#seriously I had like 30 patch and pin ideas

[the-witchhunter]

You know, if Spider Punk gets people interested in punk, good. We all have to start somewhere and Hobie is a damn good representation. If he is what makes a person go “hey, this seems cool, I should check it out.” good. That’s one more person interested in punk and wanting to get into it. 

That being said, if you are new to punk(hi baby punks!) some things to keep in mind

1. Punk philosophy is largely anti-authoritarian. Individual and even punk communities differ on specifics, and some are more political than others, but the core themes tend to be resisting those who would control and oppress us, and supporting and including people in your community

2. Punk fashion SHOULD NOT BE EXPENSIVE. A lot of fashion companies will try and sell you jackets for a couple hundred bucks, but that’s just corporations trying to cash in on a subculture. A big part of Punk and its history is DIY because Punk should be open to everyone and putting that behind a fashion paywall is just not punk. You don’t even need to be dressing punk to BE punk, but thrift your clothes. Make stencils and use spray paint or bleach to give it a pattern. Use old jeans to make patches. Buy your spikes and studs in bulk and go wild. Turn your old t shirt that doesn't fit anymore into a back patch. Go crazy with some safety pins. You can make more with $30 than you can buy from a designer for $300. And skill is not needed, frankly if it looks a little wonky it makes it look more punk

3. Dental floss makes for good thread for sewing on patches. It’s good for thick, stylistic stitches and is both cheap and durable. Don’t know why I made this its own point but it’s one of the most common tricks for punk DIY besides taking paint to scraps of fabric to make a patch. Honestly, if you want to know how to do more, just ask other punks how they made their vests and jackets, they’ll probably be happy enough to tell you

4. Punk philosophy and music is closely related. The communities evolved around the music scene so it is closely linked. Give some punk bands a try if you haven't already. There’s a bunch of subgenres so you’ll probably find something you like. From OG “proto punk” where the sound was still developing into what we call punk, to pop punk, anarco punk, and folk punk. There are people who say you can’t be punk if you don’t listen to the music, and there’s a whole conversation to be had about all that, but it’s just a good idea to try listening to some punk music

5, Nazis fuck off

6. Seriously, nazis fuck off. There’s a whole history behind it and why we associate skinhead punks with neo nazis. Largely we’ve made it clear we don’t want nazis in our community and the street punk music scene that nazi punks became associated with has made strides to separate themselves from that.

7. Be cool and respectful of people regardless of religion, ethnicity, race, sexuality, gender, background, etc. Solidarity with our community is important and all sorts are welcome. Gatekeeping isn’t cool and frankly women and minorities have done a lot for punk as a whole. Respect for everyone

[angellbarnes]

sparks flying

day 1 - firefighter AU

pairing: firefighter!Bucky x reader

summary: a real life firefighter to crush on? say less. with you’re clumsiness you’ll definitely be needing him around a lot more

word count: 1.3k

warnings: just idiots with crushes fluff, (small) fires

A/N: so this is officially day 1 of my 30 day writing challenge! I’ve been gone from writing for wayyy too long. I’ve had a lot going on in life and in my head tbh but now I’m ready to saddle up again and hopefully this will be a good n fun way to bring back my writing! I think this is a cute one to start the challenge with. please like, comment and reblog, it means so so much🤍

•••

A couple of weeks ago…

“Wanda, stop!” you yell. “You know how ticklish I am!” You’re fighting against her as she pins you down. Nat is cackling beside you, laughing at your struggling.

“Say it! Admit you like him!” She cries.

“No! I’ll never!” You cry back.

A relaxed girls night seemed like a good idea before truth or dare was involved, and it led to both Nat and Wanda forcing you to admit your schoolgirl crush on Bucky, a firefighter in your neighbourhood.

“Then I won’t stop.” You’re fighting for breath at this point, before you kick your leg perfectly, or unfortunately, to knock over a candle on the side. It falls to the carpet and everyone’s eyes widen.

“Shit!” You exclaim. You grab a pillow and hit it over the flames repeatedly. You exhale heavily when it’s out. You turn and see Wanda and Nat smirking as Nat is holding her phone to her ear. “Wha- Nat, no!” You say sternly, you can see her plan smug on her face. She holds her finger up at you as she starts speaking.

“Hey, Steve, we just had a small fire over here, maybe you should come over to make sure it’s been put out properly… Yeah, just a candle, nothing major… Ok, thanks babe. Oh, and you should probably bring Bucky too, if he’s around. Cool, see you soon.” She hangs up.

“Seriously?” You deadpan.

When they arrive, you’re sitting on the sofa with Wanda and Nat opens the door. Of course, behind Steve, Bucky comes striding in too. Wanda wiggles her eyebrows at you, poorly hiding her grin. You simply roll your eyes.

“What’ve we got here then?” Steve remarks, blankly staring and, frankly being unimpressed, at the charred patch of carpet beneath you.

“I just knocked over a candle. It is absolutely no big deal and it’s clearly out.” You reply, tight lipped. Avoiding eye contact with the looming brunet beside him, as if you’d drop dead if you were to. “What would we do without you two though?” You sarcastically add.

“What even happened?” Bucky asks, and you finally look at him, in the eyes, as you silently die inside while searching for a reason other than the truth.

“Wanda pushed me into it, and then it fell on the carpet.” Bucky raises a suspicious brow at your answer.

“Ok,” Steve says. “Just maybe try to keep candles upright from now on. We should go, Buck, and get to that bar before it’s too busy.”

“You guys are going out? We’ll come with!” Nat jumps up and pulls Wanda from the sofa, stretching her hands out to you next.

“I would, but I’ve got an early shift tomorrow. A 6am start is not what I want on less than 7 hours of sleep.” You reply, honestly this time.

“Ugh, fine.” Nat whines. Everyone starts to head out as you hold the door. You say bye to everyone and wish them a good night as Bucky hangs back.

“Shame you can’t come tonight, maybe next time?” He leans in the doorway and you think your heart actually skips a beat.

“Yeah, sounds good.” You can’t help but smile as he flashes a cheeky grin. He begins walking out and you admire his frame. It’s a shame he can’t put out the fire roaring inside of you right now.

“Have a fun shift tomorrow!” He calls out.

“Oh, I will.” You shut the door and roll your eyes and the feelings he gives you.

Now…

“Ugh, stupid fucking lights!” You growl and the flickering bulb above you, which eventually goes out altogether. You know it’s not the lightbulb because you’ve only just changed it. The same thing happens in your bedroom and the kitchen. Determined, you set out to find the light panel for your flat, which is somewhere in the building. You finally find it and open it up. You see your flat number and, beneath it, some switches and screws and wires you’ve never encountered before.

“Fuck it.” You take out your screwdriver and just head into this unknown world. You try a few switches and screws when a couple of sparks fly. You jump back with a slight shriek. Your eyes widen and your hand covers your mouth as the sparks turn into a small flame.

“Nooo. no, no, no, no, no, shit, shit, shit.”

The flame begins to grow and you look around, with no luck, for some sort of fire extinguisher. The nearest thing is a fire alarm. Brilliant. 10 in the evening and now the whole building is going to hate you.

“For fucks sake.” You press the alarm and run away from the scene of the crime before people can see you near it.

Everyone is stood outside, cold and annoyed, when the engines arrive. With everyone in gear it’s hard to tell who’s going in. You’re all waiting for a short while before they tell everyone it’s taken care of and you can start heading back in. The firefighters begin taking off their helmets and masks. You notice Steve and – shit – Bucky. You don’t have time to get away before he spots you too. He heads over.

“Hey. I’m starting to get used to this building now.” He comments. You chuckle lightly. “I’m worried you’re heading towards becoming an arsonist.” Your eyes go wide.

“How did you know it was me?” You whisper-yell. His eyes widen in response, brows furrowing.

“We didn’t. I was just making a joke, but now I’m actually concerned about you.” He folds his arms and laughs as you slap your hand to your face in stupidity.

“Oh. Shit. Uhh, there’s no getting out of this, is there? Oh god, are you meant to arrest me or something? Ok, here’s the plan: I never said or did anything. Sound good?” You reason, realising you’re just continuing your idiocy. He just smiles in response before nodding his head toward the building.

“Should I walk you up? Just to make sure you don’t start any more fires.” He quips and you scoff, rolling your eyes and playfully elbowing him.

“Fine. Just to make sure.”

“You do realise I’m going to be telling Steve about this?” Bucky says when you reach your door. “And then he’ll tell Nat, who will then tell Wanda.” He smirks, leaning against the doorway again after you step inside. God, you love a man in uniform. Although, you’d like him more out of it–

“Oh, I’m prepared for that.” You look back into your apartment, and at that patch of carpet from last time, and why it happened. “Did you want to come in?”

“Uhh…” He begins. You mentally scold yourself. He clearly doesn’t want to. But then again, he’s still in uniform.

“Oh, shit, are you still on duty? Or you don’t want to. Either way, it’s fine. Sorry for asking.” You ramble.

“No, no, that’s not it. I’m actually technically finished now. I was just going to ask if you wanted to go to that bar now? As long as you don’t have another early shift tomorrow, that is.” You light up inside at his question, and can’t help the grin that spreads across your lips.

“Yes! Yeah, that sounds nice, I mean.” You shyly look at the floor and notice he steps forwards. He lifts your chin with his finger so you’re looking into his eyes.

“Uh, there’s actually something else I wanted to ask you…” He begins, and you both instinctively begin to lean into one another.

“Yeah?” You reply softly. The corner of his mouth lifts.

“Can I kiss you?” He whispers into your lips and your breath hitches.

“Yes.” You pull him into you with his jacket and his lips press against yours. Suddenly, another fire is igniting. But a much, much better kind. The kiss is deep and long-awaited, both of you trying to get closer, while already being flush against one other. Finally you part, chuckling and biting your lip.

“I’ve wanted to do that for so long.”

“Thank god for my lack of my electrician knowledge, huh?”

[arrowflier]

Oh! I have a prompt. Post-series, Mickey and Carl: destructive due, but like juuuust this side of legal and definitely morally ambiguous. Extra points if Mickey is protective because family's family

Okay this is definitely not what you were expecting but I was having such a hard time thinking of something for them to do lol. Of course now that I've done it I have more logical ideas but too late.😅

“Fuck, get the fucking—”

“I’m gettin it, I’m gettin it!”

“Well get it faster, I’m bleeding the fuck out over here!”

Ian groaned at the loud voices coming from the kitchen, stirring awake from where he had been napping on the living room sofa.

“The fuck is going on?” he muttered, sitting up and wiping at his dry eyes. The voices in the other room had stopped, but were replaced by loud crashes and slamming drawers as someone searched for something and, apparently, didn’t find it quickly enough.

Ian pushed himself to his feet, letting the scratchy hand-made blanket slide to the floor, and wandered on stiff legs toward the noise.

When he got far enough to see into the kitchen, he stopped and rubbed his eyes again, just to make sure he wasn’t having some kind of weird dream.

“Mickey?” Ian asked, and his husband started, looking both surprised and guilty. Mickey sat at the kitchen table, clutching a raggedy old towel around one hand, a towel that was slowly turning red with seeping blood.

“Mickey, what happened?” Ian prodded, waking up enough to realize that this was not a normal thing for a Sunday evening. They had come by the house for a late lunch and stayed to hang out and play with Franny—how had Mickey ended up bleeding in the kitchen when Ian had left him just 30 minutes ago to shut his eyes for a spell?

“Nothin’, man, everything’s fine,” Mickey answered gruffly, not meeting Ian’s eyes. “Just had a little incident, it’s all good.”

“All good?” Ian repeated, voice rising. “Mickey, you’re bleeding!”

His husband just shrugged.

“I mean, yeah, but not that bad.”

Before Ian could tear into his husband for playing down his apparent injury, Carl was returning from the bathroom off the kitchen, first aid kit in one hand.

“Found it!” he cried, waving the thing around like a victory flag. “Let’s get you patched up before Ian…”

Carl trailed off, seeing that Ian was, in fact, already awake and aware.

“Before Ian what?” Ian himself asked lowly, and Carl glanced at Mickey before offering a too-casual shrug.

Ian sighed, rubbing the last of the sleep from his eyes, and gestured to Carl.

“Give it here,” he ordered. “I don’t know what you two got up to, but at least let me fix it.”

Carl passed the first aid kit over without a word, throwing Mickey an apologetic glance. Ian just opened the box and set it on the table, digging through it for alcohol wipes and gauze, and sat in front of Mickey to unwind the towel from his hand.

“You promised me you’d stop doing stupid shit, you know,” Ian reminded his husband, and Mickey scowled.

“No, I promised I’d do less stupid shit,” he corrected, “and this wasn’t fuckin’ stupid.”

Ian raised an eyebrow at that claim, but Carl was ready to back Mickey up.

“It was so badass, Ian,” he gushed immediately. “You should’ve seen him!”

“Seen him do what?” Ian asked cautiously as Mickey avoided his gaze some more. Finally removing the last layer of the towel, Ian winced when he saw the cuts on Mickey’s hand. “Seen him slice himself up?” he added, but Carl shook his head.

“Nah, that happened after,” he said, then frowned. “Or during, I guess? But it wasn’t his fault, that thing had it out for him!”

Dare he ask? Ian wondered. Or, knowing his husband and his brother, perhaps the question should be dare he not?

Thing?” he made himself question, and Carl pounced on the opportunity to tell the full story. Or at least, the Carl version.

“Yeah, so there was this drone, right?” he started, and Ian was already feeling a groan coming on.

“A drone,” he said flatly, ignoring Mickey’s hiss as he wiped his hand clean.

“Yeah,” Carl went on, oblivious to Ian’s tone. “It’s been flying around here for days, always sneaking up on Debbie and Fran.”

“And did you report it?” Ian asked, already knowing the answer.

“The fuck would we do that for?” Mickey chimed in, and Ian rolled his eyes when Carl nodded his agreement.

“Carl, you’re a cop,” Ian said, exasperated.

“Yeah, but they don’t take shit like that seriously,” Carl defended, and well, Ian had to give him that. “But anyway, it showed up again just now, hovering around the pool while Franny was swimming, so we took it down.”

Ian let out a heavy breath, and closed his eyes.

“You took it down,” he said slowly. “Meaning you shot an unlicensed firearm, in the middle of the neighborhood, to destroy someone else’s personal property. And there’s probably video footage of you doing it.”

He reached for the gauze and started wrapping Mickey’s hand, tugging it just this side of too tight.

“Geez, fuckin’ relax, okay?” Mickey urged. “I didn’t use a gun, and I got it from behind. Besides, they were fuckin’ trespassing.”

“He’s right,” Carl agreed. “He got up on the roof outside our window, took it down with his knife once it was close enough.” Then Carl winced, and scratched at his head. “It just, uh, kind of caught his hand in the rotor when it went down?”

That explained the injuries, at least.

“Fine,” Ian relented, stroking a hand softly over the finished bandage and raising it to his lips for a brief kiss. “But if you ever do something like that again—”

The doorbell rang.

All three of them looked toward the front of the house, then at each other.

“Uh..” Carl voiced, and then they were all moving. Carl to throw the bloody rag in the bathroom and shut the door, Mickey to grab the knife that Ian now saw was sitting right there at the edge of the table, and Ian into the living room to answer the door.

Ian looked back once he got there, making sure Carl and Mickey were ready, and then opened the door with as casual an air as he could muster.

He wasn’t sure what he expected to see on the other side, but it wasn’t a middle-aged man with thinning hair and a thin-lipped expression.

“Uh, hi,” Ian greeted. “Can we help you?”

“You can,” the man said huffily. “I’m looking for—”

Mickey came up behind Ian, laying a steadying hand on his hip, and the man’s eyes went wide.

“You!” he hollered, pointing a shaking finger right in Mickey’s face.

“Me what?” Mickey grouched. “You got a problem, grandpa?”

“You killed my drone!” the man continued. Ian tensed, but Mickey just shrugged, unconcerned.

“So what?” he asked, not bothering to deny it.

“So I could have you arrested for destruction of property!” the man spit out, and Mickey laughed right in his face.

“Yeah right, man, try again,” he goaded. “You got no evidence.”

“I have footage,” the stranger hissed. “Of your face, when it fell.”

Mickey raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah?” he asked. “What else you got footage of, huh? My sister?” He stepped around Ian, halfway through the door, and added lowly, “my underage niece?”

The man went white. “That footage is…it’s purely academic…I…I could…”

“What, you could what?” Mickey countered. “Get lost, man, and find a new hobby.”

He started to close the door, but the man shoved his foot in, wincing when the heavy wood hit it and bounced back.

“I saw your knife,” the man tried in a last ditch attempt. “You can’t have things like that in public, I could have you arrested for carrying a blade!”

“What, this one?” Mickey asked, taking the aforementioned knife out of his waistband and holding it out. The stranger shrank away from it, but Mickey held it out further.

“Go on, take it,” he urged. “And get out your ruler, asshole, ‘cause even if this weren’t private property, that thing’s within legal requirements for concealed carry.”

Ian finally interrupted, pulling Mickey back and taking his place in the doorway again.

“You heard the man,” he said to the stranger’s shocked face. “Sorry about your drone, but we have other things to worry about here.”

Then he slammed the door shut.

Ian stayed facing it for a moment, just breathing, before turning to look at his smug husband.

“That was the stupidest,” he started, stepping forward, “most harebrained—”

“Hottest?” Mickey suggested.

“Hottest,” Ian continued, then shook his head when he realized the trick. “How did you know you’d get away with all that, anyway?” he asked instead, and Carl spoke up from further in the house.

“Like you said, I’m a cop,” he cut in with a smirk. “And I don’t think that guy’ll bother us again, since he basically just admitted to spying on Fran.”

Ian blinked. “But we’re the only ones who heard that,” he pointed out, and Carl grinned wider as he showed them both his phone screen, where a recording app was paused.

“Single-party consent, bitch,” he said, and met Mickey’s high five easily.

Ian sighed again, and Mickey patted him on the shoulder in commiseration.

“Hey, look on the bright side,” Mickey said. “If I do stupid shit with your brother, I won’t go down for it.”

“Because he’s a cop?” Ian asked, and Mickey snorted, shaking his head.

“Nah,” he replied in an overdone stage-whisper. “Because he’d be easy to pin it on.”

Ian thought for a moment, watching Carl trip over the coffee table on his way back to the kitchen, then shrugged.

He couldn’t really argue with that either.

[yikesharringrove]

how do u feel abt doing smth like a modern au where billy is like , all this punk rock and teen angst and leather nd jean jackets kinda of thing and steve is the exact opposite of him with fluffy skirts and soft polos nd just really soft and they two have seen eachother but dont actually talk to one another until they have a school project and they just. fall in love overtime? basically , femme steve + punk rock billy falling in love.

(pt. 2) also!! happy 21st birthday 💓💕💗💖💕

The university had a strict core curriculum, meaning that Steve was ten minutes late for his Philosophy of the Modern Era class.

He couldn’t find the room, was wandering around in this basement with his schedule written on the back of his hand. He was peering at room numbers and muttering to himself 067 067 067.

“You looking for that philosophy class?” Steve turned around at the voice.

The guy was stomping down the hallway in big leather boots. His jeans were ripped and shredded, and he was wearing a black t-shirt with pink font reading Dog Park Dissidents. His denim jacket was covered in pins and patches and sharpie drawings. He had Silence = Death written on one of the pockets, Being nice IS punk rock was scrawled down one arm.

“Yeah, that modern era one?” The guy smiled and nodded, reaching forward to shake Steve’s hand. His eyes were a startling blue, lined with a thin smudge on black. His hair was wild and curly, shaved on each side into this beachy looking mohawk. He had his nose and his eyebrow pierced, along with several in his ears.

“Billy Hargrove.”

“Steve Harrington.” Steve could feel the tips of his ears go red as Billy looked him up and down. He was wearing something cute for the first day of class, a chunky white cardigan over a soft pink peasant dress. He had gotten up early to do his makeup well, and was late to class anyway because this stupid building was a fucking maze.

They set off down the hall together, looking at each door they passed by.

“Oh shit. Pretty Boy, I think I got it.” Steve flushed slightly at being called pretty, still not used to being able to dress like this in public. Billy wrenched open the door, and stomped in, not a care in the world for being twenty minutes late.

The professor raised his eyebrow.

“And what were you two doing out in the hall?”

“I’m sorry, we couldn’t find the room.” Steve’s cheeks were hot as he was standing at the front of the class.

“That’s okay. you have missed class introductions, to please say your names, pronouns and majors.”

“Billy Hargrove, he/him, double majoring in literature and social work.”

“Steve Harrington, he/they. I’m also a double major in education and early childhood development.” The professor made a note on his role sheet.

“Thank you, you may sit down.” Steve went for the back of the room, flopping into the first empty seat he could find, ducking his head as he quietly got his laptop out. Billy had stomped into the seat next to him, had gotten out a notebook and proceeded to doodle in it for the rest of class.

He sat next to Billy every Monday Wednesday and Friday from 9:20-10:35 and and outside of their ten minute search for the classroom, they had yet to say anything to one another.

It certainly didn’t help that Steve was harboring a little crush on the guy. He would watch him in class, the way he would doodle little sunflowers in the margins of his notes, smiling softly at them.

“So, for the rest of the semester you will be working in pairs. I want you to go through the readings we have completely and work together with the philosophers we have discussed to create your own system for the modern era. How do you believe society exists now?” Billy turned to Steve, grinning at him.

“You wanna be my partner?” Steve gave a sheepish smile, his heart racing.

“I, um. Yes. Yeah, I’ll be your partner.” Steve dug his phone out of the tight pocket of his skirt, trading with Billy. He put his number under Steve Harrington - Modern Era Philosphy.

“You wanna get coffee after class, start working through our beliefs?”

“Um, sure. I don’t have class until, like, 3:30 today.” Billy grinned again and fucking winked at Steve. He needed to calm the fuck down.

“So basically, a lot of my beliefs are based on the punk message.” Billy was sipping at his black coffee, had laughed and said should’ve fucking known when Steve ordered a large mocha with extra chocolate syrup, and whipped cream. “I’m a very live and let live person, but I believe everyone should live and let live. If someone is trying to dictate how others should exist, they’re fucking garbage.”

“Okay, I actually really agree with that.”

“That’s because you’re punk rock.” Steve laughed, but Billy’s eyes were serious. “No seriously, there’s nothing more punk rock than being unapologetically yourself.”

“When did you get into punk philosophy?”

“When I was in high school. My dad was a real prick, and I was angry, and a lot of punk is loud and pissed off and it helped, but then I started going to shows, and talking to people, and it’s not what you’d expect. Everyone at a show is like a weird family for a night. If someone comes in and tries to fuck with someone, the family deals. I can’t tell you how many fights I saw that broke out because someone was perving on a girl, and these other guys started protecting her. And that only grew as I started getting into queercore.”

Steve was listening to Billy, eyes wide as he described stories from shows, how he had jumped in on fights to defend the family, how he would walk girls home or to their cars parked a ways down the street, how he knew everyone would do the same for him.

“God, I wish I had a community like that. I didn’t really have anyone growing up. You know, token queer in a small town kinda vibe.” Billy smiled at him sympathetically.

“That why you came out to San Fransisco?”

“Oh yeah. Wanted to come somewhere where, this, didn’t matter.” He gestured to himself. “I just don’t get why it bothers people. I just do it because it makes me happy. I don’t know why it concerns anyone else.” Billy was nodding vigorously.

“Exactly. That’s the whole truth about being queer. People hate you for something that has nothing to do with them. It’s completely wack. Like if I’m with someone in whatever capacity, we’re both consenting adults. It literally doesn’t matter.”

“Do you think we could expand upon this enough for our project? Talk about how we feel the world should just stop caring about what other people do if it has nothing to do with them.” Billy grinned.

“I think we could make something happen.”

They began getting coffee after each class, taking through their project, finding resources to back up the ideas they had discussed. The more time they spent together, the more Steve liked Billy, liked how sweet he was, how positive. They talked about having terrible parents, how Billy’s dad had kicked him out at sixteen for being gay, how he had lived with friends, saving up to get himself through college. They talked about how Steve’s dad had found his stash of makeup and threw it all away, making sure it was ruined and broken. How disappointed his father was that he was studying to become a teacher.

There was one Friday they had met up and stayed all day in the coffee shop stayed until the 5 pm closing.

“You wanna come over? I have a single room. We can keep working.” Billy grinned at Steve like he always did, showing off all his white teeth. So they walked side by side to Steve’s room.

Steve kept his room neat, a habit left over from overbearing parents who would shame him into cleaning his room.

Steve’s room was exactly how Billy imagined.

He had soft white lights, a full length mirror on one wall. His bed was covered in pillows, duvets, and even a few stuffed animals. The wall above the bed was covered in pictures of Steve back home, several with a group of younger kids, and a lot with a blonde girl.

“This your girlfriend?” Steve snorted.

“No, that’s Robin. She and I are just really close friends.”

“What’s with the kids?” Steve blushed.

“I babysat all through high school, and those kids kinda adopted me as their pseudo parent. It was a lot of driving them all over town.”

“That’s cute. That why you wanna teach?”

“Yeah, I’m good with kids.” Steve had plopped himself on the made bed. He watched as Billy took off his heavy boots, placing them neatly by the door before stepping onto Steve’s plush grey rug. His socks were thick wool and had little cartoon dogs on them. Steve was in love.

Billy sat with Steve on the bed. He was taking a closer look at the photos.

“I could see that for you. You’re a caring type.” Steve looked down as his feet, could feel his face getting hot.

“Why did you pick social work?”

“When I was a kid, CPS would be called to our place like, once every few months. My dad was a real good schmoozer, so I would always just be left with him. I wanna be able to help kids get out of bad situations.”

“God, and you call me a caring type. You’re gonna save the world.” Billy laughed.

“The children are the future. I’ll save ‘em, you teach ‘em.” When Steve looked up, Billy was leaning closer into Steve’s space. He had a soft smile on his face. His eyes were bright and beautiful and so fucking blue. “Can I kiss you?”

“Can you, what?”

“Can I kiss you?”

“Why?” Billy still hadn’t leaned back.

“‘Cause I have a big dumb crush on you, and I think you have one on me.” Steve’s face was pink.

“I, uh, yeah. Go, go for it.” Billy laughed, taking Steve’s face in both hands. He leaned in, just gently pressing their lips together.

“So, was I right?”

“Yes. Very much so.” Billy laughed again, loud and sweet, pressing another kiss to Steve’s lips.

“You wanna go on a date? A real one? Not just us getting coffee and pretending we both weren’t totally into each other.” Steve snorted again.

“Yeah, I would really like that.”

[hey-hamlet]

BNHA AU Ideas: Genetics Prodigy

Also on AO3!

TL;DR:  

Quirks might be the coolest thing ever, but they aren't magic, they're genetic. So what's to stop one very stubborn quirkless prodigy from working out how to give himself some?

Ok so! Tech Genius!Izuku AUs are a thing, right? I love them to bits but my problem is I know nothing about tech so I can't write them, but what I do know is biology!

Biology/Genetics prodigy Izuku giving himself quirks!

Stays friends with Katsuki (They have a rough patch but they work through it), not sure if I want Izuku to fiddle with Katsuki's quirk or not - not sure if I'll make the quirk limit 1 or 2, but I've always headcanoned you can give more quirks to someone born quirkless, so Izuku will end up with a few

So, after the dawn of quirks, a lot of, if not all, genetic research stopped. Sure, tech marched onwards, but genetics became an even bigger taboo than it was before. Izuku is a little genius, and this his massive interest in quirks when he's told he’s quirkless? It's more of a “how do I change this” than a “can I change this”

Izuku has always been the smartest person Katsuki knows. They have a rough patch at the beginning where Katsuki is trying to claw this one thing he's better at Izuku than over his head, to make himself ‘better’ than izuku

People have always called the quirkless worthless. If he’s less than a quirkless kid, what does that make him? Izuku eventually manages to drag it out of him and tells him about all the things people did before the dawn of quirks. Katsuki changes his mind to instead believing that everyone else is stupid for thinking quirks are everything and is now very vocal about that. (He still loves his quirk though, as does Izuku.)

His first real trial is a bit of a silly one: he cures Katsuki’s lactose intolerance. They were both salty they couldn’t share their icecream.

Collection of quirks:

Bakugo:

Explosion

Fire Manipulation

Midoriya:

Telekinesis

Heal

Forcefield

Jump

I want Izuku to give himself a quirk aged like, 8, with bakugo there for the ride as a lab hand, and I want them to realise with mounting horror what they've managed to do

bakugo turning to izuku and whispering "how many quirks would it take to beat - be as strong as - all might?" and izuku just shrugs because he hadn't thought about that but what he's done could start a new breed of bioweapons

he knows enough about the brain to see that more than 2 quirks in a quirked persons body, or more than 4 in someone born quirkless would be seriously damaging, but he's really scared about what could happen if he did go over that limit.

he won't, but he's curious, and he feels a little sick because of it

Nezu catches wind of this baby bio genius, one of the red flags is the only recent research done into quirks was actually from the lab nezu was kept in, so when he sees someone digging into that research he's ready to rain hell down upon them

then he sees an 8-year old that gave himself a quirk and he's like "oh. son."

oh he also totally has a little collection of lab rats that he spoils to bits - he's careful not to give them any quirks that would hurt them / cause an ethical issue. mostly they just have colour changing and glowing quirks, one of them can photosynthesize

he's a very good boy and his little rat children love him

So, when one is as hopelessly heroic as Izuku, it tends to be hard to avoid ‘accidentally’ using your quirk in public. When you have a heal quirk? It’s basically impossible.

Healing quirks actually have a special provision under the vigilantism act, along with exemptions due to age, but when Izuku gets caught, the police don’t tell him that. They honestly just want to try and scare the kid straight because it was a ‘miracle’ (forcefield) that he didn’t get hit by the falling rubble.

So Naomasa is brought in, as usual for the Mustutafu area, and asks the basic questions: name, age, quirk. Izuku, being a genius but still like 8 and scared he's going to jail lies for the first two questions, and he doesn’t lie very well because the poor kid is chronically honest.

‘Um, my name is – Tsubasa! Yeah!.” “I’m 10!”

But the last question throws Naomasa for a loop. “What’s your quirk?” “I was born quirkless, I’ve got the x-ray to prove it.”

That wasn’t a lie. But he visibly used a quirk, they saw it happen. And Naomasa suddenly gets a terrible feeling, because there is only one person he knows that can take someone from quirkless to quirked.

“So you don’t have any quirk?” “No sir.” A lie. Fuck. He lets Izuku go because, despite the horror of a child caught in AFO’s clutches, he might be the most valuable lead they’ve ever had. So they keep an eye on him.

It doesn’t take long to see him using more than one quirk. The kid is creative and isn’t bad at disguising them as the same quirk, but using a forcefield to shield you and your friend from rain is visibly different from telekinetically doing the same, if you know what you’re looking for. And boy do Naomasa and All Might know what they’re looking for.

Their second heart attack comes from an absent “So have you been practising with flame manipulation?” “Of course, dipshit, I’m not lazy. We’ve gotta practise to become heroes, don’t we?” “I know, Kacchan! I’m just excited!”

They keep freaking out about it until they bring in Nezu. It takes him a week or so, but he quickly finds out whats going on. “So, I’m not sure if this is what you wanted to hear but: It’s not All for One,” general sighs of relief “But the child has worked out how to synthesize quirks.” PANICKED NOISES

I feel like izuku is def. the first to make a quirk suppressant chemical, which really interests overhaul. Unfortunately, so i assume he can counter than with something that could just speed up the metabolism to flush another chemical out and because aizawa's quirk binds to the quirk factor, he could just give himself a quirk that has a different biological mechanism - confusing the fuck out of everyone involved

Timeline of Izuku’s shenanigans

Katsuki: lactose intolerance cured, proof of concept – age 6

A very nice rat: Attraction of small objects, yes the rat used it and yes it was amazing because other rats counted as small objects – age 7

Izuku: Attraction of small objects – age 8 (Inko’s quirk)

Katsuki: Flame control, a portion of Hisashi’s quirk from Izuku’s genes – age 8

Izuku: Jump, from a detailed study about a quirked rabbit – age 8 (late)

Another very nice rat: given the ability to live to 10 years old. His name is Hermes – age 9

Izuku: Starts a medical degree – age 10

Izuku: Forcefield, partly from a study of a weak forcefield quirk from the beginning of quirks when genetic studies were less taboo, combined with some promoter sequences from Katsuki’s quirk – age 10

Izuku: Heal, something he’d been working on since the beginning, created without reference for a similar quirk, his masterpiece – age 13 (This quirk is not tied to the quirk factor and therefore can not be stopped by erasure or the quirk erasing bullets.)

Izuku: Finishes the medical degree – age 14

Katsuki tries to get him to write Dr. Midoriya on his application to UA but he refuses, sadly. Not that it matters, Nezu recognises the last name from some of the only quirk research since the lab he was kept in was shut down. He’s very interested about one of the boy’s earliest papers; a case study about a quirkless boy born to 2 4th generation quirked parents, and the conclusion he drew: it wasn’t possible. It doesn’t take a genius to work out the quirkless kid was Izuku himself.

Izuku and Katsuki walk to UA together, Uraraka still saves him from tripping, Katsuki was just laughing at his suffering. Izuku’s a little less awkward in this AU and actually manages to thank her. They all enter the hall together.

Izuku never exactly kicked him mumbling habit, Iida still tells him off. Katsuki is trying to fight the urge to fly down there and kick his ass. Not that they can see, but Uraraka is also glaring at Iida for being rude to the nice boy.

Iida tries to stop Izuku from saying hi to Uraraka but she blows straight past him, loudly thanking Izuku for stopping to say hi. She’s glaring at Iida, Izuku is blissfully ignorant of that. Iida feels like he's offended the wrong person.

The exam starts, Izuku jumps straight into the middle of the exam. His legs hurt but he's totally clear of the other test takers. He starts kicking butt. He yanks wires from ports, tears screws from joints, punches robots with forcefield protected fists, etc. He gets maybe 30 points like this.

All around him he can see people in danger, he throws up countless forcefields to protect his fellow test takers. The judges are impressed with the versatility of the quirk, All Might, even though he knows Izuku isn’t connected to AFO, is having a slight breakdown. Nezu is incredibly impressed. Izuku is flagging though, his forcefield quirk takes some serious energy when he doesn’t have much to spare.

The zero pointer is released. Uraraka is pinned, and, unlike canon, she isn’t unscathed. Her ankle is snapped under the rubble, her ribs are badly bruised. Izuku sees this happen and he just moves. He doesn’t trust his forcefield to hold enough weight, so he goes the other direction: brute force. Using his jump quirk, he rockets into the air, landing a solid, quirk enhanced kick to the face of the robot. As it teeters, he uses attraction of small objects on as many individual points as he can, flying over the back of the robots head. He lands with an impact that jars his teeth, just as the robot starts to tip backwards. He makes it to safety with seconds to spare.

He’s exhausted, so far into quirk exhaustion it isn’t funny, but he’s not done yet. He stumbles to Uraraka helps her lift the bolder off her broken ankle, and heals it. He collapses just as the test finishes, Uraraka catching him and keeping him safe from the last few bits of falling rubble. She’s so thrown by her healed ankle.

Recovery girl comes over, checking on Uraraka. She saw the injury on the cameras and felt bad for the poor girl, but when she gets over there’s nothing. Sure, there’s some blood, but under it all there isn’t even a single cut. Uraraka begs her to help the boy in her arms and she thinks she might know why. The boy looks half dead, likely quirk exhaustion. Still, she didn’t know anyone with a healing quirk was applying, normally Nezu would have told her.

[you-a-southpaw-doll]

Buzzed - A Negan One-Shot

Summary: After an incident in the Sanctuary, Leigh takes matters into her own hands. What will Negan’s response be? 

Warning(s): Language. Angst. Attempted rape. Violence. Death. Slight Panic Attack. Anxiety. Leigh being a badass. Negan caught off guard (no pun intended). Mentions of what could be considered self-harm. Daddy kink, but not really. You’ll see. Protective Negan. Fluff. Sexual Innuendoes. Puns (Sorry Not Sorry!). Happy ending. Not Beta’d. I just finished writing this and had to post it! Sorry for any errors.

Author’s Note(s): 

I cut my hair myself, usually every 2 weeks, but no more than 3 weeks. I just can’t have my hair touch my ears; it makes my anxiety 10 times worse, and in a way, I kinda explain the reason behind that in this story. I was cutting my hair tonight, (it’s now 2:30 am, 5/24/2020) and I thought of this story idea and Negan’s reaction to the main character having short hair. 

Also, if any of the warnings are triggering for you, please don’t force yourself to read. The last thing I’d want to do is trigger someone into having a panic attack. Feel free to give me any feedback, thoughts, questions, comments and/or concerns you have with the story. I love hearing from y’all! 

As always, if you’d like to be added to my taglist, just let me know and I’ll happily add you!! 

Word Count: 5,301. (A lot, I know, but I think it’s worth it, and I just couldn’t get everything I wanted across in less words, so enjoy!)

Relationship(s): Negan x Leigh Sullivan (OFC)

Characters: Negan. Leigh Sullivan (OFC). Simon. Dr. Carson. 3 unnamed Original Male Characters. Sanctuary People.

Taglist: @negans-network @prettyboynegan @mychemicalimagines @spnnnxangelsx @rockinkel21 @misskittycat02 @band--psycho@ofxallxwexlost @iron-halt @thamberlinawrites @ravenwings73 @lettherebepink @stoneyggirl

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Story Time:

Leigh’s P.O.V. ~ Then

They’d caught me off guard, for once. 

Normally, I never let anything or anyone catch me off guard. Or at least...I tried not to. Due to having anxiety, I was usually hyper-aware of shit going on. But, today, my anxiety had eased off after the relaxing morning I’d had with my husband. We’d spent the morning, snuggled up in his big king-sized bed, just shooting the shit and goofing off. 

He didn’t have to go out on a run today, so there was no need to rush the morning like we normally had to 95% of the time. Eventually, though, the day had to get started. Dwight came knocking on the door, interrupting our relaxation time, saying he needed my husband for something. Being the man my husband is, he grumbled, cussed Dwight out, and then got outta bed while apologizing to me for the interruption and assuring me we’d finish relaxing when he got back later.

After a kiss, and a soft “I love you,” he was gone. Off to do what he did. It was my day off, so I laid in bed for a little longer before I too got up, dressed, and made my rounds. As the top female Savior, something I’d worked my ass off, fought for, and took seriously, I said hi to who I needed to, did what I needed to, and finally, sat down under my favorite tree out by the greenhouses. 

I laid my leather jacket on the ground next to me, leaving me in my usually black t-shirt, holey but patched up and well worn blue jeans, and faded brown leather boots. Strapped to each thigh was a holster. In the right one was my signature gun, a .357 Magnum, 6-shot revolver. In the left holster, I kept my handcrafted 6 inch blade that I made back when I was 15, well over half a decade, shit closer to a decade ago, considering I was almost 25.

Bending my knees, and pulling them close in a comfortable position, I propped up the notebook I usually kept in my leather satchel with two backup knives, an extra gun, ammo, and a spare notebook for work along with several pens and pencils. The writing equipment was a rare commodity these days, so I always kept them close to me.

As I was writing a story I’d started a few days prior, I zoned out just a bit, focusing on it. I’d started writing when I was just 12 years old, and kept the habit up, even now, 3 years after the world ended and the dead started walking back in 2020 after the Coronavirus outback after the new year, new decade had started. 

I was writing, losing myself in the words I printed on the paper in my chicken scratch. I say chicken scratch ‘cause, well...that’s basically what it was. As a lefty, my handwriting wasn’t necessarily the best, and a doctor’s prescription note was probably more legible. It was a mixture between slanted and curved print and semi-elegant at times cursive. 

But, it was my handwriting, and I could read it. My husband sometimes had difficulty reading it, but he’d always put his black-rimmed glasses on, and fuck if they didn’t make him look sexier than he already was. Because of that, I sneakily wrote a little sloppier when I knew he’d have to read something from my notes about the runs I went on.

It was all an excuse to see him with those glasses perched on his nose, giving him that sexy professor look. He thought they made him look ridiculous, but I loved it. Since I was writing and zoned out, I wasn’t nearly as focused on my surroundings. I didn’t think I had to be. The tree was my safe spot when I wasn’t with my husband.

The Sanctuary was a relatively safe place, and that was thanks to the rules that were in place. So, it’d make sense that I wouldn’t focus on my surroundings as much and relax a bit as I wrote. But, boy was I wrong. I just didn’t realize it till it was far too late. Before I realized what was happening, I was being punched in the right side of my face, slinging my head to the side, as my notebook and bag were jerked away from me and my hair was roughly pulled, jerking my head backwards.

I went to grab my gun and my knife, but they’d already been taken from me. My eyes flirted back and forth in front of me, trying to process what was going on. But, everything was blurry and I was dizzy from the hit. I could barely make out three men close to me, far too close to me. They were basically on top of me. 

Fuck. One of them actually was. I could feel the weight of him straddling my thighs, keeping me from standing. I couldn’t hear anything as the beating of my heart flooded my ears. I tried to fight back as best as I could, but the other two men grabbed my hands and jerked them away from my body and pinning them to the ground as they shoved my upper body down.

When they jerked my arms away, I felt, more than heard, my left shoulder dislocate. I clenched my jaw. The pain wasn’t anything new. I’d been dealing with a shoulder that dislocates when I fuckin’ sneeze since I was 13 years old. The pain, when it happened, was now at a tolerable level since I was so used to it happening.

I didn’t cry out. I knew not to. Plus, the wasn’t the type of person I was. I knew what was ‘bout to happen. It, like my shoulder, was something I’d had to put with for years growing. It wasn’t anything new either. But, that didn’t mean it was enjoyable. It was anything but. I barely processed my jeans being jerked down my hips and past my knees. 

I could just barely hear the men laughing and joking around with each other, talking ‘bout what they were going to do to me and wondering why the fuck I was wearing two pairs of boxers under my jeans. I watched them, as best as I could with my vision being what it was. When the blurriness faded just enough, I could make out their features and recognized them as members of the new group that was brought in last week. 

Members I’d brought into the Sanctuary. Into my house. I dropped my head back down to the ground and groaned to myself. I let my body go slack, waiting for the perfect time. When the men realized I wasn’t struggling anymore, they laughed and the two dumbfucks holding my arms down eased up on their grip.

The man on my legs lifted himself up just enough push his own pants down. Their easing up on their grip was their mistake and ultimately what led to their demise. Since they weren’t paying attention to me, thinking I’d just given up, and instead focusing on getting their baby carrot sized dicks outta their pants, I was able to strike back. 

I immediately brought both my hands up, fingers curled in to form perfect fists without worry of possibly breaking my thumbs, ignoring the protest of my left shoulder, and cocked both the men on my sides straight in the noses. I internally smiled at the sounds of their noses breaking and their screams of pain. 

They stumbled back just a little bit, hands covering their faces as they clutched their noses in an attempt to stop the extensive amount of blood falling. Clearly, I caught the man on top me off guard with my actions and he was shocked for a moment. It was perfect. I bucked him up off me, managed to jerk my pants up as I stood. 

All one fluid motion.

Since he was still obviously in shock at me suddenly fighting back, he stumbled, tripping, and falling backwards on the ground. He tried to scurry backwards as fast as as he could. Despite being 5’3”, I was able to stay with him. I slammed my boot down on his stomach, making him howl in pain and wheeze as he struggled to get the air back that i’d just forced outta his lungs.

I kept my foot on his gut, putting most of my weight on it, digging the worn sole into his abdomen. He let out a sad excuse for a grunt as I did. I just smirked. This fucked had no idea who he’d fucked, or tried to fuck with. I leaned down and started pummeling the shit outta his face, keeping him in place with my foot.

Since he couldn’t get fresh air back into his lungs because of the position of my foot, he was too weak to try and fight back. To say I was a little disappointed at not having a challenge, would be like saying the dead weren’t walking around. It was a lie. I was disappointed, and I fueled that disappointment in with the anger as I literally beat him to death. 

He kept trying to apologize, tried to plead with me, to not kill him, but I didn’t give a fuck. He was ‘bout to rape me, and I’d had ‘nough of that in my life. I wasn’t putting up with it. I eased up just before I knew he was about to die. Gave him false hope into letting him think his words had affected me. I let him get one last breath in as I completely lifted my foot off his torso. 

“Than-” He started to say, but I cut him off as I slammed my boot into his face, effectively crushing his skull. 

“Don’t fuckin’ thank me, prick.” I muttered to him as I wiped my boot off on his once clean but now bloody clothes. “You fuckin’ ruined my goddamn favorite fuckin’ pair of boots, asshole.”

Before I turned away from him, I spit on his crushed skull. Since it was destroyed, I didn’t have to worry ‘bout him coming back as a dean’un. I was a little sad that I wouldn’t get to kill him a second time, but he’d gotten what he deserved. Turning to the other two dumbfucks, I repeated my actions, and did to them exactly what I’d just done to their friend.

I knew my husband was going to be pissed that I killed these men, instead of letting him do it, but I’d deal with that. I wasn’t going to let these fuckers back inside the relatively safe concrete walls of the factory that was the Sanctuary. By the time I was down stomping in the skull of the third man, I looked up, as I finished, and noticed that I’d gathered quite an audience.

Including Simon. The right-hand man, third person in charge of the Sanctuary. His, and everyone else’s, eyes were wide, and everyone was silent. I knew I was gonna be in trouble since they’d just seen me stomp the life outta three men, but I didn’t give a fuck. I had shit to do. I gathered up my weapons, my jacket, and bag after shoving my shit into it and stormed inside the Sanctuary, flipping everyone off, not wanting to deal with their gawking.

Not caring ‘bout my bloody appearance, I made my way to the commissary, needing to grab a few things before I went back to my room. I found what I needed: a new pair of jeans identical to the ones i was wearing, a new t-shirt, undergarments, a pair of boots and a special item, an unopened, brand new boxed set of hair clippers. 

Once I had what I needed, I stormed up to the room I share with my husband, stripping down to my bra and one pair of boxers when i get there.

Leigh’s P.O.V. ~ Now

“What the fuck was that fuckin’ shit out there, Leigh?!?” 

I sigh as I hear my husband storm into our room, the door slamming shut behind him. I look at myself in the mirror as I lay the scissors down on the bathroom counter by the sink and pick up the clippers. Turning them on, I don’t reply to my husband. Not wanting to explain to him what happened at the moment.

I stare at myself in the mirror as I bring the clippers up to my shortened hair. I press the #2 guard to my head and move it backwards from my forehead to the back of my head, sticking to the once familiar hairline I used to see and live by religiously. I watch as the hair falls, joining the rest of my once long, curly locks, on the floor by my feet. I use my fingers to guide my movements, making sure I don’t go too high and completely fuck up my hair.

Once I have the hairline visible, separating what I want to keep and what I want to shave off, I move the guard down below my ear and with practiced ease, I shave the sides and back of head, getting rid of the hair. Keeping an eye on myself, making sure I don’t fuck up my haircut, not that I would since I used to do this every 2-3 weeks, I watch as my husband steps into the bathroom.

I watch as his eyes nearly bulge outta their sockets when he sees me. I watch as the anger vanishes from his face and body, being replaced with worry, sadness, and a hint of curiosity. I watch as his eyes traveling over the reflection of my face in the mirror, taking in my black eye, bruised and split open cheek, covered in blood and even the nasty black eye I’m now sporting.

I watch as he slowly moves his eyes up to meet mine in the mirror. 

“What...what are you doing?” He asks softly. 

My left eyebrow shoots sky high as I look at him. My husband rarely says a sentence without cussing every other word. And yet...he just asked a simple question without one sentence enhancer thrown in. 

“What the fuck’s it look like I’m doing? I’m cutting my hair.” I say. “Decided I needed a new fuckin’ look. Don’t you fuckin’ love it?” 

I know I’m being Captain fuckin’ Obvious at the moment, and a bit harsh, but I’m not ready to tell him what happened. That’s for after I get done. Cutting my hair is the only thing keeping me from completely shutting down and giving in to the panic attack that’s trying to take over. I watch as he lets out a deep breath as he slowly steps into the bathroom, padding across the tiled floor to me.

He places his hands on my shoulders and I do my best not to flinch. But he still sees it and quickly lifts his hands off me, holding them up in a surrendering pose. I know he’d never hurt me, and he was the one to save my life after this shit hole of a world started three years ago. But, I can’t help it. The feeling of those fuckers’ hands on me, plus the fact that my shoulder is still dislocated, keeps me from wanting to be touched.  

“Can...let me help. Please, sweetheart.” My husband’s soft drawl meets my ears.

“No. I need to do this myself.” I reply, tightening my grip on the clippers.

I watch as his Adam’s apple bobs up and down in his throat as he swallows deeply and nods. I keep my eyes on his in the mirror and finish cutting my hair. It’s been three years since I’ve cut my hair, but the muscle memory is still there. It’s like riding a bike. My husband watches as I finish shaving the sides of my head down to where there’s just a bit of peach fuzz. 

Switching the clippers off, I replace the guard with a #1 and go back over the bottom hairline on the base of my neck. Once I have that done, I take the guard off completely and just put the metal of the clippers to the back of my neck doing my best not to flinch at the burning heat coming off it as it meets my skin. 

I take that little strip down so there’s no hair there, running along along the hairline on my neck. I use the blending guard and even out the area, making the hair have a fade. Replacing the blending guard with the #7, I bring it up to the patch of hair on my head, and trim it down. When I finish, my feet are covered with a mountain of what used to be the long, thick, curly hair on my head.

My neck and shoulders are also covered with the little strands of hair that I buzzed off. Setting the clippers on the counter, I run my hands over the buzz cut I now sport and take in a deep, shaky breath. I let my head drop down, pressing my chin to chest and take another shaky breath in after letting out one. 

“Baby?” My husband asks softly.

I lift my head and look up at him. My eyes roam over the unzipped black leather jacket he’s wearing over his standard white t-shirt and down to the grey jeans he’s wearing, held up by two leather belts. I let my eyes rest on his feet, no longer hidden by his own pair of black combat boots, but rather a pair of white socks. 

Taking in another deep breath, I bring my eyes up to meet his. I can see the worry swimming in his muddy water brown eyes. I shake my head as i start to take my bra off and push my boxers down, stepping outta them as the pool ‘round my ankles.

“I need a shower.” I mumble and step ‘round him to walk to the stunning shower we share.

I grip the knobs tightly as I turn the water on, as hot as it’ll go. I need to feel the pain of the burning water over my skin. If I don’t, I know I’ll give in to that panic attack that’s already  on the verge of consuming me. Stepping into the shower, I glance back at my husband over my shoulder. 

“You can…” I mumble.

He nods as he understands what I’m trying to say. I look away, for the first time since we met, and eventually became intimate, not wanting to watch him undress. I know that if I were to watch, I’d see those assholes tugging their pants down, and I don’t want that. I don’t want my husband to be mixed in with them.

Standing under the burning hot water, feeling it flow over and pelt my skin, I bring my hands up and tightly grip what’s left of my hair, tugging on it. I feel Negan step into the shower, behind me. I don’t have to look.  I know he’s there. I can feel the heat rolling off his skin, along with the worry and helplessness. 

He hasn’t seen me like this in three years, and even then, it wasn’t this bad. I blindly reach for the bottle of men’s body wash he and I share and I vigorously scrub my body with it. Trying to get the touch and the blood of those men off me. It takes four harsh washes and rinses before I even begin to feel clean. 

Negan just stands behind me, leaning against the back wall of the shower. He’s giving me my space while still letting me know he’s right there if I need him. The bottle slips outta my hands when I go to pour more of the soapy liquid into my palm. I’d leave it there, but Negan gently reaches around me, picking it up. 

I hear the bottle open and can tell he’s pouring some into his own hands. I figure he’s just gonna wash his body until I feel his soft and gentle touch on my skin. I flinch and tremble at first, but eventually give into the feeling of him touching me. He takes his time, gently washing me, letting me get clean for the final time. 

Letting me know that it’s ok. That it’s over. That’s he’s got me. That he’ll take care of me. Neither of us say a word as he takes the removable showerhead from it’s dock and gently rinses me off after he turns the cold water on, letting the temperature of the water mix until it’s no longer burning, but rather warm and gentle.

He lets the showerhead drop and dangle as he turns the water off and steps out. I keep my eyes closed and feel him wrap a soft towel around me. I open my eyes and bring them to meet his, only to find him staring at my dislocated shoulder. He blinks and his tongue darts out just a little from between his lips.

“Want me to put it back in place, sweetheart?” 

I nod slowly. 

“Put your right arm ‘round my waist, baby, and I will.”

I follow his soft command and a moment later, I feel his palms against my left shoulder. He’s helped me pop my shoulder back into place enough over the last few years that he knows what he’s doing. I suck in a deep, shaky breath right as he pops it back into place. I bit my lip to hold back the whimper from the pain.

As soon as he’s done, he wraps both his arms ‘round me and just holds me close as I bury my face against his wet chest. We don’t say another word for a solid 10 minutes. He just holds me as we stand in the bathroom, water pooling ‘round our feet. Eventually, he gently scoops me up in his arms and carries me to bed. 

Sitting down on it, he just holds me in his lap, not saying anything. I know it’s his way of helping me get outta the panic attack and also letting me know that he’s listening when I’m ready to talk. It takes me a hot minute before I get the words out, and even then they’re just a whisper.

“They...they were trying to rape me.”

I hear him let out a growl and his arms tighten ‘round me, protectively. That’s his number one rule. Rape is not allowed. Followed by the prohibition of abusing women and children. He doesn’t say a word, letting me continue. I tell him everything that happened, as I tremble in his arms. He just holds me close, softly rubbing my back and taking even breaths to help me subconsciously focus on keeping my own breathing even.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there, baby.” He finally murmurs after I finish recounting the events. “I’m so sorry you had to go through that. They got what they deserved. I just wish I could’ve introduced them to Lucille.” 

My eyes flirt over to the barbed-wire baseball bat propped up against the wall by our bedroom door. She’s surprisingly clean. I guess Negan didn’t have to dish out any punishments today. Only I did.

“I’m so fuckin’ proud of you, though, baby.” He whispers in my ear.

I look up at him, confused. “Proud?”

He nods. “Mmhhmm. You shut that shit down, and kept your cool until you were up here. I don’t know how you fuckin’ managed that, but I’m not surprised. I heard what you did, heard how you described it, and fuck, baby. I wish I’d seen you go Rambo on their asses. You’re my badass girl. I’m proud of you.”

A small smile tugs at my lips. Despite the events of the day, and me doing what I did, my husband still manages to make me smile. He slowly brings one hand up, keeping it in my line of sight, and cups my good cheek. 

“Will you let me send Carson up here to stitch your cheek up and get you checked out?”

His eyes search mine, waiting for my reply, and hoping I’ll let him. I nod against his palm, and he lets out a deep breath. He reaches over to the nightstand and plucks his radio off it. His thumb pressed against the side button.

“Carson. Get your fuckin’ ass up to my room now, and bring your bag. Fuckin’ now.” He growls into the receiver.

“Yes, sir.” Comes the doctor’s reply not even  a moment later.

Negan then pushes the button down again and talks.

“Simon. Bring two plates of food up to my room. Now. And make sure it’s some good shit too.”

Simon replies in the affirmative and Negan sets his radio down. He looks back at me and places his palm back against my good cheek. A gesture that always makes me relax.

“Can I ask why you cut your hair?” He asks softly.

“I refuse to let another man tug me around by hair, guiding me to do his bidding,  especially during a situation like earlier. It was a flashback to my dad doing what he did. It’s why I’ve also cut my own hair. It’s the one thing I about my body that I can control. So, I keep it short and no man will ever be able to use my hair against me again.” I say, the truth just spilling out. “Plus, having it touch my ears, always made my anxiety ten times worse.”

He knows what my dad did, and he’s known that tugging on my hair was a hard limit for me. So, he never did it, which is why I let my hair grow out. I felt safe around him. I still do. But, having long hair is just a liability, and I refuse to be put in that situation again. He nods in understanding.

“I’m gonna miss your curls, though.” He says. “And waking up with a mouthful of your hair in my mouth.”

I can’t help but giggle at that. It’s true. Most mornings, he’d wake up, sputtering to spit out the strands of my hair that ended up in his mouth as we slept next to each other.

“I left enough on top so you can still play with my hair, babe. And, there’s still enough to run your fingers through it.” I assure him.

“Can I?”

I nod and a moment later, I feel his fingers on his other hand stroke through my wet hair, lightly massaging my scalp as he does. I let out a soft moan at the feeling and lean into his touch on my cheek, closing my eyes. He chuckles as he plays with my hair.

“If that’s your reaction to me doing that every single fuckin’ time, I could get used to it. And I’ll just have to get used to having an even stiffer hard on from the soft moans.” He smirks as he looks at me.

I blush and open my eyes looking up at him. “You're my husband. I think I can manage helping you out with the baseball bat you have in your pants.”

He laughs softly. “Yea?”

I grin. “Mmhhmm. You’re fond of Lucille. I’m quite fond of your own bat.”

He grins, showing off his dimples. “I’m fuckin’ fond of you, baby. Have been since we first met in the woods. Why else do you think I got rid of the wives years ago?”

I try not to grin as I shrug. “It was the only way you were getting in my pants and scoring a homerun.”

He laughs and shakes his head. “Not the only reason, baby. It was because I love you, Leigh.”

I grin from ear to ear and turn my head to place a soft kiss to his palm. “I love you too, Negan.”

Before he can say anything else, there’s a timid knock on the door.

“Come the fuck in!” Negan calls out, holding me close.

Dr. Carson comes in. He’s no longer as nervous as he used to be when I first showed up. But he’s still a little nervous around the man. I’ve gotten Negan to ease up on the fear of himself he’s instilled in people, and gotten him to be nicer in the way he treats folks. He’s not the bat-wielding lunatic he was when we first met. 

He’s the man I always knew he was.

A soft, 6’2” teddy bear wrapped in leather. 

My soft, 6’2” teddy bear wrapped in leather. 

After Carson checks me out, determines nothing’s broken, assures me that everything is good, and stitches my cheek up, he leaves. Negan helps me get dressed in a pair of his boxers under my new jeans and one of his shirts before he pulls on a pair of sweatpants. Simon comes in shortly after I finish getting dressed, holding a tray of food for Negan and I. 

His eyes widen as he looks at me, taking in my new appearance.

“What, Si? Never seen a girl with short hair before?” I ask, teasing.

He shakes his head. “I have. I just wasn’t expecting you to have cut your own. It looks good on you, fitting.”

I smile. “Thanks, Si.”

Leaning up, I kiss his cheek and then kick him out before Negan can Lucille him for staring at me. My husband knows Simon’s like a dad to me, the dad I never had, and that there’s nothing there. He just gets jealous and protective over me, not liking other men to stare. And, for once, I’m thankful, given the events of today.

As we eat, Negan and I stay on the bed, me snuggled up to his side. When we’re finished though, I look up at him. 

“I have to tell you something else.” I say.

His eyebrow raises and he looks at me, grining. “What’s that? You planning on buzzing anything else?” 

I laugh and playfully slap his bare chest. “No, asshole.”

He pretends to be hurt and rubs his chest, grinning. “Damn, girl. That hurt.”

I laugh and kiss his chest where I smacked him. “Feel better, Daddy?”

He grins that dimpled grin again and nods. “Mmhhmm. Now, what else you gotta tell me, babygirl?”

I smirk. “Well, Daddy…you see...”

He growls low in his throat. “Don’t tease me, little girl.”

I giggle. “I’m not, Daddy.”

I bring my hand down to rub my tummy. 

“You full from eating?” He asks, covering my hand on my tummy, rubbing what he thinks is a food baby.

“Nope. But, it’s nice to see you already rubbing my tummy. I can happily get used to this over the next 7 months.”

“7 months?” His brow creases in confusion for a moment before his eyes widen. “You...you’re...we’re…?”

I giggle and nod as I lean up to kiss him softly. 

“Yes, honey. I’m pregnant.” I say. “I’m 2 months along, and found out a few days ago. I was working on a story earlier, and that was gonna be how I told you, but shit happened, so I figured I’d just tell you.”

He lets out a high pitched squeal that I never would’ve expected from him, and pulls me right back into his arms and his lap. His beard tickles my neck as he grins against it, placing a soft kiss there. I giggle and wrap my arms ‘round him. Like I said, he’s a soft, 6’2” teddy bear wrapped in leather. 

My soft, 6’2” teddy bear wrapped in leather and I’m his buzzed haired girl. 

[hookaroo]

Vocivore, Ltd. (38 of 45?)

Also on FFN and AO3 (ListerofTardis)

Tagging @ouatwinterwhump, @killian-whump, @sancocnutclub, @killianjonesownsmyheart1, @courtorderedcake, @facesiousbutton82 <3

***THE MOST WONDERFUL, HEARTBREAKING, and BEAUTIFULLY WHUMPY COVER ART BY @cocohook38 HERE and HERE!!!!!!!!!*************

***Chapter 12 animation and art that will absolutely astound you!!!!!!!!!**********

***LETHAL Chapter 19 art in all of its BLOODSTAINED GLORY!!!!************

**POOR STABBED KILLIAN falling into the sheriff station! Ch. 7 & 23 art!!**

****KILLIAN AND HIS MASTER IN THE GORGEOUS CATHEDRAL!!!!!!!!!!!!    CHAPTER 1 ART THAT KILLS ME EVERY TIME I SEE IT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!*********

*CH 34 ART! A DEFEATED KILLIAN, HEAD BOWED BEFORE HIS MASTER!!*

***CH 36 ART! DETECTIVE JONES BOWS BEFORE HIS NEW MASTER!!!!!!***

***AAAAHHHH!!! THANK YOU MY WONDERFUL COCONUT FRIEND!!!!!!***

Present (Friday, continued)...

Emma couldn't hold back her tears as she crouched before the mutilated form of her husband. He'd been stabbed in the chest and through the hand, and his right shoulder hung grotesquely out of place. Blood caked his face and pooled in livid swellings from a recent beating. Red droplets dripped sluggishly off the tip of his nose and splattered, barely visible, onto the rust-tinged burlap on his torso. A haphazard mess of surgical staples did little to contain bone-deep lacerations on either side of his ankle. And a line of slowly oozing punctures trailed their way up both inner thighs until disappearing beneath the sackcloth smock.

She decided to take it as a good sign that everything still seemed to be actively bleeding. Killian did not appear to be moving at all; at first, Emma could not even see any sign of breaths. But as she reached out to seek a carotid pulse, she noticed a slight and labored rise and fall of his chest. Her relief caused a catch in her throat. He was alive... for the moment.

Suddenly overwhelmed with emotion and weighed down by the responsibility of keeping him alive until help arrived, Emma fumbled for the phone concealed in her pocket. If ever there was a time for magical healing… Once again, she strained to feel the tingle of light where her power dwelt, a reflex she’d already indulged several times since the Vocivore’s defeat. As before: nothing.

Well, no use bemoaning something she couldn't change. Her free hand automatically came to rest on Killian's arm, above the ring and stake, over an unraveling bandage. She was both heartened and dismayed when Killian flinched away from her touch with a whine.

"Killian, hey," she soothed. "It's just me." She hit the button to call EMS, then put her phone on speaker. "You're gonna be okay."

She kept a careful watch on her husband while explaining to the dispatcher what was needed: essentially every ambulance and emergency vehicle in the United Realms. As sheriff, she knew they would take her seriously, as well as listen to any special request. So while she did her best to direct them to the scene, she also suggested that they contact David, who knew exactly the route they should take.

In the midst of rattling off her father’s contact info, while also absently holding pressure against as many of the puncture wounds as she could simultaneously reach, Emma felt Killian begin to stir. He shuddered as he tried to drag his eyes open.

“Try and hold still,” urged Emma.

“Swan,” he whispered, wincing.

His recognition of her brought tears to her eyes once more. Another good sign. “I'm here, babe. Just hold on; we’re going to get you all fixed up.”

He shook his head, breathing faster now, trying and failing to reach up and push her away with his stump. “You have to... go…” he groaned. “The monster…”

A flash of extreme pain crossed his face, and the words fizzled out, evaporating into frantic gasps for air.

Emma felt her own breath catch at his obvious distress. “Shhhhh, Killian, shhh... calm down. The monster’s dead; it can't hurt you anymore.”

Every muscle in her husband's body stood taut as he fought for air.

“He's having trouble breathing,” she reported to the person on the other end of the line, as calmly as she could. She listened to the instructions but her attention was riveted on Killian. At long last, he managed to quell the panic and slow the gasping.

“D-dead?” he wheezed, sounding as if he couldn't even define the word.

“Yep.” She used her shirt sleeve to carefully blot some blood that was trickling into one of his eyes.

Killian finally managed to focus on Emma's face for the first time, and though he still had an alarmingly dazed look in his eyes, he immediately fixated on a small cut on her forehead.

“You're hurt.”

He looked as if he were about to raise his left arm despite the blade embedded in his chest. Emma held him down.

“Good to know your keen observational skills are still intact.” She rolled her eyes as he continued staring up at her in concern. “I'm fine. And you're ridiculous.”

He gritted his way through another wave of intense pain and seemed to forget that she was even there. It was then that she noticed how much he was shivering; whether it was from the practically nothing he was wearing, or from shock, she didn't know. How was she supposed to lay him flat and elevate his feet with his hand pinned to the frickin’ altar? More importantly, if he stopped breathing, how would she perform effective CPR in this position?

She pushed aside the thought that, with the paramedics at least 30 minutes away, any efforts at resuscitation would likely be futile.

Emma glanced back at Jones, who was gingerly unwinding the costume bandage from his wrist. He wouldn’t be able to provide much assistance, whatever she decided to do.

She felt Killian squirming under her hands and turned her attention back. He groaned and then, as if reading her thoughts, he hissed,

"Please, love... get me free of this... bloody thing..."

His fingers twitched in feeble emphasis. Emma bit her lip, reluctant. "I don't know, Killian... that may not be such a good idea."

"Please," he said again, eyes screwed shut against the pain. "It'll have to happen... eventually. And I think... it may make it... easier to breathe."

"It will hurt a lot less after you've had some morphine," she pointed out. But if it really did help him to breathe better...

"Please, Emma," Killian grunted. "Just do it."

The dispatcher on the phone asked for an update, and Emma explained the situation while she set squeamishness aside and studied the impaling blade. She had no way of knowing how long it actually was, or how much of it was embedded in the wood. Approximately three inches of sharp steel were sandwiched between the dagger's handle and Killian's palm. The heel of his hand and the underside of his forearm glistened with blood all the way down to the elbow. Pulling the dagger free would be inadvisable if she wanted to keep that trickle of blood from becoming a stream. The dispatcher concurred, advising that they wait, if possible. But Emma didn't know how bad the stab wound to his chest was; he could even have a punctured lung on that side, so relieving the tension on the other side may well be the difference between life and death for him.

As she was agonizing over the decision, she sensed movement behind her, and when she glanced back, it was to see Jones staggering up the steps toward them. He was breathing hard, looked pale and sweaty, but didn't stop until he reached the top. Grimacing, he knelt, landing hard next to his doppelganger, whose eyes snapped open as he cringed away. Expecting an attack. Emma squeezed his wrist in reassurance.

"Ahoy there, mate," said Jones softly. He faked a scowl and added, "You know, I haven't forgotten to be miffed at the pair of you and this insane plot of yours."

Gratified by the hint of a pained smile on Killian's lips, Jones turned to address Emma. "Suppose I should offer my help anyway."

Emma eyed him critically. The Ace bandage was now wrapped haphazardly around his injured shoulder, loosely covering the patch of blood spreading on the sackcloth over the bullet wound. She raised an eyebrow. “Sure you're up to it?"

Jones only gave a small, unconvincing twitch of his lips. Emma took her hands away from her husband's injuries long enough to grip the ends of the Ace bandage, which were merely tucked under one another. She gave a sharp tug to tighten it and tied a more secure knot, hissing,

“What the hell happened back there?”

“Not a clue.” Jones closed his eyes in a brief concession to the momentary increase in pain, then nodded his thanks.

The dispatcher on the phone crackled an update in ETA: 20 minutes, give or take. A long time, in which anything could happen. Most of which would be bad.

Emma gave a sigh of resignation. Then she squared her shoulders.

"Think you can help stabilize his hand?" she murmured, and Jones' gaze flicked to the afflicted limb.

"Yeah, of course."

Emma shuffled around to the other side of her husband's legs, closer to the impaling dagger. With a stifled grunt, Jones made room for her. Killian watched, motionless apart from his short, gasping breaths. Forcing herself to turn away from the pain in his eyes, Emma reached for the dagger's handle. Behind her, the detective gently wrapped his hand around Killian's wrist.

In response to the hissed intake of air to her right, Emma caressed Killian's cheek. "You sure?"

Her husband's eyes betrayed just as much fear and reluctance as anguish, but he managed a shaky nod. Emma tightened her grip on the dagger. "On three, then. One..." She heard Killian gasp a preparatory breath, saw him squeeze his eyes shut. "Two..."

On impulse, ignoring the blood and sweat staining his face, Emma initiated a furious kiss, at the same time yanking with all her strength on the trapped blade. The unexpected touch of intimacy worked as a distraction for approximately half a second, as a dazed Killian attempted to reciprocate. But then he was pulling away, howling his agony against her cheek. Emma cursed and braced her free hand against the altar as leverage; long seconds later, the dagger popped free of the wood, inevitably jerking inside Killian's hand despite efforts to keep it still. Though a smear of crimson revealed where a short length of steel had slid free, enough remained within his flesh to hopefully stem the worst of the bleeding.

"It's done; it's out," Emma breathed, reaching for his head and cradling him against her shoulder. She nodded at Jones and, moving in slow tandem, they lowered the impaled limb to rest awkwardly on the floor beside him, the dagger’s handle mere inches from his hip. And Killian's muffled groans were sweet music, proving his continued existence, his ability to draw enough breath to express his pain.

Even from her strange angle, even through the stained sackcloth, Emma could see the wrong position of his shoulder joint. She cringed and stroked the back of Killian's head. Then she gently pulled away, asking,

"Any better?"

Killian rested his head back against the altar and squinted up at her, nodding once but not wasting the energy to speak.

"Not touching that shoulder. Sorry." She spared a glance at Jones, who had sat back and was now massaging his chest despite the length of metal still burrowed into his arm. He grimaced agreement with her decision; even if either of them had the expertise to pop the joint back into place, it had been long enough for swelling and tightening of the tendons and ligaments to make an attempt not worth it.

"Do you want to lie down?"

At first, it looked as if Killian were considering the suggestion. Theoretically, lying him flat could be advisable for multiple reasons, and might make it easier for him to relax, but Emma wanted to leave the choice up to him. In the end, whether he thought he would find it harder to breathe, wanted to avoid the pain of changing positions, or feared the possibility that once he lay down, he may never get up again, Killian answered with a feeble shake of his head.

Emma peeled her jacket off and rolled it into a tight bundle, which she carefully slid behind Killian's head as a makeshift pillow. Her proximity allowed her a better view of the bulky new collar and its set of screws which, up until now, she'd been hoping weren't actually drilled into his neck. That explained at least some of that morning’s screams. Emma scowled, feeling sick; she'd granted that villain far too easy of a death.   

Killian didn't look any more comfortable, but grimaced his gratitude at her before suddenly catching sight of the slumped monster corpse in the distance. He seemed to grow somehow even more pale, warily watching the Vocivore for any sign of movement.

“It's dead?”

Emma rested a reassuring hand on his shin, inadvertently leaving a bloody handprint on a relatively unscathed portion of skin. Killian's eyes were locked on his tormentor, as if his vigilance were the only thing keeping it subdued.

“Shot it myself,” she growled. “So unless the damn thing can regenerate its ugly, pervert brain, we’re finally done with it.”

As she said this, she realized it may not have been the most comforting thing for Killian to hear: they still had a lot to learn about the creature, and the possibility, however slight, of the Vocivore coming back to life gave her a momentary chill. She could only imagine how it made Killian feel.

“Listen,” she said, “Jones and I both have our weapons and will keep an eye on it. But I don't think we need to worry about it.”

“And those slaves over there?” added Jones, his voice only slightly stronger than Killian's had been. “They're lost. Directionless. The first sign of renewed purpose, we’ll know to be on the alert.”

Emma stole a glance in the direction the detective was looking and saw the slaves, some of whom had been holding her captive just moments before, hunched on their knees, faces in hands. One or two lay stretched out flat, silent and still.

"He's right. Leave the guard duty to us; you just focus on hanging in there until the medics come."

Emma did not like the bleak hopelessness with which he reacted to her statement; she knew he was doubting his odds of surviving that long. But he rested his head back and soon had his eyes closed, either deciding to put his trust in her words, or simply too weary to do otherwise.

She tried to remain quiet as she reached across his body for the loose end of the bandage around his left wrist. It appeared to be the same one supplied by Storybrooke General; if its sole purpose was still to cover the wrist ring, it would be of better use staunching some of the oozing injuries on his legs.

“Killian?” she asked, some time later. “How far is Z's and would you be able to tell me how to get there?”

Her husband didn't respond.

“Babe?” A gentle finger on his cheek elicited no response, but he did pull away slightly when she got too near an inflamed abrasion by his eye. His breaths were shallow and quick but regular, and he seemed somehow balanced enough even without much supporting him upright. She was torn between staying to monitor his condition and heading off to see what she could find in the way of first aid supplies.

Watching through half-lidded eyes, Jones reluctantly sat up straighter, rousing himself from a pain-driven daze to offer,

“I'll keep an eye on him, Emma. Go do what you need to do.”

The detective was hardly in a fit state to offer that kind of service; Emma wouldn't have been surprised to watch him be the next one to pass out. But, grunting, Jones got to his knees and made his way to Emma’s side, dutifully nudging her hand away so he could take over the task of applying pressure. With a stubbornness so much like her own Killian, he even went so far as to use the scarred remnants of his left wrist to cover an additional wound, yielding nothing to the anguish that surely wracked his shoulder with the effort. Emma flashed him look of exasperation before clambering to her feet.

“Five minutes,” she promised, then jogged her way out into the desolate afternoon light.

*****

His Master loomed overhead. Large and menacing. A claw was embedded in his shoulder, another in his hand, severing tendons, removing sensation and function from each remaining finger. Killian whimpered, shifting under questing tentacles pressed hard into burning thighs. Emma, the rescue... all a wonderful, horrible hallucination. How much longer would his suffering drag on?

Tentacles dug deeper, and Killian thrashed with all of his remaining strength. He knew his Master demanded obedience, but he couldn't do it. Not again.

A startlingly good impression of his own voice floated down from above. "Hey, easy! Easy there, mate; it's only me."

Nearly hyperventilating now despite unprecedented agony in his chest, Killian continued to struggle; opening his eyes seemed a monumental task and he would only see that hideous face staring down at him anyway. He had no idea what his Master was up to, or how the creature had managed to mimic his voice, but it hardly mattered.

"Killian, mate; I promise I'm not trying to hurt you. I swear. In truth, I intend to wait until you're fully recovered. And then... well, after that, all bets are off. You bloody wanker."

Those words sounded nothing like any his Master had ever said before. Perhaps he was hallucinating this as well? Killian groaned quietly, then peeled his eyes open.

Detective Jones sat beside Killian's knee, holding pressure on some of the punctures to his inner thigh. The man looked utterly spent, had a blood soaked bandage wrapped carelessly around a shoulder, and wore a grim expression, but his eyes were soft. Upon locking gazes with Killian, the detective flashed a wan smile.

"That's it. See? Nothing to fear now."

Killian remained unconvinced that it wasn't a dream. He scanned the desecrated church, feeling dazed and slightly drunk; his eyes would not follow a steady path and he couldn't make sense of everything he was seeing. He winced and tried to relieve some of the strain on his shoulder, to no avail.

"If you're looking for Emma, she's just stepped out for a bit," Jones told him. "In search of bandages and a blanket."

"Emma..." croaked Killian.

"She'll be back soon," soothed the detective, hiding a wince himself as he shifted his weight. "And not much longer until other help arrives as well."

Killian brought his focus back on the face identical to his own, blinking heavy eyelids and fighting massive disorientation. "How...?"

Jones gave a wry grin. "Your Swan confessed. I know everything now. You great bloody git. You know your in-laws are going to murder you as well?"

"Can't murder... a corpse... mate..."

"No, no... you're not getting out of it that easily." Jones checked that his hand was still covering the wound before continuing. "You're obligated to stay alive; otherwise, who will we exact our vengeance upon?"

Killian's eyes fluttered closed against his will. "The Crocodile... it was his gadget... made this possible."

Jones laughed once. "Okay, I'm not averse to that idea... but as I understand it, he’s only one third of the responsible party."

Killian could not keep up the conversation. He was in too much anguish and found his concentration slipping. Jones seemed to sense this and fell silent, but after a moment of quiet, he murmured,

"I understand, mate. I do. And I can't say I would have done anything differently, given the opportunity you had."

Killian made an attempt at a grateful smile. But a sudden stab of pain took his breath away, stifling any chance at a reply. Through the gasping breaths that followed, he thought he heard the scrape of the off-kilter door being dragged open, but it could have been his imagination, as well.

It wasn't. Killian heard footsteps, urgent and self-assured, scuffling along the well-worn paving stones of the sanctuary in a manner very distinct from the ominous clicking he had grown accustomed to fearing. From an impossibly great distance, the garbled voice of his beloved called out,

"How's he doing?"

"Still with us," reported Jones, similarly remote. "I was just telling him how much trouble the pair of you are in."

Killian shuddered at the arrival of another being; it was so deeply ingrained that even the fuzzy outline of Emma's calmly worried face could not overcome the instinct. Her gentle touch on his knee sent a shock of pain and fear sizzling down to his toes. He hissed, then stammered an apology. Emma ignored the reaction. She had in her grip a ragged brown blanket, which she unfurled and gently spread over his lower body.

"Almost," she promised in a whisper. Unrolling other scraps of fabric intended as temporary bandages, she added, "I'm pretty sure I heard sirens out there. This is almost over."

Even in his near-stupor, Killian somehow made sense of the words. He exhaled once, closed his eyes, and began to silently weep.