#and the first hour after taking another dose is mostly waiting for the pain relief to kick in again

[ursanic]

.

[comfyswitcherblanketfort]

IUI - The Way I Love You

bear with me here folks

I know the Idiots are usually soft af. but my lovely spouse/fiance/soon-to-be-fiance and beta @dani-dandelino hit me with an idea and I added a dash handful of angst bc i couldn’t help it

Warnings: feelings of inadequacy, fear of breakup (no actual breakup I promise), miscommunication, drunk af Geralt, past shitty relationships, happy ending tho I promise, there’s tears but they’re happy I swear.

______________________________________

Geralt only ever got sloppy drunk when Jaskier was the DD. It wasn’t necessarily that he didn’t trust anyone else, it was that he didn’t trust his drunk boyfriend not to goad him into something stupid. 

The last time they’d both gotten fucked up outside of their apartment they woke up with three traffic cones and a “Speed Hump” sign in their living room. When they asked Triss what happened she sent them a video of them giggling as they tried to fit the sign into her trunk.

After hanging the sign in their apartment, they decided it may be best to take turns. 

This particular instance, they’d dropped Triss and Yen off and were on their way home, Geralt’s head lolling against the window as he fought to stay awake. 

“I’m not carrying your perky ass upstairs,” Jaskier laughed, snapping his fingers near Geralt’s ear. 

Geralt grumbled but sat up straight and leaned into Jaskier’s outstretched hand, “Radio.”

Affectionately rolling his eyes, Jaskier pulled his hand away and flipped on the radio. Geralt immediately gasped and started singing along off key and slurred. The first time Jaskier heard Geralt scream along to Taylor Swift he’d been shocked, if extremely endeared. 

“BUT I MISS SCREAMIN’ AND FIGHTIN AND KISSIN IN THE RAIN! IT’S TWO AM AND I’M CURSIN’ YOUR NAME! SO IN LOVE THAT WE ACTED INSANE, AND THAT’S THE WAY I LOVED YOUUUUUUUUU!”

Jaskier turned the volume down to a reasonable level when Geralt cranked it so loud his ears might start ringing. He rolled his eyes when Geralt started singing it to him, taking the shortcut home and trying to ignore the little pit forming in his stomach. 

When the song ended Geralt turned the radio down and picked up his hand not gripping the steering wheel, “Jask?”

“Mhm?”

Even in the car, Geralt glanced around conspiratorially before whispering, “I have a secret.”

Fear flared in Jaskier’s chest but he took a deep, calming breath, reminding himself who he was talking to. His boyfriend thought secrets were fun. Mostly because Geralt’s version of a secret was keeping what he made for dinner a surprise until Jaskier got home. He’d even felt guilty not telling Jaskier he was seeing a therapist when they’d started dating. For all his gruff exterior and suspicion, Geralt really was an open book with those he loved and trusted. Jaskier had a very different idea of what secrets in a relationship meant. 

“What’s that, love?” 

Geralt giggled as he traced the edges of a magnolia on the back of Jaskier’s wrist, “That is the way I love you.”

Luckily for Jaskier’s car, they were rolling up to a stop sign. He had time to loose his breath for a moment and fight back the initial feeling of shame and anger with himself before he pulled his hand away and gripped the steering wheel as he punched the gas. 

Through gritted teeth, he said the gentlest thing he could think of, “We don’t kiss in the rain.”

Geralt frowned, almost pouted at him, “I still love you.”

A part of Jaskier wanted to scream at Geralt, another part wanted to pull over and make him walk home, thankfully the loudest part reminded him the idiot was just drunk. He didn’t know what he was saying and he thought he was being sweet. There was also a good possibility he would cry himself to sleep in the passenger seat if Jaskier yelled at him and last time he tried to carry Geralt to bed his back hurt for a week. 

“I love you too,” Jaskier sighed as he pulled into their parking spot. 

He didn’t sleep well that night. Not because his sweaty, smelly, and fidgety boyfriend clung to him in his sleep, but because he couldn’t stop thinking about the ride home. 

Jaskier had lived in relationships like that for most of his adult life. Hell, even in his teens. They were nothing but all consuming passion with no connection to support it and left both parties jaded and lost. When he left his mentor he’d sat in Yen’s chair for hours and hours, until his arm had gone numb, and the only thing he could think was ‘never again’. 

And now Geralt thought he was being cute. The ridiculously meticulous and serious man was only ever sappy when he got drunk and now instead of reveling in it like he’d like, Jaskier was staring at the clock on his nightstand calculating how exhausted he’d be in the morning as the minutes ticked by. 

Turns out, he was at least in the land of the living by the time Geralt shuffled into the kitchen with his hands in his hair and a pained expression. 

“Feel like shit.”

Jaskier hummed in agreement as he sipped his morning tea and shifted in his seat to see better out the window. 

After popping a few anti-inflammatories and nibbling on a cracker before giving up on food, Geralt lumbered up behind Jaskier and draped his arms over his shoulders, “What’s wrong?”

“S’nothing. I’m just being… touchy.”

Geralt pressed a light kiss over the hellebore tattoo on Jaskier’s neck, “I doubt it.”

Tears threatened to spill from his eyes as Jaskier laid his hand over Geralt’s arm across his chest, “I don’t want to lose this.”

“Why…? What makes you think you would?” Geralt was a little slower on the draw hungover, but he knelt next to Jaskier’s chair and rested a hand on his knee as he waited for a response. He only ever looked so worried when Roach had an abscess and it broke Jaskier’s heart. He didn’t want to say it and ruin everything. 

After a deep breath in, he mumbled out his answer, “Do you really love me like that song?”

“What song?” Geralt breathed, his thumb brushing back and forth over Jaskier’s knee.

“The uh, Way I Loved You one.”

Geralt searched his face for a beat, the crease between his eyebrows only deepening, “Of course I do.”

“Fuck,” Jaskier breathed, biting his lip to keep it from wobbling as he forced all the air from his lungs in the hopes it would do something to stop the tears from falling. When it was clear he would lose the battle he leaned forward with his elbows on the table, hiding his face in his hands.

“You… don’t want me to?” Geralt sounded close to tears himself, but he didn’t take his hand off Jaskier’s thigh. 

“No- yes! No?” Jaskier sniffed and wiped at his face but didn’t lean back to look at Geralt, “I- Geralt I can’t just fill a hollow relationship with lust. We ha- I thought we had more? But if you want the- the fights and the hate fucking- I don’t- Geralt I don’t want that. Not with anyone but not with you. Ne-”

“Hey, hey,” Geralt tugged at Jaskier’s arm, gathering him to his chest when the brunette melted into sobs, “I don’t want that. That’s not what I meant. I’m sorry, love. I’m so sorry I let you think that.” He cradled Jaskier��s head to his shoulder, pressing kisses into his hair between softly spoken apologies and reassurances. They stayed there until Jaskier’s tea went cold and his sobs were closer to little gasps. 

Eventually, Jaskier lifted his head and met Geralt’s eyes, “H-how do you love me?”

Geralt licked his lips, his voice barely above a whisper, “Not- It’s not hollow.”

Jaskier squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his forehead to Geralt’s, “Please?”

One of Geralt’s hands came up to cup Jaskier’s cheek as he took a deep breath, “I’ve never loved anyone like I love you… I never wanted to be romantic with anyone until you. You… You make me feel… safe. I’m never bored of you or numb or sick of you. This is the first relationship I’ve had where I bother to fight, Jask. I love you so much it makes me do things I never thought to do and I’m glad and I never want to change anything about us. Never.” 

A shiver ran down Jaskier’s spine as relief flooded his whole body. His throat ached from crying and his shoulders were sore from holding all that tension in a way they hadn’t for years, but he’d never felt so good. Geralt loved him. Him. Not some tumultuous relationship or the sex or the drama of it all. Someone finally loved him for him. 

It hadn’t really hit Jaskier till then. They’d said ‘I love you’, sure, but he hadn’t really believed Geralt, just like he’d stopped believing the string of selfish lovers before him. 

“Thank Mellitelle,” Jaskier laughed, just on this side of hysterical as he tightened his grip around Geralt’s shoulders, “I fucking love how boring we are. And you. Fuck I really really do love you.”

“Even when I smell like my regulars?” Geralt teased, intentionally huffing a little extra and dosing Jaskier in his horrendous hangover morning breath.

Jaskier wrinkled his nose but smiled and kissed him anyway, “Of course.”

“Mhh,” Geralt pulled away for a moment, brushing his thumb over Jaskier’s crows feet in a silent request for him to open his eyes, “Can we go back to bed?”

“The crying does it for you, huh?” Jaskier chuckled, his voice was still weak but his laugh was genuine.

“I’m so dizzy, Jask,” squeezing his eyes shut and shaking his head ever so slightly, Geralt plopped back onto his heels. If Jaskier hadn’t witnessed just how much he drank he’d say he was lying, but Jaskier was truly surprised he’d even climbed out of bed this morning.

“Mkay, up. Back to bed then.”

They settled under the blankets and tangled themselves back together. Geralt hummed, closing his eyes and squeezing Jaskier a little tighter.

New, happier tears threatened at the corners of his eyes but he pushed them down, opting to trace the corner of Geralt’s buttercup tattoo peeking out of his shirt, “I love you.”

Geralt took a deep breath in before he sighed out a rumbling, “I know.”

“No, Geralt. Really,” Jaskier laid his hand over the yellow and green ink, “I’ve said these words more times than I can count but I don’t think I ever really understood them until you.”

“Jaski-”

“I love you,” Jaskier’s interruption was far smaller and far more fragile than he had intended. His words just continued to spill out, “You’re steady and calm and I’ve never had that. I don’t know what it’s supposed to be like and I’m constantly scared I’m gonna fuck it up…”

Comforting fingers ran through his hair as Geralt murmured his reply, “Me too,” Jaskier just squeezed his shoulder in a bit of solidarity and a bit of selfish comfort, “But I think we’re doing alright…”

“Why’s that?”

“Well,” Geralt started, shifting so he was practically engulfing Jaskier, “we both still love each other, and...” his boyfriend pinched him when he trailed off, pretending to fall asleep in a way that always mad Jaskier giggle, “Ow- and you use the hooks by the front door.” 

“I do, don’t I?” Jaskier sniffled, “And you used your words.”

“I’d use all the words for you.”

“All of them?”

Geralt really was drifting away this time, his words coming slowly as his arms relaxed and Jaskier felt their full weight over him, “Not well, but I would...” 

[plaidbooks]

Asthma

A/N: This is a Sonny Carisi x reader fic and as the title may suggest, it’s about asthma! I have asthma, and something like this happened to me (thank god for friends who know how to use inhalers). Please be aware that not all asthma works like this, and it’s highly specific to myself and how my asthma is. anyways, hope y’all enjoy.

P.S. I have a headcanon that Sonny switches to Italian when stressed/upset/scared because it calms him down

Tags: asthma attacks/lack of oxygen, near-death experiences

Words: 1722

Taglist: @witches-unruly-heart @beccabarba @thatesqcrush @itsjustmyfantasyroom @stardust-fray @permanentlydizzy @infiniteoddball @ben-c-group-therapy @glowingmess @whimsicallymad @lv7867 @storiesofsvu @cycat4077 @barbasimp @alwaysachorusgirl @glimmerglittergirl @reading--mermaid @averyhotchner @mrsrafaelbarba @detective-giggles @crowleysqueenofhell @dreamlover31

Translations: Merda = shit

Fanculo = fuck

Stai bene? = are you ok?

come funziona di nuovo? = How does this work again?

Non farlo di nuovo! = Don’t do that again!

~~~~~~~~~~ 

You had been running around all day in the New York City heat and humidity, your lungs burning as you finally made it home. You’d think after living here for so long, you’d be used to the oppressive air by now, but you still had breathing issues. Which is why you had two albuterol inhalers for your asthma—one in your purse and one on the counter in the kitchen. Your kitchen was in the middle of your apartment and made the most sense logistically as to where to keep it—it was the perfect distance whether you were coming from the bedroom or the living room.

You had only really had a bad asthma attack once before, and you knew that you had a good 5-10 seconds before you’d lose consciousness. But that was also dependent on how much you panicked; if your brain went into overdrive, then you’d start breathing harder and you’d run out of air faster. It was all about mind over matter, but sometimes, even with mild attacks, it was hard to not panic. It was the natural response to not being able to breathe.

Collapsing onto the couch, you turned your laptop on, hoping to just relax with some funny videos on youtube for the night until your boyfriend, Sonny, came home. Since becoming an ADA, he was coming home earlier than when he was a detective. Though he usually brought cases home with him, working on the coffee table until late in the evening. You didn’t mind; at least you could sit with him, keep each other company, even talk when he wasn’t super invested. Plus, you loved when he’d stand in front of you, running you through his closing arguments or his cross as if you were a witness.

 ***********************

You lost track of time as you laughed heartily at a video, your laughter erupting out of you. You clutched your stomach in pain, tears in your eyes as you laughed. Then, you went to suck in a lungful of air. But nothing happened. You tried again and got a weird rasping sound in your throat. Your eyes went wide as you realized what had happened; you had laughed so hard, you were having an asthma attack. Panic swept through you and you sprung to your feet. But it had been a while now—seconds, though they stretched on—without air, and you were suddenly light-headed. Your lungs burned and it was like a sledgehammer was being pressed upon your chest. You gasped for breath but got nothing in return. Glancing through your fading vision at the kitchen, you took one step, then another, your senses slowly turning off before darkness overtook you.

***

Sonny walked down the hallway to the apartment he shared with you, whistling a tune. Today had gone surprisingly well, and he was off much earlier than he expected, with the weekend stretched before him. He even left all his case files at work, not bothering to work anymore once he left the office for the night.

Digging his key out of his pocket, he went to unlock the door. There was a loud thud from inside the apartment, and Sonny froze.

“Doll?” he called out. He pressed his ear to the door, his hand fumbling for the keyhole. There was no response, and it made his panic rise like bile in his throat. His hand was shaking so badly, he had to steady it with his other hand to get the key in. But in his hurry, he turned it too hard, snapping the key in the keyhole.

Sonny took a step back, braced himself, then kicked the door open, the wood splintering. He rushed in, glancing around until he found you, laying on your side, unmoving.

“Merda! Stai bene?” he asked, making his way over to you. Sonny knelt down, rolling you onto your back. Your chest was barely moving, and you were rasping with every breath. He knew about your asthma, but he had never seen you like this and had not expected it.

Sonny hurried to the kitchen, snatching your inhaler off the counter. He rushed back to you, your breathing much more shallow now, even after a few seconds.

“Fanculo, fanculo…come funziona di nuovo?” he muttered to himself, shaking the inhaler in his hand. He’d never needed to use it before, and you showed him how so long ago…. He ripped the cap off, placing it gently in your mouth. Feeling like he was hurting rather than helping, he plugged your nose as he pressed the cylinder with the medicine down, hearing the spray go into your mouth.

He waited, counting in his head to ten, all the while mumbling, “merda, merda, merda,” over and over again like a mantra. Once he hit ten, he released your nose and took the inhaler from your mouth. Slowly, you started taking deeper and deeper breaths, and your eyelids fluttered before opening.

***

Your chest was on fire and your throat burned as you came to, groggy and disoriented. Though, your mind was rushing, in the way that only your asthma medication did to you—it was a breathable steroid/adrenaline. When your eyes focused, you saw Sonny leaning over you, looking worried to death. But when he saw your eyes opened, a wide grin of relief spread across his face.

“Fanculo! Non farlo di nuovo!” he said, helping you to sit up.

You winced at the motion, giving him a look. “W-what? You’re speaking Italian, Dom.”

“I-I know…I do that when I’m scared. It calms me.”

You chuckled lightly, but grimace as pain broke through your chest. “That’s not helpful when I don’t know what you’re saying.”

“Never mind; can you get up? I need to take you to the hospital—”

“No,” you replied. “I’m fine—I’ll be fine. Just…help me to the couch.”

Sonny gave you a hard look before he helped you stand, guiding you to the couch. “You should still go to the hospital; who knows how long you were on the ground without air?”

“Was I still breathing when you used the inhaler?” you asked. You held out your hand for it, and Sonny passed you the little piece of plastic that had just saved your life.

“Y-yeah, but barely—”

“Then I’m fine.” You glanced at Sonny, who was gearing up for an argument, and you sighed. “If I were to go to the hospital right now, they’ll either do nothing or just give me another dose of albuterol, Dom. Honestly, I’m fine, okay?” He still looked willing to argue, so you added, “I know it must’ve been…bad, seeing me on the ground like that. But I promise you I’m okay.”

Sonny let out a long sigh, rubbing his face with both hands. “Okay. I trust your judgement with your own medical issues.” He sat down on the couch next to you. “But run me through how to use the inhaler again—I wanna make sure I did it right. And please explain to me what the hell happened.”

You chuckled, raising the inhaler—you were going to take a second dose, anyway, to get rid of the pain in your chest. Sonny watched intently, happy to find that even in his panic, he had, in fact, done it correctly. As you held your breath, letting the medication work its way into your lungs, your eyes travelled to the front door, still ajar, the frame in pieces.

“Sonny, what the fuck?” you coughed out.

His eyes followed yours and he swallowed. “I, uh, I forgot I did that,” he replied, smiling sheepishly.

“Well now what do we do? We can’t leave our place open like this,” you glanced at the time; it was late, and no hardware store would be open for new doors. And you were pretty sure your landlord was going to be pissed.

“It’s fine; I can make it so it looks closed. If you don’t feel safe, we can go to a hotel until I fix it tomorrow,” Sonny said, standing. You nodded and he was off, packing an overnight bag for you both.

 *******************

By the time you were at the hotel, you were exhausted. The effects of the medication had run its course, and you just wanted to sleep. Sonny, of course, didn’t allow you carry anything as he led you to your room. He swiped the keycard, letting you in first, and you all but collapsed onto the bed.

“You okay?” he asked, concern lacing his voice.

Your voice was muffled as you replied, and he asked again. Turning your head to the side, you mumbled, “fine, just tired.”

“It’s late; let’s get in bed.” Sonny stripped quickly, then helped you stand, gently pulling your shirt up and off. Once in just your panties, you crawled under the covers, curling onto your side. Sonny got in behind you, wrapping himself around you. “I love you,” he murmured, kissing your shoulder.

“I love you, too, Dom,” you whispered back. Mercifully, you fell asleep almost instantly, the long day wearing you out.

But Sonny hardly slept, afraid that he’d wake up to you no longer breathing. Instead, he laid there, cradling you in his arms, listening to your soft breaths, the sound music to his ears. He dozed off and on, but mostly, he just held you, trying not to tear up as he thought about what might’ve happened if he had worked his normal hours, staying late in the office. He also thought about the other thing he packed in the overnight bag, hidden deep underneath everything else, for fear of it being stolen from your apartment as well as the fear of your finding it.

Inside a sock, rolled up and shoved underneath everything else, was a little box. And in that box was the most perfect engagement ring that Sonny knew you’d love. He’d been planning to propose around your birthday, but now, with that near-death scare, he was thinking that he should just do it now. He was off the next two days, and you were already planning to do dinner tomorrow night. Would it be weird timing now? But at the same time, life was short; today proved that. As the sun came up, streaming through the drawn curtains, Sonny made up his mind.

[primasveraas-writing]

And In Darkness, I Stand- Chapter 1

Kallus' leg is never quite the same after Bahryn. But then again, neither is he.

1 2 3 4 5

1. Bahryn

The cold is, perhaps, worse than the searing pain in Kallus’ leg. At this point, the numbness is a welcome sensation. Alexsandr cannot feel his fingers or his toes, and he hopes that the chill will spread to his leg soon enough.

He glances towards the transponder, still blinking faithfully, and exhales, watching the plume of air swirl in the wind before him.

It’s been- an hour- two? since the Ghost arrived to save Garazeb. Kallus looks to the spot in the snow where the ship had landed, but flurries have already covered the indentation. Good. Perhaps, then, the Empire will have no clue that he was trapped here with another, that he’s only made it this far because of the mercy of a rebel.

A traitorous thought sends a shiver down his spine- maybe if he were wiser, he would have taken Zeb’s offer to go with the Lasat and his crew.

No. Kallus wraps his arms tighter around himself, nesting the meteorite against his chest, pressing it against his pounding heart. He has no doubt that the rebels would treat their prisoners more kindly than the Empire- but Alexsandr is still their enemy. He has chased them across the galaxy promising their demise, has tortured one of them. The singular act of neglecting opportunities to murder Garazeb Orrelios when his back was turned is not enough to grant him forgiveness. Stars know that the Empire- that Kallus himself- would not show Zeb any mercy for saving Kallus were their positions reversed.

Kallus shudders involuntarily, leaning against the alcove. The tip of his nose is exposed to the wind, which is the most miserable part of this experience. He wonders how long it takes for frostbite to set in, then considers how he would move forward if his nose froze off. Or, even, if he lost his leg, first to the break then to the freezing cold.

Despite himself, he snorts. The ISB would likely give little concern to his injuries. Perhaps it would even be better if he were mechanically enhanced. He could be stronger, faster, less puny and breakable. This, of course, is more optimal than Agent Kallus with a limp, Agent Kallus who needs time to recover and heal. Just cut the damn thing off and move on. Maximum efficiency, minimal time and cost.

Maybe that’s why it’s taken so long for the Empire to rescue him. Maybe that’s why they may not come at all. One man isn’t worth the fuel, the effort it takes to track a foreign signal to some remote moon.

Would it be better to die here, a man so faithful to the Empire that he wastes away waiting for them to save him? Or to spend the rest of his life a prisoner of the Rebels, hated by his captors but at the very least, alive?

He seems to have made that decision long ago, when he was just a boy, not yet a man. A cadet, not an officer. He made the same choice again and again since then. To serve the Empire, to give his life to the cause long before it ever killed him.

This is what his loyalty has earned him. A broken leg and slow death, alone after rejecting the mercy of his sworn enemy.

There are worse ways to die. Less honorable ones, slower, more torturous ones. Lonelier ones, unkinder ones, because at least Zeb was there, in the beginning. He could have perished because of that beast in the cavern, he thinks, and chuckles at the memory of their near escape.

If the Empire does not come, Zeb will be the only one who understands Kallus’ fate. When Kallus disappears, when he is not there to try and foil the rebels again and again, Zeb will realize that the Empire never cared to pick up their agent, that the fool who rejected Zeb’s offer died alone on the ice moon. He doubts the Lasat would share this information with anyone else, and he dismisses the notion that Zeb would ever go back to check, to see if Kallus’ remains lay beneath the snow.

His mother would not be surprised, Kallus thinks dryly. Alexsandr Kallus, missing in action. Declared dead however many months later. It is the fate he knows she expected for him, ever since he announced his plans to serve Imperial Intelligence. His father extended approval with a small nod, but his mother had stared at him, lips pursed, and said nothing. Kallus doesn’t remember when he talked to her last. Perhaps her birthday or anniversary, half a cycle ago. He hadn’t answered her call on his own birthday. A new insurgent cell had popped up, and he spent the entire rotation arranging a task force to address the threat.

They are all going about their expected roles, then. Kallus, dying in service to the cause, the Empire, allowing his death as to not divert from more important matters, and his mother, mourning quietly and quickly because her only child was not strong enough to survive.

He hates surprises, so it is just as well. There’s nothing wrong with something steady and predictable, even if that includes a slow, stupid death alone on a moon nobody in the galaxy cares about.

Kallus sighs, closing his eyes and leaning back against the rock. The wind howls, louder than ever before, and another chill rips through him. He presses his eyes shut, but he cannot make himself any more compact, cannot shelter himself from the climate. He’s tired, aching- he will sleep, for now, he decides. Someone will rescue him and he will wake, or he will go quietly in his sleep.

The exhaustion fogs his mind, depriving him of sense and reason. As he nods off, he imagines a warmth next to him, the strong frame of a Lasat leaning against him. It is the only comfort he can fathom, but it brings him peace in his last seconds of consciousness.

-

The mechanical whir of a ship disturbs him. Kallus blinks his eyes open with some difficulty- there are snowflakes in his hair and on his eyelashes, sticking them together. He can’t feel anything, which is mostly a relief.

His first comprehensible thought is that the Ghost has come back for him. This conclusion makes the most sense, but as his vision focuses, he realizes that the ship is too large to be the little rebel freighter.

He straightens, suddenly at attention. The Empire is here for him. With some difficulty, he stands, staggering to his feet unsteadily. A fresh wave of pain spikes in his leg but he grits his teeth, tucking the meteorite under his arm, dragging himself forward and into sight.

Two Stormtroopers are making their way towards him- regular troopers, not Snowtroopers, their armor hardly discernible against the snow. They spot him quickly enough, but Kallus does little to acknowledge this, biting down hard on his lip and forcing a neutral expression.

“Sir,” one of them says. “Is there anyone else with you?”

“No,” Kallus bites out, trying not to let his teeth chatter. He pushes past the two troopers without looking at them, making his way up the ramp. Each step is agony, but he forces himself to put weight on the broken leg.

“Do you need medical treatment, sir?”

Damn. He must be limping. Kallus pauses for a fraction of a second, then continues as if he never heard anything. He finds a seat in a lonely corner of the shuttle and remains there in silence. He hears the pilot confirm they’ve made contact, that they’ve rescued Agent Kallus, and the shuttle takes off.

Thawing out is miserable. His leg sears with pain, his fingers throb, yet Kallus stares straight ahead, each second passing in silence. He’s the first to depart when the shuttle arrives on the cruiser, again without a word of thanks to his rescuers.

The trek back to his quarters is slow and agonizing. It’s as if he’s invisible, aside from the occasional bow of the head or sir muttered lowly as he passes his subordinates. Even Konstantine doesn’t care so much as to look up from his datapad. Nor should he. The detour is over; the inconvenience addressed.

He makes it back to his small room, unable to help his limp as he staggers through the door. Even when he’s alone, Kallus maintains his composure until he’s sitting, the meteorite placed safely on the shelf behind him. It’s then he lets out a short gasp of pain, reaching towards the splint on his leg.

His hands are shaking- the pain is blinding, and his vision wavers. Any numbness and adrenaline are gone, and he has lost all barriers between him and the pain. Kallus groans, ripping the splint off messily. It comes off in pieces, first the makeshift bandage unraveling, then the brace clatters to the floor. He chokes back a sob as he brushes against the broken bone and fresh hurt spikes through him.

He debates how to proceed- he cannot now go to the infirmary and be whispered about more. In his quarters, he has meager medical supplies, in addition to those he just arrived with. At beginning of the night shift, perhaps he will be able to retrieve more- get some bacta, make a neater splint.

Kallus starts now by ripping away his pants, grasping the fabric firmly, and tearing it in two. From there, he sheds his armor, casting it aside on the cot. He stands slowly, leaning heavily against the wall and staggers forward, but his leg gives after the first step.

On his hands and good knee, Kallus drags himself forward, pulling himself towards the refresher. It is arduous and subhuman, but there is no weight on his leg and this relief alone is worth the crawl.

It is in this position that he dry-swallows the pain medication, that he washes off the blood and grime. As the water pours over him, stinging the wound, he lets the shameful tears fall, disguised by the fall of the shower. He can think of little more than the agony erupting in every fiber of his being, and he is more tired than ever more.

But the medication- of which he took far more than the advised dose- does its job. Kallus can stand, mostly, an hour later, when the makeshift splint is redone under a fresh uniform. Scuffling in the hall signifies the change to night guard, and once the noise fades away, Kallus steals away to the medbay, taking the least populated route he can think of.

Only a few meddroids are there, all of which he dismisses. He rummages through the drawers of supplies on his own, grabbing what he can and stuffing it into pockets.

The bacta will bide him. The injury will heal, in time. And tomorrow, Agent Kallus will resume his duties, loyal and at the service of the Empire once more.

[quickspinner]

Hey Gorgeous - Under Your Skin 24

“We’re here, babe,” Luka told her gently, and Marinette blinked open sticky eyes. “Stay put for a second, I’ll get our things down.”

Marinette did as she was told, rubbing at her raw face while Luka got their bags and his guitar case down from the bus’s luggage rack. Some detached part of her mind wondered if he brought the guitar out of habit or if he really just couldn’t bear to be without it for any length of time. He was gentle as he took her elbow and helped her into the aisle. 

They stood looking around for only a moment, when Luka spotted his mother and turned Marinette in her direction. 

Anarka Couffaine wasn’t a particularly large woman, but there was something extremely solid about her. Her feet were planted, her hands on her hips, and the small crowd parted around her. She had a long coat buttoned over her usual vibrant attire, though her bracelets could be seen peeking out at her wrists. 

A thread of nervousness trickled down Marinette’s spine, though she felt Luka sigh in relief beside her. His hand on her back kept them moving over to the imposing woman. Marinette suddenly became aware that she must look terrible, and she winced a little at the kind of first impression she must be makinig.  

Anarka’s clear blue eyes pierced her, taking in her pale face and red-rimmed eyes and messy hair, but all she said was, “Luka said you can ride?” Her tone was brusque, but not unkind. Marinette nodded, and Anarka handed her a helmet. “Come on then, I’ll get ye t’ where y’need t’go.” Anarka looked around Luka. “And you, my boy, get ye to th’ boat an’ get some rest, aye? I’ll take care of her, never fear.”

Luka smiled. “I know. Thanks, Maman.”

Anarka just tutted and hustled Marinette onto the motorbike. Marinette broke away just for a moment to hug Luka tight. “Th-thank you,” she whispered, and felt him kiss her head. 

“Go on, go see your dad. Text me when you can, and I’ll see you in the morning.” He exchanged a look of some kind with Anarka over his head, and then he slung his bag and his guitar over his shoulder and started walking. Marinette put on the helmet and slung her own bag across her body, and then climbed on the bike behind Anarka.

It physically hurt to leave Luka behind as the bike roared off, and perhaps she clutched a little harder to Anarka than necessary. He’d been such a rock for her all evening, but it was past one in the morning, and even used to odd hours as he was, he had to be getting tired. She’d slept a bit on the bus but she doubted he had at all. 

The hospital loomed into view, and to Marinette’s surprise, instead of pulling up in front of it, Anarka peeled off into the parking lot and parked the bike. When Marinette got off, Anarka did too, stowing both helmets. She put her hand on Marinette’s back as Luka was wont to do, and walked with her to the front desk.

Anarka almost got into a fight with the clerk on duty when he refused to give them any information, citing privacy laws. Fortunately, Marinette was able to get Sabine on the phone, and she rushed into the lobby just in time to cut off Anarka’s rapidly raising voice. 

“You got here so fast,” Sabine gasped, hugging Marinette. “Oh, honey, there was no need for all this.”

“There w-was,” Marinette insisted simply. “C-can I see him?”

“Well, as you’re here, you might as well come up,” Sabine sighed. She looked at Anarka and opened her mouth, but Anarka spoke before she had a chance.

“Where do they have ye stowed?” she asked. “I know your lass hasn’t eaten, and you probably haven’t, either. I’ll dig up some grub and meet you at the room, if that’s amenable.”

“Mmmadame C-couffaine—” Marinette began, cursing her stutter in front of this imposing woman. 

“Ah, none of that. Call me Anarka, or Captain Anarka if ye must.”

“C-captain,” Marinette smiled. “Y-you’ve done ssso mmuch, and you must be tired too—”

“Nonsense,” Anarka huffed. “The room number, now, let’s not waste any more time throwin’ words in the wind, lass.”

“It’s 327. You’re Luka’s mother?” Sabine asked, putting her hands on Marinette’s shoulders. “I’m Sabine Cheng, Marinette’s mother. Thank you for seeing her here safely.” 

“Ah, no need for that, either,” Anarka smiled. “The Couffaines don’t fuck around when it comes to family—” Marinette bit back a slightly hysterical giggle at the way her accent formed the curse word “—and if yer girl ain’t family yet, well, by the look in my boy’s eyes, she’s not far off.” Anarka winked at Marinette, who blushed. “Go, see yer pa, and I’ll be back with somethin’ to keep you all going.”

“H-how’s he d-doing?” Marinette asked as Sabine walked her to the elevator. 

“He’s in quite a bit of pain, but the doctors tell me that’s a good thing,” Sabine told her. “He’s on a pretty heavy dose of drugs though, so be prepared. It’s mostly his hands and one of his forearms. The side of his neck is burned, but it missed his face, which is a relief. You know your father doesn’t mind a few burn scars but he’d be devastated if his mustache was damaged.” The two shared a giggle that lasted longer than it probably would have under other circumstances.

“I d-didn’t d-do anything,” Marinette confessed. “B-by the t-time I c-calmed down enough to function, L-luka had us ready t-to g-go, t-tickets booked and all.”

“Luka came with you?” Sabine asked in surprise.

Marinette nodded. “There w-wasn’t r-room on his m-mother’s bike f-for b-both of us, ssso he went home to sssleep. H-he ssaid h-he would c-come in the mmmorning.”

“That boy,” Tom said gruffly, and then he sniffled. “He’s such a good kid.”

“Oh my,” Sabine murmured. “That’s the drugs talking. Not that he doesn’t like Luka,” she corrected quickly, “But the waterworks, that’s the morphine.”

“Are you in p-pain, P-papa?” Marinette asked, coming to his side.  

“Ah, ma petite.” Tom patted her with his uninjured arm. “I’m fine. I feel a little floaty, but that’s all.” He winced. “Mostly.”

Marinette felt tears welling. She leaned carefully over the bed and hugged her father. “Now, now,” Tom said, stroking her hair. “You must be so tired, ma petite.” 

“I’m f-fine now that I know y-you’re okay,” she sniffled, and then Tom’s eyes welled up, and for a few minutes they cried together while Sabine sighed and patted Marinette gently. 

Fortunately, they were all composed when a firm knock sounded on the door. Sabine answered it and found Anarka loaded down with food and coffee. “I asked Luka what I should get,” she commented as she brought it in and set it down. “Tea for you,” she said, handing an insulated cup to Sabine.

“Oh, thank you so much,” Sabine sighed, taking the cup. 

“Hot chocolate for ye, lass. Hope it’s the way ye like it. My boy was very specific.” She rolled her eyes and Marinette giggled as she took the cup. 

“Th-thank you.” 

“And coffee for me,” Anarka sighed, picking up the last cup. “Sorry,” she said, turning to Tom. “I figured they wouldn’t be wantin’ ye to have outside food.”

Tom sighed mournfully. Marinette gave him a sip of her hot chocolate, which made Anarka grin. 

“I’ll be in the waiting room, if ye need anything,” Anarka told them. “If either of ye want to go home, I’m happy t’ take ye, or t’ stay here and keep an eye on things.”  

“That’s very kind, Ma—ah, Captain,” Sabine said warmly. “But I hate to inconvenience you. It’s really not necessary for you to stay. Or you either, dear,” she said, looking at Marinette. “Really, everything is under control. You could go home and rest.” Marinette just jutted her lip out and folded her arms. “Or not,” Sabine sighed.

Anarka barked a laugh, crossing the room to clap a hand on Marinette’s shoulder. “Ah, ye’r a good lass. Alright then, I’ll be out there if ye need me, and not another word about it. I promised Luka I’d look after ye, and that’s what I’ll do.” 

“W-well,” Marinette said, her voice sounding small in her own ears after Anarka’s...rich tones. Suddenly Luka’s claim that she had once been a rock star sounded less aggrandized. “At l-least she ssseems to like mme.”

“Of course she likes you,” boomed Tom, matching Anarka’s volume, if not the fullness. “Everyone likes you. Who wouldn’t like my Marinette?”

Marinette and Sabine exchanged a look, and then both began to giggle with the kind of hilarity only ever born from exhaustion.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 |  Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17 | Part 18 | Part 19 | Part 20 | Part 21 | Part 22 | Part 23 | Part 24 | Part 25 | Part 26 | Part 27 | Part 28 | Part 29

A continuation of Hey Gorgeous Part 1| Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Bonus Scene | Now on AO3

@thethirdwheelfriend @mystery-5-5 @nataladriana9

[todo-ho-ki]

If It’s Convenient For You, pt. 6

Hello lovelies! It’s finally here! I finally got unlazy enough to type this out and send it into the world! I made these two absolute idiots wtf.

Word Count:2,024

Pairing: BakugoXReader

Warnings: Swearing

@chims-kookies​  @velvet-kissesss​

Part 1   Part 2   Part 3   Part 4   Part 5

"Can you handle it from here?" His sarcastic tone forced a sigh from you.

"Yeah. My arms work just fine. Nobody stabbed me there. I'm thinking I'll wheel myself right out of a window somewhere. You know, so you don't have to save me ever again."

His tongue clicked in disapproval. "You're not really that helpless, are you?" It was less like a question and more like he knew something you didn't. "You got a mouth on you. Smart people don't talk a big game and then do nothing about it."

Look who's fucking talking.

"Bold of you to assume I don't drink dumb bitch juice every day."

He leaned over your shoulder with a sinister smile on his face. "That's a given." His hot breath had a tingle running up your spine but his comeback left you seeing red.

"You! Are the actual worst!" A few eyes in the room turned to you. "What makes you think you can just-" you were cut off by the entirety of his hand covering your mouth without so much as a look in your direction.

"You're making a scene, asshole. You sure are feisty for someone who just got stabbed."

"Mmph mmm!" Your salty words didn't make it through the grip he had on your face.

Bite him! I swear to god just bite his fingers off!

Your teeth pinched the skin of his fingers and he gasped, eyes widening before he hopped up quickly, bending down to face level.

"You better watch yourself." His low voice was a little terrifying, his grip on the handles of your chair tightening as he refrained from fighting you immediately. But you felt a little satisfied as a smirk washed across your face. You were feeling a little tingly.

Why? Why did I like that so much? Do I...want him to hit me? Oh god, I think I might have a bigger problem than a crush. 

"Ahem," The quiet nurse from earlier was definitely not inclined to interrupt, a streak of regret for making herself known painted across her face. "we have a room ready for you now."

"I can take it from here," you sighed dramatically, wiping a hand across your forehead like you'd done something other than get hurt.

Bakugo rolled his eyes as the nurse began wheeling you into your room.

----- As soon as they removed Bakugo's makeshift tourniquet and bandages and the blood flowed freely in your leg again, the pain shot back through you savagely. He must've actually known what he was doing, expertly cutting off your circulation to minimize the pain.

The wound cleaning was painful even with all the morphine and sleep didn't come easy that night, strange fever dreams and weird visions of a dark alley leaving you sweaty and nauseous.

Much to your chagrin, your eyelids pulled themselves open in the early hours of the morning.

"Good morning. Glad to see you're awake." The doctor greeted you with much-unneeded enthusiasm.

"Well, at least one of us is."

He chuckled as he took your vitals. "It's very lucky that wound was taken care of the way it was; you could've bled out without that handiwork."

You made a mental note to begrudgingly thank Bakugo for making sure you stayed alive, even if he was a total dick about it.

"But it looks good. You shouldn't sustain any permanent damage, so long as you stay off your leg for a couple of weeks." Your eyes followed his hands as he hooked up another dose of pain killers. "This should tide you over until we release you. The wound wasn't bad enough to warrant keeping you more than a night. You also have a visitor. Would you like to see them now?"

That piqued your interest. No one knew you were in the hospital except the boys. At this point, you just figured it was Bakugo since he was put on this earth to drive you insane.

"Yeah. Bring 'em in."

The doctor left for a moment then reappeared, bright red hair trailing behind him. Relief followed the realization that it was the very kind, very calm, and not at all annoying Kirishima.

"Kirishima?" You muttered. He rubbed the back of his head with a soft smile.

"Hi! Uh, sorry about last night. We got there as soon as we could."

"It's okay. I'm just glad you guys got there before I got myself killed. I wasn't exactly being the smartest.."

Good god, what the fuck was I thinking trying to fend off three villains alone? 

"Bakugo wasn't too bad of an ambulance was he?

"Oh, he was absolutely horrible. But I guess I should've expected as much. He didn't tell you about it?"

"He's..still pretty rough around the edges. But I promise there's a reason he's a hero! He just gets a little out of control when there are lives at stake and he's not sure what to do. Also, he goes to bed really early, so that was a late night for him." His sly smile was impossible to combat.

"Not too big a deal. What are you doing here?"

"Well, we were thinking, if you're okay with it, we wanna keep watch over you. Just- just while you're healing!"He backpedaled, noticing the stunned look on your face. "It'll just be in shifts, since we're here on a different case. But you're injured, and we want to make sure nothing else happens. You won't be able to get away."

"I don't suppose I have a choice?" You asked, brow raised. Were you really in a position to turn down the help?

"Well, no. If Bakugo found out I let you say no, he'd raise hell. But it's totally up to you! Whatever you're comfortable with."

A smile crept up on you as you caught wind of the implication of Kirishima's words.

"Ah, so that little bastard put you up to this? Was it his idea?" Kirishima's cheeks were suddenly dusted with pink. He knew something you didn't.

"Uh. W-well, yeah. It was his idea, but we were all thinking the same thing. I volunteered to come down here though. You probably don't need your blood pressure rising."

There were a million questions aching to get out of your chest now. Something like this probably wasn't in the job description, right? Was Bakugo really just like that? Maybe you were just reaching for the stars. After all, the point of being a hero was to sacrifice whatever it took to keep people safe, right?

He didn't stay long after you accepted the offer, claiming that your medicine looked like it was kicking in and that he would be back in a couple of hours to get you.

What the hell is he hiding? 

It was the only question you could ask yourself before the medicine actually kicked in, that same strange dark alley came into view clear as day. It was almost like you were really there, walking down the silent path, only the sound of the rocks shifting beneath you and only the feel of a cool night breeze wafting gently. It was akin to a hallway with all the lights off. There was no seeing past the dim light posts until you were about to reach the next one. 

A chill surged through you with impressive force, stopping you in your tracks.

What the hell is that?

A particularly bright streetlight was posted about ten feet in front of you. Its glow was dreary, even though the light itself looked like it was a million watts. 

Well, this is my dream. And I ain't no bitch, even if I'm not awake.

A careful step forward sent the ground before you tumbling away, the sensation of you falling forcing your body awake. You could've sworn you heard a whisper as you were swallowed up: 'You're safe this time.'

"What the fuck?" The words caught in your throat as your chest tightened. Your eyes caught a glint of ash blonde hair, then followed to catch the rest of the person attached, peering cautiously at you over the bedside.

"Can I fucking help you?" You were still a bit stirred from the previous chain of events but all of it was soon forgotten. You barely even remembered that you had a bad dream, Bakugo's presence taking up every available corner of the room.

"Glad to see you're finally awake."

"Probably because you were watching me sleep."

"I've been here for forty-three seconds. I counted. Figured you'd have something to say about it. That shitty-haired dumbass barely even waited for an answer so I came here to tell you the plan."

Shitty haired dumbass? Kirishima? He counted? 

"Shitty hair? I thought Kirishima's hair was quite lovely. You can tell him I said that."

"Yeah, I'm not gonna do that. Don't care."

"I'd care if someone told me my hair was shitty."

"First of all, it is. Second of all, will you fucking stop with the retorts for one damn minute so I can talk?" He pulled up a chair with way more force than required as he sneered at you.

You felt a pout coming on, mostly at the insinuation that the wonderful, long curly hair you'd spent years growing out was shitty.

"Anyway, you brat, we're gonna take turns patrolling your neighborhood. I'll take the first shift-"

"Aww, grandpa has to go to bed early?"

His eyes glossed over for a moment like he'd shut down, just before his teeth clenched and his stare turned icy. "I'll kill you." It was a strained whisper accompanied by some sparks from his palm.

"You are going through a lot of trouble if you're just gonna kill me." It almost looked like he tried to reach for the extra pillow on your bed, but his hand hovered over your bandages and your eyes widened.

"You fucking wouldn't, you growled.

"Why don't you find out?" he whispered, no hint of it being a joke. For once, you had nothing to say. You weren't gonna fuck around and find out if he would.

"Like I was saying, I'll take the first patrol, Kirishima will take the second, and Half and Half will take the last shift. We're planning on-"

"Half and Half? Do you have a nickname for everyone? Do you have a nickname for me?"

There was a pained surprise on his face, like he was shocked that you were still talking, threat long forgotten. But soon he cleared his throat and smiled. "You know what? For once, I'll oblige. I'll give you a nickname," he countered mischievously. "I'll even let you choose from my two favorites. Would you like to be 'Annoying Fucking Idiot' or 'Useless Brat'? Or maybe 'Shitty Hair 2: Shittier Hair'?" His arms crossed on the edge of the bed as he smirked at you. Did he really think he won that one?

"Wow! The originality! The pizzaz! Next time you try to insult me, do us both a favor and don't half-ass it."

"You wanted a nickname. So go ahead and pick. I've got the first shift, so you're mine for the next eight hours. Plenty of time to choose." He relaxed into the chair, feet kicking up on the bed, expression remaining decidedly triumphant.

Your head was clouded by his choice of words. You knew he meant it in an annoying way, but it still didn’t register that way. He took note of your sudden thousand-yard stare, shoulders tensing.

"Oi. What the hell-" He was about to jump out of the chair when you turned your head suddenly.

"I guess useless brat isn't the worst thing I could be." His shoulders relaxed as he sunk back down to the 'maximum chill' position.

"Good. That one's my favorite-”

"It's better than "Really Giant Dickhead," you quipped, barely letting him finish his sentence. A smile teased the corners of his mouth.

"I've never met anyone so damn hard-headed in my life. Are you ready to listen?"

"What, you've never looked in a mirror?" His head lulled back and a soft groan escaped him.

"Just tell me where you live. We'll be there tonight."

[lokimostly]

Home from War (Ch.7/8)

James Conrad x Reader Word Count: 4,521 Warnings: descriptions of injury/blood, needles, character death, angst Fic Summary: One year after you lost the love of your life, a last-minute decision changes everything you thought you knew. Now only one question remains: how to make it out alive, and return home from war?

A/N: None, and that should scare you. Enjoy! <3 

Prequel Series | Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six | Chapter Eight (Epilogue)

Without Conrad, trekking through the jungle was even harder than you’d anticipated. Finding someone to support your physical weight was easy enough. The emotional weight of being apart from him was something different entirely. Your heart was aching at the thought of him: the soft accent of his voice, his sharp jaw and blue-green eyes. The tenderness in his touch despite the calluses of his hands. The curve of his lips when he gave you that small, secret smile only you were allowed to see.

So much lost time to make up for between you two. You silently resolved that if you ever got off this island, you’d kiss those lips for days.

The group stopped to rest. Slivko and Mills to make a splint for your leg, so that you could walk on your own – albeit at a limp. Your mobility wouldn’t be possible without the morphine, either, and you were down to your last dose.

Just one more thing to worry about, you thought.

The sunlight was growing dim as you hiked further uphill. As the sun set, the trees around you turned red and orange. The morphine was beginning to wear off, too, and faster than you desired. Every step became more and more difficult, more painful. Quite frankly, you were sick and tired of pain. 

The distorted warbling of the Sea Stallion’s broken speakers echoed through the forest like the voice of a ghost. The closer you came, the louder it got, until finally you spotted the green and orange helicopter through the foliage. 

“Gather up everything you can, including those seismic charges,” Colonel Packard ordered. “They got his attention the first time.”

The soldiers got to work. Slivko helped you sit down inside the helicopter, which seemed mostly intact. It was full of crates and barrels of seismic charges and napalm, secured in place by a frayed net. Slivko jumped up onto the platform, stepping through the boxes and looking around. 

Mills stood outside and stared at the contents of the Sea Stallion, unenthused. “This is a bad idea,” He muttered.

“Let’s just get on with it,” Cole replied, ducking his head and climbing inside.

Slivko came back with your medical bag– a small, camo duffle with a red cross on the side. You unzipped it and gasped in relief, finding everything exactly where you’d put it: in particular, more morphine. You found the bag of painkillers, acquired a needle, and administered another shot to your thigh with practiced efficiency. 

Slivko watched on, pushing up his red headband. “How often do you take the injections?” He asked. His voice held a notable tone of worry.

You glanced up at him. “Every four hours.”

His brow furrowed.“But it’s only been… two and a half since the last time. Maybe three.”

“Don’t worry about it, Sliv,” you said casually, returning the needle to its case and examining the rest of the bag’s contents. There was gauze, antiseptic, bandages, atabrine, and more than enough morphine to see you through until you got off the island. It was an enormous relief.

Slivko put his hands on his hips and watched the soldiers roll the barrels of napalm down the platform, carrying them down the hill. He turned back to you. “What’s that?” he asked, pointing to the atabrine.

“It’s for malaria. I gave you your shot before we left,” you replied easily. Slivko had always felt like a little brother, for whom you had a good deal of patience and affection, so you didn’t mind his questions. 

“And that?” he asked, gesturing to a bottle of clear fluid with an orange cap.

“That’s naloxone. It’s in case of opioid overdose,” you said. You paused, pressing your lips together and thinking for a moment before beckoning for Slivko to sit down. “C’mere. I’ll show you.”

He sat down. You pulled out an empty needle and twisted the naloxone open, handing it to him. “Have you used a needle before?”

“Yeah, but not in my arm, or anything.”

“That’s fine. Naloxone works intramuscularly, so you can inject it into other places. It just doesn’t take effect as quickly as it would through a vein.” You pointed to the side of your leg, where you’d been self-administering morphine, to your shoulder, and other common points of injection.

“Besides,” you added, “I don’t think I want you messing with my veins. You might punch through one. No offense.” 

“None taken,” he smiled, before his expression turned more serious. “But…. you’re not gonna overdose, are you?”

You shook your head. “Don’t worry,” You began putting the contents back into your bag. “It’s just good for you to know. I can’t be the only one who knows all this.”

But that wasn’t entirely true. You were cutting it close with the morphine and you knew it. 

There were several factors that determined your wellbeing, and very few of them within your control. Pain would only slow you down, and if you were slow, you wouldn’t survive – even more than that, the makeshift splint needed to hold. Any wrong move, bad fall, or general upset could shift the bone out of place and cut off your femoral artery. If that happened, it would only be a matter of minutes before you bled to death.

Even by mediating the pain and treading carefully, you had to face facts. Your chances of survival were at a record low.

~

Conrad and Weaver stood on the precipice of a cliff, looking down at the river below. Night had fallen some hours ago. The moonlight, bright and cold, illuminated the water through the fog, casting everything in a misty blue glow.

Conrad exhaled softly and forced himself to focus. He was having a hard time distracting himself from thoughts of you, and it showed – he’d taken more wrong turns than he could count, missed and misread signs that led the group in wrong directions. Finally he snapped out of it long enough to find the river, and now tried once more to force his thoughts away from you. 

“The boat must be around that bend,” he said, pointing. Weaver nodded, raising her camera. The shutter clicked.

Conrad heard Weaver’s breath snag in her throat and looked over. She lowered her camera slowly and the two of them watched, wordless, as Kong tread slowly past, almost close enough to touch. He paid them no mind. The creature really was a giant – standing as tall as the mountains around him, every step shaking the earth. But unlike Colonel Packard’s thinking, they both knew the truth: that the giant was by no means evil, merely a king in his own domain, in which you were all trespassers.

Breathing quietly, Conrad’s eyes followed the direction of Kong’s path. With a sudden feeling of dread, he knew exactly where Kong was headed: to the bursts of explosions in the distance, lighting up the blue night with fiery clouds of orange and red.

Kong let out a roar of anger, his giant teeth bared. Conrad’s throat tightened in fear. Colonel Packard was trying to draw Kong out, and you were there with him– which meant you were in mortal danger.

Conrad turned and began heading down the mountain. Weaver spun, following him as fast as she could. 

“What are you doing?” She shouted, leaping precariously from boulder to boulder, struggling to keep up.

“We have to go– now!” He responded, landing on flat ground and sprinting through the trees. He couldn’t keep himself from you any longer – not when he might be the only one who could save you.

~

You stood in the grass behind a wall of fire, watching the seismic charges go off in clouds of orange and red. Packard was adamant about drawing Kong out, despite everyone else’s inhibitions. Were you in better shape, you might’ve considered a coup de tat. Now, however, you were in no condition to do anything of the sort. 

Despite how anxious you felt, your heartbeat was unnaturally slow. The constant injections were beginning to show their uglier side effects: fatigue, blurred vision, nausea. At the moment, you had no time to worry about it. 

Beside you, Mills practically vibrated with fear as Kong came into sight. He roared again once he spotted your group, and stormed through the water just like Colonel Packard had planned. Your hands adjusted their grip on your gun and you resisted the strong urge to flee. 

For what wasn’t the first time, you wished Conrad were here with you.

~

Conrad and Weaver came running down the mountain so fast that they almost tumbled when they reached the rest of the group.

“Don’t shoot!” Conrad shouted to Brooks.

Brooks lowered his with an exasperated expression. “Conrad, where are we going?”

“You three need to go back to the boat,” Conrad said, leaning on his knees to catch his breath. He pointed with one hand. “It’s that way. Wait for us till dawn. If we’re not back by then …” he shook his head, swallowing. “Just go.”

Brooks scoffed. “You ain’t gotta twist my arm.” He picked up his bag and headed down the mountain, followed by the geologist San. 

“Wait, where are you two going?” Marlow asked, rising to his feet.

Conrad and Weaver exchanged a glance.

“We’re going to save Kong,” she replied, nodding resolutely.

And Y/N, Conrad thought grimly. 

Marlow smiled. “Not without me, pal.”

~

You watched as trees fell like windblown grass beneath Kong’s feet. He stopped a hundred yards from your company, staring intently at Packard, who stood in front of you with a fiery torch in hand. The air was charged with electricity, waiting for a lightning strike.

Then he charged.

You and the other soldiers faltered backwards as he came closer, stumbling over your feet. Colonel Packard, however, stood still as stone. He watched Kong storm through the water, shaking the earth with his roar, and he waited. And waited.

And then he through his torch into the water.

The napalm that had been poured onto the surface of the water by Slivko and the other soldiers lit up, engulfing the giant monster in flames. 

You watched, horrified, as Kong let out a roar of pain. He struggled to fight through the flames before their heat engulfed him and he disappeared from view. Your fellow soldiers had similar expressions on their faces – terror mixed with sympathy. He didn’t deserve this.

Packard was completely enthralled by the Kong’s roars of pain. A mad grin was stuck to his face, stretched from ear to ear and completely manic.

He’d lost it.

Suddenly, Kong came through the fire again with renewed anger, and flung the boiling water at the riverbank. You shrieked and tried to duck away from the flames, falling backwards. You fell hard against the ground as your surroundings lit up in flames. A few of the soldiers immediately succumbed to fiery deaths. Their screams of agony filled your ears as a different fire burned in your leg, burning with renewed pain. 

Then Kong fell. 

Overcome by the fumes and the fire, his body came crashing down on the shore and the ground shuddered beneath his weight.

You tried to stand and gasped at the fresh wave of throbbing pain as it hit your body. Your bone had obviously shifted. You strained forward and peeled away the bandage with shaking hands, fearing the worst– that your artery had been cut off.

The world didn’t stop for you, and neither did Colonel Packard. “Men! Place your charges!” he shouted. “It’s time to show Kong that man is king!” 

“Armed one,” Mills said, as he turned on the charges.

“Armed two,” came another.

You grimaced at the sight of fresh blood on your skin, swallowing another wave of discomfort mixed with relief. Your wound had reopened, but it didn’t look like the artery had burst.

“Armed three,” Slivko said, looking at you with an expression of are you okay?

You didn’t see it. You were entirely focused on unzipping your bag as quickly as possible, finding a roll of gauze and wrapping your leg. Your hands found the fresh gauze when Conrad and Weaver charged through the trees and into the clearing.

“Packard!” Conrad shouted. Your eyes snapped up, and you froze. 

Packard looked up slowly, detonator in hand. Conrad raised his rifle, chest heaving, and pointed it at Packard.

The other soldiers raised their guns at him automatically. The sound of several firearms cocking at once made your heart jump into your throat. Your hands stilled, half-finished with their work, as you watched the scene unfold: the man you loved held at gunpoint by half a dozen soldiers.

Slivko stood next to you, his eyes darting back and forth as he struggled to stay composed. Seeing the hesitance in his face and the fumbling of his fingers put him in a different light: he was no soldier. Only a kid. 

Marlow appeared out of nowhere, catching Reles and Slivko by surprise. He pointed his pistol at Slivko, raising his eyebrows when Slivko’s aim left Conrad for Marlow instead. “I asked you fellas nice the first time,” he pointed out. 

“We don’t want to fight here, Packard,” Conrad said. His eyes flickered momentarily to you before he focused on the Colonel again.

“This thing brought us down!” Colonel Packard argued, pointing the detonator at the lifeless body of Kong strewn halfway up the bank. “It killed my men!” 

“Kong was just defending his territory!” Conrad snapped, exasperated and desperate. 

“We are soldiers!” Packard’s eyes twitched and his lips curled as the last threads of his sanity unravelled. “We do the dirty work, so our families and our countrymen don’t have to be afraid! They shouldn’t even know a thing like this exists!” 

“You’ve lost your mind,” Conrad said, shaking his head and breathing heavily. He took one hand off his rifle, holding it out. “Put that detonator down.”

Time stood still. Slivko sniffed audibly as he struggled to keep his aim straight, blinking the sweat out of his eyes. The moon hung in the sky while the fire burned in patches of grass, setting everyone’s silhouettes in blue and orange light. Nobody moved.

Packard’s face contorted in a snarl and he pressed the button on the detonator. It whined, rising in pitch as the countdown ticked.

“Stop!” Weaver shouted, breaking the terrible silence. “The world is bigger than this.”

“Bitch, please!” Packard scoffed indignantly. “Slivko, get her out of here!” 

But Slivko didn’t move. His hands were shaking violently as his eyes darted from face to face, the scales weighing heavy in his mind. He glanced at you in confusion and fear. You nodded, giving him a pointed look: Trust yourself.

“You know it’s the wrong thing to do, son,” Marlow encouraged gently.

Slivko stared at him for a beat of silence. You saw the moment when his eyes solidified, and he reached a decision.

Slivko turned his rifle on Packard. “P-put it down, sir,” he stammered, as bravely as he could.

Packard automatically reached for his gun.

“Packard!” Conrad urged. The Colonel froze, like he’d been knocked out of a stupor, and slowly let go of his pistol. 

Everyone lowered their guns, save for Conrad, who kept it pointed at Packard. You allowed yourself to relax by a fraction, gathering up the gauze in your hands. 

At that moment, the water in front of you began to bubble and smoke. There was a giant surge from beneath the river. A geiser of water shot up into the air. It evaporated into clouds of mist, moving away with the wind, and revealing the cause of the eruption: a Skull Crawler like you’d never seen, three times larger than the others.

“That’s the big one,” Marlow choked.

So much for a moment of safety.

“Fall back,” Conrad ordered. Nobody moved. “GO!” He shouted. This time, Slivko and the others obeyed, taking off into the trees. Only you, Packard, and Conrad remained.

The giant Skull Crawler’s throat clicked and warbled as its raised its head to look at the night sky, which was turning from blue to rosy with the dawn. It howled.

Conrad’s heart stalled in his chest. He turned to Packard and held out his hand, beckoning for him to run. “Colonel,” he urged desperately. The Skull Crawler howled again, loud enough to burst your eardrums. 

“Sir!” He shouted.

Packard didn’t move.

Conrad waited until he couldn’t anymore, his eyes darting between you and Packard until finally he shook his head and left him where he stood. He ran, scooping you up with one arm and grabbing your bag with the other. You shrieked at the sudden movement, clinging to him for dear life.

“Kong’s down, let’s go!”

You broke through the trees and Conrad set you down, chest heaving. You stumbled, holding onto him and blinking hard. There were white specks floating around your eyes, blurring your vision.

Conrad glanced down at your leg: the bandage was half-wrapped and reddening, hanging in tatters. He dropped to his knees, letting you lean against him while he tied it secure. His large hands shook with adrenaline, but they moved carefully so that he wouldn’t hurt you by mistake; Even in the most dire moment, he was tender in his care and conscious of your pain.

He tied the bandage off and lifted you up again, more carefully this time, and nodded to one of the nearby hills. “This is the edge of the island,” he said. “Weaver, get up on those rocks and fire a flare. With any luck, Brooks’ll see it.” 

There was the sound of something big coming through the forest behind you, and everyone jumped. Your breath shuddered and you tightened your grip around his shoulders. 

“We’ll buy you time,” Conrad promised. Weaver nodded and took off. Conrad adjusted his grip on you and beckoned for the others to follow him, heading into the wetland. “This way.”

You locked your arms around his neck as he ran alongside the bank, swallowing the pain of every jolting step. Behind you, you could hear the roars and crashes of the two monsters coming together in epic battle – but honestly, you didn’t care. All you were focused on was staying awake and hanging onto Conrad as he plunged into the water, wading towards the edge of the island.

You closed your eyes and buried your face in the crook of Conrad’s neck, wishing yourself away from it all. You were so tired: tired of pain, tired of running from things that wanted to eat you, and very tired of hiding your affection for the man you loved. Your heart beat slow and steady in your chest, and you breathed in deep. He smelled like home. 

You heard a sudden burst of gunfire and raised your head. Marlow’s boat come into sight around the bend: Brooks was at the helm, firing away at the machine gun anchored to the front of the boat.

“Come on! Let’s go!” Conrad urged, directing everyone towards the boat. The two monsters were fighting too close for comfort, sending shockwaves through the water that made it difficult to board.

Conrad lifted you up onto the deck and you pulled yourself into a sitting position, your legs hanging off the side. You grabbed Slivko’s hand and pulled him up, reaching for Mills. Your bandage was looking worse now – deep red and caked with dirt. The pain was beginning to sharpen like a blade, growing less dull with every stroke against the whetstone. 

You had no tolerance for it. Opening up your backpack, you pulled a syringe from its case and injected another dose of morphine without thinking.  

Conrad was lifting himself onto the boat, his muscular arms flexed, when the gun stalled and stopped firing. Brooks fumbled with the controls, trying to start it up again. 

Marlow pushed him aside. “I got it! She’s temperamental- watch out!” 

Suddenly, the Skull Crawler was coming towards the boat, undeterred by the ship now that the gun wasn’t working. You face paled and you grabbed Conrad’s hand automatically as anxiety rose in your chest and your throat constricted in fear. You noticed the absence of Kong to distract the monster from you.

You scanned the wetlands, finding Kong struggling to break free from the wreckage of several freight ships. Their anchoring chains were wrapped around him, holding him down in the water. He roared. Step by step, the Skull Crawler came closer. One by one, the chain links snapped.

Just before the Skull Crawler was within tail-swinging distance you heard Weaver’s flare gun fire again. The flare landed right in the Skull Crawler’s eye socket, exploding on impact. It screamed, raking its own claws across its face to try and dislodge the burning flare.

“Clear!” Marlow shouted, finally unjamming the gun. The rapid fire resumed, and you relaxed slightly.

The Skull Crawler howled in anger and snarled at you, coming towards the boat despite the array of bullets.

You felt Conrad’s hand leave yours. He pushed away from the boat without a word of warning, sprinting through the water.

“James!” You screamed, ripping at your own throat. The Skull Crawler’s massive head turned, and it followed him, leaving you and the boat behind.

Before you could move, Kong freed himself from the chains and threw something – a rusted freight propeller – lodging it in the Skull Crawler’s side. It fell with a deafening screech.

Conrad stopped running, gasping for breath and watching the two monsters resume their fight. They wrestled across the wetlands, dealing blow after blow with deadly intent, but neither could bring down the other. 

Your head was swimming. The cacophony of noise constantly vibrating through your body was making you sick to your stomach. Despite the humidity, your skin was covered in a thin, cold sweat.

Kong threw the Skull Crawler against one of the mountains and sent an avalanche of rocks into the water. You heard Weaver scream across the valley and turned, watching her fall through the air before she hit the water.

Your nurse’s instincts kicked in and you felt a sudden surge of adrenaline. “Head for shore!” You shouted frantically, snatching up your bag and bracing yourself as the boat sped up and turned. When it was a few yards away from solid ground, you dropped into the water, moving as fast as you could. The monsters kept fighting, sending huge waves across the wetlands that helped push you forward.

Conrad shouted across the water, catching up to you as you fought towards dry ground. “What are you doing?”

“Helping!” You responded, dragging your bad leg and coming up onto the shore unsteadily, duffle bag in hand. Conrad came up behind you and lifted you up, surging out of the water. 

You pulled away from his grasp and dropped to the ground in front of Weaver, who laid unconscious halfway on the shore. You pushed her hair away from her face and checked for vitals. 

She wasn’t breathing.

You took a pulse check with shaking hands and began CPR, pumping on her chest. As you tried to restart her heart, your own heartbeat felt dangerously slow. You were seeing double, but it was inconsequential– what mattered now was keeping Weaver alive.

Somewhere in the moment, the fighting had stopped. Everything around you was far too quiet– there was only the sound of your shallow breathing, and Conrad’s footsteps as he returned with Weaver’s camera in hand. 

Suddenly Weaver lurched upwards and you caught her, helping her onto her side as she coughed up water and choked on air. 

“Easy, just breathe,” you heard yourself murmuring, but it didn’t sound like you – your own voice was distorted and far away in your ears.

Weaver coughed. Her brown eyes blinked and came into focus, looking up at your face. When they did, her eyebrows pulled together. 

“L/N?” She asked, her voice laced with worry.

You opened your mouth to respond, but couldn’t find your words. It was like your tongue had turned to lead. You began to lose your grip.

Too little blood, too many injections – and the thought occurred to you too late.

“L/N?” Weaver repeated urgently. Her eyes darted from your face to your leg– the bandage was drenched with crimson. She looked up at Conrad desperately. “She’s falling–”

He caught you in his arms. “Y/N, Y/N, stay with us,” he urged, pushing your hair from your face. Weaver’s eyes filled with panicked tears and she stood up on wobbly legs, waving to the boat. “Help! Over here!”

Conrad lifted you up and ran towards the water. Slivko helped pull you onto the deck and lay you down on the surface. Your breathing was shallow. You could barely feel your heart pumping away in your chest. Your grasp on consciousness hung by a thread.

“What happened?” someone asked. 

“I don’t know,” Weaver’s voice came, sounding muffled and distorted. “She ... and then–” 

“–lost too much blood–”

“–find the bag–” 

“–nalo-something, there–” 

“Hang on,” Conrad’s voice came, like a gentle wave over the sand, pulling you back to reality. You could feel him holding you in his lap, the panicked rising and falling of his chest, the tender touch of his hands on your arms. The smell of sandalwood and smoke. Everything about him felt like home. 

Conrad watched your beautiful eyes unfocus and come back as you tried to stay awake. You were still fighting, bless your heart. Conrad’s chest tightened and he swallowed thickly, pushing down a wave of emotion. He tightened his grip around you, whispering assurances as Slivko shuffled through your bag. Your head fell back against his shoulder and you let out a shaky, jagged breath.

Conrad slid one hand down your arm and wrapped his hand around your wrist, feeling your pulse. He prayed silently to anyone who was listening: not her. Please. 

Slivko worked fast as his hands would allow, uncapping the orange bottle from your bag. Weaver helped, pulling away the splint and unwrapping your bloody bandage.

Conrad stroked your hand, feeling the coldness of your skin, the almost-indiscernible slowness of your pulse. Tears filled his eyes and he inhaled quickly, willing them away.

“You remember my promise?” He said, loud enough for you alone to hear. His normally steady, accented voice trembled with emotion. “We’re going home. You and I. Wherever you want to go, I’ll follow.” His lips trembled and he raised your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss against your palm. 

“It’ll be alright,” he whispered, kissing the top of your head and fighting against his tears. His heart felt wrenched and pulled apart. “We’re going home.” 

You didn’t respond. Your eyes had closed, your breath scarce and fading fast. You were somewhere far away: somewhere deep and dark and painless, dreaming of the man you’d lost and found again, the man holding you in his arms while you faded, whose voice you could hardly hear. Dreaming of coming home. 

But they say no man comes home from war. Not really. 

--

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[written-prose-things]

Divulge Your Secrets To Me, Starkson

Parkner Week 2020, Prompt 2: “And I said, ‘no’, you know, like a liar”

Available on: AO3

SUMMARY: Harley can’t stand Peter putting himself in danger constantly, so he puts on a suit. As, expected, Peter finds out his secret very quickly. 

Although not easily visible, Harley doesn’t have better impulse control than Tony. Harley regularly spends consecutive days in his lab unless Peter is around to bully him into bed.

But Peter isn’t around always, not with his responsibility as a stupid teenage vigilante. Harley hates it. How he has to see his best friend get to work and handle shit that it way above his pay-grade, just because the avengers have gone rouge and Tony can’t handle everything on his own.

Harley lets his frustration spur him on, even though it’s 3 in the morning and he’s only had a few nutri-bars in the last six hours, with infinite cups of coffee.

Harley hates that Peter isn’t here to take him back to his room. He hates that his best friend has to go out even when he should be at home recovering from his last fight with some stupid evil scientist.

Harley finally puts down his interface and staring at the finalised schematics F.R.I.D.A.Y. complies and pulls up.

The design looks nice. It’s a sleek suit, much lighter than Tony’s suit, mostly to be used for canvassing and running disturbances.

The blue and gold colour is Harley’s favourite thing. A mix of Peter and Tony’s suits.

Then, he hears Tony’s thrusters outside and quickly packs up his work and heads to Tony’s landing point.

Tony’s carrying an injured Peter. Harley tries to hide his flinch, but Peter’s situation is not surprising. The idiot had gone into battle the newest threat, some weird insects that make out of the sewers, with recently fixed ribs.

Harley clenches his fist at his side. He feels helpless, unable to take care of his best friend and it hurts more than he’s willing to admit.

Tony nods at him in passing before walking down to the med-bay, to take care of Peter. Harley takes a few deep breaths and follows the pair after a moment.

----x----

Peter is sleeping, having been dosed with a strong mix of specially manufactured sleeping pills.

Harley takes Tony to the lab.

“I’ve done something.”

Tony quirks an eyebrow in mirth, “Oh, what have you fucked up now?”

Harley shakes his head, “This is serious, Tony.”

He pulls up the schematics. Tony stares at them for a moment before asking softly, “Let me guess, you haven’t told Peter?”

Harley doesn’t answer, which is an answer in and of itself.

Tony pulls up different screens to look at the subtler parts of the suit.

“It’s for running interference?”

Harley nods, “Small, compact, fast. I can distract whatever’s running around long enough for Pete to get back on his feet.”

Tony nods, “So, you aren’t going to focus on the feelings that are making you do this?”

Harley looks away, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Tony huffs, “Alright, fine. I won’t tell Peter about this.”

---x----

Thankfully the new alerts they have come only after Peter has healed fully and had a few days of rest. Though close calls, Tony and Peter are able to get out of the situation with almost zero damage, Harley doesn’t go out to help them.

Then, a threat shows up, which is much worse than the worst Peter has tackled. Some sort of wizard magic voodoo cult that’s making buildings turn in on themselves.

Harley only waits for a moment after Tony and Peter have left, to suit up. He asks F.R.I.D.A.Y. to link him up to their comms and flies out.

The cultists send flattening waves of orange energy at whatever crosses their paths, making even humans look like characters from Minecraft.

Tony is tied up by a thick iron post on the corner of a crossing.

Tony tries to tie them up in his witty smart talk as Peter hides in the corner and webs up the different members who are standing a little further from the group.

Harley circles around the crossing where the cult leader is walking towards Tony calmly, his lack of emotion scares Harley more than his weird magic.

Peter yells into the comms, “Tony, there’s another suit here!”

Tony replies gruffly, between trying to distract the cult leader and break free of the iron post, “Yeah. Welcome the new avenger, kid.”

Peter has effectively neutralised all the other cultists. But he isn’t as discreet while trying to web up the leader.

The man turns around just as the web makes contact with his body. He grabs the web which is attached to his shoulder and pulls it clean off. The web has hardened by now and only Steve Rogers has been able to break out of the webs with his strength.

What the fuck kind of a man is this guy?

He emits a soft orange light and manipulates the web before Peter can let it go. Harley looks on in horror for a moment as the man uses the manipulated web to throw Peter into a wall.

Just as Peter gets thrown in the wall, Harley flies in and blasts a repulsor at the man. What happens next freaks Harley out.

The man keeps a hold on the web that’s holding Peter and turns his head around like an owl. He glares at Harley, who shoots repulsors at him, which bounce off a weird shield he puts up.

The man lets go of the web and turns to face Harley fully. Harley circles him, blasting repulsors at him, hoping to buy both Tony and Peter sometime.

But the man is quicker than Harley. He waves his hand around and makes sparks fly which throw Harley into the wall right next to Tony.

Harley only registers the fact that this new hole in the wall allows Tony to break free of the iron post.

Even keeping his eyes open hurts. Harley tries to get comfortable in the rubble best he can. The interface of the suit keeps flashing lights.

Almost everything in the suit is broken. Harley sighs sullenly. So much for helping Tony and Peter.

A thundering sound jolts Harley awake. When he’s aware enough to focus, Harley realises that the previously AWOL Thor is back.

The man starts throwing his hammer at the cult man, which actually starts to cause some damage.

Even though he’s failed, Harley breaths a sigh of relief. He’s about to close his eyes again when Peter crawls into his hole in the wall.

Peter asks softly, “Are you Harley?”

Harley groans internally. He couldn’t even make it one full day without being caught out.

He hopes that his voice interface is working well as he answers in the most confused voice he can manage, “No.”

Thankfully it works. Harley sounds more like a middle-aged suburban dad.

Peter shakes his head, “Nothing. Sorry, let’s get you out of here.”

Harley groans out loud then. God knows how many bones he’s just broken. This is beginning to feel like a comfortable place to spend the rest of his life.

Peter slowly helps him come out of the hole, carrying most of his body weight.

When they finally come out of the building’s side, the cult man is tied up in glowy magical ties and Thor is loudly and profusely apologising to Tony.

Peter softly asks him, “So, then what is your name?”

Harley doesn’t know how to answer that, but, unknowingly Thor comes to his rescue.

The god yells at him, “Oh, Tony you have a son! There now an Iron Lad. Congratulations Tony!”

Harley looks at Peter and replies with a fancy accent, “I’m Iron Lad, of course!”

Maybe it’s because of the mask, but Harley thinks that Peter doesn’t smile fully at his response.

---x---

When they reach the tower, F.R.I.D.A.Y. scans him from outside the suit. Harley tries to sell his need for a ‘secret-identity’ to them.

Peter nods shortly and walks out, giving an excuse about fixing his suit. Harley heaves a sigh of relief.

As soon as Peter is gone. Harley asks F.R.I.D.A.Y. to stop recording wherever he is till his suit is put away and to tell Peter that he’s sleeping in his room.

Then, Harley goes into the medbay,  which is thankfully empty. He doesn’t have any broken or cracked bones, just a lot of cuts and lacerations across his body.

When he had been thrown into the building, he’d gone into the glass wall first, which had cracked into tiny chips that had entered his suit.

Even though Harley’s muscles ache, he likes how well his suit held out.

Harley’s in the middle of cleaning out his cuts when the door to the medbay opens without any warning.

He hisses in pain and looks up. Thankfully it’s just Thor, but Harley doesn’t trust the man to keep his mouth shut.

Thor starts the conversation, “I know you wanted solitude, however, I wanted to congratulate you on how protective you are of your beloved and how well you took care of him.”

Harley rolls his eyes, “Yeah, if you call him dragging me around good protection; then sure, I gave him the best protection.”

As the words leave Harley’s mouth, he realises what he’s admitted to. Harley adds uselessly, “But he’s not my beloved or anything like that.”

Thor chortles, “As you would call it, this is a lmao moment.”

Harley cringes, “Never say that again.”

Thor’s laughter dies down. He doesn’t speak again till Harley’s putting away the bottles of anti-septics and the cotton.

Thor comments rather seriously, “I know you are under a lot of pressure, Starkson, be assured that if you decide to open up to me, I wouldn’t divulge those secrets ever.”

Harley wants to make a snarky comment about not being Tony’s kid, but he grabs the opportunity. Thoe is serious enough to not make fun of him or say I told you so, unlike all his friends and Tony.

So, he starts from the beginning. The day he met Peter at the penthouse when they’d come together to get Tony out of his lab and make him feel better.

Something almost like guilt passes over Thor’s face at the revelation, which Harley files away for right now.

He tells the god about how he knew at that moment that Peter was going to be someone special for him.

---x---

Even though he’s been ranting for what feels like hours, Thor doesn’t seem bored. Maybe boredom becomes different when you’ve lived a thousand years.

Harley sighs and continues, they’ve reached the end of the story anyway. Harley continues pacing the medbay, his back to the door.

“So, he climbs in, and asks me, in his softest, introducing-myself-to-strangers kind of voice, ‘Are you Harley?’. Ughhh, man, I hated that. How is he so quick? And I said ‘no’, you know, like a liar...”

When Harley looks up, it’s to see Thor surprised and apprehensive face. Harley rolls his eyes, the last thing he needed right now.

And his gut feeling is right. Peter is standing in the door of the medbay, eyes flashing in anger.

Thor gives some excuse that Harley doesn’t even register, before booking it out of the room.

Peter walks forward, “What the fuck is this?”

Harley cringes internally. Hearing Peter swear is always uncomfortable, because even Peter’s discomfort is visible on his face.

Harley ignores the dread in the pit of his stomach and snarks back, “What the fuck is what?”

Peter motions to his body, “This. The cuts. Don’t act like you didn’t just lie to me.”

Harley clenches his jaw, “So what if I did?”

Peter shakes his head in anger, “We don’t do that, Harley! We don’t lie to each other-”

Harley interrupts because he isn’t taking the blame for this shit, “Oh really then tell me, what is it that we do? Am I always supposed to wait for you at the tower while you fight some weirdo and get hurt in the most horrible ways?”

Peter sighs and runs his hand eyes his eyes, “Nobody’s asking you to stay here Harley...”

Harley yells in reply, now he’s on a track, “Oh really? Peter look me in the eye and tell me that if I’d have told you, you wouldn’t have tried to bully me out of it. I need to protect you, Peter. I need-”

Peter snaps, “Oh shut up. You need this and you need that. What about what I need from you, huh? I need to keep you safe, you doofus. You’re not some enhanced person. I can walk away from being thrown head-first into a building,” he points at Harley’s bruises and cuts, “You can’t.”

Harley rolls his eyes, “Why do you need to take care of me, Peter?”

Peters huffs, “Because I love you, okay? I don’t care about anyone other than you, Tony, May and our friends. I know it’s sudden and I know it sounds crazy, but I love you. Again I can’t be the one who gets my family into trouble or gets them hurt again, okay?”

Harley thinks his heart is about to beat straight out of his chest, “Y-You love me?”

Peter sighs, “Yeah, I know it’s awkward, you don’t need to let me down or anything like that.”

Harley asks softly, “But what if I don’t let you down?”

Peter replies with a confused question, “What?”

Harley huffs, “Why are you so sure that I’m going to let you down?”

Peter flounders through a response and Harley can’t take it anymore. He removes the space between them with two swift steps and pulls Peter into himself, giving the short brown-haired boy a soft kiss.

Peter kisses him back.

They only let go of each other when Harley starts to lose his breath. Peter smiles like an idiot, but Harley isn’t sure that he’s not doing the same thing.

After a moment, Harley asks him. “Does this mean you won’t crib about me being in the suit anymore?”

Peter shakes his head, “Oh? Was this cribbing? You don’t know what you’re in for next.”

Harley groans, but pulls the shorter boy into his side, “Okay, I’ll listen to your lecture, but after a good night’s sleep.”

Peter nods, “Alright, let’s go.”

The pair make their way up to the penthouse and flop onto Harley’s bed together, fast asleep as soon as they hit the bed.

[dillfic]

omg can u do brianna / aquaria using the #6 prompt?

Sorry, life got busy. I’m going to put some triggers here at the beginning because it is a sensitive subject, so trigger warning: miscarriage, mild description of blood. (Another sorry bc this is on mobile so I couldn’t do a jump.)

“I lost the baby.”

After landing, Aquaria saw five missed calls and a string of texts from Monet that made her forget her luggage and find the nearest taxi:

Call me when you get off the plane.

I’m with Bri in the ER.

Get to NYP fast.

The few seconds felt like hours before Monet finally picked up the phone.

“Hey, babe.” She sounded exhausted, several people talking in the background.

“Monet what the fuck is going on?” Aquaria asked. The driver was able to get from LaGuardia to Astoria in 6 minutes but it wasn’t fast enough.

“I just went to get some water when she yelled my name, and I ran back to find her cradling her stomach and her pants soaked with blood. She almost collapsed in my arms as I helped her down the stairs and into the car. I honestly don’t know what happened. We were just talking about the shower and watching The View...” Monet kept talking- stuttering with a shaky voice, but Brianna’s symptoms gave Aquaria goosebumps. She knew exactly what was happening, and the thought almost made her sick.

“...and I think Bri will be okay, but I’m just really worried for the baby, and I wish I didn’t have to say this over the phone, but I’m so scared, Aqua, so scared.” Aquaria sat back in her seat, stuck in traffic on the RFK bridge, trying to take the news in.

They tried getting pregnant for years, ready to start a family after moving back to New York when Aquaria’s residency finally finished. She remembered scrolling through catalogs at the sperm bank, looking through every detail of the donors: eye and hair color, frame, blood type, trying to find the perfect one. When Bri’s test came back positive a few weeks after the incrimination, they sat on the bathroom floor and cried, holding each other and Brianna’s stomach. It was a baby girl. Three months until the arrival of Olivia Grace, and they were ready to give her everything in the palm of her hand, until now. Now, they would have to return the clothes they bought. They would have to donate toys and gifts. Somehow, they would have to break the news to friends and family. Most painful of all, they would have to live with the loss of their entire world.

“Aqua? You still there?” She didn’t want to be. She wanted this to be a nightmare, waking up delirious on the plane. She wanted to find her wife asleep on the couch, not in a hospital bed. She wanted to send photos of Brianna’s stomach to her mother for updates. She wanted a family. For once, she wanted a family. She was angry- angry that something so terrible was happening to her wife, a woman so pure and full of life, and angrier that she wasn’t there to support her.

“Yeah, yeah I’m still here. I should be there in ten minutes. Call me if anything changes.”

“Okay, babe. I’ll be in the waiting room when you get here. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

She practically jumped out of the taxi into the emergency room. The reality kicked in as the automatic doors slid open, seeing Monet full of relief and misery: no birthday parties, no learning how to walk, no bedtime stories, no pointless fights as she grew up, no first love, no graduation, nothing. For the second time, Monet had to catch someone as Aquaria collapsed into her arms, sobbing uncontrollably.

“I’m so sorry, Aqua.” Monet swayed back and forth, brushing Aquaria’s hair as she wept into her shoulder. “I wish this was just a bad dream, I really do.”

“I know,” Aquaria whimpered hysterically.

As she expected, Brianna was doing fine. She lay sound asleep, a dose of IV Tylenol pumping through her arm, blonde hair tied into a bun, blanket covering her legs and hospital gown. The doctor scheduled her discharge for a few hours.

Aquaria watched her slow breathing, scrutinizing her chest rise up and down, her brow furrow, her fingers twitch, and couldn’t help but notice the dried tears outlining her cheeks. She heard a sharp inhale through Brianna’s nose before she finally opened her eyes, blinking frantically before a yawn and stretch. Her arm almost hit Aquaria in the face when she realized someone else was in the room. It startled her until she registered the face- her beautiful, exhausted, and disappointed wife, eyes blistered and puffy, a painful smile on her face.

“Hi, sweetie.” Aquaria grabbed her wife’s hand and squeezed it gently, feeling tears start to well in her eyes again. Brianna was quiet. She rubbed Aquaria’s knuckles with her thumb and bit her lips. It was easy to tell that Aquaria knew, but she felt the need to tell her, almost as a way to admit it to herself.

“I-“ she sniffled, “I lost the baby.” She felt like she was sharing a dark, guilty secret, almost embarrassing. Her voice choked as she began to cry, covering her mouth so other patients could hear the sobs. Aquaria rested in the crook of Brianna’s arm and wept with her. For a few short moments, time stopped. She couldn’t hear heart monitors in other rooms or nurses and doctors talking outside, only Brianna’s heartbeat and hitched breath.

The doctor came in about an hour later and gave discharge instructions: mild pain medications, rest, and strong recommendation for therapy. Aquaria did most of the talking, mostly because she understood the jargon, but also because she didn’t want Brianna to get overwhelmed. She called Monet that they’d be leaving soon, and that she’d be over tomorrow to get anything Brianna left at her apartment.

“Thank you for everything today. I’ll come over if Bri left anything at your apartment tomorrow.”

“No worries, babe. I can even bring it over to you if you want to stay at home with her. You have all of my love,” Monet replied.

The cab drive home was as uncomfortable as expected. Aquaria knew this would be an adjustment for the both of them, but it wasn’t anything they couldn’t face together.

[hurt-care]

Inspired by @finnpeach‘s list of historical prompts:  - Someone sending a letter to their sf lover describing their recent cold/allergies in wonderful detail, such as how badly the pollen affects them on the first day of spring or how messy their sneezes when they’ve come down with a cold This is featuring my OCs Francis and Caroline. She isn't necessarily a SF, but he’d definitely write this to her. Enjoy :)  - Caroline, My dearest love – I cannot wait to be back with you. I have made my arrangements for the train on Saturday next but until then I fear I will be in misery waiting to get back to you. The hay-asthma season has come early this year and I am already heavily afflicted. Two weeks I woke with my head so full that I was certain it would burst. I spent the day in bed with hot rags on my face trying to relieve the discomfort and could not make use of my handkerchief because my nasal passages were too fully blocked to do so without intense pain. My physician came and diagnosed an infection of the nasal passages and gave me a tincture to snort which triggered the most painful sneezes. I could scarcely get a breath through my nose and the sneezes were so clogged and blocked that I thought I might damage my ears from the force. The physician recommended that I spend a day at the Turkish bathhouse and so I had my driver take me there. Thankfully the persons working have seen such afflictions before and allowed me a private room with a hot stove burning in the corner and filling the room with a most comforting steam. I reclined and had my hair washed and my head draped with hot towels and by the time I left, I was feeling much relieved by the heat and my breathing was eased somewhat. After a restless night where the pain was lessened only by a dose of laudanum, I returned for a second day of treatments and by the third day I was mostly recovered.

Friday last saw the first bad flare of my hay-asthma and I was very grateful for the presence of my business associate, Mr. March. I was at the office when it started and it came on quite suddenly, triggered by the smoke from a building that caught fire two blocks away. I found myself prostrate over my desk chair, struggling for air, while Mr. March went about sealing up the room and sending a clerk to get some hot water to prepare my breathing treatment. Mr. March was able to administer my steam medication with my garbled instructions and he stayed with me in the office well into the night. I was too frightened to go outside for fear of worsening the attack, so he graciously helped me to get comfortable in a arm chair, which allowed me some brief sleep. By morning, the smoke had thinned somewhat and I made my escape back to my apartment aided by a wet handkerchief over my nose and mouth. It was another two days before I could get a full, unimpeded breath. It was then that I began to get my affairs in order so that I could make my escape to Plymouth with haste. I am grateful that I have done so, as my sneezing season has begun in earnest and I am suffering most terribly. Mr. March commented that I might as well get on the earlier train given that I'm unable to do much of anything thanks to the crippling sneezing attacks and my eyes, which are so swollen and sensitive that I've taken to administering hourly compresses for some relief. I spent most of yesterday in my bedroom completely overwhelmed by an attack and unable to see well enough through my steaming eyes to get any work done. I composed one letter to a business partner but upon inspection, the ink was smeared where I'd sneezed and dragged the pen too sharply and several of the words were unintelligible from the shaky handwriting. I threw the note into the bin and had to dictate it between sneezes to a servant instead. 

My nose is so badly chapped and raw now that I'm embarrassed to be seen. My physician came again today to offer some more tinctures and apply a new ointment to my nose, but it was very painful and I think most of it has since come off from the frequent administrations of my handkerchiefs, which are now in such constant use that my laundry-woman must wash the lot of them twice a week to keep up with my poor nose. I have ordered two dozen new ones to be embroidered with my monogram and they'll be shipped directly to your home for my summer respite. If you'd be so kind to have them sent to my rooms, I would greatly appreciate it.

As you might have guessed, today my affliction has settled enough to give me the opportunity to write. I had an inhalation of belladona an hour ago which helped to relieve my poor breathing and clear my nose enough to give me great relief. After I finish this letter to you, I will try to get a few hours of sleep since my nights have been so marked by waking to fits of asthma and sneezing that I have scared slept a full night all month.I miss you terribly and long for the comfort of your presence and your sweet attentions to my wretched state. I know the healing air of Plymouth will be a great relief but the most healing cure is always you.

With affection,

Your Francis

[swhurtcomfort]

Hi! I really really love this blog, and I think you're doing an absolutely amazing job running it :) Here's a prompt: Knight Obi-Wan returns from a mission really injured or sick and Padawan Anakin has to help take care of him? Thank you!

Anakin satstraight-backed and rigid, letting his feet swing from the chair.

The room wasso silent that the whoosh of the pneumatic door startled him. “Anakin, dear,”an older healer said, beckoning. “You can see him now.”

Anakinfollowed her through a maze of clear, bright corridors. The healer’s wing wasmeant to look more like meditation halls than a civilian medcenter, but thesmell of bacta and disinfectant ruined the effect.

Obi-Wan lookedworse than when Anakin had last seen him.

“Master, whatthe kriff happened?”

“Language,”Obi-Wan breathed. “Anakin.”

Anakin shookhis head as he approached Obi-Wan’s bed. Obi-Wan had returned from his solomission late last night, looking haggard. He’d been sick to his stomach, whichseemed to explain it. Anakin had kept his distance, the last thing they neededwas for both of them to have a stomach bug—there was only one ‘fresher in theapartment after all.

But then thismorning, on their way to the Council chambers, Obi-Wan had fallen down half aflight of stairs. Anakin had hurried down after him, but by the time thepadawan reached the landing Obi-Wan was throwing up blood and gasping for air.Anakin sat with him until help arrived, watching his lips turn blue as hecontinued to pant. The rest had been a blur of healers and a lot of waitingaround for Anakin.

“I guess youdidn’t really have a stomach bug,” said Anakin dryly.

“There wassome damage,” Obi-Wan drew in a long breath. “To my ribcage, from the mission. Thefall just,” he explained. “Worsened it. That’s all.”

“What he meansis, he was walking around with a partially collapsed lung until he managed topass out, fall, then puncture it.”

“Winna, not infront of—”

“How old areyou, Anakin?”

“Twelve,” saidAnakin sheepishly.

“Old enough tolearn from your master’s mistakes, then,” the healer countered. “Obi-Wan, youreally didn’t think to tell anyone you were bringing up blood the whole night?You should have come to the Halls straight away.”

“Can’t we havethis conversation,” Obi-Wan panted, “Later?”

“You bestbelieve we will,” Winna retorted with no real heat behind her words. Anakin wasstaring, taking in the big, square bandage over the left side of Obi-Wan’schest, and the paleness that lingered in his lips and fingertips.

The healernotices Anakin staring, and rests a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry. He’slost a lot of blood, and his lungs will take time to heal. I’m afraid there’snot much bacta can do for it. But as long as he behaves, I think he’ll be wellenough to go home tomorrow.”

Obi-Wan pulleda face at being told to ‘behave’, suddenly reminding the healer of how young hewas – awfully young to be completely without an adult in his life—most newknights were still guided a bit by their old masters during their first fewyears of working alone. And he was awfully young to be acting as the adult inAnakin’s life on top of it.

“Not too muchchatting, you two,” she warned as she left. “Don’t strain your lungs, Obi-Wan.”

Obi-Wan meeklyagreed. “How were your classes, Anakin?” he asked in a small voice.

Anakinhesitated for a moment. He hadn’t actually left the Halls of Healing to go toclass.

Obi-Wan’sexpression turned into a small frown. “You waited here all day?”

“They said youhad to have surgery,” Anakin squeaked.

Obi-Wannodded. “It was a minor procedure. Winna was right,” he paused to inhale. “I probablyshould have come in last night.”

“Why didn’tyou say anything?”

“I thought itmight,” Obi-Wan pressed a hand over his side as if suddenly pained. “Go away onits own.”

“Will you atleast tell me what happened? Did you get in a fight?” Anakin’s expressionsuddenly brightened, and Obi-Wan’s face split into a grin.

“It’s a goodstory, I have to say,” he smiled. “I’ll have to tell you later.”

They talkedquietly a while longer, but Obi-Wan’s eyes began drooping. Anakin didn’t try tostop him from falling asleep.

When theartificial sun of Coruscant began to set, Healer Bant came to fetch Anakin fromObi-Wan’s room. She took him to the refectory for supper and walked him back tohis and Obi-Wan’s quarters.

In themorning, Master Che gave Obi-Wan the all-clear, much to his and Anakin’srelief. Bant brought him home and helped him get situated.

“Bedrest,” shereminded him, setting up his medications on the bedside table. “Winna doesn’twant you on your feet for more than an hour at a time. Lying down or sitting isfine, whatever you can tolerate. You do notwant to reinjure this,” she warned. “Oh, and the pain meds aren’t optional.”

Bant leftwhile Anakin was making tea. He reached for the sapir on the top shelf, whichObi-Wan seemed to reserve for special occasions and sometimes for when he wassick or upset. Today seemed like a good occasion.

Obi-Wangratefully accepted the teacup with both hands, lifting it to his nose toinhale the steam. He recognized the special tea by its aroma, but didn’t sayanything other than, “Thank you, Padawan.”

The idea ofbedrest lasted less than three hours, then Obi-Wan was already up. Anakin informedhim that he should at least be on the couch in the sternest voice he couldmuster, which had only made Obi-Wan laugh and ruffle his hair.

Obi-Wan brokeoff suddenly to cough into his elbow. He wasn’t as short of breath asyesterday, but he had developed a painful cough. Anakin darted back to hisbedroom and brought the inhaler with his medicine.

There weretimes, mostly right after a dose of painkillers, where Obi-Wan was pretty outof it, but for the rest of the day it was just him and Anakin spending time,which almost felt like they were getting away with something. When Obi-Wanchanged the dressings on his side he let Anakin see his scar which he thoughtwas wizard. Anakin decided that if Obi-Wan wasn’t supposed to be on his feet,he shouldn’t be cooking either, and he made them both grilled cheese for lunch.

Obi-Wan put ona wildlife holodoc and they let themselves just spend the afternoon recoveringand enjoying themselves.

“Anakin!” saidObi-Wan suddenly. “You should have had class today, shouldn’t you?”

Anakinshrugged innocently. “I’d rather be here to help, Master.”

“You rascal, I’mnot as incapacitated as that. You’re going to go comm your instructors andfigure out what you can do to make up the past two days.”

“Yeah, oh-kay,” Anakin groaned. “I’ll do it later.”He snuggled closer under the blanket.

Obi-Wanpretended to look stern for another two seconds, but he gave up and put an armgingerly around the padawan’s shoulders before returning his attention to theholo.

[stereksecretsanta]

Merry Christmas, @scientificallyfrostedtrenchcoat!

Hello! I started out with something sweeter, but I reread your requests and decided to go another route. It’s a little dark and bloody, but hopefully sweet? I hope you enjoy it!

Read on AO3

—

A Revenge Story

Derek awakens to the slow knitting of bone and muscle. His brain feels raw and exposed as the world begins to swim back into focus. The cold concrete under him, for once, feels comforting, but the harsh blue light from the fluorescents, sting the back of his eyeballs and fires a sharp wave of pain into his skull.

His body feels sluggish and heavy, his mouth is sour and dry. Distantly, he can pick out a faint whispering, something low and foreign that Derek isn’t sure he would understand even if wasn’t concussed. Eventually, enough of the haze lifts that he can flex his left hand.

“Hey, welcome back, big guy.” A familiar voice quips.

Derek groans and tries to roll himself forward towards the bars. A flare of heat explodes into his veins, making him hiss and clench his entire body.

“Take it easy. They gave you quite a beating. You also got two doses of wolfsbane running through your system, so it’s going to be awhile.”

He waits for the burning to subside into a tolerable throb before he stretches one of his hands towards the water bowl near the front door of the cell. Gradually, he pulls it closer to his face and leans over to take a long drink. His vision is clearing but his head is still pounding.

“How long was I gone?” He rasps.

“Six hours.”

“Shit.” Derek glances towards the new empty cell in their row. “Where’s Faye?”

The witchling offers a wan smile. “She’s gone.”

“It’s too soon for them to take another.” Derek forces himself onto his elbow and tries to think against the stream of pain. “We’re supposed to have at least two more days.”

“It wasn’t like Jacob.” His voice tightens with emotion, but he clears his throat to smooth it into something calm and even.  “Our kind don’t last long under these conditions. Faye was old and a caretaker, she wasn’t trained to endure this sort of damage, it’s amazing she lasted this long.”

It’s odd to hear those words coming from the boy’s mouth. Stiles hardly looks like an adult, especially with the patchy hint of stubble along his jawline. Out of the sixteen that once shared this block, Derek had not expected Stiles to survive this long. He was lean when they first arrived and a month later the boy was starting to get skeletal. Under the drugs Derek feels his wolf reaching out towards the boy, trying to offer comfort through non-existent pack bonds.

“Stiles…”

The witchling shakes his head so Derek foregoes asking a question he knows the answer to. Instead, he redirects their attention to the plan.

“How long do you need?” He asks, settling himself back onto the ground.

“Need is not the question.” Stiles dries his wet face with the back of his hand. “Rest. I’ll tell you when it’s dinner time.”

–

Derek is startled awake by gurgling noises and thrashing outside his cell. Stiles is kneeling on a guard’s chest, the man’s face mask is pulled up to his hairline, and Derek can see the violent red blush begin to bloom into a rich purple, as Stiles’ long fingers weave tighter around the man’s throat. A few months ago, watching something like this would have soured his stomach, now he can hardly look away. After everything that has happened, Derek feels like he needs to watch, if not for his own sanity for the others who are no longer with them, like Faye.

It doesn’t take very long. There’s one final squeaking attempt to breathe and then the man’s bloodshot eyes roll back, staring blankly into the inside of his skull.

“Nice of you to join the party, big guy.” Stiles says, a little winded. “You wanna grab that keycard so we can get out of here?”

He spies the fallen employee ID near his water bowl and makes quick work of the door lock. The wolfsbane is mostly out of his system but the sudden blood rush combined with adrenaline makes him dizzy. Stiles picks through the guard’s pockets, taking various items.

“Cameras are down but we have ten minutes until the shift change.” Stiles hands him a stun baton and a wallet, before offering up his wrists. “I’ve only got a little juice left but removing the iron could buy us some time.”

Derek frowns at the shackles. There’s a bolt of iron pierced through each of the witchling’s forearms. The skin surrounding the metal looks gray and black in some areas, like the skin and muscle are already dying. While Stiles is clearly more than a human practitioner of magic, Derek’s pretty sure he still bleeds like a human. Removing these might be okay in the short term but wasn’t it better to leave them in?

“C’mon you giant furball, any day now!” Stiles shakes his arms impatiently.

He rolls his eyes and focuses on snapping the bindings off and pulling out the bolts. The metal hisses and the smell of rot steams out of the dark fleshy holes. Derek can see a white slit of bone, nestled amongst decaying muscle. Stiles clenches his jaw, muffling his own screams as, his left arm is worked on. There’s no blood, only a milky green puss that only seems to become more potent the longer it’s exposed to fresh air.

“Thank you.” He sighs, shuddering with relief.

Derek grunts a response, gritting back the need to gag, and quickly shoves the witchling towards the entryway.

They encounter and dispatch two more guards. Derek struggles to pull their shoes off while Stiles rifles through their pockets. He collects another wallet, a gun, and a set of keys. They climb a few flights of stairs and push out into an empty parking lot and find themselves nestled deep in an abandoned warehouse district. It’s late…or possibly early, either way the only source of light is a street lamp a few buildings up near, what has to be a main road. Derek pushes all the buttons on the keyfobs until a pair of headlights flash. He turns to grin at Stiles only to realize the boy is staring up at a faint light in the third floor window.

“Stiles, we have to go.” Derek urges, gently pulling his upper arm.

“I don’t think I can.” He says quietly.

“What. What are you talking about? Of course you can, the next shift is going to be here soon!”

“I need to know.” The adrenaline from their escape pulls back and is exposes something calm and cold. “Someone did this to us, Derek. What if they’re doing it to other people? I can’t leave without knowing.”

They watch one another for a moment. Stiles wounds are still oozing. He’s certain the only reason the kid hasn’t passed out yet, under the dual weight of exhaustion and malnourishment, is pure stubbornness. Derek isn’t in much better condition, as the last dose of wolfsbane is still working its way through his system. Every instinct within him is screaming to get them to safety yet he can’t move.

Stiles’ face softens and he places a clammy palm over Derek’s hand.

“C'mon, Derek. Let’s finish this.”

–

They watch the warehouse fire from the ‘comfort’ of a Motel 6. They’re in some shittown in New Mexico. Stiles powers through fifteen tacos and half a pizza before crashing. Derek only manages half that before throwing up, he settles for half a liter of soda and Stiles’ leftover pizza crusts. After his stomach feels more settled, he bundles their trash, grabs a discarded blanket, and settles into a chair to keep watch.

–

He rouses late into the evening to the sound of Wheel of Fortune and the smell of greasy Chinese food.

The witchling doesn’t look as emaciated, his face is a little fuller and the holes in his arms have healed over into angry, purple glossy circles. The scent of infection is gone and replaced by a bitter anxiety and medication. He has freshly washed clothes that look a size too big and smell heavily of cheap detergent. Considering their situation, Stiles is practically a beacon of health.

Derek shifts off the scratchy comforter and stretches his limbs. His spine pops and cracks, sending a blissful relief through stiff bone. For the first time in weeks, he feels normal.

“I guess wolves really are nocturnal.” Stiles smirks over a square takeout box of noodles.

He tosses a bottle of water, Derek catches and drains it greedily while glancing around the room. There’s a variety of snack food and take out spread over the twin bed, and the floor is littered with empty containers and candy wrappers. There’s also a new pair of backpacks and a old worn duffle that smells like the car they stole.

“You’ve been busy.”

“I require more calories than sleep.” Stiles preens at the haul.

“I can see that.” Derek nods towards the devastation of food items and grabs a carton of kung-pow shrimp from the nightstand. “Besides the shopping spree were you able to figure anything out?”

“The last thirteen hours have been enlightening.” Stiles nods slurping another mouthful of noodles. He expects the kid to elaborate, but Stiles idly digs at his food instead. “I want to let you know I appreciate you helping me last night. You had a chance to make a break for it but you stayed anyways.”

“You expected me to leave you after all that?” Derek offers him a small smile, but Stiles is focused on digging for stray peanuts. An odd weight settles between them as the witchling mulls over his next words. “No, you were right, no one else should have to suffer like that.”

The kid gives him a small smile, soft and personal before glancing towards the pile of backpacks. “Look, it’s not much but the black backpack is yours. It has everything you need to get you as far as Sonoma. There’s a bus stop about a mile up. I suggest keeping a low profile until you reach civilization.”

“I don’t understand.” Derek furrows his brows. “What about you? What about the information you stole?”

“I sent it off to an associate to decrypt. I was able to do a little researching on my own. I have a pretty good idea where one of their safehouses is.” Stiles tosses the carton into a trash bag on the floor. “I think I have a thirty-two hour window before they move another shipment.”

“Okay, but what does that have to do with Sonoma?”

“Nothing, but I said I would be your ticket to freedom, thus Sonoma.” He waggles his fingers in a jazzy fashion. “This is where we part ways, wolfman.”

“You’re cutting me out so you can take on these bastards by yourself?” Derek says incredulously. “You’re still healing!”

“Hey, you weren’t looking so hot with poison in your veins either, pal.” Stiles glares. “I’m not as fragile I as seem.”

“You’re still not up to fighting capacity either.” Derek stabs his chopsticks into the half eaten container. “I’m coming with you.”

Stiles laughs. It’s an oddly boyish sound but lacks real mirth. “Look, spilling a little blood because you’re trying to escape, that’s understandable, it’s excusable. This…this isn’t. This is going to be a revenge story, black cowboy hat, John Wick shit. Not everyone has the stomach for that kind of business.”

Derek narrows his eyes.

“Yeah, well not all of us like to sit on the sidelines, witchboy.” Derek growls. “After a month of torture and seeing all those people be taken to who knows where, I think a little revenge is in order.”

Stiles examines him for a moment, contemplating the lines in his face.

“Are you really sure you want to kick in with me, wolf? It’s a long way down this rabbit hole and it won’t be clean on the other side. Can you live with that?”

“Yes.”

“Sounds like this is the start of a terrifying relationship.” Stiles grins, eyes bright with mischief.

—-

The first safe house is only a three hour drive away from the motel, hidden away amongst an odd patch of suburbia surrounded by miles of nothing. It’s a little past midnight and the silence coating the cookie cutter houses is oppressive. They park beside a black Ford pick-up and quietly cycle through the stolen keys until one finally works. The interior is sparse, save for a fold-up table and a few matching chairs. The living room has a selection of restraints, tools, and cages. Clearly, this safe house is some sort of makeshift processing area.

Derek hears two slow heartbeats coming from the second floor, and another pair under the floorboards. Splitting up would be efficient but potentially messy. Starting in the basement could be problematic because of the lack of exits, upstairs seems to be their best option.

Stiles takes the room on the left and Derek heads down the hall on the right. Much like the bottom floor, the room is unfurnished. A man is curled up on a barren mattress against the far corner of the room, far from the window. Derek softens his steps, carefully inching closer. The man reeks of cheap gin and copper; medical tape and gauze haphazardly decorate the right side of the man’s neck, all the way down to his bicep. The bandages are stained with varying shades of blood and there’s a sharp sour undertone, buried beneath the stench of alcohol. His wounds are beginning to turn.

Derek nudges the man’s shoulder, uncurling him along the mattress, and exposes a series of scabbed circular bites along his torso. The pattern is unfamiliar but reminds him of leeches.

Down the hall, a muffled scream is quickly stifled by two silenced shots. Stiles appears in the doorway shortly after, gun raised, and gives him a questioning look.

“You wanted to leave one alive, right?” Derek asks quietly, clearing away the weapons under the pillow.

Stiles clicks the safety on his weapon and moves to examine the man for himself.

“You’re more spiteful than I thought.” Stiles’ eyes glitter mischievously. “The venom is already working its way through his body, it’s too late for an antidote. His kidneys will go first, then his liver.” Stiles pulls out some zip ties from his pocket, and begins binding the man’s feet. “Loop his wrists to his belt, leave his cellphone.”

–

They hit a snag, clearing out the basement. The collector’s slowed heartbeat is misleading, she’s not asleep just at rest, thumbing through her text messages and playing solitaire with a deck of cards. Once their feet reach the last step, she opens fire on them. Stiles quickly dodges to the left but Derek is too slow and hot metal pierces into his left shoulder, lodging itself into his muscle but not breaking through to the other side. The next few shots narrowly miss and tear divots into the concrete behind him. Inhuman growling and clanging metal, adds to the chaos of gunshots. Stiles launches himself across the room and pins the woman against the wall before she’s able to reload. Her gun and cartridge clatters to the ground as she struggles against Stiles’ hold.

Derek presses a hand over his wound and finds most of the damage is already healing. He debates trying to fish the bullet out so he won’t have to dig it out later, but they probably won’t have much time after all that noise. He let’s Stiles handle the woman and turns his attention to the person in the cage.

The growling stops as soon as he crouches down, both taking a moment to size the other up. The wild mop of hair and dirt make it difficult to tell what the person underneath looks like. The shifter’s clothes are torn, non-descript, and entirely too big for their frame.

“Hey. It’s okay. We’re going to get you out of here. Alright?”

Milky eyes glare up at him through the waffled grate. A series of circular, sucker-like mouths with rings of teeth begin to surface under the creature’s flesh; clicking open and closed before diving back under and surfacing in a new location.

“What the–” A wild snarl interrupts him as the shifter begins slamming its face against the side of the cage. Frothy spit and black blood splatter onto the floor as it continues to throw itself towards Derek.

“He’s feral. They’ve probably been feeding him mercury laced-meat, it kills the mind and makes the venom more potent.” Stiles says quietly, settling the now pilant semi-conscious guard back into her chair.

“They’ve been feeding him mercury laced-meat.”

“What, why?”

“It kills the mind and makes the venom more potent. He’ll fight like mad until his body gives out. Perfect for underground fighting rings.” Stiles explains. “I’m pretty amazed you bunch actually caught someone like him. You should be grateful that we’re the ones taking care of you instead of his sire.”

“Go to hell, monster.”

“You first, sweetie.” Stiles chides before turning back to Derek. “You should put him to rest. Whoever he was has already been burned out. He’s just a nerve cluster now.”

Derek frowns but picks up the discarded gun and fires two shots into the shifter’s face.

–

The interrogation isn’t very helpful and as far as revenge goes, it’s utterly unsatisfying. The woman is too low ranked to know anything useful, her phone is far more viable because of the code sypher. ‘Exotic’ supernaturals are brought to this location and sorted through for private buyers to bid on. Derek can only imagine what other sort of creatures have been drugged and damaged for market, it only makes him feel slightly better about putting this one out of its misery.

“Don’t worry, Wolfman.” Stiles says as he hot wires their new car. “The next one will be better.”

—-

The next one is better.

With the sypher from the phone, Stiles’ contact is able to get a lead on the next big transport. It takes a few days of driving, but they finally catch up with the semi-truck 20 miles south of Odessa, Texas. Derek takes two bullets to the chest, but it’s the first time since they’ve escaped that he feels alive.

Derek keeps the car steady as Stiles shoots out the back tires. The truck struggles to rebalance itself and eventually skids off the road into the desert scrub brush. The doors of the trailer fly open and a pair of disoriented and irritated guards stumble out. Stiles picks them both off before they can go for their weapons. The third manages to pull his gun from his holster but doesn’t get a shot off in time. He hits the bed of the trailer with a heavy thud and slides off the back on top of the other bodies.

Stiles gives a short whoop as he pulls himself back through the window. “Did you see that shit? Triple head shot, baby!”

The show of skill is pretty impressive, but Derek gives him a sobering look, pointedly gesturing to their current situation.

“Don’t even front, Wolfman, you know that was badass.”

They follow the truck off the road and immediately bail out just as the driver and his passenger start firing. A bright flash hits the side of their van, leaving a smoldering basketball sized dent. Derek feels the breath cool in his lungs as the temperature suddenly plummets.

“Magic, they have…magic.” His voice is steady but disbelieving.

He’s gone a second later and there’s a crackling explosion in the distance, chorused by gunfire. Derek uses the distraction to take out the humans. He plunges his claws into one of the guard’s neck, but misjudges his own strength. It’s disturbingly easy to sink his fingers through flesh and muscle. The spray of blood and the immediate overflowing gush is unlike anything he’s felt before. The wolf howls joyously at the successful kill, but the human part of his brain stumbles over the action. By the time he slides his claws out, the man’s head is barely holding on to its body. Only a small chunk of muscle and spine keep it from snapping off.

Derek staggers back, transfixed by the dark glistening of his hands. A sudden swell of pride warms his chest, Derek isn’t sure how he feels about it. He’s killed before, both with his hands and with a weapon, but never anything close to this.

A sharp thud, collides against his chest and shakes him from his reverence. Two more bullets thump against the solid lining of the kevlar vest, blooming more ripples of stinging pressure over his sternum. He races forward, as the guard unloads the last two bullets, missing once and landing final through Derek’s bicep. He guard chucks the empty gun at him, backing up to pull out his side pistol, but Derek upsets the shot and yanks the weapon from the man’s hands.

He feels the wolf rise to the surface of his mind, melding perfectly with his own deadly intentions. They play. Slowly, picking apart the man’s defenses while drawing him closer. They let him get a few hits and watch as he desperately pulls out new weapons, becoming more frantic as each opportunity is stripped and tossed away. This time when they go for the neck, the strength is measured. The crunch of bone echos into their hands and up the forearms.

The kill is clean, contained.

They howl.

It takes a long moment to pull back, to settle back into one flesh. Derek leans against the side of the trailer and slows his breathing. The fighting on the opposite side of the truck has died down. He sorts through the litter of thudding heartbeats until he finds a familiar rabbit-quick pulse. He focuses on that until the ridges on his face smooth and his claws retract. His gums still itch with the phantom pressure of his fangs, but he feels stable. He wipes his hands on his pants, smearing sweat and blood along the already stained material, and gets to work rifling through the main cabin of the truck.

It’s a better haul than their first attempt.

Within a few minutes of searching, he’s already found a laptop, a handful of marked maps, and a ledger. He idly flips through the notebook, looking over more code, lists of dates and other numbers he can’t make sense of. Outside, he can hear soft whimpers under the steady thrum of Stiles’ voice.

“..twisted fuck. Your magic was a gift and this is how you use it? You willingly turn against your own kind, help those fucks sell us for parts, dress us up for slaughter for what?  Money!?”

“Don’t…please…” A voice gurgles.

“They put iron in us, do you know what it’s like to be cut like that?” Stiles voice takes on a deeper echo, something ancient…primal. There’s a soft squishing and the druid cries out again. “It aches, like hunger. It festers in the bone, makes you feel heavy and brittle at the same time. Do you know how long we last like that?”

“I had nothing to do with that! I only help with transport.”

“I don’t need supernatural healing to know that’s a lie. The moment I let you have a taste of what I could do your eyes lit up. We’ve found one of your ‘processing centers’, how much would those private buyers bid for me, hm?” Another squish, followed by a crunch. “Where were you taking your shipment?”

“Please…I don’t…”

“You’re barking up the wrong tree, buddy. There is no spin to this. No one is coming for you and I’m certainly not letting you leave here. Your only options are slow or fast, and trust me…I can be downright meticulous when I want to be.” He vows quietly. “Now, where were you taking them?”

Wet breaths lift through the tension of Stiles’ silence until the druid finally resigns and accepts his fate.

“…there’s a processing warehouse in Barstow. From there they’re either shipped out to LA for international sellers or to the one of the main hubs up in NorCal, bu-but I don’t know which one!”

“Then you can give me all of them.”

It only takes a little more pressing before the man rattles off a list cities. Derek finds a pen in the glove compartment and begins jotting them down on the back cover.

The druid breathing becomes erratic and a low groan of agony pitches into a terrified scream. Copper and burnt cedar color the air as the light from inside the truck’s cabin becomes brighter and brighter. The sweat slick hair on the back of Derek’s neck prickles and struggles to stand. A strange pressure crystallizes, thinning the air in his lungs and making him dizzy. He feels stretched thin and then suddenly the moment shatters, snapping everything back as if nothing happened.

The druid’s heartbeat is sluggish but steady, while Stiles’ is now racing at the speed of a hummingbird’s.

Derek stumbles out of the cab, leaving everything behind and lumbers towards the sound of the frantic beating.  The knitted balaclava covering Stiles face is gone, tucked into his back pocket, and his exposed face has taken on an opal-esque glow. His whiskey-eyes are now two pieces of molten gold, constantly churning. The lights fade, taking with it the bruises and hard-set exhaustion, leaving an inhuman luster.

“What did you do?” The man rasps. “Why can’t I…what did you do?”

“I’m repaying you for a friend.” Stiles says, stepping back. “She was old but managed twenty-eight days, let’s see how long you last.”

–

The trailer has three shifters, two mages, and one kitsune. All of the shifters are out cold, but the humans are still awake and bound in iron. The kitsune is struggling to keep conscious. She’s young, probably around college-aged, and not in full control of her abilities– as Derek can see the faint outline of her fox hovering around her. She’s got a deep gouge across her forehead and her right leg has a jagged piece of shin bone exposed.

“Are they dead?” she asks as Derek kneels beside her cage. He nods and for the second time that night, Derek comes face-to-face with something ancient. “Good.”

–

The locks take minutes but shuffling three sleeping shifters and one injured kitsune takes longer than either he or Stiles are comfortable with. They keep the restraints on because, Derek would rather not deal with three shifters waking up and thrashing around as they’re trying to cross into New Mexico. The drive is mostly quiet, save for some soothing attempts at small talk. The older woman’s name is Paula, she’s only been with the group for a few days. Bobby and Kira have been there the longest, three weeks. Paula doesn’t like talking much about what happened, Bobby can’t remember how he was taken, and Kira was mind-whammied at a cafe while she was studying for finals.

Stiles tries to play off this information casually, choosing to fiddle with the radio like he’s looking for something to fit the ‘after rampage’ mood. He can’t hide the slip of Other that slowly gathers in his eyes. Being hunted by humans is one thing. It’s commonplace and expected ever since the old families have fallen. Having your own kind hunt you for profit from humans, is another level of fucked up.

The group says their goodbyes in Roswell. Both Stiles and Bobby think it’s hilarious but Paula looks entirely done with the whole situation. Two of the shifters are from big packs in California and Washington, the Navarros and the Tams. They assure Derek they’ll inform their Alphas and urge them to take this to the Council. Stiles doesn’t seem entirely convinced the Council will do anything, but perhaps having two packs vouch for them might at least save them from any backlash.

Kira is the only one to linger.

“I…remembered something else.” She says quietly, glancing over her shoulder at the retreating group.

Bobby is nearby waiting, not wanting to let her out of his sight until she’s safely on a bus back home. Kira gives him a half smile before turning back to them grimly.

“A few weeks back we were moved from a warehouse to some house in the suburbs. An old man showed up in one of those…newsie caps with some men. They talked to our kidnappers, I couldn’t hear what they were talking about but the man handed him a book with this symbol on it.” She motions for Derek to hand her the pen from the ledger and draws it on Stiles’ palm.

Before she can finish the outline, Derek feels his eyes fill with red and the world contract around a flash of blonde hair and honeyed words. White hot rage clashes with bitter shame as the beast within him howls and snaps its jaws. He can distantly feel the heat from the flames and taste the ash on his tongue. The dread of almost losing everything, everyone sinks in his stomach and he can’t stop the growl that slips through his fangs.

“Derek, you wanna ease up a little there, buddy?” Stiles says lightly.

Derek glances up for a moment, surfacing from the smoke of his memories. His hand is clenched around Stiles’. Kira’s brow is twinged with concern and Stiles is watching him so intently, Derek wonders if the kid can actually read minds.

Derek loosens his grip but doesn’t let go. “You’re sure this was the symbol?”

She nods. “I just thought he really liked the Saints, but after that I started seeing it everywhere. Some of the other people in suits had it tattooed on the inside of their wrists.”

Derek let’s Stiles’ hand slip from his grip and settles back, numbly against the seat.

“So this means something, it’s not just a crazy football cult?”

“It’s an old hunter monicure for the Argents.” Stiles informs, still watching Derek. “Only those associated with the original line use this symbol. The family fractured awhile back. Not many people come across the original line these days, some say they returned overseas to their mother country.”

“I don’t…I’m still really new to all this. My mom–” She frowns, clears her throat and redirects. “My mom’s been around longer, she might know something about all this. She’s got a penchant for gathering information, she’s just not good about sharing it..”

The lights in parking lot flicker and Bobby looks around as if preparing for danger. Stiles chuckles and turns his attention back to a sheepish Kira.

“I’m going to give you the number to a friend of mine. Her name is Satomi, she’s not a kitsune but she’s might be able to help with that.” He says, taking the pen back and scribbling on her palm. “And if your mother breaks the lock on her information storehouse, you can contact me with this number.”

—-

They ditch the van a few hours later for a crappy Volvo from the 90s and find a cheesy nearby ‘inn’ that looks untouched from the 60s. The old woman at the front desk doesn’t even bother to lift her head up from her book, just snatches the money and hands over the key.

The room is surprisingly clean for the shoddy exterior. There’s still a lingering smell of semen, drug sweat, and floral cleaner, but it’s more tolerable than everywhere else they’ve stayed. Stiles immediately collapses on the bed and it takes every ounce of remaining strength not to follow after. He’s tired, both physically and emotionally. His wolf wants to nestle against the boy’s throat and sleep for days. After the last sixteen hours, Derek might let the wolf win.

He just wants to shut his brain off and not think for awhile. He doesn’t want to think about his time in captivity, or tearing a man’s throat out. He doesn’t want to think about what exactly the fuck Stiles’ is because whatever happened in that desert wasn’t like any magic Derek had ever seen before. He certainly doesn’t want to remember the fire or anything to do with that woman or her insane family.

Stiles rolls onto his back and stretches languidly, moaning loudly from the relief of a few cracks and pops. The wolf whines at the invitation of firm belly flesh. Derek busies himself with setting their bags down and barricading the door.

“Will you stop for a minute and come lie down?” Stiles rebukes, loudly thumping the mattress with an open hand. “I feel like I’m being held together by rubber bands and you can’t be doing much better.”

“Why would you say that?”

“Because you haven’t noticed your eyes have been flickering since we left that UFO diner.”

Derek catches a glimpse of his reflection in a picture frame and sighs. Behind him, Stiles is grinning and smoothing a hand over the empty side of the bed.

“C’mon big bad, time for a well deserved nap before we hit the books.”

“Someone should take watc–”

“Oh c’mon. You’re as dead on your feet. The last time you tried to take watch while you were exhausted you fell asleep ten minutes later.” Stiles scoffs. “I’ll put a ward up as soon as you lay down. We’ll be shocked awake long before anyone tries to break in. Now, would you please get in the damn bed?”

Derek begrudgingly toes his shoes off and settles onto the mattress. The springs groan under his weight and Stiles chuckles victoriously.

“We did good today.” Stiles tells him. “Kicked some ass, got information, saved some people. Networked, that’s always key after a kidnapping.”

“Yeah. We did.”

After all the action from the night before, sharing such a close space without fear or vigilance, somehow feels overwhelming. It’s a strange thing to think about. They’ve been lumped together for over a month. First, separated by metal, then struggling to heal and feel unencumbered in their own bodies again. Laying side-by-side with the potential to touch is almost daunting.

Derek can practically feel time slow and extend. His hand itches to move closer, to brush their arms if only to just see if he–at least the human side, could be near someone again after everything.

In the end, Stiles makes the first move and rolls over, slipping against Derek’s side.

“Stiles…” He grits out, trying to steady the uptick in his pulse.

“Hm?”

“What are you doing?”

“I thought you wolves are tactile creatures.” He says innocently. “I figured now that we’ve upgraded from torture bros to vengence bros, that’s gotta be closer to pack, right? At least a temporary one.”

The wolf preens in agreement. Derek clears his throat, trying not to let himself get too comfortable when he feels so uneven.

Stiles inches back, glancing up at him. “Maybe…It’s something I might need too.”

The teasing grin has sobered into uncharacteristic nervousness. Stiles is rarely anything short of cocky, especially when he’s being terrifying. Seeing him suddenly so open puts Derek at ease. Heat climbs into the tips of his ears, but Derek ignores it and pulls Stiles down against his side with a grumble.

“Alright, just…don’t ever call us vengence bros again. You sound like an idiot.”

Stiles laughs. “What about The Revengenators?”

“Hard pass.”

“How about…” He falters. “Okay, I can’t brain anymore. But when I get four hours of sleep and at least two pizzas in me, be ready for a brainstorming session.”

“I could always smother you in your sleep.”

“Nah. You’d miss me too much. Who else you gonna revengenate with?” Stiles says assuredly, wriggling into a more comfortable position.

The wolf chuffs contentedly, as if this isn’t entirely new territory.

“Shh, you’re brain is too loud.”

“You’re too loud.” Derek grumbles back, only to be shushed again.

Stiles’ hand finally comes to a rest atop his chest. Long fingers idly trace letters and symbols along his ribs, erasing and starting again. It only takes a few minutes to completely relax into the other man’s touch. At one point, Stiles plays out a few games of tic-tac-toe before building out a more complicated design. Derek reciprocates by swooping his thumb gently over the curve of Stiles’ spine and gets a tighter snuggle for his effort.

He slips into a light dose.

“You’ve met them before, haven’t you?” Stiles asks quietly. The haze of sleep quickly evaporates at the question. “You’re a Hale, you’re that Hale.”

Derek stills, his hand sliding away.

Stiles shift onto his elbow and watches the conflict pass over Derek’s face.

Suddenly, his mouth is bone dry and his skin feels too tight. He feels naked under Stiles’ thoughtful gaze.

It’s been years, since the fire and hearing. The case was settled and sealed, the Council ordered the Argents to fracture their line and Kate was to be executed or sent to the Wylds. Derek never knew which they chose, didn’t care at the time so long as he never has to see her again. Despite all this, it didn’t stop people from talking or embellishing. There so many insane rumors about how it had been a lover’s plot to gain the Pack’s land and holdings, and not the machinations of a bloodthirsty predator.

Derek had been lucky enough to have grown out of his familiar baby face. Most people couldn’t remember what happened to that one Hale, who almost burned their entire family.

Now, after all these years, someone knew…remembered.

He waits for the inevitable turn, the scoffing, the judgement. How could you be so stupid? How could you let her into your home? Why didn’t you kill them?

But it never comes.

After what feels like an eternity, Stiles finally smiles and threads his fingers through Derek’s beard. He nearly buckles at the tenderness of Stiles’ touch. A wave of warmth floods into his chest, swallowing up anxiety and doubt. He can feel the pull between them, faint but stronger, the beginning of something precious.

“You’re kind of amazing, you know?” He says fondly. “And to think when they first threw you in that cage, I thought: ‘There’s no way this guy is going to make it. He’s too pretty to be useful.’”He teases.  

Derek chuckles softly. “Me? You were the sucker’s bet. Twiggy, loud-mouth. No way you were going to last two weeks.“

“I guess we’re both suckers, since we turned out to be secret badass survivors.” He grins. “So, it looks like this revenge tour just got a little more interesting. How’s about it, Wolfman, you wanna destroy and empire with me?”

“Sure.” He says, curling Stiles closer. “Why not?”

[ohlookashinysquirrel]

Souyowrimo 2017 day 8

8. Travel (prompt list)

“I’m free!” Throwing his hands up in the air, Yosuke gave an enthusiastic fist-pump as Souji, next to him, chuckled. The brunette had just finished his last shift at Junes for two weeks; Souji was out of class and Yosuke had taken some of his long-accrued time off, and they were going on a trip. Sure, it was just a local cruise - mostly around Kyushu, with some stops in South Korea (the part Yosuke was most excited about; they’d been to Okinawa, but he’d never been out of the country before) - but it was a vacation, it was a cruise, and it was with Souji.

He was pretty sure it was going to be amazing.

(under the cut for length)

Four hours into the trip, he wasn’t so sure anymore. Sitting on the bed in their cabin, he looked down at the lines of pain stretched around Souji’s mouth and frowned before reaching over to place a new wet washcloth across his boyfriend’s forehead. When he did, Souji gave him a wan frown.

“I’m sorry, partner… maybe it won’t be so bad once the meds kick in, yeah?”

While Yosuke wasn’t so sure about this - Souji was almost ready for his second dose of dramamine, the ship was sailing smoothly, and they’d already been through the usual ‘period of adjustment’ - he merely frowned at his partner, shaking his head. “Hey, now. None of that, okay? Seasickness isn’t your fault, and I’m not the one writhing in misery right now. You just rest, I’ll be right here if you need anything.”

Souji gave a weak protest at this, as Yosuke knew he would. “You should go do something, at least. I mean… it’s supposed to be a vacation, and you’ve been-”

He was interrupted by a faint sense of movement as the ship turned, probably on its way into their first port; his eyes widened at this and he curled up into a ball, gripping his stomach as he tried, so valiantly, not to get sick. And Yosuke hated it. Souji had picked this entire trip out for the two of them… but was he going to be miserable the entire time?

At least, coming into port - checking the itinerary he found that Okinawa was their first stop - Yosuke knew that Souji would be able to get some chance to rest; the ship was staying in port overnight in order to allow the vacationers to enjoy the nightlife. As they docked and the ship settled, Souji seemed to find some measure of relief; it wasn’t as good as if they’d been on dry land, but before Yosuke could suggest that they leave, his boyfriend fell into a somewhat-normal sleep, and the brunette didn’t want to disturb him.

Yosuke took this opportunity to explore the ship; they’d been shown around, of course, but once Souji had taken ill he hadn’t had eyes for anything other than his partner. Even now, he found himself wandering the game room and the gift shop with a sense of listlessness; what fun was anything without Souji next to him?

After checking back every half-hour, Yosuke finally managed to get some rice and tea into his boyfriend, who immediately went back to sleep even as he promised Yosuke that he was going to be fine and they’d go out and do things. And as much as the brunette wanted to pout, all he had to do was take one look at his boyfriend’s white face and all his complaints died.

We came here to spend time together.

Finally, he made up his mind; taking his partner’s wallet, as well as his own (and their passports), he left a scribbled note next to a pitcher of orange juice before locking their cabin door and heading out onto the island.

Souji woke before the dawn, finally feeling a little better, a little more refreshed. He hoped that his seasickness was finally gone; looking at the clock, he realised he’d already ruined almost a full day of their vacation, and he felt terrible about it. Seeing that Yosuke was still asleep, he grabbed a change of clothes and made his way, shakily, into the small bathroom to take a shower; he wasn’t halfway undressed before his hopes of finally being ‘better’ were dashed as waves from another boat’s departure sent their own bobbing, and he immediately had to grab his stomach.

Resolving to find a stronger medicine and just deal with it - he’d already wasted a day, and this was his and Yosuke’s long-awaited vacation - he took a hurried shower, finally stepping out with a towel wrapped around his waist. Not two steps from the bathroom, he stopped in confusion; Yosuke was standing next to their bed, packing his bag with the few things he’d taken out of it the day before. If Souji’s stomach hadn’t already been queasy, it would have sunk.

“Yosuke? What’s going on?”

Zipping up the bag, Yosuke looked up; somehow, his face wasn’t the mask of anger and disappointment that Souji was afraid he’d see, and instead, he gave a gentle smile.

“Hey, partner. How are you feeling?”

Souji didn’t want to admit that he was starting to feel ill again, but neither would he lie, so he quietly shook his head. “Not so great.”

“That’s okay.” The brunette pointed to the bed; following the gesture, Souji saw one of his outfits already sitting out, ready for him. “Get dressed, we’re getting off this boat.”

Getting off-? “Huh? What are you talking about, Yosuke? Isn’t it going to leave for the next port around nine?”

“Yeah, and that’s why we want to be off sooner rather than later.” Finding that Souji was still standing there, looking confused, his boyfriend came over to push him gently towards the clothes. “Do I need to dress you myself?”

“Of course not, no, but- Yosuke, what’s going on?”

When the brunette was sure that Souji was finally starting to change, he reached for a pile of papers and what looked like tickets next to their packed luggage. “I was able to get a partial refund on the cruise by transferring our reservation to one of their affiliated hotels in Okinawa. You’re not the first person who’s suffered from unexpected seasickness, you know - and even part of the price of the cruise was enough to cover the entire week here. We’re already flying out of Okinawa to go home, so it just means we’ll be able to bum around here for the week; I’m already dreaming about those pork ribs we had last time. I can’t wait!”

Yosuke had been bustling around as he talked, and Souji found himself being hustled into his clothes, even as the thought of food right now made him queasy; as the brunette’s explanation came to an end, however, Souji reached out to take his wrist, effectively stopping him mid-bustle.

“Yosuke. You were the one who wanted to go to Korea, and I know how much you were looking forward to-”

“Hey.” Turning, Yosuke reached out to poke Souji, hard, in the shoulder before softening his expression. “Look. I still want to see Korea. We’ll do that. We have time. You know what this vacation wasn’t? Something I wanted to do alone- and don’t start! You can’t help getting seasick and I don’t want you blaming yourself, okay? I want you to hang out with me and have fun and just… enjoy yourself. I certainly will. This place is gorgeous and it’s the perfect time of year.”

This didn’t stop Souji from wanting to apologise, but they’d had that kind of conversation before, and besides - he wouldn’t have blamed Yosuke if the roles had been reversed, and he just… well, he wasn’t going to argue. Wrapping an arm around his boyfriend’s waist, he pulled Yosuke in, pressing his forehead against the brunette’s.

“Okay. Thank you, Yosuke. I’ll make it up to you, okay?”

Giving Souji a quick kiss - after all, they needed to make sure they were off the ship before the gangplank came up - Yosuke grinned. “Yep. Dinner’s on you and it’s gonna be a nice one.”

Thinking about a nice meal out with his boyfriend, on dry, solid land, Souji couldn’t help but return the grin.

“Yep, dinner’s on me.”

[snarkyowl]

They Met In The Spring

A new au for your viewing pleasure. One of many to come. How the Host and the doctor met.

Doctor Edward F. Iplier was a well known doctor among both the merpeople and the humans. He was a man with a foot firmly planted in both worlds, and he was a fool. There was another, like him, who kept up the life of a merman and the life of a human. Both of them were never content with their lives because their choice to switch their identity so often left them too drained to enjoy what they did.

Both were doctors, and both had regrets.

Edward met a strange man on the beach one spring night, just after he’d finished forcing his tail into legs. The residual pain was still echoing aggressively through his joints when he heard a soft voice over the crashing of the waves, and it was a soft voice asking for help.

“The Host believes the man that has  just made his way out of the ocean is the man that will be able to help him.” The voice says, and Edward blinks at the appearance of the voice’s owner.

A man, dressed in a beige trench coat stands before him. His hair is pushed back, over his head and out of his face and among dark locks the merman spots a streak of gold. Blonde, perhaps, but in the moonlight it seems golden.

He’s immediately taken with the strange man with the bleeding eyes, and once he notices those he goes into a panicked doctoring mode. The man is lead to Edward’s home, sat on a chair, and the doctor goes to work.

The man, Host as he insists, is grateful for the doctor’s help. As he put it, the salty air and sand were agitating his injuries and he’d long since lost the supplies he needed to bandage and clean them.

Edward doesn’t know why he offers to let the man stay in his home, he just does. The man seems worried, mentions there isn’t a lot of space. Edward’s laugh is bitter as he shakes his head, turning to put his medical supplies away.

“I’m never home anyways, might as well put the thing to some good use.”

He doesn’t expect Host to reply, but then the man does.

“The Host would like to ask, if he’s able, why the doctor is not home?” “Well don’t you know?” Edward snorts, though it’s not accusing.

“I’m a doctor, not a homely man. I work and I work, and I have no time to sit at home and sew.” Oh, he does sound bitter now.

He clears his throat, shutting his kit with a satisfying snap.

“I keep myself too busy, so I’m never here.” He rephrases, and surprisingly Host looks unaffected by his bitterness.

They end up getting along remarkably well. Everytime Edward breaks off into bitter anger, Host patiently allows him to rant and ramble before implementing a calmer input that opens the doctor’s eyes to new solutions. The doctor couldn’t help Host quite in the same way, but he was quick to find the man’s eye loss wasn’t accidental. It was done by his own hands, and the tought sickens the doctor.

He learns a lot about the Host over the weeks they live together, and he is quick to learn how to provide Host with comfort. Contact is something the Host is picky about, he finds. Warn him first, never surprise him.

Another thing the doctor learned was that the Host knew the future. He understood the strange ability was much more complicated than that, but the limited understanding is enough to know the Host knows more than he lets on. At least he never says anything about what he’s seen, mostly.

He knows when Edward has lost a patient and provides quiet support, tea made perfectly and stories crafted straight from his mind. Edward finds himself often getting lost in those stories, waking up hours later still curled up to the man who always seems to be wearing his trench coat.

The strange man, Edward finds, is even stranger. He knows a lot about mermaids for someone who claims to  have never been in the ocean, and at first Edward feels Host is being careless. Then he realizes Host is helping him along. Host is leaving breadcrumbs on the trail to figuring him out, and Edward realizes alongside that realization he’s in love.

He panics, at first. A man who denies his life as a merman for one reason or another, someone who ripped his own eyes own for reasons he still refuses to tell Edward, someone who wormed his way into Edward’s heart so quickly and so deep the merman doesn’t know what to do.

Someone who disappeared in the dead of night, and didn’t come home.

Edward spent weeks searching under every rock for the mysterious Host, but his work eventually became his excuse for shutting himself in again. He’d been so close to feeling like a real person again, but he should have known.

He doesn’t deserve that, that happiness. He deserves to be cold and alone because that’s what he’s always made himself. He has an odd family he could go to, but he feels he would only be burdening them with his woes. So, instead, when he visits he smiles and gives biting sarcasm out in small doses. He plays normal, he plays perfect, because that’s what he needs to be.

He’s an actor and a doctor, you’ll come to find that doctors are very good actors while actors are not always good doctors.

It’s the spring when he finds the man again, and he finds him in a storm. Standing, alone, facing the ocean as mother nature causes chaos around him. Edward finds it poetic, but the man is gone by the time he has time to try and join him.

Edward doesn’t try searching for the mystery Host again this time, and when Host shows up he’s tempted to ward him off. Sweet words, a gentle touch, and Edward lets him in. He knows, deep down, he’s setting himself up for more pain.

Yet, as he wakes up with a warm body under his head, he can’t bring himself to regret that.

Maybe he just has a penchant for self destruction, but at least he can have fun and do good while he’s at it.

Host leaves after only a week this time, and Edward only cries for a few moments. He gathers himself up, and shoves himself into his work.

He doesn’t expect Host back by summer, but he there he is. This time he’s brought something with him, a picnic basket of all things. Edward wonders if he’s being manipulated into being a safehouse for a murderer, but as Host spins a tale of lands far away with golden hills he forgets his worries.

Host’s leaving and returning is sporadic and continues until one day Edward can’t take it anymore. He’s been alone too long, waiting and expecting and hoping. Right as he lets his hopes fall completely there Host is, smiling that sweet smile of his and using that honey-sweet voice to soothe the wounds.

Honey, Edward finds, is a temporary relief. When he hears the familiar knocking on his door one autumn night, he ignores it. The knocking continues late into the night, keeping him up and haunting him. He refuses to give in, though, and by morning it’s gone.

He thought he’d be satisfied with himself, proud maybe, but no. He’s upset, because he’s a fool, and he’s a fool in love.

Host finds him at the clinic, and simply asks for a checkup. They say nothing, and do nothing for the whole appointment. Finally, as Host goes to leave he turns back to the doctor with his head tilted to the side.

“The Host would like to come over to make the doctor dinner, would this be permissible?”

And goddamn him, there’s that voice again. The one Edward can’t ever deny, the voice that haunts all of his dreams and nightmares.

His voice cracks as he says yes, and he can’t bring himself to face Host even though the other can’t see the tears in his eyes. Why is he so pathetic?

Dark visits him, for once, the following week. The man, monochrome and glowing gently blue and red as he always does in his weaker human form, seems agitated. He enters the house uninvited and helps himself to a glass of water, but finally faces Edward with eyes the doctor is sure are made of ink and ice.

“You’re in love.” “I am.”

“You’re in love with the Host.” “I am.” “You know what he does?” “I do.” “What he is?” “I do.” Dark sighs at that, setting his glass down and shaking his head almost sadly. Edward knows from growing up with Dark, though, that his sadness is not sincere.

“He can’t love you, Edward.” “I know, Darkiplier. Wilford can’t love you either, but you seem set on keeping him with you.” It’s a low blow, harsh and so much more hurtful than anything Edward would say to anyone else.

Dark just brings out that side in people.

“Watch. Your. Mouth.” Dark snarls, and Edward can’t find the energy to flinch.

They both know, somewhere inside their hearts, that what they’re saying isn’t true. Wilford can love Dark, Host could love Edward. The only problem?

Host and Wilford were nothing special. Not really.

Host was a man set on obtaining his own goals, obsessed with keeping control over everything. Compliance was key, and when you didn’t do what he wanted you were punished. Edward was willing to comply, but everyone has their limits. Host could not be tied down because then he would be less in charge of his life, even if only slightly. Edward knew that now, knew why Host left and came as he pleased. He was establishing that Edward would not rule over what he did, no matter what. Host’s choices, Edward wouldn’t affect them.

Wilford was a man of chaos. A man not to be tied down, and Dark knew this well. Wilford and Dark had grown up together, and all that time Dark had longed for Wilford. Wilford was obliviousness embodied, however, and all he ever seemed to focus on was himself. He was self-centered, carrying an ego to rival that of Dark’s own.

Loving someone who means the world to you, yet to them you’re only something to come home to occasionally was a painful journey.

Yet Dark and Edward would still die should Wilford or Host were to ask them to.

Edward knew why Dark was really here like this. While the sadness in the shake of his head may not have been sincere, the meaning behind this meeting was. He didn’t want Edward to end up like him, but he knew he’d come too late.

He was here to offer comfort.

Edward and Dark spent the weekend out and about as brothers, and it was nice. The weather was perfect, and for once Dark was pleasant through his entire visit. They spent a lunch with Schneeplestein, discussing news from around the town with the other doctor.

Then, Dark left. Back to the ocean, and back to his own pain. Edward was left alone again, but he felt better. If only a little.

Host returned only a month later, one eye infected. Delirious with fever, his narrations turned Edward’s house to chaos. The doctor ran himself into the ground juggling caring for Host and caring for his patients at the clinic.

One day he wakes up and the Host is gone again. He’s not sure what all he breaks, but the glass is everywhere by the end of his outburst.

After making a few arrangements he spends the next six months underwater, the one place he know Host won’t follow.

He’s just emerged from the ocean and pulled his clothes on when he hears that familiar voice, narrating its way down the beach to him. He doesn’t have the strength to run, so he stands still as Host finds him.

A small smile, cheeks painted with blood spilled past the bandages.

“The Host has missed you, doctor.”

Liar. He wants to say. You always say that, yet you always leave anyways don’t you? He wants to yell. Instead he remains silent, jaw clenched. Host lets out a soft huff of amusement, leaning forward.

That day marks the first time Host has kissed him, on the lips, and it’s the same day Host leaves again.

He sees Host briefly in town one day, but he’s quick to bolt to the ocean. His only safe space. He can’t stay underwater forever, though, and he’s never regretted his double life more.

Host tries to kiss him again in the winter. “Mistletoe,” he says despite being blind, “it’s a custom.” Edward moves his head to the side and Host’s lips meet his cheeks. Host frowns, tilts his head to the side like he doesn’t understand the pain he’s caused.

Like he doesn’t know.

“The Host-” “I need to go.” Edward says it gently, but with enough urgency he hopes he can convince the man that knows seemingly everything something has happened.

He’s crushed between the rocks in the spring. His torso sways uselessly with the waves, bending him at an odd angle as he remains limp. He was too exhausted to move out of the way in time, and his tail now remains trapped under a pile of rocks. Edward doesn’t have it in him to try and move those to free himself, so he just lets himself bleed.

As the water around him turns red, a figure appears. Familiar and yet not at this angle, and for a while he’s confused. Then there’s green hair and a desperate germanic accent begging him to hang on, he’s almost free.

The colorful tail is another giveaway, once it swings into view. Vibrant blues and greens. So violently in your face it can’t not be Schneep.

Edward is stuck on land to heal, and Host has the nerve to visit him in the hospital. Edward’s empty stare doesn’t affect him as he settles into the seat by the bed, smiling politely before he speaks.

“The Host is the one who alerted Dr. Schneeplestein that you were stuck.” He informs, and he doesn’t sound smug.

Edward still wants to wring his neck, but instead he just idly murmurs his thanks. He’s on pain medication, and that’s his only excuse for why he asks what he does next.

“When are you leaving again?”

The atmosphere of the room turns icy immediately, and the tension feels cuttable. They lapse into silence so long, Edward is afraid Host has just vanished. Now he’s afraid to check, so he just waits. Finally, the Host stands. “The Host will be back later.” He says, and it’s the angriest he’s ever been with Edward.

Host was there when Edward is allowed home, explaining to confused staff he’s Edward’s boyfriend.

“Work keeps me busy.” He says, and again Edward wants to kill him. Instead, Edward remains silent in his wheelchair. Host pushes him inside with too much ease, knows the house too well, and then situates Edward in the living room.

“What would you like for dinner?”

Less pain both emotional and physical. He considers saying it allowed, to be an ass, but instead Edward takes a breath before answering, “I just want a peanut butter sandwich.”

Host’s face crumbles for a moment, just a moment, before he nods and gives that damned smile again. “One peanut butter sandwich.” He states, as though giving Edward another choice.

Edward only hums and falls asleep in his wheelchair no matter how uncomfortable it is.

Host stays until Edward can walk again, and Edward isn’t really shocked. What shocks him is when Host appears, bags in hand and sobbing about that had happened. He refuses to explain, but that day he moves in.

Host is unfairly good at finding his flaws, find the old wounds he had left. He tries to make up for it all, but some things Edwar just can’t forgive.

They fix it, though, together. Soon, Edward’s happy again. Host sees him down to the ocean, they share a goodbye, and Edward leaves to see his patients in the water. He’s the one leaving now, but he’s predictable so Host can’t really complain.

Things are rough at first, but Edward is content even so. He has what he’s always wished for, someone to love. Whether or not the Host loves him the same is hard to tell most times, but Edward likes to pretend that’s how it goes. They get closer and closer until one is rarely seen without the other save for Edward’s water trips.

Then, one day, Host proposes. Edward,of course, accepts. They marry in the spring, and Edward’s never been happier.

[dancingbeyondcancer]

Chapter 09 - Dancing Beyond Cancer - What's Up Doc

Chapter 9 -------- What’s up Doc?

Danielle was constantly reconnecting with friends as her health began to improve. One friend had recommended that we meet with one of their mutual friends who was a Naturopathic Doctor (ND) in town. Danielle and I agreed that since we couldn’t get in touch with Doc as regularly that it might be best to have a back-up doctor. We decided to set up a consultation with her friend. Danielle was very familiar with the new doctor since she had worked as a front desk secretary for her and Doc some years prior.

I was very impressed at the first consultation with our new ND. She was incredibly professional and on top of that highly knowledgeable. I would say that she was not an expert on treating cancer, but she had hands-on experience treating it with alternative methods. We talked while she took Danielle’s vitals. We discussed the treatments that we had already started.

We told her that we were using the hyperbaric oxygen treatment to help with healing from the surgery. We also had used an alpha-lipoic acid supplement. There wasn’t much that we were doing that she had any problems with except the oxygen chamber. She wasn’t sure if the increased oxygen would also increase the growth of cancer. She supported it to help with healing from the surgery but didn’t recommend it for further treatment.

She had a couple of other options she wanted to present to us. The first was a light therapy device. We had investigated another device in town because of the data that has shown these light therapy devices can shrink cancer tumors and even rid the body of cancer completely. However, the device also uses additional Electromagnetic Fields during the treatment, which means Danielle wouldn’t use it. It isn’t that she couldn’t use it, but her phobia of EMF treatment made it not worth trying. The ND explained her light therapy was just light and no other frequencies. Danielle was on board for adding this treatment as soon as possible.

She also told us about a new IV treatment derived from a turmeric extract. It was called curcumin, and there was a doctor in Phoenix who was using it extensively to treat Cancer. She had a patient that had used it, and it put his stage 4 cancer into remission. She even told us that he was a McDonald’s diet type of guy, so she was very optimistic about Danielle’s situation. I learned turmeric was showing incredible anti-cancer properties, but now they were creating a more concentrated extract administered through an IV.

The big issue with this treatment was that insurance wouldn’t cover it. Each IV was also going to run between three hundred to six hundred dollars per treatment. Depending on the concentrations, it was going to be more or less expensive. Danielle would also have to run the IV once or twice a week. The price tag was daunting. I would have to start making far more money to pay for it myself.

The next item that she provided us with was a list of things that we should avoid. The list was extensive; it told us to avoid soy, gluten, and other refined sugars. The biggest thing that caught my attention was that memory foam mattresses, according to her, could be cancerous. I was a little bothered because the mattress I was planning on bringing up from storage was a memory foam mattress. So now we were left with a single mattress as our only solution.

Igniting the start of a crazy struggle to find a mattress solution. It wasn’t something that fit into the budget in the immediate future, so I just put it on the back burner. I was still sleeping fine on the single mattress with Danielle. A solution we didn’t need to focus on now.

The solution we decided on was starting the curcumin treatment as soon as possible. The additional research I had done showed that it was not harmful to the body, but it was highly anti-cancerous. It was a more natural form of chemo without all the crazy side effects. Danielle was confident it was the treatment for her. I just wished her family showed the same support. The price was our primary concern. I certainly couldn’t pay all the bills and pay for treatment. Danielle’s insurance didn’t cover any treatment that wasn’t chemotherapy or radiation. Additionally, we weren’t receiving any financial support from either of our family’s, but that wouldn’t stop us.

The first step we decided to proceed with was to have a chemo port installed. I know it sounds a bit strange, but it was necessary for Danielle. We had initially declined this after her surgery because our goals were different. Now a port was the best option. Danielle had trouble with people being able to find her veins, so if we had a port, running IV’s could be far easier to administer.

The insurance would only cover the port installation for chemotherapy. So it was decided that when we visited the surgeon, we would set up an appointment to have a port installed.  Danielle decided to tell the Doctor that she was going to do Chemotherapy. It was all working out, but we still weren’t sure how we were going to cover six hundred to twelve hundred dollars a week in IV’s.

The ND also told us many other things to avoid, including stress to give Danielle the best chance for recovery. The plan included a modification to her diet and some chemicals to avoid. After going over everything, the ND also decided that the water could have been a huge culprit and that tap water could potentially be very harmful. The ND also informed us that the unmonitored estrogen doses that her other doctor was giving her might have been a huge contributor to the development of her Ovarian Cancer.

Now, this is where one of the first big arguments happened that put some serious stress on our relationship. Mostly due to my ignorance and expecting an answer about what caused Danielle’s cancer. We still had to meet back with the Surgeon for a check-up on the surgery. I was fully expecting to hear back from the surgeon that they had figured out what might have caused cancer to develop. I wanted answers from someone who promised me answers.

Danielle discussed her entire medical history with her doctor friend. She went on to explain her extensive use of IV’s for vitamins and estrogen. The ND explained Danielle should have been monitoring her estrogen levels during that time. Danielle confirmed the doctor never tested her levels.  Leading Danielle to conclude, that a doubling of her estrogen doses six months prior was a contributing factor to her cancer.  A possible cause was not quite the answer I wanted.

Nothing could convince Danielle differently. The doctor who gave her years of IV’s was at fault. It broke her to learn that her friend didn’t run the proper tests, tests which were required. The years of trust vanished in an instant. Danielle did nothing but vent about how angry she was at the situation she was in, and that it apparently could have been avoided. I couldn’t have understood the level of betrayal that Danielle felt. She became upset that I didn’t take her side completely on the matter.

Our arguments were explosive and never ended well. There was no doubt in Danielle’s mind, and I couldn’t accept that. I still wasn’t sure and didn’t want to be blaming someone if there was another cause. I didn’t want to jump to conclusions. I wanted answers, I wanted proof, and the surgeon was the man to give me those answers.

Danielle was not looking forward to the meeting like I was. Leading up to the doctor's appointment, Danielle showed increased health problems, especially through the night. I could easily tell when she was stressed about something because her pain would intensify, she would have more digestive issues, and on top of that would end up sleeping far less. I always tried to provide positive reassurance. I constantly wanted to show her the love she deserved, especially during times when it was so important I do so.

This trip required a lot of support for Danielle on my part, she not only wasn’t looking forward to the 4 hours we would spend in the car, but she didn’t enjoy going to the Doctor’s. Every time we go to a Doctor’s, they must tell us that Danielle is going to Die if she doesn’t do Chemo or Radiation. Even our Naturopathic Doctor had to tell us “by law” that Danielle was going to die without doing treatments that are approved by the American Medical Association. I can’t imagine the fear that comes with confronting people who repeatedly reminded her she was going to die.

This trip to Phoenix was a little tense, but we both managed to make the journey without any serious issues. Danielle’s comfort level was way down, her pain was constantly increasing, and we were less than halfway through our journey. We met at the doctor's offices instead of the Hospital. I hadn’t realized that we were going to a different location about 20 minutes further down the road. Meaning we had to take an extra bathroom stop, setting us a little behind schedule.  

We arrived at the offices to find accommodations far nicer than we were expecting. The office had a much nicer atmosphere than the huge cold hospital. It put Danielle a bit at ease to not have to walk through the long hallways. I was thankful that they had tea and snacks in the waiting room. We welcomed anything that put us both more at ease. I was rife with anticipation, but Danielle was anxious and terrified.

The surgery to get the port scared Danielle the most. However, the surgeon sold us on having him perform the surgery. When I say he sold us, I mean he sold us on using him to install the port.  Danielle and I decided there wasn’t another surgeon in the country that we would have used. We already witnessed his work once, and Danielle was satisfied with his current remarks.  After his inspection of the area, he operated on, and he expressed healing was progressing well and that she should expect a full recovery within a month. A huge relief to us since we hadn’t “officially” consummated the marriage yet. Thankfully we didn’t wait till the wedding.

The Surgeon knew his stuff about Surgery. However, I would be disappointed with his answers about my wife’s cancer and potential treatment options. Danielle and I both inquired about the less harmful options that he had mentioned, but again, we were told that those options weren’t available for us — telling us that the abdominal port that he already installed was a new type of chemotherapy. The same new treatment that we had already had aggressively pushed on us. At the time, I didn’t think it was best to start treatment until her body had fully healed. Now it was different.  

Danielle was mostly healed, and in a place to honestly look at the options. So we asked more questions about the abdominal port chemo bath, which was set up to put chemo right into the location of where he removed the Cancer. It seems like an effective possibility except that he finally informed us that some people end up only doing one to three treatments because it is so intense. I could tell right away my wife was scared, pissed, and mad that they would attempt to put something so toxic in her without disclosing this huge truth.

Danielle told him that she would pass on that treatment option but would proceed with a more traditional approach. We would have the port installed in Phoenix by this incredible surgeon, and she said she would receive treatment in Sedona at the local oncologist. We made appointments to get the port installed, and we also set up a consultation with the local oncologist.  

When the Surgeon finally decided to go over the tests they had run on the Cancer, I was thrilled, well initially thrilled. I was hoping to find the answers we were looking for, but instead, I was completely disappointed. Not only did they have no answer to the cause of her cancer but that they weren’t even going to investigate further. The DNA test had turned back a negative so there was no answer that the Medical Establishment would or could provide. I was pissed off. I had held out blame in hopes of any additional information.

I felt horrible at my stance towards the cause of my wife’s cancer.  I was truly sorry for any strife I caused between us. I was expecting answers, and the only answer we had was basic malpractice. It did bring some peace between us, but it did create mutual anger towards the doctor who administered the estrogen IV’s. Truthfully this is the first time I officially felt let down by the Medical Establishment. I wanted to know what caused my wife’s cancer or cancer in general, but the truth is that the entire Medical Industry didn’t care. I was so angry.

Despite our issues, we scheduled our appointment back to Phoenix. The rides were rough for Danielle. The hour and forty minutes between Sedona and the Hospital was very strenuous on her fragile body. The 03’ Mustang wasn’t the easiest car to get into or out of after surgery. However, the ride was smooth enough not to cause much more discomfort.

I stayed strong through these trips because I knew my wife needed me to be. With all the energy I could muster, I made sure that she had someone present for this new operation. Undergoing surgery struck fear into Danielle. I knew she didn’t look forward to the side effects of the Anesthesia or the meds that the hospital would provide. It is difficult when the side effects can be worse than the original diagnosis. Prescription Medications were one of the most harmful substances that my wife consumed while sick. The problems forced Danielle to use them as little as possible.

Installing the port was the smoothest adventure so far. Danielle was stressed about the surgery while also relieved that she would be able to start treatment. It also meant that drawing blood would be easier. Since Danielle suffered from very thin veins, she always had nurses that needed help finding her veins. So often I felt like they used her like a pin cushion before consenting to additional help.  On several instances, we had to have an ultrasound machine to find her veins.

I had to leave the room whenever they would draw blood or insert an IV. I would get so light-headed around needles that I would nearly pass out. It was the same my whole life with piercings or even worse injuries. I don’t think I could ever be a doctor because of those issues. One time I did pass out during my blood draw. The nurse was surprised but continued the procedure since I passed out sitting up. I thanked her and spent the next hour recovering. My wife was nothing like me when it came to IV’s or needles.  

After another routine week of recovery time, we were scheduled to talk to the Oncologist. I was a little more excited about this meeting because I figured an Oncologist would have all the answers. We needed to have all the answers so that anyone who questioned us could see we did the fact-finding ourselves. I didn’t see any way to stop her family without all the answers. Danielle was willing to do anything to gain her family’s support. It was crucial to me that we find a way to stop the stresses caused by the lack of support.

Danielle even canceled the initial appointment because she didn’t want to be pressured to do the chemotherapy. I supported her decision, but I guess that wasn’t enough. The pressure from her family caused her to set up the appointment secretly. I didn’t mind either way as I wanted to answer more of my questions.

Several days before the appointment at the oncologists, I could tell she was getting nervous again. Talking about it would cause her to stress; she would constantly question if she should even go. I would constantly tell her that we were going to get more answers, and answers we desperately needed to bring some peace between her and her family. I didn’t tell my family any details about the treatment we choose, mostly because I didn’t want to deal with their opinions. I knew my family knew nothing about cancer treatment. If I’m going to find some answers, I will get the answers from the professional or expert.

The trip to the Oncologist was not the same experience for me as it was for Danielle. I wasn’t scared to hear what she had to say.  I fully intended her to answer all the questions I had about chemo. I was genuinely a bit excited to see into the lion's den. I thought it was going to be a very informative visit, no matter the outcome. After an hour wait to see the Doctor, I was in for a huge disappointment.

The doctor came in as most do and ran through the usual patient checkup and went through her records. We again discussed all of Danielle’s previous illnesses. We even discussed that Danielle had lost over a pint of blood and had chosen to decline a blood transfusion, meaning she rebuilt all her blood naturally. It was not something most people walk away from, but after surviving several life-threatening illnesses, it wasn’t unusual for Danielle to survive the impossible. We all joked about her past medical history, and that led to our concern with using such strong chemotherapy.

We were hoping for a new solution. The Surgeon had told us that there were new, less harmful chemotherapies now becoming available, and we asked her if that was an option. She said that the only one that she recommended in our case was the strongest and potentially most dangerous treatment option. The problem is they didn’t let us choose, and they only offered one treatment. It felt like there was no consideration for my wife’s personal medical history.

The medical establishment could only provide one option. There was not going to be another alternative. Danielle was upset to learn there were no other choices because we were expecting to hear about a safer version of Chemo.  As Danielle put it, we were facing the Cadillac of Chemotherapies. The frustration came with the lack of other options and a complete lack of support for alternative options. I anticipated that would be the answer we would receive. What I didn’t anticipate is how the doctor would respond to my other questions.

I think my first trigger was when the Doctor asked if Danielle was eating enough. I proceeded to tell the Doctor exactly what she was eating daily. When I finished, I asked if that was enough? She responded, “I don’t know. I’m not a dietician.” I couldn’t believe that diet was not a primary concern for cancer patients. My research showed how helpful diet was in maintaining proper health. So why wouldn’t a cancer doctor be educated on the topic?

It was game time for me, and the gloves were coming off. I started asking serious questions about what we could expect from the chemotherapy the doctors recommended. Such as what potential health problems could we be facing? The doctor was not interested in disclosing the side effects and avoided the question completely. She decided it was best to print out the medical disclosure. I was somewhat satisfied knowing I would have the information I wanted. It still upset me that she wouldn’t discuss that with us.

To skirt the issue, our oncologist said something I still can’t believe. The doctor proceeded to tell us that chemotherapy was derived from the bark of the Pacific Yew tree. The doctor explained the medical industry created a synthetic version that works exactly the same, to protect the tree. As if to inspire a positive response from us. I said, “If there is a more natural version, then why can’t we try that instead?” She didn’t have an answer.

I don’t even remember the questions I asked next, but I can clearly remember my reaction to her response. I was expecting an experienced professional to provide me with answers. Instead, she looked up my remaining questions on WebMD. I was beyond upset at the apparent incompetence that showed. I couldn’t believe that the doctor had to look up answers online.  Considering I could answer further questions this way, I decided to stop my questioning. I was in utter disbelief. I lost all remaining faith in our for-profit cancer treatment centers during this visit.

After learning that the doctor didn’t think diet was important to cancer treatment, I was appalled to find buckets of candy throughout the cancer ward.  They were feeding high fructose corn syrup in copious amounts to patients who have cancer. Considering cancer thrives on sugar, and even more on refined sugar, I couldn’t believe my eyes. Doc and our ND had confirmed this fact. It was a huge reality check for me.

The whole show was about money, not health. I realized that the cancer industry doesn’t care about the health of people, near as much as they like being able to provide expensive treatments to patients. Our doctor would have made over one hundred and fifty thousand dollars for the treatment she wanted to give us. A treatment that she was required by law to recommend. A law that utterly violates any sense of medical freedom. It made me think, but it also made me mad. My anger toward the Cancer Industry continued to grow, and it looks like it was not going to stop growing either.

Danielle was not satisfied with the answers that the doctor provided, and she declined to move forward with any further treatment. This choice was a surprise to the doctor, and she proceeded to tell us just like all the other doctors, that we faced a high probability of death if we didn’t proceed with her recommendations. Sadly considering our circumstances, I felt the same way if we did try the chemo. Danielle didn’t want to face a potentially more destructive foe if the solutions were going to cause worse side effects. Again the solutions were nothing more than putting band aids on problems as they arose. It didn’t fill us with a bit of confidence.

Danielle asked one more question before we ended our appointment. She was concerned about monitoring her cancer markers and was hoping to reschedule another appointment. The doctor's response threw both of us a curve ball. We were informed that the doctor was very busy with training students, had many patients, and also, we were not pursuing treatment. Due to these reasons, we would only be scheduled for another appointment six months from that date. Danielle felt this was unacceptable. The doctor did not concede, leaving us both confused and angry.

After another terrible experience in a hospital for both Danielle and I, we knew there was no way that we would ever do chemo to fight her cancer. Not only did the sheets she provided show that there was a possibility of death, but it also showed serious side effects that Danielle, still, was not going to sign up for. We weren’t going to do something that felt so wrong. It didn’t matter that some parents, her mom, and sister were pressuring her to try Chemo. I had no problem standing my ground on the topic, and neither did Danielle. After this appointment, she made it excessively clear that she was done talking about chemotherapy. I could see that the decision was not a solution for us.

Danielle and I didn’t need to find any more answers from the mainstream medical industry. We knew what we were going to do. While I probably would not choose the same options my wife chose, I undoubtedly supported her decision. We poured through mountains of information to reinforce our belief in making the best choice. The experience helped my knowledge grow exponentially. Talking to professionals and receiving insights taught me more than any of the hundreds of medical articles that I previously read. I learned how we were going to treat my wife’s cancer. I had to support her decisions.

I knew that my wife was going to do it her way. It wasn’t about me or my way, and it had to be all about her situation. I had to put my ego aside and support my wife in her decisions, even if I didn’t completely agree. I could offer my input but had to allow her to use it or not. It wasn’t easy for me, but it was something that I learned to do in even the most stressful of circumstances. We all need to learn the skill of supporting people in their journey without putting our projections and desires on them too.

It was becoming more difficult to face the fact that the medical industry was never going to support our decision. Made even more frustrating that by law, doctors and nurses had to tell Danielle she was going to Die. I hoped that was it for Mainstream doctors, who constantly reminded Danielle of her demise, and the uncertain future she faced. Danielle faced all the additional trauma because we needed to convince her family that her decision was the right one. Danielle so desperately wanted the full support of her family in her decision.

I find it imperative to unify in support of a treatment option, and we cannot be divided. The division leads to doubt, and doubt can be the real killer.  I find it criminal not to support treatments, especially in a world that scientifically recognizes the placebo or nocebo effect.  Which states that treatments work or fail based on belief. All medications must beat the placebo effect to become available to the public. Sugar pills have been proven to cure more times than any pharmaceutical company would ever care to admit. So why does a law exist that creates a nocebo effect?

Despite the stress of the adventure, we walked away more resolute in our undertaking. There was no doubt in my mind that Danielle was making the right decision. However, despite both of us going through the same experience, Danielle did not walk away, completely satisfied. If I had known, I might have made changes then and there. It was at this point that Danielle needed to believe in her treatment. There weren’t enough people in her life that were showing her the support she wanted. Something needed to push us in the right direction, but I didn’t know what.

Then probably the second biggest miracle possible happened. The friend she had reached out to and that put us in touch with the ND showed up and offered to pay for the treatment. She also wrote my wife a check to pay for other medical expenses too. It was a huge relief to me since I only started getting paid at my new job. It took all the pressure of making sure we could afford treatment, off my shoulders. It would have killed me if we weren’t able to do treatment because we didn’t have enough money. Now we had more than enough to proceed with all treatment regimens.

Danielle’s friend truly showed her support in making sure Danielle would have the best chance to return to full health. Danielle even turned away an extra check she was going to write to me, but we both agreed that was excessive. I’ve always worked hard and earned what I needed or wanted, so bailouts have always made me feel uncomfortable. We welcomed the assistance and were incredibly grateful.

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[ozma914]

A Dental Memory Dam

I have the same relationship with my dentist that many people do with family members: I love him and appreciate him, but I don't actually want to see him.

I suppose that's not unusual, but my history gives me maybe a bit more of an excuse. As a kid, I was a "problem" patient. You know, the kind who whines, screams, has to be held down--like I am now if you make me watch "reality" TV. My dentist as a kid didn't like me much at all, and I felt the same way about him that most people feel about Benito Mussolini. (Hitler's so overdone.)

About the time I graduated from high school, a new dentist came to town. After examining the previous dental work, he pronounced it to be the worst he'd ever seen in his life. He understood when I explained that drilling me was like trying to shoot a hummingbird, although who would do that?

Some of it had to be fixed, so he injected me with Novacaine, waited, and was surprised to find I still wasn't numb. So he injected me again.

Then again.

All those times as a kid, when the dentist lectured me and had me held down, and everyone thought I was acting like a baby. I mean, after all, I'd gotten a shot of Novacaine.

Only the Novacaine hadn't worked. It had never worked.

Granted, there was some relief in the discovery that I wasn't a big weenie, after all. And I'm still not entirely sure why it didn't work. My research didn't show cases of people being intolerant to the drug. There are several listed reasons why it might not be effective with some people, including anxiety, which--how many dental patients don't have anxiety? But for whatever reason, including possibly the fact that dentists don't use Novacaine any more (my first trip to the new dentist was thirty-five years ago), I'm better. I can now go to the dentist with only crippling anxiety, instead of whatever would be worse than that.

(A quick note here: While writing this I did a lot of research, and I now wonder if my original dentist wasn't using Prilocaine. There have indeed been cases in which that drug didn't get patients numb. Another possibility is that I am indeed a weenie, and Dr. Hayes is just being nice to me.)

That's why this year I tried sedation dentistry. Honestly, I don't have a clue why I didn't before--maybe because I'm not a fan of taking drugs, especially the ones that put you out. But earlier this winter I went in for my regular cleaning, after which Dr. Hayes announced I needed not one, but two procedures: the replacement of a childhood filling on one tooth, and a crown on another.

I became instantly weenified. It's a real word--I should know, I just invented it.

So for the first time after all that grief, I asked the Doc: "Do you do sedation dentistry? And if not, why the *$#@ not?"

He did, indeed.

I had to pick it up as a prescription; it was a controlled substance, apparently. If it isn't, it should be. I left it in the bag until I got to the dentist's office, because I have a stressful job and was afraid I'd be tempted to use it after work, instead. At the office I discovered it was a liquid. Before letting me take it, the dentist asked, "Do you have a ride home?"

"Yeah, my car's right out there."

"After you take this, you'll forget you ever had a car."

I'm paraphrasing, but still.

At first I was afraid it was just a repeat of the old days. Yes, I felt like I'd just downed a half bottle of vodka (which would taste way better than this stuff, believe me). But I'd been promised forgetfulness, and I remembered most of the procedure and the ride home. The good news: Once he got in there, the Doc was able to do a repair, instead of a full replacement.

But I wasn't done yet. A week later came the crown. And believe me, those are a royal pain.

So I got another dose of the stuff and this time, to increase its effectiveness, I went in on an empty stomach. I wanted effectiveness. A crown involves grinding down your old tooth, and although it's not really that much, it feels as if they're leaving only a needle point, and you wonder why they didn't just pull the darned thing out.

I was about to tell the dentist that, too. And that's the last thing I remember.

Apparently I cracked a few jokes, offered to drive home, and walked like I was in a Monty Python skit. So far as I know, there's no video of this, which would have been crazy funny to everyone but me. After that it was a matter of wearing a temporary crown for two weeks, then the (mostly) painless process of getting the permanent one on. Way more effective than half a bottle of vodka, and for twelve hours I got the best sleep of my adult life.

Hopefully I'll never have to take that stuff again ... but I'm so glad I did.

This photo is actually from after my sinus surgery, but I have a feeling my expression is the same. Um, I'm the one on the right.