#Half of them sustain burns or a concussion

[quotidianish]

to everyone who celebrates, I hope you’ve had a nice Yom Kippur, Chuseok, and Mid autumn festival !

bonus celebration under cut ❤️

[siren-brainrot-boogaloo]

Gift for @retquits and his delightful Fields of Mistria OC Monroe!!!

Monroe had put in his paces as an adventurer. He was never the strongest or the fastest, but he'd survived being chased by charging iron bulls, never ending slimes dropping on him and his party mates from the ceiling, and one particularly, persistently, furious parrot.

But for all his endurance, THIS was the truest test of his limits.

Soreness burned like acid deep in his muscles as the hoe slipped from his palms. His knees finally gave up on him as he collapsed ungracefully onto his ass, chest heaving as he stared up into the big blue sky. 

He had hoped the conversion rate between a life of adventuring and a life of farming would be more favorable. Though to call what he did “adventuring” would be… somewhat inflated. Monroe sighed as old irritations and insecurities throbbed like war scars. Exhaustion did little to dull their claws. 

His vision shook as he distantly registered the passing of clouds. Ephemeral, wispy things, with disappearing edges that his double vision didn't do any favors in clarifying.

His eyelids grew heavy. The burn of the midday sun on his pale skin would surely make him regret resting HERE, in the middle of his field, of all places...

But the ten foot journey to shade was just too impossible for his thoroughly fatigued body. The soreness from earlier would surely be felt, if he could feel his legs at all. Despite the screaming light of the sun, the world went dark as exhaustion overtook him.

Like the jump between chapters in a book, he woke propped up in the cool shade of the leeward side of his house. Damp handkerchief lain across his forehead. Monroe’s skin was hot and tight across his cheeks, his neck, his forehead, in a way that would surely burn tomorrow. It didn’t keep a look of shock from stretching across his features when one burly, brunette, and very concerned farmer and neighbor jumped into his field of vision.

"HEEEEEY NEIGHBOR! Welcome back to the land of the living!" 

The boisterous boom of Hayden's voice cut sharply through the concern that wrought his features just a second earlier. Truly, was this man always so bursting with energy? At his age? Monroe wished he had half his vigor right now.

"Whhappn'd" Monroe slurred elegantly. His gloved hand plucked the damp cloth from his forehead and flipped it over to the cool side, as he pressed it to his neck, his cheeks, anywhere the coolness was sorely missed. Hayden handed him a flask of water, which he immediately tipped into his bone-dry mouth with gusto.

"Found you baking in the sun when I came by to ask if you wanted to split a bag of sugar! You were halfway to medium well before I got ya into the shade." Hayden chirped back in his characteristic jovial drawl, and punctuated with a firm clap on the shoulder that made Monroe choke mid-swig.

The two blustered as Monroe coughed water out of his windpipe and Hayden patted him on the back, apologizing for his carelessness. When Monroe’s lungs contained more air than water again and his back no longer stung from Hayden’s well intentioned, if hamfisted attempts to help, he let out a long, beleaguered sigh. 

“Thanks for checking in on me. Sorry for the trouble.”

Before Hayden could reply, Monroe stood, head hung, still a bit dizzy, and tottered away from Hayden from where he squatted in the dirt. 

“Hey it’s no trouble-” “You can stay if you want, I think I just need to rest a little longer.” Monroe cut him off. There was a sinking feeling in his gut, some part lingering fatigue, some part old, cruel voices and festering doubts that dug their claws into his mood. His ears rang from dehydration, and all it reminded him of was his own weakness. 

The ringing in his ears and the headache from the heat called to mind a concussion he sustained during his dungeon delving days. He was the only one on his team that didn’t notice the tripwire. It had been obvious enough to them that they felt no need to warn him about it, and that “obviousness” only emboldened their chastising afterwards when the ceiling came down as punishment for his clumsiness. The collapse cost them the promised loot, and a stone striking Monroe in the head cost him four days of wages in lost time. The shame still burned in his memory when he was alone with his thoughts at night. 

The soreness in his body was an even sore-er reminder of the dozens of times his role in the party was “pack mule”; not “sniper”, “tank”, “lockpick” or anything more involved than being a pair of hands to hold and feet to move. Sometimes packs were thrown at his feet with the expectation he’d pick them up, sometimes it was a “Watch the cart.” barked at him while he stood outside ruins and taverns, his only company the hired mule hitched to it. His “friends” handled the important business inside. 

Monroe’s feet grew heavier with each unpleasant memory. He barely registered Hayden’s “You oka-” before he was in the door, face down on his creaky, stiff bed. When the darkness takes him again, it’s at least a cooler, quieter one. 

IF YOU HAVEN'T LOOKED AT HIS FIELDS OF MISTRIA ART YET PLEASE DO!!!

[see-arcane]

But, strangest of all, the very instant the shore was touched, an immense dog sprang up on deck from below, as if shot up by the concussion, and running forward, jumped from the bow on the sand. Making straight for the steep cliff, where the churchyard hangs over the laneway to the East Pier so steeply that some of the flat tombstones—"thruff-steans" or "through-stones," as they call them in the Whitby vernacular—actually project over where the sustaining cliff has fallen away, it disappeared in the darkness, which seemed intensified just beyond the focus of the searchlight.

A small thing, but one I definitely missed on last year's read. This ^^^ seems to not only show that Count Dogula is making a dash for a resting place among the graves as he waits on his dirt box delivery, but that he's using another worrisome flex of his environmental power. He doesn't just control the weather--he can will the darkness to be thicker where he goes. So much so that the instant a searchlight's beam diminishes, it's met with solid uninterrupted black.

Which puts yet another layer of miserable context over Jonathan's stay in Castle Dracula. Imagine it. Even with candles and lamps burning in the few rooms and corridors he was allowed, wherever Dracula willed it, Jonathan would've been enduring nights in which almost everything around him was swallowed by shadows. The only light would be the red of shriveled fire and moonlight, and even that would be trimmed down to dark-choked beams. For two months. Wandering half-blind in those stone walls. With them.

Dracula no doubt brought that darkness with him aboard the Demeter, adding its bruise on top of the storms and mist. What fun for the sailors.

And now he is ashore. And the air is more choked of its light for it.

[passerine-writes]

Silent Sparks - Volt 50

Warnings: The first like, half, sums up the last chapter, babes has a panic attack, trauma Word count: 4602

Notes: Italics - Tsukare signing Bold italics - Family/friend signing 'Italics with apostrophes' - Thoughts

Masterlist

Volt 49 | Volt 51

I woke up to a bright light surrounding me. My whole body felt heavy and when I looked to my side, I wasn't expecting to see Dad, Pops and Hitoshi crying.

"How long was I out?" I tried to ask, my voice scratchy. "Dad? Pops? Hey, what's going on?" They flew forward and hugged me all at once. I finally let the tears fall, my body sore but I didn't care.

"You had us worried sick. And you were so beat up, you-" Pops tried getting out through tears but we all just had a cry session for a little bit until I sat up straight.

"Where is everyone? Did the League get caught? And Shiroka? Someone tell me what happened, please." I went to move one of my curls but hit myself in the face with a cast. Too many horrible memories coming back to me at once. Pops passed me my, now charged, hearings aids and I put them in gently.

"Let's have the doctor catch you up first, then we'll fill you in on the rest." I nodded and looked to the door where an older looking lady stood.

"Hi, Tsukare Onryo?" I nodded and sat up a bit. "Can you tell me what you remember?" I felt my heart start to race, hearing it on the monitor beside me.

"I- I don't wanna talk about it." The doctor nodded and wrote something in my chart.

"Well, you suffered multiple lacerations, internal and external bruising, first and second degree burns, and a stab wound to the thigh. Your right wrist was fractured, five ribs were strained and three were broken. Your left shoulder was dislocated and you also sustained a mild concussion." I took a deep breath and nodded, already feeling myself dissociate at what I was told. "We preformed minor surgery to remove the knife and put a metal clamp on your artery and reset some of your bones. Recovery Girl has been in here everyday working on something else to gradually work you up to being fully healed." My eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

"How long have I been out?" She looked at my family and then back at me.

"You've been unconscious for five days."

"And what pain killers do you have me on?"

"We have you on a naproxen drip. Do you have any other questions for me?"

"Uh, when was the last time I was given my medication? I can feel my body going through withdrawal." She flipped through my chart and grew confused but came back with the pills. "Thank you."

"Onryo. We need to tell you something." I looked to Dad and tried to figure out how bad it could be. "All Might beat the guy in the mask, All for One, but he's out of commission now. He overdid himself and now he is stuck as his true form." I raised an eyebrow but he promised he would show me later. "When you're ready though, we have to go to the station to give your statement. Are you up for that?"

"Sure."

"Pops and I will go sign you out, we were told you were good to go as soon as you wake up thanks to the old lady." I nodded and Hitoshi handed me some clothes, pointing me towards the bathroom.

I made the mistake of looking in the mirror. A new scar went down my face to the top of my pectoral. New scars adorned my arms, torso, back and legs. My dark circles and bags looked horrendous and I even looked skinnier. My brother was silently waiting right beside the door as I came out, making me jump and let out a small squeak. He softly apologized and nodded his head towards the door.

"Hello, for filing purposes, would you please state your name?" Tsukauchi asked as he placed the rolling recorder on the table.

"My name is Tsukare Onryo."

"Thank you. Would you be open to explaining everything that happened up until you were kidnapped?" I nodded and swallowed the lump in my throat.

"Uh, we were at the training camp, in the woods that the Wild, Wild Pussycats own. The first two days were normal with training, and then the third night we had a test of courage. I was excited because this was my first one, it's almost like a ride of passage in the hero course and my brother and I watched a lot in the last few years." I took a deep breath as I tried to align my thoughts, not wanting to backtrack too much. "Uh, Midoriya and I were teamed up to go last. So we were waiting with Mandalay and Pixie-Bob. I smelled the smoke before I saw it, I also saw some of the noxious gas but at first I thought it was a trick of the light. Spinner and Magne came for the group of us first, Pixie-Bob got knocked out and Mandalay ordered us to go back to camp. I knew where Kota was, and I needed to get my brother out of there, I ran without thinking and Midoriya followed me. I sent him to the cliff side where Kota was, that was always his secret hideout, I was the only other person who knew where it was. I ran towards where I thought Hitoshi and Jirou would be and came across Kendo and Tetsutetsu from class B, they gave me some gas masks that Yaoyorozu made. I ran off again and found Hitoshi trying to carry Jirou.

"I carried them to one of the entrances and put gas masks on them. I started making my way back to the camp because I knew I wouldn't have been able to carry them both the whole way back and through the fight, that's when we heard Mandalay announce we could fight. I found Shoji and Tokoyami's quirks was out of control, we ran to Bakugou and Todoroki because we knew their quirks could counter Tokoyami's. Accidental blessing, Dark Shadow knocked out a villain with a bunch of swords coming out of his mouth. Sometime when we were running is when we heard the news that Bakugou and I were targets, Midoriya also joined us and his arm was busted. We had a great formation on getting back and I don't know when I got grabbed but next thing I knew I was being pulled through the warp guys portal and I was knocked out." I picked and pulled at my fingers nervously, not wanting to continue reliving this.

"Are you okay to continue?" I nodded, just wanting to get it over with. "What happened after you woke up?"

"I don't know what they were talking about before I woke up but Shigaraki wanted to recruit us. I woke up with a muzzle on and I.. I recognized one of the members. Dabi. I met him once when I was a little kid, he helped me get out of a big neighborhood I was lost in and gave me an old compass. They took the muzzle off and I used sign language and they tried to tie my hands, I freaked out. I broke the chair I was sitting in, and that's when they told us they wanted to recruit us. Then they brought in Shiroka. I tried to back away from her but Dabi put the muzzle back on. She was saying how my parents drilled lies and horrible things into my head but they would fix it. Started talking about how Toga might be able to convince me and we were warped to a room with no doors or windows. I don't know how long we spent in there but I lost a lot of blood and she drank some of it. She also collected some of it and ch-changed into Shiroka." I squirmed in my seat and harshly rubbed the scar on my neck.

"Take your time, Onryo. We aren't in any rush." I nodded and tried to control my breathing.

"I thought I was hallucinating from the blood loss until Bakugou saw it happen too." Tsukauchi nodded and continued writing, patiently waiting for me to continue. "I didn't stop fighting. They put me back in the chair and Spinner got really upset about what she did. He said that I was one of the few Stain approved of and I essentially should be treated better. Shiroka asked me to join again and I declined, she slapped me pretty hard. Then I realized there was probably a deal or money involved, maybe both." I shook my head as I tried to get back on track.

"What makes you say that?" I looked at him curiously, wondering if I was right.

"She's been trying to get to me at any cost. So whether it be if I joined she would become a benefactor of sorts for them. She would pay them to kidnap me for her. They get me, she gets the cops off their trail for a bit. I know Shigaraki was interested in me to begin with, but that definitely would've lit a fire under his ass." Tsukauchi laughed at my choice of words but nodded.

"Okay, what happened next?"

"Uh, my hands weren't tied again so I signed to Bakugou that there was probably money involved and they wouldn't kill me, so no matter what he couldn't break. They asked him what I said and he had me 'sign it again' so that he knew what to say. He told them I said I would join if he did and that they can keep it coming cause it was child's play. I turned off my hearing aids and said I didn't feel like hearing Shiroka screeching anymore. That's when she broke my hand." Tsukauchi gave me a disappointed look and I shied away. "I know I shouldn't have said it, but it was the only thing I could think of. Mostly Shiroka, Toga and Dabi hurt me. I don't know how long, I just kept trying to stay awake. Spinner and Magne were the kindest, Twice was nice sometimes, they would sneak us water and small snacks when the rest weren't around. I know all the broken bones were from Shiroka, some of the cuts too. The rest of those were from Toga and the burns from Dabi. They started going through my phone, trying to find one of my parents cell numbers, but Shigaraki couldn't figure out who was who."

"Why's that?"

"I have everyone in my phone named after a Pokémon, except family work numbers because those are more serious." Tsukauchi set down his pencil and started laughing as he put his head down.

"He couldn't figure out who your parents were with nicknames? What are their Pokémon?" I looked at him confused. "Don't act so shocked, I have a four year old at home who is currently obsessed with Squirtle."

"Dad is Drowzee and Pops is Jangmo-o." He tried to stifle his laughter but he couldn't.

"I don't know how they didn't crack it but I'm glad they didn't."

"Probably because my name for my phone is Whismur and Hitoshi's contact is Espeon." Tsukauchi clenched his stomach as he laughed.

"I see. So back on track, they found the work numbers?"

"Yeah, Shigaraki set up the camera to take a video. Shiroka told the league that they were my parents."

"And that's when you got the idea to use sign language?" I nodded quickly.

"Yeah. Sometime after that we saw the conference and they started going on their tangents again. They let Bakugou and I out of our chairs and we got ready to fight, then the rest happened. When we got teleported again, some of our classmates rescued us and Bakugou flew me up in the air to them with an explosion. After that I woke up in the hospital and now I'm here." Tsukauchi let out a breath, nodding as he mulled over what I said.

"And between the time the video was taken and the conference, did the violence s-" I shook my head, cutting him off. "Alright. Do you have any questions for me?"

"Was anyone captured?" Tsukauchi looked surprised for a moment.

"I shouldn't be shocked at this point that you would cut to the chase, you've always been like that. We have Shiroka in custody, and her case isn't looking good for her. She'll most likely be sent to a high security prison. Your parents gave us permission to gather photo's of your physical state after the incident as evidence, along with access to the medical examiners official report and a copy of the video Shigaraki took. Those documents served as evidence for temporary holding until the official statement, after what happened, we will not be asking you to testify in court, the recording will serve that purpose. No other league members were captured outside of her and All for One. I do, however, have to leave shortly to interrogate Shiroka. Do you have any other questions for me?" I let it sink in and thought about what I could even ask at this point.

"I don't think so." He nodded and closed the manilla folder with his notes that he took and retrieved the recorder.

"Okay. If you think of anything, you know how to reach me. And Onryo?"

"Yeah?"

"You did great. I know this was hard and it's going to be for a while, but keep your head up." I nodded and he gave me a small smile before guiding me out of the room. My parents immediately pulled me into hugs, Hitoshi joining.

"I'm sorry." My brother whispered as he held me. "If I was just a little faster then, then none of this would've happened."

"Toshi, it's not your fault. I'm not mad at you. You don't have to apologize." He held me tighter and nodded. "I'm serious."

"Let's get home, little listeners." We nodded and followed our parents through the building.

"Young Tsukare!" My throat closed up at the all too familiar name. I turned and saw a skeleton of a man with blond hair running towards me. "You may not recognize me in this form, but I'm glad to see you're alright." My eyebrows furrowed.

"You're so small. It's like you deflated." I said blandly, still in shock. The retort earning muted snorts and chuckles from some of my family.

"Ah, yes. This is my true form. I'm glad to see you're alright, you gave us quite the scare for a while." I nodded and stared at my feet.

"Yeah, it wasn't exactly an ideal situation. Thanks though, for being apart of the raid." He gave me a thumbs up with a large smile. My family and I walked to the car, my phone finally being returned to me and clearly, I had missed a lot.

From Pikachu: Hey, I know you won't get these yet but please be okay

From Pikachu: I wish I could go for your rescue mission that our friends are planning but my parents picked me up from the hospital and are keeping me under a tight watch

From Pikachu: I'm glad you're okay, please pull through this and wake up soon

From Pikachu: I got to visit you in the hospital, my parents let me go with Sero, we brought you some things for when you wake up and your parents took them home for you so they wouldn't get that hospital smell

From Pikachu: I don't think Aizawa was too happy about me being there after he saw us cuddling

From Pikachu: Please wake up soon, I miss you

From Boldore: You passed out before I could say a thing to you, but I'm glad you're alright. We miss you man

From Boldore: Our group isn't the same without you dude

From Boldore: Please wake up soon man

From Rayquaza: We all miss you Onryo, you gotta wake up soon

From Rayquaza: I heard you broke your arm too, hopefully Recovery Girl can help with that

From Rayquaza: We all came to visit you, but your Dad kicked us out after a while

From Venomoth: Hey Tsukababes! You better wake up soon, okay?

From Venomoth: I'm serious, we all love you and need you awake now!

From Scraggy: Hey

From Scraggy: You gotta wake up soon man

From Scraggy: Denks and I visited with my family, the kids wanted to see you

From Scraggy: The twins wanted to color on you, they thought your scars were made to color in the lines, you might make them want to be tattoo artists

From Scraggy: Hinata asked why his Uncle Ryo was sleeping so much

From Scraggy: Please wake up dude

From Regice: I hope you're okay.

I put my phone down and wiped the stray tear that fell. I wasn't expecting my friends to visit me.

"Have I missed anything else these last few days?" I asked my parents as we got into the house, immediately I picked up Mittens and cradled her to my chest as best as I could.

"Aside from All Might's reveal, we're going to be switching to a dorm system about a week and a half before the next term starts. We're also going to train for ultimate moves so that you all are ready for your licensing exam." I nodded to Dad's words, understanding why those would be a priority. "The things your friends brought to the hospital are in your room, we made sure to leave the name cards with the ones we could." I nodded and pulled my family in for another group hug, needing something to ground me.

"Do you need anything before you go check everything out?" I stepped back and before I declined, I remembered something. I rushed upstairs and came back down, giving them the compass.

"Get rid of it, please? I don't want to look at it. He's not the same person and after everything I just, I don't want it anymore." Pops nodded and kissed the top of my head before taking it.

"We'll hand it over to Tsukauchi and tell him we don't want it back. Go de-stress for a bit. I'll make you lunch and then we can have strawberry ice cream later." My head perked up at the sound of my favorite flavor.

"With too much chocolate syrup and whipped cream?" He chuckled at my query.

"Duh, it's the only way you'll eat it." I gave him another hug and went upstairs. In my rush earlier I didn't gather just how much was on my bed.

There were blankets and stuffed animals, some fake flowers, books and snacks.

Sato left me some cookies, Yao-momo gave me a picture of the class in a frame, Mina gave me a scrapbook, Todoroki left a comedy movie and a bag of popcorn. Some classmates left flowers, others left chocolates, quite a few left a small stuffed animal. Midoriya gifted me a rare Eraser Head figurine, Kirishima got me a red croc keychain, Sero gifted me a very warm blanket and Denki made me something labeled a smile jar accompanied with pikachu and whismur plushies. I hugged both of them close to my chest and took a deep breath before texting everyone back.

Tsukababes Pokémon

From Espeon: Please don't blow up the group chat or Onryo's phone. He woke up today and we just got home a little while ago. He'll respond on his own time.

From Venomoth: WHAT!!!

From Venomoth: THATS HUGE NEWS

From Boldore: Hell yeah! Tsukabro's back!!

From Boldore: How ya feeling man??

From Rayquaza: Onryo's awake?!

From Scraggy: About time!! How're you feeling?

From Pikachu: WHAT

From Pikachu: ONRYO WEVE MISSED YOU

From Pikachu: DID YOU GET OUR GIFTS

From Pikachu: HOWRE TOU FEELING!!

From Espeon: That's exactly what I said not to do.

From Pikachu: Well we're excited!!

From Pikachu: How could we not be??!??!!

From Whismur: Hey guys, sorry I'm still kinda out of it

From Whismur: Thank you guys for the gifts and the cards, I love all of them

From Whismur: And I'm feeling okay I guess, I'm still pretty sore and I have a cast for now but that's about it

From Whismur: If you guys want we can have a group call tomorrow after I'm more settled in again

From Boldore: I'm so happy you're okay dude

From Boldore: Tomorrow works for me

From Venomoth: Of course Tsukababes!

From Scraggy: I'm down! You need your rest, you feeling better is the main priority right now

From Rayquaza: Yeah!

From Pikachu: I'm just glad you're okay :)

To Regice: Hey, I just got home from the hospital, I'm feeling better already

I set my phone down and started moving things around, however I knew a lot of them wouldn't have permanent homes because of us having to move to the dorms in a week and a half. So I didn't focus too much on placement, mostly on just clearing my bed.

Pops knocked on my door and came in with a sandwich and a glass of juice before sitting down on the foot of my bed.

"Everything okay, Pops?" He licked his lips like he was nervous, his foot bounced in the air, his hands were folded in his lap. He was nervous. "Pops?" His head jolted up to look at me. "What's going on?"

"Sometime tomorrow a lady is going to come and check out the house." My eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

"Why? Are you and Dad selling it cause of the dorms?" Pops shook his head and fear settled in my stomach.

"Because of what happened at the camp and after, a social worker is coming here tomorrow to do a home inspection and ask us all a bunch of question. Your Dad and I are going to do everything in our power to make sure they don't take you two away. You and Hitoshi are our sons and nothing is going to change that." I sat next to him on the bed and rested my head on his shoulder. "It'll be okay. I promise, little listener. They aren't going to take you away." He pulled me into a side hug and held me there for a minute.

"Have you told Toshi yet?" My voice wavered as I spoke.

"Sho's talking to him right now, we figured we shouldn't overwhelm either of you with a big family meeting in the living room." I nodded and sat there, my nerves climbing exponentially. Pops' hand rested on my own, stopping me from scratching at my arm, my mind so clouded that I didn't even remember doing so. "It'll be okay. When have we ever let things stop us from being your parents?"

"Never." I mumbled out.

"Exactly." What he said after that faded out with anxiety overcoming me. My breathing picked up, the pain of it radiating throughout my torso, my heart pumped viciously and all I could hear was radio static in my head. My stomach churned and it felt like I was frozen in fear.

My body shook and I tried to steady my breathing.

'In and out. Just like Chiyo taught you. In. Out.'

'Come on lungs, work.'

Hot tears streamed down my cheeks and my arms tingled from panic. Through blurry eyes, I made out Pops crouching in front of me with the juice from earlier and my meds.

I couldn't move, my body was frozen. My brain didn't compute that I needed to grab the meds and take them. Nothing was working. My jaw clenched and unclenched from the pain, my breathing wasn't slowing down. I saw a mess of purple hair in front of me, his lips were moving but I couldn't make out what he was saying, but I let out a strained word of acknowledgment and it all stopped.

My mind went blank and I felt like I was peacefully floating in a pool. I watched my hand reach out and take my panic attack meds, my chest rising and falling slow and rhythmically. My racing heart slowed to a melodic pace with the occasional hiccup, one where I felt sane having it. It felt like hours and seconds passed at the same time before I regained control of my body again.

"Thank you." I said softly as I looked to my brother, him and I having talked about this before and even having done this once or twice.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine." He shot me a look, our Dad giving me the same one. "Really, I'm feeling better now." Hitoshi and Dad sighed but nodded.

"Okay little listener, try and eat your lunch and then we can have ice cream later." I nodded and watched as our parents left the room but Hitoshi stayed, sitting himself on my bed.

"I'm making sure you're actually okay." I rolled my eyes and sat down at the head of my bed, pulling over my plate.

"I'm fine, Toshi." He rolled his eyes and grabbed one of the tiny stuffed bears I was gifted.

"Bullshit."

"Language." I jokingly scolded.

"Like you have any room to talk." He muttered and tossed the bear at my head.

"Touché. But really, I'm fine."

"You're not and you don't have to lie to us about that. I can get lying to our friends because we've only known them for a few months. Dad and Pops I can get a little bit because it can be hard to tell them how you really feel. But you're my brother, I don't.. I don't want you to feel like you have to lie to me too." I looked at my brother in shock, not realizing until now just how much me dismissing problems effected him.

"So you admit they're our friends finally?" He tsked and shot me a pointed look.

"I'm being serious."

"Me too! I never thought you would've admitted that our classmates are your friends too!" I stated before taking a bite of my sandwich. The taste of real food making my stomach very happy. "Look... If I'm not at least fine, then I don't know what I am. And that's- that's more terrifying then actually acknowledging my bad days. I'm not okay after what happened, I know I'm not and I know nobody is expecting me to be. So until I'm better then.. I'm fine. I'm still the sunshine friend and if I'm not the sunshine friends then I'm fine." He stared at the blanket on my bed as he took in what I said.

"You're allowed to not be 'just fine'. You're allowed to admit that you're hurting or you're sad or you're depressed or whatever you think you might be feeling. You don't have to put on this mask when you're home." I shut my eyes tight with my head hung.

"I know but I'm fine. I know you care, I know people worry but I'll be okay." He sighed and looked at his hands.

"So he got you pokémon stuffed animals to match your contact names?" I looked beside me and smiled at the two pokémon.

"Yeah. How bad do you think Dad's gonna react if he finds out about the kiss?" Hitoshi snorted and gave me a pointed look.

"He probably already knows. He has parentuition." I laughed softly and nodded.

"You have a point."

[salty-rey]

Head Scratcher | The Bad Batch

Pairing: Crosshair x OC (formerly Reader)

Words:  2.7k

Warning: None. Just a mention of a bloodied nose and bruises. 

Series: Come Back | Saving Lives

A/N: I decided to change the Reader to be a female OC. I tried to keep it gender-neutral but I couldn’t help myself. I also apologize if this reading is roughed, I’ve been battling with it for the past two week. And I wanted to get it done before tomorrow’s episode. This also takes place before Echo joins the group. Anyways, I do hope you guys enjoy this chapter! 

“I told you I’m fine---ouch!” The combat medic yelped in pain before glaring at the medical droid. “A warning would have been nice.”

“You were reckless, Freckles. You’re lucky that you didn’t get anything more serious than this,” Hunter scolded her, arms crossed in front of his chest. 

 “Hey, at least it wasn’t as bad as that one time. Crosshair and I had a couple broken bones and ribs, remember?” She tried joking with a light laugh, only to get a deeper glare from the Sergeant. The combat frowned, eyes looking down to her lap. “Sorry, I’ll try to do better.”

It has been over a year since Freckles joined Clone Force 99. It has also been half a year since the last serious incident, which was her and Crosshair sustaining broken bones and a concussion. After that mission, the crew made sure to be more careful, even though neither one would have guessed that the vehicle was planted (Tech may argue that though). 

Hunter nodded his head before lightly patting her shoulder. “We’re homebound until further notice. Until then, get your rest and I don’t want to find you doing anything stupid.” 

“Yes sir,” you grumbled before relaxing against the pillows. 

Hunter turned away, letting the droid do their work to patch Freckles up. Standing outside the medical ward was the rest of the Bad Batch, waiting anxiously for an answer. 

“She’s fine. Just bad burns but it won’t leave any scars,” the Sergeant informed them.

Wrecker sighed in relief, and Tech’s shoulders relaxed, a small smile on his face. Crosshair, however, still appeared tense. Hunter frowned, his eyebrows knitting together. 

“Let’s fill out our reports and get some food. Maybe she’ll join us by then,” Hunter said to the group, although his eyes were staring right at Crosshair.

Wrecker and Tech nodded their heads in agreement, the sniper remaining still before following his brothers away. 

.

.

.

Being allowed to leave her room and walk around the facility was rewarding, and Freckles had full intention to enjoy this freedom. But before she could do such a thing, her stomach grumbled something fierce. 

It’s lunch time. I hope they’re still serving food at the mess hall, she thought to herself before smiling. I bet the boys are there too! Freckles wasted no time in putting on a robe over her blacks, mimicking the style of a Jedi for fun before heading out.

It didn’t take long to reach the mess hall, having already memorized the entire facility on Kamino. She waved at passing clones and Kaminoans, greeting them, a light limp in her step. Many of them recognized her, being a medic stationed on Kamino before graduating into being a combat medic.

Once reaching the mess hall, Freckles didn’t hesitate to grab a tray and get in line with the other troopers. She could feel eyes on her, soft whispers behind her back but she paid no attention to it. Troops flirting and whistling at her wasn’t something new. Although, it has been some time since she has been traveling with the boys for over a year now. So, Freckles had to admit that it made her feel uncomfortable.

Retrieving her meal, Freckles scanned the area for a brief second before spotting a couple of familiar heads. 

“Hey boys!” Freckles greeted, and all of their heads snapped up.

“Freckles!” Wrecker exclaimed with joy, leaping onto his feet. “You’re okay!” He then hugged her, lifting her off the ground. 

Before the medic could respond, Crosshair snapped at his larger brother, catching both of their attention. “Wrecker! Put her down,” the sniper growled in warning. 

Wrecker was surprised at his brother’s reaction before carefully putting Freckles down. “S-sorry...”

“It’s okay. I’m feeling a lot better. Just a small limp,” she responded before setting her tray down and sitting next to Hunter. “How were the reports? I filled mine in the med-bay.”

Before the boys could answer, a group of shinies walked past their table. They had disgusted expressions towards the Bad Batch, until one of them noticed Freckles. 

A wolf-whistled cut through the dining area, causing heads to turn. “Lookie here, boys.” One of the regs said, gesturing with a smirk. 

“What’s a mesh’la civvie like you doing a place like this?” Another clone asked, looming over Freckles. 

“I’m a combat medic for Clone Force 99,” Freckles answered casually, briefly looking up from her tray. 

The clones glanced at the Bad Batch, their smirks turning into frowns and glares. This didn’t go unnoticed by Freckles, and she began to dread the worse.

“A pretty girl like you shouldn’t be hanging out with these freaks,” the trooper insulted. “Why don’t you hang out with us instead?” He said, placing a firm hand on Freckles’ shoulder.

The medic glared at the hand before shifting it to the trooper. “I’m good with my boys. Thanks,” she responded as she shoved the hand off. 

“Don’t be like that--” 

“Your ears must be defective. She said she’s fine,” Crosshair stood up from his seat. 

The rest of the Bad Batch stood up, squaring off with the quad of regs. 

“We weren’t talking to you.” The reg snarled, his hands gripping tightly on his tray. 

“Indeed. However, you were speaking about us. So we are intervening,” Tech retorted. 

“And you were bothering one of our own,” Hunter

“So back off!” Wrecker cracked his knuckles, grinning. “Or you wanna fight!”

The regs glared back at the Batch until one of them smirked. “You know what I always say; a good defect is a dead one. Just like 99---”

The next thing Freckles knew, the shiny was laying on the ground, flat on his butt with a bloodied nose. The surrounding clones gazed in stunned silence before chaos erupted. 

Bits of food was flying through the air. Fists colliding with armor. Shouts, grunts and groaning filled the air. Freckles managed to keep away from the fighting, watching her boys fighting off the regs. 

Tech and Hunter were teamed up, taking out four to five clones. Wrecker fighting on his own, acting like a bulldozer, knocking down more troopers. Crosshair was fighting by himself, using trays as projectiles but he was running out of ammunition. 

A clone broke through and threw a punch at Crosshair, connecting with his cheek. 

“Stop it!” Freckles shouted, pushing through the crowd of clones that gathered around the fight. Another punch hit the sniper’s face again, this time on his lip. Blood appeared, alarming the medic. “I said STOP IT!!!” 

Freckles managed to throw herself onto the assaulting clone, protecting Crosshair from any further attack. Before Freckles could either attack or further defend, an alarm went off, and Kaminoan clone troopers rushed in. 

Within a matter of seconds, the fight had ceased, the troopers separated the regs from the Bad Batch. “You five, come with me.” The trooper ordered, pointing at Freckles and the boys. 

The combat medic didn’t attempt to argue because this wasn’t the first time that the Bad Batch received the full punishment, even though there were others involved. It wasn’t fair nor right, thus enforcing the distaste between the regs and the mutated clones. 

.

.

.

Freckles entered the medical ward, looking around the large room until spotting the silver haired clone.

Crosshair was sitting upright on the bed, a droid scanning his face. Freckles spotted the busted up lower lip, and bruises on his cheek and chin. The fight in the mess hall got him good but nothing serious. 

The sniper was sent to the medical ward promptly after being lectured by Jedi Master Shaak Ti, keeping the rest behind to hear the whole story of the fight. She promised that anyone else involved will receive full punishment alongside them. Until then, Freckles had decided to check on grouchy clone.

The droid made an attempt to apply bacta spray on his lip, but Crosshair pulled away snarling. 

“It’s okay. I can take it from here, AZ.” Freckles spoke up, attracting both the clone and droid’s attention. 

“Very well, combat medic Freckles.” AZ nodded his head before hovering away. 

Once the droid was gone, Freckles began to dig for the needed items to patch up Crosshair. “You look worse for wear,” she teased as she found the bacta spray. 

She heard him huff before muttering, “You should see the regs.” Freckles stood back up and approached him, bacta spray in hand. She saw him glared at the spray in her hand, shoulders tensed.

“I know it’s going to sting, but it’s gonna help close that cut up quick.” She told him before grinning. “Pucker up, cheek-bones.” 

“Don’t call me that,” Crosshair glared at the medic, but Freckles continued to smile patiently. This caused the sniper to huff in annoyance. “You’re no fun anymore.”

“I can be fun!” Freckles pouted, lightly glaring at the clone. Before Crosshair could say any witty remarks of her lack of humor, the medic quickly sprayed on his cut up lip. 

“AH!” Crosshair gasped before snarling in anger. The spray was bubbling on the cut, the medicine doing its magic. 

“That’s what you get,” Freckles smirked before quickly sticking her tongue at him.

Crosshair glared with a small pout of his own, while Freckles pulled out some small patches. He continued to watch her work on him, feeling the cool patch on his bruises. The way she tended to him was much different than when she first joined the crew. Even though she has seen the cruelty of war, she kept a positive attitude around the troops. She brought that light when joining Clone Force 99, even if his brothers were rather cold to her at first. After a few months though, one by one, his brothers welcomed her. All but him. 

Whenever she had to tend to any wounds on him, or just a monthly check up, she was hesitant. Borderline scared even. After receiving harsh remarks, insults and glares, Freckles became monotone around him. There was no joy or anger whenever they happened to interact. Her joyful energy was slowly dying. 

Because it was all his fault. 

Don’t act as if you care about us clones! We’re exposable for you perfect nat-borns!

Freckles paused after putting the last bacta patch on the sniper’s face. She noticed how tense he was. His eyes were downcast, avoiding looking at her, and his eyebrows pinching together. It is a look that Freckles recognized. Especially working with other clones. Crosshair was deep in thought, and she had a feeling that it was something serious.

Pulling her hands back, Freckles gazed at the clone for a few seconds. “Do you trust me?” Freckles suddenly asked, a soft smile on her lips. 

Crosshair’s gaze snapped back at her, surprised how the silent was broken. He silently stared at her with a single raised eyebrow before lightly scowling. “What a dumb question to ask,” he huffed while he briefly looked away.

Freckles grinned before gesturing with her hands. “Lean down a bit. You’re too tall.”

The sniper sighed with a small eye roll, but she knew that he was being dramatic. Crosshair leaned down, a curious look in his eyes, watching Freckles closely. The combat medic reached up slowly, making sure not to startle the clone. Although, she doubts anything can catch Crosshair off guard.

Freckles’ fingertips lightly touched the silver locks of Crosshair’s hair, surprised to feel how soft it felt. She also noticed the clone tensing up, causing her to pause for a few seconds before slowly running her fingers through his hair.

“What exactly are you planning?” He questioned, his eyes never leaving hers. 

“Shhh, just relax,” She answered almost in a whisper.

Her fingertips began to lightly massage his scalp, avoiding her nails from accidentally scratching the skin. Freckles continued to massage his head, moving from the top to the sides, watching his facial expression slowly relax. She couldn’t help but smile as Crosshair closed his eyes, feeling him slowly lean into her touches. 

Crosshair was practically pudding in her hands. She has never seen the sniper so calm. So relax. Crosshair was an early bird, awake before the others, especially before Freckles. Seeing him like this, is practically watching him sleep. Crosshair never let anyone see him like this. So vulnerable. And to be like this, in front of her, letting her touch him. It made her heart race and cheeks feel warm. 

What a dumb question to ask. 

Crosshair trusts her with his life. This realization caused her to smile with utter bliss.

Her fingertips moved from rubbing to lightly scratching with her nails. The noise that escaped the sniper shocked them both.

A light moan slipped out from the clone’s lips. Freckles froze and Crosshair’s eyes snapped open, the pair staring at each other in startled silence. 

Well. Apparently you can startle the sniper.

The pair was lost for words, their eyes locked onto each other. Freckles slowly broke into a nervous smile, her hands still lightly cupping the side of his head. 

“Not. A. Word.” Crosshair growled a warning, and Freckles quickly nodded her head. 

A moment, the combat medic thought that Crosshair would pull away and that would be it. Again, Freckles was surprised.

Crosshair leaned forward and pressed his forehead on shoulder, hiding his face from her. Freckles had to suppress a soft laugh. Not only has she finally seen Crosshair relax and heard him moan. Now she has witnessed him being embarrassed. 

What a day this turned out to be, she smiled to herself. Freckles then heard a muffled grunt then a light nudge on her shoulder. Taking the hint, she resumed scratching and massaging his scalp, slowly running her fingers through his short locks. 

There was the occasional content moaning and sighs, muffled thanks to her shoulder. After several minutes, Freckles paused for a moment, recalling everything that happened today. 

Freckles moved her hands from his head, loosely wrapping her arms around his neck, hands laying on his back. She felt Crosshair shift a bit, his head titling a little in order to see her from the corner of his eye. 

“Thank you. For everything,” she smiled lightly. 

Crosshair stared before hiding his face again. Freckles continued to smile, hugging the sniper. 

“You’re welcome,” his breath brushed against her ear. A shiver ran down her back at the sensation, Freckles’ cheeks burning and heart pounding. Then, the sniper said something so quietly, she almost didn’t hear it. “I’m sorry...”

“For what?” Freckles asked, pulling back a little to look at him. “That fight in the food court wasn’t your fault.”

“That’s...not why I’m apologizing for.” The sniper responded, avoiding eye contact. 

The medic was quiet for a few seconds before realizing what Crosshair was referring to. “Oh!” A stupid grin spread across her face. He never apologizes for anything. Not with his harsh comments towards her, or upsetting his brothers. This was a miracle. “Apology accepted, Crossy!”

“I take that back. I’m not sorry.” Crosshair glared, causing Freckles to laugh heartily.

“Seems like you guys are doing well,” Hunter’s voice startled the two of them. 

They both realized how close they were; her arms still resting loosely over his shoulders. And when did he put his hands on her hips?! 

I must have been so focused on massaging his scalp, I didn’t even notice! She thought, as the two separated hastily and clumsily, Crosshair jumping to his feet, and Freckles pushing herself away from the clone. “Y-yes...ah...how things go with Master Shaak Ti?” 

“You were there with us before excusing yourself to check on Crosshair. How could you have forgotten?” Tech recounted with a confused look on his face. “Did you sustain a head injury during the fight that you are keeping quiet about?”

The medic’s cheeks darkened, her heart racing as she realized her mistake. Her attempt to draw their attention away from her and Crosshair, she completely forgot about their talk with the Jedi Master. 

“Freckle’s blushing! Were you two going to make out?” Wrecker laughed before teasing the two of them. A blur of white flew through the air and Wrecker gasped in surprise as a pillow collided with his face. 

“Nutennir laam, di’kut.” Crosshair scowled before pushing past his brothers. 

Hunter smiled, watching his brother walk away with an accelerated heartbeat before looking back at Freckles. She noticed his knowing smile, sighing heavily as she fell backwards onto the bed.

She will never hear the end of this. 

[eelfuneral]

@specialist-week Day 2

Prompt: Recording

Genre: PWP

Pairing: Hunter/Tech

Warnings: Straight-up porn, clone/clone

Summary: Hunter is bored. Luckily, Tech made him a filthy recording.

---

Members of Clone Force 99 were not often separated, but when they were, an injury or undercover mission was usually involved, and this specific instance involved an injury. Hunter had sustained a nasty concussion after an abrupt and terrifying fall down a cliffside during their last encounter with clankers, so he had to stay behind and rest for five days in the Clone Force 99 barracks while the rest of the guys went galivanting around the galaxy without him. The dim, gray room was silent and more lifeless than the snow-covered surface of Hoth without the majority of its usual occupants, and Hunter was becoming cagey and bored. He wasn’t allowed any heavy activity, physical or mental, due to his concussion, so he just laid on his bunk with a scowl. What was he supposed to do with these mind-numbing, boring hours of recovery, jack off?

Then it dawned on Hunter: Tech had made a downright pornographic holorecording a few standard weeks ago, and now was as good a time as any to “use” it. Hunter couldn’t touch Tech at the moment, so this was, of course, the next best thing. Hunter fished his holoprojector out of the depths of his footlocker, activated it, and pulled up the recording in question. He placed the device on his firm stomach and shucked off his pants, exposing his lower half to the cool air.

A tiny, blue-tinged version of Tech materialized as the recording began. His long, thin body was bare and his chest was heaving. The light of the room in which Tech had recorded this filthy scene bounced off of his prominent collarbones, and Hunter could almost feel his teeth sinking into the taut flesh which covered them. Tech’s girthy cock was hard, and it stood flush against his abdomen. A bead of precome pearled at the head.

Hunter reached down and gripped his own cock, which had begun to burn and stir to life the moment the recording began. With broad, calloused hands, he began to tease the length of it with slow strokes.

“I know how badly you have wanted to see me put on a show for you,” said holo-Tech, pulling a sizable dildo from somewhere offscreen. He held the dildo close to his plush lips and ran his tongue along the underside the way that he knew Hunter liked when receiving a blowjob, but then placed the thing down on what Hunter could only assume was the bunk in which Tech was laying. Damn tease. Tech reached offscreen again and produced a tube of slick. He uncapped the container and poured a glistening glob onto his long fingers, which he then snaked up his toned thigh, leaving a wet trail in their wake. When Tech’s fingers finally reached between his supple cheeks and began to breach the tight furl of his hole, Hunter’s strokes sped up. The tip of his cock was leaking, and his hands were getting just as wet as Tech’s.

“You wish these were your fingers,” said Tech, and his voice had a smug edge to it, “So do I. Your hands are so perfect.” Tech worked the pads of his fingers against his prostate, and his breath hitched and his voice cracked as he spoke.

Hunter groaned. Kark yeah, he wished those were his fingers! He knew how to make his partner scream with his probing touch alone, and Tech’s pleasured cries were among the most beautiful of all of the sounds that Hunter knew. One of those gorgeous, keening moans escaped Tech’s lips as he picked up the dildo and began to press it inside of himself, and Hunter could feel his balls starting to draw up. When he was fully recovered, Hunter was going to ruin Tech on his cock and make him beg him to give it to him as hard and fast as was physically possible. It was clear that Tech had this idea in mind when he made the recording, because he was working the dildo into himself in a manner that simulated a hard, deep pounding. Tech’s other hand had found its way to his cock, which he tugged in time with his thrusts.

“It is not enough. You are so much bigger than this toy. I…I need you Hunter! Fuck me!” Tech began to babble in that desperate way that he did when he was close, and that was it for Hunter. He came with a grunt into his fist in unison with the recorded version of his lover, who whined as he coated his hand and belly with his own come. The holorecording ended and flickered away, leaving Hunter panting alone in the too-quiet barracks, more eager than ever for Tech to come home.

[disasterfandoms]

Going Through Hell Part 3 || A Sonny Quinn imagine

This is part three of an imagine series, This is part one, and this is part two.

A/N: Anon we’re finally done, can you believe it?! I’m so sorry it’s taken me so long to get all of these done, writer’s block is a bitch! Also I love the episode this gif is from, there’s some really good humor in it and it makes me happy to listen to Sonny bitch about his phobias. I tried to make this one longer, since I atrociously made the decision to cut part 2 off so abruptly. (also I put a tiny crossover in it)

TW: torture, hospitalization, aftermath of sexual assault (briefly mentioned), IVs, needles, angst, fluff, hurt/comfort

Taglist: @bravo-four-seal-team, @a-kate3

“Y/N’s been taken.”

Sonny’s knees almost instantly buckled and Eric rushed to help support his weight. He eased Sonny down onto a crate and motioned for Trent to come over and check Sonny out in case he actually passes out, Jason quickly comes as well.

“What’s going on?” Jason questioned while Trent kneeled in front of Sonny, checking his vitals. He instantly gets concerned when he sees Sonny with his head in his hands, with Sonny trying to slow his breathing.

“Y/N was abducted three days ago at the supermarket. Once local PD figured out their husband was Navy, NCIS was attached to the case. The Agent in Charge of the team taking the case called a half an hour ago to inform me of the situation.” Eric explained, his hands resting firmly on his hips. By now the rest of the team had gathered around, with Trent and Clay standing on either side with their hands on Sonny’s shoulders, attempting to give him some sort of comfort.

“The agent told me that they think they’ve found who has them and they’re  trying to locate where they’re being held. The team believe Y/N is alive but it’s hard to tell what state they’ll be in when the agents find them,” Blackburn states, hopefully easing the minds of the operators.

“They can’t die, Jase.” Sonny said, his voice quivering. His mind just keeps racing, thoughts flashing through his mind at the speed of light. He couldn’t believe this was happening. He always knew how worried you were when he was away, but he always thought you would have been safe at home. He almost laughed at how naive he was in that aspect, especially considering where you are now.

“I know, Sonny. I know,” Jason nodded, giving Sonny a pat on the back. 

 “They’re gonna be fine, brother. Y/n is a strong person, especially for putting up with you for as long as they have,” Ray tried to reassure him, and it worked a tiny bit, but the thought of you being hurt, or worse...

“Alright Sonny’s staying here, there’s no way I’m letting him in the field to put everyone else in danger because of this. Jason, are you guys able to handle this without Bravo 3?” Blackburn asked, but also making it clear his decision was final in this aspect.

“Yeah we’ll be fine, Blackburn. Take care of our boy,” Jason said, then ordered the rest of Bravo to suit up. The quicker they get the mission done, the quicker Sonny can get home to be with Y/N.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You regained consciousness, sore and finding it hard to breathe. You could tell at the very least you had broken ribs, if you had to guess your leg was broken by the burning sensation you could feel, but to be honest everything hurt.

You hear footsteps again, and tears spring to your eyes. You just want to be put out of your misery, not knowing that those footsteps are coming to rescue, rather than hurt you.

“Y/N, you’re gonna be okay, we’re here to help you,” you hear a gruff voice in your ear, and you immediately start crying, thanking them. They call a medic, and start to work on your restraints while one takes the hoodie off of your head.

Two of the agents tried to stand you up, but you quickly grew lightheaded, seeing stars until the whole world goes black again.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The mission had been a success, and the team was on their way home when Blackburn had received the call that you had been found, and you were on your way to the local hospital.

Sonny had raced over there, Trent and Clay in toll to keep him calm and explain what was happening to you when he had to sit in the waiting room. Eventually a surgeon came out and told him, “Y/N is going to be fine, but they sustained a lot of injuries. A grade three concussion, a broken nose, broken occipital bone, both collar bones and most of their ribs are broken, one of which punctured their lung. We had to take out their appendix, as it had ruptured during transport. Their left knee was dislocated, and sustained a tibia fracture in that leg as well. Y/N is out of the first surgery, but there’s a long road ahead. I can take you abck to see them, if you’d like,”

Sonny quickly agreed, and followed the doctor to you hospital room. You were asleep, but seeing your in your casts and you battered and bruised caused tears come to his eyes. He quickly sat down in the chair beside you, and held your hand.

He stayed in that position for a couple hours until you finally came to. You just gently squeezed his hand, ecstatic to see him here beside you. He looked just as happy to see you awake when he realized you has squeezed his hand.

“Hey babycakes,” he said quietly, not wanting to hurt your head, but god all he wanted to do is hold you and never let go.

“Hey yourself. Mission go okay?” you asked, knowing full well that’s not what he wanted to talk about. You didn’t know how to talk about what happened to you though, at least not yet. You felt tears rush to your eyes though, when you see the worried look on his face.

“Uh uh, we are definitely not talking about my work right now. We can’t just gloss over that you were kidnapped because of me, Y/n”

“To be fair, they didn't tell me it was because of you. They didn’t even talk, all they did was beat me up and...” You trailed off, squeezing your eyes shut as it hurt when a shiver went down your spine.

“Oh my god.” Was all Sonny said before he tightened his grip on your hand and reached up to give you a kiss on the forehead. You tried to reach your hand up and grab him to pull you closer to you, but the slings on your arms, which Trent explained to Sonny was to stabilize your collarbones, didn’t allow you to. He got the message though, and gently tried to hug you before sitting back down in his seat beside you.

“Do you want to talk about what happened yet, or would rather I distract you with food and tv until I can take you home in a couple days?” He asked, already knowing the answer.

“The second option, please,” you requested, relieved you didn’t have to talk about it, not yet. 

“Well then, I’m gonna order food after making sure with your nurses you can have anything other than jello and chicken broth, and then we’ll find something on TV, okay?” He said, standing up to go to the nurses station.

“Hey sonny?” you asked, waiting until he turned around to acknowledge you.

“Yeah baby?” he responded, waiting to see if you’re requesting something else.

“I love you” you smiled and your heart fluttered as a smirk graced his lips.

“I love you too, Y/N.”

[builder051]

Whumptober 2021 day 6: Touch-starved

Whoa Bessie

Warnings for graphic injuries, blood, field medicine (Operation Iraqi Freedom context)

_________________

The car’s going at speed, and James isn’t wearing a seatbelt. There’s a man on either side of him in the back seat, though, so he’s fairly wedged into his spot. Without warning, the view out the dash turns to orange and yellow, and the car tips onto its side, then onto its roof.

Then it explodes.

It’s not James’s first rollover accident. High school was a thing. It’s his first time tangling with an IED, though, and it just crosses his mind how ironic it is that he might meet his demise as a pile of ash in Taliban custody when they’re on their way to what he thinks is a peace talk, when the car flips again. James is flung forward, and his head slams against the door frame. He loses consciousness, unaware that he’s falling directly into the spreading pool of flame.

James fades in and out. It’s not the first time he’s done that, either. Football was a thing, back in high school, and before concussion protocol was widespread and insisted upon. The injuries he’s sustained are nowhere near anything he sustained on the field, though. He’s on fire, literally. Between the scents of gasoline and burning flesh, which smells disturbingly food-ish, James can’t keep his gorge down. He vomits straight upward, filling his mouth and clogging his throat.

James tries to turn his head sideways, struggling to roll. He can’t seem to find his arms, though. One is stuck under a piece of twisted metal that might’ve been the car’s door. The other… He isn’t quite sure.

He’s out again until a loud, steady, thrumming wakes him up. His heartbeat? No, too loud. Shade and sun streak alternately overhead, and James sees the curved belly of the helicopter before he notices the PJ inching down the rope toward him.

James has seen them before. Interacted with them. Run a few test missions. Clung comically to the ends of their ropes and pretended he had the technique to climb rather than dangle. Now, though, James gets to see all of their tricks. Except he doesn’t because he still keeps passing out. That’s the only way he can account for the time jumps. His eyes are open, and the PJ is still descending. Something sprays from beneath the helicopter, and flames die down. James’s skin is wet, and it burns all the more.

James’s eyes close, and when he forces his lashes apart, the PJ is crouching beside him. He’s wrapping something tightly around James’s shoulder, but he can barely feel it. The PJ has on blue exam gloves, but they’re covered in something dark red and sticky. Only the wrists are still immaculate.

James blinks. Another PJ has appeared, also gloved, and toting an oxygen mask. James can’t see what the mask is attached to, but he can’t miss the neon orange backboard, nor the immense, cage-like lift that will ferry him up for… what? Treatment? Rescue?

Agony. That’s all James is sure of. Every second his panic response seems to recede a little, letting in steadily more pain and awareness of his current state. He’s dead in the water. Something’s under his head, and either that or something else is making him sleepy and slow to respond, even though he knows a little movement, a little cooperation, even, could buy him time. Maybe save his life.

He’s bleeding out. The fact hits home when the second PJ tips James’s head up and to the side maybe 30 degrees to slide the band to the mask over his head. The air tastes plasticky, but James only notices for a second. His eyes pass over the river of blood streaming from his left side. Bloody sand. Bloody car parts. Bloody bone?

James vomits again, and the PJ tending to him sticks her fingers under the mask and into his mouth to clear his airway. He’s left sucking on air that tastes like bile, but once he has even chest rise, the PJ moves on to more important things.

James ends up shutting his eyes again, for he can’t keep track of the two khaki uniforms changing places around him. Blue gloves flying off and being reapplied. Exchanges of words that are distinctly in English, but not understandable, half because they’re medical, and half because James can’t process sounds so quickly. Or maybe at all.

Things go drifty, but James is startled to awareness once again when the PJs prepare to lift him onto the backboard. James isn’t sure what protocol demands, but one of them has his right shoulder and elbow, and the other has his arms around James’s waist.

They aren’t hurting him. Not on purpose, and not accidentally, either. It’s a firm touch, yet soft. Gentle. Utilitarian.

It’s as if James has’t experienced the feeling of human skin against his. Or, well, blue gloves against shredded t-shirt. It makes him want to shudder, grind his teeth, buck his hips, throw them off, because it’s horrible. It’s too much.

He manages a squirm. A groan. It’s his fault, all his, not theirs. He’s only felt the bump of the butt of the rifle, the chafe of the cuffs, the sting of the cold water. They could maybe throw him onto the backboard, neglect the securements, and deal with him when when—if—he makes it to the helicopter.

“Just a minute, buddy,” the PJ at James’s waist murmurs.

James tries to respond, but he doesn’t know what to say, so he chokes on his own spit and has to be rescued again. Once he’s breathing evenly again, if not a little hitchily, the PJs go back to holding him.

The backboard starts to slide toward his spine, where apparently he has burns as well. James is almost glad for the new pain to occupy his mind. He shuts his eyes. Tries to leave his losses behind. The arm. The blood. The roasted flesh. Some hair follicles, maybe some brain power. The ability to feel. Tolerate. Be human. All gone. Most of it forever. The rest… maybe not.

[hellowkatey]

if I just lay here

for whumptober day 7: my spidey senses are tingling / numbness / blindness / helplessness | 6.2k words | echo & the bad batch / echo & fives (gen)

* * *

Echo looks between the on-fire ship and the snow-covered moon and weighs the pros and cons of burning to death versus freezing to death. The nasty concussion he sustained when his one-man fighter made its violent, not-so-planned landing isn't doing him any favors. He's resorted to staring blankly between the two. The only thing that makes his legs move away from the warmth of the fiery crash is the distant reminder that the fuel tank could blow at any moment.

After half a klick of howling winds, zero signal, and a bone-deep chill settling in between the plates of his armor, Echo wishes he chose to burn to death.

Nothing can ever go as planned, huh? He scans the gray sky for the sixth time in hopes to spot the familiar silhouette of the Havoc Marauder. Not that Echo expects the guys to show up anytime soon. He has low hopes his old junker managed to transmit an SOS, and unless he finds higher ground, the ARC trooper knows he'll be freezing his kama off until he misses check-in and they come looking for him.

Assuming they can find him, of course. Not only is he not on the right planet, but he's also not even in the correct system. All he can do is pray that the black box beacon holds on long enough for them to catch his signal before he turns into a clonecicle.

keep reading

[punksarahreese]

bandaging/stitching up an injury + crosshairs? 🥺

Concussion | Crosshairs

Word count: I actually don’t know 🙃 I wrote this on Tumblr like a clown

Prompt: bandaging/stitching up an injury

CW: stitches/injury mention, gun mention

“Does that hurt?” JJ’s voice was soft, as if she was worried speaking too loud would cause pain as well. She had been hovering since they got on the jet, the second Ava had been cleared for travel again. Even with a technically clean bill of health, the other woman was still worried and felt as though it was her fault.

“I’m good, Jayj,” the nickname was used pointedly, hoping it would calm the resident mother hen’s nerves, “Just sore.”

“Can I at least put a new bandage on you?”

“JJ, let her be,” Emily groaned from the seat behind them, “Bekker’s stubborn and tough, she’s fine.”

Ava laughed a bit at that but JJ caught the way she winced seconds later, her hand coming up to hold her head. The doctor in Wisconsin had said she sustained a minor concussion along with the big gash along her left brow. Apparently she needed to brush up on her hand to hand when a shotgun was involved, Morgan had teased, because one good hit to the head with the barrel of said gun had her on the ground.

“I should have gone with you,” JJ answered as she opened the first aid kit that was conveniently in her go bag. Ava rolled her eyes playfully but decided to play along, knowing better than to piss off the blonde. She was a lot more fierce than she looked and even more protective, so it was best to just humour her.

“You were busy with Spence,” Ava reminded her, trying not to flinch as she pulled the bloodstained bandage off her forehead. A neat line of stitches outlined her eyebrow, something she knew would scar, and she would have to figure out how to tell Vivi. Her daughter knew she worked with the police but she didn’t know just how closely her mother risked her life every day. They could have matching forehead scars now, Ava mused silently, though she was much more glad Vivienne’s was just a playground injury.

“Still,” JJ was dabbing at the stitches with an alcohol swab in an attempt to clean up the dried blood there. Ava whined in annoyance, hating the way the alcohol burned and made her eyes water. She passed JJ another bandage, hoping to speed up the process so she could rest finally, and grabbed her wrist to stop her for a second.

“JJ, I’m totally fine. It’s a minor bump and I’m going home. You did everything you were supposed to do, okay?”

“Okay…”

Ava let go of her wrist so she could stick the new bandaid down, smiling at the way she brushed away her baby hairs to avoid pulling them. JJ was so attentive, despite the way some people thought she was cold or bossy. She did her job well and cared about the right people, Ava could agree with that. She wanted to take care of everyone and while she logically couldn’t do that she still tried.

“Good,” Ava nudged her fussing hands away and settled down in the plush seat, “Can I sleep now?”

“I’m waking you up every half hour,” She answered quickly, “Concussion rules.”

“Jayj,” the other woman whined, “We have less than two hours of a flight.”

“Then you better try to sleep now.”

Ava rolled her eyes, feeling feet kick the back of her seat gently in an indication that Emily also wanted her to sleep. She sighed and leaned her head against the window, looking at JJ again as she nudged her knee with her toe.

“Hey,” she said softly, “Thank you.”

[impossible-rat-babies]

Documents detailing a supernatural incident involving Pollux Weismann, child of agent Rebecca Weismann, and another notwithstanding party, name unknown. (Referred to as Jane Doe in the following report for ease of readership).

On the 12th of October, 2010, an unknown supernatural incident occurred within the Mount Rainier National Park, involving Pollux Weismann and Jane Doe.

Later investigations and notes suggest both Weismann and Jane Doe intended to go hiking late at night within the forests in the park looking for supernaturals. The pair of them traveled out to the park, reservations suggesting the pair intended to make a weekend out of the trip.

Further details of what happened that evening, remain unclear and witness testimony also remains unclear. Jane Doe was missing from the scene when discovered and Weismann was found unconscious and wounded.

[This report is split into several sections covering several pages. Additional pages include images referenced within the report]

—

Injuries:

--The injuries sustained by Weismann appear to be from blunt force trauma, these including: severe bruising and contusions along with a broken right arm, three ribs, a broken pelvis, and a concussion. Such injuries infer a fall from a great height or, as suggested by the environmental factors of the forest and area he was found, he rolled a great ways down several hills and several small cliffs before coming to rest at the edge of a stream.

—Other injuries suggest Weismann having been involved in a struggle with someone wielding a knife, or perhaps claws.

Several other injuries remain unknown in origin, possibly connected to the supernatural incident. Most notable of these include:

—A larger acidic third degree burn covering a fourth of his body from the cap of his left shoulder and down to his corresponding hip. Skin grafts and significant therapies will be required for full functionality to return. [see figures 1.0-1.5]

—Other wounds sustained suggest he was bound or grabbed by the wrists, lacerations around both wrists and ankles and the dislocation of both of his thumbs. The multiplied nature of such lacerations would imply having been bound several times. [see figures 1.6-1.7]

—Contusions around the face along with several lacerations on his face suggest having been subjected to violence unlike the binding or the possible fall. However, such wounds would appear older, as if sustained before the incident occurred.

[Added: November 14, 2010] All of the injuries appear to be healing well after surgery. Many will leave lasting scars or will require skin grafts. The large burn suffered continues to fester, suggesting a possible magical cause to such an injury. Treatment plans are being discussed. [see figures 1.8-2.0]

The details of such incident remain a mystery, partially due to Weismann’s deteriorating mental awareness and ability to communicate

He awoke a day and a half after being brought in, to which he was highly aggressive and reactive to various stimuli. This mostly included touch, bright lights, and high pitched sounds. He spoke only in a state of gibberish or in a faltering manner, often growing frustrated with his lack of ability for his communication to be understood.

His speech eventually deteriorated over the next few hours until all clarity was lost, at which point he was provided with written tools to communicate. This lasted for a week and a half and he was able to communicate his wants and needs effectively to provide treatment. 

Bright lights, touch, and high pitched sounds remained distressing.

This manner of communication proved to fail when asked about the incident—his writing turning to unclear scribbles and his demeanor dramatically shifting from calm to aggressive and severely agitated. [examples of writing included in sections below].

His ability to communicate effectively through writing was lost, all of his writing turning to scribbles seemingly clear to him, but unclear to the staff.

After, he more often than not grew agitated and aggressive towards staff and visitors alike. This including several violent incidents involving doctors and nurses. Other incidents involved escape attempts and the destruction of medical equipment, his own bandaging and further aggravating his wounds.

After such incidents, he was kept in a state of heavy sedation for both his own safety and that of staff.

[Added 13 November 2010] Agent Rebecca Weismann was allowed to visit for Weismann’s birthday.

---

A possible magical cause to such deterioration was put forward and options explored by staff:

After suitable magical study from what little could be gathered from Weismann’s deteriorating mind, it was declared for the better of his health that memories surrounding Jane Doe and the supernatural be removed or otherwise barred from his mind.

The removal of such memories would not correct the physical harm done to him, nor will it be able to remove or dampen the “mark” he has been given.

As such, the removal of memories will constitute the events of that night, the supernatural involved in such incidents, and any lingering memories of Jane Doe, since she is considered to “be neither dead nor alive—existing or not existing.” Speculation of her status remains as such until evidence is provided.

More over, memories of the supernatural encountered will only cause further deterioration of Weismann’s mind, and memories of Jane Doe jeopardize possible magical effects surrounding states of existence when such a person no longer exists in the state in which they were remembered.

Rather than the barring of memories, the removal of them will not jeopardize Weismann in the possible event of him learning about such incident. Learning of such things will, in theory, be bereft of context and will truly be unable to be grasped or understood in any strong way by Weismann.

However, the removal of memories still remains an imperfect process with risks still attached. It is impossible to track down all of how a memory has been categorized by the brain and contingency plans should be put in place in the event of a large or full lapse in memory.

The risks of such removal are known to Agent Rebecca Weismann, the caretaker of Pollux Weismann in the event in which he is incapable of making medical choices for himself. The removal was performed on 28 November 2010.

Tests for complications and possible lapses—albeit rare—must continue in the following weeks and months.

With hope, Weismann should regain full usage of his faculties in time and with proper care.

[Added 30 November 2010]: the procedure took well, confirmation rendered from several sources of the removal of such memories and their relocation to ⬛️⬛️⬛️⬛️⬛️ for study on the ⬛️⬛️⬛️⬛️⬛️ and ⬛️⬛️⬛️.

Further information on the ⬛️⬛️⬛️⬛️⬛️ gained from the memories will be placed within the ⬛️⬛️⬛️⬛️⬛️’s agency file.

--

This report includes relevant information on the supernatural(s) Weismann encountered for the ease of readership and later references:

The ⬛️⬛️⬛️⬛️⬛️. Risk level: extremely high. do not approach.

The ⬛️⬛️⬛️⬛️⬛️ is defined as a highly aggressive and highly intelligent supernatural. Attempts to contact or to maintain treaties with such supernatural have been attempted with mixed success over the hundreds of years since its discovery. The agency has taken on a “no contact” approach. Little is known of them due to their reclusive and aggressive nature towards most life.

Often accompanying them are the ⬛️⬛️⬛️. they college in pack like groups within the same territory with a singular ⬛️⬛️⬛️⬛️⬛️. They are tolerant of the ⬛️⬛️⬛️, but either appear to serve as food or to be controlled by the ⬛️⬛️⬛️⬛️⬛️.

The ⬛️⬛️⬛️ are well defined as having once been humans and contact with ⬛️⬛️⬛️⬛️⬛️ marking their change from human to supernatural. Such contact, even mild, results in having been tainted or “marked” by the ⬛️⬛️⬛️⬛️⬛️. Whether this is by magical or perhaps physical means is unknown. However, many humans that come into contact eventually end up as ⬛️⬛️⬛️ with currently no known way to reverse this transformation—the change is permanent and irreversible.

The triggers of the transformation are unknown, whether they be the constitution of the person involved, the passage of time, or triggered by the supernatural itself.

Notes: Careful observation and check ups with Weismann are required until such a transformation takes place at which point Weismann will be placed into Agency care. He is to not be made aware, per Agent Rebecca Weismann’s request as her child’s sole caretaker in the event Pollux is unable to care for himself.

Notes:

on April 18th 2019, Unit Bravo have been given access to this file per their assignment to the town of Wayhaven and their continued work with Agent Pollux E. Weismann.

Pollux E. Weismann is still not to be made aware of his status or the contents of this file by Unit Bravo per Agent Rebecca Weismann’s request.

[famouskittychild]

Cheeky mandos - Getting seated

Prolouge

One - ...and we're off

Two - Tea for two

Word count: 2384

Summary: Some fighting and heart-to-heart in this one :)

Rating: M

CW: injury, injury treatment, (non-sexual) physical contact, some angst and feals if we squint

Author's note: I edited this on my mobile and can't put a "keep reading" break in there sorry :/ Edit: fixed it :)

.

Cheeky Mandos - Three: Getting seated

The next covert is the last that you got information about, and it turns into something of a mess. You leave the spacedock just after sunset and a band of thugs picks a fight at a nearby alleyway. They want the beskar, even though its value has been steadily dropping lately after the huge spike before. You still wander what the kriff had caused that.

The two of you make short work of them. The stranger’s - Djarin, you remind yourself - fighting style seems to be taking blaster bolts with his beskar, smashing in heads and peppering it with precise blaster shots. You use the traditional weapon of armourers, a lean hammer with a long shaft - the only thing that might give your occupation away if someone knows what to look for. You’ve garnished the hammer with an electro-pulse emitter for greater efficiency but don’t use that now. Your opponents are not enough of a threat to warrant it.

They get away easy, considering your team of two could’ve simply killed them all; they end up laying on the ground with a few broken bones and several concussions, and you walk away before they can even look up. Only communicating with battle-words, moving around in the shadows, you put distance between them while also separating randomly and criss-crossing the streets to throw off anyone who tries to follow.

When the two of you finally stop and Djarin steps up beside you near a bridge, he remarks quietly.

“That was good fighting together.”

That’s when it occurs to you that whilst there were a few scrapes and the odd punch or drunken challenger before, this was your first real fight together. And the two of you worked seamlessly. Mandalorians have a set of training methodology that was passed down through countless generations and ensured that even people from the most different groups could work together like cogs in a machine. It happens all the time, but it still surprises you how well it went with the stranger. Djarin.

“It was.” You smile, and for once he can’t see it under your visor.

**

You find the covert and whilst they are welcoming when they see your armours, once you and Din start to talk to them, they are quite reluctant. They don’t want to go back to your ship, to your forge, and they barely listen to Djarin. It’s not the coldest reaction ever, but it’s still quite a work to get through to them. You arrange the time when they’ll visit the ship if they want to, then leave, being led through a different exit to where you came from.

By the time you get back to the docks, it’s swarming with gangs. They are badly trained, if at all, and rely on numbers and intimidating the weak. Most of them you dodge without a problem, but a better organized group does slow the two of you down. Not much longer than the afternoon gang did, though; until something knocks the air out of your lungs and you lurch forward, gasping. You are only down and disoriented for a few seconds but that’s enough to get kicked once, and shot twice in the beskar. When you straighten up, blaster in hand, you look for targets. The stranger is blocking the way, shielding you effectively so you twirl to the other side and quickly find the sharpshooter on a roof.

You use the battle code to tell Djarin the sniper’s location, and hope he understands why. He’s a better shot and has a better rifle. The next moment you see him move, and you automatically make the counter-move, to switch places. There’s still about half a dozen people on this side of the yard, trying to get your beskar, scattered around. Than you hear Djarin’s rifle going off; the sharpshooter is taken care of.

From then on, it’s a routine job of mopping up those that aren’t clever enough to run away. No need to chase them down as you’ll be gone, and the local covert is well hidden.

**

The docks are quiet and the Brick sits untouched in the row of ships were it was left. Your usual security routine comes up clean - those local thugs obliviously weren't sophisticated enough to figure out which ship is yours. Now that you’re on board, even a sustained siege wouldn’t be a problem. You just hope the noise won’t make the covert change their mind about their appointment.

You are doing your usual rounds around the ship, checking for anything out of place, when Djarin catches up with you.

“You are injured.” Not a question, and you stop in your tracks. That kick came from some kind of clawed feet or boot, you can feel the sting of a slash on your thigh. You reckon to still have a good fifteen minutes before it will really start to bother you.

“Maybe? Whatever, it’s not serious. I’ll finish the checks first” you tell him, and the black in silver visor keeps staring at you for a long moment. You turn away and expect him to leave.

He hovers around.

It’s kind of annoying, having him look over your shoulder. What does he expect, that you’ll just faint at one point from blood loss? You know yourself better. And if he was travelling alone too, he should know just as well that you’re familiar with your own limits.

Eventually you run out of tasks and sit down in the common room, at the booth with the game table. There’s no medbay on the ship; an alcove with a bunk and cabinets for supplies serves as a first aid station, just off the galley and near the booth.

“Let me help” Djarin says, and doesn’t wait for answer. He is sliding open cabinet doors and taking out boxes of supplies. You try not to sigh in exasperation.

“It’s only a scratch. I can handle it myself. As you should know from your own experience” you add, unable to resist reminding him. You don’t need pampering, just as he wouldn’t either.

“Yeah, you’re telling yourself so? That’s way too much blood for a scratch” he rasps, and you are surprised by his voice. It sounds… nervous? And he speaks a bit faster than usual.

You look down on your leg and see what made him worried. One leg of your trouser is a mess; there’s a gash on the outside of your thigh just beside the edge of the beskar plate, and the fabric of your undersuit is soaked with blood down to your boots. Now that you think about it, you do feel a little more light headed than it is advisable.

“Oh kriff” you mumble. Djarin turns his head towards you, and you explain. “It will be a pain in the neck to wash that all out. I hope I have enough soap. Bloody brilliant.”

He sighs, and you wonder why. He should know about that aspect, too. Wounds are one thing, especially if you have a safe place to lay low and enough bacta, and you have both now. Washing blood out of fabric? A right royal pain.

He motions towards the bunk with his hand.

“You should lay down. You lost a lot of blood.”

“Is that an instruction? It sounds like instruction. I can handle myself, Djarin, just as you can.” You feel your temper rising. Does he think you’re weak? Because you asked him to take that shot? “Just leave, we need to keep an eye on our surroundings anyways, I can take care of a stupid cut. ”

“I know you can. But you don’t have to.” He seems to hesitate for a moment, and looks to the side. “Accepting help is not a weakness. It’s just part of teamwork.”

You set your jaw, and now you are getting suspicious. Is he trying to get you incapacitated? To take the ship? You’ve run out of leads to known coverts, he has no use for you anymore really. Is this the moment he shows his true colours? A weight drops in your stomach and you feel a pang of sadness for some reason. Your head is a bit dizzy, and you know you do have to lay down, and soon. Than you catch your own thoughts. What are you thinking? He could’ve done anything with you or your ship, any time you were asleep. He could’ve turned on you when you were neck deep in some repair work or at your forge. He never did. It’s just you and a lifetime - and heritage - of having to be always on your guard.

He holds out a jar of bacta for you. You take it, and it’s an effort not to drop your arm too quickly under the weight that normally wouldn’t be a bother. You fiddle with the lid, arms feeling like lead. You know you’ll have to clean the wound first, and you have to gather your strength to do that. You don’t want him around, helpful or not, trustworthy or not.

The knot is still in your stomach, and you refuse to examine why.

“If you let me help and then take a nap, you’ll get better much faster. You know that.” He pauses, and nods at himself before continuing, as if he has to persuade himself to keep talking. “I had to learn that again, too, when I made some friends recently. To let them help.”

You are still unwilling, and just want him gone so you can get on with getting better, but that makes you think.

“Is that why you are sad sometimes? You miss your friends.” You wanted that to be a question, but you’re getting weak. And that gash is starting to turn from annoying burn to stabbing pain.

He takes a breath. He goes into that pensive, sadness kind of state of his. You can see it as his chest expands, you can hear the quiet crackling noise barely picked up by his helmet’s microphone: that something in him that you could never explain fully. You half expect him to push the medkit in your hand and leave as you’ve requested. It’s a surprise when he speaks again.

“I took care of a foundling for a while. Until I could give him back to his people, as I was quested to do.” He says that the same way he told you about his droid problem. A few words that speak volumes. Voice strained, as if just wanting to get the words out. The pain from it all knocks the air from you, just like it did then. Why do people have to go through so much grief?

He takes another deep breath, and opens the box with the wound cleaning stuff.

“I still miss him. But I have friends now. I won’t be alone anymore, like I was before him.”

His voice is raspy and clipped and strained, and you are thankful he has the helmet to hide behind. You try to think about what to say.

“Thank you for trusting me. To tell this” you add, as he turns towards you, black visor somehow friendlier than ever. You think about asking him to help, but he just goes to do that anyways. As he cuts the fabric and cleans your wound, the burn of the antiseptic is a welcome pain - the first step to healing. He takes back the jar of bacta from you and you almost doze off after. Then you feel his palm on your thigh.

“Move your leg a bit please” his voice wakes you up from half sleep, and you look at what he might mean. He gently nudges your thigh and dips his head to the side, trying to see the whole length of the cut. All you can focus on is the faint burn of the antiseptic working, and the warmth of his gloved hand on your skin. You wish he had his glove off like when you fixed that problem with Toots.

The uneasiness, the lead from your stomach, vanishes completely. Instead, with each passing second he spends tending you, one hand on your skin, the other smoothing bacta on around your wound, you feel warmth creeping up your neck.

“All right, almost finished. Just the bandages left.” The helmet tilts up, looking at your face. You realize too late your face must be all drowsy. “You all right there? Just a few more minutes, than you can lay down and rest.”

He nudges your leg around a bit while juggling the gauze, and keeps glancing up from his work. You try to smile and look alert, but his glances are a bit distracting in your light headed state. By the time he finishes bandaging your wound, your ears feel like being aflame and you’re all flustered. Is it the blood loss? Not having been touched for a good while now? Being touched by him? Whichever it is, you know you need to get your act together.

He looks up at you every time when he asks something or when he tells you what he’s going to do next. It’s because he wants to check that you’re still conscious, you tell yourself. You’d do the same. Than some little devil whispers in your ear. He did the same when you worked on your astromech together, and you weren’t injured back than. He looked at you straight on, giving you all his attention, when you two had that banter about tea. In general, he steps closer and faces you head on more and more as time passes, unlike in the beginning when he was standing off to the side and barely looked at your general direction. Is that just how he is? Just needed time getting comfortable with a travelling companion?

Or is it just for you?

Your hunch says it’s for you. It’s not like you haven’t had relationships before or had people been interested in you. You might try to talk it away to guard yourself, but you know what this is. You noticed things like this happening. The question is, will this be all?

Time will tell, and soon. You just have to keep yourself from thinking about things too much until then.

.

.

[foursideharmony]

Collateral Damage (Part 1)

Summary: Roman gets into trouble while questing in the Imagination. Rescue arrives, but will the rescuer be all right? A gift of sorts for @today-only-happens-once

Word Count: 1,829

Relationship(s): Platonic LAMP, with some extra Prinxiety focus

Warnings: It's a whump/hurt/comfort fic, sooooo... Plant-monster, violence, nausea, injury, villain!Remus, torture, blood, gross eye stuff, fainting

Roman often said the Imagination was dangerous. The vast majority of the time, this was flagrant exaggeration. The truth was that the Creative Side had an excellent handle on his realm and had learned to build in all kinds of fail-safes, in case a quest or other adventure started to turn sour in an unplanned way. One of his favorites was a staple of the “game” he called Wandering Monsters, wherein he would hat up, venture into the wilderness of the kingdom, guided by his intuition, and face whatever it threw at him. He kept the far reaches of his realm stocked with not just all manner of fantastic creatures, but conceptual fragments of them—traits that could combine unpredictably to generate new monsters, so that he never knew just what to expect.

Once he had battled a fire-breathing winged toad that exploded into thousands of regular toads upon its defeat. That had been rather disgustingly memorable. Then there had been the lamia-sphinx, who forced Roman to solve the riddle of her beauty or be devoured. On yet another occasion, instead of generating a monster, the landscape itself became more hazardous as he traveled, producing sinkholes and avalanches. It was always fresh, always exciting...and always escapable if Roman found himself in over his head, thanks to the fail-safe.

For this particular episode of Wandering Monsters, he found himself descending into a fetid marsh. (That should have been his first clue that something was amiss.) He kept to higher ground as much as possible, avoiding the standing water, but every footstep squelched in slimy mud and he was constantly harassed by clouds of gnats. He was weighing the merits of just calling off the adventure altogether when a patch of scummy water several paces ahead of him erupted in khaki spray and the monster appeared.

It was...a blob. Well, a wad—a shapeless mass of tangled plant matter about the size of an elephant, with no discernible aesthetic or grace. “I ruined my boots for this?” Roman complained aloud. “I have half a mind to just—aah!”

He trailed off in a startled scream as two vines lanced out of the mass toward him. He brought his shield up in time, but the impact still tipped him over, and he slid headfirst down a muddy embankment and into the water. For a panicked moment, Roman was trapped that way, head submerged, lacking the leverage to right himself, until he got the presence of mind to jam his sword into the mud and use it as a handhold to haul himself up. He sputtered, spitting out foul water—

—and suddenly found himself swinging wildly in the air, upside-down. The monster had extended another vine and hoisted him into the air by one ankle. Roman slashed at the ropy tendril only to realize that he didn't have his sword because, duh, it was still stuck in the bank and he had lost his grip on it when the creature yanked him away. But his shield was still there, strapped to his arm, and it was good steel, and a dull edge was still an edge.

The monster thrashed back and forth, making Roman helicopter in the air and robbing him of any chance to bring his shield within reach of the vine that held him, as well as making him faintly motion-sick. It let go on an upswing, sending him tumbling upward, and then snatched him with more vines, these lined with thorns that dug through his clothing and pricked his flesh. Roman gasped with the sudden shock of pain, only to find his breathing constricted as the vines coiled thickly around his torso, squeezing the air from his lungs.

Enough was enough: time for the fail-safe! Roman banged his feet together three times and wheezed “There's no place like home!” (because he respected the classics). The scene sloshed around him, there was a rushing sensation, and he landed on his butt on smooth tile. His sword clattered beside him.

It had worked. He was back in the hall of his castle, safe and able to assess the damage at his leisure while he waited for Phase Two of the fail-safe to kick in. The thorn-wounds stung and itched, but they didn't seem too deep; Roman figured—

The sense of something shifting behind him dragged the prince out of his train of thought. Roman whirled around to see something that should have been impossible—the marsh monster was there, in the hall with him! It had followed him, through the retrieval spell, and that could mean only one thing.

He should have realized.

“Oh, Rooooomaaaaaannnnnnn!” squealed the voice he detested. “What's wrong, brother dear? Don't you like your new friend? I made him just for you! Say hello and PLAY NICE!” Remus's voice dropped to a growl on the last two words, and the plant creature extended a heavy vine and slapped Roman, sending him tumbling over the marble and adding a multitude of bruises to the pinprick cuts he had already sustained. His whole body twinged in protest.

Roman staggered to his feet. He hadn't managed to grab his sword, and could only watch as the monster galumphed toward him, vines lashing. It moved something like a gigantic amoeba—bulging irregularly toward the front and then flowing into the bulge, its movements erratic but averaging out to forward motion. Remus was perched atop it, sitting cross-legged, his morningstar laid across his knees, grinning like he always did when serious violence was in the offing. Roman juked to the side just as they arrived, so that the mass of stinking plant matter shambled past him. It was leaving a disgusting trail of mud and scum all over his floor, and that made him angrier than the injuries. How dare—

“Whoopsie-daisy!” Remus screeched, realizing that Roman had evaded him. “None of that, now!”  He swiveled atop the monster and it reversed course without even turning, shooting its vines out what had been the back and was now, apparently, the new front. If such terms even meant anything in relation to such a shapeless thing.

“Remus, go home!” Roman snarled. “You're not welcome here!”

“Oh, so you can invade my side of the Imagination, but not vice-versa? That's hardly fair!”

“I didn't invade—look, I don't have to justify myself to you!” The scratches were really starting to sting, as if the monster were made of nettles. Roman could barely manage to dodge the new strikes—he needed his sword! He turned and darted back the way he had come, and promptly slipped on the sludge left by the creature's passage. Roman's chin met the marble hard enough to fill his vision with black sparks, and he tasted blood.

“Ooh, Roman, I like the way you think!” Remus said, and before Roman could wonder what the hell he was talking about, the plant-monster had him by the ankle again—both ankles this time. Roman's stomach roiled, made more sensitive by his near-concussion, but before he got a chance to see whether he was actually going to be sick, the creature whipped him across the room.

In the next instant, he slammed into a pillar, the impact sending savage pain exploding all up and down his body. In the instant after that, the pain came again as he dropped to the floor. He could scarcely breathe, it was so excruciating, and he definitely couldn't move, even to desperately crawl away when Remus and his “pet” approached again.

“Poor little Princey,” Remus said, sing-song. “He's all black and blue! Not a very balanced color scheme—too cool, too somber. I know! We'll brighten it up with some RED!” On the last word, a thorny vine raked at Roman's back, tearing right through his sash and jacket and leaving burning scratches in his flesh. The assault continued, Remus cackling as his minion tore Roman's clothes to shreds and his skin to something not much better. Where the HELL is Phase Two? the prince wondered frantically.

“Enough!” he gasped out, prompting a pause in the torture. “P-please! What do you want, Remus?”

Remus rolled his eyes so hard that they literally popped out of his head and bounced on the floor, adding revulsion to Roman's catalog of horrible sensations. “What, you never heard of family bonding time?” he said, ichor dripping from his empty sockets.

Roman closed his eyes against the hideous sight and began to hum softly, trying to dull the pain to something manageable. He didn't get very far before Remus's voice cut in, rasping like sandpaper against his battered awareness.

“Hey! Don't ignore me when I'm talking to you! Where are your manners?”

Back in the swamp, Roman thought sourly, but he didn't bother responding out loud.

“I asked you a question!” Remus roared. Then, suddenly as mild as if they'd been discussing recent movies, he said: “You know...there's something I've always wondered. Why does the prince always get to be so handsome?”

Roman's eyes snapped open with alarm. Remus, in possession of his own eyes once again, had shifted position atop the monster, lying on his stomach, head propped up on one hand while the other twirled the morningstar almost negligently. “And whatever would he do,” the Intrusive Side continued, “if that were taken away from him?”

He made a sharp gesture, and several vines zipped out and coiled around Roman's sprawled limbs, pinning him in place. Remus twiddled his fingers in the air, and another vine, this one dotted with barbed thorns, emerged and hovered, poised over Roman's face, quivering with what seemed like monstrous anticipation.

Just as the vine struck, there was a soft explosion of ultraviolet and a smell of ozone, and someone was there, intervening. Roman's vision was becoming hopelessly blurred; all he could make out was a mass of black and purple. Virgil...?

Virgil had blocked the vine with his forearm, his baggy hoodie sleeve bunching up and cushioning him from the damage as its momentum whipped it around his wrist. “GET OUT!” he bellowed, his voice reverberating with the Tempest Tongue. The force of his shout struck Remus like a physical blow, sending him tumbling backward along the top of the marsh monster. “OUT!!” Virgil repeated, wrenching at the vine wrapped around his arm.

The stress of the situation lent him power, and the monster...unraveled, like a ball of yarn. Remus made an extremely undignified noise as he fell amid the collapsing vines, and in a puff of acrid smoke, he was gone. The remains of the plant creature...remained, strung out in slimy, noisome piles in what was supposed to be a luxurious and fashionable palace hall.

Near-silence fell over the space, punctuated only by Virgil's panting breaths as he came down from the peak of his fight-or-flight state, and by Roman's own ragged breaths. His wounds throbbed hotly, seeming to expand, and he realized why, just as the room started to spin away into blackness...

To Be Continued...

[noxtms]

IN CHARACTER DATE : december 25th, 2020. TRIGGER WARNINGS : n / a.

( at first, nothing. )

a woman screams. she is crouched before the veil, supporting the non existent weight of a skeleton - no, no, a man, so naked and emaciated that he passes too well - both arms wrapped around him, pulling him, trying to force him to his feet even while she struggles to get her own beneath her. cloaked figures stagger forwards across ancient stone, just as disoriented, taking him from her so that she can rise, shakily, to her feet. 

( SUDDENLY : EVERYTHING. )

she lunges. looks as if she's about to fall. doesn't. she is desperately trying to reach for the items that lie before the archway, her fingers extending, the edge of a silvery wisp of fabric just barely within her grasp when a jagged jet of red light collides with her arm. another explodes against the ground. another. 

figures - uncloaked, eyes wide, ferocious, shoulders squared, wands drawn - flood the room and take it all in. the destruction. the sight of the others who are only now beginning to rise. bellatrix scrambles backwards, clutching her arm to her, unheard of fear tinging her expression. a tall man with a long, dirtied beard raises his wand again -

they disapparate. all of them. everyone dressed in black disappears, only one extending a hand to grab onto her shoulder and take her with him, the last scream of protest echoing in the chamber. the man is gone too. has been brought. he looked dead. 

( lungs fill - oh god, oh god, they might explode - everything feels red, raw, fire, burning - ) 

beyond the archway stands another man, his shoulders hunched, damp & ragged long hair covering one side of his face. he looks like someone. someone known, once. someone remembered. someone who never appeared on the other side like he was supposed to. they are so alike that it is jarring, sets teeth on edge, forces you to look desperately for just one difference, just the one to set them apart - if he smiled, it would light his face so differently. not charming. shy. it isn't him, but if it isn't, then who is it? 

he jolts when the others realize he's there, a deer caught in headlights. his chest rises and falls, rises as if he is gulping air for the first time in years, like a drowning man who has just stumbled from the grasp of murky waters, every exhale hurried so he can inhale again, sharply. 

not him. 

not sirius.

someone moves. does not brandish a wand, just makes as if they are going to move toward him, and then he is gone with a crack. just like the others.

( it is so hard to focus. it is so hard to see. everything hurts - everything blurs - everything twists inside - ) 

a shock of red hair. she's lying so still, again, slumped near to the items abandoned. another redhead on unsteady feet clambers the dais - does not care about these meaningless things the wild woman tried so hard to reach - and pulls her into his lap. "ginny, ginny, ginny-" his whole body shakes. she’s so pale.  

another's hand presses to her neck, and something blossoms in their expression, brightens a face that had turned a horrible shade of grey. "she has a pulse. she’s alive.” 

is she? is she, really? she doesn't look it. no one thinks it. murmurs of how it can't be, it can't be, it isn't possible. 

she doesn’t look it. maybe it isn’t. 

( a whimper slips past broken lips. ) 

"who..." 

( who? ) 

noticed with a gasp. the pounding of footsteps. someone falls to their knees and cold hands press against his skin and he flinches away from the touch because it is still too painful - it is a relief, but it is too much, his skin feels too fresh, and they don't know, or realize, because they are mirroring the action done already, pointlessly searching for a pulse that flutters too fast beneath their fingertips. 

they babble with senseless confusion and others loom above him and he cannot make their features out, cannot see through blurred vision, but they are... warm- familiar- they know him. he knows them. 

"harry-" 

a legacy. a life done before. a name forms on the tip of his tongue, the salve to undoing : 

harry potter.

ROUNDUP OF FATALITIES & INJURIES ( DUMBLEDORE’S ARMY ):

dennis creevey took a stunner to the back & was knocked unconscious. aside from some minor cuts and bruises, he's in perfect health.

aura hargate's knees will have to be put the right way around again, and this in combination with some unnamed curses cast upon her by thorfinn rowle spells a few days in st mungo's for her.

nellie diggory is badly shaken by her experience under the cruciatus, and some additional injury sustained in the chaos of the battle means she will have to spend at least 24 hours under observation on a ward in st mungo's.

alicia spinnet managed to break her ankle in the second tumble that she took, and has some cuts from the glass case that shattered in the elder wands room. her other injuries are fairly minor, sustained in battle, but she will have to take heavy doses of skele-gro for a few days.

luna lovegood is battered and bruised, though the worst injury she seems to have received is the long gash along her arm that rendered it unusable for the latter half of the battle. she won't have to go to st mungo's, so long as she promises to apply a healthy amount of essence of dittany.

hermione granger's cheek was sliced cleanly by an unknown spell, and she has a number of other injuries ranging in severity, including ones sustained from the explosion of glass in the wands chamber, including what may be a shard in the eye - the healers will take a closer look at st mungo's.

ron weasley is shaken up badly by his time under the cruciatus, and sustained a number of other injuries in the battle. some of his ribs were fractured in one of the dives he made to avoid numerous confringo's, and should rest up for a while.

cassia trelawney's right side is badly burned from her dress going up in flames. though they were able to be put out, the damage was quite severe - she'll need to spend an extended time in st mungo's as they work to repair it.

dean thomas will spend at least twenty four hours in an induced coma as mediwizards work to undue the curse placed upon his skull, and reduce it to its normal size. when he awakes, he'll have to spend a few days for observation. the rest of his injuries are mostly superficial.

ginny weasley died, so there's that, but sustained a gash to her head after being caught with a ribboning curse and has a large injury shoulder to torso that will require immediate medical attention. she's fairly battered and bruised, in general, but st mungo's will focus on the former.

percy weasley was tortured for a number of days. he will have to spend as much time as they can keep him in st mungo's to be treated for the injuries he received at the hands of the carrows in addition to the starvation and dehydration from what was withheld from him. the healers think he'll make a full recovery - physically.

ROUNDUP OF FATALITIES & INJURIES ( THE DEATH EATERS ):

mikaela karkaroff is generally fine, though she sustained some minor cuts and bruises in the battle.

niko karkaroff is also relatively okay, though his minor cuts and bruises pale to those his feet suffered following the loss of his shoes. that's what you get for being a death eater, i guess.

hazel graves suffered serious lacerations at the hands of nellie diggory, though a few days in a st mungo's ward having essence of dittany applied regularly to them should heal her right up.

alecto carrow has a concussion from being thrown across the room. she did not take part in the initial battle and would have escaped unscathed if not for this - her brothers nose is broken by the stunner that he took to the face.

antonin karkaroff fared well, but fractured a number of his ribs when he took a serious tumble. he needn't visit st mungo's provided he has a private healer he can trust to take care of him in this time.

helen buchanan was knocked unconscious in a fall and also will have suffered a concussion from it, however, she was unfortunately caught in a blast when one of the stone benches around her exploded. she will need to be treated professionally for these injuries.

WORTH NOTING:

apparition in and out of the department is impossible unless one is travelling with a member of said department, or has been given strict overriding permissions. the death eaters being able to apparate will likely be cause for suspicion, since the order of the phoenix were only able to apparate directly into the department of mysteries due to permission granted by the minister of magic himself. 

cho chang informed the order of what dumbledore’s army was planning as quickly as she could - it wasn’t quick enough to stop what happened, but she’s owed a great thanks for her concern. 

jo diggory & theodore nott, notably unpresent for the past five plot points, are alright. jo was left with cho at number twelve, grimmauld place, needing rest and recuperation to heal from the sectumsempra that hazel graves hit them with. theo was found soon after the battle and revived, and aside from being disoriented - and the use of an unforgivable curse upon him likely to be revisited later - was unharmed. 

OUT OF CHARACTER:

this marks the official end of NOXTMS : PLOT ONE. it’s been a great few months, but trust me - we’re in for some FUN over the next few months and phase ! individuals who had characters that took part in this event are welcome expand on their own re: the injuries sustained that aren’t specified, and we’ll discuss in the discord what our next steps as the dumbledore’s army group is. 

while nox remains at the masquerade, event wise, moving slowly forward through the night to eventually incorporate this - you’re very welcome to start private and public threads dealing with the aftermath if you’d like. all the more for fun ! 

applications for HARRY POTTER & REGULUS BLACK will not be accepted for at minimum seven days, as i don’t intend on letting it be a first come, first serve situation. lord voldemort is understandably joining the ranks as an npc.

THANK YOU SO MUCH ! i’m going to want to make a larger ... thank you speech, later. but thank you all so much for your engagement, and i hope you’ve enjoyed ! 

[eirabach]

Backlash [5/5]

The last bit of Gordon + Used as Bait for @godsliltippy and @badthingshappenbingo and on ao3 here. I absolutely need to make these things more concise.

It's not -- it's not great. Not even a little bit. Not at all. But Gordon's -- Gordon's faced worse, hasn't he? He can still swim, blinded. Still move. Still walk and talk and feel and touch and kiss -- it's been worse.

Kinda.

"Alan?"

There's a noise, a echoey, scuffley, heavy sort of noise, like someone dragging anchor chains out of dry dock, and Gordon hasn't spent enough time on Three to know what it is, other than it's gotta be Alan. There's no one else here after all.

"Yeah?"

Alan sounds wrong too, all nasal and wet, and Gordon's blown his eardrum right out but he still recognises the misery behind the word. Still knows it's his job to fix it - even if it's his fault it’s there in the first place. Sorta. Maybe.

He’s pretty sure that Alan’s not all that pleased at having him cluttering up his ‘bird, half deaf and blinded and with a head that feels fit to burst. He’s just kinda hazy on how he got that way, if he’s honest. It's probably his own fault though. It usually is.

But there’s another nasty, throbbing ache that he does happen to know he didn’t come by honestly.

"I'm still mad about the elbow."

The clattering pauses, and Gordon strains his one goodish ear until he hears the little huff of breath that means his little brother’s turned his attention toward him, until he’s sure Alan’s words are stained more with irritation than sadness.

"Don't you have more important things to worry about?"

Yes. No. Deflect. Wind him up because Gordon’s good at that. Wind him up and maybe -- just maybe -- it won’t hurt so much to shake his head. "Spoken like a true child."

Alan scoffs. "Just because you spend all your free time mooning over Lady Penelope doesn't mean the rest of us are as hopeless as you."

Gordon fakes a cry of outrage, but the gasp that follows is real. Three’s moving, swaying beneath him, and when Alan speaks he sounds further away, deeper and more muffled and Gordon pitches his own voice higher, louder, an attempt to compensate for something he can’t quite name. The clattering and banging starts up again and God, but his head hurts.

"I am sure you can't possibly be referring to yourself there Alan Bartlett Underage Tracy?"

"Well I'm sure as hell not talking about John."

"You don't know that. He's a dark horse, out in space all alone -- could be up to anything."

'Have you met John?"

"He wears a super tight spacesuit."

"I'm not sure what you're trying to say but please, don't ."

"They say it's always the quiet ones."

"That's only because they haven't met you ."

"Poor souls."

There’s a final sort of slam sound, and Three launches herself forward with a shuddering, violent jolt. Unsecured and unsteady Gordon founders, his hands scrabbling for a grip on something anything as Alan yelps from -- from somewhere.

Oh God. Oh God, he can’t see . He can’t see and Alan -- Alan .

If anything happens to Alan, he’s fucked.

If anything happens to Alan, he won’t even know.

“Gords? Oh crap Gordy I’m sorry, that was a bit -- I was swapping over Four’s power cells -- get us some extra -- extra kick. Too much kick, maybe. I’m sorry. I should have warned you -- I should --” Gordon feels the neoprene of his gloves being tugged and pulled and then, then there are two warm hands wrapped around his own. Bigger than the last time he’d held them, rougher, but still, unmistakably --

“Allie,” the childhood nickname’s half choked out, two syllables almost two too many for his pounding head, his frantic heart. “This is shit .”

---

“This is shit.”

“There aren’t tow trucks out there, Scott.” Virgil, of course, remains infuriatingly soothing even now. It's the habit of a lifetime and Scott wonders, sometimes, if it would be acceptable to smack him. “There’s no-one coming to help. When you’re in trouble that far out, we’re it ."

“So that’s it then? We just sit and watch?”

The little red triangle that represents a solid 33% of Scott’s entire heart moves, achingly slowly, across the arc of space that now hangs in their living room. Above it John hovers, not down, not like he would be in any other family emergency, but still far above them all in Five. Still way, way too close, but Five can’t get there. Can't come to the rescue of the would-be rescuers. No one can.

“Believe me, Scott. I’ve run the figures, if there was any way --”

“Don’t give me the platitudes, John! I’m not some -- some weeping widow you can fob off. This is Gordon and Alan, and we can’t just leave them out there!”

Virgil and John exchange a look, and Virgil sighs. The likelihood of that smack is increasing by the second.

“Grandma’s certain the blindness is only temporary, and they’re making good progress Scott. They’ll be home within a fortnight, and then you’ll be wishing they hadn’t got back so quick."

Scott spins on the spot, fear making his finger shake as he jams it into his brother’s chest. “What the hell are you trying to say, Virgil?”

“I’m not trying to say --”

“No, spit it out. You think this is no big deal, do you?”

Virgil holds up his hands, eyes wide. “I never --”

“Because this is my call. I sent them out there, and if -- if anything else happens --”

“Scott. They’ll be okay. They will.”

Scott shakes his head, frantic. “And if they’re not? If Grandma’s wrong?”

“Don’t let her hear you say that."

“Virgil!” Scott crumples, collapsing onto the sofa with his head in his hands. “What if ."

---

Virgil doesn’t have an answer for Scott, but John does.

He’s run every conceivable outcome through every parameter he can think of, staying up on Five as a small, useless concession to the distance between older and younger, safe and wounded. It means he knows, now, what if.

He’s figured it all out; what if Alan runs out of fuel, what if Gordon’s concussion takes a turn for the worse, what if Three sustained damage or a freak meteorite hits her engine core. He’s considered them all in every teeny, tiny, detail. Knows the likelihood down to a millionth of a percentage point and it ought to help, hadn’t it? Knowing how utterly unlikely such things are.

It doesn’t.

Not when he knows what would come next. The self loathing, the recriminations, the horrible, baffling concept of Gordon, blinded. Hurt. Worse. Gordon, who has always seemed the most determined to live life to the fullest of all of them, and for whom life has always been almost brutally, unfairly cruel.

He’d adapt, of course, if Grandma’s wrong. He’s that way inclined.

The numbers suggest that the rest of them would not.

Perhaps he’s being unfair on Virgil, really. Perhaps Virgil knows as well as John does the way the guilt would eat at them from the inside out. Does. Is. The way it burns in the fingertips that pressed the button, chokes the throats of those who said “Go.” Perhaps that’s why he’s letting Scott snap and snarl at him, John wouldn’t know. He’s always left that sort of thing to Virgil after all, but it seems like the sort of thing that Virgil would do.

Distract.

Reassure.

Offer hope.

John’s decent enough at the first two -- it’s sort of his job after all -- but hope, hope rarely comes from the numbers and the numbers are where John puts his faith, sticks his certainty.

The numbers, he tells himself, don’t lie. Lying benefits no one. It’s just a sticking plaster, a minute or two of relief borrowed from the pain yet to come. He’s never really understood the point of it before.

But then he opens his comm, opens the line, opens his mouth, and John -- John understands, now.

Sightless eyes turn upward, a guess that doesn’t quite work, followed by a smile that’s far too broad turned bloodless and grey in the holographic light.

“Gordy. It’s John. You’re going to be okay.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

He has twelve days til the backlash.

[missslothy]

Writer’s Month 2020

H50 Fic:  Captain America and the Angel of Death

Rating: M

Relationship:  Steve McGarrett/Danny Williams

I’ve chosen 7 prompts from the Writer’s Month 2020 prompt list, to make up a story.  Chapter 1 is ‘magic’

“Let us come in with you.”

Steve ignores Lou plea. Instead, he hands over his automatic weapon and gun.  They won’t be any use in the warehouse: he needs his hands free.  “Ho Lua has at least thirty men in there with him,” he reminds Lou, and Tani, Junior and Adam who are loitering nervously too. “They’ll kill Danny before we can get in there.”  ,

“We can get up high, give you cover—”

Shaking his head at Junior, Steve pulls off his tactical gloves and digs in the pockets of his cargo pants.  Pulling out another pair of gloves, he pulls them on.  These ones are lighter, silky to the touch and cover his hands completely. Looks are deceptive though: the outer layer of fabric is woven with microbeads of Kevlar, to protect anyone who touches them.

Lou still looks doubtful. “You know I’d do anything to get our boy back but you’ve got a concussion, Steve.  A bad one.”  He taps the side of his head.  “Are you sure you can still do it?  You know…the magic.”

“I’ve got this.”

Lou shakes his head, doubtfully.  “You want me to call the Guild?  You know the rules, you need to call it in before you engage…” Sighing, he tails off.

Steve tugs the gloves one last time, checking they’re tight around his wrists.  Lou’s right: he has got a concussion and a motherfucker of a headache.  And he should call it in with the Guild.  But the bastards who gave him that headache – who kidnapped Danny from their house, from their bed, in the middle of the night – are very likely in that warehouse. And he wants those bastards. Badly.

A quick scan of the faces of the rest of his team confirms they are not happy either.  This isn’t their first rodeo though and he knows they’ll do what’s needed.  With one last nod, he turns and jogs toward the warehouse.

They are down by the docks. All the earth – the ‘āina – is covered with concrete.  He can still feel her power leaking out, making the hairs on his body stand on end. She’s been muffled though by the greed and stupidity of men.  He hadn’t lied to Lou about still being able to do his magic but the combination of the concrete and the concussion isn’t ideal.

Finding cover, he closes his eyes and reaches out with his mind.  Under his feet he can feel the threads of magic running, like streams of water.  Kneeling down, he places his palm on the concrete.  Taking a deep breath, he calls her power to him.  

Warmth flows up through his hand.

The first hit is always a surprise, no matter how many times he does it.  It’s like a shot of drugs to his bloodstream.  He bites back a groan as his headache flares in reaction. Placing his other palm on the ground, he braces himself.  Now the effect – and the headache – has doubled.

All his life people have asked him to explain what he’s doing.  The best way he can describe it, is it’s like recharging a battery: his body’s carrying energy gifted to him by the ‘āina.  It doesn’t last long but while it does it gives him ‘magical’ abilities.  In his case, that means he’s able to shield himself from attack.

He’d been at military school when his magical talent had first shown itself.  Bullies had been making his life hell.  One day he’d been cornered by a group of boys, found himself shoved to the ground.  Seeing red, he’d put his hands out to save himself and that’s when it had happened: the next boy who’d tried to hit him had come up against an invisible brick wall.

That first shield had lasted less than a minute, too ragged to sustain.  It had been enough to get him noticed.  The of Magical Practitioners had been called in to assess him immediately.  A place at Annapolis and a top-level military career was suddenly his.  

His skill had saved his life more times he could remember.  It hadn’t saved Freddie’s or his Dad’s.  

He’s determined it’s going to save Danny’s.  Standing up slowly, he pulls the energy towards him, mentally smoothing it into a bubble around his body.  Straightening up, he heads inside.

Ho Lua’s men are waiting for him.  Automatic gun fire rings out in the warehouse.  In his ear, he can Lou yelling his name.  Blocking out Lou, he focuses on maintaining the bubble of power as it warps under the onslaught.  

Engaging in hand-to-hand combat and maintaining the energy is something he’s been trained in ruthlessly. Doing it with a blinding headache, that’s more of a challenge.  The burning sensation in his hands grows, a sign that the power is leaking out, seeking its home; the ‘āina.

Fucking move, a voice in his head yells and he listens to it.  Giving up any pretence of taking any of these bastards down, he starts running.  Arms pumping, breath catching in his chest, he crosses the warehouse in seconds. Sparks fly off the concrete as bullets hit it: one of them bounces, pierces a weak spot in the bubble, strikes him on the ankle.  

Stumbling, cursing, he half falls through the door to the offices where they’re sure Danny is being held. Lou’s yelling louder now but he hasn’t got time to listen or reply.

More men swarm out of the offices, like angry bees defending their hive.  In close quarters he’s got no choice but to engage.  Fighting dirty is something he’s good at.  Bodies start to fall.  

It’s taking too long though. The heat in his hands has turned to red hot pain.  The headache is making it difficult to see.  By the time he makes it to the last office, he’s almost on his knees.  When he sees Danny in there – battered, bound, half-naked in his sleep shorts but alive, fuck he’s alive – it takes everything he has left not to collapse with relief.

They’re not out of the woods yet though: more of Ho Lua’s men are piling into the corridor.  In his ear he can hear Lou giving the order to breach but they won’t be in time to help him or Danny.

Crawling over to Danny, he notices with relief that Danny’s eyes are open and he’s tracking.  The bottom half of Danny’s face has been taped over, layers of it.  Ho Lua knew what he was doing: Danny’s mouth is his secret weapon.

Apparently it’s not a secret any more.  Which can mean only one thing: someone in the Guild’s been talking – to the wrong people.

Steve dismisses the thought as he peels the tape off Danny’s face.  He curses under his breath as Danny’s eyes widen with pain.  Even with the gloves on, the heat and power is seeping through, leaking onto Danny’s skin.  

The voices in the corridor are growing louder as the last piece of tape comes away.  Danny sucks in air gratefully but there isn’t even time for that.  Tearing off the tape that’s securing Danny’s wrists he leans in and kisses Danny. Hard.  Fast. Gratefully.

Danny gasps  – it feels like a bolt of electricity has shot through both of them – as Steve rips off his gloves and offers his hands.  “Do it.”

Danny looks confused for a moment, then understanding dawns.  Ankles still tied with rope, he tries to shuffle away.  “You’ll be hit too.”

Steve glances over his shoulder: they’re not the only people in the room now and he’s nearly running on empty.  Grabbing Danny’s hands, he takes the decision out of Danny’s hands – literally.

Instantly the power senses a kindred spirit.  Danny’s lips part, his pupils dilate, as the power transfers over to him.  Steve lets it go, his body slumping as it empties itself. Unable to hold himself up, he slides to the floor.

“Babe…”

“Do it.”

For a moment he doesn’t think Danny’s heard him.  Ho Lua’s men are nearly on them.  Then Danny inhales, loudly.  And it feels like all the air is being sucked out of the room.

Steve’s not the only one who can feel it.  Ho Lua’s men have faltered too.  Sharing confused looks, they look around them.  Then, one by one, their eyes settle on Danny.

Too late,  you bastards, Steve grins, as Danny’s eyes flutter closed and he opens his mouth…to sing.

Danny hates it to be described as singing.  Steve agrees. It’s more about how Danny harmonises his voice to every situation.  Arguing. Laughing.  Loving.  

Or in this case: sending people to sleep.

The first notes are warm and soothing.  Quickly though they disappear off the scale.  Steve’s vaguely aware of a high pitched whistle nudging at his already blinding headache.  It vibrates in his skull, like a tuning fork, making his teeth ache.  From his vantage point on the floor, he watches Ho Lua’s men start to fall.  Then everything blanks out.

H50H50H50

“Careful, careful. Mind his head.”

It’s Lou’s worried voice that wakes him.  That and being slung over Junior’s shoulder, in a fireman’s lift.  The world passes in a blur.  Concrete.  Bodies. Dark.  Light.  And suddenly his headache is back with a vengeance.  

It’s impossible to contain a groan.

“We’re nearly there,” Junior murmurs.

Their pace speeds up to an almost dizzying rate.  More concrete.  Sunlight. Voices.  Sirens.  He can’t help himself, he groans again.  Then the air cools and the concrete is replaced with grass and something deep inside him unfurls, reaching out for relief.

The world spins as he’s lowered to the ground.  For a second he thinks he’s going to throw up.  Before the nausea gets the better of him, his hands are placed palm down on the earth.

Energy flows into his body. Soft and sweet.  Soothing.  The pain in his hands lessens.  The headache from the concussion is still there but that’s to be expected: the ‘āina gives only what is needed, she doesn’t perform miracles.

Opening his eyes, he sees blue sky.  Pure blue. Not a single cloud in the sky. Birds are chirping in the trees.  The sun and wind is kissing his skin.  Gradually he feels less like he’s been hit by a train and more like he hasn’t slept for a week.  

As his mind comes back on line he realises he’s forgotten something.  “Danny—”

Lou looms into his view, blocking out the blue sky.  “Hey, hey, it’s okay.  He’s right here.”

Following Lou’s eyes, he rolls his head to the right.  Danny’s on the grass beside him.  Wrapped up in blankets, his blonde hair peeking out just over the top, he’s fast asleep.

An overwhelming urge to have Danny in bed beside him – to have Danny in his arms – assails him. Rolling his head back the other way, he meets his friend’s gaze.  “Take us home, Lou.”

TBC