#shit it's not visible but the manacles have a broken chain

[why-this-kolaveri-machi]

whumptober day 10: crying

slightly more straightforward h/c this time!

summary: set after the ric grayson/joker war arc in nightwing. 

dick’s been missing for two months. jason finds him first, but it’s just the first step in finding how very, very lost dick really is.

warnings: SPOILERS for the aforementioned nightwing arcs. plentiful cursing. moderately graphic descriptions of injuries.

crying

The last time Jason received a family-wide SOS to help them rescue Dick, the guy was a twice-brainwashed mess whose brain was being pulled in opposite directions by the Court of Owls and the fucking Joker, and that was after said brain had been shattered by a fucking sniper’s bullet. (And a period of being left to fend for himself with a broken brain in between, but Jason doesn’t really like to think about that.) This time, he doesn’t know quite what to expect. He can’t imagine things have gotten even worse than the last go-around, but then again, Jason knows from personal experience that there’s no end to the list of ‘things that are worse than dying’.

Besides, the alert came from Babs. And, in quick succession, Tim, Bruce, Duke, and Cass. If nothing else, Jason is curious.

Dick disappeared from Bludhaven about two months ago. The reason the oh-so-precise Bats have the word ‘about’ in that statement is because nobody can really pinpoint the exact date it happened. Donna can recall dropping by his place ten weeks ago. Tim maybe exchanged a few emails or text messages a few weeks ago but didn’t really get alarmed about Dick not responding to his messages until the radio silence stretched for over a month. Bruce had his trackers on (that bastard) but Dick hates them and is known to destroy the ones he finds. And they can’t even really depend on reports of Nightwing sightings in the city because having his brain knocked around and pulled apart like taffy means Dick takes regular holidays from patrols if he’s not feeling particularly steady that day. (Look what being sensible and having a smidgeon of a sense of self-preservation got him.) And the CCTV in his apartment complex was shit, so. 

It’s almost like it was a planned thing, like he was kidnapped, but honestly it’s how things go and how they’ve gone for a very long time: they drift in their own worlds for long periods until an event brings them together, and then it’s back to being scattered across the country again (or sometimes the world, or sometimes the galaxy). Dick is more prone to this than most; he’s probably gone undercover more than any of them, and he’s lived the longest on his own as well. 

Even after the clusterfuck that was the last year and change, it’s nothing new. And if that isn’t the most fucking depressing thing that Jason’s had to think about today, it turns out that not only have the Family figured out where Dick is, but that Jason is the one that’s closest to his location. 

So here he is, shivering, on a particularly icy night on the Gotham docks, scoping out the warehouse where Dick’s supposed to be. It’s not very well-guarded, which either means there’s nothing in there and this is a massive waste of his time, or that it’s a trap and what’s waiting on the other side is a fucking bomb or something even worse. It’s not a great situation to be in either way, and Jason’s got half a mind to have Tim or even Bruce take over--but it’d take too long for them to get there and Jason’s never been fond of the idea of handing over to someone else anything that he could potentially do by himself.

Besides, like he said, he’s curious.

He crouches down at his vantage point overlooking the warehouse and presses the communicator in his ear. “Two guards in front but nothing else; the place is practically abandoned. Infrared picking up three people inside.” He shifts his weight from one foot to another, bracing, ready to spring. “I’m about to go in.”

Tim grunts. “I’ll be there in fifteen, give or take a couple.”

“Twenty,” Bruce says. Then: “Hood, you--” An uncharacteristic pause, and Jason can feel the sudden, uneasy chill across the entire comm channel. Bruce clears his throat. “Be careful. Assess the situation first. Don’t engage alone unless it’s an emergency.”

There’s a thanks for stating the obvious on the tip of Jason’s tongue, but something about the gravity of the situation, the mildest quaver in Bruce’s voice (he’s been missing for two months, god, two months) has him say, instead: “Roger that.”

Jason makes quick work of the guards in the front, leaving them in unconscious heaps on the ground before he creeps in. They’d hardly put up a fight, which just makes Jason’s stomach twist in anxious knots. The anxiety is made worse by the complete lack of resistance when he’s actually inside: there are only two huge, cavernous rooms, and one of them has two of the three people that he’d detected. They scatter as soon as they see him and Jason considers chasing, but now his nerves are stretched so taut that he thinks he’s going to vomit if he doesn’t see Dick now--

The night-vision on Jason’s helmet catches a figure sitting, slumped, in the corner of the room. A chain connects a manacle around its ankle to the wall, and another between the same wall and… a collar around its neck. Jason’s blood is already boiling before he steps closer and recognises the figure as Dick. His hair is long and shabby, having grown past his chin, curtaining his face. He’s shirtless but wearing ripped, stained jeans. His hands are cuffed in front of him, the thin metal biting into his wrists enough to leave his hands puffy and slightly purple from the lack of effective circulation. He looks considerably thinner--Jason can just about count the ribs under his skin--and every visible part of his torso is painted in bruises in various stages of healing. And--

--and he’s breathing.

Well, thank fuck. That’s a start.

Jason crouches in front of Dick and presses his comm again. “Found N. Little worse for wear, but alive and safe.”

He ignores the immediate clamour of questions from the others to focus on trying to get Dick awake. He brushes Dick’s hair aside and gently lifts his chin to have a look at his eyes. 

Dick smiles at him. “Hey.”

Jason is beset by an onslaught of emotion that’s part relief, part incredulity and part anger, so much so that he thinks he’s going to fucking burst with the pressure of it. Of course that would be the first thing out of Dick’s mouth--hey--like he’s meeting Jason for cocktails after work instead of being rescued after two months of captivity and torture! Well he can take that hey and shove it right up his fucking--

“Is there anything else here we need to worry about,” Jason says, busying himself with picking the locks on Dick’s manacles so that he doesn’t snap and say something he’ll regret.

Dick shakes his head. He’s got a shaggy beard going and he stinks of sweat and urine and filth, but there’s a sense of… togetherness to him, like he’d always known that Jason was going to show up at this exact minute and that had always been part of his plan. “They scattered as soon as they got word that you guys were coming,” he says, voice thin and raspy. “I guess not enough of them were curious to stick around to find out why so many capes would be coming for me.”

Jason pops the manacles and collar loose and goes to work on the cuffs. “So you weren’t taken as Nightwing.”

Dick sighs, then winces as the motion pulls on the gigantic bruise around his neck. “I wasn’t taken as Dick Grayson, either.”

The cuffs come off with a click. Jason stares at him. “So… what, you were just some poor mug they picked up off the streets to… torture for shits and giggles?”

Dick is silent for a moment. His eyes flick to a point behind Jason and back again. “They knew me as Ric.”

It takes a moment for the name to click in Jason’s brain, but he finally remembers that it was what Dick called himself during his brain-injured year in Bludhaven. “Why would Ric have enemies?” he says, without thinking.

There’s that smile on Dick’s face again, but this time it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Ric did have a life, Jason. And friends. And… enemies.” He begins to move, bare feet shifting against the floor and shifting his weight onto his hands as if he’s trying to figure out a way to stand up, but barely manages an inch of elevation before he runs out of energy, breathing heavily. “Ric--I used to fight. Street fights. Involved a lot more money and people than I remembered, and… apparently a lot of people felt betrayed when I just up and left the city one day. I’ve been fighting matches here almost every day.” A sudden, sharp grin. “I haven’t lost yet.”

Jason--stops. Utterly freezes, hands midway to helping Dick sit upright, because there’s something terribly, terribly wrong here. “Why didn’t you ever try to escape? And how--I mean, in the first place--”

How did you even get caught?

To Jason’s horror, tears start rolling down Dick’s face. His expression doesn’t really change, so Jason’s not sure that Dick’s even aware that he’s crying, but right now Jason is already halfway to being mortified. “I was on my way back from the gym,” Dick says finally, “and I think I--I blacked out. It happens sometimes.” Dick gives a wet laugh. “Talk about bad timing.”

“And--and what, you blacked out for two months?”

At this Dick’s face crumples, and suddenly Jason gets it: this is a man pushed and pushed to the end of his rope and beyond, utterly exhausted, past the point of caring who knows about it or why. “I guess…” Dick swallows. “I didn’t really see the difference. Between--between here and out there.”

Jason wants to scream, shake his shoulders--a shameful part of him even wants to hit Dick--and tell him that of course it was different outside of this stupid, dank warehouse: he has friends and family and a lifetime of experience to support him while he flies free. It’s ridiculous to even compare the two, and Jason is ready to put these words down to the effects of too much pain and too little food.

Except--

(plucked you right out of one life and stuffed you into another, didn’t they? treated you like a puppet without a past and a future, didn’t they? didn’t let you entertain the idea of a different life even for a minute, did they? punished you for straying, reminded you there was just too much at stake, and that those stakes were always, always bigger than you or your health or your happiness or your future--)

“Dick, I--” Jason really doesn’t know what to say. Tim says, “ETA five” in his ear while Bruce says, “Right behind you, Robin” and Jason knows, just knows, that this isn’t how they would want to see Dick, and more importantly, this isn’t how Dick would want them to see him.

He gathers Dick in his arms and presses him to his chest. Dick freezes for a second, surprised, then melts into his embrace. His shoulders shake, hands coming up to weakly grasp at Jason’s jacket. The sobs reach a crescendo quickly, a pathetic keening muffled into Jason’s chest, before tapering away and Dick is still, just… breathing. 

Jason breathes with him.

That’s how Tim and Bruce find them a couple of minutes later. Dick peels away and somehow musters the energy to reassure them. Bruce helps him up and carries him to the car while Jason follows; just as Dick’s lowered into the backseat his hand shoots out, grasping Jason’s arm in a silent plea. 

Jason gets in with him. Neither he nor Bruce say anything through the whole drive at the tears that continue to pour down Dick’s face, but Jason doesn’t let go of his hand for the whole ride.

#nightwing #my fic #dick grayson #jason todd #red hood

[whumping-every-day]

Vampire Whump 7

After two whole weeks, here is part seven! It feels a bit filler-esque to me, but I di d my best. 

Tagging the wonderful people who have supported me and asked for more! @pepperonyscience @robinshouseofwhump @angelsuperwholock @pennsss @silver-sparrow-462 @silverinkgoldenquill @kestrelsparverius  @learningtowhump  @latenightcupsofcoffee @thebluejayswhump  @what-huh-imconfused  @lostbetweenvampiresandmusic  @pink-and-purple-flowers @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @whump-em @umniyah-s @adventuresofacreesty  @to-hurt-and-comfort

Ash’s FC,  Callum’s FC

Masterlist

--

When morning comes, the scorching heat comes with it, and for a moment everything is familiar. The creature wakes itself up screaming.

The vampire is used to burning, but that doesn’t mean it hurts any less. Its mouth is free, and the sounds of agony and panic are so much louder in the absence of the muzzle. The pain crawls up its leg, slow and hot. The creature can’t remember where it is, and it doesn’t even try to wonder. The sensation is so horrible familiar, so known, that the vampire sinks back into mindless agony without missing a beat.

Callum is awake and on his feet in the same motion, and he’s got his knife out before he knows where the screaming’s coming from. The abrupt change from slumber to hyper-alertness is dizzying. It takes him a long moment to figure out what’s happening. There are no attackers, there is no threat. But somehow, Callum has forgotten about the sun.

“Shit. Shit.”

The vampire is thrashing against the chain, and its whole body is straining to escape the thin finger of sunlight.

The creature’s skin is bubbling and peeling, and it can’t seem to calm down enough to stop thrashing and minimize the damage. Its motions are frantic, eyes rolling and wide with animal frenzy, and it’s with a cold realization that Callum remembers he had chosen not to muzzle it. It’s panicking, and he can see the creature’s fangs.

Callum is spitting a constant string of curses, but he lunges for his discarded blanket, and then gets in as close as he dares. Any hunter knows that a terrified, wounded animal is the most dangerous kind, especially when it’s trapped. He doesn’t even bother trying to talk to it, not with the way the vampire is yowling and clawing at its own skin.

Callum drags in a slow breath, trying to center himself, and then he lunges and tackles the creature with the blanket. The vampire cowers and bucks, somehow both struggling and sobbing in terror. “Stop it!” Callum hisses, even as he twists and shoves, forcing the vampire onto its stomach. “Still, hold still, I’m trying to help - stop fighting me!” As soon as it’s down, Callum pins it by the back of the neck, preventing any potential biting. The blanket is halfway on top of it, but there’s still the sound of sizzling from somewhere, a patch of skin that isn’t covered yet.

The vampire is crying in Callum’s grip, but as soon as it’s down it stops struggling. Callum’s heart is pounding, and he yanks the blanket over the vampire properly with his free hand. The creature squirms weakly and then goes limp with a whimper, and Callum can hear the way it’s heaving and gasping. But it hasn’t tried to twist around and bite him, it hasn’t even tried to claw at Callum’s wrist.

Callum takes the sudden lack of struggling to mean that it’s calmed down, when in fact, the creature has simply gone distant in its own head. The combination of the burning sun and being manhandled has sent the vampire’s mind spinning and grasping for escape. The hunter is still pinning it to the floor, and Callum shifts so he’s not pressing as hard, wincing. The creature was already so badly injured, and in its panic it could have hurt itself more... and in subduing it, Callum could have hurt it more.  

“Still, buddy. That’s it.” Callum feels a bit like he’s talking to a wall. There is no response, nothing beyond a minute trembling. The vampire isn’t struggling. Callum hesitates, and he cautiously loosens his grip at the nape of the vampire’s neck. It’s fully covered by the blanket, now, but Callum can still smell burned flesh, and it makes his stomach turn. After a few moments, Callum pulls back just enough to assess the situation. The creature’s ankle is still bound in the manacle, and the bit of exposed skin is beyond the sun’s reach. It’s no longer burning, but it’s still injured.

Callum lets out a gusty breath and releases the creature.

“Well that’s a shit way to start the day,” he mutters, scrubbing a hand over his face.

In the end, Callum has to bind the creature in the burlap fabric and rope again. He seriously considers muzzling it, if only for his own safety. In the panicked frenzy earlier, it would have been so easy to bite him, even by accident. But the creature is breathing in short, frenetic bursts, and it’s totally unresponsive when Callum moves it. Its legs are still grotesquely broken; they’d never healed to begin with, not with the amount of blood Callum had been able to spare. It isn’t trying to bite him, or to do much of anything. In the end, he leaves it alone, and the vampire stares dully at nothing while he lashes the rope around its ankles, knees, waist and elbows. Callum is extra careful when he covers the head.

The whole thing feels like he’s missed a step.

When all is said and done, the vampire hadn’t burned for that long. The progression of it waking up screaming to Callum covering it back up had taken less than a minute. But the consequences linger.

They linger as Callum packs up camp, and the creature lies still on its side, unmoving and completely silent behind the fabric. They linger as Callum picks it up again, and the vampire gives a quiet, punched-out sob. They linger as Callum puts out the last embers of the fire and swings up onto the horse.

“I’m sorry,” Callum says to it when they are finally on their way.

The bundle of fabric doesn’t respond, and this time when Callum rests a hand on its back, it doesn’t stop shaking.  

-

The next hours of travel fall into a pattern. They ride during the day, and it is hot and sweaty and grimy. At night, the vampire is chained by the ankle to the base of a tree, and Callum makes sure it is in the shadows this time, protected from the rising sun. He also retrieves the same blanket from the night before.

“Hey. This is yours.” The horse is nibbling at a patch of dry grass, and Callum is holding out the blanket to the vampire. “I mean, it can be yours, now. Uh.” Callum coughs. Why is he trying to talk to it, anyway? “Here.” He drops the blanket over the creature’s dirty, curled-up body, and there’s a minute flinch, but no other change. But Callum sees the thin fingers that wind hesitantly in the fabric as he walks away.

It’s been a long day, and Callum knows that the vampire is still hurting. But he can offer no more blood on the road than he already has, and they are nearly home, to Callum’s equipment and supplies. With them, he can help. He is almost afraid to look at the creature too closely, for fear of the injuries he’d find. The vampire’s body is gnarled and warped, twisted in some places and concave in others, and Callum has a horrible feeling that there will be things that need re-breaking before they will mend.

He can’t do such things on the road.

“Try and get some sleep,” he says quietly. “Tomorrow’s our last day of travel. Then we can rest.” 

The vampire is watching him, Callum realized belatedly. It’s got brown eyes like a doe’s eyes, and for just a second, it feels like the breath’s been punched right out of him. Its gaze is captivating, and it’s the first time it’s seemed like the creature is fully present. Then the vampire realizes that Callum has seen it staring, and it flinches again and hides its face in the blanket.

“Yeah. Goodnight to you too.” Callum doesn’t frighten the creature any further by trying to engage. Instead, he makes sure that the horse has access to grass and water and checks her feet for stones and swelling. When he makes his way to sleep, the stake stays on his belt, and the knife goes under his pack, which he is using as a pillow.

Oddly enough, Callum thinks, it’s not the vampire across from him that he’s guarding against. Callum hesitates to call the creature a monster, even though he’s never had a problem with the word before. But this particular vampire looks less like a beast, and more like a boy. And it’s getting more difficult to tell the difference.  

It’s an odd sense of deja-vu as he lays down to sleep, and he can only see the vampire’s brown curls peeking over the edge of the blanket. Its hair is really quite a mess, Callum thinks as the exhaustion of travel starts to catch up with him. He’ll have to clean the creature up when they get home… and he’ll have to find it more blood.

A lot more blood.

Then it will be time to research how to set a dislocated joint, because now that he’s had the thought, Callum can’t help but see it. The vampire always curls up on its right side, and the left is visibly misshapen, even under the blanket.

“Fuck,” Callum mutters, just once more.

-

Morning comes gently, this time, with the slow stirring of forest wildlife and the chirping of summer birds. Callum is awake before the sun crests the horizon, and he spends a few minutes tending to the horse, combing over her coat and feeding her bits of dried apple, working at the leather of her saddle.

The vampire wakes to the feeling of being outside, and horror trickles in. It has been here before, outside in the morning light, strung up in the village square while the people waited for the sun to come up – so many mornings started this way, so many watching eyes --

“Hey! Whoa, hey, easy there.” Callum has no idea what the creature is seeing, but it’s keening pitifully and rocking back and forth, its eyes wild and distant. It’s not thrashing this time, but it’s doubled over at the waist, curling its right arm (its good arm, Callum thinks grimly) around its waist.

The creature doesn’t seem present, but it’s still making that keening sound, high and strained as if it can’t get enough air to scream louder. The sound of it raises the hair on Callum’s neck.

The blanket has fallen off its bare shoulder, and this time, Callum barely hesitates before ducking into range. The creature could bite him, twist around and savage him, but Callum doesn’t think it will. He doesn’t think this thing will be attacking anyone, ever again.

The blanket goes up and over the vampire’s head, and Callum can feel the way the creature convulses in terror under his touch. He wraps the blanket more firmly around it and then sits back, within arms reach but not touching.

“Listen to me, kid.” The vampire bleats in terror at the sound of his voice, but Callum just gentles his tone and tries again. “Easy,” he murmurs. “Listen. Focus on my voice. You’re not in the sun. You’re not going to burn. Remember where you are.” That sense of déjà vu is back, Callum thinks bitterly. They’ve been here before. How many times has this vampire been hurt like this?

The vampire can’t see much past the fabric, but its heart is beating wildly in its chest. It remembers where it is in increments – it’s the second day, now, since the golden-haired hunter had taken it away. Two days since its world had tilted on its axis. But also… two days since it had last been hoisted up in the air and left to burn. Two days since it has last been beaten.

“Hey.” The hunter’s voice is startling, and much closer than the creature expects. It flinches with a little whimper, but it quickly tucks its head back down and goes back to its tightly curled ball. It can’t remember any commands being given, so it can only be small and still and quiet. It’s trying to behave, the creature thinks desperately, it’s trying to be good, so there’s no need to pull the blanket off and listen to it scream, no need…

“Can you just-” The hunter breaks off with a groan, and then there’s motion.

Callum is pushing back to his feet, shaking his head as he goes. He’d almost asked the creature if it could understand him, as if that wasn’t an idiotic question. Even if the vampire had enough humanity left to comprehend his speech… it probably wouldn’t last long. The creature has calmed, it wasn’t disoriented and panicked anymore, and that was all he’d wanted to accomplish.

He doesn’t talk to it, this time, when he returns to wrap it in the burlap fabric and rope. It moves like a doll in his hands, and Callum almost wonders if it would have been better, somehow, if the vampire had struggled. It would feel less like transporting a hollow shell, or a giant child’s discarded toy.

The last day of travel is the worst, as it always is. Callum is tired and sore, and he knows the vampire is doubly so. The sun beats heavy on his back, and even the horse seems tired, dragging her feet as she plods onwards.

The lights of his town greet them just as the sun begins to fade. Electricity is a possibility, but most of the light comes from oil lamps, strung up from the gates to guide weary travelers. It’s a shallow valley surrounded by rolling hills, and the vegetation slowly starts to turn greener as they grow closer.

It looks welcoming enough, but Callum avoids the official roads as they make their way inwards. His lab is on the outskirts, between the stables and the brewery. The stable keeper welcomes him back and doesn’t ask any questions, and Callum is grateful for that. People are not fond of vampires, and often they are not fond of hunters either – so Callum pays the man and gives his horse one last pat, before slinging the vampire over his shoulder again.

The creature doesn’t make a sound as it is picked up, despite how the pain sears through it. It is dizzy from exhaustion and pain, and it feels flayed and cracked open inside, as if it simply can’t feel any more terror. Yet, somehow, it is rediscovering fear as they walk. This is it, the creature knows; this is its final reckoning. This is when it discovers what the hunter wants it for. Will it be cast into another stone room and bound with iron shackles to the wall, or perhaps hung from the ceiling? Or maybe this hunter has a cage, simple but effective.

The vampire is trembling as it is carried. The man has been lenient with it, the creature knows this. And it has tried to be good, it has tried to show that it will not resist, that it doesn’t need to be put down to know its place. But that was while they were on the road.

Now they are in the hunter’s lair.

A door unlocks, and the sound of it fills the vampire with icy, irrational dread. It echoes in the new space, and the hunter sets his lantern down and strides further into the building.

The vampire cannot see, but it can imagine.

“You sleep here.” There’s clanking and a groaning of metal, and the vampire knows that sound – that is the sound of a cell opening. The hunter’s weight shifts forward, and the vampire flinches and braces itself; it is fully expecting to be thrown, or dropped. This, at least, is familiar, and the vampire wonders if it will be allowed to huddle in a corner and lick its wounds for the night, or if the torment will start immediately. But instead of being tossed carelessly inside, the hunter carefully lowers it onto the stone floor.

Or – not the floor. The creature gasps and shivers, feeling the slight give of whatever the surface was. It was thin, and smelled faintly musty, but it was soft… a cot? Was the creature lying on a cot?

“We’re going to take care of your injuries tomorrow. When I can see straight again. For now, rest.” Callum’s fingers brush over its hair, ever so slightly, and the vampire can’t help a plaintive little whine. It smells very strange, like chemicals and metal, and the creature still does not understand why it was brought here. But it does understand that this man is its whole world now, the only constant. This hunter is the only one who can dish out judgment or relief.

“Easy, kid.” The creature squeezes its eyes shut and lets its head fall again. It knows the hunter is lying, faking, when he speaks so softly to it. But it’s a tone without disgust or rage, and the vampire trembles under it, from both need and fear.

The ropes that bind it are cut, this time, instead of untied. The creature is perfectly still while the hunter works; it’s almost familiar, now, to have those large, calloused hands peeling the fabric away from its skin. If it does not resist, it will not be hurt. That is what the vampire has learned, and it clings to that, prays for it.

“There we go.” The vampire has forgotten the man’s name. But his presence presses down on the creature with a mighty weight, and the vampire gives a quiet, beseeching little whimper. They’re in the hunter’s home, now, and the vampire is so afraid that things will change… or that they won’t. “Shhh, I know. Time to rest.” If it is stillness and silence that has earned it this mercy, the creature thinks absently, then it will be still and silent forever.

The fabric is taken away and bundled up, and the vampire remembers that it is naked. Being covered up and carried around during their travel had almost felt like being clothed. But the time for such dignities is over, now.

Something settles over its skin, and the vampire draws in a sharp breath.

“I believe that’s yours.”

It’s the same blanket. The one the hunter had given it on the road. The creature’s breath comes out shaky, and in a fit of bravery the vampire lurches up and then flattens itself to the ground at the hunter’s feet. It can’t speak properly, not after the muzzle, but it makes an attempt. “Th-th-nngh. Th-tha-“ The moment it starts to sound like actual words, the vampire clamps a hand over its mouth with a whimper. No. Things did not speak. But it has to express its gratitude somehow. Thin, crooked fingers reach out to just barely brush the hunter’s boot, and the motion is thankful and awed in equal measure. Its hands are fragile and vulnerable, so close to the man’s spurs, but the hunter is quickly stepping out of range.

“Fucking shit. Just - just rest, would you?”

The words are like ice down the creature’s spine, and it whimpers a pitiful apology – but then the door is clanging shut again, and there’s a loud, decisive click.

Footsteps move away, and it realizes with a jolt that it is alone, abrupt and final.

The vampire lies in the darkness for a few long minutes, trying and failing to process what has happened. This man, this human… he is a strange one. That makes him unpredictable. But the cell the creature finds itself in isn’t cold, and there is something to lie on and cushion its battered body… and suddenly, that luxury is so unexpected that it is frightening.

Despite all the vampire’s aches and pains, the cot abruptly feels too soft. It’s too malleable, too much give, it won’t bruise and graze the creature’s skin like it deserves.

It’s further to the ground than the vampire expects, and it falls with a quiet thump. It’s left gasping for air as stars explode in its vision. The motion reminds it of every injury that hasn’t healed, the old ones deep inside and the new ones both.

There’s a space underneath the cot, narrow and dark, and the vampire clumsily presses back into it. There is no true safety, the creature knows that. But it feels the smallest bit more secure when it curls up in the darkest corner with walls on two sides.

The vampire hesitates, before a pale hand timidly snakes out and grabs the blanket. It can’t sleep in the cot, it’s not allowed. But the hunter gave it the blanket. The blanket came with them on the road, the creature can’t make it any dirtier. So maybe it’s okay.

It is not chained down, not muzzled or bound or restrained, and within the confines of the cell, clutching at the blanket, the vampire finally breathes a sigh of relief. There are terrible things waiting for it in its dreams, and there will be terrible things waiting for it in the morning. But if it is always allowed to rest like this, in a dark, quiet nook with something soft to hold on to… then the vampire will count itself lucky.

No matter what the hunter does to it.  

--

[END]

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#my writing #vampire whump series #whump #whump writing #whump community #vampire whumpee #nonuman whumpee #fear #conditioning #reluctant caretaking #ya know i am realizing as i reread this that callum has one hell of a mouth on him #boy has a potty mouth #i wonder if that is at all representitive of the author xDDD #monster whump

[thewhumperinwhite]

FBI AU: Rescue

Okay so. I wasn’t gonna post this because it’s an au of a work I’m planning to actually finish and publish, but then I thought, hold on, this is several thousand words of whump that will otherwise not see the light of day, so why the hell not.

TW for: Aftermath of noncon, bad gun safety practices 

Inside, the warehouse is not open like he had expected; the front hallway is dark and close and snakes off into the darkness in opposite directions.

“Left or right?” Rona hisses, pointing her gun down the right hallway.

“I’ll take left.” She salutes him half-mockingly with the hand holding the gun, which is a stupid fucking thing to do, but he’s too pumped up with adrenaline to focus on scolding her. “Meet me back here in fifteen minutes and don’t engage if you can help it. I don’t like this.”

Rona scoffs a little, and takes off running before he can yell at her. He growls and starts down the hall, concentrating on staying as light-footed as possible.

He tries two doors and finds them empty and also--baffling. The hallway is dank and dirty, but each room is sparse but elegantly furnished, sparklingly clean, and filled with candles.

The room at the end of the hall is bigger than the others, with a huge black-draped bed and a marble tile floor, and he thinks it’s empty too until he sees the still pale shape against the far wall.

There’s a teenage boy shackled to the wall across the room. His arms are bound above his head and his face is a mess of bruises and blood. There’s a thick leather collar around his throat but other than that he’s naked.

“Jesus Christ,” Simon chokes, shoving his gun back in its holster and stumbling forward.

The boy doesn’t move when Simon kneels in front of him, but when Simon reaches out a shaking hand to look for a pulse his head jerks back and then he folds in on himself, raising his knees to his chest and lowering his head as much as he can--Simon sees that the collar around his neck is attached to a heavy chain, though it currently hangs slack halfway down his bare back before leading up to a hook on the wall above him. His throat is a mess of bruises and cuts.

He tries to say something through his ruined and bloody lips, but it comes out as mush, and Simon realizes with a sick jolt that he’s crying, his eyes half-shut and glued to the blood-caked marble floor.

“Shh, kid, it’s okay, I swear it’s okay,” Simon says, and the boy stiffens immediately at the sound of his voice. “Listen, I’m an FBI agent, I’m gonna get you out of here. Can you walk?”

The boy looks up jerkily, but his left eye is swollen shut and his right so glassy Simon doesn’t think he can see through it. He’s shaking.

 “Can you understand me,” Simon says, trying to keep his voice steady. The lower half of the kid’s face is torn open like he’s been punched in the mouth more times than Simon wants to think about, with fucking knuckle-dusters or something. He tries to say something again but it comes out as almost a gurgle, and Simon forces down a wave of panic because him losing his shit now is exactly the last thing this kid needs.

“Okay,” he says, and he tries to sound gentle but he knows he’s speaking low and fast and the kid is still shuddering and breathing in harsh gasps. “Okay, I’m gonna get you out of here, we’re gonna get you all taken care of, you just stay with me and don’t pass out, aright?” He looks up at the manacles around the kid’s wrists, thick metal and caked with blood, a lot of it dry but a lot of it still dripping wet; the skin of the kid’s upper arms is torn open from struggling, hard, for a long time. Simon’s panic kick’s up a notch under the mental barrier he’s hastily thrown up around it. How long has the kid been here? He’s too thin, Simon thinks, but so bloody and beaten Simon can’t tell much else for sure. There seem to be bruises and cuts over every inch of him--the boy makes a faint noise that’s almost a whimper and curls in on himself like he can feel Simon’s eyes on him, and Simon feels a rush of sick shame, feels dirty and shaken. He snaps his eyes back onto the boy’s bloody wrists.

The manacles are thick, too thick for him to break safely, not without tools, but they’re held to the wall by a clip with a simple release and Simon opens it with shaky hands and pulls the boy’s arms free of the wall gently--but the boy reflexively tries to yank his arms down and then makes a horrible wet sob of pain and Simon has to catch him before he collapses over sideways.

“Shit, okay, don’t rush it, I think your shoulder is dislocated,” Simon blurts, and the boy curls in on himself, making a low harsh noise in the back of his swollen throat, his head falling on Simon’s chest. Simon freezes for a second and then forces himself to stay in his skin and yanks his suit jacket off to drape it around the boy’s shoulders. The boy’s working eye goes even wider and fills with tears in earnest; if anything, he’s shaking worse now.

“Can you walk?” Simon says urgently, keeping a hand on the shoulder he thinks is doing okay and trying to maintain eye contact, though he’s still not sure how much the boy is seeing.

The boy’s wide glassy eye clears a tiny bit and he tries to speak again, but all that really happens is more blood dribbles down his chin. Shaking like he’s about to fall apart, he shakes his head and chokes out, “M--muh---mmm---” Simon can see him slipping back into complete panic and he shakes his head quickly.

“You’re okay, it’s okay, I get it, don’t try to talk. Kid.” He looks the kid in the eye, and tightens his hand just a little on his shoulder until the kid looks back. “Will you let me carry you? I want to get you out of here but I’m not going to touch you in any way you don’t want me to, do you understand?”

For a second the boy just stares at him, bloody lips parted, and Simon thinks he’s going to have to grab him without his explicit consent and he really, really doesn’t want to do that--and then the boy reaches out to grab at his shirt front with his bound hands, almost sobbing.

“Please--”  he chokes out, “Please, please.”

“Okay, thank you so much,” Simon says, trying again to be soothing but realizing that there’s no way he can do this without having to put his hands on this boy in places that are going to make them both miserable. “I don’t want to hurt you, but we have to get out of here now, do you understand? Can you help me out?” The boy nods desperately. “I’m going to move you, and I think it’s going to hurt, but I need you to be as quiet as you can, even though it’ll be hard, can you do that?”

The boy nods, and clutches hard at Simon’s shirt, all his muscles visibly taut in expectation of the pain Simon knows he’s going to cause whether he wants to or not. Simon takes a deep breath, holsters his gun--he feels naked without it, and then realizes that he’s probably never felt really naked in his whole life--and scoops the boy up as carefully as he can.

The boy doesn’t make a sound, but his hands tighten convulsively on Simon’s already-bloody shirt and any slight color that might have been in his face immediately leaves it; he’s shaking hard.

Simon loops an arm around the boy’s back, wincing at the sharpness of his spine, and the other arm around his hips, and he knows that’s the worst; he can feel the blood soaking through the jacket draped over the boy and knows he’s been hurt in places Simon doesn’t want to think about, badly. The boy’s hips are already too bony because he’s visibly starving but one of them is too sharp and jagged and feels out of place; it’s either broken or dislocated and Simon can’t not jostle it.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly as he gets to his feet, and the boy doesn’t respond, just lets himself be lifted, holding onto Simon’s shirtfront like it’s a lifeline, which it kind of is. His good eye is clenched shut and his face is contorted in pain, but he still isn’t making a sound.

Action heroes always know how to relocate limbs, Simon thinks desperately, but in real life they only teach you how to kill people. The boy weighs less than Simon’s gym bag does, almost less than his gun, and moving fast is the only help he can offer right now.

Rona buzzes in his ear, and Simon jumps slightly, having forgotten she existed for a second. The boy goes stiff as a board at the sudden noise; Rona has never had a comforting voice, even divorced from radio static, and it’s probably loud enough for the boy to hear but not understand.

“Got the girls; they’ve got a key to the brother’s room somehow. Haven’t seen the leader, can’t guarantee he won’t be in there. They think the brother’s life might be in danger. What’s your status?”

Simon swears. “Rona, you need backup. There’s a kid in here; he’s in bad shape. I’ve gotta get him out, now.”

 “They didn’t say anything about any kid,” Rona says, sounding alarmed, and Simon hears her relaying the information to the girls who’ve been in contact with the bureau, though he can’t hear their response. It kind of doesn’t matter. Simon lowers his head and half-jogs back to the door of the room, careful to look up and down the hallway before he ducks into it; no sign of anybody, they must all be where Rona is. 

“What’s he look like,” Rona says sharply in his ear.

“He looks like he’s dying,” Simon hisses back, “what the fuck do you want me to say?”

Rona says something in reply, something about the girls thinking he was dead, but Simon doesn’t hear it because the boy is clutching at his shirt again, his good eye slightly clearer than before, and trying to speak. Simon leans in to hear him; his voice is still garbled with blood.

“Did you find Karim?” the boy says, Simon’s pretty sure; he sounds younger than he did before, less pained and more scared. “Tell him--tell him Micah didn’t--kill me,” he rasps, and Simon can see the effort draining what little energy--possibly what little life--he has left. There’s still blood coming out of his mouth.

Simon didn’t get a good sense of the names involved; he’s trying to remember if Karim was the name of the brother and that’s why he passes the doorway without looking and something hits him in the face like it wants to cave his head in.

Simon falls against the wall hard, just able to keep his feet by bracing himself with his arm; he hears a strangled scream that’s probably the boy hitting the floor broken hip first and because he’s an idiot he scrambles for his gun before he can see and the thing that hit him hits his arm next, hard; Simon doesn’t think it breaks but it goes entirely numb and when he stumbles and gasps the gun disappears easily from his hand. When his vision clears the first thing he sees is the muzzle of his gun, pointing at his forehead.

Behind the gun is a giant, pale-faced and white haired, like an albino. He’s wearing a crisp suit and his shoulders are cartoonishly broad. He keeps the gun trained on Simon and while he’s regarding Simon with nothing but blank curiosity he reaches down without looking and takes the chain attached to the boy’s collar and hauls him up to his knees, lifting his weight with easy cruelty.

The boy follows the collar upright, since he has no choice, clutching at it with his bound hands, just barely able to hook his fingers over the leather; Simon can hear his breath coming in harsh gasps and he jerks forward without thinking, and the big man very calmly pushes the gun forward into Simon’s chest; Simon forces himself still, staring up at him. The man is half-kneeling, and Simon is half-collapsed against the wall; the man is holding the chain just high enough that the boy cannot rest on his knees, and Simon knows the boy can barely breathe.

“Who are you?” the man says, sounding only mildly curious.

Simon blinks blood from his eye. He had been assuming the man had hit him with a crowbar or something, but in the absence of a visible weapon other than Simon’s own gun, he realizes it might have just been his fist.

“Put him down and we’ll talk about it,” Simon says, his heart thudding against the muzzle of his gun. 

The man eyes Simon speculatively, and then he drops the chain without warning and the boy falls to the floor in front of Simon, gasping; his head is almost touching Simon’s knee, and he immediately tries to push himself up onto his hands; Simon can see blood splattering on the floor when he coughs.

“Don’t move,” the big man says, directed down at the boy, who goes still, not looking at either the man or at Simon. “Did you call this man? How?”

The boy doesn’t look up; he coughs again, either because he’s trying to answer or just because his throat must be an utter ruin by now.

“Listen to me,” Simon says, trying to keep his voice flat and not move suddenly. “I’m with the FBI. We have backup coming automatically if we don’t check in every fifteen minutes. You don’t want to shoot me.”

“Fifteen minutes is a long time,” the man says, not moving the gun from where it sits against Simon’s heart. “Little boy,” he says, still making eye contact with Simon, “do you know why he is here?”

The boy lifts himself off the ground with his bound arms, on one elbow to keep weight off his dislocated shoulder. He doesn’t seem to be able to speak--blood is pouring from his ruined lips--but he manages to shake his head slightly.

The big man looks down at the boy, and sighs slightly. “I told Trent not to keep you. Knew you’d bring trouble.”

Trembling with the effort of holding himself up, the boy lifts his head to look up at the man. Simon starts slightly at the sight of his face, ruined lips twisted in hatred; it’s more lucid than he has been so far.

“Shithead,” he snarls around a mouthful of blood, “like you didn’t like fucking me as much as he did.”

The big man doesn’t look offended; his face doesn’t change when he raises his fist--Simon swears and jerks forward but not nearly fast enough--and slams it into the boy’s temple like a hammer. The boy goes completely limp, on the floor in front of Simon, blood still pouring from his mouth. The man looks down at the boy for a moment, and then raises his hand again.

Simon can’t help lunging forward to catch his arm. “Bastard, don’t--”

Simon doesn’t really hear the shot; there isn’t enough break after the muzzle flash and then the pain tears the world apart; he rocks back against the wall, clutching at his shoulder as blood spurts from it.

The man is halfway to his feet by the time Simon can see again, the gun level with Simon’s head. He looks very mildly irritated.

“Dunno what’s going on,” the big man says, cocking the gun again. “I’ll figure it out without--”

The big man’s head explodes.

When he hits the floor Simon can see the end of the hallway behind him, and there’s Rona, standing with a pale woman with red hair and a look of controlled nausea on her face. Rona keeps her gun trained on the big man even though he is very clearly dead; the redhead half-runs forward without glancing at him.

“It is him,” she says, alarmed, and reaches down toward the boy’s limp body. Simon knocks her hand out of the way, hard, trying to shield the boy with his body and aware mostly all he’s doing is dripping even more blood on him. Simon’s jacket fell from the boy’s shoulders when he first dropped him; he gropes for it and covers him again. 

“Who the hell are you?” Simon growls, wanting to wrap himself around the boy but not wanting to jostle him. The woman looks at him, like an animal about to flee.

 “That’s Venita Bones, Blake,” Rona says, coming to stand beside the woman. “She knows who he is.”

 Venita is looking down at the boy, like she’s vaguely sick. She shakes her head. “I don’t, really. His name’s Art. Karim loves him. That’s all I know. We thought Father--” Her face twists. “Micah. We thought Micah killed him.”

 “He did his best,” Simon spits, and glares at Rona. “Where’s the goddamn paramedics?”

“They’re on their way,” Rona says, lowering her gun. “I called in the S.W.A.T. guys when it sounded like you weren’t coming. They hauled Micah Trent out already.”

“Did you find the other kids?” Simon says reluctantly, easing the boy up off the floor. He’s limp as a ragdoll, but there aren’t any obvious big wounds to put pressure on, just probably weeks of torture and starvation; the paramedics need to get here now.

Rona nods stiffly. “They’re headed to the station. Karim Mun’s already with the medics; starved himself half to death. Charity Bridges is dead.”

Simon looks up at that. “Trent killed her?”

Rona’s face twitches slightly. Venita Bones is the one who answers, quietly.

“Yes,” she says. “He pulled her in front of him. She loved him the most, so she let him.”

Rona glares at the ground briefly. Simon doesn’t ask what Trent pulled Charity in front of. He gathers the boy into his arms instead and then squares his shoulders to face the task of standing. Rona snorts.

“You’re shot, idiot,” she tells him gruffly, and reaches forward to take the boy from him. Simon doesn’t particularly want to let go--the boy said he could touch him; Rona didn’t ask--but his shoulder is screaming and he doesn’t really have a choice. Rona’s smaller than Simon is but the boy weighs about ten pounds and his weight isn’t a problem, and to her credit he can see that she’s holding him carefully, though her face hasn’t changed. “Get up, we’re getting you both in an ambulance.”

Simon stumbles out into the air behind Rona and Venita Bones; the sun finished going down while he was in that fucking crypt and he takes a second to breathe in the night air before he wades toward the ambulance behind Rona.

There’s four ambulances gathered, which is lucky; Micah Trent isn’t anywhere to be seen, apparently already carted away, but there are plenty of uniformed officers. Simon knows immediately which members of the small crowd are Coven members; they’re all dressed preposterously, and they’re all very attractive, which he guesses is what someone like Micah Trent looks for in a sex-cult member. An old-fashioned blonde bombshell and a pretty girl with ludicrous curly pigtails are seated inside the open door of a big S.W.A.T. vehicle, the pigtail girl with a tinfoil blanket wrapped around her shoulders, and they stand when they see Venita coming; she wades through the officers in their direction. The ambulance nearest the S.W.A.T. vehicle is open, and there’s a boy inside who is very obviously the pigtail girl’s brother; they must be Karim and Selina Mun. He’s hooked up to an I.V. drip already, sitting on the stretcher inside the ambulance, face hollow-cheeked and drawn, but when he looks in their direction he goes white and jerks to his feet, though he immediately stumbles.

“Art,” he says, his voice wild, and the paramedic who hooked him up has to grab him by the shoulders to keep him from leaping out of the van, tubes in his arm or no. He locks eyes with Rona, frantic. “Is he alive?”

Rona doesn’t answer, just hops up into the second ambulance with the boy in her arms, already issuing orders to the paramedics inside despite them definitely knowing more about saving lives than she does. Simon lets the medics come to him, staring up at Karim, trying to read his distress. It looks genuine enough, but that doesn’t mean anything about how much of this is his fault.

“Did you bring him here?” Simon says as the paramedics peel his hand and then his shirt away from the wound in his shoulder, and Karim Mun jerks back like Simon’s hit him, stricken.

“Please save him,” Karim Mun says, before the paramedics glare at Simon and close the ambulance, and it looks like that’s all he’s going to get.

#whump #original whump #fbi au #rescue #aftermath of noncon #captivity #starvation #manacles #dislocated shoulder #gunshot wound #injured caretaker #They Told Me You Were Dead #Breaking Up A Sex Cult #I doubt there are tags for those but #you know #before you click readmore

[starsandlittlebats]

Scar tissue

read on ao3

Parings: Aelin x Rowan

Warnings/comments: language, flashbacks, yall have no idea how long it took me to find the perfect type of flower for the third flashback. 20 mins is how long

Summary: Aelin and Rowan spend the night reminiscing about their scars, old and new, painful and less so

Words: 2831

Aelin ran her fingers over the neat line of stitches that graced her cheekbone.

“It’s going to scar, isn’t it,” She groaned, glancing towards Rowan with a mournful look. He didn’t say anything, but flashed a grin at her nonetheless.

“Oh gods, it is.” Aelin threw herself onto the sleeping mat. She huffed a sigh again and shook her head slightly.

“You know what? I think it’ll make me look rugged.”  

“Sure will.”

“Oh shut up.” Aelin picked up one of the embroidered cushions from the sand and flung it at his face with surprising accuracy. Plucking it out of the air, Rowan threw it right back before lowering himself down beside her. Smiling slightly, Aelin leaned her head on Rowen’s shoulder, and the pair fell into a comfortable silence.

Moonlit waves crashed on the shore, the rhythmic boom and roar providing accompaniment to the wind that hissed through the marram grass on either side of the dunes. Bright diamond stars hung suspended in the sky, faltering only slightly as grey specters of cloud passed over them. But in their little bubble of calm made by Rowan’s shields, it was a perfect night.

The pair had been meaning to get away from court life for weeks now but had only just found the time to escape to the little cove Aelin had found on her last visit to western Terrasen. And a little - well, a lot - of wind wouldn’t do them any harm was what Rowan had claimed minutes before Aelin had almost quite literally been blown off a cliff face and into a gull’s nest. Which the birds had strongly disagreed with, as evident by the nasty gash on her face.

Rowan absentmindedly brushed his fingers over the cut and Aelin shivered a little under his touch, leaning into it.

“So,” she mumbled, “What about you?”

“Hmm?”

“You never talk about your scars.”

“That’s because I don’t have any stories that even live up to pissing off a seagull.”

Aelin let out a snort. “Nah, you’ve been around for centuries, I’m sure Lorcan’s bitten you or something over the years.”  She leaned over, pulling his arm onto her lap and lightly ran her fingers over a jagged line at the crook of his elbow.

“What about this one then.”

“That’s, uh, nothing.” Rowan’s blush was all-too visible in the half-darkness. Aelin raised her eyebrows.

“ Did Lorcan bite you?”

“No! Gods no, this happened about... a century ago,” Rowan’s brow furrowed as if he was thinking hard, “Me and the cadre found a bee’s nest high up in a tree - Lorcan had the brilliant idea to turn it into a competition; who could get the honeycomb the fastest, no magic, no shifting allowed.”

Aelin poked him, “Go on.”

_______________

Rowan stared up at the tree’s canopy, narrowing his eyes at the humming, brown smear high, so high up in the branches. Really, he was a fool for even accepting the challenge, and after watching both Fenrys and Gavriel fail, he really should be reconsidering, but gods dammit he would not look like an idiot.

“Careful.”

Rowan glanced over to where Fenrys was glumly picking bee stingers out of his skin. He just nodded and grabbed the first branch, hauling his way up the tree. Rowan swiftly fell into a rhythm, always keeping three limbs on the branches and feeling the rough bark scrape slightly against his skin. He kept climbing, up and up until he was forced to slow down, the limbs starting to creak dangerously under his weight.

The nest was only a few feet above him now, the humming relentless. Gingerly, he reached up, gently slipping his hand inside and feeling the nest start vibrating violently. A sharp sting pricked his thumb and Rowan winced slightly, before slowly wrapping his fingers around what he hoped was the honeycomb. Another series of pricks pierced his skin, this time painful enough to cause Rowan to hiss and yank back his hand.

The very air seemed to be alive with furious buzzing and Rowan hurriedly backed away before anymore of the creatures could find him. There was a pain in his knee, his neck, his cheek, spurring on the male faster.

Then suddenly - weightlessness.

It took Rowan a good second to realize that he had missed a branch and was now plummeting towards their camp. He twisted in midair, and had just splayed his fingers to release a net of wind to slow his fall when he slammed into the ground. There was a burst of pain, a red haze, and then nothing.

_______________

“And then when I woke, it turned out that I had won, but they’d used the honey to dress my arm, so I never actually got to eat any of it.” Rowan traced a finger across the jagged line. “The bone snapped clean in two. I didn’t live that down for years.”

Aelin snorted again, shaking her head slightly.

“You’re such an idiot,” she laughed softly, the sound only building as Rowan swatted her on the arm.

“Right,” he said, “My turn.”

Aelin raised her eyebrows again, but didn’t shift away as Rowan reached over, brushing her hair aside and touching a thin line on her neck. She screwed her face up and frowned.

“Huh, yeah, that one was wayyyy back when I was still Celaena. Arobynn thought it would make an excellent training exercise if he paid someone to kidnap me. Gods, that was years ago.”

_______________

The hood was ripped off Celaena’s head, taking a good few strands of hair with it. Even though she was still groggy with whatever drug they’d used to bring her here, a bolt of fury raced through her spine. Wherever here was.

Celaena swiftly assessed the situation, dank stone walls lit by a guttering torch - heavy manacles weighing her down to the floor - a large oak door - no other exits. Ah, shit . She managed a smirk at the decidedly rat-like man standing in front of her.

“And who do I have the pleasure of meeting at such a late hour?”

The man studied her for a second, but said nothing. Smart.

“So,” she said, stretching luxuriously in the chains and hearing them rattle, “What do you want with me?”

Her smirk grew at the flat look he threw her way.

“Arobynn Hamel owes me money. A lot. You are here as insurance in case he tries to pull something.”

Celaena mentally cursed Arobynn - why did she always get dragged into his messes? There was an abrupt silence as Celaena subtly tested the chains, feeling for weaknesses. The left manacle felt like it could give a bit of leeway and Celaena bit back a grin as she began to slip her hand free - before freezing. The knife pressed to her neck spoke volumes and this time she didn’t even try to smile, the blood rushing in her ears almost blocking out his next words.

“I know exactly who you are Saedothien, try anything and I’ll cut your throat -”

She never got to hear the end of that sentence, sharply kicking him in the groin and snapping her head back, away from the knife. But not fast enough. The man tripped forward, unbalanced, the metal slipping and biting deep into Celaena’s neck.

“ Shit! ” she snarled, ripping her hand free from the shackles with another groan of pain. Her captor had recovered enough to lunge again with the knife. Firmly shoving back the pain like she’d been trained to, Celaena’s free hand shot out, jabbing him in the throat and sending him spluttering back before grabbing his wrist. She twisted hard until there was a crack and he dropped the blade with a loud clatter and a yell of pain.

Almost automatically, Celaena kicked the knife towards her, scooping it up and jamming it into a keyhole. The heavy silence that coated the room was sudden and abrupt, Celaena picking the lock, always keeping one eye on the man who was crumpled to the floor, moaning slightly.

There was an audible click and Celaena shrugged the manacles off, rolling her soldiers and wincing at the soreness. Gingerly, she touched her neck, fingers coming away red as the pain she had pushed away rushed back. Celaena grimaced, glancing at the hand she’d pulled free of the chains and the twisted thumb that had started to throb. Blood loss and broken bones was not how she’d planned her Saturday night. Cleaning up this mess was going to take longer than she thought.

_______________

“What did you do to Arobynn when you found out he’d set it up?” Rowan asked.

“It involved a lot of screaming, broken objects, and at least one thrown knife. Though that last one was Arobynn, I probably shouldn’t have smashed his favorite two thousand crown sculpture on the floor.”

“He deserved it.”

“Oh definitely, that man had terrible taste in art.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Aelin sighed, “Yeah, he did deserve it, although I had to pay back that two thousand crowns. Too busy being the devoted prodigy, I guess.”      

She pressed her lips together, laying back in the sand and staring hard at the stars until their light started to blur. Rowan settled beside her and Aelin shifted to face him. There was another long silence with the wind and water filling the gaps of their conversation.

You okay? He asked in their silent language.

Yeah, just… thinking.

“Right, your turn,” Rowan said out loud and Aelin glanced over appreciatively at the change of subject. She placed a hand on an area of puckered skin on his thigh.

“Tell me about this one then.”

This time it was Rowan’s turn for his expression to falter and a shadow for pain passed over his face. Aelin knew that expression well - an ache bloomed deep in her chest for her mate and his pain.

“Lyria,” he said finally, “I was getting flowers for her - rare ones to impress her. Zantedeschias. But the only place they grow is in Kirfall Forest, which is also where the white bears live.”

_______________

Silver fur, savage claws, and fangs that just screamed ‘do not mess with me’. Incidentally, that was exactly what Rowan planned to do to the hulking creatures that prowled below. And in the middle of that clearing the cobalt and ivory blossoms of the Zantedeschias. Rowan wheeled back around, catching the updraft on his wings and studied the area for one last time before angling his wings and diving, shifting in midair and slashing with blades that were already grasped in white-knuckled fingers.

The roars that rang through the clearing were almost enough to make the male kneel over with shock. Almost. One of the beasts lunged at Rowan, fangs bared, and Rowan rolled away, shooting a blast of ice-kissed wind to send it sprawling back, landing a powerful kick on the head of the second. Rowan leaped high into the air, but before he could land the next blow, he was swatted out of the air, fangs tearing at his thigh. Rowan yelled with a mixture of pain and frustration as he fell hard, suddenly unbalanced.

He rolled, taking the brunt of the fall on his shoulder, and slashing upwards at the belly of the creature. Knocking its hind legs out from under it as he rose, Rowan cast jagged daggers of ice at the beasts, sending gusts of wind to guide their paths.

A series of muffled thuds told him that they’d reached their marks. The petals of the flowers taunted him with their closeness as he cut down three, four, five creatures before some semblance of sense stuck them and the rest of the pack fled into the waiting forest.

The silence that followed was abrupt and absolute, Rowan breathing heavily as the male strode across the clearing, limping on his injured leg and still warily eyeing the treeline. Rowan bent down to retrieve the flowers, but swore viciously as the pain in his thigh doubled at the movement. A growl slipped through his clenched teeth, but he eased the flowers out of the soil as carefully as he could nonetheless.

Even his wound seemed to lessen somewhat as he scrutinized the blossoms, imagining how Lyria’s face would light up as she saw them. That though alone made it all worth it.

_______________

“Did she like the flowers?”

“Only after she finished yelling at me for being so stupid to go to Kirfall Forest. She actually planted them in the garden - turns out they actually spread like weeds. I wonder if they’re still growing there...”

Aelin smiled slightly. “Well, maybe for our next holiday we can go find out.”

He raised his eyebrows at her, “You know that literally the whole court would want to come.”

“Family day out.”

Rowan rolled his eyes to the heavens. “I want to know about… this one next,” He touched an area of crisscrossing lines on Aelin’s upper arm.

“Oh, I fell off a cliff.”

“Of course you did. Why am I even surprised at this point?” He flashed a sharp-toothed grin at her and Aelin jabbed him in return.

“Shut up, do you want to listen to my daring tale or not?”

“Do go on, I’m intrigued at how my ethereal mate can get herself into so many life-or-death situations.”

“ Shush you buzzard, right, me and Aedion were about eight…”

_______________

Aelin grinned wickedly as she stared over the edge of the cliff.

“It’s not even that high Aedion.”

Aedion raised his eyebrows.

“That’s not a good idea.”

“Don’t be a wuss.”  

“I’m not - fine.”

By some small miracle, the pair had snuck away from the party of adults that had taken them to the local beach in search of something more entertaining. Or - more accurately - Aelin had dragged Aedion up the nearest cliff in search of an adventure, despite his avid protests.

“Okay, so, on the count of three, we jump.”

Aelin seized Aedion’s hand and squeezed it hard. He squeezed it right back, this time shooting a reassuring grin at her that seemed to be more for himself than her.

“One, two, three-”

They launched themselves off the edge and into nothingness. Aelin dared to glance down, the glorious blue of the water filling her whole world. Beside her, Aedion gave a woop and her face had just begun to split in a smile when they slammed into the ocean.

Aelin went under in an explosion of bubbles, salt filling her mouth as she plummeted down, down, down. Her vision was a blur of brilliant silvers and blues so enchanting that Aelin barely noticed it when she hit the sea bed, rough stones and sand scraping across her exposed arm. She clawed her way to the surface with strong strokes, exploding back into the world and fresh air. Gasping and blinking water out of her eyes, Aelin twisted, eyes searching for Aedion who broke the surface next to her with a loud breath.

They locked eyes and Aelin started laughing, head dipping below the water, and Aedion only stared at her for a second before joining in. The two children clung together in the water, laughing, and shaking with a mixture of nerves, adrenaline, and mirth.

The water below them began to rise, the pair being carried along with the unnatural wave and around in sight of the beach that they’d left behind. Aelin swallowed at the sight of her mother, glaring, tight lipped, and fingers splayed in front of her to control the bulge of water. They were dumped unceremoniously onto the beach, spitting out sand and shivering as the cold began to set in.

Aelin touched her throbbing arm, wincing as her mother strode over, anger lining every inch of her posture. She winced.

Uh oh.

_______________

Aelin touched her arm, running her fingers over the scar as she finished her story. Rowan shook his head.

“So what I’m taking from this is that you were a horrible child. Poor Aedion.”

Aelin gave him a light punch, “I was an excellent child. I just dragged Aedion into my schemes. And to be fair, there were a lot of schemes.”

Rowan snorted, “Remind me never to let you two go off to a cliff side alone.”

“He enjoyed it really. Even if we were both grounded for the better part of three months.”

After a long pause, Aelin spoke again.

“If you could, would you get rid of them?”

Rowan considered this for a long second. “No. No, I wouldn’t. They remind me who I am and who I was. And nothing in the world would make me give up these -”

He shifted to reveal Aelin’s claiming marks. A ball of warmth ignited in her chest as she stroked them, feeling Rowan’s skin heat at the contact.

“I love you so much.”

“I do too, scars, bruises, pain and all. Everything that makes you up is brilliant and beautiful.”

“Now you’re just being sappy,” Aelin laughed.

“I sure am.”

#throne of glass #rowaelin #aelin galathynius #aelin x rowan #rowan whitethorn #tog fanfic #my fanfiction #ao3 #fanfiction

[thereluctantinquisitor]

Out of curiosity, and because Delton has become so popular suddenly, has he ever become kidnapped and needed to be rescued by a pissed off Bull?

You know what? Probably. Here, have a ridiculously long rescue fic, because that is apparently the only way I know how to answer asks

Redbull. Delton x Iron Bull. CW: kidnapping, abuse, torture (mostly suggested). Approx 3500 words. [AO3 Link]

“Right, then. What dowe have here?”

Delton flinched as thehood was pulled from his head, blinking back tears when the darkness he hadgrown accustomed to gave way to sudden and blinding light. Cursing, he tried toturn away, but a hand snared him by the hair, dragging his head back so roughlyhe had to grit his teeth against the pain. A figure stood before him; a tallman in heavy plate. A strange red hue surrounded him, emanating from his skinlike perfume visible in the air. Of course, Delton was well aware that it wasfar from so benign a thing.

Well, this is just great. Defiant, Delton tested the bonds around his wrists,cursing silently when he heard the tell-tale clink of steel. Not much he coulddo about that. Rope he could have at least tried to burn off in a pinch. Thetall man – some kind of Templar, if Delton had to guess – took another stepforward, looming over him.

“Inquisition, I takeit?” he asked, then glanced to whoever was behind Delton, the question clearlyintended for them. That person shifted, their shadow moving in the flickeringfirelight.

“Yes, Knight-Captain.Travelling with a small group.”

Shit. Delton’s heartrate picked up, hammering a wild rhythm against hisribs. The Chargers. Bull. What had—?

“And what of theothers?” the Knight-Captain asked, sparing Delton the silent panic. Thesubordinate hesitated.

“They… weren’t therewhen we caught this one. Tormond thinks he was a scout trying to check our fortifications.”

“Actually,” Deltoninterjected, “I was trying to take apiss. So thanks for interrupting that.”

The Knight-Captain glanced down, seeming surprised thatDelton had spoken. “Starkhaven,” he noted after a moment, dark brows raised.Delton just smirked.

“Nevarra. Nice to meet you.”

The Knight-Captainhuffed, a swirl of red accompanying his amusement like breath on a cold night.“An ear for accents, then. You are a long way from home, Red.”

Delton’s lip curled into a snarl. “Don’t call me that,” he said,but the momentary anger gave way quickly to pain as the hand in his hair tightened,forcing his head back again, bearing his throat to the Knight-Captain. Like ananimal before the hunter’s knife. Aye,this probably makes the top three worst situations I’ve been in…

To the Knight-Captain’s credit, he raised a gloved hand,signalling his underling to cease. Delton released a tight breath, jerking awayas soon as the grip slackened, lowering his head, Bull’s words playing over inhis mind. Protect your neck, Red. That’sthe first place an enemy’s gonna want to put their blade, and the last placeyou want to find it.

Shit, but if he didn’t wish Bull was there. Was thatselfish? Probably. But for the first time in a long time, Delton felt it. Thatdeep, withering ache that seemed to fill the marrows of his bones.

Helplessness.

“I will call you what I please. Is that understood?” Therewas something about the way the Knight-Captain spoke. It made Delton, for allhis stubbornness, want to shrink away. But there was nowhere to go. Nowhere torun or hide, chained on the floor of a barren room. In the end, not wanting tomake matters worse, he didn’t reply.

Apparently, that was the wrong move.

Before Delton knew what was happening he was on his feet,dragged from the ground, the Knight-Captain’s hand closed tight around hisneck, crushing his throat. Delton wheezed, struggling, feet kicking at theloose stones and dust as he tried and failed to pull in air. Those red-coaleyes of the lyrium corrupted burned straight through him. “You will answer when spoken to,” the Knight-Captain said, voice low. Dangerous. Deltonhad heard voices like that before. They were the ones you learned to avoid inthe dark.

Lips parted, no sound able to pass, Delton’s eyes rolledback, darkness clawing at the edges of his vision, panic and lack of airmingling in a potent haze that threatened to drown him. Then, he hit theground, air rushing into starved lungs, pain lancing up the arm he landed on.Coughing, Delton curled in on himself, trying to force away the memories of ayoung boy in an alley. Trying to hold back the fear. Shove away the pain. Onhis own, alone on the bad nights, he could indulge in his own weakness. But here?

Here, he could not afford to appear anything but strong.

“What do you want us to do with him?” one of the otherTemplars asked. His voice was sharp and harsh; steel chords in his throat. TheKnight-Captain considered for a moment, his pale eyes sending a chill crawlingup the back of Delton’s neck. Then, he gave a bored shrug.

“Get what you can out of him. Use whatever means proves mosteffective.” That heartless gaze locked with Delton’s. “The fate of a single manneed not feature on my report.”

… How long had itbeen?

Delton swayed in the dark, losing his balance for a momentbefore getting his feet back under him. His legs burned, the cramps knotting his calves leaving him in a cold,nauseous sweat. Eyes stinging, he shook his head, red hair soaked, wrists throbbingwhere they were manacled above him. The chain he hung from was attached to aring. It dangled from the ceiling, hoisted and secured just high enough toleave Delton with two options: bear his weight on his toes, or hang by hishands.

”S-Shit…” Deltonbreathed, his shaking legs reaching the end of their strength once again. How many times had that happened, now? Hewould have to hang for a while. Teeth gritted, Delton tried to ignore the pain,lowering down inch by agonising inch, the pressure on his abused wristsincreasing, metal biting into already damaged flesh. Despite trying to control hisdescent, Delton eventually reached a critical angle and his ankles gave out,sending him jolting down with a cry of pain. For a second, he thought he mighthave dislocated something. Luckily, as he breathed through the blinding pain,he was able to determine that was not the case. But he knew what it lookedlike; the damage he could not see. Skin discoloured, rubbed red-raw by thesteel of the cuffs. The tickle of something running down his arms; theindistinguishable warmth of blood and sweat. Strangely, as he hung there likemeat on a hook, the constant burning wasn’t even the worst of it. No, it was breathing. He couldn’t. Not properly, atleast. Every time Delton tried to drag in air, it stuck halfway, arms raised toohigh, chest pulled too tight. It felt like a single deep breath might snap him intwo.

The door creaked open; a shallow, grating sound. A ribbon oflight spilled across the floor, cutting through the dark, and a man entered. Hewore no plate. No armour at all save a single gauntlet on his left hand. At aglance, Delton knew he was no soldier. At least, not one who had seen anyactual fighting. Not for a very long time.

“Ready to talk, Red?” he asked amiably, as though they wereseated across from one another at lunch. Delton glared at him, shaking,sweating cold and hot all at once. After his angry outburst at theKnight-Captain, they had all startedcalling him Red.

Taking Delton’s silence for the answer it was, the torturersighed, examining his gauntleted hand, turning it over before the torchlight.“You will talk, you know.” Theknuckles were lined with metal studs, tips gleaming menacingly in thefirelight.  “Between you and me, startingnow is really in your best interest. Why suffer through the means when the endwill be the same? Save yourself the pain.” He flashed a crooked half-smile.Delton figured he might have been charming, once, before he lost sight of whatit meant to be human. “And save methe pain of cleaning up. This can be remarkably messy work.”

“Forgive me for not weepin’for you.” Delton knew his type. Aye, they knew just what to say as theysliced off the soles of your feet and drove needles under your eyelids. Theyconvinced you it was your fault. That the pain, the suffering, was all simplythe price of non-compliance. Perhaps after enough time, that lie had becometheir truth. Perhaps it was what they needed to sleep at night.

Or perhaps they simply enjoyed watching others break.

The torturer set his torch in the sconce of the room’scentral pillar and moved closer, inspecting Delton from head to toe; a masterpainter considering his canvas. That cold, calculating stare left Deltonfeeling exposed despite his tattered clothes, his hands curling, nails bitinganxious crescents into his palms. He hated the way he flinched when the manreached out and grasped his chin, forcing him to look up.

“Hm.” The torturer turned Delton’s face roughly to the side,chains rattling with the movement. “This is truly a pity. I hope you at leastenjoyed that face of yours. I’m afraid it won’t be quite the same once I amdone.”

“W… We had a good run,” Delton rasped, throat like ash, themetal gauntlet cold against his skin as he forced himself to smile. “I’m notmuch of a talker.”

He had hoped it would be disconcerting, a broken mangrinning madly in the dark. But the torturer just smiled right back.

“I find that rather difficult to believe.”

Releasing Delton, he stepped away and turned to a nearbytable, his attention drawn to a long wooden box. Silently, he flipped up thelid, revealing the array of tools inside. Blades with edges wicked-sharp, wrappedin thick cloth to prevent accidental cutting. Ironic. Pliers. Needles. Hooks, thin and thick. Instruments forcutting, pulling, tearing, piercing, crushing. In that moment, his gaze fixedon the promise of pain, Delton’s mouth went completely, utterly dry.

This was reallyhappening.

“You’re the first I’ve had in a while,” the torturercontinued, his back to Delton. One of this hands brushed lovingly over thetools, pausing every now and then like a noble struggling to choose theirdesired sweet from a platter. “I was going to keep it simple, you know. That’swhat this was for.” He raised his gloved hand, those sharp metal studs makingDelton wilt silently as they flashed in the torchlight. Then, the torturerslipped it off in a gesture that could only be described as bored. It fell to the ground with ametallic clink. “But it is far too brutish,isn’t it? No… you seem like the sort of man who appreciates a little finesse.”

Delton didn’t answer. The torturer continued regardless. Itwas something he had best get used to.

“No, a beating does not suit you. Not at all. But this…” He drew out a long, thin bladefrom its cloth wrap. More a needle than a knife, he held it carefully betweenhis fingertips and turned towards Delton, face half-lit by the torch. Waveringshadows fled into the lines of his gaunt cheeks. “Ah,this little one has always been a favourite of mine. So small. So sleek. It seems a rather innocent thing,yes? Yet it can do so, so very much in talented hands.”

He moved towards Delton, footsteps echoing about the barrenroom. Delton had returned to standing on his toes and, on instinct, tried toback away. Of course, he did not get far – couldnot get far – the chain pulling tight after barely a few inches, tugginghim off-balance. He found himself hanging uselessly again as the torturer slowlybreached the distance between them. A meter. A foot. An inch. Delton grimacedand turned his head away, trying not to think about that gleaming piece ofsteel. Those dark, keen eyes.

“Yes. Yes, that is good,” the torturer murmured. Fingersbrushed the curve of Delton’s ear, moving his hair aside. The second Delton’sexhausted, terrified mind realised what was happening he jerked away with agrowl, chain rattling, legs aching, blood trickling down from his ruined wrists.

“Get away from me,” he hissed, but the hand returned,gripping him by the lower half of his face hard enough to bruise. Turning himlike a hound for inspection. Delton could see it now. The needle. Its tip was pointedtowards his head. Towards his ear.Delton tried to say don’t but thehand muffled the word into something unintelligible. Senseless. Useless.

He was useless.

“The Knight-Captain mentioned you had an ear for accents. Itdispleased him, although he hid it remarkably well. He likes to shroud himselfin something of a mystery, you see.” The torturer’s voice was utterly calm,perhaps even a touch amused. He was enjoyinghimself.  “So this is nothing personal onmy part, Red. In fact, it is one of the lesser pains I can inflict. But thereis something you learn quickly in my, ah… profession.Not all pain comes from the wound itself.”

Delton’s eyes widened and he tried again to pull away asthat needle moved into his ear. But he was held tight, the torturer far strongerthan his lithe form suggested, those fingers digging hard into Delton’s jaw. Hedid not feel the needle, but he knew it was there, held steady in thosewell-practiced fingers. Moving deeper. Sensing the inevitable, Delton felthimself begin to panic, desperate to fight, kick, scream, but too terrified to move. A whine built up at the back ofhis throat – it was the only thing he could do – as that needle slid, so, soslowly…

“The drum, they call it,” the torturer murmured, breath hotagainst Delton’s cheek. “Swim too deep too quickly, and it can burst. A cleanpain. Sharp. Sudden.” His tongue flicked out, swiping across his lips. “Iwonder what might happen if a needle pierced it slowly. Slid deeper still…”

No. No, don’t!  Delton couldn’t move; he didn’t dare. Panicseized him but he was helpless, eyes wide, already pleading silently despiteknowing this was far from the worst that would be done to him. The truth aboutDelton was that he was not a brave man. He never had been. He ran and hid andstole. When he was caught, he plead until he could run and hide again. Butthis… this was something else. A game for his tormentor, as mental as it wasphysical. The torture lay not only in the pain, but in the slowness of it. Thewaiting. The knowledge that the needle was insidehis head and he knew it was thereand he wouldn’t feel it until it was too late, scraping, piercing through…

It was too much. Delton’s breathing stuttered and stopped ashe squeezed his eyes shut, body shaking, not enough air, not enough air—

The door slammed open.

Bull crashed into the room, not pausing to take in thesight, not pausing to think. His axe, its head as large as a grown man’s chest,slammed into the torturer, the force of the impact throwing him away fromDelton. Metal clattered to the ground, ringing like a chime against thebloodied stone, the sound accompanying Delton’s cry of pain as that handreleased him and left him swinging. The torturer slammed into the table, his toolsscattering across the floor, fleeing before his groping hand. The other, onceclad in that gauntlet, was pressed tight to his stomach, its contents spillingpast his arm as he rasped and groaned. Bull did not wait. Unlike the torturer,he was not one for speeches. Blood bubbled to the wounded man’s lips but hegrinned wide as Bull raised his axe. They both knew it was a merciful death.

Bull delivered it anyway.

For once, Delton closed his eyes, turning away before heheard the axe fall. It was too much. All of it was just too, too much. Theshackles. The smell of blood. The lack of sleep. The tightness in his chest.The burning. The torment. The needle. The needle.

Rough hands wrapped suddenly around Delton’s waist and hegasped, eyes flying open, not really seeingas he bucked and kicked. But those hands wouldn’t leave; wouldn’t leave. They stayed and held and stilleduntil finally a familiar voice broke through the roar of panic in Delton’shead.

“… Kadan. Listento me. You know me. I’m not going tohurt you.”

Slowly, his struggling gave way to uncontrollable shakingand Delton found his voice. Tentative. Weak. “Bull?” He blinked, the world ahaze of firelight and shadow. “I… d-didn’t. Didn’t tell ‘em anything. I-I didn’t…”

A smile, soft yet tense. A comfort for Delton, a deadlypromise for anyone else. “Hey. I know, Red. You did good.” A pause followed. Itwas the most uncertain Delton had ever heard Bull. “You hurt?”

The question almost made Delton laugh, but he just didn’thave it in him. “N-Nah. Just… peachy...”

In any other situation, that might have earned him a snortof amusement from the Qunari. But for the time being Bull was already busyinspecting Delton’s restraints. “Needs a key. Hold on.” Slowly, Bull started torelease Delton’s waist, and it was at that moment Delton realised why Bull hadbeen so intent on grabbing him in the first place. The steady drag of his ownbodyweight returned, too much too muchto endure after it had been so mercifully taken away. A hoarse scream tore fromDelton’s throat and Bull seized him again, bearing his weight, holding him up once more. “Easy, easy… I’ve got you.”Bull’s voice was so calm. So reassuring. He’sgot me. Now unable to do what needed to be done, Bull angled his head towardsthe door. “Hey Krem! Get in here.”

Delton trembled in Bull’s arms, able to breathe but unableto shake the deep, irrational terror that he would be left again. That Bullwould let him go; abandon him and not come back. He’d already caused so themall so much trouble. More than he was worth. Krem arrived, and his eyeswidened in alarm at the sight. The lieutenant opened his mouth, but Bull cuthim off with a stern order to find the key. For once, Krem did not offer a quipin reply, moving immediately to the body of the torturer do as instructed.

“Hey… you wanna talk to me, Red?” Bull asked softly, deepvoice soothing as it filled the room. “You’re alright. We’ve got you.”

Delton closed his eyes, body pressed to Bull’s as the Qunariheld him up, taking the pressure off his legs and wrists. “S-Sorry,” hebreathed, the words catching in his raw throat. “’m sorry, Bull. I didn’t…”

Bull said nothing. Just held Delton a little tighter,drawing him as close as he could. That alone said more than words ever could.

Luckily, it did not take Krem long to find the key. Hehurried over, dragging a stool across the slick stones, standing on it tounlock Delton’s wrists. The manacles snapped open and the red-head collapsedinto Bull’s ready arms. For once, Delton didn’t complain as Bull cradled him. Intruth, his body was too weak to do anything but lean limply against theQunari’s chest. Delton sagged. Closed his eyes. He didn’t want to look down athis wrists; he didn’t dare. But Bull did, and the sound of his low, furiousgrowl told Delton all he really needed to know about their state.

“Those bastards. I’llkill them all for this.”

Krem stepped up to Bull’s side, his hand resting gently onthe Qunari’s massive arm. “You already did, Boss.” There wasn’t a trace of thelieutenant’s usual humour in his voice. Frankly, if Bull had dealt with theother Red Templars the way he had dealt with the torturer, it was likely nothingmore than a statement of fact.

Bull’s arms tightened protectively around Delton, thenloosened just as fast, likely worried about aggravating any other injuries.Ones he had yet to see. “Huh. Good.” Bull moved out of the room and into thenarrow corridor, careful to manoeuvre Delton out the door. “Got something moreimportant to do now, anyway.”

Despite it all, something about that voice, rumbling fromdeep in Bull’s chest, left Delton feeling warm. Safe. Comfortable, whencomfortable was about the furthest thing he could possibly hope to be. Delton shuddered– a reflexive spasm – then let himself go limp, breathing in the scent offamiliar leather, his mind drifting away from that room. Away from the chainsand the smell of blood.

This time, Bull didlet him go, but only to the realm of sleep. Only because he so desperatelyneeded it.

And for the first time in what felt like an age, Delton wentwillingly.

#dragon age fanfiction #iron bull #delton #rescue fic #angst #hurt/comfort #cw: kidnapping #cw: abuse #cw: torture #yeah this is not a fun one #sorry folks <3 #u_u #reluctant replies #reluctant writes #redbull #backtraf

[absolutechippedtooth-blog]

Please God, Be Kind Part 2 (Frank Castle x Reader)

           “So tell me about this girl,” You murmured and slid into the bed next to Frank. There was a rare twinkle in his eye that was accompanied by a goofy grin. It was rare to see quiet and introverted Frank a little bashful and star eyed. This was a side so few people had seen. To most it would have seemed odd. To you it was like Christmas come early to see him happy.

           “Damn she was-” He trailed and just looked out the window of your shared apartment. “She was beautiful. And witty too, she gave as good as she got.” Laughing you patted his shoulder and smiled. Frank Castle had it bad for a woman he had just met. It was good to see him happy.

           “What’s her name?” You asked.  The bottle of whiskey that sat open between you found its way to his lips.

           “Maria,” He stated and his voice dropped low, “Mark my words, I’m going to marry that woman.”

           Frank was rarely wrong. This time was no exception. Maria was soon Mrs. Castle. The biggest thing had been introducing the two of you. Maria was worried that you wouldn’t like her, being the best friend and all. You were worried that she would get territorial due to the fact that you were another woman. Turns out it was Frank who should have been worried. The two of you got along too damn well. First of all Maria was remarkably intelligent and observant; there was little that happened around her that she didn’t notice and she had a good sense of humor. There were some nights when the two of you would go out and drink. The stories that she could tell about her shitty boss or parents could last for hours. Those were the good times. Things got tense when you got deployed. As a corpsman you were responsible for keeping soldiers alive and this time it looked like your deployment would last a little longer than usual. Frank was nervous and was fretting about. The two of you had been close for a very long time and he didn’t enjoy being separated from you. But you had a duty to your country and the men who served it.

           “Frank.” You embraced him, “Everything is going to be fine,” He looked at you like he wasn’t sure if that was true or not. You were capable of taking care of yourself but that didn’t mean that everyone else would have your back.

           “You call whenever you get a chance and you stay alert. I just got a bad feeling about this one, yeah? Got it?” He pressed his forehead to yours and you nodded.

           “C’mon, you know I’m not going to be doing anything too dangerous.” You slung your pack over your back went to Maria. She was standing off to the side with a sad smile on her face. Leaning in, you kissed her cheek.

           “Make sure this one doesn’t do anything too stupid,” You told her and she laughed.

_______________________________________________________________

           Your arms were numb. It had been at least a couple of hours since the last time your feet had touched the ground. The air was stale and acrid. There was no windows and the doorway wasn’t visible from your current position. Frank had been right. Something had gone wrong, terribly wrong. The intelligence your unit had been given was wrong. You should have never taken the position as specialized unit’s medic. The simple mission, it had left your squad mates dead. A simple mission had gone to utter shit and now you were strung up and bleeding. The men around you were speaking a language you could catch a few words of but didn’t completely understand. A knife was pressed to your bare belly and you didn’t have the energy to flinch away. Maria, what would she be doing right now? Laundry? Cooking lunch or dinner? Maybe taking a walk through the park? What would you give to have to eat some of her cooking?

           “Where is the rest of your squad located?” One of the men asked, voice heavily accented. Rolling your head back, you looked at the cracks in the ceiling.

           “Six feet under considering that the entirety of my squad was with me when I was captured.” You told him. A strike the knife left you gasping. Blood ran down your bruised torso. The man’s face was filled with fury. Fortunately you could take a fair amount of abuse. It was nothing new. This didn’t even rival some of the beatings your own father could dish out back in the day.

           “No your unit was too small,” He told her. Looking at him, you pursed your lips in a thin line. It was time to make a choice. You thought of Frank and his big smile and crooked nose. You thought of Maria and her soft laugh. You thought of the love you felt when you were near them and took a deep breath.

           “I don’t know what you want me to tell you,” You stated and kept the tremble out of your voice, “I’m just a medic.” What came next was series of punches against already broken ribs. When the fire under skin stopped burning you opened your eyes and narrowed them.

           “You will die here,” The man stated and twirled the knife, an odd tick. A bloody smile crossed your face and you spat the blood in your mouth to the ground.

           “I know,”

           It turned out that they didn’t plan on killing you that or next or even the day after that.   It had to have been more than a month now. The problem it seemed was that they thought you had information that you absolutely did not. Dragged out of your small cell you gazed at the halls. By now you had the route memorized. Two rights and then a left and you would be strung up, beaten senseless, and then returned to your cell. They had recently gotten creative. The starvation wasn’t too bad. Nor was the drowning if you were being honest. It was the lack of sleep that was starting to get to you. It was the lack of sunlight. Today was particularly bad. Right. Right. Left. The rattle of chains. The unnerving feeling of being lifted off the ground. Then you were met with silence. Opening your eyes you leveled the man you had become rather well acquainted with a cold stare.

           “Getting’ bored?” You asked. He said nothing and looked at you. Today there was no knife in his hand. There was no other instrument that he could cut you open with either. That meant one of two things. It would either be his hands or something far less pleasant.

           “I just find it interesting that you have lasted as long as you have. Whether you tell us the information or not does not change the outcome of what happens here.” The man walked over to the table at the far end of the room and picked up a blowtorch.  Letting out the bitter breath you had been holding in, you adjusted and gripped the chains above the manacles.  The sound of the gas being flicked on and ignited sounded like a bomb going off. It smelled.

           “Well I’m nothing if not stubborn.” The man approached you and put a steadying hand on your hip, hands strangely gentle. Panicked breath left your body as he leaned in.

           “True, but we’ve reached the end of the line.” Those cold eyes studied you and you knew that this time it was true. Steadying yourself, you looked the man in the eyes.

           “Well let’s get on with it then. It’s rude to lead a girl on,” You pursed your lips and looked at the wall with words of goodbye stuck at the back of your throat. When the flame licked at your skin you didn’t bother to hold back the screams.

           Everything fucking hurt. The man tipped your chin up and you met his gaze. The subtle respect you saw there was surprising.

           “Would you prefer a knife or gun?” He asked and you choked. It was the first real choice you’d had in a month and the freedom of it was a bitter pill to swallow.

           “I think I’ll take the gun,” You choked out and let your eyes close. There were familiar sounds. The sound of a magazine being inserted. The sound of the slide being pulled back. A bullet entering the chamber. The sound of gunfire…the screams of men screaming. Opening your eyes you saw that the man was standing at the door pistol raised before he glanced at you. Please, you thought, be stupid. It turns out the man was a lot dumber than you originally thought. Walking towards you, he pressed the gun to your stomach. Clearly he was intent on taking you hostage. When the door opened and the end of a rifle appeared he glanced away.

           “You move, she dies!” He called out and turned his body towards the door. Snarling you lifted yourself up and wrapped your legs around his neck. The gun dropped from his hands and you squeezed. Hands ripped at your thighs, trying to loosen your grip.

           “Or you will,” You stated. The soldier on the other side of the doorway entered the room. Twisting your hips you snapped your torturer’s neck and let him slide to the ground. The soldier was watching you with something like awe and grabbed the keys. When he got to you, he assessed where would be the best to grab you. His eyes and hair were dark. The uniform he wore was that of the Marines. Gripping your hips he lifted you gently to alleviate some of the pressure and unlocked the first manacle. Slumping forwards you rested against his body as he repeated the action with your other hand.

           “I got ya,” He said and carried you out the door. You breathed in the smell of him. Sand and sweat.

           “Castle I got her,” The soldier who rescued you stated as you entered the main room. It was impossible but you lifted you head. Frank fucking Castle stood less than three feet from you. Reaching out, you made a noise at the back of your throat. The gun in his hand hit the floor and you were gently removed from the other soldier’s arms.

           “Curtis!” Frank yelled frantically, “Curtis get in here!” You reached up and traced your fingers over the tip of his nose and jaw.

           “Hi,” You smiled. There were a number of things you wanted to say. There were things you should have been embarrassed about. The fact that you were nearly naked and completely broken in a room full of Marines was one of them. But you were safe, Frank was here. It was laughable really that his unit was the one who found you.

           “Hi,” He answered and wiped tears away with his free hand. A man you assumed was Curtis entered the room and you saw that he was a corpsman. You were injured, right. Everything was just kind of numb at this point.

           “None of that,” You murmured and offered a small smile as you were eased to the ground. What came next was a blur. You were sure that Curtis got you comfortable and stable. You were sure that there was a helicopter ride. You were sure that you heard Frank whispering soft words in your ear.

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           Frank was next to your bed when you woke up, dead asleep. Smiling fondly, you tried to sit up. Instead you fell back against the pillows and let out a grunt. Frank was startled out of sleep and looked around before his gaze settled on you. The warmth of his eyes settled over you.

           “I feel like shit,” You told him and let out a shaky breath. Snorting, he got a hand under your head and the other under your thighs to help you sit up. The dryness of your throat was clearly apparent because he handed you a glass of water. You murmured your thanks and chugged it.

           “Easy there birdy,” His voice was low and gentle; “You aren’t exactly in the best shape right now.” The burns were still fresh enough to sting and your ribs ached but overall you felt great. It was then that the soldier who’d gotten you out of the room that day entered your temporary abode.

           “Frank-” He paused when he saw you sitting upright. Now that you weren’t delirious from a culmination of awful things you could see that he had an angular face with high cheek bones. The shape of his mouth was full and he had dark and wickedly intelligent eyes. Without thinking you blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

           “Well you’re the prettiest thing I’ve seen in a month,” Immediately you grimaced and Frank burst into laughter. Now that you really thought about it, there was the haze of morphine at the back of you consciousness. Drugs always made you irreverent and chatty. “Sorry,” You said to the soldier at the door. The whole time Frank was laughing before the other soldier gave a small chuckle.

           “It’s an honor ma’am.” He extended his hand and you took it in your own, “Billy Russo,” Even his name sounded nice. Frank had mentioned him more than once, he had your best friend’s back. There was a tick before Frank cleared his throat and ran his fingers through your hair.

           “Well corpsman, it is my absolute pleasure to inform you that you will be going home as soon as you’re fit to fly.” Frank had that soft sound to his voice but his eyes were trembling with rage. Not at you, never at you. Reaching out you patted his cheek, fingers lingering. Don’t be angry, the action reminded him, I am safe.

           “Franky, I can honestly say that day can’t come soon enough.” It was unspoken, how scared you were. The wounds might be healing but it wasn’t like you were actually okay.  “When do you get to come home?” When will you come back so I can feel safe again? The two of you had a way of communicating without words, something that Billy seemed to pick up on immediately.

           “Eh, we will be done within the next couple of months. Maybe sooner.” Billy told you and smiled gently. “Turns out the three of us are from the same area. Might even see you when we get back.” You appreciated that he was making the situation a little less grim, tense.

           “Well, I figure that I owe you a drink considering that you gave me the opening to kill that fucker.” You adjusted your position and looked Billy dead in the eyes, “Thank you, I mean it.” He shrugged.

           “Let’s just get you home, then you can buy me a drink.”

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           The flight home felt like an eternity. You didn’t like that Frank was still in the desert but you felt better now that you could put a face to the name Billy Russo. You were under the distinct impression that the two of them were close, that was good. When the plane touched down and you walked from the plane, through the airport, and into the lobby you took a series of deep breaths. Maria saw you before you saw her. The sound of her heels clicking on the stone floor alerted you to her presence. Arms wrapped around you and you tucked your head into her neck. Peaches and honey. Home. She still smelled the same and you gripped your arms around her tightly. Both of you cried, right there in the middle of the airport. It had to have been a funny sight. You couldn’t give a damn.

           “You look good!” You clutched her cheeks between your hands and she smiled so brightly it hurt.

           “Not so bad yourself,” She chuckled, “Frank made it sound like you were coming back looking like a corpse.” Leave it to Frank not spare any details of what had happed. “Now what do you want to do tonight?” She asked you.

           “Honestly, I just want to go home and have a bottle of wine and a hot bath.” You slung your pack over your back and walked out into the cool New York air. It still smelled the same. Like a ruthless combination of gasoline and snow.

           “That sounds perfect,”

           That night you ate greasy pizza and drank an entire bottle of wine. Maria helped you in the bath and you had never loved her more than when she didn’t stare at the scars marring your body. Even you couldn’t look at them. Maria washed your hair, nails dragging your scalp.

           “So I have something I need to tell you but you can’t tell Frank that I did.” She rinsed out the conditioner whilst shielding your eyes. Honestly that made you nervous. Frank could read you like a cheap book.

           “Okay,” You answered. Ride or die, you would support her.

           “Well, Frank got some leave two months ago.” You remember telling him to go have fun, take his wife on a date, “We’re pregnant,” Maria blurted out. Head whipping around, you looked at her face. She was trying rather poorly to hide the grin on her face.

           “That son of a bitch,” You breathed out. Naked as the day you born , you wrapped your arms around her and kissed her cheek. Water soaked through her shirt and Maria laughed loudly. “Congratulations Maria,” You told her. Maybe things were meant to be this way.

           A month later Frank got home with Billy Russo hot on his heels. When he announced that Maria was pregnant, you tried to conceal the fact that you already knew. Son of a bitch saw right through it and scowled the entire night. At least Billy was surprised.

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           “Okay,” You murmured and cut straight through Frank’s shirt. There was a solid eight inch gash from belly button to the middle of his torso. Accompanying that were a number of nasty looking bruises. “You tell me that you’re alive by breaking into my house and bleeding on my brand new god damn white sofa. Really Frank?” You gritted your teeth. There was nothing broken or puncture from what you could tell. Reaching into the medical kit you kept, you set up a line between the two of you. Along with everything else you to shared, Frank had the same blood type. Next came the morphine and lidocaine. Threading the needle through his wound, you stitched it shut with practiced fingers.

           “Didn’t want to put you in danger,” He murmured softly and you gripped his chin tightly. Looking him in the eye, you growled.

           “Don’t you fucking dare,” You told him. At this point the two of you were soaked in blood, him more than you. The air felt heavy with the tension of words that needed to be said and the state his body was in. You didn’t care how he got here. You didn’t care how he was alive. You just cared that he was safe and in your living room.

           After you had cleaned up the living room and given him as much blood as you could manage, you stumbled into the kitchen. Food and water, you needed to get both of your blood sugars up and keep him hydrated. Soup would be the easiest but you settled on grilled cheese. The sound of him shuffling into the room was almost startling. The thoughts in your head were too loud. Turning, you saw him standing there shirtless watching you.

           “Were you ever going to tell me you were alive?” You clinched your jaw and helped him settle on top of the bar stool. You already knew the answer.

           “No,” He was different now, all the humor and softness was gone. In its place was a stone cold expression and an unbreakable rage. Angrily you turned away and settled a plate of food in front of him and a glass of orange juice.

           “Eat,” You ordered, “Then I am getting you into the shower and after that you are going to sleep for no less than eight hours. Am I clear?” Frank nodded and took a bite of his grilled cheese, closing his eyes.

           “Am I clear?” You repeat desperate to hear his voice.

           “Yes ma’am,”

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           Getting him into the shower, you left him alone. Settling into bed you brought your knees to your chest and sobbed. Not because you were sad. Relief was washing over you. The phone beside your bed rang and you froze. Billy’s name showed up on caller ID and you answered.

           “Hello,” You answered and somehow managed to keep the tremble out of your voice.

           “Why do you sound upset,” Damn it Billy. Pausing for a mere second, you cleared your throat.

           “Just had a bit too much to drink that’s all,” It wasn’t like your drinking habit was bad but it was significant enough that the excuse was believable.

           “Do you need me to come over?” He asked and in the background you could hear him set down a glass of what was likely his own liquor. Sighing you looked out the window. You knew he would love to see Frank too but you wouldn’t risk it. Never again would you ever risk something that might put Frank in danger. It was clear who had been shooting up the gangs now.

           “No, I just need to be alone tonight Billy. I’ll call you in the morning, have a good night.” You  hung up the phone and set it on the bed.

           “You and Billy huh,” Frank said from the doorway. He leaned against the frame, arms crossed. It was so familiar, like no time at all had passed. You smiled bitterly.

           “Not really,” You told him as he stepped into the room. “Just when I’m feeling shitty and he’s feeling self-deprecating,” You didn’t tell him that his other best friend had fallen in love with you. You didn’t tell him that you used Billy just to feel some nights.

           “Well I believe you ordered me to get some sleep,” He said softly and his voice sounded incredibly raw, like he had swallowed an entire pack of razors. “You want me in the guest room or here?” Did he even need to ask? Flipping back the covers you took his hand and helped him ease down onto the mattress. Muscles taught, he seemed unsure of how to respond to your touch. Whether to flinch away or lean into it.

           “Just let me hold you,” You pleaded and guided him to lie against your chest. The softest of breaths tickled your skin. One of his hands was under your back and the other gripped your shoulder. Lightly you carded your fingers through his short hair.  He said nothing but his hands trembled and his body shook with silent sobs. You just held him tight. Never intending to let go. “I got you.” You spoke softly as his grip tightened. I’ve got you and not a damn thing could take you from me, you thought.

           Frank fell asleep on your chest, breathing slow and even. The smell of him was in your nose, it hadn’t changed. It was impossible to move. The trap of his arms was tight and sure. Sleep was evasive though. Memories of a happier time tried to fight past the trauma. Glancing at the clock you saw the number 4:05 on the face and sighed. There was no point in bothering to go to work. You wouldn’t be able to focus and that wouldn’t benefit anyone. Grabbing the phone you dialed the number for your boss and hummed when she picked up.

           “Hey,” You murmured quietly and cleared your throat, “I’m not feeling to great, food poisoning I think. You gonna be good if I don’t show up today.” You had never missed a day of work so your boss let you off easy. She wished you well and hung up. Frank nuzzled against your neck and hummed low in his throat.

           “Food poisoning huh?” He questioned sleepily. Sliding lower into the bed, you shushed him softly and went back to stroking his hair.

           “I said eight hours,” He chuckled softly and your heart broke. Behind that pain was still your best friend. Quietly he adjusted his hold on you, cradling you frame against his. Frank was always affectionate. It had raised some eyebrows from your unit, including Billy. You had assured them that Frank was nothing more than your best friend and work-husband. It was hugs and friendly touches. And on the bad nights he would lay next to you. You would lie on your stomach, his hands tracing your spine. His head would be on the pillow next to yours, both of you speaking softly. You would run your hands over his hair, his nose. Tonight you lay on you back, eyes on the door. Watching his back. What hurt was that he was letting you. He was just that damn tired. That damn broken.  Anything that came through that door would be dead before they could blink. Nothing, absolutely nothing would take him from you.

#frank castle x reader #blood and gore #Sad people just trying to be happy #Frank castle