#and now it hurts to walk and its agony to put any pressure on it :(

[rosepascal]

Put On a Brave Face | Joel Miller x Reader

summary: Joel Miller almost loses you the same way he lost his baby girl.

warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, blood/gore, standard tlou stuff, reader gets shot, graphic descriptions, kinda softer!Joel so a little OOC

a/n: I got this idea and honestly idk if i like it that much but im posting this anyways. Also this is for the besties who would be absolute crybabies if they got shot bc that is 100% me lmao. I get a papercut and im in tears fr.

The universe must really hate Joel Miller. For all the shit it’s put him through, it just has to add more. It’s not his fault, something that you really really hope he understands. He heard the gun fire but it sounded like white noise. He didn’t feel any pain so he knew it didn’t hit him.

A blur of gun fire and the men around him are dead. Jackson was mostly a safe place but lately there’s been a gang of people who were attempting to infiltrate the commune.

They were easy work for Joel, he wasn’t thrilled that you tagged along on patrol but he trusted you and if he had to have someone he’d pick you to watch his back.

If only he paid a little more attention.

It was like a punch straight to the gut. You felt a sudden pressure as you shot at the bandits. You were too busy focusing on keeping Joel safe to notice you had been hit by a stray. When the chaos stopped is when the pain set in.

Everything feels fuzzy. Like something ain’t quite right. And everything was hot. It’s the middle of winter but it feels like your whole body’s on fucking fire. An ache starts to burn in your stomach, you set your hand on it without thinking. Only to be met with a red stained hand.

“J-Joel?” His world stops.

Panic claws at his heart as it beats louder and louder in his ears. He turns around to face you. Sweat runs down your face, a small smile on your lips as you try and stay calm for both your sakes. His eyes fall to your stomach and that's when he sees it.

One of the bullets from their gun went clean through you. The blood, there’s already so much of it.

“Joel.” You whimper as you fall to the ground. Staying upright becomes the least of your worries as it becomes harder to breathe.

You’ve lived through twenty years of this shit and yet this is the first time you have ever been shot. Those who survived always said it’s either nothing or the worst pain in the world. Joel’s been shot before.

You were there once. The bullet went into his arm and it was awful trying to get it out. He was strong as hell though. Kept his calm and walked it off a few days later.

You always admired how strong Joel was. Not just in the physical sense but he always seemed to be calm even in the worst situations. Maybe it was all a show. But right now you wished you could do the same.

You wish that you could look up at him and tell him you were okay and crack a joke but you can’t. It hurts so bad, it’s burning and pain is tearing through your whole body.

“I got you baby.” Joel falls next to you. He tosses his gun to the side and wraps you in his arms. One hand under your back to try and get you upright.

“It’s okay, it’s gonna be okay.” He wants to puke. A sob crawling its way up his throat.

“It hurts!” You cry, clawing at his shirt. Fingers digging into the soft fabric of his flannel.

“Joel!” It breaks his damn heart to hear you cry out in such pain.

“I know, fuck I know baby.” Jackson isn’t far and right now it’s your only hope.

“I’m sorry.” He mumbles as he stands you up and irritates your wound. Your scream makes him flinch. It’s raw and full of fear and so much pain.

Why couldn’t it be him? Why did it have to be you?

“Please, please I don’t want to die Joel.” The words tumble out of your mouth without thinking.

“Please please.” You bury your face into Joel's chest as he half drags and half carries you to the gates of Jackson.

“I don’t want to die!” You wail loudly and Joel tightens his grip on you. It’s pure agony. Every minor step or bump sends waves of pain through you.

“You’re okay, we’re so close, baby, just a few more steps.” Joel closes his eyes as you cry out for him.

It’s a sickening sense of deja vu. Bleeding out in his arms by a bullet he didn’t see. He needs to focus. It feels cruel but he has to zone out. The gates are so close and that’s all that matters.

“Help!” Joel screams till his throat is raw as he gets closer. The gates open too damn slow as someone rushes out to help. Together they bring you inside the walls and rush you to the doctor.

“What the fuck happened?” Joel tenses up when he sees Ellie running towards him. A panicked look on her face. Worry written all over her face when she sees you being carried in.

“Joel?!” She tries to run in but Joel grabs her arms.

“Stay outside.” He commands, not wanting Ellie to witness you in such a bad state.

“Fuck no!” She tries to push past him but he’s stronger than her. Your pained scream makes Ellie stop fighting, tears welling up in her eyes.

“Don’t worry.” he says unconvincingly as he turns and runs into the room. You’re lying on a table, your shirt already torn so they have access to clean the wound. Joel rushes to your side and grabs your hand.

“I’m here baby.” He brings your hand to his lips and lets you squeeze it tight. The medic opens a bottle and looks at Joel before pouring some of it onto your stomach.

“FUCK!” You seethe and try to squirm away but someone holds you to the table.

“Make it stop! Please!” Sobbing, you squeeze Joel's hand as tight as you can.

“Joel please! It hurts so bad!” Your vision is blurred by the tears and the tiredness that your body feels right now but you can still make him out.

You can’t leave him, you can’t die. It hurts more than the bullet did as they start to patch you up. Spots of black cover your vision and you start to cry more, you just want Joel to hold you and make it better. Your eyes flutter closed and you feel a hand tapping harshly on your cheek.

“Stay with me baby, come on.” Joel opens your eyes and in pure panic snaps at the medic.

“DO SOMETHING!” Joel is an intimidating force but right now he’s utterly helpless.

“We’re doing everything we can.” The medic says calmly. Keeping your eyes open becomes too hard, you just want to sleep.

“No no, come on. Wake up!” His voice fading out as darkness and peace consumes you. 

- - -

Two centimeters. According to the medic you were two centimeters away from dying. The bullet entered and nearly missed a major artery. If it had hit you there then you would have been dead in minutes.

You’re lucky to be alive.

It doesn’t feel lucky. It feels like shit. You’re stuck at home while on recovery and with Joel as your caretaker that meant you couldn’t even leave. After the doctor left he took one look at you and you know there’s no argument here.

When you woke up Joel was there. He wouldn’t tell you much. Just that you were shot and that you were okay. He doesn’t think you remember much of anything after the bullet hit. But you do. Somehow you remembered everything up until you passed out and all you could feel now is guilt.

You wished you were stronger. That you didn’t scream and cry for him to help you even though you know he couldn’t. There’s nothing he could have done and you made it worse. You weren’t in the right headspace but it felt cruel to beg for him to save you after everything.

After...Sarah. He doesn’t talk about much. He opened up to you once in the middle of a sleepless night. You don’t know every detail but from what he told you, you put a few pieces together.

Shot by a soldier with a bullet that should have hit him instead.

A situation that felt too similar to this one. How could you do that to him? How could you look him in the eyes after all of this? Being in recovery meant you couldn’t do your chores so Joel took them. Great, first you remind him of his dead daughter and now you’re making him work even more. At least Ellie was here. She rarely left your side. 

“A book just fell on my head, I only have my shelf to blame.” Ellie looks up from her pun book with a smile. It’s just after dinner and Joel still isn’t home. So she has taken it upon herself to be your entertainment.

“That's four outta ten.” You say and she rolls her eyes.

“No way that one was funny.” She flips the page and reads another one.

“Okay okay, you wanna hear a joke about pizza?” Resting your face on your hand you nod.

“Sure.”

“Nevermind, it was too cheesy.” You snort and she laughs.

“Alright, that one is pretty good.” She punches the air in success. You notice her eyes keep darting down to your side where the bandages are.

“You know Maria told me about the school sleepover, bunch of kids your age are going.” You say and Ellie shrugs. It makes you feel guilty that Ellie’s here and not out with people her own age.

“I don’t know, not really my thing.” She’s lying. You know she is. That girl she’s grown quite close to will be there and you don’t want to stand in the way.

“I’ll be okay Ellie, I want you to go and have some fun.” She looks hesitant but after a little bit of pushing she caves. Hugging you tight before leaving.

Sighing you try and get comfortable on the couch and wait for Joel. He comes back late. You must have fallen asleep because next thing you know you’re being shaken awake. Joel's tired eyes stare at you, only meeting them for a second before looking somewhere else.

“Where’s Ellie?” He asks.

“Sleepover.” You answer sleepily.

“You shouldn’t be sleepin’ on the couch. It’s not good for you.” You hold back a laugh as you recall the many times you’ve found Joel passed out on the couch. You try to sit up but you move too fast. Squeezing your eyes shut as you feel a sharp pain in your stomach.

“Careful,” He places a hand on your back to steady you. Silently he guides you upstairs to bed. He’s given up the extra pillow and blanket to make you as comfortable as possible.

“Coming to bed?” You ask hopefully as he helps you in. He shakes his head and your face falls.

“I will soon.” He kisses your forehead before turning out the light.

He hasn't slept easy since the incident. He knows you’re alive. In his brain he sees you breathing and talking but sometimes when he closes his eyes he can only see you lying on that table.

He comes to bed a few hours later. Being as quiet as he can so he doesn’t wake you, but you aren’t asleep. The guilt has been eating you alive for days now. You put him through so much and now you feel like dead weight. He’s pulling away to protect his heart and it’s killing you. You know he’s asleep when he starts to snore. He swears he doesn’t but he does.

Carefully you throw the blankets off, resting the extra one back on him. The floor underneath creaks with every step. Sleep isn’t coming and you need a drink. Opening the cabinets you see the bottle of whiskey all the way in the back of the top shelf.

“Dammit Joel.” You huff as you blindly reach to the back.

It’s just out of reach and you feel anger start to seep in. It shouldn’t be this hard to get a glass of whiskey. You should be able to do this without anyone's help. Pain starts to blossom in your stomach as you put one knee on top of the counter and stretch the stitches. When you finally wrap your fingers around the neck of the bottle you feel your foot slip.

Glass shatters on the ground around you as you land hard on your back. You let out a whimper of pain as you sit upright and look at what you’ve done. Shards of glass surround you and the amber liquid pools on the floor. Heavy footsteps come running down the hall. Joel looks frantic as he holds his gun out, looking around for intruders. When his eyes land on you, you look down in shame.

“What the hell happened?” His voice booms and you feel like crying.

“I-I’m so sorry. I just. I thought I could..” Without thinking you reach to clean the glass.

“Stop!” He kneels down and grabs your hands before they can touch the glass. He doesn’t say a word as he cleans the shards of glass. You could feel how angry he was.

“Wanna tell me what was so important?” He crosses his arms and stares down at you.

It’s like you're a little kid being scolded for stealing a cookie. You feel angry and sad and so guilty and your stomach really hurts. Digging your nails into your knees you start to cry. Small sniffles snowball into sobs that make your whole body shake.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” It’s all you can say as you bury your face into your hands.

“Baby..” Joel’s voice is softer than you’ve ever heard it. He falls to his knees and wraps his arms around you. Tears shining in his eyes as he feels you tremble in his touch.

“I-I’m so sorry.”

“Shh, what are you sorry about?” He rubs your back and closes his eyes.

“I remember everything Joel, W-When I got shot. Fuck the things I said.” You bury your face into his chest as a fresh wave of tears fall. They just won’t stop.

“What are you talkin’ about?” He gently pushes you back so he can see your face. Wiping those tears from your cheeks.

“I shouldn’t have..I made it so much worse.” He’s confused. Really confused.

“Baby, There’s nothing to be sorry for,” He runs his thumb across your bottom lip, heart cracking as he looks into your broken eyes.

“I begged you to save me when there was nothing you could do.” He grimaces at the memory of your painful cries, but you were dying and you were scared. He could never hold that against you.

"I wanted to be strong for you but I couldn’t a-and I hurt you." You rip his hands off of you and curl into a ball.

“It's not your fault baby. None of it.” He rests his hands on top of your knees. It baffles him that you think any of this is your fault.

“You were in so much pain. " His voice cracks slightly and it gets you to lift your head.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you baby.”

“Joel…” You start but he silences you.

You never should have been in that position in the first place but it's not about him right now. He gently pulls you into his lap, hugging you tightly. He closes his eyes, feeling your heartbeat.

“I shoulda noticed sooner. I..." He stops himself from going down that path.

"You’re so strong baby. You fought like hell and didn’t give up.” You don’t say anything. The guilt is still there but it won’t go away anytime soon.

You’re living in a fucked up world and you’re just two fucked up people trying to survive. And somehow you survived.

“Can we go back to bed?” You ask softly, tired from the crying.

There's more to say but its too late now. Tomorrow Joel will tell you over and over that it's not your fault. He'll tell you every damn day until you believe him. He’ll pray for your forgiveness for putting you in danger, for letting you get hurt and you’ll read him like a damn book and tell him it’s ridiculous. Maybe then you’ll both realize their’s not guilt to be had on either side.

Watching you bleed out on that table, it really did remind him of the day he lost Sarah. That fear and pain never really goes away but right now he can hold you in his arms and feel your heart. He can see your eyes and hear your voice. That’s all he needs right now. He’s not going to lose you. Ever.

So god help anything that stands in his way.

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller angst #joel miller fanfiction

[99liv3s]

The young, small curvy mom-to-be had been sitting on the bed doing her breathing exercises when all the lights shut off. From outside her door, Arista could hear the sounds of chaotic activity as she was plunged into semi-darkness, the only light coming from the small window in her room. A midwife entered a few minutes later to inform her that the power had gone out in the entire facility, and no one was sure why. Since her room was now too dark, a similar situation to many of the more private birthing suites in the clinic at the moment, the staff had decided to move everyone who was currently in labor to a more public, but well lit area, and instructed Arista that she should walk there immediately.

Unfortunately, labor does not show mercy during any kind of disaster or situation, it just does its thing. So, naturally, as soon as Arista stood up, her water broke all over the floor, and her contractions increased ten-fold. Moaning loudly as she felt the pressure fall hard onto her hips and start pushing, Arista began gingerly taking slow tiny steps forward, feeling as though her entire uterus was getting ready to drop painfully out of her from the weight of the baby. Though the makeshift birthing area that had now been set up in the well lit lobby was only a few doors down from her own suite, the journey there was long, torturous agony for Arista as her contractions were coming fast now. Four times she had to stop and double over in pain, crying loudly as the baby pushed, but she was determined not to give birth right here in the hallway, and so kept her legs as tightly closed as she could, trying to ignore the pressure that demanded she open up and push.

20 long minutes later, she was lying on a collection of towels and sheets in the floor of the lobby, her legs spread, with three other girls also in hard labor around her, crying, moaning, and screaming their pain that Arista was also experiencing. The four women were in so much pain, they only communicated in glances at each other. Arista's golden almond shaped eyes found the deep blue eyes of a small brunette girl who looked even younger than she was, and they stared at each other as the latter screamed loudly, clearly going through a painful contraction. Arista had come to the conclusion that this girl was still in her teens before she was distracted by her own pains. It suddenly felt like her back was being split open as the urge to push returned, and Arista pushed weather she was supposed to or not. The midwives were all busy attending to some of the other patients or trying to figure out the power situation, and no one seemed to realize just how far Arista's labor was progressing. Arista's loud cries joined with her fellow birthers' as the pain shot through her entire body, and she pushed, willing to put this horrible ordeal to an end as fast as possible. However, it appeared that luck was definitely not on her side today.

"It's stuck, and the head looks...abnormal," a midwife said to her another 10 minutes later, as Arista panted. Someone had finally realized that Arista was pushing, and had come over to help. My.... my back..." Arista managed to squeak out, ignoring the loud moans from the teen nearby. The midwife began massaging Arista's legs and vagina, trying to provide her some relief and also examine the situation as best she could without the use of ultrasound or other equipment, which was obviously unavailable. As the nearby teen screamed loudly, apparently still in transition, the midwife felt around on the bulge in Arista's vagina and nodded somberly in understanding. "Baby is breech," she said to Arista. "Apparently, it never turned." "We can still get it out, but you're going to have to push even harder, and it's going to hurt...a lot!" Arista whined in both pain and frustration as the midwife spread her legs even wider apart and told her to push.

"AAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!" Arista screamed as she pushed, the butt of her baby barely inching out as the ring of fire hit her opening full force. Arista let out a moan as she struggled to catch her breath and strength for another push. Around her, the moans and cries of the other laboring women rung out as they also progressed, but it seemed Arista was much farther along than any of them. "Push! PUSH!" the midwife urged. "You gotta push harder!" Arista bit back her retort and bore down again with a loud scream. She felt the body of her baby slide out more, and feet and arms slipped out. Now, all that was left for her to push out was... the head. "Oh boy..." she thought wryly. "Good, just a bit more effort and you'll be done!" The midwife encouraged. Arista was tempted to say how much this midwife had no idea how much effort she was going through, then happened to notice her midwife was sporting a small bump of her own, clearly in her early months of pregnancy. "She'll understand it soon enough," Arista thought as she felt another painful contraction hit her, and with a loud roar, she pushed the head out. "It's a healthy cute little girl," the midwife said, and the instant Arista heard the first cry of her new daughter, the clinic's power flickered back to life!

(Your character rolled a 6 = single baby birth)

[fatal-blow]

CR Fic - Let Me Be Okay

Spoilers for ep35. I have once again put Ashton into a plastic bag and started swinging them around

--

Here’s another rule: no good luck streak lasts.

Pain’s normal.  The blood’s still pouring, thick dripping off their chin, their lungs, a hot, foreign taste in their mouth.  They would never get used to how blood felt in their mouth.  Felt hotter than normal.  Slimy and oily, just wiping it off left a slippery, clinging residue.

It throbs from their head, pounding down, down along the cracks in their arms, the chest, down into the little minute fractures that they knew riddled their organs.  Everything hurt, everything hurt so much and so all the time that it had become the background radiation of life.  They didn’t remember what it felt like to not be in pain—though they get a taste of it when FCG takes their arm and sweeps away the worst of the burn.

In its wake return the thousand tinier pains.  The headache reduced down to a pressure in their temple, a mere twinge of what it had been.  All the injuries they’d gotten from the fight with Otohan were back in the form of dull aches and bruises, not the focus of the spell and therefore left most-healed.  They roll their shoulders back, stretching their neck and popping one, two, three—and four, there it goes, vertebrae in a vain attempt to seek relief.

In the days they’d spent recovering from the fall, it’d been hard accepting that they couldn’t just walk away from it like they usually did.  The best healing only came if the muscle got used—not here.

They’re no less stronger than they were before.  They think.  But now being strong hurts.  A flex of the muscle ripples agony through their entire body, a cascading domino affect.  Once Justi told them that everything in the body was connected.  One muscles leads to another, all throughout.  They hadn’t believed her.

Now they did.  Reach an arm forward and it shoots pain down the shoulder, sharply outling the blade and hissing down the back.  Didn’t stop there, though.  Reach further, and it goes into the lower back, hip, ass, thigh.  Down to the Achilles goddamn heel if they go far enough.  And then it sits there in the joints and muscles, even long after they’ve settled.

But it’s fine.  It’s normal.  They’re used to it.  It’s always going to be like this.  Always will be like this.  Nothing a little self-medication can’t help.  Just sleep it off.  Hit that trigger point, enter a rage, they feel nothing.  Nothing.  It’s fine.  I’m fine.  I’m okay.  I’m normal.  I can live with this.  I’m fine.  I’m fine.

Another rule applies here: never get your hopes up.

Because it’s fine until it isn’t.  Day one, fine.  Day two, fine.  Day three, I’m going crazy, I can’t live like this anymore, make it go away, I want to sleep forever, get me a new body, do something, do anything, should’ve let me die, just please make it go away.

Day four, fine.

It was a day like day three that really did it.  A day worse than day three, maybe, because they’ve just been impaled by an airship harpoon.  And gods, when FCG cast that heal and they bathed in that one split second of bliss, of pure heaven, it’d been a moment of weakness.

And they’d thought about it.  New friends who will sniff out any damn mystery they can get their paws on.  A poor memory, poorer yet of the night it all happened, where their only souvenir being the giant fucking hole in their head and a mountain of debt.  That’s a thread, a mystery, and Ashton was so certain that it led to Jiana that they ached all the more for it.

So it was worth the pain, letting them into his fucked up head.  A little more never hurt, haha.  They’d let themself see Hexum at the end of this thread and hoped.  Because if she caused it, she could damn well fix it.

That was the thought, anyways.

Imogen’s hands on the side of their face as they’d finally come to something better resembling consciousness was both a lifeline and curse.  They grab her wrists almost instinctively, coughing and heaving around the blood.  The words slur out of them, unhinged and desperate: “Did you find something?”

They can’t read her.  A lot, she says.  Head throbbing.  Blood dripping.  They squeeze their eyes shut and refuse to believe that what squeezes out are tears.  Thank you.  They could have fallen into her arms, if it weren’t for the fact that her touch burns.  Thank you.

They assumed the answer a little too quick, maybe.  Grabbing their flask to mix blood and whatever paint thinner they’d last put in here, as hot as the fucking desert they’d come out of.  That’s a better burn.  It mixes with FCG’s healing, and they’re a little more numb once they polished it off.  Numb enough to put the pain back where it belonged and focus.

Imogen and FCG practically fall over themselves to describe what they’d seen in his head, an awe on Imogen’s face not unlike that as she’d pulled away from the telescope after her first time peering at Ruidus.  At first he’s too busy kicking away the guilt and shame that clung to his ankles, equal parts humiliated and violated, to acknowledge it.  Too sick with fury that they’d been subjected to his mess of a fucking head.

As the rush of blood in their ears begins to subside, they process it.  And they’re angry.  This wasn’t a lot.  It was a dead end.  A universe in their head, a connection to some shitty liquid in a vial.  All the possibilities of their life.  Telling them they’re special.  Chosen.

You’re connected to something much bigger than yourself.  Imogen says it with reverence.

Okay.  So?  Sure didn’t feel like it.  Felt more like a stupid, random accident.  Being in the wrong fucking place at the wrong fucking time.  And they don’t want the power.  Yeah, it’s fun—it’s gotta be, when you’ve got a boatload of pain and work still to be done.  They sure as hell don’t want to be some, some fucking…conduit, for some thing.

They’re all vehemently telling him he’s special.  That it’s not random chaos.  It’s potential.  You have potential, power.  Fuck that.  He doesn’t want to be special.  He doesn’t want to have a permanent fucking potion of potential banging around in his head.  He wants a fucking cure, and it was supposed to be Hexum who had the answer.  It was supposed to be her that did this, her that could fix this.

It hurts all for nothing.  Just more questions that they didn’t want to pose.  More work.  More hunting.  More pain.

They don’t care about potential.  They just want to feel okay.

#critical role #critical role fanfiction #critical role spoilers #ashton greymoore #cr spoilers #cr campaign 3 #fataldrabbles #??? i never remember what to tag lol

[lollybliz]

I'ma stop bullying now ;A;

Mayhaps sharp, and/or cold?

fhdjlfhslsdfh you're fine you're fine

👀👀👀

for shits and giggles i'm gonna do both, i think

we're putting a readmore in cus this got long fhsdlfsdhldfhsdsdfhl /cackling/

the xiaother wip (pending major rewrite)

Aether leaned back and closed his eyes to think for a moment, then leaned forward to sit up and slowly swing his legs off the edge of the futon. “Can you help me walk to the bathroom? I'm still kind of covered in blood and sweat and ash and junk. And I should rebraid my hair tighter, I think; to keep it out of the way better. And maybe file my nails, so I really don't have anything sharp on me. The last thing I want to do is hurt you.”

~

By the time Xiao comes back with a small nail file, Aether has managed to run his fingers through his hair, clean his face, and generally rid his body of the grime and blood of the battlefield he had been on only a couple hours previously. As he took a minute to file down any sharp edges and nicks in his nails, he marveled a bit at how nice it was to not be the protector for a little bit. To have someone so strong, who genuinely just wanted the best for him, wanted to be around him. Wanted to keep him safe.

~

Aether, who'd pulled his arms back into his chest the moment he'd heard Xiao gasp, blinks a few times, befuddled. "What did I… what? I pushed at you, like I've been doing all along? Like this?" And (more gingerly than before) Aether presses his hand into the wall beside him again, and feels Xiao tense around him with another sharp intake of breath. "What… oh. Wait. Oh shit."

Snowbird >:3

He’d just left his apartment for a supply run, collecting both groceries for the days he’d be spending in the city, and materials to bring with him back up the mountain next week. He’d nearly made it to the market square when a sharp agony had ripped through his chest with no warning, driving him to his knees as he curled around the all-consuming sensation. The awful pressure had built and built before something in his chest burst out, the force sending him flying backwards, his head cracking against the building behind him and his mind shutting off like a candle blown out.

and then cold which- is proving to be a chaotic choice indeed fhsdfsghflhsdl

the xiaother wip

so this is a chunk undergoing heavy editing borderline being scrapped and rewritten, so this particular paragraph is written with like three fill in the blank sentence fragments because i can't make a decision to save my life- one of them has cold in it and so that's the bit i'm gonna stick here, but its a bunch of sentence fragments so fsdhflhsfl

[And then, suddenly, like a light on the horizon, there he was.] Xiao immediately leapt into the air and allowed himself to be pulled across the long, dark sea towards his partner; alighting on a fog-wrapped island he was utterly unfamiliar with. [Cold shot down his spine as his vision adjusted and he saw Aether curled at the foot of a statue to the electro archon, shivering.]

technically a piece of outline that outgrew itself-

Aether blinks his eyes open to a world of soft beige fluff and way more light than he’s become used to over the last few days. He curls in on himself a little and presses his eyes shut tightly to block out the light while his vision adjusts, mashing his face into the dry softness under him. There’s a shuffling of fabric and a huff behind and above him, and then the red glow through his eyelids dims a bit as a large shadow casts over him and a low voice mutters softly to him, with considerably less reverb than he’d been hearing it echo with. “I’m so sorry, I’m sure it’s very bright in here, and cold; and that must have been very uncomfortable; here, let me-” With a start, Aether feels the towel he’s balled up in fold around his body slightly and lift up, his cottony world shifting as he’s gently covered with the end of the towel and carried a short distance away and set down. ]

Taanomrwtwuahp.tinoot

Houston, we have tomfoolery. this is a hypothermia as an excuse fic- you're getting single sentences fsdhfsdsdfhlh

some of those sentences are so horrendously run-on that they're basically still paragraphs but shhh that's later-Bliz's problem

He blinks again, and the world tilts around him without warning, flinging his tiny body onto his side, the light leaving and now he's cramped, what's happening, his head is spinning and he can't see; it’s gone dark, he's wet and he's cold and then the floor moves under him and then with a loud weird echoing sound he's being squeezed within an inch of his life, his whole body being compressed and it’s so dark and he can't do more than wiggle and what on Teyvat is going on-

~

Thanks to his alchemical origins, though, he himself was fairly temperature resistant- which was part of why his lab was so much colder than he'd like, at the moment.

~

 Cold, everything here was cold, except himself– his hands were nowhere near warm enough, prone to chilling like anyone’s, his breath seemingly the only thing warm enough to even begin to comfort the little wisp, and even that was only warm in the first place because of his own body's resilience to extreme temperatures-

~

He was warm. He'd never been particularly bothered by heat or cold, because by some quirk of his alchemical creation, his core temperature was fairly static, and naturally warmer than most born humans.

~

A bright golden light seeped from beneath his palm as he triggered the sigils, and he felt a rush of burning heat, and then searing cold pulse through his body, head to toe, before a tingling settled in his core, and when he coughed at the uncomfortable sensation, a few transient golden sparkles flew from his lips.

~

Ten minutes seemed like a long time for Venti to be so cold, but he had to be sure.

~

Looking at the tiny god like this, knocked out, cold, and stuck in his wisp form for some reason Albedo couldn’t determine, steeled him.

time for another vore cw :3333333

The cold little lump hit his tongue and his brain immediately filled with static.

~

It was light when he woke up, he was cold, he was wet, he was in a strange container with a pool of amber liquid.

~

Albedo pulled himself forward off of the wall and slumped over his crossed legs, freezing when this motion caused the sleeping wisp within him to flop forward in his belly, holding his breath until it was clear that Venti was still out cold.

~

His mind kept wandering back to the little weight in his belly, no longer so cold where it pressed against him but not yet warm either, still and quiet save for the infrequent twitch and shudder of breath.

~

The wisp was still almost cold where he curled against him, despite being surrounded in the most warmth Albedo had to offer for an hour or more now.

~

Much as the cold wouldn’t really pose a risk to him, or his tiny passenger, the whiteout from the storm most assuredly would.

have a whole paragraph, as a treat, cus wow the sentence makes no sense without the context rdhflsdhlf it barely makes sense with the immediate context

He lets himself close his eyes and simply enjoy the warmth for a few minutes while he waits for the glass to melt through. Much as he doesn’t really need the warmth, he rather likes the heat, and has been jokingly called cat-like by the cavalry captain for that tendency, among other reasons. As the warm air washes over him, he snorts softly. Perhaps the assessment is not entirely inaccurate, but really, who wouldn’t appreciate such warmth after more than a day in a cold cave with no fire and no tea to speak of? He can enjoy this for a minute. The glass needs time anyway.

~

The wind blows fiercely behind the curtain, the sky dark and cold and the snow piling up, but it's quiet in the lab.

(and now we're to outline chunks fhsdjf)

Albedo brings him back to his desk and sets him on a folded blanket, and putters around the lab for a few minutes while Venti sits and processes how big everything is out here, how open it is. How different. How cold.

and a bit of Actual outline mostly cus i forgot about that note and it made me laugh

• he flops down at his desk and sitting feels a little too good after being upright in the cold for so long at his forge, ~insert crunchy joints moment~

and that's the end of it holy shit fdhsflsdhdflsdh

#j e s u s #laughed my way through this one ngl fhsdflshsfls #bliz rambles #ask game #wip talk #muwutuals #v0re #again; that's the tag to block #lemony scented #long post

[captainwans]

DANGEROUS LIAISONS — BUCKY BARNES

pairing: bucky barnes x nurse! fem! reader

summary: in which, one of the prominent nurses of hydra gets introduced to their new deadly asset.

warning: mentions of anxiety disorders, ptsd, angst, traumatized reader, bucky in pain, memory loss, slight misogyny, don’t read it if you feel uncomfortable. 

word count: 1,6k

main masterlist!

 

�� A LOUD PIERCING SCREAM IS WHAT PULLED [Y/N] OUT OF HER THOUGHTS. The pain in their voices and the roaring cries of help made the young nurse's hand tremble with fear as she treated one of the subjects from H.Y.D.R.A's upcoming project. She could feel the ground vibrate from the blaring screech echoing in the halls and diving towards the nurse room. She could feel her heart thumping loudly inside her chest, and her stomach churned.

            [Y/N]’s patient, who was mindlessly sitting onto a broken chair, snapped his fingers in front of her face, snapping her out of her daze. She looked at the subject, a frown forming into her features as she went back to work. Adding gentle touches to his wounds, she skillfully treated his arm and put one of her homemade ointments onto his gash.

            When she was finished, the soldier gave her a quick nod and was left alone with the other nurses who were bustling around her. She anxiously bit her fingernails, darting her gaze across the room as she tried to tone out their screams.

            Janet, her co-worker, and a close friend, looked at her with concern. Her eyes were clouding with worry as she gazed down at the petite woman who was fiddling with her hands, her dark locks hiding her face.

            "Sweetie, are you alright?" [Y/N] could feel a warm hand being placed on her shoulder and she flinched, her posture rigid and tense. Her hand immediately left her shoulder, the warm touch quickly disappearing and were replaced with a rush of coldness instead. "I'm fine, Jane." she reluctantly said, her voice barely above a whisper.

            Janet's eyes softened. She opened her mouth but closed it, not wanting to pry into her business. She went back to her subject, measuring their blood pressure while her worry for the young woman still lingered at the back of her mind.

            The young nurse sighed tiredly, slowly standing up from her chair and stretched her body. She could feel her bones crack which made her grimace in disgust. Sauntering towards the door, she shifted her body around, softly mumbling that she was going for a walk.

            She wandered off into the dark alley with an uneasy look on her face. She could feel goosebumps break into her skin and she shuddered, feeling a cold sensation down her spine. As she neared closer to the main facility, she could hear their screams more, making her clench her jaw. She walked towards the entrance of Arnim's lab and almost gasped at the sight in front of her.

            A young man was strapped into what looked like an electro machine, and he was screaming in agony. [Y/N] pushed her body behind the door, her eyes never leaving his state. Tears threatened to fall and she let out a small gasp as she watched them pulling the electro helmet around his head, as well as putting a gum inside his mouth to make it less painful, but by the looks of it, the gum was no use.

            The machine activated and fastened its pace, making the man cry out in pain. He sobbed and cried from the torment, vigorously shaking in his seat. He tightly shut his eyes, his screams increasing with every stimulation he received.

            Arnim Zola, who stood not too far behind the spectacle in front of him, took a look around the lab before landing his gaze on the young nurse with a soft smile on his face. "Ah, Miss [Y/L/N]. You came right in time." the Swiss scientist beamed in happiness, walking over to her with a smile, his eyes clouding with excitement.

            [Y/N], who was still hiding behind the door, tightly gripped the door handle. A small pout formed into her mouth and she looked at him, her eyes painted with fear and horror.

            Arnim brought his hand out, giving her a reassuring smile. "There's no need to be scared, my Liebling. C'mon, the others are waiting," he told her, inching his hand closer to the nurse.

            With hesitation, she carefully took his hand and released her tight grip on the door handle, leaving the door behind her as he brought her closer inside the lab. She took cautious steps and approached the others, who were impatiently waiting for the man's results.

            To her surprise, they seemed pretty used to his cries and seemed to enjoy his suffering, making her blood boil. She gave the Soviet soldiers a glare as she approached them, a look of disdain etched onto her face.

            Arnim gently brought her to the table filled with a variety of tools and equipment delicately placed on the cold steel counter. She looked down at them, frowning.

            "Sir, he won't give in. What is our next step?" a soldier asked the scientist, their glare hardening once he noticed the nurse's presence. She scowled, giving him a disapproving look.

            Arnim sighed, bringing a finger across his lips with a thoughtful look. "Chain him up, start over, and increase the levels of stimulation." was the last thing he said before leaving the lab.

            The soldiers obeyed and did as they were told and increased the volume, making an ear-piercing scream emit from the man’s lips. He gripped the chair tightly, making his knuckles white as snow. The veins in his throat bulged and his screams got louder, making her close her eyes. "You're hurting him."

            A soldier scoffed, averting his gaze away from the subject towards the female. His glowering face pierced through her like a knife was held over a fire, and she could feel her heart inside her throat. "If you can't handle it, princess, then why are you working here?" he asked, a smirk plastered onto his features making shivers down her spine as her mouth went dry, being unable to let out a word.

            [Y/N] squeezed her hands into fists and put her gaze on the table, watching the tools vibrating from the screams erupting in the room. She closed her eyes and counted, trying to block the painful noise. She clenched her jaw and squeezed her eyes shut, vigorously shaking her head.

            It felt like hours when it only took a few minutes when the torture ended. The nurse opened her eyes and worriedly looked at the man. His bloodshot eyes were glimmering in the light and sweat was slowly sliding down his rough skin as soft gasps emitted from his pink lips. His wide eyes darted across the room, panting heavily.

           The Soviet soldiers released him, removing the tools that were hatched into his body, causing the man to whimper in pain. The needles that were pierced through him were harshly pulled out. Soft hiccups erupted from his lips as he watched them detaching the helmet from his head, as well as the gum that was still inside his mouth.

            [Y/N]’s eyes were welling up with tears and she quickly blinked, avoiding any tears to fall by looking at the side, covering her face with her hair. She quietly sniffed and held her trembling hands to her face, trying to regain her breathing.

            "[Y/L/N], he's yours now." one of the soldiers said, their strict voice pulling her out of her state. She cleared her throat and nodded, muttering a quick thanks. A painful silence occurred, but she didn't dare to say anything, not wanting to act or say the wrong thing.

            She carefully landed her gaze on the man again, who instinctively looked at her, his face filled with fear and she wanted nothing more than to wrap him into a hug and whisper sweet and comforting words into his ears. The look he gave her made her stomach knot. He looked like a kicked puppy.

            The man watched her, his eyebrows were knotting tightly while his lips were parted as his breathing became more shallow and heavy when he noticed her nearing closer. His hands found their way behind him, gripping onto the chair for dear life.

            With hesitant steps, she took small steps as she slowly approached the scared man. His eyes followed her every move, afraid if she could disappear, or worse, find another way to torture him. His body relaxed slightly once he saw her putting both of her hands up, signaling that she meant no harm. His posture was still stiff and tense and she noticed his eyes were welling up with tears.

            [Y/N] kneeled down onto his level and looked into his eyes, her eyes softening. She opened her mouth, but quickly closed it, debating if she was even allowed to talk to the poor man. Ignoring her thoughts, she gave him a gentle smile. "I'm not gonna hurt you," she said in a whisper, scared to increase her voice. She brought her hand out and looked at him with another sweet smile.

            He shakily exhaled and looked at her, his eyes studying her every movement, trying to detect a lie. It took a little while for him to snap back to reality and when he did, he reluctantly brought his hand, making her smile gratefully as she gently brushed a hand over his scars, making him jerk back with a hiss. She frowned and brought her hand back, not wanting to pry any further.

            "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you." her sweet-honey voice filled inside his ears, making his tears slowly slid down his rosy cheeks as he looked down. He noticed his metal arm, gleamed ever so slightly in the dark. He watched it with knitted eyebrows, feeling the salty liquid entering inside his mouth.

             Her stomach clenched, feeling sympathy wash over her. She sighed and cleared her throat, "What's your name, sweetheart?" she softly asked, her voice lacing with genuine curiosity and kindness.

             He pondered at the question, a look of confusion plastered onto his face as his mind went into melancholia. His heart soared inside his chest, feeling panic wash over him. The man finally looked up, a dreadful look painting his face. "I-,I don't know."

#bucky barnes #avengers #marvel #mcu #avengers masterlist #steve rogers #steve rogers masterlist #black widow #bucky barnes angst #bruce banner #bucky fluff #bucky x you #bucky barns imagine #bucky barnes x oc #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes masterlist #sebastian stan masterlist #sebastian stan #sebastian x reader #fatws bucky #the winter Soldier #hydra #tfatws #tfaws imagine

[thedelusionreaderbitch]

Little did you know - Kaz Brekker/platonic! Crows x fem! reader

A/n: I don't know where this came from... It's a mess but its like- whatever I guess

Warnings: GORE, DEATH, TORTURE, questionable sanity, this could be disturbing to some people so don't say I didn't warn you!

I do not own six of crows or shadow and bone or it's characters

Summary: The Crows make a vital mistake when trying to get information not knowing that it would cost them everything...

(Gif not mine)

Her hair flows in the wind the only part of her moving the rest still as a serpent creeping up on its prey. Slowly, she starts to move forward as she spots her victims, some pretty little birdy's, just some unusually remarkable crows. If anything went right today the only thing that would be remarkable about them would be their downfall.

She almost yells out in excitement and joy when they wander right into her trap. They walk into her house - a dead merchant's house and go to loot what's left of it.

From her vantage point in the ceiling, she can see everything, from Nina's hands out ready to Matthias beside her. She sees Jesper's darting eyes and Wylan's uneasiness. Moreover, she can even see Inej Ghafa in the shadows high on alert ready to strike at any moment, just in case.

Then her eyes find Kaz and she almost kills him there and then.

He's in his normal attire and he hadn't changed his atrocious haircut either. Yet he's different still, it's the way he's holding himself. Like he feels accomplished.

And even though he has his neutral 'I'm bored' face on Y/n can see through him. She's always been able too and right now he's happy for an easy run. Not a trace of him is guilty or mourning and it's only been one week.

Now that she thinks about it there's not a trace of mourning in anyone.

Balling her hands into fits she nearly screams in agony, they thought she had died and they didn't even care. If she had any doubts before they're gone with just some simple observation.

Yet Y/n still waits and as soon as the Crows get into the trap completely she starts moving.

They had killed her loving parents who worked at a bakery, they had done nothing, nothing wrong. But now they were still six feet under, and she knew it was not just some casualties. Kaz was too precise for that.

She creeps up behind Inej and knocks her out cold before she can even cry out, Y/n catches her body before it can hit the floor and she carefully lays Inej to the said knowing she'll have to tie her up later.

Next is Jesper and Wylan.

For Jesper, she shoots him with a sleeping dart made out of a massively hard metal to control for fabricators and blinds Wylan before doing the same thing to him as well.

Taking out a bomb from Wylan's bag she sets it off. Running towards Nina and before she can use her heartrender abilities, Y/n headbutts her causing her figure to fall to the floor. Unconscious.

Matthias starts sprinting towards her but she simply grabs his shoulder and hits him on a pressure point on his neck and he's out with the rest of them.

It's funny because he taught her that manoeuvre.

"Kaz!" She yells in a shrill voice beckoning him downstairs, did he really leave his little itty bitty Crows alone? Ah, just like he did to her, what they all did to her.

The Crows and Y/n were on a mission and something went wrong, she was shot and they left her to die. She could have been easily saved but they left her and while they did that she remembers - the thing that she remembers most about that night. Kaz leaned down into her ear and said;

'Thanks for the information little snake.'

They had used her to get information, everything she had with them was fake. Everything with Kaz was fake. Every little touch, every little moment, their entire (established) relationship was fake.

"Come down Kazzy I helped you! Now you help me!" She runs up the stairs knowing that there's only one exit, the window. That was extremely high off the ground he would hopefully try to bargain with her first.

Even if he didn't Y/n had brought some rope because he would definitely break his legs at that height.

But Y/n wasn't a little snake now she was a majestic serpent that wielded the screeches of revenge in her venom.

She runs into the room with the window and there he was there in a chair in the shadows looking smug, but the serpent knew it was all just a facade - fake confidence.

Smiling at him she pulls out a second chair from a broken-down desk and places it right in front of him. 'Bang.' It's a simple sound but it echos throughout the room bouncing off the walls into the depths of madness.

"Oh Kazzy, have you come to help me?" She takes her lip in between her teeth and fake trembles.

"Have you come to save me?" Her voice is tiny and it's nothing like it used to be around him, yet he still flinches. He knows she's putting on an act but it still hurts him. And she wants to hurt him over, and over again.

"Y/n... We needed that information, lots of the Dregs' lives were on the line. There is so much more you wouldn't don't understand."

Laughing into the open she secretly pulls out a syringe from her back pocket readying it in her hand.

Instantly her voice changes from the scarce poor girl's voice to a very dark voice. Vengeance was held there and it was like burning your ears in the pits of hell listening to it. The sins and revenge sounded melodic but the torture that laid underneath was horrific.

"Really Rietveld? Did you think I would forgive so easily?"

Kaz's face morphs into surprise at hearing his real last name, Y/n jumps at the chance and she plunges the syringe deep into his neck.

"See you in hell."

___________________TIME SKIP A COUPLE OF HOURS__

All the Crows are tied up to some chairs in the secret basement of the house. The woman waits for what looks like patiently but really she's boiling with excitement.

This is going to be fun.

Finally, the last Crows wakes up and the Serpent takes out her playthings. Just a couple of knives and guns, but those were just her toys the real weapons are the emotional and mental pain she would cause everyone including herself.

"You know why you are here, don't you?" She walks around the room watching every one of The Crows' snarling faces but perhaps some of them held remorse.

Although Y/n was past their pity now. None of the damage could be undone, what's done is done. An eye for an eye.

"Nina darling, this may hurt a bit." Quicker than Jesper's sharpshooter's eye could catch she stabs Nina in the stomach as she yells out in pain Y/n twists the knife back and forth.

Matthias screams out for his lover and after what feels like an internity the serpent pulls the dagger out knowing that she'll just eventually die from blood loss.

Taking a quick look around the room she notices some of the terrified faces and how everyone is on edge. Good, just how she wants it.

"Mörd demjin," Matthias mutters under his breath and Y/n takes his throat in her hand and holds tight enough to choke him.

"Don't call me by the little nickname you gave Kazzy!" She yells furiously holding onto him tighter and tighter. His face starts to become purple and she can hear the yells and screams of the birdy's in the background.

'No! Let go! Matthias! Matthias! Let him go!'

"Any last words?" She jets out her lip before holding onto him tighter and she sees the fury of the ice in his eyes before there's nothing. His eyes roll back lifeless.

"No Matthias! Matthias!" Nina shrieks trying to desperately get out of her chair.

Rolling her eyes with a huff Y/n pulls out a gun and shoots Nina twice in the head.

"Now you're with your lover." She drawls on the word lover and turns to Inej. She didn't really want to do this but she had to cause him all the pain that she could. Even if Inej tried to stop them.

Swiftly she pulls out the knife Inej gave her and kindly kills her with a hard blow to the heart. She doesn't suffer, she just solely died, it's the only kindness the Serpent can afford to give her.

At this point, Jesper and Wylan are openly sobbing and screaming for their friends and for Y/n to please stop. But she doesn't, with blood all over her clothes she makes her path towards her next fool.

"If you were wondering why you couldn't control the bullets, Jesper." She drawls on in a monotone voice. She can see and hear Wylan screaming and it pains her but she doesn't let it show. She lets the Serpent take over or else this will never get done.

Fully becoming the Serpent Y/n places the barrel of her gun up to his heart and she just shoots, no emotion on her face whatsoever.

"A special venom of mine for Grisha. Had some fun testing it."

Going over to Wylan she quickly slits his throat not wanting the little merchling to suffer more than he already has.

She looks at Kaz blankly, he's shaking and he's beyond trying not to show any emotion. Tears are streaming down his face and he's gasping for air. Trembles roll off his body and the agony on his face pierces her hurt.

"Why?" Rietveld finally manages to rasp out. "WHY!" He screams ultimately reaching his breaking point.

"Because Kaz," She whispers in a sickeningly sweet voice lifting his chin with the tip of her pointer finger.

"Everything comes with a price." She pauses letting it sink in.

"And little did you know the price it would cost you."

And that's the story of Sankta Serpentina and Sankt Dirtyhands.

Words 1634

-thedelusionreaderbitch

Shadow and bone taglist: @kaqua @rika90 @thefandomplace @musical-theatre-obsessed-dumbass @gallysonegoodlung @navs-bhat @sumsebien @dontjudgeabookbythecover

(if you would like to be added leave a comment!)

#six of crows #shadow and bone #kaz brekker imagine #the crows x reader #crows x reader #kaz brekker x reader #kaz brekker x y/n #kaz brekker x you #the crows #angst #this is really bad #fanfiction #the grishaverse #grisha #kaz brekker #kaz rietveld #inej ghafa #y/n l/n #jesper fahey #nina zenik #matthias helvar #wylan van eck #everyone dies #i'm so sorry for making this #crooked kingdom #six of crows x reader #insane #shadow and bone x reader

[alphabravocharliedelta]

Therefore I Am | Russell Adler x Bell! Reader X

Series: Call of Duty: Black Ops Cold War

Therefore I Am | Russell Adler x Bell! Reader

Word Count: 7500+

[Chapter IX] [Epilogue]

Summary: After somehow reconciling with Adler, Bell and the team are left to continue their pursuit of bringing down the undercover spy ring, but it proves to be more of a challenge as Bell struggles to move on from their Perseus-affiliated past.

Content Warning: mature content, vulgar language, straight up agony, self-deprivation

Notes: I kind of tried to explore/experiment with Adler’s character in this one, it’s one of my favorite chapters (although a bit slow). The next installment is going to be the epilogue, so be prepared. Also, Writing’s on the Wall by Sam Smith. Thanks for reading!

January, 1984

New Jersey

Bell...

Bell!

Listen to me.

I need you to calm down and relax.

You're in the hospital, not in the lab. Remember the mall?

Good. You're in bad shape, and the doctors are trying to help you, so you need to listen carefully…

I need you to stay still. 

It'll be over in a second, Bell. They're just going to sedate you, okay? 

They're not here to hurt you. 

When you wake up, I'll be right here. Just like I promised.

Yes, good. 

See? You're fine.

It'll be over before you know it.

.

.

.

.

Adler watched as you stopped fighting against the nurses. Your hand released itself from a woman's scrubs before dropping back to your side, your stare never breaking contact from him.

“Strap them down,” one of them instructs.

He didn't even have time to object. It was apparent that you were frightened, and he couldn’t even begin to imagine what was going through your mind, and instead could only hope that it didn’t stir up any past trauma from before. The look in your eyes was something that stuck out the most— You were practically begging him not to go. 

Just seconds ago, they exited the ambulance just right outside the ER. Everything was a blur as they struggled to tend to your injury while rolling you down the white halls. All the medical talk threw Adler's head in a spin, and he eventually became lost on what they were going to do with you. Any attempt to ask what was going to happen was ignored.

Then you suddenly awoke, petrifying both him and the nurses, and as a result, you began to freak out uncontrollably in paranoia, opening your wound even further. Adler immediately went to your side, pushing aside anyone in his way while he attempted his best to quell your confusion.

When you came through, he couldn’t do anything but witness the medical personnel get to work in the aftermath. The nurses scrambled to put pressure over your open laceration, causing you to wince. A sedative needle was stuck into your arm.

The urge to hold your hand arose once again as a result. He wanted to grasp it on his own, while saying sensical words of reassurance, and anything else to comfort you. In the end, he wasn't allowed to. His part was done.

Security guards then pushed the large metal doors open, and the medical personnel rolled you down the long white hallway as the main doctor spewed out instructions.

Agh, fuck!

What was wrong with him? Adler immediately regretted the decision of staying behind. His feet that were stuck in place started to move on their own, about to follow them, only for the two officers to step between him and the door. He could only stand idly as it closed on its own, leaving him to peek through the tiny rectangle window.

"Sorry, sir, but only authorized personnel are allowed beyond this point."

"I'm part of the CIA—" He digs in his pockets, looking for his identification, only to be stopped by a hand. The look in their eye was condoling, and it only made him feel worse.

"Even so. Please, just let them do their job."

You'll only be a burden.

They didn't even need to say it.

0000

Adler was exhausted from the mall operation, with muscles aching. After the hospital staff parted with you, he was escorted to get some proper treatment. His face stung as they wiped his face clean and strung some cuts closed, but he could only stare at the wall in defeat.

With each step he took, he could feel his strength leave. Leaving the room, his face was covered with various sizes of padding, and a few of his fingers needed a splint. The rest of the squad didn't obtain any serious damage either; although the operation nearly cost their lives. It was a wonder as to how they all made it out in one piece.

Adler attempted to make his way to your surgery room, only to be once again stopped by more staff. Why couldn't they just let him see you? 

Waiting for any news about your condition was gruesome, just breaching hour three before Adler was forced to leave. Tight lipped and firm, everyone that he encountered reminded him that he wasn’t even allowed to be there with you, and was instead situated out in the waiting room on a cold, cushioned chair. And when they ended visiting hours, he was made away from the premises, and returned to the team’s temporary base of operations just at upstate New Jersey, where everyone else awaited his arrival in the gathering area.

"Well?" Woods demanded. "How's Bell?"

"Don't know."

The first thing that stood out was the tone. Why did he sound so distant? It was like he had lost any hope for your recovery, and was already mentally preparing himself for isolation, as if you were already confirmed dead. It made Woods' blood boil. That apatheticness was the same he heard prior to the mission, and it continued to persist. Had he no shame?

Repulsed by the thought, he seizes Adler by the shirt.

“Woods—” Zenya attempts, only to be held back by Bulldozer, who shook his head. They both watched as Woods shoved their leader against the wall.

"How fucking dare you!" he seethed. "You lectured me about letting Bell run through the line of fire, yet here's your sorry ass back at the compound. Bell needs you, and yet you return here."

"I don't have authority to stay overnight, Woods." Adler pries the hand off of him. “Staying would just cause unwanted attention.”

Woods scoffs. “'Unwanted attention'? Cut the bullshit, since when did you care about that?” He flicks his hand multiple times in an attempt to get feeling back to his fingertips. Adler’s grip was way tighter than he estimated. “Fuck that. The moment you’re allowed back there, I better see your sorry ass next to that hospital bed."

He storms off.

"I'm sorry, Adler," Zenya utters empathetically.

"I had it coming."

It took a few hours before Adler got the appetite to eat again, but even then, food that once tasted good presented itself to be bland and discouraging. During times like these he would have thrown it into a container later for anyone to grab, or even offer it to you if you were still hungry, but he just slid the remains into the trash. 

He crashed the moment his head hit the pillow but the horrors of recent events followed him through his dreams. Three hours later he was shocked awake, the bed sheets and his own shirt sticking to his skin thanks to sweat. Adler could only stare blindly into the pitch black darkness of his resting quarters with an arm thrown over his forehead, thinking why everything always went wrong.

Maybe he shouldn't have stuck with the plan. Adler should have instructed someone to investigate the shops and restaurants upon entering the mall instead of everyone following the damn beeping noise. But, there were only four of them, and it turned out that they were outnumbered by a long run. They should have brought more people instead of Hudson's team on standby. It was lucky enough that Woods found you when they got separated, but CIA reinforcements took a while to arrive, and by then you were already—

Enough.

He tried not to dwell on it whenever he was awake, but it didn't help that whenever he washed his hands, he could only remember the extreme warmth of your blood that coated them. The first time he purged his hands in water post-mission, it felt like the red would never disappear, spiraling down the drain in a never ending cycle. As a result, he scrubbed slightly more vigorously at his already dry and callused skin, and every following instance he did, he would always think back to the mall. 

There was the light that seemed to fade as he watched your lids fall to a close, and the limpness of your hand as he tried to let it cradle his cheek. How you didn't even flinch as he continued to apply pressure over your stomach. His once pristine orange scarf now turned an entirely different shade. The crimson that continuously kept pouring out like a leak, with no signs of coagulating or stopping—

Stop. Everything's going to be fine.

For a man great at reassuring others, it did nothing to benefit himself. 

The bathroom was just an opportunity for his survivor's guilt to come at him. Even if it was a place of weakness, Adler would still open the fucking door and walk in even if he didn't have the need to. It was the only place he could really wallow in pity without the concerned gazes of others. They didn't need to know.

After washing his hands, he would then throw water onto his face before drying it with a towel. His eyes would drift up to the mirror, focusing on the stripes on his face. The scar was just another part of his character (nothing special about it anymore) but it was on this occasion that he would stare at himself in the mirror. 

What did you see in him? There was nothing about him, that he believed, that it was worth sacrificing your own life for. You didn't need to do it.

Adler knows clearly that he already caused you more than enough trauma, and even so, you were gracious enough to once again work side by side with him. An additional bonus of platonic activity was thrown in there as well. It was all he could have asked for but, at the same time, within the deep depths of his mind, he knew he didn't earn the honor of any of it. Yet he acted against that, taking another shot at intimacy with you. 

So, why?

Just what was it about him that compelled you to commit yourself as a sacrifice? You did the exact same thing in 1981— you aimed your sidearm at him, yet never fired, even with the skill to. 

He couldn't understand you, nor could he comprehend how you managed to make him feel in such a way. 

Did he even deserve to see you? He failed you. He couldn't protect you. 

He was—

No.

He is a coward.

"Fuck!"

A fist met the mirror, creating a web-like system on the glass. 

Adler's reflection crinkled, segments of his face becoming misaligned. Tiny shards fell into the sink as he ignored the stinging pain at his knuckles. It was nothing compared to what you have gone through and he didn’t even dare to flinch or complain. Unable to bear the sight of his own patheticness, he shut his eyes, and a single tear fell and rolled off the side of his face, unacknowledged. 

There were very few instances that these types of emotions would be let loose from its bottle, and this time he couldn't even compel himself to screw the cap back on. He could feel his throat begin to constrict as more tears dared to form, so he held his breath, trying to force it back down like all the other previous times.

Woods was right. Adler should have fought tooth and nail just to stay at your side, and to be there right behind the doctors as they operated on you. This was probably one of the most petrifying experiences of your life, and he wasn't even there to support you through it. He didn’t take the opportunity when he subjected you to the injection, and when the second chance rose, he didn’t even bother to fight for it. Third luck was the charm, but to wish for such an event was anything but. 

And if you were to die in that hospital while he's lounging about back at this makeshift base, then everything you both built up during these past months was all for naught. He wouldn't even have the chance to say goodbye before your final breath.

With that, a single notion came into mind: 

How long would it take before he unintentionally abandons you? 

It was a question he couldn't even answer, and a shy knock coming from the closed door behind instead.

"Adler?" Bulldozer's voice comes through. "You good?"

Snapping his eyes back open, Adler turns on the faucet, pulling away from the mirror and running his knuckles under the water. 

"I'm fine."

He was fine being alone, but being lonely was different.

0000

“We headed into the mall. The doors were blocked off, so Jones had to breach it. Right in the middle of the place was the collection of the Nova Six, rigged to explode.”

General Haig sat across the table, drumming his fingers on top of a blue folder. Placed nearby were matching files of reports and collected evidence from the Pines op. “How many?”

Adler shrugs, withdrawing an irritated huff from being let out. “I couldn't get an estimate. They were everywhere.”

Even with the unsatisfactory answer, Haig didn’t falter. “The operation after-action report states that the Nova Six canisters were successfully disarmed. You reported that Frank Woods had thrown a knife, which lodged itself into Kuzmin’s skull.” 

It wasn't Woods that did the deed, but there was no need for correction. All credit would have been given to you, but your current existence was listed as MIA, and Adler fully intends to keep you a secret until he had the full capabilities to forge the documents needed to make you a genuine CIA special operative agent. Until it happened, he was going to shield you from any further authorities. Already he had to draw a line with Emerson Black with the follow up email, and he would do it again if someone ever decided to poke their nose into your business. It was the least he could do for you.

“Hudson made it clear that the orders given were to prioritize the gas, Stitch being second,” Adler responds overtly. “I fail to see the issue at hand here.” 

“There was failure to confirm Vikhor Kuzmin’s body. It wasn’t there during the final run over.”

He takes a long drag of his cigarette, before exhaling the plumes of white through his nose. It was his third one within the span of ninety minutes. “Your point?”

“The point is that he could still be alive. If there’s no body to recover, then where do you suggest it is?” 

Fishing through the mass of folders, Adler plucked out the most recently dated one. It appeared to have never been opened, the paper clips still fastened at the top, holding everything together. 

“Sir, with all due respect, I find it improbable that a man who took a military-grade knife to the forehead would be walking about. And for someone that’s the General of the U.S. Army—” he condemns, flipping through the contents. He stops at one of the plastic bags secured between a few papers. Opening it, he takes out the one on top before tossing it on top of the table. “—You clearly don’t look through everything we give you.”

It was a photo of Stitch, who laid sprawled on the ground with the murder weapon right where you chucked it into. The colors were a bit dark with low saturation, but it was possible to depict the unmistakable build of Kuzmin. Haig returns a look of bewilderment as he plucks it from the desk. “When did—”

“One of Hudson's men happened to have a camera on them. This was before the clean up crew came in an hour later. It took a bit to process, given everything else we needed to wrap up, but I believe that should answer your question.” Adler leans back in the chair, gaining some pleasure seeing Haig’s confliction. “Happy?”

To be called into a room to have a meeting with the General of the U.S. Army, only for it to turn into a mini-interrogation, wasn't taken kindly by Adler. He was already in a labyrinthine state, and to be subjected to useless questions that could be answered if someone simply knew how to use their eyes didn't help his mood. It was already difficult enough holding up the image of a functioning being that wasn’t on the verge of snapping.

"Your methods are, like always, unconventional," Haig finally lets out, setting the photo back down. "I suggest you tread these waters carefully, Adler. Your reputation may be great, but there's only so much we can do to keep you out of the light of the public."

"For you to think of me in such a way is an honor on its own, sir. But, your preferences have been noted for consideration."

He receives an apprehensive glare. "This isn't a subject we can afford to—" 

A knock came from the dark brown door behind them. After a few seconds, a man in a suit enters and holds a phone out to Adler. "It's for you."

He raises an eyebrow, tapping his cigarette out on the tray in front of him before taking the call. "Adler."

Haig could only wait and listen to the short and abrupt statements Adler delivers to the person on the other end. Whatever the context of the conversation was, his face didn't even contort, remaining stone-like with a couple nods. The call lasted half a minute before Adler hung up.

"Well sir…” Handing the phone back, he rubs the cig out before placing his hands on the wooden desk, pushing himself up to a standing pose. "As much as I would love to continue our talk, it seems that it'll have to be cut short.

"We're not finished yet, Adler."

"I got you the results you wanted. There's no need for further discussion." Adler slips back into his coat, making a beeline to the door that was held open for him. He turns to Haig at the last minute, as if to add further insult to injury. "Now, if you excuse me, I have someone to visit. Adieu, sir. Have a wonderful fucking day."

0000

Adler walks up to the front desk, flashing his CIA badge. The receptionist nods, flipping through the stack of papers on her clipboard, before handing it to him. After filling out the forms, he makes his way to the direction the doctors last rolled your gurney through before he was kicked out.

"Wait, sir!"

He freezes in his tracks, before pivoting back around back to the desk, where the lady from before looked at him sheepishly. 

"Is something wrong?" Adler asks. He hoped to whatever god was out there that nothing had happened while he was out. If something did, Black better cross his fingers that he wasn't going to retire on the spot. There was enough bullshit as is.

Fuck! What if something did occur? 

A string of swears began to fill his head as his heart began to wrangle itself at the mere thought of you passing. The call he had earlier said the surgery was finished and you were stable enough, so there shouldn't be room for speculation. But, on the chance that something did happen just mere minutes ago right before he arrived—

"We moved them to a new unit."

He releases a long sigh, not realizing he held his breath. Adler nods as a thanks, while silently cursing them for the build up as he strides towards the direction they pointed to. 

Fast forward a few minutes later, a couple of wrong turns, and resisting the urge to just yell,  Adler now stood under the doorway of your assigned hospital room. There was no nameplate, or any other bed. It was just you in the center as a nurse quickly catered to your form and filled out the chart on the clipboard.

He lingered for a moment, watching them work. The doctor came in shortly after, explaining what happened during your surgery, and he nodded along silently.

You were unrecognizable at first glance with half your head covered, still sleeping under the mass of bandages that covered your body but his own dog tags gave away that it was you.

You had his dog tags with you? And wore it?

The nurse and doctor take their leave and he sits next to your bed in one of the chairs. You didn't stir at his presence, not awake, but it was understandable.

As time elapsed, Adler spent it watching your chest rise and fall at a slow even pace with the assistance of a breathing mask. His hands flipped the cassette tape in his hand anxiously, observing for any signs of you waking up.

Your figure looked so frail against the medical equipment around you. Half of your head was wrapped up in bandages, covering up your left eye. Crawling out underneath them was a long gash that went down your face, sewn to a close with medical thread. It shook him to the core, just looking at the state of you. He's seen worse injuries, sure, but seeing you lying down on the hospital bed was different.

There were so many things that were left unsaid between you and him. It took him a while to realize it, but he eventually came to terms that he was starting to develop feelings for you. It was something he hasn't felt for the longest time. Adler couldn't pinpoint exactly where his love for you started to bear its fruit, but it was clear to him that you meant something to him. And that kiss you shared was proof of it.

All those missions you went on with, he automatically knew that you both were a dynamic duo. As you had his back, he had yours. How you were just able to tell what move he was going to take next, or how easily you adapted to a change of plans was something he had admired about you. It was extremely upsetting, knowing that you had both met under unfavorable circumstances, but he had no choice back then.

The mission came first.

That's what Adler always told himself. It was the words he lived by for the longest time he was on the force. Many sacrifices had to be made, many soldiers left behind, but in the end it was a stride towards keeping America free.

You were originally just some Soviet that was converted into a little science project. Everything he learned, every motto he always followed, only to face the fact that he's become blind, driven by the force to stop Perseus— Whatever it takes. That's why he followed through it all. Yet, at the same time, nothing could have warned him about the magnitude of influence you would come to have on him. With your simple existence, it made him doubt those beliefs of patriotism. Your willingness to so easily challenge orders, or your determination, no matter what the circumstances, changed him. The longer he worked alongside you, the more difficult it was to hide his feelings. Adler came to care about you, despite you being the enemy.

And he didn't know what to do.

It was the same confliction he felt after executing you on that arctic mountain. The CIA was something he devoted his life to, and for Adler to choose his job over love, and everything else he once cherished, was nothing short of easy. Leaving behind those types of emotions became less difficult over the years, as the things that he threw away for the sake of freedom never came back to bite him in the ass. If there were another alternative than MKUltra, he would have taken it, but he still stood by the decision and was fine if you are never able to forgive him. Shooting you on that cliff took a lot of willpower, but he had to do it.

So, the moment he laid eyes on your figure after two years, the moment he let you cave his face in, he couldn't think about anything else but you. Adler had to come face-to-face with the results of his actions, and from that point on it was always about you. You were no longer the person he left behind. Your act in the mall was the representation of the person you have grown to become, and what you were willing to do.

Whatever it takes. 

It was beyond his understanding as to how you were even to move, much or less stand. The injuries that you sustained were way worse than you presented it to be, and yet you toughed it out, and managed to pull yourself together. You saved his life. 

And, despite everything he's done, he was let off with a slap of a wrist, while you always seemed to receive the punishment in his stead.

Now, he could only fiddle around endlessly with the cassette tape in his hand, flipping it over and over, sitting in a chair as he waited for you to stir. Adler never really did thank you enough for the things you do for him (when was the last time he did?). With that, showing his appreciation immediately skyrocketed to top on the list of "things he should first say when you wake up." 

Except you never did.

You never woke up. 

He waited patiently each day at your bedside as if a dog was waiting for its owner, ready to be there the moment your eyes fluttered open. Adler had to convince multiple people to even get consistent access to your room, and did what had to be done in order to avoid getting penalized for overstaying. Days turned into a week, and then one week turned to two...

You were still sound asleep in the comatose state, giving out no indication of coming back to consciousness.

Whenever there was an opportune moment, Adler would jump into the car and drive to the hospital. He would make frequent mental notes on the songs that played on the radio as he pondered which ones you would like. Lyrics was something he didn’t pay much attention to originally, but now it was something he found himself reciting and playing back.

For someone stingy like him when it came to money, Adler was quick to head to the gas station every few hospital visits. The nurses, receptionists, and cashiers from the ER and nearby stores had already adjusted to his spontaneous appearances, giving him a pitiful nod each time.

Each paper he filled out, whether it be work related or visitation requirements, Adler lost motivation to think about it thoroughly. Sure, it served as a great distraction, but once it left his hands, reality swooped back in.

How many times did he walk in and take a seat on this old creaky chair?

A knock came from behind. Looking back, Adler sees Lazar standing at the door with a handful of balloons. He was wearing a dark green scarf with a dark grey vest jacket and black jeans. Dark circles were under his eyes as well, it seems like no one had gotten some sleep since the mall.

"You came here lookin' like that?" Adler muses loudly.

"C'mon Adler. Like you look any better."

He was right. Adler hadn't gotten as much sleep as he wanted ever since he first arrived at the hospital with you. Nor has he shaved the past few days, only taking time to half-ass his hair for a pathetic assurance to others that he was perfectly fine. But, how could he, knowing that you were practically playing roulette with Death? The mere thought of you never waking up, or never seeing you again scared him. 

Lazar walks over to your bedside table with the balloons trailing behind him, and Adler watches in small amusement as it dragged along the roof. "How'd you even get in here?"

"Told them I was Bell's brother."

Adler shakes his head with a dry chortle, at least finding some humor in his colleague’s words. "You two look nothing alike."

"Good thing the desk lady was old then." Lazar's eyes lingered on your bedridden form, and a pang of regret hit him. The image of you back at Pines was ingrained in his memory, and it was awful. "Anything new?"

“Same old. You?”

“Could be better.” 

Unable to find a good place for the balloons, Lazar just ties it to the side of your bed. You didn't stir a bit, the only signs of life being the constant beating of the heart monitor and the fogginess of your ventilator mask. A tense silence instilled itself in the room. 

"The rest of the team is worried about you," he relays somberly.

"They shouldn't be."

A part of Lazar partially blamed Adler for all of this: he was the one to kickstart your entire spiral down the pit of chaos, and for things to turn out the way it did was thanks to Adler's part of incapability to go against orders. If he never shot you on the cliffside, would you now have been lying in a comatose state in a hospital? 

There was something with your eyes, he noted, that seemed to glimmer brightly and confidently despite the horrors you've both been through. Yet, behind it was the cold, dead feeling, with nothing but a shell of your original self, now filled with the horrors of war and leftover remains of brainwashing.

Lazar sighs. "We're always here to talk, you know."

Albeit at the same time, he couldn’t bring himself to constantly project his anger at Adler. He must have been suffering in his own way as well. Their leader was a mess during the exfil, and Woods had to pry Adler’s hands away from your body just so they could put you on a stretcher. There was a collective inaudible agreement amongst the rest of the team members that to see him in such a state of distress and defeat was something they should tread carefully on.

"I think I'm good."

Yet for a guy who acted in such a way then, Adler sure didn’t do much to comfort himself. As far as Lazar knew, Adler didn’t even mention your name or have an outburst, as one should in his position. Those that approached him had to lead the conversation and get specific with questions. Everything was so complicated when it came to Adler, and the easiest solution for people like him was to just suck it up and keep it all in.

"How can you just sit there?" he blurts out in frustration.

Adler raises his eyebrows. "What are you on about?"

"Are you a brick wall?" Lazar lets out an irked groan. "Cry, hold Bell's hands, go talk to them. Anything but just sit there, because moping around and feeling guilty isn't going to help anyone. So do everyone else a favor, and just spit out whatever you want to say to Bell. At least spare them the courtesy of waiting for you."

Adler sat, appalled to hear Lazar berate him in such a way. "Are you suggesting romantic relationships on the job? If that's—"

"Who cares?" he interrupts. "Stop avoiding it, I see you. Just because you made some shitty decisions in your lifetime doesn't mean you get to die alone. Bell likes you, Adler. And I know you do, too. And you're just killing us here by not acting on it."

"I don't like them."

Did he just say that? How could he lie through his own teeth? Why was he acting like this?

Lazar throws his hands up and rolls his eyes. "Your fucking kidding me. The entire safehouse knows how you two look at each other."

How do I look at Bell?

He clicks his tongue at the thought. "No idea what you're talking about, Lazar."

As far as Adler knew, there wasn't any prolonged staring or obvious daydreaming that would indicate to the team members that he, to an extent, coveted you. What, then, gave it away? Did they catch you with his belongings? Or maybe it was the time when he tagged along with you to the practice range… No, it had to be the one where he shared his dinner with you back in October. So much happened within the last quarter of 1983 that he lost track of the time. He made sure to restrain himself, therefore lacking in deep physical affection other than bumping hands or shoulders because he was secretly afraid of it developing into something more. 

Yet, now he came to realize that he came to crave a bit more than just passerby contact. 

"Face the facts, Adler. Enough lying to yourself. You can put up this nonchalant and detached character for all I fucking care, but you know damn well that there's no way to avoid those feelings inside of you." Lazar's voice softens up, "Don't become the monster they make you out to be.”

Before they're gone.

He never got the chance to get that drinking date with Park. No drinking the beer she called "horse piss". Lazar didn't even have the chance to fully confess what he thought of her, only leaving it up to the flirtatious attitudes and conversations that continued to bug the rest of the crew. And now, with her gone, there was that loose end that will never be finished, leaving him to deal with whatever he could scavenge.

And he didn't want Adler to go through the same thing.

“...Monster. Huh.” That was a title he hasn’t heard for a while. 

Even then, what would Adler talk to you about? There was nothing about himself he found interesting, nor did anything of importance stir up as of late. Bringing up work related subjects was contraband, so that would leave civilian life and whatever he did in his free time.

Lazar notes the struggle, retracting back his anger. "Don't think about it too hard. Why don't you read a book out loud or something? Actually, Bell likes music right? How about you sing—"

"You did not just suggest that I sing, Eleazar."

"Hey, it's all up to you. Maybe Sims still has that radio he tinkers around with." 

The radio was the one no one was allowed to touch. But, Adler could perhaps find a way to convince his friend to hand it over. "I'll think about it."

"Like I said. If you need ideas, just ask." With a satisfied nod, Lazar takes a look at his watch, only for his eyes to widen. "Shit, papers are due. Did you—"

"I already submitted mine."

"Damn it, and no reminder?" Lazar heads towards the door in a rushed manner, tugging at the ends of his jacket to tighten it over his chest. Lazar pauses right under the frame, shooting Adler a final look. "Do you want me to bring you anything, or…?"

"No." Adler pauses. "Actually, wait. Since they're sending a few people back to the warehouse, tell them to find Bell's jacket. The black bomber. Fairly new, started being worn after Christmas. There's fur around the neck and inside—"

"I know what it looks like. Isn’t that the one you gave them?" 

Such an article of clothing was hard to forget and easily identifiable with the patches sewn onto the sleeves. It became commonality for you to wear it every time you had to go out, and with the frequency of its use, it was almost like it was specifically made for you. The jacket practically became a must-wear whenever you left the safehouse.

"...Don't you have papers to tend to?"

Lazar gives him a cheeky grin, savoring the small victory for putting Adler on the spot, before exiting.

0000

"Hey. You're back early."

Adler sheds his jacket, before tossing it over his shoulder to let it hang. "Just came to pick up some stuff."

"You holding up okay?" Sims asks, holding out a styrofoam take out box to him.

"Couldn't be better."

It was an obvious lie, but Sims didn’t pry any further.

The whiteness of the hospital was starting to become an eyesore, and sitting in a chair sulking wasn't going to get anything else done. Adler could wait by your side as long as he wanted, but the world around him moved on, and he needed something to occupy himself. He prided himself in the inability to get bored easily, yet sitting in that hospital with no changes did some damage to his sanity. Seeing how there was little to nothing left he could do for you, he was left with the choice of paperwork or seclusion.

He would take that time to drive around the neighborhood, staring at the city night lights as rush hour traffic started to dwindle. This time, after refueling gas, he returned back to base at around 7 p.m.. 

To have such emptiness follow him around was draining. Everything he did felt like routine, just letting a ghost lead him around to wander about while he submerged himself in overthinking and brooding. It wasn’t healthy by all means, but it made time pass in a blur. Three weeks wasn’t much in a long run, but in the waking moments it felt like an eternity.

“Where’s everyone else?” Adler inquires, taking a bite. 

“Just down the hall, drinking. Since you're here, though…” Sims hands him a medium sized shipping box. Setting down his dinner and rummaging through it, Adler found a book, the radio, and your jacket, folded neatly and recently washed. “Don’t break my goods now, I spent a good chunk of my time fixing that player.”

“I'll think about it. What's the book for?”

“So you don’t get bored. Are you going to join us for a couple shots?”

0000

It was morning. The sun that just made it out of the horizon gave the skyscraper windows a nice white glare while a light drizzle came from above. With the hospital window open ajar, Adler leans on his elbows placed on the window sill, looking out to the street below.

His glasses were propped on his head, a cigarette placed in his mouth as he let the ashes fly away. A persistent headache kept pounding at the Adler’s temples from the amount of drinks he had the night prior. 

Although temporary, the alcohol managed to relieve the stress he had continuously built up the past few weeks. He put down his barriers only for that moment, intaking more gulps than he knew he could handle to get wasted, just purging everything out of his head. For once the rambunctious noise of the rest of the team members settled his unrest. He knocked out eventually, getting a somewhat decent amount of sleep in.

Now it was back to reality.

Adler looked down at the book that rested open on the window sill, dusting away the remaining ash from the pages and continued reading a paragraph. He wasn't an avid reader, nor were the contents of the novel Sims provided all that attention grabbing, but it was enough to keep him engrossed for a short while.

A nurse walks in, about to go through the usual routine. “No smoking sir.”

Disposing of the stick without objections, he attempts to continue reading, only to lose track and get distracted by movement just right outside his peripherals. Instead, Adler shuts the book closed and walks over to the side table, flicking on the radio and beginning to fumble around with the knob. He watches as the red line slides up and down the station markers, trying to get an efficient signal. 

The nurse eyes him as he does. “There’s a theory going around that music can actually aid in patients’ recovery."

Adler wasn't in the morning mood for small talk, but found the hypothesis worth paying attention to. “Really?”

“Having a familiar stimulus for them to listen to is thought to evoke increased brain activity.”

“At least there’s one thing I’m doing right.”

He continues to flip through the stations, listening to the ocean of static and incomplete sentences as musical notes cut off to their own accord with each adjustment. Upon first meeting you, Adler didn’t associate you as being the type of person who takes pleasure in submerging themselves into music, but after he gave you the Walkman, you proved him wrong. It was only recently, around early November, that you informed him that it helped you tuned out voices that visit sporadically. 

Actually, what was your favorite song? All the ones on the mixes he gave you were a compilation of his personal tastes. Now he had another question he looked forward to asking.

Unable to come to a conclusion, Adler releases the knob and plops back into the chair, listening to what the radio had in store. The nurse takes her leave without another word.

A spokesperson with a low and pleasing voice spoke barely above a whisper, reading off the name of the arrangements before letting them play. It wasn't a displeasing genre to listen to. Quite the opposite, actually, but there was always that strange eeriness behind the musical notes.

Clair de Lune by Claude Debussy.

Erik Satie’s Gymnopedie No. 1.

Nocturne in E Minor by Chopin—

If anything, it was good for sitting in peace and falling asleep to. He couldn't catch himself in time, eyelids already drooping. 

0000

Adler's eyes snap open abruptly. He didn't even realize that he had fallen asleep, but at this point it should have been no surprise. It happened practically everyday now as he waited for you, and he did his damn hardest to have his eyes open, just in case. Considering the multiple results from his lack of supervision of you, there was a growing phobia that if he were to look away, something bad might happen.

What time is it?

9:04 am.

Out for two hours. He has about thirty minutes to spare before having a meeting with Hudson.

Adler conjures up a sigh, and leans back to study the ceiling, waiting for the energy to kick back in.

So much happened in such a short span, and Adler had to give you credit for your hardship and ability to withstand it all. It was a dark thought, and he hated himself for it coming into bloom, but the current state that you were in was probably the best outcome. You didn't have to worry about work, you didn't need to hold a weapon. You could just rest.

How would you react if you woke up and no one was there? Adler felt revolted at himself for just even fathoming the idea of abandoning you here— cut off all of your ties with the CIA, so you can live a new life. But no, he couldn’t do that to you. He wouldn’t dare to.

If he did announce that you were no longer under the reigns of the CIA, what would you do? As far as he knew, there was no other place for you to return to, and he knew for a fact that the entire safehouse had become like a strange family to you.

So, what were you seeing behind those closed eyes of yours? Were you scared, floating in darkness? Or were you dreaming of a better tomorrow?

Adler could only surmise to himself, only hearing stories of coma patients and their experiences. It's something he came to think as of late, thoughts repeating over and over as he could only wait for an answer that no one could provide except yourself.

No use dwelling on it.

He gets up from his spot, the past couple hours uneventful like the previous days. He runs through a couple stretches, feeling his bones pop a couple times.

It was nearing 9:20 am. Adler eyes drift back to your bed, about to take his leave and give an unspoken farewell, only to do a double take.

Your current position was different.

It was way off from before. 

Comparing it to the previous days, you were now more upright and apparently well. You were sitting up. 

Face turned away and out the window, looking at the morning dews and drops that slid down the glass. 

Outside, the sun was in a higher position, sunlight streaming through the clouds as it highlighted your white covered form. There were a few minor adjustments, some equipment no longer attached. The radio that was turned to a low right before he passed out was now clearly audible. 

Not only that, but the heart rate monitor he became so used to hearing was now at a different tempo that indicated activeness. How did he not notice it right from the get-go?

No fucking way.

"Bell?" he manages to force out. It came out as a whisper, in awe and in skepticism.

Adler sees you practically brighten up at the mention of your name, the red line earning a sudden spike.

You turn towards him with a smile that he thought could compete with the happiness of a child waking up to the morning of Christmas, and he could feel his breath leave.

"Hey Russ."

#the ending for this chapter ends so abruptly I— #like it's just sudden but I couldn't really picture it any other way #anyways yeah woot final chapter next time #russell adler x reader #russell adler x bell #call of duty x reader #adler x reader #bo:cw #black ops cold war #cod black ops cold war #call of duty #fanfic #abcd briefing #text #russell adler #bell

[sergeantsporks]

Do You Want the Knife You Left In My Back, or Can I Keep It?

Rating: Teen and up, Gen

An injured Hunter wanders into Hexside. What was Luz supposed to do, just let him bleed out on the floor?

Ch 2/5: Settling In

Ch 1

Ao3

Hunter woke up facedown on a couch. His back ached and throbbed, and he felt weak all over. Ugh—

“Hello!”

Hunter yelped as a bird—worm—thing—stuck its head in his face.

“Luuuuuuuz, he’s uuuuuuuup!”

The human shooed the bird-worm-thing out of Hunter’s face. “Hey! Get out of his personal space, Hooty!”

Hunter groaned, putting his face back in the couch. “Where am I?”

“The owl house,” Luz replied casually.

Hunter yelped again, rolling off of the couch. “I can’t be—” the movement sent spikes of pain hammering through his nerves, and his vision went spotty. His stomach heaved, and he retched, shaking. “Hngh—”

“Whoa, hey!” Luz knelt next to him. “You can’t be moving around! You just got stabbed, for titan’s sake, Hunter!”

“Remember!” the owl lady’s voice called from another room, “You’re cleaning up after him, Luz!”

Hunter’s face heated up. “I don’t—need—to be taken care of—”

He tried to push himself up, but another wave of pain swept over him, and everything went black for a minute. When he woke up again, he was back on the couch, Luz crouching next to him.

“You really shouldn’t move. Viney said it’s going to take time for your back to heal, and it would be… really bad… if you ripped out your stitches.”

“Take me back to the Emperor’s palace. Now.”

“See?” the owl lady said, poking her head in, “He agrees! Take the twerp back.”

“I’m not taking him back,” Luz said, exasperated, as if they’d been having this argument for a while. She turned back to Hunter. “I’m not taking you back. I’m going to keep you here, where you’re safe, until you’re better. Kikimora has it out for you, and you’re in no state to fight her off.”

“What else is new—I can handle Kikimora, I just—”

Luz pressed down on his shoulders as he tried to get up again. “Quit being so stubborn! You can’t handle her right now, you can’t even walk! What was the point of coming to me for help if you won’t let me help you!”

“I didn’t go to you for help, I went to you because if I didn’t warn you, Kikimora would have killed both of us and gotten the Emperor’s sole attention!”

Luz leaned back. “The emperor… isn’t a good guy, Hunter.”

Hunter looked away. “You wouldn’t get it.”

“No, I don’t.” Luz sighed. “Why did the emperor send you after me?”

Right. There it was. The real reason she’d saved him. “’m not telling.”

“What?! Seriously?! I saved your life!”

“I didn’t ask you to.”

“You were bleeding out in front of me! What was I supposed to do, just let you die?!”

“Yes.”

Luz paused and stared at him. “Wait, what?”

Hunter looked away, a sick feeling churning in his stomach. “I failed, again—you’re free, and I’m not even close to getting you back to the emperor. My own coven member tried to kill me outright—no subtlety, no monster attacks, just stabbed me in the back and planned to pin it on you. And now I’ve been captured by the person who I was supposed to be capturing.” He buried his face in the couch. “You should have just let me die,” he mumbled, muffled by the couch.

Luz didn’t say anything for a minute, and then gently touched his shoulder. “Hunter? I wasn’t ever going to let you die.”

“No, because you’re ‘too nice,’” he grumbled, “I get it. Fine. You’re the good guy, I’m the bad guy, is that what you want to hear? Just… leave me alone. Please.”

“Okay,” Luz said quietly, “if that’s what you really want.”

Her footsteps padded away, and Hunter tried one more time to get up, but a wave of dizzy exhaustion swept over him, and he flopped back down.

The owl lady came through, making an “I’m watching you,” gesture as she left, and he sighed. Okay. He just had to be patient. He could ride this out, pretend to be helpless longer than he really was, nab the human, expose Kikimora, bada-bing, bada-boom, everything would be perfect.

Wait.

A bolt of panic shot through Hunter, and he rolled off of the couch, adrenaline battling exhaustion and pain.

“Whoa, hey, there, you can’t—” Hooty started, but Hunter shoved the bird’s face away with a groan, stumbling towards the door.

“I have—to go—back—”

“Luz!” the house demon called, “Your sad friend is trying to escape!”

“I KNEW it!” the owl lady’s voice yowled, and Hunter was on the ground in two seconds flat. He screamed as she put pressure on his back, his vision wavering out. “You were just pretending to be hurt to get in here!” the owl lady continued, “And you were planning to—oh, beans, you weren’t pretending, you just have no sense of self-preservation, titan, kid, what were you thinking, I coulda killed you!”

Hunter whimpered, blinking spots out of his eyes as she climbed off of him. He retched at the pain, his back screaming in agony.

Luz came tearing down the stairs two at a time, skidding to a halt next to them. “Edaaaa! What happened?!”

“He was making a break for it!” Eda replied defensively, “He is a quick little bugger when he wants to be!”

“Huuuunteeeer!” Luz groaned, “You can’t go anywhere, how did you even get off of the couch, you literally got stabbed today!”

“My palisman,” Hunter gasped, “It’s—all alone—” he struggled to get back up, blinking back tears. “I have—to go back—for—”

Luz grabbed his shoulders. “No. Your palisman wouldn’t want you hurting yourself. It’ll be fine for a while.”

Hunter shook his head. “No—have to—”

“You’re not going anywhere, Hunter, you wouldn’t even make it to Bonesborough.”

“It’s true,” Hooty chimed in, “The funny little demon lady is lurking out there. She isn’t getting any closer right now, but if you go out there… you’re toast!”

Hunter clutched Luz’s arm, barely holding back tears. She didn’t get it! “I can’t—leave it—”

Luz put a hand on his arm. “Okay. If it really means that much to you… I’ll go get it.”

Eda shook her head. “Absolutely not, Luz, that creep is out for you, too!”

Right. That was it, then. Luz wouldn’t let him leave to get his palisman, and Eda wouldn’t let Luz leave.

Then Luz did a. Thing. With her face. A strange pouty thing, where she made her eyes really big at Eda. The owl lady sighed.

“Oh, geeze, don’t make that—ahhhh, Luz. Okay. Here’s the deal. I will send Owlbert to check on the palisman. If it’s safe enough, Owlbert will tell the Golden Dork’s palisman what’s going on and where he is. Everyone okay with that?”

Luz threw her arms around Eda. “You’re the best!”

“I know,” Eda grumbled, “Now take care of your dumb Belos-ite, he looks like he’s going to pass out.”

Xxx

Hunter was drifting off to sleep when it happened.

Kikimora appeared in front of him. “There you are.”

He yelped, struggling up, but his back throbbed and he fell back down.

“Consorting with traitors now, are we? I never thought you’d stoop this low.”

“Bold—words—coming from a backstabber,” Hunter gritted out, “Just—finish it—then.”

Kikimora swiped her claws at him, but they went right through. “I’m not really here, or you’d be dead already. You’re a persistent little worm, though, aren’t you?”

“That’s my middle name. Persistent little worm.”

Kikimora traced one translucent claw in a circle. “I haven’t figured out how to get past the house demon yet. But I will. And when I do, you are a sitting duck, and your little human friend will be next. Look at you. You’re pathetic. You can’t even move.”

Hunter swiped a hand through the illusion, gritting his teeth as the movement made his back throb.

“Hunter?” Luz was standing in the doorway, holding a bowl of something steaming and a juicebox. “Is… everything okay?”

Hunter gestured to the air where Kikimora had just been. “Didn’t you see her?!”

“See who, Hunter?”

“Kikimora! Or—a projection of her! She was right there!”

Luz set down the bowl and felt his forehead with the back of her hand. “Uh-oh. Feels like a fever.”

“She was there, I saw her, I talked to her—”

“Hunter, I didn’t see anyone.”

“I’m not crazy!”

She sat down next to him. “I didn’t say you were. But you do have a fever, and you lost a lot of blood, and you haven’t eaten, and you’re probably tired, and you’re in a new place—”

“Don’t patronize me! I know what I saw!”

To his surprise, Luz nodded. “Okay. I’ll have Hooty check the perimeter, and I’ll call Gus—he’d know more about illusion magic than I would.”

“Really?”

“Of course.” Luz patted his head as she got up, ignoring his growl. “I said you’d be safe here, Hunter. If you saw Kikimora, if she projected herself in here, then I’ll look into it.”

He eyed her. “This doesn’t change anything. I’m still not going to tell you any information.”

“I know. And… that’s okay.” Luz took in a deep breath. “As much as I’d like to know what Belos is up to, it wouldn’t be fair to put you in that position. I decided to help you because it was the right thing to do, not because of any information you could give me. This isn’t a business transaction—you don’t owe me anything.” She gave his head another pat, and walked off.

She was making it really hard to want to capture her and bring her to Belos.

No. What was he thinking?! After the disaster this had been so far? There was a snowball’s chance that he’d be going back empty handed.

You don’t have to go back at all, a tiny, treacherous voice whispered in the back of his head. He squashed the idea. Of course he was going back! The only reason he’d thought that was because Kikimora would be there. And… he didn’t want to see her again, not the least because she’d attempted to kill him twice. Three times if you counted Eclipse Lake. Yes. That was it. Plus, he had to go back for his palisman, anyway. It might be okay hiding out on its own for a bit until he healed, but he certainly didn’t want to abandon it there forever.

He heard a low, worried warble, and Owlbert flew in, his own cardinal right behind him. Hunter sort of hated how much relief and happiness swept over him when he saw the bird, but he lifted one hand for the palisman to perch on anyway.

The cardinal hopped up his arm, and nestled into his hair with a chirp that Hunter took to mean ‘Hi.’

“Hey, there.”

The palisman snuggled down, gripping his scalp with its tiny claws. Hunter winced.

“Hey, ow!”

It chirped fiercely at him about how he needed to be more careful.

“I got stabbed in the back by my coworker, there wasn’t much I could do about it!”

“Awwww, that’s adorable!”

Hunter groaned as Luz came back in, fawning over the palisman. “What do you want?”

“Just checking in.” She made kissy faces at Hunter’s palisman. “Awwww, he’s curled up in your hair like a blonde nest, that’s so cuuuuuuuuuute!” She pulled out a rectangle and pointed it at him, tapping her side of it. “Say cheese!”

“Hey—heyyyyy, what was that? What was that?”

Luz made another kissy face at his palisman, and turned the rectangle around to show him an image of himself, his palisman firmly rooted in his hair. Wow, he looked awful. “Look how cute the two of you are—best buddies for life! I’m gonna show Amity! She can’t possibly still think you’re going to kill me in my sleep after she sees this!”

“Do not—don’t you dare show Blight that picture!” Hunter swiped at the phone, yelping as his back throbbed.

Luz skipped backwards. “Ehehehe, still too slow!” She grabbed her cloak, heading for the door. “Edaaaa, I’m going to the library, don’t kill Hunter while I’m gooooone!”

“No proooooomiseeeees,” Eda called back, “Have fun, watch out for Kikimora!”

Luz ran out the door. Hunter put his face back in the couch while his palisman chirped comfortingly, wiggling down further into his hair. Never mind. He wouldn’t regret turning that human in to Belos one bit.

Ch 3

#toh #the owl house #toh fanfiction #my writing #toh hunter #luz noceda #eda clawthorne #lil rascal

[gophergal]

So this is the third oneshot I've finished this week (second I've posted here. The other that isn't posted here is already up on Ao3.) Don't expect this often, I just wanted to get some WIPs off my plate and I still have many to finish. This is just a short, sweet ficlet, but may have a companion or sequel later on. Who fucking knows. This is a sort of a collection of short moments with the two of them. No real plot, just fluff.

Home On The Range

Word Count: 2,000+ | Rating: T+ | Michael Myers x Jason Voorhees (Western AU) | M/M

Warnings: Implied Murder, Description of Injury, Hurt/Comfort, Failed Hanging Mention, Rushed Ending, Fluff

Samhain plodded along wearily, his rider slumped forward in the saddle as he made his way toward safety. The shootout in town, when the Shape had been driven from its prey, had resulted in Michael being shot thrice, twice in the shoulder, once center mass. He'd fled in a haze of pain and blood loss, mounted his horse, and eventually passed out.

And so that led Samhain to his current situation, following instinct to get he and his master somewhere safe, preferably somewhere with abundant food and water. The stallion stopped for a moment, ears perking up as he caught the sound of whistling coming from the valley below. A tall man, his head covered in a feed sack, was the source. The horse tentatively descended from the hilltop towards the strange man, focused on his joyful whistling.

Hearing the careful clop of hooves behind him, the large man turned, ready to strike with the ax in his hands, which he quickly lowered. Samhain snorted weakly where he stood, far away enough that the man couldn't grab him. Instead, the bag-headed man reached into a pocket on his tattered jacket, and pulled out a half eaten stick of peppermint, holding it out to the stallion who took it, eating greedily. His rough hand pet the horse's black, velvety nose and he hummed reassuringly. The horse's rider did not move, even as the tall man took the reins from his hands and led the horse away from the area.

Trees became more dense as they walked until they came upon a small cabin. Samhain's head perked up as his rider was removed from his back, and he let out a piercing whinny. The man hummed again, reassuring the distressed animal, who slowly returned to a relaxed state. Michael was taken from the horse's back, draped limply in the big man's arms like a doll. He groaned, still unconscious, but alive. After taking the smaller man into the tiny log cabin, the large man returned and removed the tack from the black stallion, running his hand along the sweaty, matted coat that had been beneath, then led the horse to a small stream by the halter, leaving him there to graze and drink the fresh cool water that flowed so freely.

Back in the cabin, Jason studied the man he'd sat on his bed, scratching his beard through the rough burlap of his hood. The dark haired man was covered with a layer of cold sweat, his face twisted in pain, even while asleep. Grabbing a basin of clean water and a rag, Jason set to work undressing the man's torso, looking at the bullet wounds that littered his flesh, nestled alongside other pale scars, some fresher than others. While dabbing the blood crusted injuries, he examined them, determining that the shoulders had been entered and exited cleanly. They would only need liquor poured on them to fight infection. The shot in the abdomen, however, looked more serious, and had no exit wound, all but guaranteeing that the offending lead was lodged within. Jason debated whether he should remove the bullet while the man was unconscious or not, deciding to finish dressing the other two wounds beforehand.

When the alcohol was administered, the man roused with a shout of pain, startling Jason, who in turn fell backward. The man looked around in panic, wearily reaching for his gun, which was no longer on his hip. There was a fire in his eyes, which Jason could now see were mismatched, one black as the horse he rode in on and the other milky white. Rolling off the bed, the man struggled to get to his feet, groaning quietly in agony. Jason approached slowly, as one would a wild animal, which earned him a glare. Disregarding this, he grabbed the man's good arm, careful to help him get seated on the mattress. He did not fight back, but kept scowling weakly, allowing his saviour to do as he pleased. With little fuss, his wounds were bandaged, the pressure of it relieving some of the aching.

Michael fell back onto the cushion, flinching in pain that radiated from his midsection. He inhaled sharply, looking over at the bag headed man who gestured to the leaking wound. He mimed pulling something out, which Michael nodded in response to. Steeling himself in preparation of the pain and biting down on the rolled cloth which was put in his mouth. His eyes screwed shut at the first penetration of the hole, burning pain blinding all his senses as the man's fingers searched for the bullet. It seemed to last forever, and Michael threatened to black out.

His stomach turned as the white hot agony coursed through him, reaching every point on his body. Finally, the man extracted his fingers, and he relaxed slightly, breathing heavily around the fabric gripped tightly in his mouth. When he looked up, the man held the bullet in his bloodied hand. Which he set down beside the basin of water. The pain had subsided enough that Michael could feel the touch of water on his abdomen as the man cleaned his wound again, and finally wrapped it.

“Michael,” he rasped, exhaling sharply and extending a hand to the other man, who said nothing in reply, instead holding his hand after shaking it, and drawing wobbly letters into his palm with a finger. He did this twice, then again, writing on his palm until Michael picked it up: J-A-S-O-N. Michael nodded in recognition, leaning back into the mattress and shutting his eyes. He let out a shaky breath, recalling what had happened in the past week. Then shoving it aside. Yet again, the Shape had led him into danger, just as it always had in search of feeding its insatiable hunger.

A few days passed with Michael resting up and Jason keeping his wounds clean. The two would sit in each other's presence, drinking in the peace. Samhain was well, happy to munch on the green grass of the field nearby. It was nice, but Michael was growing restless. His wounds were beginning to close and hurt far less than they had at first. As soon as he was well enough to ride out again, he'd go after that damned Marshall's head. The thought was delightful and served as his sole motivator for remaining at the cabin. So he told himself, that is.

The other big reason was standing out in the clearing around the back, the muscles of his arms shifting as he chopped firewood. Jason had the strength and stature of no one Michael had ever seen. Even the big bastards he'd get in fights with while swacked on whiskey were puny in comparison, though Jason didn't seem the type to fight drunkards in run down dead-fall saloons. No, he seemed like a good enough man that Michael felt no worry around him. Even if he hadn't seen the man's face, which Michael figured was his right to hide anyway, he could tell in his gut that Jason could be trusted. Michael stirred the pot of stew on the stove as he tried to figure out his plan for when he'd head out.

The more he thought about it, he began to realize that he had no idea where to start looking for Marshall Loomis. In theory, he could just go to the nearest town and start shit, then wait while word spread of his whereabouts, but that just wasn't the way Michael liked to do things. He'd much rather be the hunter, waiting in the shadows for his prey.

Jason walked in, skin still glistening from his hard work outside. It should be time for supper soon, he figured. After all, the sun was hanging low in the sky, ready to set within a couple hours. Jason stopped in the doorway, watching as Michael stood at the stove. Something was nice about watching the smaller man (and that's smaller, mind you, not small. Michael was a large fellow in his own right) tend to their supper.

It was very thoughtful of him, despite how Jason tried to keep him off his feet, lest his wounds reopen. There was also something about the scene that caused warmth to bloom in his chest. He pushed it down. Michael would leave at some point. Jason would be on his own again. He didn't even know why he'd helped the younger man.

A month later, December brought cold, dry weather and Michael sitting in front of the fireplace with Jason, whittling away at a chunk of wood. As he whittled, he made excuses for why he should stay now that his wounds had fully healed, now just marks on his skin where the skin dipped low. He owed it to Jason to repay him for all he'd done in nursing him back to health. Samhain needed time to recuperate. Things to justify his extended stay.

With a glance to his side, he stopped carving for a moment, taking in the picture of Jason, his burlap hood nowhere to be seen. His red hair burned vibrant in the firelight as he mended the hole in a shirt. Michael stopped lying to himself, knowing in his heart that he stayed for his own selfish reasons. Jason was a warm presence. Comforting in a way Michael had never felt.

It was contentment, he supposed it would be called. The closest he'd ever gotten was the come down off an adrenaline high of fighting or the fuzzy, numb stupor he would often find at the bottom of a bottle, but neither of those quite fit the word. It just felt good to be around the red haired man. Michael was good at reading people, a trait that came from many years of playing poker to pay for his needs, but he didn't need any of that to know that Jason felt the same. Michael just couldn't leave him now, he simply had no desire to.

Jason had once showed his face freely to those around him. Back when his mama was alive. He remembers the name calling, the tears Mama wiped away, the accusations after her death, the first bit of darkness when his head covered when he was to be hanged, all of the things that led to his hiding. He'd been nervous when Michael saw his face that first time. Washing his burlap hood in the stream, he'd been suddenly confronted by the brunet. His good eye scanned Jason's face with curiosity. He didn't say anything, just looked. There was no laughter or disgust, just the fire of interest, then of concern when they dropped to the faint ring of scarring around his neck. The two sat there quietly, a silent understanding forming.

That had been within the first couple weeks of Michael's stay. Now, Jason kept the hood off. Only putting it back on when trespassers came to their land, in need of disposal. Michael showed no hatred of that horrible face, but often looked at him, focused as though he were looking at the brightest star in the heavens. Jason allowed himself to hold onto the warmth it brought this time, savoring the way Michael brought him comfort.

Michael rode off to take his vengeance on the Marshall in mid spring. He'd put it off long enough, for as much as he wished to stay with Jason, true peace would not come to him until Marshall Loomis was dead and buried. There was a kiss goodbye, a lingering farewell and promise of return, then suddenly the red haired man was left alone once again. The land was emptier now without Michael. Jason busied himself with protecting their home (for now it was just as much Michael's as it was Jason's before) in the meantime.

It was incredibly lonesome, more than he'd expected. It's not as though Michael left without warning, he'd mentioned he would, and yet Jason was worried. Worried that he'd never see the dark haired man again. Had those silent confessions of adoration been lies? They never were on Jason's part, but Michael's face held no clues to the truth. He supposed Michael would been great at bluffing. It reminded him of something Mama once said: You ought not trust a poker player, Jason, they'll steal everything from you, and they'll make you feel special when it happens. He didn't want to think about that, and held on to the memory of the last time he held the black eyed man.

Days began to blend together before Michael returned on his black stallion. He'd been injured again, but nowhere near as badly. He fell into Jason's arms two months after he'd first left. He was weaker now, a husk of who he'd been. Anger no longer held him together. Jason could tell that he'd ate little and slept less since he'd been gone. His heart was simultaneously broken at the sight of his frail state and filled with his presence. He didn't want to ever let him go again. After a few days rest and many good meals, Michael looked much better physically, but something was different still.

Touching was more common than it had been before. When they sat in front of the fireplace of an evening, Jason would often find Michael reaching out for his own calloused hand, weaving their fingers together and scooting closer. Once, he pushed a curly, red lock of hair behind his ear, the corners of his mouth quirked up in an unpracticed smile. Jason melted at that first smile and every smile after. The weight that had been lifted from Michael's shoulders would never be commented on by either of them. They were simply too wrapped up in the pleasure of one other's presence and comfort to bring up that pain.

There was no pain or unhappiness in their little home that they built, not anymore. Not so long as they had each other to look out for them.

#slashers #michael myers #jason voorhees #myerhees #western au #gopher writes

[gryffindors-weasley]

Missing Pieces

Draco Malfoy x Reader

Summary: Years pass since the battle and you’ve loved and lost. But your secret isn’t forever when you encounter the one thing you’ve had to hide from.

Warnings: angst, mentions of death, grieving, mentions of heartbreak, fluff, requited love and kissing

A/N: This is for @iliveiloveiwrite 3.5k song challenge! This fic is based off the song Empty Space by James Arthur, and I’ve gotten a bit carried away with the length on this one. I haven’t written angst in a while, so I hope you enjoy it! Congratulations again, Millie!

You sensed a presence near you, one that lingered behind you ever since you left the shop. One that was only further confirmed when you risked a weary glance over your shoulder, eying a darkened figure slip out of sight just as quickly as you had spotted it. It’d been foolish to be out and about at such an hour by yourself. But you became accustomed to this very feeling over the last four years, it was the only choice you had.

Each time you passed under a street lamp it became a race to get under the next pool of light, as if the glowing sphere that was cast on the cement would make you invincible. You could only hope for that to be so. Because not many people cared for a walk on a chilly evening like this, much less in the drizzling December rain. It was a small town that was rather off the grid after all, you shouldn’t even really be out if you were being honest. But you couldn’t risk being seen apparating nor did you feel like it.

The footfalls behind you were distinct, setting themselves apart against the dull tap of the raindrops on the cracked pavement and you couldn’t deny your racing heart. But you pushed on with a vigor, wanting nothing more than to reach your front door and lock out the world behind you for the night. That’s how you ended every day and every single one to come.

Another hurried glance gave way to the same shadow, a growing frustration forming in the pit of your stomach. Maybe you were just seeing things. Maybe it was just a trick of the eye. The wizarding war had left you rather paranoid after all, and that was never something that’d completely go away. You tried your very hardest to convince yourself you were just tired. However, the soft metallic clinking of what had to be keys was certainly not in your imagination, you knew that for a fact.

You were quick to grip the wand tucked within the side of your boot, fed up as you turned on your heel. “Who are you?”

Your voice was firm as you held your wand tightly in front of you, knuckles white as your eyes squinted to better see in the darker alleyway. It probably wasn’t the best place to confront a stranger, but you had never been one to back down.

A tense silence settled around you, heart hammering away in your chest as your gaze bounced around the seemingly vacant street. It felt like seconds had turned to hours. You were moments away from casting a Lumos spell when the figure stepped out from the alley and revealed themselves. The breath you held now remained caught in your throat, mouth growing dry as your eyes widened a fraction. The gray eyes and platinum hair were unmistakable, the very person you longed to see but knew you couldn’t. He was now standing just a mere two feet away from you.

You were paralyzed in your own thoughts momentarily. Taking in the way his hair nearly tangled with his lashes, or the misty rain droplets that beaded across his pale skin. The forest green scarf that wrapped loosely around his neck, the one you got him for Christmas a number of years ago, now tattered and frayed. Maybe it was the way he looked at you, solemn and hopeful that it really was you. That, it was definitely that.

“Draco?” You whisper, still in disbelief. All the color drained from your cheeks and you nearly dropped your wand, a shockwave of something coursing through your body. You didn’t know if you wanted to run and never look back, or stay.

He swallowed thickly, nearly flinching at the sound of his name falling from your lips after having been deprived of it for so long. His nostrils flared, jaw clenching under the pressure of his own tears as he fought the urge to cage you in his arms and never let go. He couldn’t do that. He shouldn’t do that.

“I thought you were dead.”

The words were strained and low, spoken through gritted teeth as the pain of the last four years doused each one as they fell from quivering lips. It felt as though your heart dropped to your stomach, sitting there heavy as a boulder as tears sting in your eyes.

“How long have you been following me?” You snap defensively, tone ice cold as you try to avoid his statement, finding yourself failing miserably.

“That’s not important.”

It very much was important, though he wasn’t ready to inform you of those details. He’d first found you seven months ago. He was on a home call to the small town you currently resided in, the hospital deeming Draco to be the best fit to heal this patient in particular. Though he was regularly sought out because no other healer within the wizarding world was quite like him, no one held the astounding skills he possessed, and the consideration of that title was something he was rather proud of.

Regardless of the details or their importance, he found himself wandering through the town after he’d finished his job, feeling somewhat compelled to do so. It wasn’t a very interesting place, nothing to set it apart from the next town over or any that happened to be in the near vicinity. However, day in and day out everything had seemed mundane to him, everything blending together in a repetitive and bleak manner. His very world had seemed to have lost its spark. One thing and one thing only had put that miserable town on a pedestal to all the others. You.

He blinked a few times, feeling like his sleepless nights had conjured up the illusion that the very love of his life had been just on the other side of the street, tucked away in a cafe and seated in the picture window. He was more than tempted to cross the cracked street to get a clearer confirmation but the blaring sound of a taxi cab’s horn brought him back to reality. The car promptly swerved around him as he stepped back on the sidewalk, followed by the drivers string of curses out of the window. But he didn’t care, it was undeniably you.

First he was confused, then he was profoundly angry. So much so his skin flushed and burned and passers by had given him odd looks, making a point to avoid him on the narrow walkway. Had you really hated him so much to go so far as to create that kind of deception? One that impacted him so deeply it felt like the air had been stolen from his lungs for months on end thinking you were gone. He was beginning to think you never really loved him at all, that all the whispered promises of a better life together were tall tales spoken in vain.

He’d apparated to his home immediately, unable to bear another glance at you as nausea swirled in his stomach, abandoning the rest of his shift entirely. Resentment filled his empty heart and clouded his mind for days and weeks after that day. The empty space you left behind felt all the more daunting, your memories together no longer a bittersweet recollection as they replayed in his mind. Now they had been permanently tarnished, worsening the utter despair your absence had left him in. Dozens of letters were written in haste and either crumpled or ripped up, thrown across his room with the addition of a nearby object to shatter against the wall.

He hated you. But most of all he hated that he couldn’t move on from you, and yet still, he didn’t want to.

It took him three months to come down from his anger and try and reason with himself. There was no question you had been hit with a hex that day. He watched you writhe in agony at his very own fathers malicious and spiteful doing, those same hands holding him back from joining your side. It couldn’t have been anything but real, your screams permanently engrained in his memory as you left him in the ruins of the courtyard to face his fate alone.

The unanswered questions still fueled his frustration, however, but he found himself returning to that very town. It started as once every two weeks, and when almost four more months had passed he found himself going nearly every day. He wasn’t one to chase after the things that hurt him, but you seemed to be an exception, you always seemed to be an exception. He had been desperate to see you despite the jab he felt in his chest every single time he did.

Now it’s brought him here.

He remained stoic as he stood in front of you, the proximity making it seem as though he towered over your smaller frame. He wasn’t trying to be intimidating, not in the slightest, but it made you take a step back nonetheless. He fought against the unbearable pressure seemingly crushing his chest, weaving its way around his heart and wrapping around his throat as he concealed the tears pressing just behind his eyes. The sight had you at a loss for words.

“Draco I—”

“How could you let me think you were gone for the last four years, Y/n?” His voice was raised by this point, his hands clenching at his sides before he released them, leaving small crescent-shaped indentations of his nails behind on his palms.

This was absolutely not the conversation you were looking to have at eleven at night, certainly not one to be had in the middle of the sidewalk. But Draco had seemed insistent that this was happening right then and there whether you had liked it or not. You were beginning to feel like you never wanted to have this talk, the panic bubbling in your stomach as you scrambled to give him an answer.

“It was for your own good,” You say quietly, throat beginning to ache as you suppressed your tears, your own frustration building. It was a feat that was easier said than done. A stray passerby had looked in your general direction to discern the source of the commotion.

“What?”

“Nothing,” you dismiss, turning to leave.

His hand shot out and grabbed your own, the feeling nearly electric against your skin. Your breath hitched in your throat momentarily. “No, it’s not nothing. I have a right to know.”

His hand lingered in yours for a moment or two longer than it should have before it dropped back to his side, his gaze fixed on you as he waited for your explanation. Of the hundreds of ways you thought to broach this conversation in the many days and months apart, they all seemed to erase themselves from your memory now that the moment had arised. “Go on, tell me.”

You stood there hesitantly, afraid of what he might say. Afraid that he’d turn around and leave you behind much like you’d regrettably done to him all those years ago. Though at that point if he chose to do that, you knew it was something you deserved. You owed him the reason, you knew that. But it took great effort to choke out the words, scared to know what would come of the interchange.

“Your mother,” you timidly managed to get out, quiet voice trembling as you spoke your words carefully. “She saved me after I was hexed by your father. I wasn’t in the best shape but she saved me from dying that day.”

You studied his face, watching the crease between his dark brows deepen, bottom lip beginning to noticeably tremble.

“Why didn’t you come get me?” His tone was angry and insistent, jaw clenching as he tried to process what you had just said.

“She told me it’d be better this way. It’d only cause trouble if they knew what she had done for me because I very clearly wasn’t going to make it, it wouldn’t have made sense if suddenly I bounced back from it. Said we were better off apart because at least we’d both make it out of there alive and in one piece, you could have the life you always wanted for yourself.”

He scoffed in disbelief, looking away from you briefly as if to gather his thoughts that rapidly bombarded him. “You really believe that?” He asks quietly.

You shrug, a tear spilling over your reddened cheek. “Look at all the heartache it’s caused, Draco. What was I supposed to do? Should I have just shown up on your doorstep and said ‘Hey, I’m sorry. I know I’ve abandoned you for a few years and made you think I was dead and left you to be heartbroken, but I’m not really.’ Is that what you wanted?”

“It would have been a start.” A humorless laugh left his lips as he shook his head.

You scoff as you narrow your eyes up at him, drawing in a shaky breath. “Don’t be ridiculous, Draco.”

“Ridiculous? You basically ripped my heart right out of my chest and stomped all over it, and I’m being ridiculous?”

He bit his tongue after that, taking a deep breath to stave off the anger simmering in the pit of his stomach. He didn’t want to say something to further create anymore regrets.

“I didn’t ask for this!” You nearly shout, his expression softening. “I didn’t want this to be our fate, I fought it as best I could because I didn’t feel right living a life without you in it. It wasn’t ever my choice to make, Draco, and I think you know that.” You manage to say, swallowing the growing lump in your throat. “You deserve better than that.”

He looked at his feet, taking a moment to gather himself as he wiped his cheek with a trembling hand. He shook his head then, lifting his eyes to meet yours again with furrowed brows. He took that moment to take you in, to really look at you, something he’s wanted to do far more often than he ever cared to admit. Your eyes still sparkled the way they always do, and it wasn’t just from the tears that glossed over them. Or the way your cheeks and the very tip of your nose reddened in the chilled winter weather, accentuating every freckle that dotted along your skin. He couldn’t bring himself to look away, nor did he want to.

He took a step closer to replace the one you had taken to widen the gap between you, taking a deep breath as he tried to properly articulate his next words.

“If you think for a second that there was any moment in any day that I haven’t thought of you, you’re wrong. You’re etched in my bones, Y/n, there’s no moving on from you. Don’t you understand the only life I’ve ever wanted is with you?”

He was pleading by this point, voice louder than before as he tried to get you to understand his words were sincere.

You wiped your cheek with your sleeve, the cold weather seeping through your jacket no longer there with the fire ablaze in your chest. “You can’t possibly mean that anymore, and there’s no way I’ll let you forgive me either,” you laugh bitterly, softly, and you shake your head again. “Not after that. That would be ridiculous and I won’t allow it.” You inhaled a quivering breath, meeting his eyes. “You’re supposed to hate me.”

He wouldn’t call it forgiveness, but the very person who left his heart in tatters was the same one who kept it beating. Seemingly the only one.

His breath caught in his throat momentarily as he listened to your words, voice wavering as he whispers, “I could never hate you.”

Those five words were enough to make your heart pound so hard it couldn’t possibly remain in your chest. You wanted nothing more than to run to his arms and pretend nothing ever happened, like you hadn’t kept yourself hidden from him for years while he suffered. But you couldn’t forget it. It wasn’t something you could brush under the rug because the guilt wasn’t quite something you could get over.

“I love you, Draco, very much. But I can’t. I can’t just let this go, and you shouldn’t want me to,” you start, tears falling freely and mixing with the rain. “For that reason, I can’t stay, I have to go.”

You could hardly get the words to fall from your mouth, and through your heartbeat pounding vigorously in your ears you weren’t entirely sure if they did.

He opened his mouth to speak, but you knew he’d try and get you to stay and you didn’t know if you were strong enough to hear it. So you turned your back to the love of your life, rushing off as your face scrunched with unshed tears before disappearing around the next corner. He choked back a sob of his own as he followed after you, turning the corner and finding himself to be the only one left.

4 Months Later

Four months. It had been four months since the night that remained burned in your memory, replaying the interchange word for word every time you closed your eyes. For having gone years without seeing him you thought this would be a simple task to do it again. To rid yourself of the pain that came with loving Draco Malfoy. But really this seemed to be the hardest part of it all, the last four years had paled in comparison to this.

The hole in your chest, the one you’d created twice over was widening with each passing day. You saw him in every thing you did, perhaps you really did see him. Flashes of memories would flood your mind and taunt you. Memories of running through the gardens of the Manor like kids every time you looked at the flowers surrounding your home. Memories of nights in the astronomy tower when the moonlight trickled in your window, curtains promptly being closed. Or the pang in your chest when your fingers brushed over the fabric of his sweater that hung in the very back of your closet. The intense, all-consuming heartache was something you’d never wish on your worst enemy. To long so deeply for someone just might be the worst kind of pain.

Four more months of living in the same looping regret, guilt tightly lacing itself around your heart and constricting you more with every day that goes by. You wondered where you might currently be if you hadn’t been so stubborn, if you hadn’t sabotaged the very thing that made you feel the most alive. Or if you had defied Narcissa’s wishes and ran away with him like you always wanted.

The thought of what should have and could have been tore you up the more you paid them mind. It could have been the two of you in that house, decorated with shared books and memorabilia. You could be waking up together for the rest of your life, rather than occupying the mattress alone. But any scenario that crossed your mind always seemed like it was far out of the realm of possibility, and you were at fault for it. So, you continued on with your everyday life.

You walked up the mossy cobblestone walkway to your home with a huff, groceries tucked in the crook of your arm. You were too tired to apparate, having lacked the energy to do so long before that moment. It was proving to be a challenging task just to find the right key one-handedly, having dropped them completely when you looked up. The metal clang sounded as they hit the ground, the paper bag you held crinkling under your tightened grip, but you soon settled a bit as you sighed. You weren’t sure if you could do this again.

The same blonde that had haunted your every day stood just under your covered porch, sifting through the envelopes that carried his name across the front of each and every one.

“I see my letters have reached you,” He says upon seeing you, quiet as he takes the time to look over each one, not even having to glance inside them to know what was thoughtfully written.

You were quiet, embarrassed that he was now aware of your ignorance to them as they accumulated into a pile just outside your door. It hadn’t made matters any better. “I’ve read some.”

It was true, you had plucked a few from the growing pile and read through them, even reread multiple times. But it quickly became unbearably painful to read his words, the metaphorical blade in your heart twisting with every line your eyes skimmed across. So you let them gather—one turning to two, two turning to five, five turning to ten. They sat, weathered by the outside elements with hopes to be opened and read as intended.

You wanted to write back. You wanted desperately to fill pages detailing how much you had missed him dearly, how fully you loved him. You wanted to pour your very heart onto every piece of letterhead you could find in your house and send it to him, he deserved to know that much, he deserved much more than what you gave. Yet you still wanted to be selfish and have him all to yourself.

He laughed softly, holding no humor as he set them down carefully in a much neater pile on the old rocking chair behind him before stuffing his hands in his pockets.

“Why didn’t you write back?” His tone was curious rather than angry, though disappointment was still very much there.

You pushed back your truthful reasoning in favor of a simple answer. “I didn’t feel it was appropriate for me to get your hopes up.”

His brows furrowed as a bittersweet smile formed on his lips, one that hadn’t fully reached his tired eyes.

“Love, I’m afraid that’s already happened the moment I saw you again.”

Your heart squeezed in your chest at the nickname, one you certainly didn’t deserve to be referred to as. It took everything in you not to crumble, not to burst into tears.

“Why are you here, Draco?” You ask, desperately wanting to change the subject to keep yourself from lingering on the way he looked at you, gingerly and full of longing.

He shifted on his feet, a brief silence settling between the two of you as he looked at his surroundings. The gray stone walls of the medium-sized cottage, the bursts of color dotting the perimeter from the blooming flowers planted in unkempt flowerbeds, the worn paint on the porch from repeated foot traffic; it was clear to see the path you walked in on a daily basis.

“Has my mother picked this place out for you?” He asks softly, seemingly avoiding your question as he lightly ran his fingertips over the dark green railing. He feels he’s certain he already knows that answer. “It’s quite beautiful.”

You sigh, cheeks burning a rosy pink when he caught your gaze again. “Draco, what are you doing here?” You repeat.

Once again he’s quiet, mulling things over as he carefully thinks about his next words. While waiting, you find yourself trying not to focus on the way the spring breeze blows his hair out of his face, or the way the tip of his nose reddened in the brisk weather. None of those details should have been important but you couldn’t bring yourself to look away, not really.

“I suppose I wanted to see you.”

The hesitation in his quiet admission was indicative that there was more to it than he’d let on. And once again it felt as though your heart had been somersaulting in your chest, but you fought the warmth that blossomed in waves within your body at the short statement.

“I don’t believe that’s a very good idea for either of us.” Your words were soft and you hadn’t really believed them, not as much as you should have, but it felt like something you were supposed to say.

You could tell his anger had been rising, could tell by the way he turned his back to you and clutched the wooden railing, gathering himself. You could see the deep breaths he’d been taking, slow and steady as his knuckles turned an ivory white. Your stubbornness had always been a quality he had loved about you, but now that very trait was the thing that’s been ripping him apart.

“And just why is that, Y/n?” His frustration was beginning to become more and more apparent as he turned to face you again, cheeks flushed a pale scarlet. He threw his hands in the air to accompany his words, letting them fall back to his sides. He took another deep breath to control his emotions. “Why?”

“What do you want me to say, Draco?” You we’re defeated by this point, the emotional turmoil having stripped you of the light you once held. This very love had completed you while being your downfall all the same. You felt like you wanted to run in this very moment, as far as possible, but your feet remained planted in place just outside your front door.

He looked at you with such intensity, utterly spellbound by you, that you had to look away from him for a moment, his gaze never faltering no matter how many tears had blurred his vision. His nostrils flare as his eyes continue to gloss over.

“I want you to tell me you love me,” He starts, voice wavering though he kept going despite it. “I want you to tell me you won’t leave. Not again. I have tried and tried to rid myself of you and everything that came with loving you, to fill the gaps you left in my life but there’s far too many. I’m afraid nobody will ever hold a candle to you. So please, I want you to tell me you’ll stop running and stay with me.”

You blinked away your tears as you swallowed thickly, voice coming out in a soft whisper. “Draco, please,” you plead, “I—”

He held up his hand, silently asking to continue as he stepped closer to you cautiously, scared that if he moved too quickly you’d slip away again.

“I didn’t have a choice my entire life, and going another minute without you isn’t a choice either, not really,” he chuckles through tears, his lip trembling and he brushed his hair out of his eyes. “I’m so tired of holding grudges. And you can try and keep yourself from me all you want, but I need you with me. I don’t know who I am without you.”

You stood there, clinging to every single word that fell from his lips as you looked up at him. Every passing second was detrimental to the wall you tried to build around yourself, diminishing piece by piece. Your heart pounded in your chest, so much so you thought it might burst then and there. You turned away from him to catch your breath, missing the way his face scrunched in a quiet sob he’d tried to keep you from bearing witness to. But you hadn’t missed the sniffles sounding just paces behind you, and it was something you knew you never wanted to hear again.

You weighed out all your options, rapidly finding yourself unable to find a reason to walk away from this, a logical reason, other than yourself and your inability to let this go. You were tired of fighting, and you were tired of living without the one person you felt you were meant to love. It was useless to do such a thing anymore because no matter how hard you could try to find love in someone else, it always circles back to him.

Against all self doubt and the crushing guilt that told you to let him go and close that chapter, you spun on your heel to find him staring as his breath caught in his throat. You crossed the porch with certainty, leaning up on your toes, fists gripping his coat tightly as you kissed him fiercely. He was knocked back a step or two but his arms were around you in an instant, pressing you as close as he could.

Something akin to electricity ignited across every inch of your skin, and you ignored the nagging thoughts that maybe you shouldn’t be doing this right now. That maybe it was too soon, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care about technicalities and ‘maybe’s’. You parted and he felt it was all too brief as he chased after your lips, but you hadn’t strayed far as you released his jacket, smoothing the crinkled material. You looked up at him, his breath fanning across your face. These quiet, fleeting moments felt like they stretched into hours as you allowed yourself to bask in the moment you never thought you’d experience again.

“I love you,” you whisper, and he laughed softly in relief as a tear slips down his cheek, then another, your lips finding his again in a much softer kiss.

He still held you tightly, fingers splayed across your cheek as if to have confirmation that this was real, that it was really happening. Still to make sure you wouldn’t take off, that you were real.

It was. And he was never losing you again.

—

#iliveiloveiwrite3.5k #draco malfoy #draco malfoy imagine #draco malfoy fic #draco malfoy x reader #draco malfoy x you #draco malfoy angst #draco malfoy fluff

[pieces-by-me]

Little Mouse

Hello there! This is my piece for @youbloodymadgenius​ 1k Writing Challenge!! I originally wanted to post this sooner but I took too much on my plate and have now so many things to write that I put myself under pressure. The idiot I am.🤦🏼‍♀️

But anyway: Congratulations again on this huge step!! You deserve every single one of us and even more and I’m sure your blog will only grow bigger and better. I really hope you enjoy this and that you have an amazing day/night ✨

Words: 2827

Summary: Ivar’s night before the big war will be interrupted by a visitor from his past. Someone he has almost forgotten.

Prompt: I have always depended on the kindness of strangers. - A Streetcar Named Desire

Warning: mention of death, I think thats it. English is not my first language

He was standing over the table, browns lined in though. Somehow he had to do it. He had to beat Alfred and win this final battle. The battle over Wessex.

Ivar was in pain. Not only his brain, form constantly thinking of strategy upon strategy, but also his legs. They were killing him. The constant raining, the fog and the gloomy atmosphere shrouding Wessex into a climate that did not agree with Ivar. They hurt worst then on the coldest day in Kattegat or the snow filed days of Kiev. Maybe it was because Kattegat was his home and he was just too used to that. But this was close to agony. The wind blowing through his tent was not helping either.

Not finding the answer he was looking for after watching over the maps of the terrain he was done with it for the night. Tightly gripping his crutch while limping to his bed he made his way carefully from one side to the other. Sitting down he reached for his cup of mead and took a big gulp, hoping the warming liquid would help his sour mood and hurting bones. And after a couple of more cups he felt the familia tingling of warmness traveling through his body. It didn't stop his legs from causing him pain, but at least it was now more tolerable. With this he was able to take off his braces. Making him hiss and grimace as the metal left his limps. 

But soon the soothing feeling came from not having his legs being trapped and pinched together that the hissing turned into a long sigh. Finally he could lay down and rest. His men and the one from Harald would want to know a plan by tomorrow but they would have to wait a bit, because he was to tired to think anymore. Something that didn't happen often. Taking of his heavy tunic and trowing it across the improvised room he closed his eyes with hoping to find sleep soon.

Ivar's hearing was always impeccable, a trait he was very proud of and something he would rub under the noses of his brothers every chance he would get. This time his hearing was the reason he woke up from a deep sleep. Someone was sneaking through his tent. And it was not his brother. That klutz was always too loud walking around. So who was mad enough to creep through his quarters while he was still in them? Someone with a death wish that was certain. He used his the arm he lay on to travel towards his hidden knife under his pillow. Something every son of Ragnar would sleep with. But just as his hand neared the edge of his pillow a voice filled with taunt went through his tent.

“I took your knife so you don't have to search for it.”

What in the name of Odin?

Not only was this voice teasing him, him a feared Viking throughout all the lands, but it was female and close to giggling. No use in trying to be stealthy he turned around to face this intruder and sat up.

When he looked at her he saw that she was a meek little thing. Thin, sickly and clothed in scraps. Standing there, proud and smiling, three meters from his bed. Twirling his knife in her hands. There was a glimmer of triumph in her eyes but something else sparkled alongside it. Admiration?

Pushing the initial shock away, Ivar slapped a smirk on his face and looked her deep in the eyes. Something about them was nagging on his brain. Like he had seen them a long time ago, or in a dream. But before he could say any words or threads she beat him to it.

“You are Ivar the Boneless.” It was definitely admiration.

“It has been a long time since I have seen you.”

That made him stutter a bit. So he had seen her. But when?

“I'm not surprised you don't remember me. I am a nobody. But I saw you. Way back when we both were little. Or at least younger, I never truly grew taller.” A sort of giggle that was close to sadness left her lips at her words. But it wasn't a wonder that she didn't grow. How could a body grow when there was never anything to feed it?

It was quiet then after her words. Ivar was in a state of remembering. Trying to pinpoint where he could have seen her. When they were younger and he was in Wessex, otherwise it wouldn't make any sense. She was Saxon, or at least not from his home. That could only have been when he was captured with his father by King Ecbert. His heart ached at the memory of his father. So it had to be there, but how could they have met, he was in in a cell or locked in a room for the whole ordeal.

A feeling like letting lose of a taut arrow whizzed through his brain as he glanced at her awaiting eyes again.

“You were crawling behind your father into the first ring of the city when....”

“You are the little mouse.” His voice was louder when he interrupted her.

For a moment she looked at him in pure amazement. Bewildered almost as if shot with his arrow. But then seconds went by and her looked formed to something of confusion.

“Mouse?”

“The little girl behind a barrel, hiding away. Tiny thing with huge eyes that stared at me. Like a mouse looking out of its hole.”

“So you really remember me?” Her voice and face went back to amazement and in her pure joy she took a step towards him. Almost as if not even realizing that she did. But he definitely saw it.

“The great Ivar the Boneless knows who I am.” Her voice was small but proud. Almost as if it wasn't a sentence meant for him to hear.

Ivar didn't know how he should react to this. He could yell for his guards, making them run in here and taking her a prisoner that broke into his tent. Probably punished and killed. But something held him back. He was intrigued of this women. Truly she was like a mouse. Small as one. Quiet as one. And also sneaky if he thought about it. Her hands must be quick and steady too if she was able to grab the knife quite literally from under his head. He decided to entertain her joy, and it had definitely nothing to do with the fact that she called him 'the great Ivar the Boneless.'

“Well since you know who I am apparently, tell me your name. Or do you want me to keep calling you mouse?” A self-satisfied smile grew on his face.

“I don't have a name and mouse sounds better then what I was called before.”

That again made him stop for a second. “You don't have a name? Don't be stupid, everyone has one.

“Don't call me stupid.” She held his knife steadily in her hands and this time her voice was void of all emotion. “My mother was crazy when I was born and the time I grew up with her so she called me by a different name every day. And after she died no one was there to give me one. So yes, I don't have one.”

“Well then I just have to call you Mouse then don't I. You looked small back then. And as you said there was no one there to help you. So how did you survive?” His smile turned into a bitter smirk after her mood change.

“Why do you want to know?”

“A person breaks into my tent at night, steals my knife and reveals that we already met once in this life. Why wouldn't I want to know how they did all that?”

Ivar could see that she was hesitating for a moment. But after thinking everything over, the good outcomes and the bad once, she started walking around in his tent. Went from one corner to the next and kept her eyes sweeping over every little thing that she could see.

'Probably looking for something to take with her' Ivar thought with a bitter kind of chuckle.

“I had to live on the streets since I was 5. Mother died and the men who owned our little house threw me out. Didn't need another mouth to feed, he said. So I had to learn how to live on my own. I was small and young so some people pitied me and gave me scraps of food of small measly coins. But I could also run real fast so I could rush around people and take things from them before they knew.”

There was more. He knew it, he could hear it in her tone.

“You said that Mouse was better then the name before, so what was that and who called you that?”

Her steps staggered for a tiny bit and he new that he was right.

“There was a men who helped me.” She was still looking at everything except Ivar. “He helped me, not out of kindness but because he saw that I had talent.” She wiggled her fingers at him and her lips turned up at her words. “I don't know his real name, he never told me but he always called me Pest. So I called him Oldie. He hated that.” Tiny laughter slipped out of her mouth and when she skipped through the room he caught her eyes for a second, seeing that she was in a memory.

“So I would say Mouse is better then Pest wouldn't you?”

Her eyes found his at her question and he only nodded. “So he helped you stealing?”

“I didn't only steal things you know? I sat out in my alley and begged. And I tried to find work. But no one wanted my help. How would anyone want me. I'm not strong and Oldie always said I have to big of a mouth. I can't keep it shut. And I needed training at the beginning. Had to run away a lot of times to escape the guards when people saw me.”

The smile that was threatening to grow on Ivars face was quickly pushed back down. He hadn't decided yet if he would let her go or not.

“For a long time in my life I have always depended on the kindness of strangers. I had to be lucky.Waiting that people took pity in me. I had to be patient and hungry for most of my days. But then I heard stories of you. People talked about the sons of Ragnar and even after I left York a couple of months after I saw you, I still listened to the people when they talked about you. How you avenged your father and later took York. How the cripple that I saw crawling around was now walking and riding a horse.”

Not even he noticed her standing beside his bed. He was too compelled by her words and the admiration that was back in her eyes that drew him in like a moth to a flame.

“But after hearing your stories. The stories of Ivar the Boneless and how he conquered and fought and of how he became King I realized that I didn't want to depend on anyone but myself anymore. If you could rise up to such a degree I didn't want to stay where I was” She sat down on his bed. Right next to him.

Never had he imagined that he would inspire someone in such a way. Raising fear and misery. Making people scream when they heard stories of him. Having poets sing about his conquests and destructions. All that was more logical then the admiration he got from this women before him. Confusion showed on his face.

“You knew that I could kill you the moment yet you stepped into my tent. But still you came.”

His question was met with a nod. Her eyes piercing his.

“You did not come here to steal my things did you?” After looking at her hands he added with a smirk. “Well except my knife.”

She smiled and and nodded her head again when she looked at the mentioned knife in her hands. Tightening her grip she slowly moved her hand towards him as if she wanted to give it back to him. He didn't react to her movements.

“I just wanted to see you again. You haven't left my mind for a long time.”

Her innocent honesty touched his heart in a strange way. She did not come to steal. She could have even killed him with his own knife. Gods she sat herself right next to him even though she knew that he could probably crush her like a bug with his bare hands. Still she risks her life just to see him one more time. To see the person that gave her hope all her life. Hope for something better. Hope that even a person that has to crawl though the dirt can become someone great.

Not knowing what he should do with her words and the warmness that spread though him all of a sudden he asked her the first thing that came to his mind.

“Where is Oldie?”

Bemusement at his question and sadness for her upcoming answer mixed on her face.

“I killed him.”

Shock and a slight silver of panic made itself known inside Ivar's head. Maybe he should have taken the knife back. But before it could grow bigger she continued.

“He was caught in a bear trap when we moved around. His wound did not get better so one night he asked me to end his pain. And I did.”

His panic subsided but with it grew a kind of sadness. Empathy maybe. He saw that her hands started to tremble just a tiny bit so he enclosed her small cold hands with his larger warm once.

The trembling stopped and a gasp was heard though the tent. She looked at their hands and took in his warmth. The difference in size was almost comical. And when he started to speak in a voice not many people would hear, quiet but tender, she met his eyes again. Feeling the squeeze of his hands.

“You should take my knife with you. You earned it by taking it from under my head.”

She wanted to protest, further proving that she really did not want to hurt him or steal from him.

But he wouldn't let her.

“A little mouse like you should have something to defend herself. You can't always run away to escape. You have this now as a gift. So you will take it.”

His last words were stoic. He wouldn't take it back and she knew it at his tone.

“Thank you.” Now even her voice sounded like a mouse. Tiny and high.

This was the first thing someone ever gave her as a gift. The sun that was slowly creeping up the horizon fell into his tent and with the new small form of light in it he could see that her eyes were shining again, this time with unshed tears of gratitude.

“Now run along little mouse. The sun is rising and you need to escape before the cats awake.”

He squeezed her hands one more time and then let her go.

Standing form his bed she did not broke the gaze they shared. Even when she made her way closer to his desk she still looked at him. Only now he could see the tiny gab under his desk. The one she probably sneaked her way into.

“Goodbye Ivar.”

“Goodbye little Mouse.”

“Hopefully I can see you again one more time. See if you still remember me then.”

“Oh I'm sure I will.”

With his last words her smile was as blinding as the upcoming sun. Oh yes he would not forget her.

She turned around reluctantly, bend down to the ground and crawled through the hole. The tent was empty again.

Ivar had to laugh. She really was a mouse. Sighing he laid back down, knowing that it was no use in trying to sleep again. He was wide awake and soon his brother and Harald were up to further discuss their plans. He really hoped that after this battle their paths would meet again. That he could talk to her more and learn more about her life.

But for now he had to win against Alfred. After that he could think of his little mouse again.

————————————

Let me know what you thought! Feedback is really appreciated✨ have a nice day!

#history vikings #vikings #youbloodymadgenius1kcelebration #vikings ivar #vikings imagine #ivar the boneless #ivar ragnarsson #ivar lothbrok #ivar x reader #ivar the boneless x reader #ivar the boneless imagine #ivar imagine #ivar fanfic #mywork

[pilothusband]

it’s in my honey, it’s in my milk

Rating: G

Pairing: Frankie Morales x reader

Warnings: HOLY ANGST. ANGST ANGST ANGST. Grief, hurt/comfort, mentions of loss and death (doesn’t get specific as to who it is), wine is mentioned once but not ingested. This one is really heavy folks, just be warned. 

Word count: 1.1k

Description: Grief is an ever-present, all-encompassing emotion that swallows up everything in its path and dulls the senses. Frankie does all he can to help you navigate it, but he can only do so much when you start to break away from him.

Author’s note:  Without getting too into it, I lost an incredibly important person recently. I wrote this to process my grief, conceptualize it and find a way to accept small comforts, even on the bad days. If this subject matter is too heavy for you, please don’t feel pressured to read it.

Sometimes the darkness threatened to swallow you where you stood, like the floor was going to open up underneath you. There was a person-shaped hole in your heart that couldn’t be replaced. There wasn’t any other kind of pain in the world that was comparable to this.

You had been dating Frankie for about 6 months now, and he knew what you had been through in the last year. He was endlessly patient with you on your bad days. Despite Frankie’s best efforts to cheer you up and support you through your grief, you still felt like you were drowning, unable to muster the energy to kick your way back up above the surface.

The grief normally came in waves. You would have a bad day here and there, but bounce back fairly quickly. This wave seemed to stretch on for weeks, just how it had been when the loss was fresh. Every morning your body felt like it was filled with rocks, you couldn’t get out of bed. You were so tired, so weary to the bone, that eventually you gave up trying.

The worst part of it was the toll it took on Frankie. Sweet, steadfast Frankie, who was the strongest person you knew, who deserved the entire fucking world. He could sense you had pulled away, hell, you sensed it too despite the permanent haze you were suspended in. 

You saw the pain bloom within him– there was the constant furrow in his brow, the furtive glances when you fell quiet, the way he chewed on his lip when you looked down at your feet. He did small things to put a smile on your face. He bought you flowers on his way to your apartment to brighten up your kitchen table for your dinner date. It was an arrangement of wildflowers and they bursted with hues of purple, orange and pink. One night he picked up a bottle of full-bodied red wine because he saw the dog on the label and he knew how much you loved dogs (and wine).

He didn’t deserve this treatment. He didn’t deserve to be dragged down into the rip tide.You had become a vacuum, or a black hole, sucking up everything around you until there was nothing left. It would be unforgivable to snuff out his light just because you had lost yours. You started reaching out less. Texts went unanswered, calls silenced. 

“This is for the best,” you thought, arms clutched around your knees, curled up inside yourself. You picked at a thread on the cushion by your feet, briefly visualizing the entire couch unravelled, the insides of it spilled all over your living room floor.

You weren’t sure how long you had been sitting there, staring at the loose thread when you snapped out of it, jarred by the sound of the lock on your front door, followed by a gust of wind as the heavy wood swung open. Frankie stood in the entry; he held the spare key you had given him a couple months ago in his shaking hands. 

He looked disheveled, more so than usual. His orange and tan flannel shirt was wrinkled and his beloved baseball cap was nowhere to be seen. His hair was a wild tangle of curls perched atop his head that fell down in sections on his forehead. He must have tugged on his hair on the drive over, something he did often when he was distressed.

He closed the door gently to prevent it from slamming shut, carefully walked over to where you were huddled against the arm of your couch, and lowered himself to his knees to appear smaller, as if he thought he was going to frighten you.

“Frankie,” you croaked, trying to keep the tears at bay. You couldn’t look him in the eyes. You couldn’t do this.

Frankie placed his hand on your knee and squeezed it lightly. His hand was large and warm as it wrapped around your leg, a familiar and reassuring touch that tethered you to the moment.

His other hand touched your chin and tilted your head up to meet his gaze. You felt a stab of agony deep in your chest as you looked into his dark eyes, rimmed with moisture. He looked absolutely wrecked, the expression on his face was open and raw, as if you had just slapped him. You were startled by how exposed he looked, normally he was stoic and pensive.

“If you’re doing this because you don’t want me around, I’ll leave. No questions asked,” He said, his voice firm, despite the tremble in his lip. “But if you’re doing this because you feel guilty, I’m staying here with you through it all.”

The tears cascaded down your face in fat droplets. Your throat burned from the fire that was ignited in your chest.

“I can’t keep doing this to you.” You sobbed, unable to hold in the deluge any longer as you hiccuped into his shoulder. Tears soaked through his flannel shirt as he rubbed soothing circles on your back and held you through it.

“Baby,” Frankie cradled the back of your head and leaned back so you could see him. His eyes searched yours out, watery and soft. “You have to stop beating yourself up like this. I’m here for you for all of it, not just the fun parts.”

You had spent so much time picturing your grief as a blanket that smothered everyone around you, when in reality the only person who was smothered was you.

Frankie placed a tender kiss on your forehead. You gasped at the warm feeling that pulsed through you from the gesture.

Frankie shifted to stand and used the cushion in front of him as leverage. His knees cracked a little at the effort and he grunted.

“I’m going to make you a cup of tea, grab that soft blanket you love and some tissues, and I want you to tell me all about them if you’re up for it. Anything you want to talk about– the good and the bad.”

You swallowed painfully around the lump in your throat and nodded as you gave him a frail smile. Frankie gave you one in return, wide and genuine.

“That’s my girl.” He squeezed your shoulder and set off to the kitchen to fill up the kettle.

You sat there for a moment and slowly unfurled your limbs like a flower in early spring.

You didn’t know what you did to deserve Francisco Morales, but you knew deep in your bones that you found each other by cosmic intervention, as if someone had searched him out for you and ensured he would stumble into your path. You were certain you knew who was behind it. A fresh set of tears escaped from your eyes as you whispered a quiet “thank you,” hoping wherever they were, they heard you.

Taglist: @tenderclio @softdin @darnitdraco @freeshavocadoooo @recklessworry @wyn-dixie @manalg14 @codenamewife @comphersjost @princessxkenobi @manalg14 @comphersjost @a-skov​ @sheresh0y

#frankie morales #frankie morales fanfiction #frankie morales x you #frankie morales x reader #pedro pascal #triple frontier #francisco morales pilot of my heart

[kevyfanfics]

Touch Deprivation: When in Doubt, Hug it Out

Trying this out!! Seen a lot of “tumblr fics” out there so I thought I’d see how if goes :) This is part of my “Irondad Ending in Platonic Cuddles” one shot series!

---

Peter sits on the edge of the sixteen story building, feet dangling towards the street below as cars inch their way through the lunchtime traffic. Golden beams of the midday sun reflect in his lenses, but he doesn’t feel their warmth. It’s not the same. He sighs and a cloud of steam floats through the crisp, winter air.

“May has texted you that she won’t be able to make it home tonight for dinner,” Karen softly relays the message. “Her shift has been extended.” Peter closes his eyes and focuses on the chilled breeze.

“I know.” For once, his voice is ladened with defeat and acceptance. This has been the usual for the past few months. May has to work extra shifts to keep up with the ever-increasing bills, he has school and Spider-Man, mix those two together and they’ve seen each other for a total of four hours in the past week. He’s been counting. He knows keeping track isn't a good sign, but what else is there to do?

“Peter?” Karen’s voice reaches him through the deep thoughts. Peter opens his eyes and hums a response.

“Hm?”

“Are you alright?” He considers the question. Ned and MJ have been asking him that a lot lately, but he hasn’t quite found a good way to answer it. He just…doesn’t know how he feels. He’s not sure he does feel. He just kind of exists.

“I miss…people,” he settles on. It doesn’t feel right, but it doesn’t feel wrong, either. Feelings are difficult and he doesn’t have the energy to decipher them. Instead, he pulls his knees to his chest and wraps his arms around them. The pressure against his chest feels nice. Comforting, even.

“You saw MJ and Ned today,” Karen gently reminds, trying to coax more out of him without pushing it. Peter takes in another deep breath before shrugging.

“I miss May,” he finds he’s able to clarify. He loves his friends, but coming home to an empty house for two months straight is different. If it weren’t for patrols and workshop days, he’d go stir crazy over the break.

“You had dinner with her last night,” Karen attempts, her voice sweeter than usual. “That was nice.” Peter continues to stare at the pedestrians as they cross the street in hordes.

“The only reason we ate together was because we both got home at 2am and had leftover Chinese takeout,” he counters without much thought. Even to his own ears his voice is monotonous. He feels like he lost a part of himself, but it makes him feel selfish. May’s working hard to make sure they can get by and he’s a bit lonely.

Either way, last night was a rough patrol and he ended up unceremoniously climbing through the window at 2:13am all battered and bruised. That’s all he’s gotten recently. Nothing but punches to the face, kicks to the stomach, bruises to the ribs, blood coating his hands. Nothing but violence. He hasn’t had a single, positive touch in two months. No hugs, no loving hand rubbing his back, no lingering touch in his hair, no gentle thumb smoothing over his palm. Nothing but violence violence viole-

“Peter, your alarm is going off.” Karen’s voice pulls him back once more, and it takes him a moment to process what she just said.

“Hm?” He blinks sluggishly, then unfurls his warm legs from his chest, already missing the pressure.

“It’s time to head to the workshop,” Karen patiently provides, an absolute saint as usual. Oh, Peter thinks, it’s already four. It doesn’t feel like 4pm, but he can’t exactly argue with time and space. Rolling out his stiff, aching shoulders, he lazily flings out a web and starts swinging to the Tower. He just goes through the motions: thwip, double tap to release, thwip, double tap to release.

And, in what feels like the blink of any eye, he’s there. His muscles are taut and trembling from the frigid air, but when he slips inside one of the countless windows, the warmth from the Tower at least helps minutely. As soon as he’s clear, he pulls off the mask and breathes in fresh, spandex-free air. His teeth chatter and he warms his arms up with his hands, but besides that he’s no worse for wear.

“Hey, Fri? Where’s Mr. stark?” he asks through chattering teeth hidden behind blue-tinted lips.

“He's down in the shop. I’ve alerted him to your arrival,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. promptly replies and he nods a quick thanks. First, he goes to his room to change into normal clothes, then catches a ride down the elevator. His lips are more of a peach color again, but his teeth still clack against each other as his body tries to generate some warmth. Stupid spiders with their no thermoregulation. The elevator comes to a halt and he walks into the music-ridden, always-bustling workshop.

“Hey, Mr. Stark!” he shouts over both the welder and the guitar solo. Tony’s head pops up and the music lowers at the wave of his hand.

“Hey, kid,” he greets, lifting his goggles with a smile. “How’s your bumps and bruises.” Peter shrugs, hardly remembering the superficial injuries from last night’s fight, before sitting on the nearby stool.

“Don’t really feel them anymore,” he answers honestly as he rubs his hands together. Feeling is hard these days. Tony raises a curious eyebrow, then sets down his tools and saunters over to the teen.

“And is that because of the super spidey healing or the ice cubes you call fingers?” he inquires casually. Peter glances up and tries to put on his best I’m-really-not-in-the-mood-for-this face. Nonetheless, Tony chuckles at the expression. “Alright, alright, just get warm at least.”

“I’m trying.” Peter looks back down as he responds, but then an unexpected touch has him freezing in place, muscles tense.

“Jeez, bud, you’re frozen,” Tony mutters aloud as he rubs Peter’s hands in his own to provide more warmth. It takes more than a few seconds for Peter to register what's happening. But when he does, he slowly looks up at Tony as the man continues to warm the cold hands in his own. For some reason, it makes Peter want to cry. The hands are gentle, carefully moving back and forth and all he can focus on is that it doesn’t hurt. After months of nothing but agony and breaks and blood, there’s finally something full of love and support.

He closes his eyes and his eyebrows pull together…and he starts to cry. He doesn’t mean to, but the tears slip out in a mix of relief and pent-up devastation. His toes curl under in an attempt to regain control, but it’s already too late.

“Peter? What’s wrong? Are you hurt?” Tony suddenly questions when he sees the tears and Peter’s distraught expression. All Peter can manage is the shake of his head, causing tears to fall from his chin and onto his jeans. He should’ve been more prepared, but he wasn’t expecting the concerned tone or the protective hands encasing his. He didn’t realize he was touch deprived until Tony held his hands, the first positive touch he’s had in two months. Two months. “I need you to talk to me so I can help,” Tony tries to get through to him, kneeling at his level.

“I- I don’t-“ is as far as Peter gets before a sob cuts him off. He wants to curl up in a ball and never face the outside world again. It’s like his armor has cracked and the cruel reality of just how brutal and heartless the world can be is flooding in. It’s breached completely when one of Tony’s hands leaves his and cups his cheek.

He doesn’t hold back the sobs after that.

He simply cries, leaning into the soft touch and grabbing his mentor’s wrist like a lifeline. The thought of losing the contact now is unbearable. He can’t. He just can’t. At the action, Tony seems to catch on. This time, he pulls Peter into his chest and holds the kid tightly in his arms.

“You’re okay,” he assures into Peter’s curls, “I got you.” Peter feels them begin to rock and a hand rubs its way up and down his back in a comforting, predictable motion. He pulls in shuddering, uneven breaths, but his body isn’t ready to calm down. Instead, he grips Tony’s sleeves and buries his head in his chest so that his sobs are muffled by fabric. All the built up emotions force their way out, but being hugged is all he needs. Warm, strong arms keeping him safe. His cries rip Tony apart at the seams and he wonders how he could’ve missed this. It’s a basic human need to have positive, physical affirmation, something Peter evidently hasn’t had for a while.

The hug eases the aching in Peter’s chest and he holds on tighter. He can’t lose this feeling again. After all these weeks of apathy and going through the motions, he’s finally able to feel everything.

“I can't- there’s no-“ Tony gently hushes him, afraid that the teen will work himself into a panic attack if this keeps up. Honestly, it’s the last thing on Peter’s mind. He just knows he doesn’t want to be let go.

“Deep breaths, kiddo,” Tony patiently encourages. Peter can feel him shift and he registers that they somehow made it to the floor while he was focused on gripping the fabric closer. Breathing, Peter recalls, breathing is important. Gotta breathe. Just have to- He takes a deep, shaking breath, but the exhale becomes a sob and he just can’t pull himself together and he hates it and he just wants to be in control again- “I’m so proud of you.” He starts at the quiet, genuine admission. “I’m unbelievably proud of you,” Tony continues. “You don’t have to be so strong all the time. Sometimes strength is asking for help when it’s tough.” Peter’s chin wobbles and fresh tears glide down his cheeks. He nods into Tony’s shoulder, and pulls his legs to his chest for extra comfort.

“It’s, it’s been tough for a while,” he divulges in a hoarse whisper.

“I know, kid,” Tony acknowledges, lightly combing his fingers through Peter’s hair.

“I didn’t,” the teen confesses in a whisper. He really hadn’t seen any of this coming. “I thought I was okay. I, I thought I was fine just doing what I,” he swallows, “what I was doing. I didn’t think it affected me this much. It was just…I didn’t feel anything.” Apathy was probably a more apt description, but it was true. He hadn’t felt any intense emotion in such a long period of time that Tony’s loving, concerned action sent him into overdrive. Tony lets out a deep breath and rests his chin atop Peter’s head, tucking the kid into him to provide as much comfort as possible.

“From a scientific standpoint, lack of human contact decreases cortisol levels and NK cells,” Tony points out. It might seem like a cold and calculating response, but he knows what he’s doing; he’s putting it into perspective for Peter. He’s showing the kid that it isn’t just all in his head. It’s a physical change to a lack of touch. Peter let’s out a breathless chuckle, his wound up muscles starting to relax into the hug.

“A, uh, a hug needs to last at least twenty seconds for dopamine and serotonin to be released. Happy brain chemicals,” he adds with a sniff, closing his eyes. He just needs a moment to take it all in. It’s rare for Tony to be the one to illicit physical contact, so he accepts it while can.

“Well then,” Tony softly starts, “guess we gotta wait til you have enough happy brain chemicals.” He situates them more comfortably on the floor, then tightens his hold. Another trembling breath escapes Peter, emotions still raw and superficial, but manageable. It's a start, and if that start just so happens to be in Tony’s arms, maybe it’s not such a bad one.

#peter parker #peter parker angst #tony stark #irondad #spiderson #fanfiction #fanfic #MCU #Avengers #writing #Iron Man #spider-man

[glimmerglanger]

You asked for this, friend: In the oof!au, Obes is gonna need a new lightsaber isn't he? Or at least will need to heal Anakin's. You have any ideas how that goes?

HE SURE IS. I actually think it’s one of the things he gets around to earlier (so, chronologically he starts working on it before the arm is completed, but finished after). SO:

~~~~~~~~~~

So many things were broken.

Obi-Wan felt the cracks, the aching hurts through the Force; it was a constant kind of pressure, always there. He felt it from his men - even from Rex and Ahsoka, who were not, technically, his, but - and himself and…

And even the lightsaber that he kept in his quarters.

He did not know what Anakin had done to his lightsaber. Perhaps there’d been some grand plan in store for it. Perhaps Anakin had planned to use it to cut off his legs. Or to kill him, when Anakin ran out of ways to amuse himself with Obi-Wan’s body.

Whatever his intentions had been, they could no longer come to fruition. It was gone, along with everything else once placed upon the surface of Mustafar. 

But Anakin’s lightsaber had come with them, had escaped off of the planet and stayed in Obi-Wan’s care. And it radiated agony, out into the Force. It took days - weeks - for Obi-Wan to identify that bit of agony; there was so much else to work through, first.

When he did, he froze for a long moment, staring at the metal cylinder. It was large, larger than he could comfortably hold. Anakin had not been rebuilt to scale, by whatever butchers had tended him. The saber was dark and grim and Obi-Wan did not like to look at it because Anakin had--

Made it the instrument of some much pain and suffering.

Enough so that the agony radiated out of it, still.

Obi-Wan curled his fingers up to his palms. He considered simply putting the thing in an airlock and spacing it, but… He understood the basic process used by the Sith to torture kyber crystals into compliance. He could not, he found, bring himself to abandon yet another wound caused by Anakin. He drew in a sharp breath and, carefully, went about dismantling the device.

It was easy to fall into the habit of breaking down a lightsaber. He had done it so many times in his life. Each lightsaber was different but each was the same, as well. He twisted and tugged and gently placed the pieces as he went, just as though he were repairing his own.

Except his crystal had never been so dull. There was no visible red glow to it, not the way he had half-expected. It simply looked shadowed. It had no shine. And it radiated agony out into the Force, a sense of corruption and wrongness.

“Sh,” Obi-Wan said, plucking the tiny crystal up and placing it in his palm. It barely weighed anything and felt terribly cold against his skin. He curled his fingers around it and cradled it to his chest, curling over, murmuring, “sh, sh.”

#

There were methods to heal a kyber crystal. Obi-Wan had heard of them, once upon a time, ever so long ago. He barely recalled them. He’d been a padawan, when he learned the lore and the rituals, and had not thought them something he needed to commit to memory.

After all, he’d assumed, the library would always be there to review the process.

He was still digging through his memories when someone knocked at his door. He did not have to stretch out his senses through the Force to know that it was Cody. After all, he’d been alone for nearly an hour.

That was, to date, close to a record for them.

Obi-Wan shook that thought away. Healing, he knew, took time. He stood, keeping the crystal tucked against his palm, and went to the door, and nodded, though he was not really hungry, when Cody asked if he wanted to go to the mess.

The crystal burned cold against his palm through the meal.

#

Obi-Wan grew familiar with the cuts and edges of the crystal. He studied it and kept it close and wondered, exactly, how he was supposed to heal it. He meditated upon it, keeping the crystal close, and found it easy to sink down into its presence in the Force.

Something lashed out at him when he did, something sharp edged that slid along his mind. He got the feeling, settled deep in the Force, that it was a strike not meant to cause harm. A warning, instead. 

He exhaled, centering himself and refocusing on the crystal and when it struck at him again, he accepted the pain. Sometimes, he knew, healing required pain. A broken bone could not be set without hurt.

And he knew quite well how to handle pain.

#

The pain radiating out of the crystal did not ease all at once. It faded over time, in bits and snatches, until one morning Obi-Wan woke up and felt no hurt blazing out of it. He uncurled his fingers slowly, and found the crystal clear.

He smiled and curled his fingers closed again, relieved, at least, to have succeeded in fixing something.

He meant, really, to leave things there. The Order had fallen, the Temple had burned, he was...not the warrior he once was. What use did he have, really, for a lightsaber? But that did not stop him from reaching for his belt, more and more often, especially once his prosthetic was completed.

It would always be his first instinct, in a fight, to reach for a lightsaber, to stand as a shield in front of his men. A blaster could kill a man, or at least hurt someone badly enough that they would not rise again.

A lightsaber could deflect a killing blow, could stop a fight before it started.

And so he sighed, eventually, and pulled out the rest of the pieces of Anakin’s lightsaber, frowning over them. They were the wrong size to serve his purposes, but the basic components would work, if he managed to collect enough of what he needed. 

He wondered how difficult it would be to arrange a trip to a market. Or perhaps two.

#

In the end, he made his purchases here and there, while they were going about other business. He thought he’d done a fairly good job keeping his work to himself, at least until Tektek stopped by his side in the mess one day and placed a small spring beside his hand. Obi-Wan had been unable to find one anywhere and looked up, startled.

“It wasn’t hard to make,” Tektek said, gaze cutting to the side, voice quiet. 

“Oh,” Obi-Wan said, reaching his new hand out and gently lifting the spring. “I didn’t - you didn’t have to--”

“I wanted to,” Tektek said, and Obi-Wan could not help but noting that their conversation was suddenly drawing a lot of attention. Crys, a table away, had frozen and was staring at them, wide-eyed, as Tektek cleared his throat and said, “Some of us - we have some other parts. If you’d want them.”

Obi-Wan blinked, rapidly, trying to clear away the burn in his eyes. He said, carefully clearing his throat, “I’d - of course I’d want them.”

And by the time he left the mess he had all the pieces he yet needed, held carefully in his hands. He said, softly, to Cody, who walked beside him the entire way, “I didn’t mean to put everyone to any trouble.” 

And Cody hesitated, for just a step, before he slid into motion again and said, “You didn’t.”

Obi-Wan wrinkled his nose. “I--”

“We want - we - it’s good, to help you,” Cody cut in, touching his arm, so softly that Obi-Wan only barely felt it. He came to a stop and purposefully leaned into the touch, hearing Cody’s breath catch a little.

They did nothing but look at one another for a moment, and then Obi-Wan nodded. He said, soft, “I have everything I need now.”

“So you can make one?” Cody asked, and Obi-Wan hesitated another moment before inclining his head, just a little. “Good,” Cody said, and Obi-Wan wished he could agree so whole-heartedly, so easily.

#

In the end, Obi-Wan found reasons to put off the construction, but a brutal fight and then another convinced him he could not wait any longer. He was a steady hand with a blaster. He could fight more than well with nothing but his body.

But…

A lightsaber helped. There was no way to deny it. And so he went back to his quarters, relieved when Cody followed him in and sat down at the table to clean his blaster. Obi-Wan laid out all the pieces and...made himself breathe as he constructed them. 

It did not take long to complete the work. He closed his eyes and felt each piece in the Force, moving them together without touching them. He tested the balance of the completed saber, sliding the Force over each piece of it, feeling the thrum of the crystal inside.

He stretched out his hand and took it from the air, and it fitted perfectly against his palm and his fingers. He opened his eyes and exhaled, and Cody, who had been sitting quietly across the room asked, “Well, are you going to turn it on?”

Obi-Wan stared down at the saber in his grip, heart twisting unpleasantly in his chest. He knew, very well, that a kyber crystal reflected the person it attuned to, and that he had gently replaced Anakin’s impression on the crystal. He’d spent time with it, carried it with him, it would--

It would know him, when he turned the saber on. It would reflect him. Changes and damage and--

He shut his eyes, looking to the side, fingers clenching tight. “Perhaps later,” he rasped out, throat unpleasantly tight, too able to imagine what the blade might tell him about the parts of himself he didn’t want to see, about what Anakin had done to him, really, not on the outside, but inside--

“Sh,” Cody murmured, quiet, and closer. “It’s -- Obi-Wan.” He reached out, carefully, and gripped Obi-Wan’s shoulder. Obi-Wan blinked, could not help but lean into the touch, the comfort Cody was projecting down at him. He looked up, and found Cody watching him. And Cody said, quietly, “Try it now, please.”

Obi-Wan hesitated another moment, but, in truth, putting it off further wouldn’t solve anything. He swallowed and nodded, tried to center himself in the Force and activated the lightsaber and--

He did not intend to sob at the flash of blue light, but the sound escaped his throat, anyway. And Cody was there, curling an arm around his back, murmuring soothing words against his hair as Obi-Wan slumped into him, relief and disbelief and wild joy all swirling within him.

#glimmer replies #ask me anything #oof!au #fallout of trauma #mentions of past torture #loss of a limb #recovery from trauma #codywan

[spencers-renaissance]

Don’t Be Scared, I Love You

Summary: JJ is shot and Emily's world stops spinning

Tags: whump, hurt/comfort, angst with a happy ending, fluff, protective emily, NO mcd

Pairing: Emily Prentiss x Jennifer Jareau 

Word Count: 1.7k

Masterlist // Read on AO3

Emily has always been skeptical of ‘slow motion’ disaster moments. She’s been an active government agent working in the field for over a decade — that’s to say, she’s witnessed her fair share of tragedy — and it’s never quite that dramatic. But when a bullet from an unsub’s gun embeds itself in JJ’s shoulder, for a split second, Emily is powerless to react.

She’s stuck in time: JJ falls slowly to the ground, her hair spreading behind her in a golden halo, and she barely registers the gunshot coming from Derek’s direction, the kill shot that takes down the man she hates the most in the entire world at this exact moment. Blood pounds in her ears as a sinking feeling of dread pools in her stomach, a cold kind of fear spreading through her body and freezing her joints, her muscles, her mind. There is only a singular thought circling through her head:

I can’t lose her.

It’s only when she hears JJ whimper in pain that she snaps back into action, protective instincts clicking into motion as she throws herself down at her fiance’s side, barely registering the impact the cold concrete has on her knees, only focusing on the beautiful woman fading in front of her eyes. Immediately, she lays her palm on the gunshot wound, applying deep pressure in an attempt to quell the bleeding. It’s the right thing to do, she knows it will save JJ’s life, but continuing feels almost impossible when JJ cries out in pain, her face crumpling.

“Jayje, Jayje, baby,” she says desperately, at a loss for words for a moment, “hold on for me, okay? Hold on. You’re doing so well. Oh, God, I love you so much. Hold on for me.” Vaguely, she hears Derek calling for a medic, but every iota of her attention is on JJ.

Deep blue, disney princess eyes meet hers. This is half a relief — JJ is still conscious, she can hear her, she hasn’t lost too much blood yet — and half a curse — JJ’s eyes have always been expressive. Right now they are conveying the pain of the worst agony one can inflict on another, and they are completely coloured with terror. Terror Emily has no way to diminish, no way to ease. How does one refute possibly the most rational fear there ever was?

She can feel herself crying. She vaguely hears the rest of her team around them, but right now her entire world has shrunk down to this moment, to the woman she’s going to marry next year, to the woman she longs to have children with. This is not altogether uncommon. Emily’s world frequently shrinks down to comprise only JJ: when they’re in bed together, small moments when they catch one another’s eyes across the bullpen or in a meeting, evening walks down the brightly lit streets of the city they love so dearly. It’s never as painful as this.

Derek has taken off his top and is moving Emily’s hand to place the balled material over the wound. He takes over applying pressure; Emily only notices this because it means she can focus the entirety of her attention on JJ’s face and not the profusely bleeding hole in her shoulder. The crimson blood dripping from her palm only serves as a reminder of how close she is to losing the love of her life. To being single again, a widow, a hopelessly miserable, never-to-recover, bereaved shell of a human being.

“Emily,” JJ whispers, and she’s crying, too. Her face is not hiding a single emotion raging through her, and while Emily usually finds JJ’s wobbly chin endearing, right now it’s purely agonising. “Emily, I’m scared.”

Emily has to bow her head for a moment and heave a single, shoulder-wracking sob that seems to tear though her throat with the same violence of the bullet that tore through JJ’s shoulder. She blinks the tears away and sniffs once before looking back up at JJ and offering her a watery smile, the absolute best one she can muster, and uses her clean hand to gently comb her fingers through her blonde hair, leaning down to press a lingering kiss to her forehead.

“Don’t be scared,” she whispers tearfully, brushing her thumb over JJ’s damp cheekbone, “I love you.”

“Don’t leave me,” JJ whispers back, tears still spilling down her cheeks, as they hear the sirens of the ambulance and a medic rushing into the warehouse, the floor of which will forever bear the stain of her fiance’s blood.

“I won’t,” Emily says through sobs she can no longer contain, “I won’t, darling, I’m here.”

“Promise?” JJ asks, visibly fading just as the paramedics arrive and ask Emily and Derek to make room.

“I promise, baby,” Emily cries earnestly, moving away just enough for the EMTs to do their job, just in time for JJ to completely lose consciousness.

⭐️

The hospital waiting room is warm, but Emily feels cold.

She stares blankly at the wall in front of her, a merciful sort of numbness taking over her body, leaving her far less frantic than the emotional wreck she was in the warehouse. It’s a kind of quiet far from peaceful, but she doesn’t have the energy to care. Her hands are so cold covered in JJ’s warm blood.

Spencer desperately tries to get her to come to the bathrooms and wash it off, but Emily refuses, just in case this is the last thing she has to remember JJ by. In which case, she has revolved to forever have a stained right hand as a permanent mark of her crippling grief. She will be branded by her devotion to JJ, and by the end that devotion came to.

Her only thought is of W. H. Auden’s poem Funeral Blues. It was read at her uncle’s funeral a few years ago. What a funny thing grief is: she could grasp the concept of such emptiness and utter misery filling your life after the death of a loved one, of course she could, but she’s never tangibly understood that kind of grief. She does now, and JJ — as far as she knows — is still alive. If she does lose JJ, though, she knows for an absolute fact that her life will forever lack meaning, lack purpose, lack joy.

Pour away the ocean, indeed, she thinks. Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun.

Emily knows, academically, theoretically, the damage a bullet can do. The shoulder is a complex weave of nerves, muscles, bones, tendons, and arteries; really, it’s one of the most complicated pieces of human anatomy, so, naturally, a gunshot wound in that particular area is far from desirable.

Spencer tells her as they’re waiting that the amount of blood JJ lost indicates that instead of the bullet hitting the incredibly delicate network of blood vessels, which would have led her to bleed out in minutes, it instead shattered the joint. This is good news and bad news. JJ is still alive. But she will need reconstructive surgery. She may never regain full range of motion. She will need months, maybe years of physio. Emily doesn’t know if this is what she wants to hear or not, but she vaguely appreciates that Spencer is falling back on his academic knowledge of an incredibly emotional situation as a coping mechanism.

Not that anyone really doubted it, but Spencer is proved right by the doctor that comes to greet the family of Jennifer Jareau six and a half hours after they arrived.

“Ms Jareau’s humerus was shattered, and her clavicle and scapula did not get off scot free, either. Luckily, the bullet missed her large axillary vessels, which is the most consolation I can offer you at this stage,” the doctor explains kindly. “We’ve stabilised her condition through surgery in which we did our best to tidy her shoulder, but she will be needing a total shoulder replacement in the very near future. Though, I understand she resides in DC and is in well-enough condition to be transferred there for the major operation and ensuing recovery.

“I understand… Emily Prentiss is her next of kin?” she asks, consulting her clipboard.

Emily nods blankly, the reassurance that JJ is alive beginning to settle in, weaving its way into her heart.

The doctor smiles empathetically. “I can take you to see Ms Jareau now. Her sedation will be wearing off any minute.”

The world gradually stirs back into colour as Emily lays eyes on JJ, very much alive, blinking sleepily in her hospital bed. Her gown is carefully tucked around the bandage on her shoulder and the fabric sling her arm has made its home. She’s ever so pale, sweat beading on her brow from the pain, but she’s alive. Emily will not have to recite Auden in a Church built for a God she doesn’t believe in while the only person that made her believe in anything lies in a coffin. Alright, she thinks as she walks into the room and sits down next to JJ’s bed, the moon can be unpacked. The sun reassembled.

As JJ manages a smile, though, reaching her good arm out for her fiance, craving physical comfort and affection, Emily thinks that the stars don’t need to be relit. The one in front of her, broken as she might be, long as her journey to recovery is certain to take, is bright enough to put all of them to shame.

Emily can’t help but break down in tears of gasping relief as she clasps the hand JJ’s outstretched for her, gripping it tightly and bringing it to her face, kissing it gently before pressing it to her cheek as her crumpled eyes leak pitifully.

“Hey, don’t be scared,” JJ murmurs in her croaky, post-surgery voice as she echoes Emily’s words some seven hours earlier, “I love you.”

Emily can’t help but laugh happily through her relieved, messy emotion at that, leaning forward to press a warm kiss to JJ’s slightly chapped, pale lips.

“God, I love you so much,” she promises, so much sincerity behind her words that JJ tears up in response. “I’m gonna be here through every step of the journey ahead, you know that.”

“Yeah, I know that,” JJ whispers, as her face contorts, emotion twisting her throat in knots. “I never doubted it for a second.”

And, well. Doesn’t that just say everything Emily needs to hear.

Clasp me close in your warm young arms, While the pale stars shine above, And we’ll live our whole young lives away In the joys of a living love.

- I Love You, Ella Wheeler Wilcox

@strippersenseii @criminalmindsvibez

#my writing #jemily #jemily fic #jemily writing #criminal minds #criminal minds fic #jj #emily #jennifer jareau #emily prentiss #emily prentiss x jennifer jareau #emily prentiss/jennifer jareau

[friendlylocalwhumper]

continuation of this drabble. content warning: graphic gore.

Quinn wakes to pressure on their stomach. They wake croaking out a ragged, groggy scream that jumps up in pitch as weight is leaned on their wounds.

Their scream is muffled, their ability to breathe lessened - there’s a hand pressed over their mouth. Quick, short breaths from their nose carry them toward hyperventilation.

New pain burns under their stitches. Are they being stabbed again? No - no, it’s healing magic! Their eyes go wide and new struggles erupt. Quinn throws themself against the hands holding them down until they manage to twist their head free to cry, “No! No, n-no, stop! Stop!”

Before Major, with healing magic pouring out of his hands, can refuse, Quinn rears up to try and kick him. The white-haired warlock snarls and jerks away to avoid being kicked.

“The fuck? Fine, you wanna bleed out? Whatever.”

Quinn is too busy dragging themself back, away from Major and Tank, to answer. They pat a hand across their stitches, looking down worriedly.

“The - how much did you heal? Inside?” They’re still in agony, they feel close to fainting again, so not much was fixed, they think, they hope…

“Dunno. Not enough. Fuck’s your problem?”

“There’s something…” Brown eyes flick up to the healer, full of anxiety. “I think there’s something in me. The woman who cut me, she stitched me back up, and I don’t know why, and… I can’t think of any reason she’d do that other than to put something inside and keep it there.”

“That’s fucked,” Major comments intelligently, approaching and looking at the sewed-up stab wounds. “So why not heal it?”

Pale under their freckles, Quinn clears their throat. “Because… if she put something in me, I need to get it out. If I’m healed, it’ll be stuck in there. So… I need you to… get rid of the stitches, and reach in, and look for it.”

“Ha!” Major pushes himself up. Walks away. Walks back with a casual gait, his body communicating incredulity but his eyes hard. “Like I’m gonna do some gross shit like that. With you crying like a baby because it hurts? No way, do it yourself.”

“I can do it,” Tank offers, selfless and direct as ever.

“No. I need him to do it. Major, if something goes wrong, if there’s too much blood or something torn or… you need to be the one, because you can heal me if things go bad somehow. Your hands will be right at the damaged spot. It has to be you.”

It takes some convincing, but soon Major is sat facing Quinn with them leaning up against the wall, sleeves rolled up to reveal jagged burn scars where tattoos once were, expression drawn and grumpy. He’s got a knife to pick through each loop of the stitching - every pluck draws a choked whimper.

“It’s gonna hurt like hell. If Tank doesn’t hold you down-”

“I can stay still, I can do it,” Quinn bites out, panicked at the thought of being pinned and useless. “Just… just do it.” The stitches have been pulled out now, blood seeping down their stomach. “I can take it. Make sure to-” Their eyes go wide and watery as Major shoves his hand into the bigger gash, fingers probing and setting fire to their torn skin.

“Said you could handle it,” He grumbles, his free hand on their shoulder as they arch back and make hoarse sounds.

“I c-, I ca-, I can.” Major has never seen their face twisted with agony like this, has never seen them fail so miserably to hide what they’re feeling. He doesn’t enjoy the sight. “Make sure to, to… it could be sm-, mmmnh! Small. Tracking device. Or… just don’t sh-shove, don’t, be careful ple-, please…”

He is being careful. As impatient and destructive as he is, he doesn’t want them to die with his hand tearing their shit up inside.

“Feel anything?” Asks Tank as he hovers protectively.

“Squishy. Gross and warm. It’s like, tightly packed in there, and shit’s torn up? Really needs to be healed. But nothing that shouldn’t be there.”

A sickly grey color is seeping into Quinn’s features, their eyes unfocused and spilling tears. Sounds fall from their lips, oddly quiet, like there aren’t any sounds loud enough to vent their pain right now, so all that can come out is air.

Frowning intensely, Major continues his search. His fingers slip between organs feeling hot and compressed, finding nothing but more squishy warmth. If he pokes in a certain direction, he finds something hard, probably fit to burst from the damage the knife caused, which is not a good sign. But there’s nothing hard like metal or wood or plastic. No small chip for tracking or recording their vitals or anything. He’s just got his hand shoved in their gut for no reason.

“This is fucked. There’s nothing in there. I’m fixing this.”

Quinn doesn’t respond with words as they’re healed from the inside out, Major’s hand sliding from the wound as it finishes up its work in stages. Clarity returns to their eyes, and with it, horror. Even when the healing is done, no tear left in their abdomen, they still struggle to speak. Major is soaked in their blood.

“Get up. You’re fine now. She didn’t put anything in you. You feel better now, freak?”

They nod. They allow themself to be pulled up to their feet. But Quinn seems different. Stunned.

Someone else might let them sit back down, rub their back, try to talk to them about what they just went through.

Major grabs their arm roughly and shoves them toward the street, pushing hard against their back when they slow to a stop.

“Go on, weirdo. No daydreaming. Let’s go someplace we can wash this shit off and get drunk.”

#whump #drabble #gore tw #mine #stabbed #body horror #quinn #major #tank #horror #healing #hurtful healing #magic #afraid #stitches #gruff caregiver #screaming #crying