#does that much blood occur from a stab wound? probably not

[tamblerdraws]

Joel week night four - diverging paths

Also tw for blood (not very accurate blood probably, but it do be blood)

Tangled au tangled au tangled au tangled au

Also closeups

@risibledeer

[dilfhuntersblog]

loss of mein liebe | könig x f!reader angst (lowercase intended)

TW: MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH, severe angst, torture, blood, weapons, mentions of sexual assault (does NOT actually occur), NOT CANON AT ALL, NOT EDITED VERY MUCH, written at 3 am so probably incoherant at some points :p

2,000 ish words

it had been two weeks since she had been taken. kidnapped by the russians after a failed mission. neither kortac nor the 141 (who ironically were working together on this mission) had any idea where she could've been. that was until they had received a small parcel (addressed to konig). inside were her bloodied dog tags. konig immediately threw the items across the room and began researching where the package came from until finally, he was zeroed in on the location. somewhere in liski, russia. immediately, he called an order to drop everything to go save his little liebe.

a few days later, he now found himself alone in the basement of the warehouse, while the 141 scouted the rest of the building. konig walked around the dark, dingy spaces, looking for anywhere his little prinzessin could be. the building was suspiciously empty, the 141 reported, but konig was too focused on finding her to notice how strange it was. after stumbling upon a multitude of empty rooms, he finally came to the last room at the end of the basement hallway. peering inside the small window, he spied his liebe.

bloodied. beaten. unconscious.

he kicked the door open, forgetting all protocol. his liebe was more important. not that it was important anyway. other than konig and his princess, the room was empty.

her wrists are bound by rope and tied to the ceiling, caked in blood as they were too tight. a fresh scar dragged from her eyebrow to her cheek, caked with blood. her feet were an inch off the ground as she dangled from her wrists. her clothes were torn and bloody and her hair matted and dirty. she was hardly breathing. a dirty, bloody cloth was stuffed in her mouth, gagging her, perhaps to muffle her screams while she was tortured. a small, broken camera was attached to the corner of the ceiling.

“nicht schlafen, meine prinzessin…” könig murmured softly in german, softly patting her cheek. he felt his whole body tense up as he came near her--but then, he relaxed. noticing her ragged breathing, he cut off the rope with his combat knife.

placing her onto her feet, he held her steady and gently wiped her scars with his gloved hand. “please. open your eyes…” he whispered.

she stirred gently, opening her eyes and seeing konig. but she didn't see konig. she saw another man - coming to torture her. perhaps kill her. from behind the gag in her mouth, she began screaming and crying, the salty tears stinging the scar on her cheek. she kicked at konig, trying to save herself from more pain.

“schatz! it’s me!” könig cried, pulling her into a comforting embrace. “it’s me! i’m here to save you!” könig loosened her gag and gently pulled it from her mouth as her screams continued. “it’s your könig, your darling, your love… I’ve come to save you--” but her screams continued.

“i’m getting you out of here,” he assured, carefully picking her up and cradling her in his arms. “we have to go, my love. we have to go now.” but she still was in hysterics. flailing, screaming, kicking, crying. so hard that an old stab wound on her stomach began bleeding again. so much that her wrists began to drip blood onto the cold concrete floor.

“stop,” he said calmly in german, attempting to silence her by hushing her into his chest. “sweetheart, calm down. i’m here to save you, and you know it. i know it. but i can’t get you out of here unless you keep quiet.” he took his white handkerchief and carefully covered the wound on her stomach, trying to slow the bleeding. “you have to be quiet for me, my beloved, okay? i know you’re scared, i know i’m the last person you’d ever expect to see right now.”

she tries to talk from behind the gag in her mouth but all that can be heard are muffled cries.

“shh,” he repeated in german, shushing her into his chest once more. “my love, you know i’m the only person who could rescue you. you trust me, don’t you? trust that i’ll keep us both safe and that no harm will come to you while i’m here.” könig gently traced her face with his gloved hand. he carefully removed the gag from her mouth. “i need you to be quiet,” he said one last time.

"please… please don't hurt me." she whimpered.

“shh…” he gently shushed her again, using a finger to silence her. “i haven’t come to hurt you--you know that. i would never hurt you, not on purpose. i just need you to stay quiet while i get us out of here, okay, liebeling?” könig glanced to the door of the dingy, dark, dirty cell, and began planning their exit.

"who… who are you. please i want to go home. please i dont know anything" she begged, still not in her right mind.

“ich bin könig,” he said softly in german, placing a protective arm around her as he spoke softly to reassure her of his presence. “i know you’re confused, my love. i know you’re scared, and that you want to go home. and I’m going to take you home to your safe, warm bed, i promise. i just need you to help me out and stay quiet, okay?”

könig gently caressed her cheek, running his hand through her hair before kissing the top of her forehead.

her eyebrows furrowed. no torturer would kiss her forehead. finally, she looks into his eyes.

"k-konig?" she asked, tears streaming down her face as she remembered her beloved. "how did you find me? you have to go! they'll kill you! please! leave me!"

“no,” he whispered firmly, “i’m not leaving you here. you know i’d never leave you here. ich liebe dich. i love you too much to let anything bad happen to you. and you know that.” he stroked her dirty hair. “we’re leaving together,” he continued, “just please stay quiet. i promise you— you’ll be okay.”

and suddenly, an alarm rings out. they know he's here. they knew konig would try to save her.

it was a trap all along. konig's eyes fill with fear. his little liebe begins to cry again.

“scheiße,” könig swore under his breath, hearing the alarm ring out and the clanging of men’s feet as boots rushed towards the door.

he quickly pulled her into a protective embrace, holding her close to him, trying to think of a way out. there was only one exit in the room and only one way out of the dingy basement hallway. in an attempt to quiet her sobs, he put a gentle hand around her mouth.

“just stay silent, princess,” he murmured in her ear while the soldiers rummaged around. “it’s fine… we’ll be fine.” he promised as the sound of kicked-in doors began to grow ever closer.

even with his hand silencing her, another sob rings out.

“Nnein, nein, meine liebe… du tust mir so leid,” he whispered in german. he sighed and hugged her tighter, burying his face into her shoulder. “alles wird gut sein, nur halt ruhig.” he urged, trying to calm her.

könig held her close to him, trying to reassure her that it would be okay, even if it was a lie.

"well, well, well." a voice rang out. they had been found. the leader of the russian military walked in, a smirk on his face. "we knew you'd come for your little liebe konig." he explained as eight men raised their guns towards konig and the love of his life, who was still bleeding and crying in his arms. her tears doubled after realizing they had been caught. they were gonna die. she knew it.

“tch.” könig narrowed his eyes at the smug bastard standing in his way, clutching the love of his life tightly. he wasn’t about to die here, not when so close to his princess. not when she needed him. and he damn well wasn't going to let her die. that was never an option.

“i don’t care how many men you have, you’re going to have to pry my princess from my cold, dead hands,” he sneered, standing tall and pulling the knife from his belt. Two can play that game.

"hm. so be it! MEN! bring me the girl!" he called. four huge men with even bigger guns rushed forward, ripping the girl from konigs arms, pointing their guns at him to make sure he didnt move. konig raised his arms in defeat. one man escorted her back to the russian leader.

"well. it seems you have lost again, konig. it's a shame i have to kill your little princess in front of you. she is quite delicious" the russian man says, sniffing her neck creepily. she lets out another cry. "shut up!" the russian yells and slaps her across the face, splitting her lip and causing her to fall to the floor. he drags her up and holds a knife to her throat. "any last words, konig?"

"nein! nicht meine prinzessin! take me instead!" he snarled, a hint of desperation creeping into his voice. he had to get the girl out of this alive. even if he had to die in her place. the russian man simply laughed.

"oh too late, my boy. i might even keep this one for myself. she's so young and easy to break" he licked her neck, causing her to flinch. "i think i want to make this slow and painful. for both of you," he says cockily.

"nein! ich tue alles was du willst! schatz, lass mich die nehmen, bitte!" könig begged in german, looking around at the four men holding guns to him with a pleading expression. he wouldn't die for nothing, not without trying to save her. he had to try.

"maybe i'll make you watch as i take her. and then i'll make you watch as each of my men take her. only when i'm finished, will i make you watch as i slit her pretty throat and watch her bleed out like the swine she is." he spits.

“du verdammte arschgeige!” König swore in a growl, anger flashing across his face. he wouldn’t be powerless against a man who would harm an innocent girl. with his free hand, he threw his knife at the leader, aiming for the throat. the man simply sidesteps and the knife hits the concrete wall instead, clattering to the floor.

the leader laughs at konig's futile attempt. "well, have it your way. men! restrain him! he's going to watch as the life drains from her eyes." the eight men tie konig up, the same way he had found his princess. hands in the air, feet barely touching the ground. no matter how much konig tried, he could not escape.

"bitte, ich bitte dich! ich will sie nicht sterben sehen! ich liebe sie!" in his panic, könig forgot all of his english lessons and reverted back to his mother language in a desperate and emotional tone. He wouldn't let his girl die! könig struggled as the eight men tied him up, gritting his teeth and letting out frustrated growling noises as he tried to escape.

the russian leader only laughs. konig's princess lets a tear drip down her face.

"konig." she calls. he looks at her, his cerulean eyes full of tears. "it's okay konig. it'll be okay." she says with a knife against her throat. she smiles sadly. "i love you. i loev you so much. never forget that." she said trembling.

könig roared, desperately straining against the ropes that tied him up. tears streaked down his face as he watched helplessly.

“don’t talk like that!” könig cried, his voice cracking. "im going to get ou out of here!"

“ws ist nicht zu spät, schatz, ich liebe dich!” he pleaded, shaking violently and pulling desperately at the ropes. “don’t say it’s okay… ich liebe dich noch mehr!”

"say goodbye to your little liebe, konig!" the russian yells. his eight soldiers all release a booming laugh at konig's desperation.

“du verdammter arschgeige!”

könig threw his head back and thrashed wildly against his bonds, his voice growing hoarse and desperate as he yelled at the leader in a fit of rage.

“ich werde dich ficken, und deine verdammte arschgeige!” he roared, spitting as he shouted at the leader.

the russian man only laughs as he presses the blade into her throat harder and drags it swiftly across, cutting into the girl's jugular. he laughs as she holds her throat and blood spills out. he laughs as she drops to the floor, gurgling on her blood. he laughs as the life begins to drain out of her eyes. through all the blood, she looks to konig and lets out a gurgling "i love you." before she stills.

“nein! nein, meine liebe!” König pleaded desperately. "bleib bitte bei mir! ohne dich kann ich das nicht schaffen!"

but it's too late. konig's libeling is gone. the russian men laugh and walk out of the cell, locking it behind them. leaving konig alone with her lifeless body.

a dark, ominous feeling flooded the air and enveloped the room like a fog as if it were the embodiment of the very hopelessness that hung heavy in the air.

könig fell silent, tears freely flowing from his eyes as he looked down at his princess.

his mind went blank as he stood, bound and helpless, next to the body of his love. her dark brown eyes were still open and her blood ran from her mouth, filling the crevice the scar in her cheek had left.

finally, the ropes gave under konig's constant thrashing. immediately, he ran over to his little liebe.

könig held the body of his princess close to him, weeping silently as he cradled her lifeless body in his arms. the loss of his love felt like a stab to the heart, piercing his chest with such an unbearable pain that he thought he was never going to feel anything again. könig's sobbing continued, drowning in grief and sorrow that was as deep as the very oceans.

suddenly, ghost and the rest of the 141 kicked the door down, guns raised only to be met with the scene in front of them. they were too late.

ghost stood in the doorway, his heart dropping at the sight in front of him. "könig." he said, stunned and hurt. könig looked over at ghost with pained, tear-filled eyes, his arms wrapped tightly around the body of his princess, who lay lifeless in his arms.

"she's gone…." konig said, a tear dripping off his chin and landing on her cheek.

ghost walked over quietly , kneeled down next to konig and reached his hand towards her face. konig, thinking he was going to hurt her, pulls out a gun and holds it to ghost's face. "mate…" ghost says sadly. ghost reaches over to the girls face and closes her gentle brown eyes. "look. now she's sleeping." he said softly. the rest of the 141 boys were quiet, faces downcast, unspeaking.

tears filled könig’s eyes as they watched ghost close the girl’s eyes.

“she looks so peaceful…” könig whispered. He continued to hold the body close to him, a part of him not wanting to let go.

“thank you….” he muttered, lowering the gun.

"mates.. we have to go," soap said to ghost and konig. "we don't want to be here when they come back to find konig."

a dark silence filled the air, the only sounds being the soft crying and sobbing of könig.

könig looked up at ghost, his face contorted with anguish and pain as he sniffled, wiping away tear trails with the sleeve of his shirt.

a nod was the only reply könig could give, and he allowed ghost and soap to lead him to the exit.

konig looked back, hoping that maybe the world was playing some cruel joke on him. hoping that his little liebe would put on her perfect smile and jump up saying "just kidding." pull another one of her silly jokes that konig rarely found funny. but she never did. and she never would.

with the weight of a mountain on his shoulders and pit the size of an ocean in his chest, könig followed ghost and soap as they walked out the door and into the night.

the weight of the world felt like it was pushing down on him, threatening to tear him apart. but the weight of the ring box in his pocket seemed infinitely heavier.

könig's world had been shattered by the loss of his princess, and a piece of him died with her. a piece he would never get back.

i am

so sorry?

for my bad writing

for the scenario :)

[deanzelly]

Medically induced [1??]

Pairing: Medic!Fem Reader x Captain John Price

Summary: Resisting temptation is harder than thought. Especially for the Captain when his sweet, sweet medic is there to help.

Warnings: They aint much here, just pining, pining and more pining and a cliff hanger. I want to see how it does with the people before a possible part 2 ;) There is some smut foreshadowing so please 18+ in bio. ALSO may be an ooc Price. I’m tryin here.

A/N: Hello :))) So last time I updated was a whilllleeee back but I was busy with finals and bullshit so I couldn’t focus on writing. However here is the first part of this one, it will likely only be two parts but I needed to split them because of eventual smut. Since I want it to be perfection and I haven't written that much off it :p Also I want to thank the people who left likes and comments, kisses for you all. Reports are hugely appreciated.

Wordcount: 2,8k

Fear is looming over you, looking over your head and shoulder; taunting and mocking. You could practically hear it over the rushing of your heartbeat as you sit in the van. It’s bumping and speeding up to pick squad 141 up from their recent mission, the van jumps and you follow with it, it not helping your growing ball of anxiety dissipate only making it worse. You know for a fact that something unpleasant and grim had occurred when they ran into your study and called you out. Being one of the few medics they had you were the only one available, not sure if it’s a good thing so you could be there first hand and assess the situation or, a bad thing because of who could be hurt. Not wanting to see the ones you have formed a bond with and now deeply care about being hurt. 

You try to calm yourself with deep breaths in and out, but to no avail. Leg jumping up and down as the van comes to a standstill and you grab your kit as fast as plausible as the van doors fly open. And voices from outside bleed into the vehicle. 

“Go, go, go. Push him in.” A deep baritone British voice booms from outside as he holds open the doors. You are ready for what's about to be thrown in your face, the earlier anxiety is partially gone only to be replaced by intense patience and professionalism for your job. And that’s when you lock eyes with the man practically being hauled into the vehicle using someone else as a crutch and holding his forearm on his other side of the lower abdomen trying to prevent bleeding. Your heart stumbles for a second, dropping only to put yourself immediately into action helping the captain sit on one of the benches as everyone else begins to fill the van. You quickly lift his shirt to see that there’s blood everywhere on his right lumbar region coating the fair beige behind it. 

His breathing is slow and steady, his eyes following you as you crouch down on one knee. The ichor smell fills your nose so intensely with you now being closer to the lesion. Voices blend together as they tell you the issue and what went down to fill you in on some parts of the situation. The captain, Captain Price, John being hurt sends a sour feeling down your stomach. It burns like acid as you open your medical kit to bring your dressing, needles, and supplies out. He got stabbed and pulled out the knife like an idiot without having any medical supplies nearby. You want to reprimand him for his foolish mistake but you refrain, thinking about doing it later. “Move it.” You say hastily, pushing his hand away so that you can get a look at the injury. 

It’s not that deep, meaning he could survive for a few hours without medical attention. Passing out could be a guarantee, however. From assumptions alone, you could probably guess that the attacker did not get deep enough before John fought back so the cut is not lethal. You breathe out in relief and get to work cleaning up around the wound. He groans a bit and tenses up as you start working on sewing up the wound, muscles ripening beneath your touch. What you don’t know is that he isn’t squirming around in pain.

On the battlefield, John could only think of you. You, you, you envelop his head and thoughts. The lingering touches you leave on him every time he gets hurt and the fire gleaming in your eyes so bright wanting to scold him for being stupid. Maybe he gets hurt just because the possibility of seeing you is greater than the pain of the wounds. He’d gladly get scars on every inch of his body if it meant having to see you stick out your tongue in focus so that he could get the best treatment. 

His breathing gets heavier the more your fingers touch his skin igniting a flame for every stitch being sown. “I’m sorry, but you have to sit still captain.” You look up at him all pretty and in such close proximity he feels like he’s going to pass out. He tries to sit still even though your closeness is what's messing him up more than the wound itself, to him it’s barely painful. He lulls himself into past situations with you. Remembering the shape of your lips and how you sway your hips with vigor as your steps are heavily laced with annoyance. 

“What did you do now?” He sees you standing in the doorway to the infirmary with hands on your hips as your coat constricts your every curve. Your look displays displeasure and disappointment as you shake your head back and forth in disagreement. He feels the heat bloom below his belt as he chuckles at your small scowl. “Eh, it's nothing major, sweetheart.” he locks deep blues with yours as you start slowly walking forward. “Oh John, never cease to disappoint, do you?” You joke around, smiling brightly as you pick up his gruff hand, and against yours, it looks so big and burly, years of heavy, bloody, and dedicated work seeps in the seams of his hands. He can’t help but notice your soft hands and how gently you pull up his sleeve while looking him in the eyes, smiling softly revealing the minor injury. 

He knows what he does is risky but the consciousness flies away as his other hand grabs your thigh and pushes you closer to him. You let out a small gasp as both of you are but a few inches from each other “Let’s hope I stop disappointing you then, ey?” His voice is low and gruff. He shouldn’t do this but you are so close, and warm and soft and… just so perfect.

He stops dreaming when the van jumps again and your hand gets pushed into his crotch, a wheeze leaves his body as he tenses up making the stitches tighter and his pants also getting tighter. Your other hand now squeezes his thighs tight so that you get your hand out of his region, you look up at him face flushed with embarrassment and shame. The groan that wants to be let out gets swallowed as he just looks away from you instead, afraid that you noticed his damn bulge that's growing harder by the minute. Afraid that if you see his face you’ll really know what's on his mind. “I’m sorry,” You said sheepishly, still embarrassed about the situation. Price looks around, curious if the others saw. To his benefit, the others seem to be captured in conversation about their mission. “ ‘s fine, love.” He looks back down, driving his attention back to you while you are still patching him up.

When you’re done you take your seat right next to him, breathing heavily from sitting on your heels in a moving vehicle. Also breathing heavier from completely embarrassing yourself, in front of the captain no less. You always feel like you're making some kind of mistake around him, but this was way beyond from what you two have done before. Yes, some fleeting touches here and there but never past that, you’ve always felt like John pulls away. You look up at him, meeting him halfway and he holds your stare not backing down. His blues mesmerizes and even through your embarrassment you manage to hold his stare. He smiles easily, looking so kind and soft when he leans in towards your ear. His palm meets your thigh squeezing it and your eyes fall close, reminiscing in the warmth of his palm. “Let’s keep it a secret between us, yeah?” He pulls back, licking his lips while looking down on yours, your breathing speeds up once more. He leans in but stops when someone calls for him, he leans back and lets go of your thigh.

Shame and regret creeps up your body, this is always what he does. Fed up with his behavior and how he always manages to leave you frustrated. He should feel the same about you, how can he pull away so easily? Does he not feel that strong of a want? Or is he just toying around, bored from everyday military work? You don’t intend to find out, afraid of the possible answers.

The next time John finds you is in the cafeteria, you’ve refused to see him for a couple of days now. Spitting out some lame excuse just not to see him. And every time his lesion needs tending to they throw someone else his way, and they don’t do it right. Not like how you would do it. He debates whether to hurt himself on purpose like he’d done before, just to feel your touch, your warmth, and spite. But there you stand laughing with the others and he can’t help but feel thick, green jealousy coating his throat. His body completely submitting to it, you turn your head and lock eyes with him. His gaze wanders down, your chest, your stomach, hips, and thighs. Everything about you in his eyes is perfect.

You can feel the effect of his gaze, wandering up and down your body. Burning. You turn your gaze and continue to speak with the others in your establishment, choosing to not acknowledge your captain. Your want becomes stronger the longer you’re away from him, it’s like your thoughts are consumed by Captain John Price. He’s going through your mind and only him, you so badly want him to do something. Anything, to put out the fire within. Your other coworker calls your name and you’re snapped out of your trance. Trying to switch your focus back onto them. But the plague that is your thoughts decide that it’ll be better to stay, why not drive you mad thinking about the one person you can’t have?

You find yourself trying to sleep but to no use. It is hot and stuffy. The air is suffocating and you’re lying on top of your bed only in your nightwear. Which happens to be a short lace gown, the events of the week had been... something that's for sure. But the need and want is still laying there, simmering waiting to boil. You writhe around in your bed when you decide it's useless. There's no point in trying so you choose to take a walk thinking it would be the better option. You stand before the door hesitant, what if you see him? It's a very small possibility but non the less. 

Yeah, because who could predict that he’s standing right there? Behind that exact door, debating whether or not if it's a good idea. If it is a good idea to knock on your door and succumb to his greediness. He knows it's a bad idea, with him being your superior. Both of you could get in a lot of shit. He stands there for way too long because the door opens and there stands you. Mouth agape, your breathing hitches, shocked at seeing him right there. His eyes wander your body, seeing your nightwear. He wants to devour you, his innocent gaze before turns into lust. Now there’s nobody here, nobody on camp or anywhere. Just you, only you exist in his vision and he so badly wants it, wants you. You and your gentle touch, even years of death and sacrifices on his hands still didn’t turn you away. You've told him he’s kind once before but he knows you haven’t seen him at his worst, and how could your kind soul say that? Look at you, helping him every time. 

You close the door a bit, leaving it open enough for him to see your head.

“What do you want?” You whisper a bit breathless. He licks his lips and looks down at yours. 

“I need help with this bastard.” He points down to his stomach, where his recent injury is. You shake your head.

“Get somebody else to help you, I'm sorry Cap but I can’t.” You smile tensely, closing the door when he shoves his foot in stopping it. 

“Sweetheart, look I’m sorry. That’s not what I’m here for.” He pushes the door open making you back up. Looking up at him so sweetly. The door closes gently and he steps closer to you. So tempted to grab you by the neck and pull you up to his lips. Then his name flies out of your sweet mouth and he decides to forget everything else. How can he when he wants to bend you over and fuck you on the spot. Oh, how sweet your moans would be, begging Captain John Price for more. His breathing hardens, and you can see it. You put your palm on his chest and he looks up into your eyes.

“John, if you’re backing out I don’t want this.” You breathe out looking intently into his eyes. “I don’t want you looking at me like this, or you being this close to me.” You drop your palm and cover your chest, maybe in hopes of covering your heart in the process. Directing your gaze onto the floor. 

“That’s part of the reason I'm here, to apologize for two things.” His palm goes up to caress your cheek, thumb swiping back and forth. Gentle and soft. “One for how I’ve been acting.” You look up at him confused waiting for his answer. 

“And the second?” You lick your lips, your eyes glassy. His other hand placed now on your other cheek, gliding down to your neck.

“For how I’m about to act.”

Yeaaah sorry not sorry about the ending. Constructive criticism is welcome, the change in pov’s might be a little confusing but other than that, hope you enjoyed. Also if anyone wants to be tagged in the POTENTIAL second part, hit me up ;)

Copyright © 2023 Deanzelly. All rights reserved.

[artheresy]

Okay listen, I got sick while at work so I’m in a bit of a delirium idk the word for it whatever, this is what I get for thinking about Blade. The brainworms impacted by immune system /j

Anyways, I’m wondering again about the extent of his immortality and healing. So we get in his hairpin relic lore that his body is perpetually healing wounds that are far too gone to actually be healed, like his hands. We get this line “sharp and distinct with phantom pain” and then this entire paragraph describing it “Like the incessantly flowing stream of a mountain spring, his long black hair never ceased growing. His flesh twitched and throbbed beneath his skin, like river carps flipping and swarming... Fascinating powers ceaselessly reconstructed his body, bringing an everlasting pain of bones and tendons rupturing and healing. As countless phantom agonies and torments tore through his body, his shattered past was also beginning to come together...”

And yet we still see him like die from injuries so clearly, it’s working very very slowly in his body to repair him. Perhaps when he actually fully dies, that power within his body redirects the focus it uses to just generally keep him alive and heal parts of himself that cannot be fully healed to bring him back to life. Hence why he wakes up so far even if there is a pause, a moment of actual rest and peace before he is alive once more.

Now, again we’ve only seen him die via stab wounds and I have that whole other post wondering the extent to which one of Ren’s body parts would theoretically be cut off and how exactly his body would heal that, whether it heals before the limb is entirely cut off so its at least somewhat connected thus making the entire healing process occur properly even with difficulty or if it would literally grow him a whole new arm like a restoration/regeneration type of situation, or if (this wasn’t in the post but) if the injury is treated so he doesn’t die from blood loss which would be the fatality more som would he just like… be without an arm forever? Until he dies next and his body fixes that? I mean I think in terms of non fatal wounds he seems to have a slower healing like I said and then when he’s actually dead, the body focuses on healing the exact area in which he was fatally wounded. And yeah yeah we won’t get this explored much because Hyv is gonna keep things PG-13 and won’t show us any blood anyways

My actual wondering is, I wonder how poisons specifically affect Blade especially just given how different poisons can act. If it’s a slow acting poison, can his body just filter it out with its already slow healing rate? Would he still die if he was slowly poisoned and only then will his body be cleansed of it? Surely he would actually die from something super fast acting right? I mean we already established that Ren’s body slowly heals him and only speeds up when he’s dead. If he has a poison that acts instantaneously, surely he would die and then come back from it after his body has cleansed it from his system with its whole abundance thing.

Or theoretically, does that Abundance power already cancel out poisons working at all and it has to be an intensely violent way that he dies? Perhaps even in his special case, he’d be an exception where it would affect him and then he’d be healed since we know he’s not like on 100% the same level as the marastruck soldiers we fight due to whatever else is causing his immortality (probably the dragon heart or whatever it is) canceling it out so that they both work in tandem with each other. But anyways yeah like, I need to know so badly the different ways Blade’s power (and in general the power of the Abundance) works when faced with all kinds of different methods of killing him.

Also, I wonder how his body is with substances that aren’t lethal in smaller doses but then can be fatal in bigger amounts, things that when they get to that level are considered poisoning like Alcohol and alcohol poisoning and stuff. Could Ren hypothetically get drunk if he drinks a lot? Would his body just clean it out of him overtime naturally getting him sober, presumably at a faster route than normal people? Would he even be able to get drunk? What I said about his body getting him sober faster, would that even happen if its a non-fatal amount of alcohol or would his tolerance to alcohol be solely based on his build?

I dunno there are stupid questions that will literally never ever ever come up in terms of HSR’s story, we won’t see any of this stuff at least answered on screen but doubtfully at all. I’m just so interested in the way Blade’s healing works and I hope I get some kind of idea in order to explore it at some point.

[isamajor]

Whump drabbles : Lucien Flavius

I- « Does that hurt ? » / Stabilization

They had been attacked by an entire troop of conjurers while passing near a fort in Eastmarch. The fight was long, difficult, and in the end, victory tasted bitterly of blood. Lucien had been able to preserve himself by fighting the mages from a distance and now acted as a healer for his crippled friends, stabilizing their wounds with his healing spells, so much so that in the end, his arms were shaking.

"Does that hurt?" asked Inigo, concerned.

Lucien bit his lip. Using to the last of his Magicka's resources was painful, yes. But that was the price for saving the others. (104)

•

II- « You're doing great »

Compared to the rest of the troop, Lucien generally acted like a spoiled baby, struggling to defend himself alone, relying on the ability of the other members of the group to ensure his survival. But gradually, he was developing certain reflexes and when Draugr were about to strike with their icy blades, the young Imperial was able to quickly ignite them with his spells. It was almost getting scary. But it made Inigo smile with all his fangs, who never stopped encouraging Lucien.

« Good job, Lucien. You did well here. You are becoming a very powerful mage. I will try to tease you less... » (104)

•

III– Bite

Remiel smirked as she wrapped Lucien’s bleeding hand in a linen bandage.

"You told us you were good with animals, Lucien."

Lucien emitted a small cry when the Breton added a bit more pressure to the wound.

"I usually am, but I didn't imagine that puppy would try bite my hand off."

She rolled her eyes with an audible sigh.

"It was a wolf, Lucien ! Even if it seemed fluffy and friendly it's a beast, not a dog ! And it probably has rockjoint and Mara knows what other disease ! Anyway, you should ask Xel to brew you a potion." (102)

•

IV - Self-defense

The bandit's dagger lightly nicked Lucien's cheek, who, with a squeak, casted a ward to try to protect himself from the guy who wanted to kill him and rob him. With little hope, he tried to parley with his assailant.

“Radical suggestion here, but I was wondering... Have you considered not trying to murder me ?”

In response, the bandit tried to stab him again, until his magical ward broke, leaving Lucien helpless and staggering. Without thinking, in self-defense, the Imperial cast a flame spell. Lucien looked horrified when he saw that turned his foe into a living torch. (100)

•

V - Choke

The anger had clouded his mind. His friends were down, deceived by what had turned out to be scoundrels of the worst kind. Lucien's blue gaze darkened. Instinctively, he casted the Choking Grasp spell on the bandit in front of him. Every attempt of the guy to suck in some air was met with a suffocating struggle.Lucien could see in the bandit's eyes the panic welled up in him as he choked and his eyes clouded over, clawing at the invisible magical hands, desperate for release, but the Imperial, with a cold rage look, held him captive of his spell. (103)

•

VI– Panic attack

It snuck up on him out of the blue. Lucien was standing in the inn, talking to some merchant. Abruptly, he felt his heart racing beyond any semblance of control. His big blue eyes widened as he began to feel light-headed. Lucien's breathing soon followed, desperately gasping for oxygen yet feeling like somehow there wasn’t enough in the room. It was the first time it occured to him. The enxiety grew on him and he laid down on a bench, fully convinced that he actually dying. Until that feeling came to an end, letting him shaky, confused and exhausted. (102)

•

VII– Knife to throat

Lucien squeaked when the bandit grabbed him by the collar of his tunic and dragged him up to his knees. He was ready to fight back with his magic, but the shining blade in the bandit's hand made him hesitate a second too many. The brigand pressed the knife to his throat and Lucien went very still. The knife pressed firmly under his Adam's apple began to notch lightly the skin of his throat. He had to focus to prevent himself to shiver too hard. Lucien closed his eyes, hoping his friends would get him out of this tight spot.

•

VIII– Bruises / « Who did this to you ? »

They found Lucien laying down on the grass. His lips were swollen, his nose bleeding and had some big visibles bruises on the jaw and shoulders. But he was alive, it was all that mattered. Already his companions had rushed to hand him some healing potion but the blow he got to the mouth prevented him to drink it. He tried to move. It only made the Imperial whine, his bruises being too painful.

His ears back and his fangs curled, Inigo growled, visibly furious.

« Who did this to you, my friend ? Tell me, so I can put an arrow through his eyes. » (103)

•

IX – Friendly fire

Lucien was becoming a very powerful mage. It was fearsome to see the young man, with his big blue eyes and his friendly face, being able to unleash a complete inferno on ennemies threatening his or his friends' lives. But, alas, he was often as clumsy he was powerful. And sometimes, his friends who were too close to an enemy would suffer of his spells. Inigo would roar in pain his tail was on fire, his fur was singed or his whiskers burned. Kaidan would groan that's why he hates mages, unable to control their magic. (97)

•

X – « I said I'm fine »

« Steady on there, Kaidan. You've lost a bit of blood. »

Kaidan sighed, a little annoyed, replying to Lucien he was fine. The cut wasn't that deep, even if the blood smeared on his whole leg. He knew Lucien was just worried about him. He always was. About everyone. As if the team wasn't worried for this milkdrinker, so fragile and clumsy. The Imperial brandished a health potion in front of his face.

« I said I 'm fine. ». Kaidan's voice was a bit harsher this time. It wasn't the first his first wound. He would get through it. (102)

•

XI– Self-treatment

Inside the crypt, a thick metal gate separated Lucien from the rest of the group. The scholar was injured in the process but tried to hide his wound. When most of the squad left to find a way to open this gate, he whispered to Inigo :

« I... I don't feel so good, Inigo. I'm bleeding. »

With horror, the Khajiit realized he hadn't any health potion in his backpack.

« I will... put some pressure on it. I'm sure that will be fine... » said Lucien, trying to reassure him, adding « ...Any linen wrap ? So I can... try to make a bandage ? » (103)

•

XII– Choking

Lucien had found some strange spell tomes, with ominous names on them. He was a bit worried, should he learn things like this ? But curiosity was always stronger. He opened the tome named "Chocking Grasp" and read it. Lucien suggested the Dragonborn to train with him.

« Be careful not to... Choke on your aspirations. How's that ? », the Imperial scholar tried to joke. He watched his wide-eyed, breathless, guinea pig gesturing frantically around their nose.

« Oh ? Too much on the nose ? I'll work on it. » he added a bit nervously, serching how to undo the spell before his friend runs out of oxygen. (105)

•

XIII – Fracture

Attacked by bandits. Again. Was this where all of the fighting age population of Skyrim ended up? To escape conscription in the civil war that was ravaging the region? Deep in thought, Lucien saw the sledgehammer coming too late. By reflex, he protected his face with his arm, but nothing protected his arm from the iron that fell forcefully on him. He howled. He felt his legs give way beneath him and rolled to the floor whimpering, holding his good hand to his bloody forearm. He could see a spike of broken bone protruding through the gaping wound. His arm was done for, broken. (104)

•

XIV– Surrender

All that for a stray arrow that had mowed down a chicken in the town. The population had become hostile and a horde of guards was already running, swords out. The blows rained down and they defended themselves as best they could. Lucien squeaked "We surrender!!!" while holding his hands high, hoping for mercy from the guards. The others watched the scene apprehensively. Instead of politely apprehending him or letting him speak, the guards threw him to the ground, shoving him facedown in the mud. Seeing this, his friends saw red. Despite Lucien's protests, they violently attacked the guards. (100)

•

XV – Human shield

Before these Draugr, these ancient Nords reanimated by who knows what old magic and who watched over the secrets of Dragon priests, Inigo the Brave was nothing more than a terrified little kitten. These undead froze his spine, and the memories of receiving his facial scars from their withered fingers were still painful. Lucien stood between the Draugr's blade and his friend, like a shield, with glints of defiance in his eyes, chin high and fire magic in his palms. The scrawny blond Imperial was just as frightened, but he couldn't afford to show it: his friend needed him. (101)

•

XVI – Gag

They had found themselves in a Falmer-infested cavern. The darkness, barely lit by the reflection of the glowing mushrooms on the dripping walls of the cavern, was stifling. Lucian squeaked. Instinctively, Auri clapped her hand over his mouth, telling him to be quiet. The Falmer were blind, but their hearing was very keen, even allowing them to fire their bows with surprising accuracy. Everyone here preferred to try to avoid confrontation as much as possible. Auri whispered into Lucien's ear that she wouldn't hesitate to gag him at the next moan that came out of his lips. (100)

•

XVII – Strangle

He saw the undead set upon Inigo, whose blue fur was stained with red. Lucien had exhausted all his Magicka against these constantly rising enemies. He felt helpless to rescue his companions. Staggering backwards, his foot stumbled against a chain. He looked up. The necromancer was there, back to him. Gritting his teeth, the Imperial leapt up and slipped the chain around the sorcerer's neck, squeezing and turning, falling with the necromancer clawing at his neck desperately for air, frantically kicking his feet. Lucien was crying, shaking, but didn't let go. He would save his friends. (98)

•

XVIII– Bedridden

Kaidan groaned as he struggled miserably to prop himself up on one elbow before sinking back onto the pillow. Lucien reprimanded him, telling him to calm down because he was burning with fever. He made it clear to the colossus that he would not leave this bed as long as he was not recovered.

"I'll bet 100 septims it's from an infected wound."

Kaidan looked away in response, muttering that it was going to cost a fortune to keep him in an inn bed all this time.

"Then it's fortunate my wealth is useful. But please, don't be stupid, you need to take care of yourself."(108)

•

XIX – Distrust

When they arrived at Winterhold, cold stares greeted them at the Frozen Hearth inn. The city now was nothing more than a heap of ruins, half-collapsed in the Sea of Ghosts. Only the famous Academy of magic seemed intact and majestic. When Lucien politely asked how to access it, the looks turned hateful. People spat on the ground at their feet. The mages had lost the people's trust in Skyrim. Between the Oblivion Crisis, the collapse of the city of Winterhold, and the rise of Altmer supremacism, the Nords had now plenty of reason to hate magic. (99)

•

XX – Ensnare

The problem with venturing into not very reputable places with people much more experienced than you, is that them, they were used to spotting and avoiding traps.

Lucien yelped in pain. He had stepped straight into a bear trap and now his calf was trapped between two strong iron jaws. He had wanted to avoid the bone garland that served as an alarm, and hadn't seen the metal trap stretched under his foot. And with his scream, obviously all the bandits would be aware of their presence, come for them, and try to murder them... (96)

•

XXI – Blindfold

His curiosity had been the strongest. Stronger than knowing the dangers of laying eyes on an Elder Scroll without the usual training and preparations of Moth Priests. But the thirst for knowledge was as much Lucien's greatest quality as his greatest flaw. When he rolled up the parchment after staring at it for a few long seconds, his gaze was blank, his pupils dilated. He felt sight leaving him. The Imperial tied a piece of cloth around his eyes in a blindfold to keep them out of the light, hoping that this blindness would be reversible... (97)

•

XXII – Sore

He was unaccustomed to the harsh, cold life of the Nords. Neither to hunger, thirst, nor to forced marches until they find good shelter. Having to fight for this shelter. To fight with the intention of dearly saving his skin, despite the protectors he had at his side. Lucien wasn't used to the pain every night in his aching muscles. To the bruises that marked his sides after a bad shield blow. He was crippled with small pains, of course, but the adventure and all that he discovered day after day pushed him to continue every day, despite feeling sore all over. (103)

•

XXIII – Pinned

The bump of his head against the wall made him squint and wince. Kaidan had pushed him away with some violence, out of anger. His harsh and sarcastic words had hurt the mercenary Akaviri. Lucien felt intellectually superior to this man who had spent his childhood wandering half of Tamriel. But he realized now bitterly, that intellect did not mean sagacity, facing a colossus who had pinned him effortlessly against the nearest wall. Lucien did not dare to move. He didn't want to piss him off anymore. He knew that Kaidan's big gloved fists could easily smash his face, if he wanted to. (104)

•

XXIV – Shock

The shock made him drop the sword he was holding in his hand. With difficulty, Lucien turned his head. The mage was there, crouched in the tall grass, sending out lightning bolts. Lucien moaned at the painful, aching sensation of his muscles contracting. It hurt so much... He wanted to push back those electric arcs with his own magic, but to his great despair, he felt his Magicka reserves draining at a maddening speed. He dropped to his knees. His body was riddled with involuntary tremors. The repeated electric shocks threatened to knock him down for good, if someone didn't intervene... (102)

•

XXV – Helpless

Lucien's usually sharp mind and vast knowledge were of no use in this situation. Cornered by a group of scoundrels who had seen him arrive with his nose in his books, his attempts to reason with them were met with harsh laughter before they decide to hit and rob him. Lucien, trying to protect his books, couldn't even cast a spell before being knocked down by a punch, leaving him breathless and defenseless. He felt totally helpless in this alley of Riften, feeling his clothes being ripped off in search of money or jewelry, under the threat of more blows. (102)

•

XXVI : Blood

The adrenaline of the fight was waning and Lucien discovered with a dazed air the grass of the reddened plain and the acrid smell of metal everywhere. Lucien had fought for his life, fear in his stomach. He looked down at his feet and the reddened, sticky leather of his shoes. His usually white, clean hands were dripping with blood. He felt the blood sticking to his face. He saw him staining his fine clothes. He couldn't tell if it was his own blood or that of the bandits who had attacked them. Lucien felt his head buzzing and his legs shaking. (103)

[xsoldier]

Sadly, VERY much no. Not even in the slightest.

The whole ritual of Communion is actually from The Last Supper with a whole ritual there that Jesus does himself before Judas goes off to betray him. It's recorded in a few books of the New Testament, but the most detailed is probably Matthew 26:26–28, which is as follows:

“While they were eating, Jesus took bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it and gave it to his disciples, saying, ‘Take and eat; this is my body.’ Then he took a cup, and when he had given thanks, he gave it to them, saying, ‘Drink from it, all of you. This is my blood of the covenant, which is poured out for many for the forgiveness of sins’”

Note that this is TOTALLY SEPARATE from that time Jesus fed a bunch of people by miraculously multiplying bread & fish (Matthew 14:13-12) which is ALSO completely different from the time he transformed water into wine (John 2:1-11). Both fun miracle stories and both wholly unrelated to Communion and the whole sacrificial symbolism.

It's easy to conflate those things as all being related to this because of all the Christian art, but that's all after-the-fact symbolism finding weird ways of representing multiple things all at once thematically, which also get tied up in other intersecting mythologies and contemporary Christian fictions of the time like Dante's Inferno and whatnot.

Though I'd expect there's probably some Roman secret society rituals tied in from when the Empire took over Christianity during the Council of Nicea and codified it into a single religion (since that's why artistic depictions of Angels suddenly look like non-bearded androgynous winged dudes, but that's a story for another time). At the time they kicked out the Vandals and other factions who didn't agree on Jesus as the son of God, but just thought he was a cool dude, and so big secret rituals were how they rapidly weeded out the OTHER Christians to take control of the religion and align it to their version across the Roman Empire.

The actual reason that the whole water & blood pouring out of Jesus' body occurred is that crucifixion often causes the victim to go into hypovolemic shock, resulting in fluid collecting around the heart creating a pericardial effusion. So, when Longinus' spear stabbed through Jesus' ribs and into his heart to ensure that he was dead after being crucified, the spear blade ruptured the pericardium AND the heart — thus all that collected fluid drained out through that wound at the same time as the blood in the heart did — looking like water draining out along with the blood.

This actually wouldn't be uncommon in anyone dying of crucifixion as it's typically either that or asphyxiation that kills them, especially with broken legs which was also common. So while it may SEEM like some shocking miraculous thing… it's actually just the science of the really fucked up ways that you die when you're crucified, and the end results of that being recorded in the Bible quite accurately.

(This is why it's fun having been raised as an Evangelical Free Christian, gone to Lutheran & Christian private schools, and had a Catholic best friend before moving to Utah — and becoming an Atheist as soon as I was in high school. Since basically everyone else was Mormon, I was the defacto "other Christian stuff" specialist, so I'm still a cornucopia of weird facts and information like this).

Being raised by areligious jews with 0 exposure to christianity outside pop culture is so fun. One time I asked my ex-catholic friend why a picture of jesus had a bristle crown and she looked at me like I was insane. One time I heard someone mention the "lance of longinus" and responded, word for word, "Like from Evangelion?" One time during a history lesson my professor described an important monk and scholar as "Dominican" and I spent the rest of class super confused and hung up on it because I was very sure that the Dominican Republic didn't meaningfully exist as an entity back then, maybe she meant he was a native Taino or something but that's a weird way to say that and I'm pretty sure this was pre- European contact? Really fucks people up when they realize I genuinely have no idea.

[slashersidewhore]

Slashers! S/O hurt by a victim

Slashers x gn!reader

Includes Michael Myers, Jason Voorhees, Thomas Hewitt, Vincent Sinclair

Requested? Yes

Warnings: Beefy murder boyfriends, hurt/comfort, minor angst, injuries, blood, fluffy shit

Michael Myers

Michael doesn’t want you involved in his crimes, he’d rather you keep your pretty self out of harms way. Whether that be at home, or somewhere else in general, just anywhere but with him when he’s busy killing. That being said, accidents happen.

You can’t help the curiosity that runs through you when a harsh bang comes from the backyard of the Myers house. It was sudden really, opening the back door when you were knocked backwards, head careening into the wall with a dull thud.

The minute you let out a yelp from the pain and being caught off guard, the shadow of a tall, looming figure isn’t far behind

There was only one word to describe the feeling bubbling in the killers chest and that would be absolute rage

Now, Michael isn’t one to worry himself when someone gets themself hurt, he could care less quite honestly. But seeing you holding the back of your head, blood covering your hands and forehead, eyes squeezed shut with unshed tears, the little bit of sanity left in him just snaps. The horrific screams of the victim who pushed you over are all that fill the house, quieting into watery gurgles and then just silence

Heavy footsteps stop before your slumped over form, rough, unpracticed movements that pull at your body drag a hiss from your lips. Although Michael isn’t one to stop, he’s focused on getting you to open your eyes, see you looking back at him, let him know you’re okay

A calloused palm soothes over the crown of your head, pulling another whine as his fingers hover at the wound. It’s nothing too serious, probably a concussion, some gauze and pain killers will fix you right up. But the usual silence from Michael isn’t comforting, especially considering the way he seems to have doubled in size, shoulders squared, fingers twitching to curl into fists, working eye squinted behind the cut in his mask. The man is clearly agitated, heavy breathing more ragged, rushed

He’s unable to stab his way through this problem, he can’t fix it by spilling more blood. That worries him immensely. He’s not used to taking care of anyone in such a manner, or at all. His body is acting as a shield from the outside world, not holding you close yet not letting you go. To the right, the mangled, haphazardly tossed body of the victim lies, their cruel death far more brutal than you’d even known Michael to be

He won’t say anything, as usual, but the manner in his body language is different, not soft but protective, cautious. He’s not sure what to do with these feelings, not sure how to process the sight of you bleeding, the one person he’d rather never even encounter a simple scrape

He promises himself right then and there nothing of this sort will ever occur again. Not if he can prevent it. He would watch the world burn before you so much as felt an ounce of pain again

Jason Voorhees

Same as Michael in the regards that he doesn’t want you anywhere near any of his potential or current victims. The idea that you could possibly get injured runs through is mind the daily, even without the threat of others. So if he’s dealing with naughty campers, you better be safe in the cabin, doors locked and windows sealed

Although Jason seems to underestimate the lengths some would go to survive, especially the rage that follows when their friends are slaughtered

Imagine his surprise when he’s hunting down one of the people that got away, heart beginning to race as he realizes their tracks lead back to the cabin, the exact cabin you’re supposed to be safe in. “Safe”, is a word that completely leaves his mind upon seeing what he does when he enters the ajar door. Your face is bloodied, bruised and swollen, collar of your shirt clutched by the victim he dared to allow escape. The sight is enough to send the poor man into cardiac arrest, heart beating so fast it feels to him as if his chest will rip open, but that can wait

The way he carves into the unsuspecting back of the offender above you is feral, machete driving down again and again until you’re left with a bloody heap rather than a person, a heap that is quickly tossed carelessly to the side, relieving the pressure from your weakened body

Even through the swell, pain and red, your eyes can see his swimming with extreme pain

He did this, he caused you to be hurt, it was his fault you were ever put in harms way. His racing pulse doesn’t subside even when you attempt a bloody smile, too overtaken with grief to calm his nerves. In Jason’s mind, he doesn’t deserve someone like you, no matter what you’ve done, what you’ve been through, you’re perfection to him. The fact that you’d chose to be by his side astonishes him, so to let you be injured in this way? Beaten and practically frail in his arms? He’s failed you

The anger in his veins disappeared the minute you softly called his name, hand reaching up to caress the side of his mask. There’s evident tears in your eyes, whether from fear or pain both options are the worst case in Jason’s mind. Yet you don’t seem upset with him, which confuses him greatly but ultimately, your anger towards him would only worsen how he felt

In that moment, holding you clutched to his firm, scarred chest, he promises to himself he’d never let another hand cause you such harm

Thomas Hewitt

In Thomas’s eyes, you’re safest as you can be furthest from him, no matter his hearts urge to keep you as close as possible

The image of you crying, bleeding, or simply making a face indicating unease, upsets his stomach, twists and turns his insides unpleasantly

That is until one day, another hot, overbearing Texan day in the heat when one of the trespassers managed to escape the basement, god knows how they did it, but they did. And now Thomas was lost in the sweat of a days work, eyes scanning the grain filled yard, dusty streets and dead land, no one in sight. Until the buzzing in his ears is cut off by the unmistakable, bloodcurdling scream of someone not too close, yet not far either. What makes his blood run cold isn’t the sound itself, but the familiarity of it. Now Thomas has never actually heard you make such a noise, but he’d be a fool to not recognize it, especially when it came from someone who brought him such warmth

Terror, he can also recognize the tone at which you use, the fear in it, he can feel every ounce of dread you do, tenfold at the idea he may be too late, he may not make it in time, if only he was closer

He’s running now, chainsaw alive and screeching, heavy pants beneath the leather on the lower half of his face, eyes wildly searching the open area for a sign of danger, a sign of you

Thats when he spots it in the distance, a figure standing above another, some kind of tool held high, what looks like a kitchen knife in the gleam of sunlight that hits it. His legs feel of jelly, unable to move until another scream fills his ears, this time it’s of his name, most desperate, pained. And if that didn’t get him moving, he didn’t know what would. Chainsaw raised in pure adrenaline, the lumbering man is quick to slice downwards, down and down and down until body parts dismember, organs are strewn, red covers the wheat and grass and dirt

Saw thrown off to the side, Thomas kneels beside your nearly curled up form, hands pressing into the stab wound decorating your side, blood seeping from your hands that clutch to keep it in. He’s gentle, like a butterfly kissing you, years of scars and rough work should make his hands feel like sandpaper, although grasping you like you’d dissolve, his palms are simply silk

Head lulling into his chest, ignoring the blood that’s spewed across it, you nuzzle the underside of his chin, although in grave pain, the wound stinging with each stride Thomas makes, you feel at peace, comforted by the large man holding you like you would a breakable doll

Dark, heavy eyes shift down to gaze upon you, worried brow furrowed deep, clearly in distress upon seeing you so weakened, losing blood. Luda Mae can fix you right up thankfully, he just can’t imagine ever seeing you in such a state again, he never wants too, it would physically kill him

Carrying your tired body, heartbeats one, Thomas enters the Hewitt mansion with one thing on his mind, he’s never to be far from you ever again

Vincent sinclair

You never went in the basement when Vincent was, “working”, you’d learned it best to leave him alone, ignore the screams of pain and smell of hot wax hitting warm skin

The mans activities aren’t a secret from you, although he’d rather you not watch him participate in such acts, he’d rather you keep from seeing such horrors, allow your sleep to be uninterrupted by nightmares unlike his

You were headed to the kitchen when the loud screaming of what sounded like someone in fear and confusion could be heard, the thunderous steps of someone hurling towards the room you were in, the form of a startled victim coming into view

Their eyes changed from fear to rage, seeing you unharmed, at peace in such a place that got their friends killed, mindlessly headed for the fridge. You could already hear the heavy boots of Vincent rushing up the basement steps, and as if he couldn’t move any quicker, your yelp of fear proved otherwise

Your eyes were wide when the masked man finally came into view, hands grasping as the arm around your neck from behind, body pressed against the person that had narrowly escaped, shaking as they held a kitchen knife to your cheek. The look in Vincent’s eye was deadly, in fact you would’ve been trembling in fear from the intensity if not for the fact that you knew the man would do anything to protect you, and vice versa

Garden sheers were clutched tight in one of his rough hands, knuckles caked with wax. The knife against your cheek began to dig slightly into your delicate skin, causing a soft gasp to leave your lips before red filled your vision, sprayed across where the offending weapon once was, arms leaving your body as the body fell limp to the kitchen floor. Turning to look at the damage, your face was softly grasped by two warm palms, eyes still wide from the ordeal, staring into Vincent’s now calm gaze

His thumb swiped at the blood beading on your cheek bone, clearly discontent with even the smallest cut adorning the face he loved the most, a low noise coming from the back of his throat, akin to a wounded animal

Pulling you into his broad chest, dark locks brushed the sides of your face, Vincent stared dead ahead, one hand on the back of your head as he internally cursed himself out, how dare he let someone that close to you, how dare he let them draw your blood

Glancing as the nearly decapitated victims body on the floor, blood pooling, Vincent swore to himself if anyone ever caused you such pain again, they’ve face a cruel, slow death

Hope y’all enjoyed <3

[howtofightwrite]

A Friendly Little Stabbing

So we know that there’s no 100% non-fatal or “safe” place in/on the body to shoot someone. (That one scene in the first Divergent book where Tris shoots someone in the shoulder to get him to reveal information without killing him makes me cringe every time) What about stabbing? Where is the “least fatal” place to be stabbed, if there is any at all?

Very lightly.

Okay, so, deep penetration has a very high likelihood of hitting something you need to continue functioning. Again, getting stabbed in the torso is worse than the limbs, though this does depend on exactly what gets cut.

Your bones are slightly better at handling an object trying to impale you than stopping bullets, which isn’t saying much, but it can stop a light blade if you’re lucky.

Cuts to the limbs are less likely to be life threatening, and your arteries are somewhat better shielded against slicing and cutting trauma. That said, if someone drives a knife into your inner thigh, you’re (probably) already dead.

The rule of thumb I was introduced to is, “three inches,” if the strike goes deeper than that, it’s probably going to hit something vital. Also, it occurs to me, that does nicely cover most places where you’re not likely to suffer a vital hit. For example, you can get stabbed through the hand with minimal risk to your life (though, you are going to lose the use of that hand, at least, until it heals.)

That’s a larger problem you should remember. The muscles on your body are not (as a general rule) vital to your continued breathing, however, they are necessary to move and function. So, if you get a deep gash on your upper arm, it won’t kill you, but it will impair or weaken some direction of movement as those muscles are responsible for controlling your limb.

The real danger with stabbing is (usually) blood loss, and the further the injury is from your core, the lower the risk of bleeding out. Again, taking a hit to an artery will end you, and this can even happen on your wrists (though the bleedout will generally take longer, as the volume loss per second will be lower.) The nature of the cut matters, because in some cases it’s relatively easy to staunch the blood flow. As with gunshot wounds, the lethality of a given injury isn’t really about how “lethal,” it is, it’s more about how quickly you’ll lose blood.

There is an interesting caveat with getting stabbed or impaled: Do not remove the intruding object unless you absolutely have to. If someone gets stabbed do not pull the knife out. In some situations, the blade (or other object) will be preventing further blood loss, and pulling it out can be fatal. I’ve been told this is especially true of situations where someone’s been run through with rebar, to the point that it’s actually better to cut away the rebar if possible and bring it along, as the texture is exceptionally good at digging into the wound and limiting bleeding. (Obviously, cutting rebar for transport to a hospital is going to require construction or other lifesaving equipment, and not exactly a do-it-yourself solution.) The result of this caveat is, you can take a knife to the chest without dying, so long as the knife stays where it landed.

As with getting shot, there isn’t a great place to get stabbed, but it can be survivable if you can get medical attention before the blood loss is fatal.

-Starke

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A Friendly Little Stabbing was originally published on How to Fight Write.

[writefightandflightclub]

I really enjoyed your Nathan fluff 🥺 we love this angry peach fuzz king 👑💖 would you ever write him being comforted after having a nightmare? 💕

First of all, LOL @ “angry peach fuzz king” 🤣🤣🤣

Second of all, here you go! 🧡 I will warn you - I think I forgot the fluff a little bit though. It became more hurt / comfort? More angst than expected? It ends nicely though and comfort is given to Nathan - but only after I’ve subjected him to rattling around in his own head and house for a bit.

Through the looking glass (Nathan Bateman x GN!reader)

Summary: Nathan has nightmares after The Incident. After so long alone, he doesn’t realise how badly he needs a little comfort - and maybe he doesn’t believe that he deserves it.

Author’s note: hopefully this isn’t too similar to All Better. I know they both take place post-stabbing, but I tried to give this a different focus. I know I could have made the nightmares based off of anything given the ask, but this timeline / focus seemed most sensible to explore the character.

Warnings: nightmares following traumatic incident (a stabbing); mentions of blood and injury - not graphic. Self-harm (punching the bag until injury); Body horror if you squint (some gruesome descriptions occurring in-dream, but fairly abstract); swearing; implied alcoholism recovery if you squint; mentions of therapy; Nathan mildly injured in fic; reader offering comfort.

Rating: MATURE for themes mentioned above.

GIF: by @santiagogarcia (this whole gifset is magic- check it out + reblog!)

Nathan wakes up breathless, plastered to the covers by a sheen of sweat - and not in a good way. On instinct, or out of habit by now, or maybe somewhere between the two, his palm slides over his body to the site of the wound.

He is so slick that he half-believes he is soaked with dank, deep blood again, until his fingers trace over nothing more than a half-concave, half-ridged scar. The lack of searing pain is the next point of evidence leading him towards an alternative conclusion. He’s not dying (again).

It’s just another gruesome nightmare.

Although… there is nothing “just” about it.

The nightmares are pretty brutal. Brutal enough for him to wake with ragged breaths and a hammering heart, his sheets dampened and coiled up around him. Enough that it takes effort to sift through the layers of terror and distinguish reality.

With what can only be described as a whimper, Nathan swings his legs over the edge of the bed, bringing himself into a seated position and bracing his head in his hands until his racing heart levels.

In his mind, he’s telling himself to be logical about this. That Ava hasn’t truly arrived to finish the job she started; but logic is not the safe haven it used to be.

She could come back.

She’s still out there, somewhere, and Nathan distinctly got the impression, last time, that she was vehemently not a fan of him.

His hand trembling, Nathan reaches for the glass of water by his bedside, glugging it down so eagerly it spills into his bushy beard.

Since the… accident? Malfunction? Functioning just fine, actually? Failed experiment? Greatest achievement known to man? Attempted murder? (Truth be told, Nathan isn’t quite sure what to call it, so he simply calls it The Incident.)

Since The Incident, Ava has begun to regularly visit him in his sleep.

The visitations are not waning with time. In fact, they are happening more often, not less. They are happening more since you moved into the house.

It’s a bad fucking time to have quit drinking.

You’d been sent by the board. Something about Nathan taking “tortured genius” a slice too literally. Something about him being in isolation too long and needing another human around in the compound.

Well, that’s not technically true, is it? The shit all started when he opted to get social, after all.

Fucking Caleb.

Before that, he was doing just fine.

Nathan doesn’t like it at all - having you here. Being watched. Observed. Having someone monitoring his actions. Waiting for him to either fuck up or prove himself.

Ironic really, considering where he kept Ava. The experiments he ran on her.

She’d probably find it poetic, if she could truly understand such a concept.

At the thought of her, Nathan physically shudders, and reaches for an old vest to haphazardly mop the excess sweat from his skin. Then, he balls up a change of clothes and tracks nude to his wet room, feeling relief as the luke warm water sluices over his skin.

He watches himself in the mirror as he stands there naked. It’s not a vanity thing - at least not any longer. These days, he examines the way his form has changed since it happened. He lost some of his muscle and bulk during recovery, whilst unable to exercise, his arms slightly smaller and his abs softer. His stomach a little more rounded.

There’s also the puckered scar, of course - that permanent reminder of where he was skewered through the chest like a piece of kebab meat.

His gaze travels up over his body, until his eyes settle on his still haunted face. He doesn’t have his glasses on, and somewhere between the blurred vision, misted mirror, clouding steam and sluicing water, his reflected face distorts. It transforms - for the briefest of moments - into her.

Still amped with adrenalin from his harsh awakening, this briefest flash sends a surge of panic zipping through Nathan’s chest, his heartbeat racing so hard he can feel the pounding of blood in his ears.

Fuck, he curses, reaching his arms out to brace himself against the shower wall above him, his body trembling and his head dipping down between the cradle of his broad shoulders as his legs threaten to buckle.

He turns the water cold, until it is practically glacial and thundering on to the back of his neck, subduing this spiking heat.

She really did a fucking number on me, didn’t she?

It’s true though.

Ava is haunting him. When he sleeps - and at other times too.

Nathan didn’t know robots could do that. Didn’t know they could spawn ghosts.

Nathan doesn’t believe in ghosts, of course… but he does believe in trauma and its effect on the brain. He at least concedes that it is natural to continue to feel afraid; but this?

Being dogged by the spectre of her taps into Nathan’s deepest insecurities.

After all, there is nothing a genius fears more than doubting his own mind.

Nothing a God fears more than his own mortality.

And the man? Turns out, there is nothing he fears more now, than dying alone.

With a ragged breath, Nathan towels off and pulls on his grey sweatpants, tugging on his black zip-up hoody over his bare chest. And then, keen not to return to his damp, tangled sheets, he tracks towards the kitchen - mainly for want of any more favourable option.

Of course, he had returned to the compound after The Incident. Something about that many fibre optic cables being a bitch to lay down. Sunk cost fallacy and all that - too much already invested.

But it possibly wasn’t the best choice for his recovery.

Nathan has certainly gotten more used to walking down that hallway since he returned from the hospital, and yet he still finds himself holding his breath until he is free of it. Still finds his pace is just a little faster as he passes through. His gaze deliberately averted from that spot.

Once, you’d found him lying in it.

Lying in that exact spot, his body arranged like a crime scene photo, his eyes closed.

Hey, it’s hardly his least healthy coping mechanism, is it?

What in the fuck are you doing, Nathan?

Re-enacting my death, obviously.

Uh-Kay…. A beat. A devious smile. Shall I get some popcorn?

Absurd as it was, he had laughed. Laughed for the first time since it happened, and, with an extended hand, you had helped him up off the floor.

Still, now that he’s alone, he does not dwell in the corridor, colder and darker as it is without your light in it, and he tries not to think about your face or hers as he pads to the kitchen.

When he arrives though, he bypasses it entirely - heading out on to the decking, the crisp night air soothing his hot skin.

He wants to be outside.

There are too many ghosts in his house now.

He has tried to shake it. Tried to desensitise himself to Ava’s face. Spent longer than strictly necessary poring over footage of her.

He built her. Shouldn’t that take the fear out of things? Not to mention the fact Ava’s face was simply a composite of some manipulable nerd’s wank bank browsing history.

Fucking Caleb.

Still, once Nathan had looked her in the eyes and seen a rage that was all too human, things seemed a hell of a lot different.

Nathan crosses to the punchbag on the deck -lit by creeping dawn- on instinct, or out of habit, or maybe some combination of the two, his unease riling him enough to sock some punches at its midsection. Right at the equivalent site of his corporeal puncture.

He punches so hard that the skin on his knuckle splits, but Nathan doesn’t stop. He throws punch after punch until his hands are scathed and bloodied, and a trail of spit hanging from the corner of his mouth. Until he hugs the bag - the closest thing he has to a warm body to hold - and slides down it, coming limply to his knees, wiping his face on his sleeve.

He stays there, dead eyed and still for some time, the pain in his hands raw and singing. Unpleasant, but better. Better than what he was feeling, and worse all at once.

He considers his tired, cumbersome body, and contemplates remaking the world one more time. Uploading his mind into a machine or some shit, so that he doesn’t have to contend with the fragility and failings of his own existence.

He stays there, until some motion in the interior of the compound causes the light and shadows to dance differently over him, and he looks up to see your figure there, cast in a soft halo of yellowed light.

He tips his head up slightly, opening his mouth as though he might cry out to you for help, but no sound comes out - only a thin, dry croak.

So, instead, Nathan watches you for a moment, moving seamlessly around his kitchen as though it is your own. Maybe it is - more yours than his now.

Observing you like this, through the tall, cinematic windows, it is as though he peers in on another world entirely. Something less resembling a nightmare.

Lighter than that. Something more like a good dream, albeit a good dream that Nathan cannot be part of. One he can only ever watch, from the outside looking in, always fated as he is to be on the other side of the glass.

Truth be told, you haunt him too. You represent everything he could have and yet doesn’t deserve.

You appear in his nightmares and his dreams, in various terrifying and beautiful incarnations. Many variations of which his therapist would have a field day with, he’s sure - or, she would, if he’d ever fucking call her.

When you first arrived here, he was plagued by grotesque visions of you. Grotesque visions of the skin being peeled back from your body. Sometimes, circuitry beneath, and other times, muscle and bone. Sometimes, Ava’s face was buried beneath the chilling slip of your fleshy mask.

Sometimes it is a better dream. Sometimes you save him. Sometimes he saves you.

Sometimes it is a good dream. Ava isn’t there at all. But the good dreams never seem to last for long. 

Sometimes you kill him, and sometimes...

The glass door slides open.

“Reenacting your own death again, are you?” you tease, though not unkindly, interrupting the spiral of Nathan’s incessant thoughts.

A lump forming instantly in his throat, Nathan swallows thickly, and looks up at you helplessly with a thin, joyless smile. He snorts as though it’s funny, but it really isn’t. “Over and fucking over.” 

You nod once, and, without hesitation, you extend your hand towards him. Your gaze cuts through him as you search his face and he feels suddenly see-through, as if he’s about to be hit with some Shyamalan-esque twist. Was he the ghost all along? Did he die here after all?

If so, is this purgatory because Ava is here too, or heaven, because you are?

Christ. So fucking schmaltzy, Bateman.

After hesitating, Nathan takes your hand and you yank him to his feet, drawing him inside, through the looking glass.

The room seems warm on the other side. It feels… safe.

“What happened?” you ask, as you look down at your joined hands, your thumb painting a smear of red across his split knuckles. 

You mean now. What happened now, but Nathan’s mind harks back further than that. In his mind, everything is connected. Every thing threaded to another. This one smear of blood to that weeping flower of red.

The thought -the thoughts, all of them- halt him in place, his feet firmly planting on the ground. Nathan’s hand clenches tightly around yours as though it is a lifeline, as he is cast adrift on this familiar crimson tide, his face growing increasingly angular and stern.

“She...” He swallows, unable to complete that precise thought, his eyes dropping down to his feet.

You turn your body towards Nathan as he croaks, still not letting go.

Your eyes flitting around his face, attempting to search his eyes, you tentatively step closer, sliding your palms slowly over his tense shoulders, feeling them rise with an uneven, stuttered breath as you do so.

He’s so tired. He’s so very, very tired.

And it happens all at once on the exhale.

Suddenly, your arms are tugging him closer, and his face is contorting as a violent smattering of tears beads in his long lashes. You are encasing his body in your embrace and rubbing circles into his back as his buzzed head sags all too willingly toward the junction of your shoulder, your fingers splaying along the smooth flesh at the nape of his neck and pads dancing over the gentle prickle of his hair. You are shushing and soothing and reassuring and squeezing and smoothing and cradling and Nathan can feel it. Can feel his heart race in his chest and…

Finally.

Finally, his heart is not pounding because he is reliving his death.

It is pounding because he feels alive again.

When was the last time he cried, even? The last time someone really hugged him? He doesn’t remember the last time. The serendipitous combination of Nathan willing to be vulnerable, and another being willing to hold space for his pain is an all too rare thing.

There’s a reason -or several - he’s so emotionally constipated, after all.

Fuck. I’m taking a huge emotional shit right now.

Nathan remains in the welcome circumference of your arms longer than is strictly necessary - until the tear trails over the bridge of his nose begin to feel cloying. Until his breaths steady, and until his thoughts and ego creep back in. Until he notices the way his hands are clasped at your waist like claws, fingers sinking into your softness, and he thinks to release you.

Then, he leans away, a weight on his brow making his expression stern.

He waits for you to judge him, another swallow trailing thickly down his throat.

However, your eyes are kind and level, dancing with soft concern. Not with judgement or satisfaction or pity, or with anything he fears.

It is refreshing not to feel so afraid.

Finally.

“She…” Nathan begins again, finally finding courage. All at once his eyebrows shoot up towards his hairline. “She fucking stabbed me.”

You take his words in. You listen.

His “reveal” is simple. Plain and factual. A little indignant. Kinda salty. It’s not overly emotional, or articulate.

But it is enough.

Your eyes narrow, and you nod slowly, trying to understand the true meaning beneath his words.

You even reach up to cup Nathan’s face, his springy beard a cushion beneath your gentle palm as you hold him. “Yeah, genius,” you tease, with a tentative, lopsided smile, dropping your arm all too suddenly, perhaps as you catch yourself. “I got that from context.”

In response, Nathan chucks air from between his teeth, bringing his hand up to comb through his beard - perhaps to obscure his involuntary smile, or perhaps chasing your tender touch, the impression of it left warm on his cheek.

As he brings his hand up, your brows draw together, and you hook his bloodied paw delicately in yours, examining the wound, and leading him gingerly across to the couch as though his whole being might be hurting along with it.

It is.

You order him to stay put while you fetch the first aid kit, and then, in stages, Nathan watches you with fascination as you painstakingly clean and tend to his wounds, without ever being asked to.

He watches you carefully swipe the angry red away from his skin, and, to his overactive mind, it’s all connected. This red is one and the same with the flower of blooming red from The Incident.

Ava hurt him then, and she is hurting him now too.

And you…

“Going to tell the board about this?” Nathan asks, his voice weak and scuffed.

You search his eyes, holding your words back for a moment before answering. Then, you launch them on a big breath. “Fuck the board, Nathan. I told those assholes to stick it.”

Nathan blinks in confusion, shaking his head, his hand flourishing emphatically through the air. “Then… what the fuck are you still doing in my house?”

“Well. I’m… here for you,” you admit, sucking in air through your teeth, your voice shrinking. “If you want that.”

Well, that’s news to him.

Welcome news, perhaps?

You’re not watching him at all, are you? Not observing. Not asking him to evidence his humanity. Not waiting to see whether he fucks up or proves himself.

Instead, you’re seeing him. You’re seeing him and you’re not running.

Nathan had begun to think that maybe he was the nightmare. He’d begun to think he might always be haunted.

Always alone. That he might die that way; again.

And now, here you are.

Nathan thinks about that. He could so easily revert to his old ways, in this moment. Of pride and ego and stubborn independence.

But, perhaps those assholes from the board got a few things right - he’ll admit.

Maybe he had been in isolation too long. Maybe he didn’t need to take “tortured genius” quite so literally.

And so, Nathan almost protests. Almost rejects your presence and your comfort and pushes you away. But the truth is, he’s just so… tired. He’s had so many nightmares, and this time, he’d like to be on the other side of the glass. He’d like to step into that dream.

Nathan takes a deep breath, and releases on the exhale. Releases more than air.

He slowly, ever so slowly, shifts towards you on the couch, angling his body until he can safely dip his head towards your lap, his nose pointed in towards your abdomen and his knees curling around you.

“Th.. this okay?” he asks weakly.

You throw your splayed hands up into the air in surprise as the weight of Nathan settles there, but as he curls his arms around your middle and shuffles closer, you ease into it. You snake your fingers in intricate caresses over his head and neck and shoulders.

“Yeah, Nathan. This is okay,” you soothe gently, voice taut with emotion.

You comfort him.

And finally, Nathan does not need to peel your skin back to know what’s underneath.

He knows you’re not a robot, and that, as your kind touch finds him corporeal, that he is not a ghost.

He closes his eyes. And this time, when he next wakes, he knows that whether the dream is bad or better or good, it doesn’t matter. Because you will be there with him.

He wants you with him.

It’s not at all natural to him, to have you around. For the longest time, he didn’t like it. It didn’t come instinctually, and he has formed no familiar habits.

It isn’t easy - he doesn’t make it easy.

But he wants it to be.

And, in your arms, he can finally dream that it will all work out. What’s more; he can dream he deserves it, too.

[auroracalisto]

all the lost things

summary: the reader has always been close with Ms. Mead.  growing up, she went to her neighbor for comfort, hiding from her abusive parents.  but one day, she just disappears.  when she comes back, michael is there, on a path to purify the world.

pairing: michael x reader

word count: 3.9k words

warnings: talks of the antichrist, religious undertones, abusive parents, physical abuse, reader ends up in hospital, reader is stabbed but nothing is said other than she was stabbed, cussing, blood, death, major character death (mead), follows the plotline in the show but not exactly

a/n: no notes, head empty.  also word count could be 4k but it was like 90 words off and yeah

Ms. Mead was always there for [Your name].  No matter what had happened, no matter how her parents had treated her, Ms. Mead was there.  Her parents would hurt her, tease her, ridicule her for her relationship with the renowned Satanist.  They hated the fact that their little “angel” was friends with such a nasty type of woman—and even though they were hypocritical to the highest extent, they stood by that.  She helped to patch her up on particularly bad days.  Ms. Mead had offered time and time again for [Your name] to take a bed in her home, but [Your name] never accepted the offer.  She already helped so much—she never wanted to burden her even more. Not to mention the fact that Ms. Mead hardly knew of everything that occurred.  [Your name] quite often kept most of what happened to herself.  

Ms. Mead was more of a parent to her more than her shitty birth parents.  And when [Your name] went missing, she was understandably concerned.  However, Michael had shown up.  There wasn’t much she could do to find you, especially since you were never listed as missing with the local law enforcement, and the two of them (Ms. Mead and Michael) had yet to figure out just how far Michael’s powers would go, and how soon it would take for him to grow into them.

Ms. Mead waited anxiously for you to return, from wherever you had run off to. It was nearly two weeks after Michael had gotten there.  Two weeks of Ms. Mead leading Michael around and showing him how to live—showing him what life was all about with the loving care of a Satanist mother.  

On a sunny Tuesday afternoon, Michael sat at the dining room table, eating a ham and cheese sandwich.  Ms. Mead was washing dishes, looking over at the boy as a knock sounded at the door.  

“Do you mind getting that?  I’ll be right there, I just have a few more to do.”

Michael gave a small nod, and he sat his sandwich down before he stood and walked over to the front door.  He opened it without wasting a second, seeing a battered woman standing there.  He furrowed his eyebrows at the woman, looking at her arm slung in a cast and her bruised eye and split lip.  She uncomfortably shifted on her leg—while she didn’t have anything on it, it was obvious that she had hurt it.  If she were to bend down, surely her abdomen would kill her.

“Is… is Miriam here?” she asked.

“Who are you?”

The black-haired woman showed up behind Michael.  Her eyes went wide. “[Your name]?”  She quickly moved to hug her.  [Your name] flinched but she hugged back, carefully using her other arm to pat her back.

Michael could see the healing bruises that littered her arms.  “Where the hell have you been, girl?” she asked, looking at her in disbelief.  “What happened to you?”

She took her free hand and turned to look at Michael.  “Shut and lock the door behind us.  Can you get her a change of clothes?  Just sweatpants and a shirt. Hurry.”

Michael blinked slowly but did as he was told.  

Ms. Mead lead [Your name] into the dining room, sitting her down.  She brushed some of the hair out of her face back as she sat across from her.  

“I looked for you, but I couldn’t find anything.  Where were you?  Did you lose your phone?  What happened to the one I gave you for emergencies?”

[Your name]’s beautiful eyes couldn’t meet hers.  She shifted in her seat, taking in a sharp breath when her stomach slightly rubbed against the table she was seated at.  The last time Miriam had interrogated her like this was when she had accidentally broken her sofa and not said anything—and that was nearly seven years ago.

“Uh,” she closed her eyes.  

“I got them,” Michael interrupted.  Of course, he didn’t know he had.  He brought the clothes over and sat them beside Ms. Mead before he sat back down at his sandwich.  He attempted to ignore them but found himself listening to their conversation anyway.

“He found it.”

Miriam’s eyes widened.  “What?”

[Your name] just shrugged, wincing as she did that.  “Yeah.  He found my emergency phone.  And then, he found my go back.  I… I had it packed.  I was ready to leave, Miriam,” she said, leaning back against her seat.  “I was ready to leave and come here,” [Your name] weakly smiled.  “Guess that didn’t happen.”

“Wait, wait, what does all this have—” Miriam stopped herself.  “What did your father do to you?” she softly asked, her warm hand going over the top of [Your name]’s.  

“He beat me until I was unconscious, and then I guess he and my mom dropped me off at the hospital.  I didn’t have anything on me.  My ID is gone, I don’t have my phone.  Everything was stripped off of me save for my clothes. They said I had gone into a coma, but like… they also had to do an emergency surgery because I had been stabbed.”

“He stabbed you?” Miriam felt her face burn with rage.  She couldn’t believe this.  She knew [Your name]’s parents were shit, but she never believed they would do anything like that.

She gave a small nod.  “They’re gonna have to bill me somehow.  I… I might have given them a fake name when I came to.  Let’s see if they can.  That’s also… probably why you couldn’t find me,” she weakly smiled.  

“What did you use?”

“Lucy Moore.”

Miriam rolled her eyes.  “Of course, you did.  I wondered why that sounded so familiar.  I saw it in the newspaper but didn’t think much about it.  Damn. You’ve used that since you were a child,” she huffed softly.  “You’ve been there for nearly two weeks, [Your name].  Are you okay?”

[Your name] shrugged.  “I’m as good as I can be, Miriam.  There’s not much to be said.”

Michael hadn’t touched his food.  He stared at the [color] haired woman for the longest time before he spoke up.

“Why are you here?” he asked.  “You’re not home?”

Miriam looked over at the boy with a frown.  “Michael.”

“No, he’s got a point,” [Your name] sighed.  “I can’t go back.  Not because of this.  But… Miriam, they’re gone.  They’ve completely moved out.  Left and everything.  The house is on the market.  Saw the sign when I was walking by.”

“You walked all the way here?” Michael asked, his eyebrows furrowed.  “From the hospital?”

“Took me about an hour, but yeah,” [Your name] said.  

The resilience she had made Michael’s heart skip a beat.  But perhaps that was also from the immense anger building up in the pit of his stomach for two people that he had never met.  Michael clenched his fists under the table, looking towards his half-eaten sandwich with a type of malice that would burn a human.

His sandwich lit on fire—the bread and meat and cheese immediately being consumed by reds, oranges, and yellows.  

[Your name]’s eyes widened, and she quickly turned to face him, despite the burning pain she felt from doing so.  

Miriam watched with wide eyes, a smile growing on her lips.  When the fire had completely gone out, as it was only contained to his food, she grinned at him. “This is Michael, my dear,” Miriam said. ��“He’s been staying with me since you disappeared.”

“How—how did he—”

“—he’s the Antichrist, dear.”

Well, there was no hiding that.  Michael quickly looked up at Miriam, surprised that she told [Your name] so quickly.  

[Your name] furrowed her eyebrows in confusion, before she gave a small nod. “Right, so, you—you made that fire all on your own?” she asked.

When Michael nodded, [Your name] turned to face Ms. Mead.  

“Can I take a shower?” she asked.

Michael blinked a couple of times.  The woman wasn’t afraid of him—that struck him as odd.  She had just been dropped with the news that would bring the end of times—and yet, she just asked his adoptive mom if she could take a shower.

Who was she?

Miriam nodded.  “We’ve got to cover up your cast.  Can’t risk it getting wet,” she said, going to find some plastic wrap in the kitchen.

Michael stared the injured woman down for a moment.  “You’re not afraid?”

She looked over at him with a frown.  “Why would I be?  After everything I’ve been through,” she said, sucking in a breath as she slowly got to her feet. “Seeing my parents burn would be the best thing since I found Ms. Mead. Seems like she just keeps collecting lost things, huh?”

[Your name] smiled towards him, and he returned it, albeit shyly.  

Despite the wounds on her face, Michael thought she was beautiful.  To [Your name], the man was just beautiful.

She knew all the stories about the Antichrist.  Her parents used to spew Revelations at dinner like it was just normal gossip.

He would be beautiful, have immense powers (even though she was unaware he was still trying to get his powers under control, as his Antichrist nature had just been awoken not too long ago), and in everything that came from what her parents said, she remembered one and thought about it more often than the others: he would be perfect.  

Michael was perfect.

Miriam came back with a yellow box of plastic wrap.  She began to open it up.  

“Will you be okay showering by yourself?  Can you take your clothes off by yourself?”

“I’ll be fine,” she said, waving the woman off.  Miriam just smiled and began to wrap her cast.

“While you do that, I’m going to run to the store and buy some actual clothes for you.  You have some here, but not a lot.  Don’t worry,” she said, finishing up the multiple layers of plastic wrap.  “I still remember your size.  And your favorite scent is…?”

When she told her, Miriam smiled.  

“Good.  I’ll get some things with that as well.  Oh, my [Your name], it’s so good to see your face again,” the woman said.  “I’ll be back.  Michael, stay home.  I’ll just be a few minutes.”

When Miriam left, [Your name] went to shower.  Michael didn’t know what to do, so he went to his bedroom, reading a book that Miriam had stocked on his bookshelf.  Of course, he didn’t realize it was the Satanist Bible until after he started reading it.  However, he was completely distracted by it and was only brought out of his intense reading session when he heard loud cursing coming from the bathroom.  

Michael frowned a bit and marked his page with a piece of scrap paper from his desk.  He quickly got up and went to the bathroom, knocking on the door.  

“Are you okay?” he asked.  

“Uh,” [Your name] began, trying her best not to sound like she was in pain.  “I—yeah, yeah, I’m fine.”  Her voice shook as she tried to get up.  She had fallen in the shower.  The stitches in her side hurt like a bitch, and the pain she had in her leg would stay for a while—her doctor had told her it was a pretty bad sprain, but that it would heal eventually.  And with only one hand available to get herself up, she was stuck at the bottom of the tub.  

“You don’t sound fine…”

[Your name] clenched her jaw and took in a deep breath.  “Could you—I…  I need help.  I fell,” she said.  

Michael immediately went to open the door.  

“Wait!”

Michael stopped in his tracks.

“You can’t look at me.  Keep your eyes closed.  Please.”

[Your name] wasn’t scared at the fact that he would see her naked—she was more scared of the fact that he would see how damaged her body was.  She should have been more scared of her naked body—in all reality, she had just met him.  

Michael opened the door, making sure that she saw his eyes were closed.  He walked into the bathroom and quite literally ran into the toilet.  

“I—take like two steps to the left—”

Michael did as he was told.  

“Wait, no, I’m sorry, it’s your right—” she stopped herself and squeezed her eyes shut.  “Just… Just open your eyes.  It’ll be easier.”

“Are you sure?” Michael asked.  His voice was soft, like buttercream on a birthday cake.  

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

Michael opened his blue eyes.  He locked eyes with [Your name] and his expression softened.  It was the look at [Your name] hated more than anything.

The look of pity when people realized why she was always hurt.  He had the same expression.  Michael walked over to her and turned the steaming water off.  He carefully hooked his arms underneath hers and got her to her feet.

“Did you already shower?” he asked.  

She shook her head.  “No.”

“Alright,” he looked down at her.  He avoided looking at her body.  He made sure to keep his eyes on hers.  “I’ll—I’ll be right in the other room if you need me, okay?”

When [Your name] nodded, Michael turned the water back on for her and left the bathroom.  It didn’t happen again, but Michael sat on the edge of his bed, listening for anything.

He was stiff, and he was barely breathing as he listened for the woman to hurt herself again.  When the water shut off, this time by [Your name]’s hand and not his own, he finally took in a much-deserved breath.  He closed his eyes, laying back on his bed.  He was so worried for the woman that he hadn’t even heard the front door shut.  When he heard Ms. Mead’s voice, he shot up from his bed and ran downstairs to help her.

He took each of the bags from the older woman.  

“Take these to the guest room, okay?  The one with the white bed.”

Michael nodded and rushed off, with five bags of things she would need on one arm and six on the other.

[Your name] came out of the bathroom with the clothes on that Michael had grabbed earlier, her free hand drying her hair the best she could.  

Michael sat everything on the bed and came back out of the room, seeing her.

His eyes widened.  “I can do that for you—”

“I… I got it,” [Your name] mumbled, her cheeks burning at the thought that he would look at her like he did before.  She looked over at him, and she nearly stopped drying her hair.  She couldn’t describe his expression—but it wasn’t like it was before.  

Michael crossed his arms over his chest.  “Your room.  It’s this one,” he pointed to the door behind him.  

“Thank you,” she said, walking towards it.  

Michael grabbed her by her elbow, looking right at her.  “Let me do your hair.”

Her eyes widened.  “What—”

“—let me do your hair.  I want to help you.”

Throughout all of her thoughts, one stuck out the most: why was the Antichrist being so kind to her?

Michael didn’t wait for her to answer, leading her back into the bedroom.  He began to search through the plastic bags, eventually finding the items Ms. Mead bought for her hair.  He forced [Your name] to sit down on the edge of the bed and Michael got behind her.  He finished towel drying her hair and then proceeded to use what Ms. Mead had bought, with the instructions that [Your name] was given him.  He had never even tried to fix anyone else’s hair before—he had only taken care of his own.  It gave him a sense of pride to know that [Your name] hadn’t denied his help, this time.

[]

Days turned into weeks.  Weeks turned into months.  

Eventually, Michael and [Your name] were quite close—much to Miriam’s excitement.

Although she never said anything, she quite liked the idea of them being so close.  It made her confident heart soar with happiness at the thought that the two people she cared for most in the world were just as close to each other as they were to her.  

Despite their closeness, however, Michael disappeared after being taken to jail.

He hadn’t been able to contact [Your name] until about a week after being gone.

“Hello?” [Your name] spoke into the telephone, confused.  She didn’t know the number that had called.  

“[Your name],” Michael said.  He closed his eyes, melting at the sound of her voice.  

“Michael?” [Your name] quickly sat up, alert.  “What the hell, Michael?  Where are you?  Are you okay? Wh—”

“—I’m alright,” he chuckled softly.  “Things have kind of… happened.  I’m at a school for Warlocks.  I’m ‘honing’ my magic.  That’s what they said, anyway,” he spoke, leaning against the wall behind him as he talked on the phone.  “[Your name], they want me to be the next Supreme.”

“I… would be super excited for you, if I would know what the fuck that is,” she scoffed.  “Michael, seriously.  What’s going on?”

Michael chuckled at her comment.  “I’m safe.  I promise you.  But this is how I do my job.  As the… well, you know.”  

“Yeah, yeah.  But what—”

“—listen, I have to go.  I have to get back to class.  But I’ll call you.  Please know that I’m safe.  It was so good to hear your voice, [Your name].  Make sure Ms. Mead knows that I’ll get in contact with both of you soon.”

Michael hung up the phone.

What [Your name] didn’t know was that Michael had already been in contact with Ms. Mead.  And the two were conspiring against the Warlocks to make it easier for Michael to reach the title of Supreme, and therefore, bring around the end of the world.

[]

Another week passed without a word from Michael.

[Your name] was more nervous than words could put together.  Although the two were just close friends, she quite missed his absence.  She was starting to believe she wanted to be much more than friends, but she would never say anything about it.  

[Your name] sat at the dining room table, wondering where the hell Ms. Mead was.

She had been gone since early morning.

She heard the front door shut and had come downstairs to see what was going on—Ms. Mead was nowhere in sight, and she hadn’t left any sort of note.  

It was nearing noon when the house phone began to ring.  

[Your name] sighed, figuring it was Miriam.  She got up and walked over to the phone, answering it.  

“Hello?”

“[Your name],” Michael’s voice came through the speaker.  “They’ve killed her.”

[Your name] paused for a moment.  She sucked in a breath through her teeth, sitting back down at the dining room table.  “What are you talking about?”

“The witches.  They killed her.  They killed Ms. Mead.”

Only now did [Your name] hear Michael’s sobs.  He must have moved the phone away from his head moments before, preventing her from hearing it.  

A feeling of dread pooled into her stomach.  The news seemed fake—unreal, to her in the sense that it couldn’t have happened.  It didn’t happen.  Miriam was fine.  She had to be.

Her breathing was uneasy as she quickly stood back up.  “Where are you?”

Michael told her his exact location—it wasn’t too hard to find, and she would be able to get there pretty quickly.  

[Your name] hung up the phone and grabbed some cash and car keys, before she ran outside.  She ran to the car that still sat in the driveway.  She should have known.  She should have checked.  Ms. Mead wouldn’t have just left for a walk.  She would have said something.  

[Your name] entered the location onto the GPS in the car.  She took off driving, tears blurring her vision, but she never once stopped.  When there wasn’t a cop or a car nearby, she ran through the red lights.  She sped until she got to the location.  

She quickly slammed on the breaks, putting the car in park.  She turned it off and quickly got out of the car, nearly tripping over herself as she planted her feet on the ground.

Michael quickly looked over his shoulder, his eyes wide when he saw her.

He forced himself off of the ground, rushing in her direction.  [Your name] met him halfway, her arms tightly wrapping around his body.  She let out a soft sob and Michael hugged her back, burying his face in her hair.          

“[Your name],” he said, tears forming in his own eyes.  

She shook her head, her fingers digging into the fabric of his black suit.

Michael’s fingers gently tangled in her hair as he pulled back to look down at her.  Red rimmed the edge of his eyes.

He had been crying, for some time now.  [Your name] looked up at him, trying to keep herself calm.  

“Michael,” she bit her lip, holding back a sob as she watched him.  “What happened… why did this happen?”

Michael shook his head.  He would have spoken, had it not been for the blonde witch who walked up to the two, a black umbrella hovering over her head.  

Cordelia’s eyes widened when she realized that Michael was not alone.  

Michael quickly pushed [Your name] behind him, glaring in Cordelia’s direction.

He didn’t give her a chance to speak, his hand reaching back and gripping onto [Your name]’s.  “I’ll kill you,” Michael seethed, his body shaking slightly out of rage.  “I’ll kill you and all your damn witches.  You stupid—”

[Your name] squeezed his hand.  He stopped talking, clenching his jaw.  

Cordelia looked from Michael to [Your name] before she gave a curt nod and left them standing there.  

Michael quickly turned to face [Your name].  “Never again.  I will never let you leave my sight,” he said.  “Ever.  I… You’re all I have,” he frowned, cupping her cheeks as he spoke.

[Your name] reached up, placing her hands over the top of his.  “You’re all I have, too, Michael,” she said, closing her eyes.  “I…  I’m so sorry.  I… I should have realized something was wrong earlier—”

“—you wouldn’t have known what they were planning to do.  I didn’t know, either,” he said, frowning deeply.  “But they will pay for this.  They all will.  Every last one of those damned witches.  You have my word.”

“I know I do,” [Your name] said, looking up at the man.  “Michael, can we—can we go home?” she asked, looking past him at the charred remains of the only good woman in her life.  “I… I think we should pack our things.  Leave.  It’s not safe here…”

“You’re right,” he frowned.  “But [Your name], it’s just going to get worse.  You… you have to promise me you’ll be by my side.  Always.”

“Always,” she nodded.  

“Good,” Michael said, pulling her into another hug.  He rested his head on her chin.  He would protect her until the end of time.  The thought of letting her go now made his insides boil.  She would never leave his side—never.  The only way she’d leave him is through death, and even then, he would bring her back. No matter what.  

[makeste]

BnHA Chapter 292: You Say Jeans

Previously on BnHA: Horikoshi was all “well anyway here’s that Touya reveal I foreshadowed like a million years ago, viva la 2020.” Dabi was all “hello world, I’ve killed 30 people and today I’m going to explain to you all why” before he proceeded to explain ABSOLUTELY NOTHING but everyone was so distracted by his tale of child abuse and hero conspiracies that they didn’t much seem to notice. Can’t Ya See-Kun’s Shark Friend was all “IS THIS THE END OF HERO SOCIETY AS WE KNOW IT”, and Horikoshi was all “STAY TUNED”, and then Dabi set himself on fire and leaped off of Machia’s back like the chaotic evil, I-just-bleached-all-my-brain-cells weird little fire man he is, ready to burn everyone to crispy bits before they could even react properly to his whole big revenge speech. Fortunately he did not succeed on account of THE RETURN OF THE JING, THE JOAT, BEST FUCKING JEANIST, back from the dead by popular demand in what critics are calling “the best fucking comeback since Jesus himself.”

Today on BnHA: Best Jeanist snatches up Machia and the rest of the League with his fiber steel cables before you can say “more like BEAST JEANIST amirite.” Dabi gets all worked up and lights Hadou on fire which is a real JERK MOVE, and is all “THIS RIGHT HERE IS ALSO ENDEAVOR’S FAULT”, which, NOT SUPER CONVINCED ON THAT, BUT OKAY. Anyway so then he burns up all the cables holding him which is crazeballs btw, and then he and Shouto start fighting, and so basically the whole thing is a literal hot mess and we’ll see how that goes. Meanwhile Tomura wakes up and summons some Noumus, and poor Jeanist has to deal with those on top of the still-attempting-to-rampage Gigantomachia, and everyone else is all “we can’t help you on account of we’re all half dead”, and so it’s looking really bad. And then -- and I can’t stress enough how much I don’t even have the faintest idea how to segue into this next part -- the chapter ends with Mirio!?! just sort of POPPING UP OUT OF THE GROUND all, “SURPRISE, BITCH”, and it literally was so surprising that I am still just kind of speechless. WELL-PLAYED, I GUESS, lol wtf.

lol okay so the first page in the RHA scan is just the “three musketeers” movie promo image that we all already saw a few days ago. but it does confirm that (a) it is indeed a movie, and (b) that it’s set for a summer 2021 release! how exciting

okay so now back to our special Dabi edition of Making a Murderer

“ray of hope” oh hell yes. SAVE US MR. JEANIST

I guess he had a TV in his private hero jet or something?

gotta say, “dammit Dabi” does not even remotely sound like Authentic Best Jeanist Dialogue to me though. gonna need Caleb to see to this. well but what do you guys think? does Best Jeanist curse?? I personally feel like he’s one of those guys who NEVER EVER swears no matter what, except under the most hilariously trifling circumstances. like he’s eating an avocado one day and he accidentally stains the cuffs of his beloved jostume green and he’s all “FUCK”

btw how fucking rich is Best Jeanist though that he has his own fucking plane? the thought just suddenly occurred to me, you know? like even Endeavor, whose agency has its own on-site luxury apartment suites for all of his interns, still drives around in a dinky little car that Bakugou has declared to be too small. which, I guess we know why he felt that way now, seeing as the guy he previously interned with apparently gets around in Jeans Force One

anyway so back to the part where Jeanist shows up to save the day!! YEAH JEANIST WOOOOO

ILU JEANIST YOU REALLY ARE THE BEST!! HUGS AND KISSES!!!

lmao we just saw Gigantomachia take out like a hundred guys not ten chapters ago. and Best Jeanist shows up and takes him down in like two seconds. HOW DO YOU LIKE THEM APPLES LEAGUE OF VILLAINS. BET YOU’RE WISHING YOU’D TAKEN HIS QUIRK NOW, AFO. GET FUCKED YOU OLD SPUD

KACCHAN IS SO HAPPY TO SEE HIM AWW

SIDE NOTE, IIDA, YOU AND I ARE GONNA HAVE WORDS LATER ABOUT YOU ACTUALLY AGREEING TO PUT HIM BACK DOWN. YOU DO UNDERSTAND THAT THIS CHILD IS STILL DRIPPING BLOOD ALL OVER THE PLACE FROM HIS MULTIPLE STAB WOUNDS, RIGHT? WAY TO ASSERT YOUR AUTHORITY THERE. I THOUGHT YOU WERE THE CLASS PRESIDENT NOT THE CLASS CLOWN, COME ON NOW

LMAO DABI IS FRANTICALLY TRYING TO DO THE PLOT MATH

SHOULDA CHECKED MORE CLOSELY MY GOOD MARK. LOOKS LIKE YOU MISSED THE “MADE IN CHINA” STICKER ON THE BOTTOM. YOU HAVE BEEN BAMBOOZLED. OR ACTUALLY, I GUESS THE MORE ACCURATE WORD HERE IS JAMBOOZLED, AHAHAHAHA. JEANS

HOLY SHIT DABI

I legit almost thought that was Tomura for a second. you two look so alike now with the white hair and the crazy eyes

meanwhile, Shouto is still crying and it’s a lot to take, you guys. lotta feels

ffff come on Jeanist you better do something awesome again here, the mood of the chapter is starting to slip now

YES, GOOD, THAT’LL WORK

WELL YOU TELL ME, SPINNER. I GUESS THAT MEANS BEST JEANIST IS OFFICIALLY THE STRONGEST CHARACTER IN THE SERIES NOW. SORRY I DON’T MAKE THE RULES

ffff now Spinner is trying to wake Tomura back up. nah, how’s about we not do that

OH MY GOD HADOU YESSSS

MY GIRL OUT HERE WITH THE “NO THANK YOU” BOUT TO CURBSTOMP THE BIG BAD WITH HER QUIRK KSFHLKLK WHO HERE HAD “HADOU SAVES THE DAY” ON YOUR WAR ARC BINGO CARDS, YOU LOVE TO SEE IT!!

HEY!!!!

fucking son of a... fffkfkff... someone please reassure me that fire isn’t Hadou’s weakness. someone. anyone. also could someone please dial an ambulance and send them to Horikoshi’s house. but not just yet. first I’m gonna need you to wait about fifteen minutes or so while I take care of some things

well all right then, Dabi. so you wanna go on then and explain to us all how this, too, is somehow Endeavor’s fault?

oh I see, you’ve decided that since he’s responsible for “creating” you, everyone you hurt and kill is in truth really being hurt and killed by him! well now, that sure is convenient as fuck I guess

(ETA: that’s a nice effect with the panel sides getting all warped by Dabi’s quirk though, just noticed that.)

amazing how quickly you used up that sympathy card my guy. Shouto please kick his ass, I’m fucking done lol, you can all sort out the rest in therapy later

CAN SOMEONE PLEASE DIAL BACK DEKU’S EMPATHY STATS JUST A LITTLE BIT, HOLY --

“TODOROKI-KUN IS HURT THE MOST”, HE SAYS, WITH HIS ARM BONES SHATTERED INTO LITTLE TOOTHPICK-SIZED PIECES. I MEAN, HE’S PROBABLY TALKING MORE ABOUT MENTAL ANGUISH GIVEN THE CONTEXT HERE, BUT STILL. THAT’S ENOUGH HEROICS FROM YOU ALREADY FOR ONE DAY

NOOO JEANIST

LOTS OF SMOKE IN THE AIR RIGHT ABOUT NOW AND MY BOY’S STILL DOWN A LUNG. GOD DAMMIT

“if the number one suffers a total loss here, this country will fall to pieces” well okay, real talk though, I think the “country falling to pieces” part is pretty much unavoidable at this juncture. you all are just gonna have to try your best to pick up those pieces after the fact and see what you can do with them. if I were you I’d be less worried about the number one’s reputation and more concerned with the half-dozen child soldier interns who are still on the field and very much at risk of being burned to death should you suffer that “total loss.” please try to keep it together here for them

OH FOR FUCK’S

I really thought RockLockRock was gonna come into play here. USE YOUR QUIRK TO LOCK THE ROPES IN PLACE YOU DIP!! if he seriously just sits there and does nothing when his quirk could be the deciding factor I am cancelling his useless ass cute kid or no cute kid shfkjdls

(ETA: is he even there?? did he and Manual just hightail it out of there?? “well good luck, children.”)

also, we’ll put this aside for now to perhaps speculate about later, but what’s with Tomura remembering his dad’s house yet again in that far right panel?? and being itchy again?? I still have yet to fully work out the psychological mechanisms at work as far as his itchiness goes, so I’ll admit this is intriguing to me. it seemed like it was connected to his decay quirk, but then why is it acting up again now. what is this lol

yuh oh

forgot about these guys. looks like these heroes aren’t having such a fun time

oh fucksticks

excuse me ma’am but I don’t like this. you do know that my kids are all there, right. all burnt and impaled and broken-boned and the like. well except for Iida. he’s fine still. BUT THAT DOESN’T MEAN I FEEL LIKE WATCHING HIM GET TORN APART BY FOUR HIGH ENDS, WTF

HORIKOSHI YOU MOTHERFUCKER I SWEAR TO GOD

god fucking... okay look. Horikoshi. you win, okay!? congratulations, you win, this is your show and we’re all just sitting here at your mercy. fine. go ahead and just kill off everyone ever, then!! what am I even gonna do about it. stop reading?? fuck

this whole thing really went from zero to fucked before I could even blink huh. I really thought this was gonna be a turning point chapter for the heroes. shows what I know I guess??

meanwhile this motherfucker is just SCREAMING

ngl, if I wasn’t currently terrified on account of things suddenly taking such a drastic turn for the worse, this would be the coolest fucking thing I’ve ever seen. Jeanist my man, I hype you up like it’s my job because you are the greatest fucking meme character in the history of time, but make no mistake, you are also highkey WORTH ALL THE HYPE AND THEN SOME

seriously, though. don’t fucking mind him you guys, he’s just standing here in the coolest pose of all time taking on Gigantomachia all alone with one fucking lung because the substance pumping through his veins is COLD-BLOODED LIQUID DENIM, and DENIM FEELS NO FEAR

Best Jeanist really needs to get his own theme song. -- oh my god I just finally thought of a title for this post. lmao and it’s the dumbest thing. omg

MEANWHILE THE TODOROKI BROS ARE OFF IN THEIR OWN DRAMATIC LITTLE FIRE WORLD

which one do you think is the Mario and which is the Luigi. well, but I mean, Dabi clearly thinks that he’s the Luigi though and that’s why he’s so mad. nobody wants to be Luigi. what a life

THAT’S IT, SHOUTO!! POINT OUT ALL OF HIS HYPOCRITICAL BULLSHIT, I WANT ANSWERS

JUST TO CLARIFY, IT’S THAT NATSU, NOT SOME OTHER NATSU!! SO WHAT DO YOU HAVE TO SAY FOR YOURSELF!!

OH, WELL IN THAT CASE

BUT OF COURSE. THAT WOULD MAKE IT ALL WORTHWHILE, holy shit. okay I’m just gonna go ahead and say it, Dabi is a piece of work. I really thought this arc would make him more sympathetic at long last, but it seems like it’s doing just the opposite?? this is like an anti-redemption arc. I don’t relish the thought of venturing into the fandom tags once I finish reading this lol

(ETA: well folks, I’ve done it. and actually it was pretty interesting because there are apparently like ten different things that people are mad about, and so it’s like. each post is a new adventure lmao.)

so Shouto is all “BRUH HAVE YOU COMPLETELY LOST IT” and Dabi is all “YES”, basically? like, he says he’s completely lost his feeling for anything. omg. but you were so sweet. how does that even happen

“finally I can kill you” okay for real what the heck is your damage bro?? can we not. I like Shouto just the way he is, un-killed

oh shit and now the Noumus are here

cue Bakugou diving in to save his mentor, STAB WOUNDS BE DAMNED!! actually it would make more sense for it to be Iida, but if Kacchan is really fixin’ to go full Shounen Dumbass here then he might as well go all out, y’know

-- unless of course, Deku decides to activate another quirk??

“last I checked, the main character of this series was still me” OH? WELL I SUPPOSE THAT IS TRUE, SO PRAY TELL, WHAT HAVE YOU GOT LEFT UP YOUR SLEEVE YOU SUICIDAL BRUSSELS SPROUT

fucking love how he’s all “HAHAHA WITH MY NEW QUIRKS I CAN STILL DO STUPID SHIT EVEN WITH MY ARMS AND LEGS GROUND TO A FINE POWDER” btw. what can I say. Deku gonna Deku

FMMFHDKUHK W H A T

HOLY SHIT. HOLY FUCKING SHIT. WHAT THE WHAT. QUE THE FUCK

(ETA: okay look, all the love in the world to the brave scanlators who take time out of their lives to translate the leaks every week just so we can read the chapter a couple of days early like the addicts we are. that said, translating Mirio’s signature “POWER!!” -- which was already written in English in the original scan -- to “POG-CHAMP” is just a whole new level of wtfuckery from them lmao. is the Lida person back at it again?? amazing.)

MIRIO!?!?! SHOWS UP TO SAVE THE DAY?!?! POGS HIMSELF UP OUT THE GROUND TO BEAT THE NOUMUS LIKE IT AIN’T NO THING. JUST LIKE WE ALL PREDICTED!? I’M SORRY, DID YOU NOT SEE THAT COMING?? YOU MEAN TO TELL ME YOUR DAILY HOROSCOPE FROM ASTROLOGY DOT COM DIDN’T HAVE THAT ONE IN THE CARDS?? WAS IT NOT OBVIOUS?? TODOROKIS PLUS BEST JEANIST EQUALS MIRIO??

hot damn. Tintin really saw the writing on the wall with the impending Dabi Discourse and was all “NOT SO FAST” lmao. “HERE’S A BRAND NEW THING FOR YOU ALL TO DISCOURSE ABOUT” MIRIO YOU WILD CHILD. YOU GLORIOUS THUG

MEANWHILE LET’S NOT FORGET WHAT MIRIO HAVING HIS POWERS BACK ACTUALLY IMPLIES. HOLY SHIT. SUDDENLY WE CUT BACK TO ALL MIGHT’S OFFICE, ALL THE WAY BACK AT UA. ERI BRANDISHES HER TOKOYAMI-GIFTED BUSTER SWORD, A DETERMINED GLEAM IN HER EYE. “I HEARD YOU WERE TRYING TO HAVE A GIRL POWER ARC WITHOUT ME.” OH. MY. GOD

[captaincravatthecapricious]

Things You Said When it was Over

Somewhere else, anger, a truce, and fight, and a happy ending

cw Jon's typical level of wanting to die but not actually wanting to die, fighting, mentions of vomit but no vomit, mentions of stabbing, mentions of stitches, losing time

Spoilers for 200

Let me know if you enjoyed!  Stop back in a week for another fic. I am accepting Things You Said prompt list prompts for Jon, Martin, and/or Tim!  I have two prompts in my inbox and both have been back written, but if you are wondering if I have ignored your prompt, chances are I have not!

Being unwound hurts.  Unwound.  Rewritten.  Removed.  Pulled and crumpled and twisted and extracted.  Spun in with a web of tapes.  

Masses of crinkling magnetic strips.  Unsure where voice, and web, and body, and blood intersect.  

Woven and ripped through that careful crevasse.  

And it hurts.  Much more than being stabbed.  With that awful scratch and skittering of strands being eaten by an eager, hungry machine.  

As time and entities and two people are chewed through and eaten with all the care of a faulty cassette player.  

It’s a shriek of static, the thrumming whine of machinery wound wrong.  The deafening scrabble of unknowable and terrible things going Elsewhere.  Loud enough that the explosion doesn’t even register.  Just a background whine to the overpowering white noise of the end of the world moving.  

And Jon wakes up.  

With a gasp.  Small.  And so painfully normal.  Like his POTS flaring up and waking up in the break room.  Again.  

That hasn’t happened since the world ended.  Since things went wrong.  

A strange thing to reminisce about.  POTS isn’t something he thought he’d miss.  And… well… he doesn’t?  Didn’t?  Doesn’t know the tense to use because there was that slim, slim chance that everything is actually okay.  The smallest, most fragile idea that things are back to that idyllic normal of the safehouse.  

He doesn't move for a while.  Focusing on breathing.  It's cold.  He isn't sure if the air is cold or if he's experiencing cold himself, or if this is just a new way of feeling pain.  He can't tell.  

His chest hurts, but he can't make himself check for blood.  Moving is still a little too beyond him.  

He wants to open his eyes, and look for Martin, but he doesn't want this to go away.  Because if he's alive, then Martin must be too, right?  Martin was much more likely to survive this.  Not being... you know, stabbed?  

But what if only Jon is somewhere else?  What if this is somewhere Martin couldn't follow?

In that case, Jon would rather not be alive at all.  If he doomed all the other universes because he couldn't go through with it in the end... if he gave it all up for Martin... he can't live with that.  He can't.  More than not wanting to, he just... Can't.  

Then again everything is... kind of numb so he can't actually be sure that Martin isn't there... but he is never that lucky.  Jon never gets the privilege of the best case scenario.  

Breathing still hurts.  But he doesn’t think it hurts in the “breathing around a knife” sort of way.  Then again, after bearing witness to the pain of Everyone on the planet, a single wound is hardly a drop in that ocean with all the other pain just Gone.  

“Jon!  Jon!  Can you hear me?”

He cracks his eyes open, and is met with the safe house ceiling.  Eyes struggling to focus, trying to find the source of the voice that certainly sounds like Martin, but Jon is too sore to move.  The force of it hitting him out of nowhere, without him even trying to lift a finger.  Senses filling the void of 7 billion people screaming with the voices of scars and joints and exhaustion and hunger.  

The best response he can manage is a wheezy groan.  

Wheezy?

Does he need his inhaler again?  Did Martin pack that even?  He hasn’t needed it… since… the world ended.  

Everything’s blurry.  Where did his glasses go?  

“Oh thank Christ!”  

Jon makes to sit up, but stars burst in his vision, and his arms give out.  

Martin’s hands fluttering around him.  Flying to his chest.  

Jon carefully reaches for his chest also.  There is a hole in his shirt.  Well.  A lot of holes, but he’s only looking for one.  

He feels tacky blood on its way to drying.  And as he carefully probes further, he finds a tidy line of stitches in slightly sticky thread, that he has a sinking suspicion is spider’s silk.  A final gift.  A thank you.  He wants to vomit.  

But Martin’s hand catches his, stopping him from potentially hurting himself.  Jon stretches his free hand to cup Martin’s cheek.  He finds it wet.  

It occurs to him that Martin has been crying.  Is crying?  Jon can’t tell.  His face is too far away to see more than the fuzzy outline.  (Not that Martin’s face is actually far away, Jon just has shit vision).  

Crying, present tense, Jon assesses, when Martin shakes with a suppressed, silenced sob.  “How could you do that Jon?  Fuck!  I mean… I knew you would.  But how could you do that?  You Lied to me.  You could have Died!  And I know you didn’t.  But Jon, I… I can’t.  You Promised me!  You Promised!  I…  How could you make me do that?  To you?  How could you?  I…  Jon, how could you?”  Martin’s crying too hard to get anything else out, and Jon still hasn’t managed to find enough breath and energy to speak.  

Jon whines.  Too exhausted to even sign.  

Martin’s hand on his chest.  Still trying to keep the blood in, even when there is no blood trying to get out anymore.  Martin’s usually warm hand icy (Jon hopes with fear, and not the Lonely, but he can’t know.  Firstly because he can’t break another promise, Secondly because he doesn’t think he can Know anymore, and thinking about trying makes his stomach drop.)  

And Jon just… can’t.  He rolls on his side away from Martin.  Curling up tightly.  Against the angry words and the guilt, and the rest of the guilt, and the pain in his body.  He’s doomed infinite worlds.  He’s betrayed everyone who ever cared about him… who he ever cared about.  He caused so much pain and he sat back and watched.  It seared through him the entire time of unknown and uncountable quantity that made up the apocalypse.  

All the words that he could never say, the guilt he could never express, all his own fear that had been just as much a meal for his god choking him.  

And he braces for the hate and the rest of the yelling, and everything else he deserves.  Everything he brought upon himself, one poor choice after another.  

Squeezes his eyes shut and wills himself gone and wills that if he doesn’t just vanish out of everything that Martin will get done yelling quick so maybe Jon can grovel some comfort out of him, even if it isn’t forgiveness, it will be better than the aching nothing that has been threatening to overtake him since he tasted the bitter words of the false statement.  

Martin more than deserves his anger, but Jon can’t take it.  He’s literally held together by spider silk.  He’s worn and tired and battered.  Guilt plunging deeper than Martin’s knife ever could.  

Not that he’s not grateful for this time with Martin.  Not that he doesn’t deserve every centimeter of guilt piling up on him.  He deserves all the hate.  And all the anger.  

He’s spineless, and he knows it.  He Almost did the right thing, but he couldn’t.  And he almost lost everything he cares about.  And now he probably still has.  And… and what?  What now?  Martin elected to stay with him despite it all, on one stupid, slim chance that things could be okay, but how can they be okay ever again, with this aching hole of fault and blame and regret and shame pulling at his core.  And he wants to be pulled open and rip it out.  He wants to enjoy what he has, but he can’t and Martin has every reason to hate him.  

He’s lost time.  

Martin’s calling his name, and his limbs are stiff and numb from bracing for an impact that never came.  

“Jon.  Christ.  Jon!  I’m… I… I didn’t mean to scare you.  I… I don’t hate you.  I love you, I promise.  …I’m… angry.  And we need to talk about this.  But… but I think that should wait until you’re up for talking, and I’m up for not crying for ya know, more than five minutes at a time.  ….And Fuck.  I just… well.  You owe me a good screaming at, too.  And Goddamn it, you were just doing what you thought was right… and you tried to tell us… tell me.  I’m not saying you were right, because you weren’t… but I’m not saying you were wrong.  And.  Well.  We’re both here.  Please.  I’m sorry for yelling.  Can I touch you?”

Jon nods jerkily.  Because he can’t stand the distance between them.  He doesn’t care if touch can get him hurt, he’d take hurt over the space between them.  

Martin holds him like he’s precious and Jon cries.  

Harder than he has in a very long time.  

And when he’s done he’s empty and shaking and filthy.  

They shower and sleep.  In the morning they can shout at each other for broken promises and wandering off, and not communicating enough, and not listening when the other is trying to communicate.  And one leaves in a huff, and one cries himself sick in the bathroom, and there is hugging and a trip to town for tea and figuring out if this is the universe they saved or one of the infinite they doomed.  And there are years for the aftershocks of those arguments to bounce around, losing energy in the form of heat: tea, hugs, hot showers, overeager workouts, kisses a little too rough, hugs a little too tight, a strange combination between fierce affection, and things a little too much to make them feel like they are accomplishing something.  

And they can grow whole once more.  

And they can grow old.  

[ssamie]

epilogue. “your girlfriend’s kinda hot”

kozume kenma x fem dazai!reader

(bsd x hq)

tw: mentions of suicide and suggestive themes + dirty jokes

masterlist.          suicide freak!

"hey uh, welcome to my stream i guess" he said as he spared the camera a quick glance "im not really playing tonight because an incident has recently occurred in this household" kenma said with a tired sigh 

nobody else knew it, but the said 'incident' was y/n accidentally setting half of their living room on fire 

the reason? apparently, she wanted to try burning herself to death in the furnace. obviously, it didn't work. and all that's left from that is more shit for kenma to clean up and a trip to yosano-san. 

kenma is stressed. and y/n is still alive. both of them are facing problems. 

"can you please wear a maid outfit- no."

kenma shook his head as he continued playing, glancing at the chat once in a while to read the veiwers' questions and comments

╭─━━━━━━━━━━━━─╮

user: how about cat ears?! 

user: ^^ cATBOY CATBOY CATBOY 

user: u suck at this game wtf

kuroo.tetsu: hey kenma ;) 

╰─━━━━━━━━━━━━─╯

"first of all, i do not suck at minecraft thank you very much" kenma scoffed 

"second of all, go away kuroo. im still mad at you" 

╭─━━━━━━━━━━━━─╮

user: LMFAOOO kuroo what did u do?? 💀💀

user: he probably broke kenma's pc 

user: PLSS he's the one kenma’s throwing shade at on twitter 

kuroo.tetsu: STOP THE SLANDER 😔✋🏼

user: rooster head lookin ass 

user: ^^ NOT THE HAIR 

kuroo.testsu: 😃😃

╰─━━━━━━━━━━━━─╯

kenma sighed as he continued building a cute little cottage. he was currently vibing, just building y/n a cute cottage for her to probably burn later on. 

and he decided it would be nice to go on stream since his oh-so-lovely girlfriend was still out for work. 

ah yes, kenma has somehow kept y/n alive all those years. 

barely. 

hence why his phone was being bombarded with messages from her, all of which being blurry selfies. 

the photos had her sporting a huge grin while atsushi panicked in the background. 

╭─━━━━━━━━━━━━─╮

user: ayo, ur phone's blowing up 

user: do you have a girlfriend? 

user: KODZUKEN LET ME SUCK UR TOES 😋😋🤩

user: ^ ayo chill 😃

╰─━━━━━━━━━━━━─╯

kenma simply ignored them and continued on with his task. all was going well until a loud slam was heard. his cat-like eyes widened as he heard a familiar voice singing from downstairs, it was undoubtedly y/n. 

kenma chuckled nervously and muted his mic. 

but of course, cute dumb catboy didn't actually mute his mic. haha <3

he ignored all the questions in the chat, all of them being  speculations that he has a girlfriend. which he does, but they simply did not need to know that <3

"kenma~" she yelled out "i have a surprise for you!!" she said, followed by menacing giggles. 

kenma glanced at the camera before hopping off his gaming chair and peeking his head out of the door. 

"y/n, im streaming!! stay down there!" he yelled out in panic 

"aw, you're playing hard to get aren't ya?" she chuckled 

kenma deadpanned as he saw her limping up the stairs, with her bandages torn and unravelled, same with her clothes. he didn't really think much of it since this is usually how she comes home. 

its most likely just due to work and/or another suicide attempt.

"so, kenma.. you'll never know what just happened to me today" she started off with a goofy grin 

"im streaming, atleast let me turn it off first-" 

she paid no mind to him as she peeled off her ruined coat and pointed to her poorly bandaged stomach

"i got stabbed!" 

"you got what?!"

kenma furrowed his brows as he immediately rushed over to his side, cradling her face and waist as he inspected her injuries

"are you okay, kitten?" he asked worriedly 

"yep, apparently it wasnt deep enough to be fatal" she sighed dejectedly 

"please don't be sad about that." kenma groaned "can you undress?" 

"ara ara~ whats this?" she cooed "you're getting real bold, kenma" she smirked at him 

she unbuttoned her shirt and started pulling down on her skirt "but since you asked so nicely-" 

kenma simply sighed and shook his head. "i was gonna prepare you a bath but now im considering leaving you here to die" 

"but the second option would've been better though" she smiled at him 

"oh my fucking god." 

kozume kenma. (22)

╰─▸ university student, stock trader, pro-gamer, youtuber, ceo of bouncing ball lpt. 

╰─▸ y/n's struggling boyfriend. definitely needs a pay after all he's been through.

╰─▸ currently panicking because his girlfriend got stabbed.

l/n y/n. (22)

╰─▸ operative/member of the armed detective agency. 

╰─▸ kenma's girlfriend. kinda dumb, very hot to compensate for it. still hasn't died yet. 

╰─▸ currently bleeding and wounded. also hoping for severe blood loss.

"kenma, did you know" she mused in a teasing tone "lack of sleep and too much stress could possibly lead to poor memory and lack of awareness" 

kenma looked up at her with a look of confusion. he was currently kneeled down before her while she was sat on the bed as he cleaned her wound up with a damp towel. 

"why are you telling me this?" he asked 

"i just thought it probably applied to you" she snickered 

"why? i didnt forget anything-" 

he cut himself off with a huge intake of air. he slowly turned his head to look at the screen which still had his stream going on. to make it worse, the camera was on and they were both clearly in the camera's field of view. 

to make things worse worse, his mic was on the whole time and the live chat was in shambles. 

"i hate it here" he sighed 

kenma laid his head on her lap as he continued on patching her up, honestly not caring that this whole scene was being recorded for thousands or millions of people to see. 

"well, atleast the internet could finally see my beauty before i die" she laughed 

she ran her fingers through kenma's hair as he grumbled under his breath. kenma was a pretty private person. he made sure not to overshare, given his current 'influencer' status. and he was planning on keeping his relationship a secret, though it seems he can't do that anymore. 

"might as well say hi" she shrugged 

so of course, she then decided to walk up to the camera looking utterly dishevelled and roughed up. 

for context, the newly wrapped bandages around her stomach was being stained already by a crimson red hue and it was only getting worse the more she moved, undoubtedly messing up her wound. 

"hi, im kenma's girlfriend and if i see you flirting with him i will make you regret it" she grinned 

"y/n!" kenma groaned from the bed "you're close to dying right now, turn the stream off" 

ignoring him, she proceeded to read the veiwers' comments, laughing at some of them while she joked around. 

╭─━━━━━━━━━━━━─╮

user: heLLO?!?! 

user: GE HAS A GIRLFRIEND NOOO

user: bruh, did i just hear that right? were you fuckin stabbed? 

user: ur kinda hot tho

╰─━━━━━━━━━━━━─╯

kenma furrowed his brows as he reluctantly walked up behind her, reading the comments with varying reactions 

╭─━━━━━━━━━━━━─╮

user: well damn, hot bloody girl comes in and suddenly im lesbian

user: kenma looks so done

kuroo.tetsu: hi y/n ;) 

user: HER NAME IS Y/N

╰─━━━━━━━━━━━━─╯

"jesus christ shut up, kuroo" kenma grumbled out with a sigh 

"yup! yup! im y/n, and no, i am not a criminal. i swear." she shook her head 

"i got an injury from my job, that's all." she cleared up 

╭─━━━━━━━━━━━━─╮

user: tangina nyo sana ol

user: MSKAKAKKA

user: THIS IS LOWKEY ICONIC

user: time to scratch another gamer boy off my possible bf list 😔

user: girl wtf happened to u

user: that's wack bro 🚶‍♀️

╰─━━━━━━━━━━━━─╯

"great question, random person from the internet!" she beamed "see, what happened was.." 

"i went on a certain mission and got severely injured. though, when i called for help nobody responded" she said 

kenma furrowed his brows at her words. "why didn't anybody respond?" he asked. she sighed and fiddled with her torn bandages, pouting her lips as she does so. 

"well, when i told them that i was finally on death's door, all they said to me was 'congratulations!' and all that.." she said "what's your take on that, hm?" she asked kenma 

"im not surprised" he said 

she grinned at his words and leaned in for a kiss. "you're so mean to me, kenma~" she whined 

she licked her lips as she held his blushing face in her hands, she nuzzled their noses as she leaned in closer to him. 

╭─━━━━━━━━━━━━─╮

kuroo.tetsu: oh shit 😳

user: we all know where this is heading ;) 

user: sana ol talaga punyemas 

user: AYO CHILL 

user: why we goin so fuckin fasstttt 😳

╰─━━━━━━━━━━━━─╯

kenma hastily turned the camera off as soon as y/n's lips touched his. 

"kitten, were still- hmph-" 

he was only silenced as she slipped her tongue in his mouth, smirking lightly as she ran her fingers through his hair 

"thanks babe." she said as she pulled away, giving him a soft peck on his cheek and a nod "anyways.." she hummed as she turned the camera on once again 

she looked through the chat while kenma slaps his face to get rid of his blush. 

╭─━━━━━━━━━━━━─╮

user: ur fuckin freaky 

kuroo.tetsu: oya oya 😼😼

user: MS MAAM I JUST MET U AND I LOVE U ALREADY WJABSJSJJS

user: not me blushing chiiilllleeeeee 🏃‍♀️

user: KENMA IS FLUSTERED

kuroo.tetsu: kenma, i didnt expect this from u 😼

user: im so fucking JEALOUS GRR😡

user: girl r u bleeding rn 😃

╰─━━━━━━━━━━━━─╯

upon reading a certain comment, she subconsciously grazed her fingers against her bandaged wound. her eyes slightly widening as she felt a concerning amount of wetness seeping through

she glanced at kenma who was still calming himself down and inspected her wound 

"oh my.." she muttered, though she couldn't help but let a smile slip through 

so like any normal person would do, she simply ignored her bleeding wound and the fact that she was getting a bit lightheaded. haha <3

"anyways, let's answer some questions!" she beamed 

╭─━━━━━━━━━━━━─╮

user: what's ur full name

user: what's ur job miss girl 

user: are you possibly looking for a gf, because i am more 

than willing to take the spot 🚶‍♀️

user: how did you meet?? 

╰─━━━━━━━━━━━━─╯

"alright, those are all very nice questions" she chuckled. kenma, who's now calmed down, sat down beside her to look at the chat. 

"first, im l/n y/n" she mused "nice to meet ya" 

"second im a detective! mhm, im cooler than your fathers" 

"third, it depends, belladonna" she cooed as she sent the camera flirty smirk "are you perhaps willing to join me in a double suicide?" 

"oh god.." kenma grumbled. he pouted at her and shook his head in disapproval. "don't flirt with random girls" he whined 

"why not?" 

"uh- because i am your beloved boyfriend, is that not good enough of a reason??" 

"... anyways, we met at a cafe way back in high school" she said with a smile "also, i asked him to join me on a double suicide" she said 

she was smiling and nodding as if it was the most normal thing in the world, all while kenma nods along 

╭─━━━━━━━━━━━━─╮

user: wtf are u okay 🗿

kuroo.tetsu: teenage romance 🤩

user: cute ❤️

user: im concerned ❤️

user: ur a detective?? cool

user: LMAOO I'LL GO ON A DOUBLE SEWER SLIDE 

WITH U MOMMY 😩😩😋

user: ^^ SAME 😩

user: CHOKE ME WITH THOSE BANDAGES MOMMAE 😩

user: u r still bleeding 🚶‍♀️        

╰─━━━━━━━━━━━━─╯

kenma was simply glaring at the chat as more compliments and flirtatious comments came flowing in, all of which were directed to his girlfriend. 

"this is why i didn't wanna let people know about you.." kenma grumbled 

"aww, why not?" she asked with a playful pout 

"people are flirting with you." he sighed "also, stop asking for my girlfriend's onlyfans! she doesn't even have one!" he snarled

╭─━━━━━━━━━━━━─╮

user: LMAOO CATBOY IS ANGRY 😩

user: y/n-senpai spit on me 😡😡

user: drop the onlyfans 

user: chupapi munyanyo 😩

╰─━━━━━━━━━━━━─╯

"anyways, i'd hate to ruin the mood" she chimed in with a sluggish giggle "but im so wet kenma" she whined out 

a menacing smirk was etched on her lips as kenma spluttered in response, a bright red hue covering his face almost instantly as he faced her with widened eyes 

"y-y/n! why would you say that?!" he whisper shouted 

"cuz i am" she whined out as she grabbed his hand and trailed it down her abdomen 

she faced the camera and gave them a shit-eating grin as kenma mumbled out incoherent words 

"y/n we should-" he cut himself off as he felt the concerning amount of blood drip down his whole arm 

kenma's face paled as he looked up to see her smiling like a kid in a candy store, completely unbothered. 

"y/n, you idiot! why didn't you tell me!" kenma exclaimed 

"um- my girlfriend is bleeding. excessively. so uh- bye i guess" it was all he said before hastily ending his stream and turning off his computer. 

"y/n, let's get you to a hospital" he said as he reached down to carry her away. though she simply slapped his hands off and closed her eyes. 

"nope. this is my time, kenma. don't ruin it for me" she said 

"you're fucking dying!!" 

"well, would you like to join me?" 

"no"

"damn." she muttered in response 

"so...wanna fuck?" she asked sheepishly 

"for the love of god-" 

this was so messy :/

[teawaffles]

The Fugitives from the Fire: Chapter 4

Note: Some language. Also, this is a long chapter!

Aside: The chapter numbering has been altered slightly — the previous chapter is now just Chapter 3, rather than Chapter 3 Part 1.

Lestrade seemed mortified that they hadn’t even managed to preserve the scene of the crime, for his shoulders quietly slumped.

“Have you managed to deduce anything so far?” he asked Sherlock.

The detective spoke languidly.

“First off, about the man in the room…… Let’s assume he was not only dead, but also murdered. Then if we take the straightforward explanation that it’d been blood on his back, he would’ve most likely been killed using a physical weapon; I’m thinking it could be either a stab or shot wound. As for potential suspects…… An obvious one would be the other fugitive. For motive, they could’ve had a simple falling-out, or maybe he wanted to silence his accomplice for fear of his own arrest.”

The inspector brooded over his analysis.

“A stab or shot wound, hmm. If it’s the former, the attacker would’ve needed to break into the room.”

“Yep, so the most promising candidate right now’s that ‘In the middle of the chaos from the fire, the man had been sniped through the window’.”

“If that’s the case, then does it mean the fire had been an act of arson?”

“It’s highly likely. Do we have a detailed description of the room’s furnishings?”

“For that, let’s ask the officer who witnessed the scene himself.”

Lestrade made a strangely grim expression, then looked in the distance, beckoning someone to come over. But when Sherlock saw him, his jaw dropped.

“……So it’s you.”

“Yeah. It’s me.”

It was Assistant Inspector Gregson. Sherlock was lost for words; before him, Gregson scowled and crossed his arms. He had been the officer who’d stood watch outside the room when the incident occurred, and the sole witness of the murder scene.

Now that he knew that, Sherlock finally understood why the man had been acting strange earlier.

“Ohh, I see. It’s no wonder you didn’t want to face us — the criminal you arrested had been killed before your very eyes.”

Sherlock smirked, and Gregson replied in frustration.

“I-I’m keenly aware of my responsibility in this. But at any rate, as a police officer, I have no reason to feel indebted to you.”

“I’m not accusing you of anything. But from what you said, that means you were the one who’d been in charge of the scene back then. Was there some reason why you chose to remain behind and stand watch?”

Gregson seemed to find it difficult to say aloud.

“……During the interrogation, a crowd had formed around the building; in order to calm them down, I’d wanted to mobilise all the officers at the scene with me. But we absolutely needed someone to keep watch over the fugitive, and I thought my personality wouldn’t be suited to placating the residents here, so I remained behind…… Though, now that I think about it, that had been a rather short-sighted judgement.”

Gregson narrowed his eyes, seemingly vexed at his own mistake, but Lestrade cut in.

“No, I think that was quite a logical decision. Moreover, to begin with, all of you were sent to such a difficult scene on my orders. So part of the blame rests with me as well.”

“N-No, you’re not at fault here, Inspector; it was all due to my carelessness.”

As Lestrade and his subordinate argued back and forth, Sherlock raised a hand to stop them.

“Sorry, but let’s talk about who’s to blame later. For now, our priority’s to share information, isn’t it?”

Annoyed at being spoken to like that by the detective he so detested, Gregson turned to face Lestrade.

“……Well then, what would you like to know, Inspector?”

“The furnishings in the room, please.”

Gregson’s gaze trailed upward as he recalled what he saw back then.

“About the interior, there wasn’t anything particularly unusual. The room was rectangular, with a small bed, a table and two chairs. As for entry points, there was a window on its north side, and the needlessly sturdy door opposite it. There wasn’t even a mirror nor a bathroom.”

Hearing that, Sherlock’s expression turned serious.

“So it was really just a place to sleep. Then, about the man who collapsed while handcuffed to the chair or something — what part of the room was he in?”

Gregson glared hatefully at him, and responded in a thorny tone.

“When I looked through the keyhole, he was on the floor right before my eyes. It was around one step away from the door. And his back — or more precisely, the area stretching from his back to somewhere around his waist — was stained the colour of blood.”

At this point, Sherlock asked a question.

“The victim’s hands were each cuffed to the chair’s armrests, right? If he’d still been in that state, I thought the chair would’ve been resting on his back.”

Furrowing his brows, Gregson crossed his arms.

“There was only so much I could see through the keyhole, so I didn’t manage to get a look at his entire body; but the chair was nowhere near his back. This is just my speculation, but I think he might’ve forcefully broken the armrests and escaped his bonds.”

“Was the chair really that shoddy?”

“……He didn’t put up much of a fight when we arrested him, so I got careless and used something close by to restrain him. On second thought, it was remiss of me to do so.”

Hearing Gregson’s reflection, Sherlock contemplated the fugitive’s exact movements.

“So that means he managed to get free of the chair, and move around the room with his hands still cuffed. In that case, wouldn’t he have made some noise? Though, the commotion from the residents back then might have drowned it out.”

“I don’t think so; even if there had been the sound of the chair breaking, I’m sure I would’ve noticed it. The problem is what happened after the fire began. Back then, I was in a panic, and both the inside and outside of the building were in such an uproar that I didn’t have the attention to notice any noises coming from the room.”

Mortified, Gregson lowered his gaze once again, but Sherlock continued in a calm voice.

“So the arrested fugitive didn’t make his move until the fire broke out. Was there anything in the room that could’ve been used as a weapon?”

“Of course, we thoroughly inspected the room before the interrogation began. From the start, that was the room the man himself had stayed in, so we searched it down to the very corners in case he had hidden anything inside. But we didn’t find anything that could’ve been used as a weapon.”

Gregson said so with certainty, but Sherlock was still not convinced.

“Obviously there were things that could’ve been used to kill or wound, now weren’t there? If he’d broken the wooden armrests, the pieces could have been fashioned into a stake. Even if he didn’t do that, he could’ve broken off wood from the floor or the wall, and created a weapon in the same way.”

“……It sounds like you’re saying he could’ve taken advantage of the commotion from the fire to commit suicide. But even if, as you suggested, he tried to kill himself with a sharp object, normally one would try to cut their neck — it’s hard to believe he would’ve stabbed himself with enough force for the weapon to pierce through his back.”

Gregson had made a reasonable argument; but even as he concurred, Sherlock put forward a different perspective.

“However, let’s say he did break off some wood from the floor or wall, and pared it into a sharp point: what if, when he was moving around, he accidentally fell onto it? It’s not clear whether it was deliberate or unintentional, but I’m thinking it was a fatal wound.”

Sherlock was still pursuing the idea that the criminal had died by his own hand. Hearing that, for a moment, Gregson forgot his animosity and pondered. Then, he shook his head in a gentle denial.

“I don’t think that’s the case either. If it were, there would’ve been some sharp object and bloodstains left in the room. But from what I saw through the keyhole, the walls and floor were clean, and there’d been nothing resembling bloodstains. There were some tiny splatters of something like blood around the body, as well as little puddles of the same substance; but in terms of noticeable bloodstains, that was all I saw.”

“——Only that? If he’d bled out enough for his back to be dyed red, there should’ve been an equivalent amount of blood splattered all around him.”

Sherlock tilted his head. Gregson also thought it strange, and knitted his brows.

“It gets stranger and stranger the more I think about it. It doesn’t seem to be the case that the weapon staunched the wound when he was stabbed…… Maybe he’s anaemic?”

“…………”

It wasn’t clear whether Gregson had been joking, or if that had been unintentional. With a thoughtful look, Sherlock kept his mouth shut.

Then Lestrade, who’d been listening attentively thus far, offered his own theory.

“From what I’ve heard, it seems this is neither a suicide nor an accident. Then what if he was just pretending to be dead? Perhaps the other fugitive had started the fire at some prearranged time. Then the man who’d been caught pretended to be dead, and waited for the officer outside to leave before escaping. Maybe he purposely collapsed in front of the door, in order to have Gregson witness it. As for the blood, he could’ve used some red paint to fake it.”

But Sherlock disputed that view.

“It’s not a bad theory, but then the question remains as to how he managed to splatter the paint in that way. Moreover, he probably wanted to escape the inn; but the other officers had secured the area around the building, right?”

Hearing that, Gregson scowled.

“I don’t like agreeing with you…… But certainly, I didn’t receive any reports that he’d left the room.”

Sherlock looked at the charred ruins of the inn.

“Then he hadn’t managed to escape, so it’s highly likely that he’s been burnt to a crisp in there. Just wondering, were there any secret passages in the room?”

Astonished, Gregson chuckled.

“No way; it’s not like this is a secret base. Besides, we checked the room thoroughly: even if there had been an escape route, we would’ve found it.”

“If we’re talking about escape routes, he could have also broken through the walls or the floor, couldn’t he?”

Gregson pondered over Lestrade’s question for a second, then shook his head gently.

“Certainly, the inn was old, and also not maintained very well: various parts of the walls and floor were decaying, and I even saw some tiny holes where they had rotted through. If we’d taken the time and effort, I think it would’ve been possible to break through them. Still, just like the chair, I’m sure I would’ve caught the sound of the walls or floorboards being stripped off — I was standing right in front of the room. Moreover, if he only started his work after I left, then he would’ve been caught in the blaze before he managed to complete his escape.”

“……I see. The fire seems to have spread pretty fast, and it would’ve been impossible for him to finish the passage right away, now wouldn’t it?” Lestrade agreed.

Then, Sherlock clapped his hands together.

“With that, we’ve eliminated the theory that he faked his death and escaped. We can’t be fully certain until the debris has been searched; but at present, by the process of elimination, there are no longer any obstacles to the theory that this is a locked-room murder, yes?”

Sherlock weaved together the various sources of information as he made that assertion, and Lestrade concurred.

“In that case, just as I’d thought, we’ll need to search for the other fugitive. But a long time has passed since the fire broke out: wouldn’t he have already escaped?”

“About that, Inspector: I have one piece of good news.”

With a proud expression, Gregson continued.

“We know that the other fugitive has burns on his face. Among the guests who evacuated the inn during the fire, there were three men with such injuries.”

“Really? ……But, couldn’t they just be regular people who got caught in the fire?”

Lestrade was doubtful. Immediately, Sherlock responded.

“Not necessarily; no one had entered or left the inn both before and after the fire, so naturally, the arsonist must’ve been inside the building……. Is that what you wanted to say, Mr Assistant Inspector?”

“……Yeah.”

Having had the role of explaining the situation stolen from him, Gregson responded blandly.

An assistant inspector who detested detectives, and the detective himself who enjoyed that antipathy. Hearing their usual exchange, Lestrade broke into a wry smile.

“In that case, we should meet the three and talk to them.”

“Of course; they’ve been gathered at a different location, so…… Hmm?”

Just as Gregson was about to show him the way, he suddenly frowned. Once again, the crowd that had amassed near the scene was starting to make a commotion.

“Oi, you shitty bobbies! There’s soot all over the place, and it’s a pain in the ass!”

“This must be all your doing, oi!”

“Don’t think you can just go home scot-free after all you’ve done here!”

Now that the fire had been put out, it seemed the locals’ anger towards the Yard had gradually been rekindled; all at once, the residents of the slums began to kick up a fuss. As foul-mouthed insults were launched from one group, a torrent of frustration exploded from another in a chain reaction — in a flash, Lestrade and the others were stranded in a storm of fury.

Their enmity had surged out of the blue, and Lestrade was clearly on edge.

“This isn’t good. We’ll have to calm them down and try to explain that we’ve been only pursuing the criminals.”

“That won't work: they were already annoyed when the Yard arrived, and then that fire broke out — it’s more than enough to make them furious.”

Sherlock calmly analysed the situation, but Gregson’s reply was steeped in frustration.

“Then what should we do? At this rate, we’ll have a real fight on our hands.”

Still, Sherlock was unruffled.

“The answer’s clear and simple: get on with it and find the real culprit. Once we reveal the actual cause of the fire, they should calm down. Our job hasn’t changed — it’s just that the time limit has morphed into something we can see.”

“……So we have until their anger reaches a boiling point?”

At once, Lestrade understood what needed to be done. He heaved one big sigh, and put on his game face once again.

“Gregson: show Holmes to the suspects. I’ll work with the others to appease the crowd. While we’re keeping a lid on the situation, I want you two to solve the case together.”

“‘Eh?’”

Both Gregson and Sherlock exclaimed in perfect harmony. Then they looked at one another; The detective lowered his gaze slightly as he thought it through, then let out a thin exhale.

“So it’s come to this.”

“Oi, I could see you giving up after thinking about a lot of things, you know.”

Gregson glared at him in disapproval. Meanwhile, Lestrade placed a hand on each of their shoulders.

“Alright: I’m counting on you both.”

Leaving just those reassuring words behind, he left gallantly towards the crowd. Eloquently, the inspector had entrusted the entire investigation to them, and Sherlock’s eyes were filled with resignation as he watched the man depart.

“Now this has gotten troublesome,” he mumbled.

“Hmm? Are you talking about the case? Or about the fact that we’re working together?”

“No, no, I’m talking about how this has become a rather odd ‘riddle’.”

Gregson’s ears had been sharp, but Sherlock parried his retort with diplomacy.

——“Hang in there, Sherlock!”

Having been paired up with a troublesome man, in a glum Sherlock’s mind, it felt as though John’s encouraging cheers were ringing out.

Translator’s notes

Mysteries and ‘riddles’

You might have noticed that Sherlock and Lestrade sometimes talk about ‘riddles’. The original text differentiates between 謎 and〝謎〟(notice the quotes) — the word itself means mystery/riddle, but the quoted version is used to refer to the mysteries that are (possibly) linked to the Lord of Crime. For instance, at the end of Forbidden Games (Book 2 Story 1), William also talks about the ‘riddles’ he sets for Sherlock.

I chose to translate the quoted version as ‘riddles’, since I think the word ‘mystery’ implies that the case might not have a solution; in contrast, I feel the word ’riddle’ suggests that the mystery has a solution, since it was intentionally created by William in the first place.

[ashisstrange]

MASTERLIST

ʷᵒʳᵈˢ: ².²ᵏ

ᵖᵃⁱʳⁱⁿᵍ: ᶜʰⁱˡᵈᵉ ˣ ʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ

ᵒᵗʰᵉʳ ᵗᵃᵍˢ: ʰᵘʳᵗ/ᶜᵒᵐᶠᵒʳᵗ, ˢˡⁱᵍʰᵗ ᵃⁿᵍˢᵗ, ʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ ⁱⁿˢᵉʳᵗ, ʲᵘˢᵗ ᵍⁱᵛᵉ ʰⁱᵐ ᵃ ᵇʳᵉᵃᵏ ᵃˡʳᵉᵃᵈʸ

✥﹤┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈﹥✥

Its late in the night, far too late for your liking. The moon is glistening in the sky with it's stars, providing a small sheen of light in your dark room, passing through the curtains. It's not unusual for Tartaglia to get home late considering his occupation, but you never got used to the worry pooling in ur gut each hour that passes without him by your side.

What if he's gotten incredibly hurt and you're not there to help? What if one day he doesn't return home? Nontheless you always prepare extra dinner and make the bed, even on nights he doesn't return. You never had the idea of coming home to loving arms and warm dinner as a kid, so it felt as if it's your duty to make sure Tartaglia never suffers that feeling.

The feeling of a stab in the chest as you enter the dark house, eerily silent. You'd always pad your way to the kitchen silently and snag a sandwich before going to bed in your room. Your living situation had never been inherently bad, but the people you lived with, the people any other person would've called their parents, seemed to make everything unbearable.

That is why when you turned 18 you moved out to Liyue harbor, and your close friend Zhongli was there every step of the way. You had run into him once during a trip at the age of 16, and you had kept contact through letters ever since.

The man, at the time, told you he was 23, but he never really seemed to age. You brushed it off, probably overthinking it. That is the same person that introduced you to Childe, it was quite a sudden occurence, but you'll be forever grateful.

You needed a place to stay and your friend told you that his friend wouldnt mind a roommate, and that he was rarely found home anyways. You took up the offer, not knowing that your roommate would be one of the fatui harbingers.

You were off to a rocky start, the man refusing to talk to you the very few times he was at the appartment. Later though, he seemed to warm up to you, ever so slowly.

You don't remember how your relationship ever came to be, it's not like you've ever explicitly put a label to it. There was just a moment where you felt as if everything changed. What you had wasn't just merely a romantic relationship, it was more than that. To provide each other comfort and love like no one else had ever done before. Unconditional love that didnt seem to falter, even during the moments where you parted ways.

You smile to yourself, remeniscing the days you barely talked, and the days you spent helping him when he was wounded. There was one particular night he just crashed into your bed in the middle of the night, even though he usually only used the couch.

He had clung to you as if you were his only lifeline, sleeping soundlessly as you laid in shock. The shock died down after a few seconds though, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. Not long after you fell asleep too, and since that night Tartaglia had never slept on the couch ever again.

You check th clock. 4:37 Am, way too late to be up, but it's not like you'd sleep regardless. You'd probably get an ear full from Zhongli during your scheduled lunch the next day, but that, folks, is something for future you to deal with.

Suddenly you heard the turning of keys in a lock, and a door opening and slamming shut. That can only be one person. Then you heard a crash coming from the living room, making you shoot up. You slipped on your slippers as you quickly shuffled your way across the room and out into the living room.

You flicked on the light and were met by Tartaglia, slumped against the back of the couch. His bow was discarded to the side and he was breathing heavily. Sluggishly, his eyes opened to meet yours, his gaze seemed distant, almost empty.

You snapped out of your trance, rushing to pull his arm over your shoulder. You managed to drag him across the living room, over to the bathroom, settling him down on the closed lid of the toilet. You held up your hands, as if to say 'wait here'. You didn't dare break the silence that hung over you, scared that you'd set him off or something.

He didn't seem to protest, so you left to go get the med kit from the kitchen, and a clean rag to clean off the blood splattered across his skin. Was it his? That was a question that, regardless if you could guess the answer, would be left unanswered. As always.

He met your eyes when you returned, seeking for some contact. He knew how much you hated blood. The stickyness, the sickening smell and the thought of what must have happened that involved getting covered in blood. You always helped him regardless, and he thanked you dearly for that. After a long day he simply could not do it himself.

It makes him feel helpless, but you're always right by his side to make him feel better. You wet the rag, cleaning off his calloused hands. His face too had some traces of blood, but those were easily wiped away as well.

After some emergency stitches and a bandage around his bicep you motioned for him to stand up, letting him know that the treatment was done. He was still quite weak, but not as much as before.

"Thanks," he croaked, the first words you shared in 2 days. His voice sounded devoid of any confidence. He seemed very fragile, but you didn't comment it.

"No worries," You send him a reassuring smile, helping him get up and over to the bedroom. You see him visibly relax once he's in bed, snuggling into the sheets. He immediately rolls over towards you when he feels the matress dip, wrapping his arms around your waist.

His face is buried in between your shoulder blades, and it's nearly impossible for you to turn over and look at him. He only does that when he's in a bad mood, and you stop putting in effort to try and face him.

"Bad day?" He hums, the vibrations thrumming against your back. He seems tense, but you're careful not to trigger him too much. The last thing you want is to stress him out even more, knowing he has a lot on his plate already.

After a while, when you've started nodding away assuming he fell asleep you suddenly feel movement behind you. You open your eyes as you hear a small sniffle. It's almost as if you could hear your hart shatter from beneath your ribs. He probably thought you were asleep too.

His arms had relaxed, allowing you to turn around easily. His ocean blue eyes met yours, big with surprise, even though they seemed almost grey-ish in the faint moonlight. All you could do is smile at him as you opened his arms, for him to rely on you.

And that's exactly what he did. qHe fell into your chest, sniffling and crying freely as you drew patterns on his back, your other hand running through his hair. You could almost feel his clogged nose by the way he was having trouble breathing. After a bit his sobbing eased down to mere sniffles as you handed him a handkerchief to blow out his nose.

He used to have a lot of trouble with that, relying on people. Upon meeting him he imediately sparked you as the type of person that didnt bother anyone with his personal feelings, bottling them up for only him to experience. You could see how it physically and mentally ate away at him

That's why one day you faced him, and opened your arms. He had quirked up a brow, confused at what you were insinuating. "Rely on me." You said, and he chuckled, assuming it was a joke.

When you didn't move he realised you weren't kidding. Eventually you wrapped your arms around him, the man tense in your grip. "You don't seem to want to bug anyone else with your problems, so you can rely on me instead,"

You had no idea ho much those words had meant to him, they stuck by him like gum under a shoe. It felt good, he admitted, to have someone to rely on.

"I'm so sorry," He croaks, and he sounds nearly as small as he did in the bathroom half an hour ago, his eyes red with tears. Seeing him like that made your chest clench in pain, knowing the pain the world has caused him.

"There's nothing for you to apologise for," he seems to be taken aback by your comment, maybe even... offended?

"N-no way, i'm clearly a burden to you and a waste of yo-" you shut him up by pressing a kiss to his lips, making his eyes widen.

"You have nothing to apologize for because i am here for you, willingly. I promised to help you with whatever you're going through didn't i," He nods in defeat, leaning back into you. The way he cuddles up to you almost seems domestic, forgetting the fact that he kills people for a living.

"You need to take a break sweetie, otherwise you'll just keep eating yourself up," You stroke a lock of hair out of his face that nearly seemed glued by the stickyness of his tears. He furrows his brows, creating deep creases in between them.

"You know i can't, there's way too much for me to do," He looks up at you, as if he's offended you brought it up in the first place. You press your thumb in between his brows, easing up the crease and stopping him from furrowing.

"We both know it isn't a crime to take a week off, considering you've never used your days off," He tries to butt in, but you shush him before he can start. "And before you start about 'your duties', there's enough harbingers at the fatui, it's not like they can't send Scaramouche to deal with your business for a bit,"

He frowns again, but you resume in stroking his hair. "Besides, if they don't allow you to take off, which i highly doubt, they'll have me to deal with," You smirk. His eyes crinkle up as he musters a small smile. You're not the most intimidating person on the planet, but it's the sentiment that matters.

"What would i even do in that week though," he huffs, fiddling with the back of your shirt as he seems deep in thought.

"Well i had just the idea," you chuckle as he looks at you in disbelief. His eyes are still a bleary red, but you can tell he's a lot less tense than earlier. "And that is..." He continues, his tone ever so curious.

"Say, how long has it been since you've been back home," he visibly tenses up, not meeting your eyes. You know its a sensetive topic, but it'd really do him good to go back home to see his family.

"I dont know, nearly two years," his voice is merely above a whisper, bless the fact that the room is so silent you'd be able to hear a pin drop. You adjust your position so that he's laying against you more comfortably, going back to stroking through his hair.

"Well i thought we could book it to shnezhynaiya for a week or two, spend some time with your family," He lays still against you, as if he'd break if he moved. "After all, they've only heard about me through letters," you chuckle.

You hold him a little tighter, leaning into the warmth. "Wouldn't you like that?" You say in his ear, just above a whisper. That seems to break him, the realisation dawning on him that he'd get to see his family again.  Tears run down his face once again, only this time they're not caused by distress. He nods as he buries his face back into your shoulder.

You stroke his back as you continue talking about your trip, soothing him. Later, when he's stopped crying, he talks along. He tells you about his parents, about how his mother used to be there for him through everything. About how he used to go ice fishing with his father in the winters, and proudly mention he caught a very big fish once.

He also tells you about his siblings, about how he cares for every single one of them very dearly. He also tells you about the spots he wants to visit with you he used to hang out at.

He tells you all about it, and for the first time in a while you see him smile. Really, genuinely smile. The kind of smile where his eyes crinkle up and he bares his teeth. It's an incredibly endearing sight, and u make a mental note to never forget it.

Suddenly he yawns. "You must be exhausted," you chuckle as you both adjust your positions, ready to fall asleep. He only hums as he keeps his eyes shut, pulling up his blanket. His breathing evens out as he falls asleep.

You smile as you look at his resting face, snuggling closer to him as you think; god, how did i get this lucky

[whump-town]

The Blood That Haunts Me

post-scratch fic

no pairings

Hotch has a bad heart

word count 6k

In Savannah Hayes’ experience, Saturday’s are typically for parents with screaming toddlers looking for emergency medicine to soothe their fears about whatever toy their child has shoved up their nose or to ask an aged nurse what to do with this croup that just won’t go away. It’s scrapes and bruises from a fender bender with kids just learning to drive and roughly two to three broken arms from seven-year-olds learning to ride a bike without training wheels. With any luck, there will be only one underage kid in a banana bag and the college kids will be in and out for stitches and gone as quickly as they come. There’s always the regulars - older men and women that buzz with the opportunity to be out of their houses even if it’s to withstand the pain of stitches and staples on their thin skin.

Rarely has Savannah faced a Saturday where she knew someone being pulled into her emergency room. Virginia isn’t the biggest place but her friends are young and healthy and Saturdays are for squirmy children and stupid teenagers. When she sees him with his ankles stretched out over the end of the stretcher and a large hand weakly fighting with the paramedic to hold the oxygen mask over her face she’s certain of his identity. She’s good with faces and his is unmistakable.

“You shouldn’t be on break yet, baby.” Derek picks up on the first ring, the sound of Hank babbling loudly in the background making him chuckle deeply as he moves. The phone pinched between his shoulder and cheek, she can hear him pick up their son. Talking back to the baby.

Savannah is sitting in the emergency room, camped out behind the desk as she catalogs patient information. Despite it being a Saturday, the hospital is startlingly pretty timid (knock on wood). When there is a new patient the clatter is noticed. So when Hotch came in, supine but weakly fighting against the oxygen mask pulled down over his mouth, Savannah noticed. Even drugged and combative, he’s distinctly himself.

And as Savannah tells Derek, describes the man she’s quite fond of, he doesn’t believe her. Hotch doesn’t go to the hospital and no one’s heard from him in forever, he’s probably not even in Virginia. Garcia said Jack started high school last fall and if they were home and situated again with no contact then… Well, what are they supposed to do? “Derek--” Savannah can hear the pitch change in his voice. Derek goes from dismissive to genuinely worried and now pulling at strings because no one has talked to Hotch in months (nearly two years) and the idea of seeing him now is terrifying. “I am positive that it’s Hotch.” She leans around the monitor, frowning as she watches some nurses she knows buzz around him. Throwing out words she can’t make out entirely but she can see what they’re doing and it makes her heart jump a little to hear medications that they put orders out for.

Hotch makes a noise - it has to be loud for her to hear it from the distance she’s at. “Baby,” she stands and it makes her heart do a weird clenching thing when she catches a glimpse at his face. Sees that he’s crying and clearly upset. “Derek, he’s getting all kinds of agitated. I’m gonna call you back in a second, okay?” She doesn’t wait for an answer and tosses her phone down on her chair before calling out for one of the nurses she recognizes with a wave.

The nurse smiles when she sees Savannah - she’s got a particular gift with patients like Hotch.

“I know this one,” Savannah says, approaching the bed. “What have you got?”

Savannah doesn’t have all the details on the accident that occurred in 2009 with George Foyet. It’s not Derek’s story to tell and it’s not exactly the easiest one to bring into conversation. She’s aware of vague things like his collapse a few years later from scar tissue that caused him to bleed internally and that Hotch's ex-wife was killed by a serial killer. Mostly, she knows that Hotch is dependable and secure and that when he went into witness protection nearly two years ago his absence had crushed them all. Even if the likes of Emily Prentiss and her just as stubborn as hell husband would never admit it.

“Mild tachycardia and respiratory depression -” The nurse tells her about Hotch’s underactive thyroid, something he’s supposed to take medication for ever since the stabbing damaged the organs function. How it’s throwing his heart into tachycardia and it’s getting worse, not responding to medicine yet.

Savannah may not know what happened with George Foyet but she knows Derek regards Hotch as this infallible wall of a man. One she’s come to understand he thinks can’t ever fall down and one that, despite how fondly he’ll speak about him, annoys the hell out of him. Personally, Savannah thinks Aaron Hotchner is just a sweet man. She likes him and his little quirks. He’s quite the odd pairing when he gets together with Emily and Dave but they’re a funny crowd.

What she isn’t expecting is the mess of scars littering his chest. Experience allows her to date some of them by sight - their distinct shape and coloration clustering them into the same time frame and she can’t imagine how someone gets over half a dozen wounds like that at once. They don’t end there. On his right side, there’s a nearly faded out of existence scar from a chest tube. A puncture wound- something blunt she’d assumed by way of its roundness. Even a few rougher-looking, jagged scars that she assumes are shrapnel because Derek has nearly identical ones.

Savannah is a few moments too late to prevent Hotch from being pulled down by a sedative but he’s fighting it, blinking slowly to try and remain awake. “Hey,” she greets softly, turning his wrist over so she can see IV sight in his elbow. It’s secure and there’s nothing special to note but it’s going to bruise. “Long time no see Agent Hotchner.” She squeezes his fingers, smiling at the recognition behind his eyes even if his lips only form a silent mouthed version of her name.

With a smile - remembering the first time they met and how gently he’d taken her hand before shaking his head and admonishing “everyone calls me Hotch” - she reaches down and fixes his hair. He’s let it grow out since he left the BAU. Derek had been livid when he got word that Hotch wasn’t coming back despite the fact that he too left the unit. “How are you feeling, Hotch? Can I call someone?”

His eyes slide shut and for a moment she thinks he’s given in, sunk down low where his pain and his ailments can’t get him. He taps a finger against her palm and she understands he’s still here. “Morgan?” he rasps.

She nods, “Derek already knows you’re here. I imagine he’ll have the whole crew here in no time.” He grimaces, cracking an eye open to give her a look she understands entirely. She’s only ever faced their smothering worry once when Hank was born but she knows it’s a lot. It’s hard to imagine they’re going to somehow be less present and attuned with him than they with her. He’s not looking forward to that and it’s understandable. “Don’t worry,” she promises, “I’ll have your back when they get here.”

He nods, dull eyes sinking back under his eyelids. She holds his hand until she’s certain he’s fallen asleep.

“So,” the nurse asks softly. She moves and tubes and wires around so that they’re not laying against his bare skin. Folding the blankets over Hotch’s hips and leaving his chest bare. He’s still tachycardic, breathing laboriously through inflamed lungs. “How do you know this guy?”

Savannah sits down on the edge of the bed, taking Hotch’s hand into her own. Working her thumb in gentle, hypnotic motions between his knuckles and smiling sadly at the relieved rasping sigh that leaves his parted pale lips. “Family,” she answers because she’s not sure what the answer really is but in some way… yeah, family.

The nurse nods, going about what needs to be done while Savannah stays on the edge of the bed. She does what she can until she clears her throat. “Hey,” the nurse smiles, sympathetic to the soft faraway look in Savannah’s eyes. “Doctor Hamilton admitted him so I need to take him up to the--”

Savannah stands immediately, nodding. “Yeah,” she lays his hand back down on his chest. Stepping away from the bed, “sorry.” She shakes her head, stepping back as the brakes come up and he’s set into motion. “Second floor?” Savannah assumes.

The nurse nods, “he’ll be in room one seventeen. I’ll let the desk know he’s one of yours.”

Savannah watches him disappear down the hall, met at the mouth of the hall by other nurses and staff nodding as they take him to the right floor. She’d been there long enough to see his heart monitor and to identify the ventricular tachycardia plaguing him. He’ll likely need a pacemaker and she’s already racing to a solution. He’ll need to be monitored after surgery but can go home. Hank’s a little too small still but they have the guest room. If Derek cleans up the mess he lets Hank make in there--

Savannah’s heart sinks to the floor and she turns around. Hit with the sudden memory of the last event she saw Hotch at and remembers slowly that Hotch has a son and someone needs to find him.

All morning something had been off, Hotch didn’t have to say it for Jack to know. The oatmeal was made oddly, Hotch’s hands trembling so much he’d gotten the measurements wrong. Too much brown sugar but Jack hadn’t seemed to mind it being too sweet. He’d been distracted by his oatmeal and unalarmed by signs he hasn’t learned to be aware of. If Hotch had gotten up late or made breakfast and then laid down on the couch then Jack would have noticed. Bad days come frequently and like most storms look and sound distinct.

High anxiety days are an early rise, the sound of lights being turned on and off as Hotch fails to get comfortable in any room. Coming out of his room and finding his father curled up on the couch. His knees drawn up and a pillow pressed into his chest, a heated blanket wrapped around him like a cocoon. It’s lightly tiptoeing around the house so Hotch stays asleep and avoids him once he does move and allows his aching back to stretch out. Jack knows to keep his music down and to call Jessica if Hotch locks himself away.

Though time has dampened it’s severity it’s not impossible to find his father trying to work through untreated PTSD or ride out an intense wave of depression. Leaving him immobile or desperate for a distraction. Jack knows those things. He understands them and, like the blasting siren that screams out before a tornado, Jack knows when to duck for cover and ride out the storm.

But Jack had no idea what a heart attack would look like. What to expect or even if a heart attack had been what he’d seen.

Hands over his ears, Jack Hotchner sinks into the emotionless walls surrounding him. Trying to find the place past his body where everything ceases to exist. Insistently, against his will, he’s pulled back to a decade ago. To the sound of gunshots tearing through the only home he’d ever known. To Emily wiping his tears away with the palm of her hand, their backs to the carnage his father created in the fall. To a hospital not unlike this one where his father was patched up - open wounds covered and drugs numbing his rough edges - until Jack had finally been able to see him. The feeling of his father’s chest, broad and forever, solid as he’d curled his legs into his lap. His father cried softly as he explained what happened, what he’d done.

“Mommy isn’t coming home, buddy.”

Pinching his eyes shut, Jack rocks himself back and forth. He can’t go there. Not alone. He can’t go back to Foyet. He’s too old for those silly games. Too old for nightmares and monsters hiding under his bed. Unaware of the ones still crawling out of his father’s closet, wrapping their cold fingers around his ankle and threatening to pull him into the darkness with them.

You’re never too old for monsters.

Spencer had found the time to confide in Jack about being raised by a mentally ill single mother. His intent was to demonstrate to Jack that not only did he understand the pre-teens intense fury with his father but that the emotions would abate and Jack would have only a few moments to decide what to do next. How Spencer had turned eighteen and had to have his mother committed to an institution. A decision that haunted him but that he ultimately understood it was simply the only option. One day, Spencer clarified, Jack would understand the way his father worked.

Until that moment, Jack had been more or less paying attention. When it came to all things Uncle Spence, Jack typically has a longer attention span and all the patience in the world but the moment Jack realizes this was a one-on-one sort of deal he was done. He wanted out. But Reid stuttered. That one day, and the words had come out so quickly if he’d had a chance Reid would have stopped them, Jack would realize just what that meant. He’d look at his father and all the magic of his childish love would fall away and Jack would be left with his father’s bare bones. And it would be terrifying but, often, that’s all love is: all the bits bleached down to their true forms.

He gets it now, okay? The nutty academic parent with bouts of deep depression, an obsession with their jobs, and no idea how to say I love you like everyone else. He gets the comparison now. Can he be done? He wants to go home. He’s done learning this stupid lesson about love or whatever bullshit this is supposed to represent. When does it end? It’s going to end, right?

Derek Morgan falters in the doorway, stalled like an engine as he stands at the edge of the messy room. Hank hums in Derek’s left ear, bouncing his foot against Derek’s hip as he stands stationary and trying to wrap his head around everything happening. It’s overwhelming. Derek hasn’t seen Hotch in two years and if the sight of him alone - laid out right here - doesn’t bring its own intense wave of anger and longing then the sight of his uncovered chest is it’s own thing as well.

Hotch is on the bed, curled slightly to his right with the blankets leaving his pale chilled skin open. Even with his face turned into the pillow behind his head, he looks deathly pale in comparison to the white bedspread. Entirely too limp, too still as he lays there pulling in breaths audible over the hiss of the canal running under his nose. Nearly drowned out, consumed by the natural hums of the hospital and constant motion of the monitors to his left and the dissatisfied beep of the blood-pressure cuff around his right arm.

Savannah warned him of what he’d find once he got inside in case she got called away to a patient when he got there. She told him the buzz around the staff, what Hotch’s cardiologist thought and it stung to hear her warn him ahead of time what Hotch looked like, worse, she imagined, than what Derek was imaging. Weaker, she’d said as if the word was some sort of betrayal. He’s weak and Derek can’t push him and he’d wanted to advocate for himself but he couldn’t.

With tears in his eyes, he’d promised to be on his best behavior and Derek realized just how awful he and Hotch could be towards one another. How everyone sees it. He’d wondered if… Well, if Hotch hated him for it. They’d been close once. Partners. Haley used to joke she half expected he’d steal Aaron away from her. That old joke used to make Jason laugh so hard, the two of them together were the cause of all his worry and stress. Now…

Well, now Derek is standing in a room that can’t be more than a 120-foot space with far too much equipment in it feeling like he’s never been so far away from Hotch. So disconnected.

Hotch makes a soft sound from the bed, twitching his nose and flexing his fingers. There are more drugs than blood in him, keeping him weak and tired and unable to pick apart his surroundings. Hazy eyes blink open, peeled apart like they each weigh twenty pounds, and the simple act of keeping them open burns. He can’t make out the world around him very well but he sees the empty chairs on his left and the expanse of white all around. The hospital, he knows, and no one showed up.

Maybe they finally got wise and are leaving him to his own devices. Leaving him to rot where he won’t be missed. Sinking into the fibers of the bed and disappearing. They’ll stop pumping him so full of drugs and just let him wilt away. He wants it, craves the nothing he knows he’ll find. No masks or deception or this anger he feels burning and rearing its ugly head. Just nothing.

Derek steps into the room, sniffling to draw in some noise before he steps into Hotch’s line of sight. Hoping not to startle him, as he clears his throat, meeting Hotch’s gaze for only a moment looking down at his shoes. “Just me and Hank,” he offers. He tucks his hands into his pockets. He can feel Hotch still looking at him, hearing those painstakingly slow, labored breaths. He wishes he hadn’t come. To escape all this restless vulnerability.

Hotch’s eyes sink back shut, pale lips parting to mumbling, “Derek,” under his breath. Savannah told him Hotch wouldn’t even likely know he was there. The drugs are affecting his mental facilities, sedating him to keep him calm while they run tests. When he can remember what’s happening he’s scared and when he can’t… he has a baseline memory that hardly differentiates friend from foe. It’s the latter of which Savannah needs him to be aware of because Hotch’s heart can’t handle the stress. His mind is too clouded and his body too weak, he just needs someone to hold his hand. Someone to distract him.

Derek’s expecting a conversation. For Hotch to say something. To apologize for running off or to pay Hank some sort of mind. There’s not even a stiff silence, Hotch looks so weak, so pliant Derek isn’t sure he can even speak. He realizes that despite all the hefty warnings, despite everything that he was told he still walked into this room expecting Aaron Hotchner. He wanted, he needed the man in the suit, with that stern scowl, and gravelly voice. He’d needed the mask and instead he got the man. The man without the armor, just blood.

And it scares him.

It scares Derek that Hotch can’t put up his shields, that he can’t hide and play their cat and mouse game of anger and misunderstanding. They only have blind defeat.

Derek sits down in the visitor’s chair, shushing Hank when he squirms with agitation. Hank immediately starts touching everything in sight. Reaching and leaning dangerously out of Morgan’s lap, to touch the bed and smack his hand against the rail. A sound that makes Hotch’s eyes peel open to slivers before they shut again, unbothered. “Don’t touch that,” Derek pulls Hank into his lap, redirecting his attention.

He knows, from the low whine Hank lets out, that this isn’t going to work for very long. Mercifully, there’s a knock at the door and Savannah peeks her head in. Waving at Hank who fights his limbs out of Derek’s hold to be placed on the floor so he can propel his body in the direction of his mother.

“Hello baby,” Savannah scoops him right up. Grinning at that way he toddles, that quick toddler pace because he doesn’t know how to pump the brakes. How to set himself into motion that isn’t just guided by leaning forward and running.

Derek stands from his chair, clearing his throat and glancing down at Hotch before looking back to his wife and son.

Savannah can see his hesitation, his worry. “Why don’t we go to the cafeteria and get a snack? Hmm?” She jogs Hank up in her arms and he brightens at the offering - knowing pudding or a cookie is coming his way. “Derek?” She offers out her hand to him, “come on. I’ll explain everything to you downstairs.”

“Ugh--” all he can see is Hotch shivering. His skin slick with sweat from the strain on his body but the way he’s curled into the side. Trying to produce warmth where it isn’t. “Just give me a second.” Derek knows he can’t just throw the blanket over Hotch and he works himself up, gets upset just thinking about the mass of awful scars keeping his friend held together. All the old scars are bare for anyone and everyone to see. If Hotch had the presence of mind for it, he’d be upset.

With a gentleness born with great amounts of stress, Derek gently works the lower half of the blanket over Hotch’s leg. He folds the lower half over and hesitates, stares at Hotch, and wonders just how much he’s allowed. Hotch is cold and Derek knows that means his arms too but that crosses their line. They’re never spoken out loud, only shot through glances about trust and touch but Hotch is asleep or maybe lost to his haze of drugs (and Derek’s not really sure if there’s a difference between those two things). So, he picks up Hotch’s hand, swallowing against the uncomfortable swell of his throat when he feels just how cold the other man’s skin is. He tucks Hotch’s hand carefully against his chest.

Hotch’s face twitches, a grimace that makes him jerk his head but he doesn’t move his hand so Derek leaves it. Carefully, still watching and waiting for some explosive reaction but none come. Derek turns the heated blanket up to the highest setting, making sure even Hotch’s shoulders are covered. Tucking the blanket just under his chin.

Hotch groans from the back of his throat, a startling noise that comes with blinding panic. His eyes fly open, darting around the room and to Derek but not seeing. Derek can’t tell if it’s pain or fear but the machine over his shoulder picks up pace, reflecting Hotch’s distress. Hotch swallows thickly, mouth opening and eyes flicking around the room. Twisting, fighting his body in a futile battle where he loses no matter the outcome. Kicking out and dislodging blankets as he’s blinded by his pain.

“Step back Derek.” Derek just stands there, frozen. Savannah grabs him by the arm and pulls him back, allowing other people to come into the room. “He’s okay,” she mumbles, eyes glued to Hotch. He’s fighting blindly, anything and everything. His heart can’t take it, her eyes flick from his bare skin to the monitors. To the staff also taking note. “Derek, we can’t be in here.”

They pull the crash cart close, preparing vials of medicine before their eyes.

“What’re they--” Derek can’t move. He stands there watching them move blankets out of the way. Listening as they pull open a drawer and settle a machine on top and he knows what it is. Doesn’t need to be told what’s happening next. “Savannah.” He stumbles back, shaking his head. The machine wines, a high-pitched squeal that makes Derek’s heart pick up.

He doesn’t see, doesn’t watch.

He’s standing in the hall when the machine fires off. Can close his eyes but can’t unhear the sound of Hotch’s low groan, a punched-out sound but he’s alive. Still pulling in breaths.

“Morgan?”

He was still a baby the last time Morgan saw him. Quickly trying to climb to his father’s height but every bit as graceful as a colt, and angry. Angry with his father for falling into this same repeated history and questioning what he knew. How much of his father’s strength is something else? What does he really know about the man who raised him? Because he got himself a chunk of history, started to understand the man he’d always blindly turned to. His hero. Instead, he got glimpses, stories about the boy his mother knew and he could no longer recognize him.

But standing here now is a whole teenager. Blonde hair grown out and even taller, built unmistakably like his father with all height in his legs and pale.

“Jack.” Morgan stumbles back when Jack collides into him, long arms wrapping around him. “Oh my God,” he whispers. “When the hell did you get so big?” He’s standing there, a whole armful of the kid he used to give piggyback rides to.

Jack pulls away and wipes his eyes, furiously wipes his eyes so that Morgan can unsee the tears streaming down his face. “My-- My dad,” he asks. “Did you see him?” Jack looks at the room, alerted by the sounds coming from within, but Morgan steps in the way. “Morgan is he-- is he in there?” Jack worms his way out of Morgan’s arms, a whole tangle of long limbs.

Hotch would be proud to know Jack is exactly like him, real scrappy. A lot of fight for such a lanky person.

“Jack,” Morgan pulls him away from the door. Despite how much he wants to go to Hotch too, that’s not where Jack should be. That’s not what Jack should see. “Come on, kid. We can’t go in there. Come on.” The fight leaves him easily enough, he’s really just a kid standing there looking for someone to tell him what to do. Anyone to point him where he’s supposed to be.

Jack still wants to turn, as if pulled by strings.

“I called Rossi,” Morgan offers. Something to distract him, something good. “Everyone else? Reid and Garcia and Emily? They’re on their way, okay?” And even with loaded promises Jack can’t find the nerve to respond. Their names used to be a solace. Someone to call when he needs help with his math homework. To show up with books on whatever cool thing he’s into this week. His family.

People he hasn’t seen in forever.

They do come.

Hank’s ambling about, babbling to Morgan as he pulls his father around the waiting room. It’s his excited squeal that alerts them to the other’s arrival. To Reid holding the door open so the others can pass. The pile-up that happens, shocked inhales and silence as they stand there and look at the carnage. At Jack’s tear-stained face and Morgan going where Hank pulls but empty, fearful.

“Uncle Dave?” Jack stands up, wiping at his face with the back of his hand.

Dave smiles, “hey kiddo.” He doesn’t argue against the armful of Jack he gets, just closes him up. “Christ,” Dave whispers. “You’re a giant.”

“What is he feeding you?” Jack turns around and finds Emily and all she can do is laugh as he hugs her too. Finds herself all wrapped up in his long arms. “I’m going to give him a piece of my mind,” she whispers, “letting you get so big.” She squeezes him tight, cups the back of his head.

There’s not much more time for reunions, never much time for anything.

“Aaron Hotchner?”

Never get used to this part either. The sitting. The waiting. The calling.

Savannah was right about the tachycardia.

“With your permission - ” and it’s important that detail be added. That Hotch can’t make this decision for himself anymore and it’s resting entirely on the shoulders of Jessica or Dave and Emily alternatively. That doesn’t mean it’s not like a kick to the gut. A cruel taunt. “We would like to prepare him for the surgery now while he’s stable.” Stable? Is that what he is? Laying back there with defibrillator pads on his chest and sedated to the point that Morgan wasn’t sure Hotch could even recognize him.

Jack sniffles, ducking his head and whispering to Emily. Attached to her hip, clinging to her. She shakes her head and brushes his hair back, “it doesn’t work like that, Jack.” Jack’s lower lip trembles and it breaks Emily’s heart so she interrupts the doctors. Despite the voice at the back of her head telling her this isn’t a good idea. Despite the sour twist in her stomach. The way she knows Hotch wouldn’t want this. “I know there are strict rules,” and that alone should be enough to know they’re likely to be shot down. “Is there any chance he can go back before the surgery? This is his son, he’s fifteen. He’ll be sixteen soon. You’re hardly breaking the rules at all.”

Soon is a bit of a stretch. Jack’s an October baby.

The doctor looks at Jack and sighs like this is really putting him off but nods. “Yeah, quickly. Five minutes, do you understand? You can’t be back there long,”

And Jack thinks he’s won something grand. That he’ll be faced with the same mirage Morgan was expecting. His dad will be sitting back there tall and strong, probably just tired like he’s sick. But he takes one step into the room and wishes he hadn’t come. Hadn’t asked.

They haven’t removed the defibrillator pads on his chest just pulled a blanket over his stomach but that only minimally covers the damage. There are still visibly warped bullet wounds and jagged surgical scars to be seen. But Dave has seen all that. He’d been there to watch the blood spray out when the scar on Hotch’s shoulder took place. Shouted as the gunshot sprayed out and Hotch grunted, being sent back into the wall behind him. But that was… God, that was a lifetime ago when Hotch was just a kid.

Dave turns behind him and sees Jack frozen in the doorway, eyes wide. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

Jack nods but he can hardly move, can’t force himself to move further into the room. He’s seen his father shirtless, not enough times to really gather anything but he’s seen the damage of years of this job has caused. But this is different. Jack isn’t six, isn’t watching him shave. He’s standing there watching him pull in laborious breaths, struggling to keep living.

“You know,” Rossi sits down in the visitor’s chair. “When you were born he cried so hard that Gideon had to call me.” He looks back at Jack, watching his face for some inclination that he’s going to either come into the room or run away. “Haley was exhausted but… She was beautiful, always was. No matter if she was showing up at the office to haul your father home by the ear in her pajamas or crying her make-up off in the waiting room waiting for your knucklehead father to get out of surgery.”

But he’s missed the point.

He chances a glance to Hotch, watching his pale face twist in discomfort. “You were born at eleven at night and by that point I was already in bed and done for the night by ten kind of guy.” He can still remember sighing and almost ignoring his phone when it had gone off. “I got to the hospital and your dad was sitting on the floor just outside the room, sobbing so hard I thought he’d pass out.” It’s still pretty surprising he didn’t pass out. “Didn’t think he could do it. You were so small, small, and pink and screaming your little head off.”

Jack huffs, smiling as he kicks at the ground. Looking everywhere but his father or Dave.

“But I picked him up,” grabbed him by his shirt and forced him to his feet. Managing the tough love Gideon couldn’t bring himself to enforce. “I don’t think he stopped crying until he fell asleep. Just sitting there with you in his arms crying.” Rossi sighs shakes his head. “Honestly, you were tiny. Had a-- Had a thing with your heart and…” Rossi had held Jack after Hotch and Haley finally managed to catch some sleep. A nurse had figured he or Gideon one had to be a grandfather, why else would they be there? They’d sat there with Jack for about an hour just gushing over how small and cute he was. Trying to keep the baby content so Haley could get some sleep.

Drowsily his voice cuts through the silence, nothing but a ghost of a whisper. “An atrial septal defect.” It’s all he can manage but it’s enough to get their attention. Jack had been born with an atrial septal defect and they knew about it in advance just after Haley’s pregnancy got tricky. It was just a tiny little hole in his atrium, closed before he was a whole year old. That doesn’t mean it didn’t scare the hell out of them first. Leave them to check his bassinet every few hours. To make sure he was okay, still breathing.

“The doctor said I shouldn’t play soccer because of it.” Jack manages a few steps and comes to the very end of the bed. His fingers just barely touching the bed frame. “But you let me play anyways.”

Hotch clears his throat, shakes his head. “I didn’t. Jessica did.” He grimaces, shifting uselessly to find a position that doesn’t hurt. “Said-- She said if you were anything like me you’d find a way.” He’s talked himself breathless, gasping and fighting to breathe. “Might as well-- Might as well make it easy on myself. Just let you do it.” So he had. He signed Jack up for soccer despite his own fears and went to every match he could. Every practice. Until he was the only parent paying attention.

He coughs softly, setting off a weight and ache in his lungs. “Jessica--” he cuts himself off, coughing until he holds his breath and fists the sheets in his hand to keep from still.

Jack looks away, fixes his eyes on the floor.

Dave calls it. Hotch won’t admit he’s not okay and Dave would venture Jack has that same stubborn-streak, doesn’t want to think that Hotch isn’t okay.

“Come on,” Dave motions for Jack to follow him. “Times up, better get out of here before they kick us out.” Five or so minutes, that’s all they had and that’s passed. “You’ll be fine,” Dave promises.

He struggles to get his breath, to say something coherent. “Wait,” he grabs Dave’s shirt. Hospitals are so cold, they’re scary and miserable and he doesn’t want to be here. He wants to go home. “I’m sorry,” he manages. “I’m sorry.”

Dave pulls Jack on, can’t leave him behind, and can’t stay any longer.

“What did he mean?” Jack asks. He keeps looking back, looking over his shoulder to the room. “Why’d he say that?” He has to run to keep up with Dave’s pace. “Dave, please. Why’d he say he was sorry?”

Dave stops and just stands for a moment, looking at the hall before them. “He’s scared,” Dave answers, finally. “He’s just scared, that’s all.”

He doesn't think he’s going to make it. That’s the horrible ugly truth. That’s why he apologized. Just in case.

“Come on,” Dave holds out his arm. Smiles a smile that doesn't even try to make it to his eyes and wraps an arm around Jack. “It’s going to be okay. You know that?”

Jack looks back over his shoulder once more, to the room. He doesn’t buy it for a second but he nods anyway. “Course,” he answers.

“Good. That’s good.”