#delirious but uninjured

[kaidatheghostdragon]

The Bats are all gonna want their chance in the treasuring after hearing the sirens brag about it. What do you mean Mischief is richer than god? At least they still (probably) dont know that Danny and Mischief are the same. Tim looks a little too calculating for Danny's comfort, but its *probably* just resting gremlin face. Hopefully.

However, all this chaos is starting to come to a head, good-natured as it is. Bruce has found hints that Ra's is in town, no doubt investigating the boy flaunting lazarus water by drenching everything in it. Bruce knows it isn't *quite* lazarus water, which means Ra's has probably figured that out too, but that isn't going to make Mischief any less interesting to him.

On top of that, sightings of the talons have picked up again. There haven't been any altercations (yet), but bruce is worried about how they'll behave while not under the control of the Court, or if the remaining missing members will find a way to regain control over them.

The Joker has also woken up from his semi-lucid state, though the Arkham nurses report that he's constantly muttering about the shadows having eyes and hasn't (yet) caused any trouble.

A few developers have tried to make moves to gauge the property value of Slaughter Swamp now that it's being cleaned up. The Sirens, Mischief, and Nightshade have had to scare them off. A few have gone missing. Tours into the swamp have picked up with the appearance of the alien plants, which have so far been tolerated. Nightshade has warned the tour guides that the plants will attack anyone who annoys them enough. Bruce is only about 80% sure she's joking, and that certainty drops with every new developer or surveyor that goes missing.

Gotham high society has been abuzz about Mischief's prank at the end of the Big Charity Gala. Apparently it was the Most Acceptable Rogue Attack Ever? He didnt attack until after the party was over, didnt steal anything, and the weird goo evaporated without damaging anything or causing adverse health effects. In summary, it made a great distraction to fill the media news space so no one has to talk about all the high profile arrests happening.

The information blockade isn't fooling anyone, though, if the parties in the streets and on the rooftops are any indication. Petty crime is down and drunken brawls are way up as the common people celebrate a major win against gotham's seemingly endless corruption.

And the newest member of gotham high society, Danny Nightingale, has been keeping all of Bruce's kids very distracted. Bruce would have suspected him of being Mischief if that didn't require him being in two places at once. Though, working with mischief wasn't off the table.

At least the kid couldn't have picked a more perfect time to move to Gotham - when all of its most predatory natives are running for their lives. And with all the jewelry danny had donated to the charity auction, he has high hopes that his kids will be able to ensure that danny is converted into a force for good instead of become the newest face for corruption in the city.

Crack prompt: Danny has declared war on the curses in Gotham. He is armed with a water balloon gun, but the balloons are full of medical-grade ectoplasm. He targets any location, ghost, or liminal being tainted by curses and/or corrupted ecto - absolutely drenching them before yeeting off again.

This includes the Bats. Danny is smart about it, though. He lived in Gotham for several months before acting, so he could get the lay of the land. He also waits for patrol to be finished before hitting the Bats - he doesn't want to interrupt their Quest to Better Gotham (or be labeled an invader to their haunt).

One night, Danny happens upon Batman patrolling alone and waits for him to finish cleaning up a crime scene before hitting they guy with a half-clip of balloons. Batman gives chase, like he always does, and Danny runs, like he always does. He knows by now that, for whatever reason, Crime Alley is off limits to Batman. The whole alley just gives off "no (other) bats allowed" vibes.

Red hood is just more territorial. Whatever.

At any rate, Danny is enjoying the chase, using just enough ghost powers to stay ahead of batman, almost-but-not-quite taunting him. Crime Alley isn't too far, so instead of turning invisible around a corner like he usually does, he makes his way to the Alley to see if the no-trasspassing rule is enough to stop Batman mid-chase. He leaps across rooftops and weaves through fire escapes, ecto-balloon-gun bouncing by its strap against his back, until finally he's at the border, slightly tapping into flight to make the jump across a slightly wider road into the alley proper.

He turns around immediately, spotting Batman skulking on the rooftop on the other side of the road, stopping the chase and suit half-covered in healing ectoplasm.

"Sanctuary!" Danny yells, pumping his fists in the air from getting caught up in the exciting rush of adrenaline, "I claim sanctuary!"

"Who the fuck is claiming sanctuary in my territory?" Red Hood booms from almost directly behind Danny. He would have yeeted out of his own skin from surprise if he hadn't spent years honing his ghost-fighting instincts. As it was, Danny instead whirled around and emptied the clip of balloons into Hood, purely out of reflex.

Hood stood there, drenched in ecto like his fellow Bat one rooftop over, glaring murder at Danny with glowing eyes. But his haunt betrayed Hood's true emotions.

Surprise, concern, impressed, you-little-brat.

Danny booked it to the fire escape and turned invisible the second he was out of sight.

[nyx-umbrakinesis]

Alastor decides to keep you... (Fluff)

---

Alastor sitting injured in his radio tower as you tend to the wound on his chest. Suddenly he cups your cheeks in his clawed hand.

Alastor: "Thank you for coming to find me... When no-one else has."

You: "Of course Alastor, you sacrificed so much for us. I care. Always."

Alastor: "How could I have never really seen you before."

Your heart stutters in your chest and a blush rises to your cheeks as you studiously concentrate on the last of the stitches he's enduring without even flinching as he seems to marvel at you.

Alastor: "Such a pretty little Doe."

You blush harder biting your lip and trembling slightly as his thumb traces your cheekbone, you think in your head he's just delirious from the blood loss.

You: "Hush now Alastor, you've been through enough."

Alastor: "I would do it again you know... Just for this moment."

Your heart hammers in your chest, you keep telling yourself it's the blood loss.

Alastor: "No-one has cared like this about me in a long time..."

You: "Al-"

His finger stills your lips.

Alastor: "I know, but let me have this, please."

You nod, and help him to the next room, relatively undamaged there's a small bed against the wall you help him into. You go to leave, to clean the blood and intending to check on him in an hour. But his hand stops you.

Alastor: "Stay?"

The vulnerability in his eyes despite his manic smile is all you need to melt, you nod and then squeak as surprisingly strong hands drag you down with him situating you on the bed with him.

He's so warm and your whole body stiffens, your heart pounding like a racehorses.

Alastor: "Can I keep you...?"

You look up at him again, cheeks pink, you had admired him from afar for so long now how could you ever refuse him, you nod and his smile becomes blindingly radiant.

Alastor: "Thank you, My Doe."

He leans down gingerly and kisses you, your panicked eyes flutter shut and you almost moan, he tastes like home.

You: "Sleep, I'll be here when you wake up I promise."

Alastor smirks.

Alastor: "Oh I know you will, good luck trying to get away from me now I have you little one, I don't part from what's mine with ease and I rather like you... Sweet dreams little Darling."

With another sweet kiss that has your heart racing and stomach swooping his exhaustion hits him and his eyes close, resting his head on the pillow, short little puffs of air escaping him as he instantly falls asleep.

You spend a little time just watching him, he looks so beautiful and peaceful like this, you had panicked when he hadn't been anywhere to be found after the battle, everyone else seemed to be mourning Sir Pentious and assumed Alastor had ran, but you knew better, he was many things but he wasn't a coward, he wouldn't have gone far and you were right.

His small smile is still there even as he sleeps and you want to reach out to pet his fluffy ears to see if they're as soft as you've often imagined.

Alastor: "It's rude to stare Dear."

You startle and he chuckles, Alastor's hand wraps around the back of your head and pillows you against a part of his chest that is uninjured, fingers stroking your hair.

Alastor: "You'll need rest too, the fight wasn't just mine."

You nod, pressing a shy kiss to his exposed skin, his breath hitches and he almost purrs at the contact. Kissing your crown one last time his static hum flares to life, giving you just enough sensation to drift off, you swear you hear a faint 'mine' from Alastor as you drift off.

[steddielations]

Eddie insists on cleaning the gutters because it’s “too risky” for Steve, in case he slips off the ladder and hits his head or something. Needless to say, Steve is standing in a hospital room several hours later waiting for Eddie to get out of surgery for his broken arm.

Steve’s not mad at Eddie but he’s really tense because he can’t stand it when Eddie gets hurt, especially for something stupid that Steve was perfectly capable of doing himself. He’s still stress-ranting to Robin when Eddie gets back and the doctors say he may be a little out of it when he wakes up.

Steve finally eases when Eddie blinks awake, “Hey, stupid,” he says softly.

Eddie blinks dazedly up at him, a dopey little smile forming on his lips, “Whoa, man. You're pretty."

Steve shakes his head fondly, realizing Eddie has no idea who he is, "Thanks, and you're so high right now, aren't you?”

"No, I'm single. Do you have a wife?"

"I have a husband.”

"Shit... Can he fight?"

Steve snorts, looking over at Robin who’s snickering quietly behind her hand.

"He's you, Eddie, remember?"

A big grin lazily breaks out across Eddie’s face, this unrestrained happiness that makes Steve feel like the sun just rose inside his chest.

"What? You're my husband?” Eddie exclaims, much too loud for a quiet hospital room but Steve doesn’t care, “Holy shit!” He keeps repeating it, blinking and rubbing his face with his uninjured hand, looking at Steve like he can’t believe his eyes, like he’s falling in love for the first time all over again.

As the nurses come in and out of the room, Eddie just keeps telling everyone, “Look at my husband, I hit the pretty boy jackpot,” giggling deliriously when Steve holds his hand. It’s cute enough to make Steve forget how mad he is for now.

[b33zlebubz]

RECKLESS ABANDON | CHAPTER NINE PREVIEW

The rhythmic beep of a heart monitor is constant background noise over the course of the next week.  If it weren't for the throbbing pain of a concussion in your skull you'd be restless in the quiet silence, but right now—all you really have the energy to do is sleep.

What happens between Soap finding you and arriving back at another base is a blur.  You remember getting a hug from Price upon getting ushered back into another helicopter, and you remember Gaz looking rather worse for wear as he limps down a runway—a twisted arm positioned over Soap's shoulder.  

"Nice eye," you remember blearily telling Soap—a nasty bruise having formed where you had punched him earlier that day.  It's littered with specs blood from an unknown source.  Judging by the fact that he and Price are the only ones relatively uninjured, you figure you don't want to know.  

"Nice brain," he huffs back immediately, eyes flitting across the dried blood that soaks your hair and the side of your sweater.  "Y'lose half of it in the crash?"

Gaz chuckles at his shoulder, shaking his head.  For some reason, it makes you laugh too, and soon enough all three of you laughing through the pain—delirious and hurting.  Even Price chuckles a bit.

You remember throwing up in a bucket in the back of some SUV and getting put in a hospital bed with painkillers and orders not to look at anything too much.  You aren't even allowed to have the T.V. on, but you do so sometimes anyway, even if the sight of camo, big trucks, and guns in Avatar makes you nauseous all over again.

[apurekindness]

@honorhearted continued from [x]

With concern, she watched as he tried to wobble to his feet. A gentle hand came to rest on his uninjured shoulder, silently encouraging him to remain seated.

"You might end up in one yourself if you are not careful," she warned him in response to his talk of shallow graves, and she pressed the back of her hand against his damp forehead. He didn't seem to be running a fever, not yet at least. "I need to change your dressings," she explained.

She was used to the delirious mumbling of feverstruck men, but her patient's words were surprisingly clear and rung with a sense of urgency and truth. "Once I have tended to your wound, I can send a message to the general," she murmured soothingly, hoping to appease him. "Will you tell me your name?"

[hils79]

Title: Any Port in a Storm

Fandoms:  盗墓笔记 - 南派三叔 | The Grave Robbers' Chronicles - Xu Lei, 盗墓笔记重启 | The Lost Tomb Reboot (TV)

Relationships: Wang Can/Wang Pangzi

Summary:  

“I—” Wang Can’s voice is weak and raspy. Far from the smooth confidence when Pangzi had interrogated him that one time. “I was in the area and, fuck, I didn’t know where else to go.”

Wang Can huffs out a soft approximation of a laugh. “This is the second time I’ve woken up on a sofa with you in front of me. Are you going to tie me up and threaten to set me on fire again?”

Not through any sort of verbal agreement, but they don’t talk about their past encounter. Wang Can doesn’t like being reminded of his time with Wangs, and Pangzi doesn’t like being reminded of the time he threatened to torture someone who was little more than a kid at the time. 

“Depends how nicely you ask. Setting you on fire might be mercy anyway,” Pangzi snaps, more harshly than he’d intended in the face of what was little more than some gentle teasing. “What the fuck happened to you?”

Wang Can shrugs his uninjured shoulder. “Some asshole who hired me was trying to cover his footsteps. He got lucky. I’d have fixed it myself but he managed to hit me right in the spot where I can’t reach. So I just need you to pull it out, stitch me up and I’ll be on my way.”

He’s talking like this is an everyday occurrence and no big deal, instead of being weird and kind of fucked up. Who goes to someone for help who kidnapped them in the past? Imagine if Wu Xie had been home. “Hi, I know you wiped out the cult I was part of but can you do me a favour and pull this literal knife out of my back?” Or if it had been Xiaoge. “Yeah, the cult who raised me wanted to learn all your family’s secrets but I’m in a spot of bother.”

Really, it’s almost a blessing that Pangzi was the only one who was home. 

“Does this look like a hospital to you? That’s where you should be. I’m not a doctor!”

He knows it’s not that simple, and he knows full well why people from their world can’t walk into a hospital where people would ask questions. Especially when there’s a knife sticking out of him. But, still, this seems like something more serious than either he or a village doctor who is used to doing routine check-ups for the elderly is equipped to deal with.

He doesn’t often miss his life in the city, but what he wouldn’t give right now to be able to call Xiao Hua, Huo Daofu or Liang Wan. It was so much easier when he had fully trained medical personnel just a short journey away. 

“You were closer than a hospital,” Wang Can replies. His voice is a little softer than it was before and his words are slurring together. “I wouldn’t have come here if there was any other option.”

His eyes dart around the room and Pangzi has no idea what or who he’s looking for. Is he delirious? Does he have some sort of brain injury as well as the stab wound?

“Who are—”

“Does Wu Xie know I’m here?”

Ah.

Read the rest on AO3

[camels-pen]

love is blind (really REALLY blind)

Summary: Wes Weston was 14 years old when his soulmate died for the first time.

Ao3 Link | Chapter 1

Chapter 2

“You’re really smart, y’know?” Danny had said once, clearly delirious from pain. “If anyone deserved to find their soulmate, it’d be you.”

Wes hadn’t deigned to answer as, again, he was delirious, but it was something he thought about from time to time.

If anything, Wes had a better chance than most to find his soulmate. Was one of the lucky ones who even had the chance to find their soulmate. But that wasn’t what he was focused on right now.

Right now, he focused on the first part. Danny thought he was smart, and even though Wes’ numerous failed leads and searches would say otherwise, he chose to believe Danny, just this once, and put that supposed smartness to the test.

…Intelligence. Put that intelligence to the test.

Fuck, he was already screwing this up. Maybe he should just turn around and head home—

“Wes?” He flinched at the sound of his name, halfway to walking off the front steps.

He turned around with a small, awkward wave. “Hi Fen— Danny.”

Danny looked tired. The bags under his eyes heavier, more pronounced than before. “If you’re just here to yell at me again—”

“No! No, I’m here to—” C’mon Wes. You can do this. “I’m here to apologize.”

Danny scoffed. “Sure you are. Or maybe you just realized it’d be harder to get evidence with Phantom avoiding you.”

Wes blinked. “I haven’t been gathering evidence for a while now.” The other boy raised an eyebrow and Wes scrambled to grab his camera out of his bag. “Look see—just look through my pictures.” He waited as Danny did so, watching as he became more and more confused.

“But… if not that, then what?” 

“I was a shit friend to you,” he said. “You didn’t deserve that. Especially not when you were just trying to help.”

“You didn’t mean any of it.”

“That doesn’t make it okay,” Wes said. “But I’m gonna make it up to you.”

They talked a little more and by the end of it, Wes left with one less popsicle in his bag and a promise for a friend to visit him again.

---

It hardly took a few days for Danny to start to return.

Danny had floated into Wes’ room out of boredom one night, completely uninjured. Nothing out of the ordinary. Except, Wes himself was laying on his bed, having pulled a muscle in his left calf in Gym class and was trying to ignore the pain, hands long having grown tired of trying to massage it away. Danny stared at the way his leg was awkwardly propped up and wordlessly started massaging it himself.

They stayed silent a long time before Danny cracked.

“I’ll, uh—” Danny cleared his throat, never pausing in his ministrations. Never looking up. “I’ll help you look for them. Whoever they are.” 

“I know I was the one to tell you to start coming over more, but why help me?” Wes narrowed his eyes. “I thought you didn’t care about soulmates.”

“Well, I do owe you for all the bandaids. And the towels. And the rug that you try to tell me never existed, but I know you had at one point, and which you probably threw out because of the ectoplasm stains.” 

Shit. Uh. “What rug?”

Danny rolled his eyes. “Whatever. Point is, I owe you. Plus, it’d be nice to track down another halfa that isn’t a fruitloop or a sort-of younger sibling.” The pain had long lessened to nothing in Wes’ legs and Danny had given up his massaging in favour of drawing figure eights in his leg hair. “Maybe I can get an outside perspective on all this halfa stuff. Or at least get pointers on it.” 

Well, when he put it that way. “So, you’ll... what? Go on a cross country halfa-search or something?”

“No way.” He shook his head. “I’m taking a page out of your book. I’ll head to the library.”

Wes raised a brow. “You really think a library is gonna have books on half-ghosts?”

“Well, considering it’s a massive library in the Ghost Zone, I’d say so.”

Wes made a face. “What the fuck is the ‘Ghost Zone’?”

Danny laughed. “I’ll tell you about it someday. For now though, popsicle time.” 

Wes groaned.

---

Routine was quick to return. Danny was showing up like clockwork again. Unfortunately, Wes still had homework and soulmate research to do. And Danny was still very distracting.

There was this:

---

Wes pulled a notebook and a small pencil from his pocket, relaxing back in the armchair. He still had to brainstorm ideas for his upcoming creative writing project.

“Hey, Westifer.”

It was supposed to be a picture book story for little kids, with morals to match. 

“Westopolis.”

Had to take into account the minimum amount of pictures to include too. He definitely didn’t want to write about some big and detailed land of fantasy and then fuck up while drawing.

“Westeriah.”

Wes threw his pencil at him. Danny caught it. “What is -eriah supposed to belong to anyway?!”

“Westeriah. Obviously.”

He groaned. “What the hell do you want.”

“I’m bored,” Danny said, tossing the pencil in the air and catching it one handed. “You wanna get married?”

Record scratch. What did he say? 

“Hey, earth to Westifer,”—Danny poked his knee, a bored look on his face—“I asked if you wanna get married.”

Wes let out a quiet, shaky breath. A joke. Of course. 

He tried to ignore the feeling of disappointment in his chest. Tried to ignore the brief flashes of sweeping venues and ringing bells and close proximity in bespoke tuxedos.

“No,” he finally said. “We aren’t even dating. We haven’t even found our soulmates.” A bitter reminder. To himself. To Danny. “And I’m not dating your half-dead raccoon looking ass.”

Danny stared at him a moment, his eyes widening slightly, shoulders drawing together just the slightest bit. He put on a grin. “I’m a little offended. Is this how you treat all town heroes, or just me?” He waited a beat too long to sound natural, unaffected. He continued, “And it’s kinda stupid to be waiting on soulmates, don’t you think? I mean, mine probably thinks I—”

“Fenton. Shut. Up.”

Danny snapped his mouth shut. 

Wes glared at him. “You can talk about your own soulmate all you want, but don’t try to convince me not to wait on mine.” He didn’t care how his heart betrayed his soul, Wes was going to be with his soulmate one day and he wouldn’t allow anyone, not even Danny to ridicule his choice.

Danny looked away, hands clasped tightly above his stomach. The pencil stayed suspended in the air. “R-Right, yeah, you’re right. Sorry, Wesley.”

All at once, Wes deflated. The idiot was too hard to stay mad at. “Just. Remember that next time you wanna rant.”

“I will.” His own shoulders started to fall. “I promise.”

Wes snatched the pencil out of the air. “Alright, bed. Now.”

---

It wasn’t. A great day.

Then there was this:

---

Danny held tight to his arm, leaning heavily against his shoulder. “Nooo, I can't go. Not when you’re so warm, so tender.”

Wes fought down a blush and tried to pull away from him. “Stop quoting Ember at me. Bed.”

“Only if you agree to remember my name.”

“Bed. Now. Before I drag you there and sit on you."

He made an overexaggerated gasp. “Wesley, that is no way to invite a good half-dead boy like me to—”

Wes shoved him off the couch.

Danny whined, “I’m injured!”  

“You have a mild headache.”

Danny ignored him. “I can’t believe you did that. You should have your first aid certification revoked. I should get compensation—”

“I’m not first aid certified.”

Danny paused, mid-rant. Good. “Then how do you know how to use a first aid kit?”

“I don’t.” 

“You do, though.”

“No, I know how to sew ‘cause I used to do it with my mom. And gauze is pretty easy to figure out.”

“Wait wait—” Danny slowly pushed himself up to sitting cross legged. “So what’ve you been doing this whole time?”

“Relax, I kept the stitches simple—and durable, since I’m sure you don’t listen to me when I tell you to take it easy.” Danny whistled an innocent tune. “Yeah, that’s about what I expected.”

“...And the other stuff?”

“Taking care of you is pretty fucking easy.” Wes rolled his eyes. “You whine when you’re hungry, you moan and groan when you get a little bit hurt, you get sleepy and clingy when you get seriously hurt, you like being loud and obnoxious, and you can be trained to do several things in exchange for a little treat,” he said, counting off on his fingers. “It’s just like when we had to dogsit our neighbour’s golden retriever, except you’re a lot more rude to me specifically.” 

“Are you calling me a dog?”

“Basically.” He was cute like one too, said an absent thought popping up in his mind. Wes mentally drop kicked it away. 

Danny scowled at him before brightening, a mischievous grin slowly spreading on his face. “You know what else dogs do?”

“If you say ‘play dead’—”

“They think they’re lap dogs, no matter the size!” He jumped up on top of Wes.

“Your stitches, moron!”

---

It was better. He had fun teasing Danny with his canine similarities.

And then there was this:

---

Danny hummed, the tone somewhat ominous, and squinted at him. “I’m gonna ask Sam to teach you stuff.”

Wes rubbed a hand down his face. “You’re really gonna be petty about this? You’re the one who started criticizing my skills.”

“Yeah, but if I’m helping you find your soulmate then I’m getting quality grade A first aid. Or, at least, the closest you can come to it.” Danny leaned back against the couch. “Sam’s a wizard with general health stuff.”

---

Then this:

---

“I will suffocate you in your sleep.”

“Gotta get me to sleep first though, dontcha?” 

“You really think you can get away from me right now?” Wes pointedly bent down to poke his side. 

Danny groaned from his spot on the floor. “Abs-Absolutely. I’m the one with the ghost powers. Watch.” Danny vanished. Wes stared at the empty space. A few moments passed. Wes lightly kicked at where Danny’s legs used to be. Visible sock met invisible hazmat suit. 

Danny grumbled, becoming visible once more. “I could move if I wanted to.”

“Mhm, whatever you say.”

---

Then this:

---

Wes’ vision turned black and white. 

“Son of a bitch.” Wes ran to his computer, all thoughts of sleep forgotten as he scoured internet forums and ghost hunting websites. One of them had to have reported a spotting. His soulmate was either causing trouble or trying to prevent it. He didn’t really care which, just hoped that someone had finally gotten a video, an image— something.

“Wessss,” Danny called from the bathroom. “You’re out of toilet paper.”

He glanced at his monitor. Glanced at his door. 

He sprinted to the hallway closet and left a couple rolls on the floor outside before running right back to his room.

He had hardly two whole minutes before his full colour vision returned, followed shortly by Danny draping himself on the back of his chair and asking about animal crackers.

---

And then, finally, this:

---

“I’ll be up a bit longer,” Wes said, nodding his head towards his computer. “Do you mind?”

Danny shook his head, pulling the hood of his hoodie up. “Nah, go for it.” He pulled on the hoodie strings tightly, shrinking the edges to his face, and turned on his side, facing the wall. 

“Cool. Have a good sleep.” With that, he pulled out his desk chair, about to sit down when Danny’s rings came to life and his vision started doing something funny.

As Danny’s rings moved across his body, the colour in Wes’ vision slowly faded in, as it had numerous times before. 

He stood there, stunned speechless.

Danny was his soulmate. Danny was his soulmate. Holy crap. He felt something warm curl around his heart. Followed closely by embarrassment.

Danny was his soulmate. Fucking, of course. It was the only thing that made sense. Literally, how did he not notice?!

Wes was torn between screaming like a little kid in a candy store and screaming like a horrified adult who’d just fallen through a gutter.

Both feelings warred internally, but neither displayed externally, it seemed.

“Mh, Wes?” Danny had turned over, perhaps at the lack of clacking from his keyboard. “Why are you staring at me?”

The words left his tongue as he was still processing. “That is the ugliest shade of green I’ve ever seen in my life.”

“If this is about my stitches—” Danny blinked, suddenly much more awake. “What?”

“It’s puke green. It’s gross. Why do you even have it,” he said, the words feeling detached from his brain. “It’s ugly.”

Danny groaned. “I know, but it’s the best thing for covering ectoplasm stains in both forms—” He paused, brows furrowed. He stared at Wes’ eyes. “Did your soulmate change back—?”

Wes grabbed the front of Danny’s sweater and pulled him forward. He smashed his lips to Danny’s and it was awkward, their noses hitting together a little painfully, but it was also the most perfect thing he’d ever experienced.

When the need for air won out, he pulled away, taking in Danny’s wide eyed look and pink cheeks with a smile.

“It was you,” he said with a laugh fully baked in relief, the beginnings of tears building on his lashes. All those times his vision switched during school. All those late nights in grayscale whenever Danny visited as Phantom. That first time Wraith made an appearance. “It was always you.”

“Huh?” Danny said, voice squeaky.

“You’re my soulmate, Danny.”

“I’m—you’re— we’re —” he waved a finger between the two of them. “Holy fuck, for real?” Wes nodded. Danny ducked his head. “And you’re okay with it being me?”

Wes could’ve called him an idiot. Could’ve pointed out the past thirty seconds. Could’ve laid out the evidence just in case Danny didn’t believe him.

Instead he pulled Danny forward again, slower, more hesitant, and kissed him softly on the lips. Danny made a surprised sound, but his eyes quickly closed as he began to kiss back.

Wes threaded one hand through ruffled black hair, pushing down the hood as he went. The other hand cupped a warm cheek. He smiled into it as Danny put his arms around his neck.

They parted. Wes leaned back, abruptly a little nervous, and Danny did the same.

Danny touched his lips, the pink on his cheeks spreading up to his ears. “Does that answer your question?” Wes asked.

The other boy glanced up at him. They stared at each other for a moment, Danny’s eyes only barely flickering to the side. Then the corner of his mouth twitched. “I don’t know. I think you’ll have to show me again.”

Wes smiled, leaning in for round three, when his eyes glanced at the clock. He scowled. “Oh no you don’t.” He pushed Danny to lay down on the bed. “You’re not tricking me that easily. It’s still bedtime. We can talk about it in the morning.” Danny turned away and clicked his tongue. “I heard that.”

He turned back and grabbed Wes’ waist in an unforgiving grip. “Aww, Wes, c’mon, I think I should get a pass on sleep tonight.”

“Unless I read the room wrong, I’m pretty sure you’ll have some nice thoughts to fall asleep to. Plus, it’s not like I’m leaving the room, I’ve just got stuff to do.” Wes said, trying to pull away. 

Now that he knew who his soulmate was, he should probably get started on wiping all of those suspicious internet searches in his browser history. And delete all of those accounts on those less than legal websites. Maybe just delete Tor entirely and attempt to wipe any trace of it from his hard drive.

“Traitor. Leaving me to the wolves like this.”

“It’s a bed.”

Danny sighed. “Couldn’t you at least sleep with me?”

“I mean, I’ll sleep eventually, but you’re hurt. The bed is yours—”

“Studies show cuddling helps with nightmares.”

Wes paused in his attempts to pry Danny’s arms off of him. Danny was pouting up at him, his lower lip stuck out and trembling slightly as he looked at him with the biggest pair of puppy dog eyes he’d ever seen. 

But no. Wes was stronger than this. He wouldn’t—

Wes found himself under the covers in a matter of moments, a passed out Danny Fenton curled around him, and a desperate hope that Kyle wouldn’t need to use his computer before he cleaned it up tomorrow.

It was surprising how quickly Danny fell asleep cuddled against him like this, but Wes had no problems with it. Just the opposite in fact. And—Wes thought as he let himself focus on the warm puffs of air tickling his neck, the messy black hair against his cheek, and the warm body in his arms—he could certainly learn to get used to this.

He laid a hand on the back of Danny’s head and considered that, maybe it would be worth it if Kyle saw, if he got to keep cuddling with his soulmate like this as long as possible. It didn’t seem like that bad of a trade off.

…No, Wes was definitely wiping his computer first thing in the morning.

[hirik0]

In his shadow part 5

Young Price/Nik

Nik POV

CW: torture, description of injury, near death expirince

Nik is in bad shape like tortured and stuff but Price saves him they kiss but nik wont remembers because he's delirious

Sometimes being unconscious is a blessing. Because then you at least don't feel the pain but Artyorm would not let him have this. Would not let him have a moment of piece. Everyday till XX caught him was worse then the last one. Honestly he knew when he agreed to the deal that he won't survive it and he dont think its because Kate don't want to pull him but more that they won't let her. So even when the first people got suspicious of him and he didn't leaked any information as a safety precautions for a while, he still got caught. He dont even know how painless breathing feels like, but still he didn't tell them anything. They still think he works for the Russian government and he just never disagreed with them. "Nik, c'mon just tell me, so I don't have to ruin your pretty face", Artyorm says only getting a stuborn look as answer. A fist is colliding with his cheek makes his head snap to the side and for some reason he still has fight in him left. "So now I'm pretty again huh, but noy pretty enough to not replace me the second you think I won't return", Nik spats out getting his nose broken for it. Artyorm is leaning in forcefully grapping his hair, pulling some hairs out the force he's using making Nik his in pain. And that is what he thinks pisses them of the most not one's did he scream since his personal hell began nearly 10 days ago. "Is that why your a fucking rat because your jealous?", Artyorm wispers in his ear, rage and disgust coating his voice. "Does your ego need a stroke that desperately?", Nik asks back smug, knowing that Artyorm is getting frustrated with him not breaking. "You got me in a lot of trouble your lucky your dead body is not rotting somewhere never to be found." "I'm not lucky just stuborn." Another punsh and his nose makes a horrible crunching sound and then flood is surging from his now doppel broken nose. Somebody else is entering the warehouse they brought him two days ago. For the first time Nikolai is actually afraid, because Sasha entered the room, what ever time Artyorm was give to break him was up. Sasha looks over him displeased over how uninjured he appears, but Artyorm used brutal force, if he wouldn't wear a shirt you could see the gigantic black bruises all over his torso and back. "Treated your boy toy quiet well Artyorm, what makes Artyorm rip the shirt if Nikolai to show of his work. Sasha is pressing a finger against his rips causing Nik to squirm and hiss in pain. "Just tell us the name of your handler", Sasha says in a bored tone, like he has other places to be and better thinks to do, but his eyes are betraying him showing how exited he his to hurt Nik. To get the information out of him with all means deemed necessary.

Nik still haven't screamed in pain yet. And he has a concerning amount of knifes in his body now. "Tough littel rat aren't you", Sasha hisses angry, before leaving the room, probably to get new weapons. He returns with a bucket. Nik frowns then the shirt that Artyorm ripped of him is placed over his face. The chair is bulled back a bit so it only stands on the back legs. "Remember to breath", is all what Sasha says before purring some of the water in the bucket over Nik coverd face. He starts to cough instantly starting to panic because he can't breath probably. "Who is your handler?" If he never has to hear this question ever again it would still be to early. He will not say anything, he stalled a lot of time as well. Time in that Kate and John would try to find him, he has to hope the two trying to find him when they learn his cover blow. Well Kate would annoy Jonathan in to helping her of duty, but well he also would look. The piece of cloth gets removed from his mouth, he desperately takes several deep breaths, before coughing from the water he breath in, in his panic. Sasha makes a tsk sound before his mouth is again covered. Ever time water gets pured over his face is worse then the last one, but then finally the bucket is empty meaning he might gets a break from this. "You could have been a really valuable member for the cause, you know if you weren't so intressted in being Artyorms play thing. Shame that your just a traitor, somebody that can't understand our goals." "Thats because you never tell anyone what the goals are, can't understand things if they don't get explained properly", Nik coughs the sentence out. "We need a new elite, after the Revolution that replaced the weak monarchy fought so that just as week people can take over. But we we are strong, we can lead this country so much better." "For that you need survive the attempt to over throw the government first. Because if you fail you end up in the siberia to never been seen again." Nik paid a painful price for speaking the truth. Some of the knifes getting rearrange, moving from mainly his legs towards his arms and shoulder. He's still coughing up water every time he makes a sound he ends up having a coughing fit.

Nik dont know how long Sasha left him alone bleeding and coughing. The sun is setting when he returns and he looks angry. One of the knifes is brutaly ripped out of his arm to be just as brutal being ramed in his thight. He screams for the first time in 10 days. Sasha makes a pleased sound at this, before pulling all the knives out for now. Then his hands get cut free from the armrest. Bloddy cuts around his wrist. He gets pushed to the ground before his hands are ones again restrained. "It's very easy everytime I cut you you count them or say the names of your handler, if you take to long we restart at the first cut", Sasha explains giddy, clearly enjoying this. "Understood ", Nik says, he can do this, he just needs to count how hard can it be? Was it not for the bruises he would not have noticed he when got cut. The knife going through his skin like butter. "One", Nik says while the cut is keep going. "Smart one", the other mutters more to himself but Nik will slip up they all do eventually. "Twenty", Nik groans and then his blood frezzes when he hears the two slow. No No he didn't slow down, the cut wasn't even finished yet just like the others. The recuting stinks but how many recurs can he handel, the new cuts not just cutting the surface of his skin, going deeper, will go even deeper the next restart. "One." Tears are slowly gathering in Niks eyes, the pain just to much, he's still able to not sob the number. "Sixteen." "Restart." Nik knows that Sasha in the end can just restart when ever he pleases. "ONE", he screams in pain, the cut getting deeper again. The tears start running down after the 5th cut for this round, he's still not sobbing he will not give this psycho the satifcation of that. He trys not to scream to much, he needs his voice for as long as possible. He starts sobs after they restart after 25 cuts, the worst is he really is considering to just tell them. They sent him into his dead, he don't need to be loyal to them anymore. "One", he sobs and hears a satisfied noice from Sasha. "Twoo.. you're getting off on this aren't you?" It's just two cuts if they restart don't matter this much now. The sound of metal hitting the ground are sounding through the empty room. Then it burns it burns so badly while some sort of powder is put on his back. He screams in agony, wants to crawl forward away from what ever is hitting his back. A brutal grip his stopping him from doing this. Then the buring stops and he leans forward while crying it hurts so bad. He feels how his body try to pull him back into unconsciousness, but then a ice cold liquid is pured over him. "No passing out the only way this stops either you talk or you die, Nikolai", Sasha says while using one of the other knives he pulled out of his victim, that is pathetically shaking in front of him, from being in pain and because he's starting to freeze.

"TEN", Nikolai screams and then suddenly hear screams from outside. Sasha steps away and Nik just falls to the site. Ugly crying from the pain he's feeling. He owns Kate nothing and still he can't betray her. Knowing she's just following orders, Kate cares or atleast pretends like she does. Always telling him to be careful and she hopes they can get him out soon. He won't get out, blood starting to form a puddle that run out of the deep cuts if his back. He's starting to feel tired and he's so cold, what a miserable death. He is losing the feeling of how much time passed, but Sasha is gone for a while now. Each breath is taking more energy, his eye lids are so heavy and he dont think he was ever this tired. He dont even registers the sound of gun shots or how cold he his, his body is shutting down one function after the other.

Price kickst the door open of the last warehouse of the location Nikolai gave them and stops breathing for a moment. A bloody body laying in the middel of the room. And he just knows it's Nikolai. He and Bravo-3 are rushing towards the man, the least they can do is recover his body. Bravo-3 is feeling for a pulse frowning stripping his glove to feel again. "He's still alive", Bravo-3 says after feeling a weak pulse. "Bravo-0 we found the informant he's in critical condition we need a exfile ASAP", Bravo-3 talks in the radio while Price trys to get the Russian to open his eyes. Nik groans when he opens his eyes a tiny little bit. His vision is blurry and he only sees a blob in front of him. "Nik... lai..", the voice sounds like its coming out of a shitty radio he opens his eyes a bit more and the blob is becoming human shaped. "Nikolai", the voice is still strange but also oddly familiar, this must be what ever his brain decides to show him in his last moment. "Mom?", he asks the blob his brain slowly focusing his eye sight. "No, Nikolai, keep your eyes open we get you out of here", the voice says and he struggles to understand it because of a British accent. The human shape is slowly turning in to a man. He vaguely remembering he saw him before, but he dont know where, but if his brain decides to hallucinate a guy before is death he won't complain. "Jonathan?", he mutters in his curent state he has no idea where this name even comes from. "Yes." He trys to say something but he dont make a sound so the man is leaning in closer. If he wasn't on the verge of death he would have registered the warm air hitting his face. "Goodbye", Nikolai wispers before giving a short and weak kiss on the other man's mouth. The world is replaced by darkness.

[krombopulos-mercenary]

The Krombopulous family had always been a standout, unique. A "dirty" bloodline that no less remained a strong Beserker stock. Intelligence and good looks blessed them. Individual family members towing the line between conformity and disturbing the peace each generation without fail - and the final two members were a military defector turned infamous assassin and a high ranking member of the Galactic Rebellion.

If not for these differences, Krombopulos Micheal and Krombopulos Amy of Dimension A137 would already be dead. If not worse.

The uninjured drone trying to cage Micheal in the hallway had the right idea....if only the killer hadn't managed to roll out of the way and get behind the beast just in the nick of time. With one of the Beserkers injured enough that his movements were slowed, and they could no long rush the defector simultaneously, Mike could now concentrate on picking them off one by one.

And he was starting with the guy who was was rushing down the hall. Mike chased after him, rushing up and actually jumping onto his back. With a growl he climbed up to the Beserker's shoulders, with little care that such a move left him within easy reach, and attempted to just slice the drone's throat open. He stabbed his crystalline knife into that beefy bull-neck and started dragging it across -

=

As a (very unfortunately) frail member of her race, the elder sister had learned long ago that her cunning and her words were her strongest tools. Even when her health took a tipping point and her body had begun to fail her, Amy had not let herself fall into obscurity in terms of her goals. All because of her words. Her voice.

She'd also long learned the value of silence.

That was why she remained quiet when the senior soldier had argued against her about killing the infected Arlington. She'd already planted the seed in his mind and others even as he protested. Then Rick was coming in to defend her point and she really hadn't needed to say more. For once, the female was so glad for his blunt and crude way of speech. It did the trick. The sick soldier was cut down and reduced to a gore covered body on the already messy floor. She was even a bit happy when Rick tried for a joke afterward, that elevator felt so cramped....

If only that had been the end of their problems.

Pale, horror stricken faces watched the corpse as it creaked and cracked. Disgust and fear so permeable that anyone - aside from Rick - could hardly make a sound. Let alone move. The body writhed as if suddenly possessed, now that the rightful occupant was gone. As the torso moved this way and that, lifeless shoulders scrunching and shrugging to the sound of sickening bone snaps, Amy had the half delirious thought that perhaps another head was going to pop out of the remains of Arlington's neck, somehow someway. And that it would probably not be a gromflomite one either.

Instead, something arguably much worse happened.

With a final arch like a puppet simulating the throes of agony, the chest finally exploded. Another wave of diseased flesh and gore to splash all over the other occupants of the space. But there was hardly a shit to give about that considering THE CREATURE THAT HAD BURST FROM THE CORPSE!!!!

THE BABY LIZARDPERSON!!!!

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!!! CHITTER CHATTER CHETTER FUCK-!”

Rick wasn't the only one screaming their head off, Amy, always so careful with her words, was shouting her fucking head off. Screaming at octaves she hadn't reached since her juvenile years when arguing with Micheal. Her voice even delving into old gromflomite in a rare showing of just how fucking frightened she was.

This was worse than when they'd been faced with a temporarily psychotic Beserked out Mike.

She reacted in pure instinct, clutching onto Rick and damn well trying to climb up the wall with him. Their two backs pressing against the doors of their possible tomb.

"FUCKING SHOOT IT! SHOOT IT WITH A LASER! ANYTHING!"

X

[ironbloodcd]

“  i can’t make you trust me. but i’m gonna stick around long enough for you to realize you can.  ” from Diluc

memes for that specific brand of ships

@flametethered

He didn’t understand this man’s insistence - why Diluc was so intent on showing him a kindness that he didn’t deserve. Though they’d both escaped their latest battle relatively uninjured, his karmic debt had not been so unaffected. He barely recalled what had happened when the agony had overtaken him, the stain on his soul seeming to permeate every other corner of his being - only pain, followed by darkness when he’d lost consciousness, a shout of his name vaguely heard before the world became silent.

And when he’d woken in an unfamiliar room, tucked into a bed that certainly wasn’t his own and a cloth settled over his feverish skin, Xiao had been intending to leave quickly before his curse could cause harm to any who might have been too close. His attempts at climbing to his feet had been met with two obstacles - the weakness of his own, ailing body and the protests of a certain redheaded mortal who was quite firm in his urgings for the Yaksha to rest. Xiao’s own arguments fell on deaf ears, even as a palm that he normally would have been able to resist eased him back into the mattress and held him in place.

“Y-You… this has nothing to do with… w-with…” The hoarseness of his own voice had Xiao cursing within his mind, even as he found that what little strength he had was quickly spent on his efforts to simply sit up. The pain sapped his normally formidable power, leaving the Adeptus at the mercy of his stubborn caretaker.

He didn’t remember losing consciousness again. The next time he woke, however, Diluc’s hand was at his face, a cool, damp cloth wiping away the sweat that beaded upon the Yaksha’s skin. Softly did the tall mortal hush the delirious Adeptus, his other hand pushing strands of dark hair away from where they’d been plastered against Xiao’s brow, and dimly was he distracted by how soothing the sensation was. Xiao couldn’t recall the last time that he’d been handled so gently, but it must have been back when his brothers and sisters had still lived.

Why? He doesn’t realize that he’d spoken the question aloud until Diluc replies, the man’s added weight causing the mattress to dip slightly as the winery owner sat down.

“Because you’re not well, obviously.” The comforting motions continued, and Xiao found that he was unable to keep his eyes open, his lids growing heavy with every pass of Diluc’s fingers in his hair, “I’m not about to leave you to suffer by yourself."

Why? Again, the question slipped from him without meaning to, and this time, Xiao felt that hand in his hair pause. Gently, it slid down the side of his face until the curve of his cheek was cradled in Diluc’s palm tenderly, the other still wiping sweat from his skin with that cloth. With the last bit of energy that he could muster, golden eyes managed to slip open, only to meet with a set of fiery crimson that stared into his own with unwavering determination. They were the eyes of a warrior, of a man who didn’t give up so easily - they were the eyes of one who kept his promises.

“I can’t make you trust me - but I’m gonna stick around long enough for you to realize you can.”

It was the last thing that Xiao heard before sleep took him once more, swallowing him up in its dark embrace - one in which he could still feel the tender cup of a palm to his cheek, no matter how deeply he was dragged down.

[hufflepuffwritingstuff2]

an uninjured hero is being wheeled into villain’s hospital, unable to avoid sedation.

Ooh, Anon, I like your concept! Thank you for requesting this, I’ll give it a try! I’m sorry that it’s a bit short.

Hero thrashed and squirmed on the gurney as they were wheeled into the hospital, unable to free themselves from the straps pulled tightly across their body.

“There’s been a mistake!” Hero cried, “I’m fine! Let me go!”

Hero’s pleas fell on deaf ears as they passed several corridors into an operating room. Hero’s face fell as they saw the doctor in charge. Despite them wearing surgical gear, Hero could plainly see it was Villain.

“Relax, Hero,” Villain said with a wicked grin, “we’re going to take care of you.”

“Villain, do something!” Hero tried, “I’m not hurt!”

“Oh, Hero, you’re becoming delirious,” villain sighed, “nurse, bring me the oxygen mask.”

A nurse handed Villain an oxygen mask. Hero’s eyes widened.

“What are you gonna do with that?” Hero asked.

“This will help you relax, Hero,” Villain said softly.

“What!? No! stop! I said I’m fine!”

Hero tried to turn their head away, but Villain held it in place and strapped the mask over their nose and mouth. Already a strange gas started to fill Hero’s lungs. Hero held their breath for as long as they could, but their panic shortly caused them to hyperventilate instead. The more Hero breathed in, the more tired they felt. Their thrashing on the gurney died down as their limbs grew sluggish and heavy. Hero fought to keep their eyes from closing, but eventually they fluttered shut. Hero distantly made out the sound of Villain’s voice.

“Don’t worry, Hero, we’ll fix you right up.”

After that, Hero slipped into a forced sleep.

part 2

[whats-her-quirk]

Straight Shooter

yakuza!denki kaminari x reader 18+ warnings: blood, light descriptions of bullet wound, light gun play, unprotected sex, honestly it’s pretty vanilla but passionate wc: 6k a/n: I’m so excited to finally be putting out a new fic after the whirlwind that was kinktober. Here’s my entry for The Smut Pile server’s mafia collab. Once you read my piece, please check out all the other delicious, mostly nsfw mafia fics on the masterlist.

You didn’t expect to meet a cute guy on your late-night trip to the grocery store, but what you really didn’t expect was finding a cute guy practically bleeding out on the front steps of your apartment building.

You almost don’t see him at first, so you almost step on him, and then when he yelps, you almost drop your gallon of milk on his head. You scream too, probably almost as surprised as he is, but he brings a finger to hips lips to shush you. “Not so loud!” He winces in pain as he says it.

You look down in shock; he’s blonde with statement black streaks in his bangs that he wouldn’t be able to pull off if his face wasn’t so pretty. He’s wearing a leather jacket, has piercings up his ear as well as a stud in his nose and two beneath his lips, and he’s clutching one shoulder in his hand. Blood leaks out slowly around his fingers, and there’s a small puddle forming on the concrete under his arm. You wonder how long he’s been there. You only left for the store half an hour ago.

You gape at him as he hisses in pain, cursing at himself. Suddenly, you jolt back into motion, fumbling for your phone. “Oh my god, I’ll call an ambulance,” you tell the stranger.

“No!” He reaches out with his uninjured arm, but apparently even that hurts him, because he winces in pain immediately after. You shake your head at him, incredulous.

“You’re bleeding, you have to get to a hospital.” You frantically start to dial the emergency number, but the bleeding guy kicks his pointed boot up in the air, knocking your phone out of your hand. You shriek in a panic as it flies through the air and lands on the sidewalk a few meters away. You set down your groceries and chase after it, but it landed screen-down. Pieces of glass fall out onto the ground as you lift it up; it’s completely shattered. You can’t even read the screen before it goes black and refuses to turn back on. Life-proof case, my ass.

“What the hell?” You forget for a moment that he’s suffering, furious that your phone is broken, probably beyond repair.

The guy shushes you again, and you can’t figure out why he wants you to keep quiet. He obviously needs help, but he shakes his head. “No hospitals. I can’t…”

“What, you don’t have insurance or something? You might be dying and now I can’t even call anyone.”

“I said no hospitals. No paramedics or cops either.” He groans in pain again and rolls on the steps.

At this point, you should go inside and just ignore him. This guy is refusing your help, and you can’t very well force him to go to the hospital. It’s 2am, and if this idiot is just going to tell you to fuck off, it’s not worth waking up your neighbors to borrow a phone. You should try and forget this insane thing ever happened, but your feet won’t move, your hand won’t unlock the front door. You watch him writhing in pain. He doesn’t look good; he’s really pale and sweaty, and the puddle of blood is only getting bigger. His entire hand is turning red where he’s holding the wound just under his shoulder. You can’t actually see it, but you can tell it must be bad.

You can’t just leave him here; he could die. It’s practically the middle of the night, and it’s unlikely anyone else is going to pass by chance. He’s probably delirious from blood loss, or shock, or both. That’s why he kicked your phone and doesn’t want help, but he needs it, badly. Your sense of guilt takes over, and honestly, it probably doesn’t hurt that you also find him really, really attractive.

You crouch down so you can speak quietly to him. “If you won’t let me call an ambulance, then at least come inside and maybe I can wrap up your arm or something.”

His eyes shift from side to side, as if weighing his options, before he reaches out to you with his bloody hand with a groan. You can see there’s a hole in his leather jacket that his hand was clamped over. You grimace and pull your black hoodie tight around you before hooking your arm underneath his and helping him up. He hisses again as he slowly stands, leaning on you for support. You pick up your jug of milk and grocery bag with the hand that’s around him and manage to unlock the front door with the other.

You eventually get him into the elevator, but he’s faint and shaky as his weight slumps against you. He’s heavier than you expected, apparently more bulked up under that jacket than you could see but in a tight, wiry way. As you brace yourself against him, you ask, “What the hell happened to you, anyway?”

“Um,” he hesitates. “Well... I got shot.”

“Shot?” You repeat him louder than you should, and again he shushes you harshly. Then he holds his head dizzily.

“Are you gonna pass out?”

“Don’t… think so.”

You’re not convinced, but you decide to let it go until he can hold a conversation. If he does happen to pass out, you can search him for his own damn phone and call for help whether he wants it or not.

When the elevator reaches your floor, you quietly hobble together until you reach your apartment. The blood starts to drip down the sleeve of his jacket and onto your wood floor. At least it misses the rugs. You drop the groceries off on the table and usher him quickly into your bathroom. 

Thinking quickly, you unhook your arm from his side. “Get in the bathtub.”

“What?”

“Before you make even more of a mess. I can wash the tub out easier.”

He grumbles but creeps over to sit first on the edge of the tub, then he slides in so just his feet are dangling over the side. “Hey doll, can you help me with the shoes?” He sticks one foot in the air to show you the zipper along his heel.

You kneel by the edge of the tub. “Don’t call me doll.” You reach for his boot, but your hands shake as they find the chunky silver zipper. Wait. What are you doing? This guy is a complete stranger—a stranger who apparently goes places where one can get shot—and you invited him into your apartment? Alone?

All the thoughts that should have occurred to you on the front steps rush into your head at once. This could be a trick. Maybe he’s going to tie you up and rob you. Maybe it’s a setup for some kind of human trafficking ring. You took pity on him, and even if he leaves tonight, he knows where you live now. And that’s just if he doesn’t kill you first.

Then he moans and his head rolls over onto his shoulder. Well, he doesn’t seem to be in any kind of shape to use force against you. Either that, or he’s an incredible actor. And what if he’s just some poor, innocent guy, caught in the wrong place at the wrong time? You can’t stand to just kick him out. You’ll call the cops and report the whole story if he refuses to do it himself.

You steady yourself and unzip one boot, then the other. He’s shaking a bit, but he seems stable enough. You lift his feet and turn him to the side, so he’s sitting the right way in the bathtub. “What’s your name?”

“Denki,” he chokes out. You have no choice but to believe him. You tell him your name as you start to peel his leather jacket down off his shoulders, but he flinches away.

“Don’t,” he warns, and you tut at him.

“You want me to wrap your arm or not? I can’t do it over this bulky coat.” You give him a second to process as you open up the cabinet under your sink. You swore you had a first aid kit with bandages under here somewhere. Denki groans, this time from annoyance and not from pain, and you can tell the difference. 

You find the first aid kit and return to his side. You stare expectantly until he rolls his eyes, the corner of his lip curling into a humorless smirk. “Fine, but don’t freak out, ok?”

Your stomach drops. Shit. Does he just mean he doesn’t want you to faint when you see the wound? Internally, you’re already freaking out, but you try to keep it together.

Denki holds his arms back as you slide the heavy leather jacket off him. Underneath, he’s wearing what was probably a crisp, white button down before one arm was drenched in blood, but what’s more startling is the strap across his chest and the handgun dangling against his side.

“Jesus.” You can’t help but swear. Figures the guy who went out and got shot is also carrying a concealed weapon. Your hands start to shake harder.

“You said you wouldn’t freak out!”

“I never agreed to that.” You bite your sharp tongue. You’re not really in a position to be snarky here, not when you don’t have anything in your apartment to defend yourself against a tactical-looking pistol. You think you have a baseball bat in your closet somewhere, but what’s that going to do to stop a bullet?

“Ok, fair. But I swear, you don’t have anything to be worried about. I have no reason to use it.” Denki reaches for the buckle across his chest with his good hand and swiftly removes the strap. He sits forward and sets the gun and strap carefully on top of your toilet, then raises his hand in a show of surrender. “See?”

You force yourself to breathe. As freaked out as you are, despite Denki’s repeated pleas, you still feel guilty that he’s in such bad shape. His face is still so pale, and he doesn’t even look vaguely threatening. You can’t find it in your heart to kick him out. You have to help him. “Ok, ok.” You’re talking him down as much as you’re talking yourself down here.

You try to get back to work, and thankfully, the next step is an enticing one. One by one, you begin to undo the buttons on his shirt, revealing the toned muscles of his chest and abs. He’s in amazing shape, and you catch yourself biting your lip as you reach the final button, hovering over his golden belt buckle. It occurs to you that maybe he’s an undercover cop or something. Maybe he was hurt in action during a sting. He leans back, open and pliant as you pull his shirt carefully down over his shoulders—

“Woah.” While his chest is pale and bare, save for a light dusting of golden hair between his pecs, his shoulders are covered in ink that only keeps going as you pull his shirt off. Denki winces as the fabric catches and pulls on his wounded arm, sticky with half dried blood, but you barely notice. You’re too entranced by the swirling mosaic of imagery that colors him solid from his shoulder to his wrist. And you’ve been a bartender in this part of town long enough to know what these are.

“You’re yakuza.” You can barely get the words out before he stops you.

“I mean, yes. Technically.” There’s a certain snark to his voice, a cocky pride that’s also very self-aware and almost mocking. It’s a complex emotion that you’re not entirely sure how to process, but he keeps going. “I didn’t want to be, but I made some bad friends a long time ago. When I started owing debts, I had to get into the business.”

“Business?” you snort, again far too boldly, but there’s something about Denki that makes you feel comfortable enough to cop a bit of an attitude, a feeling that he can take it, that he wants you to play with him a little. He hadn’t stopped smirking since you unbuttoned his shirt, and you’re note sure if it’s from blood loss or arrogance. “I’d hardly call the mafia a business.”

“Hey, it’s not a mafia. To be mafia you have to be family. And those guys are NOT my family.”

“No, but you’re in deep enough that you’ve got…” you lean forward on your knees, checking to see, and yep. “A giant tiger on your back.”

Denki clicks his tongue. “Pretty cool, huh? Oh, fuck,” he looks down at his arm. “Shit, this one’s gonna be ruined. Damn.”

As Denki peppers in a few more curses, you finally allow your eyes to fall on the wound. It’s not quite as bad as you were imagining, but still pretty gnarly. The gash from the bullet is about an inch diameter, but perhaps thanks to his thick shirt and jacket, it doesn’t seem incredibly deep —just deep enough to bleed like a motherfucker, apparently. It’s a little too caked in blood to really tell the extent of the damage, but luckily you have a pretty strong stomach. Funny enough, the bullet seems to have hit in an ideal place: directly inside the curve of the neck of the majestic crane tattooed on Denki’s bicep.

First thing’s first, you’re going to have to clean up his arm and do some disinfecting. As you grab a clean washcloth and run it under warm water in the sink, something strange occurs to you.

“Hey Denki, what happened to the bullet?” You kneel by his side again and begin to lightly pat at the skin around the wound, cleaning the blood off in small patches at a time.

“Huh?”

“Shouldn’t there be, like, a bullet in your arm?”

Denki laughs nervously. “Oh, I uh. I pulled it out.”

“You what!?”

“Oh my god, I know. It was stupid, but I panicked!”

“That’s also probably why you were losing so much blood. At least it seems like it’s finally slowing down now,” you remark, patting at his arm with the damp cloth, which makes him hiss.

“I’ve been told I’m a good clotter. It’s helpful in the biz.”

“Please stop referring to the literal yakuza as if it’s just some day job.”

“Well, it’s really more of a night job, in general. Much easier to get away with stuff when it’s dark out.”

“Denki.”

He merely laughs as you scold him, and in spite of yourself, you do too. You should not be taking this so lightly; you were scared shitless only minutes ago. But the longer Denki sits shirtless in your bathtub, the more comfortable you feel, despite it all. He’s not intimidating, not scary in the least. He’s chill for someone in his position, and the longer you look at him, the easier on the eyes he gets.

Come to think of it, you’ve gotten to know each other well enough now. You feel entitled to some information. “So, what happened?”

Denki leans his head back against the shower wall, letting you tend to him as if it’s the most normal thing in the world. You pour some rubbing alcohol onto a cotton ball and lightly tap it against his arm. He hisses again at the sting, but relaxes immediately after as though he knows the burn is only to help him in the long run. You can’t help but think that maybe this isn’t his first rodeo.

He sighs before answering you. “That’s a loaded question. How far back are you talking?”

You laugh a little. Is he really ready to spill his entire life story to you, the stranger whose bathroom he’s stranded in? Serious again, you ask quietly, “I mean, how did you, you know, get shot?”

“Oh,” he replies casually. “Uh, I was supposed to meet some guys at a warehouse not too far from here to pick up a shipment and deliver some cash.”

You’re almost afraid to ask. “A shipment of what?”

“Guns.” He must see you gulp at the mention. “It’s not very interesting if you’re not familiar with them. Anyway, so I get there, and I show them the money, and they start telling me it’s not enough. And I explained it was exactly the amount we agreed on, but they didn’t seem to think so. When I tried to leave, well…” He motions to his bloodied arm and ruined tattoo.

You blink a few times as you process, then shake your head and apply the last few dabs of alcohol to the wound. It’s as clean as it’s going to get for now, and thankfully, the bleeding has slowed by a lot. As you reach for the gauze and bandages, you can’t help but remark, “I can’t believe they sent you to do something like that alone.”

“Oh, they didn’t.” Denki speaks casually, as if he isn’t surprised.

“What?”

“I had a getaway driver. I mean, I wasn’t gonna carry a giant crate of guns down the street on my back. But he must have dipped as soon as he heard gunshots. So after I shot the guy that shot me, I ran.”

You try not to think about that—this guy you’re really starting to like shooting someone point blank—and place the gauze over Denki’s bicep. Once it’s in place, you wrap the bandages tightly to apply more pressure and make sure he doesn’t lose any more blood. Despite the hostility on your front steps, Denki is a model patient, absently drawing swirls on the shower wall with his left pointer finger as you fuss over his right arm. When you run out of bandages, you secure the dressing with two metal clips and sit back on your shins on the bathroom rug.

Denki looks down at his arm, admiring your work. “Good as new. Thanks.”

You can’t suppress the dark chuckle that bubbles up from your throat. Denki cocks his head to the side. “What?”

His earnestness catches you off guard, making you feel giddy and embarrassed. You notice for the first time how gorgeously gold his eyes are, now that they’re not swimming in a haze behind half-lids. His smirk is crooked on one side, and you catch the hint of a dimple in his cheek. The color finally starts coming back to his face, and he’s even more handsome than you initially thought. Under your shirt collar, your neck feels hot.

You clear your throat. “You’re awfully nonchalant about literally getting shot, what, twenty minutes ago?”

Denki shrugs. “Part of the job I guess. It’s not such a big deal when you’re shooting guns and getting shot at every other day.”

You shake your head at him as he sits up in the bathtub, bracing his left arm against the edge to push himself up. He watches you expectantly, though you’re entirely unsure what you’re supposed to say. Shirtless and towering over you, as you’re still on the floor, you get a better look at his chiseled abs, toned shoulders, and the kaleidoscopic swirls of ink down his arms.

You find your voice after staring for too long. “Why are you telling me all this? Aren’t you going to get in trouble?”

Denki finally steps out of your tub and strolls out through your bedroom, and you have no choice but to get up and follow him. As he saunters toward your kitchen, he says, “Eh, I’m not going back, so it doesn’t really matter at this point.” He starts opening random cupboards before asking, “Can I get a glass of water?”

You show him where the glasses are and pour the water from your pitcher for him. “So you’re quitting?”

Denki downs the entire glass in about three gulps. “Well, after what happened with this job, I have two choices. One, I go back to the boss and he cuts off the end of my little finger as punishment, plus I get all the bitch jobs for the next who knows how long. Or two, I quit and make a run for it and never go back.” When he sets his glass down, you refill it for him instinctively as he continues to muse.

“They’ll look for me, but as you can probably tell, I’m not really that good at my job, so I doubt it’ll be worth more than a day or two of work for them. If I can lie low for tonight and get out of Tokyo in the morning, I’ll be a free man in a few days.” He chugs the rest of his water.

“A free man with yakuza tattoos and a hole in his arm.” You don’t mean to sound so sarcastic, but after everything he’s told you, it’s hard to be sincere. Denki laughs, though.

“Right.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Hey, thanks for helping me. I know I was kind of a dick outside, but I was sorta out of it.”

You smile. “Yeah, I could tell.” You pull your broken phone out of your pocket and set it on the counter.

“Ah, shit. Hold on.” Denki disappears again, shuffling quickly back to your bathroom. By the time you make it to your bedroom, he’s got his leather jacket laid out on your cleanly made bed. He reaches into an inside pocket and pulls out a sizable stack of yen; large bills, from what you can tell. You smirk. Idiot got shot in the arm but managed to keep a hold on the money.

He counts out several bills before handing them to you. “That should be enough to buy you a new phone, right?”

Hesitantly, you reach out and take the money. You can only imagine what he did, or what his former ‘business’ did, to get it, but you’re not really in a position to turn down the cash to replace your phone. “This isn’t counterfeit, is it?”

“If it was counterfeit, they would have shot me in the head, not the arm.”

You purse your lips and look down at the money in your hand one more time before tucking it into the top drawer of your dresser, under your socks. “Thanks.” Your voice is quiet but genuine. Something about the transaction feels final, and to top it off, Denki puts his shirt back on and fixes the strap of his gun across his chest.

He folds his leather jacket over his left arm and heads for the door. He steps around a few stray drops of his blood staining the floor. “Sorry about that,” he mumbles.

You try to keep your voice from shaking as you ask, “Where will you go?”

Denki ruffles his own hair. “I have some friends in Shinjuku. Or at least I think they’re my friends. I can probably crash there—”

“Stay here tonight.” You can tell from the way his face drops that you sound desperate, and maybe that’s because you are. He just got here, and you’re not ready to let him go yet. Not when every second that ticks by leaves you feeling fonder, more comfortable, more turned on in his presence, despite the circumstances. You’re not usually this impulsive, but Denki’s making you crazy.

His leather jacket hits the floor with a clumsy flop. Two cold hands cup your face and before you can even suck in a breath, Denki’s kissing you. You tilt your head to the side and let your lips meld with his between shaky, hungry exhales. He opens his mouth and sloppily slides his tongue behind your teeth as he pulls you in closer, pressing harder against your mouth like he’s trying to reach deeper inside you. Every movement is urgent, wanting, almost frantic as you kiss him like it might be your last and only chance.

You fling your arms up around his neck as he stoops, reaching for your lower back. He gathers you in his arms as you grip him tighter, terrified of the moment when he lets go. Instead, he hums into your mouth as he kisses you wetly, saliva coating your chin, but you don’t care. You take the opportunity to suck his tongue between your lips, and the moan he releases is lewd enough to make a porn director blush.

Panting, he pulls back and presses his forehead against yours. Something about his face has changed. His expression is darker, tinged with lust like a filter over a photograph. Pupils wide, searching your face for an answer even before he asks, he chokes out, “Bedroom?” in a low tone that makes your stomach flip.

You shut off the light before grabbing his hand and practically pulling him on top of you on the bed. There’s no time for thinking, no time for second guessing. You want him, need him, right now. 

Straddling you on his knees, Denki hovers over you, his weight balanced on his good arm. Your eyes trace over the sharp edge of his jaw, the blood soaked sleeve of his shirt, the glint of light off the shiny metal of the gun dangling under his right arm. 

The gun.

You grab his waist, holding him at arm’s length before he can dip down to your lips again. “Take that thing off. Does it even have a safety?”

Denki rolls his eyes but obliges, sitting back on his shins to unhook the strap once again. “Relax, the safety is—” he pulls the handgun from the holster and looks down at the barrel. Hi eyes go wide before he clicks a small button into place, “—on.”

“Fuck, dude,” you breathe as he leans over and sets the gun down on your bedside table.

“Cursing already? I haven’t even done anything yet.”

You roll your eyes before reaching up to him, stretching yourself up to lock your fingers behind his neck. With a fire burning in your belly, you pull his lips into yours, enveloping him in more deep, hot kisses. He holds himself up on his good arm as he fumbles with the buttons on his soiled shirt with shaky fingers. Without breaking your kiss, your hands wander down to take care of his shirt for him, tearing at the threads because really, the shirt is ruined anyway. Against your inner thigh, you feel him harden in his jeans.

He exhales against your face, chin dropping to his chest as you push the shirt down his arms, and then he laughs. “Undressing me for the second time tonight? My, my, you certainly are a minx.”

It would sound ridiculous coming from anyone else’s mouth, but you love the way he talks to you. You back arches at his playful, lilting tenor, forcing a shudder from your throat. You want him. Badly. “Shut up and take your pants off,” you tease, earning a wicked smile that glints in the light from outside your window.

Undressing is tricky with only three reliable hands to go around, but in a flurry of limbs, you manage. Denki flops over onto his back to yank at his belt buckle and zipper while you whip off your top and pants. When he rolls back over, dick imprint obvious in a pair of light gray boxer briefs, he finds you in a mismatched bra and panty combination, but his eyes light up regardless.

His palm immediately finds your breast and kneads into the soft flesh. You hum and sigh as his mouth finds your neck, sucking down hard when his thumb dips under the cup of your bra to tease your nipple. Every motion he makes feels so good, so instinctual. Something about your bodies molding together feels so right, despite the fact that you practically just met.

While Denki sucks wet love bites into your throat, you reach down to stroke his cock over the fabric of his underwear. A wet spot of precum is already forming just under the waistband, where his length is straining against the cotton. He groans as soon as you touch him, lips curling sinfully against the veins in your neck. Hearing him so brazenly open for you flips a switch in your body, tilting your pace into full gear. 

You tug his waistband low on his hips, and his cock barely has time to slap against his stomach before your hand is wrapped around it. He’s an average thickness but long, with a slight curve to the right that has your mouth watering. As pitiful moans fall from his lips, you focus first on his blushing head, swirling your thumb over the droplet of pre at his tip. 

Denki’s back and throat arch away from you in complete ecstasy, his Adam’s apple bobbing with every rotation of your thumb. Soon enough you’re pumping up and down his shaft as he thrusts into your hand, and when he finally opens his mouth to speak, the words pour out a mile a minute without pause. 

“Oh, fuck. Fuck me. You’re such a good person. You didn’t have to help me, but you did. You’re too good for me, oh my god. Fuck. You shouldn’t be—”

“Denki, I want this,” you mewl as he unravels. “I want you so bad.”

He bites his lip, eyebrows furrowing like he can’t believe what’s happening in front of him. Then he shrugs his bandaged arm. “Might be easier on both of us if you ride me then, baby.”

Using your hips as leverage, you roll Denki over onto his side with a gasp. You’re careful of his injured arm as you press him onto his back, letting your breasts squish against the contours of his chest as you kiss him. On your knees, you let your hips sway in the air while Denki’s hands twitch against your back before snaking between your pelvis and his.

He shimmies his boxer briefs the rest of the way to his ankles and kicks them aside. You feel his heels digging into the mattress between yours as he pushes his thighs out wider, effectively spreading your legs with his own. Long, deft fingers rub against your clothed folds, pausing to lavish your hole and your clit on either end of each stroke. You wish you could get your damn panties off, but it feels so good you can’t move. You moan instead, whining uncontrollably while he plays with you, and you’re almost reduced to begging before a particularly needy whimper has him pushing the fabric to the side and spreading your juices up and down.

“Condom?” he pants.

You shake your head. “Pill.” Besides, you want to feel all of him.

“Fucking hell,” he grunts as he takes your hips in his hands, lining himself up to your hole. With one thrust, he’s fully inside you. You fall forward, hands finding the pillow on either side of his head as you scream. It hurts, splits you in half down the center, and still, you can’t get enough of him.

Denki throws his head back, pressing into your pillow, as he begins to rock inside you. “God, you sound amazing. Don’t stop, please don’t stop.” He holds you tightly by the hips, changing your angle ever so slightly with each rolling thrust until he finds that spongy sweet spot that makes you wail in delight on top of him.

“Come on, baby, bounce for me,” he pleads, and you obey like you’re under some kind of spell. You grab onto a handful of those streaked bangs of his, pulling up toward his crown, and use your thighs to lift and drop yourself onto his cock. You can feel the threads of your panties pulled almost uncomfortably tight against your hips, digging into the curve of your thighs and snapping around your legs. “God, yes,” you hear him sigh before lifting his hips to meet you in the middle.

Waves of tingling heat course through you from head to toe, pooling heavily in your lower belly. You feel tight, like you’re squeezing every muscle without meaning to, and from the way Denki chokes on his breath, you know that includes your pulsing cunt. Your fingers are still laced in his hair as you begin to lose yourself in the heat, the passion of the moment, and before you know it, you’re sobbing out his name with every wet thrust.

“Denki, Denki, please, I’m—” It’s all the warning he needs. He swiftly puts two fingers in his mouth and then places the wet digits against your clit, a string of saliva connecting his mouth to your core. He rubs and lightly pinches, plays with the already singing bundle of nerves until your eyes pop open and then close tightly again as whimpering and clenching signal your release.

As you unravel on top of him, abdomen shaking and head thrashing from side to side, Denki uses your locked-up body to chase his own orgasm, jackhammering against your shocked body. It takes only a few more seconds for him to join you on the other side, sitting up halfway as he cums inside you with a shout.

His head falls to your heaving chest as liquid drips out of your spent hole and onto his lap. He holds you upright—you can’t do it yourself—as you catch your breath, sweetly pressing lingering kisses to the swell of your breasts. In all your haste, you never even got to take your bra off.

But it doesn’t matter. None of it matters as Denki reclines onto your mattress and pulls you down with him. For a while, the world has ceased to exist; you’re just two people who found something in each other you didn’t even know you were looking for.

A heavy pounding on the door jolts you out of your bliss. The deadbolt rattles in the lock, metal against metal, and you hear voices, lots of them. “Kaminari! Where’s the money?”

Denki scrambles out of your arms and your bed, cursing as he pulls on his jeans without bothering to look for his underwear. There’s no time. “What’s going on?” you scream in a whisper, jumping up to grab the closest clothes you can find. You stick your arm into Denki’s bloodstained shirt. He’s strapping on his gun and throwing on his leather jacket.

“Fuck, how did they find me?” He almost falls over trying to put his boots back on.

“Who’s they?” Your pants, you can’t find your—

“You remember that job I botched? Well I just made it ten times worse by leading them here. Stupid, stupid!” 

The pounding on the door gets louder, the hinges starting to squeal and bend as the smugglers try to force their way inside. Denki looks between you and the door, frozen like ice before grabbing your hand and pulling you to the window.

“I’m sorry I’m such a fuckup. You don’t deserve this at all. But if you wanna live, we have to go. Now.”

Your heart races, threatening to burst out of your chest. This all happened so fast, practically in less than a moment. The doorknob rattles. You have to make your choice.

You let go of Denki just long enough to grab the wad of cash from your top drawer where you hid it. The two of you are going to need as much of it as you can get.

Denki unlatches your window and pushes the pane of glass up. He sticks one foot out the window, then reaches for you again.

You grab on tight. He nods.

Together, you take a breath, close your eyes, and jump.

You’re falling, and falling, and falling.

As soon as your feet hit the ground, you’re running. All the while, Denki’s hand never leaves yours.

[vxctorx]

❝—Don't be a fool, you are not to do anything, except to lie down and rest.❞ His softly lilted voice remains gentle even in its commanding tone; he himself had hardly caught a wink of sleep throughout the night, though his gaze is bright as he regards the young man lain before him. What a relief it is to see those familiar, vividly blue eyes glancing back at him with clarity, any hint of fever having dissipated from them. Underneath the brilliant beams of the morning sun, their distinctive hue seems all the more unearthly and disarming.

❝—Fractured ribs was the doctor's verdict, though he couldn't tell the extension of the damage without a more thorough examination. However, seeing as you weren't having any trouble breathing, or coughing up blood, he was satisfied that your injuries should heal with enough bedrest.❞ Victor goes on to explain the other's condition to him, partly in hopes of making him see reason for once. He cannot fathom the meaning behind Richard's unnecessary bullheadedness; before, he would have associated it with his sense of pride, but now, he wonders whether the other simply wishes to get away from him out of some incomprehensible sense of shame.

Feeling overcome with a sudden surge affection for him, Victor's hand reaches out until his knuckles are tenderly pressed against the uninjured round of his cheek. That Richard had sought him out in his half-delirious state must surely mean something. ❝—Darling boy, you were half dead when you came to me last night. I'm not surprised if you don't remember.❞

Time passed in the fog of a dreamless sleep. Richard supposed such a sleep was better than the usual form that plagued his mind; one drowned in foregoing guilt and other terror-stricken imagery, or the lack thereof in his insomnia-fueled state. In fact, this may have been the most restful and still the Scotsman had ever been in a long time. Nevertheless, even then Richard's mind never ceased. Fragments. That's all his mind could conjure from the night prior. Fragments of somewhere dank. The feeling of being forced to remain upright followed by sharp blows of pain. His own pathetically, quivering voice. The familiar combination of blue eyes and golden locks. The feeling of a strong body catching his own.

Blue orbs began to blink awake, only to meet with the sudden image of a figure before him. Nerves firing upon the unexpected view, Richard sat up with a gasp. It wasn't until a moment of blurry-eyed discernment that the cold dread of his attacker standing before him melted away into relief when he realized that the man was none other than--"Vic? How did I..." Rasped words halted with a strained wince, as Richard's figure eventually surrendered to the numbing pain stabbing against his torso as he sank back into the comfort of the mattress's warm embrace. That's right. The gritty details all came flooding back to the forefront of his mind.--Ward finally managing to track him down after the deal going sour. Trying and failing to talk himself out of his own misdoings before his own pathetic display to fight tooth-and-nail for his life. The agonizing limp towards the one place, the one person, who the Scotsman's delirious mind found safety in. "I'm pro'ly the last person on Earth ye' wanted to see." Richard's blue gaze dropped against the blanket laid upon his waist, as his stiffened fingers clutched against the fabric's edge. Yet, here Vic was. Sitting by his bedside. Had He sat up all night waiting for him to waken; checking on the stability of his health, listening to the indistinct words that escaped through cut lips amidst Richard's sleep? Surely not. As far as Richard was concerned, his prior, sharpened words cut through the threshold, dragging him into the realm of loathing. "Just give me a few minutes and I promise to be outta' yer' hair. For good this time." His gaze travelled to the sight of Vic's resting hand. "I'm sorry to have troubled ye'...."

[b33zlebubz]

RIGOR MORTIS | CHAPTER ONE

SIMON RILEY X AFAB READER | 18+ MDNI | MASTERLIST | AO3 NEXT CHAPTER TAGS: reader uses she/her pronouns, fluff angst & eventual smut, blood violence & death, suicidal ideology, sort-of slow burn, enemies to lovers, forced proximity, toxic workplace environment, flashbacks "Abandoned in a battlefield with the one person you thought you would never see again; you're forced to come to terms with the ghosts of your past."

APRIL 22ND 2024  MEXICO, 2200 HOURS

The scene before you is almost apocalyptic.

Your limbs quake as you move, unsteady on your feet.  The sound of rocks tumbling and mud squelching is the only thing that disturbs the eerie silence and you can barely see from under your broken helmet.  Night vision gear hangs in front of your face by the thread of a wire.  Annoyed, you take a numb hand off the AR-15 only to rip it off and throw it aside.

Bodies are everywhere.  Stuck in the mud, draped across SUVs and the handful of tanks that are blasted open and smoking; mixing with the thick fog and the rain enough to clog your lungs and your throat.  You're uninjured, you think, aside from a deep cut in your palm you acquired while clawing and shoving yourself free from an early, smoking, blistering hot grave.  Muscles scream out with strain and exhaustion, but you push on anyway, stumbling deliriously through the mud towards an enemy that no longer exists.  Towards a battle won without you and abandoned by your peers.

Then, finally, your ankle twists.  You yelp as you topple over, body landing with a sickening smack against the freezing mud that seems to harden with the force of your body.  It seeps the strength from your bones and replaces it with an aching, deep-seeded dread.  

You can't get back up.  You can barely manage much more than a squeeze of your shaky fists. 

Inches from your face is a slope where the mud dips down.  A dugout, maybe, where murky water runs through your hands and past your face; taking blood with it.  Shaky, torn-up hands paw at the mud, pulling yourself close enough to peak over the edge.

Bodies from both sides are carelessly tossed into it, stacked atop each other in an endless pile of red and camo—bleeding, battered, and reeking.  You shrink into yourself; panting, exhausted, and freezing, as a realization twists your guts painfully.  Cold and dark and painful like the sweet release of death itself.

They think you're dead.

They aren't coming back for you.

Then, there's movement.  Your gaze locks on the shifting of a body further down the dugout.  The movement of legs, the turning of a head.  A gloved hand reaches out and desperately searches for purchase at the mud. His chest heaves with each breath in attempts to pull himself out from under another corpse.

For a moment, your breath hitches.  You think, maybe, you're hallucinating; the first sign of life since crawling out of the very tank that was almost your tomb.  But then, the soldier sees you—or, at least, you think he does, and years of training and conditioning returns to you.

Suddenly, you're back on your feet.  You clutch at your rifle, safety off and hand on the trigger—your heart pounding in your chest.  The moving body at the end of the dugout freezes, and his eyes meet yours.

There's something on his face.  Something cracked and broken that may have once been white, but was now stained with blood and dirt.  Two blank eye sockets and the teeth of a skeleton.

Memories flood your mind.  The burn of cold air on bloody knuckles.  The kickback of an M40.  Sleepless nights, the smell of cigarettes, whiskey, and warm food.  Camp Viking.  

It couldn't be him.

Could it?

The rain pelts down around you both, much like the tidal wave of Deja vu that crashes over your head and pulls you under for a moment until you find your focus once more.  You shift your stance, attempting to appear stronger than you are as you keep the gun trained on him.

"Name and rank."  Your bravado cracks with your voice.

His tone is defiant, his gaze unmovable—like you, half-dead, but still too stubborn to go down without a fight.  He finds you familiar, because when his eyes catch the light they narrow as they take in your appearance. He grunts as he speaks through the pain that courses through his body.  "Lieutenant.  British Special Air Service."

That voice.

"I said name and rank."

"You don't get both."

You huff, annoyed.  "Are you armed?"

He narrows his eyes like he isn't the one with a gun trained on him.  "No."  

You let out a subtle breath of relief.

You've grown, over the course of the past fifteen years of service, to trust your gut more than your head.  While your head knows to shoot and run, to never trust someone equally as desperate as you—your gut knows there's no danger.  Your shoulders sag and your finger reluctantly removes itself from the trigger.  

Then, his eyes soften just slightly as he finally puts your face to a name.

Memories flash in the cracks of his mask and his shoulders soften as he comes to the same realization you do.  He's hard to read, always has been, but you think he's relieved to see you.

"Fuckin' hell,"  he rasps, quietly, before he speaks in disbelief.  "Angel?"  

Your heart constructs in your chest and against your better judgment, you relax a little.  Your throat tightens at the sound of your callsign, and you lower your weapon.  "And you're Ghost."

A moment passes where you just regard each other.  As always, he's impossible to read, but you think this might be one of the few times you've ever seen him genuinely shocked.

He grunts as he begins to pull himself up onto his elbows, his efforts to remove himself from under the stiff corpse done with more disparity than moments prior.  His movements are slow and clumsy, as if the pain coursing through him with every movement is excruciating, while he claws at mud and blood and gore.  Strained muscles flex and quake under layers of heavy gear.

You waste no time.  You slide clumsily down the slope and swing your weapon back behind you.  You take the stiff corpse by under the shoulders and try not to retch as the smell hits your nose.  Shaking arms pull it backwards as Ghost drags himself out from underneath it, and you drop the body with a sickening slap to the mud and stumble to his aid.

"How bad are you broken?"  You breathe, kneeling before him and checking him over.  His breathing is labored and deep, his head sagging as he pulls at the balaclava that sticks to his face and drips water and blood.

"Concussion," he rasps, voice slurred.  "Bad one.  That's all I know right now."

"Right," you reply with a grunt, helping him climb through the mud with a newfound determination.  An arm slung over your shoulder, he huffs, trying not to lean the bulk of his weight on you as he climbs up the side of the ditch.

His jaw is tight through the rips of his mask and his eyes look out of focus and exhausted.  He swallows thickly and pulls himself up and over the side of the ditch before pausing, footsteps faltering.  His breath flares out through nostrils that leak blood like a facet, and he stumbles with a growl of frustration at the will of his own battered body.

Despite his weight, you're quick to catch him—digging your boots into the dirt as the soldier you once thought was invincible falls into your shoulder.

"Leave me," he rasps.  Shaking his bowed head, his voice cracks.  "I'm done in, love."

"No," you grab his face and turn his head up.  He blinks, blood crusted to his blond eyelashes, but he squints through it to meet your eyes.  "No, you're not.  You've had worse."

"You can't carry me."

"Then get up."  You're equally breathless, equally as drenched in blood and ash and mud, and equally as exhausted—but still, if nothing else, you keep your voice strong.  "Get up, Lieutenant." 

You watch him swallow thickly at the familiarity of your tone—your words.  His eyes squeeze shut and he pulls his face out of your hand.  You see his jaw clench through the tears in his balaclava.  

Then, he does.

With a massive grunt, he forces himself to his feet again.  Boots slide against the mud as you pull him forwards and he stumbles along, trusting you to lead him to safety.  Trusting you with his life. 

"I have a camp set up," you say to him.  "I'll take you there.  It's not far."

He glances back at the ditch of bodies with a grimace before meeting your gaze again.  He seems ready to argue, but then thinks better of it, meeting your gaze with that look you know all too well; soft eyes and drawn together eyebrows, as if begging you to reconsider.  The look you give back to him is final, unrelenting, and he can hear the words without you even needing to say them.

You're not allowed to die. 

He swallows thickly before nodding. 

"Lead the way."

[whumpwillow]

Whumper decides to drug Teammate, but Teammate gets the syringe out of his hand and jab him with it.

And whumper is not as burly/muscular as the teammate, so the amount of the drug is potentially lethal for him.

Hero arrives to help her mostly uninjured but thoroughly pissed off team member, and also finds Whumper, burning up and delirious from the drugs he was injected with. When Hero convinces Teammate to help get Whumper (or Whumpee now, I guess) to the medics, Whumper tries to beg for mercy, but the words are so slurred hero can barely understand him.

Bonus points if the medics can't do anything, and it takes a while for the drugs to leave Whumper's system, during which time he nearly dies. When the drugs are leaving his system, he wakes up, but with none of his usual arrogant attitude. He's blubbering about how sorry he is, and please don't drug him again, he promises to be good.

ah, some good ol' drug whump

classic symptoms of drugs and drug withdrawal: hot flashes, anxiety, panic attacks, restlessness, irritability, fatigue, poor appetite, insomnia, poor concentration, poor memory, headaches, dizziness, chest tightness, difficulty breathing, racing heart, stomach aches, muscle tension, twitches, tremors, shakes, muscle aches, sweating, tingling

all of that is pretty whumpy and makes for a good combination of things

whumperee is stranded in this haze of fear and pain and delirium

the others don't show him any sympathy since he was going to do this exact thing to their teammate, though they don't take into account how it's affecting whumperee more because the dosage was adjusted for teammate's body size and not whumperee's, meaning that it wouldn't have been this bad on teammate

whumperee is sick for days on end and has to be constantly monitored and given fluids to prevent dehydration

whumperee thinks they're dying and gets so scared and starts sobbing hysterically

at the end of it, whumperee is so weak and frail from everything and they can barely move with how achey they are from shivering for days on end and getting barely any sleep

[pinkoptics]

I just found this on my phone, having completely and utterly forgotten that I even wrote it. I love it. I really do. I fleshed it out, added a little more and I just want to post it because I’m so proud of it.

Cherik Fallen Angel Ficlet

(Part 1 of Chapter 1)

~1500 words

Charles is an angel (in the literal, lived in Heaven, sense) and falls to earth because of his love for Erik (of course). Some humour, some angst, some adorableness.

*

They cut off only one.

It was a cruelty beyond measure. For as long as he lived, and that would not be long now that his immortality had been stripped along with his wing, he would have a constant reminder of what he had been— an angel, one of God’s chosen, beautiful, protector of God’s children.

Only... he had taken that protection too far. He had interfered with God’s plan and been cast out of His Kingdom. He would never again know His Grace.

He was mortal and would now endure everything that came with it— mortal frailty, mortal lifespan. The only remanent of what he had been was a wing only he could see. He held back a very mortal sob. It was trapped in his now mortal throat and burned. The sensation was new and horrible, tearing at his new flesh in a way that seemed physical. Mortal emotions. Mortal wounds.

All because he had experienced the most mortal emotion of all— love.

He had saved his beloved from death. His beloved’s time had come and Charles had altered time and space itself for it not to be so, to not have to see Erik broken and bloodied on pavement, hit by a car. Random. Pointless. Except that it wasn’t pointless at all. Charles knew this. Charles had known this for millennia. Each human had a beginning and an end. Angels could help them along the way, bless their paths, smooth wrinkles, lend strength in hours of need, but the end of those paths were truly the end. The fabric of everything, the Plan, and the paths of everyone who should have been impacted by Erik’s death, were now in disarray, unravelling. Charles did not know what that meant. No one had ever done what he had.

“Are you okay?”

Charles blinked against the brightness of the sun above him, eyes stinging and watering from it in a way the obscured the vision of his new mortal eyes.

“Gott. You— you saved my life. Are you... Fuck, are you okay?”

When his imperfect vision finally focused, Erik came into view, hovering above him, concern etched into his unbelievably handsome features.

“I— “ Charles only got one word out before he had to pause. His human voice sounded odd to his human ears, no longer the effortlessly beautiful melody it had once been. “I... I’m fine.”

A lie.

He had been on earth for mere seconds and already a lie, a sin, had spilled from his lips. He was not fine. He was not anywhere close to fine. He was not in the vicinity of fine. But, what else could he say? I’m awful. God has cast me out of heaven because I literally love you more than heaven itself, so I threw away everything because I couldn’t watch you die.

No, he couldn’t say that.

Erik was offering his hand and it took him too long to realize Erik meant to help him up. He took it, the shock of skin to skin contact almost causing him to tumble back to the ground. All these years and he’d no idea what Erik felt like. Now, he did.

Erik’s eyes widened and he said, “Fuck. You’re not fine. You’re bleeding.”

Bleeding?

As though he were watching the scene from a distance, Charles saw the blood dripping from his elbow and splattering on the pavement below. It couldn’t be his blood. He didn’t have blood. But, no, that wasn’t true, he did now, didn’t he? What did one do when they were bleeding?

“I think you’re in shock.”

Understatement.

Erik had grasped his uninjured elbow and was guiding him off the street and onto the sidewalk. He had some distant awareness that other things were happening. There was noise, shouting, terrible smells— all of it swirling around him, cacophonous and awful, and the only thing holding him remotely together was Erik’s arm on his elbow.

“Fuck, you’re bleeding a lot.”

Charles was sitting now. Erik had guided him to do that too.

“Am I?”

Was it a lot? Charles wasn’t sure, not really being the expert in such things. How much blood did human bodies have? How much could they lose before it was too much? Was his mortal life to be measured in minutes? If it was, that was fine... Erik was alive. That’s what mattered— Erik. Alive.

“You’re smiling. Fuck. This isn’t good. You shouldn’t be smiling. Hey— look at me.”

Erik’s hand was pressed against his cheek now.

“What’s your name? Tell me your name.”

“Charles.”

“Charles, I’m Erik. You’re absolutely not fucking passing out on me okay? You just saved me from getting hit by a fucking car. You’re cute as all hell, completely my type, and I am going to take you out on a date after this to say thank you. Emma will never let me hear the end of it if I let this Hallmark movie meet-cute opportunity slip through my fingers.”

Charles furrowed his new brow. He hadn’t the slightest clue what Erik was talking about. Was he in shock too? Maybe, despite all of Charles’ efforts, he was injured too?

Erik was pressing hard against something on his arm. Charles looked down, briefly, to see cloth trying to stem the tide of blood. When had that happened? He looked back up, asking, “What’s a Hallmark? You’re beautiful. You should know you’re beautiful. Before I leave this mortal realm, I want you to know that.”

“Fuck fuck fuck.” Erik was saying that a lot. That couldn’t be a good sign. “Hang in, okay? The ambulances are coming. They’re going to take care of you. You and I are going to laugh about this when we tell people about how we met. They’re going to hate and love how obnoxiously cute it is, I’m going to hate how obnoxiously cute it is, because I don’t do cute and because shit like this doesn’t happen to real people.”

Charles started to laugh. If only he knew. “That’s because I’m not a real person.”

“You’re not, huh? What are you then, my guardian angel?”

The only appropriate response to that was to laugh harder. “Would you believe me if I said I was?” His ribs? Yes, his ribs started to pain him when he couldn’t stop laughing.

“Great, the cute guy who just saved my life is either insane or delirious.”

Charles felt like he couldn’t suck in a proper breath. Was that because he’d never had to breathe before so he wasn’t doing it properly, or was he injured in some place that effected breathing too?

“Both,” Charles wheezed.

Erik seemed to register his new distress and rested a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, as much as I’m loving this crazy repartee, just slow down, okay? Breathe. You are going to be all right and I don’t make promises lightly.”

“I know.”

“You don’t. Stop talking. In... out... in... out...”

Charles did as he was told. In, out, in, out... there, that wasn’t so hard, was it? Except that it was and he was pretty sure it wasn’t supposed to be, or how did humans get anything done when they had to focus so hard on breathing? That would have been a design flaw and God’s creatures didn’t have design flaws.

“In... out... I’m going to take you to this amazing little diner. It doesn’t look like much and you’re going to be thinking ‘I saved this idiot’s life and he’s thanking me by taking me here?’ But I promise you the food is better than any of the pretentious 5 star nonsense you find in New York.”

“Sounds—“ Cough. “—nice.”

“That’s talking. Stop it. You’re going to love it. You’re also going to be sworn to secrecy because if the fucking hipsters ever find out about it, it will be completely ruined.”

Charles tried to agree, or ask what a hipster was, but his voice seemed to be gone. That couldn’t be good either, could it?

“You’re going to be so impressed with my choice, you will immediately think dating me is an excellent idea.”

Charles already thought dating Erik was the most excellent of ideas. It had a lot to do with why he was in this situation in the first place. It was also one of the last conscious thoughts he had before things got rather dim and Erik’s voice indistinct. Perhaps God had gone more Old Testament on him than he had thought. Save Erik— get cast out of heaven. Erik asks him out on a date— pass out and... pass away?

But, there was one more thing Erik was supposed to know, something important, something very important, something Charles would never forgive himself for if Erik never knew. What was it? If only thinking wasn’t so hard...

Oh.

Right.

Of course.

“Erik, you are so loved.”

There.

Done.

*

Rest assured that Charles wakes up, in the hospital, asking for Erik. Erik is already there, worried out of his mind about the adorable insane man who saved his life. And, they will absolutely go on that diner date.

On to Chapter 1 - Part 2