the spare keys. The kids are thrilled to be looking after him for a few days and honestly?” He rubbed at his face and sighed. “It’s a good distraction for them right now.”

Yeah, Jay didn’t envy Chris and Cindy trying to navigate explaining everything that had gone down to the kids. Annabelle and Max would probably be satisfied with the bare bones now that they had Kol there, but Lee Henry and Luke were getting to the age where they caught on when their parents were trying to hide stuff from them. And were insisting more and more that they could handle it all.

Jay could barely handle it.

Ms. Goodwin returned just then and Jay felt Chris stiffen beside him, neither of them sure how to read the look on her face. Jay was almost afraid to ask, but he forced himself to try. “Were you able to—”

“Yes, I have an update from Dr. Allan,” Ms. Goodwin cut in immediately, a small smile pulling at the corner of her lips. “Dr. Halstead lost a lot of blood and there was some damage to his spleen, but they’re making good progress with the repair. I think we can be cautiously optimistic.”

Okay. Jay let out a shuddery breath. That was—he would take that.

“How’s Connor doing?” Chris asked.

Her smile gave way to a sad frown. “I’m not sure he even knew I was there,” she said. “He’s very concerned about Dr. Halstead and I—I think the sooner we’re able to convince him to get some rest, the better.”

“We’ll work on him,” Chris promised. “Thank you, Ms. Goodwin, for checking on them.”

“They’re my people too.” She handed Chris a card. “This has my number on it,” she said. “Please keep me updated on—” she waved a hand through the air “—all of this, as you can. I’m going to see what I can do about covering the ED for the next few weeks.”

Chris pocketed the card with a grateful nod and she headed off. A clatter of wheels in the hall had Malia craning her neck to take a peek and she let out a soft gasp. “It’s Bex.” She and the others moved aside to let Chris and Jay through.

Sure enough, Dr. Fahir and a nurse Jay didn’t recognize were bringing a bed with Bex back to her room. Mouse was walking along beside, talking quietly to Bex as they went. More surprising was seeing Dr. Abrams consulting a tablet as he followed along behind them.

Was Bex’s concussion more serious that they’d thought?

Chris and Jay followed them into Bex’s room, hanging back while they got her set up again. Tried to hang back anyway. Bex spotted them right away and started to push herself up with a grimace which set off Dr. Fahir, Dr. Abrams, the nurse, and Mouse; all four of them quickly trying to get her to lie back down.

“Ms. Herrmann,” Dr. Abrams said firmly. “Remember what we talked about.”

“Rest,” Dr. Fahir added.

“But—”

“You gotta try and stay still,” Mouse urged as he leaned in, stroking her hair away from her face. “What do you need? I’ll get it for you.” He followed her finger, understanding dawning when he caught sight of Jay and Chris. “Oh! Yeah, one sec.”

Mouse waved them over, moving back so the two of them could stand closer to Bex.

“Wh-what’s happening with Will? Is he—is he okay?” Bex looked up at them with teary eyes as she took a shaky breath. Jay wished more than anything that he had good news for her.

“He’s still in surgery,” he said. “But it sounds like it’s going well—whoa!” Jay reached out, trying to steady Bex as she fought to sit up again. “No, hey, come on—what are you doing?”

“Need to go,” she muttered. “Gotta see him.”

“Bex, sweetie.” Chris moved in to gently stop her and made eye contact with her. “Will is in surgery. You can’t see him right now. We will tell you as soon as we hear anything else.”

“He—Will’s hurt, Chris.” Bex’s voice cracked as a tear slipped down her cheek. “I need—”

“I know, baby girl, I know.” Chris kept whispering to Bex as he coaxed back down and got her settled against the pillows. “I promise he’s being taken care of and I’ll take to you see him as soon as I can. But for now—can you close your eyes and rest for a minute while I talk to the docs. Can you do that for me?”

Bex grumbled something that Jay missed, but made Chris smile. Her eyes fluttered shut finally and Chris stepped over to pull a haggard-looking Mouse into a quick hug. Jay grabbed him for another one immediately after.

Fuck it. Tonight was hug night now.

“How’s she doing?” Chris asked quietly, looking between Mouse, Dr. Fahir, and Dr. Abrams. The nurse turned down the lights in the room and they all moved closer to the door to speak in low tones.

“The fractures in her arm and ribs have been aggravated further,” Dr. Fahir said. “One of her ribs has become subluxated.” She caught was Jay was sure was a completely confused look on his face and took pity on him. “That means it’s slipped out of place, but hasn’t been fully dislocated. It will heal on its own along with the fractures, but she’ll be in a lot of pain.”

“Did the contusion get worse?” Chris asked. “What about the internal bleeding?”

“The internal bleeding has slowed, but not as much as I’d hoped,” she said. “We’re still keeping an eye on that and the contusion along with her concussion symptoms.”

“How bad is the concussion?” Jay asked as he dug out his phone so he could start writing this stuff down.

“Mild, luckily,” Dr. Abrams said. “Aside from the pain, she’s also dealing with some confusion. There was…a bit of difficulty getting her to stay still for the scans.”

“She got upset while she was getting checked out because she forgot Will had been shot,” Mouse murmured to them. “Doc had to give her something to calm her down.”

“Her memories of the last few hours are foggy and that may or may not clear up,” Dr. Abrams said. “Someone should stay with her to make sure she doesn’t make it out of bed on her own.”

“Yeah, we can, uh, we can handle that,” Chris said, running a hand through his hair. “Gotta say, Dr. Abrams, I freaked out a little when I saw you here. Had me headed straight for the worst-case scenarios.”

“I was having dinner with Ms. Goodwin and Dr. Charles when she received the call about the shooting and we all returned to the hospital,” Dr. Abrams said in that very clipped and professional tone he had. “When I heard about Ms. Herrmann’s injuries, I offered to do a consult since I was here anyway.”

His voice was all business, but Jay caught the ever-so-slightly fond and faintly worried glance he gave Bex. She might be right about him being a secret softie.

“I know you all have your hands full at the moment,” Dr. Fahir said, drawing Jay’s attention back to their discussion. “But I cannot emphasize enough how important it will be for Bex to truly rest over the next few weeks. Overexerting herself will set any healing back exponentially.”

Jay bit back a groan as he met Chris and then Mouse’s eyes.

Make sure Bex stays still and rests.

While Will and Emery are in the hospital.

“I mean, we’ll do our best,” Chris said, shaking his head. “But it’s gonna be a battle.”

Jay and Mouse snorted, but Dr. Fahir’s next words had them sobering up.

“She’ll be in too much pain the first couple of weeks to get very far.” Dr. Fahir gave them all a stern look. “The medication can only do so much.” Jay remembered that from his own times at Med. Rib injuries especially were a beast.

“Rest. It’s the most important thing, gentlemen,” Dr. Fahir repeated. “I’m counting on all of you to help her navigate this.”

“None of us want to see her back in a hospital bed anytime soon,” Dr. Abrams added.

After promising to check back in tomorrow, the medical team swept out of the room, leaving Jay, Chris, and Mouse watching a restlessly snoozing Bex.

“Tying her to the bed is probably out,” Chris whispered. “But what are the odds on us getting her a prescription for that sedative to last the next few weeks?”

“I mean…I know a guy,” Mouse said, holding up a hand when Jay smacked him in the side. “Kidding. Jeez.”

There was a soft knock at the door before Platt stuck her head in. “Got a pile of firefighters out here hoping for an update.”

“You guys can go,” Mouse said, pulling a chair over to the side of the bed. “I’ll stay.”

“You sure?” Jay would rather stay too, but he didn’t blame 51 for wanting to know what was going on. Bex was as much their family as Chris was. And he really didn’t want to leave Chris to face what was guaranteed to be a flood of questions all on his own.

“I, uh, I don’t think I’m going to be able to leave this spot any time soon, man.” Mouse carefully took Bex’s hand in his own.

Jay felt that down to his bones. He was pretty sure Bex’s pullout couch was going to be his new home for the foreseeable future.

“We’ll be right outside,” Jay said, following Chris to the door. “Yell if you need anything.”

He and Chris didn’t make it very far. Platt hadn’t been lying about the pile of firefighters. It looked like all of 51 was crammed into the hallway. Boden, Severide, and Casey standing at the front with matching worried frowns etched into their faces.

“What the hell happened after we left?” Severide asked.

Jay sighed as he leaned against the wall and Chris huffed out short laugh. “The answer to that depends,” he said.

“On what?” Severide demanded.

“How long your break is?”

***

Connor

“—nor? Connor. Look at me, please.”

Maggie’s voice broke through the rushing pulse of blood pounding in Connor’s ears. He tore his gaze away from the flaking patches of blood—Will’s blood—on his hands and met her eyes.

“There you are,” she said softly. “The surgery is done—”

“Done?” Connor scrambled to his feet, gripping at the sink as he peered through the window. Which was empty save for a couple of orderlies doing clean up. “Wh-where is he? What happened? Is he okay? Maggie, I—”

“Need to breathe,” Maggie said, gripping his hands in hers. “He made it through surgery. Dr. Allan was able to repair all of the damage and Will is stable. She’s taking him to observation.”

“Oh,” Connor gasped out, trying to what she was telling him sink in. “Oh. That’s—that’s good, that’s, uh—jesus, that’s—” Maggie helped guide him back to the floor as his legs gave out and his words crumbled into sobs.

She rubbed at his back, holding onto him for who knew how long as everything Connor had been trying to keep a lid on for the last few hours bled out of him.

When his sobs petered out into sniffles, a paper towel appeared in front of his face. Connor looked up to see April crouched in front of them with a sympathetic smile on her face. Ethan stood behind her with a bundle of clothes in his arms.

“Dr. Allan said you can come with her to let everyone know the good news, but you’ve got to get cleaned up first,” April said.

“She said you’re going to terrify the patients if you want through the halls like that,” Ethan added.

If he looked half as bad as he felt, Connor figured she probably wasn’t far off.

“Okay.” Connor took a bracing breath before heaving himself to his feet and reaching down a hand to help Maggie up. “Gimme five minutes and I’ll be good to go.”

“Yeah, we’re not trusting you to do this without keeling over yourself,” April said. “Strip that top off, Rhodes. It’s nothing we haven’t seen before.”

Connor was too tired to argue. He let himself be manhandled until they deemed him fit for the public eye again. After he was dressed in fresh clothes, Ethan handed him one last item.

Taking it in his hands, Connor unfolded it, throat growing tight as he recognized it as one of Will’s hoodies.

“Grabbed it from his locker,” Ethan said, not quite meeting his eye. “He may or may not need a new lock.”

Stifling his laugh against the fabric, Connor took a moment to breathe in Will’s scent before putting it on. “I’ll replace it,” he said. Connor looked around at the three of them, ducking his head in a grateful nod. “Thank you. All of you.”

“You’d do it for us,” Maggie said as April and Ethan nodded. “You and Will—you’re our family too, you know?”

Maggie and April hugged him while Ethan clapped a hand on his shoulder and steered the group of them out the door.

“Let’s go,” April said, breaking away to lead them toward the stairs. “The sooner we let everyone know the good news, the sooner you can go and see Will.”

Connor sped up, beating her to the stairwell.

He didn’t want to wait another second.

***

Mouse

Bex stirred shortly after Jay and Chris left the room. She blinked blearily at him.

“Mouse?”

“Hey,” he said, leaning in. “I’m right here.”

“Will?”

He shook his head. “Nothing new yet.”

“Time izzit?”

“Uh, late?” Mouse laughed softly, letting go of her hand to pull out his phone. “Yeah, it’s after midnight.”

“You should go home,” she mumbled. “Get sleep.”

“I’m good right here,” he said before pausing as doubt crept in. “Unless, I mean…do you want me to go home?” He seriously didn’t want to do that, but if she didn’t want him here, he’d go and sit in the hall or something.

“No, wan’ you to stay.” Bex frowned, reaching for him and he took her hand again. “But…”

“But what?” he prompted when she trailed off.

“We were gonna have our big date,” she sniffled. “And now you’re stuck taking care of me.”

Mouse reached out with his free hand to gently wipe away the tears that were welling up in her eyes. “Bex, if it was me in this bed and you in this chair, would you consider yourself stuck taking care of me?”

“Can’t shake my head,” she grumbled. “Hurts. But you know.”

“Yeah, I do.” Knew without a doubt she’d be doing the exact same thing if their situation was reversed. Wouldn’t even question it. “Of course, I want to be here, Bex,” he said. “I lo—”

“No!” Bex’s eyes flew open and she winced back against the soft light. “No, don’t—”

“Don’t what?” Mouse hoped the problem wasn’t what he thought it was.

“Don’t say it,” she whispered and his heart sank. Did she not—not that she had to. They’d come so far already. It didn’t mean she had to be ready to say or even be ready to hear—

“Stop,” Bex said, squeezing his fingers. “Stop thinking bad stuff. It’s not—I just—I don’t want you to say that because of today. We can’t—it’s not fair.” She paused, closing her eyes and taking a breath before opening them again. The next sentence came out slowly. Deliberately. “I don’t want that memory to be tied with today. Does that—do you know what I mean?”

Once he’d parsed through her words and thought about it, he did. They both deserved better than a declaration that was partially a knee-jerk reaction to fear and trauma.

But this was—it wasn’t that. It was different and more than that in its own way and he couldn’t let it go, not completely. “I promise this is not me saying it or making a big declaration,” he said. “But I need to say this. Please.”

“Okay,” Bex whispered, giving his hand another gentle squeeze.

“I almost lost you today.” Mouse shook his head, trying to clear away the haunting images from the last few hours and focus on what he wanted to say. “I heard that shot and for a few horrible minutes, I had to live in a world where I didn’t know if you were still in it or not.” He scrubbed at his face with his free hand and Bex made a soft sound.

“Yeah, it was, uh, it was kind of terrifying,” Mouse said. “I kept thinking, I haven’t said enough. I haven’t—I haven’t shown her how much she means to me.”

“Mouse—”

“Hey, you promised.”

She pressed her lips together tight and watched him with shiny eyes.

Mouse took a deep breath, collecting his thoughts. “You’re my family, Bex,” he said. “You and Jay. And you know—you’ve, uh, you’ve been that for a lot longer that you and I have been circling each other.” He tapped his fingers against his chest. “You’re here. You’re a part of my heart—like, a pretty large and permanent piece. That’s, uh, that’s what I needed you to know. I’m full of regular, lower-case love. For you.”

He didn’t even want to think about what it would have felt like if he’d lost her and never had a chance to tell her that.

“Nothing regular about it,” Bex whispered.

True.

But she was right before—now wasn’t the time for that. Mouse could wait until it was.

They both deserved that.

Bex tugged him closer and he hugged her as carefully as he could. She mumbled something against his chest.

“What was that?” Mouse pulled back, still hovering close though as he returned to his seat.

“I said I’m full of regular, lower-case love for you too,” she said, sighing into her pillow. “If you were wondering. And to be clear about what kind of moment we’re having.”

“Still a good moment.” Mouse raised her hand and pressed a kiss into her fingers. “You gonna let me take care of you now?”

“Yeah.” Bex sighed. “My feet are freezing.”

He grinned, remembering the bag from Lucy that Ed had given him. “I’m on it.”

***

Jay

“Hey,” Jay whispered as he and Chris came back into the room. The 51 crew had headed back out on shift and Chris had managed to convince Bex and Emery’s friends to go with Platt and rest in the ICU lounge. It had better couches and was closer to Emery. And the three of them had Bex covered for now. “How’s she doing?”

“Her medicine’s really kicking in and she was pretty out of it,” Mouse said. He looked down at Bex and the side of his mouth ticked up in a smile. “She was, uh, she was pretty cold and I got her some socks, but that wasn’t enough so she tried to talk me into getting in the bed with her. Said I was warmer and she wanted to sleep inside me like a tauntaun. I gave her my hoodie instead.”

Jay pressed a hand to his mouth, trying to smother his laugh as Chris looked between the two of them in confusion.

“Like a what now?”

“A tauntaun,” Mouse repeated. “It’s from Star Wars—when they’re on Hoth and Luke is about to freeze to death so Han cuts it open—”

“And stuffs him inside!” Chris finished for him, finally making the connection. “She said that? What the hell, Bex?”

Jay snorted at Chris’s flabbergasted look, but then they all froze when Bex stirred, holding their breath until she settled again under Mouse’s hoodie.

Chris shook his head as he stared at her. “She’s such a weirdo,” he whispered, half to himself. “I raised a friggin’ weirdo.”

That set off another round of laughter in Jay that he tried to keep quiet, but he lost it again when Mouse just shrugged and said, “I thought it was sweet.”

Jay dropped down into one of the chairs and buried his face in his hands, muffling the sound as his shoulders shook with giggles.

Chris sat down beside him and patted his back. “Okay there, Jay?”

He sat back up, wiping at his face, a little startled to realize there were tears running down his face. “Yeah,” he said, sniffling. “Shit.” Mouse handed him a tissue and Jay wiped at his nose. He sighed. “I just—I love you guys.”

“We love you too,” Chris said and Mouse murmured his agreement.

“I, uh, I wish Will had been here for that,” Jay said, turning to Chris. “Your face—”

“You can tell him all about it when we see him,” Chris said quietly before grinning. “In full detail so he can roast Bex too.”

“What are we roasting Bex for?” a tired voice asked for the doorway.

The three of them were on their feet as soon as they turned to see Connor standing there.

“How is he? How did it go? Is he okay? Is he—is he good?” Question after question spilled out of Jay as Connor stepped back to bring them out into the hallway. Maggie, April, and Ethan were standing there along with a doctor Jay had never met. Chris joined them in the hall and Mouse hung back in the doorway, keeping one eye on Bex.

“He’s okay,” Connor said, reaching out to squeeze Jay’s shoulder.

Jay slumped back against the wall in relief. “That’s—I mean, Ms. Goodwin said it was going well, but I’m really, really happy to hear that.”

“You and me both.” Connor gestured to the short woman standing beside him in wrinkled scrubs. “This is Dr. Allan,” he said. “She performed the surgery on Will and can give you all of the details.” He came over to rest on the wall beside Jay, leaning into his side a bit as they listened to Dr. Allan give the details on Will’s injuries and how he was doing.

Which was pretty good for someone who got a big hole blasted through their middle.

There was a long list of things they were keeping an eye on and things they’d have to watch for—most of which Jay was going to have to get Connor to translate for him later—but he made it. And he was going to be okay.

And Bex made it. And she was going to be okay.

And Emery made it. And if there was any justice in the world, she was going to be okay too.

Jay didn’t think he could ask for much more than that.

Dr. Allan left after giving her update and Maggie, April, and Ethan said their good-byes shortly after that. Maggie with strict instructions for Connor to get some sleep.

Good advice for all of them at this point.

“Well?” Chris shot a look at him and Connor and Mouse. “How do we wanna do this? Divide and conquer?”

“I’ll go with Connor and you stay here with Mouse?” Jay suggested.

“Keep our phones on and keep in touch,” Connor added.

“Works for me,” Mouse said, nodding at them, already turning back toward Bex’s bed.

“Go team,” Chris said with a little grin. “Say what you want, but we sure can handle a crisis.” He gave Jay and Connor a pair of back-slapping hugs before heading into the room.

Connor and Jay stood there in the hall for a moment while Connor checked his messages for Will’s new room number.

“Mind if we take the stairs?” Connor asked as they started walked and Jay shook his head. “Thanks,” he sighed. “Think I need a few days before I can step foot in the elevator again.”

Jay got it. Probably more than Connor realized. But he was also happy Will was only one floor up. He could’ve forced himself to do more if he had to, but the sooner he could find a chair to pass out in, the better.

“So,” Connor began while they both focused on putting one foot in front of the other up the stairs. “What are we roasting Bex for?”

The laugh Jay let out echoed around them in the stairwell. “Apparently she was cold and the socks Mouse had weren’t cutting it…”

***

Connor

The sun was peeking up over the horizon when Will finally woke up.

Connor had been watching him, cataloguing every breath and twitch he’d had since they’d moved him into this room, waiting for that first flutter of his eyelids.

Not wanting to miss it.

Not quite able to believe Will was going to be okay until Connor could look into his eyes.

“Will?” he whispered, gripping his hand as he leaned in. “Hey. There you are. Hi.”

“C’nr…” Will mumbled, groaning softly as he scrunched his eyes shut again for a moment.

“I’m here,” Connor said quietly. “You gonna wake up so I can see those pretty brown eyes?”

Will blinked a few times before managing to focus on him. “Hi.” A loud snore cut through the quiet and Will’s eyes widened. “Was that me?”

“No.” Connor shook his head with a little laugh. “That was Jay.” He shifted to the side so Will could see his brother sacked out in a chair on the other side of the room. “He’s been pretty worried about you guys.”

“Bex—”

“Is okay,” Connor cut in quickly, running a gentle hand through Will’s hair. “She’s got a mild concussion and a little bit more rib damage, but she’s been checked out and Chris and Mouse are with her now.”

“Good. Okay.” Will settled back into his pillows with a quiet hum, face tilting into Connor’s hand still stroking his hair. “Hey, Con?”

“Yeah, Will?”

A tired, but still fully shit-eating grin spread across Will’s face. “Saved your life.”

The surprised laugh that burst out of Connor quickly became mixed with sobs. “My hero,” he managed to get out.

“C’mere.” Will pulled him in for a hug, fumbling to pat at him with clumsy hands as Connor buried his face into his neck. They stayed like that for awhile until another snore from Jay had them giggling and pulling apart.

“Don’t ever do that to me again,” Connor whispered as he tangled Will’s fingers in his. Every bit of fear and frustration and anger from the last few hours bubbled up in his throat, but Connor swallowed it back when he saw Will’s eyes already starting to fall shut.

“’m sorry,” Will mumbled. “Love you.”

“I love you too.” Connor leaned in, pressing a kiss onto his cheek. “So much.”

Another little smile flitted across Will’s face before it relaxed as he fell asleep again. Connor scooted his chair forward, keeping Will’s hand tight in his and rested his other arm on the bed. He watched his chest rise and fall, needing to reassure himself a little while longer before he could close his eyes.

That Will was still here. Still alive.

Still Connor’s.

***

Saturday morning

***

Bex

Bex was miserable.

Everything hurt.

Everything.

Chris and Mouse had told her that Will made it through surgery and was doing well and Dr. Latham was happy with how Emery’s stats were trending although they were keeping her sedated for a while longer.

But Bex wasn’t allowed to go and see either of them.

Wasn’t allowed to move.

Not that she could move much if she wanted to because again, everything hurt.

But still. She wanted—needed to see them both. For herself.

Apparently, that was out of the question.

She was trying not to be miserable—on the outside at least—because she could see how tired and stressed everyone was and she didn’t want to add to that, but if she wasn’t going to be allowed to see Will or Emery, the least people could do was leave her alone.

“So, this Detective Medeiros,” Mouse was saying, bouncing his leg as he sat beside her bed, like he always did when he was nervous or stressed. “She wants to ask you some questions about what happened and she was hoping to take some pictures of, uh, of your injuries.” His head whipped up and his eyes met hers as he frowned. “But you don’t have to, Bex,” he said. “We can do it tomorrow or never. It’s up to you.”

Never honestly sounded pretty good. But Bex knew that wasn’t really an option. “It would help the case though, wouldn’t it?”

Mouse nodded reluctantly and Bex sighed.

That was important. Probably more important than how she was feeling right now. She wanted to know she’d done everything she could to make sure Ty gets put away for hopefully forever this time. And she knew enough about how things worked to realize this—her statements, her injuries—were all important pieces to making that happen.

“I’ll do it,” she said.

“We can stay with you,” Chris said quietly from where he’d been standing at the end of her bed. “If you want.”

“No,” Bex said quickly. Maybe a little too quickly judging from the tiny flash of hurt crossing both of their faces. “It’s not that I don’t want you here…”

But she didn’t want them to see.

Not yet.

Not when the little glimpses she’d caught on her own today showed ugly purpling skin and angry red scrapes. Technicolour violence that hurt to look at. She knew it would hurt worse to see them looking at it. Whether that made sense to them or not, she just—she couldn’t have them here.

Not for this.

“Is Cindy here?” she asked and Chris’s face softened with understanding.

“She’s already on her way,” he said. “I’ll let Detective Medeiros know we’re waiting until she gets here.”

“Anyone else?” Mouse asked. “There’s time to get them and you should have as much support as you want for this, Bex.”

Bex thought it over. Dr. Fahir was going to be there to help document her injuries. Even though they’d only met yesterday and under some pretty crap circumstances, Bex liked her. She was straightforward and…kind, but not in a pitying kind of way. Bex had a feeling she’d help make the process as short and too the point as possible.

She honestly didn’t want many more people in there with her. It was going to be hard enough without feeling like she was on display.

“Just Cindy, please.”

Twenty minutes later, her room had been cleared of everyone except for Detective Medeiros, Dr. Fahir, and Cindy. The door was closed. The lights were still low. And Cindy had a gentle grip on her good arm.

“We’ll go as slow as you need to, Bex,” Detective Medeiros said. “Let’s start at the beginning…”

***

Chris

Chris paced the hall as he typed away in the 51 group chat. Everyone had been making plans to come by and see Bex, but he’d had to nip that in the bud. She hadn’t been in any shape for that this morning and she definitely wasn’t going to be after this interview.

They all understood, obviously, but had wrangled a promise from him to let them know as soon as they could come by. No one was going to be happy until they’d had a chance to see her for themselves. And he had a suspicion there was some kind of giant card in the works.

Maybe that would put a smile on her face.

Not that she wasn’t trying to put on a good front, but even her best front didn’t much of a chance against what she was dealing with. Poor kid had been through the wringer and she was in pain. So much pain. Chris hated seeing her like that.

He just wished there was something more he could do to help. To make it better.

Wished he could be in there with her right now.

At least she let Cindy in. Cindy could always see right through her and she’d put a pause on things if Bex needed it, even if Bex wouldn’t. Especially when.

Kid was too damn good at plowing her way through shit.

She’d fallen apart a bit yesterday, but Chris could see her already shoring things up. Putting her focus on Will and Emery. The case.

What she needed to focus on was herself. He hadn’t been joking yesterday when he said getting her to do that would be a battle.

He needed to make some kind of game plan with Jay and Mouse and Cindy and anyone else who was going to help take care of her. Make sure she didn’t try to plow her way through recovery.

Chris stopped his pacing when the door to Bex’s room finally opened. Cindy, Detective Medeiros, and Dr. Fahir came out and Mouse slipped back inside.

“Thank you for all of your help,” Detective Medeiros said to Cindy and Dr. Fahir. “I’ll be in touch.” She nodded at Chris before heading down the hall.

“I need to start my rounds,” Dr. Fahir said. “But I’ll be back to check on Bex soon.” She patted Cindy’s arm with a smile before leaving.

“Hey, hun, how did—” Chris didn’t even get the question out before Cindy was throwing herself into his arms and burying her face in her chest. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her tight when he felt how much she was shaking. “Hey, it’s okay. I’m here. Talk to me, Cinds, please.”

“It’s not okay,” Cindy said, voice muffled by his shirt. She finally looked up at him with red eyes, sniffling as she shook her head. “It’s not—Christopher, she—what he did? God, he hurt her. He hurt her so much and I’m just—oh, I am so angry. I want him to pay and I want him gone and I want to never ever let Bex out of our sight.” She let out a hiccupping sob as he pulled her close again.

“I’ve already been working on my pitch to convince her to move into our house,” Chris said, running his hands up and down her back as he kissed the side of her head.

Cindy huffed out a laugh. “The kids would be over the moon.” Then she sighed. “How do we get her through this?”

“It’s just gonna take time,” he said. “And patience.”

“I wish there was something we could do right now,” she said. “Something that would help even a little bit.”

“Actually, I think I have an idea about that.”

***

Jay

Jay sat up as he read through the text from Chris. He’d been trying to distract himself while Will slept, knowing he couldn’t pop down and see Bex while she was being interviewed.

Detective Medeiros wanted to keep them separate since Jay was a witness.

He knew why—it was a process he’d been on the other side of any number of times—but knowing the why, knowing the process almost made it worse.

He knew exactly what Bex was going through right now. Reliving everything. Having to sit there and be catalogued.

At least Cindy was there with her.

And now Chris had a genius idea that would probably be helpful to not only Bex, but Will too.

The soft sounds of conversation had him standing and walking over to the bed. Connor and Will both looked up at him, pausing their quiet chat.

“Feel up for a chat with Bex?” Jay asked, waving his phone at Will.

“Yes!” Will’s eyes lit up. Jay laughed at the grabby hands he made, shooting off a confirmation to Chris.

“Okay, let’s get you set up.” Between him and Connor, they very carefully moved Will into a slightly more raised position. Jay grabbed the table tray and moved it into place before setting his phone on top. He started up a video chat with Chris who answered after a few seconds.

Sort of.

“Chris,��� Jay called out as Will and Connor chuckled beside him. “Chris! You’ve gotta—you’ve got the camera turned around, man—”

“Aw, heck.” Chris’s muffled voice came through the speaker and then finally, instead of a view of a table and sheets, they saw Bex’s face.

All three of them tried to cover their shock, but Will couldn’t quite stop the wince at the sharp breath he took. She’d been in rough shape yesterday, but now that her bruises were starting to come up, it was—it was hard to see.

“Will?” Her voice shook a bit as she peered at the screen.

“Hey, Bex,” Will said, smiling softly at her.

“Hi.” She smiled back…and then her face crumpled and she burst into tears.

“Oh, shit.” Will tried to reach for the phone, but fell back with a grunt. Connor grabbed it and held it closer for him. “Bex, I’m here. I’m okay, see? Dr. Allan said I’m going to be fine.”

That didn’t help much. Bex just cried harder and Jay was at a loss for what to do. She might hurt herself at this rate.

Chris’s face came on the screen, looking tense. “Hey, guys,” he said. “We’re gonna hang up for now and maybe try this later, okay?”

“Chris?” Will called out faintly.

“Yeah, bud?”

“Just…give her a hug for me, okay?”

Chris nodded at the screen. “Always.” The call ended and the three of them slumped back.

“Well,” Jay said eventually. “That didn’t go as well as I’d hoped.”

“Help me up.” Will held out a hand to Connor, shaking it impatiently when he didn’t take it. “Come on, we can get me in a wheel chair and I can go down and see her.”

“Absolutely not,” Connor said, crossing his arms as he stared Will down.

“I’m in better shape than she is right now—”

“Bullshit!” Connor exclaimed.

“Dude, you were shot,” Jay chimed in. “You might have come through surgery okay, but now’s not the time to get cocky.”

Connor nodded, but Will ignored him to point a finger at Jay. “Yeah, I’m not taking advice from you on how to safely navigate recovery.”

Rude.

“Okay, okay, okay.” Connor sliced his arms through the air, cutting off the rest of their argument. “Listen, there’s a solution here that I think will make everyone happy. I can make it happen, but there’s one condition.”

“I’m listening,” Will said slowly.

***

Chris

Chris was on board as soon as he heard Connor’s plan. He didn’t care about what anyone else thought at this point. He couldn’t sit through Bex crying like that again. Not if he could help it.

Or Connor, rather.

Dr. Fahir took a bit of convincing, but she agreed to it once she realized they could get it all done while Bex was sleeping. Minimal disruption seemed to be her magic words.

It was actually kind of fun, whispering and sneaking a whole hospital bed through the halls while Bex slept. She was going to be so surprised when she woke up.

Oh, god. Chris hoped she didn’t cry again.

That would be counterproductive.

As the medical team worked on getting Bex set up in the new space, Chris went to stand beside Jay, whistling under his breath. “This is pretty sweet,” he said, looking around at the spacious private room. Will and Bex’s beds were side by side, but there was also not one, but two couches and a few plush arm chairs. Chris lowered his voice, tilting his head toward Jay. “How much do you think—”

“Ah.” Jay held up a finger. “That’s the one condition,” he said. “We’re not allowed to ask how much it costs. Something about not wanting to have to fight about it with Will later.”

“Fair enough.” Chris nodded. “But seriously, is he like loaded loaded because this is a crazy nice room.”

Jay shushed him, shaking his head as he laughed.

“Yeah, alright, no more questions.” Chris grinned at him. “Man, I kind of want to wake Bex up just to see her face. I’m joking!” He held his hands up when Dr. Fahir sent a glare his way.

Time to go sit on that fancy looking couch and stay out of the way. He plopped himself down and immediately waved Cindy and Jay over. “You gotta try this. It’s better than Jay’s!”

***

Bex

Bex blinked as she slowly began to surface, eyes still a bit sore from her, ugh, ridiculous cry session from earlier. She started to rub at them and someone gently pulled her hand away.

She blinked again, focusing. “Jay?”

“Hey, sleepy head.”

“Why aren’t you with Will?” He was supposed to be keeping an eye on him along with Connor. He shouldn’t—

“I am,” Jay said, grinning as he stepped back.

Bex squinted in the dim light, looking around the room. Mouse was on her other side. Chris and Cindy were…on a couch? Where did that come from?

Wait.

Was this a different room?

A quiet chuckle on her right had her turning to see Connor standing beside…another bed? And—

“Will?”

“Surprise!” He waved at her while Connor did jazz hands.

“How—”

“They decided to put all of their problem cases in one room,” Jay said, quirking an eyebrow at her. Chris snorted and Cindy shook her head, leaving the couch to go and stand beside Connor.

“Ignore them,” Cindy said, wrapping an arm around Connor’s waist. “It was his idea and he made it happen too.”

“Thank you,” Bex whispered to him and he came over to give her a smooch on her forehead.

“Now I can keep an eye on you both,” he said,

“Can we bring Emery in here too?” Bex asked hopefully, but Connor shook his head.

“Not yet,” he said. “She’s needs to stay in the ICU, but I promise you they’re keeping a close eye on her and she’s doing really well.”

“For now, you focus on resting,” Chris said, turning a stern eye on her and Will. “Both of you.”

Bex looked over at Will and he smiled at her again. “Hey.”

“Hey yourself,” she said, trying her best not to tear up again at the sight of him. Here. Alive.

“You know what I think would help us rest right now?”

“What?” Bex asked, voice going hoarse.

“French fries.”

They both laughed and then groaned, clutching at their sides.

“Okay, maybe this wasn’t the best idea,” Connor said, shaking his head at the two of them.

“No,” Bex said. “It’s perfect.”

***

Statesville Correctional Center

The guard—Peters—stood outside of the cell, shifting his weight on his feet nervously.

He was the perfect kind of lackey. Easily bought and yet ferociously loyal after the fact. And still wary enough of the stories he’d heard to have a healthy amount of fear during their dealings.

He’d certainly lasted longer than some of the others.

And he was proving himself to be quite diligent.

“That name you wanted me to keep an ear out for,” Peters said. “It came up. There was an attack.”

That deserved attention. “What happened?”

“Domestic of some kind, it sounds like? Trying to help her friend?” Peters shrugged. His attention to detail would need to be addressed. All in good time.

“And?”

“And what?” Peters squinted at him.

“How is she?”

“Oh! She’s alive, but it sounds like she’s pretty banged up,” Peters said. “They got her at Med.”

A hospital stay.

Hm.

Distressing.

He should send flowers.

“Thank you, Peters,” he said, dismissing the man. “Let me know if you hear anything else.”

Waiting until Peters was on the other side of the doors, he headed back to his bunk, digging out his phone. A few messages had his plan in motion.

But what to send?

He couldn’t include a card. Not yet. It was too risky.

But flowers had their own beautiful language. If he picked carefully, there would be no way his songbird wouldn’t know they were from him.

***

Sunday

***

Cindy

“More flowers!” Cindy exclaimed as Chris accepted another delivery.

Will and Bex’s room was almost overflowing with flowers and balloons and treats that neither of them were cleared to eat, but that Chris, Connor, Jay, and Mouse were steadily working their way through.

“Oh, those are beautiful.” Cindy took the bouquet of red asters and set them over by the window. She plucked out the card and, hunh, that was funny. “They say they’re for Bex, but there’s no message or name on it. Any idea who they could be from?”

Bex frowned as she stared at them. “No,” she said. “I feel like everyone I know has already sent something so I have no clue.” She frowned harder. “I want to be able to thank them though.”

“Why don’t we post a picture,” Cindy suggested, scooping up Bex’s phone. “We can put it on all of your accounts so you can say thank you and mention there was no name on the card. Maybe it was just a mistake and whoever they’re from will speak up.”

“That’s a good idea.” She sighed. “Would you mind doing it? I’m not supposed to look at screens still.”

“I’m on it,” Cindy said, setting up the shot. “Hashtag, beautiful flowers. Hashtag, mystery gift!”

Bex giggled a bit which was exactly what Cindy had been hoping for. “Thank you. I appreciate it.”

“Ten bucks says Capp will try to pretend it was him,” Chris said.

“Hand it over then because he sent those daisies,” Bex said, pointing at the shelf behind him.

The rest of the guys laughed as Chris squawked and stalked over to read the card. “Hunh. He didn’t even try to piggy back on Tony’s gift. That’s a first.”

Bex wasn’t wrong about pretty much everyone they knew sending something. They’d had to be pretty firm about spacing out the visits and keeping them to one or two people at a time so Bex and Will didn’t get overwhelmed. As it was, Cindy could already see them fading.

And no wonder. Her eyebrows flew up as she caught sight of the time. “It’s lunchtime! I bet you’re all starving.” She set Bex’s phone down and started hustling Christopher toward the door. “We’ll go grab something and bring it back up here. Any requests?”

“I will eat literally anything you put in front of me,” Will said.

“Not you, mister.” Cindy waggled a finger at him. “I’ll be following your restrictions until Dr. Allen tells me otherwise.”

“Cindy, anything you can grab will be wonderful,” Connor said, reaching for his wallet. “Let me—”

“Nope.” Mouse beat him to it, handing a card over to Cindy. “This one’s on me.”

“Ooh, get extra cookies,” Jay called out from where he was lounging beside Bex’s bed.

“Thank you, Mouse,” Cindy said, ignoring the general shenanigans of the room and utterly charmed by how he blushed when she smiled at him. “Behave yourselves,” she told the rest of them. “We’ll be back soon.”

Soon turned out to be a generous estimate.

Christopher, sick of hospital food, insisted on going to a sub shop “nearby” that was apparently delicious, but still took almost ten minutes to get to. It was a hole in the wall kind of place with a perfectly worn feel that made her think his claims of deliciousness probably weren’t too far off. That and it was incredibly busy—even for a lunch time rush.

Forty minutes later, they made it back to the room with their miniature feast only to find the whole gang passed out cold.

Will and Bex were asleep in their beds. Connor was curled up in an arm chair beside Will’s bed and Jay was sacked out on one of the couches. Mouse was tucked in on the edge of Bex’s bed, one hand gently keeping hold of her un-splinted arm.

“Guess this’ll have to keep,” Chris whispered to her, smiling as he shook his head at their family. They put everything that needed to be kept cold in the fridge and left the rest on the table. Chris tugged on her hand, leading her over to the other couch and pulling her down into his lap.

Cindy relaxed back into him with a sigh.

It was the first truly peaceful feeling moment they’d had since Friday. Cindy could hardly believe everything that had happened since then. It was too overwhelming.

Took her right back to—to when Chris was here and they all rallied together, scared and unsure of what was going to happen, but helping each other through it as best they could.

It made her want to weep sometimes, how much violence and heartache her family had been through. How many scars they now bore.

“You look like you’re thinking heavy thoughts,” Christopher murmured, nuzzling his nose into her hair. “Wanna talk about it?”

“I just—” Cindy brought her hands up to press over her stomach. “What kind of world are we bringing this little bean into?”

Chris was quiet for a moment before he placed a hand over hers. “One where they’ll be surrounded by family,” he said slowly. “A family that will support them and help them learn how to be strong and smart and kind and brave and silly. It’ll be a world where they will always, always know that they are loved.” He held her close. “Always.”

She tilted her head back to look at him. “How did you get so wonderful and wise?”

“You.” Chris smiled, leaning in to give her a kiss. He gave her a little squeeze before settling the both of them into the back of the couch. “Now, come on and get comfy,” he said. “We need to get back into practice.”

“What on earth are you talking about, Christopher?”

He gestured at their sleeping family. “Gotta sleep when the babies sleep, right?” Cindy stifled a giggle and he shushed her. “I’m serious!” he whispered, fighting his own giggles. “Nap time!”

Their giggles settled down as he snuggled into her side and closed his eyes, quickly falling asleep and Cindy followed him soon after.

***

Bex

Bex cracked her eyes open, smiling to herself as she watched Cindy and Chris sleep tangled up in each other on the couch.

Mouse stirred beside her. “You okay?” he asked quietly.

She thought about it for a moment before answering. “Yeah.” Definitely not all the way, not yet and maybe not for awhile, but—

“I will be,” Bex said.

Because she had her family. One that was strong and smart and kind and brave and silly and that she knew always, always loved her.

Click here to read on ao3:

A/N #2: If you haven't read the rest of the series, that Statesville scene is a call back to one that happened in a 'Honesty. Horrible, Horrible Honesty.' Consider this to be the start of a slow burn villain arc.

A/N #3: I'll do another 'coming up next' post for those of you who enjoy spoilers so keep an eye out for that.

And here is the tag list (let me know if you wish to be added or removed):

@sorry-i-spaced, @thegirlwhowishedeveryonelived, @ivyalmighty, @thewannabewriter, @lexhalstead3, @multifandomgrl08, @foxes-and-cats, @sensitivemallysix, @thebewingedjewelcat, @emme-looou, @trulylavandedarling

#a herrmann/halstead production #one chicago #chicago fire #chicago pd #chicago med #rebecca 'bex' herrmann #jay halstead #oc character #will halstead #christopher herrmann #greg “mouse” gerwitz x original female character #greg “mouse” gerwitz #greg gerwitz #whump #hurt/comfort #trauma #whump fic #angst #rhodestead #will halstead x connor rhodes

[whumble-beeee]

The Man in the Sweater Vest

The (Un)Official Guide to Hero-Keeping | Cont'd from Part 7

Content: attempted noncon, threatened mouth whump, disabled whumpee, trans whumpee, scissors, tied up/handcuffs, noncon unshirtening, noncon touch, past captivity references, graphic threats, blood, crapton of whump. As a treat :)

* * * * * * * *

Excerpt from: The (Un)Official Guide to Hero-Keeping; a self-help guide for villains and bounty-hunters

[Inevitably, there will be disagreements on how you should treat your captured hero. One villain might want to just hold the hero hostage long enough to finish their dastardly plans. Another will want to break the hero’s will entirely! Or anything else in between! 

But when working together with other villains, bounty hunters, henchmen, etc, it is crucial that everyone is on the same page about how your captured hero is to be treated, lest your hero end up with a few less limbs than you meant them too, or your months of breaking down the hero's fragile mind is undone by a single nice gesture.

Always communicate effectively, your hero will thank you for it (or curse the day you were born)!]

* * * * * * * *

Sweater-vest stumbled back, reeling from the punch and clutching his face before pulling his hands down and gawking at the blood staining his hands.

“STAY AWAY FROM ME!!” Stan screamed. 

An intense elation washed through his chest despite the surprisingly sharp exploding pain that crackled up the very bones of his arm when he punched the man, and the now freshly ripped open scabs and bruises from where he’d forgotten to account for the handcuffs and yanked on them violently, streaming new ruby red over dried light brown that already carved down his arms; 

Because he'd got him. He'd got him! Punched him, made him back off! Stan did that! He'd finally managed to actually do something about the atrocities being committed against him and it was so, so sweet. 

Relatively short-lived, though. 

Vaughn, the sweater vest man, started to giggle to himself as he wiped the blood streaming from his nose onto his sleeve. Elation gave way to tentative confusion. Then a sinister seed started to take root in Stan's gut, the roots already reaching out and tightening around his body.

“You-...” Vaughn giggled some more. “You– you think–?...”

He started fully laughing, speech overtaken by an apparent hilarity that Stan must’ve just been too shocked by the sudden mood change to understand. He was cackling. Then practically shrieking, crazy, loud, heaving laughs.

He must be crazy. 

Insane. 

Well and truly insane, the way he was shriek laughing into his shining red-stained hands.

His gaze snapped up to Stan, and Stan could practically hear the horror movie crackling effect with how fast it snapped up, crazy maniacal shudders still overtaking his body, piercing gaze turned wide, animalistic.

“You think you can HURT ME?! HURT ME?! AHAHAHAHA!!”

Suddenly Stan slammed into the wall, cuffed wrists pinned above his head, chest to chest with the crazy man and staring up into his crazy bloodshot eyes.

“You can't hurt me,” he growled into Stan’s ear through gritted teeth. ”I don't feel pain. I carved that weakness out a long time ago, my brain doesn’t register it anymore! And I did it so I could deal with horrible little brats like you–” he slammed Stan's wrists into the wall, “--however I see fit! So I could do whatever I wanted to them. So that even if they fight back, they always, always, always lose.”

He pulled back and leaned into Stan's face, staring the captive directly in his glaringly defiant, wide and shining eyes. Hot shaking breaths misted surprisingly minty breath onto Stan’s cheeks, nearly overpowered by the metallic tang of blood that still poured down his face.

“Always submit. Just like you're going to.”

Stan pulled down hard against Vaughn's grasp, struggling and wiggling and tugging and screaming and kicking and doing every single little thing he could to, if not escape, at least make this as difficult as possible.

“Get away from me!" He cried. "GET AWAY FROM ME, get OFF of me, I’m not gonna let you do this you sadist, you can’t do this to me!! LET GO–!”

A punch to the gut. Stan tried to double over and wheezed as much as he could with his arms pinned up, which delivered him right into another punch to the face.

 Then something cool and sharp stabbed into the soft underside of his chin, straining his neck with how far his head pushed back into the wall.

“This is why I like to keep my victims gagged,” Vaughn gritted. “That bounty hunter of yours never does it, no matter how I tell him to. Always has to do stuff his own way, never listens. All he does is talk talk talk, always has a retort for everything. So defiant, and so is every single subject he brings in.”

A dull aching throb emanated from where Stan’s head pressed into the wall. Black spots dotted his vision. 

“You–... y-you can't–”

The scissors pulled back and dove toward Stan's mouth, eliciting a loud cut-off scream of revolt as he cowered and squeezed his eyes shut from some vain, animalistic instinct to protect himself. 

Then he pried open his eyes again, confused when no cutting metallic pain ripped through the fragile flesh of his face.

The handle of the scissors were fuzzy, too close for his eyes to focus.

They weren’t that far into his mouth.

Just enough that if Stan tried to close it, his teeth would clip on the tip of the metal blades instead. 

The scissors lifted slowly, tapping on his top teeth, tilting his head up until he stared into Vaughn’s metallic blue eyes once more.

“I could always prep your throat with these if you like,” he drawled softly, letting go of Stan’s cuff chain and instead lightly grasping his thumb and forefinger under Stan’s chin, forcing his mouth open further. A small sob crackled out from Stan’s throat. 

“It would be so easy… I could just–” 

The scissors lurched further into Stan’s mouth, and Stan let out another involuntary squeak and an open-mouthed, unintelligible pleading of “no, no, no, no…” as tears started to sting at his eyes.

But he let him do it. 

He even still held his arms up, because surely if he tried to fight back now, with the scissors in his mouth quite literally pinning him to the wall… He didn’t even want to think of the consequences.

“Careful, dropje. Wouldn’t want to cut yourself. Be quiet, be still, be good for me, right? You can be good for me? You can finally shut the hell up. No more fighting.”

He let go of Stan's chin and let his hands wander lower, caressing Stan’s sides, the curve of his waist, making his entire body tense and shudder. His breathing turning loud and shallow as he cringed away. 

Vaughn just giggled.

“See? Isn’t this better? You’re not getting hurt, you’re doing what I say…” His fingers slipped under the waistband of Stan’s pants again. Slower this time. More deliberate. 

It took all of Stan's willpower to not start hyperventilating at what he knew was about to happen. He knew. It was always this, wasn’t it?

Vaughn’s voice lowered as he leaned closer, pressing his body into Stan’s. He could feel the fibers of the stupid damn sweater vest against his stomach, deceptively soft, almost pleasant. The hard blade of the scissors tapped on the tip of his nose. “Because you physically have no other–”

BANG!!

Stan screamed. 

Vaughn screamed. 

The ghost of the gunshot echoed off the cinderblock walls. 

Vaughn also nearly fell backward, pushing off of Stan just in time for Stan to fall to the floor in a duck-and-cover position and pray to whatever gods would listen that his last day on earth wouldn't have been spent dealing with two of the worst people he'd ever had the displeasure of being kidnapped by.

Wait, scratch that, his knee reminded him. He'd had worse.

His heart threatened to jump out of his chest completely, but he finally realized that in fact, he was still alive. So he opened his eyes to what he never thought to be one of the most beautiful sights in the world;

Deeby. 

Gun pointed to the sky and streaming a light grey smoke into a small puff of explosion that hadn't had time yet to dissipate. 

“What in the ever-loving SHIT are you doing?!” he shouted.

He was completely maskless, face now on full display, fiery eyes matching his equally fiery sneer. The sudden absence of the mask almost scared Stan more than the gunshot, the sight making his heart beat in his throat.

Then, for just a split second, Deeby's enraged eyes met Stan's stare. His eyes scanned down his body, looking him up and down, his face changing ever so slightly when his gaze caught in Stan’s chest. A slight crinkle of the eyebrows, a small tilt of the head. Then his eyes widened in some sort of realization, and Stan felt his heart turn to ice. 

Recognition.

No. 

He couldn't have realized who he was. 

Just because of the binder?!

Stan choked on his own throat as the collar suddenly constricted once more and he was dragged violently forward to his knees.

“Your fucking dog punched me in the face!” Vaughn shouted, jangling Stan around enough that he had to grab the collar just to gain back his breath.

“Just because–!” 

Vaughn jolted Stan's collar back hard and cut him off with a violent gag.

“I was disciplining him.” Vaughn narrowed his eyes at the mercenary. “Like we're supposed to.” 

Deeby’s jaw set. And still, he managed to find a slight smug smile within his fury. “That why your face is gushing blood, then? Disciplined him too hard?”

Stan didn't even realize when they started, but tears were practically streaming down his cheeks now, chest heaving in panic. “Deeby, Deeby, he was gonna–”

“Shut up!”

A kick this time, straight to the back of his spine, and Stan's throat strained hard into the collar before breaking free of Vaughn's grasp and nearly face-planting into cold concrete. He scrambled to get up, but the same foot planted on his back and slammed his chest right back to the floor, grinding the heel of its shoe into the captive’s spine. Stan clutched at the ground, screams barely bit back by force of sheer willpower.

“Christ, man! Stop it, get off!” Deeby yelled with uncharacteristic urgency.

The force pinning him down suddenly released, followed by the scattered footfalls of someone catching themself from nearly falling over. 

Stan just lay there limp. Heaving and shivering. He couldn't move. His limbs felt like heavyweights, the world tilted on it’s axis, and he was sure that if he lifted his head up, he would lose every last morsel of that protein bar he'd shoved down earlier.

But at least now no one was methodically turning him into a fine red mist anymore. 

Deeby stood between the two of them like an impenetrable stone wall, hand resting on the unlatched holster of his gun and pointedly ignoring Vaughn’s stuttering disbelief as he patted at the pockets of his jacket, pulling various probably very sharp things out and shoving them into his pants pockets.

Protecting him.

“You– You just–...” Vaughn finally composed himself. “You pushed me off! You're saving him? He needs to be taught a lesson!”

Stan tried to push up despite the dizziness. “Only–... D-Deeby, he was trying–”

“Shut up, Stan, I know, let me handle it! Here.” Deeby slid his jacket off and dropped it practically on top of his captive’s head, never once letting his gaze slip from Vaughn. Stan shakily pulled the brown leather of the jacket over his shoulders before he had time to think better of it, doing his best to just enjoy the show and not think about the implications of what was currently happening.

 “Because he wouldn't let you put your dick in him without a fight, right?” The bounty hunter said sarcastically. “Or– or– or because he wasn’t gonna let you mouth-gore him without complaint? Let you ‘teach him a lesson?’ Yeah, I am stopping you. Piece of shit.” The bounty hunter grabbed the scissors off the floor where they landed when Vaughn dropped them after the gunshot. Then he used them to point sharply at the door. 

“Get out.”

Vaughn scoffed and melodramatically rolled his eyes.

“You got the message from Lana then? Is that why you're acting like such a belligerent wittle babeee?” Vaughn posited in his most obnoxious baby voice.

Deeby bristled. Stan could've sworn for a moment he could see the man shaking. 

“Yes,” he said, slowly. “I talked to Lana. Your useless job is done. You can go back to being an even more useless sidepiece now.”

Vaughn’s shoulders tensed, and he laughed.

“Good! And I’ll make sure to tell Lana all about you taking the side of the disobedient dog of a test subject–”

“Yeah, go cry to your girlfriend about it, he's under my jurisdiction and I'm not gonna let you fuck that up because you feel the need to live out your perverse power fantasy with the helpless people you kidnap and torture. As if it isn’t torture enough to have to be in the same room with you at all.”

Vaughn clenched his fists at his side and forced on the worst imitation of a smile Stan had ever borne witness to.

“You better watch your tone, Deathberry,” he said, sickly sweet voice doing nothing to mask the hissing rage. “I could have you in the same spot as him in ten seconds. Don't ever–” he jabbed Deeby in the chest. “–forget that. You're only allowed to be out here roaming around with your fancy gun and your fancy cowboy boots because you're useful, otherwise you'd be locked up with the rest–”

Vaughn had just started to reach for the holster on Deeby's belt when, faster than Stan could perceive, a flurry of movement between the two men, a cry of surprised fear, the shuffling of feet and spinning of bodies and suddenly Vaughn was pinned back first to Deeby's chest, a wire that Deeby pulled from somewhere stretched taut between his fists and pressing a hard line directly under into the skin of Vaughn's throat.

Vaughn's hands quickly flew up to the wire to try and pull it off his throat, then just as quickly let go when he realized the wire would sooner cut through his hands before it would be pried off.

Stan couldn't help but stare.

“You're just about at the end of my rope, Verhulst,” Deeby growled, accent fully presiding now as he stepped backward and pulled Vaughn toward the door. “Don't you ever put your filthy hands on my gun.”

A slight rasp to Vaughn's voice was the only thing that denoted anything was amiss. “You sure this is about the gun, Deebs? Sure you're not taking your frustrations at Lana out on me?” 

“Trust me, if I was takin’ my frustrations at Lana out on you, bud, you'd be dead.”

Vaughn's eyes shot to Stan, and his smile broadened. 

“Ohhhh, I see. So what then, you are falling for the captive? I'm sure Lana would love to hear about how you're going soft, how you miss her, and how spectacularly you're failing at finding someone better so you have to–”

A small gurk finding its way from Vaughn's throat as he was pulled to a sudden stop.

“You know what, maybe I am. And maybe you should use your mouth to do something not completely useless for once.” He spun the both of them around to face Stan again. 

“Apologize to ‘im.”

What?

Vaughn stared at Stan, apparently more stunned by the notion of apologizing than the motion of having a garot wire to his throat. Stan… honestly had to agree.

“Come again?”

“Apologize to Stan. For tryin’ to rape him. It's the least you could do.”

“You want me to… apologize?? To the test subject? You really are losing it, Deathberry, let me go.”

The wire dug into his throat more. “Say sorry, doctor.”

Vaughn glared at Stan. Stan glared back as well as he could.

“I can't feel the pain of this, you know,” Vaughn's voice came, even raspier. “You're not doing anything.”

“You can still bleed out from a slit throat. Still drown to death in your own blood as it slowly fills your lungs,” Deeby dismissed lightly. “Still bleed out. Very quickly. I wonder what would happen if I hit your carotid–

“And I wonder how Lana would feel about you slitting her head scientist and boyfriend’s throat.”

“Probably call you a little bitch boy for invoking her name every time you need to defend yourself like a spoiled toddler ‘steada bein’ a man about it and defending yourself. Or maybe not. You’d never know, you’d be dead.”

“You wouldn't–”

Deeby twitched the wire across Vaughn's throat and a line of red bloomed across the light tan of his neck. Vaughn's face grew just a little bit paler. He brought his hands up to graze across the wire and felt the warm wetness smear across his fingertips.

“Apologize.” Deeby growled. “Now.”

Vaughn's eyes flitted back to Stan, fully appraising the wonderfully wide-eyed mess he'd had pinned against the wall only moments before. 

He narrowed his eyes. 

Took a deep breath. 

Stared daggers directly into Stan's soul.

“Sorry.”

Oh you bastard.

“Go jump off a cliff!” Stan yelled, erratically reaching into the jacket pocket he'd seen Deeby pull the protein bar out of earlier and luckily finding many more, one of which was immediately thrown directly at Vaughn. He couldn't even attempt to dodge it, and it hit him directly in the chest. 

The mercenary let out a singular loud laugh and spun Vaughn back around, letting the wire retract into what Stan now realized was a little housing box on his weird arm sleeve thing and shoving Vaughn at the door as hard as he could.

“Guess he doesn't forgive you. Better luck next time!” he laughed. Stan genuinely thought (and hoped) Sweater-vest would fall flat on his face, but he managed to grab the door and right himself before that happened. Shame.

“Now get out.” Deeby said.

Vaughn glared with a literal snarl, jaw half a second away from cracking in two. Right before he took a slow, deep breath and reset his features to a forced neutral. Then an easy smile. “As you wish, my liege.” 

He bowed exaggeratedly low in a show of mock respect, retrieving his scissors from the ground in a surprisingly graceful sweeping motion as he went. Deeby just rolled his eyes.

“Oh, and Stanny?” He drawled, peeking back from the door as he left and pointing his scissors directly at Stan's face with a flourish. “I look forward to seeing you soon~.” 

“Get outta here!” Deeby yelled with a threatening stomp toward the door, at the same time Stan stuttered out a very surprised and agitated “In hell!”

The door slammed shut. 

Stan could swear he could still hear Vaughn's deranged laugh echoing through the room even as an eerie silence fell over them.

He was finally gone. Finally.

See you soon.

He didn't completely understand why his breath continued to quicken. He'd won that encounter, right? Or… well, Deeby had. But still.

I look forward to seeing you soon.

He felt dizzy. More than the concussion could have caused. This was different, made him feel like he was suffocating, even though Vaughn was no longer here to strain the collar against his throat. Yet he could still feel the knuckles digging into the back of his neck.

I look forward to seeing you soon. In hell.

* * * * * * * *

Next

Taglist: @flowersarefreetherapy | @pirefyrelight | @cakeinthevoid | @painsandconfusion | @books-are-everything | @paperprinxe

#whump #heroes and villains #whump writing #whumper #whumpee #hero whump #defiant whumpee #kidnapping whump #captivity whump #trans whumpee #disabled whumpee #(un)official guide #attempted noncon #noncon undressing #IT'S BACK BABYYYY #GAH I've been so excited to post this #I missed this so much #extra long and extra whumpy for all your waiting #whos idea was it to let me go on an accidental month long hiatus #WHO WAS IT #anyway I'm going into tech week irl for the musical i'm in #so I might not get to the next chapter next weekend #I'll definitely try to tho #I genuinely missed writing and posting this story too. I've got so much more of it to tell #anyway I hope you like this chapter it was a bitch to wring it out of me but I did it #and its glorious #Also vaughn is such a cringefail I love him so much #and we've got some secret hidden Deeby lore sprinkled in there! #making this like an easter egg hunt #did you find it?